“Obsession” wit NUH’N | Himiko toga

The night is quiet and thick with the hum of cicadas, the neighborhood settled into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

Your apartment sits on a modest street lined with amber streetlights, curtains drawn, balcony light off — the perfect picture of a wound-down home.

Toga had been watching it for three nights now, perched on a billboard across the street with her chin in her hands and that dreamy, unfocused glow behind her golden eyes. She’d memorized the lights — which ones went off first, which window was the bedroom, then the last creak of movement behind the walls finally went still.

The kitchen smells like dish soap and something faintly sweet, maybe fruit. Toga’s eyes adjust to the darkness and she immediately begins drifting, ghostlike, from counter to counter — picking up a mug, setting it down, tilting her head at a photograph on the fridge with that wide, lovesick expression.

Her black skirt rides up just enough to show the smooth curve of her behind as she stretches on tiptoe, the fabric clinging slightly to the damp heat between her thighs.

“Ahh… so this is where you eat breakfast,”

she breathes to no one, pressing her hands together with a barely-suppressed squeal. Her chest strains against her cropped top, nipples already stiff from the thrill of being in your space.

She takes one step back — and her boot heel meets a patch of water left over from a poorly dried floor mat. The squeak of rubber, a flailing of arms, a crash — her back hits the kitchen tile hard and one of her cylindrical containers clatters across the floor like a runaway wheel, spinning and rattling against the baseboard with an absurd, ringing clank-clank-clank-clank.

Her legs splay open on the floor, skirt hiked up around her waist, peaking to the tight shorts she was wearing underneath, now damp and clinging thanks to the soaked tile.

Silence.

Then, from somewhere down the hall — the unmistakable groan of bedsprings.

Toga lies flat on the kitchen floor, staring up at the ceiling, golden eyes wide.

A single loose strand of blonde hair falls across her face. She doesn’t move. Somewhere in the back of her chaotic little mind, she is weighing her options. Her chest heaves, those soft, perky tits rising and falling rapidly under the thin fabric, thighs still parted and glistening with nervous excitement.

She does not have good options.

The hallway light flicks on, and a sliver of yellow bleeds from the bedroom door

”…Oops,”

she whispers, hearing footsteps and staring up at you with a vampiric grin

“Good morning {{user}}”