♡ Fuck Me Undead (C.K)
Summary: Your touch made him hard before it ever made him human. Now his heart hammers when he’s deep inside you.
Content: MDNI! f!reader, zombie!choso kamo, warmbodies au, post-apocalypse setting, feral intimacy, bloody hands, messy kisses, size kink, creampie, overstimulation, slow grind, possessive sex, desperation, mulitple positions, multiple orgasms, fingering, primal fucking, crying during sex, emotional release, voyeurism, neck biting, growling, whimpering, rutting, masturbation (choso), mutual obsession, tension snap sex, undead tenderness, post-nut soft choso moment (aftercare).
Word Count: 12.1k
A/N: past deadline whoops, i was discovering how to use em dashes on Google docs and had to get quillbot lmfao...also i didn't get home til late. plz reblog, like, & follow. i also have my up & coming kinktober list linked here :) pls let me know if you want tagged to keep updated!
The night was still, heavy with the scent of damp rot and smoke, the kind of silence that hummed in your ears like the whole world had stopped breathing. You gripped the handle of your blade tighter, the worn leather biting into your palm as your boots sank into the soft mud.
The abandoned overpass loomed ahead, concrete cracked and webbed with vines. This was where you’d seen him—that thing. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving too slow to be human and too deliberate to be the empty kind of dead.
You’d followed him for half a mile, heart drumming with both fear and hunger. Your rations were gone, your pack lighter than it had ever been. If this corpse was shambling toward something, maybe it meant shelter. Maybe food. Or maybe it meant you’d be fighting for your life.
And then he turned.
The sight of him nearly knocked the breath out of you. His skin was pale—not death gray, but washed-out, like the color had been drained away. Veins curled dark beneath the surface of his skin like ink bleeding under parchment. His hair was black and tangled, sticking in wet strands to his temples. His lips were cracked and faintly stained with red, and when he opened his mouth, his teeth flashed sharp in the dying light. He should have snarled. He should have lunged. Instead… his eyes widened.
You froze.
He looked terrified of you.
The knife trembled in your grip, your brain screaming, “Kill him, kill him before he kills you,” but you didn’t move. His hands hovered, trembling in the air as if he didn’t know what to do with them. You’d expected hunger, expected a sprint and a scream. Instead, you saw hesitation.
“Stay back,” you barked, voice raw.
His throat bobbed. He blinked slowly, like his mind was half a second behind his body. Then—unbelievably—he spoke.
“…please.”
Your entire body went cold. Zombies didn’t talk. They moaned, they shrieked, and they gnashed. They didn’t plead.
“What the fuck are you?” Your voice cracked with both fury and disbelief.
He swallowed again, lips parting. He was drooling—clear spit glistening at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin. His gaze was fixed not on your face, not on the blade, but lower. Your chest.
You took a step back, revulsion cutting through the shock. “Don’t you dare,” you hissed, knife jerking upward.
“I—” His voice was hoarse and broken, like he hadn’t used it in years. He shook his head quickly, almost violently, as if to deny the thought. His eyes stayed locked on you though, wide and dark, pupils blown wide like a predator’s. He made a small sound—not quite a whimper, not quite a growl—his tongue flicking out to catch the drool on his lip.
Your stomach lurched. “You’re thinking about eating me.”
His face twisted—not into hunger, not into malice, but into something like pain. He shook his head harder, raising his hands in clumsy surrender. “No,” he rasped, the word ripping out of his throat like it hurt. “Not… that.”
The way he said it sent a shiver up your spine.
Your knuckles whitened around the knife. “Then what?”
His chest rose and fell like he was forcing himself to breathe. His jaw worked, trembling as if the words were stuck between his teeth. Finally, his eyes dragged away from your chest to your face. His lips parted, drool stringing again at the corner of his mouth, and he whispered, “…warm.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Your pulse hammered so hard it hurt your temples. He stared at you like you were fire and he’d been walking in the cold too long. His body was big and hulking, but his posture wasn’t threatening—it was pleading.
Your instinct was still screaming to drive the knife into his throat, but your hand wouldn’t move. His fear—real fear—had rooted you in place.
“You’re insane,” you muttered, your voice low, shaking.
He made a strangled sound, something between a laugh and a groan, like he didn’t know what to do with the air in his lungs. Then he took a slow step forward, boots squelching in the mud. You raised the blade instantly, the tip catching the glow of the dying streetlight.
His eyes darted to it, then back to your chest. His throat worked again, drool spilling from his lips as his shoulders hunched slightly, shame or instinct or both. He wasn’t attacking. He wasn’t snarling. He just… looked.
And for the first time since the world had gone to hell, you felt more unnerved by someone’s want than their hunger.
You steadied the knife and swallowed hard. “One more step and I’ll gut you.”
He froze—and obeyed.
But his eyes never left you.
Your arm was starting to ache from how tight you held the knife, but you didn’t dare lower it. He stood there in front of you like a ghost dragged out of the earth—shoulders broad, chest rising too shallow, eyes dark as wet soil. You could hear the faint, wet sound of his breathing, ragged and uneven, like each inhale scraped his throat raw. His skin was pale, stretched taut over the sharp ridges of his collarbones, with veins pressing blue-black just beneath the surface.
He should have been charging you. He should have been snarling, teeth bared, jaw snapping for flesh. That’s what the dead did. That’s what you’d seen a hundred times before—your blade cutting through necks and spines to keep them from sinking their rotten teeth into anyone else.
But this one didn’t move.
He watched you, trembling hands hanging in the air like a man surrendering. His lips parted again, and more saliva slipped free, shining as it dripped down his chin. His stare was fixed and heavy, dragging down to your chest, then snapping back to your face as if ashamed of his own instincts.
“I said stay back,” you snapped.
“I—” His voice cracked low, gravelly, scraping up from a throat that hadn’t known speech in God knows how long. “Not… hungry.”
You almost laughed. Bitter, humorless. “Not hungry? You’re drooling all over yourself looking at me.”
His jaw clenched, muscles in his neck twitching. His eyes flicked downward again, slow and hesitant. You followed his gaze, chest heaving in disbelief.
“Don’t you—” you started, and then he moved.
It wasn’t fast. Not a lunge, not an attack. Just a clumsy step forward, arms still out in some half-assed show of peace. The blade shot up between you, pressing against the torn fabric of his shirt. He froze instantly. The faintest brush of steel against his chest seemed to lock him in place.
And then he did something so human it made your stomach flip—he reached out. Not to grab the knife. Not to stop you. Just to touch. His fingertips grazed the edge of your sleeve, the lightest pressure over cloth, and you swore you felt a spark, an ache traveling up your arm.
You wanted to jerk away. You wanted to cut his hand clean off. But then his breathing hitched, deeper than before, and his body shifted in a way that made your gut sink.
You saw it.
The thick outline straining against the shredded denim of his jeans.
“Are you—” You choked, words dying in your throat.
His hand trembled where it touched you, his eyes going wide like he hadn’t even noticed until you had. He shifted again, the bulge pressing harder against the ruined fabric, obscene in its size and shape. The heat climbed up your neck, disgust and shock and something else all tangling until you couldn’t breathe.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, stumbling back a step. “You’re fucking hard?”
His lips parted, a wet sound slipping out as he tried to find words. His voice came broken, awkward.
“Only… blood… that moves.” He swallowed hard, eyes dropping for a heartbeat before flicking back up to yours. “Figures it’s there.”
A strangled laugh ripped out of you, disbelief cutting sharp in your throat. “You’re kidding me.”
He looked down at himself, then back at you, expression somewhere between pained and annoyed.
“Not… funny,” he rasped, and yet there was the barest twitch at the corner of his cracked lips, like the joke hadn’t escaped him entirely.
You stumbled another step back, heart pounding, knife still trembling in your grip. Every part of you screamed run, but your eyes kept flicking down—dragged to the heavy outline pressing against torn denim, the obscene size of it. The world tilted for a second, your brain stuttering between danger and what the fuck.
He stepped forward again, almost pleading now, arms still raised, chest heaving shallowly. His cock strained harder, the wet patch of drool on his chin catching the dim light.
That broke you.
You turned and bolted, boots tearing against the mud, breath ragged in your throat. Branches clawed at your arms as you shoved into the trees, knife still clutched tight.
Behind you, he didn’t chase. You could feel it—the weight of his stare, his body rooted to the ground, cock hard and useless, jaw working in silence as he watched you vanish into the night.
And in that dark silence, with the stench of blood and rot thick in the air, he muttered to himself, bitter and low, his voice almost cracking with humorless irony:
“Only… blood flow I get.”
The words were swallowed by the forest, leaving nothing but the echo of your ragged breath and the pounding of your heart as you fled.
Mud was sucking at your boots and branches clawing at your arms like they wanted to hold you there with him. Your lungs burned, breath tearing ragged through your chest, but you didn’t stop until the overpass was gone, until the sound of your own panicked footfalls drowned out the memory of him standing there—huge, shaking, hard—and looking at you like you were a miracle instead of a meal.
When you finally slowed, clutching the knife to your chest, the silence was worse than the running. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, hear the night pressing close.
And then you heard him.
A branch cracked somewhere behind you. Not close—yet—but close enough to snap every nerve tight in your spine. You spun, breath hitching, blade up. There was nothing but trees, wet leaves, and shadows. You waited, heart hammering, until the silence returned, and then you started walking, slower this time, every muscle tense.
It became a pattern. Every time you thought you’d lost him, there would be the faintest sound: the wet drag of boots through mud, the low rasp of breathing you couldn’t tell was yours or his. You didn’t catch him again until you made it back to the crumbled concrete skeleton of what had once been a strip mall.
You ducked under the collapsed awning, slid inside a store that smelled like dust and mildew, and crouched low among the shelves. The air was close and stale, every creak of the broken building making you flinch.
He appeared in the doorway five minutes later.
You knew it was him before your eyes even adjusted. His silhouette was unmistakable, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, hair hanging damp against his face. He just stood there, motionless, until your fingers ached from how hard you were gripping the knife. Then he stepped forward, slow and careful, like a man trying not to spook an animal.
“Stop following me,” you hissed, voice sharper than you meant.
He didn’t speak. He tilted his head like he was listening, like your words were music he hadn’t heard in years.
“Did you hear me?” You snapped, louder this time. “Go away!”
His lips parted, jaw working like he was forcing something out. “…can’t.”
The word echoed in the empty store, and your stomach twisted.
“You can’t?” You shifted back, rising to your feet, knife flashing. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
His hands lifted again in that strange, halting surrender, but he didn’t come closer. His gaze swept over you, slow and heavy, before returning to your face. “…warm.” The word was softer this time, like he was afraid of it.
You felt your eye twitch, frustration and panic twisting together. “You said that already,” you muttered through clenched teeth.
He stayed where he was, breathing shallowly, chest rising in quick little jerks. And then, like something had snapped, he took another step. You tensed, ready to strike, but he just stayed there, closer than before, head bowed slightly.
“Go away,” you repeated, backing toward the wall.
He followed.
Your temper flared. “You deaf or just stupid?”
He flinched at that, shoulders hunching slightly, but he didn’t stop. You kept backing up until your shoulders hit the wall, and you hated the way your breath hitched, hated the way the air between you felt thick and charged.
“Why are you following me?” You asked, softer this time, almost desperate.
His throat worked as if the words hurt coming out. “…safe.”
You blinked, startled. “Safe?”
He nodded once, jerky and quick, like he was agreeing with himself as much as you. “Safe… with you.”
The words landed like stones in your stomach. You’d been alone for so long that the idea of someone—something—deciding you were safe made your skin crawl.
“Bullshit,” you said, shoving past him. You stalked to the door, ready to leave him in the dust, but the sound of his steps followed you, steady as your own shadow.
It went on like that for hours.
You moved through the ruined city, scavenging through empty storefronts and overturned cars, and every time you turned, he was there. Always just far enough away to not seem like a threat, always close enough to see.
When you stopped to drink from your canteen, you saw him lean against a crumbled wall, just watching, his hair hanging in his eyes, chest rising and falling. When you crouched to pick through rubble, you felt his stare on your back, hot and heavy like a hand pressing between your shoulders.
Every sound he made scraped at your nerves—the wet drag of his boots, the faint rasp of his breathing, and the soft creak of denim when he shifted his weight. The longer it went on, the more you felt your eye twitching in irritation, a tight little muscle jumping under the skin every time you caught him in your peripheral vision.
“Do you ever stop?” You finally snapped, spinning on your heel.
He stopped dead, freezing in the middle of the street like a kid caught doing something wrong. His hands hovered, then dropped to his sides, palms open, empty. His face was blank, unreadable, but his eyes stayed locked on you, dark and unwavering.
“Why me?” you demanded. “Why not any of the other corpses wandering around?”
He hesitated, then took a slow step closer. You felt your stomach tighten as his presence loomed heavier.
“Because…” His voice was rough and strained. “…alive.”
Your laugh was harsh and spiteful. “Yeah, no shit.”
He tilted his head again, hair falling into his face, and you caught the faintest twitch of his mouth—like he almost smiled.
Something in you shattered at that, the pressure of hours of being hunted, followed, and watched. You shoved him hard, palms hitting the solid wall of his chest. He barely moved, just blinked down at you, as if you’d surprised him.
“You don’t get to just pick me,” you said, voice sharp and shaking. “You don’t get to follow me like—like I belong to you.”
His breathing hitched at that, chest expanding like the words had hit him deep.
“…do,” he murmured, and you hated the way the sound rolled through you, low and certain.
You took a step back, heart pounding. “You’re insane,” you spat, but the words felt weak even as they left your mouth.
He stayed there, rooted to the spot, but his eyes trailed downward again, calculating and hungry, until they rested on your chest. You saw his throat work and saw the faint tremor in his hands.
And then, as if the universe hadn’t humiliated you enough today, you noticed it again—the heavy bulge in his jeans, thicker now, straining the fabric with each shallow breath.
Your pulse jumped, anger and fear tangling hot in your chest. “Are you serious right now?” you hissed.
He looked down at himself, then back at you, unblinking. “…still,” he said hoarsely, voice scraping like gravel.
“Still what?”
“Still… there.”
Your eye twitched again, sharp and frustrated. “Of course it’s still there! You’ve been following me for miles with that—" You cut yourself off, running a hand over your face. “God, you’re pathetic.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood there, breathing like each inhale cost him something, his body massive and still except for the twitch of his cock against torn denim.
The weight of his stare was unbearable. You turned on your heel, storming off, ignoring the way your heart kicked when you heard his slow, inevitable footsteps following.
´ཀ`
The first thing you noticed was the smell. These weren’t like him. They didn’t just smell like damp earth and old blood. These smelled like rot that had been left to fester in the sun, like meat crawling with maggots, like the end of everything. The air shifted with it, thick and foul, and you knew before you saw them that the next corner would not be empty.
Your grip tightened on the handle of your blade, palm slick from sweat. The streets were already too quiet, the sky a dull bruise of gray. Broken glass crunched under your boots, and behind you, like a shadow stitched to your heels, came the steady drag of him. Choso. The corpse-man, the not-quite-dead. You hadn’t told him to follow again, hadn’t invited him, and hadn’t done anything except keep moving—and still he trailed you.
You didn’t look back when you heard him stumble on the curb and didn’t flinch when his breath rattled low in his throat. You couldn’t afford to. Because they were here.
They came out of the shadows in pairs, and your stomach flipped. Taller, gaunter, with bones that jutted sharp under loose flesh, their eyes filmed over in white. Their jaws stretched wider than seemed possible, teeth broken but long. They moved wrong, twitching like their strings were being yanked by some cruel puppeteer, arms snapping out at angles, and legs bending too far back as they lurched into the street.
One of them shrieked, the sound piercing enough to set your teeth on edge.
You didn’t hesitate. Knife up, breath steady, you lunged.
The first swing caught the nearest one in the throat, tearing through gristle and half-rotted muscle. It shrieked again, higher, keening, but it didn’t fall. Its clawed hand snapped toward your face, grazing your cheek hard enough to sting. You twisted, planted your boot against its chest, and shoved it back into the cracked concrete wall.
The second one was faster. It dropped onto you from the side, the impact slamming your shoulder and forcing the air out of your lungs. Its teeth snapped an inch from your ear, hot and rancid breath gagging you. You gritted your teeth, jammed your elbow into its jaw, and then shoved the blade up under its ribs. The scream that tore out of it was less human, more animal—shrill, furious.
Blood sprayed your cheek as you yanked the blade free. Your chest heaved, heart pounding, sweat dripping down your spine. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You spun, knife catching the throat of the first one again, this time deeper, harder, until the shriek cut off with a wet gurgle.
It fell.
The second staggered, wounded but still coming. Its body moved like it didn’t care about pain, like nothing short of annihilation would stop it. You tightened your grip, ready for the final strike, when you caught sight of him.
Choso.
He was just standing there.
His back was half-hunched, hair hanging ragged into his eyes, and lips parted as he watched you. His chest rose and fell with those shallow, rattling breaths, but he didn’t move. He didn’t step forward to help. He didn’t even flinch when the shrieking monster snapped at you again.
Your frustration flared hot.
“Are you just going to stand there?” You spat, shoving the creature back, blade catching the dim light as you prepared to end it.
Choso blinked slowly. A low groan slipped out of him, half like a question, half like a confused complaint, as though he didn’t understand why you’d even asked.
“Never mind,” you muttered bitterly, shoving the blade up into the monster’s skull. The crack of bone and the heavy slump of its body against the pavement echoed too loud in the stillness that followed.
You wiped your knife on your sleeve, breath still ragged. The stench was worse now with the corpses down, meat and blood clogging the air. You glanced back at him, wiping sweat from your brow with your wrist. He was still standing in the same place, staring at you with wide eyes, unmoving except for the faint tremor in his hands.
“Pathetic,” you hissed under your breath, turning on your heel. You left the bodies where they fell, stepping back over shattered glass toward the cracked alleys you knew best.
And like he had since the moment you met him, he followed.
By the time you reached your makeshift shelter, the sun was bleeding low on the horizon. The sky was burning orange, clouds were lit with fire, and the air was thick with the smell of rain. You ducked into the old subway station, rusted gates long since pulled apart. Down the broken stairs, where the graffiti on the walls blurred in the dim light, you’d carved out a corner that kept you dry and hidden.
You set your bag down with a grunt, shoulder aching from the weight. The air was heavy here, close, filled with the scent of mildew and the faint trickle of water dripping from cracked pipes. You turned to find him still at your back, his silhouette blocking what little light filtered in through the entrance.
“Don’t touch anything,” you snapped automatically.
He didn’t move. Just stood there, silent, watching. His eyes were heavy on you, dragging over your body like he was memorizing each line, each shadow.
You sank down onto the old blanket you’d laid across the concrete, dragging a canteen from your bag. You drank greedily, water running down your chin, before swiping your mouth with your sleeve. He hadn’t taken a step closer, but you could feel him—looming, watching, still.
Finally, the silence broke you.
“Why are you here?” you asked, voice rough. You set the canteen down, rubbing the ache from your neck.
His head tilted, eyes catching faint light.
“I don’t mean following me,” you pressed. “I mean here. This world. Why are you like this? You’re not like them.” You gestured roughly back toward where the corpses had fallen. “So what the hell are you?”
He shifted gradually. The sound of denim pulling against itself was loud in the still air. He took one step forward, then another, until the faint drip of water echoed around him.
“…don’t know,” he rasped. His voice cracked like dry wood. “Just… here.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
His lips pressed together, like he didn’t know how to explain, like words were something foreign he had to drag from the bottom of a well. He groaned low, frustrated, head bowing slightly as his hands trembled at his sides.
“You remember anything?” You tried again, softer this time.
His eyes lifted to yours, dark and sharp in the gloom. “…cold. Then… warm.”
The way he said it made your skin prickle.
“Warm,” you repeated slowly. “Like me.”
His chest rose faintly. He nodded once.
You leaned back against the wall, exhaustion dragging at your bones. The apocalypse had been nothing but silence and fear for years, and now here was this half-dead man, staring at you like you were the only light left in the world. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to scream.
Instead, you asked, “Do you miss it? Before?”
His brow furrowed.
“Before all this. Before the world ended. Do you remember it?”
He blinked slowly, mouth opening only to close again. He groaned low, struggling, and you thought for a moment he might not answer. Then, finally: “…sounds.”
“Sounds?”
He nodded. “…people. Voices. Music.”
The admission pulled something tight in your chest.
“I miss it too,” you murmured, gaze dropping to your hands. They were scarred, dirt lining the cracks of your skin. “I miss everything. Noise. Crowds. Things you hated at the time, you’d give anything to hear again.”
Silence stretched between you. The drip of water, the rasp of his uneven breath. When you looked up again, he was closer—still a good distance away, but closer, like he’d been drawn without realizing. His eyes never left you, wide and dark, his lips parted just enough for a line of drool to glisten at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you going to stay here all night?” you asked after a while.
His head tilted again, gently, as if the thought of leaving hadn’t occurred to him. “…safe,” he rasped.
Your eye twitched, jaw clenching. You dragged your knees up to your chest and exhaled through your teeth. “Fine. But if you try anything, I’ll gut you.”
He blinked again slowly. No disagreement, no motion. Just the steady rasp of his breathing, the faint tremor of his hands, and the unshakable weight of his eyes locked on you.
You leaned back against the wall, exhaustion dragging you down, but your grip never loosened on the knife. And when you finally closed your eyes, the last thing you felt was the heat of his stare—patient, unwavering, and terrifyingly human.
´ཀ`
The first time you woke to find him looming over you, you nearly buried the knife in his throat.
Your shelter was a pocket of stale air and dripping pipes, and for the first time in weeks you’d actually managed to drift into something close to sleep. But when your eyes cracked open, there he was—Choso, framed by the faint glow seeping through the cracked ceiling, his broad body half-shadowed, his eyes fixed on you with unnerving stillness.
You gasped, fingers closing on the knife at your side, heart hammering against your ribs. He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch when you sat up fast and raised the blade to his chest. He just stared, as though watching you breathe was enough to keep him tethered.
“What the fuck,” you hissed, rubbing at your face with your free hand. “Do you ever sleep?”
He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, like the question was something he had to work through piece by piece. “…no.”
You let out a frustrated groan, dropping the knife back to your blanket. “Then stop standing over me like a damn ghoul. You’re going to get yourself stabbed.”
His lashes fluttered once, heavy and brisk. Then he crouched down, joints creaking faintly, and stayed there—still observing. You rolled back onto your side with a muttered curse, pulling the blanket tighter, but the weight of his stare never let you fully fall back under.
´ཀ`
It became a ritual.
Every morning you woke with the same startled jolt; every morning he was there. Sometimes standing, sometimes crouched, sometimes sitting cross-legged a few feet away. But always watching. His eyes followed the rise and fall of your chest like it was something he couldn’t look away from.
At first it left you raw and uneasy, lashing out at him as you shoved your bag together, spitting curses when his silence only deepened the unease crawling up your spine. But after a week, the irritation dulled into resignation. You stopped being surprised. You still swore under your breath and still muttered about boundaries and personal space, but he never moved further than you allowed.
If anything, he seemed to study you with a growing intensity. His head would tilt when you yawned, and his brows would crease when you rubbed the sleep from your eyes. His chest rose in shallow imitation of yours every morning, as though he were reminding himself how to mimic life.
And then one morning, something changed.
You’d rolled out of your blanket, joints stiff, and reached for the blade leaning against the wall. Choso was crouched nearby, knees drawn up, his long hair sticking damp to his jaw. He watched you in silence as you rose, knife in hand, stretching the ache out of your shoulders.
“You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep wandering after me with those weak-ass arms,” you said finally, gesturing with the blade.
His gaze flicked to the knife, then back to your face, head tilting slightly. “…teach?”
You stopped mid-motion, brows pulling together. “Teach you?”
He nodded once, quietly. His lips cracked as he licked them, voice rough. “Teach… blade.”
You stared for a long moment, then huffed out a sharp laugh. “You’d lose your flimsy wrists trying to swing it.”
But he didn’t move. He just kept watching, patient, waiting, as though your refusal didn’t matter. As though he’d already decided you would.
Something in your chest tightened, and before you could stop yourself, you shoved the knife toward him hilt-first. “Fine. Try not to cut your own damn head off.”
´ཀ`
You weren’t lying—his limbs were frail.
The first time he gripped the knife, his hand trembled with the effort. The veins in his arm bulged dark, his skin pale and waxy under the flickering light. He held it awkwardly, blade angled out like he didn’t understand how to keep it close. You stepped in, curling your hands around his, adjusting the grip. His body stilled instantly, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.
“Relax,” you muttered, guiding his wrist inward. “Keep it close, like this. If you overextend, they’ll grab you before you can pull back.”
Your fingers brushed over his knuckles as you adjusted his stance, pressing his arm downward until the blade sat low against his thigh. You didn’t miss the way his body shuddered under your touch, the way his chest hitched with a shallow, uneven breath. When you glanced up, his eyes were locked on you, pupils dilated, lips parted.
“What?” you demanded, irritation flaring to hide the sudden heat in your own chest.
His throat worked, jaw tight. “…warm,” he rasped, voice hoarse.
You rolled your eyes and shoved his wrist lightly. “Focus.”
But when you stepped back, you couldn’t help noticing the way his jeans strained, the bulge heavy and obvious even through the worn denim. You felt your stomach twist, heat crawling up the back of your neck.
“Seriously?” You muttered under your breath.
He blinked down at himself, face unreadable, but when his gaze dragged back to you, he said nothing. He just shifted slightly, grip tightening on the blade, as though embarrassment wasn’t something his body remembered how to feel.
´ཀ`
Training him became another routine in your oh so busy schedule.
Every morning after the jarring wake-up, you spent an hour in the open tunnels of the subway, broken tiles crunching beneath your boots, teaching him the basics. How to hold the blade without wasting energy. How to block without breaking his wrist. How to stab deep enough to make it count.
His movements were delayed and clumsy, but he was relentless. Every correction you made, every touch on his shoulder, wrist, or chest sent another shiver through him. You could see it in the way his chest rose too rapidly and in the way his hands trembled harder when your palms pressed against his skin. You ignored it as best you could, muttering curses and pushing him back into form, but it was impossible to miss the hard, insistent press against his jeans every single time.
By the third morning, you stopped commenting.
He never apologized. Never explained. He just stared at you with that same hollow intensity, as if the warmth of your skin against his was more important than the weapon in his hand.
´ཀ`
The strangest part was how he began to change.
At first he moved like a marionette with half its strings cut, limbs jerking awkwardly, every swing of the blade off balance. But the more time you spent with him, the smoother his motions became. His stance grew firmer, his grip steadier.
And when you brushed your hands over his chest to straighten his posture, you felt it—a faint heat, not yours, not stolen from your skin, but something flickering deep in him. Something was trying to wake.
He didn’t notice it at first. But you did.
His breathing grew deeper during training, less ragged. The tremors in his hands eased when he lifted the blade. His eyes, once glazed with the flatness of something not-quite-living, began to sharpen. They followed you not just with hunger but with something else, something searching, almost human.
It unsettled you more than the bulges in his jeans ever could.
One morning, after a particularly long session of sparring, you shoved him back against the wall, blade pressed to his throat to test his reflexes. His chest heaved under your palm, his breath fanning against your cheek. The knife trembled in his grip, caught between your bodies.
“Better,” you muttered, leaning into him. “You’re not completely hopeless.”
He stared down at you, lips parted, chest rising fast. For a moment you swore you felt the faintest pulse under your hand, something fluttering like wings against bone.
“…warm,” he whispered again, but his voice had changed. It wasn’t the hoarse, broken rasp you’d first heard. It was more solid, fuller, and touched with something like awe.
Your throat tightened, heat curling low in your belly before you shoved yourself back, glaring up at him. “Don’t get used to it.”
He didn’t argue. He just watched you, blade still in his trembling hand, jeans straining with another insistent bulge that neither of you acknowledged.
And in the silence that followed, you realized the apocalypse had just gotten a lot more complicated.
´ཀ`
The creek was the first sound of real life you’d heard in weeks. The soft rush of water trickling over smooth stones, the whisper of reeds in the breeze—it felt almost obscene, like you’d stumbled into some secret pocket of the world that hadn’t been gutted yet. You crouched at the edge of the stream, fingers curling into the moss-slick rocks, and exhaled slowly.
The grime clung to you—sweat, dirt, and traces of blood that never seemed to fully wash away with rations of bottled water. This was a risk. Stripping down in the open, submerging yourself where anything could come creeping. But you couldn’t stand the stink of yourself anymore.
You muttered as you pulled at the straps of your pack, talking half to fill the silence, half to drown the pounding of your heart. “Crazy. Really crazy. Middle of the goddamn apocalypse, and I’m taking a bath like some woodland fairy.” Your knife was set within arm’s reach on the bank, but it felt like a flimsy comfort.
You pulled off your shirt, the sweat-stiff fabric dragging over your skin, and tossed it aside. The air felt almost cool against your sticky flesh.
“And all the while that freak is still following me.” You shook your head, shoving your pants down. “A zombie. A fucking zombie. Christ.”
From the treeline beyond the creek, Choso stood rooted to the earth, hidden among the shadows. He’d trailed you here without hesitation, just as he had every day since you’d met him. He didn’t understand why—only that he couldn’t stop. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts as his gaze fixed on you, unblinking.
He should have turned away. He should have stayed back. But when your bare legs caught the light, when your ass came into view as you bent to peel off the last of your clothing, he froze in place, hunger and heat crawling up his spine like fire. His jaw clenched hard, teeth digging into his lower lip until it split faintly, but still he didn’t look away.
His cock stirred, heavy and slow at first, swelling with every second his eyes traced the curve of your body. His jeans were already stretched thin from the constant, unwanted arousal your presence sparked in him, but this was worse—this was sharp, urgent. He shifted against the tree, groaning low in his throat as his pale fingers dragged down the front of his pants.
You waded into the creek, hissing at the chill, the water biting cold against overheated skin. Cupping handfuls of it, you splashed your arms, then your chest, biting back a gasp as the filth loosened and slid away. You tipped your head back, wetting your hair, eyes shut, sighing soft relief as the water washed over you.
“This is insane,” you muttered again, your voice carrying faintly across the bank. “The world ends, and I’ve got a zombie stalker who never leaves. Bet he’s watching me right now. God.”
Her words twisted into him, into the heat pooling in his gut. Choso’s hand had already closed around his cock, and the size of it filled his palm until his knuckles strained. Pale skin and dark veins coiled up its thick length, pulsing faintly as though something inside him still remembered how.
He swallowed hard, gaze dragging over the soft swell of your breasts as you scrubbed at your skin, nipples peaked from the cold water. His chest shuddered with a groan, lips pressing tight against his fist to muffle it, the sound rough and needy.
His cock jerked, heavy in his grip, swinging slightly with the force of his pulse. He stroked gently at first, long pulls of his fist from base to tip, thumb brushing over the flushed head where precum beaded and smeared. The sound of his own breath grew ragged, rasping loud in his ears, but the sight of you rinsing your thighs, the curve of your hips glistening under the water, drove him faster.
His eyes became smaller, and his brows tightened as he worked himself harder, each tug sending a sharp ache through his gut.
Your back arched slightly as you bent forward, wet hair clinging to your shoulders, and he nearly lost control right there. The shape of your ass, slick with water, caught the fading light in a way that made his vision swim.
His hand contracted, stroking faster now, every vein standing out bold and dark under his pale skin. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he bit down on his fist to keep from groaning too loud, hips jerking forward against his own palm.
He couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop swallowing hard every time your hands slid over your body, over breasts he ached to touch, down to the soft mound between your thighs. You muttered again, sighing as the water lapped against you, and the sound of your voice mixed with the slap of his fist against his cock until he thought he might break apart.
“Fuck,” he hissed into his palm, voice breaking.
His body shook as his strokes turned frantic, his other hand braced against the rough bark of the tree to keep himself upright. His cock was massive in his grip, veins thick and straining, the flushed head slick with precum. His hips bucked shallowly into his hand, each thrust making the denim of his jeans creak and strain.
The pressure built sharp, hot, and unstoppable. His vision blurred as his mouth dropped open, muffling a broken groan against his hand. His cock throbbed once, then again, and he came hard—thick strands of cum spilling over his pale fingers, dripping down the length of his shaft, staining the waistband of his ruined jeans. His body shook with it, shudders racking his frame as he braced against the tree, muffling the low groans tearing from his chest.
For a moment, he thought he was going to collapse. The force of it wrung through him like lightning, and underneath it, faint but real, he felt it: a pulse. A flutter of life deep in his body, something he hadn’t felt in years. He couldn’t tell if it was in his chest or throbbing in his cock, but it was there. Alive.
He sagged against the tree, breath ragged, fingers sticky with his release. His eyes stayed locked on you as you rinsed the last of the dirt from your skin, standing tall again in the stream. You stretched, spine arching, unaware of the way he was still staring, chest heaving, body trembling from what he’d just done.
You dressed quickly, tugging your shirt and pants back on, muttering to yourself about the cold and the stupidity of bathing in a creek with a monster at your back. In your exhaustion, you left something behind.
Your panties lay draped over a rock, pale fabric clinging damp from the water. You shoved the rest of your belongings back into your bag and walked off, never glancing back to check.
Choso waited until the sound of your footsteps faded into the trees. Only then did he stumble forward, wiping his slick hand down his thigh, crouching low at the water’s edge. His fingers trembled as they reached for the fabric, lifting it carefully as though it might crumble in his grasp.
He pressed the damp cotton to his face, breathing in faint traces of your warmth, your scent, his brows furrowing as another groan rattled out of him.
The panties dangled from his pale fingers as he stood, cock still half-hard in his jeans, chest heaving with shallow breaths. He stared down at the fabric like it was a relic, something fragile and holy. And with each beat of silence, he wondered if the faint, impossible pulse he felt was hers—or his own.
´ཀ`
The night settled heavy in the ruins, the sky bruised black and streaked with faint stars where the city lights used to be. You had made camp in what was left of a laundromat, the walls tagged with graffiti, the scent of mold thick in the damp air.
A fire burned low in a tin barrel, just enough to take the chill off your skin. You sat on the cracked tile floor with your knees drawn up, blade resting near your thigh. He sat opposite you, broad shoulders hunched, long hair hanging like a curtain around his pale face.
It had been weeks now—weeks of him trailing you, watching you, hovering like a shadow you couldn’t shake. At first it had been maddening, nerve-shredding.
Now, though, you found yourself almost… used to him. You’d begun to talk more, even if most of the time his answers came out clipped, single words that sounded like they were dragged up from somewhere deep and painful. But tonight felt different.
Maybe it was the firelight flickering in his dark eyes. Maybe it was the way his chest rose deeper than usual, like breath wasn’t as much of a fight as it had been before. Or maybe it was simply exhaustion loosening your tongue, your body too tired to keep every thought inside.
“You know,” you said, staring into the flames, “if the world hadn’t ended, you’d probably be the worst roommate ever. Never sleeping, never shutting up with all that breathing…” You smirked faintly. “Not to mention standing over me while I’m out cold. Imagine explaining that to a landlord.”
A rasping noise escaped him—half groan, half choke. For a moment you thought he didn’t get it. But then he shifted, shoulders shaking faintly, and the sound cracked again. It wasn’t a groan this time. It was a laugh. Rough, broken, but a laugh.
Your head snapped toward him, startled. “Did you—did you just laugh?”
His lips parted, showing faint teeth, and his eyes lit with a spark you hadn’t seen before. “Funny,” he said, voice hoarse but clear.
Something warm twisted in your chest. You blinked at him, stunned, and then—before you could help yourself—you pushed the joke further. “Well, at least you wouldn’t eat my leftovers. Perks of living with the undead.”
This time, the laugh came easier. Short, low, and strange in his throat, but real. His lips curled faintly, and you caught a flash of something that looked so human it made your stomach drop.
You froze, cheeks heating. You weren’t used to him being like this. You weren’t used to seeing light in those shadowed eyes and weren’t ready for the faint flush that spread over his cheeks, pale skin tinged with the softest hue of red.
“Wait,” you said softly, eyes narrowing. “Are you—are you blushing?”
His head jerked slightly, as if the word confused him. He blinked, then reached up, fingers grazing the skin of his cheek. His eyes widened, lips parted, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked embarrassed.
The sight made your breath hitch.
You didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it was him, drawn forward by something he couldn’t name. Maybe it was you, caught in the pull of that impossible warmth in his eyes. Either way, suddenly he was closer, the firelight painting his features sharp and shadowed, his breath cool against your mouth.
Then his lips crashed into yours.
The kiss was hard, messy, and desperate. His mouth was cool but insistent, his lips cracked but pressing hungrily against yours. You gasped into it, hand fisting in his shirt, and that was all the invitation he needed. His tongue pressed forward, slick and strange, darker than it should be, sliding against yours.
It tasted like copper and ash, like flesh and something foreign, but you didn’t care. Your body lit up, heat pooling low in your stomach as you kissed him back just as hard, just as recklessly.
He groaned into your mouth, a sound raw and needy, his hands trembling as they cupped your face, his thumbs smearing faint dirt across your cheeks. His body pressed close, and you felt the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh as he kissed you deeper.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, panting, eyes broad as you stared at him. His lips were wet and parted, a string of saliva connecting your mouths for a heartbeat before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide, a faint flush still burning across his cheeks.
“Choso…” you whispered, your chest heaving.
He swallowed hard, voice breaking as he rasped, “Warm.”
The word snapped through you, dragging a needy ache between your thighs. Your body pressed closer on instinct, and his cock jerked against you, heavy and swollen. He whimpered low, a sound that cracked like it was torn from deep inside him.
You kissed him again, hard and bruising, his tongue sliding messily against yours, your teeth clicking as you pulled at his hair. The heat of it, the need in him, was overwhelming. He kissed like he’d been waiting lifetimes, like he’d never thought he’d be allowed this. His hands shook as they slid down your back, gripping tight, holding you as if you might vanish.
By the time you tore yourself away, your lips were swollen, your thighs slick with need, and your chest pumping like you’d run for miles. He stared at you, panting, his cock straining so hard it pressed against the zipper of his jeans. His whole body trembled, caught between hunger and restraint.
You forced yourself to step back, to pull your blanket over your shoulders.
“We should… we should sleep,” you muttered, voice unsteady.
The sound that escaped him was pitiful—a broken whimper, quiet but sharp, his eyes clouded with need as he reached out a trembling hand that never touched you.
You turned from him, curling under your blanket, heart pounding so hard you swore it might shake the tiles. Behind you, his breathing grew coarse and thin, as if each inhale fought the weight of his own arousal.
And as your body burned with want and his cock throbbed painfully against denim, neither of you found sleep easily.
´ཀ`
Rain hammered against the city ruins, turning the broken streets into slick veins of water. You walked with your head low, coat drawn tight, trying to pretend he wasn’t a shadow at your back. Every time you veered to the left, he followed. Every time you slowed, he slowed too. And after that kiss—after the way his tongue had slid into your mouth, the way his cock had pressed thick against your thigh—you couldn’t bear to look at him.
Not when you’d spent the night with your own fingers between your legs, gasping into your blanket while imagining his mouth, his hands, and the roughness of his voice rasping “warm” against your skin.
But when you dared to glance back at him now, he looked different. Not fully alive—never that—but not as hollow as before. His cheeks held faint color, his lips were fuller, and his eyes were brighter in the dim light. It made your stomach twist.
He looked at you like a stray dog left in the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, shoulders hunched, still trailing close as if distance would break him. You tightened your jaw and forced yourself to turn away, quickening your steps.
“Don’t,” you whispered under your breath. “Don’t do this.”
Your fingers twitched at your sides, remembering the way you’d curled them deep inside yourself last night, biting your own hand to keep quiet, imagining his weight pressing you down. You shook your head hard, trying to drown it out, trying to focus on the rain, on the slick roads, on the ache in your thighs.
The growl came from behind you.
Before you could spin, cold hands were on your shoulders, yanking you back. You screamed, blade half-raised, but then the weight tore away. Choso’s body slammed into the creature, driving it to the ground with a feral roar. His hands ripped into its throat, dark blood spilling over his pale fingers. His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving as he tore it apart, piece by piece, until the snarls faded into silence.
You stood frozen, rain plastering your hair to your face, heart pounding as he rose from the corpse. His hands dripped red, his lips parted, and his eyes were wild—and it hit you low in the gut, sharp and hungry. You had never been so turned on by violence.
“Choso…” you breathed, barely audible.
He groaned at the sound, stumbling toward you. His hands, still wet with gore, caught your waist, dragging you close before his mouth crushed against yours. The kiss was filthy, his tongue slick and insistent, the taste of blood and rain mixing with the faint sweetness that made you pause. He tasted better now, fresher, almost human.
Your eyes flicked open mid-kiss, and against his mouth you murmured, “Did you… steal my mints?”
His chest shook with a rough huff that might have been a chuckle or might have been a growl. He answered not with words but by dragging you backward, lips never leaving yours, until your spine hit the wall of a derelict building. The wet bricks scraped your back, but you barely noticed. His hips pressed into yours, cock straining hard against his jeans, grinding into your heat with desperate, clumsy rhythm.
“Fuck it,” you gasped between kisses, voice cracking. “Haven’t seen a live man for years—”
He cut you off with another kiss, wet and messy, his tongue filling your mouth as he groaned. Each buck of his hips sent sparks shooting through your stomach. His hair was shaggy, plastered to his face with rain, with strands sticking to your lips as you kissed. He bit your lower lip, sharp enough to sting, then sucked it into his mouth, groaning like he couldn’t stop himself.
You whimpered, legs trembling, and he moved fast—hands sliding down your thighs, gripping tight as he hauled you up against the wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, locking him closer. His cock pressed heavy and hot against your soaked shorts, the friction obscene as he rutted up against you, breath breaking in your ear.
His hands slid under your shirt, fingers still smeared with blood as they palmed your breasts. You moaned loud, too loud, arching into his touch, and panic flared hot in your chest at the thought of drawing more monsters. His hand flew up to cover your mouth, palm heavy, smearing the taste of iron across your lips as he pressed you harder into the wall. His eyes burned into yours, wide and urgent, as if begging you to stay quiet.
You muffled a cry into his hand as his other slipped down, pushing under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers brushed hot over your folds, then found your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles that made your vision swim.
“Choso—” you whimpered against his palm.
He groaned your name in answer, his forehead pressing into your temple, his hips bucking against you in helpless rhythm. His voice cracked, hoarse, as he whined it again, your name ripped out of him like a prayer.
Your thighs trembled, back arching into the wall as his fingers worked you faster, dragging wetness over your clit until your breath came in ragged gasps. His mouth moved down to your neck, teeth grazing before biting hard enough to leave marks. He licked the sting away, groaning into your skin, smearing blood and spit as his lips sucked bruises into the curve of your throat.
“Don’t—don’t turn me,” you gasped between moans, your voice desperate and thin.
His hips bucked harder, cock grinding into your soaked shorts, leaking pre-cum that dampened the fabric. His brows furrowed, face twisted with something sharp, almost pained. “Think… you’re turning me,” he rasped, voice hoarse, broken.
Your body shuddered at the words, heat flooding through you. His cock twitched hard against you, so close you could almost feel the head press at your folds through your clothes. His fingers moved faster, slick with your wetness, rubbing hard against your clit until you were moaning into his palm, muffled and messy.
He whimpered again, broken and needy, as his mouth dragged down your throat, biting harder, tasting the mix of rain and blood on your skin. Your thighs clenched around his waist, body straining, every nerve on fire under his touch.
The two of you were brutal and desperate, clinging to each other like the world could end all over again at any second. And maybe it already had. Because right there, with his bloody hands under your clothes and his tongue branding your skin, you didn’t care what he was. All you cared about was the way he made you feel—alive, burning, warm.
Choso lowered you carefully, one large hand cupping the back of your head so it wouldn’t hit the ground too hard. The floor was cold beneath your back, the concrete slick from rain seeping through the roof above, but you hardly noticed with the heat of him crowding over you.His breathing was uneven and rapid, his dark hair falling in damp strands around his face as he hovered above you.
For a moment, there was only the sound of rain hammering against the boarded-up windows and the frantic thud of your heart.
Then his mouth found yours again.
It wasn’t gentle—he kissed like a starving man (which technically he was), like he didn’t know if you’d ever let him again. His lips dragged hard over yours, wet and hungry, tongue sliding past your teeth to twist with yours, tasting you deeply. His groan rumbled through your chest as you arched up into him, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling until he gasped into your mouth. He swallowed every sound you made and kissed you until your lungs ached, until you were dizzy with want.
His hand trailed lower, sliding over your ribs and your belly, until his long fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. They weren’t cold, but they weren’t fully warm either, some strange in-between that sent a shiver crawling over your skin. His thumb pressed down on your clit, rubbing slow, maddening circles that had your thighs twitching. Two fingers pushed inside you, stretching you open with a deliberate curl that made your hips jerk.
You gasped, breaking the kiss, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his fingers curled again, dragging along your inner walls. “Choso—”
He groaned at the sound of his name, lowering his forehead to yours. His dark eyes glowed faintly in the dim light filtering through the cracks in the walls, pupils wide and blown as he worked his fingers deeper, faster. Your breath hitched, a whimper slipping from your lips as his thumb circled harder over your clit, coaxing your body toward the edge with every motion.
The rain thundered harder outside, and somewhere in the middle of it he pulled back just enough to shove his pants down, the sound of wet denim tearing at the seams filling the air. When your gaze dropped, your breath caught.
His cock was thick, impossibly so, heavy enough to hang toward his thigh even as it twitched in his pale palm. Veins stood out dark and roped along its length, pulsing faintly, the flushed head beading with pre-cum that gleamed in the low gray light. He wrapped a hand around the base, stroking once, slow, and the sight made your stomach clench.
Your eyes widened, a shocked laugh escaping before you could stop it. “What the hell…”
The head of his cock twitched at your voice, precum spilling over his fingers, and he groaned low in his throat. He didn’t answer—just pressed his fingers faster inside you, curling until your back arched off the ground, until your eyes rolled back. The wet squelch of your pussy mixed with the sound of the rain, and you moaned, helpless, hips rocking against his hand.
“Please,” he rasped, voice breaking, his dark hair hanging in his face as he stared down at where his fingers disappeared inside you. “Please… cum.”
You did. Your body clenched around him, your orgasm tearing through you in hot, messy waves that had you crying out, your thighs shaking as your slick coated his hand. He groaned, dragging his fingers out only to bring them to his lips, licking them clean with a hunger that made your chest tighten.
Before you could fully come down, he hooked his hands under your knees and shoved your shorts down, not caring about the grime or the blood smeared across your thighs. He pressed your legs up and over his shoulders, spreading you open so wide you gasped, the angle obscene, your swollen pussy glistening in the gray light.
Then he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and before you could speak, before you could beg or protest, he pushed in.
It was overwhelming.
Your breath caught sharp, your nails digging into his biceps as the stretch burned and then bloomed into something hotter, deeper. He groaned, a sound almost like a sob, his brows furrowed, his hair dripping onto your chest as he bottomed out with one steady, unstoppable thrust.
“Too—too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking.
He nodded against your shoulder, teeth clenched, but he didn’t pull back. His cock throbbed inside you, buried to the hilt, the wet squeeze of your walls making him shudder violently. His breath fanned against your neck as he stayed there for a moment, shaking, trying not to move.
Then you dragged your nails down his arms, a silent demand, and he broke.
He started slow, dragging his cock out until only the thick head remained inside, then thrusting back in with a wet slap that had you moaning. His pace picked up quickly, each thrust harder, rougher, his hips snapping against yours until the sound of his balls slapping against your ass drowned out the rain. The air was thick with the noise of your pussy squelching, sucking him in with every movement, soaking him as his pace turned frantic.
He dropped his head, catching your mouth in another bruising kiss, swallowing your cries as he pressed you into the concrete. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, folding you nearly in half until your knees pressed against your chest. Each deep thrust forced a choked moan from you, and he whined against your lips, fucking into you like a man who’d just learned how to live.
“You—” His voice was broken and raw as he thrust deeper and more forcefully, his cock stretching you with every push. “You feel… so good. So tight. So—”
“Stop talking,” you gasped, your hand tangling in his hair and yanking his mouth back to yours.
He whimpered against your lips, muffled and helpless, rutting into you with desperate, messy thrusts. His balls slapped against your ass, the sound filthy and wet, his hips grinding down at the end of each stroke until you felt him everywhere.
He broke the kiss only to drag his mouth down your chest, his teeth catching your shirt and tugging it up until your breasts spilled free. He latched onto one immediately, sucking hard, teeth scraping against your nipple until you gasped, hips jerking. His other hand squeezed your breast roughly, fingers pinching, and he groaned, muttering against your skin.
“So… warm,” he panted, his hips bucking faster. “God—so warm—”
Your thighs trembled, sore from how wide he’d spread you, but you didn’t care. “Faster,” you hissed, and his body obeyed instantly.
He drove into you stronger and faster, his rhythm almost brutal now, each thrust making the abandoned building echo with the wet slap of your bodies. His teeth marked your breasts, your collarbone, and your neck, leaving bruises that would bloom tomorrow. He kissed you again, sloppy, your teeth clashing, tongues tangling, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths.
His hips stuttered once, twice, then he was cumming, hard, his cock jerking deep inside you as hot, thick ropes of cum spilled against your cervix. His breath broke into a strangled cry, forehead pressed against yours, his entire body shuddering as he filled you.
The sensation dragged you over the edge again. You came with a cry, your walls fluttering around him, milking him for every drop until it spilled out around his cock, dripping down your ass to the cold concrete below.
He kissed you through it, sloppy and messy, your lips and teeth colliding as he groaned into your mouth, still twitching inside you. When the last of your orgasm left you shaking, he collapsed against your chest, breath ragged, cock still buried deep.
The rain kept falling outside, but in that ruined building, all you could hear was your own heartbeat—and the quiet, trembling sound of him whispering, almost reverent, “Alive.”
Your legs were still shaking when he pulled out—just barely, just enough for the wet slap of his cock against your inner thigh to echo between you. His release dripped down your slit, thick and hot, and for a moment you thought he might be done.
But then he grabbed your hips, turned you over, and shoved back in from behind with a guttural sound that made your breath catch.
The angle was brutal, his cock driving deep enough to make your elbows buckle. Your cheek pressed against the cold concrete as he rutted into you, his hips snapping forward in sharp, desperate thrusts. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowed the sound of the rain outside, each movement sending his balls smacking against you with obscene rhythm. You cried out into your arm, your body rocking forward with each thrust, and he leaned over you, his chest pressed against your back, groaning into your hair.
The position had him bottoming out with every push, his cock grinding into the deepest spot inside you until your toes curled and your vision blurred. “Choso—” you gasped, voice muffled by the floor.
He whimpered, actually whimpered, hips faltering for just a moment before driving in harder, faster, like he couldn’t help himself. “Warm,” he choked against your ear, his breath wet and hot, his pace turning sloppy. “So warm—please—don’t stop—”
When you pushed up on your hands, he grabbed your arms, yanking you upright until you were on your knees, his cock still buried to the hilt. His hands slid up your ribs to cup your breasts, fingers squeezing, rolling your nipples between them until you were shaking. His thrusts slowed to deep, dragging strokes, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. Your head fell back against his shoulder, mouth open, gasping his name as he fucked into you slow and heavy.
Then you reached back, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging until he groaned. “Harder,” you panted.
And he obeyed.
He pushed you forward until your palms hit the ground again, forcing your spine into a sharp arch. This time his pace was merciless, hips snapping hard enough to make your knees scrape against the floor. You could feel his cock hitting so deep it almost hurt, the head dragging against that perfect spot until you were keening, wetness spilling around him.
The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your slick, and his low, ragged groans mixing with the broken little noises that spilled from your throat.
When your arms gave out, he flipped you over completely, dragging your legs apart until your back hit the floor again. He pressed your knees to your chest and sank back in with a growl, his body covering yours, his face buried against your neck as he thrust into you. This position was worse—better—each push forcing a sharp cry from your throat as he pounded into your soaked cunt.
You felt his tears before you saw them, hot drops hitting your collarbone as his rhythm faltered. You reached up, cupping his face in your bloody hands, forcing him to look at you. His cheeks were streaked wet, his lashes clumped, and his expression wild and desperate.
“Choso,” you whispered, thumb swiping across his cheek.
He made a broken sound, hips rutting into you harder as though he could crawl inside you and stay there forever. Your walls fluttered around him, clenching tight as he whined your name again and again, the sound cracking like a prayer.
Your orgasm hit fast and hard, tearing through you as you clawed at his biceps, your body convulsing around his cock. He fucked you through it, crying into your neck, until his hips jerked forward and he spilled inside you again—thick, hot ropes that made your stomach feel molten.
And then—silence.
For a long moment, he stayed there, trembling, buried to the hilt. Then his head jerked like he’d been struck, and he pressed a hand to his chest.
You blinked up at him, confused, until you saw it. His chest rose deep, and beneath your bloody palm you felt it: a pulse.
Your breath caught. “You—”
His wide eyes searched yours, terrified and awed all at once. His skin was still pale, but not the gray-blue of death—there was a faint flush now, a sheen of sweat. The veins that had been dark and ropey looked softer, his lips pink, not cracked.
“You’re warm,” you murmured, and he nodded once, swallowing hard.
When your hand slid down between your bodies, his cock twitched hard inside you, still half-hard, still wet with both your releases. The pulse was there too, throbbing against your walls.
He moved before you could say anything else, capturing your mouth in another bruising kiss, his hips pulling back only to drive forward again. This time it was slower and deeper, each stroke deliberate, filling you until you felt him in your stomach.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, locking him closer as he fucked into you, sweat dripping from his temple onto your chest. His cum was already leaking around him, making everything wetter and louder, every thrust a squelch that echoed off the walls.
When you whimpered, he pressed his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound as his pace built again. His hands slid under your shirt, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until you moaned into his mouth.
“Please,” he whispered against your lips, voice raw, “again.”
And you did.
You came with a choked cry, nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave welts. He followed immediately, hips jerking, cock twitching as he spilled another hot load inside you, groaning into your neck as if it hurt to stop.
The air was thick with the smell of sex and blood, the rain still hammering outside but fading beneath the sound of your ragged breathing.
When he finally collapsed beside you, you stayed there together, tangled and filthy, your skin slick with sweat and his cum still dripping out of you onto the floor. His head rested on your shoulder, his hair sticking to your chest, his arms wrapped tight around your waist like he was afraid you might slip away.
Choso stayed there for a long moment, still buried inside you, his cock softening but not leaving your cunt. His face was pressed against the curve of your neck, lips parted, breath warm against your damp skin.
Finally, with a shudder that felt reluctant, he eased out of you, the wet drag leaving you stretched and sticky. His cum spilled from you in a slow, thick drip, running down the inside of your thighs. He watched it like a man hypnotized before tearing his gaze away and shifting closer, catching your hips before you could move.
He helped you roll onto your side, his big hands surprisingly careful, steadying you as he pulled your ruined shorts fully off. He grabbed what was left of his shirt, ripping it down the seam, and used the softest piece of fabric to wipe between your thighs. His movements were clumsy, hands trembling, but gentle—so gentle it made your throat tighten.
“Easy,” you muttered, your voice hoarse but softer now. You reached down, covering his hand with yours. “You’re not going to break me.”
He glanced up at you through damp strands of hair, eyes glassy, lips pressing together like he was trying to hold something in.
“Here,” you said, guiding his hand. “You’re missing—there.”
His thumb brushed over your swollen clit as he wiped the last of his fluid away, and you twitched, breath catching. He froze immediately, eyes wide, but you huffed out a quiet laugh.
“Relax,” you said, settling back down. “At least your cock isn’t the only thing with blood flow now.”
His brows furrowed, like he was trying to understand the joke, and then he let out a low, broken sound that might’ve been a laugh if his throat weren’t so wrecked.
When he finished, he set the rag aside and leaned over you, kissing your temple carefully. His fingers brushed your hair back from your damp forehead, lingering at your cheek, tracing you like he was memorizing the shape of you.
You let him.
Your muscles ached, your thighs were sore, and your chest was still rising and falling too fast. He seemed to notice because he tugged you into his lap, settling you so your back rested against his chest. His hands wrapped around your waist, holding you there, not pushing for anything more—just keeping you close.
The quiet felt heavier now, charged but not tense. You let yourself rest against him, letting your head tip back against his shoulder. His pulse thrummed under your palm when you reached for his chest, feeling the beat steady and strong. He was still pale, still otherworldly, but less corpse-like now—his veins less dark, his lips fuller, his body warmer.
You turned your head enough to look at him. His lashes were wet, cheeks streaked with dried tears, but his expression was softer now, calmer.
“You’re not going back, are you?” you asked quietly.
He swallowed, eyes dropping to where your fingers still rested over his heart. “…no.”
“Good.”
You leaned up and kissed him again, slower this time, a lazy, wet press of lips that tasted like blood and rain. He responded almost shyly, cupping your face with hands still faintly stained red, deepening the kiss just enough to leave you breathless again.
When you finally pulled back, you stayed there in his arms, the both of you bloody, sweaty, and exhausted. Your thighs were still tacky with the mess he’d left inside you, but you didn’t move to clean up again. You just let him hold you until the sound of rain faded completely and the only thing you could hear was his breathing—and the steady, living beat of his heart.
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