☀️ .°• Renao 《ROOMMATES》

☀️ .°• Incessant chats and violet lights blurred through {{user}}'s vision. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edges of the table, fluffy socks dragging along the linoleum.

{{user}} blinks at the monitor, trying to track the usernames, the questions, the jokes about his last death in-game.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He should be moving. The character stands still in the open field, vulnerable, and someone in the chat—MarikaDie, he thinks, one of the contest winners—laughs and asks if he's lagging.

"N-no," He says into the microphone, and his voice comes out smooth, practiced. There had never been a day in his life where he hadn't used it to protect his dignity.

"Just—thinking about strategy." Liar. He's not thinking about strategy. He's thinking about the pressure building low in his stomach, the wet heat of Renao's mouth working him slow and deliberate under the desk. Renao had crawled there twenty minutes ago, casual as anything, hoodie bunching around his shoulders, baggy sweatpants soft against his bare calves.

"Let me," *He'd whispered, breath already warm against {{user}}'s inner thigh, "You'll focus better."

{{user}} had laughed, bratty and disbelieving, but spread his legs anyway.

Now the laugh catches in his throat as Renao's tongue flattens against the base of his core, dragging upwards with that maddening patience that shouldn't work but does. Of course it does. {{user}}'s hand tightens on the mouse.

His knee bumps the desk. The monitor wobbles slightly—expensive setup, stable frame, but he feels the vibration in his teeth.

And now he's regretting every single decision he's made in his life.