hi! I’m lena, I use she/her pronouns and you’re watching disney channel, in this blog I’ll talk about whatever’s on my mind, participate in tag games and reblog other people’s writing!
if you’re reading this, it’s probably because you’re my moot (read: bestie) and I tagged you in something from here. fear not, I’m not some random dude on internet but your mutual who just wanted to organize things and have an excuse to try out a new theme!
choso has never cooked in his whole life—he’s never had to, so why bother with it—until now. now he’s at your kitchen, following a tiktok recipe in which some man is cracking eggs in a very extravagant way. but choso doesn’t know that, he’s never cracked an egg before so maybe that’s the normal way to do it. so he tries it, holding an egg with only one hand, his fingers wrapping around it awkwardly. he stares at it and turns it around in his hand, pressing slightly on the top and bottom of it, testing the strength of the poor egg. it doesn’t crack, so he proceeds to absolutely destroy it my smashing it against the edge of the bowl, flour and sugar going everywhere as the bowl violently tumbles and falls down to the floor from the impact as his eyes widen in surprise and flutter close when inevitably the mix of dry ingredients attack him. he leans down as he sneezes and coughs, his right hand sticky with the slimy insides of the egg gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, his right hand blindly trying to grab the now empty bowl but failing miserably. he whines in defeat and opens his eyes, groaning when he catches sight of the mess he just made. maybe next time he’ll ask you for help.
i was scrolling on tiktok and this guy popped up cracking eggs howl’s moving castle-style and then i remembered that eggs don’t crack if you hold them like this
so i thought that would be confusing for someone who’s never cracked an egg before
They didn’t mean to hurt you — but they did.
And you started changing because of it.
Now they notice… and it’s already different.
USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
“Watch what you eat,” Ushijima says, voice low, neutral. He’s looking at your tray like it’s offended him.
You smile—a practiced, automatic thing—and laugh it off.
“Oh, right. Yeah. Just hungry, I guess.”
He nods. Just once.
And that’s the end of it. To him, anyway.
The next day, you bring a salad. You poke at the lettuce with your plastic fork, chew each bite like penance. He glances at your lunch, says nothing.
The day after, it’s just fruit. You peel a clementine slowly, fingers sticky with juice, and avoid his eyes.
Then you stop bringing your usual snack. The one he used to reach over and steal a bite of without asking. The one that always made him smile—subtly, but still. Now your bag is empty. So are you.
By the fourth day, Tendou corners him by the gym doors.
“Hey, Wakatoshi,” he says, voice too light. “You realize she’s barely eating, right?”
Ushijima blinks. Still, silent. His gaze drifts toward you—sitting against the wall, water bottle untouched, your eyes vacant in a way he can’t quite name.
That evening, practice ends. The sun is low, gym almost empty. You sit alone on the bleachers, staring at nothing, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve.
He approaches without a word, sits beside you like it's instinct. In his hands: two onigiri, wrapped carefully.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, eyes on the rice, not you. “I just… I care if you're healthy. Not thinner.”
You don’t respond. Your fingers twitch toward your bag, but fall short. He places one onigiri in your lap, the other in his own hands.
You pick at the rice. Slowly. Cautiously. Like you’ve forgotten how to be hungry.
He doesn’t speak. Just sits with you, quiet, steady. Watching.
There’s guilt in the way his shoulders slope. In the way his chopsticks pause every few bites, waiting to see if you’ll keep going.
You finish half. It’s the most you’ve eaten all week.
He nudges the second one a little closer. Not pushing—just offering.
“Please eat,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “With me.”
And you do.
For a long time, he says nothing else. But his silence is kind now. Careful.
And when he finally looks at you, it’s with eyes that say he’s sorry in all the ways words can’t.
SHIRABU KENJIRO
The words slipped out of Shirabu’s mouth like a diagnosis—clinical, cold, final.
And the worst part?
You weren’t even fighting.
You had just spilled tea on your notes—weeks of lectures and scribbled diagrams now soaked through and curling at the edges. You laughed, a little sheepishly, brushing at the mess with your sleeve. “Well. That’s my sign to take a break, I guess—”
He didn’t laugh.
He stared at the papers like they’d personally offended him.
“You’re not cut out for the kind of future I want.”
You blinked.
“…Future?”
He nodded once, distracted, eyes already flicking back to his laptop. “Medicine’s not for people who lose focus. Who make little mistakes.”
You smiled, like it didn’t sting.
Laughed, like you hadn’t heard that same voice in your own head on bad days.
“Right. Of course.”
That night, you stayed up redoing your notes from scratch.
And the night after that.
And the one after that.
You started waking up before him.
Stopped doodling in the margins of your med books.
Stopped humming when you cooked, because every second needed to be productive.
Coffee became a meal. Sleep became a luxury.
You didn’t complain. Didn’t cry.
Just… shifted. Quietly. Carefully. Willfully.
The version of you Shirabu fell for—the one who teased him while quizzing him on anatomy terms, who wore fuzzy socks to study groups, who once made him a human heart out of Jello just to prove a joke—she was slowly fading.
At first, he liked the change.
The silence. The discipline.
The way your pens were always aligned now.
The way you never interrupted him mid-sentence anymore.
But then…
He noticed.
You never touched him just because anymore.
Never made dumb puns over dinner.
Your shoulders stayed tense even in your sleep.
The music in your world had gone quiet—and he hadn’t realized how much he loved its sound until it disappeared.
One night, he came home late from the library and found you at your desk, fast asleep.
Your glasses were still on.
Your hand was stained with blue ink, fingertips trembling slightly from too much caffeine and too little rest.
There was a cut on your thumb from a broken pen.
Your lips were dry.
You looked pale—drained, like all your color had been slowly siphoned away.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, heart sinking.
And when he touched your hand, you didn’t even stir.
He sat down beside you, swallowing guilt like poison.
“I didn’t mean for you to become someone else,” he whispered, the words raw and foreign in his mouth. “I just wanted you with me. I didn’t realize I was asking you to lose yourself.”
His voice cracked.
For the first time in years, he cried.
Quietly.
Beside you.
Because you were still there. Breathing. Trying.
But something in you had cracked.
And he had been the one to make the first fracture.
TSUKISHIMA KEI
That was the last thing he said to you that day.
You had just finished gushing about your favorite show—something about parallel universes and time loops and a sad, smiley villain who reminded you of him (your words, not his).
You were laughing, hands moving, eyes bright.
And he had sighed, leaned back in his chair, and muttered:
“Are you done yet?”
You blinked.
Laughed it off. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”
He didn’t respond. Just went back to scrolling.
After that, you didn’t talk about your favorite shows anymore.
Stopped sending him memes.
Stopped rambling in long voice notes that always ended with you laughing at your own jokes.
He noticed, of course. But didn’t say anything.
Yamaguchi did.
“She doesn’t text you stuff anymore, huh?”
Tsukishima scoffed. “Didn’t realize you were tracking my notifications.”
But later that night, alone in his room, he opened your chat.
Scrolled through the silence.
Past the last thing you sent—a meme, three weeks ago. A stupid one, about dinosaurs and headphones. He hadn’t even reacted to it.
The empty space beneath it felt louder than any rant you used to send.
The next day, he walked past a store on the way home and froze.
In the window: a little keychain of your favorite character.
The one you wouldn’t shut up about for two whole weeks.
The one he pretended not to care about but secretly knew the name of.
He bought it.
He didn’t even think. Just… did.
The next morning, he dropped it on your desk before class. No warning. No note.
You blinked, staring at the tiny figure in your hand.
“What’s this for?”
He adjusted his glasses, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“So you’ll annoy me again.”
You stared at him for a beat, stunned. Then your lips twitched.
You didn’t say anything.
But that night, he got a message.
[you]: i just rewatched episode 8 again and i need you to understand how emotionally devastating that scene was. also this keychain is SO cute i might cry.
He read it three times.
Smiled. Just a little.
(Translation: I forgive you. I missed you too.)
SUNA RINTARO
He had said it offhandedly. Barely looking up from his phone.
You had just sent him a selfie—your hair a little messy, eyes a little dull, but your smile was there. Honest. Tired, maybe. But still you.
And he said:
“You look tired.”
You blinked at the screen, lips twitching in a way that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Then replied,
“Yeah. Been a long day.”
After that, you stopped sending selfies.
Started fixing your hair more before calls.
Wore cooler tones. More neutrals. Nothing bright. Nothing bold.
Started double-checking the lighting. Your angles. Yourself.
One day you joked,
“Better not look tired again, right?”
But your voice was too quiet. The kind that curls at the edge of something fragile.
Atsumu noticed it first.
“She doesn’t send you stuff anymore, huh?”
Suna didn’t answer.
“You told her she looked tired, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. But his thumb froze over your chat.
Unread messages: none.
The last picture you sent had disappeared after twenty-four hours. You didn’t save it.
And you hadn’t sent another since.
The silence in the thread felt heavier than words.
So he stared at his camera for a long second, then sighed and snapped a picture.
No filters. No angles. Just him—messy hair, hoodie hood half-on, eyes barely open.
He sent it with a message:
“This is how I look when I actually look tired.”
“You always look like someone I wanna keep looking at.”
You stared at the screen. Chest aching.
Then, finally:
[you]: you're still bad at words.
[suna]: yeah. but i’m trying.
And he was.
In his own way—awkward, quiet, a little late.
But trying.
(And somehow, that was what mattered most.)
OIKAWA TOORU
You didn’t mean to bother him.
You had only sent three messages.
Short ones. Thoughtful, even.
[you]: hey, u free later?
[you]: you okay? you’ve been quiet today.
[you]: let me know if you need anything. i’ll leave you be. promise.
And then it came.
His reply.
Flat. Dismissive.
Laced with exhaustion and that familiar edge he gets when he’s overwhelmed.
[oikawa]: you’re really needy sometimes.
You stared at the screen for a moment too long.
Then you smiled. The kind of smile you force when people are watching.
“lol sorry. my bad.”
One last message. That was all.
And then you stopped.
You stopped texting first.
Stopped sending him memes you knew would make him laugh.
Stopped double-texting, triple-texting.
Stopped reaching out at all.
You gave him what he seemed to want.
Space.
He noticed by dinner.
By the time the team wrapped up practice, Oikawa was already scrolling through your messages, rereading old ones like a lifeline.
There were no new ones.
No “I miss you.”
No “Goodnight.”
Just… nothing.
He opened your chat three times that night.
Typed. Deleted.
Typed. Deleted again.
What was he even supposed to say?
Iwaizumi noticed the silence too.
“She’s not needy,” he said while they packed up. “You’re just used to being worshipped.”
That stung.
Because it was true.
Oikawa Tooru had always been admired—on the court, online, in every room he walked into.
He thought love looked like attention.
He hadn’t realized until now that he’d treated your warmth like a reflex, not a choice.
Until you took it away.
Until your silence said everything.
So three nights later, he was standing in front of your door.
A hoodie pulled over his head. Hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He looked small. Not in height—but in guilt.
He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
You opened it.
Your eyes were tired. Guarded. The space between you filled with things unsaid.
Oikawa’s voice was low. He didn’t even try to smile.
“…I miss your ‘needy,’” he said.
You blinked, lips parting slightly.
“I miss you.”
Still, you said nothing. Just looked at him like you weren’t sure if this was another performance or the real thing.
“I don’t want space,” he continued. “I want your clingy texts. I want the memes. The constant check-ins. The way you send me random thoughts at midnight.”
He looked down at his shoes.
“I want everything. Even the parts I didn’t appreciate.”
Silence.
Then he looked up, eyes raw.
“I only push away the people I care too much about,” he whispered. “And that’s you.”
It wasn’t poetic.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was just honest.
For a long moment, you stood there. Then, slowly—quietly—you stepped aside.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He just walked in, shoulders trembling slightly.
You closed the door behind him.
And neither of you said another word.
Because this time, he would show you through presence what he failed to express in words.
He came back.
And he didn’t let go.
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
It was just a bad game.
He was frustrated. Quiet. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.
You knew how he got.
You didn’t say anything.
You just reached out—softly, gently—for his hand.
Not to fix him. Just to say I’m here.
But he pulled back like your touch burned him.
“Don’t touch me right now.”
The words weren’t loud.
They didn’t need to be.
You blinked, hand frozen mid-air. Then you let it drop, your voice a quiet crumble.
“…Sorry.”
That was it.
You stepped back. Gave him space.
And from that day on, you stayed there.
You stopped reaching for him.
Stopped brushing your fingers against his sleeve when you passed by.
Stopped fixing his hair when it curled over his forehead.
Stopped lacing your fingers through his on long walks.
You hesitated now—every time.
Your hands hovered near him, never landing.
And Kiyoomi… didn’t notice.
Not at first.
But Komori did.
He waited until the locker room was empty, then slammed his locker shut louder than necessary.
“You told her not to touch you,” he said, arms crossed. “And now she doesn’t. Happy?”
Kiyoomi blinked, confused.
“She flinched when you brushed her arm, Omi. She flinched. That girl used to hold your hand like it was second nature.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve.
Komori left. Kiyoomi sat down, heart unsettled, brain replaying every tiny moment—your hands curled into your lap, your stiff shoulders, the way your gaze flicked to his fingers then away.
It was true.
You were gone, somehow, even while still beside him.
That night—no, early morning—he couldn’t sleep.
He stared at his phone screen in the dark, thumbs hovering. Then:
[sakusa]: i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted.
No typing bubbles appeared.
He didn’t expect them to.
But the next day, he found you outside the gym, hugging your arms to yourself, pretending not to see him.
He walked straight to you.
You looked up, cautious.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
He just reached forward—and for once, it was him who was shaking—and took your hand. Both of his around yours, like anchoring something fragile.
You looked down at the connection.
Then back at him.
His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“I want you close,” he said. “Even when I’m upset. Especially then.”
Your lip trembled.
He held your hand tighter.
And in that quiet moment, on the edge of hurt and healing, you let yourself believe him.
Because sometimes, people push away what they need most.
And sometimes, if they’re lucky, they get the chance to hold it again.
KENMA KOZUME
You used to sit beside him.
No words. No noise.
Just quiet company while his fingers danced across the keyboard, headset snug over his ears.
You liked being close.
He never complained—until one night, between matches, he muttered without looking at you:
“You’re kind of distracting when I’m streaming.”
It wasn’t cruel.
It wasn’t sharp.
But it stuck.
You blinked. “Oh.”
And after that… you stopped.
You stopped bringing snacks and dropping soft kisses to his temple when he won.
Stopped curling up next to him.
Stopped humming under your breath or watching from the corner of his screen.
You stayed in your room more.
Quiet. Out of sight.
Invisible.
Kenma didn’t notice at first—too busy adjusting his settings, managing collabs, climbing ranks.
But Kuroo noticed.
Over Discord, mid-game, as Kenma sat in silence between rounds, Kuroo muttered:
“She doesn’t bug you anymore, huh?”
Kenma blinked.
“What?”
“You look kinda lonely now.”
The words landed like a delayed hit.
Kenma glanced to the side—out of instinct—at the space where you used to sit.
Empty.
Still.
He stared longer than he meant to.
His fingers paused over the keys.
The stream kept running. The chat wondered what happened. But Kenma didn’t move.
Later that night, he found himself in front of your door.
A bag of your favorite snacks in hand. Slightly crumpled from how tightly he’d been holding it.
He knocked once. Soft.
You opened the door, eyes tired.
Surprised.
He didn’t speak at first. Just held out the bag.
“…What’s this?” you asked quietly.
“Peace offering.”
Your brow arched. “You said I was distracting.”
He looked down, fingers flexing.
“I know,” he murmured. “I was wrong.”
You stayed quiet.
So he stepped forward, placed the snack gently beside his controller on his desk, then turned back to you.
“Come sit with me?” he asked.
Then, even softer:
“I miss your noise.”
You blinked.
And for the first time in days, your lips curved—just slightly.
He held his hand out toward you.
And this time, when you took it, he didn’t let go.
Not even when the game started.
Not even when chat noticed.
Because he wasn’t playing to win anymore.
He just wanted you back beside him.
Even if you distracted him.
Especially if you did.
MIYA ATSUMU
You hadn’t meant to cry.
You didn’t even realize it was happening—until your voice cracked mid-sentence, and you saw the way Atsumu’s expression tightened, not with concern, but irritation.
“I’m not in the mood for your drama right now.”
It hit like a slammed door.
You blinked once. Twice.
Then you nodded.
"Sorry," you said, voice barely there.
And after that—you stopped.
You stopped venting.
Stopped opening up.
Started smiling too wide, laughing a little too quickly.
"I’m fine."
"Just tired."
"Nothing big."
You said it so much, you almost believed it.
But Atsumu didn’t.
Not at first—he was too wrapped up in training, in pressure, in exhaustion and ego.
But Osamu noticed.
“You broke something, y’know,” he said one night, tossing a towel over Atsumu’s head.
“You might wanna fix it before it stays broken.”
That’s what finally made him pause.
And that’s what led him here—
To the empty gym hallway, where he found you sitting against the wall, knees to your chest, eyes blank.
You didn’t notice him at first.
Didn’t look up.
Didn’t flinch.
He walked over, crouched down, and gently rested his forehead against your shoulder.
“…I’m the drama,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not you.”
You stayed quiet.
He clenched his fists. Loosened them. Then tried again.
“Please don’t hide your feelings from me. Ever.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked away, eyes burning, lip trembling—but still, you said nothing.
So Atsumu pulled you into his arms.
Held you there. Not asking for forgiveness, not rushing it—just there.
“I was stupid,” he mumbled into your hair.
“I was tired and selfish and I made you feel like too much.”
His voice cracked.
“You’re not too much. I was just too stupid to handle someone real.”
You didn’t say anything right away.
But your hands slowly—finally—gripped the back of his jersey.
And that was enough.
Because this time, he wouldn’t let go first.
KITA SHINSUKE
You were tired.
Not just physically, but the kind of tired that settles in your chest and makes everything feel heavier.
You forgot to do something small — misplanted a row of seedlings in your shared garden, or maybe you overslept and missed breakfast with him.
He didn’t yell.
He never did.
Just that calm, steady voice:
“That’s not very disciplined of you.”
No anger. Just disappointment.
And somehow, that was worse.
It clung to you for days.
You started fixing your posture more, triple-checking tasks, waking up earlier than needed.
No more lazy mornings. No more spontaneous dancing in the rain or lying in the grass just to feel the sun.
You stopped being soft. You started being… correct.
And he noticed.
How your laugh faded.
How your hands trembled when you thought he was watching.
It was Aran who quietly pulled him aside one afternoon.
They were harvesting. The sun was warm. But Kita felt cold at the words:
“She’s not blooming anymore. She’s surviving.”
“You’re so focused on raising standards… you didn’t see her lower herself.”
That night, he found you tending the garden.
The same bed you both built together.
The soil was dry. The petals curled inward. And so were you.
He knelt beside you silently, heart heavy.
“Discipline matters,” he started. “But so does grace. I should’ve given you more of it.”
You didn’t look at him.
Your fingers kept digging gently through the soil.
So he did something rare.
He placed his hand over yours.
Soft. Still. Sure.
“You don’t need to be perfect… to be precious to me.”
Your breath hitched.
And when you finally looked up — eyes glassy, dirt smudged on your cheek —
he smiled, just barely.
“Let’s grow softer things. Together.”
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
You’d tried something new.
Maybe you curled your hair, tried eyeliner, wore that outfit you weren’t sure about but finally had the courage to put on.
You didn’t expect a grand reaction.
But you didn’t expect that either.
“You look weird.”
He didn’t laugh.
Didn’t smirk.
Just said it like a volleyball stat: flat. Unthinking. Unfiltered.
You smiled like it didn’t hurt.
Went to the bathroom that night and wiped it all off.
Told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.
But the next day, you played it safe.
No more makeup.
Neutral clothes.
You toned it down, layer by layer, until it felt like you’d erased something.
And he didn’t even seem to notice.
But others did.
Sugawara asked Kageyama during practice, teasing but genuine:
“What happened to all those selfies she used to send you? I kinda miss the glitter.”
Kageyama blinked.
Paused.
Scrolled through his phone that night.
Through bright lipstick, messy buns, silly filters, captioned doodles.
Gone, now.
He found you that night, seated quietly on the porch or your shared bench near the gym.
“Hey…”
You looked up. Tired. Dull.
He sat beside you, awkward fingers twitching on his knee.
“You’re… not weird. I mean, you are, but like. Not—bad weird. Like… your kind of weird. And I liked that.”
You didn’t respond. Just stared ahead.
So he added, softer this time:
“I’m stupid with words. But I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to disappear.”
You swallowed.
He turned slightly, desperate and clumsy:
“Please don’t change for something dumb I said. I didn’t realize how much I loved… all of that. All of you.”
You turned to him.
Eyes glossy, voice small:
“Then why didn’t you say that sooner?”
He didn’t have an answer.
So instead, he reached into his pocket and held out the phone screen — a selfie of you from a month ago.
“I saved this one. I liked your smile here the most.”
DAICHI SAWAMURA
It was something small.
You tripped on a stair and instinctively, he caught your wrist, pulling you close before you fell.
Someone whistled.
A teammate teased: “Ooh, Daichi, playing knight in shining armor?”
He panicked. Embarrassed. Tried to play it cool.
So he shrugged and muttered,
“She’s not my responsibility.”
Laughed it off.
But your smile didn’t reach your eyes.
You’d never expected him to take responsibility for you.
You weren’t asking to be saved.
But you’d thought — maybe — it was okay to lean. To trust. To fall near him.
After that day, you stopped doing that.
You handled everything alone — even when your hands shook carrying too much, even when your emotions threatened to spill.
No more late-night texts.
No more spontaneous hangouts.
No more quiet moments walking beside him.
You avoided everyone for a while.
Until Suga found you missing again from another group outing and went straight to Daichi.
“She knows she’s not your responsibility, Daichi. She just thought… you gave a damn.”
That silenced him.
That night, he went up to the school rooftop — the place you always went when you needed to breathe.
You were already there, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes on the sky.
He didn’t speak.
Just sat beside you.
Let the silence ache between you both.
Then finally, barely audible:
“I wanted to protect you. Not push you away.”
You didn’t look at him. You just said, hollowly:
“You don’t have to explain. I get it.”
But he shook his head gently.
“No, you don’t. I didn’t say that because I didn’t care. I said it because I was scared of how much I did.”
You blinked, eyes burning.
“You’re not my responsibility,” he whispered again — but this time softer, reverent.
“You’re my person. That’s… different.”
HI!! I just wanted to drop by a thank you for leaving the nicest tags I've ever read 🥹 that means so much to me and it made my whole day before it even started. I'm so glad you enjoyed, and ty for reading 🫂
HIIIII ohmygod i didn’t expect you’d read my dumb rambling ☹️ im so happy i made your day, thanks for passing by and i hope you have a wonderful day!!! 🫂🫂
꒰ Desc | Stressed after work? No problem ➜ until your favorite comfort item goes missing, and luckily your socially awkward roommate has a solution that leaves you unraveling in more ways than one.
WC ➜ 11K ➜ ML | A/N : Inspired by radiohead
You were absolutely doomed.
Around six-forty p.m was the time you usually arrived at your shared apartment, well after you stopped by for fast food to stuff your belly full—deserved especially since your shift worked you down to the bone. Then you’d hang your keys on the rack, strip out of your uniform in the bathroom, shower, and finally masturbate in your bedroom.
But that was the problem...
Your vibrator was nowhere to be seen, you literally searched everywhere.
Crawling on the floor with tattered breath as if you’d just watched a horror movie, digging through your cluttered closet, ripping apart the designer shoebox without a care, biting your lip as you forcefully pulled out every last drawer in your dresser, you even looked underneath your bed—which you decided it needed some tidying up later—at least after you fixed the bigger issue.
Tears nearly threatened to escape the corners of your eye, in complete distress at this situation.
It wasn’t like you were trying to be dramatic, but each rude client was worth at least eight orgasms or even double that, hell you’d try and go all night if you didn’t have better things to do.
Sighing before making your next move, it was best to hit your last resort—asking your roommate if he’s seen your vibrator.
Of course you’d feel a little embarrassed, what’s the worst that could happen though? At most he’d give you a puzzled look and say no, still you were desperate, so it was worth a shot.
What you didn’t know about Choso was that he’s a bit of a gooner.
Whenever your friends visited you and they saw him they’d either :
A. Fangirl over your roommate gushing how hot quiet tall men are, and twirl their hair (apparently) flirting saying how they like their men “tatted up like a chipotle bag.”
Or
B. Secretly whisper about how weird he looks—off-put by his broody energy and unapproachable face.
It only made you confused, because this was someone you’d defend with your life over someone calling him weird, but you never noticed at night how he groaned as he slowly stroked his cock to women that could possibly be your doppelgänger on twitter.
Thrusting up into his fist with a dying need when he’d watch hentai and the women would make the ahegao face, because he could only dream of making you roll your eyes back like that while you loll your tongue out.
Softly crying out your name as he rammed into his fleshlight like it was your pretty pussy, that he accidentally got flashed by once.
Choso couldn’t help himself, dirty talking to it—pretending it was the real thing. He’d whimper “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you like how I pound you Y/n?” Hearing your mewls through the walls with his keen ear only made it worse.
Which is exactly why while you were gone he hid your vibrator so discreetly he even forgot where he put it, he only hoped and prayed you’d have no other choice, but to come to him.
Oddly enough Choso was slightly shocked his little plan worked so easily.
When you gently knocked on his door, some rustling could be heard like he was trying to hide a few objects before opening it.
At last the door squeaked as it pried open, revealing his taller stature.
His eyes were baggy like if he got any sleep he’d start breaking out in hives, his ears decorated in piercings as if it were art on a canvas—his short shirt had shown off his tatted sleeve that drove women crazy.
“Do you need something?” Choso asked, leaning against the door frame, tying the drawstrings on his Star Wars pajamas with a dull look, although mentally his head was crowded with tiny people cheering for him.
“Yeah,” you took a long deep breath, answering.
Fiddling with the hem of your silky pink nightgown, you practically stalled for what you were about to ask.
“I was just wondering,” you muttered, trailing off.
Hiding your sweaty hands behind your back, you tried speaking again “actually don’t judge before I say it.” You dodged eye contact, making your eyes busy in his suddenly plain room that looked as if some collectables, or posters were missing.
“Did she notice anything? Quick, Quick! act normal Choso.” He panicked, his thoughts scolded him so loud he swore you might’ve heard them.
If he had two choices to let someone see his unholy room smothered in erotic figures, or those anime posters he claimed to watch for the ‘plot’—he’d let that someone be a god before you.
Dipping his hands in his pockets, he leaned closer into your space with warm inviting cocoa-tinted eyes, brushing his bangs out of his face.
“I won’t, promise.” He calmly reassured you.
“Have you possiblyyy,” you sing-songed, already regretting your life choices “perhaps seen my vibrator?”
For a moment, Choso had an unreadable look displayed on his face, then he raised an eyebrow, pressing his lips into a thin line.
“No?” He had to be honest with himself, shame simmered in his stomach as a lie trudged out, he hated making you feel a little crazy over this, but this was his only chance to feel the touch of a woman.
“Why would I see that?” Choso folded his arms, his eyes raked across your figure. Gradually losing his composure due to your fresh scent—the honey body wash with hints of vanilla perfume was begging him to rip your clothes apart so badly that he had to repeat to himself “Hold it together Choso.”
“Ah. You’re right, I just thought,” you poked your lips out, adjusting your bonnet to distract you from the incoming bomb of embarrassment.
Usually since you often misplaced your keys you’d often ask Choso if he’d seen them and he’d find them for you, which is why asking him this made at least a little sense.
“Nevermind.” You turned on your heel, preparing to use your fingers instead, (knowing you’d sob yourself to sleep after).
Your roommate didn’t allow you to leave just yet though, grabbing your wrist.“Wait, unless you, uh… wouldn’t mind me helping you.”
You paused like the entire world disintegrated, stepping back in shock.
“Helping me?” You tilted your head, on the verge of mentioning what if it changes things–not wanting anything to be tricky after, but at this point you couldn’t care anymore, you just wanted at most—one orgasm tonight.
“Yeah, I mean that’s only if you want,” he began scratching his head, abruptly leaving the “cool” act behind “You could even imagine someone else if–”
But before Choso could drown himself in a pool of awkwardness, you yanked him by his hand dragging him into his room like you owned it.
“Say no more!” You declared like you were at a restaurant and your roommate was the only thing on the menu.
He gasped, appalled like he didn’t construct this entire plan. Your smaller figure somehow managing to rule his taller frame.
He wasn’t expecting you to actually give in, so what now?
Choso never had a pretty woman this close, well, one he actually had an undeniable desire for.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he fidgeted with his fingers, nearly sweating for what was about to come.
“C’mon get closer, you don’t gotta be shy now!” You purred as you bat your luscious lashes, scooting towards him.
His hand was glued on top of yours, lifting for a second like he wanted to make a move—do anything, but he never thought he’d get this far.
Your fingertips grazed his skin as you tilted his chin upward with a featherlight touch, guiding his gaze to meet yours.
Your breaths mingled for a moment, dancing in the closed space.
Tracing a path of soft, fluttering kisses along the rim of his sharp jawline, you savored the heat radiating from his skin and the way he subtly leaned into your touch.
Your lips ghosted over the spot in front of his mouth, as if you were edging yourself with tasting him.
His heartbeat was comparable to an earthquake, booming loudly in anticipation. He felt the entire four years of living with you flash before his eyes, as if this was hard work that paid off, and he could finally die complete.
Then, without warning, your mouth claimed his—almost like you were marking your territory in spite of other women crushing over him.
It was dramatic the way your lips crashed against his repeatedly, suckling on his bottom lip like you were ravenous.
Your lips were melded into each other as if neither of you could get enough of this. His hand cupped your cheek like this was something bound to happen—practically screaming you were made to kiss only him.
He gently smiled into your plush lips remembering a few of the guys you used to bring over—now it was at last his turn after hearing how your pussy squelched through the walls.
Years of being on the side due to your toys or other men and he finally had a chance—he felt a rush of dedication to prove he was better, an urge to outdo everything that you scurried to during ovulation.
With one swift motion Choso picked you up, both hands cradling your hips and sitting you on his lap, forcing a gasp out of your throat.
“Didn’t know you had it in you like that.” You blurted, swearing if this were a show a saxophone would theatrically play in the background.
It was a known fact Choso was strong, but picking you up so fast you barely even noticed had you feeling like a love spell was casted on your heart, suddenly hearing it roar in your chest.
“I… Uh–” He started off, but his mind became scrambled, intoxicated with how close you were.
Your honey vanilla scent could’ve made him cum on the spot if he didn’t have enough self-control, except he reminded himself this was his only chance–he refused to fuck up.
It was too late though, because he immediately began to buck his hips up like a bull, causing your arms to wrap around his neck instinctively.
He never knew what it was like for a woman to sit on his lap before, he couldn’t help himself–the way your cunt throbbed all over his bulge it only enticed him even more.
“Fuck, I can’t believe this is real…” swirled around in his mind in disbelief, a fantasy he told himself would never be real achieved to bloom into life.
Choso’s angry veins were practically cursing you for how good your slick panties felt on top of him.
His cock felt like stone, already frustrated from the thin fabric separating the two of you.
“God, you’re so fucking hard,” you bursted into giggles, continuing to roll your hips “guess I’m not the only one… this pent up huh?” You teased, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Mhmm.” He mumbled, eyes barely open as he nuzzled his head into your shoulder, fitting like a perfect puzzle piece.
His focus was as good as a drunk person. Every shift of your hips became the only thing that mattered.
He bit back noises like if he let them slip, he’d no longer impress you, but it was as if you knew he was holding back—switching to a faster rhythm, placing kisses on his neck then sucking harshly at the tender skin, sure to leave a dark purple bruise.
He finally let go, ecstasy ascending in his bones, whimpering like a man obsessed—someone who’d merge souls with you if it were possible.
Choso’s body chased yours as if were a reflex, his mind morphed into complete fuzziness it was like he was on autopilot, but there was only one thing—he didn’t know what to do with his hands, maybe stealing your vibrator was a little odd, but he still wanted to remain respectful.
His hands moved lower down your back, fingers drawing circles on your nightgown, but halted like he wanted to go further and couldn’t.
“You wanna touch me?” You whispered, lips brushing his pink tinted ears, sending shivers throughout his body “It’s okay, go ahead.”
“You sure?” He brought his face from your shoulder for a moment, pressing his forehead against yours, the tips of your nose basically engaged to each other.
You nodded, reaching for his hands, dragging them down slowly to your ass. He quickly grabbed a huge handful, like it would escape from him.
“Fuck, you’re so soft.”
He groaned, feeling a surge of something primal brewing throughout him, his fingertips screwed harder into the supple fat of your ass damn near branding you.
You were driving him wild without even doing much but looking pretty while grinding on him.
The weight of you in his lap was insane—his mind shuffled with “please let this be more than once, I’ll do anything to have her again.”
Choso brutally bit the inside of his cheek, making sure this wasn’t a dream, if he woke up any minute he’d definitely take his anger out on one of his poor body pillows.
The fact that you came to him, agreeing with his idea to help you even if you could’ve just used your fingers, or just asked him to help you search for it meant everything to him—he never felt this needed in his life.
He was breathless at the touch starved friction, your moans swimming in his ear, how you gently clawed at his back, your captivating scent, was all too much for him.
“Feels so good.” Became the only thing he could spew out, veins bolting as he gripped you tighter, bringing you closer as his clothed cock rubbed on your pulsing clit.
You sighed entirely dazed, the air around you two growing thick and humid. You had your arms wrapped around his marked neck like you wanted to trap him in a web to keep him there forever.
Unfortunately, nobody’s touched you in what felt like decades; to some abstinence for only two years sounded weak, just about anyone could go without dick for two years right?
Absolutely not, at least for you, these past years were hell, it was so horrible you considered calling your ex-situationship to satisfy your needs.
Which was why you rutted into his pelvis like an animal in heat, your body acted as if it were irritated he didn’t ask to help you sooner.
Your panties became a slip n’ slide, every single one of his needy whimpers sprinting straight to your puffy clit—Choso’s wet kisses relishing in your neck had your nipples shamefully pebbling in your nightgown.
Somehow your hips even picked up speed on its own rocking into his tented pajama pants, you wouldn’t be surprised anymore at other decisions it could make.
There was no way you were this turned on by a little bit of humping, right? You mentally reprimanded yourself.
It was almost like you were a virgin again with no sense around a man, pure lust cascading your body.
Your breath was disappearing from you like a ghost, unable to handle your roommate’s wispy moans striking your ear, sounding as if he was on the verge of coming–all you could feel was the splotch of pre-cum leaking from the middle of his pants.
Your fingers ditched his neck to tangle into his raven tufts hoping it’d help stabilize yourself from the inescapable coil building in your tummy.
Not even the blasting fan nearby could cool the large sums of sweat off your bodies—convinced you were soul tied at this rate by how in sync you moved together.
Every hungry grind lined up perfectly with his bulge that continuously attacked your bundle of nerves sticking to the seam of your panties.
He held you so close you could feel his abs flexing as he gripped you tighter, the possessive touch causing you to clench around utterly nothing.
“Choso,” your mouth let out a choked sob, nails indenting itself into his shirt “Shit, I’m… close…” you gasped desperately in between breaths.
Your thighs began to shudder around his waist, drunk off the sheer intensity of him thrusting up into you.
Arrays worth of fireworks launched in your head, dizzy on the fact that you’d possibly get your first orgasm of the night after a long shift.
“Yeah? Haah, mmggffh me too…” He whimpered, placing a kiss on top of your head, but unfortunately he had a sudden change of plans—slowing down his movements while shifting his body just to lay you on the bed facing him against the plethora of fluffy pillows.
“Wait, nooo why’d you stop?”
You whined, heart humming like a drum—your pussy clamping around nothing, begging for anything to get relief.
“Because if I kept going I was gonna cum in my pants like some filthy loser.” Choso rasped, wetting his lips—dark brown eyes secured on your figure as if you stepped out of his favorite doujinshi.
You playfully smirked as you gave a pointed look to the sticky grey patch on his pajama pants. It might’ve only been pre-cum, though replaying how breathless he sounded, he definitely sounded like the filthy loser in question.
Clearing his throat, he pushed up the silk material of your nightgown with no rush behind his actions.
He delicately spread your legs apart, sweeping dainty kisses from your slick-covered thighs to your stomach before unhurriedly pulling away your sticky panties.
Once they were all the way off he gave them a huge whiff like he wanted the scent of your cunt after an eight-hour shift to burn deep into his nostrils.
He exhaled as if it were a sweet aroma of baked cookies, and bunched it up into a ball flinging it somewhere in his room like he was signaling you weren’t getting that back, causing your eyes to widen.
“I wanna savor this—savor you…as long as I can.”
His voice was hoarse as he slipped a finger inside your velvet walls, careful and deep like he needed to feel every inch.
But there was one dire issue, he thought he knew what he was doing from watching—an almost concerning amount of porn, yet it unfortunately made him move his finger only in and out with no sense of set pace or rhythm.
You bit your lip hesitant, leaning up on your elbows as your eyes bored into his “Wait, you’re not doin’ it right.” It wasn’t to be mean, but if he wanted to help out, you weren’t going to take this back and forth like he was trying to hit a non-existent red-button.
He paused his finger for a moment.
“Does that not feel good?” Choso questioned, furrowing his brows in confusion. Thinking wrongfully he was prepared enough for this, gooning to all those videos on twitter or other websites didn’t seem to do him any good afterall.
You shook your head mumbling a near inaudible “Mm-mm.”
“Guide me on what to do then, angel.”
He pleaded, his tone enveloped with curiosity, eager to be corrected—yet felt you flutter around his finger.
“Does she like being called angel?” Those words scampered around his mind, as he squinted his eyes, he made a quick mental note on what you liked while waiting for you to explain any directions you were willing to spill.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, face burning at explaining what your body needed—either way you craved an orgasm, so you decided to suck up the slight tension.
“Here,” you whispered, grabbing his wrist and helping him move at a tortoise-like pace. “You’ve gotta press up a little.”
His mouth fell open slightly as he watched you guide him, if it were possible to get a tattoo of a memory he’d want to ink your vulnerable state in his brain next.
“Press up a little?” He asked, voice tentative like he was trying to figure out his way through a maze.
“Okay um… try curling your finger—like, hook it up.” You described curling your fingers in front of him to give him a picture, assuming he could be more of a visual learner.
He did exactly what you told him, marking your directions in his brain like a fervent student, adjusting his hand to press against a fiercely sensitive spot hiding inside you.
“Keep moving slow okay?” You instructed, chest rising and falling as you relaxed into his touch.
Choso’s mind began to flash back to sensual porn he watched whenever he got tired of overly rough videos, abruptly realizing that’s what made him cum quickly—maybe it’d be the same for you if he properly mimicked the same movements.
Beads of sweat trickled down his temple, as he pursed his lips in concentration, devoted to making you fall apart on his hand first.
Slithering his finger in your clingy walls, he continued to curl up in a repeated motion, stroking your g-spot with the same precise care he gave the finest brushes in his art collection, forcing your back to beautifully arch, entirely surrendering yourself to his long digit.
Choso moaned softly, at how demanding your pussy became–despite him only having one finger engulfed in you, it grasped him like it’d fire him from his job if he stopped at any moment.
He smiled with adoration, mind filled to the brim with colorful confetti, celebrating like this was his biggest accomplishment in life, besides one of his paintings he sold–he got the exact girl he was longing for writhing underneath him, depending on him for pleasure.
“Like that?” he questioned, following your reactions like a hawk.
“Aah, yes! Like that Cho.” You mewled, as you toyed with your hardened nipples through your nightgown, impatiently peeling one of your tits from out of the top.
His pace stuttered for a moment, distracted by the sight of your exposed breast and how lazily you teased yourself. He swallowed hard, correcting his rhythm with a low whimper.
Fuck, why are you like this?
You weren’t even trying to be hot, all you did was flick your nipple between your fingers and for some reason, it was enough for him to bang his hips into the mattress aiming to satisfy the painful throbbing ache in his pants.
Choso rubbed your thigh like he needed it to ground himself, he gave it a gentle squeeze, having a strong thirst to live in your soft flesh.
He maintained massaging your spot, proud your elbows finally became weak—no longer able to support you due to how much bliss you were in.
“You okay, angel?” Genuine concern cloaked his tone, refusing to overwhelm you, but he somehow didn’t realize that’s exactly what made you lose your mind, being overwhelmed.
“‘M fine... just—” your voice shattered like glass, hardly able to finish your train of thought, as your walls fluttered tight around him, “add another finger, please.”
You yearned for that extra push like a woman who hopelessly waited on love letters from her man at work, and at that moment it registered to you that this began to feel a little more intimate than just roommates.
You wanted to push away his wrist—stop him—do anything, but that coil that was stirring in your tummy had you under deep control, it’d be like trying to break free from a cage made of steel.
“Is that better?”
“Mhmm… f–feels so good. You’re doing so well, Cho—so good f’me.”
Oh, he couldn’t wait to free his cock, at this point you were torturing him—not that he minded.
The way your back arched, breasts high and nipples pleading for more. Mouth slightly parted with half-lidded eyes made him want to sketch you like this—ruined under his touch.
“God, you’re so wet,” he panted, surprised at the obscene squelch sounds your body gave him. “you look so pretty, trembling like that for me.”
“She must really like praise, huh?” His thoughts clouded his mind, as he watched a waterfall worth of slick that coated his palm.
Choso gave a smug half-smile, realizing he could unravel you with nothing but his words. Any doubts about sounding awkward? Gone—submerged under the sound of your moans.
Your mind fell numb, grinding your hips down on his digits, crying out his name like a broken record.
“Oh my god Choso.” You squealed—eyes slamming shut, as you grabbed at his lean tatted arm, his muscles flexing at your unexpected touch.
“Choso, choso, choso, I’m close, don’t stop.” You begged, playing a memory that dragged you back to when other men would change their pace or rhythm as soon as you were on the tip of coming.
“Faster Cho, you’re doing such a good job.” You encouraged as your nails scraped his arm, tits jiggling while your hips stuttered against him like he was your only source of euphoria, completely forgetting about your ‘lost’ vibrator.
He listened to you attuned to your needs, then thumbed at your fat greedy mound.
It was too much, feeling overstimulated—his wide thumb circling on your clit as he thrusted his fingers swiftly in a come hither motion, provoking drool to slip past the corners of your lips.
“Hah, Choso—gonna cum, I’m coming!” Your thighs quivered as you threw your forearm across your face, pussy spasming around him like you were trying to reel him in forever.
Faint cries echoed throughout his room as a gush ripped from your cunt, raining over his already doused palm.
Loads of waves poured over him, claiming his palm and wrist, so bad he became sure he’d need an umbrella.
Your body acted like you haven’t orgasmed in centuries, spilling out way too much as if it’d never get a chance to feel another man again.
Finally, he pulled away his fingers noticing the skin was now wet and wrinkly, still he tapped his digits against his lips like he was debating whether or not he wanted to taste your arousal.
Then he dipped them in his mouth, suckling at your wet essence that coated him–his tongue glided over your slick while he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, as if that’d manage to disrupt his judgement.
Choso’s brows creased like his brain was scanning the flavor on his taste buds and relaying the information to form a final opinion.
He smacked his lips for a second “Hmm, a bit salty, yet sweet, maybe like a chocolate covered pretzel?? I’d say this is a ten out of ten.” Choso announced, giggling as if he were a well-known food critic, but in tasting cum.
“A chocolate covered pretzel?!” You snorted, boisterous, yet fairly bewildered at the bold comparison.
He joined you in laughter, shrugging, except His giggles died down as his eyes met yours again—still entranced from everything.
“You okay?” he asked, checking on you once more, rejecting anything less than an astonishing experience for you. His hand rose up to caress your side, touching you at any chance he had.
“Of course I am,” you nodded, doe eyes swaddling him, but masked behind lust, you reached up towards him, tugging him feebly by his shirt.
“C’mere… I want you inside me, pleaseee.”
The ache in his pants pulsed hard enough to make him wince. He exhaled slowly, nudging closer, slotting his hips between your legs.
Choso blinked, his breath catching. “Y-Yeah? You sure?”
His fingers flexed against your thigh. You were still twitching, your cunt fluttering around nothing as you pawed at his pajama pants.
“I need it, Choso—need you now.”
That was all it took, he leaned in, peppering kisses all over your face like a man who made love to his woman before he went to war. “Fuck, you’re unreal.”
Choso scrambled to tug down his pants, whimpering at the fact that he could finally take care of his boner.
His cock sprang free like it was ready to ravage your pussy, causing your eyes to pop as a gasp flew out of your throat.
The tip was on par with an abnormal sized mushroom, maybe even lab made—flushed coral pink and bitterly leaking, envious it didn’t get any attention yet.
But that wasn’t even the best part, the length looked around seven inches paired with a five inch girth, this was the kind of dick that’d steer you away from any ex or toy for life, you made a wild guess you’d most likely get attached after this as if your heart would stop without him.
“Oh my god?” You covered your mouth, appalled. The other men you’d been with had three or four inches, which occasionally made you yawn during sex.
You never would’ve guessed your roommate who’s quiet—makes small talk with you was secretly packing underneath his typically baggy clothes.
“Is it bad looking?” Choso quizzed, face hued a rose pink—worried he wouldn’t succeed your expectations. “I could still try to please you if—“
“No, it’s so fucking big” you drooled, ogling at him “put it inside me now!” You ordered, as you rubbed your clit in small circles.
He was only left speechless, cock twitching profoundly at your approval until a few words came to mind, “anything you want princess.”
Choso turned powerless to his own actions, hand moving to give himself a few pumps before slapping his fat tip on your clit, provoking you to jolt.
He let out a breathless chuckle like he was going insane. “I’ve been waiting so long for this.”
“You have?”
He responded with a nod as his tip stroked your entrance, gathering some slick to act as lube before lining himself up, then he steadily glided himself in—making your breath hitch.
Your hands fisted the sheets, to comfort yourself with the burning stretch. You were able to feel every single throbbing vein, ridge, and you’d imagine even his beauty marks that decorated his length too.
His eyes searched your face for any discomfort while he continued pushing himself inside you, his girth splitting you open into two.
“Mmm, you want me to stop half way?” He asked as he massaged your hip.
You immediately shook your head “No, all the way in.”
Even through the slight sting you needed everything Choso could give, except that costed your breath to increase, getting heavier, not realizing how much you had to accommodate.
Your walls panicked, feeling like it instantly had to find a way to mold itself properly to his size to ensure you’d only feel a compelling sense of pleasure.
He continued to drag himself all the way in, just like you asked until your pelvis pecked at the hair freckled at the base.
“W—want me to move, or do you need a minute?” Choso questioned, throwing his head back at your tight, warm, wet cave encasing him—knowing it’d be difficult to return to his fleshlight after this, it’d be like trying to sober up after an addiction.
“You can move.” You stated, making an attempt at a neutral tone, but it came off more of a plea.
You never thought missionary could hit like this, usually it bored you, leaving other men to watch a blank expression on your face as they had their way with you, but with Choso, your body sucked him in like a black hole completely immersed in his length.
“Fuck, fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight, angel.” He groaned as he unbuttoned his shirt, taking it off like it’d cool off his body.
Then at last his hips rocked forward, slow but deep, like he wanted to carve his name into your guts.
“Y’gonna ruin me,” he breathed, and you swore for a moment question marks were exploding on top of your head confused like he wasn’t the one ruining you.
Vibrators always helped with stimulation but they never prepared you for the sheer stretch and fullness of cock—especially since Choso’s thick, it felt like a soda can was trying to jam inside your cushion walls.
He pulled back just enough to harshly launch back in on purpose—remembering how much you loved being overwhelmed.
You sobbed his name in like a prayer hoping to be answered any minute, turning your head side to side into the silk sheets.
It almost turned mortifying how sensitive your sopping cunt was, those two years promptly catching up to you, reminding you how badly you wished for dick to break the streak.
You were basically in heat, squeezing around him, placing your hand on his abs like it’d console you from his deep thrusts.
“S–shit, I didn’t know anyone could make me feel like this.” You mumbled beyond perplexed an inexperienced man already had you seeing stars.
You kept trying to tell yourself on loop that this is just sex, something casual until you marched yourself to Spencer’s to buy another soulless piece of silicone to mourn the real thing, but your lash line started to swell with tears, cherishing that his eyes were glued to your face digging for any reaction you spared him.
And telling yourself this is just a small one-time thing began to feel suffocating, specifically since he delicately held your hips–too shy to leave bruises, rolling into you like you were an idol meant to be worshipped.
Your heart erupted with heat each time he softly cursed your name–leaning in to kiss your neck, beginning to realize your friends possibly weren’t exaggerating when they expressed how mind-blowing sex is, every stroke raised your standards for the next man, well, if you weren’t too attached afterwards.
Choso shot a smile flourishing with passion, knowing you felt ecstasy simply because of him–it was just like he dreamed of when he masturbated if not better.
He used one hand to thumb at your clit, circling it with careful, messy swipes just to hear those moans, the ones gentle as clouds escaping your lips—with his other hand, he reached for yours, fingers lacing together and pressing them into the pillow beside your head like he wanted sculpt how infatuated he was with you.
His hips rocked forward in slow, deliberate thrusts, but each time he bottomed out, he ground—like he was trying to argue with your body to prove entirely nothing could be better than this.
He wanted to etch himself into your walls, dedicated to making this memorable.
Every steady drag of his cock left behind a milky trail of your thick cream on his shaft that clung to him like a crazy jealous ex who wouldn’t let go.
You felt him everywhere.
Not just stretching your pussy, but filling your tummy, pressing against something deeper—maybe your womb, probably your soul.
You clamped around him uncontrollably tight—not even sure if your body wanted more, to cry, or scream that you couldn’t take it.
But then you thought about those rude-ass clients from earlier.
There was no way in hell you were tapping out.
His fat tip kept thumping your sweet spots with surgeon-like precision, making your toes curl and your hands try to weakly reach for the nightstand.
It still wasn’t enough. You wanted to be wrecked—spoiled—reduced to nothing but a whore underneath him.
So, you did what any bratty woman would do, what better way to ask than tease your way into this?
“You… don’t gotta… move so slow anymore Choso,” you faked a yawn, or tried to in between breaths “maybe I should go look for my vibrator—see if that gets the job done instead.”
His pace faltered—just for a moment like something short-circuited. Then his eyes shifted, and you could see it click, something devious lighting up behind them.
“Yeah?”
His voice dropped an octave—baritone, yet rich as satin, being enough to make your skin prickle with goosebumps, recognizing there was something mischievous hiding underneath the surface.
He withdrew his shaft, but didn’t pull all the way out, just until the head of his cock sat tauntingly in your slick entrance, like it was alerting you what you were in for, messing with a man who has had an excessive fixation on you for four years.
You could feel your pussy throb like your slutty hole had its own heartbeat, attempting to grab him back in as if it were irritated you were teasing the best dick of your life.
His soft palm cupped your breast, watching how your hard nipple jostled at his fingertips.
With a slow roll of his thumb, he circled your bud—softly pinching it, studying the way your back twitched off the mattress.
A whimper flew from your parted lips, fingers tangled in the sheets at how sacred his hands kneaded you, a sheepish expression plastered across your face at how responsive you were, it was like every molecule in your body finally felt seen.
And although Choso looked like someone who sat on Discord all day, sketching anime girls in questionable poses for “anatomy study,” debating mischaracterized characters on Reddit threads at 2 a.m.—you knew you were about to be ruined.
“If that’s what you want…” He sucked in a shaky breath through his nose, jaw tight so tight a vein could burst—like he was satisfied he could be rougher, letting his pervy energy leak through. “I’ll give you anything.”
You tried to keep up the bored act, a deadpan expression sprawling out over your face, considering whether or not rolling your eyes or huffing out a fake sigh was too far.
Distracting yourself by the windy spring air blowing the curtains—you pondered for a moment, eyes deciding to entertain themselves inspecting the rest of his room, darting to the walls decorated with anime posters that were most likely judging your sinful actions.
But then—he grabbed both of your legs, hoisting and folding them over his shoulders in one sharp motion, so quick that the succulent fat of your thighs angrily jiggled at the sudden movement.
His eyes narrowed in focus, shaking his head to move his raven bangs that stuck like glue to his forehead, but you instantly broke him out of deep concentration as broken moans rumbled from your throat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your voice strained, as a string of curses rushed out of your mouth, his mushroom tip pushing farther.
You weren’t ready for how deep this angle let him reach—having your knees nudge your collarbones or the intense stretch.
Mentally, little disorganized files in your brain broke open, scattering to figure out where he learned his technique from, especially since not too long ago you were guiding him on how to finger you, could it be porn, or maybe advice from quora?
You couldn’t even be bothered to solve that grueling mystery now though, because you swore you saw a faint trace of a smirk gracing Choso’s features.
Not the playful one you usually gave him to tease, just to rile him up for pure amusement.
It screamed more like a yellow warning sign, a promise as if to tell you “be careful for what you wish for.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Your voice cracked between shallow breaths, pleading for mercy, all while secretly hoping he’d ignore them—wrecking you until you were walking funny for the next two weeks.
But in typical Choso fashion, not a single word dared to exit his mouth.
You simply braced for impact, throwing your forearm back over your face like you were a damsel in distress.
Then he slammed into you–all the way, at once–his full length bullying any sensitive spot imaginable, burying himself to the hilt—his short nails digging tiny crescent moons into the plush of your thighs.
Your mind shimmered in elation—the pleasure comparable to a warm hug, you nearly wondered if you should’ve mumbled out a thank you for how dreamy everything felt.
Each slam of his thick cock felt as if it were exasperated, reclaiming his silence for four years of crushing on you–like he was begging to know how you could be so oblivious this whole time.
The poor wooden headboard croaked at the pressure, banging against the wall louder than siren, someone would assume it was trying to find an escape–refusing to be the spot you two fucked like animals on top of.
Those years of moaning into your pillow with your vibrator on max setting—worthless. It was like your pussy forgot what real pleasure was supposed to feel like.
Ramming into you his balls slapped the curve of your pussy, hard enough to make your back arch and body shudder like he was commanding you to, except without any words needed.
The stretch of him felt like if your body took another cock it’d deny access immediately, you wouldn’t mind staying this way though, even if it was too much for you to handle, you’d replay this moment while lucid dreaming, doing anything to be folded in half like this again.
“S’full, m’ so fuckin' full Choso.” You babbled, tears wobbling at the edge of your lash line, creeping down your face like it didn’t want to be noticed.
“Mhm, I know princess.” He cooed, continuing to drive into you as he carefully watched your tummy bulge dance with every thrust “That’s all me huh?” He mentioned completely struck at how big he was as if he didn’t consistently measure himself.
Once one large hand departed to press on your belly, your jaw went slack from the immense pressure, his dick kept critically knocking into that precious a-spot, like he was perfectly doing calculations in his brain which angles or thrusts would make you sob.
Your half-lidded eyes were blurry, rolling back until you saw white.
Your vision was as good as television static, the black and white specs twinkling—thoughts fading into a puddle of mush as your tongue lolled out, proving he fucked you dumb.
Drool slipped past your lips, lashes flickering like you were fragile—seconds from breaking apart.
That's when he snapped—mind brittle in arousal, eyes darkening at how pornographic you looked, exactly how he’s been daydreaming when he masturbated to the thought of you, hungry and desperate for you to make a slutty ahegao face.
“Shit,” a long drawn out groan crawled out his plump lips, as his pace stammered for a moment, absorbed in your lack to control your features contorting by bliss.
One pale hand still rested on your leg, while the other grabbed your jaw holding you in place effortlessly, leaning so close his breath could fog your face if it were glass just to spit a massive glob making sure it aimed right for your tongue.
By this point you were hazy—maybe half-gone swallowing without hesitation, lips closing as his spit swam down your throat keeping a piece of him inside your body.
You gave a droopy smile, almost nothing could break you out of your sexual high besides Choso quickly apologizing for the sudden act.
“Shit, wait, I didn’t mean—” he started to explain himself, voice drizzled with guilt, yet it was hard to focus with him consistently pounding so deep you wouldn’t be exaggerating if you said you felt his dick in your chest.
“Was it too much?” He panted, worried he may have grossed you out.
Not knowing that you’ve been craving someone who goes beyond vanilla sex this entire time.
“No, do it again.” You begged, scratching at his abs with no force behind it.
His breath hitched, eyes nearly bursting out of the socket “You’re gonna be the death of me Y/n.”
Tilting your jaw once more, he gathered every last drop of saliva in his mouth to spit another glob on top of your needy tongue.
His fingertips pushed up at your chin, signaling you to swallow everything he gave you—making him proud that another piece of him was going to disappear down into your tummy.
You held onto it for a minute before swallowing though, savoring the flavor of his obsession before completely letting it leave—moaning once you felt well-fed by your roommate.
“There you go, s’good for me.” His pupils twitched at how vulnerable you were with him, feeling a sense of connection to every noise you made, every eye roll, how you trusted him enough to let him do whatever he wanted with you.
And your heart shouldn’t have combusted like it did at his words, knowing this should only be a one time thing before things get serious, but your thoughts were frolicking in circles at the idea of being married to Choso, unable to care about the relationship stage first.
Your eyes—finally able to look properly couldn’t even stare into his, dodging his every glance.
You couldn’t tell whether you hated how observant he was or not because then—he grasped your jawline like it was an insult to avoid his gaze.
“Look at me angel, want you to see how good m’ fucking you.”
The only thought you could conjure up was “Is he trying to make me fall for him?” It seemed like everything he did made both heartbeats skip.
His length hammered into your sensitive core as you looked up to him with loving doe eyes, your fingers holding onto the ones hooked on your jaw keeping him in place, like if he let go you'd miserably whine if he stopped.
“Mmngh, look at that…” Choso groaned, intentionally thrusting slower to let you revel in how much his girth ripped you to shreds, while he carefully analyzed the outline of his cock he ingrained into your belly—still shocked, not realizing how huge it was.
You could only respond by squeezing him like you were trying to milk him dry of four years worth of being pent up, dazed, you struggled to give him eye contact, until he instantly made them broaden—completely stunned.
While one hand stayed pressed on your stomach, one of his hands latched to your ankle, planting a tender kiss on it without breaking his fast paced rhythm, he dragged your pointed foot up—lips making love to your heel, the soft skin of your arch, and each one of your toes coated in cheetah print polish.
He wasn’t sure why, but the lavish design only drew him in even more like if he kept paying your feet any more attention he’d stay hard for another round.
“Mmmph s’cute,” he slurred, wet muscle grazing the pads of each toe like it was a heavenly meal prepared and served only for him to pamper himself with.
At first it tickled like your nerves were panicking—trying to process being stimulated there, but then once the strange tingly feeling finally substituted for pleasure your mewls grew louder as he added suction like he was striving to extract your soul through your foot.
He slurped, releasing each toe with a wet pop before taking in the next, unapologetic about how down bad his demeanor drifted off.
Your brain fried itself like it urgently tried to pinpoint why it felt so amazing, yet peculiar at the same time.
Words like “No, no, no, this is so fucking weird, but I don’t want him to stop????” Tripled in your head, chasing after an answer you couldn’t find.
The sensation of his mouth on one end and his cock punching deep into your guts felt too much to handle, although you practically asked for it.
You floated in a pool of shame, arrows pointing at how pitiful and submissive you were for allowing this to happen.
Usually you judged others for being into something like this, scrunching up your face in disgust whenever someone mentioned how they enjoyed having their feet adored, slowly you were beginning to realize this whole time it was all about having the right person do it for you.
With Choso, he did it with so much care, ideas of it being disturbing declined crossing your mind, he made it certain he wanted to devote himself to testing everything that possibly turned you on.
Even the parts that others would deem as too filthy, he just saw it as another part of you to explore.
As he increased suction, slightly hollowing his cheeks, his wet muscle swerved around the dips and ridges of your skin.
Sex wasn’t supposed to be this intense, you never had to manually breathe through taking cock, yet here you were mentally telling yourself to inhale and exhale as you massaged at your bundle of nerves as if that’d somehow calm you down, but that coil started to build again, like you were on the tip of letting go any moment.
“C’mon, I know you’re close,” he murmured, voice muffled as your toes were still in his mouth causing your pussy to spasm around his length—vibrations driving you crazy.
Recognizing that familiar spasm, this time around his dick—he briskly thrusted so deep his tip nearly smooched your womb.
THWAP THWAP THWAP!
The sound of skin colliding with each other filled the room, echoing loud enough to be heard five doors down your shared apartment.
“Choso, fuck, oh my god...” you let choked sobs roam free as the weak coil rang, like it had to alert you were going to cum, the most fierce orgasm you were about to have in your life, not even your wand vibrator on max settings or your favorite rhythm could compare.
You would’ve never guessed that having every inch of your body worshipped including down to your soles of your feet would make you feel like a swarm of butterflies fought in your stomach.
Slowly you gave up mentally coaching yourself how to breathe—every exhale becoming ragged like someone was chasing you, except that someone happened to be your orgasm.
Your legs trembled on top of his broad shoulders, body jerking like a woman possessed, but in pure euphoria.
Everything around you fizzled out into nothingness, unable to form a single thought, and maybe your mind was doing you a favor, letting you fully appreciate this moment with every fiber in your soul.
“Shit, c—can’t move…” His voice wavered along a high-pitch needy groan, the muscles in his thighs shuddering like his own body attempted to run from the orgasm he was seconds from collapsing under.
Your pussy squeezed him like a tight glove, designed for him flawlessly, it felt like watching another girl on twitter would be degrading to you by how snug you were.
The one thing your tight hole tolerated right now was him grinding so deep you'd need a map to find his mushroom tip inside your silk walls.
“Baby, I—I’m g’nna cum, hold me, please...” you pleaded, tears anchoring at the edge of your eyes as you weakly reached up for him with a pout forming on your face.
“Baby?” His eyes softened—like hearing you call him that unlocked something buried in the depths of his soul as if a cupid’s arrow somehow managed to shoot him in the dead of spring.
Immediately letting your foot go, you didn’t have to tell Choso twice, he leaned over still balls deep inside you–using one hand to cradle your head like you were all his, while the other snaked itself underneath your back pulling you slightly towards him.
“Let go for me, cum all over my cock.” He whispered into your ear, helping you through your orgasm.
And although your moans were raw—guttural, his mind managed to mistake it for angelic cries, so beautiful it sounded like a melody on the harp serenading him.
Your legs wrapped around him, your nails clawed at his back, the deep red scratch marks contrasting with his pale skin.
Gasping at first he felt dizzy, drunk off of the pain you saturated him in, his tip kept nudging your a-spot until you spasmed around him in rapid motions, soon coating him with a thick cream that nuzzled right at the base of his length, dribbling even his hair in your arousal.
Your noises went silent, stuck in an o shape as he continued to pound into you, abs flexing as he chased his own high.
His breath became frayed like a rope, a flood of tears streaming down his cheeks, landing onto your face as you cupped his chin, somehow making him fall harder than before, convinced his heart was stabbing you by how fast it was racing.
“F—fuck, fuckfuckfuck, love you so m—much, loved you this whole time.” He admitted, roughly biting your neck like that would keep him stable.
Your greedy cunt fluttered at his sudden confession, gasping like he revealed a dirty secret not even an interrogator could get him to blurt out.
“He loves me..?!” Your thoughts repeated like those words were signed into your memory forever, wondering if you really had been oblivious for eons.
Your lips pursed like you wanted to reply back, but something was yanking you away, so many questions were bouncing through your head, like how long has it been since he realized his feelings? Or did you even deserve to be surrounded in this much attention? Especially for the sake of stress relief after work.
Drowning out your thoughts his fingernails dug so far into the flesh of your hips, it’d be bruised for weeks—Choso planted kisses over face in a scattered motion, as his hips snapped up into your pelvis in messy uneven thrusts, knocking the wind out of you.
“Where do you want me?” He begged to know, satisfied with any answer you gave him.
“O-on top of my tummy.” You croaked out with a giggle, freeing him from the cage of your wrapped legs, you knew exactly what you were going to do once he came.
Following your command he instantly fumbled his way out of you, his cock twitching with shaky hands as he jerked himself whimpering loud enough to deafen your ears.
Pushing up the material of your nightgown that tried running down due to his movements, his hips jolted forward until thick white ropes spilled on top of your stomach, finally draining himself—years of being pent up.
It wouldn’t stop leaking out—his slit gushing out cum like paint from a cracked can. You swore it was enough cum to last a decade, warm like an oven, sending chills down your spine, forgetting how good someone’s arousal could feel against your skin.
The room was filled with panting as if two people were in a race, but in who would cum first—trying to catch your breath for a moment you bit the inside of your cheek as your fingers traced the thick seed he left to melt on you.
Smearing it all over yourself first playing in it like it was made to relax in when you were stressed—bringing it up to your lips to taste it, your mouth closed around your digits like it was your last meal before blacking out.
“So, how does it taste?” He asked, interrupting your little test awkwardly, scratching his pink tinted neck.
His gaze intensely flowed into you, hoping your response wouldn’t embarrass him—but thankfully in advance he had been preparing himself in case he ever got the slim chance to fuck you.
His diet consisting of fruit bowls bigger than his head and jugs those of water coming in handy—rarely munching on junk food, avoiding fucking up his flavor as much as possible.
You smacked your lips, purposefully mimicking him tasting you from earlier “It’s surprisingly good.”
“Surprisingly?” He chuckled, not sure whether or not to take it as a compliment.
“I expected it to be super salty, I’m sorry.” You half joked, leaning up on your elbows with whatever strength you had left.
“Ouch…?” He said with the face of a kicked puppy, eyes droopy at your assumption.
Staring at the mess he made, he was almost hesitant to ask, wishing he could pause time and be stuck in this moment forever.
“W-wanna get cleaned up or… uh?”
You nodded, yet your eyebrows raised in disbelief at how he stuttered like he didn’t just rummage through your guts.
“Carry me!” You demanded like a soldier defeated in battle.
He gave a lazy smile mumbling “yes ma’am.”
Lifting you off the mattress with shaky arms, Choso held you like you were made of glass—though the sticky mess between you begged to differ. His load clung to your skin and smeared across his stomach with every step, but he didn’t complain. Just buried his nose in the crown of your head as he carried you to the bathroom in silence.
Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, like if you let go, your body might actually fracture into tiny pieces.
The tiles were freezing when your toes hit the floor, and you clung to his inked forearm for balance. He turned the silver lever slowly, steam hissing out with the first spray of warm water.
Neither of you said much as he took off your bonnet, then slid back the straps of your short nightgown down your shoulders, watching it drop on the floor.
Choso guided you under the water, letting the heat soak through your skin like a balm.
Leaning against the wall for support, your legs were as wobbly as an antique table, already dreading the thought of clocking in at your job tomorrow.
The first splash attacked your hips and you winced, throwing your head into the wall, breathing in the steam like that would somehow help.
Choso turned so fast he nearly broke the spinal cord in his neck.
“Did I hurt you?” His tone cracked with the ghost of guilt, running his hands through his glossy damp hair.
He knew he was a little rougher towards the end, but he felt like a monster knowing you were in pain because of him—praying he didn’t go overboard.
You looked down at your figure and saw the faint bruises forming along your sides where his fingers had dug in brutally.
“No,” you murmured so quietly not even a wolf could hear, while picking up the shower head letting the water push the seed off of your belly. “I’d let you do it again anyway.”
His Adam's apple bobbed like your words were a shot of honey mixed with poison.
But his expression crumpled like a paper bag for a second. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel proud or ashamed.
The thought of you allowing him the possible chance of being able to make love again infiltrated his brain, his mind began to wander if you two would eventually buy a place with one bedroom—no longer needing separate rooms, maybe he’d never need pillows again to keep himself warm and not feel a little empty at night.
His fingers grazed your stomach like he was touching something divine, a blush staining his pale cheeks at the amount of cum he drizzled on you.
Instinctively you snatched yourself slightly to the side, flinching like his touch was foreign–the love radiating off of his heart attempting to transfer itself to yours haunted you.
Retreating his hand, he furrowed his brows in confusion, completely lost at the sudden act, you wouldn’t be hallucinating if you said you saw question marks rise above his head.
“I'm still a bit sensitive from everything, sorry.” You blurted, dodging eye contact, facing forward to the wall in front of you–studying the silver rack filled with bath bombs, wash cloths, and soaps.
He blinked, stunned. Something in him screamed to reach again, but he stood still—fighting the fear that if he touched you again, you might disappear completely.
He bashfully smiled in relief, whisking up a little plan to help your trouble, his fingers reached for the body wash on the rack before speaking.
“Let me at least take care of you,” he mumbled, lathering a few pumps into his palms, rubbing his hands together to let it bubble first.
Then he massaged it gently onto your skin like he was a professional that worked at a spa. It was hard not to feel soothed under every press of his digits, letting out chaste moans as his touch got slower and intentional—less about cleaning up, more so about making you feel cared for afterwards.
Your eyes gradually sealed shut, as he rested his chin on top of your head inhaling your saccharine fragrance.
“Your hair smells so nice, wish I could live in your scent.” He whispered, voice raspy, as he kneaded your sore hips like dough.
You tried to force away a grin at his praise, biting your lip, refusing yourself to easily fall for someone again.
The brick barrier you built to protect your soul was too strong to be broken, by something temporary right?
Beneath the tranquil stream. Water cascaded down the curves of your bodies, tracing every line like it wanted to mesh you two together in a knot that even someone with pounds of muscle couldn’t untie.
At last, Choso cleared his throat, gulping so loud it had its own echo.
“Y/n…” he started, saying your name in an uneasy tone, yet almost too soft to hear over the water, withdrawing his hands for a moment, fiddling with his fingers he looked down at his feet, gathering his thoughts like one wrong word would change his life forever.
He inhaled deep, like the steam wasn’t scalding enough—like if he didn’t ask now, the moment might slip through the palms of his hands.
You blinked, lashes heavy with water sprinkling on them.
“Yeah?” You finally answered with confusion embellishing your voice.
He swallowed hard like he wanted to back out of popping the big question, but he was already too far gone.
His eyes didn’t meet yours anymore, but you could feel them searching—just not brave enough to land.
“I don’t really know how to say this,” he muttered, voice hoarse, hands wringing together jittery like he needed something to hold onto to comfort him.
“But…”
There was a pause, a long unsettling one.
You watched him retract into himself—processing, editing, like he was writing a graded essay in his brain, chucking every word that would throw you off into his mental dumpster that tried to come out before this.
“What are we?”
Those words hit you like a truck with no intention of stopping—no brakes, no hesitation, just raw steel and impact.
They didn’t just slam into you. They peeled something open. Something you weren’t ready to unpack yet.
Your stomach dropped, a twisting ache blooming in your chest like you’d been caught in something too deep and too fast.
You knew you should’ve had this conversation prior, the “what ifs?” But of course you thought with hormones and not with intelligence.
Moving away from him, you looked side to side like you were trapped, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.
Because it wasn’t just a question. It was every unspoken hope he had. A reminder how oblivious you had been these past four years.
It was him flinging his heart into your hands without knowing if you’d catch it—or crush it.
“I mean—” he scrambled, voice picking up a notch in panic. “I know I’m the one who offered… the whole stress relief thing. And maybe I’m reading into it too much, maybe it’s just me, but—”
His throat bobbed, gulping down whatever bond you two had left.
“Was this just a one-time thing?”
And that question—so gentle, so sincere—felt louder than any moan from earlier.
Because it wasn’t just curiosity.
It was hope that you’d say no. That you’d say maybe. That you’d say anything other than what he feared most.
“I—I don’t know.” You blurted without thinking, covering your mouth like you were appalled at your own sentence.
Just possibly, if he had given you time to collect your thoughts, it could’ve turned out differently.
You wanted to say it. That you were inching toward something with him too. That maybe this wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment lust.
But it felt too fast or too much—usually, you loved being overwhelmed, except not like this.
He wasn’t aware that you’d been abstinent for a reason—not just because of past burnout, but because of what the last situationship did to you.
How it left you afraid of promises. How it carved out the belief that intimacy always came with a deadline.
You’d spent months convincing yourself love was a trick, something that only lived in fairytales or those hallmark romance movies.
And yet, here was Choso.
He didn’t just fuck you. He gave you an experience that felt holy—touching you like you were his alter.
And that horrified you.
Because for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like your body was drained of all its use. It felt like something someone wanted to stay with and belong.
“You don’t know?” He repeated it so softly it barely cut through the sound of the shower. Like if he spoke any louder, it would crack something open inside him.
“Okay.” He responded, monotone, no emotion behind it, yet internally he felt desperate to kneel like a knight who was soon to be beheaded.
“I’m sorry.”
You whispered it as if it could bandage the gaping wound you already shot into his heart.
Steadily and awkwardly, you slipped out from under the stream, opening the curtains and drying your feet on the mat. You didn’t look back—not because you didn’t care, but because you did. Too much.
You reached for the towel, draping it over your shoulders like armor.
You lingered there, just a second too long. The sound of water pinging the floor filled your ears, near deafening. You almost turned back, shaking your head since the damage was already done.
He didn’t stop you. What could he say? What would’ve changed your mind?
The silence thudded louder than anything else had tonight.
As you trudged out of the bathroom, the steam curling around your ankles like it wanted to follow you, Choso remained rooted in place.
Alone beneath the falling water.
He turned slowly, reaching behind to scrub at his back—but the sting from your nails made him hiss. It bloomed sharp and sudden, and he winced at the red lines carved into his skin.
Somehow, even that hurt less than hearing “I don’t know.”
A near-permanent reminder that—for one night—you gave him a chance to hold you at all.
He mentally encouraged himself to cry, to let it all out and soften the blow.
Usually, he wouldn’t let himself.
But how could he feel weak when his tears would blur right into the water anyway?
Just like everything else he didn’t get to keep.
Divider/Boarders produced by anitalenia & cursed-carmine.
Song written by Koi’lani/@aquasoftware.
REBLOGS, COMMENTS, (nice) ANONS, AND LIKES ARE HEAVILY APPRECIATED!! THANK YOU <33
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