Welcome to Chased - an interactive, adults-only story that follows two college students, Jake and Chase, as a casual antagonism spirals into something far more intense. Your choices will steer their relationship.
''Content & Age Rating''
This story contains explicit language, sexual situations, and mature themes intended exclusively for players 18 years of age or older. If you are not of legal age—or if erotic muscle-worship, power-play dynamics, or steamy locker-room imagery are not your cup of tea - please exit now.
''Fictional Characters & Images''
All characters, events, dialogue, and images in Chased are entirely fictional. The people depicted do not represent real individuals, living or dead; any resemblance is purely coincidental. Photographic references were generated for artistic use only.
By continuing, you confirm that you are of legal age, consent to view explicit material, and understand that everything you are about to see is a work of fiction.
[[I'm an adult and I'm ready for some steamy action!->ch 1]]
The lecture hall was too cold. Jake sat in the middle row, hoodie sleeves stretched over his fists, stylus twirling between nervous fingers. The projector buzzed above, white light cutting across the chalkboard. Professor Marquez was already fifteen minutes into her monologue about Romanticism as aesthetic ideology, pacing like she’d rather be anywhere else.
Jake didn’t hear a word. His tablet screen glowed soft in front of him, sketch app already open. He’d intended to take notes, really, his pen hovering half-heartedly above the page, almost frowning at his own distraction. But somewhere between analyzing 'rejecting neoclassical form' and 'a return to emotional excess, Jake’s hand slipped from notetaking to sketching, almost involuntarily.
Not faces.
Not figures.
Just arms.
Thick arms.
Veined.
Veined, rope-like muscles wrapping up from the wrist to the elbow, biceps flexed in mid - motion.
One hand clenched loosely into a fist - the knuckles rendered with too much care, the wrist thicker than it had any right to be.
<img src="chased/arm.png" width="45%">
Jake blinked.
Realized his mouth was slightly open. He zoomed in and tried to erase. Switched tools. Didn’t help. His fingers moved on their own. Shoulders next. Not his usual - these were wide, brutal, clean.
The way they sloped from a thick neck and disappeared under a sweat-dark tank top. He shaded the edge of a collarbone, almost as if trying to capture a hint of vulnerability, then drew the suggestion of a pectoral - each stroke trembling with unspoken longing.
Stopped.
Then started again.
His heartbeat too fast. He thought he didn’t remember what Chase had looked like under the lights. But his body remembered. The weight of him. The way Chase moved in the light was etched into his memory.
Jake had sketched from life hundreds of times, but never like this. Never like he was trying to resurrect something that touched him in the dark. He dragged the eraser over the chest. Didn’t press hard enough.
“Whatcha drawin’, sunshine?”
<img src="chased/lecture talk.png" width="50%">
Jake jumped. Riley slid into the empty seat next to him, all cardigans and chaos, smelling like vanilla chai and freshly crushed ambition. She leaned close before he could hide the screen, eyebrows already raised.
Jake slammed the tablet closed. “I wasn’t -” he stammered.
“Was that an arm?” she whispered. “A very thick arm?”
“No,” Jake hissed.
Riley blinked slowly. “Jake.”
“Drop it.”
She did not drop it. “Is this about your new roommate?” she whispered. “The one you draped yourself over like a wet scarf at the party?”
Jake’s skin went cold. “What are you-”
“You left with him,” she said. “And then didn’t text anyone for twelve hours. And now you’re drawing... limb porn in class.”
Jake opened his mouth. Closed it. Riley reached out, took his wrist gently, and said, quieter this time:
“Are you okay?”
Jake looked away. Toward the board. The projector had switched slides:
“Romanticism and the Sublime.”
A painting of a man dwarfed by a storm. Small. Alone. Craving destruction.
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
Riley didn’t believe him. She let go, but didn’t move. Just leaned back in her seat and clicked her pen, already writing something in her journal. Jake didn’t dare look. He opened his tablet again. Deleted the arm. Started drawing a mountain instead. But it somehow still had shoulders.
<img src="chased/chase mountain.png" width="50%">
The lecture hall lights were dimmed. A slide glowed on screen:
“Color is Not Real: The Brain’s Interpretation of Wavelength”
<img src="chased/color class.png" width="50%">
Jake stared at it. One eye twitching. He sat in the third row from the back, half-curled in his hoodie, one foot tucked under him like that might help.
The room buzzed with idle conversation, sneakers scuffing linoleum, the faint scent of old gum and recycled air clinging to every surface.
The professor — some adjunct in a wrinkled blazer and glasses too big for his face — had been rambling about neural signal processing for the last twenty minutes. Visual cortex. Cone cells. Perception vs. reality.
Jake hadn’t written a word. He kept thinking about Chase. Not in full scenes. Just pieces.
Flash images that hit like static:
The stretch of his back as he stirred pancake batter.
That smirk.
The shadow under his pecs.
The sound of “Good boy.”
Jake’s hand clenched his pen so tight it squeaked. He tried to focus.
The professor clicked to the next slide. A diagram of the optic nerve, crisscrossed with arrows. How we see. Why we hallucinate. The space between reality and interpretation.
Jake instinctively scribbled the word "phantom" in the margin. He didn’t mean to. He tapped his pen. Crossed his legs the other way. Adjusted his hoodie. Nothing helped. He could feel the empty seat beside him - the one he’d gotten used to guarding. Like someone might be watching over his shoulder again.
But Chase wasn’t there. Of course Chase wasn't there. This wasn’t weightlifting. This was Jake’s class.
His space. His breath. And it felt like shit without him in it.
Jake blinked hard. Pulled out his tablet. New page. Blank. Just draw something, he told himself. Anything. Get it out. He started with a shape.
Rectangle. Frame. Then a figure. Tall. Broad. Standing behind another figure. Smaller. Tilted slightly forward, arms down, head bowed. Not held - cornered. Like the larger shape was pressing in without touching. Like presence alone was weight.
<img src="chased/looming.png" width="45%">
Jake’s hand slowed. He didn’t draw faces. Couldn’t? Wouldn’t? But he drew a neck. The line of a shoulder. The slight dip in a spine under pressure. When he looked down at the page, he flinched.
It looked like Chase. It looked like him. He closed the file. Shoved the tablet into his bag. His heart hammered in his chest. His palms sweaty. His legs wouldn’t stop shifting.
The professor said something about “subjective intensity of stimuli,” and Jake nearly laughed. He already knew what that felt like. It felt like 6'8" of unspoken tension towering behind you in your own kitchen. It felt like arms bigger than your entire torso casually flexing while flipping pancakes. It felt like someone stepping into your space and never apologizing—because they knew you wouldn’t make them.
Jake pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and exhaled slowly. He felt himself slipping apart. And somehow, despite everything, he missed it. [[He missed it.->ch 5]]The gym reeked of cold metal and sweaty boys. Rubber mats muffled every footstep, swallowing sound and weight. Dumbbells gleamed under the fluorescent lights, their cold metal surfaces arranged in ominous rows along the mirrored wall, like jagged teeth waiting to bite. Freshmen hovered near benches, whispering nervously to each other, sneakers squeaking under their feet. The air was damp with humidity and effort — the scent of sweat, protein supplements, and Axe spray. That sickly cocktail of sweat and teenage desperation.
Jake loitered near a stack of ten-pound plates, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, pretending to adjust his shoelaces for the third time.
<img src="chased/jake gym 1.png" width="50%">
Coach was barking from the front-shaved head, whistle, clipboard. "No heroes! Form over ego. Drop my equipment, and I drop you."
Jake nodded automatically, didn’t listen. His heart was already beating too fast. Not from nerves. Not from the smell. But from him.
Chase. Off to the left. Center mat. Shirt already gone. He’d walked in like he owned the place. Tossed his duffel under the bench, peeled off his tank in one fluid motion, and started stretching like he’d done this every day since birth. And now? Now he was warming up with 225 pounds like it was a fucking broomstick.
<img src="chased/chase gym 2.png" width="50%">
Jake couldn’t stop looking.
Chase’s back rippled with every rep. Lats flared like wings. Traps bunched up near his ears as he pulled the bar clean, straight into a perfect front rack. His thighs - Jesus, his thighs -flexed with every clean drop into a front squat. The sound of weight hitting rubber. Clunk. Controlled. Rhythmic.
<img src="chased/gym lift.png" width="100%">
Jake forced himself to look away. He stepped up to a barbell, no plates. Just the bar. It still felt heavy. He nudged it with his foot, adjusted his grip, then pretended to focus.
Coach passed behind him. "Don’t fuck around, Winters."
Jake grunted acknowledgment. He bent. Lifted. Too fast. Too tense. His shoulders ached by the third rep. Not from exertion - from holding his body too tightly, every nerve firing like someone was watching. Like eyes were on his back. His thighs. His form. He dared to look.
Chase hadn’t glanced over once. But he was still there. Still moving. Still glistening now — sweat dripping down the valley of his spine, pooling at the waistband of his shorts. His chest rose and fell slow, steady. One hand reached for his water bottle, veins pulsing down his forearm like rope.
He didn’t sip - just poured it over his face and shook once, like a dog or a god or both. Jake stared.
<img src="chased/chase water.png" width="50%">
Coach’s whistle snapped.
Jake jumped, dropping the bar. It clanged too loud.
Chase looked up. Just once. Briefly. His eyes found Jake. Cool. Calm. And wet. Then he smirked.
Jake’s heart slammed sideways in his chest.
Chase didn’t move. Just went back to his next set. But now Jake could feel it — the heat of that glance still smoldering on his skin. No touch. No words. Just sweat and steel and the premise of gravity.
Jake was halfway through a set of bent-over rows, trying not to vomit or cry, when the shadow fell over him.
“You trying to throw your spine out, or just into submission?” Chase said.
Jake flinched.
Chase stepped in before Jake could move - one hand sliding across Jake’s lower back, broad palm pressing flat against the curve of his spine. Warm. Damp. Soaked in the kind of sweat that clung instead of dripped. It sank into Jake’s shirt.
<img src="chased/gym contact.png" width="100%">
“You lift like a fucking cheerleader,” Chase leaned in - not whispering, just close enough that his breath ghosted over Jake’s cheek. “Back’s all bent. Core’s asleep.”
He didn’t wait. The other hand came to Jake’s waist - thumb brushing the line of his hip - and suddenly Jake was moved. Bent just a little more. Nudged from behind like he was weightless. His shirt bunched under Chase’s fingers, riding up with the motion. Jake’s skin met Chase’s skin.
And Chase was hot.
Not just warm - furnace-hot.
"Back straight. Hinge at the hips. Like this."
His sweat slicked across Jake’s lower back like oil. His chest hovered just inches away - flushed, rising slow, muscles twitching like they were tired of staying still. Jake grunted, barely holding the bar.
"Better." Chase said. His hand stayed a beat too long. Then lifted. Then dragged - slow, upward, knuckles brushing Jake’s spine as he stood back. Jake’s thighs shook.
“You’ll figure it out,” Chase said, voice cool, casual, like he wasn’t leaving a damp handprint on Jake’s ribs. “Try not to drool on the mats next time.” He said, voice cool, casual, like he wasn’t leaving a damp handprint on Jake’s ribs.
<img src="chased/sweat.png" width="100%">
And then he walked off. Jake stayed bent over the bar, staring at the mat, dick fucking hard, breathing through his teeth like he’d just been tackled. He didn’t move. Not yet. Because his back was still burning where Chase had touched him. And under the waistband of his sweats, [[he could feel the sweat drying. ->ch 6]]The party was already decaying, sweet and sickly. Bass low and rolling through the grass like thunder. Gold string lights slung between trees, glowing soft and sharp. Too many people packed into the campus quad, their bodies slick with heat and liquor, their voices echoing off brick and teeth. Music throbbed under every footstep, leaking from rented speakers propped against folding tables. Someone had hung a banner across the lawn:
''(text-colour:red)[ FRESH MEAT ]''
Red block letters on white cloth. No context, no irony—just that.
<img src="chased/jake 1.png" width="50%">
Jake stood near the edge, half-buried in shadow, nursing a plastic cup that tasted like melted limes and kitchen cleaner. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, hair sticking to his forehead. He hadn’t meant to come alone. Riley and Charlie were late, Elliot was probably still trying to pick an outfit, and Jake had already been bumped into four times by people twice his size. He felt like a deer caught in headlights amid the frantic crowd. It didn’t help that every guy in a tank top looked like he was carved out of protein powder. Shoulders like balconies. Jaws like weapons. Girls in thrifted lace and lip gloss looped around their arms like trophies. Everyone moved like they already knew the ending, Jake didn’t.
He took another sip. He grimaced, the sour taste lingering on his tongue, feeling out of place.
“You look like someone dared you to be here,” said a voice.
<img src="chased/chase 1.png" width="50%">
Jake turned. He hadn’t seen him step out of the crowd. He hadn’t felt the shift in air, hadn’t caught the ripple of conversation cutting short nearby. But now the guy was standing in front of him, tall enough that Jake had to tilt his head back. A tank clung to him like second skin, black and damp at the chest. His shoulders were stupid wide, arms stacked with so much muscle Jake’s first thought was: no way he fits through doorways straight-on.
“Sorry?” Jake said, too fast. The guy smiled, slow and almost lazy.
“You don’t look like you party.”
“I—I do,” Jake said. Defensive. Dumb. He got a raised brow for that.
“You look like you sketch dudes’ abs in your dorm and jerk off to GQ spreads.”
Jake bristled. Chase just smirked.
“It’s cute. Little artsy fags always come out to stare at the big boys.”
Jake flushed. “I’m just waiting for my friends.”
The guy’s gaze dropped — to the cup, to Jake’s hands, to the small, anxious step he took back when their shoes almost touched.
“Freshman?” he asked. “You got that look—skinny wrists, tight jeans, sucking in your gut like somebody’s watching. You sure you’re not here for the view?”
Jake blinked. “Senior.”
'Failed your PE credit?' the man asked, a faint smirk curling his lips.
Jake froze. The guy’s smile curled sharper, like a test he already knew Jake was failing.
“Thought so.”
Jake swallowed. “How—”
“Lucky guess.” He looked Jake over again — not up and down, not casual — like he was cataloging something. Then he held out a hand. “Chase.”
Jake shook it. Mistake. Chase’s hand swallowed his. Warm, rough, steady — like gripping a brick through heat. He didn’t squeeze hard. He didn’t need to. Jake’s palm was still tingling when Chase let go.
“Jake,” he said, too late.
Chase already knew that, somehow. “Cool,” Chase said. He glanced at Jake’s cup. “You’re drinking piss.”
Jake blinked. “Excuse me—?”
“You want something better?” Chase asked.
Jake didn’t answer fast enough. Chase took the cup out of his hand. Tossed it into a nearby bush. Then gestured with his chin. “Come on.”
Jake stared.
“You don’t have to,” Chase added, already turning away. “But you will.”
And then he vanished into the crowd. Jake didn’t think. He just followed. Through bodies and laughter and the sharp smell of cheap liquor. He caught glimpses — the back of Chase’s head, the flex of his shoulders as people parted around him. The music pulsed louder. The lights flickered. Jake had to sidestep a couple grinding against a speaker. He nearly tripped.
Then Chase stopped. They were near the back, under a low canopy of trees, where a folding table was covered in bottles and a cooler hissed with fog from dry ice. Chase grabbed a shaker, poured something amber and mean into two cups, then handed one back.
<img src="chased/chase party 1.png" width="50%">
Jake took it. Sipped. It was good. Sharp and dark and clean. Not piss. Chase watched him drink, his jaw relaxed but eyes sharp, like a predator sizing up prey. Chase was watching him drink — jaw relaxed, mouth tilted, eyes unreadable. Jake’s cheeks burned.
“Better,” Chase said.
Jake nodded.
“Good boy.”
Jake nearly choked. Chase didn’t laugh. Just leaned one shoulder against the table, body loose but coiled, and tilted his head like he was sizing something up. He didn't ask why Chase had come over; he sensed there was more beneath the surface. He didn’t ask what the fuck just happened. He just stood there, holding a drink he hadn’t earned, listening to the music pounding around them like blood in veins, echoing in his skull, and wondering how long he had [[before Chase bit down again. ->ch 2]]
The world was melting sideways by the time Riley found him.
“Jake!” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck with lace sleeves flying. “Oh thank God. I thought you got kidnapped by frat boys.”
Jake blinked at her. “Is that… a threat or a fantasy?”
“Depends on the frat boy,” said Charlie, deadpan, stepping in behind her. Buzzcut, combat boots, two drinks in hand like she was ready to baptize someone.
“I brought tequila and something that tastes like peach glue,” Charlie said, offering one to Jake. “Pick your poison.”
Jake took both.
“I love you,” he said to Charlie, sipping aggressively.
“You always say that when you’re two sips from chaos,” she replied, already smirking.
Elliot arrived in a flurry of apologies and uncoordinated limbs. His tablet bag thumped against his leg as he tried to pass around snack cups without dropping his glasses.
<img src="chased/friends 1.png" width="50%">
“Riley said you got kidnapped,” he panted.
“Almost,” Jake said. “Saved by the woodland nymph and her butch tank.”
Riley curtsied. Charlie rolled her eyes. Elliot handed Jake a cup of sour gummy worms soaked in vodka and said, “You have to hydrate.”
“Through sugar?”
“Fermented sugar,” Elliot corrected. “It’s technically science.”
They collapsed into a loose sprawl on a patch of trampled grass near the edge of the dance floor. Jake leaned back against Riley’s knees, plastic cup balanced on his chest. Lights glittered above like fake stars. Someone shouted near the bar. The bass was now a living creature.
Jake’s skin buzzed. His cheeks were numb.
“You’re smiling weird,” Riley said, sipping her drink.
“I was just thinking about arms,” Jake muttered. “Really big ones.”
“Oh no,” Charlie said.
“Who’s the himbo?” Elliot asked.
“Chase,” Jake said dreamily. “A walking protein ad. He gave me whiskey and called me good boy.”
Riley choked on her drink.
“Oh no,” Charlie said again, louder.
Elliot looked delighted. “Wait—is this the same guy who threw your drink in a bush?”
Jake nodded.
“Why do you always find the red flags hot?” Riley asked, gently tousling his hair.
“They find me,” Jake whispered. “I am a lighthouse. They are the ships.”
He didn’t remember when he stood up. Or why. But suddenly he was moving again—through bodies and heat and smell. Someone shouted his name. Jake turned once—Riley? Charlie? He grinned, saluted vaguely, and vanished deeper into the party.
The music blurred.
The lights stung.
Then—
A shoulder.
Hard. Familiar.
Jake swayed and found himself inches from him again.
Chase.
Tank top damp with sweat. Veins raised along his arms like road maps. Jaw tight. Eyes colder than before.
Jake grinned.
<img src="chased/drunk jake 1.png" width="50%">
“You again,” he slurred.
“You’re drunk,” Chase said. Flat.
“You’re hot,” Jake said, reaching out to poke Chase’s chest. “Still real.”
Chase catches his wrist—tight.
“Careful, princess.”
His voice is calm. Deadly calm.
“Touching guys like that’ll get you jumped. Or fucked. Depending on the crowd.”
Chase didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“You shouldn’t play with things you don’t understand,” he said.
Jake leaned in. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him.
“I don’t want to understand,” Jake whispered. “I just wanna taste.”
<img src="chased/drunk jake 2.png" width="50%">
Chase’s nostrils flared.
Jake’s world tipped sideways.
Everything after that came in flashes.
A hand on his back.
Laughter. His?
The taste of metal and lime.
A voice in his ear. Deep. Dangerous.
Chase’s hand at his hip.
Dark.
And then—
[[Black. ->ch 3]]
Jake woke up, sensing a strange static behind his eyes - like his thoughts were drowned in white noise, signaling a head muddled by alcohol and confusion. Not pain. Not quite. Just pressure - like something had been stuffed between his ears and left to bloat overnight. His mouth tasted like battery acid and lime. The pillow was damp. His hoodie tangled around his torso as if it had tried to crawl off in sleep. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember coming back. He didn’t remember shit. He sat up slow. His room was tilted sideways - shadows clinging to corners, blinds crooked, a shoe on the wrong side of the floor.
The air tasted warm and stale, faintly sweet. There was music playing, low and steady, somewhere out in the common area. Jake blinked blearily at his phone. No new messages. Just one photo from Riley - a blurry, sun-drenched shot of Jake with his arms draped over someone… tall. Big. Tank top. Muscle like a sketch exaggerated for fun. Caption:
**jake. who the fuck is that**
<img src="chased/party photo.png" width="50%">
Jake stared. Swiped out. Closed the screen like it might stop the heat rising up his spine. He dragged himself out of bed. Hoodie half-zipped, boxers twisted at the waistband. He stumbled toward the door barefoot, rubbing his eyes, heart already stammering with the kind of dread that came with no memory and too much alcohol. And then - he smelled it. Coffee. And then, a hint of cinnamon, toasted bread, and protein powder filled the air.
Toast?
Protein powder?
He stepped into the common room - and froze.
<img src="chased/chase cooking.png" width="50%">
Chase. Back turned. Shirtless. Standing at the stove like it was his. Tank top slung over the back of a dining chair. Thighs so thick they seemed to have their own weather system - storm clouds looming beneath taut skin. Sweat clung faintly to his lower back. His hair was a mess - tousled and clean like he’d just stepped out of a shower and into a fitness ad. Jake made a sound. A small one. Chase glanced over his shoulder. No surprise. No alarm.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re up.”
Jake stared, mouth dry, heart pounding as his mind raced in disbelief.
“What—”
“You don’t remember anything,” Chase said flatly, turning back to flip something golden onto a plate. “Cool.”
Jake’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Chase moved like gravity didn’t apply. Calm, precise, enormous. He poured black coffee into two mugs, set them down like ritual. One by the edge of the table. One near the seat across from it.
“You drank too much,”
he said. “Got handsy. I brought you home.”
Jake’s stomach flipped. “I—what?” Chase finally turned. Full chest. Abs that looked drawn in charcoal. The kind of soft bulge at his front that was not soft at all. His skin still glistened faintly in the morning light - flushed and impossible.
“You were all over me. Like some drunk little twink in heat.”
*(Jake flinches. Chase keeps going, calm as death.)*
“You humped my leg like a fucking dog. Told me I smelled like victory and testosterone.”
Jake pressed a hand over his face. “Oh my god.”
“You kept whispering sir. Don’t even try to tell me that wasn’t your kinked-up little mouth talking.”
He set down a plate in front of Jake.
<img src="chased/chase eating 1.png" width="75%">
Protein pancakes. Greek yogurt with sliced banana. Something red dusted on top - cinnamon, maybe. It smelled annoyingly amazing. Jake stared at it like it might be laced with arsenic.
“You… made me breakfast?”
Chase looked at him. Calm. Even. “I made food. You live here. You might as well eat.”
Jake sat. Stiff. His heart felt like it was skipping steps. Chase leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Jake with a gaze that didn’t ask or apologize. Just assessed.
“What, you only take orders when there’s cock involved?”
*(beat)*
“Relax. It’s breakfast, not a blowjob. You can keep your panties on.”
Jake took a bite. It was… good. Goddammit.
"You were funny last night," Chase said. "Kept petting my arms. Told me I smelled like winning."
Jake coughed. "Please stop."
"You begged to touch my chest."
Chase smiled. Not cruel. Not kind. Something in between.
Jake hesitated. Voice low. “Sorry. I was drunk. That… won’t happen again.”
Chase stilled. Just for a second. Like something in him tightened and locked.
Then he stood. Picked up his plate. Walked to the sink. “Yeah,” he said. “Figured.”
He rinsed the dish. Not angry. Just... colder. Controlled.
“You were sloppy,” he added. “It happens. Especially to guys who don’t know what they want.”
Jake looked down. “That’s not—”
Chase cut him off. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone your little faggot episode.”
Jake flinched. “Jesus, man—”
Chase kept his back turned. “You think the guys at the gym would be as chill as me if you grabbed their chest and started moaning? You’d be eating tile.”
Jake’s voice broke. “I didn’t—”
“You were drunk. You acted out. Now you’re embarrassed. End of story.”
Chase moved past him, slow, deliberate. Shoulders broad. Chest still bare, smug in its silence.
At the door, he paused. “We’ve got gym this afternoon. Weightlifting. Try not to drool.”
Then he was gone.
Jake sat at the table, heart pounding, half-finished pancake going cold on his plate.
[[Jake sat at the table, heart pounding, half-finished pancake going cold on his plate. ->ch 4]]
The clang of iron faded behind them. Chalk dust hung in the air. Chase wiped sweat off his brow, dumped his towel into the bin, and grabbed his shaker like it owed him rent.
Troy rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. “Damn, your traps are tight today. Something got you extra rabid?”
<img src="chased/gym troy chase.png" width="100%">
Chase shrugged. “Roommate’s a fucking disaster.”
Troy perked up, half-smirked. “You finally meet him?”
“Unfortunately. That skinny kid over at the rack? That’s him.”
“Thought you said he was some quiet upperclassman or whatever.”
Chase took a long drink. “He’s an art major.”
Troy whistled. “Oof. Fragile.”
Chase cracked his neck. “You don’t know the half of it. He damn near fainted watching me warm up.”
Troy laughed. “What, like gym-intimidated?”
Chase didn’t answer. He set the bottle down harder than necessary. “He stares like I’m a fucking zoo exhibit. Can’t tell if he wants to sketch my lats or call campus security.”
“Maybe both,” Troy grinned.
Chase didn’t smile. “He’s jumpy as shit. Eats, like, two grapes and cries about the gym being loud.”
“That sounds like most dates I’ve had.”
Chase’s jaw ticked. “He’s not a date.”
Troy raised a brow. “Didn’t say he was.”
Silence.
Troy leaned back against the lockers, arms crossed. “So what’s the problem?”
Chase grabbed his bag. “No problem. Just sharing a kitchen with someone who thinks protein powder is toxic masculinity.”
Troy snorted. “Hey, man, opposites attract.”
“Not my opposite,” Chase snapped.
Troy blinked. “Jesus, alright.”
A beat.
Chase slung the strap over his shoulder, voice too casual: “He’s the type who probably flinches if you compliment his shoes. One of those guys who blushes when you stand too close. Pretends not to like it.”
Troy looked at him. Thought for a second. Then shrugged. “Sounds like a lot, but hey—he’s kinda cute.”
Chase didn’t even hesitate. “You’re not fucking my roommate.”
Troy blinked. “Jesus. Alright.”
Chase grabbed his bag. “I don’t need more drama in my apartment.”
Troy chuckled, unfazed. “Didn’t know I was dramatic.”
Chase didn’t answer. Just turned and walked out, shoulders tight.
Troy stared after him for a beat, then shrugged again and reached for his water bottle. [[Totally unbothered.->ch 7]]Jake hid in the bathroom.
<img src="chased/jake bathroom.png" width="100%">
Not in a stall. Not by the benches. He locked himself in the furthest corner by the sinks, head down, heart racing, palms pressed to cold porcelain like prayer. His hoodie clung to his skin, damp from sweat and desperation. His dick was still hard. Still. Since Chase.
Since that goddamn handprint like a brand burned across his ribs.
He couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop feeling him. The weight of that touch. The voice in his ear, mocking. The smell—spice, sweat, something too male to name.
Jake pressed his forehead to the mirror.
Get it together. Get it out. Breathe.
The door opened behind him.
Jake flinched.
Footsteps—heavy, but not Chase.
“Hey,” said a voice—low, warm. “You alright?”
Jake turned slightly. A guy stood near the sinks, towel around his waist barely big enough for his his waist. Big. Broad. Friendly.
<img src="chased/troy bathroom.png" width="50%">
“I’m good,” Jake muttered.
The guy nodded, unfazed. “Cool. First week hits hard.”
He didn’t linger. Just offered a quick fist bump. “Troy.”
“Jake.”
“Nice. See you around.”
Then he left. Jake could almost see the side of his dick as he turned around.
Jake stared at the door after it shut. His reflection looked pale. Wide-eyed. Pathetic.
Outside, the muffled hum of lockers and voices carried. Freshmen laughing, sneakers squeaking, water running.
Jake didn’t move. Waited.
Waited longer.
Until the sound thinned out—until the bass of conversation dropped to nothing, and the air felt still.
Then he exhaled.
And stepped out of the bathroom.
<img src="chased/chase gym 3.png" width="50%">
The locker room was mostly empty now—benches scattered with towels, water bottles abandoned. Quiet. Too quiet.
Chase was waiting.
Leaning against the far wall, towel slung loose over one shoulder, hair still damp. Watching.
Of course.
Jake froze mid-step.
Chase’s mouth curled. “You’ve got a type, huh?”
Jake blinked.
“That powerlifter smile get to you?” Chase asked, voice dry. “Troy’s not subtle.”
Jake’s throat closed. “He was just being nice.”
“Sure,” Chase said. He pushed off the wall, slow and loose. “They always are.”
Jake said nothing. Tried to stay still.
“You’ve been in here a while,” Chase added, voice dipping. “Could’ve sworn you were gonna cry.”
Jake’s jaw twitched. “I just needed air.”
“Sure,” Chase said again, stepping closer. “You afraid to shower now? Scared someone’s gonna catch you looking?”
Jake flushed. “I’m not—”
“You’re not subtle either, princess.”
Jake’s breath caught. “Why do you even care?”
Chase’s eyes stayed on him, steady. “I don’t.”
Chase dropped the towel.
<img src="chased/chase gym dick.png" width="50%">
Jake gasped.
It hit the floor like a challenge. Chase stood there, bare. Huge. Heavy. Everything relaxed and ready.
Not hard.
But Jake was.
Again.
“Shower or stare?” Chase said.
Jake spun so fast he nearly tripped. “I—I have to go—Riley—”
“You always run?” Chase asked. “Even when you’re begging for it?”
Jake grabbed his bag like armor. “You’re insane.”
Chase didn’t follow. Just smirked, slow. “See you back at the dorm, sweetheart.”
[[Jake fled. His ears ringing. His cock aching. And Chase’s voice still in his head like a bruise he didn’t want to heal.->ch 8]]
By the time Jake made it to Riley’s dorm, it was past eight. The sun had dropped behind the skyline, smearing the campus in a low, sticky orange glow. The air reeked of asphalt, barbecue smoke, and the familiar floral snap of Riley’s shampoo—the one that made her hugs feel like déjà vu.
He knocked once. She answered instantly.
Barefoot. Juice box in hand. Oversized “Education is Hot” sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, fuzzy shorts.
<img src="chased/riley pj.png" width="50%">
“I was just thinking about you,” she said, stepping aside. “And by thinking I mean aggressively manifesting.”
Jake stepped in like gravity made him. “You win. I’m here.”
He dropped his bag and collapsed into her beanbag chair. It groaned beneath him like it, too, was tired of being upright. Riley’s dorm mirrored his own—kitchen in the middle, bedrooms on each side—but hers smelled like dried lavender and pink salt, not sweat and testosterone. There was no tension in the air. And that, somehow, made it worse.
Her roommate sat on the couch, space buns tight, crop top loud: “Sorry I Only Date Messy Artists.” She didn’t look up from painting her nails neon green watching a dating show with subtitles and no volume.
<img src="chased/roommate riley.png" width="50%">
“Oh my God, this is Jake?” she said flatly.
Jake blinked. “Hi?”
“You’re the gay bestie Riley says has the drama.”
Riley flopped onto the floor next to him and stole a pillow. “Jake, this is Ava. Ava, drama.”
Ava flicked a wet claw at him. “You’re cuter than I pictured.”
Jake gave a crooked smile. “Thanks, I think?”
Riley nudged his leg. “So. Gym?”
He groaned. “Disaster.”
“First day always is.”
“It was hot. Loud. Everyone smelled like powdered rage. Some guy was squatting furniture.”
“But you lived?”
“Technically.”
“No permanent damage?”
Jake hesitated. “Nothing visible.”
Ava snorted. “God, I hate gym boys. All that grunting like they’re reinventing gravity.”
Jake winced. Too close.
Riley leaned against him. Her body warm, her presence softer than he deserved. “You’re doing great, babe. You’ve almost survived a full day.”
“Yay,” he said, deadpan.
They talked until ten-thirty. About nothing. About everything. Ava vanished to FaceTime someone beautiful and difficult. Riley made microwave tea and offered Jake one, but he waved it off.
<img src="chased/riley night.png" width="100%">
He didn’t bring up Chase.
Not once.
Riley didn’t ask. But her glances lingered. Her silences curved around his.
At eleven, Jake left.
The walk back was quieter than it had any right to be. Sidewalks still warm, trees black against a dull orange sky. Jake’s hoodie clung to his back. His gym bag strap bit into his shoulder. Each step echoed too loud.
The dorm was dark.
No light in the kitchen. No flicker under Chase’s door.
Jake stood still. Key card in hand. Listening.
Nothing.
He slipped into his room, peeled off the hoodie. Didn’t shower. Didn’t text. Just collapsed into bed, gym shorts sticking to his thighs.
And for a second, he thought he might cry. But it didn’t come.
Just heat.
And the echo of breath behind his ear.
The memory of weight. A handprint, still burning.
His skin pulsed like it remembered.
His mind didn’t want to.
He didn’t check his phone. Didn’t think.
Just closed his eyes.
And let it stay.