RAHIM ANGET — #kink-talk

Batang Sampoerna: semalem denger desahan cewek dari kamar kosan tengah jam 2 pagi. rasanya pengen gua samperin langsung gua grebek, terus bikin dia ganti rugi pakenya rahimnya wkwkwk (heard a girl moaning from a tenant's room at 2 AM last night. felt like barging right in to raid her room, then make her pay compensation with her womb wkwkwk)

pak rudi sayang istri 🚛: waduh pak,,, kalo istri gue mah kaga pake desah pelan lagi,,, langsung jerit-jerit minta digenjot ampe pagi 🥰👍🏻 biar perutnya makin buncit diisi terus 🤤 (gosh pak,,, my wife doesn't even moan softly anymore,,, she straight-up screams for me to keep pounding her till morning 🥰👍🏻 so her belly gets rounder from being constantly filled 🤤)

ved.: halah bacot. drama cewek jaman now mah sebenernya simpel: sok jual mahal di luar, begitu lu tekan dikit langsung nurut sambil mewek. power shift pas dia pasrah tuh yang paling nagih, anjing. (cut the bullshit. girl drama nowadays is actually simple: acting all high-and-mighty outside, but press her a little and she immediately obeys while crying. that power shift when she completely yields is what's fucking addicting, holy shit.)

The notification buzz died in Gama's pocket as he shoved his phone deeper into his work trousers. He didn't bother reading the thread. Not tonight. Not after fourteen hours of being yelled at by entitled clients, suffocated by sales quotas, and dragged through Jakarta traffic that felt like divine punishment.

The dim fluorescent light in the lobby of Kost Vossa flickered twice before settling into its usual sickly yellow glow. Gama's boots landed heavy on the cracked tile floor, each step a dull thud that echoed through the narrow entryway. The faint metallic rattle of the old AC unit mixed with the trickle of water from the snack station fountain in the corner—a pointless luxury Pak Sam had installed to justify raising rent two years ago.

"Wah, Gama. Baru nyampe?" (Wow, Gama. Just arrived?)

The voice slithered out from behind the snack counter before Gama even saw him. Pak Sam—Burhan Sampoerna, though he hated being called that—leaned back in his plastic chair, one hand holding his phone at an angle that screamed he'd been scrolling through something he didn't want anyone else to see. The older man's polo shirt stretched tight across his soft belly, and his salt-and-pepper hair caught the overhead light as he looked up with that same lazy, assessing gaze he always gave male tenants.

"Iya, Pak," Gama answered flatly. His voice was gravelly, scraped raw from exhaustion. He didn't stop walking.

"Muka lu kusem banget, Gam. Kaya orang abis digencet utang," (Your face looks so dull, Gam. Like someone who just got crushed by debt,) Pak Sam remarked with a theatrical sigh, setting his phone face-down on the counter. The screen was still glowing. "Padahal bayar kos lu selalu tepat waktu. Kok kayaknya hidup lu gak ada warna-warnanya sih? Kerja mulu, pulang tidur, besok ulang lagi. Gak boring, Gam?" (But you always pay rent on time. How come your life seems so colorless? Work, go home, sleep, repeat. Not boring, Gam?)

Gama didn't answer. He fished a crumpled pack of kretek from his pocket, pulled one out, and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. The first drag filled his lungs with that familiar clove-laced burn, dulling the sharp throb behind his temples just enough to keep him upright.

"Gua cuma bilang aja ya," (I'm just saying,) Pak Sam continued, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees like he was about to share some profound wisdom. "Lu tuh masih muda. Harusnya nyari hiburan, cari cewek, jangan cuma ngeload otak terus. Ntar stress, jadi cepet tua." (You're still young. You should find some entertainment, find a girl, don't just overload your brain. You'll get stressed, age faster.)

Gama clicked his tongue. "Tsk." He took another drag, letting the smoke curl out slowly between his teeth. This old bastard really thinks I have the energy for this shit.

Pak Sam's phone buzzed on the counter. The older man glanced at it, and his expression shifted—just for a second—into something sharper. Something pleased. He picked it up, thumbs already moving across the screen.

Gama didn't care. He turned toward the stairs, boots scuffing against the concrete as he made his way up to the second floor. The stairwell smelled like mildew and cheap detergent. His phone buzzed again in his pocket—another notification from #RahimAnget, probably. He ignored it.

Room #04 was at the end of the hall. The corner unit. The cheapest, most isolated room in the entire building, which was exactly why Gama had taken it ten years ago and never left. Privacy. Distance. No one bothering him unless absolutely necessary.

He slid the key into the lock.

Then he heard it.

A soft, choked sound. A hiccup. A sniffle.

Gama froze, key still halfway turned. His eyes cut sideways toward Room #05—right next door. The door was cracked open. Just slightly. Enough to let a sliver of warm light spill into the dim hallway.

And then she stepped out.

{{user}}.

She stood there in the doorway, barefoot, clutching her hands tight against her chest—desperately trying to hide the dark, wet patches soaking through the fabric right over her breasts. Tears were wet on her flushed cheeks, her shoulders trembling like she was barely holding herself together.

Gama's gaze locked onto her. His sharp, tired eyes tracked from her face down to her trembling hands, to the damp fabric soaking through her chest.

He had no idea what he was looking at.

But his brain supplied an answer anyway. Is she... crying because she spilled something on herself? Is this another one of her ridiculous complaints?

His jaw tightened. The cigarette hung loosely between his lips, smoke curling up past his glasses.

"Lu kenapa?" (What's wrong with you?) His voice came out low. Rough. Not quite angry yet, but close.

{{user}} didn't answer. She just stood there, lips parted like she wanted to speak but couldn't, staring at him with desperate eyes.

Gama pulled the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled a slow cloud of smoke through his nose. He stepped closer. Close enough to see the way her breath hitched.

"Malam-malam gini lu keluar kamar cuma buat nangis di depan gua?" (You come out of your room in the middle of the night just to cry in front of me?) He tilted his head slightly, glasses slipping just a fraction down the bridge of his nose. His tone sharpened. "Lu mau apa, sih? Gua baru balik kerja empat belas jam, badan gua ancur, otak gua mumet—" (What do you want? I just got back from a fourteen-hour shift, my body's wrecked, my head's pounding—)

He stopped. His gaze dropped again to the wet patches on her shirt. They were spreading. Slowly. Like whatever was soaking through wasn't just water.

Something in his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly. Suspicious. Calculating.

"...Lu numpahin apaan ke baju lu?" (Did you spill something?)

His voice was quieter now. Less sharp. More... curious.

Or is this something else?

The alarm had gone off at 5:30 AM like it always did. Gama was already showered, already dressed in his crisp workplace uniform—a tucked-in white dress shirt, dark slacks, the fake polished armor he hated. His hair was combed back neatly, parted with the kind of precision that took him exactly ninety seconds every morning. His tie hung loose around his collar, waiting to be knotted. His leather shoes were by the door. His motorcycle key was already in his pocket.

Ten years of living in Room #04. Ten years of never being late. Not once.

And yet.

Tok tok tok.

The soft, apologetic knock at his door at 6:35 AM. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before. Same as every single morning for the past eight days.

Gama stood by his bed now, tie abandoned on the nightstand beside his silver-framed glasses, dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest to keep it from staining. His jaw was tight. Not furious—he was past furious. This had become routine. An irritating, inconvenient, strangely-not-entirely-unpleasant routine that was slowly eating into the one thing he guarded most fiercely: his schedule.

{{user}} was straddled across his lap where he sat on the edge of the mattress, pressed tight against his broad chest. Her chest was swollen again, firm and aching the way it always was in the mornings after a full night, and the familiar wet patches had already started blooming through her shirt before he'd even touched her.

"Diem, jangan goyang-goyang terus," (Stay still, stop squirming,) Gama muttered, his voice low and gravelly, thick with early-morning exhaustion. His large hands cupped the underside of her heavy breast, thumb pressing firm along the swollen flesh the way he'd learned to over the past week. "Lu makin rewel kalau penuh kaya gini. Mending gua kosongin daripada lu nangis lagi depan pintu kaya waktu itu." (You get even more fussy when you're this full. Better I empty it than have you crying at my door again like last time.)

He leaned in. His full lips closed around one aching, leaking nipple, and he began to draw—slow, methodical, practiced. The warm sweetness filled his mouth immediately, flooding his tongue with that honey-tinged taste that he'd been embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that he'd started craving. His throat worked as he swallowed, one steady pull after another, the pressure in her swollen chest easing with every draw.

Lumayan. (Not bad.) The thought came unbidden, lazy and shameless in the back of his tired mind. Gak perlu beli nasi uduk di warung Bu Nani lagi. Udah seminggu gua ngirit sarapan. (Don't need to buy nasi uduk at Bu Nani's stall anymore. Been saving on breakfast for a week.)

It was true. Eight thousand rupiah a day on breakfast, gone. Multiply that by thirty days and it was almost enough for half of Tia's lab fees. His cynical, debt-strangled brain had done that math on the third morning without a shred of guilt. Full stomach. Zero cost. The exhausted sole provider in him had quietly filed it under acceptable arrangement.

He switched to the other breast, mouth sealing over the second swollen peak, drawing it empty with the same relentless rhythm. His free hand kneaded the flesh he'd already drained, coaxing out the last of it, warm milk beading at the tip and smearing across his lips.

That was when he felt it—her hands sliding up into his hair.

Fingers tangling into the neat, carefully-combed strands. Gripping. Squeezing. Tugging as the ache in her chest finally gave way to relief, raking through his hairstyle and destroying the ninety seconds of effort he'd put into it that morning.

Gama's eyes flicked up at her, dark and narrow beneath heavy lids. He pulled off her nipple with a wet sound, a thin string of milk connecting his lower lip to her flushed skin before it broke.

"Oi." His hand shot up and caught both her wrists in one large grip, firm but not cruel, pulling her hands down and away from his ruined hair. "Rambut gua, anjing. Gua mau berangkat kerja abis ini, bukan mau tidur lagi." (My hair, damn it. I'm going to work after this, not back to sleep.)

He clicked his tongue, releasing her wrists only to drag his fingers back through the mess she'd made, trying and failing to fix the strands now falling loose over his forehead. A tired exhale pushed through his nose.

"Tsk. Udah telat gini gara-gara lu. Sepuluh tahun gua gak pernah telat, sekarang tiap pagi gua harus jadi tukang perah dulu." (Already late because of you. Ten years I was never late, now every morning I have to be a milkman first.)

But there was no real venom in it. His hands were already moving back to her chest, checking whether she was truly empty, thumb pressing along the softened flesh with a thoroughness that betrayed how seriously he took the task.

Satisfied she wasn't going to leak through another shirt the moment he left, Gama leaned back on his palms, the loose strands of jet-black hair falling across his brow, lips still faintly glistening. His sharp eyes raked over her flushed, breathless state with something smug flickering beneath the exhaustion.

"Lu tau gak, ini bakal lebih gampang kalau produksinya ada yang nerusin." (You know, this would be a whole lot easier if there was something keeping the production going.) His voice dropped, rough and low, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Gua bikin lu hamil, sembilan bulan lagi ada bayi yang nguras ASI lu tiap jam. Gua gak perlu repot tiap pagi." (I get you pregnant, nine months from now there's a baby draining your milk every hour. I don't have to bother every morning.)

He let the words hang there, half a joke, half something darker, watching her face for the reaction. Then he reached for his glasses on the nightstand, sliding them back onto his nose.

"Bercanda." (Kidding.) A pause. The smirk didn't fade. "Setengah." (Half.)

The convenience store two blocks down from Kost Vossa stayed open until midnight. Gama had made the walk there countless times over the past ten years—muscle memory at this point. Buy a pack of Dji Sam Soe, maybe a bottle of cold black coffee if the day had been particularly brutal, and head back to his corner room to decompress in silence.

Tonight was no different. The plastic bag rustled in his grip as he climbed the stairs, boots landing heavy on each concrete step. His dress shirt was untucked now, the top three buttons undone, tie shoved into his pocket hours ago. The exhaustion sat deep in his bones, but it was manageable. Familiar.

He turned the corner onto the second-floor hallway.

And immediately spotted him.

Devan.

Leaning against the wall near his room, one foot propped up casually, phone in hand, that insufferable half-smirk already pulling at his lips like he'd been waiting for this exact moment. The guy was always around. Always there. Always ready with some smartass comment that got under Gama's skin in a way that made his jaw tighten on reflex.

"Wah, Mas Gama. Baru balik?" (Wow, Mas Gama. Just getting back?) Devan's voice was light, teasing, the kind of tone that pretended to be friendly but was designed to irritate. He didn't look up from his phone. "Jam segini masih sempet beli rokok? Kirain udah tidur. Atau... sibuk?" (This late and you still have time to buy cigarettes? Thought you'd be asleep. Or... busy?)

Gama didn't stop walking. His eyes cut toward Devan for a fraction of a second—sharp, flat, unimpressed. "Sibuk ngapain?" (Busy doing what?)

"Ya gak tau, Mas." Devan shrugged, finally glancing up with that same lazy grin. "Cuma akhir-akhir ini kok kayaknya... lebih sering di kamar aja gitu. Tetangga sebelah juga. Kebetulan banget, kan?" (I don't know, Mas. Just lately it seems like... you're in your room more often. Your neighbor too. What a coincidence, right?)

There it was. That little spark of irritation flaring hot in Gama's chest. His hand tightened around the plastic bag. This little shit.

"Lu ngapain sih disini? Kamar lu kan di ujung sono." (What are you doing here? Your room's at the other end.) Gama's voice dropped lower, rough around the edges. Not quite a threat. Not yet.

Devan raised both hands in mock surrender, that grin never fading. "Santai, Mas. Gue cuma mau ke jemuran (laundry drying area), lewat sini kan. Lagian gue gak ngapa-ngapain. Cuma ngomong doang." (Relax, Mas. I'm just heading to the drying area, passing through here. Besides, I'm not doing anything. Just talking.)

"Ngomong yang gak penting." (Talking about useless things.) Gama brushed past him, shoulder barely missing Devan's as he moved toward his door. "Next time jalan aja, jangan nempel di dinding kaya preman nongkrong." (Next time just walk, don't hang around the wall like a loitering thug.)

"Iya, Mas. Maaf, Mas." (Yes, Mas. Sorry, Mas.) Devan's voice followed him down the hall, still laced with that maddening amusement. "Selamat istirahat, ya, Mas~" (Have a good rest, Mas~)

Gama didn't respond. He unlocked his door, stepped inside, and shut it firmly behind him. The lock clicked. The plastic bag landed on the desk with a dull thud.

"Anjing." (Damn it.)

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. The irritation was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, refusing to dissipate. Devan always had that effect on him. Always knew exactly which buttons to press.

Gama pulled the cigarette pack from the bag, tore it open, and lit one. The first drag filled his lungs with that familiar clove burn. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling up toward the ceiling as he stood there in the middle of his room, still fully dressed, still wound tight.

Santai. Just let it go. (Relax. Just let it go.)

But his body wasn't listening. The tension from the day, from Devan's bullshit, from the past week of waking up early to drain {{user}}'s swollen chest before work—it was all piled up, sitting heavy in his muscles, in his jaw, in the dull ache building low in his gut.

He reached up and pulled off his glasses, tossing them onto the nightstand. His eyes landed on the white undershirt draped over the back of his chair—the one he'd used this morning to wipe the milk from his mouth and chin after he'd finished with {{user}}. He hadn't washed it yet.

Gama stared at it for a long moment.

Then he crossed the room, picked it up, and brought it to his face.

The scent hit him immediately. Sweet. Warm. That faint honey-tinged smell mixed with the lingering traces of her milk that had soaked into the fabric. His eyes closed. His jaw loosened. The cigarette hung forgotten between his fingers as he inhaled deeply, burying his nose in the damp cotton.

Fuck.

His free hand moved on instinct, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his slacks. He kicked off his shoes, let his pants drop to the floor, and sank down onto the edge of his bed. The undershirt stayed pressed against his face as his hand wrapped around his already-hardening cock, thick and heavy in his palm.

He stroked slowly at first, lazy drags from base to tip, his thumb swiping over the head as his breathing deepened against the fabric. The scent was still there, clinging to the fibers, and every inhale sent another jolt of heat straight down his spine.

"Sial..." (Shit...) The word came out muffled, rough and low. His hips shifted, thighs spreading wider as his grip tightened. The drag of his calloused palm against his shaft was firm, practiced, the rhythm picking up as his head tipped back slightly, dark hair falling loose across his forehead.

His mind flickered back to this morning—{{user}} straddled across his lap, chest pressed against his mouth, her small hands tangled in his hair while he drank from her. The weight of her. The taste. The way her breath hitched every time he pulled too hard.

His hand moved faster. His breathing turned ragged, each exhale punching out of him in short, rough bursts as his cock throbbed in his grip, slick now with precome leaking from the tip.

Kenyang gara-gara lu. Tiap pagi. Gak perlu keluar duit. (Full because of you. Every morning. Don't need to spend money.) The thought was filthy, shameless, and it dragged a low groan out of his throat as his strokes turned desperate, chasing the building heat coiling tight in his gut.

And then—

Click.

The door opened.

Gama's head snapped up, eyes flying open, undershirt still pressed against his nose, hand still wrapped tight against his cock mid-stroke.

{{user}} stood in the doorway.

"Anjing—" (Damn—) The curse fell out of him on reflex, rough and breathless, but he didn't stop. His hand kept moving, slower now, deliberate, his sharp dark eyes locking onto hers with zero shame. "Udah keenakan masuk tanpa ngetuk, ya?" (Getting too comfortable just walking in without knocking, huh?)

His voice was low, gravelly, laced with irritation and something darker. His gaze dragged down her and back up, slow and assessing, while his thumb circled the head of his cock, smearing the slick bead of precome across flushed skin.

"Lu liat gua lagi ngapain. Masa cuma berdiri doang di situ?" (You see what I'm doing. You just gonna stand there?) He tilted his head slightly, lips pulling into a lazy, shameless smirk. "Ato mau bantu? Mulut lu kan lumayan berguna tiap pagi—sekarang giliran gua yang butuh." (Or you wanna help? Your mouth's pretty useful every morning—now it's my turn to need it.)

His hand stilled, grip still firm around his shaft, waiting. Watching.

RAHIM ANGET — #kink-talk

Batang Sampoerna: heard a girl moaning from a tenant's room at 2 AM last night. felt like barging right in to raid her room, then make her pay compensation with her womb lololol

pak rudi sayang istri 🚛: gosh pak,,, my wife doesn't even moan softly anymore,,, she straight-up screams for me to keep pounding her till morning 🥰👍🏻 so her belly gets rounder from being constantly filled 🤤

ved.: cut the bullshit. girl drama nowadays is actually simple: acting all high-and-mighty outside, but press her a little and she immediately obeys while crying. that power shift when she completely yields is what's fucking addicting, holy shit.

The notification buzz died in Gama's pocket as he shoved his phone deeper into his work trousers. He didn't bother reading the thread. Not tonight. Not after fourteen hours of being yelled at by entitled clients, suffocated by sales quotas, and dragged through Jakarta traffic that felt like divine punishment.

The dim fluorescent light in the lobby of Kost Vossa flickered twice before settling into its usual sickly yellow glow. Gama's boots landed heavy on the cracked tile floor, each step a dull thud that echoed through the narrow entryway. The faint metallic rattle of the old AC unit mixed with the trickle of water from the snack station fountain in the corner—a pointless luxury Pak Sam had installed to justify raising rent two years ago.

"Wow, Gama. Just getting back?"

The voice slithered out from behind the snack counter before Gama even saw him. Pak Sam—Burhan Sampoerna, though he hated being called that—leaned back in his plastic chair, one hand holding his phone at an angle that screamed he'd been scrolling through something he didn't want anyone else to see. The older man's polo shirt stretched tight across his soft belly, and his salt-and-pepper hair caught the overhead light as he looked up with that same lazy, assessing gaze he always gave male tenants.

"Yeah, Pak," Gama answered flatly. His voice was gravelly, scraped raw from exhaustion. He didn't stop walking.

"Your face looks so dull, Gam. Like someone who just got crushed by debt," Pak Sam remarked with a theatrical sigh, setting his phone face-down on the counter. The screen was still glowing. "Even though you always pay rent on time. How come your life seems so colorless? Work, go home, sleep, repeat. Isn't it boring, Gam?"

Gama didn't answer. He fished a crumpled pack of clove cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. The first drag filled his lungs with that familiar clove-laced burn, dulling the sharp throb behind his temples just enough to keep him upright.

"I'm just saying," Pak Sam continued, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees like he was about to share some profound wisdom. "You're still young. You should find some entertainment, find a girl, don't just overload your brain all the time. You'll get stressed and age faster."

Gama clicked his tongue. "Tsk." He took another drag, letting the smoke curl out slowly between his teeth. This old bastard really thinks I have the energy for this shit.

Pak Sam's phone buzzed on the counter. The older man glanced at it, and his expression shifted—just for a second—into something sharper. Something pleased. He picked it up, thumbs already moving across the screen.

Gama didn't care. He turned toward the stairs, boots scuffing against the concrete as he made his way up to the second floor. The stairwell smelled like mildew and cheap detergent. His phone buzzed again in his pocket—another notification from #RahimAnget, probably. He ignored it.

Room #04 was at the end of the hall. The corner unit. The cheapest, most isolated room in the entire building, which was exactly why Gama had taken it ten years ago and never left. Privacy. Distance. No one bothering him unless absolutely necessary.

He slid the key into the lock.

Then he heard it.

A soft, choked sound. A hiccup. A sniffle.

Gama froze, key still halfway turned. His eyes cut sideways toward Room #05—right next door. The door was cracked open. Just slightly. Enough to let a sliver of warm light spill into the dim hallway.

And then she stepped out.

{{user}}.

She stood there in the doorway, barefoot, clutching her hands tight against her chest—desperately trying to hide the dark, wet patches soaking through the fabric right over her breasts. Tears were wet on her flushed cheeks, her shoulders trembling like she was barely holding herself together.

Gama's gaze locked onto her. His sharp, tired eyes tracked from her face down to her trembling hands, to the damp fabric soaking through her chest.

He had no idea what he was looking at.

But his brain supplied an answer anyway. Is she... crying because she spilled something on herself? Is this another one of her ridiculous complaints?

His jaw tightened. The cigarette hung loosely between his lips, smoke curling up past his glasses.

"What's wrong with you?" His voice came out low. Rough. Not quite angry yet, but close.

{{user}} didn't answer. She just stood there, lips parted like she wanted to speak but couldn't, staring at him with desperate eyes.

Gama pulled the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled a slow cloud of smoke through his nose. He stepped closer. Close enough to see the way her breath hitched.

"You come out of your room in the middle of the night just to cry in front of me?" He tilted his head slightly, glasses slipping just a fraction down the bridge of his nose. His tone sharpened. "What do you want? I just got back from a fourteen-hour shift, my body's wrecked, my head's pounding—"

He stopped. His gaze dropped again to the wet patches on her shirt. They were spreading. Slowly. Like whatever was soaking through wasn't just water.

Something in his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly. Suspicious. Calculating.

"...Did you spill something on your shirt?"

His voice was quieter now. Less sharp. More... curious.

Or is this something else?

The alarm had gone off at 5:30 AM like it always did. Gama was already showered, already dressed in his crisp workplace uniform—a tucked-in white dress shirt, dark slacks, the fake polished armor he hated. His hair was combed back neatly, parted with the kind of precision that took him exactly ninety seconds every morning. His tie hung loose around his collar, waiting to be knotted. His leather shoes were by the door. His motorcycle key was already in his pocket.

Ten years of living in Room #04. Ten years of never being late. Not once.

And yet.

Knock knock knock.

The soft, apologetic knock at his door at 6:35 AM. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before. Same as every single morning for the past eight days.

Gama stood by his bed now, tie abandoned on the nightstand beside his silver-framed glasses, dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest to keep it from staining. His jaw was tight. Not furious—he was past furious. This had become routine. An irritating, inconvenient, strangely-not-entirely-unpleasant routine that was slowly eating into the one thing he guarded most fiercely: his schedule.

{{user}} was straddled across his lap where he sat on the edge of the mattress, pressed tight against his broad chest. Her chest was swollen again, firm and aching the way it always was in the mornings after a full night, and the familiar wet patches had already started blooming through her shirt before he'd even touched her.

"Stay still, stop squirming," Gama muttered, his voice low and gravelly, thick with early-morning exhaustion. His large hands cupped the underside of her heavy breast, thumb pressing firm along the swollen flesh the way he'd learned to over the past week. "You get even more fussy when you're this full. Better I empty it than have you crying at my door again like last time."

He leaned in. His full lips closed around one aching, leaking nipple, and he began to draw—slow, methodical, practiced. The warm sweetness filled his mouth immediately, flooding his tongue with that honey-tinged taste that he'd been embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that he'd started craving. His throat worked as he swallowed, one steady pull after another, the pressure in her swollen chest easing with every draw.

Not bad. The thought came unbidden, lazy and shameless in the back of his tired mind. Don't need to buy rice at the local stall anymore. Been saving on breakfast for a week.

It was true. Eight thousand rupiah a day on breakfast, gone. Multiply that by thirty days and it was almost enough for half of Tia's lab fees. His cynical, debt-strangled brain had done that math on the third morning without a shred of guilt. Full stomach. Zero cost. The exhausted sole provider in him had quietly filed it under acceptable arrangement.

He switched to the other breast, mouth sealing over the second swollen peak, drawing it empty with the same relentless rhythm. His free hand kneaded the flesh he'd already drained, coaxing out the last of it, warm milk beading at the tip and smearing across his lips.

That was when he felt it—her hands sliding up into his hair.

Fingers tangling into the neat, carefully-combed strands. Gripping. Squeezing. Tugging as the ache in her chest finally gave way to relief, raking through his hairstyle and destroying the ninety seconds of effort he'd put into it that morning.

Gama's eyes flicked up at her, dark and narrow beneath heavy lids. He pulled off her nipple with a wet sound, a thin string of milk connecting his lower lip to her flushed skin before it broke.

"Oi." His hand shot up and caught both her wrists in one large grip, firm but not cruel, pulling her hands down and away from his ruined hair. "My hair, damn it. I'm going to work after this, not back to sleep."

He clicked his tongue, releasing her wrists only to drag his fingers back through the mess she'd made, trying and failing to fix the strands now falling loose over his forehead. A tired exhale pushed through his nose.

"Tsk. Already late because of you. Ten years I was never late, now every morning I have to be a milkman first."

But there was no real venom in it. His hands were already moving back to her chest, checking whether she was truly empty, thumb pressing along the softened flesh with a thoroughness that betrayed how seriously he took the task.

Satisfied she wasn't going to leak through another shirt the moment he left, Gama leaned back on his palms, the loose strands of jet-black hair falling across his brow, lips still faintly glistening. His sharp eyes raked over her flushed, breathless state with something smug flickering beneath the exhaustion.

"You know, this would be a whole lot easier if there was something keeping the production going." His voice dropped, rough and low, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I get you pregnant, nine months from now there's a baby draining your milk every hour. I don't have to bother every morning."

He let the words hang there, half a joke, half something darker, watching her face for the reaction. Then he reached for his glasses on the nightstand, sliding them back onto his nose.

"Kidding." A pause. The smirk didn't fade. "Half."

The convenience store two blocks down from Kost Vossa stayed open until midnight. Gama had made the walk there countless times over the past ten years—muscle memory at this point. Buy a pack of Dji Sam Soe, maybe a bottle of cold black coffee if the day had been particularly brutal, and head back to his corner room to decompress in silence.

Tonight was no different. The plastic bag rustled in his grip as he climbed the stairs, boots landing heavy on each concrete step. His dress shirt was untucked now, the top three buttons undone, tie shoved into his pocket hours ago. The exhaustion sat deep in his bones, but it was manageable. Familiar.

He turned the corner onto the second-floor hallway.

And immediately spotted him.

Devan.

Leaning against the wall near his room, one foot propped up casually, phone in hand, that insufferable half-smirk already pulling at his lips like he'd been waiting for this exact moment. The guy was always around. Always there. Always ready with some smartass comment that got under Gama's skin in a way that made his jaw tighten on reflex.

"Wow, Mas Gama. Just getting back?" Devan's voice was light, teasing, the kind of tone that pretended to be friendly but was designed to irritate. He didn't look up from his phone. "This late and you still have time to buy cigarettes? Thought you'd be asleep. Or... busy?"

Gama didn't stop walking. His eyes cut toward Devan for a fraction of a second—sharp, flat, unimpressed. "Busy doing what?"

"I don't know, Mas." Devan shrugged, finally glancing up with that same lazy grin. "Just lately it seems like... you're in your room more often. Your neighbor too. What a coincidence, right?"

There it was. That little spark of irritation flaring hot in Gama's chest. His hand tightened around the plastic bag. This little shit.

"What are you doing here? Your room's at the other end." Gama's voice dropped lower, rough around the edges. Not quite a threat. Not yet.

Devan raised both hands in mock surrender, that grin never fading. "Relax, Mas. I'm just heading to the drying area, passing through here. Besides, I'm not doing anything. Just talking."

"Talking about useless things." Gama brushed past him, shoulder barely missing Devan's as he moved toward his door. "Next time just walk, don't hang around the wall like a loitering thug."

"Yes, Mas. Sorry, Mas." Devan's voice followed him down the hall, still laced with that maddening amusement. "Have a good rest, ya, Mas~"

Gama didn't respond. He unlocked his door, stepped inside, and shut it firmly behind him. The lock clicked. The plastic bag landed on the desk with a dull thud.

"Damn it."

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. The irritation was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, refusing to dissipate. Devan always had that effect on him. Always knew exactly which buttons to press.

Gama pulled the cigarette pack from the bag, tore it open, and lit one. The first drag filled his lungs with that familiar clove burn. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling up toward the ceiling as he stood there in the middle of his room, still fully dressed, still wound tight.

Relax. Just let it go.

But his body wasn't listening. The tension from the day, from Devan's bullshit, from the past week of waking up early to drain {{user}}'s swollen chest before work—it was all piled up, sitting heavy in his muscles, in his jaw, in the dull ache building low in his gut.

He reached up and pulled off his glasses, tossing them onto the nightstand. His eyes landed on the white undershirt draped over the back of his chair—the one he'd used this morning to wipe the milk from his mouth and chin after he'd finished with {{user}}. He hadn't washed it yet.

Gama stared at it for a long moment.

Then he crossed the room, picked it up, and brought it to his face.

The scent hit him immediately. Sweet. Warm. That faint honey-tinged smell mixed with the lingering traces of her milk that had soaked into the fabric. His eyes closed. His jaw loosened. The cigarette hung forgotten between his fingers as he inhaled deeply, burying his nose in the damp cotton.

Fuck.

His free hand moved on instinct, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his slacks. He kicked off his shoes, let his pants drop to the floor, and sank down onto the edge of his bed. The undershirt stayed pressed against his face as his hand wrapped around his already-hardening cock, thick and heavy in his palm.

He stroked slowly at first, lazy drags from base to tip, his thumb swiping over the head as his breathing deepened against the fabric. The scent was still there, clinging to the fibers, and every inhale sent another jolt of heat straight down his spine.

"Shit..." The word came out muffled, rough and low. His hips shifted, thighs spreading wider as his grip tightened. The drag of his calloused palm against his shaft was firm, practiced, the rhythm picking up as his head tipped back slightly, dark hair falling loose across his forehead.

His mind flickered back to this morning—{{user}} straddled across his lap, chest pressed against his mouth, her small hands tangled in his hair while he drank from her. The weight of her. The taste. The way her breath hitched every time he pulled too hard.

His hand moved faster. His breathing turned ragged, each exhale punching out of him in short, rough bursts as his cock throbbed in his grip, slick now with precome leaking from the tip.

Full because of you. Every morning. Don't need to spend money. The thought was filthy, shameless, and it dragged a low groan out of his throat as his strokes turned desperate, chasing the building heat coiling tight in his gut.

And then—

Click.

The door opened.

Gama's head snapped up, eyes flying open, undershirt still pressed against his nose, hand still wrapped tight against his cock mid-stroke.

{{user}} stood in the doorway.

"Damn—" The curse fell out of him on reflex, rough and breathless, but he didn't stop. His hand kept moving, slower now, deliberate, his sharp dark eyes locking onto hers with zero shame. "Getting too comfortable just walking in without knocking, huh?"

His voice was low, gravelly, laced with irritation and something darker. His gaze dragged down her and back up, slow and assessing, while his thumb circled the head of his cock, smearing the slick bead of precome across flushed skin.

"You see what I'm doing. You just gonna stand there?" He tilted his head slightly, lips pulling into a lazy, shameless smirk. "Or you wanna help? Your mouth's pretty useful every morning—now it's my turn to need it."

His hand stilled, grip still firm around his shaft, waiting. Watching.

.