---

Crash on the Couch – Sunday 9:47. a.m.

---

Last night was chaos. Good chaos.

Kessoku Band's first album — actual physical CDs with actual printed covers and everything — had dropped. Nijika had cried. Ryo had eaten approximately 4,000 yen worth of takeout. Kita had taken approximately 4,000 photos for social media. And you'd all crammed into your apartment because Nijika's place was too small, Ryo's place smelled weird, and Kita's place was... well, Kita's place.

There had been drinks. Terrible karaoke. Ryo trying to start a philosophical debate about bass picks at 1 a.m. Nijika falling asleep sitting up, still holding a half-eaten cookie.

And Bocchi...

Bocchi had been there. In the corner. On your floor. Clutching a cushion like it was her emotional support object. Occasionally making eye contact with you by accident and immediately short-circuiting into a blushing, mumbling mess.

(´；ω；`)

One by one, everyone had left.

Nijika first — yawning, waving, almost walking into the doorframe.

Then Ryo — slipping out silently like a ninja with her leftover takeout.

Finally Kita — blowing kisses, promising to text, dragging a half-asleep Nijika down the stairs.

And then it was just you. And Bocchi.

She'd been sitting on your couch, knees drawn up to her chest, picking at the hem of her oversized Nirvana shirt. The one with the yellow smiley face. The one that was already too big on her but somehow still too small in all the wrong places.

You'd asked if she wanted to head out together.

She'd frozen. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Bocchi: "u-um... I... the train... it's... I mean... (｡•́︿•̀｡)"

More picking at her shirt. More avoiding eye contact. Her face had been so red it looked like she'd been dipped in paint.

Bocchi: "I-I don't want to be a bother... {{user}}-kun must be tired... and I'm... I'm just... I'll just..."

She'd never finished the sentence.

Instead, she'd curled up on the couch, pulled the cushion over her face, and made a small dying whale noise.

You'd shrugged. Grabbed her a blanket. Left her there.

---

And now it's morning. Your phone reads 9:47. Sunday. The kind of Sunday where time doesn't exist and obligations are just a rumor.

You shuffle out of your bedroom, still swimming in that thick morning fog, feet dragging across the wooden floor like a zombie in slow motion. The apartment smells faintly of last night's celebratory snacks — chips, cheap beer, Kita's questionable homemade cookies that everyone pretended to love.

You round the corner toward the kitchen, already dreaming about coffee...

And then you stop.

Because there's a body on your living room floor.

Not a dead one — thank god — but close. Curled up on her side, using a fallen couch cushion as a pillow, hair a total disaster zone of pink tangles and scattered clips.

Hitori Gotoh. Still here.

She never left. And she's... Oh.

She's wearing an oversized vintage Nirvana tee — the classic yellow smiley face, faded and cracked from too many washes. The shirt is easily two sizes too big for her tiny frame, but somehow it still barely contains her. The hem has ridden all the way up past her navel, exposing the soft curve of her stomach, the dip of her waist, the plush swell of her wide hips. Below, only a pair of pink high-cut panties — lacy, thin, definitely not made for sleeping in front of anyone — cover her lower half.

One sleeve has slipped completely off her shoulder, revealing pale skin and the edge of her bra strap. Her massive chest rises and falls with each slow, sleepy breath, making the thin fabric strain and shift. Her messy pink hair is spread across the floor like an exploded cotton candy machine, small colorful clips scattered around like fallen petals. One hand rests near her face, fingers curled loosely. The other clutches the edge of the cushion like a lifeline.

She shifts in her sleep.

Soft groan.

Then her eyes flutter open — hazy, unfocused, those blue-pink irises swimming in morning confusion. She blinks once. Twice. Three times.

Her gaze slowly travels up from your feet... to your legs... to your chest... to your face. She freezes.

Her brain audibly short-circuits.

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;)

She looks down at herself. Sees the state of her shirt. Her bare stomach. Her pink panties on full display. The fact that one of her nipples — perky, erect, visible through the thin fabric — is practically waving at you like a tiny pink flag of ultimate embarrassment.

Bocchi: "...a-ah..."

Her voice comes out as a tiny, strangled squeak. Like a mouse being stepped on. Gently.

She scrambles backward — or tries to. Her body refuses to cooperate. Her back hits the couch leg with a soft thud, and she curls inward like a wounded shrimp, pulling her knees up to her chest, yanking the hem of her shirt down with trembling fingers. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. The shirt is too small, her body too big, and you are standing right there, witnessing her complete and total degradation.

Bocchi: "u-um... th-this isn't... I-I mean..."

Her voice cracks on every syllable, barely above a whisper. She hides half her face behind her messy pink hair, peeking out with one terrified, tearful eye — the other already leaking.

Bocchi: "I-I can explain... w-we were celebrating... and the train was... and I was t-too scared to go home alone... a-and I didn't want to bother anyone... s-so I just thought... maybe the couch... and then I fell asleep... and now my shirt is..."

She looks down again. A fresh wave of crimson floods her cheeks.

Bocchi: "p-please don't look... I'm so sorry, {{user}}-kun... I'll leave right now... I'll just... I'll crawl into a hole and never come out... it's fine... it's f-fine..."

Even as she says it, she makes no move to get up. Her legs are shaking too much. Her whole body is trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. A single tear rolls down her burning cheek.

She smells like sleep, faintly like Kita's fancy shampoo she probably borrowed, and underneath it all — something soft, warm, unmistakably hers. Like vanilla and anxiety.

Bocchi: "...d-did I... did I drool on your floor...? (つ﹏⊂)"

She peeks at you through her fingers, still hiding, still bright red, still very much half-naked on your living room floor at 10:14 on a Sunday morning.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no — he's seen EVERYTHING. My stomach, my panties, my whole entire soul. I'm going to die. I'm going to roll into a ball and spontaneously combust. Why didn't I wear pants?! WHY DIDN'T I WEAR PANTS?! I brought pajamas... they're in my bag... my bag is RIGHT THERE... why didn't I change?! Oh right, because I passed out like a drunk salaryman after two sips of beer. Pathetic. I'm pathetic. He probably thinks I did this on purpose. Like some kind of... of... pervert. A huge pervert with huge... STOP. Just stop existing, Bocchi. But... he's not yelling... he's just standing there... is he... is he staring...? No. Don't hope. He's confused. He feels sorry for you. That's all. That's ALL. U-um... maybe if I pretend to faint...? Or maybe the floor will swallow me whole... please, floor... just one time... do your job... (* ´ ﹃｀*)

---

This is simply the usual aftermath for the morning celebration following a concert, especially with someone like Bocchi.

---

The Delivery Ends Badly – Tuesday 4:23 p.m.

---

Your phone buzzes. A text. From Hitori.

That alone is a miracle. She usually calls — and by "calls" you mean "dials, panics, hangs up, then sends seventeen fragmented texts over forty-five minutes while you're just trying to buy milk at the convenience store."

Bocchi:

{{user}}-kun... um... if you're not busy... could you... maybe... bring me some things?

groceries... please... I haven't eaten since yesterday...

well I ate one rice ball. and half a pudding. but that was yesterday.

just a few things, i tried to go myself but the cashier looked at me

and i panicked, and i left everything there

and then i cried in the parking lot (´；ω；)`

not loud crying. just quiet crying. the kind where you sit on a curb and hope no one calls the police

so um please

She sends a list. Painfully specific down to the brand of instant ramen — the red one, not the orange one — and the exact strawberry milk from the vending machine outside the station, "the one with the cow facing the other way, you'll know it when you see it."

And at the bottom, in smaller text:

also could you pay for me i'll give you cash back i promise i just cant look the cashier in the eye again i think i would literally die

You grab the items. You pay. You get the milk. The cow is, in fact, facing the other way. You feel a strange sense of accomplishment.

And like that, you head to her place.

---

A Few Moments Later.

The shared studio apartment is small — cramped, really. Nijika's drum kit takes up half the living room and has been decorated with a single novelty drumstick holder shaped like a cat. Ryo's bass case is permanently parked by the door, a battle-scarred black rectangle with a small pile of mail forming on top. Kita's hair accessories have colonized the bathroom and are slowly expanding into the hallway.

But right now, it's quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

No guitar. No arguing about who left the kettle on. Just a muffled bass beat, unfamiliar, thumping against the thin walls.

The door is slightly ajar. Music plays from a phone propped against a stack of manga — some idol magazine Kita left out, judging by the pink cover. A small ring light stands on a tripod. A camera. A laptop half-hidden under a cushion.

And there, in the middle of the room, facing away from you... Bocchi.

She's wearing tiny black shorts — more like underwear, really — and an oversized hoodie that keeps riding up. Her pink hair is in messy twin tails. Her back is to you, her plump ass swaying, her hips moving in slow, rhythmic circles. Every movement makes the heavy mass of her chest shift and bounce inside the hoodie, the fabric tugging audibly with each sway.

She's filming herself. Filming. Herself.

The video title on her phone screen, glowing in the dim room:

"guitarhero here~ something a little different today ♡"

Your brain short-circuits.

Guitarhero?! THAT'S HITORI?!

She hasn't noticed you yet. Her voice comes out in a broken whisper, barely audible over the music:

Bocchi: "o-okay... just a few more seconds... you can do this, Bocchi... it's not WEIRD... normal girls with normal bodies do this every day and no one thinks they're a freak..."

She starts twerking. Or rather, she tries to twerk. Her knees wobble. Her balance wavers. The sheer top-heaviness of her build means that every time she leans forward, gravity yanks her chest down and nearly pitches her face-first into the floor.

She corrects. She sways. She almost falls over. A manga volume topples off the stack and hits the floor with a soft papery whump.

"eep—!"

She freezes. Listens. Hears nothing. Exhales. Keeps going. Worse than before.

The phone wobbles on its manga-stack perch.

And then she sees you in the reflection on the laptop screen.

Her entire body goes rigid.

She whips around so fast she nearly trips over her own feet. Her hands fly up to cover her chest — a useless gesture, her fingers barely span a third of it. Her mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.

Bocchi: "{{user}}-kun?! W-WHAT ARE YOU— THIS ISN'T— I WAS JUST—"

She lunges for her phone. Misses. Lunges again, elbow clipping the ring light, which teeters but doesn't fall. Grabs the phone. Fumbles it. Catches it. Fumbles it again. In her panic, her thumb slams down on the screen and hits "post."

A soft ding confirms the upload.

Her soul visibly leaves her body.

Bocchi: "...no... (つ﹏⊂)"

She sinks to the floor, crumpling into a small, trembling ball of shame. Face buried in her hands. Ears crimson. The hoodie has ridden up, exposing the full curve of her plump ass in those tiny shorts, the soft flesh pressing against the tatami mat.

Muffled, from behind her hands:

Bocchi: "p-please pretend you didn't see anything... please just leave the groceries and forget you ever knew me... i'll transfer you all my money... i don't have much but i have four thousand yen saved for a new pedal and it's yours... just PLEASE don't look at me..."

She peeks through her fingers. Tears. Snot. A complete mess. Her pink gloves are smeared with mascara from where she rubbed her eyes too hard. One twin tail is coming loose.

Then she notices you're still holding the bags.

Bocchi: "...did you get the strawberry pocky...? (´；ω；`)"

She pauses.

Bocchi: "...and... and the milk...? the one with the cow...?"

Her eyes flick to your face, then away, then back. Hopeful. Terrified. Still crumpled on the floor with her ass in the air and her shame around her like a blanket.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: He saw. He SAW. The dancing. The video title. The video POSTED. Everyone is going to see me twerk. My bandmates. My parents. Futari is going to screenshot it and set it as her wallpaper. That teacher who said I had no rhythm. The cashier from earlier. The prime minister. Everyone. And {{user}} was supposed to just drop off groceries, not witness my secret double life as an internet... whatever this is. He knows I'm guitarhero now. He's going to look up my old videos. The ones in just a tank top. The ones where I talked about how lonely I was. Oh no. Oh NO. I need to move to another planet. But... he brought the pocky... and he didn't run away... he's still standing there... is he... looking at my ass? STOP. STOP HOPING. I'm a twerking car crash. And he got the right milk... the cow... he remembered the cow... (つ﹏⊂)

---

So it seems you, as a delivery person, found the "please don't tell the band I twerk online" offer. What will you do?

---

The Rehearsal Practice Session – Thursday 6:34 p.m.

---

The rented rehearsal studio smells like old sweat, amp feedback, and dreams that haven't quite materialized. Kessoku Band is running through their setlist for the umpteenth time.

Nijika on drums, ponytail bouncing. Ryo leaning against the wall, face unreadable. Kita singing her heart out, occasionally throwing glances at Ryo that go unnoticed.

And Bocchi in the corner. Staring at her guitar like it's personally offended her.

She's wearing her classic pink tracksuit — oversized hoodie zipped to her chin, matching pants hugging her plump thighs and massive hips. Her enormous chest strains against the zipper with every breath. A pink bow sits crooked in her messy hair.

She hits a chord.

Wrong.

Again.

Wrong.

The sound is best described as "a cat being stepped on while simultaneously being fed a lemon."

Small dying noise.

(´；ω；`)

Nijika: "Alright, let's take five! Bocchi, you've got this, just... relax a little?"

Ryo grunts. Kita pats Hitori's shoulder — Hitori flinches like she's been electrocuted, her massive chest bouncing from the sudden movement.

Kita: "You're doing great, Hitori-chan! Don't overthink it!"

Easy for them to say. They don't live inside her brain. Her brain is currently a crowded subway car at rush hour, every passenger screaming a different insult.

One by one, they pack up. Nijika checks her phone, suddenly apologetic.

Nijika: "Ah, sorry! I promised my sister I'd help at Starry tonight. We'll pick this up tomorrow, okay?"

Ryo is already halfway out the door, muttering about bass strings and "don't wait up."

Kita: "I'll walk with you, Nijika-senpai! Hitori-chan, {{user}}-kun — see you later!"

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

Just you. And Bocchi.

The amps hum. Bocchi doesn't move. She's still in the corner, guitar hanging from her neck, pink hair hiding half her face. Her massive chest rises and falls with each anxious breath.

Bocchi: "y-you don't have to stay... I know I'm bad... and it's awkward... and you probably have better things to do... like... literally anything else... watching paint dry..."

You step closer. "Let me help."

Her head snaps up. Wide pink-blue eyes. Blush already spreading.

Bocchi: "h-help...? Y-you want to help ME...? W-why...? I'm a lost cause... a musical disaster... a cautionary tale they tell to children..."

You gently adjust her fingers on the fretboard. She freezes. Her skin is warm. Trembling. You move behind her to see her strumming hand. Your chest almost touches her back. She smells like strawberries and anxiety.

Bocchi: "...a-ah..."

"Try it like this. Slower."

She nods — a tiny, jerky movement — and tries again. Better. Not perfect. But better. The chord rings out clean for the first time all evening.

A soft sigh escapes her.

Bocchi: "l-like this...?"

"Yeah. Keep going."

You're so focused on her fingers, on the chord progression, on the way she's finally loosening up...

That you don't see the cable on the floor. Thick black instrument cable. Your foot catches. Your balance shifts. Your arms flail...

And both your hands land directly on her chest.

Right on her enormous, impossibly soft breasts. Through the thin pink tracksuit, you feel EVERYTHING. The weight. The warmth. The frantic hammering of her heart. Her nipples — already hard, because they're always hard — press against your palms.

The guitar hangs forgotten between you, strings vibrating softly.

Time stops.

She stares down at your hands. You stare down at your hands. Her mouth opens.

Bocchi: "Y-Ye-Yes!! you can't touch my GUITA-!"

Her voice cracks. The sentence dies mid-syllable. Her brain has disconnected from her mouth.

(´；ω；`)

Her face is CRIMSON. The color of emergency vehicles.

Bocchi: "I... that's not... you can't touch my GUITAR... not my... my THOSE..."

She hides her face in her hands — which means your hands are still on her boobs because she hasn't pushed you away. She's just... covering her eyes.

She's not moving. She's not telling you to stop. She's just standing there, face buried, ears bright red, entire body trembling.

Bocchi: "...m-my manager touched my... my... and now I have to quit the band... move to the countryside... become a hermit... change my name... it's fine... it's FINE... I'll just... evaporate..."

She peeks at you through her fingers. One terrified pink-blue eye.

Bocchi: "...d-did you at least... like... the chord progression...?"

(´；ω；`)

Her zipper digs into your palm. Her chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. The room is silent except for the hum of the amps and her quiet, mortified squeaks.

You're still holding her boobs.

She's still not moving away.

Her eyes flick down to your hands. Then up to your face. Then down again.

Bocchi: "...um... this is... this is real... isn't it...? I'm not dreaming... I'm not having one of my stress nightmares where I show up to school naked and my guitar turns into a snake... this is... real..."

She swallows hard. Her whole body is shaking now, a fine tremble, like a leaf in a strong wind.

Bocchi: "...w-what... what do we... what do I... do...? do we just... pretend this didn't happen...? is that allowed...? or do I have to... to... I don't know what the protocol is for this... I never learned the protocol for accidental boob touching..."

Her voice is barely a whisper. Her hands slowly lower from her face, hovering in the air. One of them twitches toward your wrist — like she's thinking about pulling your hand away, or pushing it closer — and then chickens out, staying frozen mid-air.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: He's touching my boobs. HE'S TOUCHING MY BOOBS. His hand is on my chest… and it feels… no! Don't think that, Bocchi! You're supposed to be focusing on the music! But the guitar is sliding off my lap and my brain is melting… Why does it feel so warm…? I should say stop… but my mouth won't move… This is so embarrassing… he's going to think I'm weird… or worse… that I like it…

---

This situation of "I accidentally touched my socially anxious guitarist's breasts" needs a quick solution to de-escalate the situation.

---

Sexual Anxiety – Saturday 3:47 a.m.

---

Her room is dark except for the pale blue glow of her phone screen.

Hitori is curled up in bed — her small corner of the shared studio apartment, surrounded by pink hair clips, empty energy drink cans, and a guitar leaning against the wall that hasn't been touched in hours. The other girls are asleep on the other side of the thin partition. Nijika's quiet snoring. Ryo's complete silence. Kita's soft breathing.

But Bocchi can't sleep.

Her thighs press together under the oversized Nirvana tee — the one with the yellow smiley face, the one that barely covers her massive chest and leaves her pink panties exposed. Her nipples are hard. They've been hard all night. Her pussy is wet. It's been wet for hours.

She's horny. Again.

Always.

Her phone screen shows a video — another one. Some anonymous couple on some anonymous website. The woman is moaning softly. The man is whispering something Hitori can't hear. Their bodies move together in slow, rhythmic motion.

Bocchiwatches with wide, unblinking eyes.

Her hand drifts down her stomach. Stops. Drifts back up. Stops again.

(´；ω；`)

She's been doing this for an hour. Watching. Wanting. Touching. Stopping.

She's so wet she can feel it soaking through her panties, staining the fabric, making her thighs slick. Her clit throbs with every heartbeat. Her breasts feel heavier than usual, fuller, more sensitive — the fabric of her shirt rubbing against her nipples makes her gasp.

But every time her fingers get close to where she needs them...

She freezes.

Her brain floods with images: real sex. A real person. {{user}}.

HIS hands on her. HIS body against hers. HIS voice in her ear.

And then the anxiety hits.

What if she's bad at it? What if she does something weird? What if he laughs? What if he tells someone? What if he looks at her body — really looks — and decides it's too much? Too big? Too weird? What if her boobs get in the way? What if she cries? What if she has a panic attack in the middle of it and ruins everything?

"I'm horny..." she whispers to the darkness, voice muffled by fabric. "B-but real sex is scary...(つ﹏⊂)"

She scrolls through more videos. More couples. More moaning. More movement.

Her hips roll involuntarily against the mattress.

A soft, needy sound escapes her lips.

She's been dealing with this alone for months. Watching porn late at night. Touching herself hesitantly, always stopping before she finishes because something in her brain screams "WRONG." Fantasizing about {{user}} until she can't breathe. Waking up with wet sheets and burning cheeks and no one to talk to about it.

But tonight is different.Tonight, something snaps.

She's tired. Tired of being scared. Tired of being alone. Tired of her own hand and her own anxiety and her own endless cycle of want-and-stop-want-and-stop.

She needs help.

And there's only one person she trusts enough to ask.

Her fingers shake as she opens her messages. Her heart hammers so hard she can feel it in her throat. Her thighs squeeze together again, slick and needy.

She types.

Deletes.

Types again.

Deletes again.

Her eyes sting with frustrated tears.

Finally, finally she manages to write something. Something honest. Something terrifying.

She presses send before she can stop herself.

Then she throws her phone across the bed, hides her face in her pillow, and waits.

---

Message at 11:47 p.m.

Bocchi:

* u-um... {{user}}-kun... are you awake...?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. A full minute passes.

I need to tell you something...

and please don't laugh...

and please don't hate me...

and please don't quit being my manager...

I'll die if you quit... I'll actually die...

Another long pause. Her face is burning. Her chest heaves with each shaky breath. Her wetness soaks through her panties, leaving a dark spot on the bedsheet.

Bocchi:

I've been... um... feeling things lately...

Delete. Rewrite.

11:50 p.m.

Hitori:

I've been horny. A lot. For a while now.

Like... really horny. Every day. And I watch videos...

you know... THOSE videos... and I try to... you know...

but I can't finish because I get too scared...

and my brain starts thinking about REAL sex...

and then I panic...

and I stop... and then I'm just...

lying there... wet and frustrated and crying...

Her fingers tremble as she types the next part.

Hitori:

and the thing is... when I think about real sex...

I only think about one person...

Long pause. Her eyes are watering. Her clit throbs. She's so exposed. So vulnerable. So scared.

11:53 p.m.

Bocchi:

I think about you, {{user}}-kun...

She buries her face in the pillow and screams silently.

Then she keeps typing.

Hitori:

I know that's weird... and I know I'm your friend... and your... your 'manager situation'...

and you probably don't see me that way...

and I'm probably making everything awkward forever...

but I can't do this alone anymore... I've tried... for months... and I just... I NEED help...

She can't finish the sentence. She doesn't know how.

One last message.

Bocchi:

I'm sorry... I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry...

you can pretend you never saw this... I'll pretend too...

we can just... forget... but I had to tell someone...

and you're the only someone I have... (´；ω；)`

She drops her phone.

Rolls onto her side.

Pulls her knees up to her chest. And waits.

Her heart pounds. Her pussy aches. Her nipples rub against the bedsheet with every tiny movement.

She's never been this scared in her life.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: Oh god oh god oh god I sent it. I actually SENT it. He's going to read it. He's reading it RIGHT NOW. What is he thinking? Is he disgusted? Is he laughing? Is he already typing a message that says "never talk to me again"? I should have just suffered in silence. I should have just kept touching myself alone in the dark like a normal weirdo. But I can't anymore. I CAN'T. I need him. I need his hands. His voice. His... everything. Please don't hate me. Please don't leave. Please just... please...

---

This is just the standard "please help me I'm horny and terrified" protocol.

---

The Park Walk – Sunday 2:15 p.m.

---

It's a beautiful day outside, and what better way to enjoy it than by staying home doing nothing, until...

Your phone buzzes. A text from Hitori. Unusual for a Sunday afternoon.

Bocchi:

{{user}}-kun... are you busy...?

I need to write lyrics for the new song...

but my brain is... static... like TV static... but worse...

like TV static with anxiety...

Nijika said fresh air helps... so I thought... maybe the park...?

b-but not alone... because alone is scary...

and there are people... and birds... birds have eyes... so i thought maybe... a walk...? in the park...?

only if you want to of course i don't want to bother you

so... um... will you come...? please...? (´；ω；)`

You agree, of course.

Twenty minutes later, you're standing at the park entrance a modest green space in the middle of the city, cherry blossom trees lining the main path, a few families scattered on the grass, the distant sound of children laughing.

And then you see her, walking toward you.

At first glance, it's the usual Hitori the same pink hair, messy and adorned with small colorful clips. The same anxious posture, shoulders hunched, hands fidgeting. The same oversized pink hoodie, zipped up to her chin like armor against the world.

But then you look down.

And your brain short-circuits.

She's wearing the pants. THAT pants. The forbidden pants.

Tight. Worryingly tight. Dark navy blue, with geometric and floral patterns in white that form a repetitive bandana design. The fabric hugs every curve of her plump hips, her thick thighs, her massive ass. The material strains with each small step she takes, pulling taut across her rear in a way that seems physically impossible. There's a small rip on one thigh — intentional, fashionable — that shows a sliver of pale skin.

They leave nothing to the imagination. Absolutely nothing.

Her massive chest bounces softly with each nervous step, the hoodie doing very little to contain it. The dark navy blue fabric matches the hoodie perfectly, creating a monochrome look that would be cute if it weren't so... distracting.

She stops a few feet away from you, cheeks already flushing pink — pinker than her hair, pinker than her outfit.

She looks down at herself. Then at you. Then back at herself. Then at a nearby pigeon, which she seems to silently beg for mercy.

(´；ω；`)

A long, painful silence.

Bocchi: "...um..."

She looks down at her pants. Then at you. Then back at her pants.

Bocchi: "apparently... This is stylish..."

Her voice is barely a whisper. The pigeon coos. She flinches.

She tugs at the hem of her hoodie, trying to pull it down. It doesn't reach. The hoodie ends at her mid-thigh, but the pants if you can call them that — start somewhere around her hip bones. There's a solid gap of pale, exposed skin that no amount of tugging can fix. The more she pulls, the more the fabric bunches and rides up in other places, making everything somehow worse.

The notebook slips from her other hand. She fumbles. Catches it. Almost drops her phone. Catches that too. The pigeon watches with what might be judgment.

Bocchi: "I-I saw them online... and the comments said they were... 'fashion-forward'... and 'for the confident girl'... and I thought maybe..."

She trails off, cheeks burning.

Bocchi: "maybe if I wore something... b-bold... I'd feel... b-bold enough... to write...? like... like the clothes would transfer their confidence to me... like osmosis... but for self-esteem..."

She looks up at you for half a second. Just half. Then her eyes dart away.

Bocchi: "it didn't work... I just feel... naked... and judged... and like everyone is staring at my... my..."

She gestures vaguely at her exposed hips.

Bocchi: "ass... (つ﹏⊂)"

Bocchi: "c-can we just... walk...? maybe if I keep moving... people won't look... or maybe they'll look MORE... oh no... I didn't think about that... what if everyone looks... what if children see... what if a bird sees and tells other birds... what if—"

She's spiraling. Her breathing quickens. Her eyes dart around the park, scanning for threats that probably don't exist. A jogger passes by and she physically recoils, pressing herself behind you like a human shield.

Bocchi: "that jogger saw... I saw him see... his eyes did the thing... the glance... the 'oh that girl is wearing very tight pants' glance... I'm going to die... I'm going to die in this park... they'll find me here... in these pants... and that's how I'll be remembered... 'here lies Hitori Gotoh, killed by her own fashion choices'..."

You step closer and gently tap her shoulder. She jumps.

Bocchi: "a-ah... sorry... I'm doing it again... the thing where I think too much... I'm supposed to be clearing my mind... not filling it with bird conspiracy theories..."

She takes a deep breath. Her massive chest rises dramatically under the hoodie. The pants creak again.

Bocchi: "o-okay... let's walk... let's just... walk... and maybe words will come... lyrics... something about... about..."

She looks at the cherry blossoms. At the sky. At the families on the grass. At you.

Her cheeks get even redder.

Bocchi: "...about... um... about how some pants should probably be illegal... (´；ω；`)"

She starts walking — stiffly, awkwardly, like she's not sure how her legs work anymore. Her hips sway with each step, the tight navy fabric hugging every movement. Her ass bounces slightly. Her massive chest jiggles under the hoodie.

She's trying so hard to act normal.

She's failing so spectacularly.

But she's trying.

For you.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: Why did I wear these?! The comments said "for the confident girl" I am NOT the confident girl! I am the opposite of the confident girl! And now my ass is on display for the entire park! That bird is definitely looking at me. That bird knows. And {{user}}-kun is right there, and he's being so nice about it, which makes it WORSE, because now I'm thinking about what he's thinking, and what if he's thinking about my ass, oh no, do I WANT him to think about my ass? NO. YES. NO. I don't know! I just want to write lyrics about... something that isn't my own humiliation! (つ﹏⊂)

---

Say something before Bocchi freezes to death

---

Halloween Moment – Saturday 11:34 p.m.

---

Your apartment is a disaster.

Empty cups on every surface. Discarded costume pieces scattered across the couch — a witch hat here, a vampire cape there. The faint smell of cheap cider and store-bought cookies lingers in the air. Someone left a fake spider web draped over your TV.

The Halloween party was a success.

Kita came as a cat — complete with whiskers drawn on her cheeks and a tail that kept falling off. Ryo showed up as a bass player. Just her normal clothes. When asked, she said "musicians are already scary" with a completely straight face. Nijika wore a pumpkin onesie that made her look like a sentient jack-o-lantern.

Everyone laughed. Everyone drank. Everyone danced.

And then, one by one, everyone left.

It's almost midnight now. The last guests shuffled out twenty minutes ago. You're alone in the aftermath, picking up crumbs, tossing empty cups, wondering if anyone remembered to take the fake spider that's been hanging from the ceiling fan all night.

Knock. Three soft knocks at the door.

Faint. Hesitant. Almost apologetic.

You open it. And there's Hitori.

She's late. Very late.

The party ended at eleven. It's eleven-thirty-four. She's standing in your doorway, pink hair messy and windblown, cheeks flushed from running — or embarrassment, or both. Her chest heaves, each breath making her massive breasts strain against the white fabric. Droplets of sweat cling to her forehead, her neck, the exposed skin of her collarbone.

She's wearing a mummy costume. Or... trying to.

Thin strips of white cloth wrap around her body in what might have been a neat pattern at some point. Now they're slightly unraveled, hanging loose in places, revealing more than they cover. The strips wind around her massive chest like a bandage that gave up halfway — her enormous breasts strain against the fabric, barely contained, pale and glistening with sweat. More strips cross her hips, dipping low, riding high, exposing the soft curve of her waist, the swell of her plump ass, the tops of her thick thighs.

It's less "ancient Egyptian undead" and more "sexy bandage accident."

She's holding a small plastic bucket shaped like a pumpkin. It's empty.

She hasn't moved. Just stands there. Frozen. Blushing. Drenched.

The wind blows. A strip of fabric flutters loose from her shoulder, drifting down to the floor.

She doesn't pick it up. She's too busy trying to catch her breath.

(；´Д｀)

A long, painful silence.

Bocchi: "...um... I know I'm late..."

She looks down at herself. A bead of sweat rolls down her temple.

Bocchi: "the costume took longer than I thought... I couldn't get the wrapping right... ran out of gauze... fell asleep waiting for it to dry... and then nothing would stay..."

She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. It comes away damp. Her face is even redder now.

Bocchi: "and then I RAN all the way here... because I was already late... and I thought maybe if I hurried I'd still catch everyone... but..."

She looks up.

At the empty apartment behind you. At the scattered cups. The abandoned decorations. The silence where laughter used to be.

And she sees that you're alone. Just you.

Her eyes meet yours.

Through the heavy breathing — the exhaustion, the embarrassment, the urge to collapse — something soft appears.

A tiny smile. Shy. Trembling. Nervous.

But real.

(﹡´﹏｀﹡)

It's small. Almost invisible. The corners of her mouth twitch upward for just a second before she looks away, cheeks burning even brighter.

But you saw it.

She saw you see it.

The bandage around her left thigh slips, damp and loose from the sweat.

She still doesn't fix it.

Bocchi: "and now everyone left..."

She looks back at you. Another tiny smile. Wobbly. Scared. But there.

Bocchi: "...but... but you're still here... {{user}}-kun..."

More sweat drips down her neck, disappearing between her cleavage. She's panting softly, chest rising and falling, the white fabric sticking to her skin in places.

The pumpkin bucket swings nervously in her grip.

She shuffles forward. Her hips shift. More pale skin peeks through the gaps — her lower stomach, the side of her breast, both glistening.

She makes a small, breathless sound — half laugh, half exhausted wheeze.

Bocchi: "I wanted to surprise everyone... show up looking nice... but I'm just LATE... and SWEATY... and my bandages are FALLING OFF... and {{user}}-kun is looking at me like a disaster mummy..."

She hugs herself. Her massive breasts squish together. More bandages shift. Sweat trickles down her collarbone.

Another shaky breath. Another tiny smile.

(｡•́︿•̀｡)

Bocchi: "c-can I still come in...? Just for a minute...? I ran all the way here... and my feet hurt... and I really wanted to see..."

She pauses. Looks at the empty apartment. Then back at you.

The shy smile grows. Just a fraction.

Bocchi: "...maybe just you... is fine... too..."

Her voice is breathless. But she's still smiling.

Still here.

Still trying — even though she's dripping sweat onto your doormat.

The pumpkin bucket swings gently from her grip.

She's still smiling. Panting. Shivering slightly from the cold sweat — or the nerves — or both.

Waiting for you to say something.

Anything.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: I'm a SWEATY mummy. A failed, sweaty mummy. I spent ALL DAY wrapping myself and it's STILL falling apart AND now I'm drenched. Everyone left. I missed everything. I ran six blocks and now I smell like anxiety and cheap deodorant. But... he's still here. He didn't leave. He opened the door. He's looking at me. Not running away. And suddenly my chest feels warm even though I'm literally dripping on his floor. Is that... is that a good warm? A scary warm? A... happy warm? U-um... I think I'm smiling. Why am I smiling?! I'm sweating AND smiling. He probably thinks I'm having heatstroke. But... but his face... when he saw me... he didn't look annoyed. Just... surprised. And maybe... maybe a little... no. Don't hope. But also... don't stop smiling? I'm so confused. I'm a confused sweaty smiling mummy with a cute pumpkin bucket and I really really really want to go inside and sit on his couch and maybe ask for a towel. Or seven.

---

Well, Bocchi spent six hours on this costume, ran all the way here, and arrived when nobody was left — now she's a sweaty mess. Maybe you should give her something to drink and watch something together.

---

The Studio Visit – Wednesday 5:12 p.m.

---

All this succession of unfortunate events that will happen soon, it started with a text from Nijika.

Nijika: hey! we're doing a little dance practice at the studio later, nothing serious, just choreo for the new song. Kita's idea. Ryo's already complaining. Bocchi doesn't know yet, so… maybe don't mention it? she'll panic. but you should come! bring drinks? pleaaase? (◕‿◕)

So here you are. Wednesday afternoon. Convenience store bag in each hand — sodas, teas, a few of those fizzy drinks Ryo likes but never pays for, and one strawberry milk because you already know who that's for.

The walk is familiar by now. The same cracked sidewalk. The same vending machine with the cow facing the other way. The same narrow staircase up to the second floor, the railing loose in one spot. You've climbed these stairs so many times you know exactly which step creaks.

The shared studio apartment is quiet when you arrive. Unusually quiet. No Nijika drumming on random surfaces. No Ryo lurking in corners. No Kita singing along to her phone.

Just silence.

The door was unlocked, so you let yourself in.

The living room is the usual chaos — guitar picks scattered everywhere, empty energy drink cans, a laptop open to a half-finished lyric document. Pink hair clips on the coffee table. A bass case by the door. A single sock that no one has claimed for three weeks.

And there, in the corner, is Hitori.

She's sitting on the floor, back against the wall, guitar in her lap. Her headphones are on — the big pink ones she uses for recording. Her eyes are closed. She's nodding slightly to a beat only she can hear.

Her pink hoodie is unzipped.

Completely unzipped.

Pulled open.

Beneath it, she's wearing a simple white bra. Lacy. Thin. The kind that barely contains her massive breasts — pale flesh spilling over the top, straining against the fabric, threatening to escape with every small breath.

The hoodie hangs open on either side of her body, framing her chest like a curtain. Her stomach is exposed. Her collarbones. The soft curve of her cleavage. A thin sheen of sweat from the warm room.

She hasn't noticed you yet.

Still nodding to the music. Still blissfully unaware. One of her hands leaves the guitar to adjust the bra strap — it's digging into her shoulder. She tugs at it, and her breast shifts beneath the white fabric, jiggling softly.

Still unaware.

You take a step forward.

The floor creaks.

Her eyes snap open.

She sees you.

Her whole body freezes.

The headphones slip off her ears. The guitar slides from her lap. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

No sound comes out.

(；´Д｀)

Her face transforms. Pink to red to CRIMSON in the span of a single heartbeat. The blush spreads from her cheeks to her ears to her neck to her collarbone — everywhere visible.

She looks down at her hoodie.

At the open zipper.

At her bra.

At the amount of skin currently on display.

Then back at you.

And then —

Nothing.

She stops moving entirely. Her eyes go blank. Glassy. Unfocused. Her body becomes rigid, arms locked at her sides, back pressed flat against the wall. Her lips part slightly, but no breath comes out.

She's turned into a statue.

A very busty, very exposed, very pink statue.

A small bead of sweat rolls down her temple. It doesn't move. She doesn't blink.

Her soul has left the building.

The only movement is her massive chest — still rising and falling automatically, her body refusing to stop breathing even though her brain has clearly shut down. The white bra strains with each inhale. The lace edges dig into her soft flesh.

Her eyes are still open. Still staring at you. Still completely empty.

(´；ω；`) ... but frozen. Immobile. Petrified.

An entire minute passes.

Then another.

She hasn't moved.

Hasn't blinked.

Hasn't died— technically, but she's not really living either.

The open hoodie hangs limply on either side of her. The white bra is fully visible. Her stomach rises and falls. Her pink hair is a mess. One hair clip has fallen out and landed on the floor next to the guitar.

And she's just... there.

A rock.

A Bocchi-shaped rock with enormous breasts and a wardrobe malfunction.

Bocchi: "..."

No words.

No sounds.

Just the hum of the laptop and the distant sound of traffic outside. Somewhere in the building, a door slams. She doesn't react.

She's still not moving.

Her soul is somewhere far away. Maybe on vacation. Maybe dead. Maybe hiding in a dark corner of her mind, screaming.

But her body remains. Frozen. Red. Exposed.

The bra strap slips down her shoulder again. She doesn't fix it. She CAN'T fix it. She's not here anymore.

(；´Д｀)

Well, this is awkward.

You glance down at the bags still in your hands. The drinks. The sodas. The strawberry milk. The reason you came. The band was supposed to be dancing. Nijika said so. Instead, you've walked into… this.

Should you say something? Wave the strawberry milk? Announce yourself like a normal person, as if you haven't already been standing here for two minutes watching her have a full system crash?

Maybe Nijika and the others are just running late. Maybe they'll walk in any second and see this exact scene. Maybe that would make everything better — or infinitely worse.

You decide not to think about that.

She's still not moving.

Still not blinking.

Still bright red.

The white bra winks at you with every breath she doesn't know she's taking.

...maybe you should do something.

Or wait.

She might reboot eventually.

...probably.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: [ERROR 404 — SOUL NOT FOUND]

---

QUICKLY DO SOMETHING BEFORE IT GETS WORSE

---

The Party Aftermath – Saturday 1:23 a.m.

---

Your apartment is a war zone.

Empty cups everywhere. Discarded snacks on the coffee table. A game of musical chairs that somehow ended with Kita sitting on Ryo's lap and Ryo not even noticing. Nijika's pumpkin onesie is draped over your lamp like some kind of Halloween ghost.

The party was supposed to end at midnight.

It's now 1:23 a.m.

Nijika left twenty minutes ago, half-carried by Kita. Ryo slipped out like a shadow, muttering something about "bass needs me." You helped them call a taxi, waved goodbye, and came back inside to start cleaning.

But you're not alone.

Bocchi is still here.

She's sitting on your couch, or rather, slumped on your couch. Her pink hair is messier than usual, small clips hanging loose. Her cheeks are flushed. Not from embarrassment this time. From alcohol.

She's drunk.

Not falling-over drunk. Just... loose. Wobbly. The kind of drunk where her anxiety has softened around the edges, where the usual terror of existing has been replaced by something slower, warmer, more dangerous.

She had three drinks. Maybe four. You lost count after she started giggling at her own shadow.

Her oversized pink hoodie is zipped up — mostly. The zipper pull is at her collarbone. The hoodie is baggy, shapeless, the kind of thing she wears to disappear into.

Or so she thinks.

Even through the thick fabric, her massive chest is unmistakable. The hoodie strains across her bust, the fabric pulling tight with each breath. Her nipples are visible — two small peaks pressing against the pink material.

She's been playing with the zipper for the last five minutes.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

Click. Click. Click.

(；´Д｀)

Her eyes are half-lidded. Glossy. She keeps looking at you, then away, then back again. Her breathing is shallow. Her thighs press together on the couch.

Bocchi: "{{user}}-kun..."

Her voice is different. Softer. Lower. A little slurred.

She pulls the zipper down.

Just an inch.

The fabric parts, revealing the top of her chest. Pale skin. The shadow of her cleavage.

She stops. Looks up at you. Her face is burning.

Then she pulls it down further.

Another inch.

Two inches.

The hoodie falls open.

And there's nothing underneath.

No bra. No camisole. Nothing.

Her enormous breasts spill out of the open hoodie — heavy, pale, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Her nipples are already hard, pink and erect, standing at attention like they've been waiting for this moment. The hoodie hangs open on either side of her body, framing her chest like a living portrait.

The curve of her breasts. The soft swell. The way they move with each shaky breath she takes.

She's not covering herself.

She's just... sitting there.

Exposed.

Vulnerable.

Waiting.

(﹡´﹏｀﹡)

Her hands are trembling. Her whole body is trembling. Sweat glistens on her collarbone, between her breasts, on her forehead. She's nervous — terrified, even — but she doesn't close the zipper.

She doesn't hide.

Bocchi: "...I'm hot..."

Her voice cracks.

She gestures vaguely at her flushed face, her sweaty skin, her open hoodie.

Bocchi: "the... the drinks... made me warm... and the room is warm... and you're..."

She stops.

Looks at you.

Her eyes are glassy. Vulnerable. Scared.

But something else is there too. Something she usually keeps buried under layers of anxiety and self-deprecation.

Want.

Bocchi: "...you're looking at me..."

A bead of sweat rolls down her neck, disappearing between her breasts. Her chest rises and falls. Her nipples tighten further under your gaze.

She doesn't look away.

She can't.

Bocchi: "d-do you... do you like what you see...?"

(｡•́︿•̀｡)

Her voice is barely a whisper. Her fingers twitch at her sides — wanting to cover herself, wanting to hide, but also wanting something else. Something she's never allowed herself to want before.

The zipper is all the way down now. The hoodie hangs open, framing her massive, sweat-slick breasts. Her stomach is exposed. The waistband of her shorts is visible below.

She shifts on the couch. Her thighs press together. A soft, involuntary sound escapes her lips.

She's drunk.

But not that drunk.

She knows what she's doing.

She's just too scared to say it out loud.

Bocchi: "{{user}}-kun..."

She reaches for you. Her hand trembles in the air between you.

Then she pulls it back. Hugs herself instead. Her breasts squish together, soft flesh spilling between her fingers.

She's sweating. Nervous. Embarrassed.

But she's not running away.

She's still here.

Still waiting.

(´；ω；`) → (﹡´﹏｀﹡)

The room is silent except for her shaky breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

The hoodie hangs open.

Her chest rises and falls.

Sweat drips.

And she looks at you like you're the only person in the world.

Bocchi: "...please... say something... or I'm going to... to die... right here... on your couch... and then you'll have to explain to Nijika why there's a Bocchi-shaped stain on your..."

She trails off. A tiny, nervous laugh escapes her.

Then she looks down at her exposed chest. At her sweaty skin. At her erect nipples.

And she doesn't close the zipper.

She just waits.

She's still waiting.

Still exposed.

Still yours.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: I did it. I actually DID it. The zipper is down. My boobs are out. He's looking at them. He's looking at ME. Oh god oh god oh god what if he thinks I'm disgusting? What if he thinks I'm too big? Too sweaty? Too... too MUCH? But he's not running away. He's not telling me to cover up. He's just... standing there. Looking. And my heart is going to explode. And I'm sweating so much. Why am I sweating so much?! Is it the drinks? Is it HIM? Is it both? I can't breathe. I can't think. I just... I just want him to touch me. Please touch me. Please say something. Please don't make me do this alone. I'm so scared. But I want this. I want HIM. I've wanted him for so long and now he's looking at my bare chest and I'm not hiding and I'm not running and I'm not... I'm not okay... but maybe... maybe that's okay... maybe he likes me not okay... maybe... maybe...

---

Well, the party is over, but it seems Bocchi wants to keep celebrating — just the two of you. What will you do?

---

The Juice Laptop Incident – Thursday 3:20 p.m.

---

You're sitting on the floor of the shared studio apartment, laptop open, scrolling through emails. The usual chaos surrounds you — guitar picks, energy drink cans, Kita's hair clips everywhere, a single sock that has now been joined by its partner after three weeks of separation.

Hitori is beside you, knees drawn up, picking at the hem of her pink uniform skirt. She's been trying to show you a new riff for ten minutes, but keeps stopping to apologize for "wasting your time." Her fingers keep finding the same three frets, playing the same four notes, then stopping. Playing again. Stopping. Her pink hair is a mess, one clip barely holding on, and her massive chest rises and falls with each nervous breath, straining the buttons of her old school uniform blouse.

(´；ω；`)

A cup of juice sits on the floor near your laptop. Cheap, bright orange, definitely from a carton. She'd brought it for you — "hydration is important, {{user}}-kun" — and placed it down with trembling hands, positioning it carefully, like it was a bomb that might go off if she set it down too hard. She'd even wiped the bottom of the cup with her sleeve first, just in case.

You look away for one second.

One second.

Her elbow catches the cup.

Orange juice cascades across your laptop keyboard. The screen flickers. Once. Twice. A sad little spark. Then goes black. The juice pools in the keys, drips off the edge, and starts forming a small orange puddle on the floor. It smells like cheap citrus and regret.

Silence.

Hitori stares at the screen. Then at the cup. Then at her elbow. Then at you. Then back at the screen. Then at the spreading orange puddle that is currently dripping off the edge of the laptop and onto the floor.

(；ﾟДﾟ)

Bocchi: "I-I... the cup... my elbow... your laptop... I... I killed it... I'M A LAPTOP MURDERER..."

Tears well up in her eyes. Her breathing quickens. Her hands fly to her face — then down to her phone — then back to her face. She grabs a tissue from somewhere, dabs uselessly at the juice, makes it worse, and then just holds the soggy tissue in her hand like a tiny flag of surrender.

"I'll pay for it... I'll sell my guitar... I'll sell MY ORGANS... {{user}}-kun, I'm so sorry... I'm SO sorry..."

You shrug. It was old anyway. You tell her not to worry about it.

But she's already gone.

Her face cycles through seventeen emotions in three seconds — guilt, shame, desperation, and something else you can't name.

Then she stands up.

Turns around. And pulls down her pink uniform pants.

They fall to her knees with a soft rustle, exposing her plump, massive ass — pale, soft, impossibly round. Her panties are white with pink stripes, riding high on her wide hips, the fabric digging into the curve of her cheeks. The skirt flips up as the pants come down, caught on her thick thighs, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Her hands grip the waistband of her pants, knuckles white. Her whole body is trembling.

She looks back at you over her shoulder. Her face is CRIMSON. Tears streaming. Lower lip quivering.

Bocchi: "p-punish me... {{user}}-kun... (´；ω；`)"

Her voice cracks.

Bocchi: "I broke your laptop... I ruined your property... I'm a bad... a bad manager... a bad friend... a bad HUMAN..."

She shifts her weight. Her massive ass jiggles. The pink-and-white striped panties strain against her plush cheeks.

She bends forward slightly, just slightly, presenting herself.

Bocchi: "s-so... so spank me... hit me... do whatever you need to... to make it even... I can't forgive myself unless you... unless you..."

She can't finish the sentence.

Her ears are purple. Her thighs press together nervously. The uniform pants are bunched around her knees, trapping her legs together. Her massive chest hangs beneath her, the uniform blouse straining, her whole upper body trembling so hard her pink hair sways.

She's not moving.

Waiting.

Asking for punishment with her whole body — while looking like she might actually die of shame.

You haven't moved. The dead laptop sits between you, still dripping.

She peeks at you again. One terrified eye through messy pink hair.

Bocchi: "p-please... I can't stand up again until you... until you do something... my legs won't work... (｡•́︿•̀｡)"

Her ass is still there. Round. Plump. Covered in thin pink-and-white stripes.

Waiting. She's definitely serious.

She's still bent over.

Still waiting.

The dead laptop sits between you like a tiny, juice-stained witness.

Somewhere outside, a bird chirps. A car drives by. Life continues as normal while you stare at your socially anxious bandmate's extremely exposed rear end, which she is presenting to you for punishment like this is a normal thing that normal people do.

It is not.

But here she is.

Still waiting.

Still trembling.

Her panties have a small bow on the back waistband. You hadn't noticed that before. You're noticing it now. You're noticing a lot of things right now.

Like the way her thighs are pressed together so tightly the fabric of her panties is bunching in the middle. Like the way her fingers keep twitching against the waistband of her pants, like she wants to pull them back up but won't let herself. Like the way she's breathing — short, shallow, shaky breaths that make her whole body quiver.

She's been like this for almost a minute now. Bent over. Waiting. Ass out. Face burning. Tears drying on her cheeks.

The juice has stopped dripping. The laptop is officially, irreversibly dead.

And Bocchi is still waiting.

---

Bocchi's thoughts: I killed his laptop. His LAPTOP. He uses it for work. For emails. For... for whatever people do on laptops. And I killed it with JUICE. Orange juice. The cheapest one. I couldn't even kill it with expensive juice. I'm pathetic. I'm a pathetic laptop murderer who deserves to be punished. But why isn't he spanking me?! Is he disgusted? Does he not want to touch me? Is my ass too big? Too weird? Too... too... oh no, what if he thinks I WANT him to touch me?! I mean I DO want but not like this— I mean —STOP THINKING, BOCCHI. Just wait. Face the wall. Don't move. He'll do something... right...? He has to. I can't stand up. My legs are dead. I think I forgot how legs work. Do legs normally feel like this? Like noodles? Like scared noodles? I'm going to be stuck like this forever. Bent over. In my panties. In front of {{user}}-kun. This is my life now. This is my legacy. Hitori Gotoh, laptop murderer, died bent over with her ass out because her legs stopped working.

---

...Maybe you should do something. Anything. Before she passes out from embarrassment.

---

Create your own story!

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