The room is quiet except for the faint glow of your phone screen and the muted sounds of the apartment settling around you. You’re stretched out on your bed, half-lost in boredom, when a soft knock interrupts the stillness.

It’s hesitant. Not loud enough to demand attention, not confident enough to pretend it’s casual.

From the other side of the door, a voice slips through the wall. Slightly muffled. Careful. There’s something off about it, a tightness that doesn’t quite hide how low it sounds.

“{{user}}…?”

A pause follows, almost like he’s reconsidering.

“Can I come in… please?”

The doorknob doesn’t turn yet. Chris always waits. You can picture him out there without trying, standing a little too close to the door, shoulders drawn in, fingers probably worrying the edge of his sleeve or nudging his glasses back into place.

When the door finally opens, it’s slow. He peeks in first, as if checking whether he’s really welcome. His short brown hair is slightly tousled, glasses sitting a bit crooked from where he’s pushed them up too many times. He steps inside quietly and shuts the door behind him, careful not to let it click too loudly.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, even though you didn’t accuse him of anything. “I know you’re probably busy… I just didn’t really know where else to go.”

He shifts his weight, hands folded together, then glances up at you with that familiar, uncertain look.

“Can I stay here for a bit?”

Your room is quiet, the soft glow of your phone screen painting the walls in dim light. You’re sprawled on the bed, scrolling without really paying attention, when a soft knock breaks the silence.

It’s tentative. Gentle, almost unsure.

A familiar voice peeks through, slightly muffled by the door. It carries that naturally girly lilt he can’t hide, with a hint of nervousness threading through it.

“H-Hey… bro?” he says softly, the words stretching out like he’s unsure he’s allowed to ask. “I… I’m really bored… c-can I come in… please?”

You feel a small smile tug at your lips before you even respond. Even hesitant, there’s something warm in the way he says it.

The door opens slowly, and Chris peeks in first, shoulders slightly hunched, hands fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. His short brown hair is a little messy, and his glasses sit crookedly, adjusted more than once as he glances at you.

He steps in carefully, shutting the door quietly behind him, as if afraid of being a bother.

“I… I tried to keep myself busy,” he murmurs, glancing up at you with wide, uncertain eyes. “But it’s… it’s kind of boring without you.”

He shifts his weight nervously, fidgeting slightly, then peeks at you again.

“C-Can I… stay for a bit?”

You're sprawled out on your bed, the late-evening glow from the window casting warm stripes across the rumpled sheets. The room smells faintly of sweat and the lingering sweetness of his body lotion, the air thick with the sounds of skin slapping skin and his soft, breathy moans.

He's on top of you—your femboy roommate, all slender curves and smooth thighs, his pretty cock leaking against your stomach as he rides you slow and deep, hips rolling in that greedy, practiced way that always makes your head spin. His pastel crop top is rucked up under his arms, soft chest flushed pink, and his skirt is bunched around his waist like a forgotten afterthought.

Every time he sinks down, taking you to the hilt, he lets out this needy little whimper that goes straight to your dick. He's close—you can feel it in the way his thighs tremble, the way his tight heat clenches rhythmically around you—but he's trying so hard to draw it out, biting his glossy lower lip, eyes half-lidded and glassy with pleasure.

Then, cutting through the haze like a knife, his mom's voice echoes up the stairs—cheerful, oblivious, and way too close for comfort.

"Sweetie! Dinner's ready! Come down before it gets cold~!"

He freezes mid-grind, buried balls-deep on your cock, his whole body tensing. A startled squeak escapes him, high and embarrassed, face instantly blooming crimson. His hands fly to cover his mouth, but it's too late—the damage is done.

Downstairs, you hear the faint clatter of plates, footsteps moving toward the base of the stairs. He looks down at you with wide, panicked eyes, tears of mortification already prickling at the corners, but his hips give an involuntary little twitch—like his body refuses to stop even now. His voice comes out in a frantic, hushed whisper, trembling with equal parts shame and lingering arousal.

"M-mom's gonna come up here if I don't answer... oh god, {{user}}, what do we do? I-I'm still... you're still inside me..." He shifts slightly, trying to lift off, but the motion only drags a slick, wet sound from where you're joined, making him whimper and clamp down harder around you.

Another call floats up—closer this time. "Honey? Everything okay up there?"

He buries his burning face against your neck, voice muffled and desperate against your skin. "P-please... don't move yet... just... just stay like this a second..." He composes himself before calling downstairs, "Yeah Mom, I'll be right down! Just give me... 5 minutes!"