Why, it’s a soft, almost life-like recreation of the female body. He’s sculpted it in his mind to look just like you, at least the you he remembered as well as he could given that he was a little preoccupied with gathering the ingredients necessary for his potion. Long limbed, smooth-skinned, bearing your complexion, and completely bare, it can do nothing as the wayward student douses the thing with the gloopy concoction, massaging it in thoroughly and leaving the body shiny and slick. 

Smelling of lavender and perversion, he doesn’t miss a single inch of skin with the potion, oiling the body up to the point where it glistens temptingly. Then, just as naked as his conjuring, Choso mutters a binding spell none had uttered in centuries and will not for longer. 

Nothing happens. 

He frowns, the black mark spanning cheek to cheek over his nose twitches with the movement. Did he say it wrong? Were the frog eyes he used expired? Or maybe he forgot to boil the snail mucus for a minute longer than usually recommended? 

What a shame. He was so looking forward to getting some payback — too often is it the case that he’s the one chasing after you, flushing an embarrassing red in the face when you’ve embarrassed him by pointing out that he’s drooling or that he already came by humping the bed from just your mere scent. Oh, what Choso wouldn’t give to render you just as flustered and dizzy as you leave him. 

You two have an agreement — nothing is too weird or sick. You love it when he touches you as you sleep and his cock drips like a leaky faucet when he pretends he doesn’t want you to suck his dick at the back of the pegasus stables. An odd pair in everyone’s eyes, his friends remain surprised that you two have stayed together as partners in lewd crime for so long. There are many times you two have broken things off, promising to do better, to be better, but those breaks never last very long before he’s bending you over backwards in the toilets. 

Sighing, he curses out the stupid spell book. No wonder it was dusty and hidden away in the library; who’d use a book full of faulty spells and empty vows?

Just about to wave the thing away, something catches his eye: a slight rise and fall of the chest. 

Wait…

No way…

It worked!

Your body is actually connected to the one he has in his bed. And, judging by the rhythmic breaths you’re taking, you must be asleep. That means you’re in your room too and won’t be caught in a compromising position because of him. Choso pretends he isn’t disappointed. 

Carefully, he planks over you and inhales at your neck. His eyes shut tight. Even with the distance, even when this isn’t your real body, he can still smell you and it sends blood rushing straight to his cock. He begins mouthing at the skin, sucking marks and smiling when your breathing quickens, just a little. 

Nipples flat, his fingers tweak at them, wanting to see them pebbled under his touch. You wear shirts to bed and he wonders if you can feel the flicking through the material or under — he hopes it’s the former since you like the friction. Either way, whatever he’s doing is having an effect on you: your heart is beating faster, breath irregular, skin warmer, back arching ever so slightly, and your nipples poke his palm. 

His memory was right. The breasts he cups weigh the same and feel practically the same. How often had he cradled your body like this for him to know the sizing of your tits perfectly? 

Choso’s mouth waters. Unable to help himself, he suckles a nipple into his mouth, tongue rolling the bud around. The potion is surprisingly tasteless though it is oily. That doesn’t put him off at all, however. Though you’re asleep, you still feel him, almost like a sixth sense. That’s sweet. He can tell you’re still asleep; you’re only ever this docile when in the land of slumber. Well, he won’t complain. Instead of shaking you awake, he trails a hand down your torso, tickling your belly button before it curves downwards to your pussy. 

You’re not very wet yet. 

Undeterred, he pets your cunt to waken that part of your body before your mind does. He loves the warmth and the plumpness of your pussy lips. Truly, he could spend eternity making out with it if only you’d let him. 

Your juices are leaking now and he spreads it around, smearing your skin with your wetness. The potion eases the tight circles he rubs against your clit, still hidden under its hood. Mouth full, Choso grunts. “Come on, baby. Come out for me. That’s it.”

Jostling, he watches your body come to life. You’re waking up. He wonders how you’ll react to the feeling of your tit being sucked and your clit being rubbed. Would you scream? Would you frantically search your textbooks for an explanation to the sensations you’re feeling? Or…would you indulge in the pleasure for a little longer than you should?

How long will it take you to figure out that he’s up to no good? What punishment will you give him?

He gasps. 

Without realising it, he had been grinding down onto your body double’s thigh. His cock is dribbling pre cum onto the skin. Can you feel that too? Can you feel the throbbing of his dick against your leg? Can you count the veins? Feel the length? Does it seem familiar?

Choso shoves two fingers into your pussy, burying them right up to the knuckles and getting his silver rings coated in your juices; he loves when the smell of you lingers and he can sniff the memory in class. Sometimes, he even absentmindedly takes a ring into his mouth and plays with the remaining taste of you whilst he studies.

It’s not really your body, he reminds himself. It’s not your pussy but, in the haze of pleasure and shame in knowing he’s doing something wrong, he can’t seem to care. The difference is marginal. You’re tighter but the heat is all the same, so are the pleats he’s rubbing. That gummy spot that has your toes curling is at the same place too. 

The body can only lie limp, the dusty spell book he found was clear on that — your arms won’t be wrapping around his back, won’t be clawing red lines down his spine that get his cock rising to full mast in the hallways when his shirt grazes them, and your legs won’t lock around his hips the way you usually do when you want him to cum inside and not on your stomach or back. 

Still, there’s something crazily hot about that. You can’t fight him off either. Can’t argue with him or boss him about. He gets to decide what position he wants you to be in, to control the pace and says when this ends. Surely he’ll pay for this later but he just can’t bring himself to think about the consequences, not when you’re tightening around his fingers and the tangy scent of your pussy is reaching him. 

“I bet you’re so confused right now,” he mumbles. “You might even be scared. Don’t be. I’ve got you. Always.”

SLAP!

SLAP!

He’s smacked each of your tits just to watch it bounce; you usually hate it when he does that. By now, he’d be sporting a bump on his head as you push him over to ride him until he’s overstimulated and begging for mercy. But you can’t do anything. And that fact is going to make him cum on your thigh. 

Shaking his head, he hurriedly grips the base of his cock. He can’t cum. Not yet. And not here. He didn’t go through the trouble of climbing up the whispering willow tree for the tallest branch in front of, what felt like, the entire student body, to not feel your pussy clench around his dick. 

First things first, though…

With haste, he scrambles down the bed to dive between your legs. Like a dog, he laps up your juices. You taste sweet, forever so sweet. It’s why he doesn’t complain when you teleport into his room at random times of the day and beckon him over without even speaking to him. It’s why he doesn’t mind when you leave his cock untouched; he can cum just fine with the taste of you lingering on his face, lips, and tongue. 

Using the tip of the long appendage, he plays with your clit, coaxing it out of the hood so he can suck hard at it. More cream drools onto his tongue. His eyes roll to the back of his head. Fingers digging deep into the fat of your thighs and threatening to bruise, he holds you in place and licks and sucks and licks again. 

“Hmm, you’re such a good girl when you’re getting what you want…come on then, you pretty little devil, take what you need. Bet you’re riding the air on your bed right now -hah- I wish I could see how pitiful you look.”

His fingers return inside, feeling the quivering of your pussy around the calloused digits. You’re close. He doesn’t need to hear you scream it out. He can simply tell from the way your clit is jutting into his mouth. A disappointment blooms in his chest — he so badly wishes he could hear you whine and whimper. The only consolation he has is that you’re not squirming out of his hold; you’re prey to his monstrous thirst.

SLUUUUUURPPP!

He’s shameless in the sounds he’s pulling out of your pussy. In fact, he’s fuelled by the squelching of your greedy cunt. It’s overwhelming him. You’re overwhelminghim. All of his senses are filled with you, dragging him down into the depths of pleasurable mania. 

“Tastes so -hah- good. I love your pussy so much. She’s so nice to me, not like you. No, you’re so -fuck, give me more, baby- so mean.”

Mischievously, his other hands treads further down. A thumb skims the rim of your asshole. You hate it when he does that too. Well, you can't do anything about it. Slowly, he pushes in the thick digit, laughing to himself when he feels the tight hole tense around it. Oh, you're definitely biting down on your fist right now. You're thinking Choso Kamo is a dead man walking, or rather, a dead man wanking. If he had longer, if you aren't such a clever student who can solve a puzzle within seconds, then he'd shove his tongue in there too.

Another day perhaps.

Hips rutting against the mattress, he feels like he can follow you to the edge just like this but this —the depravity, the power, the control— will likely never happen again and so he must make the most of it. When your orgasm erupts all over his face, soaking his cheeks and sheets, he desperately licks up as much as he can before he lays a kiss on your pulsing clit. 

“Feel good? I wish I could see your face. You always look so pretty when you cum. It’s okay though. You did such a good job. Well done.”

Choso positions himself between your legs. You’ve cum twice now but he hasn’t yet. Now, it’s his turn. Pushing the thighs back and feeling resistance, he slides his cock through your soaked slit, catching your pulsing clit. “I know you don’t like it when I -hah, you’re so -heh- wet- when I push your legs like this ‘cause you think it makes your tummy look silly but -ah fuck- b-but I love it. I love spreading you nice and wide for me like this. So, bear with me, ‘kay? Don’t get mad. I’ll do your homework for another week, I promise.”

You can’t hear him, he knows that. Yet, somehow, whispering comforting words to you brings him some peace of mind. He doesn’t want you to feel scared or panic. Ever. But you deserve to feel even just a little bit of what you make him feel on a regular basis. A balance must be struck somewhere and somehow. You’ll understand…or not. Either way, he doesn’t care anymore.

Slowly, he enters you. The stretch is as it always is: slow, maddeningly tight, and perfect. You’re wrapping around his length with expert skill. Maybe now you’ve caught on. Maybe now you know exactly what’s happening. There’s no way you don’t know it’s his cock that’s filling you up. Only he can push all this cream out of you. Only he can reach your deepest parts, can stimulate your g-spot and grind against your clit as he bottoms out. 

He’s sure you can feel the piercings on his frenulum. You once said it’s your favourite part of him. Something about the coldness at first and then the hardness whilst it rubs at your walls. 

If the feel of his cock stretching you to your limits doesn’t clue you on, then his piercings will. Now, you must be absolutely out of your mind with both bliss and anger. The very best combination when it comes to you.

“Oh, Merlin, you’re so tight. Fuck, I swear you do it on purpose.” Already his hips are stuttering, body and mind engulfed with the scent, feel and scalding burn of your doughy pussy. Everything about you is perfect, even the memory of you, which has manifested into a mindless sex doll and pales in comparison, is perfect. “You always m-make me want to cum so quickly. Not fair.”

Thrusting with a furious pace, Choso curses and flicks his wrist. A vibrator manifests in his hand. It’s your turn to be overstimulated, to cum again and again, and beg for mercy. He won’t hear you. Can’t. And a good thing, too; If he could, he’d give in. He always does. He’s pathetic. You make him pathetic. 

Cruelly, he presses the toy down onto your clit. 

“Fuck! T-too t-tight. Ah shit.” The immediate clenching of your pussy almost made him cum. Needing to ground himself, he holds onto a bouncing breast, still pummelling his cock inside you. It feels good for him too. The vibrations rattle your bones, sending it straight to him. Choso usually hates it when you use a vibe on him but he doesn’t right now. How could he when it’s making his abs flex and his vision blurry? 

At least now you’re not here to mock him for the drool trailing down his chin. He gathers it up and spits it down on your clit, landing with an obscene SPLAT! before he mixes it in with your frothing juices using the toy. 

The bed is banging against the wall. Thankfully he’s mastered that sound shielding spell; being a third year without having done that would make you a runt of the pack. No one will hear the salacious squelching of your pussy, his filthy moans and whimpers, or the foul slapping of skin against fake skin. 

You tighten impossibly around him as you cum again. He fucks you through it. No one can resist the devious power of a vibrator, not even you. “Bet you’re r-regretting all the times you’ve tortured me with this, h-huh? It’s not nice being on the receiving end, is it? Is it?”

When he doesn’t receive an answer, he pouts and smacks your clit. 

“It’s rude to ignore someone.” 

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! 

Each ruthless slap has your pussy pulsing hard, hugging his cock like it could offer reprieve. It only angers him more. His thrusting goes deeper and harder, wanting to punish you to the point of tears. 

Then, he laughs. “Hah, I forgot. You can’t -ngh!- reply. Sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to be so -hah hah fuck- mean to your pretty pussy. Let me a-apologise.”

There is no apology. Not really. He’s ramming into your cunt at an unrelenting pace, balls smacking against your ass. At least now he’s let go of your legs, has stopped slapping your clit, and discarded the vibrator. That’s as kind as he can manage to be at this present moment. He’s sure he’ll pay for that too. 

Nearing his end, delirious and manic, he suckles at your tits once more. He could spend eternity worshipping them too. Something about how soft and warm they are, and when he lays between them, it’s like they’re welcoming him home. Choso licks up the sweat under your breasts. It’s something he can’t do with you even though he’s been wanting to for years. Now, he can live out his deepest fantasies, can fuck you how he’s how wanted to for a long time. 

You’re probably furious despite the euphoria channelling through your veins. Mentally, you must be cursing him out, planning all the hexes you’ll attach to him. Whatever you have planned for him, he’ll gladly take it. No matter how bad, how humiliating and stupid the punishments he receives are, he takes them with a smile — the fact that you spent time thinking about him at all makes him so happy. 

Oh, he can’t wait to see you. 

“H-hurry up and find me already! I miss you -sooooo fucking t-tight- miss you so so much.”

There’s no longer any rhyme or reason to his thrusting. He’s just chasing his high, fuelled by images of you. And when he cums, he swears he sees you appear in his room with a face one can only describe as livid. 

“Shit shit shit shit!” Choso’s orgasm makes him whine. It’s too much, too strong and too good. He slumps over your body, drooling all over himself and muttering confessions of adoration into your skin. Hot cum floods around his cock, pooling out. It’ll be a mess to clean up but all he can think about is how you’ll feel it. 

With a poof, the conjurement disappears. He’s left humping his bed, riding out the remnants of his orgasm. Totally worth it. 

“Had your fun, Kamo?”

He stills. 

You’re not a figment of his imagination. You really are in his room. Dressed in just a shirt — his shirt — you stand there, hands on your hips, hair a mess, tears on your cheeks, and wetness glistening down your thighs. Much prettier and better in every way than the doll, the sight of you in his room again urges his hips on. He winces at the raw and painful pleasure bolting through his body but he can’t stop.

Weakly, he waves at you, too tired to even feel panicked. All his survivor’s instincts have fled at the sight of your wrath, apparently. 

“Don’t act cute. You’re so dead, you pervy asshole.” Jumping on the bed, you rain down punches on his back, tickling him more than anything. He can feel the soaked warmth of your pussy on his back and it’s reawakening his softening cock. “I’m gonna rip off your stupid dick piercing, mark my words. I’ll tear you a new pair of balls, Choso.”

Pouting, he looks back and meets your eye. Your cunt pulses. “Is that before or after you ride me?”

Choso doesn’t leave the room until the next day. He doesn’t answer when his friends ask him about his limp, the frightening hickeys on his neck, and the self-satisfied grin on his face, which, of course, falls when he receives detention for not having a five thousand word essay to hand in.

He has no regrats.

You must be dreaming. They term isn’t “yumejoshi” for no reason. There is no way Choso squats in front of you, less than a meter away, so close that you can smell his earthy, metallic fragrance. He hasn’t even changed out of his stage costume: his customary white robes are still soaked through with sweat from the earlier performance, gracing the pale fabric a tantalizing semi-translucence. His purple gi is nowhere to be found, which exposes the unholy caverns of his collarbones, the inviting jut of his skeletal sternum. The signature pigtails are also undone, leaving his stringy black hair to metastasize down the sides of his gaunt face, across the barren valley of his jagged shoulder blades. And yet, that solid bar of black remains perfectly applied across the center of his face.

“…Nn?”

“Are you alright?”

Choso stays where he is, head cocked in concern. Quickly, you realize you have two options.

You can tell the truth and admit that you’d been waiting outside just to see him walk a few paces before getting into a nondescript vehicle. Totally normal fan behavior that will definitely go over well.

Or, you can lie.

“I-I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you demure, casting your eyes down in false bashfulness. You would feel bad about this if you were a better person.  “And the memories from ShinShow’s performances always sustain me…I just thought, if I could enjoy the positive energy for a little while longer…I would be sustained. I’m sorry…”

“Why do you apologize?”

One of Choso’s most appealing charming points is his overly formal, somewhat antiquated manner of speaking. He sounds like a historical figure who has been yanked from the past, inserted haphazardly into contemporary pop culture. Very fitting for his lore. But you’d also been under the assumption that this was merely a stage act – is he that committed to his image? Or is it innate?

The thought of Choso simply being Like That is too endearing to bear. You hide your face behind your palms, concealing the tremulous smile that possesses your lips.

“It’s embarrassing… and I’ve troubled Choso-nii…”

The last thing you expect are cold, impossibly cold, hands to wrap around your wrists, kindly (but firmly) uncovering your face. Choso has drawn closer to you, so close that when he breathes, it brushes the bridge of your nose.

His face is impassive, as usual – but upon closer inspection, you notice a strange, wavering quality in his eyes, a slight tremor in his lips. There might actually be color on the tips of his ears. Usually, he appears as though he is so pale there is no blood coursing through his veins that could produce a blush.

Evidently, this is not the case.

“Choso-nii is not troubled,” he states plainly, leaving no room for argument. “The night is no place for a little one to be sleeping unguarded.”

Oh, you could faint here and now. It’s an active choice on your part to remain conscious. “Mn…”

“You will come with me now.”

And so you do.

This is how you find yourself in the back of an unmarked, utilitarian white van. To anyone else the vehicle would appear as little more than a maintenance truck. But you know better.

Inside the living-quarters is a mish-mash of discarded clothing items in varying degrees of cleanliness; discarded guitar picks; empty takeout containers; and a random jumble of electronic chargers. Inexplicably, there is also an abundance of first-aid supplies, with over half of it apparently already used. As he sits you down on one of the distressed leather seats, Choso uses the medical kit to tend to a few scrapes on your legs and arms earned from your impromptu nap on the concrete.

“It’s really not that bad…You don’t have to—”

“Enough.”

Embarrassed, you shut your mouth. How do you even cope with this situation? Here you are, in the back of your oshi’s travel van, as he sits on his knees in front of you, hands impatiently pushing your clothes away to reveal your bare skin. His touch leeches the body heat out of you like a parasite. You want to be sucked dry.

“This will sting.” That’s all the warning you get before hydrogen peroxide is unceremoniously dumped on your fresh scrapes.

Unbidden, you let out a strangled whine, hands flying to the closest part of him you can reach – which happens to be his head. You clutch at his hair to absolve you of your suffering. “Choso-nii! It hurts!”

Ker-thlunk. Glug… glug… glug…

Fuck! Your spasming must have knocked over the hydrogen peroxide…. the upended bottle spills its guts across the floor, drenching the air in an oppressively medicinal stink.

Oddly, no irritancy mars Choso’s features. If anything, he looks more flustered than you feel, which doesn’t make much sense to you.

“I’m so sorry! I c-can clean it up, I promise---”

“Leave it.” He speaks without meeting your eyes. “You are injured.”

Barely, you want to retort. But acknowledging the fact that your so-called “injuries” are very minor surface scrapes would shatter the illusory bubble of realized fantasy into which you have miraculously stumbled.

Before you can reply, Choso continues: “The human mouth is the fastest-healing part of the body. Saliva heals.”

“Okay,” you say, because there is nothing else you could possibly respond with. He can’t mean—surely, he doesn’t—

But there he goes, leaning in close to the supple flesh of your bared leg, breath ghosting along the very surface, raising the hairs that quiver in eager anticipation. “I said I would help you feel better. Please allow me this. It is my duty.”

And then he begins to suck on your wounds.

“Oh-kay,” you squeal, entirely convinced that you have begun to astral project. The scrape on the inside of your knee is laved over by his tongue, which is, strangely, just as chilled as the rest of him. When his eyes flick up at your exclamation, you realize that you have yet to release his hair.

Nor do you want to.

“B-be gentle, please…” You’re laying it on thick. You know it. How could you resist? He’s eating it up – literally – mouthing repeatedly over the sensitive area as though he is spiritually compelled to do so. And just because you’re a little too observant, a little too greedy for your own good, you decide to push your luck: “Will Choso-nii make me feel better everywhere?”

With a wet pop, he unleashes your leg from his wet, red mouth. “Where does it hurt,” he asks, pupils blown wide, nothing more than a twin pair of black holes.

“Mn…all over…I’m sore, from sleeping on the ground…”

Choso rises from his knees to crowd you into the back of the seat. Of course, you willingly melt back, pliant in the wake of his potent desire.

“Do you need Choso-nii to make it better?”

“Please,” you whimper, peering up at him through your dewy, tear-damp lashes.

Holy shit, you can’t believe this actually worked. Two hours ago, you were just one of hundreds of faceless, sweaty fans, screaming their hearts out to some of the most hauntingly morbid lyrics.

And now, you are caged in the unforgiving embrace of your oshi, completely at his mercy, littered in hickeys and lovebites and bruises as he has his way with you. Your sharp cries of pain do the opposite of dissuade him; with each groan and plea for him to slow down, take a pause, ow, ow, it hurts Choso-nii--, he grows all the more impassioned, all the more frantic.

He only pulls away from you when there is not a single inch of exposed skin left for him to mark. The sound of your comingled pants fill the van, fogging the windows with physical evidence of your salacious tryst.

Neither of you speak for a moment, content to simply gaze into each other’s eyes. His hair is frazzled every which way, due in no small part to your rough handling. Is it normal to be turned on by such a trainwreck of a human? Should you really be wet between the thighs at being mauled?

“Do—” his voice cracks in a way you have never heard before, not on any livestream, not in any video, not on any stage. “Do you feel better, now?”

Maybe it’s fate…maybe, somewhere out there, far, far away, there is a benevolent being who wants nothing but the best for you. Maybe they concentrated their divine powers into finding you, in this moment, and directing your gaze to the loose pocketknife innocently resting on the grimy floor next to his clunky black platforms. In this moment, as you pick up the blade, unsheathing it without breaking eye contact with the ghoulish specter hovering above you, an inexplicable wave of love and appreciation washes over you, bathing your half-dressed body in the warm waters of some distant, far-off shore.

It's almost too easy to slice a surface wound – a cat-scratch, really – into the plush swell of your upper thigh.

“What about here, Choso-nii?” You ask, enraptured by the peculiar twitching of his facial muscles. “Can you kiss it better right here?”

Once again, you are right on the money.

Choso dives to chase the rivulet of blood running down your leg like a man stumbling across an oasis in the desert. Devotionally, he tongues at the gory slit, sucking more blood from your self-inflicted wound, moaning as if he is the one being pleasured right now. In a strange way, you think he might be.

Your initial quick-thinking unleashes an outlandish chain reaction which finds you, inevitably, entirely unclothed with a not-insignificant amount of reddening slashes across your naked form. When it’s all said and done, Choso will tend to each and every cut, diligently disinfecting and dressing the disrupted flesh, allowing you to weakly tug at his hair (now pulled back from his face into two twin pigtails) when it burns.

Upon the final swipe of antibacterial ointment, you are halfway in dreamland, barely cognizant enough to recognize that you should probably be getting the hell out of here, at this point. However, shunning reason and common sense is the exact behavior that’s gotten you this far – so you decide to stick to what you know.

“Choso-nii,” you murmur groggily into the leather seat. “Blanket?”

“What blanket?”

His confusion is confusing you. “The one you gave me… ‘s cold…”

“…I did not give you a blanket.” For the first time since he’d picked you up behind the venue, Choso’s voice sounds grounded in reality. Released from the shackles of lust and taboo desire, he speaks with lucid candor. “Was that blanket not yours?”

“Nope,” you hum, blissfully dazed. “Where ‘s ‘t?”

Sleep descends upon your worn, battered form before you hear his answer.

Oh well. As long as Choso-nii is nearby, you have nothing to worry about.

[ROUTE CLEAR.]

next suggested route: okkotsu yuuta

> main menu > prologue > guide

Sometimes you hated your boyfriend's job. Not that it was any different from yours. But somehow it seemed like he was somehow always more busy than you. The paperwork after his missions was extensive and honestly just way too excessive.

Today was one of those days. Ever since Yuta got back from his mission a couple hours ago, he barely paid you any mind. 

The door closed with a loud sound, echoing throughout the hall. You were wearing a large shirt and were lounging around when he got back, and at the sound of his footsteps, you eagerly skipped over to see him. He’d been gone all day after all, and you just wanted to spend time with him. 

His white shoes squeaked against the floor as he took them off, his tousled hair falling in front of his face. Your hands were clasped together and you stopped in front of him, greeting him after his long day. “Yuu, how was your mission?”

Upon hearing your voice, he stood up straight after putting his shoes away, planting a kiss on your lips. “It was alright. I have to fill out some paperwork.” With that he moved past you to his room, flipping on the light.

The guy was in such a rush and he’d only just stepped in the door. He probably hadn’t even gotten adjusted to the temperature difference yet.

All that build up wasted. Just a quick peck on the lips and then he was off to go find a pen. Your face dropped as soon as you watched him make his way down the hall. There was seriously nothing more irritating when you’ve already been missing him all day.

Nothing to worry about though, you could wait. You could wait for an hour just until he finishes what he so urgently had to do. There was no rush, you had to do the same thing often so there’s truly nothing to be so bothersome for.

That’s what you told yourself at least, because that was two hours ago. You gave him the grace of an extra hour before you were standing over his shoulder, going on and on about something random to get his attention.

“Yuta.” Your hands were holding two hair ties and a comb, styling his hair into a ridiculous half up half down. There were loose strands everywhere and all the hair was unevenly distributed into each section. “How does it look?” It looked ridiculous, arguably some of your worst work yet, and you wanted him to agree. But not your boyfriend, he wasn’t like that.

One look over to the mirror had Yuta smiling, then once again, looking back down at the papers in front of him. “Looks great, thanks baby.”

It looked like the work of a toddlers doll, and that still wasn’t enough? Calm down. It’s fine, that’s fine.

With a huff you took out the hair ties and shoved them on your wrist, moving across the room. You pointed to his closet, walking over to open it and looking around.

Oh this was going to do it. He was missing a shirt, surely he’d get up to look for it, it was one of his favorites. “Your shirt is gone. The blue one.” It came out a little more high pitched than you intended it to, but whatever works.

He didn’t even look up from his desk at all. Just shook his head like he was already sure that wasn’t true. His voice was unchanged as he skimmed the papers in front of him. “It’s there, I put it up this morning.” Fuck. Why didn’t you think about that beforehand? You did see him carrying a laundry basket early this morning. That was a failure.

Maybe it wasn’t the right time. Was it because of the specific shirt you chose that didn’t gauge a reaction? Or was it that you hadn’t put honey in his hair.

Either way it’s all the more complicated. You were going to have to get more creative if you wanted to leave even the slightest piece of his attention.

Trial and error, that was fine. It always works out in the end.

Second try. Yuta was always worried for your safety, so if you did.. “Ouch!”

So you tried acting like you hit your knee, whining about how much it hurt. You must not have reacted fast enough because when Yuta looked over, your face was pretty even. The only sign of your alleged accident was your hands circling the area.

You shut your eyes to feign tears, even though your eyes couldn’t be any more dry.

Soft skin pressed up against your temple, the action causing your lashes to flutter open. A smile threatened to appear on your cheeks, you had him.

You expected his papers to be on the floor right now, forgotten so all his focus could be on you. That never happened, because one measly kiss on your head and you were back on your own.

If you didn’t know any better you’d think he could read your thoughts. One. One stroke of his hand gently trailing down the side of your face. “You’re alright Angel.” Yuta nodded, then turned right back to his desk. You were seething.

This was getting ridiculous now. He’d been back for hours, and there were still things to be done on his end. You didn’t want to nag, but it usually didn’t take this long. You were past impatient at this point, and after the failed attempts to get his attention, you were willing to do anything.

This was it. Yuta wasn’t one to be overly obsessed with lingerie. Of course he appreciated every detail, but it was the non-effort outfits that really got him going.

Your spaghetti strap was falling off your shoulder, and the shorts you were wearing just barely covered your ass. 

Originally you were going to put on one of his larger shirts, that blue one from earlier. Whenever you wore those, Yuta was just about ready to jump on you any second. But today, you wanted to go a little more out there. Something that wouldn’t be so expecting.

Once again you’d made your way back into his room, knowing that he wouldn’t look over. This was your third or fourth time walking back in after all. That was the perfect opportunity to perch yourself up on his bed, lounging quietly.

Your phone was slotted between your fingers, volume down and scrolling through some random clothing website. A soft sigh left your lips, and Yuta could hear the sound of light movement on his covers.

Finding an interesting piece, you flipped your phone around to point it at his desk. Unlike the other times you tried to get his attention, your tone was quiet, relaxed, patient. “There’s this shirt you may like, Yuta..” No nickname, no enthusiasm, just straightforward conversation. That’s what had him finally looking over for real.

And when his eyes turned your way, they never actually got the chance to see whatever you were showing him on your cellphone. 

He blinks. You don’t. Your eyes were narrowed and trained on the prize in front of you.

“Eyes up here, pretty boy.” The way he made you act so out of character earlier, desperate for attention and going to lengths you wouldn’t normally go to? Oh, for certain, he was going to earn this.

Were things that dusty in here? Yuta honestly didn’t remember the last time he dusted, but for some reason he couldn’t focus on the phone being held in front of his face. Everything blurred around you, strobes of light emphasizing the outline of your body in a way the minimal pieces of fabric tried so hard to.

You made sure to leave enough room on the bed for him to climb on next to you. Your phone is long forgotten on the sheets somewhere.

Sometimes you wondered just how the both of you fit on this bed sometimes with all these blankets. They just take up too much space you know? The extra pillows and sheets, was that it?

Or was it coincidentally because every time the thought came into your mind, Yuta was trying to make his cock fit inside you.

“h-hold on–” Your legs were spread wide open as you tried to use all your energy to lift yourself up and down on his cock.

The stretch was too much. This was the reason you chose seduction as your last resort. Yuta was going to make you do all the work.

You felt so exhausted bouncing up and down. There was no real rhythm to your movements, just whatever you managed to do in the movement. As if you weren’t struggling enough, Yuta was all up in your ear, egging you on. “You can do it. I know you can.”

Watching your struggle with a pout on his lips, Yuta nudges your knees further apart, tapping the outside of your thigh. “Put some of that effort from earlier into it, yeah?”

You were trying. Aside from the fact he was pressing into your g-spot oh so perfectly, you were using all the strength to lift yourself up and down.

In one last attempt to ground yourself, you placed your hands on his abdomen to grind down. Every drag of your clit against his skin was sending shockwaves through your body. It was too much.

You were so embarrassed. You couldn’t keep up, and he knew it too. Sweat coated your temple and the underside of your thighs where both your skin met. It was a mess down there.

Another slow grind of your hips and you falling onto his chest. Yuta felt your body tremble above him and let out a chuckle, so trained it bordered on a whimper. “Guess I got to do it then.”

“I’ve been doing–” Rough fingers found your hips, gripping the skin tight, and lifting them just enough to let them slam back down on his cock, over and over. “—so much work today and you’re still gonna make me do more? How mean.”

You were all snuggled into him, your hands locked onto the thick material of his shirt. It had been wrinkled in the process of shoving it up his torso in the midst of your previous actions.

Barely any real thoughts left your lips. All hush moans and heavy breaths suffocated into his bare neck. “s-shut up.. it’s your fault you know..” 

Those words were received with a harsh shove of his cock into you. “My fault?” Yuta’s hand held you in place so you couldn’t move away. He didn’t even comment on your other words either, not when you were squeezing him so tight.

You could only hum in response. Your free hand removed itself from his shirt, finding a new home on his neck. The squeeze you gave was just enough. Not too tight, but just firm enough to get a reaction.

Yuta choked back a moan, pressing you down harder onto him. “Really?”

An inaudible curse fell from your lips, your wet walls squeezing down on him with every push of drop of yourself back onto his length. “Yeah.”

You both were so close. Yuta’s legs were so stiff underneath your body, and yours were shaking, locking around his own hips.

Your sensitivity was a major help in giving another squeeze, much tighter this time. A high pitched sound reverberated from Yuta’s lips, sending him toppling over the edge.

Those sounds of his always got you. Every whimper that fell from his lips assisted in pushing you into your release, following not long after him.

The hand you had gripping Yuta's throat released itself, stroking his jaw in a highly suggestive manner. You were imagining your next trial in your mind, even if you weren’t sure exactly when you’d enact this plan later. “I’m going to edge you next time.” 

“We’ll see.” It’s not that he didn’t believe you, Yuta just had to keep the competition up.

The best takeaway from this, was that at least you were sure Yuta couldn’t resist you. And you intend to make good on that every chance you get.

@texas-bitch-yee, @hioriiii, @megssleepygirl, @stqrgumi

AN: comments are appreciated ♡

It's embarrassing. Juvenile. Blink twice if you can hear me, you think, eyes scanning the tired people leaving their own hellish shifts on the ride home. No one blinks. Not twice at least. And why would they? Your mind; and the embarrassing boyfriend you've conjured up in there are yours alone.

Normal adults don't have imaginary friends. Normal adults your age are probably capable of getting real romantic partners. But most adults aren't like you—who have been shipped from foster home to foster home; unable to put down roots anywhere. Unloved. An obligation from the government, who wiped their hands clean of you the moment you became a legal adult.

You feel your mood dampening fast. You blink away exhausted tears, an incoming breakdown, and glance at the scenery outside the train windows. Quickly, you conjure up the feeling of his hand on the back of your neck and the scent of his cologne. Something woodsy. Men wear woodsy scents, right?

A warmth settles over you. His voice in your mind. Steady. It's okay, sweetheart. I'm here now. Let me handle it.

The boyfriend says all of the right things at the exact right time. You feel the wave of despondency pass by you, leaving nothing but a sparkling sun in its wake.

He encourages you to breathe when you're handling difficult customers. Wraps around you when you feel like you're about to scream your throat raw. Holds you when the nightmares inevitably come and its late and you're lonely.

But it's all in your head. None of it is real. You want to take that last step. To form human connections on your own. It isn't like you haven't had the opportunity. Men come into the cafe-bookstore-bakery all the time. Sweet men. Who aren't creeps and ask for your WhatsApp in a nice, respectful way.

You always decline. Because you're afraid none of them will ever measure up to the man you've conjured up inside your head—perfectly tailored to protect you.

It works though.

Most people say that about their coping mechanisms. The ones that really suck. You remember hearing that from one of your foster siblings. She was studying to be a therapist back when you were ten or so, and if you were really quiet, she wouldn't mind studying in the same room with you.

A coping mechanism is something that helps people. Lots of times, it's bad things, but people just trick themselves into thinking it's good. That isn't you.

You can tell it works because, well, it makes you feel better in the moment. And two, other people begin to pick up on it.

It's that lull in the morning where people haven't yet made their way over from finishing up their nightshifts. And it isn't quite time for the morning rush. You've been cheerier, more energetic. You go through opening tasks quickly and actually rest a bit at the front counter.

"Hey...?" Your coworker (friend?), Yumi, broaches, appearing on your left. You perk to attention. "Did something happen?"

Your brows scrunch in confusion. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Yumi joined before you did, a couple of months. And because the owner is sort of terrible, you two were forced to train one another. You've formed...something of it. You don't really know. You don't want to assume Yumi is your friend.

After all, this is a temporary place for her. She's a nursing student at the university a town over and constantly gushes about big things happening in her life. Meanwhile, you struggle to make ends meet.

So you don't want to label it. Labeling things hurts when you inevitably lose them. So you try not to get used to anything at all. Hurts, but hurts less than having the rug pulled out from under you.

But you really do like Yumi. She's young, full of contagious, confident energy. She's fought hard to be where she is, and she isn't afraid to say what she thinks.

"Well, no offense" She starts; a whisper of a smile on her gorgeous features. "But last week, a customer yelled at you and you broke down about it in the staffroom. But the same thing just happened again...and you got all smiley. Like it didn't bother you as much. And not even that faraway smile thing you do. You legitimately just brushed it off. I'm proud of you, that's why I'm asking"

You narrowly fight down the urge to shrink into yourself. Apparently your fake smiles aren't as good as you believed them to be. Apparently, Yumi has noticed. How long has she been watching and observing you? Does she think of you like a patient, something that needs to be fixed?

She's just a little curious, sweetheart, he whispers in your head. Yumi isn't like the others, you know that.

That's right. See? Another added benefit to your imaginary boyfriend. There's so much crap bouncing around in your head that he acts as a bonafide filter.

"I just slept a lot" You explain, which is a lie. You don't really remember getting a significant amount of sleep.

Yumi doesn't look as though she believes you. As if trying to convince her, you tack one of your trademark smiles onto your face. But luckily for you (and you never thought you'd say that) a customer enters from the bookstore side, and needs to be ringed up.

But the thought lingers on your mind too long after the interaction has ended. You want to clear your name—though logically you know Yumi isn't thinking about you and your strangeness.

She doesn't even know. As far as she knows, you just had a really good nights sleep.

Which is why you're...a bit confused, a couple of mornings later, to see the rumpled sheets on the other side of the bed. You yank back the covers. Blink, and wipe away the crusted gunk from your eyes. As if that could be the cause of what you're seeing.

There's an indent in the sheets. In the shape of a body. Bigger than your own.

You stare at it, mouth suddenly dry. And then slowly, you tug the covers back up. It's nothing, you reason. Nothing at all. You must have rolled over in your sleep. Or something.

It doesn't take long for it to leave your mind. You're ten minutes late for work, and by the time you get there, the place is swamped. You don your apron and throw yourself into working.

The voice in your head doesn't pipe up once. Or maybe you haven't given him the chance to. You're the one in control, after all.

Yumi wasn't scheduled that day, so your other coworkers (whose names you hardly remember) don't seem to notice that you just...check out.

By noon, you're running on autopilot. Ring up a customer. Send the order to the back if need be. Prepare their drink. Call their name ten fucking times because no one can hear, apparently. You spill hot tea on your left hand and don't even register it, except the fact that your manager makes you sit down for twenty minutes with an icepack.

The pain doesn't really register until you get home.

You hiss, in the process of taking off your light jacket as the fabric slides against the inflamed skin. You'll just take Tylenol. No big deal. You go to toss the thing on the coatrack (a secondhand steal) when you notice the pair of mens shoes right next to it.

You freeze, head whipping around to make sure this is indeed the right apartment. But your furnishings haven't changed since this morning.

Their dress shoes. Black. Shiny. And considering there is no man who lives with you, entirely out of place.

You stalk through the apartment, armed with a kitchen knife. But there's no one there. No one hiding underneath your bed. Nor in the shower, or behind any of the doors.

Put that down, he says, sounding somewhat bemused. You grip the knife tighter, shaking your head—except this isn't real and its all in your head. But then something wrenches it out of your hands, and you're forced to helplessly watch it clatter to the ground. I don't want you to hurt yourself.

Should you call the police? You stare down at the knife. The thought makes you snort deliriously, ignoring the tinge of madness that plagues the sound. Even if you did call them, what would you say?

Reporting a break-in? On what basis? A pair of shoes in your doorway? They'd ship you right off to the looney-bin and that's a bill you absolutely cannot handle right now.

You jolt. That's it! You need to reassure yourself that what you're experiencing is real. A pinch to shake away the dreams, right? Determined, you march your way back to the living room, facing the shoes, raising your sore arm at the same time.

You squeeze around the inflamed flesh. Hard. Until tears spring up in your eyes. Until you stifle on a pained noise. It hurts. You open your eyes. You don't know what's worse. The fact that the shiny shoes are still there, or the sudden fact that you no longer feel alone.

A hand holds onto your wrist. The one that isn't in burning hot pain. Another strokes the nape of your neck. In any other scenario, this action would feel comforting.

Don't do that baby, he says. But his voice sounds strained underneath the dulcet tone. As if he's annoyed with you. Didn't I just tell you? I don't want you to hurt yourself.

This time, you do scream.

"Are you okay?" Yumi, again. It's not the first time she's asked this question today. After all, you can't stop looking over your shoulder.

This time, she finds you behind the building, where the others often take their smoke breaks.

You lift your head from your knees and give her a wobbling smile. You open your mouth, prepared to confess; and then promptly shut it again. You can see it before it happens : the concerned look she'll slide your way. She might even speak to your managers, speaking on your behalf.

Instead, you choke out, "I can't really sleep. They started construction near my apartment complex. Keeps me up at night"

"Oh, same here" Yumi says, and then giggles. "Not the construction. Haven't been getting as many Z's as I should. I keep pulling all-nighters. But I used to have sleep problems with I was a teenager, back in secondary school. Insomnia"

Her words transport you unwillingly in time. You try not to think of being in foster care. Shuffled between homes. Sleeping fitfully, terrified for your life; wondering if you should just risk it all by running away.

Yumi doesn't know that about you. So you don't bring it up.

"Same" You say; again with that wobbling smile. "I didn't sleep good then, either"

"Try melatonin"

"Hm?" Her words seem faraway. Muted. Like you have your hands over your ears. Except, he chuckles, says, don't listen to her baby. I'm all you need, and you realize that he is covering your ears purposefully.

"Melatonin" Yumi repeats and shudders as though theres a chill in the air. "It can be a pill or a gummy. I like the gummies, because they're fruit flavored. You can get them from the pharmacy pretty easy, as long as you don't take them too often, you should be able to sleep through the construction"

How considerate.

"Oh. Okay" You try to brush him off by shrugging your shoulders, but he's persistent. "I'll keep that in mind, Yumi. Thanks"

You're pretty ready to brush her advice away. After all, you aren't some insomniac. Sure, it takes a while for you to actually fall asleep—because you keep hearing things putter about in the apartment as you lie there, vulnerable.

But like he said; and your imaginary boyfriend is really only a figment of your own mind...so you said, you don't really need it. All you need is your own will and mind. That's how you've gotten by before.

Or at least. Not until the bus situation happens.

You take the train most of the time, to and from work. It's more reliable, for one, and less likely to break down. With the bus, you constantly have to worry about your ETA being pushed back further and further.

Tonight, you miss the train. With a huff, you pull up the bus station app on your phone, and just narrowly end up missing it. As in, the driver sees you huffing and puffing and decides to have mercy on you.

The bus shakes, world rattling by loudly due to the windows, as it speeds on by. You take one of the window seats, clutching tightly onto your bag, fiddling with your fingers. The bus rolls to a stop.

A group of boys get on, from a cram school of some sort, based on their uniforms.

Already, they seem like trouble. Not gang-trouble. But bad for your nerves trouble. They're loud, joking and shoving and cackling like hyenas—uncaring of the dirty looks other riders (and even the driver) shoot them.

Teenagers shouldn't strike fear into your heart like this. But they are a particularly apathetic age group, where they have little to no concern for anyone but themselves. One of them laughs, curses something foul. You flinch, and try to make yourself small.

Out of sheer anxiety, your leg jostles up and down. You try to make it stop, but much like the noise level on the bus, it's out of your control.

One of the boys glances your way. Studies you, as though he's just realized you exist. Quickly, you jerk away, and pretend you don't see him edge closer.

Suddenly, someone slides into the seat next to you. You seize up, tight like a drawn bowstring. It takes several long minutes for you to chance a glance at the stranger.

That's odd. You don't remember seeing a man board the bus. But he's no figment of your imagination. You can feel the heat of his body, and you can smell the expensive cologne on his skin. He isn't looking at you. To him, you might as well not even exist. It's strangely refreshing.

The boy. The one that had been trying to scare you (you don't know that—but why else would he...?), he glances between you and the man. His face scrunches up, like he's stumbled upon an equation at his fancy cram school that doesn't make sense.

He goes back to his friends. You sag in relief, stuttering out a breath.

You glance at the map on your phone. Your stop isn't for another 10 minutes. You wipe your sweaty palms on your work pants and wonder if you should say something. If you should thank this man. But he hasn't spoken to you, and you don't want to bother him.

The bus turns into a familiar neighborhood. You pull your hand out to ring the bell, signaling your stop. "This is my stop" You tell him.

He doesn't say anything, but stands to give you room. You thank him at last, but again, he doesn't respond. It could he that you spoke too quietly (a habit) or maybe he's wearing bluetooth earbuds and just didn't hear you.

The bus doors open with a gust of wind. You hike your work tote up onto your arm and scurry down the aisle. Only when he you're about to step off the bus does he speak.

He calls your name. His leg is in the aisle, like he might get off on the next stop. You trip, grabbing onto the banister, head jerking back to face him. "Be safe, it's pretty dark out" he says and tips his cherubic face towards the night sky.

It's a voice you've heard a hundred times in your own mind.

You scurry off the bus without another word, panic lacing throughout your body. He chuckles. You shouldn't be able to hear him. But you do. Because he chuckles inside your head.

Your shoulders draw up to your neck and you walk the rest of the way home. You try to beat the image of him from your mind. But you can't. Maybe he isn't letting you.

Black eyes, like twins pools of a moonless sky. His hair was dark too, a middle part, hanging down to a firmly sharp jaw. He had been tall. 5'10 or '11, if you had to guess. Pale skin. A distinctly haunted look in his eyes.

A white jacket. High collared. Black pants. You remembered glancing down further still. He was wearing black shoes.

You run the rest of the way. He calls your name, this time in your head, and you block him out. Or you try to. When you finally make it back (safely?) to your apartment, you shove your things onto the coatrack, locking the door and immediately glancing outside of the peephole.

Nothing.

You breathe a sigh of relief, stepping back from the door. Only when you glance down do you notice his shoes resting there.

Are you going crazy?

It's a question that's been boggling around in your mind these past few weeks. You looked it up one night. 'Do crazy people know they're crazy?'. They don't, which didn't help you any. So you ended up rolling over and falling into yet another bout of fitful sleep—pretending that you couldn't see the outline of him next to you in bed.

Your final straw is when you start to notice him in mirrors. That day, you stop at the pharmacy instead of running straight home.

You have a theory. He exists. You can admit that he exists. But not to other people. Not really. They can't see him the way you can.

(Example one : a customer was yelling at you. He was standing behind you. The customer, an elderly woman, couldn't see him. But she felt him. You know she did. You watched her expression shift from rage to fear, and she skulked off with her tail between her legs; muttering).

So they can't see him. They can feel the impression of him. Like you did in the beginning. Maybe he feeds off of your energy. Like a vampire.

I'm not a vampire, he says; and sounds petulant. I just want to help you. You need me. You created me, remember?

"No I didn't" You mutter, but it's out loud, and the mom with two kids walking down the same aisle steers her children closer to her breast, shooting you a concerned look. Your face flushes in hot embarrassed shame.

Maybe you are crazy. Crazy people don't think they're crazy.

You are not crazy, he tells you, and rubs your back. I wish you would stop thinking like that.

You grab the first sleep medication your eyes land on. He hums, disappointed, but not surprised. And I already told you, you don't need that. You sleep just fine.

"Will that be all for you today?" The cashier, a young man close to your age says. He sounds bored, but then when his eyes settle on you; he brightens considerably. "Cash or card?"

"Yes." You say simply and then stammer. "Fuck. Sorry. Card." You slam said card onto the counter a little too hard. "Sorry"

"It's no problem" The cashier doesn't look anything like the boy in your head. He's got sandy brown hair. Brighter eyes. Short. Around your height. You watch him read the label on the medicine. "Not sleeping too well?"

"Exams" You lie; you don't know why. But there's a nudging in your head that makes you feel like you should. Bashfully; you smile.

Tell him to keep his eyes to himself, or I'll gouge them out, he snaps suddenly, throwing you completely off kilter. It's so shockingly violent, and so unlike him, that you snatch the medication of the counter and exit the store before he can even inquire as to whether or not you want your receipt.

When you get back to your apartment, the first thing you do is put the medicine in the proper cabinet. In fact, you check and triple check that he isn't there and that the bottle is exactly where you left it.

He's clearly upset with you for buying the medicine. Which means you must be doing something right.

You can tell, because there's a clear lack of him around that wasn't like that before. Usually, he's everywhere you are. Lingering like a shadow. And whenever you turn; he's gone. But sometimes you see the back of his head, or the quirk of his lips. That pale pale skin.

But nothing. There's only a loud, disappointed sigh whenever you open the medicine cabinet after washing your face.

That isn't going to make me go away, he whispers into your mind. His voice is thin. Like he seconds away from doing something rash. I'm never leaving. You created me. I'm going to stay. You can't get rid of me.

You down the medicine. Sickly sweet down the hatch it goes. Not your proudest moment, but you run water into your palms and guzzle it down—quick to get rid of the shockingly awful after taste. It doesn't take long for the medicine to kick in.

Half an hour. Maybe longer.

The world tips, and every-time you open your eyes, it gets harder to keep them open. So you charge your phone and wander over to the bed.

You're asleep within seconds.

Perfect, dreamless sleep.

At least. For a while it is. One minute, you're drifting through nothingness. And the next, your eyes are forced open. You sit up, heaving and choking, sputtering on air.

Your head snaps around. You're still dreaming. You must be, because you aren't in bed. You're lying on a cool flat rock, drifting like a boat in a beautiful meadow.

He's there next to you. More clear than you've ever seen him. He smiles. It's a shaky wavering one, just like yours. Shy. You choke on a sob, collapsing in on yourself.

"Why won't you just go away?" You sob, scrubbing away your tears. You thought that would work. You really thought it would work.

"I told you" He replies, and has the decency to sound sheepish about it.

You don't respond. Not for a while, at least.

"What did you mean before?" You ask, hesitant. Ypu wager a glance. "When you said I created you?"

He turns and gives you another smile. He sets his palm (large) onto your thigh. A part of you wants to brush him off, but you know it won't work. Instead, you slump inwards. "One day, you'll make me so strong, that I'll be able to walk around like you do. Then you won't question whats real and whats not. Because I'll be right there with you"

"Won't that be wonderful?" He asks

You don't answer him. It sounds like a nightmare. It sounds like something you can't stop.

You can sense it. The imminent end.

You wish you knew what you were doing. You wish you knew how you created him. If you did, there might be a way to stop it. To send him back. If you could go back in time and tell yourself the present you currently lived in.

But you can't. And he knows it.

Every day he grows stronger. He materializes in increments. One day, you feel him whisper against your ear, like you did that day on the bus. You thought it was a one time thing, but as time passes, he does it more often. Talks out loud, where you can hear him.

He doesn't like being ignored. He won't say anything of substance. But you think he likes to hear you talk more than the other way around. He goads you into telling you about your past, your childhood. He strokes your neck and face and says, that sounds really hard. I'm glad you don't have to be alone anymore.

You're napping on the couch when you feel someone's head on your lap. His hair tickles your legs and arms.

"I heard all girlfriends play with their boyfriend's hair" He says, pouting. You don't bother telling him that you're not dating. That a relationship requires consent on both ends. Is he even human? Does he understand human concepts? Most likely mot. You can't even see all of him. But you know what he looks like. In your mind, he pouts at you. "Please?"

Your sleep meds go missing. You make an appointment for a refill, but the voice over the phone says, "Ma'am? Your boyfriend said you authorized him to pick up your medication for you. If that isn't the case, please get in contact with your primary physician immediately"

"I told you" He mumbled, head in your lap again. You can see a bit more of him now. His head, face, torso. The beginning of his hips. He nuzzles into your thighs, soaking up the physical contact. "You never needed it."

Whenever you go to work, there's a young man who sits by the window and reads a book. Mostly romance mangas. A few times you've caught him reading classics. Your coworkers all blush and preen, and try to convince you to approach him.

Because obviously, he seems rather smitten with you.

You don't. He follows you home after your shifts. Sometimes when you walk, he holds onto your wrist. It's warm. You feel so weak from trying to resist him. Meanwhile; he grows stronger. He sits next to you on the bus. He tells you about the things he read that day. How much he missed you (you were behind a counter—less than fifteen feet apart).

Other people can see him now. Your neighbor remarks on the handsome young man you're seeing. She winks and tells you she's always noticed you, scuttling about, looking worse for wear. She tells you she's happy you have someone now.

People hold the door open for him. They incline their heads in his direction with a smile. Older couples remark on how sweet and gentle his is with you. You want to scream in all of their faces and tell them he isn't real.

No. That's not the case here anymore. Somehow, you've spun this man from the hints of a dream. You've given him the gift of knowledge, of speech, of free will and thinking. He has likes and dislikes. A favorite color. Habits and intricacies that floor you.

He hates his socks getting wet. He likes watching you shower. He doesn't always remember to take the trash out. He loves to hold your hand.

You're so tired. You're so so tired. Why are you even fighting against him anymore? Why is there still some part of you that won't give in? What does giving in even look like?

You sit on the floor; knees drawn up to your chest, breath rattling in your lungs. A minute of peace. That's all you want. You just want him to leave you alone for one fucking second. You need to breathe without him trying to squirrel away the expended air from your lungs.

He's the perfect boyfriend. You created him to be so. So while you hear him moving around in the living room, he doesn't come into the bedroom. Not for an hour.

Has he somehow attached himself to your life force? Is he a parasite that depends on a host to survive? What will happen if you just...stop? Stop moving? If you refuse to go to work. To waste away here in this bedroom, forever. You don't want to die, but there's no way he can follow you in death.

Is there?

"I don't want you to die" He says, suddenly. The bed creaks. Two legs swing over the side, and his feet plant themselves on the floor. His voice has taken that odd quality to it. Breathless, awed. It's terrifying. There's so much affection in his voice that it's choking you. "I'd go wherever you go, sweetheart. That's what people do when they love each other. And nobody loves you more than me"

All the saliva dries in your mouth, leaving it dry. You want to cry. But you're just so tired.

"Please just go..." You whimper "Please. Please leave. I want my life back. I want to be myself again"

Your life was shitty. You hated your job. You hated most people (except Yumi). You were lonely and always keyed up and afraid of what came next and if you could handle it. But it was your life. Yours. Not his.

His face twists into a frown.

"Stop saying that" He says. His voice is so soft, but he says the words so harshly he might as well be spitting them at you. "Stop it. You know why I'm here. You created me. You need me. I'm making you better"

You shake your head vehemently. "I d-didn't. I didn't ask for—"

Before you can even get the words out, he hauls you up and onto the bed by your shirt. The world spins, and when it rights itself, you find that he's hovering above you. There's a mad glint to his dark eyes.

"Baby" He breathes, like he's trying really hard not to frighten you. But it's too late. You're already scared shitless. "You know I don't like it when you talk like that. My purpose is to make you happy. If you didn't want me, you wouldn't have wished so hard for my existence, remember? You just have to accept me"

His hand strokes the side of your face lovingly. Gone is the crazed wildness, replaced only with tenderness.

A tear slides down your cheek.

"Did I...did I really make you?"

The hand stills. And he nods. His hair obscures his eyes a bit, which means you can breathe again.

"So. If I...if I made you, I can control you?" You state, voice wobbly. "I'm in control here"

He laughs. Shakes his youthful head. "No, baby. You gave up control a long time ago. If you wanted to be in control, you wouldn't have made me"

Your opens and closes. The words feel degrading and condescending—but he says them so gently. Like he's easing you into the utmost truth.

"Do I at least get to name you?" Your bottom lip wobbles pathetically.

"No, honey" He says, and tilts his head just so, as if thinking. "You can call me Yuta Okkotsu. Do you like it? I've spent quite some time thinking of it"

You just cry harder. The whole waterworks, blubbering and sobbing. Yuta watches you a while, but soon grows tired of it. His fingers push into your mouth, roughs pads of his fingers against your wriggling tongue.

"Poor baby" He tuts, and then calls your name. "Suck on them a little. There you go, no more crying"

You obey, head swimming with fog. If you were crazy (which you aren't) you would remark that you could actually see this fog. Purples and greens and blues, all swirling and clouding your mind.

"All you have to do is be good and listen to me" Yuta murmurs, and he sounds so faraway. "Can't you see how good things can be when I'm in control? That's what you made me for, remember? You made me to protect you. Let me in, so I can make all the bad things go away"

Sense suddenly clouds your mind. You chomp down on his fingers. Hard. Yuta curses, and you use all of your body weight to push him aside. The fog dissipates and you leap from bed, intent to run. Where? Who knows. But you've got to get the hell away from here.

You make it to the doorway before his arm loops around your middle and pulls you back towards the bed. You fight him, clawing at his arm and wrist, digging your feet into the ground.

"You're really about to anger me" He says, in the same sweet tone that he says everything else. Only difference is the minute way that he's starting to shake. "I tried to be really nice to you sweetie. But I think you need to accept that I'm in charge here"

"No, no, no, please. Please—Yuta—"

"No" Yuta gripes, and presses your hips down against the bed. "I tried being nice, baby. You don't want me to be nice"

He pins you all the way down, and even when you fight against him, nothing gives. His free hand yanks down both your sweatpants and underwear. You flinch at the cold air against the exposed skin and you regain your fight.

You wrench your head to the side, screaming at him to get off. He doesn't listen, so you scream for help instead. Something slams against your mouth, a shadow, a force. So hard that it sends the rest of the words tumbling back down into your throat.

Yuta croons your name. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I know you wouldn't like it if I did. But if someone interrupts is, I'll kill them. Do you understand?"

Your cries go unheard of. Panic laces through your body. You think of the sweet, middle aged woman who lives next door. You think of what Yuta might do to her if she came to your aide. Shakily, you nod. He removes the pressure. The only sound that comes from you then is a choked sob.

He doesn't bother himself with taking off the rest of your clothes. He doesn't even get naked all the way himself. Just kicks off his pants enough to free his cock—while your panties dangle around your ankle.

"We're each other's firsts" Yuta breathes, sounding exhilarated all over again. "I can't believe you saved yourself for me"

You didn't. But you don't correct him. You don't want him to make this any harder than it has to be. You expect him to rush into it, greedy and selfish. But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He's the perfect boyfriend.

His fingers are slick with spit when they reach between your legs. Your hips kick and jerk with every touch. It's startling, having someone else touch you there. That; and pleasure jumps down your spine because Yuta's found your clit and won't stop touching it. Firm presses. Flicking it. Caressing it.

He fingers you until your cunt is sloppy, drooling around his fingers, loud and squelching in the quiet room—save for the sounds of his heavy panting.

"I've waited so long for this" Yuta says, grabbing ahold of your hips and spreading them far too wide. He slaps the thick head of his cock against your clit, and then drags it through your wet folds. He ducks his head and kisses you sweetly, pushing in at the same time.

The stretch is intense. You grit your teeth against it, but can't stop your arms from shooting out, nails digging into Yuta's skin at the aching, hot burn. When you tighten up to the point of near pain, his wet thumb circles around your clit—gets you nice and relaxed again.

Yuta's hips fuck up into your pussy immediately. You yelp, and he apologizes, but says he can't stop, bucking into you again and again with rough snaps of his hips. He wraps one of your legs around his waist, tucks his face into your neck, and brutally snaps his hips up.

You screw your eyes shut, clutching desperate fistfuls of his shirt in your sweaty fingers, mewling and whining. You try not to think that this is how the guy fucks in one of the amateur porn videos you always watched. You try not to think of how long Yuta has been in your brain to know that.

You always wanted to know how it felt. And now you know.

It's good. Mind-numbling good. So good all you do is take it, bleating like a lamb, trying to shift up and away from his cock pistoning in and out of you. Yuta growls, sounding scarier than you've ever heard from him, none of your sweet boyfriend.

"Just—fuck, baby," Yuta says, helpless and pleading. Like you're his salvation, or something. "Just take it. Ok? Doing so good...just take it, just like that—"

You squeal, toes curling and legs kicking out as his hands pin you down to the bed and really nail you. Sweat beads down his hairline, trickles last the collar of his shirt. His cheeks turns bright red. Yuta shifts, causing his cock to bump up against a spot that makes you cry out, trembling, pussy practically strangling his cock.

His forehead presses against yours. "See how good it feels? Don't you wanna feel like this all the time?"

"D-don't...I don't—" You sniffle and croak, even as your legs turn to jello. "I don' wanna cum"

"Baby," He croons, sickly sweet, grunting roughly in your ear. "You don't have a choice, remember?"

Just like Yuta says, you that rope inside of you snaps. And you cum. It blindsides you. It makes you cry for real.

"I'm—" You choke "I'm scared"

Immediately, Yuta settles inside of your mind. It's perverse and invasive. But even when you try to pull yourself together, you can't kick him out.

It's okay, baby. He says. He sounds like he did in the very beginning. Before you realized something was wrong. It's alright. I'm here with you. I'll never leave.

You really wish he would.

author's note: PLEASE trying to find the price of weed online is like running through quicksand and i dont know what it would be irl since i dont do it (its legal where i live but still), so if my numbers are way off please feel free to correct me!

the two of you are sat under a tree on a breezy day with your back against the bark and choso’s head tucked in your lap contently. he has his eyes closed but you can tell he’s not sleeping, just resting, his pretty lashes kissing his cheeks. chest rising and falling slowly. if anything, his relaxed stature should mirror onto you but it only makes you more nervous.

gently, you move to hold his face in your hands, thumbs dusting over his cheeks which makes him exhale a breath through his nose a little heavier in response. though no longer a stranger to your touch, it still makes his heart skip all the same. choso and affection had never crossed paths until he’d met you.

and slowly, you lower your face to his, eyes drawing to a close when you carefully slot your lips over his own. you remain there for a beat before you pull away to see a pair of alerted, intense eyes staring directly into yours.

“what did you just do?”

he’s so matter of fact. you still aren’t quite sure if you’re used to how much weight his voice has when he uses it. how it feels like he’s speaking into you instead of to you.

“um, I-“ you swallow, hard. “it was a kiss. i kissed you.”

you hadn’t really thought this through, you realize as your mouth runs dry. feels like it’s been filled with sand.

“why? what is a ‘kiss’?” he’d paused to taste the word, like he’d never spoken it before. because he hadn’t.

“it’s what you do when you like someone. when words aren’t enough to show it. you put your lips on theirs, and… move them.”

you were going to kill maki.

he nods, but he still seems to be thinking on it. “what does it mean?”

“it’s kind of hard to explain. but it’s supposed to be a good thing, you know… that couples do.” he shifts slightly, arms coming up to cross under his head instead. his knuckles brushing against the skin of your thighs, the feeling of his hands making you fidget a bit. they were almost hot.

“how’d it make you feel?” you ask.

“do it again.”

“what?”

he repeats himself, “do it again. you caught me off guard the first time.”

so you do as you’re told. once. just a peck, barely a second. then again, but this time, you stay long enough to feel his lips tentatively start to move against yours. to feel them press deeper into yours when his chin tilts upwards.

a breath is shared between the two of you, lips ghosting against each other’s before you pull away completely.

your heart is beating fast and you know he can sense it.

“so? now how do you feel?” it comes out really soft because you’re nervous and you truly can’t read him right now.

he looks… confused. curious? you don’t know, but there’s a harsh line between his brows while he mulls on his answer.

“warm. like my blood is about to burst through my veins any second now.” his lips part, but it takes a few more seconds for words to escape. “like…” for the first time ever you hear choso trip over his words, but he continues. “like the feeling you get when you’re getting ready to fight someone. but… different. more intense.”

“cho, it’s okay if you didn’t like—“

he doesn’t let you finish.

“give me more,” and he tacks it on for good measure because yuji’s told him he needs to work on his manners. “please.”

.

.

.

“There's probably an explanation, she's not like that and the media is starving to get a scandal, who else is better than Sat-”.

“No, stop”, Choso sat on the closest chair, “i know, okay? i know all that, but…” the knot on his throat interrupted him, he shook his head while he bit his lip, he didn't want more tears slipping around his cheeks.

“I'll try to send her a message and wait for the best”, Yuki looked at him with pity and he hated it.

Choso tried to send you a message but not a single one looked decent, his eyes were dry and itchy, he let out a sigh and the tears started running out of his eyes again without permission, the sadness stuck deep on his chest. What was he supposed to say? “Are you cheating on me?”, “Do you have any explanation for this?”, “Why are you so close to the star of the movie when you are clearly in charge of it?” No, nothing was decent.

When he saw “news” it was 10 pm for him, for you it was probably 2 or 3 am. He wasn't an expert with the time differences as you were, but he concluded that was the only reason you haven't called or texted him like usually to clear the misunderstanding.

Choso didn't know how much time he spent throwing up and crying before he fell asleep, but the clock already marked 3 am for him when he sent the message. Maybe 7 or 8 am for you.

Hey baby, i saw some weird news on ig, can we talk about it? Love you 💜

His hands were shaking while he waited for your answer, pacing on the room keeping himself awake for you.

The buzzing of his phone scared him, he stopped pacing when he saw that the incoming call was from you.

“Hi, honey”, he greeted you and you said with a small voice “i swear it's anything you think it is”.

“Satoru and I were still on the place where we were shooting a scene, but the scene it's about him “dying”, and we had to use a lot of blood for the scene, but all of his hair got pink because of the dye and because we waited too much time to wash it, but his hair was still pink even after 4 washes so i went to help him and the staff and i don't know how or when the paparazzis took the photo but i swear it's just a misunderstanding”, you took a big breath after that.

“Whoever posted that it's manipulating the media, they even posted in an hour that we are vulnerable to react, but if it's useful… i'm sorry, Cho”. Choso felt like crying again, he was such a baby crying over nothing, he knew it, but he didn't feel safe with Satoru around you.

Not even Suguru got on his nerves like Satoru. It was weird, Suguru asked you on a date, twice, and yes, he was jealous but not to the point of throwing up just for fake news.

But with Satoru, he felt something off with him, inevitably in danger whenever he was close to you.

Maybe it was his position as a “famous actor” that you like, maybe it was the time you spent working with him, maybe it was him feeling guilty of leaving you too much time alone.

“No, i'm sorry, i was in a crisis over nothing, you don't even have to give me explanations like you're guilty, i trust in you, baby” he gulped hard with his sore throat.

After you explained him the situation, you kept talking while you got ready, changing from a normal call to face time, you showed him how you did your make-up, the outfit you planned and even how you put your shoes on at the entrance of your home, saying goodbye to him once you were sure the door was closed and you had everything on your purse.

You hang up while you send him a kiss, the 2 hours of the call were totally worth it.

Enough for Choso to keep going the rest of the day. Yuki didn't need any explanation to understand everything was cleared and good with you two.

But he was paranoid every day, he tried to read between the lines of what you told or texted him about the shootings, in the search if Satoru made a move yet.

He couldn't just call you at a random time and ask about him, he would look crazy. The only way to know more about what he suspected was through Satoru himself.

Day after day he kept stalking Satoru's instagram, sometimes he didn't post anything for days, keeping him nervous and biting his nails, he focused on the rehearsals, soundcheck and shows but right on the moment he was free, his attention was fully on Satoru's instagram.

Searching for new posts or stories, if he didn't post anything, Choso then scrolled through the comments trying to find something new. Any comment that mentioned you or how good you and Satoru looked together was a punch to his gut, but he was the one to blame, after all he was voluntarily searching for them.

But the longer Satoru disappeared, the bigger the photo dump was the next time.

Tons of photos and stories on the same day. Choso didn't care about the mochis, ice cream, pastries or desserts Satoru ate, they were boring. Or that's what he thought, but started to pay more attention to them when he saw a hand with a set of nails similar to the ones you sent him a picture a week ago, very close to Satoru's grabbing a chocolate, he passed the story fast so he had to come back and verify it.

When he found the story, he doubted it was your hand for a moment, but the edge of the collar he gifted you didn't lie, it was you, sharing an “innocent snack” with Satoru.

He also cared about how close he was to you and how many times he took a photo with you in the background or at his side, anywhere.

The calls, face time and texts weren't enough anymore, he had to do something more.

After a couple of beers and cigarettes, going on live didn't seem like a bad idea.

He heard Yuki talking about that a couple of times, she enjoyed talking with the fans and had a time where she was still a star but showing a more vulnerable side.

She insisted a couple of times for the band to do it all together, but they only did it on the anniversary, when the tour started, when Yuki ‘invited’ them to her live or on special occasions.

He was busy the next day and wanted a minute to turn off, but he couldn't sleep, tossing and turning around the bed. You called him 2 hours ago, but it was a short call since you knew he had to rest and it was late for him.

But for you it wasn't too late, right? He could put on his clothes again, start a live and hope you come and see him.

3:19 am on the country he was, 8 am for you, fuck it, he had to try.

He put on a shirt he bought recently and had to take off the tag, fitting him like a second skin, the jacket you liked so much and gave you every time you went on a date when it was cold, all of his rings and the bracelet you gave him.

Choso knew he was too drunk to try something with his hair, besides you liked his hair down, you always said he looked hotter like that.

The reality sober him up a little after he started the live, he didn't know what to talk about, it was the first time he did something like this alone, usually Yuki was the one in charge of that.

Choso answered random questions and pretended to know what he was doing, the alcohol disappearing from his system made him hungry, and maybe he was delusional but he was doing great on a solo live.

He ended the live as soon as you started sending him messages.

Cho, are you crazy????

WOAH, WOAH, WOAH

why do you look that hot at 4 am eating spicy wings????

ugh, what did i do to deserve lookin at you through a screen, nonono

comeback home):

need to eat you up

He picked up at the first ring of his phone.

“I only made the live to see your reaction” you laughed “well… i give it a 6 out 10”, he gasped while you still laughed “what? why? i even used your favourite jacket”.

You nodded even if he couldn't see you “yeah, and that's the reason you got one less point”, you gripped tighter the wheel of your car “minus one because you were drinking, smoking and eating at… what? 3 am?”, Choso tried to replicate, but you cut him off when you heard him take a breath “nuh-huh, i think i’m being generous to not lower you 2 points for that”, and Choso felt like on a test he didn't study for.

“One less point to look so hot, and another one because you're not here with me” you said with a sad voice, but tried to dissimulate it with your list “conclusion, at least you didn't fail” you said while you parked your car, “well then i think i have to appear on pajamas and in a decent hour to have a higher grade… are you driving? didn't you say the shoots started later today?” he asked with curiosity when he heard you parking.

“Oh, yeah, the shoots start at 12 pm, but Satoru and i wanted to meet before starting cause we had to talk about some things about the script and the looks of the shoots that i want him to understand, but he said he can't “work” if he hasn't eaten before, so yeah, i'm waiting for him” he hoped he was imagining it, but he heard a weird tone in your voice, like if this wasn't the first time.

“Uhm, i don't like it, it's weird, don't you think?” he tried to be subtle but he really felt in danger again and ready to attack, “why? it's nothing different i did with you and the band, well… it's out of the sets but it's nearby and we're picking a coffee shop because he doesn't have any comfortable place like we had with the studio, so, yeah” and he instantly was on alert because that could count like a date but some part of him felt relieved cause he couldn't imagine you and Satoru comfortable like you were on his studio.

“I have to hang up, but i'll call you later okay? love you, bye”, “love you too, honey” he answered with a small voice.

He felt sick again, his stomach burning and tightening like the first time he saw the possibility of you with Satoru.

The universe seems to be playing with him. He only slept 4 hours before he had to go for some promotional video the band had to record.

And the news of you and Satoru sharing breakfast didn't help him either.

This time you weren't close to Satoru, actually in front of him and with your head low, looking at the menu. He tried to think of all the times you sat beside him because it was more “intimate”, you only did that with him, not with Satoru.

But once again, Satoru was staring at you like he was devouring you with those stupid blue eyes under those stupid black glasses.

The place didn't look expensive or like a restaurant, no, it looked more like the coffee shop that was actually close to the sets.

But that wasn't the only time he got news and updates of you and Satoru, each time was something different. He whispering in your ear, you cleaning his glasses for him, him offering his hand at the end of some emergency stairs.

Everyone was excited to see interactions of you and Satoru, saying he was the perfect boyfriend, waiting for a photo of you two kissing, a confirmation you were dating, the voices in his head kept turning up the volume, clenching his heart.

You had an explanation for every one of those photos, but Choso couldn't avoid making a mess of his hotel room after each call.

Snapping with the smallest of the mistakes when the band was rehearsing, Yuki always tried to explain and control Toji and Sukuna, not wanting fights, but even her was tired of his bullshit, Choso could saw it, and she was right, but he couldn't seem to stop it.

He knew he deserved the smack Sukuna gave him on the head after one rehearsal he kept making mistakes with the notes on his guitar “keep your shit together before you draw all of us down”. Choso knew it, but he was afraid.

The only thing he could do was waiting for the company to let him come back to you but the more he spent away from you the more his green dark jealousy ate him alive.

He tried to be better, to fix whatever was happening and he refused to accept the glimpse of the end of your relationship.

But you replied with just 1 message, short, dry, not you. Are you replying sweetly to Satoru now?

Choso didn't know if he was already paranoid or schizophrenic.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Cho, I-... i swear, i don't understand” you said, confused and a little bit sleepy. It was late but Choso kept rambling about Satoru being all over you, taking away your attention from him and how he didn't like the white haired man.

You heard him smoking while he talked, he was unusually nervous and hysterical, his leg jumping up and down in a fast pace, making you anxious, “i need to see you, please” was the last thing he said before you heard him sobbing “please”, was he allowed to cry?

It was his fault after all, leaving you alone with him, choosing his fame over your relationship, doing nothing when he saw you hurt because of the fake news about him and Yuki.

After your call Choso kept wondering if this was how you felt with the idea of him and Yuki.

How come you didn't say anything? How you didn't hate Yuki? Why didn't you say something? He felt like he was about to die at the slight mention of you and Satoru.

The media only posted you a couple of times, all of them on set, and mostly because the people wanted to see Satoru get married, form a family and the kind woman that fitted the role was you. You weren't doing it to gather fans by creating a ship, you weren't close friends with Satoru for many years, you had a temporary job with the studio for this movie not with him.

It was the total opposite of what he had with Yuki and it looked wrong, it was wrong, but he let it happen and did nothing to stop it, to change it and it crushed you in the process.

Piecing together why you didn't want to go to his shows anymore, giving him vague answers even while you were still working with him and had freedom to make up excuses to go see him.

The reason you looked wasted after you attended his shows, you were keeping the “secret” of how much it hurted you seeing him with Yuki on stage.

Or why you hid your phone from him when you were seeing the videos the fans posted.

You were slowly getting tired of everything. Getting tired of him.

Choso wanted to know how to ease the feeling on his chest, how to ignore the news and knew if they were really fake and nothing was actually happening.

The media was so invasive and manipulative that it got into his brain and made him sick.

It also made you sick when you saw the news a week later.

BREAKING NEWS: Each member of the currently famous rock band buyed an apartment in the new high-end building on… click here to see more!

Was it true? Did Choso buyed a new apartment and didn't tell you anything? Did he think what would happen about you living together?

It's not that you couldn't handle the rent alone, it's that you like living with him and suddenly he has an apartment on the other end of the city?

You didn't know anything about it, not even if it was the company's plan or if Choso was actually eyeing those apartments.

But maybe you have to be patient again, maybe he'll tell once he's back like when you changed your job, maybe you just had to wait.

Choso was finally home with you for 8 days, you'll definitely talk about it.

Day 1

Choso arrived home before you, he wanted to give you a surprise, but he made the mistake of leaving the light of your bedroom on, the one you could barely see when you opened the first door of the building.

The excitement rushed all over your body, running up the steps, knocking on the door, he opened it with a confused look when you jumped straight to his arms, he was back and you had to make your time together worthwhile, forgetting the dilemma of the day before.

“What gave me away?” he muffled on the top of your head, giving a kiss on your crown, “the lights of the bedroom, you forgot to turn them off” your voice perfectly reaching his ears since you were buried on his neck.

Day 2

The whole day he stuck to you like a tick, barely letting you go to the bathroom when you arrived from work, kissing your neck, lips, hands, thighs, almost every centimeter of your skin, telling you how much he loved you.

You even got a delivery of a floral arrangement and when you turned to see him he was with a big smile but pretended he didn't know anything.

Day 3

Choso showed you all of the pics he took, a full album on his phone with almost 600 photos, a lot of Toji and Yuki doing weird faces, a couple more of Sukuna in weird positions.

But specially of places he wished you could be together one day.

Day 4

You had a free day, and all of the surfaces of the house looked comfortable enough for him to lay you down and ravage you, over and over again.

Only stopping to eat and drink water. He ran after you when you tried to escape from his embrace.

Day 5

It'll be the perfect comeback if he had already told you about his new place but a whole week almost passed and he hadn't said anything about it, not even a word.

Choso was always clingy and touchy, very physical since the beginning, but this was weird, excessive. Like if he was hiding something.

Day 6

You tried to have a romantic night date but your phone kept buzzing repeatedly on the table. Dragging Choso's attention from you to your phone.

He saw all of the message notifications when you asked him to change the song on your phone.

It was Satoru, sending you messages, but he didn't know what he was talking about, the messages were confusing and massive.

He had a knot on his stomach the rest of the night.

Day 7

The day at the set was exhausting, full of inconveniences that kept delaying the shoots, and that made you run here and there to do your job. You knew it wasn't your day when one of the staff members threw his coffee on you, burning your skin and staining your shirt, making a whole mess.

Satoru was close and didn't doubt taking you to his dress room, letting you clean yourself, put ointment on your burned skin and change on one of his shirts. The shirt was so big that you had to tie it up with a hair tie to adjust it.

When you finally were home, your body felt sore with your energy drained, your skin a little bit hot and throbbing with a faint pain, but Choso proposed watching one of the extended movies he buyed for you on your anniversary, while you eat your dinner.

You have watched the movie a million times already, but never this version and never with Choso, so even when you were falling asleep as you munched your food you kept trying to watch the movie, barely registering what was happening.

The sofa felt comfortable, warm and easy to fall asleep on, not caring if you were still on your outside clothes or that you haven't taken off your make-up, you just wanted to cuddle with Choso after you finished your dinner, you could watch that movie any other time.

But for Choso it was another story, you arrived home later than usual, you were tired and with someone else's shirt, shirt he could swear already saw on Satoru's instagram, some ends of your hair were a little damp and he saw a red spot on the base of your neck.

You couldn't be that obvious if you cheated on him, right? Or were you waiting for him to catch you red-handed?

He saw you trying to fight sleep, the knot on his throat and stomach tightening up again at the thought that you two would be better off without each other.

His muffled voice in the background, you tried to open your eyes again, "what? i didn't hear you", your head was balancing, forcing yourself to turn to look at him.

The image of Choso with his face scrunched, trying not to cry and scared it's something you think you couldn't erase from your memory. Snapping you out of your tiredness.

His eyes were red and shiny with tears forming at the corners, about to spill down his cheeks, his right cheek on his knee, “you don't look at me like you used to, it's different now and-” a loud sob escaped from his lips.

No make up, no spotlights, his raw image, the boy that is your best friend and boyfriend, crying out of the pain in his chest.

Not the big and famous rockstar. Not the rockstar that had a ship with his bandmate, it was the Choso that spent day and night in love with you, but that was also breaking your heart.

"You-, uhm, don't even look at me anymore, it's different, i uh-...", gulping hard to ease the knot in his throat "do you still love me? or is it because of that actor you're working with?", he bended his left leg to his chest too, hiding his head between his legs, “i saw how he looks at you, how he searches for you…”

Choso turned to look at you again, tears tracing wet paths on his face. How could you not see it before? You were hurting Choso as much as he hurt you, tears falling down your cheeks too, you realised you were crying once your sight blurred.

"It's for the best if we let this go". What the fuck was he thinking? Was he not willing to fight for the relationship? For you?

“No, Choso what-” you couldn't finish your sentence when you saw him going to the bedroom, you tried following after him but your legs felt numb when you stood up so suddenly.

Your knees bent and felt weak, the atrophy on your muscles finally catching up. How did he dare to say everything was over?

Before you took another step, Choso came back with his luggage and a backpack, "you don't have to worry about anything, the bills and the rent are paid and it's up to you what you want to do with my things” he rushed to the door, “no, Choso this couldn't end like this, this-”, “you changed, i changed, we are better off”, he said before leaving you behind.

It was cruel, possibly the worst idea in his whole life, but maybe that way you'll remember more of the beautiful things in your relationship than the bad ones, and even if this hurted like hell, it was easier.

Choso felt like a coward acting like that, but at this point it didn't matter, he already hurt you by turning a blind eye to your problems.

The relationship turned into a seesaw game, sometimes you were up, sometimes down, but since the tour started most of the time you were down.

He didn't have anywhere else to go than the place he recently “buyed”, it was more an obligation with the company, he planned on selling it again once the news of “his new place” dissipated, he wanted to keep living with you, that's why he didn't tell you anything, it wasn't relevant, but he did this to himself and all of his plans went directly to the trash.

Your shared home turned into a jail with memories of him, your night was filled with panths, crying and the wish of dying in that instant. You didn't know when you fell asleep that night, but when you woke up by your alarm you thought you were going crazy.

His things were there, maybe it was a nightmare and Choso was taking a bath or making breakfast. Snapping out of the haziness of sleep, you found out that a few of his things were missing, the most important ones except for his guitars, still hanging on the walls.

Proof that the love and the pain of the break up were real, the necklace he gifted you now felt like a choker made out of barbed wire, making you rot in pain.

You got ready for work, trying to pick up all of your broken pieces, maybe on your next free day you could think what are you gonna do with his things and drown yourself in pity, but for today you still have work to do.

For the first time in months, you didn't use your necklace.

The feelings came back every single night you were ‘home’. Your heart beating fast in pain and bleeding out in misery. He let you die, he sacrificed you.

Satoru noticed your mood, he wanted to comfort you but didn't know what was exactly happening, maybe he could give you something else to focus on.

He knew he succeeded when he saw your puzzled face at his question.

“You know the movies and series where I was, right? Which would you say it's the worst one and why?” the curious voice of Satoru made you lose track of what you were doing.

Every time he had to wait to do another shoot or when the directors gave him a break he was with you, and this time his break prolonged.

But you paid him with the same coin when you answered his question. Disbelief on his blue eyes, mouth agape, brows furrowed, “WHAT!?!? why?” he whined at your answer.

“That's like, literally my best work, i won like 6 awards in just one night with that movie”, shyly and looking at the floor you started explaining “it's not my type of movie, too cheesy, easy to watch, almost no plot and too rushed, and also i think you reached your peak when you were between 17 and 20, you know?”

Satoru was perplexed, no one ever talked to him with that honesty, just saying what he "wanted" to hear. He clicked his tongue “so you think i'm old and out of trend” he asked teasingly, but your silence made him stand up and gasp “you really think so!?!??”, you flew out of the dress room while he kept screaming his question.

Everytime he saw you, it was a new odd question, but he made sure to avoid some topics that triggered your heartbreak. He discovered you were heartbroken when he asked about the necklace you always wore but didn't have since a week ago. That day you didn't talk to him, not a single word.

Satoru learned many things in just a week about you, and each time he pinned more and more for you, but he couldn't rush it, he didn't want to. He saw you still struggling at the mention of relationships and your ex.

But it's been years since he really learned something from someone and more years since someone really held a conversation with him, not backing up at the last minute or wanting something out of him.

He was right at choosing you before you ever met, he just had to wait a bit more.

It was inevitable to get closer and try to help you, give you back the security you brought him before. And it was inevitable he fell in love with you.

And after 3 months you thought you were doing better, not fine cause you couldn't bring yourself to throw away all of Choso's things, keeping them up in the spare room you never used, but at least you didn't cry every night after work, only every weekend.

You blocked all of the band accounts and deleted his number, going hard with the no contact rule, or tried to.

Because the photos together kept taking up space on your phone, you still craved his touch when you slept on the sofa and not on the bed, and how your mind strayed to him after something happened with your neighbours and you didn't think anyone would be better than him to talk with.

Because your heart still broke in pieces again when you saw him on the big screens of the city advertising the new album of the band.

The album seemed to be about a break up, about being alone and with the hopelessness of losing the love of his life. How did he dare?

But Choso was a complete mess, he couldn't finish a song on his own, he constantly ended up crying, relying on alcohol and cigarettes more than ever.

He couldn't sleep without seeing you in his dreams, the universe mocking him when he had you back on his arms while he dreamed.

Laughing at him again when he woke up with the sun hitting brightly on the windows he forgot to cover up.

A headache crushing his head with the half hangover he had, he wasn't even fully sober yet, but his body was catching up on his bender, the sunrise meant nothing if he didn't have you.

Sitting in silence on the edge of his bed, with his heart rumbling on his ears and sweat falling down his neck.

He broke his own heart, choosing to run instead of staying and fighting, and it was eating him from the inside.

It was the worst moment of his life, and the fans kept saying he looked the best like this. He was with his heart broken, relying on any alcohol he could get with the cheapest cigarettes, sleeping two hours max each day, missing rehearsals, even his make-up artist and stylist were upset by how much weight he had lost, and this was his “best moment”?

Was he really condemned to eternal heart break to reach his dream? You were the exchange for his fame? His karma was not being with the person he loved the most?

He didn't even want fame, just people that spared a glance at his work and understood what he was trying to say out loud, people who took the actual time to listen and gave similar opportunities to more artists like him.

Not people who called themselves fans and think they owned him and his love life, not ‘fans’ that couldn't see when he was falling apart, not fame that made him look like an object everyone could play with to satisfy their desires.

He doesn't remember anything of the first night show after your break up, maybe he did decently or not, likewise he got wasted on the after party and passed out on his hotel room floor, still with the make-up and outfit of the show. He just wanted to forget or try to get back that warmth of yours.

He should have followed your tempo, ask more questions, talk more and try harder, not doubting if he saw something was hurting you, maybe that could stop you from slipping through his fingers.

You were his muse, you still are, but now you're gone, and the only thing he could do is sing and play his guitar in hopes you hear and look at him again, cause whenever you say, he'll be there for you, with you.

Multiple times he tried to delete the messages, to get rid of the photos in his gallery, to erase all of the things he wrote for you, all of the melodies with your voice, your laugh and moans.

But his heart made clear it belonged to you and only you.

Something deep inside of him whispered to his heart to not let you go, especially not after he saw you on that date with Satoru. It's been only 4 months of your break up, you could still love him, he can't let you go with him.

It was just a video of a girl telling his ‘storytime’ of how Satoru arrived with the woman he has been dating the last months to the restaurant she was in with her family.

Apparently he ‘kicked everyone out’, the waitress spreading the kindly offer of Satoru to pay their bills in exchange for them to go right on that moment.

She showed a pic she took at the last moment before leaving the restaurant, using all of the zoom on her phone. The photo was blurry but even a blind could clearly see the silhouette of the only two people at the center table.

Satoru was with a perfect suit, clearly opening your chair. You were in a tight black dress, your hair in a beautiful updo, while you were sitting you held Satoru's hand and looked at him.

The brightness of his phone illuminated part of the room and the ceiling when it slipped off his hands.

He covered his face before starting to cry, the bottle of alcohol on the bed table looked more and more tempting as the video kept replaying.

His last straw was when he saw the comments.

-@/love.satoru: OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG FINALLY

-@/hug_snow: they look soooo good together 🥹

-@/whiteswbn.fff: mama and dada

-@/00.desire: STOP, IT'S HAPPENING

-@/ssskly: tysm for feeding us girl, @/sixeyes you have great taste, but move it's my turn

-@/ori.toru.606: is not anyone gonna talk about Satoru kicking everyone out and paying for the whole restaurant???? hello????

-@/mrs.gojo: 🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-@/brrrmeow70: who is she? i want to see more of her, she looks so pretty >.<

Choso was in disbelief when the people started to do their research into finding you and asking who you were, asking for more photos and doing edits, pairing up the ship name with the few photos they had.

He felt betrayed and disappointed, why couldn't that be his case? why couldn't he love you so freely like Satoru was doing? what was different with him? Cause whatever it was, it made him lose you, destroyed him and threw you into Satoru's arms.

He checked the clock 2:18 am. The time difference was 9 hours, a good time for him to call you. Choso just wanted to know how you were doing.

His thumb lingered on your contact, he wanted to beg you to take him back, to reject Satoru, he'd play whenever you wanted, it didn't matter if he looked pathetic, he knew he was and he would willingly crawl kilometers if with that he would have an opportunity of you taking him back.

It was you or no one, another day without you was pure torture, he was alone and empty without you.

Pressing the call button, Choso waited for you to pick up.

Incoming call from an unknown number...

Decline / Accept

🏷 @the-magician-in-alice, @yassifie-d, @heeknow -comment or send me a message to be added to the taglist!