𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴
fwb, stopped talking. now she can’t look at him without remembering, and he never stopped looking.
parts. ???
content. Choso x Reader, Drinking, D*ugs mentions, suggestive dialogue, and tension, ex!fwb-to-lovers, Strong language & mature themes.
notes. idk if this will be a series tbh. just wanted to write smut:(
The house smells like vodka and broken promises.
Someone’s burning cheap incense in the kitchen and someone else is vaping watermelon-flavored poison in the living room, but it all blurs under the same umbrella of college party air: sweat, beer, too much perfume, and that sharp spark of bad decisions.
I don’t want to be here.
But I show up anyway. I always do.
Because I like the way the bass buzzes through my ribs. I like the way people forget who they are in the dark. I like the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking back.
Not that I care. Obviously.
"Are you gonna stop staring or do I need to start charging you rent?" Shoko mutters without looking at me, sipping through her straw like she already knows the answer.
I blink and tear my eyes away from him, cheeks heating.
"I wasn’t," I say, a beat too late.
She snorts. "Right. And I lead Sunday service at the convent now."
"You’re impossible."
"You’re obvious."
"I hate him."
"You hate how he makes you feel. Big difference."
She sips her drink slowly. "Hate him harder. Maybe he’ll fuck you into a wall about it."
I throw a napkin at her head.
The thing is, she’s not wrong. Not about the fucking part—well, maybe. But the obsession part? That’s harder to deny.
Because he’s magnetic in that reckless, golden-boy-who’s-failing-calc way. He wears his hoodie sleeves always rumpled like he rolled them up in a hurry, like he never finishes anything he starts (well, maybe), smells like a bonfire and a secret, and walks like the hallway exists for him.
And he’s an asshole.
Cocky, smug, flirty in that way where you can’t tell if it’s serious or if he’s just fucking with you.
I hate that he talks like he’s smarter than everyone else, like every sentence is a puzzle he already solved. I hate that he can sit through two full lectures without a word, then say one thing that hijacks my brain for days.
But hate isn’t supposed to feel like this. Not like a heat in your stomach or your throat going tight when he runs a hand through his stupid hair like he doesn’t know people notice.
It’s not supposed to make your pulse skip just because he left, like some stupid part of you might want to go after him.
so.
I wait three minutes.
Then I follow.
The hallway is dim, washed in the reddish glow from some LED strip light taped to the ceiling. It smells like weed and spilled Fireball.
I don’t know why I’m here.
Or maybe I do. Maybe I’m tired of pretending I’m not waiting for him to look at me like he’s starving. Maybe I’m tired of holding my breath when he walks by like it’s not obvious I want him to say something. Do something.
I reach for the wall, fingers skimming the cool paint. I feel him before I see him.
Then—
His voice, soft but scratchy. Like smoke and sleep.
"You stalking me now?"
I turn, slowly. I shift my weight and tuck my hands into my sleeves, like maybe if I anchor myself to my own body, I won’t unravel in front of him.
He’s leaning against the doorframe at the end of the hall. Cup in one hand. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Hair messy like he’s been running his fingers through it for hours.
His mouth curves up when he sees me. That smile—half challenge, half question.
"Didn’t think you were the type to follow someone into the dark."
I cross my arms, not defensive—just done. I glance down the hallway and exhale, slow.
"Just wanted to get some fresh air in here," I say flatly. "Nothing to do with you."
He tilts his head, like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
I don’t give him the time.
I push off the wall.
"I’m not here for you."
"Didn’t say you were."
....."I came for the quiet. That’s it."
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me for a beat too long.
It’s the first time all night he feels… quiet.
I breathe in, sharp and steady. Then walk past him, slow.
And he lets me go.
I don’t look back, even though my skin prickles like he’s still watching. The hallway gives way to the noise again—the thump of bass, laughter too sharp, voices blending like static. But something’s shifted.
I don’t know what I expected. I just know I feel different.
I slip back into the crowd like it never happened.
But it did.
And it’s going to live in my ribs for a while.
God, what was I thinking?
The second I step back into the room, it crashes over me like a wave—pure, stomach-tightening secondhand embarrassment. For me. For the way I followed him out like some moody, overdramatic protagonist. For the way I thought something might happen. Like I wanted something to.
I feel heat crawl up my neck, already regretting how much space I gave that moment. How much space I gave him.
I glance around to make sure no one noticed—not that anyone ever does. That almost makes it worse.
I keep my drink close, like it’s a shield. Like it can protect me from the ache behind my eyes or the way the room feels suddenly wrong in its shape. I don’t want to be here anymore, but I don’t want to leave either. Leaving would feel too much like running.
And I’ve done enough of that tonight.
Shoko catches my eye from across the room. Her brows lift in a silent you good?
I nod. Lie with my eyes. Sip something I barely taste.
The bass thuds like it’s trying to punch a hole through my chest. The bodies around me sway, laugh, stumble, shout—alive in that reckless way I usually find comforting. Tonight it feels like noise. Like camouflage I didn’t ask for.
He’s not in the room when I glance around. Of course he’s not.
Which should feel like relief.
(It doesn’t.)
Time slides. One song. Two. A conversation I’m only half-present for. I keep smiling, nodding, pretending I don’t feel like my skin’s been peeled back in some invisible way.
At some point I slip outside, out through the back door where the cold is sharper and the quiet is real.
The porch is damp from dew. Someone left a jacket on the railing. There’s a half-dead plant slumping over in a chipped terracotta pot.
It’s the most peaceful thing I’ve seen all night.
I sit.
Not because I’m waiting for him. Not because I want to feel anything. Just because I need to stop moving for five minutes without having to explain it.
The air bites at my ankles. I didn’t bring a jacket.
Of course I didn’t.
I hear the door creak open behind me and brace myself for company I don’t want.
But I don’t move. Not until I hear his voice—quieter now.
“You always hide when you’re upset?”
I close my eyes. Exhale. Count to five.
“Not upset,” I say.
“Sure.”
He’s closer now. I don’t look at him, but I feel him sit next to me. A little too close. Not touching. Just enough to steal my body heat.
I should tell him to go.
I should say something biting. Something clean and final.
But I don’t.
I say, “You think everything’s about you.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “No. Just you.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not charming.”
A beat.
Then another.
The silence folds in on itself.
“Why’d you follow me?” I ask, not looking at him.
He doesn’t answer right away.
I feel his gaze like a hand on my skin—hesitant. Familiar.
Then, quiet:
“I miss you.”
I laugh, soft and sharp, like it cuts my tongue on the way out. “Why?”
That hangs in the air too long.
I glance sideways—just enough to see his jaw tighten, his mouth part, then close again. He doesn’t say a word.
And that’s worse than anything he could’ve said.
Because I know what silence means. I know what it doesn’t.
I nod once. Not angry. Not sad. Just done.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
I stand.
He doesn’t stop me—not at first. I make it halfway down the porch steps before I hear him move.
Footsteps. A breath. The soft sound of the door creaking shut behind him.
I don’t turn around.
But then, there’s the quiet scrape of his voice. “Let me drive you home.”
I pause. Just for a second. Then, without looking at him, I nod once.
The car ride is silent. The kind that crackles. I stare out the window like the trees have something better to say than either of us do.
When he parks outside my place, I hesitate. My hand on the door handle. But I don’t get out.
I turn to him, eyes still tired, voice still rough. “What are you doing?”
He looks at me. Really looks.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Just… don’t go yet.”
Something in my chest snaps sideways.
I don’t know who leans in first. Maybe both of us. Maybe it doesn’t matter. All I know is his mouth meets mine like it’s a question, like maybe if we get close enough we won’t have to answer anything.
It starts soft.
But I’ve never done soft with him.
So it doesn’t stay that way.
His hand finds my waist like he remembers it. Like maybe he never stopped.
I don’t mean to pull him closer. I don’t mean to open my mouth under his or grip the front of his hoodie like I want to climb inside it. But I do.
And he lets me.
His breath hitches, sharp against my cheek, like he wasn’t expecting this—like I wasn’t expecting this. And maybe I wasn’t. Maybe this is just one more bad idea on a night that’s full of them.
But then he says my name—quiet, hoarse, like it’s breaking in his mouth—and it hits something soft in me I thought I’d buried.
“Don’t,” I whisper. I don’t even know what I mean by it. Don’t stop. Don’t talk. Don’t make it real.
But he listens anyway.
His mouth drops to my neck, slow, and I let my head fall back, pulse thudding against his lips. One of his hands slides up under my shirt and it’s stupid how fast my body remembers him—how fast it betrays me.
I shift in my seat and he groans, low and desperate, like he hates how much he wants this.
We shouldn’t be doing this.
But his fingers are on my thighs and I’m pulling him closer and maybe this is what we do—maybe we only speak the same language when our mouths are pressed together and the rest of the world fades out.
I climb over the center console without thinking, straddle him in the driver’s seat, and kiss him like it’ll erase everything we can’t say. His hands grip my hips like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, and I tilt forward until our foreheads touch.
“I hate that you feel good,” I mutter.
He breathes out a laugh—almost bitter. “Yeah. Same.”
His hands are under my shirt again, up my spine, warm and careful in a way that shouldn’t make me ache. But it does. God, it does.
I roll my hips once and he swears under his breath. Loud. Hands gripping harder.
“I shouldn’t want you,” I say against his mouth. “You don’t even—”“I do.”
It comes out before I can stop him. Before he can stop himself.
But I don’t ask what he means.
I don’t want the answer if it might ruin this.
So I kiss him harder.
His hand slides lower. He grabs my hips like it’s instinct, like this is the only way he knows how to hold me.
When I grind down again, the friction against his lap makes us both groan. Everything’s too much and not enough—I want more. More heat, more noise, more of the way his mouth crashes into mine like an apology he can’t say out loud.
I fumble with the drawstring of his sweats and he sucks in a sharp breath when I slide my hand underneath. He’s already hard, hot and heavy in my palm, and the way his hips jerk up makes me feel powerful. Dangerous.
He curses into my mouth, hand tugging my shirt up until I have to break the kiss to pull it over my head. He looks at me like he can’t believe I’m real. Like maybe he’s scared I’ll vanish.
He kisses down my neck, teeth dragging over the place that makes my breath hitch. One of his hands slips under my skirt and I shift to give him room.
Fingers dip beneath my underwear and when he finds me wet, he groans like it physically hurts him.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You still feel like this?"
I want to tell him to shut up, but it dies on my tongue.
Because his fingers are moving, slow and deep, curling just right, and my hips are rocking into the rhythm like they already know the dance. It’s maddening—the way he keeps his touch just shy of too much, just enough to leave me chasing it. My breath comes out shaky, broken around the moans I try to swallow.
My thighs start to tremble, my forehead pressing against his as I bite back a whimper. It’s been too long. Or maybe it’s just that it’s him. The weight of everything unsaid, everything we’ve done and not done, coils tight and hot in my stomach.
“Fuck—” I gasp, hips jerking. “Don’t stop.”
His other hand grips my thigh, grounding me, anchoring me. His mouth brushes my jaw, then lower, pressing kisses that feel almost reverent.
“I’m not stopping,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “I’m not fucking stopping.”
And he doesn’t. He keeps moving, dragging me closer to that edge, watching me with dark, blown eyes like he’s cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every time I fall apart in his lap.
The tension finally breaks—like a dam, like a snapped wire—and I cry out, back arching, thighs squeezing around his wrist. He kisses me through it, deep and messy, like he wants to feel every bit of it on his tongue.
And breathless and dazed, I don’t even have time to recover.
Because I want more.
Because we always do this: want, crash, repeat.
Because when I reach for him, already hard under my fingers, he lets out a guttural sound like he’s been waiting for this moment since the last time I left his bed.
I reach down again, fingers wrapping around him, slow and deliberate. He’s hot in my hand, thick and heavy, already twitching like he’s barely holding on. I stroke him slow at first, teasing, loving the way his jaw clenches, the way his hips jerk up despite himself. It’s intoxicating, the way he falls apart—head tipping back against the headrest, a broken moan ripping from his throat, his fingers digging into my hips like he’s afraid I’ll stop.
The windows are fogged, the whole car steeped in heat and the kind of breathless tension that makes the air feel charged. His hand fists the edge of my skirt, like he needs something to hold onto. Like if he doesn’t touch me, he might actually lose it.
“Fuck, just like that,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” I breathe, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I’ll finally get some peace.”
I speed up the pace, twisting my wrist just enough to make his thighs shake. He lets out a choked sound, eyes fluttering shut, jaw slack, completely undone beneath me.
And it’s power, but it’s more than that.
It’s all the tension we never let ourselves talk about. All the times we looked at each other across rooms and pretended it didn’t mean anything. All the heat we buried under hate just to keep our hands to ourselves.
Now there’s no pretending. No space left between us.
Only this.
When I lift myself up and slide down onto him, we both freeze—gasping into each other’s mouths like we forgot how to breathe.
He fills me completely, thick and hot and stretching me in a way that makes my knees shake. I brace my hands on his shoulders, nails digging in. My breath stutters, my forehead pressed to his as we both try not to lose it right then and there.
His fingers clutch my hips like he’s anchoring himself, like if he lets go, we’ll both come undone. I feel every twitch, every tremble. It’s dizzying—the way he fits, the way my body remembers this like muscle memory, like something deeper than thought.
"Shit," he groans, voice wrecked. "You feel—fuck, you still feel insane."
I bite my lip hard, trying to find control, trying to keep some piece of myself from splintering apart. But it’s too much. The way he’s buried inside me, the heat, the pressure, the sheer rightness of it. My walls clench around him involuntarily and he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s barely hanging on.
We don’t move yet. Can’t.
It’s too much.
Too good.
And maybe we both know: nothing is going to be the same after this.
His head falls back against the seat and I lean forward, lips brushing his ear.
He moans. Loud.
I roll my hips and he grabs my ass with both hands, guiding me, meeting me, breathing my name like a confession.
It’s sloppy. Hot. Messy in that way that feels honest—like neither of us knows where we end and the other begins.
His mouth traces every inch of me like he’s trying to relearn what he already knows by heart. My collarbone, the hollow of my throat, the soft curve of my chest—he kisses like he’s trying to apologize for all the months we didn’t speak, didn’t touch, just burned in silence.
I let him. God, I let him. Every scrape of his teeth, every breath he steals from me, every place his hands linger like he’s asking a question and I keep answering yes.
The buildup coils tighter and tighter. It’s unbearable. The weight of everything unsaid—months of stubborn distance, of pretending we didn’t feel this, of lying to ourselves and each other—it presses into my chest like a scream I can’t swallow. I arch into him, chasing the friction, biting my lip to keep the moan in.
He groans against my skin, fingers bruising at my hips, his body so close it feels like a fever. Every thrust, every roll of my hips is desperate and frantic and full of something that feels like grief and longing and too much want.
The ache never left. It just buried itself deeper until now, when everything erupts at once, raw and unfiltered.
And I think—this is what it means to want someone you told yourself you’d never touch again. This is what it means to lie to your own heart.
I come first, shaking, breath catching in my throat as I bury my face in his neck. He follows a few seconds later, gasping my name like it wrecks him.
We sit there , catching our breath, his arms still wrapped around me, my face pressed to his shoulder, skin sticky with sweat, hearts not quite steady yet. I can feel him still pulsing inside me, the aftershocks rolling through both of us in waves.
His hand moves up my spine, barely touching—just enough to make me shiver. It’s too tender. Too careful. It makes my throat close up.
We don't say anything for a long time.
The windows are fogged, the car quiet except for our breathing. I shift slightly, still in his lap, and he doesn’t let go. His arms stay around me like they don't know how to loosen yet.
I should leave. I should say something sharp or cold or clever. Something to put distance between us again. But I can’t. Not yet.
I sit back just far enough to look at him. His eyes are already on me, unreadable in the dark.
“I’m not doing this again,” I say, voice hoarse.
He doesn’t argue. Just nods, slow. Like he knows it’s a lie
=========================
yes, I did skip the storyline a bit but dw I got the smut >:)