The ropes frame him like a work of art—each careful knot accentuating the lines of his body, pulling his muscles taut in all the right places. Your fingers had lingered longer than necessary when tying them, testing the give of each restraint under your touch. Choso doesn't resist; he just watches you with that heavy-lidded gaze, something molten simmering beneath his composed surface.

"Still sure about this?" you murmur, voice low enough to feel more than hear.

His lashes flutter as he exhales through parted lips—slow and deliberate—before answering in that deep timbre that curls down your spine: "More than sure."

Choso shifts under your touch, muscles straining subtly against the ropes. The movement is small yet significant—an indication of his growing impatience. He'd been silent until now, his gaze unwavering on your face even as your hands moved over him, securing the knots.

Now, though, a low noise vibrates in his throat, somewhere between a hiss and a soft moan. His eyes narrow as they trace your features, studying you with a mixture of irritation and neediness.

“Just.. just fucking touch me already, will you?”