⌗shyboy — who knew your shy boy was such a big freak …
( l. anton x fem!reader ) • warnings. munch!anton , oral ( fem. receiving ) , cum eating , he’s a freak 𓄵 word count. 710 { back to library }
( request ). can i please ask for shy bf! anton but is actually real freaky in bed? might even be better if it's their first time despite being together for quite some time HENFJSNENF
being with anton you had gotten used to doing most of talking in public settings; you didn’t mind it though you were normally outspoken anyway so you didn’t mind taking the lead around other people — letting him rest his chin on your shoulder while you played with his hands letting him know that you were still there for him even in the middle of a conversation.
you two never rushed into things , you let them come naturally so sex wasn’t a thing you two were worried about it — when it came it came , you just assumed you’d take the lead like you usually did… boy you were wrong , and you didn’t know how wrong you were until anton had you pinned down to the bed.
“you look so good right now.” his hands gripped your wrist. “i want you , right here , right now.” you moaned into the kiss , still shocked. “wa-wait ton , fuck.” he bit down on your neck. “ah- fuck.” his knee slotted in between your legs , moving against your clothed cunt. “i’ve been hard all day.” he groaned. “you did this to me.”
spreading your legs open while biting on his lip, his normally bright eyes were dark and full of lust. “wanna eat your pretty pussy.” riding you of your pants. “so fucking pretty.” he held them open , giving your pussy a kiss. “anton.” he licked your folds , moaning against your heat. “fuck you taste good.” he mumbled , licking and sucking at your folds. “such a sweet pussy.” his nails dug into your thighs as his nose brushed against your clit. “fuck ton i’m gonna cum.”
he abruptly stopped , pulling away his lips glossy with your slick. “fuck i could spend hours just eating you out.” he said breathlessly. “but right now i need to fuck you.” his hard cock straining against his pants , palming himself before unbuckling them. “mh-so fucking hard.” finally freeing himself — he was huge , who fucking knew. “jesus ton , i don’t think you’re gonna fit.”
his cheeks turned red , before he pinned you back down , holding the base of his cock , slapping it on your cunt. “fuck.” he sighed , pushing his cock against your slit , the tip of his cock catching your clit making you moan out. “i’ll make it fit.” he groaned , pushing the head of his cock into your waiting hole. “oh fuck you’re tight.” he slowly pushed himself inside , the grip on your waist was tight. “fucking sucking me in.” he groaned. “oh fuck your too big.” you moaned.
“yeah?” he began to move. “too big for your tiny pussy?” his cock kissed your cervix — you couldn’t believe the man who stood behind you while you ordered food — was the exact same man who had you in a mating press , pounding his thick length inside of you. “fuck anton!” you screamed. “fuck i’m gonna cum!” he kept moving , his hand wrapping around your neck , lightly squeezing. “yeah? gonna make a mess for me , sh-shit cum all over my dick.” he sped up. “cum , please cum i want you to cum.” his thumb rubbing circles on your swollen slit. “fuck- cum.”
you came with a loud scream , he kept gonna , watching a white ring form around his cock. “shit shit shit.” he hissed. “gonna fucking cum.” his cock twitched.. “gonna breed this pussy.” his movements came to a quick halt before you felt the warmth of his cum filling you up. he groaned as he emptied himself inside you. “fuck.” he sighed , kissing your tear stained cheeks. “never waiting to fuck you again.”
just as you thought you were done , he slipped his soft cock out of you , his cum leaking from your hole. “need to taste you and me together.” he said softly — so softly you thought the shy boy from before was back , but then his eyes got dark again. “gonna eat my cum out of you and then fuck more into you.” he said , watching your hole clench around nothing. “not gonna stop until you’re shaking for me.”
who knew your shy boyfriend would turn out to be such a freak.
a/n; thank you for the many anons about anton ive expanded out of nct territory,, keep the asks comin
cw: cursingggg, reader likes em submissive🤣 she just like me, making out, mama as a pet name, smut — anton gets hard from kissing, p in v sex, him talking nasty asf, he kinda cries, very switch vibes from him
summary: having a boy best friend is so embarrassing
next ->
“you know i almost died last night, bro?”
absentmindedly tapping on his bowl of cereal, anton leaned forward against the counter of his kitchenette. his brows furrowed in confusion. “you what?”
“so, i was using the bathroom last night, right,”
“uh… huh.”
“and some random girl just walked in and flicked the light on.” you reached into anton’s fridge to get a bottle of water, “i thought you were getting robbed.”
anton almost choked on his cereal, “oh no, i’m sorry. i think i actually heard you both yell.”
“yeah, you need to fuckin’ warn me, man. don’t let me stay over and then have girls over. i got cussed out.”
anton tried to stifle his laugh — to absolutely no avail.
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?”
wc: 4.8k | pairing: long distance bf!anton x gf!reader | genre: ANGST, smut | warnings: lots of angst, yearning, and pining, lots of emotions, emotional conversations, emotional make up sex, p in v, unprotected sex
synopsis! this was a request ( @namedinwinter ) where anton is a loving long distance bf to yn, but they're both always yearning for the other. anton never wants to take it further than kissing out of his guilt of not being able to be there like he wants to for yn, but yn thinks the worst of this situation...
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
a/n! hii i hope you enjoyed this angsty, very romantic, very yearning fic for toni. and thank u for the request, it was right up my alley :D
hiii may i req anton playing with reader's boobs n sucking on them n taking pictures of them :-) the whole perverted nine yards
say cheese | anton (m)
hiii anon <3 i hope u enjoy and thanks so much for the req!
(i'm an anton oral fixation truther so that's 100% the reason that i was so eager to write this lmaoo)
pairing: bf!anton x fem!reader
wc: 1.3k
genre: smut
warnings: dry humping, A LOT of tit play, intimate photos, petnames, sexual acts during menstruation (no penetration), descriptions including period blood (but none is actually touched or seen!), you both cum in your pants…how romantic
even when you two were actively fucking anton had to have some part of you in his mouth or on his tongue.
specifically, he always found an excuse to play with your tits. claiming that it was to please you.
although it was abundantly clear to the both of you who truly enjoyed it more.
it’s the tail end of your period and although anton insisted…you opt against period sex.
so now you lay sprawled out in bed, dry humping your boyfriend like a crazed freak.
anton’s lengthy body is slotted between your legs; the weight of his hardened cock against your thigh is no help in soothing the agonizing ache of your cunt. each drag against his thigh sending a wave of pleasure from the pit of your stomach up through your chest.
your tits are beyond swollen, sensitive to the touch.
and anton’s busy making a whiny mess of you.
your shirt is completely deformed from the way he continuously yanked at it to tongue at your nipples. begging, “please.” in his featherlight voice just swearing he just wanted to make you feel good, despite the way he’s rock hard and rutting against the underside of your thigh.
his hand, gentle in contrast with his mouth, cradles your unoccupied mound.
“toni,” you sigh, jaw borderline unhinged with the way your mouth is wide open—whimpers seeming to be the only way you can indicate to him that he’s making you feel good.
“shit—baby, you look so pretty like this,” he groans, “wish i had a photo of your tits.” his words are muffled by your cleavage.
you can tell he didn’t intend for you to hear the second part, but he commits.
“proof that you let me do whatever i want when i get you like this.”
you whine, legs twitching near his hips that force you wide open.
“then take one.”
his eyes momentarily got wide at the suddenness of those three words.
“yeah? you wanna pose for me?” he urges, eyeing the way you’re covered in the sheen of his spit, scattered hues of violet already in bloom across your entire chest.
you don’t have to oblige again before he’s already got his film camera in the hand that isn’t squeezing each of your tits, grip embedded like he’s got a hold on a piece of memory foam.
he hisses at the way your plush flesh bulges from each space between his slender fingers.
you’re embarrassingly responsive as you let anton have his way with you, the noises that fall rushed from between your lips meet his ears, unwavering and combined with the shuttering of his camera. your cheeks flushed, eyes glossed over as they take in the mess of your boyfriend while he’s straddled above you.
his hair is tousled from the way you ran your fingers through it moments ago, a thin layer of sweat altering the way his shirt clings to his sculpted upper body.
your cunt clenches around nothing.
“gonna develop every. single. photo.” anton mumbles from behind the camera.
your doe eyes peer up at him through the lense. pleading, although you’re not sure what for.
"say cheese." he snorts sarcastically.
*click*
the shutter sounds and a brief flash blinds you.
“for all the nights that i have to be away from you,” anton continues, throwing the camera to the side of your body not caring how it lands on the mattress with a faint thud.
then his hips are flush against yours, the press of his cock against your clit that’s completely covered makes your thighs shake.
“maybe i’ll scatter the photos across the bed, fuck my hand, wishing it was you touching me instead—cum all over the prints, paint your tits...this pretty face.” he rolls his hips forwards, bringing a hand up to tilt your head towards him. his sentence is punctuated with the way your lips part in a moan.
the way the blood leaking from your insides mixes with your arousal is embarrasingly erotic. each time anton grinds between your hips a squelch can be heard.
you feel disgusting, but the feeling fades immediately when you consider how anton was ready to stick his dick in you earlier despite the crimson beneath your soiled panties. that was a dead give away that you being on your period didn't actually matter to him much.
you lose it, biting down on your tongue to contain yourself.
“you’d like that, hmm?” your boyfriend taunts, his hips not stopping but instead pressing harder. he’s watching your face with intent to watch your resolve continue to slip.
“pretending you don’t, always coy with me so i get embarrassed for wanting this.” he tugs on one of your nipples particularly rough, then he lands an open handed strike in the same spot, watching the way it bounces back right in front of his face.
you yelp, head lulling back between your shoulder blades. both your eyes grow extremely heavy before they fall shut.
“my dirty girl.”
you’re gushing at the lewdness of the nickname, your ankles that are now locked behind him cause the heels of your feet to dig into his lower back.
then his lips are on you again, soothing the increased throbbing of your poor buds.
anton takes both your breasts in his hands, pressing them together until your nipples almost create an arrow pointing directly towards his greedy mouth.
parting his lips he holds out his tongue, flattening it and shaking his head side to side against your nipples that grow even harder than before at the sensation.
the way you choke on a whimper makes his stomach flip, his brows furrow at the feeling of his cock sloppily leaking into his boxers.
“anton—oh my god!” you practically scream, imagining how your throat will ache in the hours to follow.
the thought that you weren’t the one that was supposed to enjoy any of this more than anton is furthest from your mind.
all you can do is reel at the feeling, pussy beginning to spasm.
it doesn’t take much longer before you start to cum in your shorts, entire body trembling while you hold onto anton like he’d disappear into thin air.
you can feel the heat of his own release against your thigh. his tip damp through the rough barrier of his pants. he’s persistent in smearing his cum against your legs that are still spread impossibly wide. both your hips continue in motion until his cock begins to soften.
anton releases your nipple from his mouth with a pop, bottom lip glistening as it’s connected to you by a singular string of his salvia.
you’re spent, painfully overstimulated now. you attempt to physically recoil against his touch. hissing when he places one last kiss to each of your tits before attempting to fix the disarray of your garments.
when both your bra and shirt are somewhat back in place you’re huffing, struggling to catch your breath. but your mind begins to venture.
your heart hammers in your chest at the thought of how many photos he’d taken, and you become dizzy with the uncertainty of his true intended use.
anton would never show the photos to anybody other than you.
he’d actually rather die than let someone else see the way you looked underneath him: fucked out, clothes messily pulled aside, covered in the evidence of just how much you belonged to him. the thought never crossed his mind. but you knew that.
that’s not why your heart was near lurching out of your chest.
you could only pray that he’d use the pictures of you to get him through a lonely night or two…or three.
but the mental image of him taking a massive hand to yank at his angrily leaky cock while he panted and whimpered as his stomach flexed, sweat soaking every inch of him—it was enough to send one final gush of wetness from of your cunt.
because he’d be doing it while looking at a plethora of photos that would reveal your tits that you let him bruise and abuse.
anton who’s always a soft and smiley guy with a long patience but a sudden switch happened because he got jealous. maybe he gets jealous with another member or someone 🙉
it was a thursday night in seoul, the kind where the air still carried the leftover chill from march even though april had rolled in. you sat cross-legged on your dorm bed, the steam from the ramyeon cup warming your face as you slurped noodles straight from the container. the tv played some random variety show in the background, but your phone was the real distraction.
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 hadn’t ended the night. the party was still going, and so were the two of you.
warnings — noncon, stalking, sexual harassment, public sexual assault, obsession, unwanted groping, physical restraint, predatory behavior, implied coercion
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.
“you will be on this train tomorrow. and the next day too. i like knowing where to find my pretty doll...” he murmured, almost casual. like he hadn’t just drained the last of your will to live.
synopsis: your father’s soft-spoken research assistant moves into your summer home for two months. and despite your efforts, the space between you keeps shrinking while he’s all quiet glances and you’re desperately trying to hold on to indifference.
word count: 7.6k
content warning: fem!reader, suggestive, swearing, small amount of arguing, minor character is chronically ill
author's note: inspired off "call me by your name" oops! i suggest when to listen to some sufjan stevens tracks while reading so you can click the spotify links then :) enjoy
___
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.
"No One is Coming" - Lee Chan-young (이찬영) x f!reader
“You just had to mind your fucking business.” His voice is eerily calm. Conversational, almost. He walks toward you slowly, like he has all night. “But no,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your bruised cheek. “You had to tattletale to my dad.”
content warning – This story contains a strong power imbalance and graphic descriptions of violence, including injury (such as a broken nose) and mentions of blood. It depicts non-consensual situations, breaking and entering, and instances of school violence, bullying, and injustice. The narrative explores coercive, harmful behavior within a tense and unsettling atmosphere.
word count : 5.3k
You tell yourself this is a beginning, not the end.
The train pulls away from the city with a soft, almost apologetic sigh, and you sit by the window watching your old life smear into streaks of grey and glass. It feels lighter out here already. Cleaner. You press your forehead to the cool pane and imagine the version of you that exists on the other side of this journey, someone unburdened.
This new job had sounded like a gift when it found you. Better pay. Housing included. Fresh air, quiet, distance. Distance most of all. You said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.
By the time you arrive, the sky has softened into a pale gold, the kind that makes everything feel possible again. The countryside stretches wide and empty, fields rolling like open palms, the air smelling faintly of damp earth and something sweet you can’t quite name. It feels safe in a way that almost startles you.
The man who meets you at the station introduces himself as Mr. Lee. He smiles too much, but you tell yourself it’s just friendliness, the kind you forgot existed. His handshake lingers, but only for a second too long. You notice it but dismissed it.
The drive to the house is longer than you expected. Roads narrow into winding veins through dense woods, the trees pressing close, as if they’re leaning in to listen. You try to follow the turns, but soon it becomes impossible. Everything looks the same, green and shadow and silence.
“It’s easy to get lost out here,” he says lightly, glancing at you. “But don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.” You smile, because that’s what you do.
The house is smaller than you imagined but neat. The windows are spotless, the curtains freshly pressed. Someone has left flowers on the table white, tightly arranged, scent faint but persistent. There’s something about the stillness inside, the way the air feels untouched, like it’s been waiting.
“It’s all yours,” Mr. Lee says, watching you as you step inside. Not looking at the house. Looking at you. You thank him. Again. Too many times.
That night, you unpack slowly, trying to fill the quiet with movement. Every sound feels amplified by the creak of floorboards, the soft click of drawers, your own breathing. You tell yourself it’s just because you’re not used to the silence yet.
You tell yourself this is the start of something good.
A better school. Better funding. Polished hallways and bright futures. You stand outside Yoonseul High and let yourself feel it for a moment, the clean lines of the building, the quiet prestige humming beneath its glass and steel. This is the kind of place people envy. The kind of place that fixes things.
You smooth down your sleeves before stepping inside, rehearsing the version of yourself you want them to see composed, capable, unshakeable. Hopeful.
By 7:00 a.m., the corridors are empty. Your footsteps echo faintly as you find your classroom. It smells untouched, like fresh paint and expensive polish. Everything is pristine. Controlled. Perfect. You like that.
You step inside and place your bag down, exhaling slowly as you turn to the board. Your name looks strange written out so large, so permanent. You say it under your breath, testing your introduction, shaping your tone. Friendly, but firm. Warm, but not soft.
You don’t hear the door open. You don’t hear the footsteps. Just the voice.
“That was so cute.”
It slips into the room like something that’s always been there. You flinch. The chalk snaps between your fingers. When you turn, he’s already inside leaning slightly, as if he belongs in every space he enters.
You glance at your watch instinctively. 7:15. The bell doesn’t ring until 8. Your stomach tightens, but you force a polite smile. “Oh hi. I didn’t think..” He steps closer before you can finish. “Hi,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m the class president. Lee Chanyoung. But you can call me Anton.”
His voice is smooth. You hesitate for half a second too long, then place your hand in his. “I’m your new homeroom teacher,’ you say with a smile. His grip closes around yours. Firm. Too firm. You try to ignore it. Try to match his smile, but something about the way he’s looking at you feels… wrong. Not inappropriate. Not obvious. Just wrong in a way you can’t name yet.
You start to pull your hand back. He doesn’t let go. There’s a beat a small, suspended moment where your brain tries to catch up with what your body already knows. You laugh, light and nervous, tugging a little more. “Okay..” Still nothing.
His thumb shifts slightly against your skin. Not enough to be called anything. Just enough to make your skin crawls. You look at him then and he’s smiling, it unsettles you.
“I see you’ve already met my son.” The voice cuts clean through the moment. Your hand is released instantly. You step back without meaning to, your fingers tingling as if something has been left behind in them. Mr. Lee stands in the doorway, composed, immaculate. His presence fills the room in a way that feels heavier than it should.
“He’s a good kid,” he adds, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You nod quickly. “Yes, he…he seems very… polite.” Anton says nothing. You can feel him still looking at you, even as you turn toward his father. Mr. Lee gestures for you to follow him.
“The school can be a bit confusing at first,” he says. “I’ll show you around.” You’re grateful for the movement, for the excuse to leave the room, but as you step into the hallway, you feel it. That subtle awareness. Like something is watching you.
The tour is thorough.
Teachers’ room. Bathrooms. Offices. Doors that require key cards. Doors that don’t. Mr. Lee speaks with quiet authority, explaining things you’ll forget immediately, his tone calm, controlled. Reassuring.
When the tour ends, you thank him, your voice steady enough to pass. “Of course,” he says. “We take care of our staff here.” The words linger longer than they should. As you walk back toward your classroom, the halls remain quiet, but it no longer feels peaceful.
By 7:55 a.m., the school is alive in a way that feels almost reassuring. Voices echo down the hall, lockers click shut, shoes tap in hurried rhythms. It’s busy enough to quiet the unease still clinging to you from earlier. Busy enough to make you feel safe.
Students begin to filter into your classroom, filling the space with movement and noise. You greet them, steady now, your smile practiced but convincing. You write your name again on the board, clearer this time, stronger. You introduce yourself, your voice finding a rhythm that feels like control.
You move through the seats, learning names, repeating them, attaching them to faces. Some meet your gaze. Some don’t. Some look at you a little too long.
Anton doesn’t need to introduce himself again. He stares. That same stillness about him, that same quiet certainty. You avoid lingering. You don’t give him anything to hold onto.
The hours pass fast. By the time the final bell rings, the day has folded itself neatly into something manageable, something almost ordinary. You let yourself believe it the morning was just nerves, just adjustment. The classroom empties. Chairs scrape, laughter fades, footsteps dissolve into the distance until it’s just you again. You exhale, shoulders dropping, the silence settling in.
You begin packing up, methodical, focused on leaving. Papers stacked, pens gathered, your bag pulled closer. Then it slips. The bag falls from your desk, hitting the floor with a dull, abrupt sound that feels too loud in the empty room. You mutter under your breath and bend down to pick it up.
And that’s when it happens. A shift in the air behind you. Before your mind can catch up, your body reacts your muscles tightening, your breath stalling. There’s a presence there, unmistakable now, pressing into your space like it belongs.
Something brushes against you from behind, slow enough to register, deliberate enough to freeze you where you are. It lingers just a second too long, just enough to make your stomach drop, just enough to make your skin crawl as if something invasive has slipped beneath it. You’ve never stood up so fast in your life. The world tilts for a second as you turn and there he is. Anton. Standing directly behind you. Like he’d always been there.
His expression doesn’t change. No apology. No embarrassment. Just that same calm, unreadable gaze, fixed on you like you’re something he’s trying to understand… or something he already does. Your throat tightens.
“What are you doing?” you manage, your voice sharper than before, but not as strong as you want it to be. “Waiting for you,” he says simply. Like that explains everything. You glance at the door. Closed. You didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear him. Didn’t hear anything at all.
A cold realization creeps in, slow and suffocating…he never left the room. You take a step back, creating space, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t feel like it matters. “You need to leave,” you say, more firmly now, clinging to the words like it can protect you. Then, that faint, almost amused smile. “No I don’t.”
Your heart stutters. The silence stretches between you, thick, pressing, wrong. You reach for your bag again, your movements tighter now, controlled, every instinct screaming at you to leave, to get out, to put distance between you and whatever this is.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, already moving, already turning toward the door. “Of course,” he replies. Your hand grips the handle, colder than it should be. You pull the door open and step into the hallway, the noise distant now, muted.
You don’t look back and as you walk away, something settles deep in your chest.
A couple of weeks pass before you begin to understand how this place really works, and when it finally comes, it isn’t quiet. It isn’t subtle. It announces itself in sound. Something hard striking something softer. Again. And again. A dull, sick rhythm that crawls down the corridor and finds you and by the time you see it, it’s already happening.
Anton stands over a boy on the ground. He curls inward, absorbing it, like he knows resistance only makes it last longer. For a second, you freeze. Because this isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t roughhousing or just plain stupidity.
This is something else. You move before you can think better of it. “Hey stop!” Your voice cuts through the hallway. You reach him, grabbing his arm, pulling him back. He lets you. Too easily. That’s what unsettles you.
“What are you doing?” you demand, breath tight, pulse already racing. The boy on the floor doesn’t look at you. Not once. Anton does. And he laughs. Not loud. Not wild. Just… amused. Like you’ve said something funny.
“What are you going to do?” he asks, stepping closer. You don’t step back. Every instinct tells you to, but something stubborn, something still clinging to the idea of authority, keeps you in place. You hold his gaze, even as something cold coils low in your stomach.
“Stop it. Now.”
Your voice is steadier than you feel. For a moment, it looks like he might say more. His expression shifts, just slightly like he’s considering you in a new way, recalibrating. The bell rings. The moment gone. He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Saved by the fucking bell.”
And just like that, it’s over. He turns, walking away like nothing happened, a few others falling into steps behind him without hesitation. Without question.
You’re left standing there, the echo of it still vibrating in your chest. You bend down quickly, reaching for the boy. “Are you okay? Let me—” He jerks away from you. Hard. “Don’t touch me.” The words hit sharper than you expect. You pull your hand back instinctively, staring at him.
“What?” His eyes flick up to yours then, and there’s something in them, something almost furious. “You just made it a hundred times worse for me.” The words land heavy. Before you can respond, he’s already pushing himself up, ignoring you completely as he walks away, shoulders stiff, movements strained but determined. You stay where you are. Kneeling. Useless. The hallway is empty now, like nothing ever happened. But it did.
You try to report it. Of course you do. You find Mrs. Baek in the staff room later, your hands colder than they should be, your words already forming before you reach her. “It’s about Anton—” She cuts you off instantly. Just a quiet, sharp “No.”
It stops you mid-breath. She glances around, checking the room like someone might be listening even when no one’s there. Then she leans closer, her voice dropping. “Unless you want to get fired,” she says, each word measured, “don’t even try to report him.”
Your stomach tightens. “What do you mean?” you ask, but it comes out smaller than you intend. Her expression doesn’t soften. “Others have,” she says. “They don’t work here anymore.” There’s something final in the way she says it. Not a warning. Not advice. A fact. She straightens, stepping away from you like the conversation never happened. Like you never spoke at all.
By the end of the week, everything looks the same. That’s what unsettles you most. Your coworkers still smile. They still greet you warmly, still ask how you’re settling in. The students still laugh, still answer questions, still play their parts perfectly.
Everything is normal. Except now you can see it. The gaps. The silences. The way conversations stop just a second too early when certain names come up. The way no one ever says Anton’s name unless they have to. The way he moves through the halls untouchable.
And the worse is the way he looks at you now. Not the same as before. Not just curious. Something deeper. Something that lingers. Like he’s waiting. Like he knows something you don’t. Or maybe like he knows exactly how this ends for you.
You’ve just pulled into your parking spot, the engine ticking as it cools, one foot already on the ground when it cuts through everything. A yelp. Not the usual low hum of a school morning, no chatter spilling across the lot, no easy laughter.
Then a crack follows.
You hear it before you see anything, before you even have time to turn, and something in you tightens, goes cold, because your body already knows this isn’t something you can ignore, or explain away, or walk past like it didn’t happen.
You follow it. Of course you do. Around the side of the building, where the cameras don’t quite reach, where the walls feel closer, the air thinner you find them. Anton’s fist connects with another student’s face. Once. Twice.
A third time that lands with a sickening finality, and the boy’s nose gives way under it. Blood spills instantly, bright and fast, too much, too sudden. It runs over his lips, his chin, dripping onto the concrete like something being poured out. For a second, you stop.
Not because you want to. Because something inside you hesitates, some instinct whispering that stepping in doesn’t end this. It changes it. Then you run towards them anyway.
“Stop!”
You grab him, your hand closing at his collar, your other pushing hard enough to break his rhythm. He stumbles back, off-balance, hitting the ground with more surprise than pain. It takes him a moment to process what’s happened. That you touched him. That you interrupted him.
You don’t wait. You turn to the student, crouching, your voice urgent. “Are you okay? Can you..” But he’s already moving. Not toward you. Away. He scrambles to his feet, blood still pouring, eyes wide but not with relief. With fear. “Wait!” you call after him.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look back. And that’s when your breath catches. Your hair jerks violently backward. A sharp, blinding pull that snaps your head up, your spine following, your breath catching somewhere between shock and pain. Fingers tangled deep, unrelenting, dragging you into position like something being arranged.
You gasp, your hands instinctively reaching up, but he’s already there. Behind you. Your neck strains as he forces your head back, your line of sight tilting until all you can see is him. Anton. His face inches from yours, his grip tight. His expression has shifted now, no softness, no amusement. Something irritated.
“It was cute,” he says, voice low, almost thoughtful. “But now it’s getting on my fucking nerves.” The words land slowly, each one deliberate. Like you’ve crossed into something that belongs to him. You don’t think. You react.
Your elbow drives back into his chest with everything you have. It connects to something solid enough to make him loosen his grip, just enough for you to tear yourself free. You stumble forward, spinning to face him, your pulse roaring in your ears.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap, your voice shaking despite you forcing it steady. “Put your hands on me or another student again and I’ll report you.”
For a second. Nothing. Then he laughs. Not a nervous one, it was entertained. “I’d like to see you try,” he says. There’s something in the way he says it that sinks deep, heavy, like a weight pressing into your chest.
“Don’t forget,” he continues, stepping closer again “my dad is the fucking dean.” The words feel like a door closing. “I could get your fucking smart ass fired.” You hold your ground. Barely. Because now you understand something you didn’t fully grasp before this isn’t bluff. This isn’t arrogance.
This is a system that bends around him.
He brushes past you, his shoulder knocking into yours hard enough to unbalance you, deliberate enough that you feel it long after he’s gone. You turn, watching him walk away, his pace unhurried, like there’s nothing in this world that can touch him. No consequences. No fear. Just control.
The space he leaves behind feels wrong. Disturbed. Like something’s been taken out of it and something else left in its place. You stand there, your scalp still aching, your breath uneven, your hands trembling despite how hard you try to steady them.
“Fucking asshole,” you mutter under your breath, the words small, thin, disappearing into the empty air around you.
Your hand felt heavy knocking on the dean’s office door “Come in.” His voice had sounded warm from the other side. It doesn’t feel warm now. “Ah,” Mr. Lee says as you step fully inside. “There you are.”
The office smells faintly of polish and something older underneath, something stale that doesn’t belong in a place this pristine.
He smiles like this is expected. Like you were always going to end up here, sitting across from him, the door at your back, the handle just out of your line of sight. “Good evening,” you manage. “Sit,” he says.
You do.
Because that’s what you’ve been doing since you arrived following instructions, trusting structure, believing there’s something solid beneath all of this. The chair feels too low. Or maybe he’s just sitting too high. It’s hard to tell.
You fold your hands together in your lap to stop them from moving. Your mind runs through the words you practiced, the careful phrasing, the professionalism, the facts. But now that you’re here. They don’t come out right.
“I just… wanted to talk about Anton.” There’s a pause. Mr. Lee leans forward slightly, his expression attentive, almost concerned. It’s convincing. “Oh?” he says. “Is something wrong?” For a second, you almost believe he doesn’t know.
“It’s just that I’ve noticed him… bullying some of his classmates.” The word hangs there. Ugly. Heavy. And he laughs. Softly. Briefly. Like you’ve misunderstood something simple.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call that bullying,” he says, leaning back now, relaxed again. “Just a couple of students having a disagreement. Nothing too bad.” Your stomach drops. “No, sir,” you say quickly, the words pushing out before you can stop them. “He was..”
“You’re new here.” It cuts through you cleanly. You stop speaking. Because something in the way he said it tells you that finishing that sentence would be a mistake. “This is normal,” he continues, his tone even, almost bored now. “You should stay out of it. Let them work it out among themselves.” Normal. The word echoes, wrong in your ears, like something distorted. “But sir”
“Listen.”
This time it’s sharper. Not raised, but heavier. It lands with weight. He leans forward again, and now you see it, what was hidden beneath the politeness, beneath the professionalism. “Unless you don’t want to work here again,” he says quietly, “I suggest you stay out of it.”
Your chest tightens. “There are… dynamics at this school you don’t yet understand.” Each word is chosen carefully. “And it would be wise not to involve yourself in matters that don’t concern you.” But it does concern you. That’s what sits, choking, just beneath your tongue.
You open your mouth and close it again. Because suddenly, you understand something you didn’t before. This isn’t a report. This isn’t a conversation. This is a warning. You sit there, staring at him, the silence stretching too long, your thoughts scrambling for something to hold onto.
There’s nothing. No support. No authority. Nothing. Just him. Watching you. “Okay,” you hear yourself say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. “Sir.” His smile returns. Like a switch being flipped. “Good,” he says lightly. “Enjoy your weekend.” Weekend.
The word feels absurd now. Meaningless. You stand too quickly, the chair scraping softly behind you. The sound makes you flinch, and you hate that it does. You turn toward the door, your fingers closing around the handle.
The hallway outside feels colder, wider. You walk faster than you mean to, your footsteps uneven, your mind replaying everything, every word, every look. By the time you reach your car, your hands are shaking. You sit inside, staring straight ahead, the engine still off, the silence pressing in around you.
And it hits you. Slow. Heavy. You can’t report him because the person you were supposed to go to, The person who was supposed to stop this is part of it. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel.
You thought this place was structured. Safe but now it feels like something else entirely. And as you sit there, alone in the fading light, one thought settles in, quiet and suffocating, you didn’t just fail to report him. You just told the wrong person everything.
The clock on your nightstand reads 9pm when the smash comes from your living room, like something heavy and alive just shattered against your floorboards. You stop dead.
Your feet hit the cold carpet before your brain catches up. Heart slamming against your ribs. Breath shallow. You creep toward your bedroom door because what else can you do? There’s no back exit from this room, just that thin slab of painted wood between you and whatever is breathing on the other side. You press your ear to the grain. Listening. Nothing.
Then the door explodes inward.
The impact lifts you off your feet. One second you’re standing, the next you’re airborne, then you’re skidding across the floor on your side, your temple cracking against the hardwood with a sound, you feel more than hear. The world tilts. Spins. Warmth trickles down the side of your face, into your hair, pooling in the hollow of your ear. Blood. You know it’s blood because you taste metal at the back of your throat.
A hand closes around your ankle.
You’re being dragged backward like a carcass being pulled from a road. He flips you onto your back with one rough shove, and the ceiling light blooms above you like a white, staring eye.
Anton.
His face swims into focus. That sharp jaw. Those pale, empty eyes that never quite looked at you like you were human. He’s smiling.
“Get off me,” you snarl, and you mean it. Your hand connects with his face a backhand that snaps his head to the side. Then your foot finds his stomach, and you feel something give beneath your heel. He flies backward, hits the bedroom door frame with a grunt, and you’re up. Moving. Jumping over his crumpled body like a hurdle. You make it three steps into the hallway before the kick comes.
His boot connects with your shin; the bone-deep pain is instant, nauseating and your body folds sideways into the wall. Plaster cracks under your shoulder. You try to push off, to run, but his hands are in your hair now, fistfuls of it, and he uses your own skull as a hammer against the wall. Once. Twice. Your vision fractures.
Then he’s dragging you again this time by the hair, your heels scraping uselessly against the floorboards, through the hallway, into the living room. He doesn’t stop. He throws you. You clear the coffee table like a rag doll and land in a heap on the other side, ribs screaming, lungs empty. “Fuck,” you gasp. The word barely makes a sound.
“You just had to mind your fucking business.” His voice is eerily calm. Conversational, almost. He walks toward you slowly, like he has all night. You try to crawl. Your arms are shaking. He grabs a fistful of your hair again not to drag this time, but to lift. He hauls you up until you’re kneeling, then standing on your toes, your scalp screaming, your neck bent at a brutal angle. His other hand cracks across your face. Your lip splits open.
Then his fingers close around your chin. He tilts your face toward his, and his eyes roam over you like he’s reading a menu. There’s nothing behind those eyes. No anger. No hate. Just the flat, curious hunger. “But no,” he whispers, thumb pressing into your bruised cheek. “You had to tattletale to my dad.”
“Please stop.” Your voice comes out tiny. A child’s voice. The voice of a woman who has just realized that no one is coming. “Please.” He tilts his head. His mouth curls. “Please,” he mimics, high and sweet and mocking. Then he laughs, his head thrown back, throat exposed, a raw, jagged sound that bounces off your walls like shattered glass.
When he looks at you again, the smile is gone. “Fucking headache,” he says, like he’s disappointed in you. Like you’ve ruined his evening. And then he kicks you again. This time, you hear your ribs crack before you feel them. The pain comes a second later a white-hot flood that fills your chest, your throat, your mouth. You curl inward, hands clutching at nothing, gasping for air that won’t come.
He crouches beside you. His breath smells like coffee and something rotten. “Don’t worry,” he says softly, and his hand comes down to stroke your hair with grotesque tenderness. “We’re just getting started.”
The clock is still ticking somewhere. You can hear it between the wet sounds, between your own ragged breaths, between the thud of your heart trying to punch its way out of your chest. You feel his finger first. Tracing your side. Light. Almost teasing. The pad of his fingertip drags along your ribs, slow, deliberate, and something inside you snaps.
Your leg draws back. Your foot connects with his face.
There's a crunch and then blood. Not yours this time. His. It gushes from his nose in a dark cascade, flooding down over his lips, his chin, dripping onto the floor in hot, fat splatters. He reels back, hands flying to his face, and for one brief, glorious second, you think you've won. He looks at his palms. Red. Glossy. His own blood. And then his face changes.
It doesn't twist with rage. Doesn't contort with pain. It goes dark like someone snuffed out a light behind his eyes. The shadows in the corners of the room seem to crawl toward him, pooling under his skin, sucking the last traces of humanity from his features. He's not a man anymore. He's something else. He reaches for you.
You're flipped onto your stomach before you can breathe. Your cheek smashes against the floor. Your nightshirt rides up, you feel the cold air on your lower back, then your underwear being yanked down, past your hips, past your thighs, snagging at your knees.
"No," you gasp. "No, no, no!"
But his weight drops onto you. All of it. His chest against your spine, his hips against yours, and then the push, the brutal, invasive, splitting push and you scream. A raw, guttural sound that tears out of your throat like something dying. Because you are dying. Something inside you is tearing. You can feel it, the wrongness, the stretch, the way your body is trying to reject him but can't, can't, can't because he's too heavy and too strong.
"Fuck, you're tight." His lips brush against your ear. His blood drips onto your neck. "Loosen up a bit." Loosen up. As if your body belongs to him. As if your pain is an inconvenience. "Get the fuck off me!" You scream it so loud your throat shreds. You try to buck, to throw him, to do anything but his arm is around your neck now, forearm pressing into your windpipe, and your voice cuts out like a snapped wire.
You can't breathe.
You try to claw at his arm, but your hands are pinned beneath you, trapped by your own weight and his. Your fingers scrabble uselessly against the floor. Your vision spots. Your lungs burn.
"This is what you deserve," he whispers, and you feel his smile against your neck. He's moaning now, low guttural, almost lazy like he's enjoying a cigarette. "To be fucked like a dirty fucking whore." He laughs. The sound vibrates through your back, through your ribs, through the place where he's splitting you open.
And then he rises up. Just slightly. Just enough for his weight to lift off your spine and you lunge. Desperate. Frenzied. You almost make it. But his hands catch yours. Slam them down. Pin them at the small of your back with one palm, and you're immobilized again, face-down, helpless, as he drives into you harder now, faster, chasing something you will never understand.
"I'm gonna cum."
You shake your head. No. No no no no no. The word dies in your throat.
"I don't fucking care, bitch."
He laughs again and then his hips stutter, and you feel it. That hot, flooding realization. The way your body becomes a vessel for something you never consented to. The way every muscle in you goes slack, not in relief but in surrender. In defeat.
The fight leaves you like a ghost abandoning a body. He pulls out. You feel every inch of it, the wreckage he leaves behind. A wet sound. A cold rush. "Fuck," he breathes, almost satisfied. Almost bored now.
You lie there. Your nightshirt still bunched around your ribs. Your underwear around your knees. Your face pressed into the floor where a smear of your own blood has dried. He stands. Zips his jeans. Wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
"Try to report this one," he says, and his voice is light. Pleasant, even. Like he's reminding you of a trivial task. The front door clicks shut. You don't move. The clock ticks. And in the silence, you realize the worst part isn't what he did. The worst part is the tiny, whispering voice in the back of your head that sounds just like him.
No one will believe you.
No one is coming.
You let this happen.
You lie there until the shadows shift, until the blood on your neck dries stiff and cracking, until the only thing left in the room is the smell of him and the sound of your own breathing, shallow, broken, and utterly alone.
