Corey finally straightened up from where he'd been half-sitting on the edge of the van's rear bumper, still chuckling under his breath at Mort's latest jab.
He reached for the door handle with one hand, the other waving lazily toward the interior like he was shooing away invisible flies. "Right, that's the intros sorted. Let's get this show on the road before Beckett starts texting us bible verses about tardiness or whatever." He started pulling the heavy rear door closed, the metal groaning in protest as it swung inward.
Mort stepped out fully then, boots hitting the asphalt with a soft thud. He adjusted the waistband of those shiny black parachute pants, tugging them up slightly even though they still hung loose around his narrow hips. The crop sweatshirt rode up just enough to show another sliver of pale skin before he smoothed it back down. Corey gave the door another tug, ready to slam it shut and lock it.
Right as the gap narrowed to a few inches, a high-pitched, nervous voice burst out from inside the van. "Wait! Wait, please! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry if I was being forgetful again, I didn't mean to make you wait, I swear, just—open it back up, please!"
The plea came out in a frantic rush, cracking on the last word like the speaker was terrified of being left behind. Corey froze mid-pull. Mort sighed heavily through his nose, the sound pure exasperation. Kota's mind went instantly dark. The tone, the begging, the immediate apology—it hit every alarm bell he had. Were they abusing this guy? What kind of regular person acted like that unless their so-called friends had spent years grinding them down, barraging them with criticism until even existing felt like an imposition? Kota's fists clenched at his sides without thinking. He took half a step forward, ready to shove past Corey and Mort if he had to, ready to haul whoever was inside out of there and ask questions later. Nobody deserved to sound that scared over something as simple as getting out of a van.
Corey caught the shift in Kota's posture immediately. He let go of the door handle and held both palms up, quick and placating. "Easy, mate. Easy. That's just Tobias. We call him Toby. He apologizes for existing too much. It's his default setting. No one's hurting him. Promise."
Kota didn't relax entirely, but he stopped advancing. The rear door swung open again, wider this time, and Toby hopped out more like tumbled out, really. His foot caught on the lip of the bumper, and he pitched forward, arms windmilling. He landed on his knees first, then flat on his palms against the asphalt with a soft smack. The tight jeans he wore black, skin-hugging denim sagged low in the back from the fall, sliding down far enough to reveal the top of his crack and the dimples at the base of his spine. He scrambled upright almost instantly, face flaming red even in the dim parking-lot light.
"I'm sorry! Sorry for falling, I didn't mean to, I'll be more careful next time—"
Corey cut him off with a fond but firm groan. "Toby. Stop apologizing. You're gonna give yourself an aneurysm."
Toby's mouth snapped shut. Then, after a beat, he whispered,
"Sorry for apologizing too much."
He finally looked up at Kota. Long, flowing ginger hair spilled over his shoulders like liquid fire, catching the sodium lights and glowing almost copper. The strands framed a face that was all wide eyes and sharp cheekbones, freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks like someone had flicked a paintbrush at him. He stared at Kota like he genuinely believed Kota might reach out and snap his neck for breathing too loud. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first. He tried again. And again. A full minute passed of stuttering false starts—little half-sounds, aborted words, cheeks growing redder by the second—before he finally managed something coherent.
"I'm… I'm Toby. Tobias. Toby's fine. I'm eighteen. I play drums. In the band. With them. Sorry if I'm… um… being weird. I probably am. Sorry."
Kota stared down at him. If Mort was short at five-five, Toby was microscopic. Four-eleven at the absolute most, probably closer to four-ten. The height made everything about him look fragile thin wrists, narrow shoulders, jeans that looked like they might swallow him whole if he sat down wrong. But that ass. Even from the front Kota could tell: plump, round, the kind of softness that pushed out against the denim in perfect heart-shaped handfuls. The fall had only emphasized it, the way the fabric stretched tight across those curves when Toby shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. Kota's throat clicked when he swallowed. Worse than Theo. Way worse. He didn't even know it was possible for someone to radiate that much nervous energy and still look like they belonged in a music video.
Before he could process any further, the passenger-side door of the van creaked open with a slow, deliberate sound. And out stepped what could only be described as an actual giant.
Kota's head tilted back. And back. Six-eight, easy. Maybe six-nine. The femboy unfolded himself from the front seat like he was emerging from a too-small cocoon, long limbs stretching gracefully until he stood at his full height. The parking-lot lights caught him from behind, haloing the dark red eyeshadow smeared artfully across his lids, the sharp line of red lipstick, the chin-length blunt bob that framed his face like black silk curtains. Cross earrings dangled from both lobes, glinting when he turned his head. The outfit was straight out of some gothic Victorian fever dream: frilled black shirt with ruffled cuffs, layered under a tight corset that cinched an already narrow waist into impossible proportions, then flared into a matching black skirt that hit mid-thigh. Dark maroon leggings hugged legs that went on forever, disappearing into knee-high boots with silver buckles. And holy shit—that ass. Massive. The corset pushed everything upward and outward, creating hips so wide Kota genuinely wondered if he could wrap both arms around them and have his hands meet in the back. The skirt did nothing to hide the sheer volume; every subtle shift sent a soft ripple through the fabric.
Kota kept checking him out. Couldn't stop. The giant femboy was hot in a way that flipped Kota's usual instincts. He wanted this guy to dominate him. To pin him down with those long legs, milk him dry with slow, deliberate rolls of those obscene hips until Kota was begging for mercy. The thought hit so hard his face burned.
The giant tilted his head, regarding Kota with calm, almost bored interest. When he spoke, the voice was deep, measured, carrying the faintest British lilt that made every word sound like it belonged in an old manor house.
"Your lust will eventually fizzle out when our eventual death comes for us all."
Kota blinked. Hard. "What?"
Corey winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry about him. He's weird."
The giant simply inclined his head once, as if the proverb had been a perfectly normal greeting, then turned slightly to adjust one of his earrings. Kota stood frozen, mouth half-open, still trying to process the casual morbidity that had just been dropped on him like small talk about the weather.