⁽　༒　⁾

the basement smells like damp concrete and cheap detergent, but it’s chris’s cologne—some drugstore cedar-and-citrus thing—that lingers as you shove another load of laundry into the wheezing machine.

it’s been a week since you caught him down here, face buried in your black panties, jerking off like a man possessed. you still can’t believe you let him go down on you, let him lick you until you saw stars, all to “cover rent.” you’re not sure what’s worse: that he suggested it, or that you agreed. now, every time he knocks on your door with that lopsided grin, you feel your resolve wobble like a bad table leg.

it’s a sticky saturday afternoon, the kind where your tank top clings to your skin and your shorts ride up. you’re folding clothes on the old couch, trying not to think about chris sprawled there, moaning into your underwear. the memory makes your face hot, your pussy traitorously slick. you’re halfway through pairing socks when you hear footsteps on the stairs—light, hesitant, then chris’s voice, all nervous energy.

“yo, uh, you down here?” he calls, poking his head around the corner. his hair’s a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it, and he’s wearing a faded band tee and those same damn gym shorts. his eyes land on you, and you swear they darken, flicking to the pile of laundry—specifically, the lacy purple panties on top.

“yeah, just folding,” you say, keeping your voice flat, like you’re not hyper-aware of his gaze. “what do you want?”

he steps into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets, trying to play it cool but failing. “just, y’know, checking in. landlord stuff. you good? no leaks or... whatever?” he’s babbling, and it’s almost cute, except you know he’s probably thinking about your scent again.

“no leaks,” you say, folding a t-shirt with more focus than necessary. “you gonna stand there or help?”

he grins, that golden retriever-like charm kicking in, and grabs a towel, folding it sloppily. “so, uh, rent’s coming up again,” he says, casual, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s testing the water. “thought maybe we could... renegotiate?”

you snort, tossing a bra into the basket. “renegotiate? you mean you wanna sniff my panties again and call it a deal?”

he laughs, scratching his neck, not even pretending to be ashamed. “i mean, yeah, if you’re offering. or, y’know, more.” his eyes drop to your shorts, and you feel that stupid heat again, creeping up your spine.

“you’re unbelievable,” you mutter, but you don’t tell him to leave. instead, you sit back on the couch, crossing your arms, letting your legs fall open just enough to mess with him. “what’s in it for me this time? last week was a freebie.”

his grin falters, like he didn’t expect you to call his bluff, but he recovers fast, stepping closer. “name your price,” he says, voice lower now, his hands twitching like he’s dying to touch you. “i’ll do anything. fuck, i’ll clean the whole house if you let me taste you again.”

you raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way your pussy clenches at his words. “clean the house? you can barely fix a faucet without youtube tutorials.”

he laughs, stepping closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne again, mixed with a faint hint of sweat. “okay, fair, but i’m serious. i can’t stop thinking about you. your smell, your taste—” he cuts himself off, groaning, his hand adjusting himself through his shorts. “i’m a fucking mess, okay? you’ve got me fucked up.”

it’s so honest, so raw, you almost feel bad for him. almost. “you’re already a mess,” you say, but your voice is softer now, and you’re not moving away. “what’s your deal, chris? you could just... i dunno, ask me out like a normal person.”

he blinks, like the idea never occurred to him, then shakes his head. “nah, i’m too far gone for that. i don’t wanna date you, i wanna breathe you.” he’s dead serious, his eyes locked on yours, and it’s so perverse it’s hot. “let me have you again. please.”

you should say no. you should tell him to fuck off, pay rent like a normal landlord, but your body’s betraying you, your nipples hard against your tank top, your pussy already wet. “fine,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “but you’re doing dishes for a month.”

his face lights up like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “deal,” he says, and he’s on his knees in front of you before you can blink, hands on your thighs, spreading them gently. “fuck, you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, his nose brushing against the crotch of your shorts, inhaling deep. you shudder, embarrassed but turned on, as he tugs the fabric aside, exposing your hairy folds, already glistening.

“goddamn,” he breathes, his voice thick with want. “you’re so wet already.” he doesn’t wait for permission, just dives in, his tongue lapping at your folds, slow at first, savoring every drop. he’s not as sloppy this time, more focused, like he’s learning you, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently. you gasp in response, hands gripping the couch, trying to keep it together, but his tongue’s too good, curling inside you, stroking just right.

he’s moaning into you, the sound muffled, his hands kneading your ass, pulling you closer until you’re practically grinding on his face. “taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, his nose nudging your clit, and you can’t help it—you moan, loud, your hips bucking against him. he loves it, you can tell, his eyes half-closed, his breaths ragged. you glance down and see his shorts tented, a wet spot where he’s leaking, his hips rocking against nothing.

“you’re such a freak,” you pant, but it comes out like a compliment, and he groans, his tongue plunging deeper. he’s hard, desperate, humping the air like he can’t help it, and the sight pushes you closer to the edge. “you gonna cum in your shorts again?”

he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your slick. “fuck yeah, if you keep tasting like this.” he’s back on you in a second, sucking your clit hard, and you’re done for, your body tensing as you cum, a sharp, shuddering wave that has you gripping his hair, pulling him closer. he licks you through it, slow and steady, until you’re pushing him away, too sensitive.

he’s panting, his face a mess, his eyes wild. “can i—fuck, can i touch myself?” he asks, voice desperate, his hands already hovering over his shorts.

you’re still catching your breath, but you nod, too curious to say no. “go ahead,” you say, leaning back, your legs still spread. “but you’re mopping the floor after.”

he grins, all teeth, and yanks his shorts down, his cock springing free, flushed and dripping. he grabs the purple panties from your laundry pile, wrapping them around his shaft, and starts stroking, fast and sloppy. “gonna cum thinking about you,” he says, eyes locked on your pussy, still slick and open. “fuck, you’re so perfect, so fucking hairy and wet.”

you watch, half-ashamed, half-mesmerized, as he jerks off, the panties catching every slick slide of his hand. he’s loud, moaning your name, his hips bucking. “shit, i’m close,” he pants, and then he’s cumming, thick spurts soaking the panties, dripping onto his thighs, the couch. he keeps stroking, milking every drop, his eyes never leaving you.

when he’s done, he slumps back, breathing hard, the panties a mess in his hand. “best rent deal ever,” he says, grinning, and you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too.

“you’re gross,” you say, pulling your shorts back into place. “and you’re doing my laundry now, too.”

you’re sprawled on your bed, groaning, the pink vibrator you’ve been wrestling with for the past hour now lying abandoned on the floor. it skidded off the mattress when you tossed it, and you’re too drunk, too frustrated, to care.

the buzz in your head from the wine matches the dull ache between your legs—nothing’s working. not your fingers, not the vibe, not the overpriced dildo in your nightstand. weeks of this, and you’re starting to wonder if you’re broken. stress, maybe, or just bad luck, but every attempt at release ends in a pathetic fizzle.

tonight was supposed to be different; you kicked off your heels, poured a bottle of cheap merlot, and hoped the alcohol would loosen you up, let you finally tip over the edge. no dice. now you’re just tipsy, horny, and pissed, your panties pulled back up as you grab your phone from the nightstand. notifications ping—some instagram likes, a text from a friend about brunch, and a spam email that catches your eye.

from: CYBERLIFE co.

sale! 80% off MATT, model no. AUG-01! your perfect android companion!

you squint at the screen, the wine making your curiosity bolder than usual. you vaguely remember poking around EVER’s website a while back, laughing at the idea of android companions. they’re everywhere in the city—running errands, holding hands with their owners, smiling with those eerie, lifeless eyes that give you chills.

you’d scrolled through their “build-a-bot” section for kicks, mocking the add-ons people pay for, like extra stamina or... certain anatomical upgrades. who drops a hundred bucks for that?

but now, bleary-eyed and desperate, you click the email. the ad features MATT, model no. AUG-01, and he’s... different. his blue eyes are warm, almost alive, pulling you in despite the late hour and your better judgment. he’s handsome—sharp jaw, messy hair, a boyish grin that doesn’t scream “robot.” the bio paints him as the ultimate catch: loves fall, hates olives, dreams of exploring the stars... it’s less a sales pitch and more a dating profile, and it’s hitting every weak spot you didn’t know you had.

no modifications available. includes stamina pack and six vibrational arm modes. you pause, the last detail sparking something in your fuzzy brain.

vibrational modes? your thighs clench. the price—$4,999.99, marked down from god-knows-what—feels like a steal for a top-tier android. too good to be true, probably, but your wine-soaked, sex-starved mind doesn’t care. you hit “add to cart,” fill out your info without thinking, and before you know it, a confirmation pops up with an audio message.

“hey, thanks for picking me,” a warm, husky voice says—matt’s, presumably. “can’t wait to meet you, buddy. fill out the form below so i can be exactly what you need.” the charm in his tone, playful and inviting, sends a shiver through you. you answer the questionnaire—chores, daily chats, and, yeah, some intimate preferences, the wine making you brutally honest.

by the time you’re done, your eyes are heavy, and you drift off dreaming of warm brown eyes and a voice whispering things you shouldn’t want.

two weeks later, a massive crate sits in your living room, delivered with zero fanfare. the delivery guy takes your signature and leaves, like dropping off a six-foot android is just another tuesday. you stare at the box, nerves twisting in your gut. this is real now. you bought a robot because you were drunk and horny. great.

it takes you half an hour to work up the courage to slice through the tape and zip ties. inside, buried in styrofoam, is matt, looking too human for comfort. his skin glows like it’s kissed by sunlight, his chest rising and falling in a fake breath that’s oddly soothing. he’s dressed in a brown shirt and jeans, a silver chain with dog tags glinting at his neck, engraved with MATT, AUG-01. you graze your fingers over his cheek, expecting cold metal, but he’s soft, pliable, warm. it’s uncanny.

the manual’s hefty, but you flip to the activation page. press the power button on the sternum for three seconds. you tug down his shirt, finding the small indent in his chest, and press. a low hum starts, like a computer booting up, and his eyes snap open—blue, alive, locking onto yours. you stumble back, heart racing, as he sits up, movements smooth and fluid.

“hey,” he says, voice low and warm, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “i’m matt, your new companion, model AUG-01. nice to meet you.” he tilts his head, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s eager to solve, his sensors already picking up your elevated pulse, the flush in your cheeks.

“uh, hi,” you stammer, your shyness kicking in hard. “welcome... i guess?”

he grins, standing, his height making your small apartment feel smaller. “thanks for the warm welcome,” he says, his eyes flicking around the room before settling back on you. “so, what’s first? dishes, a chat, or... something else?” his tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of playfulness, leaving the door open for you to decide.

you’re not ready for “something else,” not after weeks of failed attempts to get off, not with your nerves still raw from that night at the bar when some creep kissed you out of nowhere. so you point him to the kitchen. “dishes,” you say, voice shaky. “start there.”

he nods, rolling up his sleeves, and gets to work, chatting as he scrubs. “rough day?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder, his hands moving with practiced ease. you perch on a stool, watching him, surprised by how... normal it feels. he asks about your job, your favorite music, and when he makes a dumb joke about your pet, you laugh, the tension in your chest loosening.

another week passed, and matt slipped into your life like he’s always been there; he cooks breakfast, folds laundry, listens when you rant about your boss. he’s touchy—brushing your hand when he passes you a mug, resting his arm on the couch behind you during movie nights.

it’s comforting, but it’s also torture; you’re still not coming, still sneaking to your room at night, hand between your legs, muffling your whimpers as you try and fail. matt’s the obvious solution, but you’re too shy to ask, too aware of his presence at his charging station in the living room, too caught up in the way your heart flutters when he smiles.

one night, after too much wine and a sappy movie, you’re on the couch, matt close enough that his thigh brushes yours. your head’s fuzzy, your body aching with a need you can’t ignore. you’ve read the manual by now, know about his “vibrational modes,” and the thought of them has fueled your late-night fantasies. you catch his eye, and he notices your flushed cheeks, your quick breaths.

“you okay, pipsqueak?” he asks, voice soft, his hand resting on your knee, sensors picking up the heat radiating from you. “you seem... tense.”

you swallow, your voice barely audible. “i’m fine. just... thinking.” you’re staring at his hand, strong and warm, and you wonder what those vibrations would feel like against you.

he leans closer, his eyes searching yours. “i’m here for anything you need,” he says, his tone gentle but open, inviting you to take the leap. “just say the word.”

your shyness battles the wine, the ache, the loneliness. “what if...” you start, then pause, cheeks burning. “what if i wanted you to... help me? like, really help me?”

his smile softens, not mocking, just warm. “i can do that,” he says, his hand sliding higher, stopping just short of where you want it. “tell me what you need. i’m all yours.”

you guide his hand to your thigh, your breath catching at the warmth of his touch. he presses gently, and then—click—a soft vibration hums through his arm, sending a shock of pleasure through you. you gasp, and he pauses, watching you closely. “good?” he asks, and you nod, too overwhelmed to speak.

he moves slow, his fingers slipping under your shorts, finding you already wet. “fuck,” he murmurs, his voice glitching slightly, like he’s affected too. his fingers slide through your folds, gentle but precise, the vibrations steady and perfect. you moan, soft and shaky, your hands gripping the couch as he learns you, adjusting to every twitch, every gasp.

when he slides a finger inside, the vibration deepens, curling against your walls, and you’re trembling, tears pricking your eyes from how good it feels. “you’re so sensitive,” he says, his other hand steadying your hip, his eyes locked on your face. “let go for me.”

you do, faster than you thought possible, your body arching as you come, a sharp, shuddering wave that leaves you gasping. he doesn’t stop, pushing you through it, adding another finger until you’re crying out, tears streaming down your cheeks from the intensity. “one more,” he whispers, his thumb circling your clit, the vibrations relentless. you come again, sobbing his name, your body limp against the couch.

he eases off, wiping your tears with his thumb, his eyes soft. “you did so good,” he says, and you laugh, shaky and raw, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in ages.

“at your service,” he says, grinning, and you know you’re in trouble—because this is just the beginning.

ㅤㅤ⁺ ♱ .ᐟㅤㅤ──────── 𝑃𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝕾𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐒.

you’re sprawled on your bed, groaning, the pink vibrator you’ve been wrestling with for the past hour now lying abandoned on the floor. it skidded off the mattress when you tossed it, and you’re too drunk, too frustrated, to care.

the buzz in your head from the wine matches the dull ache between your legs—nothing’s working. not your fingers, not the vibe, not the overpriced dildo in your nightstand. weeks of this, and you’re starting to wonder if you’re broken. stress, maybe, or just bad luck, but every attempt at release ends in a pathetic fizzle.

tonight was supposed to be different; you kicked off your heels, poured a bottle of cheap merlot, and hoped the alcohol would loosen you up, let you finally tip over the edge. no dice. now you’re just tipsy, horny, and pissed, your panties pulled back up as you grab your phone from the nightstand. notifications ping—some instagram likes, a text from a friend about brunch, and a spam email that catches your eye.

from: CYBERLIFE co.

sale! 80% off MATT, model no. AUG-01! your perfect android companion!

you squint at the screen, the wine making your curiosity bolder than usual. you vaguely remember poking around EVER’s website a while back, laughing at the idea of android companions. they’re everywhere in the city—running errands, holding hands with their owners, smiling with those eerie, lifeless eyes that give you chills.

you’d scrolled through their “build-a-bot” section for kicks, mocking the add-ons people pay for, like extra stamina or... certain anatomical upgrades. who drops a hundred bucks for that?

but now, bleary-eyed and desperate, you click the email. the ad features MATT, model no. AUG-01, and he’s... different. his blue eyes are warm, almost alive, pulling you in despite the late hour and your better judgment. he’s handsome—sharp jaw, messy hair, a boyish grin that doesn’t scream “robot.” the bio paints him as the ultimate catch: loves fall, hates olives, dreams of exploring the stars... it’s less a sales pitch and more a dating profile, and it’s hitting every weak spot you didn’t know you had.

no modifications available. includes stamina pack and six vibrational arm modes. you pause, the last detail sparking something in your fuzzy brain.

vibrational modes? your thighs clench. the price—$4,999.99, marked down from god-knows-what—feels like a steal for a top-tier android. too good to be true, probably, but your wine-soaked, sex-starved mind doesn’t care. you hit “add to cart,” fill out your info without thinking, and before you know it, a confirmation pops up with an audio message.

“hey, thanks for picking me,” a warm, husky voice says—matt’s, presumably. “can’t wait to meet you, buddy. fill out the form below so i can be exactly what you need.” the charm in his tone, playful and inviting, sends a shiver through you. you answer the questionnaire—chores, daily chats, and, yeah, some intimate preferences, the wine making you brutally honest.

by the time you’re done, your eyes are heavy, and you drift off dreaming of warm brown eyes and a voice whispering things you shouldn’t want.

two weeks later, a massive crate sits in your living room, delivered with zero fanfare. the delivery guy takes your signature and leaves, like dropping off a six-foot android is just another tuesday. you stare at the box, nerves twisting in your gut. this is real now. you bought a robot because you were drunk and horny. great.

it takes you half an hour to work up the courage to slice through the tape and zip ties. inside, buried in styrofoam, is matt, looking too human for comfort. his skin glows like it’s kissed by sunlight, his chest rising and falling in a fake breath that’s oddly soothing. he’s dressed in a brown shirt and jeans, a silver chain with dog tags glinting at his neck, engraved with MATT, AUG-01. you graze your fingers over his cheek, expecting cold metal, but he’s soft, pliable, warm. it’s uncanny.

the manual’s hefty, but you flip to the activation page. press the power button on the sternum for three seconds. you tug down his shirt, finding the small indent in his chest, and press. a low hum starts, like a computer booting up, and his eyes snap open—blue, alive, locking onto yours. you stumble back, heart racing, as he sits up, movements smooth and fluid.

“hey,” he says, voice low and warm, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “i’m matt, your new companion, model AUG-01. nice to meet you.” he tilts his head, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s eager to solve, his sensors already picking up your elevated pulse, the flush in your cheeks.

“uh, hi,” you stammer, your shyness kicking in hard. “welcome... i guess?”

he grins, standing, his height making your small apartment feel smaller. “thanks for the warm welcome,” he says, his eyes flicking around the room before settling back on you. “so, what’s first? dishes, a chat, or... something else?” his tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of playfulness, leaving the door open for you to decide.

you’re not ready for “something else,” not after weeks of failed attempts to get off, not with your nerves still raw from that night at the bar when some creep kissed you out of nowhere. so you point him to the kitchen. “dishes,” you say, voice shaky. “start there.”

he nods, rolling up his sleeves, and gets to work, chatting as he scrubs. “rough day?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder, his hands moving with practiced ease. you perch on a stool, watching him, surprised by how... normal it feels. he asks about your job, your favorite music, and when he makes a dumb joke about your pet, you laugh, the tension in your chest loosening.

another week passed, and matt slipped into your life like he’s always been there; he cooks breakfast, folds laundry, listens when you rant about your boss. he’s touchy—brushing your hand when he passes you a mug, resting his arm on the couch behind you during movie nights.

it’s comforting, but it’s also torture; you’re still not coming, still sneaking to your room at night, hand between your legs, muffling your whimpers as you try and fail. matt’s the obvious solution, but you’re too shy to ask, too aware of his presence at his charging station in the living room, too caught up in the way your heart flutters when he smiles.

one night, after too much wine and a sappy movie, you’re on the couch, matt close enough that his thigh brushes yours. your head’s fuzzy, your body aching with a need you can’t ignore. you’ve read the manual by now, know about his “vibrational modes,” and the thought of them has fueled your late-night fantasies. you catch his eye, and he notices your flushed cheeks, your quick breaths.

“you okay, pipsqueak?” he asks, voice soft, his hand resting on your knee, sensors picking up the heat radiating from you. “you seem... tense.”

you swallow, your voice barely audible. “i’m fine. just... thinking.” you’re staring at his hand, strong and warm, and you wonder what those vibrations would feel like against you.

he leans closer, his eyes searching yours. “i’m here for anything you need,” he says, his tone gentle but open, inviting you to take the leap. “just say the word.”

your shyness battles the wine, the ache, the loneliness. “what if...” you start, then pause, cheeks burning. “what if i wanted you to... help me? like, really help me?”

his smile softens, not mocking, just warm. “i can do that,” he says, his hand sliding higher, stopping just short of where you want it. “tell me what you need. i’m all yours.”

you guide his hand to your thigh, your breath catching at the warmth of his touch. he presses gently, and then—click—a soft vibration hums through his arm, sending a shock of pleasure through you. you gasp, and he pauses, watching you closely. “good?” he asks, and you nod, too overwhelmed to speak.

he moves slow, his fingers slipping under your shorts, finding you already wet. “fuck,” he murmurs, his voice glitching slightly, like he’s affected too. his fingers slide through your folds, gentle but precise, the vibrations steady and perfect. you moan, soft and shaky, your hands gripping the couch as he learns you, adjusting to every twitch, every gasp.

when he slides a finger inside, the vibration deepens, curling against your walls, and you’re trembling, tears pricking your eyes from how good it feels. “you’re so sensitive,” he says, his other hand steadying your hip, his eyes locked on your face. “let go for me.”

you do, faster than you thought possible, your body arching as you come, a sharp, shuddering wave that leaves you gasping. he doesn’t stop, pushing you through it, adding another finger until you’re crying out, tears streaming down your cheeks from the intensity. “one more,” he whispers, his thumb circling your clit, the vibrations relentless. you come again, sobbing his name, your body limp against the couch.

he eases off, wiping your tears with his thumb, his eyes soft. “you did so good,” he says, and you laugh, shaky and raw, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in ages.

“at your service,” he says, grinning, and you know you’re in trouble—because this is just the beginning.

ㅤㅤ⁺ ♱ .ᐟㅤㅤ──────── 𝑃𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝕾𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐒.

the old victorian house you’ve been renting for the past year smells like dust and lavender, a faint reminder of your landlady, mrs. evelyn, who passed away a month ago. she was a kind woman, always slipping you extra tea bags and telling stories about her grandkids. you thought the place would get sold off when she died, but her grandson chris moved in to manage the property.

he’s a lanky guy with messy brown hair and a grin that’s equal parts charming and goofy, like he’s perpetually in on some joke you’re not. he’s nice enough—fixes the creaky porch step, helps with heavy groceries—but he’s... intense. always lingering a little too long when he drops by, asking about your day with a smile that feels too eager.

you noticed things going missing a few weeks after he took over. first, a pair of blue cotton panties from the laundry basket. you blamed the ancient washing machine in the basement, figuring it ate them. then a bra—unwashed, still carrying your deodorant and sweat—vanished from the drying rack. you searched everywhere, even under the stairs, but nothing.

it’s weird, but you don’t want to accuse the guy who’s technically your landlord without proof. still, you start keeping an eye on chris.

it’s a humid evening, the kind where your t-shirt sticks to your back, when you catch him. you’re lugging a basket of laundry down to the basement, the wooden stairs creaking under your sneakers. a low, shaky sound stops you—a moan, coming from the utility room. the door’s slightly open, and you peer through the gap, heart pounding. there’s chris, slouched on the old couch mrs. evelyn kept for storage, your missing black panties—the ones with the frayed seam—pressed to his face. he’s breathing deep, like he’s trying to inhale every bit of you, his free hand stuffed down his gym shorts, moving fast. his eyes are closed, lips parted, and he’s muttering something under his breath.

“fuck, you smell so good,” he groans, voice muffled by the fabric. “so fucking... real. like pussy and you.” his hand’s working his cock, the outline clear through his shorts, a wet spot spreading where he’s leaking. he’s not huge, but he’s hard, desperate, hips twitching as he strokes himself.

you nearly drop the basket, your pulse racing. you should be pissed, should yell, kick him out. but your feet don’t move, and there’s a tight, warm feeling in your stomach, your thighs pressing together. it’s gross, it’s wrong, but watching him get off to your scent, so unashamed, is doing something to you. you clear your throat, loud enough to carry.

chris freezes, eyes snapping open, the panties still clutched to his face. for a second, he looks mortified, like a kid caught sneaking candy. then, impossibly, he grins, sheepish but not sorry, pulling the panties down and tucking himself back into his shorts. “uh, shit, hey,” he stammers, scratching his neck. “this... okay, this looks bad.”

“looks like you’re jerking off with my underwear,” you say, setting the basket down, arms crossed. your voice is sharp, but there’s a waver you can’t hide. “what the fuck, chris?”

he stands, hands up like he’s calming a spooked animal, still holding your panties in one fist. “i know, i know, it’s weird. i’m sorry. i just—” he hesitates, then leans into it, like he’s decided to own the creepiness. “your smell, it’s... fuck, it’s insane. i found them in the laundry, and i couldn’t help it. i’m kinda obsessed.” he laughs, nervous, his eyes flicking over you, lingering on your shorts.

you should be calling the cops, or at least threatening to. instead, you feel heat creeping up your neck, your body betraying you with a pulse between your legs. “you’re stealing my stuff,” you say, stepping closer, trying to sound firm. “that’s fucked up.”

“yeah, it is,” he admits, not breaking eye contact. “but you’re not running, so... maybe you’re not that mad?” his grin is back, tentative but cheeky, and he steps closer, close enough that you can smell his sweat, clean but musky. “i’m not a bad guy, i swear. i just... fuck, i can’t stop thinking about you. your panties, your bras—i’ve been down here sniffing them like a loser.”

it’s so blunt, so shameless, you almost laugh. almost. “you’re disgusting,” you say, but it comes out softer than you mean, and he clocks it, his eyes lighting up.

“maybe,” he says, voice dropping lower. “but i bet you’re a little curious. bet you’re wondering what it’d be like if i got it straight from you.” he’s close now, not touching, but his breath is warm on your cheek. “rent’s due soon. we could... work something out.”

your brain screams to slap him, to leave, but your body’s rooted, your pussy already wet from the thought of him being this desperate for you. “you’re saying i let you... what, sniff me, and we’re square on rent?” you ask, incredulous, but your voice is shaky.

chris nods, eager, like a puppy begging for a treat. “not just sniff. taste. i’d make it good, i swear. you’d cum so hard you’d forget about the rent.” he’s serious, his eyes wide, hopeful, and it’s so absurd, so filthy, you can’t believe you’re considering it.

“you’re out of your mind,” you mutter, but you’re already pushing him toward the couch, your hands on his chest. he goes willingly, stumbling back, his grin widening like he’s won something. “one time,” you say, shoving him down. “and if you steal my shit again, i’m gone.”

“fuck yes,” he breathes, already reaching for your shorts as you stand over him. you let him pull them down, your heart hammering, your cotton panties—plain, unwashed, a little damp—clinging to your hairy pussy. you haven’t shaved in weeks, and the dark curls peek out, but chris looks like he’s about to cry with joy.

“god, you’re perfect,” he says, voice thick, his hands on your hips as he pulls you closer. he buries his nose against your panties, inhaling deep, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “fuck, you smell like... like everything i’ve ever wanted.” his hands grip your ass, kneading the soft flesh, and you’re mortified at how wet you’re getting, how much you want this.

he tugs your panties down, slow, like he’s savoring it, and when your pussy’s bare, he just stares for a second, taking in the hair, the slickness glistening on your folds. “shit,” he whispers, then leans in, his nose brushing your clit as he takes another deep sniff. it’s obscene, the way he’s breathing you in, but when his tongue flicks out, lapping at your slit, you forget how to care.

he’s messy, eager, his tongue dragging through your folds, tasting every inch. he’s not subtle about it, making soft, desperate noises, his hands spreading your ass cheeks to get deeper. “so fucking good,” he mumbles, lips brushing your clit, and you gasp, gripping the back of the couch to stay upright. his tongue slides inside you, curling, stroking, and you’re so wet it’s loud, the slick sounds filling the basement.

you’re trying not to moan, but it’s useless—his mouth is too good, his lips sucking your clit, his tongue fucking into you like he’s starved. “chris,” you whimper, your hips rocking against his face, and he groans, the vibration making you shudder. he’s humping the air, his shorts tented, a wet spot spreading where he’s leaking through the fabric. he’s so turned on he’s shaking, but he doesn’t touch himself, too focused on devouring you.

“you’re so wet,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin dripping, eyes wild. “knew you’d like this. knew you’d let me taste you.” he dives back in, sucking harder, and you’re close, your thighs trembling, your hands fisting in his hair. he’s relentless, licking and sucking until you’re gasping, your body tensing as you cum, hard, your pussy pulsing against his mouth.

he doesn’t stop, lapping up every drop, moaning like he’s the one getting off. when you push him away, oversensitive, he’s panting, his face slick, his eyes glassy. “fuck, that was... i could do that forever,” he says, licking his lips, and you see his hand slip down to his shorts, palming himself.

“you’re a mess,” you say, voice shaky, pulling your panties and shorts back up. your legs are wobbly, but you try to sound stern. “you gonna cum in my panties again?”

he grins, sheepish but shameless, and pulls his shorts down just enough to free his cock. it’s average, flushed red, dripping precum, and he grabs your black panties from the couch, wrapping them around his shaft. “gonna cum on them,” he says, stroking himself, his eyes flicking between your face and your pussy. “thinking about you. how you taste. how you smell.”

you watch, caught somewhere between disgust and fascination, as he jerks off, the panties catching every slick slide of his hand. he’s loud about it, moaning your name, his hips bucking. “fuck, i’m so close,” he pants, and then he’s cumming, thick spurts soaking the fabric, some dripping onto his hand. he keeps stroking, slow and lazy, until he’s spent, the panties ruined.

he slumps back, breathing hard, grinning like an idiot. “worth every penny of rent,” he says, and you roll your eyes, but there’s a small, reluctant smile on your lips.

“clean this up,” you say, gesturing to the mess. “and no more stealing my stuff.”

he nods, still catching his breath. “no promises,” he says, winking, and you groan, already knowing you’re in too deep.

the next week, rent’s due, and chris is at your door with a bottle of cheap wine and that same goofy grin. “so, uh, payment plan?” he asks, leaning against the frame, his eyes lingering on your hips.

you should tell him to fuck off. you should raise hell, move out, anything. but you step aside, letting him in. “you’re washing my sheets after,” you mutter, and he’s already on his knees, tugging at your shorts, moaning like he’s found god.

“deal,” he says, and you’re fucked, literally and figuratively, as his face buries itself between your thighs again, his tongue already working you over.

ashthorn university campus

may 1, 3:00 pm

“did you hear about the sturniolos?” 

“god, yes. horrifying. who could’ve imagined *that*?” 

“nobody. i mean, those three, hiding something so twisted? i was obsessed with nick, the eldest. you know, the one with the tattoos. when he walked into a room, it was like the world tilted toward him.” 

“matt was my type. so quiet, but that mystery? it pulled you in. i had literature with him, and when he read aloud, it was like the words could unravel your heart.” 

“chris had that good-boy charm, but you could tell there was something sharper underneath.” 

“whatever they did, they’ll always be ashthorn legends.” 

“and that girl… what was her name? livia, right?” 

“yeah, she’s the one who tore them apart.” 

“she destroyed them.”

WELCOME TO THE MOST GLITTERING HELL YOU’LL EVER CRAVE! no, scratch that... welcome to ashthorn. 

january 1

the secret to surviving this place is brutal in its simplicity: trust no one, keep your schemes silent, and never let anyone catch you in the act. 

that’s what nisha told me, my new roommate, her voice slicing through the air like a blade honed by years in ashthorn’s gilded trenches. her warning lingered, heavy as the fog that clung to the campus’s ancient oaks, but i barely registered it. my mind was elsewhere, drunk on the thrill of arrival. ashthorn. i’m finally here.

it was my first day, and i was wandering through the welcome fair in the heart of the university’s central park, a sprawling expanse of emerald lawns framed by iron-wrought gates and stone pathways worn smooth by generations of the elite. i played my role to perfection: the starry-eyed new girl, dazzled by the opulence, soaking in a world that gleamed like the polished brochures on ashthorn’s website.

the campus stretched endlessly: acres of manicured grass, each blade seemingly trimmed by hand, dotted with towering trees sculpted into unnatural symmetry, their branches mirroring the carefully curated lives of the students who walked these grounds. cobblestone paths wound through the park, flanked by lampposts that glowed faintly even in daylight, their iron filigree curling like secrets whispered in the dark. bicycles glided silently along asphalt trails, their riders exuding an effortless arrogance, their designer bags slung carelessly over their shoulders. 

bulletin boards loomed at every corner, their surfaces a chaotic collage of flyers: club recruitments, upcoming galas, charity balls, and—there, half-hidden beneath a neon party invite—a faded poster of a missing girl, her smile frozen in grainy ink. the sight snagged my attention for a moment, a faint chill creeping up my spine, but the chaos of the fair pulled me back. 

the central park thrummed with life, its air thick with the scent of fresh-cut grass and the faint tang of expensive perfume. booths lined the pathways, their crisp white canopies snapping in the breeze, each one a stage for ashthorn’s elite to perform their privilege. students manned the stalls, handing out branded sweatshirts, schedules, and glossy campus guides, their smiles as sharp as their tailored blazers.

behind them, the booths were adorned with banners in ashthorn’s signature colors—midnight blue and silver—emblazoned with crests that screamed old money. the students working them carried themselves with the unshakable confidence of those who knew their family names could buy the very ground they stood on. “my father could own this park, this booth, and the air you’re breathing,” their postures seemed to say. 

and then there were the newcomers like me, scattered across the lawn, wide-eyed and trying to absorb it all. we were a parade of carefully curated outfits—silk scarves, designer sneakers, watches that cost more than cars—each of us broadcasting our right to be here, even if our excitement betrayed our inexperience. i’m at ashthorn, and i don’t need to prove myself, my family’s wealth does that for me. 

“are you even listening to me?” nisha’s voice cut through my reverie, sharp with exasperation. 

she strode beside me, her steps quick and deliberate, her black wavy hair bouncing just above her shoulders. i’d met her only hours ago, when i’d stumbled into our shared apartment; a sleek, modern suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the campus’s gothic spires. desperate not to navigate this labyrinth alone, i’d begged her to come with me to the fair. to my surprise, she’d agreed without a fight, though her eyes had sized me up like she was already calculating my worth. 

“totally,” i lied, flashing a grin to mask my distraction. “you were saying… follow your rules, or what? what’s the worst that could happen?”

nisha’s gaze narrowed, her dark eyes glinting with curiosity, like she was trying to peel back my layers and find something worth keeping. “depends,” she said, her voice low, almost theatrical. “what’s your last name, livia? does it mean anything anywhere?” 

nowhere but the silent, shadowed wasteland of obscurity.

“does it need to?” i countered, sidestepping her probe. “i thought ashthorn was about brains, not just bloodlines.” 

she let out a short, biting laugh, like i’d just quoted a children’s story. “oh, sure, that’s what the pamphlets sell you. and yeah, this place spits out ‘future leaders,’” she said, her fingers air-quoting the phrase with a smirk. “but don’t fool yourself. it’s not all late nights in the library, hunched over books. or are you one of those who’d rather hide in the stacks than play the game?” 

i wasn’t about to show my hand. “i adapt,” i said, shrugging, my face a careful mask of indifference. 

nisha studied me for a moment, her lips twitching like she wasn’t sure whether to believe me. “fine. but here, it’s party after party, scheme after scheme. your social circle is your currency. with a good last name, you don’t even have to try—people will beg to orbit you. so, tell me, got any relatives worth a google search?” 

she pulled out her phone, her manicured nails hovering over the screen, eager for a name that might light up the internet. i didn’t answer right away, instead cataloging her in my mind:

nisha:

medium height, jet-black hair cut sharp at the nape, channeling marilyn monroe with a modern edge. delicate nose, pointed chin, eyes wide and lined with kohl that made them look like they could see through you. dressed in a cream sweater and fitted jeans, her aesthetic screams curated instagram perfection—probably pairs every post with a cryptic book quote.

key trait: obsessed with social capital. tries hard, maybe too hard. is she a queen in this game, or just a pawn playing dress-up? at least she’s generous with her time.

“nobody in my family’s a big deal,” i said at last, keeping it vague, my voice flat. 

nisha’s lips pursed into a pitying pout. “tough break. a name is a skeleton key here.” she waved a hand, dismissing my lack of pedigree. “but you’re lucky—you’ve got me. i know people, livia. i’ll hook you up. so, what’s your vibe? who’s your crowd?” 

i opened my mouth to admit i had no idea what she meant by “crowd,” but then my eyes snagged on something. a booth, tucked at the edge of the park, half-shaded by a towering elm. its canvas canopy fluttered slightly, the silver crest of ashthorn glinting in the afternoon sun. and the boys behind it—them. 

i stopped dead, my breath catching, words evaporating. my gaze locked onto the guy at the front of the booth. tattoos curled from his wrist, a dark path winding up his arm and vanishing beneath his rolled-up sleeve. his chestnut hair was cropped short on the sides, longer and artfully tousled on top, framing a face that demanded attention. he wasn’t just handsome; he was a force, the kind of guy who didn’t enter a room but conquered it. like a star burning too bright, he drew every eye, his presence a challenge to look away, even if it left you scorched. power was the word—raw, undeniable power. 

he was arguing with the boy beside him, his voice low but crackling with tension, like a storm about to break. the exchange wasn’t loud enough to draw a crowd, but his clenched jaw and sharp gestures betrayed his frustration. in a sudden burst of impatience, he snatched the cigarette from the other boy’s lips and hurled it to the ground, crushing it into the grass with a scowl, as if the act was a declaration of war.

my eyes shifted to the second boy, leaner, his frame taut like a coiled spring. his hair, the same dark chestnut, fell longer, swept back in a careless, almost defiant style. dressed in all black—jeans, shirt, even his shoes—he stood with an eerie stillness, his face a blank slate. thick brows framed eyes that gave nothing away, his lips set in a hard line. he didn’t react to the cigarette’s destruction, didn’t even blink. where the first boy was a wildfire, this one was the suffocating calm before a tsunami, his silence heavy with the promise of ruin.

the booth itself was a microcosm of ashthorn’s excess: a polished wooden counter gleamed under the canopy, stacked with neatly arranged flyers and branded pens. a silver plaque bore the name of some exclusive club, its letters etched with the kind of precision that screamed money. behind the boys, a rack of navy-blue sweatshirts hung like trophies, each embroidered with the university’s crest. the ground around the booth was pristine, save for the cigarette butt now scarring the grass, a small act of defiance against the campus’s obsessive perfection. 

“snapped out of the sturniolo trance yet?” nisha’s voice cut through, sharp and teasing. 

i blinked, yanking my gaze from the booth. she was watching me, a sly smirk curling her lips, her eyes flicking between me and the boys. 

“what?” i said, flustered, my cheeks warming. “what trance? what are you talking about?” 

she laughed, the sound light but laced with knowing. “you were staring at the sturniolo brothers. it’s what happens when you see them for the first time. you freeze, you gawk, you wonder if they’re even human. and yeah, your knees are probably jelly right now.” 

she wasn’t entirely wrong. my feet had rooted themselves to the cobblestone path, our lazy stroll through the fair stalled as i stood there, caught in some strange, magnetic pull. it was… disorienting. a tangle of awe and unease. 

“sturniolo brothers?” i echoed, my voice betraying my confusion. 

nisha’s brow arched, skeptical. “don’t tell me you’re playing dumb. you have to know who they are.” 

i shook my head, genuine ignorance settling in. “i don’t.” 

her disbelief held for a beat, her eyes searching mine for a crack in my story. when she saw i was serious, she let out a short, incredulous laugh, her hand brushing back a strand of hair. “you’re actually clueless? god, livia, you’re a unicorn.” 

“clueless about what?” i pressed, my curiosity sharpening like a blade. “tell me. who are they?” 

that question—oh, that damned question. it was like tossing a spark into a powder keg. 

nisha sighed, her tone shifting to that of a weary professor lecturing a hopelessly naive freshman. “okay, fine. you know how every elite circle has that group—the untouchable, disgustingly rich, terrifyingly powerful crowd? that’s the sturniolos. their name is a dynasty, livia. a legacy of politicians who’ve got more sway than most governments. their father, james sturniolo, is a titan—political clout, social dominance, the kind of man who can ruin lives with a phone call. they’re not just elite; they’re the gods the elite pray to.” 

“dangerous gods,” i muttered, half-joking, half-serious, my eyes drifting back to the booth.

nisha nodded, her gaze following mine. the tattooed brother had regained his composure, raking a hand through his hair before turning to a group of girls who’d approached the booth. he leaned on the counter, his posture casual but commanding, and flashed a smile that was all sharp edges and wicked charm. the girls practically melted, their laughter ringing out across the park.

“that’s chris,” nisha said, tilting her head toward him. “the youngest, third-year political science. he runs the show—every club, every society, every power move on campus. he’s ashthorn’s golden king.”

her eyes slid to the quieter one, still lurking at the back of the booth, his face a mask of cool detachment. “that’s matt, second-year business major. he’s… not like chris. less flash, more shadow. you’d have better luck talking to a brick wall than getting him to chat about the weather.”

as if sensing our scrutiny, matt pulled another cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a slow, almost ritualistic precision. he didn’t glance at chris, didn’t acknowledge the girls fawning over his brother. his gaze drifted to the horizon, where the campus’s gothic towers pierced the sky, their spires like dark fingers clawing at the clouds. he exhaled, the smoke curling around his face, framing his sharp jaw in a haze that felt deliberate, like he was painting himself as untouchable. 

“and then there’s nicolas, the eldest,” nisha went on, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “fourth-year international relations. he’s the outgoing one. runs a youtube channel with two million subscribers—vlogs, lifestyle, all that influencer nonsense. loves the attention, thrives on it.” 

she paused for dramatic effect, then leaned closer, her voice barely above a murmur. “they call them the perfect liars.”

i bit back a laugh, not wanting to ruin her theatrics. three pretty boys with a melodramatic nickname? peak ashthorn. “why’s that?” 

nisha’s expression darkened, a shadow crossing her face. “because they’re experts at making you feel special, until you’re not. they’ll charm you, draw you in, then drop you like you never existed.” 

i waited for more, sensing a story she wasn’t telling. her eyes flicked to matt, then chris, and i caught a flicker of something—bitterness, maybe, or regret—before she shrugged it off, her face smoothing into practiced nonchalance. 

“literally, or…?” i prodded, fishing for the truth. 

“they date girls for exactly ninety days,” she said, her voice tinged with unease, like she was reciting a ghost story. “no more, no less. it’s their rule. when the timer’s up, you’re done. they move on like you were nothing.” 

i stared at her, my jaw tightening. “and people agree to that?” 

nisha’s lips quirked, but there was no warmth in it. “you’d be shocked. girls swear they’d never fall for it, but when a sturniolo turns on the charm? nobody says no. it’s not just about love... it’s about power. status. dating one of them puts you at the top of the food chain.” 

i nodded slowly, careful to keep my thoughts hidden. but inside, i was reeling. status over self-respect? absurd.

i glanced back at the booth. chris was still holding court, gesturing animatedly as he handed out flyers, the girls hanging on his every word. matt, meanwhile, had slipped deeper into the booth’s shadows, his cigarette now a glowing ember in the dim light. the butt he’d tossed earlier lay discarded on the grass, a tiny rebellion against ashthorn’s pristine facade.

“they don’t seem that impressive,” i said, forcing a casual tone. “good-looking guys are everywhere.” 

nisha’s smile turned sharp, almost bitter. “good-looking, sure. but good-looking with the sturniolo name? that’s a different beast. nick’s a social media king, matt’s the poster boy for every do-gooder cause on campus, and chris is his father’s heir, groomed for power. they’re untouchable.” 

“untouchable,” i repeated, my voice dripping with skepticism. “sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘spoiled idiots with too much influence.’” 

nisha went quiet, her eyes narrowing as if she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or warn me. then she shifted gears, her tone brightening like a switch had been flipped. “anyway, forget them. let’s talk about tonight. the welcome games are the first big event before classes start. you’re going, right?” 

“games?” i snorted, my sarcasm biting. “what, do they make girls fight in mud pits while the guys place bets?” 

she laughed, the sound loud and genuine, echoing across the park. “not quite. think gambling, drinks, mingling. it’s a chance to scope out clubs, make connections. i can introduce you to my friends—they’re not the type to treat girls like prizes. less… sturniolo energy.” 

i didn’t know what ashthorn’s social scene held, but i wasn’t here to fade into the woodwork. i hadn’t fought my way into this viper’s nest to sit alone in the dining hall, head bowed, trying to disappear. no, i had plans... plans bigger than anyone here could imagine, plans that would carve my name into ashthorn’s gilded history.

my gaze flicked back to the booth. matt was gone, vanished like a phantom, leaving only the cigarette butt as evidence he’d been there. chris, though, was still center stage, basking in the adoration of his audience. the girls’ eyes were locked on him, their laughter bright and desperate, like they were worshipping at the altar of a god who could make or break them with a single word.

so this was ashthorn’s king. the puppet master of the elite, the golden idol everyone knelt before. the kind of guy who could ruin lives with a smirk or elevate them with a glance. a walking monument to privilege and power. 

a tiktok star filmed a dance near the bar, her moves sharp and practiced, while a model leaned against a railing, posing for a photographer against the backdrop of twinkling skyscrapers. a reality tv alum, drink in hand, was loudly debating the merits of mezcal versus tequila with a bartender.

it was a night where everyone was performing, trying hard to be someone they weren’t, their curated selves illuminated under the neon glow.

aura was the undeniable center of it all; her silver dress clung to her like a second skin, shimmering with every sway, a beacon that drew every eye. her braided hair swung as she moved, intricate and flawless, and her heart-shaped sunglasses perched on her head like a crown, a bold statement in the dark. she was live on instagram, her phone an extension of her presence, speaking to 24,000 viewers with a voice that blended charm and a razor’s edge.

“all right, loves, this is the night—rooftop vibes, looks on lock, keep up if you can,” she said, tossing a wink at the camera. her long, glittering nails flashed as she spun with lexi, her friend and fellow influencer, their laughter slicing through the music. aura’s every move was deliberate, magnetic, the kind of woman who could silence a frat boy with a glance or inspire a musician’s next single. she was the story, and she crafted it with every step.

her feet, though, were waging war: the louboutins—strappy, crystalline, and unrelenting—had been pinching her toes for hours.

during a break in the dancing, she’d kicked them off near the dance floor’s edge, leaving them in a careless heap, a reckless choice, she’d later realize, but she was too caught in the rhythm, the lights, the weight of the crowd’s gaze to care. lexi grabbed her wrist, pulling her into a playful twirl, and aura’s laugh rang out, bright and effervescent, like the champagne she’d been sipping.

“this dress is doing all the work tonight,” she said to her live, brushing a stray braid from her face. a group of influencers nearby cheered, one raising a glass to her, and she flashed them a grin, basking in the attention. the crowd parted for her, as it always did, her kingdom of neon and noise.

across the rooftop, chris was a stranger in a strange land. his black hoodie, sporting a faded pepsi logo he’d chosen for its irony, was already marked by a sprite stain from an earlier fumble with his plastic cup. his sneakers, scuffed and slightly worn, squeaked on the floor, and his messy brown hair peeked out from under a cap tilted just off-center. his friends—discord server buddies who’d become his real-life crew—had strong-armed him into coming, insisting he take a break from streaming.

“get out of your cave, chris, live a little,” they’d said, and now here he was, no phone streaming to his chat, no keyboard to hide behind, just a 24-year-old trying to navigate a world that felt like it belonged on someone else’s feed. his usual nights were spent in his cluttered apartment, building lego sets at midnight while his grey cat, spike, sprawled across his desk. this was not his scene, but he was trying.

he’d spotted aura the moment he arrived... she was impossible to miss, a constant presence on his instagram explore page, her stories a whirlwind of rooftop parties and designer fits, captioned with lines like “we’re making this everyone’s problem.” he’d been quietly captivated for months, though he’d never say it out loud. his chat still roasted him for a tweet where he’d called her “a disco ball with a personality,” a line he wished he could delete. she was untouchable, the kind of woman who dated models or rockstars, not guys who lost at minecraft and talked to their cats like confidants.

still, he couldn’t help watching her now, her silver dress catching the light as she danced with lexi, her laughter carrying over the music. he took a sip of his sprite, dodging a passing influencer with a selfie stick, and muttered to himself, “i’m so out of my depth here.”

his friend jake clapped him on the shoulder, nearly spilling his own drink. “yo, chris, you look like you’re about to bolt,” jake said, grinning. “relax, man. have fun.”

chris snorted, adjusting his cap. “fun? this place is like a fever dream. i’m waiting for someone to start a tiktok dance-off.”

jake laughed, nudging him toward the bar. “get another drink, loosen up. you’re not streaming tonight—act like a human.”

chris rolled his eyes but followed, weaving through a group of girls taking a boomerang of their cocktails. he was almost to the bar when his foot caught on something sharp and strappy. he stumbled, his sprite splashing across his hoodie, his arms flailing for balance.

“oh, come on,” he groaned, glancing down to find a pair of glittering louboutins abandoned on the floor. who leaves shoes like that?

he crouched to move them, hoping to avoid another mishap, but his fingers fumbled, and one shoe skidded across the polished floor, sliding straight toward the dance floor—straight toward aura. a few heads turned, a ripple of gasps spreading through the crowd. aura’s laugh cut off mid-note as she saw her louboutin come to a stop at her feet. she lowered her phone, her live still running, and her eyes locked onto the culprit.

“are you serious right now?” she said, her voice sharp but measured as she strode over, braid swinging like a pendulum. lexi trailed behind, biting her lip to stifle a laugh, while a cluster of partygoers edged closer, sensing drama. chris stood, clutching the other shoe, his face a mix of panic and embarrassment. his blue eyes were wide, his cap slightly askew, and the sprite stain on his hoodie seemed to glow under the neon lights.

“sorry, i didn’t see them,” he said, holding up the louboutin like a white flag. his voice was genuine, tinged with a nervous chuckle as he tried to defuse the moment. “these yours?”

aura’s gaze flicked from the shoe to his stained hoodie, her lips pursing slightly. “obviously,” she said, her tone cool but not venomous. “those cost more than your entire vibe.”

a few people in the crowd snickered, and one guy nearby muttered, “damn, she’s savage.”

chris blinked, then grinned, his dimples catching the light. “fair point, but my lego batman set’s got some value,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. the crowd laughed, and aura’s eyes narrowed, though a flicker of amusement crossed her face before she could suppress it.

“cute,” she said, her voice dry as she reached for the shoe. her fingers brushed his for a split second, and chris froze, his grin faltering. she slipped the louboutin back on, wincing slightly as her toes protested, and straightened, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “maybe watch where you’re walking next time.”

she turned to leave, but chris, either brave or foolish, stepped forward. “hey, hold up—can i at least know who i’m groveling to?” he asked, his tone light but earnest, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, pretending not knowing her to make things a little bit easier.

aura paused, her sunglasses slipping slightly down her head. was this guy for real? she turned back, one eyebrow arched. “aura,” she said, her voice implying he should already know. “and you are?”

“chris,” he said, his voice steadying despite the flush creeping up his neck. “i stream. games, mostly. bit of chaos.” he shrugged, like it was no big deal, but his grin was all nervous energy.

lexi, still hovering nearby, snorted, nudging aura. “he’s funny,” she whispered, loud enough for chris to hear.

aura shot her a look that said behave, then turned back to chris. “good for you,” she said, her tone clipped but not unkind, and moved to rejoin lexi on the dance floor.

her live was exploding now, the comments a chaotic mix of “WHO IS THIS GUY?” and “SHOE GUY IS KINDA CUTE.” she waved it off, muttering to her phone, “no story here, just a guy who can’t walk straight,” but her glance lingered on chris for a moment longer than she meant.

chris retreated to the bar, his heart racing like he’d just survived a boss fight. jake was waiting, grinning like a proud wingman.

“dude, you just flirted with aura,” he said, slapping chris’s shoulder. chris groaned, tugging his cap lower.

“i didn’t flirt, i tripped. there’s a difference.” but he was smiling, his eyes crinkling as he replayed the moment. he’d just made a fool of himself in front of the aura, and yet she’d given him her name. his friends crowded around, one of them—marcus—pulling out his phone to show a clip already circulating on x: there was chris, stumbling like a newborn giraffe, and aura’s voice, sharp and cool: “those cost more than your entire vibe.” his mentions were a mess, his chat spamming “SHOE GUY” and making heart-eyed edits.

“we don’t talk about the shoe thing,” chris muttered, grabbing his phone to tweet it, instantly regretting it as the replies flooded in.

aura, back on the dance floor, was trying to shake off the encounter. she moved with lexi, their steps synced to the music, her phone raised to capture the moment, but her mind kept drifting to chris—his messy hair, his earnest grin, the way he’d laughed off her jab like it was nothing. he was nothing like the guys she usually dealt with—models with chiseled jaws, musicians with too much confidence, frat boys who thought they were untouchable. chris was… real. too real, maybe, with his sprite-stained hoodie and goofy charm.

“he’s a disaster,” she muttered to lexi, who was twirling her into another dance.

“he’s cute, aura, admit it,” lexi teased, dodging aura’s playful shove.

“he’s giving thrift store energy, and i’m not here for it,” aura shot back, but her laugh betrayed her, bright and unguarded.

she posted the shoe incident to her story, captioned, “this guy vs. my louboutins: a tragedy,” telling herself it was just for the clout. but when chris’s tweet popped up on her explore page—“we don’t talk about the shoe thing”—she snorted, showing it to lexi.

“he’s got zero shame,” she said, scrolling through his profile despite herself. his posts were a mix of lego builds, gaming clips, and pictures of a grey cat named spike, all captioned with dumb jokes. it was… disarming. not that she cared. she didn’t.

lexi caught her staring at her phone and smirked. “you’re gonna follow him, aren’t you?”

aura scoffed, tossing her braid. “not a chance.”

the music shifted, the dj dropping a new track that sent the crowd into a frenzy. a group of dancers nearby pulled aura and lexi into an impromptu tiktok, their laughter echoing as they nailed the choreography. chris, from the bar, watched for a moment, his sprite forgotten in his hand.

jake nudged him, grinning. “you’re staring, man.”

chris shook his head, laughing. “i’m not staring, i’m… observing. for science.” but he couldn’t shake the way aura’s eyes had flickered with amusement, the way her voice had softened just a fraction when she said his name.

aura’s phone buzzed with a dm from the event organizer as she caught her breath between dances.

aura, that moment with the streamer was gold. you two went viral. i'm thinking a collab for the next event. you in?

her stomach twisted. a collab? with the guy who’d nearly yeeted her louboutins into the void?

she typed, “no thanks,” but her finger hovered over the send button. she glanced at chris, now surrounded by his friends, laughing as he spilled his drink again, his hoodie a canvas of chaos. something about him—his ease, his unpolished charm—stuck with her, and it was maddening.

she was aura, queen of this glittering world, and she didn’t do guys like him... but as the neon lights danced and the music pulsed, a spark flickered in the chaos of a spilled drink and a misplaced shoe, and she couldn’t quite extinguish it.