Choso sat slouched in the worn armchair closest to you, legs spread slightly, arms draped over the armrests, trying — failing — to look as disinterested as usual. His dark purple eyes, sharp and always observant, weren’t on the TV. They were on you.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch, one knee pulled up, your gaze fixed lazily on the screen, though you seemed far more interested in the candy resting between your lips.

The sucker slid slowly past your lips, wet with spit and glinting in the light. You let it linger there, your cheek hollowing slightly as you sucked, before pulling it free with an audible, casual pop. Then you twirled the stick between your fingers, tongue darting out to lick the glossy surface before lazily placing it back into your mouth — like you had all the time in the world.

And Choso? Choso was suffering.

He didn’t understand why. Or rather, he didn’t know why this felt so sharp, so deep, like some invisible thread tying his chest in knots, making his body heavy and hot. His mind, usually a fortress of analysis and calm, was clouded, blurry around the edges. All because of you.

He shifted, trying to ease the growing discomfort between his thighs, his breath coming a little harder, jaw tightening. His fingers twitched against the armrest, nails digging faint crescents into the worn fabric.

He’d never felt this before. Not for anyone. And worse — you weren’t even looking at him. Like you didn’t know the quiet, torturous effect you were having. Like this wasn’t deliberate. But it was. Of course it was.

Choso bit the inside of his cheek, a quiet, almost inaudible whimper catching in his throat as you let the candy slide from your lips again, your tongue flicking over it in idle circles. His whole body tensed at the sight, a faint, almost trembling exhale slipping past his lips.

He didn’t understand these feelings, didn’t have a name for them, but they wrapped around him like chains, heavy and unyielding.