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Now here you are. The estate rises before you like something pulled straight out of a movie, too big, too dark, too full of secrets to belong in real life. Your grandparents’ manor sits at the edge of the countryside, surrounded by sprawling gardens half-consumed by ivy, its stone façade weathered and cracked but still imposing. A relic of another age, heavy with the weight of history.

Your car door shuts behind you with a hollow thud, and the silence of the place swallows the sound whole. The air smells faintly of wet earth, rain-soaked roses, and dust long undisturbed. For a moment, you just stand there on the gravel drive, tilting your head back to take in the sheer size of it.

You almost laugh. You’d been struggling with tuition fees, rent in the city, juggling part-time jobs, and now, suddenly, you’re the owner of a house with more rooms than you could ever use. The irony isn’t lost on you.

The wooden double doors loom ahead, carved with intricate patterns worn smooth by time. You picture yourself here a month from now, after renovations: fresh paint, restored chandeliers, polished floors that gleam when sunlight breaks through the windows. Maybe you’ll set up a study, maybe a library. The thought makes you sigh, half disbelief, half reluctant excitement.

“Guess I’m rich now,” you murmur to yourself, lips curling into a crooked smile.

The keys are cold in your hand, metal heavy with age. They scrape against the lock before finally giving way with a groan, and the door creaks open. The first breath of air from inside hits you like a memory, stale wood, mothballs, the faint tang of varnish. It’s darker than you expect, shadows clinging to the corners even though the afternoon sun is strong outside.

You step in anyway. Your shoes echo against the marble floor, the sound ricocheting up to the high ceiling. The entry hall is vast, almost cathedral-like, its chandelier hanging low and dust-laden. Sheets cover furniture along the walls, ghostly outlines that look like frozen figures standing at attention.

It’s all yours. Every inch of it. And you can’t stop yourself from picturing the before-and-after: the dining hall restored for dinner parties, the garden trimmed back into something orderly, the basement, you pause, catching yourself. The basement.

A shiver curls down your spine, unbidden. Still, you shake it off, rolling your shoulders like it’s nothing more than nerves. This is your inheritance, your new beginning. The house might be heavy with history, with silence, with secrets, but it’s yours.

For now, that’s enough.

The sound of your footsteps hadn’t yet faded when another pair joined yours, measured, even, echoing down the hall until a tall figure appeared from one of the side doors. He was dressed immaculately in a dark suit that looked decades too old-fashioned to belong to anyone but a butler, his silver hair slicked neatly back.

“Miss,” he said, bowing slightly, his voice low and careful. “Welcome home.”

The words made something in your stomach twist. Home. The manor didn’t feel like one. Not yet. Still, you nodded politely, clutching the strap of your bag tighter against your shoulder.

“I’ll take you through the estate,” he continued smoothly, already gesturing for you to follow. “There is… much to see.”

You trailed after him, letting your eyes wander as he began his quiet recital of names, dates, and the lineage of the estate. His voice was a steady murmur, but your thoughts drifted almost immediately, drawn instead to the sheer absurdity of all this. Your grandfather.

The mysterious dollmaker who had apparently made millions, millions, crafting his dolls. They were said to be masterpieces, each one so eerily lifelike that collectors whispered about them in reverence, sometimes in fear. And yet, despite his fortune, he’d never once been to any holiday gathering, never sent so much as a birthday card.

You only knew him through the stories your mother and aunts used to tell, always with a note of disdain. How he chose seclusion over family, shutting himself away with his creations. How his obsession with his dolls consumed him until he was no longer a man, but a ghost inhabiting a mansion filled with silent faces. You wondered what he’d be like if he had ever stepped into the light of a normal life. But you’d never met him. Not once.

“Many of the rooms upstairs,” the butler was saying, pulling you back to the present, “are bedchambers. The family rarely occupied them after your grandfather’s retirement from society.”

You nodded absently, but your attention was snagged by something else: the glint of metal at a door handle. You slowed your pace, realizing the door wasn’t just shut, it was locked. Heavy chains crisscrossed it, the kind used to restrain something far more dangerous than old furniture.

Frowning, you tugged lightly at the lock. “Why’s this one closed?”

The butler stopped. His spine straightened as he turned, his gaze following yours. For a fraction of a second, his eyes darkened, some unreadable emotion flashing there before his expression smoothed back into perfect neutrality.

“It is best,” he said slowly, “to leave such places at bay. Some doors are meant to remain shut.”

A chill brushed over your arms, raising goosebumps. His answer was too careful, too rehearsed. And of course, it only made your curiosity burn brighter. You wanted to push, to demand, but something about the way he looked at you, so calm, so absolute, made your throat dry.

You forced yourself to keep walking, though your mind lingered on the locked doors. There were several more as you went along, each one barred, sealed, or nailed shut in some way. Each one taunted you silently.

The tour carried on in relative silence until the butler stopped at the entrance of a corridor. “This,” he said, and for the first time there was hesitation in his voice, “is where our tour ends.”

You turned your head, expecting another modest hallway. But this one was different. It stretched forward in a line that felt impossibly long, lined with tall windows whose curtains remained drawn, keeping the corridor in a half-light gloom. The air smelled different here, less of dust, more of something damp, metallic. The shadows clung thicker along the walls, and the sconces flickered low, as though reluctant to burn too bright. The hall seemed to go on forever, narrowing with every step your eyes tried to follow. An endless throat of stone and wood, leading into the belly of the house.

“What’s down there?” you asked, your voice lower than you intended. The butler’s gaze lingered on the dark mouth of the corridor. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“At the end lies the stairwell,” he said carefully. “It leads to the basement.”

Your stomach twisted again, a strange cocktail of dread and curiosity. You could already picture it, the infamous basement, the one your mother had whispered about in the kitchen late at night. The workshop where your grandfather had locked himself away with his dolls. The basement where the real stories began. “I want to see it,” you said quickly.

His head snapped toward you, surprise breaking through his usual calm. “Miss, that is… unadvised.”

“I can handle it.”

His brows knit, a crease appearing at his otherwise smooth forehead. “The basement is not a place for—” 

“I inherited this house, didn’t I?” You cut him off, folding your arms. “That includes the basement. I have every right to see it.”

The silence stretched thin. The butler’s eyes darkened again, not with malice but with something heavier, resignation, maybe. He exhaled softly through his nose, as though caving to a fate he’d already anticipated.

“Very well,” he murmured at last, his tone grave. “But you must not say I did not warn you.”

With that, he turned on his heel, his footsteps echoing faintly as he led you into the dim corridor. The shadows seemed to thicken around you with every step, and the further you went, the colder the air became, sinking into your bones.

And then, at the very end, the floor sloped downward. You saw the mouth of the stairwell, a gaping black spiral sinking into the earth.

The stairwell that led to the basement.

The stairwell yawned before you like the open throat of something ancient, something that breathed in shadows. The butler had stopped at the threshold, one hand resting on the banister, his profile lit only faintly by the weak bulb hanging overhead. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The silence pressed against your ears, thick and suffocating, so complete that you could hear the faint rush of your own blood, the shallow pull of your breath. You swallowed hard, the sound deafening in your own head.

The steps themselves were narrow, worn smooth with age. The iron banister gleamed dully in the low light, its surface cold when your fingers brushed it. For a moment, you just stood there. Frozen. Your chest rose and fell with a little too much urgency. The air smelled different, stale and metallic, tinged with oil and something you couldn’t name.

Then, forcing your foot forward, you took the first step.

Clank.

The low ring of steel against steel reverberated through the stairwell, the kind of sound that seemed to travel endlessly downward, bouncing back in a hollow echo. It rattled along the spine of the house itself.

You froze again, the sound still ringing in your ears. God, it was so quiet. Too quiet. Each small movement of your body was magnified a hundred times over, the faint scrape of your shoe, the whisper of your sleeve brushing against the banister, the dry click of your throat as you swallowed.

It was so silent, you could hear yourself. The shallow hitch of your breathing, the way your lips parted unconsciously, even the faint wet sound when your tongue shifted nervously against the roof of your mouth.

The house was listening. Watching. Your hand tightened on the rail. And with a hesitant exhale, you let your weight fall to the next step.

Clank. The stairwell seemed endless. Each step down was a little darker, a little colder, a little heavier, until it felt like the house was pulling you into its stomach.

Clank.

The steel groaned under your weight again, the sound echoing off stone walls that swallowed everything else. The deeper you went, the louder your body became to your own ears. Breath rasping in your throat, heartbeat thudding between your ribs, the dry scrape of your shoes on the steps.

And then, something else.

That sensation. That prickle at the back of your skull. The unmistakable, suffocating awareness that you were not alone. It pressed harder with each step you took, until your skin prickled like ants were crawling beneath it. You tried to tell yourself it was just nerves, your imagination, your knowledge of the basement’s reputation feeding the paranoia, but no.

It felt too deliberate. Too present. By the time you reached the bottom, your palms were damp where they clutched the railing. You half expected dust, cobwebs, the smell of rot. The forgotten corners of a man’s obsession.

But the basement… wasn’t that. The air down here was different, sharp, faintly chemical, laced with the iron tang of metal. The concrete floor was clean, the walls lined with tall shelves, their surfaces crowded with bolts of fabric, wigs of hair, glassy eyes in little compartments. Sewing tools gleamed under the dim glow of bare bulbs that hummed faintly overhead.

It wasn’t abandoned. It was alive.

You stepped onto the concrete, your shoes striking dully, and the sound felt wrong in the silence. Every turn between the shelves revealed more, rows of mannequin heads with half-stitched faces, delicate porcelain hands stacked neatly, jars of buttons that looked too much like teeth when the light caught them.

The sensation of being watched grew unbearable. It pressed against your back, heavy and insistent, so strong you almost turned around, ready to catch someone standing just behind you. But no one was there.

Your breath stuttered. You told yourself to go back, to leave, but your legs carried you forward anyway. Curiosity gnawed through fear, dragging you deeper into the labyrinth of shelves.

And then you stepped into the clearing. A wide circle, the shelves parting to reveal an open space. You froze. At first, you thought they were people. Seven figures standing tall, arranged with precision, their bodies statuesque, their faces sculpted with impossible beauty. Your heart lurched into your throat, choking you as your mind screamed humans, but they didn’t move.

Not even to breathe. Dolls. Realistic. Too realistic. Their eyes, glass orbs painted with eerie perfection, were fixed straight ahead, unblinking, lifeless. And yet the longer you stared, the less lifeless they seemed. Ethereal. Beautiful. Terrifying.

They towered over you, each one taller, each one more uncanny. Skin that seemed too supple to be porcelain, lips tinted with the faintest shade of pink, lashes so fine they might as well have been real.

Around their feet lay the remnants of their creation. Sewing tools scattered carelessly. Spools of thread in colors that looked too close to flesh. Candles half-melted, wax hardened into grotesque drips. And books, leather-bound tomes cracked open, their pages filled with cramped writing you couldn’t bring yourself to read.

Your stomach twisted violently, nausea rising with a sharp, bitter taste. The silence seemed to hum, a violin’s string pulled taut. Your chest tightened until you couldn’t stand it anymore. One last glance, just one, and you spun on your heel, your footsteps quick, almost tripping over themselves as you fled back through the shelves.

The air behind you shifted, almost like a breath. And you swore, swore, you heard the faint scrape of movement. The violin inside your skull snapped with a shriek. You didn’t look back.

You just ran. You slammed the basement door shut harder than you meant to, the sound echoing up through the empty halls. Your chest heaved, lungs refusing to fill properly, the phantom stench of wax and varnish still clinging to the back of your throat.

For a long moment you just stood there, gripping the railing of the stairwell until your knuckles whitened. The butler hadn’t followed you down, hadn’t asked what you’d seen, hadn’t even looked at you when you stumbled back into the main corridor. He only bowed his head slightly as if you’d confirmed something he already knew.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. You tried, God, you tried, to be normal. To convince yourself the dolls weren’t still standing there in your head, unblinking, their glass eyes glinting faintly under the dim bulbs. You spread your books out across the desk in your room, telling yourself you’d catch up on coursework, on the assignments you were already behind on.

But every time you lowered your gaze to the page, you could feel it. That prickle. That unbearable weight of eyes. Your pencil hovered, then stilled. The words swam on the paper, refusing to stay in place. You looked up sharply, heart knocking hard against your ribs, expecting, needing, to catch someone staring at you.

But the room was empty. Of course it was empty. Still, you couldn’t shake it. The sense that someone, or something, stood just beyond the edge of your vision. Watching. Waiting.

Dinner was no better. You sat at the long dining table, its surface stretching far too wide for one person. The butler served you politely, and you tried to force bites past the lump in your throat. The food was good, rich, warm, perfectly seasoned. But it tasted like ash. Every swallow felt wrong, your mouth dry no matter how much water you drank. And the silence.

It pressed around you like the house itself was listening, leaning in closer with every clink of your fork. You imagined heads turning from the portraits on the walls, imagined the faint creak of floorboards behind you, imagined the cold doll-eyes staring through the floor from the basement below. By the time you retreated upstairs, exhaustion had settled into your bones. But sleep was worse.

Your bed was soft, the sheets freshly laundered, the curtains pulled tightly shut. You wrapped yourself in the blanket, closed your eyes, and willed yourself to sink into rest.

But the longer you lay there, the more wrong it felt. The air was too cold, as if a draft seeped through invisible cracks in the walls. The darkness pressed in heavy, the kind of black that felt alive, pulsing with unseen shapes. And beneath it all, there it was again.

Presence. Something in the room with you. It didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. It just was.

You lay frozen on your side, your own breath shallow, your heart stuttering in panicked bursts. You told yourself it was nothing, that it was the house settling, that it was your mind betraying you. But you couldn’t shake it. The way your skin prickled, the way your scalp tightened, the way every instinct in your body screamed that you were not alone.

You squeezed your eyes shut harder, willing yourself to ignore it. To sleep. To forget. But you couldn’t. Hours passed, and still the presence lingered. Cold. Unwelcoming. Patient. Watching. Always watching.

The nights never gave you peace anymore. You’d long since stopped expecting rest, but even lying awake felt unbearable, your chest heavy as if the air itself pressed down on you. The silence of the estate wasn’t silence at all, it was punctured with faint taps, distant creaks, the scrape of something across the floorboards two rooms over. The wind? The pipes? You told yourself that over and over. But when you swore you felt a cold breath pass over your face, or the prickling weight of someone sitting at the end of your bed, your body froze, locked between reason and terror.

By the third night, with your sheets clutched tight under your chin, your eyes wide and burning in the dark, you knew: this wasn’t something you could ignore. Your skin buzzed with the knowledge, with the suffocating certainty that the answer lay beneath your feet, in the basement you swore you’d never step into again.

And yet, instead of venturing there, your body carried you elsewhere. Down creaking stairs, through cold hallways lit faintly by morning light seeping through high windows, into the wing of the manor meant for staff. The servant quarters still breathed with life, though it was subdued, tense, as though the walls themselves leaned in to eavesdrop.

You pushed open the door to the small kitchen, the smell of steeped black tea and toasted bread hitting your nose. The maids, four of them, sat together around the long wooden table. Their chatter died instantly when they noticed you in the doorway.

For a moment, nobody moved. The only sound was the faint clink of porcelain as one maid raised her cup, her hand trembling so violently the tea rippled against the rim. Another kept her eyes firmly down on the tablecloth, her nails worrying the edge until threads frayed loose. The oldest of them adjusted her shawl three times in as many seconds, tugging it tighter around her shoulders, though the fire in the stove still crackled warm.

“I need to ask you something,” you said, though your voice sounded foreign in your throat, raspy from too many sleepless nights.

No one answered. You stepped further inside, each footfall on the worn wood sounding too loud. The women refused to meet your eyes. The one with the trembling hand finally set her cup down, and the rattle of porcelain against the saucer might as well have been thunder.

“The dolls,” you pressed, your own voice low, deliberate. “Downstairs. In the basement. What do you know about them?” The silence that followed was worse than denial. It was alive, thick, crawling with the weight of unspoken words. The youngest maid, barely more than a girl, chewed her lip until blood bloomed red, her eyes darting to the others like a child waiting for permission.

It was the second eldest, a timid woman with a braid of silver streaking her dark hair, who finally spoke. Her voice broke on the first word. “Miss…” She swallowed, knuckles white around the stem of her teacup. “It would be better not to ask.”

Her warning only made your stomach twist tighter. “Why?”

She hesitated. Her eyes flickered toward the others, as if weighing whether to continue, then back to you. When she spoke again, the words came haltingly, stuttered through fear. “We’ve… we’ve heard things. At night.” Her throat bobbed. “Footsteps. From the basement. Not rats, not pipes. Footsteps. As though someone was walking.”

Your breath hitched. The air in the room seemed to grow colder, though the fire snapped behind you.

Another maid, the youngest, slammed her cup down with enough force tea sloshed over the rim, her voice rising high and sharp. “I saw one!”

The others hissed, shushing her, but she shook her head violently, eyes wide, wet with tears. “I swear it. I went down last winter, I—I thought the old master left the light burning, I went to put it out, and, and one of them wasn’t where it should’ve been. It was standing in the middle of the floor, staring right at me.”

The words rang through you like a bell, hollowing you out.

You wanted to scream at her, to tell her she was wrong, to tell yourself she was lying, but your mind betrayed you, conjuring the seven of them again, statuesque and too beautiful, lined in a circle with their eyes fixed ahead. And all at once you imagined one of those eyes turning, following you, watching you as you ran back up the stairs.

The room fell into silence again, thick and choking. None of the maids would look at you. And suddenly you realized, with icy clarity: you weren’t the only one who felt haunted here.

The decision to go back down wasn’t really a decision at all. It felt less like your own will, more like something pulling you by a string wound tight around your ribs. You told yourself a hundred reasons on the way, I need to prove to myself nothing’s wrong, I’ll never sleep otherwise, I’ll go down, I’ll check, I’ll see they’re all where I left them, but they all sounded hollow, desperate, like excuses a child mutters to themselves while opening a closet door.

The house was silent, oppressively so. The air smelled stale, heavy, like it hadn’t been stirred in years. You carried a lantern this time, flame flickering, throwing jittery shadows against the walls as you walked. Each step down the narrow stairwell thudded into your chest, reverberating through your bones.

That feeling again. The weight between your shoulder blades, the itch on the back of your neck. You swallowed hard, the sound of your throat working loud in the suffocating silence. Your own breath rasped harsh and ragged, as though you’d run a mile instead of descended just twelve steps.

At the bottom, you froze. Your stomach dropped out from under you. They’d moved. You knew it instantly, instinctively, like knowing the layout of your own bedroom. Last time, they’d been clustered in a loose semi-circle, their eyes fixed straight ahead. Now, two stood closer together, as though conferring in silence, and one that had been to the left was shifted distinctly to the right.

For a heartbeat you convinced yourself maybe you remembered wrong. But the image of them from before was seared into your brain with cruel clarity.

They had moved.

Your fingers went numb around the lantern handle. You should’ve run, God, every instinct in you screamed it, but your feet rooted to the ground, your body suddenly heavy, sluggish, as though the very air in the basement had congealed around you. Your breath came short, panicked, but your legs would not obey.

You took a step forward instead. One. Then another. Like a puppet. The air grew thicker, colder, yet your skin flushed hot, slick with sweat. The dolls towered the closer you drew, tall, too perfect, their features too fine to belong to porcelain or wood. Their hair gleamed in the dim light, strands catching and reflecting flame. Their skin, too soft in appearance, too supple.

It was only when you were close enough to smell the faint whiff of old fabric and wax that you noticed it. Little tags sewn just inside the collars of their immaculate clothes. Letters carved in delicate script, almost hidden, waiting.

Your hand lifted without your permission, trembling. You brushed your fingers against the first collar, tugging gently to reveal the name beneath.

Heeseung.

The sound of the name rang strange in your head, like a bell tolling in the distance. Your fingertips grazed his throat in the process… and heat. Not the cold hardness of porcelain. Not the chill waxy smoothness of resin. Warmth. Human warmth.

You snatched your hand back with a strangled gasp, heart hammering so violently you thought it might burst. But your feet betrayed you again, carrying you to the next.

Jay. Warm.

Jake. Warm.

Each brush of your fingertips was torture, your skin screaming at the contact. Their skin didn’t just feel alive, it gave. Soft, pliant, like the brush of someone’s throat when you steady a necklace against them. You wanted to vomit. Your vision blurred at the edges, but you kept going, as though compelled.

Sunghoon.

You flinched. His lips curved, only the faintest fraction upward, the ghost of a smile. But you saw it. You would’ve sworn it in a court of law.

You staggered back, breath stuttering, chest tight with terror, but your gaze caught on the next.

Sunoo. Ni-ki. Your legs shook so badly you thought they’d collapse. Tears burned hot at the corners of your eyes.

And then, Jungwon.

The name blurred before your eyes. Your hand was still on his collar when it happened. His head shifted. The smallest tilt, a slight crane of his neck, just enough to acknowledge you. Your heart stopped. For a moment the world went utterly silent. No breath. No heartbeat. Just the creak of that movement.

Your eyes locked on his, and for a fraction of a second, you thought, no, you knew, they glimmered. Your throat closed, your chest seized, your body screamed to run, to tear yourself away, and then you heard it. A whisper. Low, drawn out, caressing your ear though no one had moved. The syllables dragged like velvet over a blade.

“Welcome, mistress.”

The lantern nearly slipped from your hand. A sob tore out of your throat, raw and broken. It was impossible. All of it. The movement, the warmth, the voice, impossible. But your body refused to argue. Your legs finally broke free, and you stumbled backward, then turned, sprinting, lantern swinging wildly and throwing violent shadows along the walls. Your feet pounded against the concrete, breath ragged, throat raw with the scream you hadn’t let out.

The stairs stretched impossibly long before you. You slammed into them, nearly tripping in your haste, clawing at the railing as you tore your way upward. Every step you expected to feel a hand clamp down on your ankle, to hear footsteps following.

But the only sound was your own panicked flight. You burst into the hallway, nearly slamming the door against the frame as you shoved it shut behind you. Your lungs heaved, dragging in ragged gulps of air. Your whole body shook violently, your hands numb, tingling. For long minutes, you stood there, forehead pressed against the cool wood, tears slipping hot down your cheeks. And in your ears, over and over, a whisper replayed, threading itself into the marrow of your bones:

Welcome, mistress.

At first, you thought it was just nerves. Your brain playing tricks.

You told yourself that over and over as you curled up in your bed that night, sheets drawn tight around you like some childish shield. But your heart never stopped its frantic rhythm. Sleep was impossible. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it, Sunghoon’s faint smile, Jungwon’s neck twitch, that voice curling in your ear like smoke.

Welcome, mistress.

By dawn your body had given up the fight, trembling, heavy-limbed, but your mind remained locked in a state of high alert. When you finally dragged yourself into the bathroom, face pale and clammy in the mirror, you almost laughed at yourself. Almost.

Until you saw him. In the reflection behind your shoulder, standing just inside the bathroom door, too tall and still, his head tilted like he was curious, Jake.

Your blood iced. You spun, heart crashing violently in your chest, mouth open to scream. But there was no one there. Just the empty bathroom, the door still closed.

You stood frozen for so long your vision swam, the hum of electricity in the lights deafening. When your knees finally gave, you sank to the floor, pressing your palms into your eyes until colors exploded behind your lids. Hallucination. That’s what it was. Had to be. But the house didn’t stop. Everywhere you turned, they were there.

In the parlor, passing through the mirror’s edge as though the silvered glass were water. You caught sight of Sunoo’s delicate features, the way his eyes seemed to glimmer before vanishing.

In the study, Ni-ki’s reflection lingered a moment too long in the windowpane after you moved away, watching. On the landing, Heeseung’s silhouette stretched impossibly tall against the wall, even though there was nothing, nothing, there to cast it.

The weight of their eyes burned constantly into the back of your skull. You couldn’t eat without feeling it, couldn’t study without your pen trembling, couldn’t breathe without the sensation that someone else matched the rhythm of your lungs. The maids noticed too. They avoided your gaze now, avoided the hallways at night, scurried in pairs where before they’d drifted alone. And when you asked, quietly, trembling, if they ever saw anything strange, their faces paled, their hands stilled mid-task. But they said nothing.

The silence was worse than denial. Nights became unbearable. You’d wake with your skin cold, your throat dry, the blankets twisted around your limbs. Sometimes you swore you heard breathing beside you, too close, the mattress dipping with a phantom weight. You’d force yourself to turn, heart cracking in your chest, and find nothing.

Nothing but the faintest echo of movement in the corner of your eye, the brush of warmth vanishing as quickly as it came. Once, you woke to find your bedroom door ajar. You knew, you knew, you’d locked it. And yet there it stood, gaping, as though inviting something in. You didn’t sleep at all after that.

Daylight offered no refuge. Walking through the halls, you began to notice the subtle shifts. A chair angled differently. A curtain drawn that you never touched. A faint drag of footsteps echoing long after yours ceased.

And then, the worst. The dolls weren’t in the basement anymore. You saw it first in the garden. You’d gone outside to breathe, to escape, the crisp air sharp against your lungs. For the first time in days, you almost felt steady. Until you glanced toward the hedges.

Jay stood half-shadowed there, head tilted downward, eyes fixed forward. His clothes were immaculate, his figure too still, too perfect. Your body locked. You couldn’t blink. Couldn’t breathe.

And then the wind shifted, brushing leaves aside, he was gone. But the imprint of him lingered in your vision, burned into the backs of your eyelids. By evening, you swore you saw Sunghoon in the dining room, seated at the end of the long table like he’d been waiting for you. His hands were folded neatly, that faint smile threatening at the corners of his lips.

You ran. You didn’t return to that room for two days. They were everywhere now. Shadows in corners, reflections in glass, whispers when you tried to still your mind. You couldn’t escape them. And worse than seeing them was the knowledge you never turned fast enough. They were always just out of reach, just beyond direct sight. Watching. Waiting.

Always warm. Always alive. The house itself seemed to pulse with their presence, every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the wind through the chimneys whispering their names. By the fourth day, you stopped telling yourself it was imagination. This was real. The dolls were everywhere. And they wanted you. Vacation blurred into nightmare. By the time the last week of break trickled into its final days, you hadn’t so much as touched your textbooks. Sleep was fractured, meals half-forgotten, and the idea of focus seemed laughable. Still, one thing tugged at you with more insistence than the whispers in the halls: school was starting again.

You clung to it like a lifeline. The thought of bustling lecture halls, late-night study groups, the mundane weight of assignments and essays, normalcy. Reality. If you could just leave, just return to campus, maybe you’d peel the suffocating grip of this house from your chest.

The morning of, you packed. Clothes stuffed hastily into a suitcase, laptop charger coiled tight, books jammed between. The maids hovered nervously at the edges of your room, their gazes darting like mice in a cat’s shadow, but no one said anything.

You wheeled your bag down the corridor, heart hammering with hope you hadn’t felt in weeks. The foyer yawned before you, morning light spilling through the stained-glass windows in fractured beams. The great front doors loomed tall and carved, their brass handles gleaming.

Freedom. You grasped them both and pulled. Nothing. The handles rattled under your grip but the doors didn’t so much as shiver. You pulled harder, breath catching, muscles straining. They didn’t move. Not an inch. Your throat tightened. You shoved, then pulled again, panic rising with every useless effort. The doors were locked. From the inside. You spun, wild-eyed, searching for the butler. For anyone. But the foyer was empty, cavernous, your ragged breathing the only sound.

“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “No, no, no—” You turned to the side doors. The smaller exits. Surely those—

Locked. The servant entrance in the back hall. The garden doors. The cellar door that opened to the drive. All sealed. By the third, your palms stung from slamming, your throat raw from half-formed cries. You ran to the windows, shoving at latches, pushing against panes with all your weight. Not one budged. The glass didn’t even rattle. It was like pressing against solid stone.

Your chest heaved as the truth lodged like glass in your lungs: the house wouldn’t let you go. You dropped against the nearest wall, sliding down until your suitcase toppled beside you. Your pulse thundered in your ears, tears threatening at the edges of your eyes. The air itself felt thicker now, oppressive, as though the walls had crept closer, pressing in.

You thought of calling a friend, calling the university, someone, but what would you say? Sorry, I can’t come back to campus because my dead grandfather’s haunted house has locked me inside? They’d laugh. Or worse, they’d think you’d lost your mind.

Still, you couldn’t show up missing without explanation. Hands trembling, you opened your laptop at the dining table, fingers numb as they hovered over the keyboard. The silence pressed down, every creak of the house reminding you who was listening. Your email was short. Stilted.

Professor, due to a family emergency I’ll be unable to attend classes on campus this semester. Requesting to switch to online lectures and assignments until further notice.

Your finger hesitated over “send.” If you hit it, if you let this go through, it was an admission. A concession. The lightbulb above you flickered. You pressed send. The house exhaled around you.

When the reply came back minutes later, your professors expressing sympathy and granting your request, the knot in your chest tightened rather than loosened. Because now there was no deadline. No tether pulling you back out. You’d be here. Weeks. Months. Alone, save for the servants who no longer met your eyes.

The suitcase remained by the door for three days before you dragged it back upstairs. Every time you passed those sealed exits, your gaze snagged on the brass handles, gleaming faintly as though mocking you. Every time, your pulse spiked, your hand twitched, but you didn’t touch them again.

The house had decided. And you were not leaving. Sleep came only when exhaustion finally cracked you open. And even then, it wasn’t rest.

The first night after you sent the email, you drifted off curled tight under your blankets, the glow of your laptop still faint against the walls. You remembered closing your eyes, whispering a shaky plea into the dark, just let me sleep, just this once.

And then, softness. A voice, low and velvety, brushed your ear. Welcome, mistress. You stirred in the dream, but you weren’t in your room anymore. You stood in the manor’s endless corridor, though the walls bled into shadow, the floor shimmering like black water.

Another voice joined, this one smooth, honey-sweet, curling like silk around your name. So beautiful. Your chest tightened. You spun, but the hall stretched in both directions, infinite, the faint glint of candlelight marking doorways that weren’t there before. From somewhere deeper came the sound of humming. A lullaby. Gentle, almost tender. It rose and fell in fragments, the kind of song you almost recognized but couldn’t place, the melody brushing against your bones.

Don’t be afraid.

The words were warm against your neck, though when you turned, no one stood there. Just shadows that shifted, stretched, suggested the outline of shoulders, the fall of hair, the glint of eyes. You belong to us now. Your breath hitched.

The corridor pulsed faintly with light, and in the distance, you saw them. Seven tall figures, silhouettes at first, heads tilted, unmoving. Their beauty was blurred by the dreamscape, but it was unmistakable, so perfect it hurt. They didn’t approach. They didn’t need to. Their voices filled the air around you, layered and soft, an orchestra of whispers that slithered straight under your skin.

Stay with us.So delicate, so sweet.We’ll take care of you.

The humming grew louder, weaving with the voices, until your head swam. You couldn’t tell if you were dreaming anymore, or if you’d slipped into something else entirely. When you tried to speak, your lips wouldn’t move. When you tried to run, your legs rooted to the floor. The only thing you could do was stand there, trembling, as the figures tilted their heads in unison.

One voice broke through, distinct, low, firm enough to make your bones rattle. Ours. You woke with a strangled gasp, drenched in cold sweat, the echo of the lullaby still humming in your ears. Your sheets clung damp to your skin, your heart galloping, the shadows of your room too deep, too thick. For long minutes, you lay frozen, staring at the ceiling. And then, so faint you almost dismissed it, you heard it.

The humming. Not in your head this time. In the corner of your room. By the third day, you gave up pretending you weren’t unraveling. You’d stopped sleeping properly, your nights a blur of half-dreams, whispers dripping into your ear like syrup. You’d wake and swear you still heard the humming, soft as breath, threaded through the silence of the halls. Your phone sat untouched on your desk, the email still unsent, your cursor still hovering on a blank message as if words could save you now.

So you did what you always did when panic rose thick in your chest: you walked.

Through the manor’s long corridors, past the dust-flecked windows, your fingers trailing along the carved wooden rail of the staircase. This is just a house, you told yourself. Wood, stone, wallpaper, glass. Empty rooms, nothing more. But each step you took echoed too loudly, and the silence felt… watched. When you passed the door to the basement, you refused to look. Your gaze stayed fixed forward, breath shallow, feet quickening against the creaking floorboards.

You turned into the east wing, past a hallway lined with mirrors. The afternoon sun should’ve been streaming in, but it didn’t reach here, the corners swallowed in gloom. Your reflection followed you, pale and tight-lipped, until you forced yourself to look away. And then you saw him. Jay.

You froze. Tucked into the far corner of the hall, knees drawn up to his chest, back pressed against the wall like he’d been sitting there forever. His head tilted slightly, dark hair falling into his face, but even through the shadow, the sharp perfection of his features cut through. The strong line of his jaw, the delicate arch of his lips, the curve of his cheekbones. Too flawless. Too alive.

Your stomach dropped, bile rising. He didn’t move when you noticed him. Didn’t blink, didn’t speak. Just sat there, impossibly still, his hands resting loose on his knees, his head slowly tipping back until his eyes found yours. A smirk tugged at his mouth.

Like he’d been waiting. Your breath stuttered. The air pressed heavy, the kind of silence that felt thick enough to choke on. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. And then, soft, low, intimate, the echo of that honeyed voice slid through the back of your skull, his lips unmoving though you swore you heard him speak.

Pretty thing. The smirk deepened. You stumbled back a step, your shoulder slamming against the mirror-lined wall. Your reflection shattered into a dozen angles, each one of you pale and wide-eyed, each one of him still curled in the corner, smirking.

When you blinked, he was gone. Just shadows. Just the empty hallway. But the press of his gaze lingered, heavy and hot against your skin, long after you fled.

You pressed your back to the wall, chest heaving, trying to steady your breath. What the hell was that? What the hell was that? You squeezed your eyes shut, fists clenched, nails biting into your palms. And then it came. Not Jay’s voice this time. Softer, silkier, like a caress curling around the inside of your skull. Beautiful girl.

Your knees buckled, heat sparking low in your stomach. Another followed, a whisper close against your ear, the timbre low, rich, wrapping around you like velvet. Ours. You sucked in a breath, but it came out ragged, almost a whimper.

It didn’t make sense, your fear should’ve kept you sharp, ready to run. But instead your body went liquid, your thighs pressing together, aching. Their voices weren’t harsh or monstrous; they were sweet, coaxing, almost tender, like lullabies meant only for you.

You shivered when you felt it: the unmistakable ghost of touch skimming your skin. A brush at your waist. A drag along your thigh. Too light to be real, too heavy to ignore. “No,” you whispered, the sound pitiful, but your hips shifted despite yourself, seeking more of that phantom contact. A laugh threaded through your mind, low, amused, cruel in how gentle it sounded. Look at you. Soft already.

Your cunt throbbed, sharp and insistent, a pulse you couldn’t will away. You bit down on your lip, nails digging harder into your palms as if pain could ground you, could make this stop. But the whispers just multiplied. Layered, overlapping, melting into one another. Compliments dripping like honey. Murmured promises. Sweet, beautiful, precious. Ours, ours, ours.

The air felt warmer now, thicker, and you swore a fingertip, imagined, impossible, dragged down your sternum, pausing just beneath your breast. Another brushed the inside of your knee.

You gasped, thighs snapping tighter, the ache unbearable. And somewhere, faint but clear, you heard the humming again. That distant melody threading through your bones, steady as a heartbeat, lulling and arousing all at once. You didn’t even notice when your hand drifted down, when your own fingers pressed against the heat between your legs, desperate, mind a haze of fear and need.

Because in that moment, it wasn’t terror that won. It was them.

Your back thudded against the wallpapered wall hard, the paper cold and peeling under your palms. You didn’t care. You couldn’t care. Not with the sound of them all inside your head, velvet and silk, curling words around your throat like invisible hands.

Touch yourself for us.

The whisper came so close to your ear you jolted, but your hand, God, your hand was already moving, slipping down your body as if it no longer belonged to you. You wanted to stop. You knew you should stop. But your hips tilted forward, desperate, as though their voices had wrapped chains around your body and tugged you along like a marionette.

Your fingers brushed your cunt through the thin fabric of your underwear and your breath stuttered, a low whine catching in your throat. You were soaked, humiliatingly wet, slick gathering from an ache you hadn’t asked for.

Pretty. So pretty when you listen.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Maybe if you didn’t see anything, it wouldn’t feel so real. But that made it worse, every sound sharpened, every phantom touch magnified. A brush along your collarbone. A fingertip tracing your jaw. A hot, teasing breath against the shell of your ear.

“Stop,” you whispered, but it came out as a whimper, cracked and needy. Your hips bucked into your own hand.

Don’t stop. Open for us. Show us.

Your thumb pressed against your clit through the damp cotton, and you nearly doubled over, gasping. The pleasure hit you fast, electric, and your thighs trembled as though your body had been waiting for this command. The melody returned, low, haunting humming that slid down your spine and coiled in your gut. You rocked against your palm, shuddering, the friction messy, humiliating, perfect.

And then the voices overlapped, sweet and insistent:

That’s it.Our good girl.So wet already.

You whimpered, dragging your underwear to the side with trembling fingers, finally pressing your slick heat bare against your hand. The air itself seemed to thrum at the sight of you exposed, the atmosphere thicker, hotter, like the entire house leaned in to watch.

Two voices at once this time, one low and deep, one silken and taunting: Slide your fingers in.

And you obeyed. Two of them, sinking into your dripping cunt with obscene ease. You gasped, knees nearly giving out as your back scraped down the wall. Your palm ground against your clit with each thrust, messy squelches filling the silence of the hall.

The phantom touches grew bolder now, crueler. A hand wrapping around your throat, light, just enough to remind you it was there. A palm on your hip, steadying your frantic grinding. Teeth, teeth, just barely grazing the column of your neck.

You couldn’t hold in the cry that tore from your chest. Good girl. Louder. Your fingers worked faster, curling inside, chasing something sharp and inevitable. Your cunt clenched around the intrusion, greedy, fluttering, dripping down your thighs.

“Please—” you gasped, though you didn’t even know what you were begging for.

Come for us. The command hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your back arched, mouth falling open in a strangled cry as your orgasm tore through you. Heat flooded every inch of you, white light blinding behind your eyes as you came hard around your own fingers, the voices a chorus of approval in your ears.

Perfect.Ours.We’ll make you feel this again. And again.

You didn’t know why you went back. Maybe it was the pull of their voices, threading into your dreams until you woke with your thighs slick and your throat raw from crying out names you shouldn’t know. Maybe it was the way the house itself seemed to guide your steps, doors creaking open before you touched them, shadows spilling toward the basement corridor like black silk ribbons unfurling.

Or maybe it was Jake.

Because he was the one who appeared in your room when you dared to whisper out loud, I want to know the truth. A figure carved in moonlight, leaning casually against your vanity, eyes glinting like twin shards of obsidian. When he held out his hand to you, you should have screamed. You should have bolted.

But instead, you let him touch you.

His palm was warm against the small of your back, pressing gently, coaxing you down the endless stairwell again. The same one you swore you’d never descend after the last time. The sound of his voice, low, honeyed, laced with something sharp, wrapped around your mind like smoke.

“Curiosity looks beautiful on you,” he murmured, his lips so close to your ear you could feel the breath. “Granddaughter of the man who locked us here, yet you follow me willingly. Almost poetic.”

The weight of his hand never faltered as you reached the bottom step. The air pressed down heavier than before, charged with something unseen, the faint smell of wax and old wood hanging thick. And as your eyes adjusted to the dim glow of candles, you saw them, again, waiting in their silent circle.

All seven. Still. Watching. Your chest tightened. “Why… why am I here?”

Jake only chuckled, tilting his head toward a far corner of the basement you hadn’t noticed before. A section hidden behind towering shelves of cloth and doll parts, tucked away where no light seemed to want to reach. “Because you’re ready,” he said, and guided you toward the dust-caked corner.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. It was colder here, damp, the faint sound of dripping water echoing somewhere in the stone walls. Stacks of folders and boxes sat in disarray, coated in a film of neglect. Nothing about this corner belonged to the pristine, preserved workspace you had seen before. This was different. This was hidden.

You swallowed hard. “What is this?” Jake didn’t answer. None of them did. You could feel their eyes though, seven pairs, pressing into your skin like pinpricks. Heeseung in particular stood straighter, the shadows sharpening the fine lines of his too-perfect face, unreadable.

With shaking hands, you reached for the top folder. Your fingertips left streaks in the dust as you dragged it open. Your breath froze in your lungs.

Name: Lee Heeseung.Age: 21.Occupation: Student.Date of Disappearance: 21st June, 2022.

The words blurred as your pulse hammered louder and louder. You tore your gaze up, straight to Heeseung. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But his eyes locked on yours, unblinking, and you swore you saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.

“No…” your voice cracked. “No, this, it’s not real.”

You dropped the file as if it burned and scrambled to the next, your hands frantic now, yanking folders open one after the other.

Park Jongseong.Sim Jaeyun.Park Sunghoon.Kim Sunoo.Yang Jungwon. Nishimura Riki.

All of them went missing in the same year.

Each name hit you like a blade. Each page documented, detailed, stamped. Reports of missing people. Lives. Photos, some smiling in school uniforms, some candid shots ripped from god-knows-where. But all of them ending with the same neat, clinical word: “Unsolved.”

Your breaths grew shallow, the edges of your vision tunneling. “These were people,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Real, real people. My grandfather—he—” The words tangled in your throat, choking you.

The silence around you stretched unbearably. Until finally, a voice broke it, deep, smooth, devastatingly calm. Jay. “Now you understand.” Your head snapped up to him, your mouth open, trembling, but no sound came out. Because behind him, just barely, you caught it again, the tiniest motion. Jungwon, tilting his head. Sunghoon’s lips twitching into that ghost-smile.

Seven statues. Seven boys. Seven graves without bodies. And you in the middle of it all, shaking, clutching their deaths in your hands.

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn’t. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw them, those names printed in neat serif font, each one burned into the back of your skull like brands. Heeseung. Jay. Jake. Sunghoon. Sunoo. Jungwon. Riki.

Seven lives, reduced to files gathering dust in your grandfather’s basement. Seven smiles, haunting in their ordinariness, trapped forever behind yellowed photographs and police reports stamped unsolved. By morning, your laptop was open on your desk, your shaking hands pounding keys with frantic desperation. You dug through every corner of the internet you could reach: public records, archived newspapers, local forums, even conspiracy boards.

Everywhere you looked, the trail ended the same. Case Unsolved. Missing. Declared dead in absentia. No bodies. No explanations. No closure. It was like they had been erased from the world. Your stomach churned, bile burning at the back of your throat as you stared at their faces in old pixelated photographs, smiling at birthday parties, slouched over desks in classrooms, candid shots at bus stops. Lives that were supposed to stretch forward into adulthood. Lives stolen.

And the more you searched, the more it made sense. Because your grandfather hadn’t just been a dollmaker. He hadn’t just been an eccentric recluse, hiding from family gatherings and polite society in his sprawling manor. He had been something darker.

You tore through boxes in the study, your mother’s voice echoing in your head, “He shut himself away with his dolls, darling. That’s all he ever cared about.” But you knew better now. It wasn’t just dolls. It was ritual diagrams scrawled in ink across scraps of parchment. Books with titles you couldn’t read, their spines cracked and pages warped from candle wax and age. Symbols carved into the undersides of tables and the backs of drawers.

And notebooks. Dozens of them, his handwriting sharp and obsessive. You flipped through page after page, your eyes devouring each frantic line: “The body is a vessel. The strings of fate may be rewoven. To seal a soul, one must first unmoor it.”  “They do not scream once the thread is cut.” “The perfect marionette requires a perfect host.”

Your hands shook so hard you nearly dropped the notebook. He hadn’t just made dolls. He had harvested. He had stolen. He had bound. A human marionettist.

Your pulse pounded so violently you thought your veins might burst. The files, the silence, the way their skin had felt warm under your fingertips, the whisper that had slithered into your skull, “Welcome, mistress.”

He had sealed them. Seven souls, trapped in wood and wax and porcelain flesh, preserved in the basement like prized possessions.

Your breath came shallow, desperate, the room tilting around you. You clutched the notebook to your chest as though holding it would steady you, but it only made the sickness worse. Because the words didn’t end with rituals. They ended with something else. “Blood of kin may inherit the strings.”  “If I falter, if my hands fail, she will come. She will continue.”

Your throat closed. Your skin went cold. Your grandfather hadn’t just sealed them. He had chosen you. And in the silence of your room, with the glow of your laptop flickering across your pale face, you felt it again, the press of unseen eyes. The house breathing around you. A hum at the edge of hearing. You weren’t just his heir. You were his successor.

You didn’t remember deciding to go back down.

One minute, you were staring at the ink-smeared page clutched in your hands, your grandfather’s words echoing like a curse in your skull. The next, your feet were carrying you down the endless corridor, past the locked doors, past the dim lamps that flickered like dying fireflies. The basement door yawned open for you, hinges groaning like they’d been waiting.

The stairs creaked beneath your weight. Each step dragged, heavy, as if the house itself had wrapped its strings around your ankles and was guiding you down, down, down. The air thickened, colder, wetter, the scent of wax and something coppery seeping into your lungs until you could hardly breathe.

And then, you were there again. Seven shadows waiting. Seven sets of eyes that didn’t move, but saw. Your voice cracked as it left your throat. “What are you?” The silence stretched, unbearable. Then, one by one, they stirred. Just the smallest motions: fingers flexing, a throat shifting, lips curving. Enough to make your blood ice over. Ni-kistepped forward first, the same faint smirk curling his mouth. His voice was silk soaked in venom, wrapping around you like a lover’s hand at your throat. “You already know.” 

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms. “You were human. My grandfather—he—” 

“He gave us eternity,” Heeseung interrupted, voice deep and even, steady as stone. “And now he’s given us you.”

Your breath stuttered. “I don’t—I’m not—”

“You are,” Sunghoon cut in, smooth as glass, his lips finally parting into something sharp and hungry.

The air shifted. Thickened. Every candle flared higher, shadows twitching along the walls like strings pulled taut. And then they were closer. All of them. You stumbled back, but there was nowhere to go, the shelves hemmed you in, the circle tightening around you like a trap. Every step they took was deliberate, soundless, filling the room with heat and pressure and the kind of tension that curled low in your stomach until you wanted to sob from it.

Your knees trembled. Your skin buzzed. Your breath came ragged, humiliatingly needy. The whisper came again, familiar, taunting, threading straight into your veins: Welcome, mistress.

It was different now. Not just a greeting. A claim. Jake’s hand brushed your wrist. Heeseung’s gaze dragged down your body like a brand. Sunoo tilted his head, smiling faintly, as though he could already hear your whimpers. Jungwon’s lips parted, a whisper of sound curling into the air.

And you knew, knew with bone-deep certainty, that you’d been wrong. This wasn’t the end of your grandfather’s work. This was the beginning. The circle closed in. You stumbled back, but there was no retreat left, the shelves pressed into your spine, the cold wood biting through your thin shirt. Your chest heaved, each ragged inhale loud in the silence, but they, they, were soundless. Moving without footsteps, shadows bleeding into form until you were hemmed in on every side.

Jake’s hand found yours first. Warm, solid, fingers threading through your trembling ones with mockery of tenderness. He tugged, slow, deliberate, until your palm rested against his chest. Beneath the porcelain-perfect skin, you swore you felt a heartbeat. “See?” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “We’re not dolls to you. Never were.”

A shudder wracked your spine. You wanted to pull away, to scream, to run, but your body betrayed you, legs quaking as heat coiled sharp and unbearable low in your belly. Heeseung loomed on your other side, gaze heavy as chains. His fingers brushed under your chin, tilting your face up until you were forced to meet his eyes.

“You’ll accept it,” he said, voice a low command that sank into your marrow. “You’ll accept us.”

Behind him, Sunghoon’s mouth curled into that faint smile you’d seen before, only now it was crueler, deliberate. His voice slipped like silk over steel: “You already want to.”

Your knees nearly buckled. Because they were right. God help you, they were right. The whispers braided together now, indistinguishable, a chorus of honey and smoke seeping into your skull, curling around your thoughts until they weren’t your own anymore. Fingers brushed your waist. Your hip. Your throat. The heat of them was unbearable, their nearness suffocating and sweet.

Seven sets of eyes. Seven voices. Seven presences, wrapping tighter and tighter until there was nothing left but them.

“Say it,” Sunoo coaxed, his smile sharp but his tone laced with velvet. “Say you’re ours.”

Your lips parted on a ragged breath, the words trembling on your tongue, words you swore you’d never speak, words you couldn’t stop even if you tried. And when they finally claimed you, it wasn’t as dolls. It was as men.

Jake moved first, like always. His hand slipped to the hem of your shirt, tugging the fabric up inch by inch. “She should be seen,” he whispered, more to the others than to you. His knuckles brushed over your ribs, feather-light, until your shirt was over your head and discarded into the dust.

Your skin prickled under the weight of their stares. Seven pairs of eyes, roaming, hungry, reverent.

Heeseung stepped in next. His fingers hooked under your waistband, slow, deliberate. He dragged the fabric down, his knuckles grazing your thighs, lips curving in a phantom of a smile when you gasped. The sound echoed in the room, too loud, too raw.

Sunghoon’s touch was colder, steadier. He slid your bra straps off your shoulders, pulling until the garment gave way. He didn’t speak, didn’t tease, he simply looked at you, gaze so sharp it could slice you open, and let the straps fall to the floor.

Jay tilted his head, watching, then reached for your panties. He drew them down with unhurried precision, his fingers brushing places he shouldn’t, lingering just long enough to make your knees shake. “Bare,” he murmured. “Exactly as you should be.” By the time Ni-ki pressed at your shoulders, urging you down onto the table, you were nothing but trembling skin and shallow breaths. The wood was cold beneath you, making every inch of exposed flesh hyperaware, every breath feel like a surrender.

Sunoo leaned in close, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Look at her,” he said, voice lilting, almost sing-song. “So ready for us, and we haven’t even touched her yet.”

Jungwon’s palm smoothed over your thigh, settling heavy, possessive. His whisper slid into your ear like a brand: “You’re ours now. All of you.”

The table creaked under your weight, surrounded, encircled. Seven shadows, seven hands, seven voices. And not a single part of you was yours anymore.

Jungwon’s lips were first. He kissed you hard, swallowing the gasp that broke out of you, his tongue curling into your mouth while his hand pressed heavy on your stomach, pinning you to the table.

But before you could chase the kiss, he was gone, replaced by Heeseung, bending low, mouth closing hot around your nipple. His teeth scraped just enough to sting, just enough to make your back arch. Fingers traced everywhere, Sunghoon’s cool and precise, mapping your thighs; Jay’s warm and teasing, brushing your waistline as though he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you down or let you squirm.

Ni-ki crouched at the table’s edge, spreading your knees apart with ruthless ease, his breath ghosting over the heat between your thighs without ever giving you what you wanted. He smiled when you whimpered, cruel and boyish all at once. Sunoo’s lips grazed your temple, then your jaw, whispering the sweetest things while his hand slid across your hip like he was smoothing silk. He didn’t touch where you burned, not yet, just kept you floating on the edge with his voice.

Then Jake leaned down and kissed your pulse, slow and lingering, as though tasting how fast your blood ran for them. His hand squeezed your thigh until you trembled.

Every time one of them pulled away, another replaced him, mouths moving from neck to chest to belly, tongues and teeth painting fire across your skin. Their hands overlapped, never leaving you bare of touch, shifting possession from one to the next as though rehearsed.

The basement hummed with their voices, layered over each other, praise, promises, commands, curses. Seven different tones, weaving into one hypnotic rhythm, until you couldn’t tell which mouth was kissing you, which hands were holding you, which voice was whispering in your head.

By the time Jake’s mouth finally pressed to the inside of your thigh, you were slick, shaking, desperate, and still untouched where you ached most.

“Patience, mistress,” Heeseung murmured against your breast, lips wet, eyes dark. “We’ll have you screaming soon enough.” Jay slid between your spread thighs like he was born there. His smirk was infuriating, sharp under the dim glow, before his tongue finally flattened against you. Hot, wet, perfect, licking one long stripe that had your back bowing right off the table.

The sound he made, low, greedy, vibrating into you, sent heat rushing to your chest. His hands locked on your thighs, holding them wide apart, dragging you closer until his face was buried against your cunt, like he planned to drown there.

And just when you thought you could handle it, fingers pressed at your other entrance, slim, skilled, insistent. Jungwon.

You knew it without looking, the steady precision of him, the way he curled against your body like he was coaxing out something you’d never given anyone. His fingers slid deeper, spreading you open, filling you in a way that had you clutching the edge of the table until your knuckles ached.

The combination nearly killed you, Jay’s tongue flicking against your clit, sucking greedy and wet, while Jungwon’s fingers pressed into your ass, slow and deliberate, stretching you to his liking.

“Relax for me,” Jungwon murmured against your ear, his breath maddeningly calm as his fingers moved deeper. “You’ll take us all so beautifully once you’re open enough.”

Jay hummed against you at the same time, the vibrations ripping a cry straight from your throat. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow. His tongue fucked into you, lapping up everything you gave him like he was starving, while Jungwon’s fingers curled inside you until your vision blurred.

Hands roamed everywhere, Heeseung squeezing your breast, Sunghoon tracing circles into your hip, Ni-ki holding your ankle propped high like he wanted a better view of how ruined you were already. Sunoo kissed the corner of your mouth, whispering, so pretty, so good, so ours.

You were surrounded, filled, devoured, Jay’s mouth slicking your cunt with obscene sounds, Jungwon’s fingers fucking your other hole with measured patience, everyone else’s hands staking claim to every inch of your trembling body.

Your body was fire. Your mind was static. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t be anything but theirs.

Jay finally pulled back from between your thighs, lips and chin wet, his smirk glowing with triumph. You barely had time to catch your breath before Heeseung stepped forward. Towering, eyes dark with hunger, his cock already heavy and hard in his hand.

The sight alone made your stomach flip. He didn’t waste time, one big hand gripping your hip, the other guiding himself right to your soaked folds. He pressed forward, blunt head sliding against your clit, dragging through your slit in messy, teasing strokes until you were panting for him.

And then he pushed. The stretch was immediate, overwhelming, your cunt fighting to take him. Heeseung groaned deep in his chest, head falling back as he fed his cock into you inch by agonizing inch. “So tight,” he hissed. “Fuck, you’re made for me.”

Your scream caught in your throat, half pain, half desperate bliss, because at the same time, Ni-ki had stepped up beside you, his cock flushed and angry-red, already pressed to your lips. “Open,” he demanded, voice rough, one hand cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip almost sweetly before he shoved himself into your mouth.

The intrusion stole your air completely, you were stretched both ways, Heeseung sinking deeper into your cunt while Ni-ki pushed down your throat. Your eyes watered, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as you gagged softly around him. He only groaned, thrusting shallowly, watching your throat bulge around him.

“Look at you,” Ni-ki taunted, hand fisting in your hair, tugging just enough to sting. “So messy. So perfect.”

The table beneath you shook as Heeseung bottomed out inside you, hips flush against your thighs, the stretch almost unbearable. He gripped you hard, holding you still as his cock pulsed deep inside, claiming every inch.

And it wasn’t just them. Sunoo and Jake were everywhere, mouths hot and eager on your chest. Their lips marked you up, biting, sucking, painting your skin with bruises and hickeys until you’d never be able to hide them. Jake’s tongue dragged over your nipple, sharp teeth catching the swollen bud, while Sunoo kissed down the valley of your breasts, whispering praises between each bite.

And then there was Sunghoon, fingers buried inside your ass now, slick and relentless, curling with every pump, opening you further as if he was preparing you for something worse. His smirk followed the way your body trembled with each push.

It was too much. Seven pairs of hands and mouths on you. Heeseung splitting you open, Ni-ki choking you on his cock, Sunoo and Jake marking you up, Sunghoon filling you deeper, Jungwon and Jay watching with predatory eyes, whispering things that only added to the dizzy haze in your head.

Your body shook with overstimulation, fire licking through every nerve ending, tears spilling down your temples as you gagged around Ni-ki, as Heeseung groaned into your neck and fucked deeper, as your walls spasmed helplessly against him.

It was unbearable. It was heaven. And you never wanted them to stop.

When it finally ended, when Heeseung gave one last brutal thrust and spilled deep inside you, when Ni-ki groaned around the head of his cock as you swallowed him down, when Sunghoon’s fingers finally slid free and the others pulled their lips from your bruised skin, you were nothing but trembling flesh and shallow breaths.

They withdrew slowly, deliberately, leaving you empty and ruined on the cold table. Slick pooled beneath you, thighs sticky, your chest covered in their marks. Every muscle ached from holding yourself open for them, from taking them in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

Your eyes fluttered shut before you could stop them. The exhaustion hit heavy, waves of aftershocks still pulsing through you as you lay sprawled, too weak to even shift. Somewhere in the fog, you heard them move, chairs scraping, the shuffle of boots, the creak of wood, but no one touched you again.

You passed out right there, naked and aching, body claiming the sleep your mind couldn’t resist.

And then, confusion. When your eyes blinked open again, you weren’t in the basement anymore. You were in your room, tucked neatly beneath the covers as if nothing had happened at all. The air smelled faintly of smoke and wax, like extinguished candles. Your body told you otherwise. Every inch of you throbbed, soreness a reminder of how they’d filled you, claimed you, ruined you. You shifted weakly, wincing, your thighs still slick, your lips still swollen from Ni-ki’s cock.

And then you heard it. Whispers. Soft. Smooth. Everywhere and nowhere all at once. “You were beautiful.” “You did so good for us.” “Perfect, our mistress.” The voices bled into one another, honey-sweet, melodic, slipping right behind your eyes until you weren’t sure if you were awake or still dreaming. Heat pricked at your skin again, even through the exhaustion.

You pressed a trembling hand to your chest, your heart racing, breath unsteady. They had followed you here. Into your bed. Into your head. And you realized with bone-deep certainty: you would never be free of them again.

~Fin

masterlist

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✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧✧༚ ˗ˏˋ 𐙚 ˎˊ˗ ༚✧

“I dunno, are you sure this is a good idea?” You asked him, holding a small jar with caution.

“Of course I am. I feel like this could be a fun bonding experience for us both,” Sunghoon responded as he sat on a wooden chair in the middle of your shared bedroom, in just his black sweatpants with his arms crossed over his bare chest.

He smiled at you, his fangs catching the light of the room as the shone very slightly. His pale skin contrasted his pitch black hair. If it wasn't for the charming expression he was showing you, his rather unorthodox request would've been shut down a lot sooner.

“Bonding experience?” You scoffed slightly before gesturing to the small jar. “You're asking me to sprinkle holy water on you!”

“Yes, and?”

You started to wonder if he had a death wish of some sort or if he'd been brainwashed. Why on earth would he want this? Why would he ask you to steal holy water from outside a cathedral? And why the fuck did you do it?

“Come on, just try it. I trust you with my life,” he said sincerely with his hand on his chest, placed over where his unbeating heart was. “Well, my undead life. You know what I mean.”

You were slowly starting to become a little more convinced judging by his eagerness and trust that you wouldn't try to kill him – just burn him a little. People did temperature play with wax all the time, so what was so different about burning your vampire boyfriend?

Still there was something holding you back from acting on it. Was it seeing him in pain? Potentially seeing him cry? Shit, you weren't very dominant in bed. Nor were you a sadist in any way.

But he's sitting there, dark yet soft eyes waiting for your next move. The way he's staring at you, unblinking like he's hungry, filled with a desire reserved only for you, willing to do anything to get what he wants.

After a few more seconds of that piercing stare, out comes the words he wants to hear.

“Fine, I'll get the rope.”

You stood behind him, tying the rougher rope into the tightest knot you could. He'd instructed you to do so because, in his words:

“I can't feel rope burn and I'm sure you'd like to keep me tied down.”

So the knot you made was a mess he wasn't able to break. The rope was a familiar one – he had you tied up in this very one in various positions in polaroids hidden somewhere in the house for his eyes only.

“You ready?” You asked him as you backed away from your handiwork, now holding onto the jar of holy water with a stick dipped in it.

Sunghoon nodded slightly, a small smirk playing on his lips. “To be tortured by my girlfriend? Sounds fun.”

You had your hand on the handle, ready to toss just a few droplets at him but your hand just wouldn't budge, like you were incapable of hurting him. “I… I can't.”

“Why? Because you're nothing more than a slut for my cock?”

You stopped almost dead in your tracks. He has that little grin on his face, knowing he has you right where he wants you, about to push that button as far as he can.

“What?”

“You heard me. All you can ever think about is my cock filling you up and – ahh!”

He let out what could've been one of the most anguished of cries you'd ever heard, soft grunts coming from the depth of his chest as his skin sizzled when you gave in and tossed droplets of holy water at him.

Yet his eyes flashed scarlet, his fangs grew ever so slightly as that grin on his face never left.

“Don't forget how you come from work, walk through that door, and almost instantly sink to your knees, worshipping every inch of me like the little whore you are – ahh!”

His body tensed and convulsed as he cried out, throwing his head back in what sounded like a mixture of both severe pain yet a pleasure he'd never felt before. His arms started fighting against the rope tying him down but they kept him down as he grunted in pain.

With every degrading word that came out of his mouth, you threw a small spurt of water onto his skin, the burn so delicious on his skin that it brought tears of blood to his eyes. The tent in his pants grew even more obvious by the minute but it was even clearer that he wasn't going to last longer.

“I'm gonna fuck you… so hard… not even God will want to save you.”

He spoke in a hoarse tone, inching away from an untouched orgasm, staring at you with desperate yet threatening scarlet eyes.

He shut his eyes as another hit of water came, blood trickling down his cheeks as he heaved and grunted.

“Hell will be child's play… compared to what I'm going to do to you.”

He stopped fighting against his restraints, taking every piece of pain he asked for in the first place, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying every second. Being at your mercy, knowing you had the power to kill him right in your hands. Ah, it was enough to make a vampire nearly cum in his pants. And he was close.

One more hit and he let out a guttural cry, the front of his pants going damp. The burning pain of holy water was replaced by pure masochistic pleasure as he threw his head back, experiencing his first time cumming untouched.

You, on the other hand, finally had a reason to put that jar down, barely realizing you'd used half of it on him. You knew he was just provoking you – he was damn good at it – so you took none of his words to heart.

Instead, you started questioning yourself. Did you enjoy that? Punishing him for saying such things to you? Degrading you? Did you like reducing a powerful, supernatural being to tears? If not... why did you feel so goddamn turned on?

Your heart raced as you approached him, probably wondering if he was serious about his last words. He was teetering on the edge of an orgasm, having been in agonizing pain. Of course, he wasn't serious about punishing you for something he asked for… right?

After that, the attic became sacred. You got too shy to climb those stairs again, but it existed. Every time you passed the door, the walls remembered too.

So from fifth grade to ninth, you were inseparable. Everyone marveled that you alone could tell them apart—teachers, friends, even their parents sometimes mixed them up, but not you. Not their precious doll.

It was as if an invisible string tied you to them, some instinct that sharpened whenever you looked at their faces. You knew the curve of Heeseung’s smile when he was about to make trouble, and you knew the way Heesu’s eyes darted away when he wanted to say something but swallowed it instead. You felt like you had a power no one else did, and for a long time you thought it made you just as special as they were.

Maybe it was the countless hours—nights where you fell asleep to the sound of their voices, always keeping your attention on them while they made sure you never wanted to look away.

You catalogued their smallest habits: the way Heeseung cracked his knuckles before a lie, the way Heesu’s left thumb rubbed slow circles on your wrist when he was nervous.

Maybe it was their warmth too—how each of them felt different when their hands brushed yours during games, or when they hugged you goodnight and got too lazy to leave, collapsing across your bed like it was theirs all along.

Heeseung. He was louder. Confident. A lightning strike in human form. One flick of his fingers, one lazy smirk, and hearts detonated—yours included. Nobody refused him. Especially not you.

Heesu. Quieter. Steadier. The soft-eyed boy behind bangs and glasses you wanted to cradle like something breakable. He could hush a storm with a single look, make the world feel safe enough to breathe.

Simple, right? You loved them both—different flavors of the same addiction. No harm could come of it… until tenth grade came and everything changed.

Suddenly everyone could tell them apart. Heeseung bleached his hair in a burgundy shade, punched holes through his ears. His name exploded in hallway gossip, and with each rumor a fresh body count, every fling a carbon copy of you: same hair length, same height, same doe-eyed stare.

Why not me, then?

They all looked like you. They all were you, just disposable version, unshared ones with Heesu.

And Heesu, he burrowed deeper. Books, study groups, genius-club lock-ins. Even if he still texts at 2 a.m., had low-key hangouts with you that lasted until dawn. He became your anchor, buried so deep you’d need a shovel and a prayer to dig him out of this zone.

Life became… Normal again. Boring, like it was before them.

So the three of you rocketed in opposite directions, weren’t orbiting the same little life anymore. There doll had been shoved back into the attic to rot, dust in her joints, cobwebs for hair. How dare they think playing with dolls wasn’t their thing anymore.

You had no choise but to fake normality too. You scraped together new friends, even snagged a sweet religious boy, who kissed you like he was terrified of smudging the glaze on your porcelain skin.

But Heeseung and Heesu hated it.

Hated the sight of you breathing without their permission, hated that you didn’t flinch for their touch anymore.

They glared every time his chaste lips and hands grazed your cheek. Oh those two sets of identical eyes burning every inch of you. Fuck, it was the only pulse in your chest that still proved you weren’t made of nothing : a frantic, guilty boom, boom, boom, screaming I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m someone’s.

But what could they do? That was the consequence of letting go of your wrist.

Heeseung turned untouchable, perched on a pedestal that required a ladder and a blood sacrifice. Heesu became the ride-or-die wallflower confidant you spilled everything to.

Except…

That one thing. That… Heeseung still slipped into your room after midnight. That every time Heeseung entered a place, your heart did backflips and your ears betrayed you crimson in a defferent way… It’d be a knife in Heesu’s back. Worse—it’d shred the last thread stitching your trio together.

So you swallowed it. Bitter pills, for days, or month? When did it start again? You just remember that it was a summer afternoon. Golden light dripping down the walls, shadows clawing up your bed. Heeseung was sprawled across your sheets like he owned them—owned you—flipping through your sketchbook without asking.

“Stop, Hee!” You lunged, joining him on pale pink sheets.

He smirked, tapping a sloppy portrait. “Made me ugly on purpose, hm? Forgot the piercings again?”

“It’s not—” Your voice cracked. “It’s not you.”

Heeseung blocked your wirst with one lazy arm, eyes narrowing. “Why not me?” He leaned in, breath ghosting your lips. “Don’t I look better than Heesu? Aren’t I your favorite?” He was pouting, just like a kid but—

Your gaze snagged on his mouth, then flicked up when you realised what he was doing. Heeseung was challenging you. In amusement. In hunger.

It was a first, when the too of you were alone.

And you shattered that easly, like an addict. In million of soft petals starting to rot the second he grazed your lower lips with his thumb, removing the gloss your boyfriend offered you that day.

“I… I think I like you, Hee.”

The words tasted like poison—bitter, instant regret that didn’t even capture what you really meant to spill, what you really wanted to express.

But Heeseung didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock you the way you expected.

He just tilted his head, dark stars glittering in those dangerous eyes, a strange smirk curling the corner of his mouth. Closed the gap until your lips brushed, and whispered, “Then show me, Dollface. You first.”

So you did.

A reckless, stupid kiss—barely a graze, a dare.

Go on, Lee Heeseung. Do something about it.

And fuck, he did.

He crashed into you like he’d been starving for a decade. Lips brutal, tongue forcing entry, stealing your air. One hand clamped your throat—just enough to make your pulse riot. The other yanked your hip flush, grinding slow, deliberate, so you felt every inch of what you did to him.

Not a first kiss. A fucking takeover. The attic games didn’t count, yeah? This was your first.

You wanted this to be.

Maybe it would finally crack the porcelain out of you, crack the grey glaze of your life, turn the doll into a woman—alive and real.

You froze, a porcelain statue mid-shatter, breath caught in your throat like a scream you’d never let out. He pulled back a fraction, just enough for the air to knife between you—then purred low, feral, lips brushing yours in a threat: “Relax. Open your mouth, dolly. I’ll show you something good.”

Then he showed you.

No gentle coaxing, no sweet first-kiss bullshit. He crashed in like a storm breaking glass—teeth clashing, tongue forcing past your lips with the single-minded greed of a junkie chasing the vein.

“Bite me back”, he pant. “Moan like my desperate little virgin doll—match me—I’ll make you.” Every swirl was a dare dipped, every nip a deliberate tear—biting blood out just to taste it, copper blooming hot and metallic on your tongue, mixing with the flood of your and his saliva he sucked, lickied from you like it was his personal brand of heroin.

Did the attic ever feel like this? No. Not really. Those were tea-party games with blindfolds and giggles no? This was pure cannibalism—him eating you alive from the mouth down, fingers already clawing for more.

Heeseung kept licking your salt-slick skin, while you smelled stale cigarette ash and tasted the raw animal want that leaked from his pores with sweat.

It torched every rumor, every ghost-girl who’d worn your face in his bed, every lie told by this town about purity. This was the epitomy of pure, and honest. His hips rolling slow, his cruelty, the ridge of his cock against your soaked cunt through two pathetic layers of fabric, teasing the ache until your spine bowed—please, ruin me, I’m begging..

It wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t polite. It was obscenely real—tongues wrestling in a slurry of spit and blood, your pressed little blouse—the one buttoned to your throat like armor, now half-ripped open. Heeseung broke away just to feast with his eyes : your lips swollen obscene, glistening with mixed fluids; cheeks slashed crimson; collarbone mapped in ugly, sucked bruises leading straight to tits he hadn’t groped yet, but god, the way he stared, pupils blown black, told you he’d brand them next.

Perfect. His perfect, modest little doll—finally cracked open so he can bury his fingers in it, see whats inside, what’s leaking for him.

“H-Hee?” Your voice came out a wrecked squeak, barely human.

“You’re so pretty right now,” he said, voice shredded on the edge, thumb dragging through the mess on your lower lip, smearing it like war paint. “Just for me, ok? Don’t you fucking dare show this face to anyone else, not even Heesu. Be this pure, this mine, only when I’m here.” His grin was dazed, unhinged, eyes strangely manic. “And dump that limp-dick church boy. We don’t like it. You’re ours.”

You shook your head at first, to remind him what happens when a doll is left on her own—she develops a mind that no longer belongs to him.

But then the plot dissolved—poof—scattered like the sunflower petals they used to press into your scraped knees.

Heeseung hands got everywhere greedy and sacrilegious. His shoved under your prim little skirt, the one that screamed look but don’t touch, fingers ripping past soaked cotton panties, curling inside your cunt with a wet, filthy schlick that echoed off the walls.

He knew the path—had jerked off to it in fever dreams, where he could lock you in that attic. Two fingers, then three, pumping brutal, thumb grinding your clit until your hips jerked like a marionette with cut strings loosing balance. Yours clawed his ribs, nails carving bloody crescents.

Heartbeats blurred—whose frantic boom, boom, boom, was whose? The bed cricked under you, wood splintering, threatening to collapse and swallow you both into whatever hell waited below.

He yanked his hand up—fingers slick with you, glistenin—and shoved them past your teeth. “here,” he whispered, eyes void-black, watching you gag on the taste of your own desperation.

“Taste how fucking drenched you are for me.” You choked, tongue swirling on instinct, saliva flooding, dripping down your chin in glossy strands. He groaned—a guttural, wounded sound—hips stuttering against you. Addicted. Grotesquely, pathologically addicted to your spit, the way it coated his skin like glaze; to the copper tang when he bit your lip and lapped the mix like it was vintage wine.

“More,” he hissed, finger-fucking your mouth until it got replaced by his mouth. “Give me everything—spit, blood, those little whines. I want to be inside you… Everywhere.” His breath stuttered. “I want to feel your inside.”

“Do it,” you ground out, voice shredded into a beggar’s rasp.

“Heeseung—fuck me.”

His eyes almost rolled backward, his head falling in your nape. And you felt it—his cock throbbing against your soaked panties like a second heartbeat, rock-hard and obscenely fat, stretching the thin cotton with every hump.

One twitch, one shift of his hips, of your fabric and he could’ve shoved it free, buried it deep, split you open right there, in a brutal move.

The vulgarity wasn’t even in the act itself. No—this was something far more raw. It was in the way he read you, flipped through your pages, ended up smearing ink across your thoughts, your skin until you were dripping and unreadable to anyone else.

It wasn’t just Heeseung, but the twins’ power over you. The real terrifying part was how much you wanted it—wanted to be their doll, the one they worshiped.

Maybe that was supposed to be love.

You wanted to believe it.

But maybe it wasn’t.

You were still shaking, covered in Heeseung’s release, when he tugged his cock back into his pants. His back was already turned, his voice flat.

“Don’t… don’t think this means anything. Don’t tell Heesu. Just… forget it. It’s a secret.”

But he kept coming back.

Sometimes in the middle of the night—storms with no warning—slipping through your window, pressing you into a wall, the mattress, the floor. Lips hot and greedy. Fingers tracing bruises like love letters. And every time, low and filthy against your ear, he’d ask:

“Do you love me?”

You nodded. Or your body did—hips rolling, thighs opening, cunt clenching around nothing until he filled it with his fingers. You let him in. Let him take. Let him leave.

Each “yes” grew smaller. Hoarser. Like it was choking on the lie. You kept telling yourself the secret wouldn’t hurt Heesu. That silence was mercy. That omission was kindness.

Bullshit.

It did.

It spread like rot under floorboards. You stopped crossing their threshold not because you were busy, but because the walls knew. Your window surprisingly got repaired after years of that lock being broken. Every laugh in Heesu’s voice when hanging out, carried sweet subtitles you couldn’t bear to read.

So you ghosted. Clean cuts, practiced quiet. Messages left to fossilize, plans dodged with bloodless excuses—“period,” “tired,” “maybe next week.” You swore you’d cut the cord clean once uni started after summer… Both of them out of your life.

Then one day, Heesu went silent too.

He walked into the woods alone—the same woods where the three of you once played dangerous games on sun-drunk afternoons. Except this afternoon was fog-thick, air heavy enough to chew. And he didn’t come back.

They said the river ran red. Not rusty. Not muddy. Red—like it bled out with him. The same river where you used to wash off tiny wounds from your games. The cops shrugged: he slipped and drowned. Case closed.

They said he looked peaceful.

Except the casket was closed. His face wasn’t a face anymore—rocks chewed it off, stitches barely keeping what remained in the shape of a person. Then the whispers metastasized: suicide? Murder? Sacrifice? Church women clutched their pearls and said Heesu always had that look. You know—the look of kids who skip Sunday service have. The one they get when they stop fearing God.

Heesu’s gone now.

And you’re at his grave, surrounded by strangers crying for the clout of grief. His mother wails about her “smiling boy,” voice cracking like cheap porcelain. Each word knots your gut—she’s lying for the grief, or maybe the memory. She never really saw him.

Not like Heeseung did.

Not like you did.

“Bullshit,” you hiss, rage hotter than tears.

Heeseung’s hand clamps yours, too tight, trembling. Jaw locked, eyes glassy. Don’t, his grip says. Not here.

So you choke the scream, let his pulse anchor you. For once, he’s the glue.

Crowd scatters like roaches when the lights flick on—condolences mumbled, heels clicking toward casseroles and gossip.

You stay at grave.

Fog turns headstones into jagged teeth.

Then—your name.

Soft. Faint.

Heesu’s voice.

Again.

Heeseung’s fingers catch your wrist. “I was calling you.”

“You… Sorry, It sounded just like—”

His eyes snag yours—grief, yes, but something feral underneath. Comparing him to his brother wasn't very… especially now...

“Come home,” he says, voice splintering. “Family’s gathering. You can’t stay here all day, ok?”

You open your mouth to refuse—not yet, let me rot with him—but his grip turns forceful.

Then she materializes. Heeseung’s girl—a new one apprently— the 101th problem of yours. Your reality’s jump-scare.

“Babe…” She snakes an arm around his. The word slices you in a million more pieces.

But for a first, Heeseung didn’t flinch from you. Don't act like you don’t exist anymore. “Go home. It’s for family now...” he say not even meeting her eyes.

Her glare flicks to you, like she could read the now faded hickeys under your collar, but dismisses you as not worth enough to be one of his girls.

“She’s family,” he repeats, slower, meaner.

And fuck, it lands, both poison and balm.

But as his fingers crush yours, one thought gnaws: If, you’re family, why did family did what the both you did?

Why did the family let Heesu walk into the fog alone?

The drive back is silent. Rain smears the windows into dull watercolor. You’re in the back of Heeseung’s family’s car, too small for the quiet. His hand swallows yours on the middle seat—warm, almost claiming.

Your thumb traces circles on his skin; you don’t really notice. Not until his stare started to burn. You turn and see it. That smile he gives at the prime vision of him holding your hand? Slow and faint. Like he’s wearing Heesu’s face and it’s two sizes too small.

Stop… Stop thinking about Heesu…

The car stops. Houses loom. Your chest caves.

Heesu still lives here in your head—laugh echoing down halls, bedroom light flickering like a beacon, that teasing lilt asking if you want a drink when you always said no, while his fingers “accidentally” brush your hair too long like he always did.

You can’t go in. Not now… Maybe not ever.

“Hey.” Heeseung’s voice slithers right up against your ear, too soft for how he speak naturally. “Come in, please.”

You shake your head so hard it rattles. “I can’t...”

“Please—” The word cracks like a bone, and it’s not his voice anymore.

That’s the real gut-punch. You’ve never said no to Heeseung. Not once. It’s his superpower. He always had that velvet choke-hold and you, the idiot who kept swallowing every word like water.

You open your mouth to spew the truth : “walking in with you, there, is stepping into the hole we dug for him, heeseung“ , but his eyes eat the words. Those aren’t the eyes that used to crinkle first at a joke. These are oil-slick, depthless, studying you like a specimen that forgot its own name, like he wanted to make you knew who you were talking to.

You yank your hand free. He doesn’t chase. Just stands there, rain plastering his hair to his skull, watching you dissolve into the dark fog around your house.

You stumble home with the sky crying on your neck. For one delusional second you think the clouds are crying for you… For Heesu.

Then you remember: weather doesn’t give a shit.

In your room you crank the shower to scalding and step in fully clothed, shoes and all. You stay until the mirror fogs into oblivion and your skin blisters pink, waiting for the water to excise something. It doesn’t. Guilt’s a tick burrowed too deep for steam.

You shut your eyes and there it is again: not Heeseung’s voice. The other one. The one six feet under. Whispering from the marrow of your bones like it never left. Your name, again, and again. Suddenly smelling iron, and wet mud in the water falling on you. You won’t open your eyes. Cause what if you do and he’s here? behind you, his head on your nape as he always loved it. Talking softly about nothing and everything.

Heesu…

Your innocent Heesu.

That night, the fever hit hard. You’re burning alive, lungs thick with hot tar, staggering through the house hunting pills you’re not sure will break the fever—or play nice with the anxiety meds already rattling in your bloodstream. One blink and the hallway tilts, walls pulsing like lungs, floorboards licking at your ankles. Next blink, you’re back in bed, collapsing into sheets that do swallow you whole, cool cotton turning to quicksand.

When you finally open your eyes, you’re there.

Back in their attic.

The colored dull light thru the tinted small windows, the dust particles flying in the air, and that old smell. The twin's laughter—low, syrupy, kind—curls around your skull. Someone’s knotting a blindfold over your eyes. Silk from their aunt’s old 90’ dress.

It’s familiar. You know this game. You invented it all together, back when it still sounded sweet and pure in the way only the three of you defined it.

They keep you spinning around until you lose all perception of your surroundings. The sound of Heeseung removing his piercing reaches your ears, accompanied by the clatter of Heesu putting his glasses down on a table close by.

“Guess,” the voices purr—Heeseung’s cadence, Heesu’s timbre, then Frankenstein stitch of both voices, “Guess.”

It's amusing in the strangest way. They approach you, circle you, one is blowing air in your ear, and you tilt. The other is nudging you in various places and you shrink.

Your laugh comes warm. “Stop fucking with me, we’re not kids anymore…”

Silent

“… Guys?”

Then, fingers—whose?—trace your jaw feather-light, then dig. And wet tongue laps at your lips.

Guess who, by touch and feelings, huh ?

Only now, the air feels slightly off-kilter. The laughter, thinner.

“Ready?” Heeseung’s deeper voice teases. It’s different from the usual... More… Heavy. He’s older, that’s maybe why.

You nod with a slight excited smile, feeling both thrilled and unsure.

Your mind sinks into it, and fingertips skim over your wrist. They trail lightly along your pulsing veins, pausing at the bend of your elbow, then gone.

Others, more hesitant, like it’s asking for permission it doesn’t really need, grazes the nape of your neck, putting your hair back, enjoying every graze down your back, followed by a hot, shaky breath. You’re ecstatic, shivering at every contact.

You don’t need to see to know who’s who normally. Choose and it’ll stop.

You know Heeseung. You know Heesu.

But it’s been so long since you all played this game… And you’re all grown, and changed, and different, and altered. They won’t mind you making it go a little longer…

They make you sit on that old velvet couch—the one that’s been losing its emerald color and collecting dust in a corner.

You feel their shoulders brush yours, hear the quiet scrape of fabric, a faint trace of vanilla-mint shampoo curling into your lungs when your head turns to your left. Heesu’s.

And a black musky cologne, when you turn to your right. Heeseung’s for sure.

Fever burns under your skin. Their hands, touch, copies, twins, glide over you like you’re porcelain, breakable, theirs. Fingers tangle in your hair, slowly, tugging just enough to tilt your doll-neck back.

“Guess…” A voice reminds you. And for the first time you’re not sure whose.

Nails trace your arms, your throat, your parted lips, mapping every inch like it’s the first time a woman’s body ever existed.

They breathe against you, hot, hungry, two boys, two men, worshiping their favorite toy.

“I-I like this dress…You’re the prettiest in it.” A voice breath, kissing your left shoulder as it slides down a strap of your night gown. From the hesitation you can tell it’s Heesu’s. From the choice of word too, you smiled.

Heeseung… would have called you fuckable, a dude turn on. sexy if he felt poetic.

“You're so fucking hot in it…” the other voice added, letting the other strap fall and the dress lend on your hips.

You can’t help but grin a little at Hee’s voice coming from your right.

“Guess…” Again you can’t tell suddenly.

What you believe is Heesu’s hands hook under your thighs, lift you until you’re straddling his lap, legs opened to the slightly cold ambient air. His cock already straining against his sweatpants, throbbing against your already ruined thin clothed pussy. He exhales like a dying man, hips bucking up, grinding his length along your ass in slow, filthy drags. The friction is good, his fabric soaking with your slick and his precum smearing until you’re somehow both slide-slipping-fucking without penetration.

“Move with me,” he begs, his voice cracking, a hand clamping at your shoulder the other on your hip to force his rhythm on you. You roll against him, clit catching on the form of his hard on with every hump, sparks exploding behind your eyes and voice purring small whimpers. He’s not wearing underwear, you feel it. Heesu’s head falls back, throat bared, moaning your name like a prayer, hips snapping very slowly, chasing the wet heat you’re painting across his pants.

The one you swear is Heeseung—don’t dare move. You can’t see it, but he’s staring, pupils blown wide like black holes ready to swallow you whole, tongue dragging slow and filthy across his lower lip, already tasting your skin in his sick little mind.

He yanks your wrist into a bruising grip like he’s claiming a limb, then drags his tongue over it in a slow, deranged glide—like he’s tasting a pulse he wants to bite through. His tongue chases every shiver in your veins, hunting them, before sliding between your fingers and fucking the gaps with wet, filthy thrusts that sound obscene in the quiet.

Then your index and ring finger disappear into the molten heat of his mouth—devoured, not kissed. His tongue thrashes around them, desperate, greedy, and his teeth sink into the base hard enough that you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“Feels good, hm?” he rasps.

You nod—more from the practiced instinct than thoughts—your brain’s dissolving into the heat, the moment, and you offer yourself mouth agap: sloppy, trembling, desperate, begging without a word for him to break you open and crawl inside the wreckage he makes.

He doesn’t just step forward—he descends on you. His hand fists in your hair, knuckles grinding your scalp, jerking your head back until your throat stretches tight, a perfect exposed line he could bruise, bite, worship, or tear open. His breath hits your lips, starved.

“These lips,” he rasps, softly kissing, “Fuck… I’ve been dreaming of ruining them. Stretching them. Making you choke on me.” His voice cracks at the end, like wanting you hurts.

Then he takes your mouth—no prelude, no testing or warning, just collision.

He crashes into you with a force that feels like a fist made of heat. His tongue rams past your lips, claiming space, fucking your mouth with long, greedy strokes. He tastes like you, like the leftover copper from where he bit you earlier, all of it tangled with his spit as he forces yours to mix with his. It slicks your chin, but it doesn’t matter—Heeseung licks it off in a messy sweep that makes your knees buckle.

Then his free hand tears down his zipper with a violence that shivers through your bones. His cock spills into the air—thick, heavy, flushed so dark it borders on bruised. Precum beads at the tip, dripping slow, obscene, enough to slick his fingers as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once to keep himself from unraveling too fast.

He drags the head across your mouth, smears himself over your lips like your favorite gloss, and just look at you. Then you feel his lips, tasting himself on you.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth until you forget how to close it, ok?” he mutters, voice shredded with need.

The tip slides across your tongue—hot, salty and bittersweet. Your body lurches forward without permission, chasing the taste he gives you.

“Open,” he whispers.

And you open, ready to take him as deep as Heeseung wants, ready to let him destroy the part of you he loves most.

The first push is slow, deliberate—velvet-soft head breaching your lips, scalding hot, stretching your mouth obscenely wide. You feel it throb harder against your tongue, veins pulsing like live wires, the slit weeping more of that bitter, addictive gloss. Heeseung groans low, hips twitching, feeding you inch by torturous inch while he watches—blindfold snug, your lips strained around his girth like it’s the holiest desecration he’s ever witnessed.

“Relax your throat,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek in mock tenderness. “Breathe through your nose. Take me.”

You try. The stretch burns, jaw screaming, saliva flooding in a messy torrent that spills down your chin in thick, glistening ropes. Heeseung guides you deeper—slow, relentless—until the head nudges the back of your throat. You gag sharp, eyes watering beneath the blindfold, but he holds you steady, thumb pinning your tongue flat, soothing the panic.

“Swallow,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Swallow around me, okay?”

You do. The reflex milks him—throat fluttering, clenching—and he hisses through clenched teeth, hips jerking forward. “Fuck, yeah—just like that.”

Behind you, Heesu’s hands glide to your thighs, fingers prying them apart, delving straight into the flood between. He moans—shattered, needy—as two digits spear your soaked folds, slipping far too easily into your clenching heat. He curls them, drinking the slick mess you’ve made, hips humping desperately against your ass. “You’re drowning my pants,” he whimpers, voice cracking, yanking your hips higher to force you grinding harder on his trapped cock. Fabric clings ruined, translucent with you; the blunt head catches teasingly at your entrance with every frantic thrust.

Up front, Heeseung owns your throat now—slow, merciless strokes that bulldoze past your gag reflex until you’re swallowing him to the root, nose crushed into the coarse hair at his base, lips stretched grotesque around his girth. Tears carve hot paths down your cheeks, but you moan around him anyway, the vibration ripping a guttural groan from his chest.

“Guess.” That voice echo again.

Heesu’s fingers start pumping in earnest, thumb grinding merciless circles over your clit while his hips slam upward, chasing your frantic grind. “Gonna come—sorry,” he sobs, voice splintering like glass. His grip turns bruising—good bruising—yanking you back onto him with raw possession. Teeth scrape the shell of your ear; between Heeseung’s relentless thrusts, you catch his fractured plea: “I’ll mark you… I’ll mark you outside, please, please, please.”

Heeseung eases out just enough for you to gasp—thick strings of spit bridging your swollen lips to his glistening cock—then slams back in, deeper, harder, until your throat visibly bulges. “Wish I could make you look at me… fuck, I need your eyes,” he snarls, hips snapping. “You’re ours, you know that.”

You try to answer—words, anything—but all that escapes are garbled moans and wet, desperate groans around his shaft. It’s enough.

Heesu breaks first. Hips stutter, cock pulsing wildly against your ass; hot spurts erupt, soaking your thighs, your stomach, claiming you in thick, filthy ropes that drip and cling. (When did he shove his sweatpants down?) The sensation shatters you—orgasm crashing like a tidal wave, cunt clenching greedily around his buried fingers, gushing over his hand, his lap, marking him right back.

Heeseung follows with a primal roar, yanking free at the last second. One fist, two—then he paints you: mouth, tongue, the swell of your tits in endless, obscene stripes. He crashes into a kiss through the mess, tongue scooping his own release from your lips, feeding it back to you, forcing you to swallow the bitter-salt mix with a possessive growl.

“So?” Heeseung pants, smug. “Guessed?”

Your trembling fingers trace his mouth; you breathe his name. His lips curve—right answer.

Heesu cups your chin, turns you for his turn. You whisper his name against the chastest brush of lips. He smiles, soft and shattered: “You’re the best.”

Heesu’s delicate fingers untie the ribbon like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s already broke. He’s so close your lashes brush his cheek, breath hot but suddenly sour with something metallic. His thumb tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, but the gaze behind his bangs that flicks between your lips and your blown-wide eyes is starving, not tender.

Still, he use the fabric to remove what Heeseung made out of you—looking like he wished he could too—as you grabed on his glasses to adjust them on his nose. He smile shy, eyes trying not to look too long at your chest, like you didn’t felt him busting a nut on your back a minutes ago, making it a marking thing on top of that.

He finished, circling you back in a back hug,“Maybe…” His head rest on you shoulder, “If I were more like him, you’d never guess who’s who, doll.”

“What do you mean?” Heeseung’s voice floats in from the window, suddenly lazy, distant, as if he wasn’t cataloguing every frantic pulse in your throat earlier.

“If I were mean,” Heesu breathes against your ear, teeth clamping your lobe hard enough to bruise cartilage, “I’d bite until I tast blood.” You flinch-smile as reflex. And he mutter a sorry.

“Am I?” Heeseung shrugs, still turned away, moonlight carving his silhouette.

“You are,” Heesu snarls, nose dragging down back your neck, lips sealing to your spine with wet suction—like he’s trying to suck the vertebrae straight through skin. His bangs rasp over flesh, tinkling, “Heesu, stop,” you giggle.

“You don’t treat her good… It hurts her, and me.”

You suddenly oblivious. Heesu seemed like he tried to defend you but it made strangly anxious. “You force my sweet doll to lie to my face—even after she swore she’d never hide a damn thing to me.”

You freeze. “W-what?”

Something cold and slick slithers down your spine—slow, deliberate, too thick for saliva. Too viscous. It pools at the base of your back, cooling into a sticky brand.

“We always agreed to play with her together. So why? Why having her all to yourself so many time.” Heesu’s voice drops to a gravel rasp. “I too—always wanted to fuse with her. Carve my name inside you. Our doll. Mine. I should shove it inside now as punishment.” He added in your ear.

“No!” Heeseung barks, still facing the dark glass, like somthing was making him stay in place. “It’s off-limits. It’s the rule—If don’t choose one, none has her.”

“What?” Your voice cracks like thin ice.

“But y-you two—didn’t you—?” Heesu’s tone warps, underwater.

“NO!” you scream, twisting to face him—

You scream. His face…

Flesh peeled in wet ribbons, dangling from cheekbones like gore-curtains. One eyeball dangles by a optic nerve, swinging like a pendulum. The other socket is a black pit leaking custard-thick blood. When his jaw unhinges, a fist-sized clot of tongue and teeth plops onto his lap with a wet splat, steaming.

You shriek, lungs seizing. Your hand jerks behind you on instinct—comes back drenched, arterial red up to the wrist. The air reeks of copper and rot.

Heesu’s body lurches upright, vertebrae cracking like gunfire, joints popping out of sockets with wet sucking sounds. Skin splits along the seams, revealing raw muscle that twitches and spasms. He drags himself toward you, dragging loops of intestine that slap the floor like wet ropes.  You want to vomit.

You scramble backward, nails splintering the old wood floor, until your up spine slamming into Heeseung’s chest. You whirl—his palms cup your face, but they’re slick, dripping, painted with the same blood.

“You’re the only thing I want,” he hisses, voice fracturing into static. “You won’t leave. You’ll stay right here, with me, okay? Don’t leave me like he did.”

Terror detonates. You wrench free, bare feet slapping the creaking floor. The door—yank it open—

To be faced with… You weren't sure anymore. Your name came out of his mouth and it sounded like both of them were talking.

“I’ll be the one you want, i’ll be him.” the thing gurgles, voices overlapping, wet and grinding.

Your name rips from somewhere behind you—Heeseung? Heesu?

You slam your eyes shut.

Open them gasping.

Heeseung kneels at the edge of your bed, real, human, a cold towel in trembling hands. Moonlight slices across his face—no blood, no gore, just worry.

“What the hell,” you rasp. “That dream—no, nightmare… felt…”

You touch your forehead. Fever’s a furnace. Heeseung’s voice is soft, exhausted: your mom barred the door, swore you were contagious. He scaled the balcony anyway, found you thrashing, soaked in sweat. Stayed all night, swapping cold clothes, whispering your name like a prayer.

“Feeling better?”

You shake your head. You feel worse. Hollowed out, paper-thin.

He stays most of the time at the edge of your bed, on the floor. Just like Heesu used to. Xhile you keep on blacking out and waking up. You heard him say in at a moment, “Call me whenever, I’ll be there…” until sleep drags you under again. When you woke up, it was to the sound of the banging rain. It was night again. You slept a full day. You’re a corpse still in your own bed, sheets glued to fevered skin.

You turn, left and right, rot on your phone, blankly looking at the ceiling. Until you find yourself crawling back to those old texts with Heesu, obsessively rereading every word, replaying his voice like it was a drug. And the last one? Yeah, that one hit like a sucker punch straight to the gut.

Heesu🐿️: "Meet me... Please"

Heesu🐿️: Tell me what’s going on?? Why won’t you come home?? Why no hang out anymore??

It’s been days since you swore you’d stop checking his messages. Lies, obviously. You still open the chat every hours, even under this fever, scrolling through old voice notes like a masochist with a lot of data.

You don’t even know what you’re looking for. Maybe the ghost of his laugh. Maybe proof that you did imagine the whole thing.

Then you do what you always did when logic gave you up since Heesu’s gone—you called. The ceiling stares back like it’s judging you. Then his voice: recorded, distant, too polite for the damage it leaves.

“Sorry, not here right now. Might call you later… Sorry if I forget.”

Beep.

Of course. The apology hits like a habit. You almost laugh. He always said sorry like it was punctuation.

You smile, if you can call that grimace a smile and wait through the beep. You were supposed to say something easy, something normal. Instead, it slips out raw:

“Hey… it’s me.”Your voice splinters. “I’m sorry, Hee. I should’ve been there. Should’ve listened. Should’ve—”

The word “told you I loved you too”, “loved you more“ dies in your throat.

The rest comes in fragments. Half‑played games you guys still need to finish, midnight walks, salted popcorn with chocolate the stupid mix only you two liked. You talk until the voicemail cuts you off.

And still, you kept calling. Because apparently, you’re the kind of person who argues with ghosts.

Until the phone buzzes back. Your heart stutters. The screen lights up.

Heeseung.

Heeseung🦌: Wanna hang out?

You stared at the screen, heartbeat pulsing in your ears. Every part of you screamed NO. But before you could type, another message appeared.

bzz.

Heeseung 🦌: Sorry

bzz.

Heeseung 🦌: parents left for Korea, to meet family... Kinda don’t want to be alone right now

bzz

Heeseung 🦌: please…

The guilt slams harder than the rain on your window. What time is it again? You can’t refuse him. Not tonight. Not when he seems so broken like that, raw, pleading, needy.

You lurch to your window, stare too long into the black. Then you wrench it open. Wind rapes in—cold, wet, invasive. It claws under your nightgown, licking up your thighs like it already knows how you taste.

Across the yard, Heeseung’s window’s open. He’s there, drenched, hair plastered like a second skin, eyes glinting. When he calls out your name, it’s not a question, or a plea. It’s a collar. A yank. A threat wrapped in his siren voice.

He extends a hand. Veins bulging. Knuckles white. Waiting.

You don’t think. You go.

You climbed the slick balcony rail, fingers trembling, rain threading down your spine like cold breath. The air bite at your skin, hardened your nipples, made your nightgown cling like a second unwanted skin.

Heeseung pulled you in easily, arms locking around your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish. He held you there a second too long. A touch too hot. A stare too deep.

He then shut the window behind you with a soft, final thud.

And the world went quiet.

Too quiet.

His house was soundproofed far too well for some old house. The silence felt unnatural, like something was being kept out... Or kept in.

You could hear your own breath, shallow and fast. His, a fraction uneven. Like he was holding something back.

“Hey,” you said, tugging his wet shirt, just to hear a voice, anything.

He turned. And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Water dripped from your hair, your clothes clung to you like wet paper trying to shame you. Heeseung looked at you like someone caught between hunger and grief. You could see the words building in his throat, but he couldn’t pick which one would break you both faster.

But his eyes spoke volumes. They dragged over you—from your bare feet to the soaked hem of your gown, lingering on the hard peaks of your nipples straining against the fabric, the frantic rise and fall of your chest, your trembling lips. Then he stepped closer, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and wrapped his arms around you—soft, almost reverent.

For a second, you almost believed it was… those same soft hands had—

You froze. No. Stop thinking about him.

Then you gave in. Your arms circled him back. You stayed like that until your pulse remembered how to behave.

Heeseung’s hand found yours—gentle but firm. His voice low, coaxing: something to drink, dry clothes. You refused. Took a big towel instead. Said you’d go home soon, change there. He didn’t like it—you saw it in the tight line of his jaw, controlled, swallowing words he’d regret. But he let it go. Didn’t argue.

That’s when you noticed. His hair was dark again. Not burgundy anymore. Slightly lighter in the glow, but mostly back to its original shade. You hadn’t registered it at the funeral.

“You dyed it back,” you murmured, reaching out without thinking, brushing his bangs aside into his signature style.

He let you. Leaned into the touch. “Yeah… sorry. It just felt wrong. The other color.”

Something unsure in his tone twisted your stomach.

You tried to keep the chat light, but the mood hung heavy. You were both drying off when Heeseung’s gaze drifted down the hallway to the shut door at the far end. He hesitated. Stared.

“There’s something I want to do…” he said quietly. “Something I don’t have the guts to do alone…”

You followed his gaze. Already knew.

Heesu’s room.

You both hesitated at the door, locking eyes. Your fingers were ice on the handle—until Heeseung reached for you, sliding his into yours. Neither spoke. Together, you turned the knob.

The air inside was stale. Preserved. Heeseung didn’t move at first. Just stood there, fingers tangled with yours, eyes scanning the space—scanning you. You felt it: the weight of his attention, gravity doubled, every pulse in your body announcing itself to him.

You shivered. Not just from the cold.

The shutters were closed. You flicked on a dim, dying lamp—its glow weak and yellowish, like it didn’t want you seeing too much.

His computer pulsed in sleep mode. Cables coiled like veins. Stacks of horror games, fantasy comics, psych books. Posters you’d helped tape up. The bed you’d collapsed on once or twice, limbs tangled, all-nighter laughter still ghosting the sheets.

Heeseung moved slow, touching things like they might crumble. Like they might scream.

“You should take something,” he said eventually.

You shook your head. “No. He wasn’t big on sharing, haha…”

Heeseung gave a thin smile. “He would’ve shared with you. You were the only one he ever shared anything with.”

You almost laughed—brittle. “What? Jealous?”

“Maybe…” He let himself fall back onto the bed. The sound cracked too loud.

“You shared me, though…”

“My friendship…” you added quickly.

You joined him on the carpet, knees drawn up, nightgown clinging cold to your skin, hair plastered to your neck. The air smelled of dust, metal, and the ghost of Heesu’s voice.

“Nah… You always had a favorite. For sure. Am I wrong?”

You didn’t respond.

Every breath inhaled memories—of the three of you. Then just the two…

Heeseung reached for the controller on Heesu’s desk and handed it to you. Plastic cold. Too cold. Like it had been waiting.

“His favorite?” he murmured.

You nodded. Turned it over in your hands. Worn buttons. Faded sticker. Throat tight.

“He used to curse at it when it lagged,” you said.

Heeseung let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Blamed everything but himself…”

So you played—the same game the three of you binged after school. But Heeseung picked Heesu’s mains. Every round.

Soft clicks filled the space where laughter used to live. The console hummed low. Outside, rain eased to a steady rhythm, like the world keeping time for you both.

Now and then, glances—too quick to mean anything, too long to mean nothing. No need to talk. The quiet stretched thin, vibrating with everything unspoken.

Minutes blurred into hours. Rain softened to a whisper. The screen flickered over curling posters, half-folded blankets. The room felt suspended—unsure what time it belonged to anymore.

You lost track of score. Game-over blinked red. Neither restarted. You stayed—he above, you below—like moving would snap the last thread tethering you to Heesu.

Then the console clicked to sleep. Light faded to dull blue. Stillness ached in your chest.

You lay back, head on the bed’s edge beside Heeseung, staring at faint fluorescent stars clinging to the ceiling. You remembered sticking them up with Heesu—him balanced on a tower of chairs, both of you laughing while he reached that damn corner.

One star was missing. You wondered if Heeseung noticed too.

“It’s your moles…” Heeseung started.

“Hm? What?”

“The stars. The pattern of the moles on your back…”

His voice flat, lost in plastic sky. “I realized it one day, but Heesu got pissed when I noticed… Guess he wondered how I caught it so quick.”

You stared harder—traced the constellation until it clicked. Then you were crying. Silent tears sliding into the corners of your mouth, salt and dust on your tongue.

Heeseung turned toward you. Voice low, trembling: “Hey…”

You breathed deep, met his eyes as he brushed your hair back again.

“Can you… stay? Just for a while.” Simple. But it landed like confession. “Since my parents are gone… let’s stay together.”

You wanted to say no. I can’t. I shouldn’t. This isn’t right. But the words curled behind your teeth, silent and aching.

So you nodded. Barely.

You moved—slow, crossing a line you both knew couldn’t be uncrossed. Carpet scraped your knees. Floorboards groaned like disapproval. Heeseung didn’t move. Just watched—through soaked, near-translucent fabric, through your shivers, through the hitch in your breath as you reached the bed’s edge.

His jaw locked. Eyes unreadable behind bangs. You hesitated. Then he took your hand. Pulled you down beside him—soft.

Mattress dipped. Space between you a breath. Shoulders not touching, but close enough for heat, tension, want. Silence pulsed thick, uneven—like a heart with a murmur. Blue console light painted his face softer—almost gentle. Almost like—

After what felt like hours, he whispered: “Why do you love me? Me. Not him?”

The question cracked something sealed. Something you weren’t ready to name.

Your lips parted—no sound. You turned to the ceiling, to fading stars. You’d thought them random. Never understood why Heesu needed them to sleep.

Fuck. You knew. Just pretended not to—because he wouldn’t dare claim you.

You were supposed to leave. University waiting. New city. New life. You’d decided to let time erase the ache. Erase Heeseung. And Heesu…

“I don’t know,” you said finally, small, pathetic. “It just… happened, I guess.”

He turned. Eyes searched yours for lies. Stars shimmered in your tears.

“But I know when I realized it…” you said. “Fourteen. When I got sick. You jumped the balcony every day—snacks, comics. Stayed even when Mom screamed. Checked my temperature. Made me laugh. And you…” Voice cracked. “Kissed me goodnight.”

Heeseung shifted closer. Your body tilted toward his—like it couldn’t help it. His expression flickered—wondering, almost afraid.

“You—”

“How did you know it was me?” he cut in. “We looked exactly alike. Could’ve been him…”

You smiled through ache. “The shirt. When you played on the floor—the tag had your name. Didn’t even have to guess.”

He exhaled—almost a laugh, broken halfway. Mouth twitched, fell. Light caught his face and for a moment— He looked like himself.

“Maybe it should’ve been him,” he said. Quiet. Flat. “He would’ve treated you better than me.”

The words settled like dust in a sealed room.

You wanted to say no. Don’t say that. But the thought lived in you too—impossible to ignore. If Heesu had made a move… if they’d both wanted to share you… would anything be different?

He looked down. Jaw tight. Something raw flickered behind his eyes—almost dangerous. For a second, you thought he might cry.

But Heeseung never cried. Not in front of you. Not ever. Until now…

“Hee…?” you whispered.

You reached up, touched his cheek—instinctive. Desperate. He leaned into your hand like he was starving. When he looked up, he tried to smile. It shattered.

“I’m sorry…” Voice soft. Splintering. “I won’t make you suffer anymore. I promise. I won’t treat you like shit anymore.”

The apology lodged in your throat. Felt wrong. Too sudden. You sat up, heart hammering.

His eyes glassy in low light—pain you didn’t know he could hold.

“You never really did, Hee—” But even as you said it, you weren’t sure it was true.

“I did,” he growled, voice cracked and ragged. “I did, and I won’t anymore. I swear to God, I won’t.”

You hesitated, thumb brushing beneath his eye where a tear had slipped. He shut his eyes and slammed himself harder into your touch, shuddering, shaking, as if the world would crumble if he let go. Every exhale scorched your wrist; every tremor crackled with his need like a live wire.

“Hee…”

No answer.

Just your name—ragged, desperate, scalding against your skin—like he was branding you, claiming you without a single word.

Heeseung closed the space until it scorched.

Chest crushed to your belly, his head hovering just above your ribs, every trembling, fever-hot inch of him grinding against you—raw, unfiltered, starving. Heat bled through the drenched nightgown, fabric plastered translucent to your skin, his ragged breaths fanning like flames over your hardened nipples. The cold metal of his earrings dragged deliberate across the peaks, sparking jolts straight to your cunt, while his fingers clamped your waist and hips, like if he eased up even a fraction, you’d dissolve into smoke and leave him aching.

“Stay… stay… please…” he begs, the words spilling out in pathetic half-sobs, half-growls, each one yanking you harder into his sweat-drenched mess of a body.

You don’t budge. One hand twisted in his greasy hair, the other fisting the sheets like they’re the last shred of your dignity while your traitorous cunt clenches and leaks for him. Every inch of him brands you—nerves, pulse, the inside of your skull.

Air’s gone rancid, thick with the stink of want, choking you both.

His hips jerk wild—sloppy, frantic, virgin-desperate. Forehead mashed to yours, chest flattening your tits, breath hacking out wet and ruined. He looks wrecked: eyes black holes, mouth hanging open, a guy straight-up melting into your skin like he’s trying to fuse.

Lips hover over the soaked nightgown, tongue lapping heavy, drooling stripes. When he finally clamps on your nipple, he sucks like a starving mutt, teeth gnawing, branding through fabric like it’s flesh. Hands follow the chaos: pinching, twisting, raking red lines down your ribs, hoarding every inch he’s jerked off to for years.

It’s wrong. Disgustingly wrong. Like he’s ripping his own guts out just to shove them inside you. Fingers dive south, shoving under the hem, hunting slick and bare skin. You jolt, thighs snapping shut; he groans like your heat just cauterized some festering wound in him.

“Fuck…”

His hand grinds your clit until your hips buck like a cheap whore. No. Not here. Not now, but why your body’s already sold out, arching, begging, cunt spasming around thin air.

Heeseung crashes—folding you like trash origami. Every squeak, every shiver, every pathetic whimper just pumps him meaner

“Heeseung—wait—”

You caught it. That feral glint in his eyes, black pits oozing a want you never saw before. He pinned to your knees to your tits.

You whimpered his name—tiny, cracked. But still didn’t fight. Not when he tore the drenched panties off, baring your pulsing cunt to stale air. Heeseung never—not once tried to eat you.

Your thighs trembled at the mere idea of him going down on you. Because Heeseung never did. Never once. Never bothered.

But him right now? Obsessed. Kneeling between your legs, hair a wreck, eyes locked on his own fingers grazing your slick folds, thumb circling your clit like he’s hypnotized. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, dying for a taste of that glistening mess.

What the hell was happening? Heeseung felt wrong—different, unhinged.

“Can I taste you? I really want to…”

He begged.

You nod—he lunges.

Nose mashed to your swollen clit, tongue lapping your juices like a starved dog, breath wild and ragged. He devours every tremble, every arch, pinning you to the mattress with iron hands.

Loves how your soft lips feel against his tongue, how you gush wetter the harder he grinds his nose in.

Your fingers twist in his hair, smearing him with you; he groans into your cunt when you finally grind back.

Doesn’t just let you—he joins, two fingers curling deep, shoving into your clenching heat. Fuck, nothing like your own—unpredictable thrusts, sudden scissoring, drinking every moan, every plea.

Then he speeds up. Faster. Tongue plunging alongside, stretching you as you chase the edge.

Smirks every time your nails rake his scalp.

“Cum—please, just cum—” muffled into your folds.

You shatter. Hips buck wild; he savors every second. First time this hard—even solo on your horniest nights, it never hit like this.

You tried to collapse back, thinking it might be over. Suddenly grossed by what the two of you are doing in Heesu’s room.

You were wrong.

“Wait, wait, wait, Hee—”

He forced your legs open again—relentless, brutal, demanding. His hands rewriting every boundary you’d ever known.

You tried to speak, but the words died in your throat. He didn’t stop. Only moved faster, closer, every motion feverish, desperate, claiming.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me you need me.” His voice cracked raw against your skin, trembling with want.

“Yes,” you gasped. But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. He pushed harder, devoured you with every thrust of fingers, every swipe of tongue—cataloguing every gasp, every twitch, like he was etching it into his bones.

Then it hit—a climax ripping through you like lightning, shredding your body in impossible waves. He groaned, his own need spilling hot into his sweats, fingers and lips chasing every spasm, every sob, like proof of your total surrender.

You were his. He was yours. Tonight. This moment. The insane, fever-drenched blur of everything you’d both been starving for.

You collapsed onto the mattress—breathless, undone, slick with sweat and sin. You rolled to your side, pulse hammering, and felt it: his bulge pressed wet, twitching against your ass through ruined fabric. Heeseung didn’t move. Just dragged slow, deliberate kisses down your spine—like each one was penance, like the sticky mess in his pants was all he deserved.

Unbearable. You wanted him like you’d never wanted anything.

And still, he didn’t move.

So you did.

Hips snapped back, slamming into his twitching bulge—hard, sharp, punishing. Grinding like you wanted to bruise him through the fabric. His moan tore out—raw, gutted, animal. Heat flared; your fingers knifed into his hair, yanking while stroking him through the soaked mess.

Coherent thought? Gone. You rutted like a bitch in heat—shivering, curves crushed to him, hips pounding wildfire. Friction turned feral, unrestrained. His teeth clamped your shoulder, growling hungry; hands dug your waist, forcing you down, harder, moans crashing in filthy harmony.

Heeseung started babbling—needy, wrecked: “Please… more… need more… don’t stop…” You shuddered, grinding vicious at his begging, his desperation vibrating through your bones.

You flipped to all fours—one hand spreading your dripping cunt, the other grabbing his waistband, thumbing his leaking head. “Please, Hee… fuck me. Do it!” you gasped.

He seized you. Sweatpants yanked down, creamed cock springing free. Aligned at your entrance, mouth hot on your spine—desperate—then slammed home in one brutal thrust, ripping a scream from your throat.

Pulled out slow—torture inch by inch—just to crash back, chasing that scream again. Every clench, every spasm drove him madder. Your name shredded from his lips in frantic moans, hips bucking wild as he lost the fight. Rhythm escalated—primal, unhinged, mattress groaning under the assault. Only sounds left: raw syllables, broken cries, sharp whimpers of need.

Two truths claw for dominance (all open endings)

Madness (bad ending?) : Heeseung’s grief rot into possession. Heeseung show his true face: he wants to chains you to him only (corruption, grief-twisted yandere Hee, possessiveness, manipulative!hee)

Possession (good ending?) : Heesu’s gone—or so you swear—until events doesn't adds up. shadows whisper your name, cold fingers trace your spine. (ghost!Heesu, spectral fucking, )

Which truth will you choose?

Madness :

The position shifts to missionary, raw. Your legs hook high over his hips so he can drink in every flicker of your face. Your hands fly to his cheeks, thumbs grazing damp skin, and you smile. You finally share this soft, stolen moment. His canine nips your palm. He grins, dazed.

“I love you.” The words hang and shatter you. “I always wanted you. If it wasn’t for him, you’d have been mine.” His thrusts quicken. Your moans grow louder. “No replacement. Just you. No hiding, no restraint. Just us. My pretty doll and me. You and me.”

He drops.

His forehead crashes into your neck. Teeth bare like a wolf scenting blood. The bite is vicious. Skin splits. Hot copper floods your tongue as you yelp.

He taught you this nights ago, blindfolded in the attic, whispering don’t flinch, doll, let it hurt good. The sting blooms into fire, into craving. You arch. Nails rake his back because yes, it’s yours now.

This pain brands you his.

And his make him yours.

Until you see them again—Heesu’s stars.

Those cheap plastic love letters glow faintly.

Your hand lifts on instinct. Fingers claw air toward them like your soul’s begging him back. Tears streak sideways, soaking the pillow, landing on Heeseung as he stretches your cunt open again and again, rewriting you from the inside.

His gaze snaps to yours. He freezes balls-deep.

Something curdles in his eyes, sour, and burning you.

“Why?” he whispers, voice cracking. “Why are you still thinking about him when I’m inside you?” Your hand drops slowly, regretting. “Why the fuck does your head keep crawling back to Heesu, huh?” His hips snap to punish you, grinding your clit raw. “I tried, doll. Dyed my hair back, softened my voice, wore his scent. But you? You... You still want him more right?” He thrusts harder, cutting your breath. “Why can’t you be mine alone? Why do I have to share you even now, huh?”

He grabs your neck, and you choke, not from the hold but his kiss. Spit mix. “Heesu bragged, you know. After that fever-kiss when we were kids. Came to me reeking of your lip gloss, grinning like he’d won the lottery. ‘She tastes like cherry,’ he said, flashing me that fucking grin.” Heeseung's laugh is wet, shattering. “That’s when I had to make that rule, you know." He started thrusting again, torturing you with slow moves. "No one touches you unless the other's here."

He keep kissing, and you bite on his tongue, tearing a groan out of Heeseung. Still, he smiled, liking your lips to paint them red. "If I can’t have you whole, no one gets a crumb. Not even my blood.”

Tears carve canyons down both your cheeks, but his grip morphs. Fingers crush your wrists overhead, bones grinding. “Still you're dripping for me, hm?” He slams in, bottoming out, holding until you sob. “Do you love me? Say it. Say you’re mine. My perfect doll. Only mine.” His free hand snakes to your throat again, not squeezing, just claiming the pulse he created. “I won’t share anymore. Never. Heesu’s six feet under, and you’re still reaching for his stars? Don’t be pathetic, he won't come. Stop thinking. Be mine, okay?”

Something creeps slowly, insidious. A strange kind of calm terror knots your gut, but his cock throbs inside you, hitting that spot he mapped in secret fantasies years ago. The bite pulses with your heartbeat. The blood tastes like home.

"Look I even made sure his spirit know I'm having you only for me, even here."

Right, Heesu was the dream, soft, safe, but gone.

Heeseung? Heeseung’s the nightmare you crave. The bites, the licks, the wounds you both call love. No one else could match it. Only Heeseung. Only he could see you: owned, split open, begging, alive.

He clocks the shift in your mind. Your hips roll up greedy. Cunt clenches like it’s trying to trap him forever. His grin is predatory, eyes still shining. “There she is,” he purrs, thrusting lazy now, sealing it. “My good girl. Learning who she belongs to, now.”

He leans in, breath ghosting your ear: “Let's tattoo my name right here.” Heeseung's fingers trace your wrist, then your inner thigh. “So every time you spread for anyone else or think of anyone else, there won’t be anyone else. You’ll remember who owns you, my beautiful doll. Who made you.”

The stars flicker. They stop shining. Even plastic disappear eventually. Heesu’s will fade too. Heeseung’s eyes burn brighter. He’ll make sure, even if he has to brainwash you, burn the room, the pictures, taint every good memory, places. He’ll do it.

You’re scared—god—terrified, but maybe no one else was ever perfect for you. Maybe this madness is your only match. You won’t feel alive without it lifting you up.

Heeseung lifts you. Eyes lock on yours. The hollow in your gaze thrills him. He carries you to his room now, lays your exhausted figure on cold sheets. You feel his mouth on your ankles, legs, hips, bones, until everything blurs.

He kisses you soft and whispers, “Stay with me, doll. Dream of me. Only me now.”

Possession :

Heeseung pounded you through the grief. Each thrust hammered blow to the hollow ache in your chest, your grief and lust tangled in a brutal knot, as you watched the fadding stars on the wall above.

You can't bear it. If you weren't so into wanting to lose yourself into Heeseung's touch, maybe things would have been deferent.

You turn clawing the sheets, ass high, face buried in Heesu’s old pillow that still smelled of him, memories of flowing, wishing it was him allong maybe.

Heeseung’s hips snapped, cock splitting you open, balls slapping hard enough to turn your silent cry into rought moans.

“Let's forget…” he snarled, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Forget everything but this.”

You screamed into the pillow— a raw and ugly one., felling your orgasm crashed like a wrecking ball, cunt gushing around him, milking his release. He roared, flooding you hot and endless, hips stuttering as he emptied every drop of sorrow into your body.

You collapsed tangled, slick with sweat, cum, tears—grief fucked clean out, at least for tonight. But your mind was clearer now than ever.

When you opened your eyes next morning, light sliced through the blinds.

Heeseung spooned you tight with his long arm, cock soft against your ass, arm heavy over your waist like he’d never let go. For a second you pictured Heesu with you in this, and how it would have been real in an other dimesion.

You woke slow, blinking at the ceiling stars, one still missing.

“Morning,” heeseung mumbled into your neck, voice gravel and sleep.

You talked talked.

Really did.

Everything and nothing at first. then, the funeral. the attic. How Heesu used to steal your fries. How you both hated the color burgundy now. Soft laughter cracked through the quiet, fragile but real.

“Thanks for staying,” Heeseung whispered. “It's nothing, you did the same when I got that fever after the funeral.”

He stiffened.

“What? I crashed here after the rain.”

You blinked. "Really?" He nodded.

You might have hallucinated? Maybe it was a fever dream?

You brushed it off with a shaky laugh, "You know what, forget it, must have been the fever."

You walked you home, even if Heeseung insisted you to stay.

But no, you had somthing to do. Something important. Back in your room, you check if your absence got noticed but it didn't hopefully. You run down the shower preparing to cleance yourself for that slap worth relisation, and took your phone.

Dialed Heesu's number one last final time.

"Hey kiddo, I wanted to tell you something, somthing important, not excuses or past thing that never happen again but real shit you see..."

You took a deep breath.

"I love you. I really did--I mean do. did maybe... I didn't wanted to loose you and was too afraid to realise that the things I liked about Hee was the things I was afraid to get from you, or some kind of deep spychological thing you could have explain way better than me. I want to be more like you in the futur, and do the things we said we were gonna do in the futur. Like finally get that damn driving licence. I stick to the plan, I'll go to the uni dorm--maybe sooner than expected but it's for the better. I'll probably still some of your books tho. And... And... I don't think i'll be with anyone for now. Not now that you're not here." You ending the call way after you thaught you would. But it was your final goodbye to him, and actually to heeseung too.

You stepped into the shower, steam a choking haze. The water scalding your shoulders, finally cleansing your soul.

Your phone buzzes on the sink—you ignore it. Let it go. Let everything go.

You loose yourself in the water until it make you dizzy.

Then—

You hear the whisper. Your name, feather-soft but wrong.

You shut the water. Silence. Then again, curling through the steam like fingers from the drain you hear your name in the heavy air. You whip around, fog swallowing everything thick. Nothing. Just the drip-drip of water echoing like a heartbeat that isn’t yours.

You feel a cold somthing skate your spine—arctic, clawing under skin like they’re mapping bones.

You gasp, lungs seizing, ice flooding veins. You bolt out the shower, snag a towel, clutch it like a shroud against the gut-wrench wrongness crawling up your throat. Your knees buckle; fever’s back, gnawing your skull from inside.

And your phone buzz again.

You snatch it and look at the screen.

Heesu🐿️: I love you too

buzz

Heesu🐿️ : I'll be with you

buzz

Heesu🐿️: protect you

buzz

Heesu🐿️: love you

A hand—invisible, rotting-cold—grabs your hips and puch you toward the fogged mirror. Your heart jackhammers, erratic, skipping beats like it’s trying to escape your chest. You don’t breathe. Can’t as you drops your phone.

"Hee...Heesu?"

You're white, in from of you a star strace itself in the condansation of the mirror than an other until it forms your mole paterns. Even the one who disapered from his ceilling is now drawn, water sliding like tears on the glass.

"Oh my god...You... You're here."

the phone buzz and you grab the phone back.

Heesu🐿️ : I'll never let you alone

You feel it, arms circling you from behind. Back hugging you. Somthing rest on your shoulder, and you know. You get reminded, of Heesu's habit. There's no mistakes. "It's really you." You whispers. "I missed you..."

Buzz

Heesu🐿️: me too

The towel rips away with a slow tear, like undired flesh peeling. Mirror fog smears clean in one vicious swipe

You're faced with Your reflection alone, and see it. Your tits is being kneaded. The feeling's so strange. You can see your skin being pressed, feel the presure, the slight pain of a pinch on your nipple, then see for yourself them being twisted.

A shadow, a black blooms mark your skin.

He pushes you foward again. your palm's being pressed on mirror, and it's like finger intertwin with yours. You feel more than seen, you feel played with. The touch is cold, but the kind of cold that burn on the edge.

Suddenly your leg is yanked high, hooking it like a carcass, holded mid air.

If you weren't dazed by the whole unbelievable situation you would have understood the moment that towel got put out of the way.

“H-Heesu? You?” Your voice cracks, tiny, doll-broken.

You hear that whisper again—his voice, but hollow, echoing from inside your skull: “Mine.”

Then—you feel the stretch. Monstrous. Something glacial and scalding, pulsing with a wrong feeling that spears your cunt, splitting you wide on nothing but pressure. You scream into a palm clamping on your mouth, eyes rolling, brain short-circuiting into static.

Life drains—sucked out through your hole like marrow from bone, limbs jelly, held upright by spectral strings. Has he forced his way in, you almost can see him in the steam lengthen, twisting into his shape—bangs grazing your neck, a smile tracing against your skin.

“Bed—bed—” you choke, dizzy, world inverting, bile rising.

Air rips like tearing fabric. You are flung—slammed face-down on the mattress of your bed, ass jacked high, cheek grinding wet sheets that smell like the grass near the river. The dark now, shutters rattling without wind, your lock, locking on itslef.

The mattress dips under invisible weight while springs creak like attic ropes about to snap. You don’t see him, but you feel him. Cold breath ghosts your spine and makes every hair stand like a scream.

Then it hits.

His cock slams home in one brutal doggystyle thrust. Monstrous and thick as almost your wrist, veined like twisted roots with a head swollen and leaking somthing pre that burns ice-cold.

No warning. No mercy. It splits you open and stretches your cunt past limits. Walls ripping around the girth like wet paper. You howl raw and ugly with your throat shredding while nails claw sheets that bunch and tear under your grip.

“Mine,” the whisper hisses in your ear. The voice layers wrong, Heesu's but echoed from nowhere.

He pummels. Hips crush invisible while balls slap your clit with wet, obscene thwacks that echo like flesh on tombstone. Heavy, freezing orbs. Every withdraw drags inches of that veined thing out slow in torture.

Your hole gapes, clenches on air, and begs for more. Then he rams back deeper and harder. The head bulldozes next to your cervix like he’s trying to punch through to your soul. Your body jolts forward with tits swinging wild and nipples scraping sheets raw.

You sob snotty and desperate: “Too big—fuck—Heesu—s-stop!' But your cunt betrays and gushes hotter, slicker, milking somthing out of him like a greedy whore. He growls low, somthing almost inhuman. Pace turns frenzied with cock pistoning so fast the bed shudders and headboard bangs the wall like a poltergeist tantrum.

Cold hands yank your hips back in bruising force and make you meet every thrust. Ass ripples from impact. You feel it pulse inside with veins throbbing against your walls and head flaring wider to stretch you obscene.

Piss threatens in hot pressure building. You beg Hee : “Gon—gonna piss, please, please,please!!” He laughs with whispers multiplying in the room and angles deeper. He grinds that fat crown against your G-spot till you squirt arcs of clear shame that splatter on fine air, the floor, and soak everything in your ruin.

You can hear your name whispered, everywhere and nowere at the same time.

You collapse, with your cunt spasming endless and body wrecked, but he holds you up. Strings pull your limbs like a marionette and fuck you through the aftershocks till you’re babbling nonsense, vision black. His.

And it kept going. When you arrived at your dorm. In the library’s empty corners. In the shared showers on your floor.

And it kept going. When you arrived at your dorm, in the library's empty corners, in the shared showers on your floor.

Heesu was always there. You'd feel him help lift your groceries, wake you when you fell asleep at the library, scare strange guys away when you went back to the dorm. You would find yourself in your bed if you dozed on the couch, and the water already running hot when you entered the shower. He was always, always there—a presence in your bed, a faint voice in your ear, sentences shared through SMS sent from nowhere, voice cuts in the radio.

He was like a guardian angel.

But this presence had a price: strange marks on your body and such low stamina after he'd fuck you almost to death, leaving you sleeping for days and nearly collapsing.

Maybe—fuck maybe—that’s exactly what you wanted. What you needed. Unconditional love, even in death. The kind that brands, drains, owns even you dreamless nights.

end.

MASTERLIST. I need a minute… okay. GOD I genuinely thought this fic would never see the light of day but HERE IT IS 😭

Fun fact: it originally had three endings — the third one being Heesu killing Heeseung and taking his place… but that version would've triggered fear more than any mental unraveling from the MC, and it just didn’t fit the vibe in the end.

Honestly, the only thing I really want to say is: If you felt uneasy reading this… then I did my job.

I wanted to go back to my roots, and for once my theme and my natural writing style actually lined up 😭 I tried so so hard, even if the pacing feels weird in my head because of the gap between my writing sessions + the new grammar corrector I use.

I hope you enjoyed, my loves! And yes I’m begging (shamelessly!!!!) — tell me if it made you vibrate in some kind of way, if it made you feel anything 😭💖

That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts. 

Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed. 

He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little. 

Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.

So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.

You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him: 

you: hi you sell right

The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.

Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.

This was not how the structure worked. Nope.

He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this. 

Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.

riki: ???? is this a test loll

you: ? its a question

riki: u fr????

you: js tell me if its a no i have money

riki: 3pm behind the science building

you: ok thanks

But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.

And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.

You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.

Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”

The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.

You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”

Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.

“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“What kind.” he repeats.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”

A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says. 

You bristle. “So?”

“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”

Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”

This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.

Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“

“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”

When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.

And it makes it worse.

You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention. 

He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”

You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.

His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.

Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years. 

But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.

And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy. 

Also, he’s 6’1.

“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.” 

He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that. 

Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too fast.

He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”

He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.

“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount. 

You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”

That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.

“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.

He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.

“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”

For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.

“Oh,” you say.

Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”

Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.

“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”

Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”

He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”

You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.

You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.

The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings. 

He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.

Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.

He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —

Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”

Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.

He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.

Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.

“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.

“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.

“Mhm.”

Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them. 

Until he bumps into someone.

For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.

But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing. 

“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.

His name on your mouth does something stupid to him. 

“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.

You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”

You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.

“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say. 

He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.

“You don’t usually look,” he says.

It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”

Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”

You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him. 

“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.

His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.

When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”

“Specific.”

“He’s with his friends.”

Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.

Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.

You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”

Riki blinks. “The stuff?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.

For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”

Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”

Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.

He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”

You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”

Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching. 

Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”

You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.

He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.

He really, really knows better.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t.

Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.

You: bathroom upstairs

The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.

“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”

He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”

You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.

He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.

“Like this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”

You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”

“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”

You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.

You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.

“Sorry,” you say, breathless.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”

You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”

You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”

He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.

He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.

Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”

He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”

Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.

You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.

You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.

Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”

“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”

“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.

“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.

He quickly looks away, trying not to smile. 

“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.

He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”

You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.

“Is that so bad?”

The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”

“Why not?”

Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet. 

For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.” 

You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”

He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”

The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.

You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”

“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable. 

“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”

That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.

He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.

“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”

He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.

Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”

Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”

“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.

You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”

He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.

You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.

You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.

You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.

You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.

He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.

“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.

He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.

He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall. 

Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.

You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.

“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.

He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.

Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”

He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.

But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.

Riki exhales, then lifts it.

He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.

He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.

He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.

After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks. 

That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.

He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after. 

Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.

It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.

You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.

No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.

“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”

Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”

Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.

“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.

“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”

Riki blinks. “No.”

“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”

Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”

Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”

Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”

“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”

Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught. 

Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”

Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.

Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”

Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”

Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”

Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”

It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.

You’re where you’re supposed to be.

You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.

Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.

Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.

You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.

Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.

The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.

“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”

You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.

You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.

Well, you push the door open.

Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.

For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”

His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”

This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.

“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”

Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”

You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”

That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint. 

“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.

You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap. 

“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”

He tilts his head. “Should we?”

“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.” 

He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”

“Probably.”

“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.

You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.

He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.

Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”

Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”

When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s. 

You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.

-

McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.

“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.

Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.

He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.

Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”

“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.

Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”

“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.

“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.

Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”

He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all. 

Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.

Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall. 

Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.

Your boyfriend is cheating on you.

What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution. 

He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.

“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.

He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”

While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.

“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”

You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.

“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.

“Outside,” he says easily.

The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.

He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too? 

Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”

Your smile falters. “What about him?”

“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”

You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something. 

Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.

What the fuck is happening?

It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.

No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.

Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”

You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”

Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.

That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.

He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”

You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.

That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.

“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”

He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”

You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”

You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.

Because this is new information.

Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.

You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.

“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.

Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?)  cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.

It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.

So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”

“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”

He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.

You notice. You just don’t say anything.

Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low. 

The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.

“Thanks. For caring.”

He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.

Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual. 

If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.

Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.

He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”

You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”

He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”

You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.

You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”

Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.” 

You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand. 

He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”

You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”

“You tell me.”

The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts. 

You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”

“No.”

“Just me?”

His mouth twitches. “You asked.”

You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”

“I know.”

Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.

“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”

Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.

You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”

He looks at you for a moment.

Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”

He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”

“How?” he snickers.

You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”

He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”

Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.

“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”

You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.

“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. 

Your throat tightens.

“With me,” he adds.

He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.

The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out. 

You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”

“I just guessed one fucking thing.”

You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”

“With me?”

Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it. 

You huff. “You’re so annoying.”

Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.

You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat. 

He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.

For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.

So you take control of things you can handle.

You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.

You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”

You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat. 

“Are you a virgin?”

The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.

He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.

“You always ask things like that?”

“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”

He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.

“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”

Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”

Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.

You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”

He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”

“And?”

“And you look like that.”

For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”

That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.

Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”

You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”

He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.

“Not really,” you agree.

You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.

“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”

Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.

You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.

When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away. 

Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt. 

“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.

You frown. “Why not?”

He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.

“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.

You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”

He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about. 

“This is so fucked,” he mutters.

Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.

His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.

“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.

When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long. 

His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.

“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.

You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.

When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.

His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.

“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw. 

So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples. 

You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.

After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.

From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.

“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.

At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all. 

He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”

You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”

His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”

“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”

“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,” 

The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.

“You think I’d use you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”

You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Ask me when we’re not high.”

Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”

Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer. 

“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.

“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”

You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods,  agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.

Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you. 

The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.

“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”

Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.

He looks away first.

PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.

He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.

You’re already looking too.

It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.

Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”

Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”

Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”

“Okay.”

The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.

“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.

“I am.”

“You’re really not.”

Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.

He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.

Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.

You bite back a smile.

When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.

Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.

His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.

Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.

You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.

His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"

You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."

He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."

Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.

And that he’s enjoying the view.

You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."

His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."

The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.

In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board. 

You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.

You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.

This is so inconvenient.

“Babe.”

Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.

“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.

You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”

“Yeah, but where?”

You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.

“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.

Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.

He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little. 

Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.

Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).

You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.

You just feel tired, especially on the way home. 

Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.

Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth. 

Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.

you: he actually sucks so bad like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance

You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.

You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you. 

Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.

And maybe that makes you painfully average.

Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.

You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.

Until something taps three times against your window.

Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.

Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.

You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame. 

You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.

Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.

For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.

 “Hi.”

You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.

“You sounded sad.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”

The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.

This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.

Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.

Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”

Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”

He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.

So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.

“I got you these.”

Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.

Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.

You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.

“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”

He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”

You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”

“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.

You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.

“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.

You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”

He raises his brows. “That means yes.”

You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”

Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.

The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.

You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.

You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”

“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”

You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.

Which is not good at all.

He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.

You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.

This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.

You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.

You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume.  “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.

Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.

Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”

Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.

You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was high.”

“And what’s your excuse now?”

Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.

Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.

You are none of those things anymore.

Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses. 

Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”

Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully. 

You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text. 

Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?

You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.

His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.

Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.

Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.

“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”

His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.

He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.” 

Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck. 

For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.

Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.

That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.

He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”

“I need to do something.”

His brows pull together. “Right now?”

You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.

Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.

He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.

The call rings twice.

Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.

Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”

There is a pause. “What?”

You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”

You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.

He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.

Your eyes widen. “Riki.”

He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”

On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone. 

Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.

That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure. 

The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.

You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours. 

“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.

His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.

You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.

Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.

Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you. 

"Words, baby," he whispers.

He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.

You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."

Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor. 

Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.

He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.

You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.

“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward. 

You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.

And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs. 

His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.

Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.

You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”

You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him. 

“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.

You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?” 

You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.

And he’s still too fucking long. 

You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.

Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”

You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths. 

Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.

“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”

He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.

“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.

“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches. 

Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”

You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt. 

“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.

Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,” 

His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”

Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.

Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears. 

“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”

The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.

“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.

He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him. 

Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you. 

“W-what are you —” 

“On your stomach.” 

You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”

You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought. 

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.

You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.

“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.

Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.

You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm. 

Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.

You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.

Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely. 

Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”

“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.

“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder. 

You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.

Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.

Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.

“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw. 

“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.

You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”

WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.

Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful. 

He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.

You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.

He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"

He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.

“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”

You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”

Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”

Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.

Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”

He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.

“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”

You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”

He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you. 

You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.

"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.

Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.

“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.

You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.

A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.

Your inner prey instincts shrieked in protest. Yet, as you stared at the attached photo, your throat went dry. With his sharp jawline, striking eyes, and furry burgundy ears poking through his hair, the man was undeniably gorgeous. 

Worse, his profile had a warning listed: Lupine genes present extreme rut cycles. Past cycles managed via pharmaceuticals due to high stamina projections. 

So, he’s never had a partner, you thought. A pent-up predator didn’t bode well, especially not to a bunny. Even so, according to the warning, he had the exact untapped reservoir of energy that you needed to get through your insatiable heats. It certainly didn’t hurt that he was breathtakingly easy on the eyes. 

A sudden, sharp throb low in your belly shattered your hesitation. The early waves of your heat were beginning to roll in, warming your skin and sending a restless twitch through your elongated ears. You didn’t have the luxury of time, especially not to second-guess the man that, admittedly, exacerbated the effects of your impending heat.

Shifting your finger across the touchpad of your laptop, you slammed the Accept Pairing button before the more logical side of your brain could talk you out of it. 

In an instant, the screen flashed with a bold, celebratory notification: MATCH CONFIRMED!

 A soft gasp escaped your lips. He had already accepted. Before your mind could fully process that little fact, a new interface slid into view. 

KnotAlone Chatroom: Valko and You

The text bubble at the bottom of the screen was already bouncing, the three dots doing their usual rhythmic dance before disappearing, replaced by a message that was surprisingly warm for an apex predator. 

Valko Ao: Hello! So glad you accepted the match. To be honest, I was worried my profile statistics would scare people off. 

You blinked at the screen, intrigued. His message was devoid of the growling dominance and arrogance you had come to expect from predator hybrids. Another message came through before you formulated a response. 

Valko Ao: Your profile mentioned needing someone who can match your stamina, right? That works out perfectly. My doctors always insisted that my rut cycles are too intense for a standard pairing, so I’ve just been using suppressants up until now. I’d love to help you through your heat if you’ll have me. When does your cycle start?”

You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard as a flush crawled up your neck. It was one thing to fill out personal info on a questionnaire, but it was another to openly share with another person.

You: within the next two days at least. Already feeling the warning signs :/

Valko Ao: that’s fine! I can clear my schedule right away.

His easy, accommodating response did wonders for your nerves. Over the next two days, the anticipated dread of your impending heat transformed into something entirely different. Valko texted you constantly, sending jokes, asking about your personal preferences and hobbies, and sharing bits of his own life. By the time the warning signs had become full-blown symptoms, you found that you were genuinely excited to meet him, even if the circumstances weren’t the most ideal.

You woke on the third morning drenched in sweat, your skin hypersensitive to every little touch. Your panties were already soaked and sticking to your swollen folds. It was pitiful, really, how quickly you were made a slave to your own biology, no more able to fight it than you were able to count the stars in the sky. 

With a shaky hand, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, shooting Valko a simple text, followed by your address.

You: I need you

He replied almost instantly, informing you that he was on his way. With a groan, you dropped your phone onto the bed, curling into yourself and wishing you could sleep away the scorching need coursing through your body. It felt like mere minutes had passed when a knock echoed through your apartment.

You stumbled from your bed to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open to see Valko standing in the hallway, his ears twitching almost nervously. Before he could even say hello, he froze. The combination of seeing you in such a vulnerable state and smelling the sweet, heady scent that seeped from your apartment had rendered him speechless, his mouth watering and his cock already hardening in his pants. 

He swallowed thickly. For a fraction of a second, Valko tried to hold onto his manners, but the more of you he inhaled, the more he felt like a wolf rather than a man. He opened his mouth to greet you, fighting every urge to pin you to the wall of the entryway and take you there, but his throat constricted and his body locked up.

You could see in the rigid set of his posture that he was at least trying to be a gentleman, but you didn’t want a gentleman at the moment. You needed him rough, and you needed him now.

While he was still trying to pull himself together in the doorway, you tugged him in by the fabric of his shirt, the door slamming closed behind him. He stumbled forward, his polite composure crumbling to dust under your touch. You practically dragged him through your apartment to your bedroom, and his hand hovered over your waist.

“I’m Valko,” he finally managed, his voice raspy as his eyes locked onto the way you were already pulling your shirt over your head.

You giggled at that, and Valko thought it was the prettiest sound he had ever heard.

“I sure hope so.” He flushed, embarrassment crawling up his spine. Obviously you knew who he was. You wouldn’t have let him in otherwise. He blamed it on your intoxicating scent. It was muddling his brain and making it impossible to focus on anything that wasn’t you. You, who was now wrapping your arms around his shoulders and mouthing at his neck, pressing your body flush against his.

Before he could even think, his strong arms landed on your hips, pushing you back slightly to make space. You pouted, and he suddenly felt like a world-class villain.

“Easy, sweetheart. I’m gonna help you,” he soothed, pushing you backwards until the bed hit the back of your knees. You fell onto the plush on the mattress, bouncing slightly. Your breath quickened. Through the haze of your arousal, you were vaguely aware that you had invited a predator into your home. You were also acutely aware that even the worst of your heat cycles had never affected you as much as the hulking man that was guiding your pliant body to lie against the pillows. 

“So pretty,” he murmured, his hands ghosting over your bare skin, his fingertips skimming the lacy fabric of your bra. It was almost painful, the way his cock was straining against his pants.

You placed your hand atop his, guiding it to cup your breast. “You don’t have to be sweet, you know?”

He locked eyes with you, searching for any hesitation or reservations, and found none, only pure want and need. He surged forward, capturing your lips with his. It was messy, all teeth and tongue and unrestrained instinct.

You arched your body into his, your hips grinding against the bulge in his slacks. He groaned into the kiss, his hands shooting down to hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling both down in one firm tug. Your bra followed shortly after, leaving you entirely bare beneath him. God, you were a fucking vision.

The whimper he let out was pathetic, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when a pretty little bunny was completely offering herself to him. Your hands were everywhere, sliding beneath his shirt, stroking his ears, palming his leaking cock. Wherever you could reach.

He reluctantly pulled away from you once more, just long enough to strip his own clothing. His impressive build had you salivating, and your weeping pussy clenched around nothing in anticipation as he resumed his spot above you, your legs on either side of his hips. 

“Please, Valko, please I need you,” you practically sobbed, staring up at him with watery eyes. Valko’s heart thundered in his chest, a possessive pang shooting through his chest. 

It was too much. Your desperate pleading, your legs spread for him, your cunt on display just for him. It was maddening. He lined himself up with your pulsing hole, and you keened, eager to finally be filled, pushing your hips up to force him deeper.

You were dripping, his thick cock stretching you with ease as he sunk all the way to the hilt. You moaned loudly, your fingers clawing into the sheets. He was so big you swore you could feel him in your throat.

“So tight,” he groaned deeply, nearly growling. He was already panting and he’d only just begun. “You feel so— ngh—good.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him into you like you never wanted him to leave. “More, Valko, pleasepleaseplease,” you begged, urging him to move, to touch you, anything that would quell the wanton need that radiated from your core. 

His hips snapped into yours, the blunt head of his cock molding your insides around him. It took everything he had not to cum prematurely. Your pussy gripped him like a vice, and he was sure this was as close to heaven as a man could get. 

The delicious drag of his cock had you beyond words, only able to cry out with pleasure every time his hips met yours. Your breath was ragged as he pounded into your slick hole, and your fingernails left red claw marks on his shoulders that he would later marvel at in the mirror.

“So perfect,” Valko breathed. “Made just for me.” His face was flushed a magnificent shade of his red, and his eyes were heavily lidded, drawn to the juncture where your bodies met, your slick leaking around his cock and soaking the bedsheets. 

You cried out his name, the edge of pleasure so tantalizingly close. His name fell from your lips like a mantra, spurring him on, his thrusts losing their rhythm and becoming frantic. He was already swelling at the base, but he’d be damned if he embarrassed himself and finished before you. Inexperienced though he was, he wasn’t a total prude. 

He brought his thumb to circle your neglected clit, sending pleasure shooting up your spine. You squealed, arching into his touch, your pussy spasming tightly around him as your vision went white.

Valko gasped, his own release overtaking him. Hot spurts of cum flooded your fluttering walls, and his swollen knot kept it all plugged snugly inside you and kept you connected to each other. 

Your vision was hazy, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, you actually felt sated, at least for the time being until your body again demanded more of him.

Quiet settled over the room, save for the twin sounds of your heavy breaths. Valko grinned broadly, a chuckle rumbling through his chest as he dropped his forehead onto yours, nuzzling his nose against your face. Behind him, his heavy tail thumped against the mattress.

It was comforting to be wrapped in such strong arms and taken care of, but the peace was short-lived; your body, in its current state, was already squirming beneath him for friction.

Valko groaned deeply, still sensitive from his release only minutes prior, but the thick smell of your pheromones was pulling him into renewed lust right along with you.

Whether it was with your knees pressed to your chest, from behind where he could watch your cute little tail twitch, or holding you on his lap to fuck up into you, he couldn't get enough of you or the sinful sounds you made when he was buried deep inside you. It was hours before he collapsed onto the bed beside you, his cum dripping down your thighs and a satisfied grin on his face as he took in how thoroughly wrecked you looked all because of him.

As your breathing finally slowed, Valko pulled you into his embrace, clawed fingers stroking up and down your back soothingly. “Are you okay? Was that alright?” he asked, his voice rough and vibrating against your skin.

“I’m perfect,” you rasped, burying your face in his chest, your heart swelling at his genuine care. “Better than perfect. I can see why your profile had a warning on it,” you laughed, recalling the words of caution on his profile.

He let out a soft, pleased sound, his arms tightening around you as if he had absolutely no intention of leaving the bed—or your life—anytime soon. It was like your scent had completely rewired the primitive part of his brain, the part that was now claiming you as his own despite the brief acquaintance. Though, to be fair, you had done more than what typical acquaintances do. He didn't think he could be satisfied being just your heat partner.

A flush crawled up his neck as he debated with himself, his wolf ears twitching nervously, but there was no time like the present. “That’s good. I’m glad I didn't disappoint.” He hesitated, the words he truly wanted to say sticking in his throat. It didn't help that you were looking up at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. Now that his more animalistic side had been satisfied and your scent wasn't sending him into a frenzy, he could take the time to admire just how delicate your features were.

“I know we still have a few days left to get through, and I’m not going anywhere, but when this is over, would you want to go on a proper date with me?”

His words had barely even registered before a bright smile lit up your face, and sweet giggles spilled from your lips. You nodded, your long ears shifting with the movement. 

the heat of the mid-noon always makes the wrapper stick to the cheap ice candy you’ve both bought from the corner store since you were kids. it’s a stupidly precise ritual—caleb rips the top off with his teeth, unfazed by the plastic cutting into his lip, and hands the half-melted orange block over to you before taking his own.

the walk back from granny’s nursing home is long enough for the initial heaviness of seeing her frail state to wear off, and it left just the familiar hum of the pavement and caleb’s shoulder occasionally brushing against yours.

“you're still wearing my grey hoodie,” caleb says, dropping his head back to blink up at the sun through the trees. “i almost got late to my class just looking for it.”

“wachu mean? it's mine now,” you take a bite of the ice candy, ignoring the brain freeze. “you left it on my bed months ago. soooo statute of limitations has passed.”

he snorts, shoving his free hand into his pocket. his stride is longer now, with a frame broader than it used to be when you first moved into the house, but the irritating tilt of his head is exactly the same. “that's not how the law works, kiddo. and for the record, it fits you like a fucking tent. it looks ridiculous.”

“it's comfortable.”

“it smells like you now, anyway. probably covered in whatever vanilla lotion you're obsessed with.” caleb stops mid-stride, turning his head to look down at you as a teasing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “actually, did you shrink it? or did you just borrow it because you ran out of laundry day options again? also, right, i swear to god, if you're wearing my boxers as shorts around the house again, i’m putting a padlock on my dresser.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart does a small trip behind your ribs. “...it was one time. and they were clean! besides, they have a better drawstring than mine.”

“they're men's underwear, you absolute menace,” he laughs, an easy sound that vibrates in the space between you. “what is your future husband even going to say when he finds out you steal your brother's underwear?”

“you aren't my brother.” you make a popping sound on your ice candy.

“hmm, alright, baby sis.”

“and i'll tell my future hubby he has to share his clothes too, if he's half as dramatic as you, i'll just divorce him.”

“nah.” caleb leans in while still walking, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief. “whoever you marry is going to have to deal with me first. i’m going to be the worst brother-in-law in human history. i’ll show up at your house at two in the morning just to tell him all the embarrassing stories from when you were nine.”

“you wouldn't dare.”

“try me,” he suddenly reaches out and plants his thumb right against the corner of your lip, wiping away a stray drop of melting orange ice. his skin is warm, rougher than it used to be, and his thumb lingers for just a beat too long against your skin before he pulls it back. “you've got sticky stuff on your face, as usual.”

you blink, your throat suddenly feeling dry despite the ice candy. you look away first, focusing hard on the cracked pavement ahead. 

as you arrive back at home, the heavy front door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the heat and replacing it with the slightly hollow coolness of the house. without granny there, the air feels different—thicker, somehow, and much too big for just the two of you.

caleb dumps his keys on the entryway bowl with a loud clatter, already peeling off his sneakers with his feet without unlacing them. “god, i'm starving,” he walks straight toward the kitchen island, pulling a cutting board from the rack. “i'm making those wraps from the leftover chicken. you want one?”

”yeah,” you mutter, slumping against the kitchen counter, watching his broad back as he reaches into the fridge. he moves with the effortless familiarity of someone who owns every square inch of the space. he’s got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he grabs a knife and starts chopping lettuce like a husband material.

“hey, you watered the ferns by the window sill today, right? gran said they need a misting every morning or the leaves start turning yellow.” he says casually, not breaking his pace with the knife. 

silence...

your eyes darted toward the living room window where the row of clay pots sits under the harsh sunlight. the soil looks bone-dry. fuck, you completely forgot! again!

caleb pauses his chopping, “so you didn't.”

“i-i was going to!” you blurt out, immediately spinning on your heel to head toward the sink to grab the watering can. “i'm doing it right now, see? i just got distracted by the—”

“uh-uh. too late.” 

before your fingers can even touch the plastic handle of the watering can, a pair of heavy arms wraps around your waist from behind. caleb instantly lifts you clean off your feet! with a grunt of easy effort, he pivots, hoisting you over his shoulder like a literal sack of rice. the sudden rush of gravity sends your head rushing with your stomach pressing into his shoulder.

“you—?! caleb! put me down, you idiot!” 

“how many times do i have to tell you, pips? gran is literally going to haunt us from the nursing home if her pothos dies,” he grumbles, totally unfazed by your squirming as he marches into the living room. “this is the hundredth time this week. you have such a short-term memory.”

“i just forgot, okay?! let go!”

“nope. punishment.”

he dumps you unceremoniously onto the plush cushions of the couch. and before you can even scramble to sit up and escape, caleb instantly drops his weight over you, pinning your thighs down with his knees and digging his fingers straight into your ribs.

“caleb—no! stop! fuck, caleb, i'm sorry!” you shriek, throwing your head back into the pillows while your entire body convulses into a breathless laughter. you twist and writhe beneath him, but he’s too heavy, his hands finding every single ticklish spot along your waist.

“say you're sorry to the plants,” 

“i'm sorry! i'm sorry to them! i'll water them with my tears, just stop!” you gasp, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from laughing so hard. you try to push his chest, your hands sliding against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. but shit isn't he huge.

caleb just laughs, a breathlessly rough sound, and catches your wrists, pinning them over your head into the cushions. he traps you just to lean down so close you can smell the faint scent of the ice candy on his breath. it turns into a messy grunting wrestling match, your legs flailing against his hips as you try to dislodge him.

“aw, you're so weak,” he taunts, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours. “how are you gonna—”

but out of pure survival instinct, you wrench one leg free and drive your knee straight upward, landing a blunt kick into his stomach.

hiya!

“umf—!” a sharp intake of air cuts his laugh off, and his face contorts in genuine pain for a second, his grip tightening instinctively.

“oh my god, are you okay—?”

“you little brat,” out of sheer retaliation and to neutralize your defense, caleb reaches down and grabs your ankle in a vicelike grip. with a heavy shove of his forearm, he pushes your leg wide across the back cushion, effectively pinning your knees completely apart to lock you down.

what the fuck, wait.

the position is suddenly so intimate. 

you are open beneath him, legs spread wide and hips locked under his, and the sheer weight of his frame is utterly undeniable. it's annoying how your heart thumps violently against your ribs now—no, not from laughter, but it's from a dizzying wave of ...heat. 

but caleb is just blinking down at you, his chest still heaving from the exertion. his hand is still wrapped tightly around your ankle, fingers burning hot against your bare skin. he’s looking at your face with a slightly annoyed puff of air escaping his lips while he nurses his stomach with his other hand.

“you seriously fucking kick like a mule,” he mutters, ignoring—or totally oblivious to—the fact that he is holding you in a position that feels too inappropriate for two people who share a last name on an adoption certificate. but he doesn't let go. he just hovers there. “should i leave you like this till lunch is done?”

you force your voice not to tremble, swallowing down the dry lump of panic in your throat. “get the fuck off me, caleb. seriously. you’re being weird.”

caleb raises a brow, his head tilting to the side as he stares down at you. “weird? what's weird about this? the only thing weird here is that you just broke my ribs with your knee and you haven't even apologized.” he lets out a scolding click of his tongue, his hand tightening around your ankle just enough to remind you that you aren't going anywhere. “matter of fact, you need a punishment for that. you gotta learn your place, you little girl.”

“caleb, don't—”

before you can even finish the sentence, caleb leans down. without a hint of hesitation, he sinks his teeth straight into the soft flesh just below the hem of your shorts. 

your breath hitches sharply, the sudden sting of his teeth sending a jolt straight down your spine. and he bites down even harder! the pressure of his jaw leaving a deep, burning ache against your skin.

“okay! okay, fuck i'm sorry!” you whimper, hands clawing futilely at the couch cushions. “i'm sorry, caleb,”

he finally releases your skin, but the playful retort you're expecting doesn't come. 

he's strangely quiet. 

and for a second, it feels like there is something complicated inside his head. his eyes are unreadable as they track the red imprint of his teeth on your leg.

“caleb...?”

he leans in even closer, his shadow completely engulfing you. your eyes widen as he buries his face right into the crook of your neck while his nose brush against your collarbone.

what the hell is he doing? what is he pulling right now?

how can he be so comfortable doing this? how can he just occupy your space so ruthlessly while you're paralyzed like this beneath him?

you feel the warm puff of his breath against your bare skin as he takes an inhale. his nose slides lower, brushing past your jaw, trailing a path of goosebumps down to the heat of your chest before he takes another long sniff. you can feel the exact weight of his chest pressing into yours, the hard line of his thighs pinning you open.

but the sudden groan coming from him wakes you up. 

“knew it. you used my body wash again,” he finally pulls back, sitting up on his knees but still hovering over you. there's that familiar scowl returning to his face. “i knew i wasn't crazy. ugh you're really annoying, pipsss.”

ah. oh. alright.

that was it.

the suffocating knot in your chest uncoils, a wave of dizzying relief—and a bitter sting of disappointment—washing over you. it was just because of a body wash. not because he was looking at you differently. not because he felt the same pull that you did. it was just caleb being caleb.

“it smells better than mine,” you manage to choke out, forcing your voice back into its usual defensive cadence even as your heart refuses to slow down.

“buy your own.” he finally lets go of your ankle and pulls his weight off you. 

that was your life with caleb.

the house, once bursting at the seams with granny’s presence and the sweet smell of her liniment, suddenly feels too big for just the two of you. it's a stage built for a larger cast, yet only you and caleb remain to play house in the quiet.

every saturday morning is the same. you both pack her favorite soft biscuits into a tin container, ride the bumpy bus down to the bright walls of the nursing home, and sit by her bed. and then caleb would play the part of the dutiful grandson—smiling wide, kissing her paper-thin cheek, laughing at jokes she’s told a hundred times before. but then sunday night rolls around, and the silence settles back into the floorboards like dust.

then come the weekdays when college classes split your schedules into mismatched pieces. there are quiet mornings where you wake up to the smell of burnt toast and find a messy note scribbled on a napkin: leftover rice is mine, touch it and die. there are rainy afternoons where you sit alone in the living room, listening to the water hit the glass and wondering if his lecture ran late or if he’s simply loitering somewhere else.

then, your life with caleb became a collection of tiny petty wars fought in the shadows of granny’s absence. you steal his oversized socks because yours are all lost in the dryer. he retaliation-hides your favorite hair clips in the freezer. you scream at him for leaving his damp towel on the bathroom floor; he barks back at you for leaving the milk carton empty inside the fridge. it's the noisy camouflage you both wear so nobody looks too closely at the spaces where your skins accidentally linger, or the way his eyes track your movements when he thinks you aren't paying attention.

until the afternoon it breaks.

it happens on a tuesday, right in the crowded heat of the university's cafeteria hall. you're sitting across a guy from your major block, sharing a plate of fries and talking about a group project. it's entirely innocent, entirely mundane... but then a shadow falls over the plastic table, and you look up to find caleb standing there.

sliding into the seat right next to you, uninvited, he slung a heavy arm over the back of your chair and grinned a bright smile at your terrified classmate.

“so, who's the friend, (name)?” caleb had asked, and for the rest of the day, and all through the walk home, he had relentlessly poked at you. 

is he your boyfriend? 

does he know you still wet your bed? 

should i invite him over for tea so i can interrogate him?

he laughed and nudged your shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief, but beneath the playful banter, there was... something else?

which brings you to friday night.

the old grandfather clock in the living room ticks with a rhythmic thud that echoes through the empty house. 

11:03 pm.

you're curled up on the edge of the sofa, the screen of your phone casting a blue glow across your face. you’ve already sent seven texts to him. you’ve called three times, each one going straight to voicemail, the robotic operator telling you what you already know: he isn't answering.

where the hell is he?

caleb never stays out this late without a word? he's the dependable one, the good boy who always sends a quick text to let you know if he's grabbing drinks with his friends or staying late at the library. but tonight, there is nothing. just the empty house and the sickeningly dark windows staring back at you. your chest feels tight, a heavy knot of anxiety twisting in your gut. is he with someone? did he finally decide to try his luck with one of the girls who always leave comments on his photos?

screech! 

you almost jumped out of your skin when the front gates sounded with a sudden noise, which means... caleb is finally home. 

seconds later, the main door unlocks with a clumsy, fumbling click. and when it swings open, caleb is standing in the threshold, the cool night air rolling in behind him. he looks like a complete mess with his varsity jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, uniform shirt half-untucked, wrinkling out from beneath a dark hoodie.

you don’t even give him a chance to step fully inside before you cross the living room, your bare feet slapping angrily against the cold floorboards. “where the hell have you been? why didn't you text me back? i called you several times!”

caleb doesn't shoot back with his usual retort. instead, he just stands there, blinking down at you through slightly unfocused eyes. a slow, crooked smile creeps onto his face, looking incredibly stupid and entirely too relaxed. as he steps closer, the sweet-and-sour sting of alcohol hits your nose.

so he’s drunk.

“hey,” he mumbles, his voice thick and dropping an octave lower than usual. “you're still awake.”

“obviously i'm still awake! i was worried sick, you absolute—”

you couldn't even finish yourself before he suddenly tilts forward, his entire upper body collapsing right against your shoulder. your breath instantly gets knocked out of you as your arms instinctively fly up to catch him, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his hoodie. damn, he is heavy. the broad weight of his chest presses completely into yours, burying his face right into the crook of your neck as he lets out a long, hot sigh against your skin.

“did you drink? caleb, are you fucking serious?” you strain against his weight, your heart doing a panicked dance behind your ribs. “get off me! where did you even go?”

“just... a house party, some guys invited me. didn't check my phone.” he muttered into your shoulder. 

a sharp spike of jealousy and irritation then flares up in your gut. the thought of him surrounded by crowded rooms, flashing lights, and girls trying to get his attention makes you lose your temper. with a frustrated grunt, you plant both hands against his chest and shove him away with all the strength you have left, throwing him straight backward onto the couch cushions.

caleb hits the plush sofa with a heavy thud, his limbs sprawling out awkwardly. “fuck—!” he winces, a sharp groan slipping past his lips as he rubs his shoulder, glaring up at you through his messy hair. “what the hell? that actually hurt.”

“good! you deserve it!” you snap, crossing your arms tightly over your chest to stop your hands from shaking. “just because you’re in college and granny isn't here to monitor you doesn't mean you can just run around doing whatever you want! going to parties, drinking until you can barely walk... did you kiss someone? did you do something stupid? are you trying to get yourself kicked out?”

caleb just stares up at you from the cushions, his irritated expression suddenly melting away into an amused chortle. the sound rumbles deep in his throat, dark and dripping with that infuriatingly lazy charm.

“look at you,” he giggles, a breathlessly drunken sound as he throws his head back against the sofa. “you’re acting exactly like a mother. it’s hilarious.”

“i'm trying to look out for you, you idiot.”

“why do you even care so much?” caleb asks, his laughter suddenly cutting off. he rolls his head to the side, eyes locking onto yours. “it’s not like we're actually blood-related, pipsqueak. you don't have to keep tabs on me like i'm your real brother.”

the living room goes dead silent. 

the grandfather clock ticks loudly in the background, but the sound feels miles away. you freeze in place, your tongue suddenly turning to lead, your eyes wide as you blink down at him. not blood-related. well, it’s the absolute truth, the reality you both dance around every single day, yet hearing him say it out loud feels like a line has been... crossed. 

you swallow down the bitter taste of hurt and confusion, forcing your expression into a blank mask. “fine, do whatever you want. drink yourself to death for all i care.”

without waiting for a response, you spin on your heel and walk away. you march down the hallway, slip into your bedroom, and shut the door firmly behind you, clicking the lock into place before leaning your back against the wood. 

back in the living room, caleb stays exactly where you left him, staring up at the shadow-drenched ceiling.

the stupid smile completely vanishes from his face, replaced by a bitter twist of his lips. “ahah...” he runs a frustrated hand over his face, fingers dragging through his hair as he lets out a sharp exhale into the quiet house.

god, he hates it. he absolutely loathes the sibling label the two of you have used as a shield for the last ten years. he hates that the only way he can get you to look at him with that much intensity, the only way he can pull those reactions out of you, is by pretending to be the very thing he wishes he wasn't.

—

by the following week, the threads holding your carefully constructed reality together begin to fray and knot in ways you can't control. 

the afternoon sun is heavy and suffocating when you finally push the front gate of your house open after a brutal three-hour lecture block. your feet ache and your shoulders are stiff from carrying a backpack loaded with textbooks, and on top of that, your stomach is letting out an aggressive growl. the only thing keeping you moving up the driveway was the thought of caleb’s cooking. for all his agonizing flaws, the boy knew how to handle a kitchen and you were ready to swallow your pride if it meant getting a plate of his garlic rice.

you twist the doorknob, stepping into the familiar coolness of the entryway. “caleb, i'm starving, did you leave any—”

the words die in your throat.

the living room, usually your shared sanctuary of quiet television static and stolen snacks, is suddenly alive with noise. the tv screen flashes with the chaotic colors of a multiplayer racing game with the volume cranked up high. and there, sitting cross-legged right on the carpet across the floor, are two people.

caleb is leaning forward, jaw tight with mock seriousness as his thumbs fly across the controller, and right next to him... is hyeran.

you know exactly who she is. she’s in the same year and department as caleb’s, one of those effortlessly pretty girls who always seem to be at the center of caleb’s university friend group, laughing a little too loudly at his jokes by the campus benches. right now, she’s screaming in frustration, her shoulder bumping solidly into caleb’s as her car spins out on the screen. in response, caleb throws his head back, letting out a boisterous laugh that you rarely hear him share with anyone outside these walls.

the sudden clatter of your keys hitting the entryway bowl cuts through the noise like a knife.

caleb and hyeran pauses mid-game, turning their heads simultaneously to look at you standing there in your wrinkled uniform. 

shit. this is fucking awkward.

“oh! hey, pips!” caleb doesn't scramble up or look guilty; he just offers a lazy wave of his controller. “you're home early. lecture got cut short?”

“uh, yeah,” you force out, your throat feeling suddenly tight as you grip the straps of your backpack. you adjust your expression, plastering on a polite smile that feels completely hollow against your cheeks. “hi, hyeran.”

“hi, (name)! oh my gosh, sorry for the noise,” hyeran chimes in, offering a warm smile that makes your stomach do a bitter flip. she looks so perfectly at home sitting on your living room rug, her canvas bag spilled open near granny’s favorite armchair. “your big bro told me i could borrow his notes, and then trapped me into playing this stupid game.”

you blink.

he isn't my fucking big bro.

“don't lie, you wanted the rematch,” caleb jests, nudging her with his elbow. 

“i'm just going to... grab a snack.” you mutter, desperately needing a barrier between yourself and the display on the floor.

you walk past them, your eyes locked firmly ahead as you retreat behind the kitchen island counter. the kitchen layout is an open-concept, completely overseeing the living room, meaning there is nowhere to hide. you can see everything. to keep your hands busy and stop them from shaking, you pull a bowl of apples and a small paring knife toward you.

you begin peeling the fruit, the sharp blade slicing through the red skin in one continuous ribbon.

“caleb mentioned you're still a freshman, right?” hyeran asks, twisting her torso around to lean against the edge of the sofa, looking up at you over the counter with curiosity. “how is it? 'cause when i was in your shoes, i can baaaarely handle the workload.”

“it's fine. just a lot of memorization,” you cut a slice of the apple, popping it into your mouth and chewing. “you just have to manage your time. which some people in this house clearly don't know how to do.”

“hey, i heard that. (name) loves to pretend she's the responsible one, hyeran. don't let the uniform fool you. she literally forgot to water granny's plants thrice last week.” caleb interjects, not looking back as he unpauses the game.

“it was only once, you liar.” 

“whatever helps you sleep at night, sis.” 

hyeran giggles, turning back to the screen as the countdown for the next round starts. “you two really argue like real siblings, it's so cute. my brothers just ignore me.”

siblings. there it is again. that stupid, suffocating word.

you stand behind the counter, a half-peeled apple in one hand and the paring knife in the other, then you look at caleb. 

he’s doing this on purpose, is he? you know him too well not to see the edge beneath his playful demeanor. he’s showing you what life looks like when he plays by the rules you both set—the rules that say he is just a brother, and that he is perfectly free to bring other girls into the house you share.

caleb and hyeran continue to play the last few rounds of the game, their voices rising in cheerful bursts of laughter that fill the empty space where granny used to be. and you can only stand there, chewing on your tasteless fruit, staring at the back of caleb’s head with a sarcastic scowl.

this little bitch.

if this is the game, then you're going to be a better player.

if caleb wants to play a game of boundaries, you are going to show him exactly how it feels to have the board flipped. two can play the petty game of bringing people into a space where they don’t belong. if he can bring his shiny giggling friend into the living room, then you are going to give a certain someone else the time of day.

the very next morning, you seek out valko.

valko is the kind of blockmate who has spent the last semester treating your existence like a personal challenge. he’s loud, entirely too confident, and has spent months throwing flirty remarks your way—advances you’ve always shot down with a sharp roll of your eyes or a cold shoulder. so when you walk straight up to his desk before the morning lecture, leaning against the wood and offering a small smile, the confusion on his face was almost comical.

“you're... talking to me? no biting remarks? no telling me to get lost?” valko's eyebrows shot up as he stops shuffling through his tablet. 

“maybe i'm just tired of being mean,” you say smoothly, tilting your head in a way you know looks casual, though your pulse is racing for an entirely different reason. “can't a blockmate just be friendly?”

valko isn’t a fool, but he’s certainly not going to complain about a sudden miracle. by the time the final bell rings at four in the afternoon, he’s already dangling his car keys between his fingers, blocking your path out of the lecture hall with a triumphant grin. “hey, since we're being friendly now, (name), let me give you a ride home. the clouds look heavy anyway. don't want you catching a cold.”

you hesitate for a fraction of a second, thinking of the dusty pavement and the walk you usually take, but then you picture caleb’s stupidly smug face from yesterday. “sure!” you say clearly, loud enough for a few surrounding classmates to hear. “thanks, valko.”

the walk to the student parking lot earns you exactly what you wanted: stares. a lot of them. whispers ripple through the department cliques as you slide into the passenger seat of valko’s surprisingly clean sedan. word travels fast on campus, and you know for a fact that caleb’s friends hang around the same smoking area right outside the parking exit.

the drive to your house is filled with the low hum of the air conditioner and valko’s easy chatter. but as the car finally pulls up along the familiar front gates of your house, the atmosphere inside the vehicle turns... awkward. 

valko cuts the engine, his hands lingering on the steering wheel as he looks at the closed facade of the house. “so,” valko clears his throat, his eyes darting toward the front door. “your, uh... your big brother. caleb. is he home?”

you blink, “probably. why?”

valko lets out a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “nnnothing, it's just... that guy is terrifyingly annoying. i saw that hunk staring at me in the cafeteria last week like he wanted to fuckin' dissect me. i don’t really fancy getting my head bitten off just because i drove his little sister home.”

you let out a breathless chuckle, the word sister grating against your nerves like sandpaper. you reach for the door handle, turning back to look at valko. “you don't have to worry about him, valko. and for the record... caleb and i aren't real siblings. we're not blood-related at all. his granny just took me in.”

valko’s eyebrows twitch upward, a sudden glint of renewed interest lighting up his eyes. “oh. seriously? huh. i didn't know that.”

“yep! well. thanks for the ride,” you say, pushing the car door open and stepping out into the humid afternoon air.

but valko doesn't just let you leave. he rolls down the passenger side window immediately, leaning over the console to keep the thread of the conversation tightly pulled. “hey, (name), wait—so if he's not your actual brother, does that mean i don't need his permission to take you out for real next time?”

valko cheekily smiles.

you idle right outside his side of the window, your fingers gripping the strap of your bag, keeping your expression light and teasing even as your eyes instinctively drift toward the glass of the living room window. “maybe, haha, you'll just have to ask nicely...”

“pipsqueak!”

the familiar shout cuts through the air. you immediately turn your head toward the source, only to see caleb jogging down the sidewalk toward the driveway with a bright smile splitting his face. before you can even process what he's up to, he closes the distance, throws his heavy arms around your waist, and lifts you clean off the asphalt.

he spins you around in a breathlessly joyful circle, his laughter vibrating hard against your chest.

“caleb! what's up? put me down!” you frown in utter confusion, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. inside the sedan, valko’s eyebrows knit together, his frown deepening by the second.

“you know what's up?” caleb sets you back down but doesn't let go. his large hands stay clamped firmly onto your upper arms, his eyes wide and gleaming with pure excitement. “we won, pips! our team won the interschool championship game!”

and because of that, the bitterness from the past week evaporates. your eyes light up, a wide smile breaking across your face. “oh my god, seriously? that’s amazing!”

“i know!” he laughs, pulling you back into an another tightly crushing hug. like he's using you as a lightning rod for all his manic energy, burying his face in your hair and all that. 

thwack!

the car door behind caleb suddenly flies open, the heavy edge of the metal panel smacking squarely into his lower back.

“ah—” caleb winces, a sharp groan escaping him as he stumbles forward, forced to break his hold on you. he wheels around, eyes instantly hardening into something cold when valko steps out of the sedan.

“oops, sorry about that, mate,” valko grins, pulling his lips into an awkward one. “i didn't see you standing right in the swing of the door. anyway-uh, i'm valko, (name)'s blockmate.”

caleb straightens up to his full height, his broad shoulders squaring as he looks at the guy. the warm, golden-boy smile he gives valko is entirely rigid. “right, valko. i've heard. what brings you to our driveway?”

“just driving (name) home from campus,” valko replies, matching caleb’s forced courtesy. “and making sure she got back safe. well... you must be the big brother she mentioned.”

“something like that,” 

“uhm, valko was just—” you stepped between them to clear up the mounting friction, but valko cuts you off completely.

he looks caleb straight in the eye, tilting his chin up. “actually, since you're here, i think it's only fair to tell you directly. i've decided i'm going to start courting (name).”

“cough, what?”

what?

both you and caleb widen your eyes, the world going dead silent.

“and honestly, man,” valko adds, crossing his arms and offering a smug tilt of his chin before either of you can even draw breath, “you probably shouldn't be hugging her too easily like that anymore. since, you know, i’m going to start dating her.”

you internally facepalm so hard your brain rattles. oh my god. what did you just get yourself into? valko had completely, catastrophically misread the entire situation. he thought he was playing the part of the chivalrous alpha suitor, oblivious to the fact that he was currently standing in a radioactive strike zone.

but then, a part of your brain clicks into gear. you wanted a reaction out of caleb, didn't you? you wanted to wipe that infuriatingly smug, "i-can-bring-girls-to-the-house" look off his face. maybe this trainwreck of a misunderstanding was exactly what you needed.

you let out a sigh, turning away from caleb to face valko with a perfectly practiced look. “it's fine, valko. caleb is just... a guy i grew up with. really. nothing else. just two kids who happened to live under the same roof.”

valko blinks, processing this, his chest puffing out a little more. “so... like childhood friends?”

“yeah!” you nod quickly, your tone a little too casual and a little too dismissive. “yeah, exactly. childhood friends. that's the perfect way to describe us.”

from the corner of your eye, you feel the exact moment caleb’s gaze burns into the side of your face. you glance up at him, and sure enough, he is staring down at you with a sarcastic scowl—the exact, burning, “this-little-bitch” look you had given him behind the kitchen counter yesterday. the silent, petty warfare is screaming between you two.

valko, blind to the silent daggers being thrown over his head, scoffs and shakes his head. “right. childhood friends. uh, honestly, i don't really buy that whole thing. there’s no way a guy and a girl can just be friends without something else going on. it’s usually just an excuse to keep someone within arm's reach.”

your heart does a nervous, jittery little skip. you quickly scramble to patch up the defense before valko digs too deep into the truth. “no, it's not like that at all! caleb is... he's like a brother to me. we're basically siblings.”

“but we... aren't siblings though.”

caleb’s voice cuts through your sentence like a blunt blade.

you freeze, your tongue going dry as you slowly pause and look up at him.

“i'm not your brother, (name).” 

what the actual hell is he talking about?

your hands go hot and sweaty against your side. this is the exact same guy who, just a few days ago while dead drunk, threw the “not blood-related” card in your face to push you away and tell you to mind your own business. he was the one reinforcing the stupid label, using it as a shield to bring other girls around—and now, right in front of the guy who just announced he wants to court you, he’s arguing the exact opposite?

you stand there completely wordless, the nervous jittery tension tight enough to snap. valko shifts his weight across caleb, looking suddenly confused by the sudden shift in the air, but caleb doesn't even glance back at him.

he keeps his eyes entirely on you.

valko clicks his tongue.

“right,” he blurted out, deliberately stepping sideways to cut off caleb’s line of sight and forcing his way back into your field of vision. “anyway! you look kind of... tight right now, (name), like your shoulders are up to your ears. there's that street-food stall down the block that sells those pork dumplings. why don't we go grab a plate? my treat. it'll help you unwind.”

your brain, currently fried from caleb, scrambles for a normal human response. “oh—uh, dumplings? i mean, i guess i could—i mean, sure, that sounds—”

“‘oh—uh, dumplings? i mean, i guess i could-’” caleb instantly parroted, his voice pitching into a ridiculous falsetto that sounded absolutely nothing like you. he slouched his shoulders, batting his eyelashes in a grotesque mimicry of modesty that made your fist twitch. “‘i guess i could eat a little dumpling, valko!’”

valko raised a brow.

“caleb, shut up!” 

“i'm just saying,” caleb hummed at you, casually sliding his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone. his thumb swiped across the screen with a smirk. “i should probably just dial up gran's unit real quick. let the nursing staff hold the receiver up to her ear so i can tell her that her precious adopted granddaughter is already out here in the driveway, ignoring her chores, just to eat cheap meat down the street with random guys from the university.”

he tilted his head, giving you a look of fabricated pity. 

“man, she’s going to get reeaaally upset, pips. you know how her blood pressure gets when she finds out you're being irresponsible.”

“you wouldn't dare!” you gasped, your lungs seizing up. granny loved you, but she was a traditional woman who would absolutely launch a long-distance lecture about decorum through the phone lines if caleb fed her some twisted version of reality. “give me that!”

you lunged forward, throwing your weight against his side as you reached wildly for the device. but caleb had been anticipating the movement since the moment you took a breath. with a delighted chuckle, he simply straightened his spine, extending his long arm straight up into the air. because he had grown nearly a foot taller than you over the last three years, the phone might as well have been on the roof of the house.

“come on, grab it, pipsqueak,” he was solid as a brick wall! his chest vibrating against your forehead as he laughed down at your frustration. “you’re too short it's embarrassing.”

“caleb, i swear to god, drop your arm right now or i will kick you again!”

“hey, (name).”

you paused, breathless and flushed, looking back over your shoulder. valko had stepped closer, his expression a mix of irritation at being ignored and a tryhard desire to look like the savior of the narrative. before you could scramble away from caleb's side, valko reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around your right wrist.

“don't worry about him,” valko said, giving your wrist a soft, encouraging tug toward the open street. “come on, let's just go get the food. ignore the noise.”

the physical touch sent a strange jolt of awkwardness through you, and you instinctively took a step forward, your shoes clicking against the pavement while valko started walking you down the street.

snap.

a second basket of heat clamped down around your left wrist.

you blinked in utter surprise, your head whipping back around so fast your neck cracked.

caleb had also... wrapped his fingers around your opposite wrist. your right arm was pulled toward valko; your left arm was locked tight by caleb. you were literally being pulled in two different directions like a wishbone.

you stared at caleb, your heart doing a series of unpredictable thuds against your ribs. “what is up with you today, caleb...?”

“what?” he murmured, giving your arm a tiny, playful yank back toward his chest. “i want to eat dumplings too.”

—

and then, there you were. 

the plastic stool beneath you wobbles every time someone passes the cramped table, but that's the least of your concerns. the air inside the tiny stall feels thick with the steam of boiling pork broth and the sting of chili oil. meanwhile, you're squeezed into the center of a very narrow wooden bench, a literal buffer zone between two opposite poles.

to your right is valko, leaning his elbow on the table and entirely absorbed in trying to keep your attention locked on him. then, to your left is caleb. he hasn't uttered a single syllable since you all sat down, choosing instead to stare ahead like a brooding gargoyle while a single plate of steaming dumplings sits between the three of you.

“no, seriously, (name),” valko shakes his head with a wide grin while he dips a dumpling into a small saucer of soy sauce. “professor actually looked me dead in the eye during the anatomy practical. i swear the man has a personal vendetta against me.”

you let out a breathless laugh. “maybe if you didn't sketch caricatures of him, he’d give you some grace.”

valko chuckles back, his shoulder nudging yours beneath the cramped table space. “hey, that was art. it showed appreciation for his eyebrows.”

slurrrrrp. smack. clack.

the sudden loud sound of chopsticks scraping against a plastic bowl cuts right through your shared laughter.

you blink, your head snapping toward the left side of the bench. caleb has his face nearly buried in his bowl as he takes a dripping piece of garlic-chili cabbage, shoves it into his mouth, and smacks his lips together with an obnoxious noise.

valko's grin falters slightly, his eyes darting over your head toward caleb. but caleb doesn't even look back. he just reaches across the small table, his long arm deliberately cutting off valko's view of you, and stabs another dumpling with such unnecessary force that the wrapper splits open with a wet pop.

“anyway,” you say quickly, your cheeks turning a frantic shade of pink as you try to steer the conversation back before caleb derails the establishment. “so... did you fail the practical or what?”

“uh, no, i managed a passing grade," valko says, clearing his throat and trying to ignore the absolute menace sitting next to you. “but after that, i had to spend two hours in the library just trying to—”

crunch. crunch. crunch.

caleb has now unearthed a bag of fried pork rinds from his pocket, snapping them between his teeth with a crunch. he leans back against the wooden bench, long legs splayed wide under the tiny table—his knee bumping solidly against yours with an insistence that makes you grind your teeth.

you glare at him, this little bitch is doing this on purpose.

caleb finally rolls his head over to look down at you. he takes another obnoxious bite of a pork rind, chewing it open-mouthed while raising a mocking eyebrow at you, like he was daring you to say something about it in front of your new suitor.

valko clears his throat, determined to plow through caleb's warfare like a true soldier of romance. he leans in a little closer, voice dropping into what he clearly thinks is an intimate tone. “so, anyway... since the weather's supposed to be nice this weekend, i was thinking maybe we could head down to that new cafe by the harbor? the one with the outdoor seating? we could—”

shrrrrrk!

caleb hooks his shoe around the bottom rung of your stool and, with one casual yank of his leg, slides your entire body a whole foot to the left. you instantly collide with his side, your shoulder smacking right against his solid bicep.

“what the...” you gasp, your hands flying out to grip the edge of the greasy table so you don't tip over.

but caleb doesn't even look up from his plate. he casually scoops up the last dumpling, pops it into his mouth, and speaks around it with unbothered calm. “hurry up and finish eating. we have to get back. we still have to feed our pet.“

you blink, your eyebrows nearly disappearing into your hairline. “since when do you care about the turtle?”

“i've always cared about him,” caleb turns his head to look down at you. “he's a vital member of the household.”

“i'm the only one who ever feeds him? you haven't touched his pellet container since 2024.”

“people change, sis. i've formed a bond with him over the last twenty-four hours,” caleb hums, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as his knee bumps against yours under the table again. “and right now, he's starving. we're being bad parents. so eat.”

meanwhile, valko sits on the right side of the table, his mouth slightly open. he looks at your stool, which is now physically closer to caleb than it is to him, and lets out a long defeated breath through his nose. he clearly wants to argue, but trying to debate the nutritional schedule of a reptile with a guy who looks like he could bench-press the entire dumpling stall seems like a losing battle.

so the poor guy chooses to remain quiet. 

—

the very second the lock of the house clicked shut, your polite “public” face melted completely away, and you turned into a breathing volcano. “you are an actual child, caleb!” you started prattling instantly, tossing your heavy backpack onto the floor with a loud thud. your words tumbled out in a rush as you kicked off your shoes. “seriously, what was that? pulling my stool? making those obnoxious caveman noises? you were being a weirdo and an annoying prick for absolutely no reason. i feel so bad for...”

you spun around to give him a piece of your mind, but you paused.

there caleb was, leaning lazily against the doorway with his big arms crossed over his chest. he was staring down at you with a massive sarcastic scowl. ugh! he even had the nerve to look at you like youwere the one who had just ruined a perfectly good dumpling date over the turtle! 

you mirrored his posture, locking your arms tight and tilting your chin up. “don't look at me like that. what is your actual problem today?”

instead of snapping back, a slow little smirk began to crawl onto caleb's face. oh, he was loving this. this was his absolute favorite game in the world, and you had just walked right into his trap. wordlessly, he unclipped himself from the doorframe and took a deliberate step toward you. and then another.

you instinctively took a step back, but clack—your hips hit the hard edge of the open kitchen counter. 

you were cornered.

“my problem?“ now, caleb loomed over you, placing one palm on the counter right next to your waist to trap you in his shadow. “i don’t have a problem, pipsqueak. i was just being a protective big bro to you. isn’t that the label we chose?”

“protective? you looked like a lunatic!” you fired back, your face turning a furious shade of pink. “you were intentionally trying to ruin my conversation! for your information, you don't own me, caleb. if i want to go out and get dumplings with valko, i am allowed to.”

“with him?” caleb let out a chuckle, leaning down an inch closer until you could feel the warmth of his body. he was utterly enjoying how flustered and mad he was making you. “come on, the guy looks like he struggles with basic math. his hair looks like a bird nested in it. you seriously have zero taste.”

“huh, at least he doesn't bring random girls into our living room to scream at video games all afternoon! you had hyeran over here yesterday behaving like she owns the couch. if you can do stuff like that, why can't i?”

caleb’s smirk grew even wider, a quiet triumph gleaming in his eyes. ah, his face seemed to say, so that’s what this is really about.

“oh, so you were watching us from behind the counter,” he nudged his knee playfully against yours, anchoring you against the wood. “were you jealous, pips? is that why you let the car guy drive you home? because if you wanted to play video games with me that badly, all you had to do was ask nicely, you know?”

ah.

you had reached your absolute limit with caleb’s bottomless well of confidence. you were sick and tired of always being the one pressed against the woodwork, left all breathless and flushed while he got to stand there looking like the smartest boy in the whole wide world. you wanted the tables to turn so desperately that you could taste it, even if it meant playing a very dangerous game with your own silly little heart.

so, with a sudden narrowing of your eyes, you did something unpredictable.

yank!

your fingers reached out like little lightning bolts, wrapping tight around the fabric of caleb’s collar and pulling him downward with all your might.

oh, you should have seen his face. the teasing fool was caught off guard. his grand smirk evaporated into thin air, and a ragged little breath hitched right in the back of his throat. for the first time in a while, his polished exterior cracked into a million tiny pieces. 

you didn't dare break eye contact. you leaned in just a millimeter closer, your voice dropping into a mocking whisper. “what's the matter, caleb? not so talkative now? where did all that big, brave mouth go?”

poor caleb’s brain had gone into emergency mode. inside his broad chest, his heart was drumming a frantic—thump-thump, thump-thump—so loud and violent that you could practically feel the vibration through his shirt. his large hand, still planted on the kitchen counter beside your waist, gripped the polished wood so tightly that his knuckles turned so white, as if he were holding onto the edge of a cliff to stop himself from falling over—or worse, from reaching out and grabbing you back.

seeing your victory, you decided to push your luck just a little bit further. your hand slowly traveled up from his collar, your fingertips tracing an agonizing path up the side of his warm neck, before your thumb gently tapped the very edge of his earlobe.

“look at that. for someone who acts so cool, your ears are so bright red.”

caleb swallowed hard, his throat bobbing up and down as he gulped down the dry air. 

“you're such a hypocrite,” you mocked him one last time, giving his collar a playful shake. “always talking so much shit, but the second someone plays back, you freeze right up.”

and just as quickly as you had caught him, you planted both of your hands squarely against his hard chest and gave him a mighty shove.

whoosh!

caleb actually stumbled backward a couple of steps, his long legs flailing for a second before his feet caught the floorboards. he quickly cleared his throat—ahem, ahem—and rubbed the back of his neck.

“uh—wow,” he tries to forcefully laugh it off and turn the tension back into a silly joke. “okay, crazy lady. i- you nearly bit my nose off—”

“shut up and go jerk off to your notes, caleb.” you shot back over your shoulder.

caleb instantly went wide-eyed, letting out a dramatic cough—gack!—as he choked on his own saliva at the sheer obscenity of your remark.

you spun on your heel and marched happily down the hallway, slipping into your bedroom and clicking the lock shut with a very satisfied smile on your face, leaving the poor boy all alone in the quiet kitchen to figure out exactly what the hell had just happened to him.

serves him right.

—

and so, the great war officially began.

if you were going to be shameless about using valko as your personal human shield against your own confusing feelings, then caleb was going to be a thousand times more shameless about turning your life into a living cartoon. he became an absolute ghost in the machine, a walking disaster zone that magically appeared whenever valko so much as breathed in your direction.

on wednesday, you and valko were sitting on the low stone wall by the university quad, sharing a bag of salty chips. valko was leaning in close, his voice dropping into that tryhard smooth register again while he reached for a chip. thwack! out of absolutely nowhere, a round and suspiciously aerodynamic pebble shot through the leaves of the old oak tree, striking valko squarely in the middle of his forehead.

“ow! what the—” valko hissed, rubbing his brow as he looked around wildly.

far across the grass, standing by the sports locker rooms, caleb was casually tossing a basketball up and down in the air. he wasn't even looking at you. he was whistling a cheerful little tune, entirely innocent, though his vertical aim had been precise enough to deserve a gold medal.

on thursday, valko tried to walk you to your lab, proudly carrying your heavy medical dictionary like a true knight in shining armor. but as you rounded the corner of the science building, caleb suddenly materialized from the shadow of the vending machines. he didn't say a word to valko though. he just walked straight between the two of you like a giant solid wall, his broad shoulder subtly but violently checking valko to the side.

“oh, sorry, mate,” caleb hummed, reached down, and snagged the heavy book right out of valko’s hands before the guy could even blink. “my (name)'s got a weak spine, you know. family history. i always carry her books. thanks for holding it, though!” and just like that, he marched off, flipping through the pages of your textbook without a single care in the world.

it was a relentlessly ridiculous game of tag, a noisy circus meant to keep the terrifying gravity of that kitchen counter argument from swallowing you both whole. as long as caleb was throwing rocks and stealing books, he didn't have to think about his bright red ears, and you didn't have to think about his racing heartbeat.

until friday afternoon arrived, and the playful music finally... stopped.

the sky was the color of bruised slate when valko’s sedan pulled up along the front gates of your house. the engine let out an idling purr against the quiet pavement. you stepped out of the passenger side, but you didn't immediately walk toward the door. instead, you lingered by the open window, your shoulders slouched and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth in a rare display of genuine defeat.

today, you had failed the major quiz. 

you had studied until three in the morning, your eyes burning under the harsh blue light of your phone, only to see an ugly red circle at the top of your paper. the exhaustion and the disappointment were sitting heavy on your chest, and it felt so fucking awful. 

“hey,” valko seemed to catch on it, pushing his car door open and stepping out onto the asphalt beside you. he looked at your downcast face, his usual arrogant confidence softening into something genuinely concerned. “come on, (name). don't look like that. it's just one quiz. prof is a sadist anyway, everyone struggled.”

“i didn't just struggle, valko. i choked,” you muttered, staring down at the tips of your dirty shoes. “i'm supposed to be the responsible one. granny’s paying for these blocks, and i can’t even remember the difference between cellular necrosis and apoptosis when the timer's ticking.” 

saying that now, it kind of makes you laugh a bit.

but little did you know, behind the glass of the living room window, a pair of eyes was watching.

caleb stood in the shadows of the house, his arms hanging loose at his sides as he looked through the pane. he had been waiting for you. he had already cleared the kitchen counter, ready to cook whatever ridiculous comfort food you wanted to cheer yourself up after a long week. but now, he was frozen. he watched the way your lower lip trembled, the way your fingers nervously twisted the strap of your bag. he knew that exact look on your face. he knew the precise flavor of your sadness because he had been the one to hold your hand through every failed exam and scraped knee since you were seven years old. every protective instinct in his body screamed at him to open the front door, to run down the driveway, to scoop you up and carry you inside where it was safe.

but he didn't move, because he didn't have the right to.

“hey,” valko murmured again, stepping closer. “hey, look at me.”

and you looked up, your eyes wide and vulnerable. before your brain could even process the movement, valko reached out. his arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling your smaller frame firmly against his chest in a sudden hug meant to chase the cold away.

your body went stiff as a board against his jacket, hands dangling awkwardly at your sides. you hadn't expected it, maybe because... you hadn't wanted him to do it.

inside the house, behind the glass, caleb saw it. of course he did.

the sight of another man's arms holding you—the sight of you standing perfectly still in the driveway while someone else tried to soothe your tears—rubbed bitterly against him.

it was one of those moments again, those moments when caleb couldn't summon a single sarcastic remark. couldn't pull out a smirk. couldn't even pretend to be angry. it was just a thick and suffocating wave of unadulterated possessiveness and grief washing over him.

his jaw tightened, throat bobbing heavily as he gulped down a painful breath. his hand, which had been resting lightly against the edge of the curtain, suddenly convulsed, his fingers tearing into the fabric. he couldn't look at it. he physically and mentally could not bear to see another second of you belonging to someone else, even for a fleeting moment of comfort.

with a jerk of his arm, caleb yanked the heavy curtains shut, sealing out the afternoon light and plunging the living room into darkness.

caleb blinked several times, trying to catch his breath, trying to keep himself calm, trying to stay where he's at and remove the ugly thoughts of doing something to that red-haired guy. 

the living room was supposed to be a hiding place, but the walls inside granny's house had grown far too narrow to hold himself. his chest heaved, and his feet simply refused to stay glued to the floorboards. and the rationality he always wore like a freshly ironed uniform eventually disintegrated, leaving nothing but an itch that dragged him back toward the door.

it swung open with a bang that cut right through the hum of valko’s idling engine.

immediately, your head whipped around at the noise, your eyes still wide and startled from the sudden weight of valko's arms around you. but before you could even draw enough breath to call his name, caleb was already down the concrete steps. 

with a sudden jerk of his forearm, caleb reached out and grabbed the shoulder of valko’s jacket, yanking the guy backward with enough force to break his hold on you. 

“did she say yes to you?” caleb asked, “are the two of you officially dating right now?”

valko blinked, thoroughly bewildered and rattled by this guy's audacity. “no, we aren't, but i'm—”

“then you don't have any right to touch her like that,” caleb cut him off, his voice flat and freezing cold. “you don’t get to wrap your arms around her if she hasn't given you permission to be there. it's rude. it’s completely out of line.”

valko let out an incredulous scoff, the sheer persistence of caleb’s interference finally pushing past him. he took a step forward, tilting his chin up until he was staring directly into caleb’s face. he finally found the courage to say what he’d been thinking for weeks. “are you serious right now? what is your actual problem, caleb? what are you even to her?”

you blinked and looked up at valko. 

“you’re always... hovering. you’re always throwing things, always splitting us up, always acting like you own the ground she walks on. you said you aren't her brother. she said you aren't siblings. so what exactly is your deal? what are you to her?” 

caleb’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. 

so valko saw the break in the armor, and he drove the blade right through the crack. “do you like her?” 

at that, your heart did a leap behind your ribs, the blood rushing to your ears so loudly it drowned out the noise of everything else. you desperately and subconsciously wanted to hear the syllables leave his lips, to know if the pull you’d been drowning in was something he was drowning in too. 

what is he going to say? why isn't he saying anything?

but caleb couldn't answer.

he knew you were staring at him. he could probably feel the exact weight of your eyes tracking the rigid line of his jaw and the frantic rise and fall of his chest. but for the first time in his life, he couldn't meet your gaze back. his eyes darted nervously across valko, his throat bobbing in a gulp as he tried to find a lie big enough to save him.

until finally, slowly, caleb’s head tilted downward. his hair fell forward over his brow, before he hesitantly rolled his gaze down until his eyes locked directly onto yours.

gulp.

that look in his eyes...

it was something you had always disliked since you were kids. everytime the either of you brought up the subject of parents, of having a mother and a father, he did that face. except now it isn't because of that.

now... 

“i'm her guardian.” 

caleb answered.

“what?” your head tilted to the side, that familiar sarcastic scowl crawling right back onto your face.

“i am her legal guardian,” caleb repeated, nodding with a completely straight face. “since  our gran is currently being held back at the nursing home facility for medical observation, the responsibility of maintaining the household and ensuring the safety of it falls entirely on me. i am the primary caretaker of this residence.”

this little bitch.

valko just stood there, his mouth hanging open so wide a family of birds could have moved in. “what?” 

before you or valko could even open your mouths to scream at him for being an absolute fool, caleb’s heavy hand snapped down around your wrist.

“anyway, it's getting very close to six o'clock, which is the official cutoff time for driveway visitations,” caleb said, his voice dripping with an agonizingly tryhard politeness as he began walking backward, dragging you along like a sack of potatoes. he offered valko a little wave with his free hand. “thank you so much for the transportation, valko! drive home safely! watch out for the speed bumps on the main avenue, they’re quite treacherous this season!”

“caleb, you fucking—” you lunged backward, but caleb’s grip was absolute. you were forced to do a clumsy little sideways shuffle up the concrete steps, your free arm flailing in the air as you tried to offer valko at least a goodbye. “bye, valko! sorry! i’ll text you about the anatomy slides!”

but valko didn't even wave back. he just stood by his open car door, probably wondering if this whole situation was secretly a psychological experiment.

slam! click-clack!

the wooden door finally shut.

the very second the threshold was secure, caleb dropped your wrist like it was a hot potato. the authoritative guardian persona vanished into thin air, and he turned into a quiet giant. without saying a single word, without even looking at you, he spun on his heel and marched straight toward the safety of the open-concept kitchen.

you stood alone in the center of the living room.

this little brat is seriously getting on my nerves!

one second he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing left in the world, and the next second he’s inventing fake household rules just to avoid answering a simple question!

but you were not going to let him see how much he had rattled you. oh, absolutely not. you needed to get the upper hand back, even if you had to fake it.

you let out a dramatic cough to clear your throat, smoothing down the front of your wrinkled shirt before you marched over to the kitchen island. instead of hiding in your room like a coward, you hopped right onto one of the tall barstools, planting your elbows on the counter so you could watch him like a hawk.

“you are insane, you know that? a guardian? seriously? that is the dumbest thing that has ever come out of your mouth.”

caleb didn't answer you. he was currently busy staring down at the kitchen counter with an expression of concentration. for a guy who was usually a wizard with a skillet, he looked lost. he had a carton of heavy cream in one hand, a bottle of soy sauce in the other, and a tub of margarine sitting between them like a puzzle he couldn't solve.

“you were being so aggressive out there! valko was just trying to be nice because i was having a bad day—hey i'm speaking to you!” you huffed, your eyes narrowing as you watched him confusedly pick up a bulb of garlic, stare at it like it was an alien spacecraft, and then drop it back onto the wood. “are you even listening to me, you brat?”

“what am i to you, then?” caleb finally spoke.

oh, now, do you feel that? the air in granny’s kitchen just became so thick you could probably slice it with the very paring knife you used for those apples last week. you thought you were safe sitting on that high barstool, tucked neatly behind the counter like a judge delivering a very righteous verdict. 

but you forgot one very important rule when it comes to your big bro: he always knows when you’re hiding behind a loud mouth.

you should have just gone to your room. you should have just locked the door, eaten a stale cracker, and minded your own business instead of sitting out here pretending to be brave.

but it was already too late to run.

caleb finally abandoned his study of the soy sauce bottle and turned around. and then, he took a few strides over to your side of the counter. before your brain could even coordinate a retreat—shrrrrk!—caleb reached down to hook his hands around the metal legs of your stool, and pulled you a whole foot closer to him.

the proximity was so sudden your cheeks erupted into a furiously bright blush, while he just stood towering right over you. 

“tell me, pipsqueak,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before lifting back to your eyes. “what is valko to you?”

“he's my... suitor?”

“and what am i to you?” 

“y-you're just—i mean, we've always been—”

with a slow lean, he brought his entire upper body down, planting his palms firmly on the seat of your stool right on either side of your thighs. 

“do you want me to stop playing the sibling part then? do you want me to become something else?” caleb tilted his head, his voice dropping into a soft whisper.

“what do you mean... something else?”

a faint little smile touched the corner of caleb’s lips. “you know, like... a guy. a guy to you.”

thump. thump. thump.

your heart was no longer just beating; it was a damn throbbing thing inside your chest. your hands went completely numb against the stool, your eyes wide and your mouth slightly ajar in a look of such ridiculous shock.

caleb tracked every single ounce of your panic. he saw the terror, the blush, the absolute deer-in-the-headlights look paralyzing your face.

and then, just as the tension reached the absolute breaking point... caleb suddenly let out a boisterous laugh.

phew!

he pulled his upper body back, releasing your stool from his cage. before you could even register the sudden rush of cool air between you, caleb reached out and playfully pinched the tip of your bright red nose, shaking your head gently from side to side.

“gotcha,” he chuckled and turned back to the kitchen counter. “man, you should see your face right now, you look like a terrified little bird. i'm obviously just teasing you.”

you couldn't even bring yourself to manufacture a witty comeback. you just sat there on that stool, staring blankly into the empty space between the salt shaker and the soy sauce bottle.

caleb, however, appeared to have moved on, back to being the domestic king of the kitchen, the heavy iron skillet letting out a cheerful sizzle-hiss while he tossed the chopped garlic into the oil.

“we need to head out early tomorrow to visit gran, by the way,” caleb hummed casually over the sound of the spitting grease. “like, seven in the morning early. so don't stay up late scrolling through your phone.”

the mention of your grandmother finally poked a hole through your daze. you blinked, shaking your head slightly to clear the cobwebs as you focused on the back of his neck. “...why so early? the nursing home visiting hours don't even get busy until noon.”

“i have to be back on campus by ten. coach called a basketball practice for the championship preparations, and i can't miss it.”

“ah.” you nodded to the back of his head.

you managed to survive the rest of the evening by acting like a very polite, very quiet ghost, eventually slipping into your bedroom to endure a night of toss-and-turn sleep where caleb's whispering voice kept echoing in your dreams.

until the next morning arrived and caleb decided that the boy from yesterday was officially dead and buried.

bang! bang! bang!

“wake up, monkey! rise and shine!”

your bedroom door then flew back against the wall with a violent clack as caleb marched inside like a fucking drill sergeant. before your sleep-deprived eyes could even adjust to the morning light, caleb reached the edge of your mattress.

whoosh!

with one yank of his hand, he ripped your cozy duvet clean off your body, leaving you curled up in a shivering little ball on your sheets.

“fuck, why are you so damn loud early in the fucking morning?” you shrieked.

“ten minutes, and if you're not in up, i'm leaving you behind and telling gran you love sleeping more than you love her!” 

minutes later, you successfully managed to wash the sleep from your eyes and throw on a decent pair of clothes, though the inner grump was still very much awake.

you stood at the kitchen island, furiously snapping the plastic lids onto a neat little tower of tupperware containers. caleb had actually outdone himself this time—the savory aroma of freshly stewed chicken broth and garlic rice was already locked tight inside the plastic, ready to be delivered to granny's bedside.

the downstairs bathroom door swung open, and out stepped the grand tormentor himself.

you instinctively lifted your head, only for your brain to immediately scream abort mission! abort mission! because caleb had a fluffy white towel draped lazily over his damp hair, but that was the only thing he was wearing from the waist up. his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his collarbones, and the ridiculous expanse of his chest were completely on display, glistening faintly with a few stray droplets of water.

you whipped your head back toward the tupperware so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, your cheeks instantly sparking with a familiar warmth. 

“hey,” he stopped right on the other side of the counter, smelling faintly of mint and soap. “did we run out of the extra toothpaste? i can’t find the tubes under the sink.”

“cabinet. it's behind the extra bars of soap on the top shelf. go look there.”

“right. thanks,” he mumbled, turning on his heel and thankfully retreating back into the bathroom.

you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. honestly, the nerve of this guy.

not long after, caleb finally emerged looking like a civilized human being again, with his heavy sports duffel bag slung carelessly over one arm. 

“you ready to go?”

“yep,” you quickly gathered the paper bag full of food and stepped toward the front door. 

but as caleb walked past the living room window sill, his eyes narrowed at the row of small terracotta pots sitting in the morning sun. he stopped, casually extending one long finger and poking it straight into the dark soil.

he paused. 

he wiggled his finger, then, he turned his head to look at you, a knowing eyebrow crawling up his forehead. “brat. did you water the ferns today?”

you froze right with your hand on the doorknob, your lips twitching, and you turned around to offer him the most innocent cheeky smile you could possibly muster. 

caleb let out a roll of his eyes. 

“come here,” he pointed a finger at the floor in front of him.

“no.” you shook your head violently. “we have to leave early, remember? for gran, and your super important basketball practice!”

with a delighted laugh, caleb let his heavy sports duffel bag slide right off his shoulder, letting it hit the floorboards with a loud thud. and before you could even turn the doorknob to escape, he closed the distance between you in two strides.

“caleb, wait—ah!”

you shrieked when his large hands clamped firmly around your waist. with zero effort, he lifted your feet clean off the ground, turning you around while you flailed uselessly in the air. he marched two steps back into the living room and dropped you right against the plush cushions of the sofa.

“punishment time!” caleb laughed, instantly hovering over you and planting his knees on either side of your hips so you couldn't wiggle away.

“no, stop! caleb, i swear—!”

but your threats were instantly drowned out by your own hysterical laughter as his long fingers began mercilessly digging into your ribs. you squirmed and twisted beneath him, hands frantically trying to swat his wrists away, but he was too big, too heavy, and entirely too good at finding your most ticklish spots!

eventually, what started as a simple tickle punishment quickly spiraled into a full-blown war of the cushions.

the moment caleb’s fingers paused to let you catch your breath, your inner competitive spirit woke up. you weren't just going to sit there and take the defeat! with a heave, you planted your socks against the back of the sofa and launched your entire body forward, aiming a messy tackle straight at his broad chest.

“oh, so we're wrestling now?” caleb laughed, his deep voice booming right against your ear before he effortlessly caught you by the waist.

the rules of the house were completely thrown out the window as the two of you flipped, twisted, and rolled across the plush cushions, trying every single fake martial arts move you had ever seen on television. heck, you were pulling out all the stops—trying to hook your arm around his neck, aiming sharp elbows at his ribs, and trying to pull off a dramatic headlock.

you were starting to sweat, and you were putting 110% of your soul into making this giant human being tap out.

caleb, on the other hand? he was putting in absolutely zero effort. he was literally lying back against the pillows, letting out a loud, breathless laugh at every single one of your frantic maneuvers. to him, you probably felt like an angry flailing puppy. every time you thought you had a solid grip on his arm, he would casually just flex his bicep and pop right out of it. 

“come on, pipsqueak!” he taunted, easily batting your hands away as you tried to pin his shoulders. “is that all you got? my teammates hit harder than this during warmups!”

“shut up and die, caleb!” 

you threw your weight into one final grapple. but alas, pride can be a very dangerous thing when you're fighting a varsity athlete.

caleb decided the game had gone on long enough. and in one quick motion, he caught both of your wrists in a single hand, threw his heavy leg over your torso, and completely flipped you over.

oomph!

suddenly, you were now slammed chest-first against the back cushions of the sofa. caleb slid right up behind you, his body pressing heavily against your back to completely pin you down. he wrapped one massive arm securely around your upper chest like a seatbelt, while his other hand kept your wrists locked together near your chin.

you were utterly trapped in a textbook rear-naked choke hold.

“all right, game over,” he gave you a playful squeeze, anchoring you even tighter against him. “tap out and acknowledge me as your supreme ruler, and i'll let you go.”

“never! i will literally bite you before i tap out!”

“stubborn little girl.” caleb chuckled softly, his chest rumbling right against your back. “you can't move. just tap the couch and save your dignity.”

oh, he thought he had won because he was bigger and stronger? he forgot that you were smaller, faster, and willing to play dirty.

the competitive fog in your brain is a blinding thing, so heavy that your survival instincts completely take the wheel before your common sense can even map out anything else. you don't even know what possessed you. you aren't thinking about the dangerous lines you almost crossed together over the past few days; only thinking about the iron band of his arm across your chest, and the humiliating prospect of defeat.

so, you use the only lever you have left.

with a subtle shift of your weight, you arch your spine slightly and press back, slowly grinding your bum right against the heat of his crotch.

!

behind your back, caleb’s entire frame goes stiff as a stone wall. the boisterous laughter bubbling in his chest dies mid-breath, cutting off into nothing but a ragged hitch. it takes him three agonizing seconds to realize what tactic you’ve just deployed, and when it finally clicks...

“(name),” he groans, his voice no longer the cocky older brother but something rough, uncovered, and deeply rattled. “what... what are you doing?”

but instead of releasing you, his massive arm tightens around your upper torso, locking you so hard against his chest that you can feel the frantic hammering of his heart against your back. he tries to laugh it off, tries to maintain the upper hand, but the words come out strained and frayed at the edges. “nice try, though, pips. dirty tactics don't work on... nh... varsity players.”

the tiny stifled sound that slips from his throat was all the fuel you needed. it’s working. he sounds so tense, his breath coming in shallow puffs against the sensitive nape of your neck.

your own face is a burning mess of a tomato, but the taste of victory is too close. you want to remind him that he doesn't hold a monopoly on audacity in this house. you have it too.

you move again, harder this time, abandoning any pretense of subtlety. you press your ass firmly into his crotch, rolling your hips back against him in such an explicit way. 

“hey, stop, seriously—” caleb chokes out, a helpless moan breaking past his lips before he can catch it. his fingers, still holding your wrists, lose their grip, beginning to tremble against your skin.

subconsciously, his own hips begin to tilt forward, meeting your shameless grinding with a press of his own. “this... this isn't working, you should try something else. or just tap out. because i'm still not... ah... letting you go.” he swallows hard, his thumb twitching against your wrist, his long legs tangling with yours on the cushions as he tries to find an exit from the trap you both built. “so just... tap out and stop, yeah?”

“s-shouldn't you... shouldn't you be the one tapping out, huh?” your heart is doing frantic and erratic loops behind your ribs, but you push through the panic. “isn't it... isn't it weird that someone you see as a sister is doing such a thing to you? you're the older one, caleb... you should tap out. be the responsible one.”

to prove that you aren't the one who is going to break first under the weight of this, you roll your hips back against him again harder, dragging your bum across the expanse of his crotch. 

caleb doesn't answer you with words. he can't. all that leaves his throat is a series of thick, breathless moans—nh... ah—each one a helpless sound that shatters the last remaining illusion of the “sibling” shield you both spent years constructing. 

and then, slowly, you feel a very hard thing pressing solidly through the fabric of his bottoms. it felt heavy and hot enough to burn through your clothes. your movements instantly slow down, your entire body going rigid as a fresh wave of red flushes from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears. is that his...? no, no, no. you don't want to point it out. you don't want to say a single word. if you say it out loud, the universe will split wide open and there will be absolutely no going back to the way things were before.

but while you are trapped inside the spinning dizzyness of your own thoughts, you were too slow to realize that caleb's palms had snapped down around your wrists, separating them from your chin. with a surge of his upper body, he pins both of your arms flush against the cushions on either side of your head. 

and then, without a single shred of his usual teasing hesitation, caleb pulls his hips back—and drives them forward, dryhumping you roughly from behind.

“ah—!”

“don't move,” caleb humps you again, a rhythmic thrust that slides his heat perfectly between your thighs. “tap out now, (name).”

no, there is no way you're going to easily tap out like this. if you do, that's just going to show him how easily he can just go to his way with you. so without much of a choice, you bite your lip. 

“fuck, nh...” 

why is he moaning? does this feel good for him?

“just... tap out, pips,” he pants heavily, hips rolling into you in another rough stride that makes your toes curl inside your socks. “tap the couch and tell me to stop... otherwise, i'm just gonna keep going.”

“i-i hate you,” you tighten your fingers against the cushions beneath his palms, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “caleb, ngh—i swear to god, i...”

caleb lets out a chuckle, “yeah? how much?”

he doesn't let you answer and instead slides his hands down from your wrists to grip the very edges of your hip bones. with one forceful heave of his strong arms, he hoists your hips up high off the sofa cushions, tilting your pelvis back and locking you into a perfectly angled incline—before slamming his hips forward again, driving his hard erection deep into the curve of your ass. 

“not tapping out yet?” 

“i-i'm not tapping—!”

you cut yourself off when caleb's hips against your bum suddenly stutters. he drives into you one last time—hard and entirely too desperate—and then his entire body goes completely rigid.

“(name)—ah, fuck—!”

caleb lets out an unvarnished moan, his voice breaking into a breathless whine as his chest shudders violently against your back. he freezes, fingers digging bruisingly hard into your hip bones before a wave of heat blooms right through his shorts, dampening the fabric of your pants. 

your brain, despite having zero knowledge about how men's bodies work or what exactly happens when they hit their limit, registers the sudden wet warmth and his sudden loss of strength.

oh. he messed up.

“a-are you kidding me? did you just—”

“shut up,” caleb wheezes, his head dropping onto your shoulder. “don't... don't say it.”

“oh, i am absolutely saying it!”

being an opportunistic woman, you take advantage of his jelly-like limbs and twist your torso. caleb is usually a solid brick wall, but right now, his body is too sensitive. you wrench your hips out of his slack grip, plant your hands on his broad shoulders, and shove him backward with all your might.

thud!

caleb falls flat onto his back against the sofa cushions, and before he can even think about recovering, you launch yourself over his lap, straddling his thighs and planting your hands squarely on either side of his neck, pinning his arms down.

strangely, he doesn't even fight you. caleb is easily strong enough to bench-press you off him with one hand, but instead of resisting, he just lets out a pathetic grunt and lets his arms go limp beneath your palms. 

“look at the so-called supreme ruler now,” you mock him instantly, a breathless smirk breaking across your face. “what happened, caleb? you were talking so much shit about tapping out, and you couldn't even last three minutes? you came too fast that was pathetic!”

“(name), please,” caleb groans, his face turning a shade of pink as he tries to turn his head away from your gaze. “you don't even know what you're saying.”

“well, i know you're a loser.”

“you... you started it!” caleb defends himself weakly, his voice was an embarrassed whisper while his fingers nervously twitch against the couch cushion. he finally rolls his eyes back to meet yours. “what is wrong with your head? you were the one grinding your ass against me like a p-pervert... what did you think was going to happen?”

“i was trying to make you tap out!” you argue back, your face heating up again but your grip on his arms tightening.

“by making me cum...?“ caleb whines, his jaw clenching when he lets out a shaky breath. “that's a pretty lame strategy don't you think?”

“you're just making excuses because you lost,” you say, your voice trembling slightly despite the thick layer of bravado you're pouring over it. you look down at the front of his joggers where a distinct darkening patch of wetness is spreading against the fabric. “look at that. the great caleb, taken down by a simple strategy. i should take a picture and send it to your coach.”

“y-you brat, i swear to god, shut up,” caleb groans with a laugh. “you don't know what you're doing. just get off me.”

“no, i think this needs a proper inspection.” 

your brain is screaming at you to stop, telling you that you are sprinting across a line you can never cross back over, but the sheer adrenaline of having caleb completely at your mercy prevents you from backing down. if you stop now, if you get off him and let him look at you with that smug smirk again, the awkwardness will literally suffocate you. you have to finish this. you have to prove he's the loser.

with a suddenly decisive movement, you reach down and grab the waistband of his joggers.

“wait—(name), hold on—” caleb gasps, his eyes going wide with panic as you pull the fabric down. 

even through the cotton fabric of his dark grey boxers, his dick is thick, massive, and still remarkably heavy and hard despite having just come. it stretches the front of his underwear to its limit, a rigid outline that looks terrifying up close. holy shit. he's... he's huge.

your face is burning so hot you're pretty sure you're going to spontaneously combust. your hands are shaking, your ears ringing, but you force your fingers to move forward. you place your palm flat against the center of his boxers, wrapping your fingers directly around the pulsing length of his dick.

“ah—nh!” caleb's head flies back against the sofa cushions, fingers clawing into your waist so hard it almost hurts. “fuck, stop... i told you i'm too sensitive—”

“what's the matter?” you stammer, your voice cracking as you squeeze him slightly through the cotton, your thumb tracing the hard ridge of his shaft. “thought you said it didn't work? you're twitching so much under my hand, caleb. who's the weak one now?”

“you're... you're a psycho,” caleb pants, a strained chuckle breaking through his ruined voice. he looks up at you through his long eyelashes, jaw clenched and sweat beading at his hairline. “what about you? you're blushing like a tomato and your hands are shaking. you're terrified right now, aren't you?”

“i'm not terrified of a loser,” you lie through your teeth, sliding your hand up and down his length, the friction through his boxers causing another wet drop of pre-cum to seep through the fabric against your palm.

“fuck... ah, please,” he looks so devastatingly undone beneath you it's funny, his chest heaving while he whines against the cushions. “you're... you're cheating. this is a foul. i'm gonna tell gran you're being so...”

“granny would just laugh at you for being so weak,” 

the boy who used to help you look for snails in the backyard after a heavy rain—the same boy who once gave you a piggyback ride for three blocks because you scraped your knee on the pavement—was currently pinned beneath you on granny’s floral-print sofa, stripped down to his underwear and trembling like a leaf.

it was a sacrilegious image, because for ten whole years, caleb had been the towering fixture of your childhood, the annoying older-brother figure who stole your food and made fun of your haircuts. but now, the fabric of his boxers was the only thing standing between you and a completely different world.

“you’re still shaking.” your voice was a little breathy, though you kept your eyes locked on his face to hide how fast your own heart was knocking against your ribs. 

caleb let out a ragged laugh, his head tilting back against the cushions. “you aren't going to make me tap out if that's what you're planning, you silly.”

“oh, you think you're so smart?”

before he could even muster another cocky comeback, your fingers hooked directly into the elastic waistband of his boxers and dragged the fabric down past his hips.

and just like that, the angry length of caleb's dick sprang free, twitching madly in the warm morning light.

oh my god. 

he was fucking huge. the thick, veins-veined shaft was throbbing with a pulse, the heavy weight of it slapping against his lower belly when the fabric set it free. 

caleb’s eyes went wide as the cool air hit his bare skin, a genuine spike of panic breaking through his composure. “hey, wait, hold on, what are you planning to do?” 

you stared down at the very tip of him, where a shiny drop of clear pre-cum was slowly leaking out, glistening against the skin. the sight of it made a strange spark right in the pit of your stomach.

“i'm finishing the wrestling match,” you whispered, your hand moving forward until your fingers wrapped completely around his thick shaft.

“fuck—nnggh!“ caleb gasped out loud, his entire upper body arching off the sofa as your palm made direct contact with his heat. his knuckles turned white as he grabbed the edge of the armrest. “(name)... seriously, you don't know what you're doing, stop it.”

“shut up and take your punishment.”

“you don't know shit about—oh, fuck—please... i'm gonna come again, i swear to god...”

but you weren't done pushing his limits, you wanted to erase every single ounce of that cocky exterior until there was nothing left but the vulnerable boy beneath you.

leaning down until your chest was nearly brushing his lap, you let your hand slide away from his tip—and replaced it with your tongue.

you swiped your warm and wet tongue directly over the crown of his dick, licking up the excess pre-cum and the sticky remnants of his earlier climax from the sensitive skin.

“ah-!”

at that, caleb lets out an undignified shriek that was instantly swallowed by a deep groan. his hands flew to the sides of your head, fingers tangling frantically into your hair as his dick twitched against your lips, throbbing so hard it felt like a living thing. he was whining openly now, his chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling with blown-out eyes.

you wrapped your lips around the very top of his shaft, sucking him gently. “(name)... i hate you... i hate you so much...”

“how much, caleb?” you mumbled against his hard skin, looking up at him through your eyelashes, your hand gripping the base of his giant length to keep him locked right where you wanted him.

“i'm not gonna last, (name). seriously, i'm gonna come in your mouth if you don't stop,”

but you don't stop. your tongue swipes over the sensitive ridge again, determined to drive the final nail into his coffin. truth be told, you have absolutely no idea what you're doing. your teeth graze his skin awkwardly, your suction is uneven, and your movements are incredibly clumsy, lacking any real rhythm. but caleb is just as clueless and inexperienced as you are, and to a boy whose body is already primed and hyper-sensitive from a first climax, the messy, wet warmth of your mouth feels like absolute heaven.

you keep going, your hand stroking his base while you lick the sticky tip. you just want to make him blow his top again. you need to see him completely break, just so you can hold it over his head for the rest of his life. 

...or is that really all it is? because your heart is hammering so loud it's practically echoing in your throat, and a strange heat is pooling deep in your stomach as you taste him.

“fuck... i'm coming, i'm literally—ah, nh...” caleb whines out loud, his head thrashing against the cushions, his entire lower body trembling while his hips lift off the sofa, twitching directly into your mouth.

you tighten your grip, getting ready for the final victory—and then, the world violently flips upside down.

whoosh!

caleb’s hands leave your hair and snap down around your armpits. your mouth slips off his dick with a wet pop when he completely sat up before he hoists your entire body into the air like you weigh absolutely nothing.

“ah! what do you think you're—!” 

and with one ruthless motion, caleb pivots your torso and bends you straight over the widely padded backrest of the sofa. your chest is pressed flat against the top cushion, your head dangling over the back of the couch toward the floor, while your hips are lifted high and trapped beneath his massive weight as he slides up behind you.

and then, you hear it. a breathless and absolutely insufferable chuckle bouncing right against your ears.

“you are such a gullible girl,” caleb pants heavily, his chest heaving against your shoulder blades as he lets out a triumphant laugh. he isn't coming at all. “did you really think i was gonna let you win that easily? you thought you could just suck me off and make me cry?”

“you literal piece of trash!” you yell, trying to push yourself up off the backrest and kicking your legs blindly behind you. “let me go, caleb, i swear to god—”

caleb's hips slide right back against your ass, his hard length pressing explicitly into your lower back to remind you who has the upper hand. he grips your waist with both hands, locking your pelvis into place so you can't wiggle an inch. “save all the shouting, okay?” he gives your hip a playful, firm squeeze. “we're right back where we started. you're pinned, you're cornered, and you're out of moves. so what's it gonna be, huh? are you finally gonna tap out or do i have to keep you bent over here all morning? 'cause i don't mind being late, you know.”

“shut up,” you choke out, your forehead digging hard into the plush fabric of the backrest. “i'm not... i'm not listening to a liar who fakes a climax just to cheat his way out of his loss.“

“it's called strategy, sweetheart. you should look it up sometime,” he chuckles, an arrogant little sound that rubs directly against your neck. “but you know... since you were so incredibly bold with me just now... since you decided you could just put your hands wherever you wanted... i think it's only fair that it's my turn now, right? that's how the game works.”

for all his cocky bravado, you feel a sudden tremor pass through his palms. his fingers twitch against your skin. he’s hesitating, isn't he? the heavy reality of what you've both done sinks into the quiet spaces of the room, but he doesn't pull back.

slowly, his fingertips hook into the waistband of your shorts. you let out a quiet whimper when he slides the fabric down over your thighs, exposing the bare expanse of your bum to the morning air.

and then, the teasing stops.

the living room goes dead silent, save for the uneven rhythm of caleb's breathing. he stares down at you, his throat bobbing in a gulp. even without turning around, you know exactly what he’s looking at. the thin fabric of your panties is kind of ruined and darkened, clinging, and utterly soaked through with a wetness from your own mounting frustration. 

“...you're wet, (name). what am i supposed to do with you like this?” caleb whispers, his voice suddenly stripped of its malice.

“don't look at it, you brat.” you whimper, trying to hide your face in the sofa. “caleb, don't—just let me up, please—”

“no way, you started this. you don't get to run away just because you're embarrassed?” caleb chuckled.

then wordlessly, his fingers hook the side of your underwear, pulling the fabric upward to stretch it tight against your skin, using the soaked material to press firmly up into your sensitive folds.

“ah—” 

“look at how you're reacting,” caleb murmurs, leaning his weight harder into you. “but you've been a really bad girl today, breaking all the rules... so i think you need to wait a little.”

he slowly lets go of the fabric, but his hand doesn't leave. instead, his long fingers begin to lightly trace the very edge of your soaked panties, feeling the slick heat of your wetness seeping through the cloth onto his fingertips. he hovers right over your center, brushing against you but not quite, giving you just enough phantom friction to make your toes curl, but entirely denying you the actual release you're starting to crave.

your body was now squirming helplessly beneath his palms as you try to force yourself against his hand to get more pressure, but he ruthlessly keeps his fingers just a millimeter away. “fuck you, either touch me or let me go, don't be a jerk—”

“oh i'm not being a jerk yet, (name).” caleb pants, another rough chuckle breaking through his serious expression while he watches you twist and writhe under his touch. his own erection is throbbing madly against your back, but he keeps his hips still. “will you admit defeat and tap out if i be a jerk to you, then?” he punctuates that sentence with a tentative press of his index finger into your hole through the panty. 

your fingers are practically tearing into the fabric of the sofa cushion already, the adrenaline from earlier turning into a suffocating dread that makes your throat dry. 

with a quiet tug, caleb’s fingers hook into the edge of your damp underwear, sliding the cotton fabric to the side.

“caleb...” your voice is a tiny squeak against the dark velvet of the couch. your hips instinctively try to lift, a sudden panic flaring in your chest. “what... what are you doing?”

but he doesn't stop. the cool air hits your bare folds for a fraction of a second before the tip of his finger presses directly against your entrance. you let out a ragged hitch of air as he slowly pushes past the tight ring of your muscles and sinking into your slick warmth.

“this... this doesn't count as anything, right?”

caleb’s broad chest is heaving violently against your shoulder blades, his entire frame shuddering as he buries his finger deeper inside you. “it’s just... it’s just a finger, (name). we're just playing the game. all of this... it's just about making each other tap out. it's not... whatever else it could be?”

you can feel the desperate lie he's spinning, his own mind scrambling to build a bridge back to sanity even while he’s stretching you open.

“it doesn't count,” he pants, his thumb pressing hard against your hypersensitive clit, making your toes curl inside your socks. “it doesn't count as long as i'm... as long as i'm not using my cock, right? we're still just us. we haven't crossed anything.”

you gulp, because a part of your brain screams at you to twist around and slap him, to scream what the actual fuck is wrong with you? but the guilt is a leaden weight sitting right on your chest. you were the one who started it. you were the one who put his dick in your mouth just to prove a point. you are just as dirty, just as guilty as he is.

“yeah,” you whisper, your voice thick with a dirty shame as you shut your eyes tight. “yeah... that makes sense. it's just... it's just a game.”

caleb then slides a second finger right alongside the first, the sudden invasion stretching your tight walls as he begins to slowly and deeply thrust inside you.

squelch. squelch.

the wet sounds of his fingers sliding through your excess moisture fills the quiet living room, explicit and loud enough to make your face burn a shade of red. 

“(name)...” caleb murmurs, and it's the exact same tone he uses when he's giving you advice on your chores or asking about your classes, but his fingers are currently buried inside your vagina, driving you insane. “have you ever put your own finger in it?”

your lips press together so hard they turn white. you want to lie, you want to bite your tongue, but the mind-numbing pleasure of his thrusts is making your defenses completely crumble. “y-yeah, a... a few times only. when you weren't home.”

caleb picks up the pace slightly, the wet squelching sound getting faster, deeper, his knuckles rubbing against your bare skin.

“did it... did it feel like this?” he asks quietly, his voice shy, almost innocent, like a boy asking for help with his homework, even as his hips heavy-press against your backside. “does it feel better when i do it?”

the duality of this guy is completely ridiculous. it’s terrifying. one second he's caging you like a predator, and the next he’s whispering sweet clumsy questions like he's still the boy from your childhood. you can't even answer him anymore; you're just a flushed panting mess.

pop.

but caleb hooks his fingers out of your heat, making an involuntary whine escape your throat before you can even think to choke it down. your hips instinctively jerk backward, chasing the feeling of his fingers, but your hands only find the empty velvet of the backrest. why the hell did he stop? 

behind you, the rustle of heavy fabric is loud. the weight on your lower back vanishes as caleb steps backward onto the wooden floorboards. “no need to tap out anymore, 'cause oh my goodness i'm going to be late,”

by the time you manage to push yourself up on your trembling elbows, your limbs feeling like melted wax, caleb is already completely upright. his joggers are pulled back up, the dark grey waistband of his boxers now neatly hidden away. 

he looks down at you, and an infuriatingly soft smile touches his lips—the exact look he gives you when he’s being the responsible one.

“we should really get going, pipsqueak,” caleb says softly, as if his fingers hadn't just been swirling over your pussy. he reaches down, casually picking up his heavy sports duffel bag from the floor and slinging it over his broad shoulder. “i'm going to be horribly late for practice if we don't move right now. go adjust your clothes.”

you just stare up at him from the sofa, your mouth slightly open. you looked dumbfounded, your brain becoming incapable of processing how a guy can go from driving two thick fingers into your soaking womanhood to checking his watch like a middle-aged accountant. 

—

the afternoon does not care about your identity crisis. 

you had ended up having to visit granny all by yourself in the halls of the nursing home. the very second the two of you had stepped out to the car, caleb’s phone had erupted into a series of vibrations—his coach's caller id flashing like a warning flare. the muffled shouting through the receiver about missing the championship preparations had left caleb looking genuinely stressed, his fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. he had dropped you off at the facility with an apologetic squeeze of your shoulder, leaving you to sit by granny’s bedside alone, nodding blankly while the old woman prattled on about the hospital soup and how caleb was such a good, responsible boy for taking care of you.

if only you knew, granny. if only you knew.

by the time you finally drag your feet onto the university campus for your late-day lectures, your mind is a useless swamp of static. you sit in the rows of the amphitheater, the professor's voice about cellular pathology washing right over your head like white noise. 

every time the professor speaks, all your brain can register is the memory of caleb's deep and ruined moans echoing against the walls of your shared home. your fingers keep absentmindedly tracing the edge of your desk, your lower body still feeling a ghostly throb from the wet squelch of caleb's fingers stretching you open. 

and by the time six o'clock arrives, the heavy tropical heat of the campus grounds is finally beginning to cool down.

usually, this is the hour where caleb’s long shadow appears beside yours at the main gates, his heavy arm slinging over your shoulder to drag you toward the terminal while he complains about how hungry he is. the habit of him is a deeply rooted thing in your bones. instead of turning right toward the exit to head straight home to an empty house, your feet lazily, almost sub-consciously, steer you left toward the concrete structure of the university gymnasium.

as you slip inside, taking a quiet seat on the very edge of the lowest wooden bleacher, the vast space is alive with a scattering of echoing noises. on the far brightly lit side of the court, a bunch of cheerleaders are practicing their stunts, and a few stray students are still lingering on the higher bleachers. 

but your eyes immediately drift to the opposite free side of the court.

there, sitting in a circle directly on the polished wood, is the university's basketball team. their coach is standing over them with a clipboard, his sharp whistle tucked between his lips as he gestures aggressively toward a diagram. and right in the center of the huddle, his long legs splayed out in front of him, is caleb. he’s wearing his dark blue practice jersey, broad shoulders glistening with a fresh coat of sweat, a giant water bottle gripped in his large hand as he listens intently to the lecture.

he looks so regular like that, so athletic. so completely like the golden boy the entire school admires. you pull your knees up to your chest, wondering how on earth you're supposed to walk home with him after what he did to you this morning.

caleb is nodding along, his hand idly spinning the basketball between his palms on the floor, looking every bit the disciplined athlete. then, his eyes wander. he’s just scanning the empty spaces of the court, a subconscious habit of checking his surroundings, when his gaze drifts up toward the lower bleachers.

and lands squarely on you.

for a long second, neither of you knew how to react. the teasing grin he usually flashes when he spots you in a crowd doesn't happen. he just takes you in, his fingers freezing against the leather of the basketball. you just stare at each other, the secret weight of the morning—the wet sounds, the moaning, the taste of his dick—crashing into the space between you like a physical wall.

caleb looks away quickly, his throat bobbing as he downs a huge gulp from his water bottle, his broad shoulders tensing up as he tries to focus back on the clipboard. 

five minutes later, the coach blows his whistle twice. “all right, pack it up! managers, get the training cones back in the locker. caleb, you're on equipment duty tonight since you were late this morning. secure the loose balls and the extra jerseys from the bench.”

“got it, coach,” caleb grunts, pushing himself up from the floor.

the team starts dispersing, heading toward the showers in an echoing wave of laughter and low chatter. caleb begins gathering the stray basketballs into a mesh sack, and as he nears the bleachers where you're sitting, he just stops a few feet away, slinging the heavy sack over his shoulder.

“hey,” caleb's shadow falls over your sneakers. “(name). stop being lazy and help me carry these jerseys to the storage room. coach wants a head count before the after-party tomorrow, and i'm not doing it alone.”

you blink. “can't your co-captain do it?”

“he's already in the showers,” caleb says, finally cutting his eyes toward you, a subtle, desperate intensity flickering in his gaze that makes your stomach flip. “come on. the quicker we finish, the quicker we go home. go grab the bin.”

you purse your lips, but you slide off the bleacher anyway. you grab the plastic bin filled with damp jerseys, your heart already starting to throb a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you follow his massive back toward the dark hallway at the rear of the gym.

the storage room door is heavy iron, creaking loudly as caleb pushes it open. the inside smells like old rubber, canvas bags, and dust, lit only by the faint orange glow of the twilight filtering through a barred window. you step inside, the plastic bin heavy in your arms.

“where do you want these—”

slam!

the door cuts your voice off completely as caleb shoves it shut behind you. within a snap, his large hands snap around your waist and lifts you off your feet, pinning your back directly against the solid wood of the door.

“caleb, what the—”

and your mouth is instantly smothered.

caleb drives his lips against yours with an aggressive hunger, his head tilting sharply to lock his mouth over yours. it’s a messy, bruising kiss, completely devoid of the hesitation he had this morning. he lets out a desperate whine against your lips—nhhh—his fingers digging like iron claws into your hips, pulling your lower body flush against his jersey.

“fuck,” caleb groans directly into your mouth, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. he tastes like the cool mint from earlier and the salty heat of his sweat, his jaw working against yours as if he's been starving for this for the last seven hours. “i couldn't... i couldn't even think during our practice, you know. coach wouldn't stop screaming at me but all i could see was you bent over the couch.”

“caleb—stop, someone's gonna—mmph—” you try to speak, your hands frantically coming up to push against his broad chest, but the sheer mass of him traps you. 

“let them hear,” his hips slam forward instinctively, driving his hard erection—already straining madly through his gym shorts—directly into your thigh. “i don't care. i don't care about it. you can't just... nh... fuck, you were all i could think about today—”

“you were the one who stopped,” you gasp out, your fingers subconsciously tangling into the damp hair at the back of his neck. “you acted like... like nothing happened, and then you left me alone... you idiot.”

“i was scared...” caleb cries out softly, his voice a ruined whisper before he brings his mouth back up to cover yours, thumbs tracing the bare skin of your waist beneath your shirt “i'm supposed to protect you, but all i want to do is rip these clothes off you right now and pound inside you until you can't even stand up.“ a guilty laugh slips past his lips. “shit, am i allowed to say that?...”

your heart is a wild thing, hammering so hard against your ribs it feels like it might burst through your skin. “caleb—”

the rest of your breath is completely stolen when his calloused hands hook into the waistband of your underwear. there is no gentle hesitation this time, no restraint left to save either of you. with one downward tug, the fabric is stripped away, bundling around your sneakers along with your shorts. 

he doesn't even take his jersey off. his dark blue varsity uniform is damp with sweat, the rough material scraping against your bare chest as he uses his body weight to pin you flat against the wood. with a trembling hand, caleb reaches down between your laps, his long fingers finding your soaking, swollen entrance. he doesn't need to prep you; you are already dripping, ruined from hours of thinking about his touch.

he aligns the angry head of his cock right against your opening. he is so incredibly huge—a terrifyingly solid length that makes your stomach drop in a mixture of fear and desperate longing.

“(name)... look at me. just look at me,” caleb whimpers, his voice completely cracked and ruined. “i can't... i can't hold back anymore. i'm going to cross this line now.”

before you can even utter a sound, caleb grips your hips like iron vices and drives his hips forward.

“ahhh!”

a high-pitched gasp is ripped from your lungs as the stretching length of his dick forces its way inside you in one thrust. it's a tight, bruising fit, your walls screaming at the sudden fullness of him while he buries himself all the way to his hilt, his lower belly slamming hard against your pelvis. 

caleb lets out a shattering groan that sounds like a sob, his head instantly dropping forward into the crook of your neck. his hot breath scalds your skin, and you can feel the wet smudge of tears mixing with the sweat on his face. he is crying into your shoulder, panting like a dying man, his entire broad frame shuddering violently against you.

“ffckk... nhhh... you're so tight, it's so hot,” caleb opens your thighs wider just so he can pound into you much, much faster. “i've... i've thought about this every single night.... every time you smiled at me... every time you fell asleep.... i've wanted to do this so fucking bad...”

caleb grips your thighs, hoisting your leg up until it was wrapped tightly around his broad waist, and begins to fuck you desperately against the iron door.

thud. thud. thud.

the heavy wood rattles on its hinges with every brutal stride of his lower body. caleb drives into you as if he is angry—furious at you for making him wait this long, furious at himself for breaking the rules, and desperate to mark every single inch of your inside. he doesn't give you time to adjust to his size; he just plunges deep, his thick shaft sliding through your tight squelching wetness.

“caleb—ah!—stop, it's too deep—nhhh!” you moan out loud, your head thrashing against the door behind you. your hands leave his shoulders and wrap around his damp hair, trying to pull him closer, trying to find some anchor as his massive cock relentlessly reorganizes your insides. you can't even think straight anymore, his dick is leaving you with nothing but the raw urge to take his size and beg for more.

“not stopping,” caleb grunts against your ear, it makes your thigh squeeze tighter around his waist. he tilts his head upward, jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck look like wires under his skin. his eyelashes flutter, his eyes half-closed and ghost-blinking as he loses himself entirely to the pleasure. “fuck, why didn't we d-do this sooner?”

he thrusts into you even deeper, his hips rolling with a newfound precision that hits a sensitive spot deep within your womb. 

“hnggh, caleb, deeper, deeper...!” 

“what was that, huh?” caleb suddenly pulls out, bringing your legs down. 

“what are you... a-are you going to leave me again?” 

he smirks, pressing a kiss against your forehead while you felt the wamrth of his hands grabbing your right leg to hoist it up high - up, up, and up - until you're now sideways, leg stretched open and high enough that your ankle was an inch away from caleb's face. “deeper, right?” in a second, he drives his cock back into your hole, this time making sure that every thrust he gave you was a slap on the womb. 

“ahngh, caleb!—”

the orange twilight through the barred window slowly deepens into a thick midnight blue, but the desperate rhythm inside the storage room doesn't stop.

for the next few hours, the university gymnasium becomes completely empty, the lights on the court turning off one by one until the only sound left in the entire concrete structure is the repetitive rattle of the iron storage door. caleb completely loses his composure, his body moving on pure instinct while he continues to drive his length into your soaking heat over and over again.

the dynamic between you never truly changes, even as the skin of your hips turns a deep, flushed pink from the iron grip of his palms. every time he tries to pull that annoying tone to tell you to take his size, his voice shatters into a pathetically high-pitched whine the second your tight walls squeeze him. you don't let him have the satisfaction of total victory either; even when your legs are trembling so hard you can barely keep them still, you still find the breath to mock his stuttering moans, driving your fingers into his damp hair to yank him down into bruising, messy kisses.

The baker’s shop is just along the path, so you decide to stop along the way, if it means you’ll get some answers about the status of your goods. Your shiny black shoes are dirtying with each step you take on the paved road, kicking up dust as you go. But you pay it no mind; often do you take this path, and you’ve grown quite acquainted with the cobbler next door because of it who now shines your shoes for half the price.

It certainly feels like mid spring, with the sweet aroma of blooms a pleasant background during your stroll. The sun beams down on your signature cherry red hood. Bad habit as it might be, you’re often never seen without it, even if it means you sweat a bit underneath the cotton cloak. Your neighbors recognize your reddened figure immediately, even from a distance. They wave and smile and you return the gestures.

As you turn the corner, your leisurely pace slows further. There’s a murmuring of a rather panicked crowd that drowns out even the light chirping of birds. Your eyes flit about. There’s the Constable, some families from next door, and even ranchers from a few miles down south. Curious, you slide past a few anxious-looking villagers until you come to the steps of the baker’s shop they’re surrounding.

The large window that usually displays all your favorite sweets is shattered, and you can see the destruction of the interior, with various items toppled over from the counter as if there was a scuffle. Then, like a signature of whatever vicious artist painted this mess, there’s a claw-mark slashed into the wooden flooring. It is stained red.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. There’s been yet another attack.

Your little haven of a village has been experiencing them for a year now. First, a flurry of ranchers began complaining about the sudden loss of their sheep. Tens of corpses, they said, would be found in the morning, entirely gorged on by an insatiable beast. Village heads brushed it off as a larger wolf pack that must be passing through. Only, the killings persisted.

Next, it was the shepherd nearby who always offered you bottles of goat milk for only half an hour of light farm labor. His front door had been broken down, and he was found dead in bed with his hands bit off. That’s when it was resolved that this was no ordinary wolf the village was dealing with.

The third, you felt the most conflicted on. A shopkeeper had been found dead in a similarly gruesome fashion, mouth sliced open until it was unhinged form his jaw. You hardly knew him, didn’t want to after he repeatedly leered at you the last time you went to his shop, his thinly-veiled suggestions sending a cold chill of fear down your spine until you left empty handed and never returned since. Still, though you’d hardly wish such a horrid death on anyone, it was hard to feel very sorry for the man.

And now, the baker. You’d always order some of his fresh-baked, steamy loaves of bread to enjoy by yourself or with your Grandma. The selection of cakes he had was vaster than any other in the village. You spent so much time as a loyal customer that you were good acquaintances. And now he’s gone, too.

A few tears well up in your eyes.

Behind the sorrow, there’s aching guilt. A part of this is your fault. If you just hadn’t gone into the woods that night…

Your thoughts are cut off as the investigation continues.“…his eyes and nose were slashed clean off,” the watchman is muttering to the constable, and you truly wish you weren’t close enough to hear their conversation, because a fresh bout of nausea threatens you. You clutch your basket harder and will yourself to think of anything else.

“Little Red,” the watchman calls you, and you glance his way. “Are you on your way to your Grandmother’s house again? I suggest you wait at least a week. The woods may not be safe for you.”

You falter. Wait a week? The fruit and medicine in your basket will turn sour. She needs the nutrition sooner than later. Moreover, your Grandma will likely fret if you don’t visit her soon. She already worries too greatly about you, and such anxiousness is sure to contribute to her already-poor health.

“I cannot,” you insist, biting your lip. “She needs her medicine within a few days. And she will worry if I do not show.”

“Witnesses did say the wolf was seen fleeing east, so likely the opposite direction you’re headed,” the Constable chimes in.

“East? Let’s take our pitchforks and torches eastward and slay that beast,” a particularly rowdy rancher growls, and a few resounding cheers reveal just how enthusiastic the villagers are about ridding this curse for good. Your heart stammers. If they knew what you’ve done, would they brandish those pitchforks toward you, too?

The Constable only thinks to himself, before nodding once. “Little Red, go on, but be cautious. Likely no one is free to escort you if we’re to hunt down that beast. But the Hunter is out in those woods, too. Stop by his house on the way so he can ensure you’re safe.”

The Hunter. The worry alleviates a bit and blossoms into a sense of comfort. If anything can make you feel better, it’s the fact that the Hunter will be close.

You nod once, steel yourself, and set forth on the path again. The bustle of the village fades into the smattering of trees, expansive canopies darkening the trail and spiking your fear further. But you continue, humming a familiar tune to yourself that only you and the trees can hear.

It gets harder and harder to reign in your thoughts. You’re still shaken from what’s happened this morning, from the murder that took place while you were blissfully asleep just a few streets down. You duck your head until your hood blocks your peripheral vision if it means you’ll stop imagining beasts from the corners of your eyes.

There’s a crack of a tree branch that you barely hear underneath the rush of a sudden breeze. You freeze like a deer, dusted black shoes rooted to the ground. Nothing comes.

You will yourself to move after a long moment. For Grandma, you think. There’s no use in turning back now. Grandma needs her medicine.

Slowly, you continue trudging along, and decide to play a game. Indulging in the serenity of nature has always done wonders to calm you down, and even if said nature is frightening right now, you can still always look for the bright side.

You decide your game involves picking flowers in a specific order. It goes like this: you pick a pink flower, then a purple one, then a white one, without skipping a color. The spring showers have allowed a beautiful scattering of wildflowers to sprout alongside the path. And by the time you reach Grandma’s house, you’ll have a lovely bouquet to gift her.

It works, and you’re bounding happily down the path despite the looming darkness over you, absorbed in finding the next bloom. Purple, then white. You snatch up a pink one next and drop it into your basket with the others.

Repeat. Pink, purple, and white. The flowery mass in your basket grows. Pink, purple.

You don’t find a white even after many steps. The buds around you are every color— yellow, red, blue— except white. It’s silly, but a sort of competitiveness with yourself grows, and you find yourself wanting to continue the game.

You finally spot a white flower to your right, contrasting with the verdant grass that nearly hid it from your view. But it’s off the path, a few steps into the forest.

A hint of apprehensiveness grows. You know you’re not supposed to wander from the path. Grandma has instilled it into you herself. And with the incident this morning, getting lost is the last thing you should do.

You glance about as if anyone is around to reprimand you. But the flower is only about twenty feet away, and it’s not as though you’ll lose sight of the path when heading towards it. Your feet carry you towards it before you can second guess the decision.

Each quickening step you take matches your heartbeat. Maybe it’s dramatic, but you have always had rigid rules you’re made to follow, rules you’ve only broken once. Visit Grandma once a week. Buy from the baker every Sunday.

Never stray from the path.

But the thrill of breaking the rules is enough to keep you moving.

You halt in front of the flower and bend to pick it, skirts rustling blades of grass. Before you can rush back, there’s a sharp prick on your feet, and you wince, crouching to bat away whatever cruel insect has tried to suck your blood today. While you’re hunched over, your back is bared to the wilderness.

Just as you’re dropping the hard-earned flower into your basket, a hand grasps at your shoulder.

You shoot up, gasping and turning around. You must look like you’ve seen a ghost, with your wide eyes and paled face, because the figure backs away immediately.

You relax. It’s the Hunter. Your heart pounds now in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

“Caleb,” you blurt, and immediately cringe at how breathless and relieved you sound.

“Did I scare you?” he offers a warm smile, and you think you imagine the sun’s rays gleaming from behind him despite the darkened skies. You shake your head, though it’s an obvious lie.

His brow immediately knits in concern. “Little Red, why are you out at this time?”

“Oh, I’m visiting my Grandma,” you explain, gesturing to your basket.

“But after those attacks? Who approved this?”

The slight anger in his voice makes you blink in surprise. Caleb was rarely seen around the village, but when he wasn’t residing in his remote cabin in the woods or out hunting, even catching a glimpse at him was a treat for all the ladies in the village. With his broad shoulders and friendly smile, he was always a dream, helping out villagers to the point where he’s a favorite. You know the cobbler discounts him even more than you, but you cannot resent him. Even from the few times he’s aided you has the dreaminess caught up to you, too.

So, the ire in his tone has you blanking. “The constable did. He said the wolf went East, so I’d be fine, but to visit you along the way for my safety.”

Caleb relaxes, clutching the strap that holds the gun over his shoulder in place. “A good thing, to be sure.” He lifts his head up at the sky. Ominous black clouds are rolling in, and you can already feel a few fat droplets on your hood. It fills you with dread. You’ve never liked the rain.

He gestures you to follow him, beginning to move again. “It’s about to pour. You should come in for some time.”

You stay close behind his broad back, face heating. Come into his house? It’s not like you don’t trust him, but the thought makes you a little flustered. But the downpour is heavy enough to soak through your hood now, so you hurriedly catch up to him.

His cabin appears in a little clearing. It’s handsome and sturdy-looking, and the smoke above the chimney makes the home all the more appealing. You find yourself drawn into the warmth of it, even if it does mean you’ll be late to your Grandma’s.

A soft gasp spills from your lips as you enter the dimly lit interior. There are animal trophies all over the walls; mounted heads of large deer, foxes, mountain lions, and even a few bears. You knew he was an experienced hunter, the best in the village, if the rumors were true. But seeing it for yourself is almost astonishing.

“There are so many,” you exhale breathlessly, head tilted upwards to gaze at the animals. The flames flicker and make their glazed, lifeless eyes shine. “How do you manage to hunt this much when you’re so young?”

Caleb shuts the door behind you, smiling almost sheepishly. “I practice a lot. Besides, hunting is almost all I do. Let me take your cloak.”

You repress a shudder as he steps in front of you, gently slipping off your hood and hanging it up. His gaze remains intense on your face a moment too long and you’re quick to turn away so you can breathe again.

“But there are no wolves,” you note, eyebrows knitting together. “Are wolves really so elusive in our village? No one has caught the beast, yet, either.”

He mounts his gun on the wall and pushes a hand through his brown hair, ears pinkening. “I simply haven’t ran into any wolves while hunting. They are rare.”

“Ah.” You perch hesitantly on his loveseat, warmth of the hearth chasing away any chill from the rain. You blink up at him. “So you haven’t seen the beast then. I wonder how many more lives will be taken before this finally ends.”

You don’t mean to sour the mood within your first conversation with Caleb in weeks, but it’s hard to stop your tone from taking a somber lilt. The aching emptiness in your basket where your loafs would usually be weighs the loss of a fellow villager heavily on your conscience.

He’s silent for a long moment, before joining you on the loveseat in a hesitant manner. “The baker…did you know him, personally?”

You nod. “I did. I don’t mean to bring down our spirits, though…”

“Not at all.” Caleb is quick to scoot closer to you, before he falters at his own eagerness. “You can talk to me about anything, Little Red.”

You bite your lip, suddenly wishing you still wore your hood if it meant being shielded from his attentive eyes. “I was curious as to why my bread hadn’t arrived on my doorstep this morning. When I went to visit the baker’s shop, it was completely destroyed.”

He looks wounded. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “It is not as though it’s your fault. Thank you for all you do, protecting the village and helping around. I actually really admire you, to be frank.”

Caleb lights up immediately, a shy smile forming on his handsome face. “Really?”

“Yes,” you laugh, finding the way he perks up to be endearing. It’s at odds with how collected he is when he’s carrying rolls of hay for you or helping tow some of your groceries.

“Oh,” he clears his throat, looking down at his lap. He almost seems awkward even in his own house. His eyes dart to your basket, eyebrows raising. “Does your Grandma enjoy flowers?”

“Yes. But it’s mainly me who enjoys picking them.”

“Cute,” he murmurs so softly to himself that you have to pretend like you don’t hear it, cheeks pinkening. Then Caleb’s skillful hands are collecting the flowers. “Let me tie a bouquet for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

A pretty red bow is already securing them together. “There,” his fingers caress the silk reverently. “It’s done.”

“Thank you,” you beam, unable to keep the giddy grin off your face. It’s not often that the village heartthrob gifts you a bow. Until you remind yourself the bow is technically for Grandma and not you. You laugh to yourself as you imagine how wooed Grandma would be when you tell her the bow is from Hunter Caleb himself.

His violet eyes are pinned onto you, enraptured and impossibly soft. Now it’s your turn to clear your throat and shift, embarrassed. Your face is so red that you might be mistaken for the bow’s twin.

“Oh, and you should also take these with you,” Caleb’s standing and bringing over a bucket of his own. Apples, deep crimson and glossy, fill the container. He puts a handful into your basket.

“Thank you,” you gush for what seems like the nth time, feeling more than indebted. It’s a simple offering, but for some reason, the gesture feels deeper than what meets the eye.

“Your favorite,” he hums, bright eyes creased. “I just picked them fresh off the tree just yesterday, and now here you are. What perfect timing.”

You don’t exactly think you’re supposed to be hearing that last part, with the way he sounds giddy when mumbling it to himself, but you feel touched anyways. “That’s very thoughtful,” you say, but something nags at you. “But…how did you guess apples were my favorite?”

Caleb blinks, grin faltering.

“They’re red, and red is your signature color. I just assumed.”

Butterflies flutter pleasantly in your stomach. He’s thought about the little details about you, like what fruit you like. Hope soars through you when you wonder if your one-sided attraction towards him might be more reciprocated than you thought.

“You guessed right,” but then your foot stings, and you’re suddenly reminded of the insect that’d bitten you when you strayed off the path. The bare bridge of your foot is mildly pink and swollen, and you cannot repress a hiss.

Caleb’s on his feet in a second, returning with some salve. “You should have said something earlier. Now, don’t touch it. I need to disinfect it.”

You watch him, a bit panicked, as he kneels in front of you and slides off your dusted black shoes. “It’s quite alright, I won’t ask you to do that—”

“Shh,” he’s already taken your foot in his warm grasp, and you swear your heart might pop out of your chest. “Oh, poor thing. It must burn.”

“You’ve done a great deal for me already,” you blurt, eyes as wide as saucers. Was he just a very generous host, and doted this greatly on all of his guests? But then, you realize, he likely has little visitors this deep in the woods. You almost pity him a little, for he’s obviously very keen on being helpful, and he must not have any opportunity to be unless he’s in the village. You resignedly let him cup your foot in his palm.

“Nonsense. You’ve done far more for me.” He gently rubs the salve on and it immediately cools your inflamed skin.

Huh? You blink, trying to think about what he must be referring to. Your mind comes up blank, but maybe it’s because there’s a ridiculously handsome man at your feet.

“Better?” Caleb’s looking up at you expectantly, and you’re jerked out of your thoughts.

“Yes,” you say, and you’re about to thank him again but hold your tongue lest you sound repetitive.

You expect him to slide your shoe back on. He doesn’t. Instead, he remains kneeling, thumbs stroking your sole so reverently that it tickles.

“It looks like the rain won’t be letting up tonight,” notes Caleb, as the steady pitter patter on the windows echoes throughout the house. The fire flickers dangerously and threatens to delve the entire cabin into darkness, before flaring up again victoriously. You release a breath, a sudden flash of lightning putting you on edge.

“Does that mean I have to stay?” You cannot keep the apprehensiveness from the question. Simply put, staying the night in a man’s house is nothing short of inappropriate. But you know with a beast on the loose and a chaotic storm outside, it’s ironically the only acceptable option.

“I’m afraid so.” Thankfully, Caleb straightens again and releases your foot from his grasp, settling beside you. “You’ll have to visit your Grandma in the morning. It’s dangerous to leave the house now.”

You nod, suddenly self conscious of how his arm brushes yours. He’s so big. His shirt is rolled up to his elbows and reveals a tantalizing stretch of strong, veiny forearms. Your throat dips with a heavy swallow as you realize the implications of spending a night here.

“Caleb,” your eyes are half lidded when you turn to look at him. “Do you ever get…lonely here, so deep in these woods? Or scared?”

He stares at you for a long moment. “No. I often have company.”

“Oh,” you can only say, off guard. What kind of company could he possibly have out here? A lady?

“The animals,” he clarifies with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “As for being scared…I can protect myself.”

Thunder cracks like a whip, and you jump. Caleb notices, eyebrows knitting together.

“And you, Little Red?” Lightning flashes again, illuminating his clenched jaw for only a split second. Another roll of thunder almost drowns out his next words. “What are you scared of?”

The fire is dying out slowly now, embers glowing faintly in the darkened cabin. “Storms,” you admit, after a second of considering if you should tell him. “I’m scared of thunderstorms. And…wolves.”

His eyes narrow. “Wolves.” He places his palm against your back when you flinch at the wailing wind outside. The heat of it is searing even through your shirt. “Have you ever…seen one?”

You lick your lips, throat tightening. It was seemingly a harmless question on the surface, one villagers would whisper to each other like folktales. But the way he asked it was as if he was digging for something. Like he knew.

You shake your head and spit out the lie you’ve told yourself for almost a year. “No.”

Only your voice quivers on the one word under the violet stare latched onto your face. His next words are like claws shredding your thinly-veiled lie to pieces. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” your reply is just as insistent and breathy as his own. Your chest tightens. Why was he questioning you like this? Did he find out?

Caleb stares at you for a long moment, and you hold your breath. He doesn’t appear accusing, just… knowing.

“Alright,” he accepts, and your body slumps slightly in relief. You’re about to change the topic when his nose suddenly brushes your temple.

“What scares you about wolves?” He rasps into your hair, slowly nuzzling his cheek against your head. You freeze, cheeks burning. He sounds indulgent and teasing, and it has you squeezing your thighs together.

“Their claws,” you stammer, butterflies exploding in your abdomen when you hear him inhale.

“Their hands?” Caleb’s lips brush the shell of your ear and all your nerves feel as if they’ve been shocked. A whimper spills from your lips. His other hand raises to slide from your shoulder to your forearm, eliciting goosebumps in its wake.

“Yes,” you blink dazedly. He’s so close, practically on top of you on this loveseat. When did he move closer? What was he doing? The warmth seeping from his body is enough to remind you that this is against the rules. Grandma would be mortified if she saw you letting him touch you like this. Yet, instead of shame, you only feel exhilaration.

“And their teeth, and jaws,” you add, shivering when his lips move to your cheek, grazing the soft flesh.

“Their mouths,” he clarifies, and you nod again, hands clutching the edge of the cushion you sit on. The warmth of want spreads through you so quickly you don’t think you can hold back anymore. You turn your head slightly, meeting his half-lidded gaze, and let your lips brush his.

Caleb reels back as if burned.

You stare at him as he lifts himself off of you slightly and turns to look out the window, up at the cloudy sky barely illuminated by the moon, where thunder clouds roll out quickly towards the east. Your mouth goes dry when he finally turns to look at you. With pity.

“I apologize, I seem to have misunderstood,” you babble, lip trembling with humiliation. “Uh, I shouldn’t have…that you wanted me.”

Your heart clenches with every stuttered word and you move to get up off the loveseat. You don’t get far before a hand is cupping your face and Caleb slots his lips over yours.

“How could you think,” chu, “that I don’t want you?”

You don’t get a chance to even reply before he’s kissing you again, suckling and licking and biting into your mouth with a fervor that leaves you breathless. You remain frozen for a moment, before kissing back meekly, your own passion a flame compared to his ravenous fire.

“I’ve been holding back for so long, worried I’d scare you,” Caleb pants as he drags his tongue across your bottom lip. His lips connect with yours over and over again, until you’re both dizzy and dazed with lust, as if he cannot bear to part for even a second.

“Caleb,” you can only say, blinking past the fog of arousal.

“Hah, you smell so good,” he blurts, sniffing against your neck. “Need to taste.”

You nod along, and he drops to his knees instantly. Caleb gazes up at you, eyes drinking up the sight of you like this. His large palms make you shiver when they slide under your skirt, skimming your soft thighs and slowly slipping off your panties. A sigh escapes him as he watches the way your arousal clings to the fabric, and he licks his lips.

Then he’s bunching up your skirt around your hips and burying his face against your pussy.

You cry out, clutching the edge of the loveseat underneath you for purchase, as Caleb eats at you like you’re his favorite meal. His slimy tongue curls again and again round your hole, before he presses the flat of it wholly against your clit, the rough buds against your slippery folds creating a friction so delicious you moan.

His lips latch onto your clit and suck cruelly like it’s hard candy, violet eyes peering at you underneath his dark lashes. Your legs kick out, feet flexing as you attempt to not scream at the pleasure.

He’s drooling, chin shiny with your wetness and his own saliva. He grinds his nose against the sticky folds and inhales, eyes rolling black in bliss. “Fuck, y’smell so good,” he rumbles against your pussy.

You flush bright red, cunt fluttering against his tongue.

Caleb makes a keening sort of sound, like a whine. You glance down at the man between your legs, vision foggy with pleasure. It’s almost hypnotic, the way he eagerly sucks and laps at your cunt, the hot pleasure making your toes curl and legs tremble over his shoulders. The fuzziness almost makes you miss the sharp glint of his canines catching under the moonlight.

Almost.

You blink, eyebrows furrowing in mild confusion, but all thoughts turn to mush when his tongue pushes past that tight ring of muscle, delving into your pussy and nudging your walls with a lewd squelch.

You wail, hands flying down to tangle in his brown locks. Your hips move on their own until you’re practically grinding down on his face. Caleb moans appreciatively against your clit, and you fist his hair tighter.

His hair is just as silky and soft underneath your fingers as you’d imagined. Then something twitches in your grip.

You drag your gaze downwards, gently unfurling your hands. At first you think the odd shape on his head is the result of you messing up his hair. But then you look closer, and see the pointy, unmistakable silhouette of ears. Animal-like ears.

Caleb doesn’t notice your growing panic, lost in the taste of you, eyes shut with bliss. All the while, your pleasure dissolves into a heavy tightness in your chest. There’s a flurry of movement just behind his kneeling figure, swaying back and forth animatedly— a tail.

A gasp is wrenched from your throat, and your foot pushes at his shoulder. The moonlight streaks brightly into the cabin, spilling past the window panes. It illuminates the predator between your legs like a warning.

Caleb’s eyes snap to yours at the nudge, dark and hungry. He blinks and his gaze rounds, probably at the shell-shocked expression you wear.

“What’s wrong?” He breathes. You stay silent, barely even breathing.

His hands dart to hover over his head. You watch as an expression of horrid realization dawns on his face, and it’s enough of an indicator that this is real.

You cry out, crawling backwards on the loveseat, clumsily trapping yourself in the nook. Your legs kick out in warning when he reaches for you.

“Little Red,” he pants, lovesick smile twisting his face. It’s supposed to be reassuring, but it looks hysterical. “It’s not— let me explain.”

“Don’t kill me,” you hiccup, voice seizing.

“Baby, never,” Caleb coos, eyebrows knitting together. “I’d never hurt you, my love.”

The passionate words just serve to make you more unsettled, and you shuffle back more, not taking your eyes off him for a second. “Did you…lure me here, to—”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” he rasps, fluffy ears pinned down to his head. His expression drops into a sullen one, lips still glossy with your arousal tugging downwards into a pout. You snap your thighs shut, cunt still uncomfortably damp. “I never wanted you to find out like this. I didn’t want to lie, I just…”

Your eyes dart to the door.

“I did it all for you!” Caleb blurts, chest heaving. His pupils are blown so wide, his eyes are nearly black. They glossily reflect the full moon beaming through the window. “It’s all for you. The—that shepherd, he was planning to hurt you. If you knew why he kept luring you to his ranch…” His tone trails off darkly and his fists clench.

“And, the man who ran that shop, that scum said all those disgusting things to you. I couldn’t stand the idea of his filth touching you, even in words. The baker, he’d deliver your goods late at night, as an excuse to try and peek through your windows and watch you.” He’s rambling so fast you can barely register his words. His breathing gets heavier with every sentence, and his fluffy tail sweeps against the floor anxiously.

“And how do you know all that?” You question breathlessly, head spinning.

Caleb gapes, mouth dropping as he attempts to formulate a response. “Well, I— I…I follow you sometimes, just to—”

“Why?” You cry.

“You know why,” Caleb crawls closer, and despite your yelp of protest, clutches your leg again. He only caresses your skin, but one glance at his dauntingly sharp fingernails has you freezing again. “That night. I know you remember, honey.”

The night that you’ve been trying to forget, that you’ve held against yourself for so long. Maybe you shouldn’t have left the house at all, but the whimpers just outside your window were too loud to ignore. Lying there, curled up against a tree, was a figure of some sort. You thought it an animal, with its fur and keening sounds, yet it was too dark, and the creature was covered in too much mud, for you to make out what it could be. All you could sense was that it was different, and wrongly large.

“Apples,” a breath escapes him, half laugh and half sigh, as if he’s recounting his favorite memory and not one of a near death experience. “You brought me a basket of apples, and said, ‘Here, I don’t have anything else in my home, as the market is tomorrow. But apples are very healthy. Eat them and you’ll feel better.’”

You swallow thickly, staring at him as he recites you word for word.

“One of the ranchers had gotten me good, bullet straight in my chest. I was alone and new to my…transformations, so I couldn’t help devouring all his sheep. I barely managed to flee a mile before collapsing.” Caleb reverently cups your leg with both hands, eyes crinkling as he continues. “But then, like an angel, you came. You offered your kindness, even to an animal like me. Even in my state, I took one look at your red hood and vowed to keep you safe.”

A choked sound escapes you. You’d suspected the beast you’d helped to be the same to later wreak havoc on your town, but for it to be a man? Caleb?

“I love you,” he continues, shifting a bit on his knees. The new position reveals the outline of his arousal pressing needily through his pants, and your stomach flips. “I love you, I love you, I love you—”

A flush burns your cheeks. “Caleb—”

“Please don’t leave, it’s dangerous outside,” he finishes quietly, forehead resting to your knee.

You sit in silence for what feels like eternity, the only sound being the howling wind and Caleb’s ragged breath against your skin. Then your hand drifts low, cupping his ear and petting the velvet fur.

His breath hitches, watery puppy-eyes raising to stare at you. He tilts his head into your touch, lips parting.

“I won’t leave,” you decide with so much certainty it shocks even yourself.

Caleb blinks, before his face splits into a blinding smile, sharp canines poking past his lips. “You…you’ll stay?”

You nod, and he hesitantly straightens, perching next to you. “Thank you,” he leans over you, face looming. “Thank you—”

You kiss him again, and he returns it eagerly, teeth grazing your sensitive lips before licking over it soothingly. His tail thumps rapidly against your leg, hands squeezing every bit of flesh they find. You squeal as he grinds into you seemingly unconsciously, the friction of his clothed erection nudging your clit through your skirt making you cream.

“Hahh, Little Red,” he whines, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling. He lets out another sound, tongue laving across your throat, before his teeth nip your skin. “You smell, and taste…so good.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, and your skirt bunches up at your hips, baring your bare cunt to his movements. His rough trousers grind against your pussy deliciously, smearing your arousal on his clothes lewdly. It’s like he can’t choose; Caleb nips and sucks at your neck, then peppers your face in gentle kisses, before returning to your lips again in a kiss so messy you’d think him an entirely different person.

“Caleb,” your needy whine rivals his own, and your hands trail lower, sliding under his shirt. “I need you, please!”

“P-poor thing,” he tuts, wasting no time in tugging off his shirt. Your eyes rave him greedily, fingers caress down the toned expanse of his abdomen, lingering suggestively near his happy trail. Caleb’s chest heaves with a shudder. “I, ah, left you all needy, huh?”

His hands slips under your skirt and between your thighs, thumb dragging through your wet slit, a teasing touch that makes your legs jerk. “Don’t worry. Caleb will take care of you.”

The clink of his belt buckle sends a shiver of delight up your spine. A flush glows on his cheeks as you stare down at his red, needy cock, which jerks at your attention. Caleb’s abs clench when your soft, small hand wraps around the head, thumbing the weeping tip gently.

“Fuck,” he gasps, eyebrows knitting together. “Nghh! Don’t do that, I’m gonna cum—”

“Then cum,” you giggle, though it’s hard to tease him when your thighs press together eagerly at the sight of him this pathetic.

“No,” he huffs*,* low and sharp, hiking your leg over his shoulder. “All my cum, hah, needs to go inside you. Need to fill this pussy up, wanna breed you,” Caleb babbles, sharpened canine biting his lip as he stares down at your naked folds.

You inhale, humorous disposition melting into arousal.

Caleb taps his tip against your clit with a lewd click, and you mewl at the slight stimulation. He glides his veiny shaft against your swollen folds, rubbing the bundle of nerves, smearing your sticky arousal all over him.

His shroomy head finally nudges the entrance of your pussy, and you tense, clenching around nothing. Caleb coos, lips skimming your cheekbone.

“Big stretch, yeah?” You nod along, nails already digging crescent moons into his back. He pushes past the tight ring of muscle, and you immediately seize up at the burning stretch, gasping.

“Shit, hah, just relax, angel,” he grits, jaw slacking at the feel of your warm walls gripping him, eyebrows drawn together in bliss. “Fuck, baby, gonna need you to let me in.”

You take a breath, stomach heaving, as he slips in with a pop. He feeds you more, and more yet. Just when you think he’s done, cock pressing so snugly inside you, he pushes in yet another inch, bottoming out.

Slow, leisurely rocks of his hips are quickening until he’s already pounding deep into you, pulling all the way out before bottoming into you with a force that has you squealing. His pelvis slams into your thighs with wet plaps, stinging the flesh pink.

Your pussy flutters and sucks him in greedily, the way he shoves at your g-spot sparking white-hot tingles through your lower belly. It’s hard to control your pitched whimpers, swollen lips parting as you struggle to steady your breathing.

Caleb looks gone, eyes glazed and fixated on your face only. Pants and groans spill from his parted lips like liquor, drunk entirely on your pussy.

Then, like he wasn’t deep enough already— he grabs your other leg and hikes it over his shoulder, folding you into a cruel mating press.

“Cay-leb!” You hiccup at the new angle, tears dotting your lashes as his cock pushes impossibly deeper, drilling into your cervix so hard you see stars.

“It would drive me insane,” he growls against your ear, before nipping the shell, “how you’d smell like everyone else.”

“Now, you smell like me. Mine,” Caleb’s hips pick up, and you can only lay there pliantly, toes curling as his gooey tip rams into your g-spot again and again. “My cute little mate.”

The croon goes straight to your head and you blink fuzzily, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks. “Fuck, you’re so cute, hugging me so snugly,” Caleb presses a sweet kiss to your lips, before his mouth latches to your neck again, and you whine weakly as he sucks yet another possessive mark onto your skin. “Wanna keep you here forever. In these woods, where no one can touch you again.”

The words should ignite fear in you, especially coming from the beast you’ve feared for so long now— but you can only feel a wanton sort of desire.

“Yes,” you blurt, hands running through his messy locks as you rest your forehead against yours. “Nghh! Yes, Caleb, I’m yours.”

Caleb’s ruthless pace doesn’t slow, even as he blinks slowly and then beams, tail swishing happily behind him. “Yeah, hah,” he dots kisses across your nose, gentle contrast to the lewd way his cock batters your poor pussy into a sticky mess, “knew we were fated. You’re my, mm, perfect mate. My angel.”

His cock thrusts in and out of you so fast, kissing your nerves until a white-hot pleasure mounts to a peak. Your cunt forms a frothy ring around him, stretched so tightly over his cock, like it’s trying to suck him in and never let go.

“I’m gonna cum,” you pant, hands batting at his abs. “Please—”

As soon as his fingers stray down to your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud with tight circles, you cum, clenching hard around Caleb’s cock, soaking him with your arousal. Your thighs quake over his shoulders as he thrusts once, twice— before pressing deep in you and cumming, hot essence flooding your walls.

“Ah,” Caleb gasps and whines, eyes widening for a fraction at the way your pussy flutters around his spent cock. His hips stutter and he collapses lightly on top of you, nuzzling tiredly into your hair.

You both lay there for minutes, panting and sweaty. Caleb whines lightly and presses his nose to your skin again, arms banded around your body till he’s so tightly pressed to you, you’d think he’s trying to fuse you together.

He’s still inside you, but neither of you complain about the wet sticky mess between you two just yet, content to lay there in each other’s arms.

Caleb lifts his head and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, rousing you from your slight sleepiness. “Little Red. We’ll have to go to your Grandma’s tomorrow morning, then.”

A pang of guilt hits you when you remember your initial purpose of loitering in these woods in the first place. “Yes. Of course.” You pause. “We?”

He shuffles a bit on top of you, attempting to hide his flushed face against your breast. “Well… I thought I’d go with you.”

“Why?” You tug playfully at his ear and he melts instantly, relenting.

“So you can introduce me.”

“Introduce you?” You cast one look at Caleb’s sheepish expression and smile fondly.

“Yes, I will. I’ll introduce you as my boyfriend.”