stealing your husband’s chocolate and finding out it was laced with an aphrodisiac!
[content: MDNI, crack smųt, a very unserious piece of work, piv, hair pulling, use of aphrodisiacs, sukuna’s sour but then he’s sweet]
Never in your life have you been so horny it hurt.
“Kuna, please—harder,” you cry out.
“I’m going as hard as I fucking can, you little slut,” he snaps, each thrust matching every harsh word that gets spat through his teeth. “THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T EAT RANDOM. CHOCOLATE. ON. THE. COUNTER.”
“I’m sorry! Fuck!! I didn’t know!”
“There was a note saying DON’T eat it—you just didn’t give a shit because you’re a thief and a glutton. A liar now, too,” he continues to scold you over the chocolate bar he was going to give to Jin so he’d stop groveling over his ex. It’s been 6 fucking months, he’s tired of having to listen to him go on and on about Kaori. Enough is enough—he needs to go out and sleep with someone.
And now Jin’s never going to shut up. Sukuna doesn’t even want to look at you right now—let alone reward your behavior with dick.
“And now you’re cryin’ like it’s my fuckin’ fault.” It’s him who should be crying right now. “It’s simple: Leave my fucking snacks alone. I always get multiples of each so you’d keep your grubby little hands off them. Why can’t you just be normal and go in my wallet?? Fuck—Arch that back some more.” He cracks his palm over your ass. “Yeah, hike it up nice and high.”
“I can’t!” It feels like it’s about to break with all the weight he’s putting on it! Both of his hands pinning you down, burying every last inch of his cock inside of you.
He scoffs, nudging for you to close your thighs, then planting his knees right next to yours so they stay that way. “Do you want to cum?”
“…yes,” you whimper.
“Then fucking arch it.”
You sniffle. “Okay.”
He breaks character and huffs out a laugh as he watches you continue to helplessly stretch and squelch around him, making a creamy mess all along his shaft. He straightens his back, big hands now firmly grabbing your hips as he picks up the pace.
“Yeahh—stay right there,” his chest rumbles as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan. The smack of his hips growing louder, driving himself right into that little spot that won’t stop screaming for his attention.
It has his attention now.
The new angle had you whining into the pillow, absolutely reeling from how good he was at this, despite his complaints. He knows how to be rough. Nearly lifting you off the bed once he starts pulling your hips back, heavy balls smacking against your sensitive clit as he makes you meet each and every rough thrust he delivers.
“F-fuckk!” you choke out, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you start babbling out a bunch of words.
“So fuckin’ spoiled.” He complains, but just barely. “C’mon brat—you’ve been working me like a fuckin’ dog, give it to me already.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t believe you. You sound like you’re in heaven right now. “Mmhh—I love you so much.” His scowl deepens. “So, so much—you’re so fucking big.“
“Tch.” He grabs a handful of your hair, then yanks you back until you’re up against his chest, lips grazing your ear while muttering in it. “I don’t want an apology. What I want is for you to cum on my fuckin’ cock already. Or should I just stop?”
“No, no don’t! Please! I’m trying, I swear,” you begin to plead with the man.
“Try harder.” Then he smiled, because he felt you squeeze around him. “Jesus Christ—you need to me talk you through it too? The chocolates supposed to make you horny, sweetheart. Not useless.”
“It’s not my fault,” you whimper, and squeeze around him again, pulling a condescending huff out of him.
“You poor thing,” he hums. “Probably spent the whole day waiting for me to come home so I could make you feel better, huh?”
His breath tickles your ear and you nearly moan. “Mhm—I thought about it all day.”
“Well aren’t you sweet,” he mutters, tone as condescending as ever. “You got what you wanted, too. I’ve been taking care of you for a while now. How many times have I cum in you now?”
“I… I don’t know—“
“Of course you fuckin’ don’t.” He cuts you off, unamused by your answer. “Want me to do it again? Fill you up, make you feel all nice and warm?”
“Please.”
“Give me what I want then. If these sheets aren’t soaked by the time I’m about to cum again, I’m pulling out and finishing on your face,” he lets go of your hair and begins to laugh. You don’t get much of a chance to react before you feel the pads of his fingers on your clit, pulling a gasp out of you once he starts rubbing little circles on top of already fucking you. “Heh—let’s see if playing with this cute little clit saves you.”
And he knows you don’t deserve it—any of it, honestly. Unfortunately, he can’t help himself, not with the reactions he gets out of you. He married you for many reasons—getting to spend the rest of his life with a squirter was one of them. The moment your breathing grows labored and you sound like you’re gonna start to cry, his lids grow heavy and he starts saying all the things he told himself he wouldn’t say today.
"Yeahhh, that’s it, baby—fuuuuck—takin’ it so good.” He is fucking gone. Voice thick, filled with nothing but lust and awe as he presses against your lower belly. “C’mon, you want it here, right? Yeah, you know what to do—don’t let some fuckin’ asshole finish on your sweet little face.”
Yes. Your husband just degraded himself. And you just egg him on without meaning to. You were already whining about how it was too much, the incoherent “want it inside,” just made it better worse.
“I will, I’ll give you so fuckin’ much if you just give me one—just one. Easy. Shit—I’ll fill you up as much as you want afterwards.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but that doesn’t matter when it’s what has you crying and trembling and finally gushing around his cock.“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, that’s—fuuuuck yeah. Good job, sweetheart—good fuckin’ job. Fuck.”
Funny enough, he came right after you, which was a relief because that meant his job was done and he was finally able to give his dick a fucking break after hours of feeling like he was working for free, when he had already worked a regular eight hour shift prior. The biggest relief of all was seeing you lie limp in bed, after slightly worrying if you ever actually would.
He leans over you with a smug smile, already having forgotten how much you pissed him off earlier as he moved some hair away from your face. Checking to see if you’re actually asleep or not, then feeling a deep sense of peace when seeing that you are. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, and in the most loving way hopes you stay that way because he cannot do that again. Then finally, he gets up to use the bathroom.
The peace is only lasts four steps until it’s completely shattered again when he hears your weak voice.
♡ TW: kidnappning, captivity, cannibalism, gore, nonchalant reader, casual mention of asexuality, dark humor but leaning more toward what I'd call morbid absurdity?
♡ FEM reader
♡ AN: normal au, idk this is more comedic than what i normally write, originally a gag response to this post, put it got long...
You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy.
The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.
“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.
Did you get fucked up yesterday or what?
Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right?
And yet, by the looks of it, you must have.
It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.
You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.
“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”
Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room.
Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.
“Where the fuck am I at right now…”
Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.
Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.
You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.
Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?
You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.
You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes.
Shit, how’re you supposed to—
“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.
He sets out two plates before sitting down.
He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.
“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”
“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”
You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”
“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”
Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”
For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.
“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”
Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.
“What?”
A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly?
“What the fuck’s going on?!”
He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”
Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with.
Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”
Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?
“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you.
The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.
“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”
Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind.
Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.
In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”
But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”
Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first.
And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.
You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while.
And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide.
Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.
While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face.
You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…
Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…
And that’s when it hits you.
“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…”
You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering.
“Malevolent Kitchen!”
You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.
Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”
“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.
You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…
You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.
There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.
It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…
“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember.
True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit.
“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”
Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea.
“A cannibal?”
You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.
But he doesn’t.
No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.
It fully dawns on you then.
“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”
The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.
And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.
“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”
And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke.
Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.
“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”
The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.
You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”
Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.
Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”
You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”
You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.
You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”
You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”
So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.
In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.
But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”
To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”
—
You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you.
Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be.
He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him.
But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.
He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun.
And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.
Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances.
But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.
You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.
By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.
You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.
“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.
Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.
“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well.
It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is.
But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.
It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.
Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”
You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.
He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.
Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.
“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”
Oh, so that had been your earlier concern.
He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…
Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.
“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.
He halts. “What?”
Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”
Oh, right. He chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.
“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.
“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.
You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”
Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.
“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”
You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”
It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it.
“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?”
Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you.
But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”
He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”
You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”
You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.
No, not at all.
Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.
And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”
It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.
And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.”
“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.
He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”
You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.
Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…
—
True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night.
The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep.
Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.
Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.
Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.
He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.
“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.
To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”
You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.
You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.
In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.
“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”
“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.
You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”
You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”
He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”
“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”
You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”
Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”
You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.
“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”
You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.
“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”
He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.
“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”
You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,”
Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.
You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you?
“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”
You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”
With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.”
You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”
He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.
But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”
His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”
You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”
He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”
You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”
—
A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.
He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.
In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.
Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself.
He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.
“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”
He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.
“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.
“No,” he answers shortly.
To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”
He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”
You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…”
Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”
He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.
“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.
“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”
You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.
Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.
Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.
But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”
With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”
Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.
It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.
But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”
You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.
You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”
As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”
It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.”
—
More weeks pass.
The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.
Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain.
Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.
Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long.
Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…
And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.
“Not up to your standards?” he questions.
You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.
During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.
But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.
Lonely is the word that comes to mind.
“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”
He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.
“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”
Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.
It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.
“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.
“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.
It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”
“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”
He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?
“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”
Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you.
“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?”
You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”
In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.
Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.
“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.
But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”
Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,”
And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”
He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”
“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”
Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”
“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”
Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”
Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”
Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.
But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”
Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”
By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing. “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.
“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.
But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”
He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”
His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding.
You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”
“That’s it.”
It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think.
One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.
“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”
And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.
“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”
“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”
Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.
“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”
—
“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”
He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.
No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”
You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”
Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”
Pairing🪸 Surfer! Katsuki Bakugo x Bimbo!Mermaid Reader
Synopsis 𓇼 Who's to say mermaids can't have holidays? No one but your overprotective parents, of course! Still, just this once, they allowed you to go to the States this one time to meet an American boy you'd been shell-phoning day and night, despite the time difference. You got there, bags full of gifts for your potential hot boy, just to realise you were not at all where you should be. How was your geography this bad? Could you meet another hot, hot boy instead?
Content 𓇼 Reader doesn't understand social cues, Reader from somewhere in the British isles but not explicitly stated, Accurate descriptions of GB weather because it's miserable here in any of the four countries, ditsy reader, mean bakugo but when's he not, grumpy x sunshine trope, Bilingual Bakugo, eventual smut, tags will get added as the series progresses
a/n Yes, this is a play on 'Stateside' by Pinkpantheress. I love Fancy that and as a Brit I'm so happy she's finally getting her flowers for such an amazing album, creds for divider @strangergraphics originally this WAS going to be a one-shot however I feel like for the ideas I have a series would be so much better so yous are getting this instead!
or: oh great. your roommate bailed on you right before the new month's payment, and you need to find a new roommate asap. lucky for you, chan came (literally) to your rescue. he's charming enough, and more importantly, pays rent on time. you've agreed to split rent by half, but rent won't be the only thing getting split in half, because he's hiding a big secret. and no, not just the one in his pants.
warnings: MDNI!!! contains heavy sexual content, camboy!chris x roommate!reader, porn with some plot, perv!reader, masturbation, piv, mānhandling, spānkïng, hāirpulling, too many kinks , kinda switch!chan but he's mostly a dom daddy dwdw, I'm a cocky chan truther so yk what's coming, a sprinkle of fluff and banter.
wc: 11k
a/n: loosely based off this drabble
"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!"
✰ Summary: Sam goes full nerd: researches squirting like it’s his next law school paper, force-feeds you water for 72 hours, eats you out until you see god, then methodically fucks you until you squirt on his cock too—just to “confirm the hypothesis.”
✰Warnings: smut, squirting, edging, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, hydration kink(?) if that’s a thing now, messy sex, wet sheets
Sam disappears into research mode for like three days straight.
You catch him at 3 a.m. with seventeen tabs open: “Physiology of female squirting: a review”, “Role of G-spot stimulation and pelvic floor contractions”, “Does hydration status affect squirting volume?”, some sketchy Reddit threads titled “I made her gush 911”, and an actual peer-reviewed article he printed out and highlighted. With different colors. Because he’s Sam.
He starts operation “hydration protocol” like you’re training for a marathon.
Every time you turn around there’s a new glass of water.
“Baby, you need to stay hydrated.”
“Sam I’ve had four liters today.”
“Yeah but that was before lunch.”
He’s so earnest about it. Keeps refilling your bottle with that soft little “I’m doing this because I love you and also science” smile that makes you want to both kiss him and strangle him.
Then night falls.
He’s been edging you for an hour already—slow, filthy, focused oral like he’s writing his dissertation with his tongue. Forehead glistening. Hair falling in his eyes. That little furrow between his brows he gets when he’s concentrating really hard. He’s got two long fingers curled inside you, pressing that spot that makes your thighs shake, and he’s sucking your clit with this rhythmic pull that’s actually insane.
You’re begging. You’re crying a little. You’re definitely soaking his chin.
And then it happens.
The pressure builds different this time—sharper, fuller, almost scary—and he knows. He fucking knows.
He pulls off just enough to rasp, “Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Let it happen.”
You do.
You arch so hard your back leaves the mattress and you gush—hard—right against his mouth.
He groans like he just won the lottery.
Doesn’t stop. Just keeps licking through it, slower now, helping you ride the aftershocks while he murmurs, “That’s it… fuck, look at you… so fucking beautiful…”
You think he’s done.
He is not done.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes black with intent, and says—very seriously, like he’s presenting his thesis defense
“I need to know if it’s just oral or if penetration can trigger it too.”
You blink. Still panting. “Sam—”
“It’s for science,” he says, already hard and leaking against your thigh. “I have a control variable now. I need to test the independent one.”
You’re too fucked out to argue with Winchester logic.
He flips you onto your stomach first—because “angle matters”—slides in so slow it’s torture, lets you feel every inch while he’s whispering anatomy facts against your ear like dirty talk.
“See how deep I can get… right against your anterior wall… that’s where the Skene’s glands are… fuck, you’re so wet already…”
He builds it again.
Deliberate thrusts. Deep. Focused. Changes the angle every time your breathing changes until he finds the one that makes you sob into the pillow.
His hand snakes around to rub tight circles on your clit at the same time and—oh god.
You’re shaking.
You’re pleading.
You’re definitely going to black out.
“Sam—Sam I can’t—”
“You can,” he growls, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna do it again. For me. Come on, baby, give it to me—”
He slams in hard one last time, pins you down with his whole body, fingers relentless on your clit and—
You break.
It’s louder this time. Wetter. Messier.
You squirt so hard it soaks his thighs, the sheets, probably the fucking headboard.
He loses it. Groans your name like a prayer, fucks you through it with these wild, desperate thrusts until he’s coming too, buried so deep you feel him pulse inside you.
When it’s over he collapses half on top of you, both of you drenched and panting.
Long silence.
Then, in the tiniest, most smug voice:
“…Hypothesis confirmed.”
You wheeze out a laugh. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles against your shoulder, already kissing the sweat off your skin. “But I’m your insane.”
He reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without even looking.
“Drink,” he says softly.
“Sam—”
“Hydration protocol isn’t over yet.”
You’re never going to survive this man.
✰ a/n: sam would deadas keep a little notebook “she reached squirting threshold at 22:47 via combined digital-oral stimulation” “penetrative squirting achieved at 23:12 after 17 minutes of consistent G-spot pressure”
he’s so proud of his data
you’re so in love with him it’s disgusting
It was 3 AM i couldn’t get it out of my head and i wrote it so sorry if there are any typos)
Sam's whole body is pressed against you, towering over you as he fucks you from behind, pressing you against the wall until your breath starts to cut and your jaw hangs open in a desperate moan.
"Fuck- needy little thing, aren't y'?" He laughs, pushing his whole length into you, his large hand on your hip the only thing keeping you upright.
He snakes his other hand into your hair, tugs at it hard, until the back of your head hits his chest. At this angle you can see his face, his eyes dark, like he's watching caught prey.
Then he spits, hard, directly in your mouth. You stare up at him as you close your mouth, swallow down the taste of whiskey and menthol.
His jaw tenses, "Say thank you."
He thrusts hard, slamming your body into the wall to accentuate his point. You gasp, blink hard to push away the tears welling in your eyes.
He tugs at your hair again- sharp, "I said- say thank you."
"Thank you-" You whimper out.
He slams into you again, his own expression faltering, only for a moment, before he looks back down at you, "Again."
You choke slightly, giddy pleasure tugging at you, "Thank you- Sam- fuck-"
𝄢 summary. a pack of alphas stumble upon the princess running away from her betrothed. instead of sending her right back to the crown, they begin to take a liking to her.
𝄢 series warnings. NSFW/MDNI, explicit smut, omegaverse, a/b/o dynamics, medieval au (reader is a princess), sub/dom dynamics, light royal politics, this could be seen as cheating but also not really, forced marriage, light angst, hurt/comfort, massive polycule, porn with plot, like this has minimal plot and lots of smut, but that’s what you guys are here for, group dynamics, loss of virginity, corruption, knotting, teasing, perversion, more tags tba.
𝄢 a/n. happy happy happy Valentine’s Day. what’s better than being a princess in a medieval time period AND an alpha trying to get in your panties? SIX ALPHAS!!!! this shall be the start of a (basically) purely smut series where sweet princess!reader shall be defiled each chapter by hot, ripped, primal alphas. each chapter will be marked by their specific content warnings. cross-posting on ao3 soon. art by thatsallitchief on x, dividers by honeyluvsw and dollywons.
playlist - archive
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO (tba)
CHAPTER THREE (tba)
…
series taglist (open—age must be visible on blog):
The fastest way into Satoru’s wallet pants heart... wallet, is a trick you learned from Suguru early on in your relationship with them.
You keep refreshing the tab on your phone hoping to see the price tag come down on the item of your desires but if anything it feels like it’s only going up, up, up and out of your grasp. You sigh and lock your phone, setting it in front of you on the mattress. You bury your head in your arms, letting go of the dream of owning the illusive item.
Strong hands grip your hips and flip you onto your back, Suguru’s playful expression engulfing your view as he lays on top of you. His face falls when yours doesn’t light up, asking you gently, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s dumb,” you say, shaking your head.
“It’s not dumb if you’re upset. Tell me.” His expression is so soft, so gentle that all you can do is sigh again and confess, showing him the listing on your phone.
“Ask Satoru.” Suguru makes it sound so simple.
Your cheeks heat at the idea of it alone. Realistically, you know you can ask him for anything and he’d happily give it. The insane price tag is what holds you back. There is no way you could ask for something that expensive.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” Suguru sits up at your hesitation, his knees on either side of your hips. “Listen, he’s just a man with a stupid amount of money and what do men with a stupid amount of money like to do? Spend it on pretty things.” He leans forward, his face in yours again to press a kiss to your jaw as he whispers, “That’s us.”
“I can’t,” you repeat, tilting your head away to get a better view of the man sitting on top of you.
Suguru rolls his eyes and huffs. “Do you want it?”
“Not tha-”
“Do you want it?”
“I don’t need it.”
“I didn’t ask if you need it. Yes or no, do you want it?” He raises his eyebrows, making a poor attempt at not smiling while he waits for your answer.
You swallow down your shame, avoiding eye contact as you admit, “yes,” through gritted teeth.
“See, that wasn’t so hard.” He presses a kiss to your lips and stands.
You push yourself up on your elbows and watch him free his hair from the bun he keeps it in, long hair falling over his shoulders and down his back. You gulp when his shirt comes off next, nothing you haven’t seen before but god, he’s fucking breathtaking.
6’3 of lean muscle, raven locks down to his waist, sharp jawline and cheekbones.
The kind of beauty that wars have been fought over.
Suguru takes your hand and pulls you to your feet.
“Let me show you how to charm the man who has the money,” he says, guiding you down the hallway and into the living room where Satoru sits on the couch, lost in whatever’s displayed on his phone screen.
You lean against the living room wall, observing the way Suguru moves across the room to settle into Satoru’s lap. He plucks Satoru’s phone from his hand and tosses it to the other cushion, commanding his attention. Satoru’s face blushes a bright, pretty pink as he takes in the sight of Suguru and all of his raw sex appeal.
“Toru, baby,” Suguru purrs, pressing himself closer to Satoru, guiding his hands to his waist. “I need your credit card.”
“Mmm, yeah?” Satoru hums, his hands roaming over Suguru’s sides and around his back to lock him in place. His pupils are already swallowing his irises, glazed over by lust. “What for?”
Suguru cages him against the back of the couch, his hair falling in a curtain around them. He rolls his hips down into Satoru’s just to hear him choke on the air he tries to suck in when their dicks brush; they’re only half hard but it’s enough. “That doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“You’re gonna bleed me dry, gorgeous.” Satoru surges up to plant his lips on Suguru’s, just for Suguru to pull back.
“Who says it’s for me?” Their eyes turn to you, still leaning against the wall. You swallow thickly, feeling blood rush to your cheeks. Satoru chuckles and returns his attention to Suguru, attempting to bring their lips together again. Suguru grabs his jaw before they can connect, just barely letting them brush when he says, “Ah- card first.”
Your clit throbs watching the interaction, completely hypnotized by Suguru the same way Satoru is. You’re pulled out of your trance and forward by Suguru holding out a little silver piece of plastic to you that you take too long to realize is Satoru’s card.
You stumble over your own feet on you way to the couch, gingerly taking the card from Suguru’s out stretched hand. You whisper a ‘thank you,’ and you’re not even sure who you’re thanking or what for, but you press a kiss to Suguru’s cheek regardless as his tongue explores Satoru’s mouth.
You turn to head back to the bedroom and enter the digits on the card into your phone on a somewhat questionable website, only to be stopped by Satoru’s hand grabbing your wrist.
When you turn back to face him, Suguru is leaving open mouthed kisses over his jaw and neck, his chest heaving as he pushes his hips up into Suguru’s.
“At least kiss me before you rob me blind.” He smirks up at you, eyes half lidded. His mouth falls open around a deep moan when Suguru finds a particularly sensitive stretch of skin, and there’s that throb in your clit again.
Your breathing is becoming just as uneven as Satoru’s. You sit next to them, your knees tucked under you and lean forward, your lips capturing Satoru’s.
“Thank you, Toru,” you whisper against his lips when you part.
Woah I loved your last post just now and it gave me ideas
I was wondering maybe the same kind of fic but with mind break?? Like alastor kind of turns us into his own pet, dumbing us down even
🙏😩
𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑴𝑶𝑼𝑻𝑯: you like to think alastor loves you, enough to ruin you and put you back together. alastor x gender neutral with afab anatomy ! reader. smut.
────"do you want to know why i'm in a bad mood?" you feel him kissing the space between your neck and shoulders. it's more teeth than lips and it scrapes againts your skin, but you hardly care.
it's too much focus. concentrated touches on the tender, hardened bud are enough to make you mind go haywire. he digs your palm against your clit with barely there friction - an involuntary whimper leaving your lips.
he has a stunning amount of control over his movements, well practiced with every angle of your body. it's your fault, you have made him that way, but you never thought it would be so easily used against you.
"uh-uhu," you make a soft noise of want as his fingers drag through your sticky folds. gathering your arousal on the tips of his fingers until he stops at your clit. you are throbbing so much it's painful, wet enough that it's pooling underneath your tacky sheets.
you gasp at the slow, smooth circles alastor rubs at your clit with.
“yes?” he prompts sweetly, as if encouraging a trick. his hand reaches up to turn your head, a hand cups the front of your throat as he forces you to look at him. your eyes lock with his, barely an inch of space between you. “you do want to know?”
his grip isn't tight, but no sound comes out anyway. you lock eyes with him. you can't make yourself out in the reflection of his eyes but his smile doesn't change. you know you look desperate, you can never hide how you feel from alastor.
you nod again, mouth fallen open. good thing alastor fills the silence for you.
“well, unfortunately,” alastor chuckles, static warm as he drags his thumb along the thumping pulse of your heart. he is kind enough not to say anything about how loudly it thumps, how shaky you are breathing, “i’m afraid i can’t tell you.”
you're awake and ruined. you feel him pushing inside your tight hole. his hand is steady and slow as alastor slows inch his first finger into you. they're cool compared to the tight, wet heat of your cunt. jolts of electricity spatter along your insides.
"w-why...?" your voice is clipped and hardly there and comes out as a loud whine instead. you want to touch him. you want to move freely but the goddamn tendril around your arms won't let you. and it's hard.
“hm? finding your words now?” he hums. “i knew you could do it.”
he rewards you wih his middle finger curling as it bottoms out, down to the knuckle as he pauses and let you get adjusted to the sensation.
“you see,” he continues, lowering his voice as if nothing, “if i told you, there would be nothing left for you to do. and you so clearly want to do something.”
you open your mouth to speak but the pressure is too strong. another sensation follows you, then - just after you get used to the first. he gives you another finger, his ring finger this time, and repeat the process. fucking you slow and deep, letting your hole stretch out around him and pumping inside.
you feel your jaw go slack at the overwhelming difference between pain.
alastor laughs softly. “oh, but don’t you worry that little head of yours. you’re doing wonderfully.” he sounds pleased with the question, with your attitude. “honestly, i’d hate to spoil that by burdening you with my troubles.”
"but— but i—" you're boneless underneath his touch. your body and sensations reach heights far beyond and in true. you're not usually so spoiled but it's too much. "—care!"
you shake in his grasp as he secures your waist with his free hand. the roundest part of his palm pushes up against your sex, clit throbbing as your head melts.
( it wouldn’t change a thing. it wouldn’t make it any less real. the narrow place alastor has shaped around you belongs to you, even if it steals your breath. it’s yours— and you’d go to great lengths just to keep him satisfied. )
"aren't you very generous?" he replies. it sounds like praise, makes your stomach turn. "you want to make me feel better?"
alastor curls his fingers inside you, pressing and searching until he hits the right spot and you moan brokenly. his fingers curl against the spongy area, silken walls clamping down and pulsing on his hand.
"yes, yes, please," your brain feels like it'll pour out of your ears, the words barely forming to speak. you whimper at the touch of his cool hands on your hot skin. "love you."
yes. you do know. there's no way you couldn't. everything is full. heart, body, mind - every inch of you harbors alastor like he's made you in his image.
"i know," he says, pressing a kiss at the top of your head. it's a surprisingly tender gesture that you can't help but whine. “nothing going on in here, is there?”
you nod. a shame you barely registering what he’s saying through your haze of pleasure. you allow him whatever he wants. your head feels full. drunk and floating until you come with a sound that's something between a sob and his name, and your vision speckles at the edges because oh my fucking god—
the high is too much, it's all too much. he's pulling you back againts his chest. everything's okay and the sensation is so horribly relieving that you do cry, properly, within a few heaving breaths.
alastor is good to you as you do. you can't see the hint of mischief in his eyes, but it's there as he pets down your chest, you waist and hips, but he doesn’t retract his fingers that your thighs shake with overstimulation.
“oh, no, no, no,” he tuts as another icy tendril wraps around your thighs and prevents you for closing them. “that won’t do at all.”
his fingers brush over your nipples, and you find yourself arching against his chest. you are so sensitive. he rubs circles, pinching and rolling as you start to squirm as his lips press against your shoulder.
you are not stranger to alastor claws againts your tender flesh, but your nerves feel fried, like they're getting pulled like weeds and laid out. like this is too much.
“you are yet to show me just how much you care, yes?”
you know you love him. no matter how it would look to anyone else. you like to think that alastor loves you too. enough to ruin you completely and put you back together again over and over again.
a/n: hiii, thank you for the req!! this inspired me, and you didn't specify which jjk man you wanted, so i decided to experiment with all of them and how they'd deal with a horny puppy hybrid gf!! hope u like!!
SATORU GOJO ── SNOW LEOPARD
leopard!satoru who whenever you're feeling hot n' heavy, is grinning impishly, unable to help teasing you as he manspreads, his thick muscly thighs bunching while his tail flicks languorously back and forth, watching with slitted eyes how your mouth waters, scenting out your dripping cunt easily.
"what's wrong baby?" he'll innocently tilt his head, noticing your frustration as he eyes the way your thighs rub together desperately, licking his lips in anticipation for your next move.
"i... i need you 'toru." you breathe out, puppy eyes wide and desperate, your panting turning fervent.
leopard!satoru who knows what's coming by the way your little tail is wagging eagerly and the smell of your arousal only grows thicker, straddling his big lap in one graceful movement.
you gaze up at him, rounded doe eyes locked on his as you coax him through it, freeing his pretty cock from his pants, and beginning to bounce on him, riding with a feral need as you cover his face in puppy licks.
he'll whine and whimper shamelessly, throwing his head back as your hips never falter, pleasure thrumming through him and tipping him closer n' closer to the edge.
leopard!satoru who cries when he cums, small hiccuping sobs with tears streaming down his face, you eagerly lapping them up while hushing and praising him for "being such a good boy".
his veiny girth will only seem to swell at your words, growing bigger n' thicker inside you, and prodding all your sensitive spots easily, your high quickly approaching as you arch your back and moan loudly at the obscene, squelching between your legs, and how dirty it all feels.
in fact, when you go into your puppy heat, it's almost impossible to get you to stop once you've become intimate, your libido heightened and pussy always pulsing and needy for more, so as a result, you and satoru always end up going at it for hours on end.
leopard!satoru who you're on the verge of overstimulating, big glassy tears pricking in his azure eyes while being on his umpteenth orgasm.
"b-baby.. hah.. s-slow down, y'er so eager, fuck!"
underneath you, your powerful hybrid with his rippling spotted coat and lashing tail was rendered nothing but a whining squirmy mess, his jaw slacken with pools 'n pools of hot drool pouring out as his sharp fangs gleam, ears perked up and whiskers twitching to signify his oncoming orgasm.
leopard!satoru whose ears are incredibly sensitive, and as you tug on them, stroking the fur softly, can only whimper before he's cumming, and cumming hard, gushing sticky white ribbons n' ribbons of cum deep into your stomach, filling you endlessly while his big chest heaves up and down, purring in content.
TOJI FUSHIGURO ── WOLF
wolf!toji who is so big and buff, with his broad chest and rippling pectorals, that when you're ovulating on your puppy cycle, you truly cannot resist him, clambering and pressing yourself against him with small whines.
"now now, pup.." his deep, baritone rumble sounds as his big palms roughly cup your tits, causing you to mewl with need. "what's the magic word?"
“pleasee..” you beg, shuddering as he begins to lay you down, sharp claws digging into your wrists as you writhe eagerly, trying to push your desperate hips upward.
he growls at your squirming, leaning forward to bite at your neck, before laving his thick, wet tongue over the mark, fluffy cheek tickling you.
and finally, you feel his girthy cock, veins thumping erratically and thickened, smearing tip tapping on your entrance, his smug smirk plastered to his face as he observes how your eyes roll back at the simple gesture.
“open.” he demands, and you obey, watching as he leans over you, letting a warm glob of spit drop into your mouth, and distracting you as in one motion, he buries himself inside you to the hilt.
you squeal, and he clamps a hand over your mouth, shushing you while beginning to rock his hips back n’ forth and back n’ forth.
his hips are absolutely killer, as he brutally plows into you, marking every inch of you as his, your hands desperately digging into anything you can reach while he has your ankles up to your ears, folding you in such a nasty mating press.
his reddened mushroomy tip repeatedly bumps your g-spot, coiling your stomach tighter and tighter until you’re panting as the smack! of his hips into skin echoes.
in fact, his monstrous wolf hybrid cock is so big, so swollen, that with every harsh thrust, it gives you a stomach bulge, the obscene outline of his veiny shaft and feel of his hefty balls slapping your ass making you cum, screaming his name as you cream all over his cock.
he only relents after he’s ravished you in every position, and made you cum on his fingers, his mouth, and most importantly, his cock, satiating your little puppy needs.. for now.
KENTO NANAMI ── BEAR
bear!nanami can smell when you're going into a heat, so he practically knows it before you do.
"awh, is m'pretty girl horny?" he'll coo, laying you down on your back while his big fuzzy snout comes to sniff curiously between your legs, tickling you as you squeal.
he noses apart your thighs, big beefy arms holding you pinned in place to the bed as he slooowly starts to lap his wet, long muscle against the dampness of your panties, small round ears twitching with excitement at the small moans you let out.
bear!nanami is hefty and a bit chubby with a soft belly but still very muscular. when he lays on top of you, you can barely breathe but instead of fear overtaking you, you seem to like it, snuggling up as close as possible to your warm hybrid and licking anywhere you can reach in gratitude.
but now, it was his turn to make you nice and cozy, and satisfy the aching need you felt when you were on your cycle.
"lemme taste you.." he mumbles, squishing your knees up to your plump breasts as he pulls your panties to the side, drooling strings of arousal connecting you together, and fully buries his face deep into your weeping cunt.
you yelp, tail thrashing behind you but no match for bear!nanami's pure size as he determinedly holds you down while eating you out, hot slithery tongue lapping your honeyed juices while the tip of his wet, black nose presses on your clit, stimulating you even more.
huskily, he groans between your thighs pressing his face impossibly deeper as he makes out with your slobbering pussy, gathering every dewy slickened slosh! of essence pouring out with grateful little sighs and mwahs! of his sticky lips against your entrance.
"ken' m’so.. hah.. close.." you keen lowly, whimpering as the coil in your tummy grows tighter n' tighter, threatening to snap with every breath.
"i know, puppy.." he whispers, not stopping in his slurping as one big paw comes to splay out against your tummy. “just hold on f’me for a lil’ bit longer..”
you whimper, your legs closing tight around his head as you shudder, moving your hips until you’re practically dragging your cunt across his face, smearing translucent slick all over him.
bear!nanami who is tracing circles on you with his tongue, licking every drop of your candied essence until you’re whining to cum, begging in a small voice; “ken.. hah.. please please please!”
bear!nanami who murmurs out a “cum baby. allll on my tongue, cum for me,” before adding a single chubbed finger to your greedy pussy, curling deep inside your gummy walls.
and oh, you do, babbling his name like a prayer as your orgasm races through you all at once, soaking his lower chin in your glossy sheen, his resounding groan of approval rumbling through you.
bear!nanami loooves when you're in heat, because it means you'll go for round after round, and he can lap at your little pussy, making you cum for hours.
RYŌMEN SUKUNA ── TIGER
tiger!sukuna is instantly able to tell when you're in a rut, because of the way you're always on top of him pressing your puppy face into his chest and whimpering as you hump his plush belly, while snaking a hand downward to feel his chubbed cock, stroking at it with no particular rhyme or reason.
"tch pup, so pathetic." he'll rumble at you, but still allowing you to continue your desperate attempts to get the two of you off, soft little growls leaving him as your hand tightens or your finger presses particularly hard on his leaking slit, oozing pools of pearlescent precum all down your wrist.
you whine, grinding harder as the heat in your belly increases, slickness pooling in your panties with every passing second.
but just when you're about to relieve your poor, needy pussy, he stops you, pushing you backward roughly while pinning your wrists high above your head.
you protest, yelping softly as you wriggle in his grip, but he simply leers over you, sharp canines glinting as he settles against you.
"aww, calm down you'll get to cum little puppy." he sneers, watching you gulp as he finally frees his massive cock, twitching between his legs, reddish divot smearing gooey white across his striped tummy.
"just lemme have my fun first.."
tiger!sukuna who will spare you no mercy, hips thwacking! into you ferociously while his slacken maw hangs open, spit dribbling into your awaiting mouth.
his cock is heavy between your legs, and hits deep into your walls, bruising your cervix and french kissing your g-spot with every punctuated thrust.
his tail will wrap around you tightly, keeping you in place for him while he repeatedly rams into you, thickened mushroomy head bumping so hard it has you seeing stars, while drool, tears, and cum pool underneath your limp body, as he coaxes you from one orgasm to the next, never faltering as he fills you to the brim with endless spurts of milky white seed, until your tummy is sloshing with it.
tiger!sukuna who when he cums, cums hard and cums long. his orgasms seem to stretch on for minutes, each gushing so much, it overspills out of your poor, stuffed cunt while he curses low, rocking his hips steadily as he rides it out, creamy white pouring out of you as you cling to him with soft whimpers.
he's so rough with you in bed, but you know he'll take care of you later, gently cleaning you up with his tongue before tucking you in cozily to his chest and purring soundly.
SUGURU GETO ── PANTHER
it's a well known fact that panthers have an excellent sense of smell.
and panther!geto, sprawled out and watching you with slitted eyes as his tail flicks back n' forth lazily was no different, keenly aware as your cheeks flush with heat, thighs rubbing together for more friction when you glance over at him every so often.
finally he rumbles out a sultry, "something on your mind, darl'?"
you turn to him, swallowing thickly, sweltering and feverish. "i-i don't know, i feel hot all over an'.."
your breath is short and ragged, and the look you give him is one of pure carnal need.
he smirks slyly in response, flicking his tail over his spread legs, bulge printed clearly through his sweatpants to beckon you closer.
you're panting at this point, unsure how much more teasing you can take, but before you get any closer, he lunges for you, pinning you down with his tail wrapped tightly around your upper thigh, the fur just barely brushing your core.
"legs up." his words are a slow purr, and he watches with amusement as you obey instantly, gasping fervently as you urge him closer to you, pawing at his thick cock.
he simply laughs as you pull out his enormous throbbing member, the tip a darkish red hue and so big you can hardly fit your hand around it.
"want me to fuck you? yeah?" he encourages as he watches your eager head nodding along. "hard and fast? heh.. such a slut."
true to his word however, he pushes your legs up high, slotting himself in between, heavy length resting against your thigh.
he gives himself a few strokes, luscious black hair hanging over your head as you watch impatiently, already trying to squirm and align your hips with his.
"alright, ready?" he exhales while starting to push in slowly, thick inches stretching your tight pussy, even as your walls clamp and suck him in for more.
hiking your legs up higher with his big hands, they're practically by your ears as he starts to mount you, rolling his hips in n' out with precision.
"mmph.. so tighttt baby, you're killing me." he groans when you tug on his hair softly; his sensitive scalp has always been his weakness, and as a result, his thrusts grow sharper, deeper, hitting directly into your cushy sweet spot.
you cry out and moan, nails digging in sharply to his back as he huffs curses into your ear, angling himself juust right to push up against your cervix, rough palm coming down to smack! on your sensitive, puffy clit.
you squeal, and he bites down on your tender, floppy puppy ears, your stomach growing taut, and your release so close you can practically taste it.
"don't cum yet, doll, not 'till i tell you.." he hoarsely moans out, skin meeting skin with echoing thwacks!
you quickly whine in protest, wriggling your hips as you try to hold off and obey him like a good puppy, but knowing with a few more seconds, you weren't going to be able to stop yourself from coming undone.
urgently, you jerk and twist, trying to push him off, but he simply chuckles, thinking you're playing rough.
"stop moving, and take this fucking cock, baby." he whispers out, voice low and breathy as he thrusts his thick inches in you particularly harshly for emphasis, blunt tip ramming so hard into your sweet spot, you're dazed for a second before you realize you're cumming.
your vision turns white and spotty, and your legs twitch weakly beside you as you squirt, absolutely drenching his abdomen and pelvis in your shimmery slick, saturated and pouring out of you in gushes.
he pauses for a second, taken aback as his eyes survey your quivering form.
"oh? did i say you could cum yet?" he chuckles, the sound low and menacing, and your blood runs cold. "let's see if you're still so eager after ten more.."
It's a few long hours before you wake up, and despite there being no windows in your room, you can tell it is late in the morning. Sitting up from the mattress, you winced at the shackle still on your wrist. Rubbing your eyes, you question, what happened last night? The way they watched you, with such intensity, the way you fell asleep almost immediately. No doubt about it, they drugged you.
Your thoughts are interrupted by the door opening, once again revealing Alastor with a hot meal on a tray.
"Good morning, dear. I have some toast and eggs." He brings the tray to the bed, placing it in front of you. You look down at it, back up at him.
"I'm not hungry." You whisper softly. Alastor smiles softly.
"Hm, I wonder why." Standing, he moves to the small bathroom door. He touches the handle, running his fingers along the door as he sighs softly.
"You know, it is quite unhealthy to skip breakfast. We wouldn't want you to fall ill." He grabs the handle, opening the door, before quickly shutting it again, causing you to flinch. His gaze reaches you again as he slowly walks over.
"Unless you want to urinate on the floor, you'd better eat what I made for you."
"B-but that's not fair! I, I don't want to have, whatever stuff you're giving me, it's not-"
"Oh hush," Alastor squats in front of you, grabbing your chin sharply but not painfully. "If we hadn't helped you, you would not have slept. We are not giving you anything to harm you, but instead something to help you... adjust. You are under a lot of stress, after all, kidnapped by two dangerous men."
Alastor reaches down for a fork, stabbing a bit of toast before bringing it to your mouth.
"Eat, or I lock the bathroom. Your choice."
You look up at him, feeling so very small under his intimidating gaze, the way he owns the word 'control', forever calm and contained. You sigh softly, before reluctantly eating it.
"Good girl. Keep eating, you will need your strength today." He stands, arms crossed as he watches you eat from above. "We will be going out to get you some clothing."
"The other night was fine, as it was late and everyone was drunk, but now we are going out in the day, which means you must listen to whatever I say. Alright?"
"O-okay-"
"No, not quite. Do not okay, say 'yes sir.'"
You tense a little, looking up at him to gage his expression, finding it entirely serious.
"Y-yes sir." The words feel funny in your mouth, humiliating.
"Good. When we go out, you do not speak to anyone, do not try to signal, or do anything that would suggest you need help. If you do, I shall gut everyone on the spot."
You freeze, body suddenly tense. How could you afford to get comfortable? This man was a murderer, with a ruthless taste for mindless violence. You put the fork down, trying to breathe deep as your face pales.
Alastor's brows lift slightly, and he sighs. Sitting down next to you, he takes away the tray. Lifting your chin again, this time softly.
"Now now, no need to be dramatic. You behave, and everything is okay. I'm sure you can do that, can't you my dear?"
You can only nod, and he deems that good enough.
"Now, go brush your teeth. I will come get you in five minutes."
A wave of nausea overwhelms you as you walk down the street. Your mouth and nose are covered by one of Vincent's scarves, apparently he is working today. Doing what? You don't know. Right now, all you're worried about his not doing anything wrong.
Alastor keeps your body tight against him, arm wrapped around yours. His smile is softer now, but you sense it is due to tension. He leans down to your ear.
"Very good work, dear. Not too far now."
He guides you through the streets, weaving through people. Surely he couldn't kill all these people? If you just asked one for help, maybe they could understand. Sensing your thoughts, Alastor pulls you closer.
"Come on now, I'm trying to be helpful. Do not force me to hurt someone because you are having foolish thoughts."
After a while, you come across a small shop. A tailor, you read. Alastor pushes the door open, giving you a strict look before he leads you in.
"Ah, hello Simon! I have a very special guest for you!" Alastor beams as he approaches the wooden counter. The man, Simon, smiles softly, an old man with a bushy moustache and a short stature.
"Very well, let me see her."
You freeze as the man approahces you, eyes glancing toward Alastor.
"Well, take your coat off." Alastor gives you a subtle nod, and you take off the scarf and coat, revealing an oversized dress that Alastor had picked out for you. It must of come from his strange collection, the same place as the underwear you are wearing.
"This simply will not do, come, let me measure you."
Simon leads you atop a stool, before he grabs out a measuring tape. He attempts to measure your arms, before sighing.
"I'm afraid I'll have to remove the dress in order to get a more accurate measure, sweetheart."
You tense, before Alastor speaks for you.
"I'm sure a fine tailor such as yourself can figure it out? Please, do not embarrass the young lady."
Simon sighs softly, irritated as he continues to measure you with the dress. You try to breathe normally, try to hide your fear, still feeling sick from this morning. Alastor sits on the couch, watching.
"So, how'd you know Al, sweetheart?"
"I-I, um."
"An old friend from school. We met in town and thought we'd stop by."
After a little while, Simon finishes writing out his measurements and discusses payment with Alastor, leaving you to sit quietly on the wooden bench. You stare into the ground, disoriented, zoned out.
Alastor shakes Simon's hand, before turning to you. His smile softens as he crouches in front of you, presenting his hand.
"Come on, let us go."
Alastor takes you out of the shop, thanking Simon for his business.
"Your new clothes should arrive in a week or so, so we shall find you something comfortable for the time being."
Alastor takes you so another shop, a boutique. Looking around, you find comfortable women's clothing. You admire all the colours and stitching. The styles are something you could never afford, and when you catch the price of one dress, your jaw nearly drops.
Alastor hums softly as he picks out some day clothes for you, as well as pyjamas. He holds them up to your body, perfectly selecting your right size. You feel so out of place, an imposter amongst the men with their wives. The feeling of nausea rushes through you again, the thought of all of them dead. Gutted on the tile flooring, completely unaware of the danger right in front of them. What would they do if they knew?
"Are you alright, my dear? You look rather pale."
"I, I'm, I'm fine."
He looks down at you, putting back a dress before taking you to quickly to pay. He notices the worried look on your face, how you keep looking around but keep your body tightly to yourself. Once you are free from the store, Alastor sits you on a nearby bench.
"Oh dear, it seems I have frightened you too much."
"I'm fine, I'm sorry." You clench your stomach, the feeling as though you have already been gutted yourself.
Alastor sits down next to you, before he slowly, gently, wraps an arm around your shoulder. You tense again, before he shushes you.
"Relax, I am not going to hurt you, and I am not going to hurt anyone else. Once you get your head back, I will take you back home, safe and sound. Tell me if you understand."
"I understand."
"Good."
After a few minutes, you stand, legs a little wobbly but secure enough. Alastor once again takes your arm, holding your clothes in his other. Back 'home', he takes you back to your 'room'.
"Now, I shall not chain you again for now, given your exceptional behavior today, but that means you'd do well not to test me."
Alastor picks out some comfortable pyjamas, a matching set, long and warm. He hands them to your shaky hands, before a hand reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear.
"I do wish you could find your place here, I'm sure you will."
And he leaves, locking the door behind him.
You let out a breath, sinking into the mattress. It should nearly be dinner time by now, which means either he or Vincent will return.
As you walked back to the house, Vincent kept a firm hand on your upper arm, his pace brisk as you struggled to keep up. Your head turned around to look at the scene once more, but Vincent quickly yanked you forward.
Right now, you were shivering in just your old work clothes as he sorted through his closet. He let you stand there as he did, allowing you to look around his bedroom. It was quite clean, with a few objects scattered, including a radio, a few ties, and a wide tooth comb. The bed was huge, and made up well.
"Here, these should be fine." Vincent holds a black long sleeve shirt, as well as a pair of beige men's shorts. You tentatively take them, the shirt warm and soft. Vincent looks at you again before he grabs a belt.
"We'll have to buy you some of your own, but for now, this." You nod and thank him quietly, eyes down. He stares at you for a moment, his face blank, eyes searching. You gather the courage to speak.
"M-may I, may I please have a sh-shower?"
A pause.
"No, not yet. Showering is a privilege."
You're about to nod in agreement when a loud, joyous voice sounds from behind you.
"Oh, let her clean up, Vincent! God knows she's had one hell of a night." Alastor chimes as he hangs up his coat, eyes lingering slightly on the one you were wearing before. Vincent sighs deeply, before taking your arm and guiding you to the bathroom.
It's cute, bright blue tiles fill half the wall whilst the rest is a stark white. A circular mirror fits on the right above the white sink, whilst the shower-tub is on the left. You step into it slowly as Vincent reluctantly loses his grip on you. You turn to him.
"No messing around, okay? You get, 10 minutes, before you're out of here again. If I look and see you have touched anything you shouldn't, there will be consequences."
"O-okay."
Alastor appears from behind Vincent, small smile. Your eyes widen when you notice the specks of blood on his face, and clothes.
"D-do you wanna, I don't need to-"
"Oh nonsense, my dear. Here, silly Vincent forgot these." He hands you a clean towel and a neatly folded pair of, underwear? For women, pink and soft. You open your mouth to protest, despite how clean they look. You don't notice the smug smile Alastor sends Vincent's way, and the way Vincent's face reddens.
"You will take them. They are clean, never worn before." You nod before you take them, happy to at least have some female clothing.
"T-thank you."
"You are welcome. Now, take as long as you'd like." Alastor closes the door for you, leaving you some privacy. You take a deep breath as you hear them walk away, trying to calm your body. You place their your clothes on the counter, before looking for the lock.
Hm, this door doesn't have one. You try to reason with yourself. They wouldn't come in here, right? No, they have fed you and kept you moderately safe, even if they kidnapped you. The reasoning will have to do for now.
You pull back the shower curtain and turn on the hot water. On the shelves, there are two different shampoos and conditioners, one for straight hair, the other for curly. So it's true, they do live together. For soap, there are two as well, one green and one yellow. However, an unopened box of another sits there as well. You take it slowly and open it, finding a pink soap inside. It smells of cherry and almond.
You place it down slowly, checking the door is secured shut. Listening through the door, you can't hear anything, and so you start to take your clothes off. No point barricading it if they can just break through anyway. In the bright light, you finally get a good look at your leg. The stitches remain in place, clean and tight. The wound is slightly red, but you can hardly feel it anymore. It's strange, surely there would be some soreness, but you cannot feel any.
You disregard your anxious mind as you step into the shower. The warm immediately calms you, relaxing your body, allowing you to breathe. You wish you could stay in there forever. You wash your hair, scrubbing away the oils, fear, the pain of knowing you assisted in the killing of a man. Evil man or not, you are a murderer. Stop, you cannot cry, they will know.
You wash your body, making sure to avoid your wound. It feels good to be clean, but it doesn't feel good to know that they planned for this. How long had that soap been there? Is there another woman who lives here that you don't know about? It's so very odd, such a peculiar situation. A sense of hopelessness overwhelms you. You need to escape.
After taking a few deep breaths, you shut the shower off and wipe your body down, patting your hair dry. The warm top Vincent gave you is far too large, but is very warm and made of kind fabric. The shorts however, do not work. They fall down consistently, forcing you to use the belt, ultimately appearing like a child. You look at yourself in the mirror, how did it come to this?
A soft knock on the door.
"You done in there? Come on, we need you put you back."
You quickly gather your dirty clothes and towel, hair still slightly damp. You open the door.
Vincent's face looks bored, but his eyes widen ever so slightly. He recovers almost immediately, hand reaching out to grab your arm. He drags you quickly through the house, bringing you back to the room you had awoken in.
"Give me your stuff." You hand him the clothes and towel, which he places on a small table just outside the room. He walks in after you, turning your attention to another door you didn't notice before. He opens it, revealing a toilet with a sink. Very small, but something at least.
"This, is yours. Everything you need should be in there, other than a shower of course." He closes the door again, stalking towards you. He looms over you, voice strict.
"Now, Al doesn't want me to put the chains on again, so I'm gonna just do one hand, alright? Sit down."
You sit back on the mattress as Vincent leans behind you and brings back one of the shackles.
"What hand?" You put forward your left, and he locks the chain on it. You look at it, sighing softly. Vincent's finger grazes your chin, bringing your eyes back to him as his voice softens.
"Hey, if you keep on doing what you did tonight, they will be off in no time."
At the same time, Alastor walks in with a warm tray in his hands. He walks over and crouches next to Vincent, holding it out. You take it gently, thanking him softly as he watches you.
"You did very well tonight. Very well."
"Mh-hm, a natural."
You pause, looking up at them. Their gazes are curious, testing your reaction.
"It, didn't, f-feel good."
"Honey, that man would have raped you, you shouldn't feel bad. I mean, if he did that to another woman, would you regret killing him?"
You can't answer. Answer enough.
"Well, if you are going to stay here, I suppose we should know more about you. What do you like to do?" Alastor asks. His cheerful voice is more quiet now, luring you in.
"Um, r-reading, I guess."
"Reading? You ever, watch tv?"
"N-no, I don't have one."
"Well, we do, and it is truly splendid, revolutionary technology."
Alastor's hand slowly rises to rest on Vincent's shoulders. The other man tenses, looking at Alastor with confused and slightly mad. You don't grimace at the gesture, hardly caring for it.
"Say, my dear, do you have anyone at home? Any, brooding young man we need to worry about?"
"No, no I don't." Your voice is quiet as you eat, voice soft and gaze downwards.
"Really? A hermit?"
"Yeah."
They continue to watch you as you finish your meal, and you thank them. Alastor stands, taking the tray.
"You are very welcome, sweetheart. If you ever need anything, we am here."
You smile at him softly, feeling his attempts to calm you, subdue you. Suddenly, this feeling of intense exhaustion, the need for sleep overwhelms you. Vincent smiles softly, hand bringing your chin up to meet his gaze.
"You tired honey? Come on, let's get you to sleep." He pulls back the blanket, before draping it over you. When you hit the pillow, you just cannot keep your eyes open.
"Go to sleep. Good girl."
Alastor and Vincent look at you one last time before you fall into a deep sleep, hardly any time to wonder about how and what they drugged your food with.
streamer!choso was the perfect roommate... the first few weeks he lived with you. Quiet and kept to himself, he barely made a mess. Almost too good to be true.
Until streamer!choso's former roommate brought the final boxes of his stuff, and you got woken up that night by his deep voice echoing through your shared wall—which would have been fine. Everyone has needs—but the weird thing was he hadn't brought a girl home.
streamer!choso opened his door rather quickly when you knocked, a headset pushed off just one ear as he leaned against the wall, not to block you from seeing his stream setup, but to block them from you.
streamer!choso apologized quietly, assuring he'd keep down better—offering to move his setup to the opposite wall to avoid waking you again, until you waved him off. whispering that it was fine—just as long as he kept it down.
streamer!choso had kept that deal for almost a month—almost—until one night, he had streamer!gojo over, and he realized just how loud his friend could be & nearly jumped out of his skin when Satoru fell over.
streamer!choso apologized to his fanbase and quickly ended his stream just before hearing your bedroom door click open—awaiting your swift knocks, but what he & his friend least expected was for you to worryingly ask if they were alright.
streamer!choso quietly shuffled to his door like a dog with its tail between its legs and not like the literal 6'0 angel he was, apologizing profusely for waking you—only to be pleasently surprised that you had been watching his stream, shooting his friend a death glare when streamer!gojo whistled behind him.
streamer!choso woke up before you the next morning, and decided to apologize for being an annoying roommate, by making you & him chocolate chip pancakes, waking you with the promise of a 'surprise' leaning over the kitchen island & eating with you while you asked him all the little details you'd noticed in his streams.
streamer!choso felt something new after that breakfast—this little flutter in his chest whenever he saw you around the apartment; he just felt so much more comfortable around you.
streamer!choso & you ended up spending more time together whenever he wasn't streaming, to the point where he was actually quite talkative around you—which shocked himself time to time.
streamer!choso took it upon himself to be a good roommate and challenged you to a match of his favorite game. Both of you lounged together on his bed, laughing and quietly talking throughout the round.
streamer!choso wasn't an ass when you lost the match, only putting an arm around you, guiding you through the next one, and happily taking the high-five you gave him once the two of you won.
streamer!choso stiffened like a board when your gaze softened, flickering to his lips momentarily before looking away—his hand quickly coming out to pull you back to him, taking only a second before slamming his lips against yours.
streamer!choso felt like he was in heaven; one second, he was pushing you down onto his mattress kissing you softly, and the next? He was fucking you into a mean mating press, drinking down each whine that escaped your throat.
streamer!choso was big—you knew that from his height, but nothing could have prepared you the absolute girthyness of his cock, pierced at the tip and kissing your cervix with each bullying thrust
Words couldn't describe how it felt, splitting you open like that. streamer!choso was wrecking you and treating you like something utterly fragile, cradling your cheek.
streamer!choso carefully felt around where he was stretching you wide with a soft groan against your lips, pulling back just enough to stare down at you as his thrusts turned gentle.
streamer!choso pulled out just after making you cum so fast you felt like you'd levitated off his bed—and finished on your lower stomach with a groan, collapsing next to you in a breathless mess.
streamer!choso ended up cuddling you to sleep that night—never more thankful his bed was perfectly out of his camera's view that night as he started stream that night, staying nice and quiet so you could stay asleep
streamer!choso's stream caught fans' eyes for the simple fact that there seemed to be a pair of lace panties hanging from his ceiling fan and a perfectly on-display hickey on his throat.
In which, despite how hard you try to resist, you still end up back in his garage ;)
Neighbour!Choso who you’ve been avoiding since he made you cum with his speakers out of embarrassment and a desperate need to pretend nothing was out of the ordinary. And who has been doing the opposite.
Neighbour!Choso who leans against his garage door, a cig between his fingers and a pierced brow rising, as he waves at a passing you. You’re walking with a friend — a friend who insisted they pass the house of your hot, grungy neighbour and his garage band. When you don’t wave back, he shouts out, “Sit on my face next time and you won’t be able to pretend nothing happened.”
You have to make up a lie to your snickering friend: your neighbour has early onset dementia or something of the sort. She doesn’t believe you.
Neighbour!Choso who tears down his curtains and ensures you can always see his washboard abs, slutty waist, and pierced nipples every time he gets changed. Consequently, your curtains are always drawn. But there might be times you sneak a peek through the crack.
Neighbour!Choso who blasts music all day and night, some sickeningly heartbreaking and others downright obscene. You cover your ears with a pillow, gritting your teeth, and wholly intent on pretending you can’t hear him. That is, until you realise he’s playing the very song he used to have you creaming your panties as you rode his vibrating speakers.
Neighbour!Choso who smiles ear to ear when you come stomping into his garage as he tunes his bass for the next song. You slap him. It was light, not at all very hurtful, and yet his eyes roll back and he absentmindedly moans, “More. Harder.”
“You’re disgusting.”
He nods, pigtails bouncing. “Ah, just the tip of the iceberg, to be honest.”
Aghast and bewildered, you stammer out, “J-just leave me alone, alright? I don’t want anything to do with this, with you.”
Neighbour!Choso steps closer, smile creeping into a grin. He backs you up onto the garage door you hadn’t noticed closed. His nose skims your hairline, inhaling and groaning. Finally, he whispers a plain old, “Nah,” and kisses you. Hard.
The kiss isn’t soft and sweet nor slow; it’s messy, mean, and maddening. All tongue and teeth — nipping your bottom lip, tangling with your tongue, slurping on your drool, and accompanied by wandering hands. In fact, it’s such a good fucking kiss, you don’t notice his hand going where it shouldn’t until it’s too late, until it’s rubbing your slit through your pyjama bottoms.
Neighbour!Choso doesn’t slide his hand inside, doesn’t touch you directly — whether you want him to or not is neither here nor there. He’s simply rubbing and pressing up, almost like you’re a stress toy, like he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. He’s not trying to make you cum. But that’s exactly what’s happening; the friction is magnificent.
You shudder against his body.
Neighbour!Choso who pecks your lips one last time, brings his hand to his nose, and inhales deeply again. He grabs his dick through his jeans and rubs it like he was rubbing your cunt. Meanwhile, you’re panting and trying to orient yourself. “You can stay and watch me cum, if you’d like,” he rasps. “Actually, I’d really -hah- like that, but I know you’ll run off again.”
And, like a well-oiled machine, you do just that. Running flustered all the way back home before you can see him lick his fingers.
There’s another message on his window later in the night, like you knew there would be. It reads: Ur smell’s gone. Cum by tomorrow & refresh it? pls :)
Had this in my drafts. Decided not to delete it nor edit it. Neighbour!Choso must be witnessed as he is.
Thinking about having a one night stand with Toji and then he just…doesn’t leave.
tw slight dubcon
You assumed you’d wake up alone, the burly man, who fucked you so good last night, long gone. Instead you’re woken up by his thick cock stretching out your aching cunt all over again. The cum from last night helps in aiding his quest, but it’s still a tight fit.
You whine, nails digging into his muscled back as he presses your knees to your chest and wrings orgasm after orgasm out of you. And then he fucks you all over again in the shower. And then in the kitchen. You have to practically kick him to finally get him to stop sucking on your poor clit. He gives you a sly grin, mouth and scar still shiny from your slick, and presses an apologetic kiss to your lips.
You don’t do this often, you really don’t, so you assumed he’d up and leave by the time he’s got his fill. Maybe he’d tell you he’d call you and then end up ghosting you. You heard the stories. But Toji doesn’t do any of that. No, he just…stays. Takes up all the space on your couch with a beer in his hand, watching boat races.
You’re pacing in your kitchen. Why is he still here? Do you need to ask him to leave? Your heart is nearly jumping out of your chest when you approach him, having rehearsed a lie over and over in your head to get the stranger to leave. But before you can manage to stutter out a single word, he pulls you on his lap and kisses you greedily. His fingers dip under the waistband of your shorts, teasing your puffy pussy.
You jolt, whining about being too sore, fingers grasping his wrist but he only grins and slides two fingers into your wet heat. He coos how good you’re being, how you can take him, right doll?
He fucks you until you’re nothing but a brainless mess, incapable of muttering a single word. You fall asleep on his chest, unaware that he’s already planing to do this all over again tomorrow.
You really should have known better than to take a stray home.
