Kota stepped out of the elevator onto his floor, the familiar beige hallway stretching ahead like a tired sigh after the longest day of his life. His legs still burned with that deep, bruised ache from hours of relentless thrusting, hips clicking faintly with every step, raw cock rubbing uncomfortably against the seam of his jeans. The weight of everything upstairs clung to him—sweat, dried cum, the sticky memory of plush cheeks clapping against his pelvis, broken moans, and the way he had folded those boys like origami until they cried and begged. He could still taste the thick air of the Hawthorne mansion on the back of his tongue, feel the phantom grip of tight, fluttering holes milking him dry. His mind was a fog of exhaustion and leftover horniness that refused to die completely, even though his body screamed for rest.
Corey followed him out of the elevator like a shadow that wouldn't quit, that cocky grin still plastered across his face, massive ass swaying in those low-rise shorts with every confident step. Toby trailed a few paces behind, smaller and visibly nervous, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands as he fidgeted.
Corey didn't waste a second. He slid up beside Kota, close enough that the heat of his body brushed Kota's arm, voice dropping into that flirty, teasing purr.
"Come on, big man. One quickie before I leave? Won't take long. I'll bend over right here in the hallway if you want—let you use me fast and dirty. And hey…"
He reached back, grabbing Toby by the wrist and tugging the smaller boy forward.
"I'll even throw in Toby's nice soft ass as a bonus. Two for one. You know you've been thinking about it."
Toby's eyes went wide, face flushing bright red under the hood. "I—I never agreed to this!" His voice cracked, high and panicked, hands flapping uselessly at his sides. "Corey, what the hell—"
Corey turned on him with that practiced guilt-trip smile, tilting his head like a disappointed older brother.
"Aw, Toby… you don't like Kota anymore? After all those times you blushed and called him nice? After you told me how much you liked being called a good boy by him? You're really gonna leave him hanging when he's had such a long, hard day?"
Toby backtracked instantly, cheeks burning even hotter, eyes darting to the floor. "N-no, I do like… I like being called a good boy by Kota, but… I need to shower first and get ready and—"
Kota was already walking away.
He didn't have the energy for this. His body felt like it had been run through a meat grinder—muscles screaming, balls sore, mind replaying every slap, every moan, every load he had pumped out today. The last thing he needed was Corey's relentless flirting and Toby's nervous stuttering turning the hallway into another scene. He kept moving, sneakers scuffing against the worn carpet, ignoring the way Corey called after him.
"Boring!" Corey yelled, voice echoing down the hall with mock disappointment. "You used to be fun, Kota!"
The elevator doors slid shut behind them with a soft ding, cutting off whatever else Corey was about to say. Kota didn't look back. He fished his keys out of his pocket, the metal cool against his palm, and let himself into the apartment. The familiar smell hit him immediately, old rice and beans from last night, faint motor oil from his dad's work boots by the door, the quiet stillness of an empty home. Khalil wasn't there. The note on the counter confirmed it: late shift again, back after midnight. Kota exhaled, shoulders finally dropping as the door clicked shut behind him.
He headed straight for the bathroom, stripping as he went, hoodie tossed onto the couch, jeans kicked off in the hallway, boxers left in a heap by the sink.
Kota stepped under the spray, groaning low as the heat hit his sore muscles. He grabbed the soap and started massaging the hell out of himself, fingers digging deep into his shoulders, rolling the knots out of his neck, pressing hard into his lower back where the ache from all those mating presses had settled like concrete.
He really had skipped a whole day of school just to fuck some femboys. The realization settled over him like a second layer of steam, thick, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore.
His cock twitched faintly at the memories, still raw but interested, and that only made him sigh harder. He was becoming more horny than he'd ever liked, the quiet kid who used to measure himself in secret now measuring his worth in how many boys he could break in one afternoon. The water pounded against his shoulders as he stood there, letting it cascade over his head, trying to wash the guilt and the strange thrill away at the same time.
Then he remembered.
Love Island Season 26.
The six episodes he had watched two days ago—right before the ritual, before he had ended up fucking eight femboys in one wild, endless night, were still waiting on the tv hidden under his bed. He had grown strangely attached to the ridiculous drama, the petty arguments, the over-the-top confessions under palm trees. It was stupid. It was mindless. It was exactly what he needed right now.
Kota turned the shower off, water dripping from his body as he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. He padded into his room, the cool air raising goosebumps on his still-damp skin, and fished the remote tv.