#riize fic

all you wanted to do was quietly use the bathroom and you decided to leave the light off to like… save energy. only to end up being scared out of your skin by one of anton’s late night companions.

“god, what the hell!” the girl jumped backwards, almost hitting her head on the doorframe as you reached to cover yourself. “who are you??”

you raised a brow. you knew who she could have been, but—

“girl, who are you?” you countered.

you knew damn well you should have kept your mouth shut, because you got called the fuck out. ‘well, anton didn’t say he had a girlfriend, are you his girlfriend? did i just wreck a home?’ uh.. no. ‘how come you weren’t here when we got back but you’re here now?’ uhh… ‘if you’re not his girl, and he has no roommates, why are you here in the middle of the night?’ … — deep down you knew you were the problem here.

unlike anton, you weren’t lucky enough to have parents who would pay for you to live in a nice little apartment for the entirety of college, so you lived with your two roommates; one of which was at the height of a lover’s quarrel with her partner. things had gotten so bad between them that the morning of this incident — or rather the morning before — seeing as it happened at around 2am, anton kindly agreed to let you come back to his place after you finished work, and spend the weekend there. and so, you weren’t there when anton and this poor girl got back to his apartment, because your shift ended about an hour after they had knocked each other out. you poor soul.

“why would you say that?” anton laughed at you, “you don’t live here.”

like you didn’t know that… asshole. you flopped down in one of the dining chairs, attempting to flip your half drank water bottle, at his kitchen table. and failing. “i just couldn’t stop myself from giving attitude. because, why are you trying to talk to me and i’m on the toilet… i needed her gone out the room.”

“well. she’s never gonna text me now.”

“no?” you rose a brow at him, “well, would you have responded?”

anton was notorious (within your two person friendship) for losing the numbers of girls that he slept with. that or somehow indirectly manifesting for them to lose his number, so he had no choice but to move on to the next. he didn’t see this as sleazy, fuckboy activity, however. he was simply just moving forwards through life. so in response to your question? anton just smiled back at you from where he was stood in the kitchenette. he didn’t know the answer. not for sure at least.

“you know she thought we were dating. she was so mad at you.”

his eyebrows shot up, “well, did you defend me?”

“i said i would never date you, and that i was visiting because of the thing with my roommate.” in a display of nonchalance, you pressed down on your baby hairs and just looked on at him.

“wow,” anton pushed up off the counter and took his bowl to the sink. “that’s sweet of you.”

“y’know.” you waited for him to turn back and face you. “if i was one of these girls, i would hate the both of us.”

“why?”

you looked towards the ceiling, as if to try and find the words to say. “well, i feel like i’m always here— like at your place. and we know almost everything about each other, i got a key to your house; we’re just, like, a little too close.”

“first of all, you’re not here enough—”

you shot him a glare and he threw his hands up in defence. “anton, do you not see the problem with that statement?”

anton pursed his lips in supposedly deep thought. “damn. i think you’ve been cockblocking me.”

the way your brain short-circuited hearing him say that— usually it was you cursing. never him. “you’ve been cockblocking yourself, toni.”

“no, but i’m being serious. the girl i brought home was not the first girl i talked to that night. that usually doesn’t happen.” anton came to sit by you at the table, putting a chair right next to yours but turning it the opposite direction so he could be facing you. subconsciously, you rest your feet on his thighs causing him to catch your ankles in his hands as you tried not to roll your eyes at possibly the most sleazy, frat boy coded statement you had ever heard.

“do you actually hear yourself sometimes? this is not the sweet toni i grew up with. you’re something else.”

“god, you’re right.” he laughed out. “i think all the attention is getting to my head.”

you leaned forward towards him, “oh, you think so?”

anton pushed your shoulder gently, “leave me alone, i’m coming to terms with it, i’m—” he struggled to find the word, “i’m self-reflecting.”

and then he paused. “does our friendship get you any less romantic attention?”

“hmm.” you had to think about it. though anton claims not to be a fuckboy intentionally — or what you liked to call a ‘self-proclaimed pussy magnet’ — you knew yourself that you weren’t as… sexually outgoing (?) as anton. “no less than i had before, i guess. people that know you, know about our weird little friendship and then; you poor thing, you have to talk to two girls before you can get laid. but the people that know just me don’t necessarily know about our weird little friendship.”

“huh.”

“‘cause i’m not trying to be like one of those girls that tells everyone about, ‘my homeboy this, my homeboy that’ and then everyone assumes we’re fucking and i cant even defend myself.”

anton tried to ignore his face warming up, “no, yeah. hah, is that really a thing?” a thought was definitely being formed.

“yes, bro, even i cringe at it. i don’t wanna be that girl.”

“wait so, some of these guys, these friends, are actually like, sleeping with each other?” anton scratched the back of his neck, that was prickling with nerves.

“i mean, yeah, probably. the way they act.” you just laughed obliviously while anton’s mind started to fill up with ideas. like, say, if you were the kind of person who talked to others about your friendship with anton. would people think you’re so close that you might as well just.. be with each other? would people accuse you of sleeping together or dating even if you weren’t?

“yo, imagine if that was us…”

your head jolted in his direction and pure confusion painted your features in an incredulous expression, “anton, can you not… oh my god.”

his head dropped in laughter. as well as defeat.

but you missed that, so you continued. “no, that would be horrible. why would you even put that in my head?”

“so, i’m actually right here.” anton waved his hand at you and you laughed.

“no, no,” rushing to defend yourself, “not in a mean way, i just. i wouldn’t like the attention from people and, yeah, no. i don’t know.”

“yeah, okay. i get that.”

“why do you ask anyway? what would you think if it was us?” you prodded back. you would never let him ask such a stressful question without getting him back. you needed to get even.

“oh.” anton was starting to think he should have never tried it with you. however. you getting that nervous from his initial asking the question gave him a slither of confidence. “i mean. i think that it would be interesting. it’d be kinda cool to see if we could get to know each other any more than we already do.”

“in what sense?”

“like sex stuff.” anton’s voice was soft and quiet. “like what you’re into, stuff like that.”

“wouldn’t you like to know, chanyoung.”

he smiled at you, squinting in acknowledgement of your teasing “i would. tell me something.”

you gave it some thought before replying, “are you serious?”

he replied, “are you?”

you weren’t entirely sure what that meant, but you took at as a case of ‘i am if you are, and if you’re not, neither am i.’

“okay, anton. it’s 9 in the morning, but sure uh.. i like a submissive man.”

the tips of anton’s ears grew hot. “oh, wow. tell me more.”

you laughed in his face. because no way these are the lines he uses when he’s picking up girls every other night. this was going to be the most embarrassing conversation you had ever had. like, ever. you crossed your legs over each other, still over anton’s thighs.

“there’s nothing more to that statement really. your turn.”

“i like… kissing. but not just normal kissing like.. kissing.” he dragged the word out a little, really putting umph on it like you were gonna know exactly what he was talking about. you were so annoyed.

“be so for real for a second.”

“what?!”

you sighed. “no, cause i really got a lot from that, thank you. now, i wish i’d kept quiet.”

“what, no! i’m just bad at explaining things.” you tried to retract your legs from anton’s and he grabbed your calf in attempts to stop you from curling in on yourself out of pure embarrassment.

you covered your face. “yeah, really bad.”

“listen, i could show you better than i can tell you.”

“i bet you could, toni, but that’s not gonna turn back time.” you immediately shot him down. before you realised. “wait okay, you can show me.”

“oh, i didn’t think you’d agree. i thought the idea of getting intimate with me was horrible?”

“i mean that’s if people are aware of it and like… try to talk to me about it at school. right now, nobody knows. so i guess it’s less horrible.”

“alright, c’mere.” anton held out his hand for you to lean into, taking your face in his hands and pressing his lips to yours. gently pecking your lips a couple times before ghosting the tip of his tongue along your bottom lip, asking for permission. he ran the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip before pulling away just slightly to whisper, “can you open up a little?”

you furrowed your brows up at him and he took that as confusion, laughing a little “i wanna put my tongue there.”

you parted your lips a little and he kissed you with tongue, making the both of you sigh quietly. with each movement of his jaw and of his lips against yours, his tongue made contact with yours and it triggered a build of warmth in your lower abdomen. each time his tongue licked into your mouth, it pulled a whine out of the back of your throat. your hands rose up into his hair and your breathing started to quicken. at this point, even though you were feeling significantly warmer than you did a few seconds ago, you still didn’t realise what made this any different from ‘regular’ kissing. you figured anton was just being dramatic. that was until he sucked your tongue into his mouth along with your bottom lip. this made you straight up moan — you had to pull away.

“holy shit, anton.”

anton wiped the saliva off of his plush lips with his thumb. “see it’s like kissing but it’s kissing.”

“what the hell.” you huffed out in a deep exhale, twisting a curl around one of your fingers. you didn’t even know what to do with yourself after that.

anton tried to stop his eyes from dropping down to your heaving chest in the tight baby tee you were wearing as pajamas. he wanted to remain composed after putting the moves on you; maintain his shy, yet simultaneously confident demeanour. and then he remembered what you mentioned earlier. anton softened his voice ever so slightly. —if that was even possible.

“you know, you’re a really good kisser.” he held eye contact with you and the delivery of his sentence immediately made you wet.

“um, thank you.”

anton leaned closer to you, keeping his voice hushed despite the fact that you were the only two people in the apartment. “i didn’t expect it to, but kissing you made me really hard.”

“shit, really?” you were overwhelmed. you had just been kissed breathless by your best friend and now he was laying his truths all out on the table.

“i know you feel a type of way about it, but… i wanna fuck you."

“anton…”

“please,” you felt his thumbs rub you from both sides of your hips that he was now holding in his hands. he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth that made your eyes flutter closed. “i know it would feel so good.”

“toni, when you ask me like that—“

“you like that?” anton practically purred before attaching his soft lips to the curve of your neck. his hand slid down the front of your pajama pants to start rubbing you over your panties at a torturingly slow pace. “when i beg you like that? i know you do, you’re soaked.”

“fuck, toni…” you grabbed onto his shoulder for balance, lifting one of your knees higher to grant him a better angle at rubbing those tight circles over your bundle of nerves.

“hey, look at me.” he rubbed your clit faster, “can i make you cum before i fuck this pussy? huh? please?”

you could only lean back and moan in response.

“come on you gotta tell me. can i please?”

“mm-hm. yes, yes, baby.”

you dug your nails into his bicep and he groaned. “can i get i kiss, too?”

in a low whine, you pressed your lips to his, moaning into his mouth as you started getting closer to orgasm.

“yeah, moan for me just like that, baby. that’s so fucking hot. you gonna cum for me?”

you nodded at him and he continued with the same relentless pace of his fingers against your clothed clit until your hips started to shake with your orgasm.

“fuck, you’re so sexy when you cum for me. you gonna let me fuck you, mama?”

you were breathless in shock. in all your years of being friends with this anton, he had never talked so nasty.

anton swiftly lifted you onto the table and yanked your pajama pants down with your panties. with big, soft hands, he kneaded your thighs, “you’re dripping in front of me.”

“well, i just came.”

this made anton laugh, “well, i’m gonna make you cum again. ‘kay?”

you nodded as he pulled his dick out of his basketball shorts and started to jerk himself off, rubbing his tip against your slit. you went to hold onto his back with one hand and he took this as a sign that you were ready for him. pushing into you slowly, he muffled his own moan against your lips.

somehow, after only just put his dick in you, he was already a mess. “mmh, fuck you feel good. you feel so good around me.”

anton’s arms wrapped under your thighs, and started bringing your hips to meet his faster.

“fuck, toni, right there!”

he moaned into a sloppy kiss to your lips, “mm, right there? ‘m i hitting it right?”

“yes, keep going. you’re doing so good..”

anton didn’t change his position, only moving one of his hands to start rubbing your clit again. “fuck, keep talking to me like that.”

you held his neck to pull him closer to you, “you’re so good. and you look so pretty when you’re fucking me.”

all of your praise was going straight to anton’s dick. he was visibly finding it increasingly harder to keep himself together. he leaned forward to get closer to you, grinding his hips into yours. peppering kisses all over your bare chest.

“ah- uhm, i wanna cum. wanna cum for you.” anton’s voice was barely above a whisper as he rambled against your chest, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth to mumble his pathetic sounds. although, to no avail, he was still mumbling to you, teeth grazing the skin.

“you can cum toni, i’m close too.”

“you gotta cum first, baby,” what a gentleman. “if you cum first that’s gonna make me c-cum.” anton whined flicking his tongue against one of your nipples as if to punctuate, “ugh, please.”

maybe about 30 more seconds of anton’s desperate whimpering pushed you over the edge. and you didn’t want to dwell to much on why this was, but it was surely one of the most pleasurable orgasms you had ever had. and the irregular clenching of your pussy around his dick was completely it for him. he pulled out of you cautiously and instead of jerking himself to completion all over your naked body, he was reduced to grinding against your wet pussy, panting and sighing until his own orgasm washed over him.

“shit, anton are you crying?” you cradled his face, wiping away a stray tear with your thumb. he couldn’t even reply — he was inside of you, but you fucked the shit out of him.

“i’m a fuckin’ mess. i think we might have some built up tension or something.” anton got up from where he was leant against your chest. he pulled his shorts up and flopped down into a dining chair, dropping his head down onto one of your thighs where your legs were hanging off the table.

you shifted from your position of sitting up on your elbows to laying your back flat on the kitchen table. “don’t even say that.”

“okay.”

the two of you sat in your silence. it was comfortable silence for you, you hoped it was for him too.

without moving from where he was laid on your thigh, anton’s hand tapped against your leg to grab your attention. “so was that horrible for you, or?”

you could only laugh. “shut the fuck up, anton.”

anton searched around for you , your drink and your purse in his hand , along with your phone in his pocket so he was unable to contact you , not like you’d hear him , your phone is constantly on dnd , he told you to stop doing that.

you were older than him , not that much but still noticeable; but anton still loved to take care of you , him being the older brother in his family made his caring nature coming out when it came to you. he loved taking care of you , and you being the younger sibling you liked being taken care of.

“baby.” he finally found you; sitting on a chair. “i told you to stay behind me while i got your drink.” he handed you the drink. “what happened.”

“my feet started to hurt.”

he sat in the seat next to you , holding your purse in his lap. “let me see.” that’s how you ended up in wearing his shoes that were 7 sizes too big for you , your heels dangling in his hands.

“is yn wearing your shoes?” sungchan asked , anton nodded. “her feet hurt , i just stole a pair of house shoes from shotaro.” he said. “i’m sure he won’t mind.”

you were getting hungry — so that was anton’s cue to grab all your belongings , saying goodbye to his friends before guiding you out of the house , helping you into the car , putting a blanket he kept in the car for you over your skirt. “comfortable?”

after getting you comfortable , he climbed onto the drivers seat , making sure the air was to your liking before he drove off. “what do you want to eat?”

his hand on your thigh , rubbing it softly as you went back in forth about what you want , smiling when you got frustrated. “you want me to pick?” already knowing the answer - you liked when he took control , so even watching him order at the drive through had your panties soaking.

“why are you looking at me like that?” he said, driving to the second window. “like you want to eat me.”

“it’s hot…” you started , eyeing him up in his seat. “when you take care of me.” he watched your eyes darken in real time.

his cheeks were red , he smiled as the worker handed him the food , driving off. “well i love taking care of you.” he said , squeezing your thigh , rubbing inside of his , his hand half way up your skirt — the tension in the car hotter now that you both gave off the silent alarm that you wanted each other… bad.

you were on him as soon as the door of your apartment closed. “baby.” he said through your kisses. “baby you need to eat first , you -fuck- you said you were hungry.” his words turning into moans as you kissed his neck.

“we can eat later.”

“no , baby we can eat now , don’t need you passing out , we both know that piece of chicken did nothing yesterday.” sometimes you hated when he took care of you. “eat.”

he watched you eat , telling you to slow down when you sped up do to his need , wiping your lip with his thumb — you wrapped your lips around his thumb . sucking on it. “fuck.”

he moved away seeing what you were doing. “baby stop being so needy , eat your food.” you groaned , finishing your food quickly making him laugh. “such a needy girl.”

he finally took you to your shared room , laying you on the bed. “been such a needy girl.” he kissed your calf as he pulled down your skirt; spreading your legs.

“look at how wet you are?” biting down on his lip. “you’re dripping.” rubbing you through your panties , you moaned.

“plea-please fuck me.”

“not yet princess.” pulling your panties down your legs , he lifted your hips up , throwing your legs over his shoulders , kissing in between your thighs. “want to eat your pretty pussy.”

feeling his lips on your cunt , licking your folds. “fuck tonie.” you tugged at his hair , he groaned against your pussy , your legs digging into his bag. “fuck that feels good.”

his plump lips wrapping around your tiny clit; you clutched the sheets. “you taste so fucking good.” he spit on your folds , licking a fat stripe up his folds. “such a pretty pussy.”

two of his fingers curling up inside you suddenly making your eyes widened , a loud moan falling from your lips as he fingered you. “ton.” you cursed. “m’gonna cum!”

“cum for me.” he sped up. “cum all over my fingers.”

his cock now begging to be released as you rode his fingers. “there we go.” he said softly , unbuckling his pants. “such a good girl.” he kissed your clit , pulling away to get rid of his clothes.

“you look so pretty , all fucked out for me.” rubbing his cock along your folds , pushing just his tip inside; you moaned. “you’re so pretty baby -fuck- sucking me in like this.”

he slowly pushed his cock in , stretching you out. “fuck.” he cursed , holding your waist as he fully bottomed out. “you’re so fucking tight.”

your cunt fluttered around his cock as he began to move , his cock sawing in and out of you. “tonie.”

“hmm.” he kised your neck , his cock hitting that spot , he smirked seeing your eyes roll back. “speak to me pretty , how can i help you?” his big hand coming to toy with your nipples.

“fa-faster..”

“faster?” he chuckled in your ear. “you want me to go faster?” you nodded , pleas fall from your cock drunk lips. “okay princess.”

his pace fastening , his name falling from your lips like a mantra. “you feeling good, baby?” you could barely understand what he was saying. “you gonna cum for me?”

“cum for me , be a good girl and cum.”

you came with his name on your lips , he cursed , cock twitching inside you as he reached his peak as well. “fuck.” his face dipping into your neck as he came down.

he took a good look at you , eyes glazed over. “you with me princess?” not getting an answer , you were too far gone. “it’s okay baby.” kissing your cheek.

“take your time , i’ll take care of you.”

“i always will.”

your body lies slack in bed, limbs clammy to the touch. the only thing that can be heard aside from your gentle exhaling is the humidifier perched in the corner of the bedroom. 

anton’s body is firm behind yours, static—until he begins to stir.

one of his long arms is heavy and drawn over your waist, his hand subconsciously drawing you impossibly closer at the hip until you’re pressed to his front. each twitch of his cock that’s now leaking and hard meets your backside. 

you’d had numerous conversations about exploring the world of somnophilia, you’d even gone as far as consenting. 

but the two of you had never tried it. 

in true anton fashion he felt like a monster laying at your side, plotting. compelled to wake you right in his moment because he was needy.

and although he felt awful, you know, about the fact that the first thing you’d hear today would be him asking if you’d satisfy his urges and let him fuck you, the ache of his cock nestled in the curve of your ass felt worse.

against his own discretion anton’s hips rut behind you, his heartbeat is sporadic at the thought of you waking up and seeing—or catching him like this. his eyes are heavy when he forces them open, only to squeeze them shut attempting to bypass the groan resting on the tip of his tongue. his cheeks burn with a crimson tinge as the wet patch on the crotch of his underwear expands. his entire body is scorching behind you as he cranes his neck, creating more surface area for the air con to graze.

your hips momentarily jolt backwards, a particularly breathy sigh that almost mimics a whimper falls from your lips. anton freezes, swearing that he heard you mumbling something.

but you don’t wake up, in fact your lower body falls motionless again.

a thin layer of sweat causes the lousy material of your pajamas to adhere to you like a second skin. 

writhing around in your sleep was unlike you—so was having a wet dream to be fair, although you weren’t entirely sure that you’d been dreaming this whole time.

truthfully your imagination could never replicate the weight of anton’s wandering hands on your upper body and the warmth of his mouth on your thighs.

your mind is hazy, eyes weighing the same as a stack of bricks. they almost burn when you open them for a split second to turn your head and check the time.

it's just shy of 6AM, which was certainly early by your own definition. but never too early to feel the broad presence of anton’s shoulders between your legs.

you feel an untamed mess tickling the insides of your thighs, anton’s figure forcing them wider and wider apart until the hinge of your hips start to ache due to the stretch so shortly after waking up.

“toni?” you call out, the yawn escaping your lips louder than your voice in volume.

no reply.

supple lips ghost the exposed skin of your knees, then the insides your thighs, leaving a wet spot behind each time there was a change in location.

your nipples harden when anton’s thumb brushes the underside of your bust. the anticipation has you covered in goosebumps, shoulders shuddering when he places a kiss to the waistband of your panties and nudges your clit with his nose. 

“fuck—are you serious?” you attempt to plead. the question is rhetorical, but a groan is drawn from the back of anton’s throat, muffled by your flesh. you crack an eye open, immediately lifting yourself onto your elbows to watch the disturbance.

“anton?” you urge again, voice barely any louder and rough with the remnants of sleep. 

still no response. 

just another kiss, this time it’s hot and open mouthed with lips puckered against your covered clit. then a kitten lick through the cotton barrier has you absentmindedly bucking your hips away from the mattress.

anton has no intentions to tease after already fondling you awake, two of his lengthy fingers swipe the crotch of your panties to the side and he has half a mind to smirk at the way you twitch, his knuckles brushing your puffy folds.

you’re panting in anticipation, lips parted and throat dry.

the first drag of anton’s fingers through your wetness has your back ached. your pussy begins leaking on command as if it were crying, pleading for more. hole puckering, practically a “welcome” sign.

“couldn’t even sleep,” anton murmurs, lips still ghosting the inside of your right thigh. “I needed you so bad, baby.” 

“i can tell.” you sigh, threading a hand through the mop of hair on his head and holding him impossibly closer to where you needed him “so badly”.

the same two digits from before are buried knuckle deep instantaneously, the way that anton hisses as he watches your cunt choke on his fingers is sinful.

“ohhh my god—toni, please!” you yelp, unsure what you’re asking for. 

you’d been asleep less than 5 minutes ago, so the combination of his fingers so deep inside and his lips continuing to travel up and down the expanse of your exposed skin has you struggling to form a coherent thought.

“how is it that you’re always this tight?” anton asks, eyes finding yours. the way his gaze reads innocence, as if he has no idea what he’s doing to you sends your mind into a frenzy. 

“d-don’t know—shit! i don’t know, just don’t stop!” you plead, head thrown back between your shoulders at the feeling of anton’s fingers curling upwards until they’re pointed back at him.

it doesn’t shock you all that you’re this close to cumming, not with the speed in which your boyfriend is stretching you out. your hips meet each flick of his wrist halfway, eager. abdomen tense as you fight to hold out. 

but it was useless.

a particularly hard thrust of anton’s fingers has your body jerking upright. your hips are hungrily bucking but his free hand is quicker, abandoning its assault on both your tits to anchor your lower body to the bed.

from this angle you can see the man below you in his entirety.

his hair is a mess, partially from how he’d slept and partially from the way you’d been using his head to for leverage. he’s in just a tank top and pajama pants, biceps flexed due to the hold he had on your hips.

but his hips were what possessed your wandering eyes.

anton’s rutting helplessly against the mattress beneath him, each whimper and sigh of relief to leave his mouth meets your cunt. 

the sight has you mindlessly spreading your legs even wider, eyes dewy and jaw dropped in awe as the grown man that was easily twice your size continued whimpering whilst getting off on playing in your pussy. 

anton’s mouth finds your clit, sucking until the skin is pulled taut between his lips. he releases momentarily with a faint “mwah” sound before pressing his tongue flat against the swollen pearl and bobbing his head up and down. 

the next noise to leave you is pornographic—arguably too loud to pair with the time that the digital clock on your nightstand reads. 

if you were capable of being any more conscious this early in the morning you’d feel a slight bit embarrassed. but right now the only thing you can focus on is the squelch of anton’s fingers as he simultaneously feasts on your clit.

“antonnn! nng—i can’t, i can’t!” you mewl, the hand in his hair contradicts your statement, holding him flush against you while your orgasm has you making a mess in the palm of his hand.

“i know, baby. i know.” anton coos, releasing your clit to utter the praise that barely meets your ringing ears. 

your chest heaves and your eyes are painfully heavy, but you pry them open when anton rises to his knees between your legs. he’s got one hand beside your head for balance and the other cradling your chin.

his lips meet yours for the first time this morning and you feel the pit of your stomach heat. the kiss is slow, a mixture of both your labored breathing. anton’s tongue is hot in your mouth, languid and precise in an attempt to completely merge with yours.

you’re chasing him when pulls away, only to drop your head onto the pillow beneath you in defeat.

you’re whimpering when you feel him press his hips forward, eyes fluttering at the weight of his rigid cock on the front of your panties that cling to your cunt shamelessly.

“you’re fucking huge.” you whisper, clit already paired with the heartbeat in your chest.

the only response you receive from anton is a smirk before he’s dry humping you again. his bottom lip caught between his teeth when he felt another bead of precum leak from the tip of his cock and onto the cotton beneath his pajamas.

then he’s leaning forward, until his head meets your shoulder, placing a tender kiss right beneath your ear.

“need to fuck you.” he pants as hips remain in motion. "it's been the only thing on my mind since i opened my eyes."

you’re nodding, unable to fix your lips to form a proper sentence.

that’s all anton needs to begin lowering the waistband of his pants just enough, tucking his fingers into the hem of your panties and tugging them down. he waits to hear the sound of them hitting the ground once you kick them off, then he’s fisting his cock and pumping it once, twice…three times. hissing at the lack of care in which he was gripping himself.

nudging him out of the way you take over. with one hand you barely cover half of what he was able to, but you can tell when anton’s hips buck forwards that he prefers your grasp over his own.

“y-you gotta stop.” he warns, stuttering when you squeeze. “or i’ll cum in your hand.”

huffing as if saying “fine.” you release your hold, hand moving to grip at his forearm next to your head.

using the hand that’s not supporting his weight he holds his cock at the base, circling your clit with the tip just to watch you squirm and hear your sounds of protest. 

then he’s easing himself forward, trembling with restraint as every vein in his neck and arms becomes visible. it takes everything in him not to force his hips flush against yours at once.

“anton—f-fuck!” you pant, back arched away from the bed. although it felt like he was fully inside, you could tell he wasn’t with the way he'd barely been able take a deep breath, his entire frame frozen above you.

one more fluid roll of his hips and you’re gasping, followed by a sob at the feeling of him bottoming out. 

“this…t-this—fuck! this is what i needed from you, baby.” anton pants, each of his thrusts deep, hips brutally slow in pace. 

“y—ah, so deep, i feel so full.” you moan, hand curled around his bicep. the pads of your fingers basically committing the feeling of his muscles flexing beneath your digits to memory. 

“yeah?” anton taunts, grinding his hips at an angle that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head and your mouth open so wide that you think you may drool when you start nodding in response.

“shit—are you splitting me in half?!” you cry, chest rising and falling rapidly.

the chuckle that leaves anton’s mouth is cut short by a strangled groan when your cunt spasms around his cock.

but his hips don’t falter. 

a large hand finds its way to your front, applying slight pressure to your stomach where the outline of anton’s cock comes and goes.

“can you feel me here?” he whispers, shoulders shuddering at the weight of his own hand pressed down on his cock through your gut.

you’re a mess, an array of “yes” and “oh my god” rushed from between your lips, similar to a chant.

“i’m gonna cum—anton, please!” you beg, doubtful that you’d be able to hold it in anyway due to your last orgasm having been minutes ago.

“i’m not stopping you, baby.” your boyfriend encourages. “c’mon give it to me.”

his hand finds its way between your legs once again, thumbing at your clit. the inflamed nob aches as you’re on the brink of overstimulation, but the burn is addictive and the knot in the stomach grows painfully tight.

you can’t warn anton again before you begin to milk his cock. your body goes rigid for a split second, mouth open. the breath you’d been trying to let out is caught in your throat, depriving you of oxygen momentarily.

your hips mindlessly move in tandem with anton’s, only stopping when your limbs begin to sting. the hand that has a hold on his arm, tightening in grip, enough to bruise.  

you let the man above use you as you attempt to catch your breath, cooing in contentment with each lick of praise you both exchange. his hips finally slow as he paints your insides, thrusts growing sloppier with each thick white rope of cum being stuffed back into your mess of a hole.

anton bottoms out one last time, strength waning. then he’s using both his hands to support his weight while he pulls out. you greedily whine at the loss inside, this only makes the nasty grin on his lips spread wider.

once he’s laying comfortably he waits for you to turn towards him, seeking his hold.

placing your head on his chest you crane your neck, placing another kiss on anton’s lips before your head rests on him again.

you intend to go back to sleep, already sensing the physical consequences of sex before the sun was fully up.

but you have one thing to say to your boyfriend before your eyes shut for the umpteenth time since they’d first opened.

you’re giggling before you fully ask, but your lips don’t curl in mockery. you’re genuinely curious.

“what was it, a wet dream?”

“if that would help my case, then yes. i had a wet dream.” anton says, cheeks rosy and eyes glued shut avoiding your gaze.

“next time—because i’m sure there will be a next time,” you start. your voice is embarrassingly low in volume when you pause in slight hesitation. 

the nights always felt longer without him. you lay on your back, phone resting on your chest, watching anton’s face glow faintly on the screen. his hair was a little messy, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue, but he was still smiling at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“you’re tired,” you said softly, even though your own voice carried exhaustion.

he shook his head. “i just don’t want to hang up yet.”

there was always this small stretch of silence after he said things like that. it wasn’t heavy or awkward, just full of something unspoken—the wanting that hung between you both. you loved him, he loved you, and yet the miles between you pressed against your chest like a weight you couldn’t push off.

he told you about his day, small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else: what he ate for lunch, the way the rain hit the practice room windows, the joke one of his friends made that he wished you had been there to laugh at too. you listened to every word like you were collecting them, storing them away for the nights you wouldn’t have him at all.

but even as you smiled, you felt that familiar hollow ache. love wasn’t the problem. the distance was. the way your bed always stayed cold on his side, the way you held your phone instead of his hand, the way you had to imagine his arms around you when you fell asleep.

he didn’t notice the way your smile faltered, too busy fighting sleep, eyes fluttering closed before he snapped them open again to look at you. “don’t go yet,” he mumbled, like a child refusing bedtime.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

and you meant it. but the thought still pressed at the edges of your mind—how long could you really keep this up? how many more nights of distance, of phone screens instead of skin?

the melancholy lingered, quiet but steady, as you listened to his breathing on the other end. sometimes you closed your eyes and pretended he was beside you, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. and when he finally was—when distance gave you a brief reprieve—the moments were fleeting, fragile things you tried to hold onto.

anton kissed you until his chest ached. your hands were clutching at his shirt, warm against his skin, and for a second, he thought he might lose himself in you completely.

but then the familiar weight settled in. the reminder that he wasn’t here enough, that he was about to leave again, that you spent more time waiting for him than actually with him.

anton pulled back, breath shaky, and forced a small smile. “sorry,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your cheek as if he could erase the disappointment before it formed.

you only nodded, resting your head against his shoulder. you didn’t say it, but anton felt the tension in your body—the way you had been ready for more, the way you would never ask for it.

later, lying in bed beside you, he stared at the ceiling instead of sleeping. your breathing was steady, soft against his chest, but his thoughts spun relentlessly.

anton wanted you. he always did. every time he looked at you, his chest ached with it, a need that went beyond anything physical. but it felt selfish to ask for more when he already gave you so little.

anton thought about the nights you spent alone, holding a phone instead of him. he thought about the time he wasted in airports, in practice rooms, in hotel beds miles away from your warmth. what kind of boyfriend was he? what kind of man?

anton’s hand twitched where it rested on your arm, wanting to pull you closer, to give in. but his guilt stopped him. he had already taken so much from you—your patience, time, your constant reassurance that distance didn’t matter. he didn't deserve to take more.

so anton kissed the top of your head instead, as if that would be enough, and shut his eyes.

you would never know how often he lay awake like this, staring into the dark and wishing he were different. wishing he wasn’t the boy who left you behind more often than he held you. wishing he could be brave enough to tell you how much he needed you, in every way.

but instead, anton told himself the same lie he always did: that holding back was better. that not asking too much of you was a kind of love too.

still, the ache in anton’s chest didn’t ease. it only grew heavier, settling deep into him, until sleep finally took him under.

you watch him on the screen, the glow of his lamp casting soft shadows across his face, and for a moment, the ache in your chest dulls. you lean closer, resting your elbow on the bed and your chin in your palm, smiling at him like it’s nothing, though your heart is pounding.

“i got something,” you say, holding up a small, delicate package. his eyes flicker with curiosity. “you’re going to like it.”

he smiles, a little tight, a little hesitant. “oh?”

you pull it out slowly, letting him see the shape, teasing just enough to make him lean forward. “but… i haven’t tried it on yet. i want you to see it first.” your voice is softer now, and a quiet thrill coils through you at the thought of his reaction.

anton freezes. his cheeks flush pink, eyes widening just slightly, and he opens his mouth, then closes it again, fumbling for words. your pulse quickens—exactly what you wanted—but there’s also that tiny shadow at the edges of it, that hesitation that always lingers.

“you… you mean, now?” he stammers finally, his voice low, almost breathless.

you bite your lip, trying to keep your tone playful, but the tremor in your chest betrays you. “well… not really now,” you say, letting your words hover. “soon. just… imagine it, okay? imagine me in it, for you.”

his hands curl into fists at the edge of the desk, knuckles white, and his throat moves as he swallows. “i… i do,” he murmurs, barely audible, and then his gaze drops. the flush in his ears deepens, and he glances away, like he can’t meet you head-on.

you laugh softly, a little breathless, trying to shake off the disappointment crawling through you. it was supposed to be fun, meant to draw him out, make him want you like you wanted him. but instead… it’s a timid reaction, careful, restrained, and it leaves a hollow ache in your chest that mirrors the distance you feel even now.

he’s blushing, he’s flustered, he’s clearly affected by you. but it isn’t enough. it’s never quite enough, and your mind spins with the same persistent doubt: does he miss you the way you miss him? does he want you as much as you want him?

“anton?” you ask softly, tilting your head. he meets your eyes for a moment, and the sight of him—shy, vulnerable, longing—should be enough. but your chest tightens, and the melancholy hums through you like a song you can’t remember the lyrics to.

“yeah?” he whispers, voice tentative, fragile.

“i just… i can’t wait to see you,” you say, trying to hide the edge of longing that sharpens the words. “soon.”

he nods, swallow hard. his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile, but his eyes carry the weight of everything unspoken—the guilt, the restraint, the fear that he’ll never be enough for you.

you end the call soon after, leaving the screen dark, the room quiet. you lie back against the pillow and let your hands fall to your sides, thinking about how much you want him, how much you ache for him, and how sometimes, even love isn’t enough to fill the distance.

and somewhere, miles away, anton stares at the ceiling again, restless, wishing he could close the space between you—if only for a night, if only to prove you that he does, in fact, want you more than anything.

the memory of the facetime call from last night gnaws at you, sweet and frustrating all at once. the blush on his cheeks, the shy stammering, the way he turned away—it should have been intoxicating, proof of his yearning. but instead it leaves a hollow ache that spreads through your chest, heavy and gray. you wonder if he really misses you, if he wants you the way you want him.

your fingers linger on the set you bought for him, tucked in the drawer. you imagined wearing it for him, imagined the way he might react, imagined the way he might need you as much as you need him. but now, the thought only makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. maybe he wouldn’t feel it the way you do.

so you leave it untouched, slipping it back into the drawer. today he’s coming, and the thought of him makes your chest both ache and constrict, but you don’t want to tempt disappointment. you don’t want to give him anything to misunderstand—or worse, for him to not respond the way your heart hopes he will.

the air smells damp, faintly of asphalt and something distant you can’t quite name. it presses against your skin, heavy and still, as though the world has slowed just enough to hold its breath. the hours stretch, gray and slow, like the rain outside has seeped inside and softened the edges of everything. your mind circles, turning over memories and half-formed fears, until you barely notice the knocks at the door.

he’s there, drenched slightly, the edges of his hair sticking to his forehead, eyes bright with something you can’t immediately read. he smells like rain and him, and it makes your chest ache.

“i missed you so much,” he says, closing the distance in one quick step and wrapping you in his arms. you feel the warmth, the pressure, the desperation in the hug—everything you’ve been craving for weeks.

but something in you hesitates. you stay still, letting him hold you, but you don’t curl into him like you always do. you keep your hands at your sides, and when he tightens his hold, it only makes the hollow ache in your chest feel heavier.

“i missed you too,” you say softly, and the words feel small, almost empty, even as your throat tightens. you close the door behind him slowly, the dampness of the apartment curling around both of you like a muted fog. the familiar scent of rain clinging to his coat, mingling with his cologne, should feel comforting—and yet it only reminds you how far apart you’ve been, how much space still exists between the two of you even when he’s finally here.

normally, you would move with him into the bedroom, brushing around his bags, sliding behind him to wrap your arms around him from behind as he set them down. the gesture was automatic, comforting, a rhythm you shared without thought. today, though, you linger in the doorway, your fingers pressed lightly against the frame, anchoring yourself. you feel unsteady, as if stepping fully toward him might collapse something fragile inside you.

anton’s steps slow as he notices your hesitation. his eyes search yours, cautious and gentle, tracing the tension in your shoulders, the subtle stiffness in your posture. the apartment is quiet, save for the distant patter of rain on the windows, and in that quiet, the air between you feels almost tangible—heavy, hesitant, as if it could solidify into something unmovable if either of you made the wrong gesture.

he tilts his head slightly, a question forming in his eyes, but it remains unspoken, hovering in the gray light. he takes a careful step closer, measuring, as if approaching too fast might shatter the fragile calm you both cling to.

you inhale shakily, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to steady your racing heart. the weight of your uncertainty presses down like a quiet storm, and your chest aches in the way it always does when longing collides with doubt.

when you finally open your eyes, anton is fully turned toward you, his expression a mixture of longing and worry, soft and hesitant. the concern in his gaze digs into you, and your chest tightens even more, because you know he can sense that something is off—that the gray tension is yours and his fault all at once.

he doesn’t speak yet, doesn’t step closer, but the quiet intensity of him there, waiting for you to bridge the gap, makes your breath catch. the room feels suspended, holding its breath with you both, waiting for the first word, the first move, to break the silence.

you take a shaky breath, and for a moment the silence stretches between you like a living thing. anton shifts slightly, hands hanging at his sides, eyes never leaving yours. the rain outside drums softly against the windows, a rhythm that seems to echo the tight, anxious beat of your heart.

“i… i think we should take a break,” you whisper, barely audible even to yourself. the words feel foreign on your tongue, heavy and wet, like something you shouldn’t be saying. you keep your eyes closed, hoping that somehow they’ll carry less weight if you can’t see his reaction.

anton freezes, and the shift in him is immediate. his chest tightens, and you can see the moment his mind races, trying to catch the meaning behind your words before it lands fully. the weight of fear settles in his gaze, that same fear he’s always carried—that he’s not enough, that he’s failing you even when he’s trying his hardest.

“why?” his voice cracks, small, fragile, desperate. “is it something i did?”

you hear the tremor, and it twists something deeper in your chest. your eyelids flutter, but you keep them closed, letting the tears come freely now. you can’t stop them. the dam you’ve been holding back for weeks breaks at once, spilling everything you’ve been holding inside.

“do… do you not love me anymore?” he asks, voice shaking as he steps closer, reaching for you but hesitating. every movement is careful, hesitant, as though the wrong gesture might push you farther away instead of closer.

you shake your head, letting the tears fall freely. “no,” you whisper through sobs, voice cracking. “i love you so much. i love you more than anything.”

but saying it doesn’t stop the ache. it doesn’t erase the fear you’ve carried: the gnawing thought that he doesn’t feel it as fiercely as you do, the quiet doubt that maybe his love isn’t enough to keep you whole across the distance.

anton’s hand brushes yours, tentative, almost as if testing whether you’ll pull away. when you don’t, he moves it gently, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking along the curve as he leans in slightly. his own tears streak down his face now, unrestrained, betraying the guilt that’s been his constant companion—the fear that he’s a bad boyfriend, that he’s not giving you enough of himself.

“then… what’s the matter?” he whispers, voice raw and urgent. “what’s wrong? how can i fix this?”

you tilt your head into his touch, pressing your palm against his chest as if to anchor yourself. your tears soak his shirt, but you don’t care. you can’t stop the sobs, can’t stop the tightness in your chest. “it’s… it’s the distance. and… i think about… about you holding back, about how you never… never take more of me when you could. and it makes me feel like… like you don’t want me the way i want you.”

anton’s lips part, and he shakes his head, his own chest trembling. “no,” he says quickly, almost desperate. “i… i do. i want you. more than anything. i just… i think i’m not… good enough. i think i’m taking too much from you already, and i…” he swallows hard, voice catching. “…i don’t want to hurt you.”

the words cut through the gray tension, sharp but honest, and you press your forehead to his chest, letting your body lean into him as your walls crumble completely. he wraps his arms around you tightly, as though he can physically hold the ache away, and you cling to him just as fiercely.

“i don’t want you to think i don’t want you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your hair. “i need you… more than anything.”

you let out a shaky laugh between sobs, burying your face against him. “then… then don’t hold back anymore,” you whisper. “please.”

you feel him tilt his head down, brushing his lips against the top of your hair, over your temple, down your cheek. every touch is deliberate, hesitant, like he’s memorizing you all over again, imprinting you into his memory after months apart. your fingers tighten in his hair, nails grazing the scalp, anchoring yourself to him, to this fragile, trembling reality.

he shifts slightly, hands sliding down to your waist, holding you close but careful, almost afraid to claim more than what you’ve given willingly. and in that carefulness, in that restraint, the ache in your chest twists—a mixture of longing, frustration, and relief. relief that he’s here, frustration that he can’t let go entirely, longing that makes your lips tremble as you press them into his chest.

“i’ve missed this,” he murmurs, voice low, almost broken. “i’ve missed you. all of you.”

you tilt your head up to look at him, tears still clinging to your lashes, and the sight of him—flushed, hair damp from the rain, eyes shimmering with the same grief and need that lives in your own chest—makes your heart squeeze painfully. “i’ve missed you too,” you whisper, but the words feel like they’ll never capture the depth of everything inside you.

he presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling, and finally, you feel the first thread of permission to let go. his hands move just a little lower, fingertips tracing over the curve of your hips, tentative but intentional, as if asking for consent in every movement. you nod slightly, leaning into him, giving yourself entirely to the moment, to the warmth, to the ache dissolving in the closeness.

the gray stillness of the apartment—the damp, the rain, the lingering hesitation—begins to soften around you. your lips brush his again, this time slower, deeper, tasting the months apart, tasting relief and need and love all at once. his hands move with growing confidence now, gathering you closer, and you let out a soft moan, the sound trembling and raw, echoing the release that’s been building inside for weeks.

he lifts you gently, pressing your body against his, and you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him carry you toward the bed. each step is heavy with desire and tenderness, each movement a careful balancing act between restraint and urgency. you feel the tremor in his chest through your palms, and it mirrors your own heartbeat, rapid and uneven.

when he finally lays you down, hovering above you, the grayness that clung to the edges of the room still hums softly in the background, but it no longer presses in. the rain’s patter against the windows becomes a rhythm, a quiet accompaniment to the intimacy unraveling between you.

his lips meet yours again, more urgently this time, and you let yourself answer in kind. hands trace arms, shoulders, and finally the curve of his back, memorizing, claiming, giving in. the months of longing, the ache of distance, the quiet doubts—they all melt into this single, trembling closeness.

and as he holds you, as you press into him, you realize that even through distance, through restraint, through everything that felt gray and heavy, the tether between you hasn’t broken. it’s stronger, rawer, and now tangible, warming the spaces that have felt cold for too long.

you let out a shuddering sigh, forehead pressed to his chest again, and in that quiet, intimate heartbeat, you understand: even across miles, even across months of restraint, even across gray hesitation, the two of you are still here, still aching for one another, still irrevocably tethered.

anton hovers above you, eyes dark, lips slightly parted, hands trembling even as they hover near your shoulders. the weight of longing in him makes your chest tighten; you can feel how badly he wants you, and it makes your own need flare sharper.

slowly, deliberately, you let your fingers trace the line of his jaw, tilt his head toward you. “anton,” you whisper, voice husky, “please…”

he nods, barely, as if your permission is a tether keeping him from collapsing under the weight of desire. his hands move cautiously, but each motion is filled with reverence. he slides the straps of your top down your shoulders, lingering on the warmth of your skin, pausing to press a feather-light kiss where the fabric falls away. every motion is careful, almost worshipful, as if he’s memorizing you in fragments before he can claim you fully.

you shiver under his touch, letting him guide you, letting the slow unraveling of clothing be part of the surrender. when your bra falls away, his hands cup you gently, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin, and you arch into him, letting out a soft breathless sound. your fingers thread into his hair, tangling slightly, anchoring yourself to him as he leans closer.

anton hesitates for a heartbeat, glancing down at you, lips pressed together in that familiar mixture of shyness and want. then, slowly, he lifts his own shirt over his head, revealing the taut lines of his abdomen, the muscles you’ve memorized from pictures and fleeting glimpses. instinctively, your hand slides down over him, tracing the curve of his stomach, feeling him in a way that has nothing to do with distance or hesitation.

his lips find your bare chest, soft and reverent at first, and you tilt your head back, fingers threading through his hair as your other hand roams across his back, over the ridges of muscle, pressing, tracing, squeezing gently at his biceps. he moans softly into you, shaky, the sound vibrating through your chest. every tremor in him echoes the same tremor you feel in yourself.

“i’ve wanted this,” he murmurs against your skin, voice breaking, “so much… you don’t know…”

you grip his shoulders lightly, drawing him closer, letting him feel the weight of your need as clearly as he feels his own. your lips brush against his jaw, your forehead against his temple, and every sigh, every touch, every whispered word carries the months of distance, the quiet ache, the longing that neither of you could release until now.

his hands roam, slow and deliberate, memorizing the feel of you, mapping every curve, every hollow, every tremble that answers him in kind. the intimacy is slow, deliberate—more than desire, more than lust. it is confession, release, recognition of the ache you’ve carried apart from each other, now surrendered entirely in the quiet gray room.

you tilt your head back again as he kisses up your torso, letting your hands trail down his back, squeezing gently at the breadth of his shoulders, the strength you’ve imagined in your solitude, now tangible beneath your touch. he trembles against you, shivering, and you let your own body mirror him, fingers tracing the muscles, hands clenching, soft gasps breaking past your lips.

your hand drifts down, brushing against his, and you guide him deliberately, pressing his fingers where you need him most. your voice is soft, tremulous, carrying all the ache you’ve been holding back. “it’s all for you,” you whisper, “everything… for you.”

his groan vibrates against your chest, low and raw, and you feel the heat of him pressing against you. your hand traces over the outline of his length through his pants, feeling the undeniable hardness, the proof of how badly he wants you, how badly he’s needed you all along.

“you can go ahead,” you coo, breathless, tilting your head to meet his gaze. your lips curve into a small, shaky smile, and your voice softens, coaxing: “i’ve been ready for you.”

his eyes darken, longing and relief mingling, and he doesn’t hesitate. the slow, deliberate care in which he moves mirrors everything you’ve been waiting for—every restrained touch, every shared moment of absence now unleashed in full.

when he enters you, it’s slow and careful. each movement is deliberate, almost sacred, giving both of you time to adjust, to feel, to acknowledge the months of longing, the ache of absence, and the quiet hunger that has been building between you.

“i… i love you,” he murmurs, breathless, voice breaking slightly as he moves. “so much. i’m sorry i’ve made you wait.”

your chest tightens, and you tilt your head up to press your lips against his shoulder. “i love you too,” you whisper back, voice trembling. “i’m yours… forever.”

he groans softly, and the sound vibrates through both of you. “forever… i’ve wanted this forever,” he says, each word heavy with need and confession.

you wrap your arms around his neck, legs curling instinctively around him, anchoring yourself to him, letting him feel your need just as clearly as you feel his. “anton… i’m yours too,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “all of me. always.”

his hands move along your body, slow and reverent, memorizing the curves and hollows, every inch, every shiver and sigh. “you’re mine,” he whispers, pressing you closer.

you tremble under his touch, letting out soft moans that mix with the wet sound of him moving inside you. “i forgive you,” you say, voice shaky but certain. his lips press against your shoulder, nuzzling, and he groans again. your hands thread through his hair, down his back, clutching at him as if you could anchor yourself entirely in him, letting go of everything that has kept you restrained.

and when he finally collapses against you, forehead pressed to yours, arms wrapped tightly, both of you shivering and spent, the gray has finally lifted. only warmth remains—tethered warmth, solid and real, the proof that even distance, restraint, and longing could never diminish the bond between you.

the rain has softened outside, the patter against the windows now a gentle rhythm, a background to the warmth that fills the apartment. anton lies beside you, one arm draped over your waist, the other tangled in your hair, holding you close as if he’s afraid you might slip away again.

you nuzzle against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and a soft laugh escapes you. “you’re warm,” you murmur, voice still husky from everything, “and heavy… and perfect.”

anton groans, pretending to scowl, but the corners of his mouth twitch into a grin. “and yours,” he teases, fingers brushing along your back. “always yours, right?”

“always,” you whisper, smiling into him, tilting your head up to press your lips to his collarbone. “my toni,” you murmur softly, a playful lilt in your tone that makes his chest tighten in delight.

“hey,” he chuckles, lifting his head just enough to look down at you, eyes glittering. “did you just call me that? your toni?”

you nod, biting your lip slightly, eyes sparkling. “yeah… i like it. sounds cute, don’t you think?”

anton shakes his head, laughing softly, shaking off the intensity of the earlier moments. “cute,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. “cute and mine.” he presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek. “so… can i see you in that new set later?”

your cheeks flush at the mention, and you nuzzle against him again, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants playfully. “maybe,” you whisper, voice teasing. “but only if you promise to behave until then.”

he pretends to gasp, mock-offended, before pulling you closer. “behave? me? impossible,” he murmurs, voice low, warm, teasing. “but… i can try… for you.”

you laugh softly, curling against him, letting your fingers trace idle patterns along his chest and shoulders. “i think you’ll try really hard,” you tease, “and then probably fail spectacularly.”

anton presses a soft kiss to your forehead, humming against your hair. he brushes a strand of hair from your face, voice soft, teasing, and full of affection. “you know, toni’s very happy you’re here. and he can’t wait to see more of you later…”

you giggle, rolling your eyes playfully, “you mean toni can’t wait to get into trouble with me?”

“exactly,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your temple, pulling you impossibly close. “but only with you. always only with you.”

riize m.list

you: im eating ramyeon  

the reply came after a minute.  

anton: thats good  

simple, like always. you typed again.  

you: wyd?

anton: im studying  

you stared at the screen for a second, the blue light reflecting off your eyes. third-year political science at snu wasn't a joke. anton spent most of his days buried in books or in the library, prepping for discussions on international relations or whatever dense theory they threw at them that week. he was soft-spoken when he talked to you, gentle even, always answering your texts even if it was just a short line. but you knew better than to ask him to drop everything and come over every time. he always found his way back eventually, though, slipping into your routine like he belonged there.  

you didn't push tonight. instead, you finished the ramyeon, tossed the cup, and scrolled through messages. sungchan's text popped up from earlier. his apartment party tonight. nothing huge, just a bunch of his friends from different majors blowing off steam mid-semester. sungchan had become your friend through anton somehow, the three of you hanging out enough times that invitations extended to you even when anton was swamped.  

you didn't tell anton. he was studying, and you didn't want to pull him away or make it seem like you expected him to babysit your social life. you threw on jeans and a simple top, grabbed your jacket, and headed out. the subway ride to sungchan's place near campus was quick, the car half-empty at this hour.  

sungchan's apartment was already buzzing when you arrived. music thumped low from a speaker in the living room, not too loud but enough to feel the bass. about twenty people scattered around—some on the couch arguing over a game, others in the kitchen mixing drinks from whatever bottles were on the counter. sungchan spotted you right away, waving you in with that easy grin of his.  

"hey, you made it. grab a drink, yeah? everyone's chill tonight."  

his friends were the usual mix: loud but friendly, the kind who pulled you into conversations without making it awkward. you danced a bit in the cleared space near the speaker, nothing crazy, just moving to the rhythm while holding a plastic cup of soju mixed with something sweet. a couple shots went down easy, warming your chest. the room felt alive in that typical college way—laughs cutting through the music, someone yelling about a recent exam fail.  

you were in the middle of the small dance area, half-laughing at a story one of the girls was telling, when a hand landed on your waist from behind. not aggressive at first, but definitely trying to pull you closer. you shifted, trying to turn and see who it was, but the crowd pressed in a little and the guy didn't let go right away.  

"hey, come on—" you started, voice steady but annoyed.  

"that's enough."  

the voice cut through clear, low and even. you knew it immediately. anton. he wasn't shouting, wasn't making a scene, but the tone left no room for argument. his face was blank when you finally turned— no smile, no soft look he usually saved for you. just a tight jaw and eyes hidden behind those thin-framed glasses he wore when he read late.  

he reached out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, not rough but firm enough to guide. you let him tug you through the room toward the short hallway that led to the bathroom. people glanced but didn't say much; sungchan's parties had their moments, and everyone knew anton was the quiet type anyway. the restroom door clicked shut behind you, the music muffling to a distant hum.  

the small space felt even smaller with both of you in it. a single bulb overhead cast warm light on the tiled walls. you pulled your arm back gently, heart picking up for reasons that weren't just the drinks.  

"anton, wait— it's not what it looked like. that guy just came up, i was about to—"  

he didn't interrupt with words at first. instead, he adjusted his glasses with one hand, pushing them up the bridge of his nose like he did when he was trying to collect his thoughts after a long study session. his other hand stayed near your arm, not holding anymore but close. the blank expression cracked just a bit— not anger exactly, but something tighter, frustrated in that quiet way he carried everything.  

"i know," he said finally, voice soft but edged. "saw it from the door. still didn't like it."  

you opened your mouth to explain more, but he stepped closer. the air between you shifted, heavy with the faint scent of his usual detergent mixed with the night outside. his jaw flexed once, visible even under the light stubble he sometimes forgot to shave during crunch weeks. then his hand came up, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing near your cheekbone.  

no big declaration. just the way he looked at you for a beat, like the studying and the distance and the random guy had worn through the usual gentleness for a second. he leaned in slow, giving you time, but when his lips met yours it wasn't tentative.  

the kiss started firm, his mouth warm and insistent in a way that didn't match the soft-spoken guy who texted back short replies. you tasted the faint mint from whatever gum he chewed to stay awake during all-nighters. his free hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him as he backed you gently toward the sink counter. glasses fogged a little from the closeness.  

you kissed back, hands sliding up to his shoulders, feeling the tension there from hours hunched over political theory texts. it deepened quick— tongues brushing, a quiet sound escaping him when you nipped at his bottom lip. his jaw moved under your fingers as he angled his head, kissing harder, like he needed to remind both of you why he came crawling back every time. one hand left your face to grip the edge of the counter beside you, steadying himself. the other stayed at your waist, thumb pressing in just enough.  

"fuck..." he muttered against your mouth, pulling back half an inch to adjust his glasses again. they were crooked now, lenses slightly smudged. he looked at you, breath a little uneven, the blank mask gone and replaced with that familiar softness mixed with something hotter. his lips were flushed, hair a bit messier from your fingers.  

you caught your own breath, the party noise still faint outside the door. "you were supposed to be studying."  

"i was." his voice stayed low, almost a whisper. "got your last text. then sungchan mentioned you were here. couldn't focus after that."  

he didn't apologize for showing up or for the tug to the bathroom. just leaned in again, slower this time, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth before trailing to your jaw. it wasn't rushed or dramatic—just real, the kind of moment that happened when two people orbiting each other in busy college lives finally collided. his hand slid up your back under your top, palm warm against skin, while you tugged lightly at the collar of his hoodie.  

outside, someone laughed loud in the living room, a glass clinked. inside, it stayed just the two of you for a little longer, the makeout easing from that initial edge into something steadier, his gentleness creeping back in between the heavier kisses. anton wasn't the type for big scenes. he was the guy who studied late, answered texts simply, and showed up quiet when it mattered.  

anton didn’t waste time. his hand was still around your wrist when he turned you around to face the sink, your hips pressing against the cool edge of the counter. the mirror in front of you fogged slightly from the warmth of the small room and your quick breaths. he stepped right behind you, chest to your back, and kept kissing you—mouth hot on the side of your neck, then moving to your jaw, then lower to the collarbone where your top had slipped a little.  

his lips were firm, a little urgent, the kind of kisses that came from hours of holding back while buried in textbooks. you felt his breath against your skin, warm and uneven.  

“anton… wait,” you said quietly, voice catching as his hand slid under your top. “not here. they’re right outside.”  

he didn’t stop. when his mind locked onto something, he could be stubborn like that—quietly, without raising his voice or making it dramatic. he just hummed low against your neck, the sound vibrating through you.  

“i know,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “but i saw that guy’s hand on you. didn’t like it.” his voice stayed soft, almost gentle even now, but there was an edge underneath. “just need a minute with you.”  

you tried to turn your head to look at him, but he kept you facing the mirror, one hand on your waist holding you steady while the other worked the button of your jeans. the denim slid down your hips with a realistic tug—his fingers a little clumsy from the angle and the heat of the moment, but determined. cool air hit your skin as the fabric pooled around your thighs.  

“anton—”  

“shh,” he whispered, not mean, just focused. his hand slipped between your legs, fingers finding you already warm and slick from the drinks and the sudden closeness. he rubbed slow circles at first, gentle pressure that made your knees feel unsteady. “you’re so wet already.”  

a small sound escaped you and you gripped the edge of the sink. he kept going, fingers playing, teasing the spot that made your breath hitch. then he slid one finger in, slow and careful, curling it just right. you arched slightly, back pressing into his chest. the movement made you lean more over the sink, and anton followed, leaning down with you so his body stayed flush against yours.  

“fuck… you feel good,” he said under his breath, voice low and a little rougher than usual. he added a second finger, pumping steadily, the wet sound quiet but unmistakable in the small bathroom. his thumb kept rubbing outside, building it up. “been thinking about you all night instead of my readings.”  

you breathed out a shaky laugh, trying to keep quiet. “you were supposed to be studying… not showing up here and doing this.”  

“couldn’t focus after sungchan said you were coming,” he admitted, lips back on your neck, sucking lightly. “kept picturing you here, dancing, someone else trying to touch you.” his fingers moved faster, curling deeper. “this is mine tonight.”  

your legs trembled a little and you felt the pressure building quick— the alcohol loosening everything, his steady touch doing the rest. you came with a quiet gasp, hips jerking against his hand, one palm slapping lightly on the mirror for balance. anton didn’t pull away right away. he kept his fingers inside you through it, slowing but not stopping until the waves eased.  

when he finally slid them out, he brought them up to your mouth. “open,” he said softly. you did, tasting yourself on his fingers as he pushed them past your lips. his eyes met yours in the foggy mirror. “good girl. always so good for me.”  

he kissed your temple, gentle now, while you caught your breath. you were sweaty, hair sticking a little to your forehead, cheeks flushed. anton’s free hand moved between you, unbuckling his belt with a metallic clink that sounded loud in the quiet space. he pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough, his cock hard and warm against your ass.  

“sorry,” he whispered, voice back to that soft-spoken tone, almost apologetic even while he lined himself up. “i know it’s not the best place… but i need you right now.”  

you nodded, still breathing hard. “just… be quick. someone might knock.”  

he pressed in slowly, careful at first, a low groan escaping him as he sank deeper. “shit… you’re tight.” his hand gripped your hip, steadying both of you. once he was fully in, he paused, forehead resting against the back of your shoulder. “you know you can call me anytime, right? huh?”  

you let out a small breathy sound as he started moving, slow thrusts at first. “yeah… i know.”  

“good. because i’ll come crawling back to you every time,” he said, voice low against your ear, punctuating the words with a deeper push. “doesn’t matter how many readings i have. doesn’t matter if it’s late. i’ll be here.”  

the rhythm built gradually—realistic, not perfect, the angle a little awkward over the sink but it worked. his hips snapped forward steadily, one hand sliding up your back under your top while the other stayed on your hip. the sound of skin meeting skin was muffled by your bodies pressed close.  

“feels good?” he asked quietly, breath warm on your neck. “tell me.”  

“yeah… fuck, anton, right there,” you answered, voice hushed. you pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. “don’t stop.”  

he didn’t. he kept going, pace picking up just enough, glasses slipping down his nose again. he adjusted them quickly with one hand without breaking rhythm. “you’re so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured. “all flushed and taking me in sungchan’s bathroom.” a small, almost shy laugh escaped him at how ridiculous it sounded, but he didn’t slow down. “never thought i’d be doing this tonight instead of highlighting articles on foreign policy.”  

you smiled despite the heat, gripping the sink tighter. “you’re such a nerd… even when you’re inside me.”  

“your nerd,” he corrected softly, kissing the side of your jaw again. he reached around with his free hand, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in time with his thrusts. “come on, baby. one more time. i want to feel you again.”  

the second orgasm hit you harder, legs shaking as you clenched around him. anton groaned low, burying his face in your neck to muffle it. a few more thrusts and he followed, hips stuttering as he came inside you, breathing heavy against your skin.  

he stayed there for a moment, both of you catching your breath, his arms loosely around you. the party noise filtered back in—someone laughing in the distance, music still playing. he pulled out carefully, grabbing some tissue from the counter to clean you up first, then himself. his movements were gentle again, the stubborn heat fading back into that quiet care.  

“you okay?” he asked, voice soft as he helped pull your jeans back up, buttoning them for you. his glasses were still a little crooked, hair messy, cheeks pink.  

you turned around to face him properly now, fixing his glasses for him with your fingers. “yeah. a little sweaty. you?”  

“better,” he said, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “sorry if i got carried away. just… didn’t like seeing someone else touch you.”  

“i know. it was nothing,” you told him, smoothing his hoodie. “but next time text me before you show up like a jealous boyfriend.”  

he gave a small smile, the soft one that made his eyes crinkle a bit. “not boyfriend yet. but i can be. if you want.”  

the words hung there, simple and real, no big confession under dramatic lighting. just anton, 21, third-year poli sci, buried in books most days, standing in a bathroom at his friend’s party with you after fucking you over the sink because he couldn’t stay away.  

he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “want to stay longer or head out? i can walk you back. or we can go somewhere quieter if you’re not done with me yet.”  

you were too tired to care the first time you saw him.

it was past seven, and everything outside grew darker as the sun set. the train coach smelled faintly of damp coats and old air conditioning. you’d just finished your last class of the week, eyes dry from staring at slides for hours, your shoulders aching under the weight of your tote... all you wanted was to lean against the cool glass and zone out until your stop. that’s when you noticed him.

a tall guy, maybe early twenties... your age. leaning casually against the wall near the far doors. black hoodie, plain jeans, one hand loosely hooked into his pocket. his face was unfairly sharp for someone you’d see on public transport. hair falling into his eyes, cheekbones high, the kind of bone structure you’d expect from a campus heartthrob or some underground model. a handsome stranger. that was all you thought. your stop came, and you forgot about him.

but the next time you boarded, there he was again. same coach. same spot. same hoodie.

you thought it was a coincidence. you even caught yourself glancing over once or twice, just to check. he didn’t smile, didn’t look away when your eyes met, just watched you with an unreadable focus. it wasn’t the kind of stare that tried to be polite or quick. it lingered, like he was cataloging you piece by piece.

the following night, you noticed the little things. how he didnt have a bag with him, despite it being late enough that most people were heading home from either work or school. the way he boarded from the same door you did, no matter which station you got on from. the way he stood far enough to never touch you, yet close enough that you could hear the faint shift of fabric whenever he adjusted his stance.

when you stepped onto the train again the next day, your chest tightened. different hoodie this time, dark grey instead of black, but he stood in the same posture, eyes flicking to you like he’d been waiting. you told yourself you were imagining it. big city. busy nights. people overlapped all the time.

and yet… there was that moment, when the train rattled through a tunnel and you caught his reflection in the window beside you. he wasn’t pretending to look elsewhere. he wasn’t pretending at all. his gaze stayed on you... unblinking.

another night came, the pattern repeated. you were already tense before you even saw him. the station platform was unusually quiet, just the hum of the escalator and the faint echoes of footsteps. you told yourself not to check. don’t look for him. don’t give yourself more reasons to feel paranoid. but when the train doors slid open, there he was. same seat, same demeanor. watching you step in like it was routine. you sat two rows down, pulling your bag onto your lap, pretending to scroll through your phone. your eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but you could feel it. the prickling awareness of being seen.

then you heard it. at first you thought it was the hiss of the train brakes or the mumble of someone’s music bleeding from their headphones. but no… his voice was low, soft, almost too quiet to catch.

“…pretty… so tired tonight…”

your stomach dropped. was he talking to you? you looked up, and his gaze didn’t waver. lips moving faintly, his tone just above the clatter of the tracks.

“…mm… wanna see you… closer…”

you couldn’t be sure. maybe it wasn’t meant for you. maybe he was on a call. but his hands were empty, no phone, no earbuds. just that soft, muttered thread of words. like he wasn’t speaking to you exactly, but to himself… about you.

you tried really hard to ignore him let yourself sink further into the seat, body heavy with exhaustion, but then a lady stepped in. pregnant. her hands resting protectively over her rounded belly. the sight made guilt stab through your chest. you hated how your first thought was selfish, how badly you wanted to stay sitting, how the ache in your legs begged you not to move. it felt mean, wrong, but you couldn’t ignore it. with a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself up, every muscle protesting. you forced a small smile at her as you passed, then made your way near the door, planting yourself against it for support.

you only closed your eyes for a few minutes when you realized the mystery guy got closer. you didn’t notice until you felt the warmth of someone behind you and the faint rustle of his jacket when the train swayed. he didn’t touch you, not really… but when you glanced over your shoulder, his head tilted the slightest bit, like he’d been leaning just enough to catch the scent of your shampoo.

your gaze should’ve snapped away, but it didn’t. it dipped lower, catching the unmistakable shape of his hand pressed flat against himself. he wasn’t hiding it. his palm cupped the heavy outline straining beneath the dark fabric of his sweatpants, fingers flexing like he couldn’t stop himself. the movement was deliberate… up, down, squeezing along the bulge of his cock like he was testing how hard he’d gotten just from standing this close to you. you saw the way his knuckles tightened, how his hips twitched forward almost subtly, dragging his length against his own hand.

that was when you noticed it. looped to his belt, half hidden under his hoodie. a faded lanyard, the kind given out by campuses. the ID card inside was scratched, edges cloudy, but the print was still legible. Anton Lee.

the name stuck in your head, sharp as a splinter. anton. not just a stranger anymore.

heat rose in your face, a sick, crawling kind of awareness rooting you in place. around you, the train rattled, people shifted, no one noticed. but you saw it. you saw the way his jaw clenched, a thin breath shuddering from his chest as he ground his palm down slow, like he was savoring it. then, he mouthed something. you couldn’t hear it over the chatter, but you could read it.

don’t get off alone.

it sent a chill down your spine. his voice was quiet, but the intent was clear. your instincts screamed for you to run, to escape his intoxicating presence. you didn’t want to engage, didn’t want to acknowledge what lay beneath the surface of this interaction.

your stop came. people filtered out around you, and you didn’t look back. until you reached the escalator.

you heard his footsteps. steady and matching yours. you took the long way out of the station, looping past the convenience store instead of going straight home. he didn’t close the distance, didn’t say a word... just trailed at that perfect distance, far enough to vanish at a glance, near enough to follow without looking like he was.

when you finally reached your street, you dared a glance over your shoulder. he was there. hands in pockets. watching you. and this time, when you unlocked your door, you swore you saw the corner of his mouth lift.

your body shivered and your hair was still frizzy from the gentle drizzle of rain. it had been days since you last saw anton, and as you boarded the train, you were too busy wiping your glasses to notice him. exhaustion from a late lecture weighed heavily on you. it wasn’t until the train jolted into motion that you felt that familiar itch at the back of your neck. you didn’t need to look, you already know. his reflection in the window confirmed your suspicion, same sharp jawline, same stillness, and that steady gaze that held yours even when you caught it.

the ride was quiet. just the squeal of the tracks, a cough from someone three rows away, and his whispers again. not constant and never obvious. just small bursts, like thoughts escaping before he could swallow them back.

“…mm… wearing that again…”

“…wet hair… pretty…”

you tried to tune him out, eyes glued to the scrolling station names. you told yourself not to flinch when the train rocked and his arm brushed yours. when your stop came, you moved fast, slipping into the crowd, hoping the rain would be enough to make him stay behind.

it wasn’t.

you caught the sound first. the unhurried taps of his shoes on wet pavement behind you. he walked slow, not rushing and that made your skin crawl even more. you took the usual route home, but halfway down the narrow side street, your umbrella got caught on a low hanging branch. cursing yourself, you stopped for a split second to free it, and it was long enough for him to close the distance. when you straightened, he was there. not touching, not blocking the way. just close enough that you could feel the faint heat of him against the cool rain. his eyes dragged slowly over your face, down your shoulders, then back up again.

“you always walk this way...” anton said finally. not a question. just an observation. his voice was quiet, low enough that you had to lean in without meaning to. the corner of his mouth curled, the same creepy smile you’d seen the other night.

“you don’t look scared...”

“i’m not.” you lied.

he chuckled under his breath, tilting his head like he was studying something rare. then, softer, almost to himself. “…bet you’d look so pretty pressed against that wall.”

you felt your heart pulsing in your throat. the wall he meant was right there, rough brick and half hidden from the streetlights. before you could move, his hand brushed your wrist. not gripping, just a fleeting touch, like he was testing how far you’d let him go. when you didn’t pull away fast enough, his fingers slid higher, curling loosely around your forearm as he guided you backward, step by step, until your shoulders met the damp brick.

the rain pattered harder, masking the sound of his breathing. you didn’t want to show him how scared you were, but you can’t control the tears from leaving your eyes. at this point, you’re helpless. he leaned in, close enough that you could feel his words against your cheek when he murmured.

“been thinking about you, every night on that train… how soft you’d be if i just…” his hand skimmed your hip. not groping. just slow traces that made your stomach knot.

“you’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

the rain clung to your clothes, making the fabric heavy, clingy, almost see through under the weak streetlight. anton’s gaze was fixed on the way your shirt stuck to your chest, his breath slowing like he was trying to savor every inch. his fingers tightened just enough on your hip to make you feel the pressure through the damp fabric.

“god, you’re so fucking small up close...” he muttered, almost like it wasn’t meant for you to hear. his other hand came up, brushing the hair from your cheek, then lingering, his thumb dragging along your jaw. his lips ghosting yours, the hot breath fanning your face made you want to throw up.

“you’ve been walking past me for days, and you didn’t even notice...” he whispered, his voice rough.

“you think i don’t know exactly what time your classes end? what seat you take on the train?”

the words made you tense, but his body was warm, the wall behind you cold, and his hand… now sliding down, under your shirt. it made your stopped breathing. he touches were careful, like he’d been imagining this in detail long before tonight. his palm smoothed over your stomach before dipping lower, fingers pressing against the heat between your legs through your skirt.

“mm… so warm. if i split you open right now, you’d leak all over yourself...” he murmured, his eyes flicking up to watch your face.

the press of his fingertips grew firmer, pushing and poking sharply on your sensitive nub until you felt the heat coil low in your belly despite yourself hating it. his breathing hitched when you shifted against him, like the smallest reaction from you fed something in him. without warning, he stepped in closer. chest to yours, his knee sliding between your legs, nudging them apart just enough for him to slip his hand underneath. cold air rushed in before his fingers found you again, this time against bare skin.

“…fuck—so soft.” he hissed, curling his fingers, spreading you open just slightly. “been thinking about how you’d struggle to take me, squeezing me like a stupid girl” two fingers dipped lower, brushing where you were already slick from the mix of adrenaline and something you didn’t want to name.

“yeah just like that… let me feel you…”

he leaned in, his mouth at your ear, voice low and shaky now. “if you don’t stop me, i’m not stopping either.” the hand between your legs didn’t leave, even when you squirmed against the wall in a nervous half step. anton’s voice was low, almost soothing, like he was talking you into something instead of forcing it.

“that’s it… just relax for me, pretty.” he murmured, rubbing slow circles against your clit with the pads of his fingers, making the slick sounds between you embarrassingly loud in the quiet alley. “i told you… i’ve been waiting. you don’t have to think, just feel me.”

you barely had a moment to breathe before he pulled his fingers away, only to fumble at his belt. the quiet clink of the buckle felt deafening. your felt like your chest about to explode, back pressed harder into the wall like maybe if you tried hard enough, it could save you from him, but your body stayed where it was… like you were pinned by something invisible. anton didn’t look away from your face when he freed himself, his cock heavy and flushed in the cold night air. he stroked himself once, slow, the sound of his palm wet from you.

“look at you..” he whispered, almost a laugh in his tone. “already messy for me.”

he grabbed your thigh, lifting it slightly, pressing forward until the head of his cock nudged between your folds. anton didn’t even bother to take your panty off, just pulled it to the side and started shoving himself in you. you wanted to scream but nothing came out. the heat and the stretch were torture, your fingers instinctively clutching at the front of his shirt.

“shhh...” he soothed, his mouth brushing your temple. “let me in… you’re so tight, pretty… fuck—”

he pushed deeper, slow but relentless, until he was fully seated inside you, the wet sound of him filling you making his breath stutter. his hips pressed flush against yours, his hand still gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. the way he started kissing your neck like it was full of love... oh, you wished the thunder would strike you dead. you hated how it made you feel.

“god… i knew you’d fit me...” he breathed, eyes half lidded, lips brushing your ear. “knew you’d take me all the way in like a good doll.”

his thrusts started shallow, grinding deep into you with each push, his other hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you still. every time you made a small sound, he groaned, like your noises were enabling him.

“that’s right… just let me fuck my pretty passenger…” his words were broken by sharp exhales as his pace grew harder. “you’ve been walking past me for days, and all i could think about was this...” his hips slammed forward, abusing your cervix. you swear you weren’t able to breathe for a few seconds. he chuckled softly, the sound dark and almost affectionate.

“mine now… all mine, pretty thing.”

the pace turned rougher, the slap of his hips echoing in the narrow space, his breath coming out in short, desperate bursts. you barely realized his hand had slid between you again until his thumb pressed against your clit, forcing you to gasp as a wave of involuntary pleasure hit you.

“come on, doll… come with me.” he groaned, and your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. heat coiling, snapping, your cry muffled against his shoulder as you clenched around him.

anton’s thrusts turned brutal, chasing his own high even when your pleas were loud in his ears. he spilled into you without warning, the sensation was overwhelming you could feel your consciousness starting to leave you. he stayed buried inside you, his breath hot and rough against your neck, one hand still gripping the back of your head like he wasn’t ready to let go.

when he finally pulled back, it wasn’t gentle. the sudden emptiness made you stumble, and his hand caught your jaw, forcing your eyes up to his. the warmth you saw in his eyes from moments ago was gone. his expression was dead, the dark gleam in his eyes making the cold night felt harsher against your skin.

___

The kitchen side door slams shut, rattling the trinkets in the corner display cabinet. The delicate chandelier crystals shake above your head, swaying shadows around the dinner room. 

You don’t need to look up to know it’s that quiet boy that Father has taken under his wing recently. Mother is glad to see the young man though, knowing that her husband isn’t far away from trailing after him.

The dinner formality is becoming more and more frequent, and as much as your family is quite talkative already, the black-haired boy seems to make the dinner atmosphere twice more lively with conversation. 

Anton Lee comes in as if he lives here, smelling like earthy rain and wet dress shoes trekking mud into the house. It vexes you to no end, especially when your housemaid gets up in a hurry, not bothered at the sludge he’s trudging in. 

“So sorry for the mess, Edna—” He murmurs with such empathy, “Hi everyone.” 

“Hello, dear! Got caught in the rain, have you?” Mother smiles with a twinkle as she unsteadily stands up, pushing her chair back with a scrape. 

“Yes, gosh. It started downpouring so suddenly in the cab back. I hope you don’t mind that I'm joining the table tonight, ma’am.”

“Love, you’re practically here every night. We always have room for you, stop with the nonsense.” 

You can feel Mother’s glance at you— probably a hint for your bumble of an agreement but you press your gaze further onto the words of your novel. 

As much as you were previously enraptured with this current chapter of your romance novel, Anton’s arrival is distracting to you. Much is the rest of his stuck-up-ness to your parents. It’s times like these you wish Mother wasn’t so gullible. Always too kind for her own good to be believing of this ridiculous, out-of-nowhere boy.

“This soup looks great, Edna, you always outdo yourself.” Anton grins a boyish smile, readily accepting her offered steaming bowl of soup over the table.

“Is my husband behind you?” Mother quips.

“Yes ma’am, Professor just had to drop his things in his office. He went through the front door.”

Glancing up at the sound of this, you peer at the archway and wait for Father to come gliding in soon enough. 

“And how was your day, dear? Productive, I hope?” 

You finally chance a look at Anton, lashes fluttering at his wet hair. 

His shoulders are broad in his thin sweater, ridiculously soaked with rainwater. His black tendrils that are usually neat, expose his forehead— messy like he had taken a shower. It’s too devastating to keep admiring, so you spoon soup into your mouth and look away, ears tuning back into the conversation. 

“— And the results were extraordinary, Mrs. L/N. Professor will expand more on it, but today was a complete breakthrough.” 

You can hear the grin in Mother’s voice. 

“Oh, and I’m sure I will. My husband does love to bring his passion to the dinner table. Oh, there he is.”

Instantly, you tug your velvet page holder in place and slam your book closed. Father comes in with two towels in his hands, looking just the same as Anton, albeit more disheveled. His wrinkled smile is the same, the natural curvature and homeliness of the gesture making your chest warm. 

“Oh, look at this! A full table almost.” Father cheers. 

You get up as he goes around, pressing on Mother’s cheek first and then following a chaste kiss in your hair. 

“How was your day, Father?” 

“Fantastic, baby. I assume Anton here has already spilled the news?” Father side-eyes Anton and the latter nods resolutely. Handing over a towel to the young man, Anton ducks from view under the table to dry himself. 

Father settles into the chair right next to Mother’s at the other end of the table. The only seat empty was Carl’s, your family’s chauffeur. 

“It only started raining cats and dogs after me and Lee here called it quits for the day. What luck, huh?” 

A lighthearted laugh goes around the table. You stuff your novel under your thighs, just as the oven dings and Edna hurriedly beelines to the kitchen oven. 

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Father sniffs, roughly patting his own soaked self down, “It smells amazing.”

“Pot roast.” You smile lightly, unconsciously wringing your hands on your lap in excitement. 

Anton catches the movement of your sock-clad toes tapping against the dining room rug, smiling to himself before straightening back up. “That sounds amazing.” 

“Oh, yes it is!” Edna’s voice rises, skittering back in to place the big olive green dish at the center of the table. “I hope everyone here has a lot of room in their stomach! It took five hours to cook!”

Everyone except for Edna lifts from the cushion of their seat to see steam curl and escape as the lid lifts. 

“Goodness, Edna. This is so much food! You’ve made a feast today!” Mother exclaims.

“Oh, I had to,” Edna says, tone somehow scolding and happy at the same time; she takes Mother’s plate diligently, beginning to serve everyone. “I heard your husband on the phone, saying Anton skipped breakfast today. He’s so skinny!”

Anton laughs lightheartedly. “I told you, Edna, it’s the clothes I wear. I’m not as skinny as you’d think.” 

Hurriedly gesturing toward Anton’s plate, he refuses, gesturing towards you first. Edna piles meat, carrots, and potatoes on yours quickly. 

“If you were my grandson, you’d be plump as a peach! You work in the sun, day in and day out with the workaholic over there!” 

Father chokes on his bite of food.

“He would barely survive if me and Madam here didn’t feed him!”

“I take care of myself just fine,” Anton shyly fights back, “I was just in a rush to leave the apartment today. I got busy packing boxes and lost track of time.”

Father snaps his fingers, swallowing a large mouthful of meat. “Right! About that, son. Me and my wife here were thinking you stay at ours for a month or two. Until that new place of yours opens up, of course.”

Your mouth becomes slightly agape.

“Just so you don’t have to stay in some hotel for weeks on end, dear.” Mother nods in agreement. 

Your heart seems to stop briefly, wondering where on Earth this idea is coming from. You try not to let your emotions show easily.

“But where will he stay?”

Every head turns towards you in rapid succession. Your cheeks warm in response.

“Honey, there’s two guest bedrooms that collect dust every summer. He’ll manage.”

Anton catches the swallow of your throat, shaking his head and bringing water droplets to the dining table.

“It’s no problem, really. Thank you, I appreciate the offer but—”

“Don’t be silly! I know you haven’t put down the deposit for the hotel yet. I spoke to Brad this morning. Besides, that old man charges the hell out of any visitor of this town. Takes advantage anyone in a bad situation, really—” 

Father was ever so nosy and in everyone’s business all the time. As much you adored how kind he was, it was a nuisance in some cases, this being one of them. 

You had planned on having a peaceful and quiet rest of your summer here. Slow mornings of sitting by your pool and reading. Some badminton games with the little kids near the creak. Maybe camping out at the small bookstore down the street, gouging yourself on the mandarins Edna grows. A few late-night walks on the deserted streets downtown. 

But now you’re expected to see this boy Father is mother-birding every day, even more than at your dinner table every other night?

Tugging your book out from under you, you prop it back up to disguise the scowl curling your lip. Attempting to tune out the back and forth of everyone’s day, you cannot entertain the usual spout about research, Mother's gardening, and whatever else tonight.

The novel also successfully removes Anton’s annoyingly handsome face from your view, a reprieve you were going to take advantage of now that he was moving in soon. You knew for a fact he would, because it was too good of an offer to not grab and your parents always got their way.

Who in their right mind would refuse living in their kind mentor’s luxurious house for two months? Have their laundry and every meal taken care of? 

No one, that’s who. 

Now, every word on your novel’s page withers off. You wish every night that you didn’t have to hide behind a book at the dinner table because… 

Life used to be so much easier when you didn’t have to deny you found Father’s recent research assistant to be god-awfully attractive.

___

The next time you see Anton, he’s drenched in sweat from lugging his stuff to your house. Carl is still visiting family so he couldn’t use your chauffeur to move. To avoid paying for a cab, he had stupidly walked all his things from across town. 

It’s a ten minute walk usually, but with about a million boxes with him, the tall boy had no chance of not soaking through his clothes. Father is furious that he didn’t call him for help.

Besides being genuinely bewildered on how a man could have brought so many belongings with him on a research trip, it was odd to catch Anton in casual clothes. Mainly because every time you did see him, he had on semi-professional attire. 

Even in the glaringly awful heat of the summer, it was all sweaters and khakis. Long sleeves and slacks. The most normal-looking he’d ever been to your age group was when he’d worn Father’s old tee after Edna spilled coffee on him. 

That was a big shocker, seeing as his arms were way more… firm than you thought. Packed with muscle, but still somehow lean. Amazingly fit for a scientist most believe don’t have to lift anything remotely heavy.

Now, Anton is sporting a flowy short-sleeve button-up and shorts that cut off after his knees. Worse of all are these gold-framed glasses sitting on his nose. It’s almost like some sick fantasy of yours come to life, trudging up on your porch and invading your personal space when he squeezes past you. 

Everyone in the house is forced to help Anton transport stuff to his room, to which he blubbers apologies and thank-you’s out constantly. It would annoy you more if it weren’t for the fact you had to break more awful news to him, and to yourself outloud. 

“We have to share a bathroom, by the way. The bedroom you were supposed to be in has a draft from the attic above. The other guest room is connected to mine.” 

Your drab way of delivery makes his noise of understanding that much bleaker. 

“Oh. Like a—”

“Jack and Jill bathroom, yeah.” You cross his room, gesturing grandly to the white-tiled layout. 

Mother had made you move all of your skincare products to the side, at the same time scolding you for how much you had. Besides that, the bathroom was quite ordinary. 

You’re sure that Anton wouldn’t speak up about the pink shower curtains, or pink bathroom mat. He never complained about much of anything actually. Instead, his eyes wander to the oak door plainly revealing your room at the end. Books litter the surface of your bed, with posters peeling off your wall and pens haphazardly placed everywhere. 

You swear in your head, forgetting to have closed your door to the bathroom. Swinging his door closed with a slam, you tightly smile while avoiding Anton’s surprised face. His hair is blown out from the wind produced from your action. 

“Is there not another bathroom I could use?” He nervously asks. 

“Nope. The only other one not connected to anyone’s living quarters is being renovated. So just knock.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks—”

You’re already heading out of Anton’s new space before he could finish speaking.

___

Ignoring Anton’s existence is easier than you had thought. 

He woke up early for a daily run, precisely at 6:30 every morning. He made sure to be as quiet as possible while showering, before changing and going to work with Father. They’d come back around dinnertime, sometimes late and sometimes early, where you’d ignore him the same as always at the dinner table. Everyone usually separates and goes about their nightly activities, where you have no clue where Anton is, either in the house or in town. And it starts all over again. 

Once the first weekend hits though, Mother has had enough and starts a tightly worded conversation with you Saturday morning. 

No more being cold. No more being ignorant. 

She’s smart in how she handles her words, not trying to seek out why you were so bothered by Anton’s presence, or why you so strongly despise him. She knew part of the reason why.

The other reason… Well, you’ve never been the type to discuss anything concerning crushes or boys with Mother. It’s territory you’re not willing to explore. So you suck up the scolding as usual and agree. Mother even finishes it off by suggesting you give him a proper tour of town.

That was the only thing you were going to protest, if it weren’t for Anton’s happy stumbling into the kitchen. 

He slows to a stop at the tense look on both women’s faces, looking like he just got caught stealing from the cookie jar. 

Mother waves away his worries though, tugging him closer for a cup of fresh orange juice and throwing the idea into the air. Anton seems to actually wince at the thought while catching your cold gaze over Mother’s shoulder. He can’t ever say no to her though, so he politely agrees, earning him a slap on the back.

[play futile devices]

After breakfast, you silently lead the both of you out to the shed, where Carl is sharpening a pair of garden shears while sitting on a milk crate, safe from the heat of the sun. 

Not catching how Anton admires your interaction with the silver-haired man, you grin softly while you converse with your chauffeur. Your gentle hand sits on Carl’s tanned shoulders, the grandpa wiping off dirt from his calloused hands before they curl around your back for a hug. 

“Wait a second,” You murmur to Anton, before jogging into the house. 

Anton only awkwardly nods, a half bow to Carl in stilted conversation before you’re back, a little breathless. A cold glass of water and two mandarins sit snug in your palm, before handing them over in exchange for the bikes from the dusty corner of the shed. 

You politely wave off Carl’s offer to drive you around. Shouting a goodbye and a smile over your shoulder, you squint from the brightness of the day before giving Anton one of the baby yellow bikes.

Anton is curious about your close relationship with the old man, as well as your relationship with Edna— but that question has been sitting on his mind for a while. Many questions have been, actually. 

He just isn’t sure whether you’d reply if he asked. In the short time he’s known you, the three attempts Anton has made to get closer to you have been shut down with short answers and ice-old looks. It’s dizzying to him when you seem so… different with everyone else. 

You adore your father— even if the quirky man seemed to make you roll your eyes at his dad jokes. Your mother, you treated kindly, stomaching her snide comments about your books and writing and standoff-ishness even when you didn’t have to. 

And Edna, you laughed with so easily. Felt comfortable enough with to revert back to your child-like self, tugging at her apron when you wanted a fresh tart out the oven. You even danced around the island counter, tapping her shoulder before nicking one off the baking sheet.

Now the new mystery with Carl. Your crinkling eyes when speaking to him, same with your gentle touch and warm hug. Hurrying back into the house to gather a drink and fruit for him. Your chauffeur. 

Had you known him for long? Did the old man watch you grow up into the woman you were now? Why were you so adamant on being kind to everyone but him… Anton?

He felt like he hadn’t done anything wrong… Besides when he forgot to knock on the bathroom door and caught you with a toothbrush and foam in your mouth. Or when he creased your Mary Janes by accidentally stepping on them in the entryway.

Even now, as he peeks past his long lashes to peer at you… he thinks you’re ethereal. Placed perfectly in the scenery with blue waves crashing along the shoreline below. Carefully walking and watching where both of your guys’ feet land you, the crumbly gravel road leading down the driveway.

Anton’s mouth opens before he can think the words through. 

“Beautiful.” 

… He hopes the sounds of the ocean drowned him out.

“What?” 

You curl your hair behind your ear, finally looking his way before hovering a hand to hide your eyes from the blinding sun. You’re still incredibly beautiful and he refuses to deny that.

“Um— where are we headed?”

“At the bottom of the hill, we can bike to the downtown plaza. Maybe get Gerardo’s. Then park our bikes around the creak, walk around.”

“Gerardo’s?”

You give a pity smile. 

“The only gelato place in town?”

You seemed to have a special way of making Anton feel like his heart is about to blow up, even if the soft grin is half way to teasing him. 

“Right. What about that bookstore?”

That manages to catch you off-guard.

“Huh?”

“You know… the one you always talk about. With the fiction aisle that rotates every week?” 

“Oh,” You’re stunned into a short silence.

Reaching the end of the driveway, you nod imperceptibly. Anton almost misses it.

“Okay, I’ll show you there too.” 

Then, you hop onto the high seat of your bike, gesturing to him to do the same. You lead the way, your hair whipping in the wind as you build up speed. And Anton follows you closely behind, still far enough though to see your side profile as you breathe in the salty smell of your seaside town.

He only wishes he was good at being inconspicuous enough to admire you like this more often.

___

Anton has been recruited to cut pears. 

He thought the task would take a maximum of five minutes but instead, he’s been sat on a stool in the kitchen for thirty. His hands hurt.

Edna only slaps Anton’s lower back to sit straighter when he slouches. He desperately hopes his professor’s wife will come and try to save him, but instead the older woman waltzes in, happily joining the festivities. She says that now a lot of the fruit has ripened, the baking day can begin. 

Anton doesn’t ever really know what to do with his free time on the weekend when not working; usually going to the creak and talking to some of the grandpas there. Maybe picking up a random ball game with the local kids in town. Or his favorite, which is keeping you quiet company by the pool in the backyard. He didn’t really imagine baking to be on the list.

His eyes sparkle in reprieve when you jog into the kitchen, jolly as a clam compared to usually. You murmur a hi to everyone between a pear sunk between your teeth, not even flinching when Mother slaps your bare back. One for not washing the fruit and another for not announcing where you’d be running off to avoid the kitchen today.

Anton so desperately wants to appreciate the expanse of your skin, exposed from the bikini top you have on. But instead, he’s respectful and his eyes are laser-focused on cutting slices of green pear over and over. 

You’re forced to explain you’re off to see rare friends down by the water, ones that have returned for the summer after being abroad from school. From the way you’re so happy, Anton would figure your boyfriend was amongst them.

Edna catches the black-haired boy red-handed, looking up at the sound of your words. She swiftly snatches the knife from his grip, pulling Anton up with the tag of his shirt like a kicked puppy. 

“Bring this poor boy along with you dear, he’s cutting the pears chunky enough to choke a toddler.”

Anton tries to catch whether your face is twisting in irritation at this suggestion, but instead the whirl of commotion in the kitchen tosses him around like a rag doll between three women. 

You agree to appease the arguing between Edna and Mother, stealing more fruit from the counter before escaping to the living room. 

Anton figured you’d immediately shut down the idea. He sits on the armrest of the plush couch, patiently waiting for your dismissal as you scurry about and toss a book in your bag; but your protests never come, even as you look past your shoulder while toeing on your slides.

“Well, go get changed. What are you waiting for?”

“Oh! Uh, give me one minute!” Anton springs into action, leaving into the foyer and going up the stairs two steps at a time.

You’re glad that just as he disappears around the corner, your fight against a growing smile is lost.

___

[play visions of gideon]

“You can read?”

Anton jumps out of his seat at the sound of your voice.

Your hair is messy from sleep, a blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders. It’s practically drowning you, and Anton wonders why you’re up. It’s two A.M. in the morning and you’re rarely moving around at this time. 

He settles back into his reclining chair, blowing out a breath and praying his heartbeat to come down. 

“Rude. And yes, I can— at least… I’m trying to. You scared me.” 

You don’t apologize, instead reaching the balcony railing and staring out into the ocean twinkling from the moonlight. “What are you reading?”

“Uh…” Anton keeps a thumb on his page, flipping to the cover, “Advanced Series in Ocean Physics.” 

A scoff leaves you, drifting out into the cool air. “Do you ever not think about research?”

“It’s my life.” 

The defense in Anton’s tone shocks you enough to look over at him. 

You’ve never once hit a nerve before. He was always so meek with you, always willing to go about with anything. At the pause in conversation, Anton clears his throat and looks back down at the pages. 

He’s clearly not reading anymore. “I’m really interested in what I’m studying. It’s why I’m here after all.” 

Your heart hurts suddenly. You feel an unexplainable, pressuring guilt building in your chest. 

“... Do you enjoy Father’s company that much? He talks a lot, doesn’t he?” 

“Professor has great things to say.” 

“I suppose so.” 

The dismissal makes the tenseness in Anton’s body stronger. 

“Your father is incredible. He’s made bounds of advances in climate models, and is probably the only person in my field that cares about how climate change is affecting submesoscale dynamics.”

You laugh a little, no humor evident. “You don’t think I’ve heard that my whole life?” 

“Well, it’s true! … I’m lucky to work with him.” Anton shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.

“I’m sure you are.” You sneer, thinking it’s the end of the conversation. 

But now it’s anxious, sitting in this quiet space together. Especially with how much you’ve grown in handling Anton’s steady being in this house. You’ve actually gotten used to it. 

Waking up and him being in the kitchen helping with breakfast. Dinner with his bursting laughter while bending over and almost hitting his forehead on the table. His toothbrush next to yours in the bathroom, the smell of his shampoo and conditioner, mixing together in the heat from his shower. Weekends with the both of you quietly soaking in the backyard sun. Watching your parents try chess in the evenings, Edna playing a beautiful tune on the piano. Being coerced into picking weeds with Carl on blazing hot afternoons. 

And when it rains… sitting on the front porch steps together. Just looking out into the stormy sea and watching it rumble. The smell of petrichor after several days of dry heat torturing your little town.

The last thing you were expecting when coming out here was running into the black-haired boy, but… here you were. You just wanted fresh air after a nightmare but now you wonder how long he’s begun this habit of sitting out here in the dark, with only the pale moon to give him reading light.

It seems like your aloof demeanor has finally pushed him enough. You knew you were confusing with how mean you were to him sometimes, and in the past two weeks, you’ve been more apologetic to it. You were breaking the habit of being cold, forgetting how you first felt about him at the start of the summer… but not now. Not on this topic.

“Why do you dislike me so much?”

You train your eyes on the waterline, determined to not have your heart waver at the hurt in Anton’s strained voice. 

“I don’t.”

He’s fast to respond.

“You act like you do. Sometimes you do, and sometimes you don’t. It’s confusing.” 

“I let you join me and my friends at the beach.” 

“You were forced to do that.” Anton sounds bitter.

“And I showed you my bookstore.” 

“Again! Forced to do that.” 

Your eyes are ablaze, gaze on fire. “You don’t get to come here and demand that everyone be kind to you, you know? That’s entitlement!”

Anton sits up straighter, book abandoned on his seat. “I never asked to stay here, or for anything! If you think I asked more from your father, you’re insane for thinking so!” 

“Insane?” You stomp forward, blanket dropped by your feet. “Don’t call me insane for being distrustful of you!” 

“Why the hell would you have reason to be doubtful of me? Have I done anything to make you think so?”

You’re huffing in each other’s faces now, and you have stalk to the other corner of the balcony to calm down. 

“The past assistant my dad took in stole his research— his last big breakthrough.” 

Anton finds it hard to intake any oxygen suddenly. 

“... What?”

You’re not looking at him either, talking to the ocean again. 

“His last partner then went off to present to some big-shot panel and made a lot of money off it. The worst part is that Father doesn’t even care. He just wants people to make the world a better place— I’m sure whatever that guy used my dad’s research for, doesn’t think the same.”

“I— I didn’t know that—”

“Yeah. You didn’t,” You whip around to glare, eyes watery. “Because you don’t actually know my family, Anton. You see this glittery, rose-colored version of us in the summer. As much as you want to think we magically got rich or something, Father doesn’t make that much doing what he does. And Mother doesn’t work anymore because she can’t.”

Anton feels like someone has slapped him. 

“You know she used to paint? She was really good. Good enough for us to live like this. But now she’s retired, scared to pick up a paint brush and watch it shake. And Father sells textbooks that he hates writing and talking to publishers for.” 

You don’t even register Anton approaching through your tear-blurry eyes, a gentle touch settling on the crook of your elbow. You’re hugging your torso to self-soothe. Or… maybe you were just cold. 

“I’m… so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

His eyes are shiny with apology and your anger is melting before you can fight it. You hate so much that he can do that so easily. More and more frequently, your resentment with him can’t seem to hold anymore.

“It’s fine—” You try to shake out of his grip. 

“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have assumed anything. Anything at all. I didn’t know your mother was sick. And I’m sorry that your father was taken advantage of like that.” 

His touch slides down to wrap around your wrist, swallowing them in his hold. Anton’s skin against yours is like gasoline in your veins.

You find the strength to use your voice again, watching the way his calloused thumb strokes your hand. “It is fine now, though. They’re happier with you here. It took a while for Mother to convince him to take in another assistant. I can tell they always wanted a son.” 

Your futile attempt of a smile makes Anton’s heart brittle. His long fingers finally interlace with yours, guilt fresh on the forefront of his mind. 

“That can’t be the truth. You’re the sun they orbit around, I can see it.” 

You laugh wetly, breaking your handholding to wipe at your cheeks. Feeling ridiculous crying, you step back to collect yourself.

“Yeah, I’m glad to have them.”

Embarrassed at what’s occurred, you pick up the blanket on the floor, brushing Anton’s fingers again when he goes to hand it to you himself. You wordlessly reject his offer at more comfort, eyes catching at his empathetic gaze again before tugging your sliding door open. 

“Goodnight, Anton.” 

And then… he’s left to his own festering thoughts, shoulders heavy with remorse and a tongue itching to say more. 

___

You can feel tension between you two at the breakfast table.

Anton, who has grown out of his shell since the beginning, is quiet and can’t seem to look at both of your parents the same anymore. Father is none the wiser while having conversation with Carl about the car. Mother, discussing sandwiches with Edna.

You had restlessly rolled around in your sheets, able to feel Anton’s presence through the bathroom separating you two. 

Immediately after you’d walked away, you had desperately wished you hadn’t— just to see what Anton would’ve said. Would’ve done. Then the fear of rejection ripped through every cell in your body, seizing your hands still before it could tug his bedroom door open. 

Just maybe Anton felt the same way, because when you accidentally cough while swallowing a bite of scrambled eggs, Anton practically jumps across the table to help you. You feel a little sorry about how flustered he gets, trying hard to appear normal and avoid your housemaid’s eyes fluttering between you two. 

After dragging on breakfast, Mother suggests the two men take their lunch break at home for Edna’s special sandwiches. When Father rejects with words of busy work, Edna tosses the idea of it being brought to them. Her stealthy eyes lean over to you, gripping your cheek strongly. 

“Our dear here has nothing else to do! She’ll bring it to you.”

Before a whine of no’s can leave your mouth, she raises her brows in warning. You’re silenced, slouching into your seat before you can say much else. 

“Perfect! Your lovely daughter will bring those sandwiches to you at 1 P.M. sharp. Have a great day, boys!”

Father leaves the back porch with a kiss to Mother and your pouting forehead, waving before entering the house again. You try to ignore Anton’s wide eyes but in the end, give in, catching the glimmer of aching in his glance.

___

Just as Edna said, the promising maid sends you off with a picnic basket at 12:40 P.M. exactly. The sky is a cloudy and stormy grey as you bike across town, where Father usually bothers the local fishermen to sit in their boats and allow him to throw testing gear off-deck. 

You grab their attention by waving a large red handkerchief Mother gave you in the sky. And patiently, you sit as they come back, docking and hopping off their rocky boat. 

Both Father and Anton scarf down their sandwiches, moaning in delight at the roast beef Edna had slow-cooked. The latter shyly offers a bite to you, but you push away his worry, having stuffed yourself full before arriving at the dock.

When rain droplets start to catch on your clothing, all of you scurry to find shelter quickly. It’s only when you’re all stood under an awning does Father realizes his clumsy self had forgotten his phone on the fisherman’s boat. He rushes off to find the man and call Carl to pick you three up.

Now it’s just you and Anton, watching as heavy rain lands on hot pavement and thunder rumbles before you two. Only yesterday, this type of scenario wouldn’t have terrified you; sitting here with the sound of the sky crying, the smell of earthy dirt in Anton’s company. It really wouldn’t have struck fear in your heart. 

Only now it does, and your tongue is twisted in knots, same with your stomach. You’re not confident in how you’re supposed to be around this boy anymore. 

Peeking at his side profile, Anton is deep in thought while crouched beside you. His nimble, veiny fingers are curled out to feel the droplets of water. You appreciate the beauty in his quietness, wondering when you started to find solace in your shared silence together. 

Alas, you’re not fast enough to turn away when Anton finds your gaze. He’s surprisingly peaceful in meeting your eyes, the depth of them stealing the breath in your lungs. You’re not sure either if you’re imagining it, but… you see desire in them. 

Desire for you. Right here, right now. Even though you’re sitting beside him currently, satisfying his craving.

“What’s that look for?”

“Nothing. I’m just admiring you.”

You wish you could sputter out something to ease the seriousness in his words. You can’t and your eyes only move around his face, trying to seek out any telltale signs of a lie.

There’s none. 

“Admiring me?”

“I’ve been admiring you since I first met you,” Anton is the first to tear away from your connected gaze. “You just didn’t notice. Too busy disliking me.”

“As I said before, I don’t dislike you.” You lament.

“Then tell me how you really feel for me.”

It’s stunning how confident he is in his words suddenly. In your imagination, late at night, Anton is always bumbling and bashful in a confession to you. Something must have changed from last night.

“Nothing?” Anton raises an eyebrow. “You feel nothing between us, even now?” 

You do feel something. Something strong, and it scares you to no end.

You don’t know how to word that easily though. So he stands up after looking in the distance, gently taking hold of your hands splayed out to help you straighten; your elbows had rested on your knees while squatting for too long. Anton takes special care in swiping the water off the skin of your legs, before tugging the laces of your sneakers tighter. 

Just in time, Father comes back looking like he had momentarily drowned and come back to life, phone in hand. 

“Carl is on the way. Not to worry.” He grins breathlessly to you two, cluelessly stepping between you both to shield himself from the downpour. 

And as Father wipes at his phone screen, swearing at the torrential rain, you force your hands from trembling. 

Not from the freezing cold water, or your wet hair. But from the effect Anton’s confession had on you.

___

“Are you writing?”

Instinct seizes your muscles, making you place your lower forearms down on your paper.

Anton’s voice is almost a whisper, trying not to break the peace in your kitchen. His feet pad closer, shadow getting larger as the candlelight in the room flickers. 

“You scared me. What are you doing up?”

“I could say the same. It’s three A.M.” Anton grins softly. 

He’s charming with his hair ruffled, like he had climbed from his sheets moments ago. This yellow-orange lighting from the flame makes him look much more… mellow.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Another nightmare?”

You didn’t even know Anton knew you had those. Instead, you just nod a little, going back to your writing. Smoothly flipping the pencil in your hand, you erase the streak of graphite down your paper from fear earlier. 

“What are you writing about?”

“Unicorns and fairies.”

Anton’s snort is a little too loud for the time in the night. You glare through your lashes and he gets the clue, nursing his mug of water closer to himself. 

“No, really. What do you write about? You’re always scribbling away in secret.” 

“I don’t scribble in secret.”

“Sci-fi? Romance? Oh, don’t tell me it’s an autobiography.” 

You only pretend to stare back in annoyance, shaking your head. It’s embarrassing to admit so you whisper it out into the echoey kitchen, afraid of someone else besides you two hearing in. 

“Romance.”

You’re not looking up in order to see Anton’s tender smile.

“Is it any good?”

A long sigh leaves your supple lips, synchronized with your chest rising and falling; it mesmerizes Anton for a moment.

“No. It never is, really.”

Anton shifts his hips off from leaning against the counter, swinging around the island in the kitchen. His strong elbows plant on the marble, peeking down at the words you’re so protective of.

You’d try harder to hide your writing from his prying gaze if it weren’t for his flexing arms distracting you. Anton is emitting a heat after sleeping soundly in his bed several minutes ago, tempting you to get closer and warm up beside him.

“You can’t say it’s bad before any constructive criticism. Let me read it.”

Now you genuinely slide your work away. “No, it’s embarrassing.” 

Anton manages to give you a look that’s slightly degrading. “C’mon. I’ll be fair, I swear.”

“You won’t make fun?”

“Never.”

You wait for a more serious response.

“I might. But only a little.” 

You huff without another word, slowly handing the paper over. The pencil between your fingertips twirl around, pupils flickering between Anton’s features. His pretty mouth purses once, brows pinching together twice, and that’s about all. 

“It’s shit, isn’t it? It’s fine, it was just a whim anyway—”

Anton pulls away before you could snatch the paper from his hold.

“YN. Don’t put yourself down like that. It’s good, I like it.” 

You’re dying to hear more praise, eyes lighting up like you’re in front of a colorfully-decorated Christmas tree.

“… Really?”

“Really,” Anton nods, crossing his arms. “I can tell the books you stick your nose in, help.”

You scoff, a silly grin flitting across your bright face. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

“Honestly though, I like it. Your vocabulary is so descriptive. It’s like I’m there. I’d probably just use the word ‘smile’ less,”

You nod in agreement, moving on with lightness in your body.

“Do you always write romance?”

“Most of the time.”

“Do your parents influence you?”

You’re caught off-guard. “How do you mean?”

“You clearly admire them. Their relationship. It’s nice.” 

“I guess so,” You admit while picking at your hands. “It feels a little unobtainable really.”

“How they found each other?”

“How easy they seem to love each other. Despite everything.” 

“I find it admirable. They choose each other every day, ‘despite everything’ as you say. Isn’t that commendable?”

You only hum, distracted from other thoughts. Anton can tell immediately.

“Have you told them this is what you want to do with your life?”

Anton full-belly laughs at the expression on your face. “It’s clearly your passion. Do they not know?”

“They know,” You groan, standing from your stool. “They just don’t take me seriously.”

Anton follows closely behind you as you head to the fridge.

“How?” He scoffs, not understanding. “Isn’t your mother trained in the arts? Writing is precious, it runs the world.” 

You giggle, nodding to his words. You knew it was a bit hypocritical of your parents, being the “intellectuals” they were. You pour a mug of water for yourself.

“They both hate writing and always wanted me to pursue one of their studies. I don’t understand it either.” 

“They wouldn’t hate it if they read yours. I promise you.”

“Hm, maybe.” You sip at your drink, peering at Anton before you.

He’s so… uninhibited recently. Here in your kitchen, drinking from Father’s mug and dressed in breezy pajamas. No shame in trying to pursue you anymore. It’s like a snapshot of another life you daydream, far away where in another universe, this is your life together. 

Maybe it’s just the hopeless romantic in you talking from all those books you read. 

“Are you nervous around me now?”

You set out to not clang your ceramic against the marble loudly. 

“No. I’m not. Why would I be?”

Anton takes a step closer, crowding your personal space immediately. Alarms bells in your head would be ringing if you had enough time to consider panicking more. 

“Are you sure? Your hands shake so much with me near.” 

“Anton…” The call of his name brings out the most gorgeous smile to greet your eyes. “What game are you playing?” 

“Do you still want to deny how I feel for you?”

You’re about to melt on this specific tile in the kitchen. 

“At least tell me to stop then.” Anton whispers, the soft hem of his shirt brushing your fingertips. You clung to it before you can think rationally.

Your head jerks a no, taking in the carbon dioxide that leaves Anton’s nose. His own breathing is stilted, almost as if waiting for you to reject him; you couldn’t even if you wanted to. 

His pink lips hover before yours as you steal your eyes shut, wishing for Anton to achingly make the first move. 

“Let me in. Please.”

His begging snaps the taut string in you, tippy-toeing up to curl your arms around Anton’s neck. His encompassing hands straddle your hips, pressing them urgently against the edge of the counter so you kiss breathlessly. 

You feel as if you’re about to die if you don’t continue to connect your mouth to his. Your bodies want to meld together, the way Anton flattens himself on you. You can feel his sculpted back flexing in cupping your cheek, the other hand seamlessly hoping to explore your curves. 

“Jump.” Anton murmurs against your hot neck, finger curling under the bend of your knees before placing you gingerly on the marble surface.

He slots between your thighs without a second thought, pinching open your jaw to kiss you wild again. Anton’s tongue licking the seal of your mouth has desire fluttering in your lower stomach, your hands unsure while playing with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

He firms your grip around the threads of his hair, urging you to be more confident in both of you. The whole expanse of his right arm hugs your torso closer to him, sliding under your shirt to scorch a blazing path from his fingertips brushing your skin.

A gasp involuntarily escapes you as Anton bites the bottom of your lip, thumb circling your belly button and traveling up to rest in the middle of your ribcage. You didn’t know you could be so needy for someone’s touch. So needy for Anton to continue his demonstrations on you.

“Anton.”

Your whine of his name, coupling with you arching into him, seems to awaken something, his hips grinding into yours instinctively. 

“Tell me you want this. Tell me.”

The desperation for you in Anton’s voice sends your heart soaring. 

“Yes. I do. I’m all yours.”

Anton wraps his arms around your waist, connecting you to the floor before interlocking your hands together. Before you can form a coherent thought, he’s tugging you towards the foyer, up the stairs, to your bedroom, and to your deepest, dirtiest wishes coming true; ones you’ve only dared to dream of with him front and center.

___

A dribble of rain comes the next morning, gentle and persistent. 

You wake first, curled in a warm tangle of limbs, the rise and fall of Anton’s chest beneath your cheek. Through your cracked window, the scent of petrichor drifts in—earthy and familiar mixed in with Anton’s body wash.

Anton stirs just enough to tighten his grip on you, mumbling something incoherent into your hair while you smile into his skin. 

That half-finished story of yours is still on the kitchen counter, and you’re usually scared to leave your writing lying around. That fear isn’t moving your heart now though, especially after Anton’s words last night.

You wouldn’t want to disturb this moment for anything.

When you finally make your way downstairs, Mother and Father are chatting while squatting near flower brushes. The latter tips up your mother’s rain hat, earning him a slap on the arm. Edna is setting the breakfast table on the back porch, and Carl is already on his second cup of coffee, beginning to bother your housemaid for another. 

You and Anton are still barefoot, still sleepy-eyed while hovering near the kitchen sink’s window. You manage to find your paper exactly where you left it, smudged from the night before. Although, it’s in a different spot than you remember and Anton subtly brushes his hand along your back.

“You going to finish it?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

He squeezes his hand on your shoulder, the one you’re resting your chin on. After, Anton leans in while brushing your hair to the side, looking to see if anyone is watching before brushing a chaste kiss to your neck.

This promise, this unspoken understanding between you both—it’s real if you choose for it to be. That’s what Anton said last night anyway.

Because for once, maybe you’re ready to stop reading about romance and start writing it true in the real life.