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Bountiful

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"Are you sure you don't want to do it doggy-style? I still think it'd be easier for you."

Shikamaru heaved a sigh; this was at least the fifth time he'd answered that same question before they had sex. "Chouji. If you want to do it that way, then say so. Don't hide it behind worrying about me."

Chouji shook his head, chagrined and clearly a bit embarrassed. "I'd rather see your face when we—when I—"

"Then just do it." He tried his hardest to filter the impatience out of his tone; he didn't want Chouji to think he was cross when all he wanted was to get Chouji inside of him.

"Right." Chouji jerked a decisive nod and reached for the lube, and Shikamaru leaned back on his elbows, legs open.

He appreciated Chouji's consideration, but accommodating Chouji's girth was no problem whatsoever. Shikamaru was limber and flexible and besides, he loved Chouji's body. Chouji was obviously still self-conscious about his size, no matter how many times Shikamaru had mumbled appreciative words while they frotted or stroked each other off in Chouji's bedroom, no matter that Shikamaru constantly had his hands on Chouji even when the touch wasn't sexual. The common standards of beauty decreed that only slender qualified as sexy, and Chouji had a hard time believing that anybody thought otherwise.

But Shikamaru couldn't get enough of Chouji's full-bodied curves.

He tipped his head back as Chouji pressed a slick finger into him, and his breath caught. He'd never imagined, before they'd started doing it, that he'd enjoy this as much as he did. Chouji murmured something under his breath, activating his partial-multi-size jutsu, and slowly his finger began to expand; Shikamaru shuddered, panting fast and light, hands clenching in the sheets. Every time. Every time Chouji used his clan technique for sexual preliminaries, it turned Shikamaru on to a ridiculous degree. The idea that something developed for the battlefield could be turned instead to a use like this really pushed his buttons; the gentle swelling and stretching inside him felt like nothing else and he kept thinking that someday he should ask Chouji to do him just with that, see how far he could take it and how long he could last without coming.

But not today. "Chouji," he gasped as Chouji's finger finally shrank back to normal and slid out of him. His tone wrapped pleading and appreciation and anticipation all together and Chouji understood, didn't say anything in response, only shifted up onto his knees and pulled Shikamaru into position. He lined their bodies up and pressed forward, in; Shikamaru dropped flat on his back and wrapped his legs around Chouji, fitting them together as closely as possible.

He loved the soft give of Chouji's flesh against him and the solid firmness of the muscle beneath, loved the roundness of Chouji's belly rubbing over his cock as Chouji thrust again and again. He loved the malleability of Chouji's flesh, the way he could press his legs tight around his friend and feel Chouji's curves molding to the shape of his thighs. He loved the enticing plumpness of Chouji's nipples, how easy they were to touch and fondle and pleasure, to lean up and flick with his tongue, to suck into his mouth until Chouji voiced a high, thin sound and started moving faster. He loved how solid and substantial Chouji felt between his thighs, how sturdy and reliable and steady, how real.

Chouji's weight added power to his thrusts, let him hit harder and deeper as he picked up speed, and the momentum sometimes drove Shikamaru out of his mind. People tended to assume that Chouji's size meant he was grievously out of shape but Chouji would never make it as a shinobi if he wasn't physically fit; he'd proven himself in combat situations time and again and his stamina in the bedroom was amazing. The last time they did it he'd gone full bore for nearly an hour straight without flagging before he finished, and Shikamaru had felt it for days after.

He wasn't looking to repeat that marathon today; he just wanted Chouji above him, inside him, with him for a little while.

Chouji's hair was loosely wound and pinned up out of the way—keeping it down during sex was entirely more troublesome than it was worth—leaving Chouji's back bare; Shikamaru's hands settled right below Chouji's shoulder blades, gripping tightly, because Chouji was built perfect for hanging on to. It made it easy to arch and move with him, to settle into the perfect rhythm together, to connect, and that was really the thing that Shikamaru liked best about sex—especially since it was with Chouji. He'd partnered with Chouji forever, as friends, students, teammates, comrades; Chouji was easily the most important person in his life and meshing an amatory bond with their lifelong platonic bond just felt right.

They fit together, in every sense of the word, in every way imaginable.

Shikamaru dug his heels into the fleshy give of Chouji's buttocks, gripping tight as Chouji pistoned into him faster, harder, and he could feel the edge rising steadily within him. Chouji's belly was firm against his cock, rubbing in swift rhythm with Chouji's thrusts, stimulation that wasn't quite enough to satisfy; Shikamaru slid his hand in between to grip himself and let Chouji's movement shift his fist now in quick strokes, just one more thing he loved about Chouji's shape.

"God, Chouji," he groaned, tense and breathless, digging hard into Chouji's shoulder and thumbing the tip of his cock as everything started to coalesce into climax. His head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling without really seeing it, fist tight around himself and body alight with vibrant pleasure; Chouji pounded into him quick and forceful, relentless, and Shikamaru couldn't stop the thready little warble of sound that squeezed out of his throat as the intensity spilled over into bursting and he came.

Chouji pushed in deep and held, gave it a few beats and a careful isolated thrust or two before picking up the pace again; Shikamaru shivered, awash in endorphins and not quite coming down yet. He opened his hand, spread it low on his abdomen where semen made a warm slick mess between them, marveled dimly at the way Chouji could read exactly what he needed to make that fleeting high stretch well into the aftermath.

No one knew him like Chouji did, could possibly be a better partner for him than Chouji. No one.

"Shikamaru—oh—I'm gonna come—" Chouji's breathless declaration was bitten off at the end and his rhythm sped up, faltered; Shikamaru held on, still abuzz from his own orgasm as Chouji jerked to a shuddering stop, gasped, finished warm and wet inside him.

"Oh," Chouji panted again, still braced over Shikamaru, catching his breath, then pushed up and carefully pulled out, maneuvered himself free of Shikamaru's legs and collapsed beside his friend, rolling onto his back. "Oh."

"Mmh," Shikamaru agreed, shifting to ease the twinges of use in his spine and hips and thighs. He half-wanted a cigarette, but it would require getting up and that was just not his priority right this moment. Chouji really didn't like him smoking anyway, even if he understood the whys, even if he'd never say anything to Shikamaru about it. He really was the best friend anyone could hope for.

Shikamaru turned, stretched and nestled comfortably up against Chouji's bulk, thought again that no one could possibly be a better partner. Chouji got him on every level, knew exactly what he needed, always knew what to say, and Shikamaru was undeniably attracted to everything about him. He could hardly imagine having sex with someone else, someone slender; they'd seem too small, too delicate, and he doubted he'd be satisfied.

"Never change," he mumbled, pleasantly adrift in post-coital warmth, head pillowed on Chouji's chest while they both came down from it. "You're perfect."

Chouji made a sound that was self-effacing and embarrassed; Shikamaru sighed—half exasperation, half contentment—and patted Chouji's belly, lingering there fondly. "You are."

Chouji was solid and substantial and bountiful and beautiful, body and soul, and losing any of his heart or heft would be a tragedy.