·:*¨༺ ♱✮ COHABITING - CHOSO.K ✮ ♱ ༻¨*:·
18+… living with your best friends hot older brother is great.. until he becomes a jealous mess…
pairing: choso x roommate fem! reader
- masterlink
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「✦ CHAPTER 6 - Vistors ✦」
The following day stretched on in a dull, colourless haze, the kind that seemed to seep into everything, where the rain fell steadily without urgency and the cold clung to my skin as if it had settled there for good. I had a full day of classes ahead of me, alongside the quiet pressure of unfinished modules and approaching assessments, and although university itself was manageable, there was something endlessly draining about it, something that seemed to pull from me without ever giving anything back. Whether it was my social battery wearing thin or something deeper, something physical and rooted in my bones, it always left me feeling hollowed out by the end of it.
So, I let myself disappear into it.
I buried myself in papers and rubrics, in the structure of deadlines and expectations, letting it consume my focus just enough to quiet the persistent burn of my phone beside me. It buzzed once, then again, and I ignored it each time, refusing to give in to the temptation of looking. I still hadn’t replied. I hadn’t even opened Suguru Geto’s messages again, as if avoiding them might somehow undo the weight they carried. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was afraid of, whether it was him, or Choso, or something far more uncomfortable to admit, something that lived within me instead.
The thought lingered all day, quiet but persistent.
Choso. Geto. Last night.
It returned in fragments, in flashes that refused to settle, circling back no matter how hard I tried to focus on anything else. What had happened with Geto had been something, even if I couldn’t fully name it, even if part of me suspected it only felt that way because I wasn’t used to it. Maybe I had mistaken attention for meaning, or maybe I was just letting myself believe something that had never really been there to begin with. And then there was Choso, who sat far heavier in my mind than I wanted him to, whose presence felt more complicated, more dangerous in a way I didn’t understand.
I didn’t know what I felt for him, if anything at all.
He was attractive, undeniably so, and there was something about him that lingered in a way I couldn’t ignore, something steady and consuming beneath the surface, but that didn’t mean I should let myself fall into it. I couldn’t allow that, not when I could already feel the familiar pull of self-sabotage creeping in, quiet and inevitable. And then there was Yuji, who I cared about more than I was willing to admit out loud. Crossing that line would fracture something I wasn’t ready to lose, and I knew that. I knew I wouldn’t do that to him.
And yet, the restraint only made the wanting worse.
It turned it into something sharper, something quieter and more consuming, something that lingered beneath everything else with an intensity I couldn’t shake. Maybe that was why my thoughts kept circling back to Geto, because he felt easier in comparison, something detached, something that came without expectation or consequence beyond the immediate. Maybe I could let myself fall into that instead, let it swallow the confusion and the uncertainty, let it blur everything into something simpler.
I knew how easily it could go wrong. The chances of it ending badly felt almost guaranteed, and I was aware, painfully so, that I probably wasn’t even his type. But the thought stayed with me anyway, quiet and persistent.
When would I ever get this again?
When would I be wanted like that again?
Maybe that alone was enough.
I remembered what I had told Choso, that I wouldn’t go there, that I wouldn’t cross that line, but the words felt weaker now, less certain than they had been when I said them. He wouldn’t have to know.
And yet the thought of him knowing settled heavily in my chest, stirring something I couldn’t quite explain. Would he be angry, and if he was, would it be directed at me or at Geto, or both? The memory of the way he had touched me surfaced uninvited, the intensity of it, the way it had felt different in a way that was impossible to ignore.
Because it had been different.
Geto’s touch had been confident, deliberate, almost practiced, but Choso’s had lingered in a way that stayed with me long after it was over, something quieter but far more consuming. It was intoxicating in a way I couldn’t explain, and I couldn’t quite decide which of them I wanted more, or if that uncertainty was the very thing pulling me deeper into it.
7:20 PM @y/n: you sound needy… I didn’t take u for that type
He replied within minutes, like he had been waiting.
7:28 PM @getosug: only when I want something @getosug: I was starting to think you didn’t like me
A small smile pulled at my lips before I could stop it.
7:30 PM @y/n: who said I liked you? :)
7:30 PM @getosug: my bad… I must’ve confused you the other night. Maybe I messed you up pretty good
7:32 PM @y/n: yeah… still not ringing any bells…
There was a pause before the next message appeared.
7:33 PM @getosug: you free tomorrow night? My place. I’ll pick u up?
For a moment, I hesitated, but it didn’t last long enough to matter.
Well.
I had done it.
I didn’t know if I had just made a huge mistake, I wouldn’t be able to undo or if I had made things far more interesting, but something in me had already decided before I had the chance to think it through properly, driven by exhaustion and too much caffeine and something far less rational beneath it.
7:36 PM @y/n: or u could come here. Everybody won’t be home.
7:36 PM @getosug: see you then doll x
I hadn’t lied. Yuji would be at work, and Choso had said he was busy, something about dinner plans that meant neither of them would be home. I had overheard enough to know that much, enough to know I would be alone.
I still didn’t fully understand what I was doing.
But I wanted to feel something that wasn’t this dull, endless exhaustion, something that cut through the quiet heaviness of everything else. And if being wanted, even briefly, even carelessly, by Geto was enough to give me that, then maybe that was reason enough to let it happen.
It must have been four hours or so until Geto was meant to arrive, yet time felt strangely uneven, dragging in some moments and slipping too quickly through others, as if it could not decide whether to prolong my anticipation or spare me from it. I had been standing beneath the shower far longer than necessary, letting the water run hot against my skin until the air itself felt thick and suffocating, until even the mirror beyond the glass had disappeared into fog. Somewhere beyond it, I vaguely registered Yuji knocking against the door, his voice muffled into nothing by the steady rush of water and the music that filled the space, distant and indistinct, as though it belonged to another world entirely.
I didn’t rush.
I couldn’t.
There was something almost ritualistic in the way I moved, in the care I took, shaving once and then again, slower the second time, more deliberate, as if missing even the smallest detail would somehow ruin everything before it had even begun. Washing my hair, running my fingers through it repeatedly, letting the conditioner sit longer than necessary, all of it turning into something far more consuming than it needed to be. It felt less like getting ready and more like preparing, like stepping toward something I could not quite name but was already too aware of.
By the time I stepped out, my skin was warm and flushed, my limbs heavier than they should have been, as though the effort of it all had drained something from me. It felt ridiculous, almost, the way my stomach turned, the light, restless flutter of nerves that refused to settle no matter how much I tried to ignore them. Like a schoolgirl, I thought, and the thought alone should have been enough to embarrass me into composure, but it wasn’t.
Because I was going to see him again.
And not just see him.
The implication lingered, unspoken but understood, curling quietly in the back of my mind, impossible to ignore no matter how much I tried to frame it as something casual, something meaningless. It had been a long time since I had let anyone that close, longer still since I had let myself want it, and now that the possibility was there again, it felt unfamiliar in a way that made everything sharper, more intense.
I paused in front of the mirror, water still clinging to my skin, my reflection blurred slightly by the lingering steam, and my gaze lingered longer than it should have. It was instinctive, the way my eyes moved, picking apart details I wished I could change, things I would smooth over, tighten, reshape, colour differently if given the chance. It came easily, too easily, like a habit I had never quite managed to break.
And yet, he had already seen me. But that had been different. That had been blurred by alcohol, softened at the edges by something that dulled both thought and consequence. This time, there would be no distance to hide behind, no haze to soften the reality of it. This time, I would be completely aware.
After I left the bathroom, Yuji slipped in for a quick shower before heading off to work, the routine of it all unfolding as it usually did, familiar and unremarkable in a way that felt almost strange against everything else simmering beneath the surface. Choso was nowhere to be seen, no sign of him anywhere in the apartment, and the absence sat with me in a way I didn’t entirely expect, quiet but noticeable.
I found myself in the kitchen soon after, my hair still damp, the ends of it soaking slowly into the fabric of my shirt as I stood there without any real purpose, my attention drifting instead. My gaze settled on a cupboard I had never really paid much attention to before, one I had never felt the need to open, and yet now, for some reason, I did.
Alcohol.
More than I expected.
Some of it was clearly Yuji’s, scattered and inconsistent, but most of it belonged to Choso, though I knew he didn’t drink like he used to. Yuji had mentioned it before, casually, like it wasn’t something that carried any real weight, that there had been a time where it was constant, where he had rarely been sober, but that phase had passed or at least dulled into something more controlled.
I lingered there longer than I meant to, my fingers brushing lightly against the bottles without quite committing to anything.
It should have been simple.
Take some.
Or don’t.
But it wasn’t.
Because I could already feel the version of myself that would exist either way, could already imagine how the night might unfold depending on the choice I made. If I didn’t, I would be too aware, too stiff, caught in my own thoughts, overthinking every word, every movement, every glance until it became unbearable. And if I did, even just a little, maybe it would take the edge off, loosen something inside me enough to make it easier to exist in the moment instead of analysing it.
The debate should have lasted longer. It didn’t.
Barely two minutes passed before I found myself reaching for it, the decision settling into me with a quiet finality that felt both reckless and inevitable.
Getting ready was something else entirely. Because suddenly, nothing felt right. Everything became a question I couldn’t answer properly, something I turned over repeatedly without ever settling on anything certain. What do I wear, what do I avoid, what says too much and what says nothing at all. The weight of it pressed in quietly, threading itself into the anticipation, until even the simplest choices felt heavier than they should have. I decided on something simple, not screaming anything but enough effort. My hair was done nicely at least, a soft loose curl throughout it with gentle makeup. I preferred wearing small lash extensions, just individual ones for more of a doe look. My lips were rose with a stain, holding deep onto the pieces I chew at – darker and more pronounced.
And beneath all of it, something restless remained. Not quite excitement. Not quite dread. Something caught somewhere in between, where wanting and hesitation blurred into one indistinguishable feeling that refused to let me settle. Hours passed in a way that felt uneven, stretching too long in some moments and slipping too quickly through others, until I found myself circling the same thoughts again, unable to settle, unable to quiet the restless energy building beneath my skin. I moved through my room like I could control something by perfecting it, wiping down the same surfaces twice, then again, straightening things that didn’t need straightening, until everything was spotless in a way that felt almost unnatural, like a space no one truly lived in.
And still, I waited.
He hadn’t texted; not once.
By the time he was fifteen minutes late, the doubt had already begun to creep in, quiet at first, then louder, twisting into something sharper, something harder to ignore. Maybe he wasn’t coming at all. Maybe it had been nothing more than a joke, something careless and fleeting that I had taken too seriously, something that only mattered to me.
I was already beginning to convince myself of it when the sound came.
Two firm knocks against the front door. It cut clean through everything.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up, my heartbeat rising suddenly, sharply, until I could feel it in my throat, each pulse louder than the last, urging me in two directions at once, to turn away, to pretend I hadn’t heard it, or to move forward and open the door knowing exactly what I was stepping into.
It felt like walking into something dangerous.
Like I already knew the outcome and yet chose it anyway.
I opened the door.
Suguru Geto stood there as if he had been carved into the moment itself, composed, effortless, his presence filling the doorway in a way that made the space behind him feel smaller, less important. His expression shifted the second he saw me, that slow, familiar smirk pulling at his lips, something warm briefly but far too knowing to be anything close to innocent.
The way he looked at me made my skin tighten.
Not shy.
Not hesitant.
But damn Hungry.
And I hated how easily my body answered it, how quickly that warmth spread through me, sinking lower, deeper, settling somewhere I couldn’t ignore even if I tried.
“Gonna invite me in,” he said, his voice easy, amused, his gaze flicking past me briefly as if checking for anyone else, “or are we keeping it right here?”
His smirk deepened, dangerous in the way it lingered.
“I don’t mind people watch—”
I grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside before he could finish, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary, cutting off the thought before it could fully form.
“Not even a hey, how are you?” I muttered, though there was no real bite to it.
He let out a quiet breath that almost resembled a laugh, shrugging off his jacket with an ease that felt deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing. He left it by the door on the rack. The white shirt beneath it clung just slightly too close to his frame, outlining everything in a way that made it impossible not to look, my gaze lingering a second longer than it should have before I forced it away.
“I apologise,” he said lightly, though his tone suggested he didn’t mean it at all, “I’m getting ahead of myself.” His eyes flicked back to mine, slow, deliberate. “How’ve you been? Feels like it’s been a while.”
“Yeah… I’m good,” I replied, already turning, gesturing vaguely as I led him further inside, though it was unnecessary. He already knew the layout, had been here before, and he moved like it, unhurried, comfortable.
“How about you?”
“Better now,” he answered without hesitation, his voice quieter this time, closer. “So, Yuji and Choso are out?”
There it was that damn awareness.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my tone even, “they’ll be gone for a while.” I paused briefly, then added, “Do you want a drink or anything?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” Of course he would.
He followed me into the kitchen, not touching, not quite close enough to justify the way I could feel him there, but near enough that it settled under my skin anyway. I reached for the cupboard, the one I hadn’t paid much attention to before today, pulling out a bottle with slightly unsteady hands, more aware of him watching me than I wanted to be.
I poured one drink. Then another and then, almost without thinking, I made mine a little stronger.
“You know,” he said after a moment, his voice smooth, observational, “I’ve been here a few times, but I’ve never seen your room.”
I glanced at him briefly. He was watching me not just casually; not idly.
“You want to see it so badly?” I asked, my tone lighter than I felt.
He took a slow sip, not breaking eye contact.
“Hard to say,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, as if considering it. “You’re pretty closed off. Hardly any posts, don’t say much… I don’t even know what you like.” A faint smirk returned. “You might be hiding something. Maybe you’re a nerd.”
I let out a quiet breath, something almost resembling a laugh.
“So what if I am,” I said, turning slightly toward him, meeting his gaze more directly than before. “I bet that’s one of your fantasies.”
The words slipped out too easily. For a moment, he didn’t respond. His expression shifted, just slightly, something in it sharpening, the amusement fading into something more focused, more interested. More dangerous. I turned away before I could read too much into it, already moving toward my room, the air between us shifting in a way I couldn’t undo. Behind me, I heard the scrape of his stool against the floor, the quiet confirmation that he was following, unhurried, certain. Of course he was.
My room felt different with him in it. Smaller, somehow. More exposed. It wasn’t anything extravagant, nothing carefully curated or impressive, just a reflection of me in fragments, band posters lining one wall, slightly uneven, a few small decorative things scattered across shelves, soft details that made the space feel lived in. There were little hints of things I loved but never spoke about, subtle and easy to overlook, including the small cat-themed pieces tucked here and there, a quiet substitute for something I wasn’t allowed to have.
And now he was standing in the middle of it, taking it in slowly, his presence disrupting the familiarity of it all, turning something safe into something else entirely.
Something that no longer felt entirely mine. And I wasn’t sure if that made me uneasy or if it was exactly what I wanted.
We settled onto my bed with an ease that felt almost deceptive, like something that should have been awkward but wasn’t, his weight shifting the mattress just enough to pull me closer, an inch at most, but enough for me to feel it, enough to make me painfully aware of where we were, of how close he was, of how easily that distance could disappear if either of us chose it to. And neither of us did at least not yet.
We talked.
Small things at first, meaningless things that stretched into something softer, something easier, the kind of conversation that filled space without demanding anything too real yet still carried an undercurrent of something heavier beneath it. Time slipped by quietly, almost unnoticed, until nearly an hour had passed, and somewhere along the way, his tone shifted, dipping into something more playful, more deliberate. He flirted like it was second nature, like he didn’t have to think about it, like it was something he could turn on and off at will.
And the worst part was that it worked. Every time.
Slowly, without quite realising when it happened, I felt myself soften under it, my responses becoming lighter, easier, my guard lowering piece by piece until I was something dangerously close to entirely disarmed. It should have unsettled me more than it did, the way I folded into it, the way I let it happen, but instead there was something else, something warmer, something that made it difficult to pull away. My room, which had always been mine in a way that felt safe and contained, shifted around him, not losing that safety entirely but bending it, reshaping it into something unfamiliar. It still felt like mine, but now it held him too, his presence threading through it, altering it in ways I couldn’t ignore.
It felt good. Too good. And that was the problem.
Because somewhere beneath it all, there was still that quiet, persistent truth, the one I kept trying not to look at directly, the one that told me this wasn’t something meant to last, that whatever this had existed on borrowed time, something fleeting and fragile and destined to collapse under its own weight. Like something cursed from the beginning. Like something that was never meant to work. He drifted around my room eventually, unable to stay still for too long, his attention moving from one thing to another with a quiet curiosity that felt almost intrusive yet not unwelcome. His fingers brushed lightly along the edges of my record player, flipping through albums with slow, deliberate movements before selecting one at random, placing it on with a familiarity that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before. The soft crackle filled the room first, followed by music that settled into the space, low and warm, wrapping around us in something almost intimate. He made a comment about my taste, something teasing, something that should have sounded like mockery but didn’t quite land that way, softened instead by the faint smile that lingered at the corner of his mouth. It should have annoyed me.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made something in my chest tighten in a way I didn’t fully understand.
He moved slowly, unhurried, taking in everything like it mattered, like it was worth noticing, his fingertips grazing over posters, pausing briefly at certain ones, asking questions that felt too specific to be careless. What I liked. Why I liked it. Small things, insignificant things, yet the way he asked made them feel heavier, more important. And even when he spoke the most, filled the space with his voice, there were moments where he didn’t, where he let silence settle, where he gave me room to speak instead.
And he listened. Listened. Not just waiting for his turn to talk, not just filling time, but paying attention in a way that felt rare enough to be dangerous. At some point, my thoughts drifted, uninvited.
Back to Choso. To the way he had looked at me, the things he hadn’t said but somehow still made clear, the quiet tension that seemed to follow him wherever he went. I found myself turning it over again, trying to understand what exactly had felt so off, what had unsettled me so deeply. What was so wrong with Geto? Or maybe what was so wrong with this?
Because sitting here now, watching Geto move so easily through my space, hearing him laugh softly at something I said, feeling the way he looked at me like I was something worth his attention, it all felt… right. Too right.
And that alone was enough to make doubt creep back in. Maybe I was being naive. This could all just be a performance, something carefully constructed, something practiced and perfected to draw people in, to make them feel seen, wanted, understood, only for it to mean nothing at all in the end. The thought settled heavily in my chest, cold and unwelcome, dulling the warmth that had built there moments before. Did he see me as just another girl? Someone easy to read, easy to win over? Someone already halfway there before he even tried? The idea made something in me tighten, something sharp and uncomfortable, like I had been exposed without realising it, like I had already given away too much. And suddenly, despite how close he was, despite how warm the room felt only moments ago - I felt cold.
Everything had felt distant before that moment, muted and uncertain, like I was moving through something I didn’t fully understand, until his hand found my thigh, warm and firm, grounding me in a way nothing else had. The contrast was immediate, almost jarring, the heat of his touch cutting clean through the dull haze I had been sitting in, pulling me back into my body all at once.
And then everything shifted. It happened quickly, but not carelessly.
There was a pause in him at first, something softer beneath the surface, the briefest hesitation as if he was reading me, making sure I was still there with him, that I hadn’t pulled away, that this was something I wanted. His touch lingered just long enough to feel intentional, his gaze searching mine in a way that almost felt gentle.
And then it was gone. Replaced
The change wasn’t abrupt, but it was undeniable, the warmth sharpening into something heavier, something far more consuming, his movements losing that careful restraint and becoming something deeper, something driven. It was like watching him shed one version of himself for another, something darker, something that wanted without hesitation. I felt it in the way he moved me, guiding rather than asking, until I was pressed into the centre of my bed, pillows surrounding me, the space closing in as he followed, settling above me with a presence that felt inescapable. Caging me in. His arms braced on either side of me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the weight of his body hovering just there, not quite touching but near enough to make every inch of space between us feel deliberate. My breath caught somewhere in my chest, uneven, my heartbeat rising fast and loud, echoing in my ears like something building toward impact.
And beneath it something deeper stirred. A slow, spreading heat that I couldn’t ignore, something that curled low and tight, responding to him before I had the chance to think it through. Memories flickered uninvited, of the way he had touched me before, the way he had made me feel seen, wanted, chosen in a way that lingered long after it should have.
It made everything sharper. More dangerous. When his lips met mine, it wasn’t soft for long.
There was a moment, just a second, where it hovered between something careful and something more, and then he closed the distance fully, taking control of it in a way that made my breath catch. It was consuming, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask but assumed, deepening without hesitation, his hand tightening slightly where it rested against me, pulling me closer into something I couldn’t pull away from even if I tried.
And I didn’t try.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up, responding to him instinctively, the tension unravelling into something far less controlled, something that made me shift beneath him without meaning to. His grip adjusted, firmer now, anchoring me in place, like he had already learned exactly how I would move, exactly how to keep me there. It was overwhelming. The way he touched me and the way he knew. Every small reaction felt amplified, every shift, every breath, every quiet sound pulled from me without permission, and the more I responded, the more certain he became, like he was feeding off it, like he needed it.
Like he wanted me to lose control.
And the worst part was how easily I was already giving it to him.
His hands moved over me with a slow, deliberate intent, as if he was mapping something out, committing every reaction to memory, every shift of my body under his touch noted and stored somewhere behind those dark, unreadable eyes. There was something unhurried in it, something that made the moment stretch, even as my breath came quicker, uneven, betraying me far too easily. When his fingers caught at the fabric of my clothes, tugging just enough to shift them, to test the space between hesitation and permission, I felt it all at once, that sharp flicker of vulnerability, of being seen too clearly, too entirely. My instinct was immediate, my legs drawing in slightly, a quiet, reflexive attempt to shield myself from the intensity of his gaze.
It didn’t last.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
His hand settled against my leg, firm but not forceful, guiding rather than demanding, his touch warm against my skin as he eased the distance back open, undoing that instinct as if it had never been there to begin with.
“Don’t hide doll,” he murmured, his voice low, almost softened, though there was something beneath it that felt far less gentle. “Let me look at you.”
My breath caught at the sight of this. His gaze dragged over me slowly, unhurried, deliberate in a way that made my chest tighten, made the heat in my cheeks deepen under the weight of it. It wasn’t just looking he was taking me all in.
“You’re stunning,” he added quietly, like it was something obvious, something he didn’t need to convince me of, his hand still resting there, grounding, holding me in place.
I couldn’t answer. Didn’t trust myself to.
His touch shifted again, slower now, trailing, testing, the contrast between light and firm enough to make every movement feel sharper, more pronounced. My body reacted without asking me first, a quiet inhale, a slight shift beneath him, something that only seemed to encourage him further. He noticed everything. Every small response. Every breath. And he used it. How my back arched at his touch.
It was intoxicating, the way he moved, the way he seemed to understand exactly where to press, where to linger, where to push just enough to make my composure slip. It made me wonder, fleetingly, if it was always like this, if it always felt this consuming, this overwhelming, or if it was just him, just the way he knew how to unravel something piece by piece until there was nothing left to hold onto.
I could feel the heat rising in my face, the quiet embarrassment that came with being read so easily, so openly, like there was nothing I could keep from him even if I tried.
“
You’re thinking too much again,” he murmured, almost amused, his fingers still moving in that same slow, deliberate rhythm, never quite letting me settle.
I barely had time to respond before the sound cut through everything. The front door. It was unmistakable. The click, the shift, the faint echo of it opening and closing, followed by something heavier, something immediate, footsteps that didn’t hesitate, that moved with purpose through the apartment.
Not one.
Two.
My entire body went still beneath him, breath catching sharply in my throat, my hand instinctively flying to my mouth as if I could silence the moment itself, my eyes widening as the reality hit all at once. I knew those footsteps. Choso. Followed by clicking of heels. A goddamn woman.
Soft at first, then clearer, her voice threaded with a lightness that made something in my chest drop instantly, heavily, like it had been pulled straight down. The sound of them moving through the apartment, closer now, too close, the distance between us shrinking with every step they took.
My heart was racing again, louder than before, panic settling in sharp and fast, my fingers pressing harder against my lips as if that alone could stop the sound of my breathing, could make this moment disappear entirely. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to hear this. And yet Geto didn’t move. Not away. Not even slightly.
If anything, he stilled in a different way, not tense, not caught off guard, but aware, his expression shifting into something far more dangerous, that familiar smirk returning slowly, deliberately, like he had been waiting for this. Like he knew.
His gaze flicked toward the door for only a second before returning to me, calm, unreadable, untouched by the tension that had completely taken over my body.
“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low, almost too casual, like nothing had changed at all.
I shook my head slightly, barely able to breathe, my eyes still fixed toward the door as the sound of footsteps drew closer, closer, until it felt like they were just outside.
“You need to be quiet,” I whispered, my voice barely there, strained with panic.
But he only watched me.
That same look in his eyes. Dark. Knowing. Unbothered.
And somewhere beneath the fear tightening in my chest something else twisted with it. Because he didn’t look worried. He looked interested. Like this, this exact moment was exactly what he wanted.
The footsteps grew louder, heavier, accompanied by that soft, careless laugh that didn’t belong here, that didn’t belong anywhere near me, and it made something in my chest twist sharply, something bitter and unfamiliar, something I didn’t have time to name. I could hear them moving down the hall.
Closer.
Too close.
My hand stayed pressed over my mouth, my breathing shallow, uneven, my entire body tense beneath him as if stillness alone could make us disappear, could undo the fact that this was happening at all.
“Geto—” I whispered, barely audible, my voice tight with warning, with panic.
But he didn’t stop.
If anything, the shift in him became more noticeable, more deliberate, like the presence just outside the room had flipped something inside him rather than deterred him. His focus didn’t waver, didn’t break, his attention still entirely on me, on the way I reacted, on the way my body betrayed every attempt to stay controlled. He wanted to wreck me, break me and use me – and I would let him.
“You hear that?” he murmured softly, his voice brushing against me like something almost playful, almost cruel.
I nodded slightly, my eyes wide, my pulse erratic, my entire body screaming at me to stop this, to push him away, to do something - But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Because the sounds outside only grew clearer, the murmur of voices, the soft thud of movement against the walls, the unmistakable presence of Choso just beyond the door, close enough that it made the air feel thinner. And Geto; Geto knew it. I could see it in the way his lips curved, in the way his eyes darkened slightly, something sharper settling there, something that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with who was on the other side of that wall.
“You gonna try stay quiet for me…” he murmured, his voice low, almost a tease, his gaze lifting just enough to meet mine, that smirk pulling at his lips. I could feel his breath against my bud, he was that close to my core. That alone was sending me.
A pause.
“Or not?”
It wasn’t a question, not really. It was like he already knew the answer. Like he could see straight through me, past the panic, past the hesitation, to something deeper, something I didn’t want to admit even to myself.
Because I could hear her laugh again.
I could hear Choso’s voice, low, closer now, just inside his room, just there and something in me snapped but not loudly. Not dramatically. But enough. Fuck it.
Something must’ve clicked for Geto too, a dark glaze covered his eyes as he sent electricity through my body with a firm hard lick. Before his rough hands flew around my hips holding, locking me into place. My hand slipped slightly from my mouth, just for a second, just enough for my control to falter, for something small and breathless to escape before I could stop it, before I could pull it back in. A let out a pent-up cry, a breathy moan high in pitch.
The way I could still see his grin on his face as he planted himself deeply into me, massaging me, caressing me. My hand flew back to my mouth as he started violently sucking on my swollen bulb. Fast and hard. Sending my head back in euphoria. A feeling I’ve never felt but been dying to. I tried to conceal myself, my voice and the way everything he was doing to me was shattering me into a thousand pieces.
It was far from quiet but was it loud enough. Until everything stilled.
For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to hold its breath with me, the sound hanging there, suspended, fragile, irreversible.
And then from just inside his room.
The footsteps stopped.
