#dark anton

anton had always been good with people. 

his mother said he was charming. his friends told him that he was pleasing to look at and be around with. he’s heard girls saying he’s easy on the eye. 

he made girls glance thrice and made them giggle behind their hands as they whispered to one another. 

anton had an effortless kind of charm—it’s in the way he smiled, in the way his eyes held warmth that made someone feel like they were special. like, he was seeing only them. he was great with his words too—he knew the right adjectives to use, the right tone to take, the exact moment to pause so his words could sink in just right. the right expression to have on his face, every crinkle and wrinkle, frowning, and nodding. it wasn’t something he forced—anton simply knew people. 

he knew how to make them want to be around him, how to have and hold their attention without needing to put too much effort.

but that didn't mean they stayed. 

because charm alone wasn’t sufficient. 

for all the attention he received, anton was shy. painfully so.

a disease that ruined him.

it stole his words, made him hesitate, lost the chance, let opportunity after opportunity slip right through his fingers like silk. pretty pretty girls liked him, fawned over, swept under—but never stayed long enough to really know him as a person. they just liked him as an idea, a concept, an abstraction. they never saw past the quiet exterior nor understood that his silence wasn’t disinterest—that it was a hurdle, one that needed time, patience, and a little bit of faith.

they lost interest before he could show them what could’ve been. what he could’ve been. before he could even try.

it wasn’t fair—it wasn’t his fault. 

so anton was determined to do something —to fix, to learn.

he learned how to tilt things in his favour, how to bend and mend moments to make them his. all needed was a little push, a little persistence, a little manipulation sprinkled here and there—there was no harm in that. as long as they never knew.  anton could make fate bend.

if the universe wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, he would make it happen.

and for a while, it worked. too well, in fact.

anton got good, got better at it—he got better in wovening people to where he wanted them to be. it was so easy for him that the thrill of it dulled over time. there was no challenge, no fixation, no reward. once they were his, he realised that he didn’t want them anymore.

it was frustrating at first—he got what he wanted in his palm, but now he’s scraping them away like they meant nothing. he had worked so hard and learned so much to unfold things exactly where he intended. so he moved on—over and over—new person, new thread to tug, new tactics learned for his book—until he lost the appeal.

then he stopped altogether. went back to his old ways—not entirely—just focusing on what truly made him happy; his friends, his mother. but that didn’t last long.

until you. 

until he saw you.

anton hadn’t even meant to see you that day. he was simply dropping off his friend, sohee, at his university since he had promised him the day before. and anton was barely paying attention to his vicinity until he did—because suddenly you walked past by his car.

and everything that anton thought he knew about himself, the things he thought he had grown tired of came roaring back to his life. it was like a realisation, a wake up call—so violent it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

the difference with you was you didn’t spare another, not even a glance in anton’s way. you walked past without a single idea that something about you had flipped a switch within anton that he never knew he’d never be able to turn it off.

you’re so perfect in anton’s eyes.

so perfect that he didn’t see you as a game—a challenge—but an end to his new persona. he had already learned how to make things happen; he just needed to do it again, and do it right this time. 

this time, there would be no losing interest.

because this time, he wasn’t going to let you go again.

——

it started small. anton always started small.

a few days after something in him lurched, he'd gotten your name. it wasn’t hard at all—he just went through sohee’s following, and from there, searched for you in other people’s following. and after what felt like hundreds of profiles clicking, he found your social. 

your schedule was another. thankfully, the university you attended didn’t offer as many courses as other universities did. you took nursing—anton thought it suited you. a pretty girl with a kind heart, and anton could only guess a purer soul. 

a little bit of information that wasn’t his to have but found its way into his hands anyway was what anton called fate. sohee had access to the university’s system—just his academic email and password, and anton had the namelist of students, their course, and their class schedule. oh, where she would be and when.

then, it wasn’t about coincidences anymore. anton knew that much—he couldn’t just come up to you, throw some compliments and sweet talks, and expect things to fall into place. anton might be shy, but he wasn’t stupid.

with you, he needed precision, needed a reassurance that your paths would cross again. anton had played a game of luck and chances, and each time he did, he lost the enjoyment right after. so he tweaked things a little, modified, adjusted his ways to ensure you would not slip through his fingers the way so many others had. 

he started watching. 

initially, it was just curiosity. he told himself he just wanted to confirm that the university’s course schedule was accurate. just a few lingering glances and parking a bit too long after dropping sohee off. anton just wanted to know what kind of outfits you wore on monday, tuesday, wednesday, and friday. 

then it became a habit.

he’s looking for excuses to be near the university—with only one being through sohee. he started sending, and picking sohee up after his classes. accompanied him, ate lunch with him, and even going as far as purposely having sohee toured him around the campus. he started memorising the times students flooded out of buildings, until he spotted you again.

but even that, merely observing wasn’t enough. 

you still didn’t know he existed—didn’t notice his car or his presence lingering around too long for society’s acceptance around the nursing building.

so with the patience he had, he waited until the semester was over and it was dreadful for him. anton knew what he was doing was bad—practically stalking and coming up with nonsense excuses to be within your perimeter. with no idea of where you lived, or where you worked, he only knew so little about you through your social—the one where you barely posted anything.

if it was the old him, he would’ve given up—but that version of him died long ago. anton simply stopped for a while, took a breather, rested a little… gave you some freedom and peace before the new semester began.

it was the weekend of the first week of semester break when anton was over sohee’s shared apartment. sohee had invited some friends over—their high school friends—for a boys’ night where they just usually drank alcohol, played games, and talked. anton wasn’t much of a drinker, but he enjoyed his friends’ company—an easy camaraderie that naturally came with a decade of familiarity. 

he was sitting on the couch, half-listening and nodding to a conversation about a professor sungchan loathed for being an asshole when a movement beside him caught his attention. 

sohee was scrolling through tinder.

anton didn’t think much of it except the fact that sohee’s attention was on something else while his friend was ranting, and he wasn’t interested either—at first. 

but then, sohee swiped left to the previous girl, and he saw you.

anton had almost missed it by a second—but there you were.

your profile was a picture you never posted on your instagram. your bio was short, just for fun, anton read in his mind. he didn’t know how long had you had your tinder account up—and he felt stupid for not going on that app when he’s around your campus.

he didn’t say anything, didn’t react—just kept watching from the corner of his eyes as sohee hovered over your profile, debating whether to swipe left or right. 

by the look of it, it didn’t seem like sohee knew or recognised you from his university as he swiped right. anton’s grip on his drink tightened—it didn’t matter. anton had already seen what he needed to see. it was an opening to him. it was fate—and anton didn’t even believe in fate. he believed in making things happen.

…and he did. he excused himself to the bathroom to create an account—chose the best selfie, the one that his mother complimented a lot, the one he didn’t use for his instagram’s display picture. put up a nice bio upon first impression, set his location radius around your university to ensure his face, or yours, would land on either one’s screen.

then it was just a matter of time.

anton knew good things took time—patience always yielded results but… it had been days since he made his tinder account and you still hadn’t shown up on his feed. he knew for one that tinder’s algorithm centred on location-based and it prioritised people nearby which meant…

he wasn’t close enough to you. physically. 

that night, an idea came to his head. he decided to look for you.

taking a long drive, anton’s fingers idly tapped against the steering wheel as he made his way towards where he first met you, the university. but a campus was too broad, so he needed to narrow it down. he drove around the neighbourhood with his tinder app on, refreshing every few minutes until your profile finally showed up.

anton inhaled sharply, throwing his head back against the headrest then took a screenshot of your profile, and swiped right. praying to all gods that it would be reciprocated. that you’d swipe right on him too. he was parked in front of an apartment complex. he had the base, knowing your room number wouldn’t be difficult then. 

a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

it wouldn’t be long now.

——

“no please, anton—i’ll—i’ll unblock you please, please,” your lips begin to tremble, pleads and words spilling out in broken gasps. your breath feels short and thin, as if the air fails to reach your lungs. anton’s grip on your wrist tightens, his slender fingers pressing into your skin with insistence. 

despite that, anton only smiles as he tugs you towards him. soft, patient, and mocking. “why do you always act like i’m a bad guy?” his grip squeezes around the curve of your wrist like a warning. “you act like i’m going to hurt you,” he chuckles—like it’s funny. 

your stomach churns, feet stumbling as he tugs you away from the restaurant—away from your friends’ laughter and voices inside. panic bursts through your veins like ice as you think of every horrible outcome out of this. “no—please,” your breath hitches, you place your other hand on his hand, nails pressed into his skin in desperation to pry him off. “i swear, fuck, anton please, please—”

his fingers only tighten when he feels your effort—digging your heels into the ground and struggling against his grip, but it’s useless. the night air is too cold, but somehow your skin is burning and your chest is heaving in panic attacks as he drags you past the sidewalk. 

no one’s paying attention, no one’s looking—just as anton likes it. 

tears spill down your cheek before you even realise that you’re crying. there’s a heavy pressure in your chest that swells, crushes, and suffocates you. you shake your head wildly while hitting anton’s hand and wrist—anywhere that you can hit, reach, hurt him with all your might. your hair sticks to the dampness on your cheeks.

you can’t breathe.

the fear only becomes unbearable when your mind reminds you that anton was a swimmer—broad shoulders, muscular, long arms—stronger, stronger, stronger than you. the thought crawls up your spine and chokes the breath right out of you. you can’t go against him, you realise. 

the tears only come faster and it’s starting to blur your vision as you beg and plead anton to let you go. he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even look back at you. he’s already made up his mind on what he’s going to do to you. your pleas are falling on deaf ears.

the restaurant lights are getting smaller, your mother’s voice telling you to stay safe only gets louder in your head as you pray to all gods to save you. but the street is empty—and the sky is dark.

the only answer you get is the sight of anton’s car, and the sound of him unlocking it.

anton exhales through his nose, his grip shifting and tightening. 

it happens so fast you don’t even have time to process it. 

he tugs you forward towards him and moves his arm to press against the small of your back—you feel the ground slip from under your feet. a panicked cry rips from your throat as your frail body jerks forward. it doesn’t matter how hard you fight, or how much you beg—your limbs feel useless, like you’re not even in control of them anymore. 

your hands push against his chest, gripping and tugging onto the fabric of his sweater but to no avail. your fingers ball into weak fists as you pound against him with all your might, sobs wracking your body.

anton doesn’t budge, nor does he flinch.

anton exhales—exasperated—he’s tired of your struggling. and suddenly, before you can react—let out a piercing scream and cry for help; his hands clamp down—curling around your wrist, the other gripping the back of your neck. hard. 

“anton—fuck! i’m sorry—!” your voice cracks as your hip slams against the door, the handle digs into your side. you’re being so fucking hard to handle. anton yanks the backseat door open. “get in,” his voice is low, a quiet command laced with something you don’t want to push.

you shake your head frantically, rubbing your hands together in a gesture of supplication, tears streaming down like waterfall. “i’ll talk to you, anton, just—please don’t do this—” anton doesn’t respond. your tears and pleads don’t move him.

they only tighten his pants.

he rolls his eyes and groans as he grips your hair with his fist, lowering your head to propel you in. your breath punches out of you as your palms skid helplessly against the leather seat. immediately, anton slides into the backseat with you. 

oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

you crawl and press yourself against the other door, fingers clawing at the handle as you yank it open—it’s locked and it’s not even budging. “anton, please,” your voice barely comes out, your chest heaving with short sobs. you pressed your back hard, as if trying to merge yourself with his car, to distance yourself from him, but it’s a vehicle, there’s nowhere to go. 

you feel suffocated, claustrophobic, the space closing in around you.

anton leans against the other side of the backseat. exhaling, slow and steady. one arm draped over the headrest as his long legs stretched out, manspreading like he didn’t just force a girl inside the backseat of his car. you’re choking on your own panic while he’s taking all the time in the world.

his eyes flicker over you, you’re not looking at him. you can’t bring yourself to look at him—you don’t want to look at the expression he has on his face. because it won’t match yours. it’s not regret, or fear, fear of getting… raped.

“i don’t know why you’re scared,” he finally says, tilting his head slightly as he looks at you. his voice is soft and… as usual, like it’s his effort to soothe you. it only makes the horror settle in your bones. 

this guy is fucking nuts, you thought. you shake your head, tears slipping down on his leather seat. maybe if you speak nicer—softer, he’d think twice. hesitate. “please, anton—just let me go… i’m so, so sorry,” you sob, your voice barely above a whisper. your heartbeat slams against your ribs, your body rigid and uncontrollable. 

anton simply watches you, then wraps his hand around your ankle. your instinct—in this case, fight or fight—kicks in before logic. you try to twist away, but his grip is unyielding. “no—no—!” you whimper and try to scramble back. 

anton shifts his weight—his body crowding yours as he forces you down against his seat. you squirm, your voice high and desperate. his hand finds your wrists, pinning them down above your head. he has you trapped underneath him completely. “shhh, shhh,” he murmurs, his other hand snatches your cheek gently, lovingly, squishing your cheeks, your trembling lips pursed together. “you’re okay, you’re okay…” 

anton hums as your pearly tears pile down his hand. “you always make things difficult,” he continues, tilting his head slightly as he leans down closer. his breath warm against your damp cheek “you’ll hurt yourself if you keep struggling.” he soothes.

he tilts his head slightly to graze the shell of your ear. his teeth catch on the skin. you feel his breath, the sensation and warmth shooting down your spine. “it’s just me,” his voice gentle—much like a lover than an assaulter—as he rolls his thumb against the beat of your pulse. he licks and sucks on the shell of your ear. “it’s just me,” he repeats. 

you let out another quiet sob when you feel his bulge pressed against your clothed pussy. anton lets out a soft groan in your ear, “do you feel that pretty? i’m so hard for you,” he moans softly as he continues to rub his tent against your pussy. you shake your head violently, letting out whimpers and soft sobs. anton lets out a sharp exhale before clicking his tongue, looking at you struggling beneath. 

your sobs are slowly grating against his patience…

“yn,” he says, his eyes sharp and irritated. his usual softness is gone.”i’ve been nothing but good, and patience with you,” he mutters, his grip on your cheeks tightening—almost bruising. “if you do anything weird, i’ll fucking kill you,” he continues, voice low and threatening. 

terror grips you like a vice. your breath lodges in your throat as your body immediately stiffens. you stomach churns, you think you might be sick. puke on him, puke on him—his threat echoes, louder than the pounding of your heartbeat in your head. i’ll fucking kill you.

his threat sounds more like a promise—and you try to say something, apologise, or anything, but nothing comes out. you force a nod but your body won’t move. you’re trapless and helpless as you try to pacify him. 

anton cracks a smile as he moves his hand from your cheeks, to pat your head, caressing your hair. “don’t make a sound,” he mutters as he begins tugging at your clothes—one by one—shushing and soothing your cries as he leaves you with nothing on but your pants and bra, his motions unhurried.

he sat back, humming softly. “‘m going to let go of your hands—and unless you want to touch me too, don’t even think about anything else.” anton says, slowly releasing his iron grip around your wrists. there’s an ache still pulsing, your arms remain above your head, fingers twitching to remember how to do something—but you don’t. you can’t.

anton leans down to place his lips on yours, his eyes flutter shut as he sighs against your lips. you don’t kiss back, but he doesn’t care. he deepens the kiss like it’s something you want too, smiling between the kisses. you only whimper. 

anton continues to ravish you with his lips, his free hand travels down to unbutton your jeans, tugging it down just enough to display your plain panties, and to position himself between your thighs. “i really want to take my time with you, but it’s so cold,” he lets out a dry chuckle, but nothing’s funny.  “anton, can—can we talk, please? please,” your voice comes in short. the air inside his car is thick as he slips his hand inside your panties.

it might be cold outside, but your pussy feels too warm for someone who claims to not want it.

you cry and squirm as you feel his palm makes contact with your bare cunt—anton now kisses the corner of your lips, slowly travelling down along your jaw and the curve of your shoulder. “you’re so tense. relax, pretty.” your stomach churns as his fingertips make minute circles on the nub of your clit. anton continues the simulation—drawing your juices out of you. 

he smacks gently on your pussy and it makes a slick, wet sound in the car. you flinch, disgusted and humiliated with yourself. you can feel how wet you’re getting—you chant that it’s your body’s natural response to being touched in a sexual manner. this is not what you want—this is rape, rape, rape.

anton simply smiles at your reaction before finding your entrance, and slips his index finger in. he feels your gummy walls as he finger-fucks you. anton’s single finger reaches the angle and parts your hand couldn’t. he is in the position to push deeper, and he does. after a few seconds of thrusting his index finger back and forth, anton slides another finger inside, stretching your entrance. “you’re so tight, it’s only my fingers…” he murmurs innocently, lips pressed forward slightly in a pouting manner. 

anton picks up his pace in fucking your pussy with his fingers, curling and pushing against your g-spot, your juices ooze on his hand, coating his fingers in a layer of your sweet fluid. anton watches you in amusement, lips parting slightly as he pulls out his fingers, glancing between his fingers, your teary face, and the way your pussy is twitching from merely his digits. 

wow, he’d break you with his cock… 

you cry and shut your eyes as tight as you can, refusing to believe that you are being put in this position. anton has you completely merciless underneath him—and there’s nothing you could do except pray that a meteor crashes the car and kills you, and him. 

wasting no time, anton unzips and pulls down his jeans; you don’t see it but you can feel—tell that his cock is hung, throbbing, needy. he picks up your hips easily, bringing you up against his pelvis. “i hope i’m your first,” you hear anton mumble. you don’t know if he’s talking to himself, or you.

you feel him positioning the head of his cock at your clenching pussy, slowly pushing himself inside. your breath hitches and you almost let out a muffled moan before biting down hard on your bottom lip. you’re not going to give anton the satisfaction of getting a moan out of you. it burns, and it hurts, a lot. you feel his cock expanding and stretching and overwhelmingly filling the empty tunnel in the worst way possible. you cry.

on the other hand, anton grunts, sinking his erection deeper that he can’t see the base of his cock, totally ignoring the way you’re sobbing on his leather seat. “my goodness baby, you’re so,” anton exhales, feeling your muscles clamp around his cock. he pushes his hips forward, thrusting and beginning to move. the friction of his cock sliding back and forth out of you sends sparks to your core. 

you can’t contain it—the air knocks from your lungs as anton only increases his pace. your tightness and your warmness sends anton to ecstasy. you clamp your hands on your mouth to suppress moanings, and anton doesn’t seem to mind it—not when he has you where he wants to. 

he reaches really deep inside of you—mercilessly driving and ramming his cock in-and-out of your pussy. “anton…” you mewled, muffled. anton nods, biting hard his lower lip as he leans down to place a soft kiss on your hands. “say it baby, say my name, c’mon,” he moans, his voice strains. 

you shake your head, turning your head to the side as your body betrays you. the shame of growing wetter sears through you. it disgusts you more than the man violating on top of you. your body betrays you—you can never forgive yourself, you’d kill yourself before ever admitting that it’s pleasurable. 

anton’s hands move to your hips, digging his nails into your plush flesh as he pulls you towards him to sink his cock deeper—past your cervix, knocking on your womb. he rams into you while planting kisses all over your face and body. nipping and biting and marking on your skin like canvas.

this was an experience you’ve never thought you’d face. every inch of anton—as he drags his cock halfway out before forcing it back inside of you makes your body withers beneath him. you let out another round of muffled sobs. anton notices and his heart swells and aches—almost. he hums as he dips his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your natural body’s scent. 

“you’re so soft, yn,” he murmurs against your skin. his movement slows, now pounding short and hard in what anton calls it intimate. “i love you so, so much, goodness,” he whispers, confessing on the curve of your shoulder, descending to your jaw, and up to your ear. anton kisses you everywhere his lips can reach, his hands combing and holding onto your head as he fucks you like a fleshlight. 

“‘m gonna cum, pretty,” he moans in your ear as he rocks his hips back and forth, uneven breaths hitting your skin. his thrusts become more erratic as he chases his high—nearing his peak. you choke on your sobs as you finally move your hands off your mouth to place it on his chest—distancing yourself as much as possible. “anton, please, no,” you whimper, weakly protesting as it goes in one ear, and exits on the other. he doesn’t care—can’t bring himself to care about what you want at the moment. not when your warm, squelching wet pussy is inviting and begging him to fill your womb full with his love semen. “gonna fill your pretty body up with my cum, fuck—,”

not when he has you completely under his mercy.

anton’s thrusts become sloppy, his languid strokes losing its rhythm as his hips jerk spastically as he pumps his cock to its peak. he overstimulates and rams the spongy spot inside you. with a final slam, anton buries his aching cock to the deepest part of your cunt—his cock pulsing and throbbing and pumping as he empties himself inside of you. he feels his scrotum contracts as he spurts out thick ropes of cum inside your womb. you whimper—and you think you can feel the way your tummy bulge over and over as anton continues to fuck his cum into you. “mmh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” a low guttural groan builds in his throat as he moans, burying his face deep into your neck. 

you don’t move. your body convulsing and you feel nothing besides—tainted, tarnished, corrupted. your body feels foreign—it doesn’t belong to you anymore, it’s his, his, his. your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. the air you desperately need only sticks to the roof of your mouth because it refuses to get past the lump that died in your throat.

your fingers twitch at his chest as anton still hasn’t stopped… besides his cum, disgust coils in your stomach. your ears ring, muffling his groans and moans and confessions. you wish you could die.

“i love you so much, pretty.” anton slowly pulls out, making sure his semen doesn’t ooze out of your pussy too much. he exhales at the sight of a white ring and the way his cum, and your juices coat nicely around his cock. a sight he wants to see everyday. his adam’s apple bobs as he tugs on his bottom lip, holding his cock by its base to scoop his cum trailing out of your pussy back in—just slightly slipping the head in. 

he pulls back up your panties and pants—seeing his thick cum pass through the cotton fabric of your cute panties as he stuffs himself back in his boxer and jeans. he lets out a soft sigh as he leans down, wrapping his big arms around your shattered body. his chin rests against the crown of your head and his hand smooth over your back in mocking comfort. anton’s fingers trace patterns down the curve of your spine—letting out another sigh of content. 

he’s way too warm. 

when anton speaks, he’s back to his usual self. his voice gentle, soft, like the first time he had talked to you. “see?” he murmurs against your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, that now is mixed with the smell of sex floating in the air. “i’ve got you,” he soothes, smiling. you shouldn’t have blocked him.

your stomach churns in agony as you stare at his sleepy face in your blurry vision.

——

“no, it’s okay, i got you,” you said, offering him a soft smile before tapping your card on the terminal. you placed your own snacks on the counter. anton, still holding his wallet in his hands, didn’t move as he stared at you—head empty a second too long. he was short a few dollars for some beers and cup noodles… 

 “oh—uhm,” he stammered, feeling guilty. “thanks…” he murmured shyly, throat suddenly dry. 

you just replied with a nod, preoccupied with paying for your own things to notice that anton was still looking at you as he picked up his plastic bag from the counter. he swallowed his saliva, mind scrambling trying to figure out something else to say—to keep you just a second longer—trying to talk to you despite his shyness. 

but before he could do anything, the cashier handed you your plastic bag, and you thanked her before walking away. 

you didn’t even look at anton for the second time. 

the door chimed and you were gone.

leaving anton dumbfounded, embarrassed as he stared at the door swung shut behind you.

anton swore that if he saw you again, he wouldn’t let you slip away so easily. 

you constantly slip inside anton’s bedroom, yanking his pants down to ankles as soon as he’s within reach. your lips instantly wrap around his cock, your face instantly shifting to one of satisfaction as you suck eagerly. anton had surmised that you’re quite fond of having your mouth full, soothed by the heavy weight on your tongue and the stretch of your lips to accommodate his girth.

sometimes anton wonders if wonbin just doesn’t like it. that thought baffles anton, though. you’re skilled with your mouth, leaving anton breathless each time you wrap your lips around him, suckling and licking and drooling all over him.

that aside, anton is confused. if wonbin knows like anton suspects he does, why doesn’t he have a problem with any of this? why doesn’t he care that his girlfriend slips into her stepbrothers bedroom to suck him off every night, swallowing every drop of cum that spurts from his heavy head? does he not care about the musky taste of his cum when he kisses you?

anton can’t help but think about that, too. maybe wonbin doesn’t care. maybe he likes it. that thought makes anton queasy. he doesn’t like boys. at least, he doesn’t think so. while wonbin is conventionally attractive, anton could never imagine having the older’s plump, pouty lips wrapped around his cock, sucking and licking and drooling all over like you do. he couldn’t imagine wonbin’s endless dark eyes blinking up at him through his long lashes, his pupils dilated and glassy. his calloused fingertips stroking expertly at anton’s shaft that wonbin couldn’t shove into his mouth.

the realization made anton’s mind finally wander to places it didn’t allow itself before. there was only one thing you could teach him. one thing you would really useful for. his parents paid you generously, much more than you deserved for pointless lessons.

so why couldn’t he get his moneys worth? what else were they paying you for anyway?

you weren’t happy about the idea, only making anton feel annoyed. you were in no position to complain, to push at him and claw at his nicely pressed shirt, to squirm and reach for whatever was around you. to your dismay, it wasn’t much work for anton, leaving you shocked and crying pathetically when he twisted your wrists. it made him think of the time you raised your eyebrows when his mother mentioned that he was working hard at the gym. of course you would question it. there was no way some boy like anton could be anything less than that. a boy.

despite that, the experience was unfortunately euphoric. he couldn’t get enough. the feeling of being sucked into your tight, hot walls making the air leave his lungs. the way you milked him dry by the end of the night, leaving him shuddering and lightheaded.

it made sense that one time just wasn’t enough.

you had still come back, not a minute late to your scheduled meeting. but you avoided his stare, mumbling instructions as you took out a pen. anton didn’t do as told, instead letting his hand slither up your skirt, watching the way your eyes widened in alarm.

your eyes flashed as you shook your head, lightly pressing your hand on his. anton would have been impressed if it wasn’t you, the scratchy texture of your fingertips were just like his after years and years of meticulous practice.

he wasted no time, bulge swelling as soon as the resistance began, craving swimming downwards. you were smart enough to know what he wanted, but not smart enough to just let it be. you struggled against him again, causing anton’s eyes to roll.

you weren’t looking for love—you weren’t even looking for something casual.

it was boredom, plain and simple. besides, the semester just ended and you had nothing else to do besides attending your part-time job at a local cafe as a waitress. it was a quiet sunday night when the idea came to you—a way to kill time.

going on dating apps!

you created your profile—chose the best, prettiest selfie you have of yourself. you didn’t put much details in your bio, just a simple, just for fun! ◡̈. at first, it was just swiping for the entertainment of it. left, left, left… right, left… most of the profiles were almost the same—bad quality selfies, forced, corny bios, dudes flexing their muscles in bathroom mirrors… you weren’t expecting much, or anything at all.

then his profile appeared. 

anton lee. 20 years old. likes music n playing them.

holy shit. this guy doesn’t even look real, you thought. he looked like he had been pulled straight from a magazine—the type of guy you just know you stood no chance with—his hair was dark and it fall just past his eyes and he had those handsome features and this anton dude just looked like someone who didn’t belong in dating apps (he definitely didn’t need one too).

you hesitated—but reminded yourself that this was just for fun. if you had no chance with this guy to begin with, what’s the harm? just have fun!

you couldn’t deny that he was exactly your type. painfully so. 

you swiped right. and a second later, almost immediately, your screen flashed—

it’s a match!

——

it didn’t take long for anton to send you a text. 

in fact, it happened faster than you’d expected that it got you wondering if he was the one who had been waiting for you to initiate a conversation. you thought that anton was just one of those guys who matched with girls to boost his ego—that he’s still relevant to the market, but you might be wrong.

anton lee: hey.

even the greeting suited him. short, simple, deceptively normal. or maybe you were just sooo starstruck by his appearance to think he was weird.

upon receiving the text, you stared at your screen—your thumb hovering over the keyboard. it was just a simple hey, but you were thinking too hard on the perfect reply. one that won’t leave anton ghosting you afterwards.

you hesitated for a second before typing back.

yn: hi. i didn’t think you’d text first.

you hummed in satisfaction, giving yourself a slight nod and smile. almost immediately, you got a reply. 

anton lee: why wouldnt i?

you bit the inside of your cheek—why wouldn’t he…?—debating what and how to respond. now feeling a little bit stupid for asking him that. you should’ve just said hi back. you didn’t want to sound insecure, or ‘pick me’, but at the same time, realistically, it felt insane that someone like him, would even notice someone like you.

yn: i dont know lol. you look kinda out of my league. im surprised we even matched.

there was a pause after your text—read—and for a second, you thought you fucked up.

but then his reply came through.

anton lee: you think so?

huh, there was something about his response that made you… shift uncomfortably on your bed. a feeling—an unfamiliar one. it wasn’t a dismissal, nor was it a playful teasing. it didn’t even feel like a question…

before you could think too hard about responding, another message popped up.

anton lee: i think youre really cute though.

the unfamiliar feeling vanished as soon as it came—replaced with a now strange warmth booming in your chest. he thinks i’m cute, you thought, giggling by yourself. you reread the text over and over—flattered.

yn: i guess i got lucky then :) 

anton lee: yeah you did ;)

——

for the next few weeks, you and anton fell into an easy rhythm.

it started slow—just a few, once or twice texts a day. but somehow, the conversations never died. surprisingly, anton knew how to carry a conversation, and he always came up with different topics to talk to you. you started to realise that anton wasn’t like any other guys on the app, or any guys you’ve talked to before. 

he was calm, steady, and almost too easy to talk to—despite his looks.

the odd feeling never came back. he never bombarded you with clingy or needy texts, or pushed you for more than you were comfortable with. he never asked for your inappropriate pictures, or drifted the conversation to one. if you took hours to respond, he understood. if he sensed that you weren’t in the mood to talk, he was more than willing to hear you out. 

anton was just always ready to pick up where the conversation was left off.

you found out that anton created his profile because of a bet—which he had lost a few hours prior to meeting you. and you told him your reason as well—boredom. he was also a student like you too, studying music performance (he didn’t tell you where though, but you understood). 

additionally, anton had a sense of humour like yours—he wasn’t boring, or dry, or had no personality like most handsome guys you knew. he also wasn’t always flirting—but he’d say things that let you guess how he felt about you. there were definitely moments where talking to him was too good to be true, but you’d quickly remind yourself that it wasn’t serious.

and then, one evening, it happened, 

anton lee: so… when are you gonna let me take you out?

you blinked at your screen. 

of course this would come sooner or later—it was only a matter of time before he asked. seeing the question actually came true made your stomach flip in all directions. you bit on your bottom lip, your thumbs hovering over your keyboard.

you wanted to say yes so badly, 

but a small, nagging voice in the back of your mind told you to think it through thoroughly. you had only been talking to anton for a few weeks, and you’d heard all the horror stories about meeting guys online—creepy messages, dates gone wrong, murders…

not that you thought anton would be like that… hopefully. if anything, he had been kind, patient, easygoing, and almost too normal. but… wasn’t that how it always started…?

on the other hand, maybe you were just overthinking it. what if it actually goes well? it’s like winning a lottery, you thought.

yn: i donno. are you as charming in person as you are over the text?

his reply came fast.

anton lee: only one way to find out

you didn’t realise you were holding your breath until his reply came.

anton lee: we can go to rain report in seongsu if you’d like. 

anton lee: they have good pastries there

okay, a cafe. it’s an open, safe, neutral ground.

yn: that sounds good.

anton lee: saturday at 5? 

you hesitated again for a split second—then shook the doubt away as soon as.

yn: okies, see you then?

it took anton a few minutes to reply.

anton lee: im looking forward to it yn :) 

you stared at his response, your grip still around your phone. they felt strangely heavier than they should have. 

you locked your phone and exhaled.

it was just a date. 

what’s the worst that could happen?

——

saturday came by pretty sooner than you’d expected. too soon, honestly.

you had spent the whole week trying not to overthink it. that it was just a date. a date with a normal guy. except this guy was intimidatingly handsome and chill. in hindsight, there was nothing to be nervous about, it was anton who had asked you out. but you woke up that morning feeling like your stomach had been tied into a thousand knots and twists.

you weren’t a loser by any means. in fact, talking to guys wasn't anything new to you at all.  but this was the first time ever that you’d be meeting up with a guy you’d only ever spoken to through a screen. one with a romantic intention.

that morning, while waiting for the perfect time to start getting ready, you distracted yourself by doing the laundry, studying—just whatever to keep your mind from spiraling. but the hours ticked by and the nerves started to creep back in. by 3, you started getting ready.

throughout the whole process of prepping, your mind went through every possible scenario that existed to a man—what if he thought you don’t look like your pictures? what if the conversation was awkward in real life? what if he prefers you over the phone? 

4:30. the distance between the cafe and your apartment wasn’t that far—but it’d be nice to get there early and calm yourself. make a nice first impression.

you took a deep breath, smoothing your clothes down one last time in front of the mirror. 

it’s just a date. but the nervous pit in your stomach refused to go away.

——

when you arrived there, anton was nowhere to be seen. for a split second, you thought anton stood you up. you hated that your heart sank at the possibility. it wasn’t like you were that desperate for the date to happen, but the idea of your date not showing up…

you scanned the cafe, trying not to look too obvious as you searched for a familiar face. people—teenagers and young adults your age, specifically, were chatting and laughing amongst themselves. but there was no sign of anton. 

you exhaled sharply and stared down at your phone, debating whether or not to text him. you decided to ask; and then—

“you’re early.”

the voice came from behind you and it made you jump slightly. whipping your head around, there anton was.

he stood just a few feet away from you. dressed casually in a dark blue sweater with his hands tucked into his jeans’ pockets, his hair was slightly tousled like he had run a hand through it. he looked exactly like his pictures—better in person.

your breath hitched, and you felt stupid for thinking he wasn’t going to show up—after saying he was kind and all.

“i—” you swallowed, feeling caught. you let out a small dry laugh. “i thought maybe you stood me up.” 

anton tilted his head slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “why would i do that?” 

you didn’t have an answer. 

before you could think of one—anton smiled softly, god he looked so good.

“come on,” he hummed, nodding toward the open cashier. “should we order?” 

you nodded quickly and followed his lead as he made his way towards the counter. 

“what do you want?” he asked, glancing down at you beside him. the height difference was apparent. he was so tall too. you stared at the menu displayed on the television screen above, humming in thought.

“vanilla latte, i think.” anton nodded then turned to the cashier to order. he got himself a classic latte. the employee rang it up, and before you could even reach for your purse, anton was already tapping his card on the terminal. 

“oh, i could’ve paid…” you murmured softly, not wanting to say it outloud in front of the staff. you know it’s a thing where it is expected for a guy to pay on the first date—a gesture of chivalry. but still, you felt guilty.

anton gave you a soft smile and shrugged, tucking his wallet back in the back of his jeans. “don’t worry about it,” he said. “next date, then.” he added, casually.

your brain short-circuited for a moment. next date?

he said it so effortlessly like it was given. like anton had already known there would be a second one. you felt your face heat up, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. was it his sheer assumption that made you flustered?

either way, it didn’t seem like anton noticed. or he probably did and was just enjoying watching you squirm.

minutes later, after you both had settled at a nice, quiet table by the corner—and anton had grabbed the drinks from the counter—an odd silence sort of just… settled between you.

not awkward, exactly… just charged.

you wrapped your hands around your cup, focusing on the warmth against your skin instead of the man before you. anton, on the other hand, was a lot more calm—leaning back against his chair as he stirred his coffee absentmindedly. his eyes laid on you in quiet amusement. 

for anyone who didn’t know the context, it didn’t look like a date. 

“you always this nervous?” he asked, cocking his head to the side slightly as he tapped the mocha spoon on the rim of the cup before putting it down. 

“i’m not nervous.”

he raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was suppressing a smile. “really?”

you hummed and nodded before letting your eyes meet his’. “maybe a little. i’ve never done this before.”

anton leaned forward slightly, placing his elbow on the table. “meet guys from tinder?”

“yeah.”

he hummed in understanding, bringing his coffee to his lips. “don’t you wanna know why i swiped right on you?” he asked. you blinked at the question, slightly caught off guard. of course you do. so you nodded shyly.

anton set his cup down, his fingers traced the rim of the lid deliberately. “i thought you were pretty,” he said, a smile playing on his lips. “really pretty, actually.”

a warmth crept up your neck—you weren’t used to being complimented.

you wanted to thank him, but he cut you off. “and you looked cute too. i didn’t know you could look better in real life,” he let out a soft laugh, humming. “i’m so glad we matched.”

okay now, you were sure your face was as red as a tomato. blood was rushing, sprinting to your cheeks.

“thanks, wow,” you brought your cup to your lips, trying to conceal how flustered you were.  

anton smiled, just a little, “and i feel like i’ve known you.”

your breath hitched, “what?” 

anton tilted his head, studying your reaction. “i don’t know. i feel like i’ve seen you before.”

out of nowhere, something cold curled in your stomach. what did he mean by that? was it just one of his flirting pick up lines? you forced a small laugh, keeping your voice light. he looked way too calm, maybe you were just overreacting. “you… haven’t though, right?”

what is wrong with me? you thought, why couldn’t you shake off the uneasiness? 

anton didn’t respond right away. his eyes flickered over your face, and he wasn’t smiling. then, after what felt like hours long of pause— “no,” he finally said, lips curling slightly as he looked down on his cup. “just a feeling.” 

——

if you were being really honest, the date felt a little strange. 

you didn’t mean it in a bad way—anton was really nice. he never made you uncomfortable (in an obvious way), and he paid for your drink—oh, and he bought you some pastries to take home too. the conversation flowed as well enough, and you learned a lot about him. he had been playing the cello since he was young; and he was also a part of the swimming team during his school days. 

but there was just something—you couldn’t name it—about him that sat in your chest.

maybe it was the way anton looked, watching you when you weren’t looking at him. or maybe it was the way he spoke—so calm and collected, so nonchalant about the things he was saying. his mannerism, perhaps? the way he never broke off eye contact when you were talking about your university life? 

but then again, who were you to judge? you had never been on a proper date before. heck, you didn’t even know how a date was supposed to go, to feel. for all you know, it could be normal for girls to feel the way you did upon their first dates too. maybe you were just overthinking—so many maybes. 

anton lee: i had a really nice time today yn :) you looked even prettier up close. 

you found yourself smiling as you locked the door behind you.

yn: thanks! i had fun too ><

yn: you’re just as handsome anton 

it wasn’t a lie, at all. you did have fun, and he looked even better in person.

anton’s reply came just as fast. 

anton lee: i’d love to see you again soon.

you bit your lip, typing a response—that you too, looked forward to seeing him again.

 totally ignoring the way your stomach was twisting.

his 9mm might as well have been his bestfriend. loyal, doesn’t speak, never questioning his motives—just obeying. and it was with the same pistol—pressed against the small of your back as the muzzle slid up along your spine, the cold from the steel and the warmth from his hand whispering silent threats into your skin, of what event would tonight be—that anton managed to shove you into the backseat of his mercedes. 

you could kick, claw, scream, hit, break his car windows and smash his dashboard for all you wanted, but the barrel silenced every protest every single time the streetlight cast glow across the steel. it gleamed, and like a bestfriend, it warned. 

no matter how hard you fought, with a single flick of anton’s finger on the trigger—you’d be gone. 

there was no need for rope or chains when fear pinned you down tighter than any restraint ever could.

“anton, please! please, oh my god, oh god,” you sobbed heavily, your wrists burning against the rope. your knees threatened and buckled to drop if it weren’t for the rope cinched brutally around your frail body and the tree trunk. 

the harsh bark dug into your back, pressed through the thin nightgown anton had dressed you in, splintering through the fabric and tearing some parts. a red dot of paint—anton’s thumbpad—painted on your skin between your brow and your temple.

it was your fault, really. anton puts the blame wholly on you. his dumb, ungrateful, little whore of a wife who thought she could run, who thought she’s smart enough to escape him after everything he’d done. after every affection, every love, every thrust of his cock for you. 

the ropes were mercy, anton told himself. it’s another kind gesture of his’ because he knew how tired you must’ve been after running for—what? five minutes?—before he caught on with a single gunshot that he purposely missed to scare you to your knees. 

the game was mercy. anton could’ve shot you right through your head now if he wished to. burst your brain open with a single click but no—a good husband would never kill his pretty wife. he loved you far too much for that. worked too hard just to kill you at the end of the day. 

so he proposed a little game of russian roulette. a test of fate for god, of how much you truly belonged to him. he’s standing just a few feet from you but through your teary and blurry vision—he might as well be a shadow beneath the already darkened skies, only a phantom with a gleaming steel in his hand.

the gun swayed lazily. each step he took towards you crunched the dry leaves under his shoes, each sound a little louder than your sobs. “shhh,” he crooned, raising the pistol and spinning the cylinder again. 

click, click, click, snap.

“you brought this upon yourself, baby,” he sighed, ruffling the back of his hair like he’s tired from a long day’s work. his smile, albeit, was crooked and soft. the kind a husband wear on his face when forgiving a forgotten dinner. 

“what were you thinking? running away from me like that… making me chase you like this. do you know how much it hurts me?” he frowned, locking eyes with you. anton genuinely looked hurt, you could tell that much. “if my pretty wife doesn’t want to stay with me…” he trailed off, tilting his head. 

“then she should just die, right?” 

your breath hitched—not sure from his threat or from the way the gun muzzle brushed against your damp cheek like a mockery kiss. you let out another sob, head hanging forward. “anton—” you cried out. 

anton chuckled under his breath, guiding his pistol to tilt your face back up to him. “look at me,” he whispered, lifting your chin by the muzzle. “if you’re going to cry, at least look at me.” he hummed, your face came into view—his eyes softened, sickly and lovingly—as if he was comforting you with his words.

his actions, however, contrasted. your lungs seized, every inhale hurts, your stomach trembled and shallowed in fear as the tight ropes dug into it. this was it—this felt like the moment, the night you’d die. the air around you thickened, the sound of your heartbeat louder than the coos of owls and his chamber spinning. 

anton’s lips curved as he watched you quiver and shake, trying your very best to suck up your tears and snots and sobs. “but i’m not going to return you to god so easily,” he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue like a vow. 

he twirled the pistol in his hand with a casual flick, then dragged the muzzle against your temple, down to your cheek before pressing it into the flesh. “not when he’s given me such a pretty wife to keep. so let’s play a game of faith,”

with that, he spun the cylinder again, the hollow clicks cutting through the night air, then leaned closer until his nose brushed against your damp cheek. anton pressed a loving chaste kiss, before moving to peck your lips. 

one last time, who knows—?

he rested his forehead against yours, warm breath fanning your skin. “every time it lands empty, it means you love me.  but if the bullet finds you…” his grin widened, he leaned to peck the corner of your lips. “then maybe you weren’t meant for me.”

anton caressed your head before pulling away, standing a good distance with the gun dangling loosely at his side. his eyes never left you, fever–bright and unblinking, as though he was memorising every living part of you. living—because you could die within the first pull of his trigger.

the night was so quiet you could hear the metallic shift of the gun as he raised it again, aiming squarely at the red mark he’d pressed into your forehead. like a good illegal husband he was, the least he could do was to make your death instant and painful. 

he’s not a sadist.

your throat clenched, sob caught halfway—you wanted to puke. guts out your last dinner. “channie, please, pleasepleaseplease,” you begged, toes curling and crunching the leaves. anton ignored you, simply tilting his head, lips parting tenderly. “ready, baby?” 

you shook your head violently—the only thing you could do as even screaming pained your stomach. 

click.

nothing.

your lungs nearly collapsed with the force of breath you’d been holding, a broken sob spilled past your lips when no bullet tore through your brain. for a moment, you thought you might faint from the rush of relief. “oh god,” your breathed out, tree splinters tearing your back. 

anton, however, lit up like a child on christmas morning. his grin widened, splitting into a chuckle. “see!” he said, lowering the pistol only to wave it carelessly, like just seconds ago, everything could change. “god wants you with me!” 

he shook his head with a smile in disbelief, breathless. “alright—let’s try again. just to be sure.”

your eyes widened and before you could beg—tell him how much you love him and  how you’ll never, ever leave him again—anton raised the pistol and aimed for the red dot on your forehead. his smile and the light in his eyes were no longer there.

click.

empty.

he gasped—you too—for different reasons. relief tore through your chest so violently it hurt. your lungs couldn’t decide whether to sob, or collapse entirely. “twice! twice, yn—!” his chest heaved as he staggered back a step, clutching the gun like a holy relic. 

to him, it was salvation. to you, it was a death postponed. it was as if the grim reaper was standing just next to you, waiting with his scythe for the bullet to tear through your skull to take you back.  

trembling from joy, anton tilted the barrel back toward you, giving you no time to catch your breath. “i’m getting addicted to this,” he chuckled, sighing. “one more. just one more. then i’ll finally believe.”

your body trembled so violently the ropes cut deeper into your skin. all you could do was watch as anton steadied his aim, his smile too soft for the cruelty of what he was about to do.

“third time’s a charm,” he whispered.

this could be it, this could really be it, you felt it, this was the night you’ll—

click.

empty. again.

anton’s knees nearly bucked as he exhaled, laughter bursting from his throat. “holy shit! three times, yn!” eyes wild, smile wide. anton cradled the gun to his chest like it was a newborn. 

you sobbed louder into the night air, relief colliding with horror until you swore you could vomit. your head hung low, tears dripping off your chin, body convulsing with each breath. you barely felt the ropes anymore. 

it’s over, right? he said it was the last, didn’t he—? 

but then, anton lifted his pistol again. your breath hitched sharp and you quickly snapped your head with the dread weighing it down. the muzzle locked with your wide eyes. you blinked, dazed through the blur of tears as anton’s index flicked the trigger—

bang!

the explosion cracked the silence, splinters of bark raining down over your hair and shoulders. you shrieked, flinching so hard the ropes carved and making your skin bleed. ears ringing from the shot.

anton had aimed just above you.

“ah,” anton grinned, smoke curling from the barrel as he admired the fresh bullet hole punched into the tree above your head. “i knew that one was going to go off,” he chuckled, sighing in both relief and delight at his guess. 

he tapped the warm barrel against his hip, eyes closing for a moment as he drew in a shaky breath. “felt it in my chest, yn… god thought he knew better, huh?” his smile twitched, sharp at the edges. when he opened his eyes—they were glistening. shinier than the gun.

“there’s no way i’d let god take you from me.” his free hand cupped and cradled your tear–soaked face, thumb dragging across to wipe your tears. slowly, anton leaned down to attach his lips against your moist ones, wetting his. 

he licked the salty trace you’d left, savouring it. the muzzle of the gun brushed the side of your neck as his arm shifted, but his grip on you remained gentle. nausea swelled as he pulled back just enough to breathe you in.

anton never missed his shots, so what he said about the last one was probably true—he felt it. anton could’ve pulled the trigger and shot you dead if he wished to, but he loved you too much for that.

eunseok grins, an excited buzz running down his fingertips and waves of blood already rushing to his cock when he spots the way you tucked your legs up, trying to use the oversized t-shirt you wore to hide your naked body.

“I know you’re awake,” he mumbles, the pads of his fingers tapping your ankle, wrapping around it as he pulled it away from the other. “spread your legs.”

best friend!seunghan has a key to your apartment and he'll often show up in the middle of the night, crawling into your bed and claiming that he missed you so much. you could always smell liquor on his breath and he always sheds his clothes, feeling overly warm from drinking on top of knowing how much you hate the smell of smoke.

it’s a weekday and seunghan knows you aren’t expecting him to show up but his hazy mind and sluggish feet take him in the direction of your home. seunghan tries to be as quiet as he can, pulling off his clothes like he always does before sliding in beside you. he is tipsy and he just can’t resist when he felt the bare skin of your hips when he went to pull you closer to him.

he is already getting hard by the fuzzy thought of you being bare beneath his fingers, only growing harder as he feels the curve of your ass so close to his cock. it’s just one thin layer between you and him. it is so easy to pull himself out and slide between your thighs, feeling your folds along his shaft as he begins to thrust his hips, holding yours in place so tightly. he can’t even bring himself to stop when you begin to stir in your sleep, tired moans leaving your lips as you start to open your eyes, much less when you try to pull away from him. he holds on tighter when you tried to pull your hips farther from his but it only adds to the slick friction that made his warm stomach burn.

stalker!anton set up cameras in your bedroom. he spends all day watching you. like a kid with a new toy he’s so fascinated by you doing the most mundane things. the way you tend to your hair and pick up your laundry from the floor.

anton goes stiff, leaning in closer to his computer screen when you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up to expose more and more of your abdomen. you pull your skirt off next and he feels like his brain is going to explode. he sees the your curves covered in just your underwear, taking in the sight before you pull a gown over your head.

anton deflates before perking up again when he spots you sliding your underwear down your legs. he can’t help but feel like he was supposed to see you. even if a small voice in his head tells him it’s the opposite, that he’s invading your privacy.

“I’m dizzy,” you drawled, going boneless on the scratchy sheets.

anton stuttered nervously, “d-did you take anything?”

“no,” it came out as little more than an exhale.

anton glanced over to the table beside you at a steel water bottle, soft pink in color, staring back at him. you were dozing off already, arms limp and legs still. he laid a hand atop your thigh, excitement creeping towards his cock when you remained unmoving.

anton released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he knew at that point you couldn’t hear him.