Chapter 1: Forbidden Glimpse, Unspoken Need
The apartment bathroom steamed like a cheap sauna. Chris wiped condensation from the mirror with the heel of his hand, the single bulb flickering overhead, casting jumpy shadows on the posters peeling at the corners. The scent of his cheap, piney cologne fought the damp air. He reached for the towel hung on the back of the door, rubbing it briskly over his buzzed scalp, then down his neck and broad chest. Water droplets clung to the dark smattering of hair there, tracing paths over defined pecs and a flat stomach. The thin towel snagged slightly on the barbed wire tattoo circling his bicep as he worked it over his shoulders, the ink stark against his tanned skin.
Downstairs, the faint thump of bass vibrated the floorboards. Another Saturday night brewing. Chris chuckled to himself, thinking about the girl from last weekend, the one who’d practically choked laughing when he’d used the ‘I lost my phone number’ line. Worked every damn time. He bent, drying his legs, the muscles in his back flexing. The towel, damp and thin, skimmed his hips as he straightened.
The doorknob rattled, then turned.
Elia pushed the door open, eyes bleary, their short, turquoise hair sticking up in chaotic spikes. They were hunting for ibuprofen; the remnants of last night's warehouse party throbbed behind their temples. "Chris, did you see my—"
The words died. Their gaze, sweeping the tiny room, locked onto Chris, fully illuminated by the erratic light. He was just turning, towel held loosely at his side.
Time stuttered.
Water glistened on his skin, catching the flickering bulb. Elia’s eyes, against their will, travelled downwards. Past the defined V-cut of his hips. And stopped.
Chris’s cock, thick and heavy even in flaccid repose, hung prominently between his legs. Elia had encountered male anatomy before, clinically, distantly. This was different. Monumental. It wasn't just large; it was an undeniable presence, the sheer, unexpected reality of it hitting them like a physical blow. Heat flooded Elia’s cheeks, a startling contrast to the chill of the bathroom tile seeping through their mismatched socks. Their breath snagged in their throat, a sharp, audible hitch.
Chris, startled for a split second, reacted with practiced nonchalance. He casually flipped the towel open and wrapped it loosely around his waist, tucking the end in. The movement was effortless, unconcerned. "Whoa, hey. Didn't hear you knock," he said, his voice still rough from the hot water, a faint grin playing on his lips. He ran a hand over his head again. "Forgot to lock it. My bad."
Elia couldn’t move. Their usual quick wit, their fluid confidence, evaporated. They stared, not at his face, but at the place where the terrycloth now draped, hiding the image seared into their mind. A confusing wave of heat pooled low in their belly, hot and insistent, completely separate from their conscious thought. It was a purely physical reaction, shocking in its intensity. They’d never felt a spark like that looking at a man. Never. Not even Bambi… Bambi. Guilt crashed over the heat, cold and sickening.
"El?" Chris prompted, leaning a hip against the sink basin. The towel dipped precariously low. "You okay? Look like you've seen a ghost. Or," he chuckled, "just me before coffee."
The sound of his voice, so normal, so utterly unfazed, snapped Elia out of their paralysis. They forced their eyes up to his face, his friendly, slightly amused expression. "Shit. Sorry. I—" They stammered, backing out quickly, bumping the doorframe. "Forgot. Sorry. Didn't see anything." The lie tasted bitter. They’d seen everything. "Just… looking for painkillers."
"Medicine cabinet," Chris supplied easily, gesturing. "Top shelf. Knock next time, yeah? Even if you think I’m not in here." He winked.
Elia mumbled something incoherent, snatched the bottle from the shelf Chris indicated without looking at him, and fled, pulling the door shut with slightly more force than necessary. They leaned against the wall in the dim hallway outside Chris’s room, pressing cool palms to their burning face. Their heart hammered against their ribs. That image… the sheer size, the casual power of him… and the way their body had instantly, traitorously responded. It felt like a betrayal. Of Bambi. Of themself. Of the identity they’d carefully constructed. No interest in men. None. The mantra felt flimsy, paper-thin against the visceral pulse of desire still echoing through them. They took a shuddering breath, trying to banish the memory of water droplets on tanned skin.
---
Later, tangled in the familiar scent of Bambi’s floral shampoo and the soft knit of their shared blanket, Elia stared at the ceiling. Bambi lay curled against them, one arm draped possessively over their waist, breathing softly in sleep. The rhythmic sound usually soothed Elia. Tonight, it grated. Their mind kept replaying the bathroom scene on a loop – the steam, the flickering light, the shocking intimacy of that unexpected view. The heat returned, low and insistent, making them shift uncomfortably. They tried to focus on Bambi’s peaceful face, the cute little furrow between her brows even in sleep. They loved Bambi. Deeply. So why…?
A thump from the next room cut through the quiet. Chris’s room. Then a low murmur, a woman’s giggle, sharp and bright. Elia froze. They knew that sound. Chris was home. And he wasn’t alone.
Bambi stirred, nuzzling closer. "Mmmph? Wha’s…?" she mumbled sleepily.
"Nothing, Bambi," Elia whispered, forcing their voice steady. They gently stroked her vibrant purple hair. "Just the neighbours. Go back to sleep."
Bambi sighed, relaxing again, her hand sliding down to rest on Elia’s hip. Her breathing deepened.
Elia lay rigid. The sounds from next door became distinct. The rhythmic creak of Chris’s bedframe against the shared wall. A soft gasp. Then another, higher, breathless. Followed by a low, satisfied groan from Chris. The sounds were muffled but unmistakable. Elia squeezed their eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it seeped in. The image from the bathroom slammed back, vivid and intrusive – now paired with the sounds, the imagined movements. That forbidden heat surged anew, fierce and unwelcome, warring with a sharp pang of… jealousy? No. Frustration? Confusion? They clenched their fists, nails biting into their palms. Stop. Just stop.
Bambi’s breathing remained even. Elia risked a glance at her. Moonlight caught the silver ring through her lower lip, the intricate lines of the tattoo peeking from her tank top strap. Beautiful. Theirs. Yet… Elia’s gaze drifted towards the wall separating them from Chris’s room as another low moan, distinctly female, drifted through. The sounds painted pictures in Elia’s mind they desperately didn’t want to see, yet couldn’t tear away from. The weight of Bambi’s arm felt suddenly constricting.
Bambi shifted again. Her eyes fluttered open, just slits in the gloom. She didn’t seem fully awake, more caught in the hazy borderland. A low, rhythmic thumping started against the wall – slow, deliberate. Bambi’s gaze flickered towards the sound. Her sleepy expression shifted, subtly. Her lips parted slightly. She didn’t move her head, but her eyes remained fixed on the source of the noise, her breathing hitching almost imperceptibly.
Elia saw it. The flicker of awareness. The slight tension in Bambi’s body. Was she… listening? Really listening? A fresh wave of heat washed over Elia, but this time it was laced with a strange, sharp pain. They watched Bambi’s face in the dim light. Her tongue darted out, just for a second, to wet her lower lip.
Another gasp, louder this time, pierced the wall, followed by Chris’s deeper rumble, too low to make out words but thick with unmistakable intent. Bambi flinched, almost imperceptibly. Her hand, resting on Elia’s hip, twitched.
Elia held their breath, a cold dread mixing with the confusing arousal churning inside them. They were both pretending to sleep. Both lying perfectly still. Both acutely, painfully aware of the passionate sounds emanating from Chris’s room. Elia stared at the ceiling, the flickering bathroom bulb replaced in their mind's eye by the memory of Chris’s powerful form, now vividly paired with the soundtrack of his current conquest. Their body hummed with a forbidden electricity they couldn’t control.
Bambi let out a tiny, shaky sigh. Her eyes were closed again, but her jaw was tight. Her fingers flexed slightly against Elia’s hip bone. Then, slowly, cautiously, her hand slid down. Down past the waistband of Elia’s pajama shorts. Elia froze. Bambi’s fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of Elia’s lower belly, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt through them. But Bambi’s hand didn’t stop there. It slid lower still, disappearing under the covers, moving with a purposeful stealth that felt alien, desperate. Elia lay paralyzed, the sounds from next door a relentless counterpoint to the frantic beating of their own heart. Bambi’s breathing became shallow, quick little pants muffled against Elia’s shoulder. Her body tensed, then subtly arched, pressing her hips forward. Her hidden hand moved with increasing urgency beneath the blankets. She was touching herself. Right there. While listening to Chris fuck the girl next door.
The mattress springs groaned through the thin wall, a relentless, rhythmic thumping that vibrated the headboard pressed against Elia’s back. A woman’s voice – high, breathless, bordering on desperate – gasped, "Oh fuck! Chris!" It was quickly swallowed by a low, guttural moan, unmistakably male, thick with exertion and satisfaction.
Bambi’s hand vanished completely beneath the covers. Elia felt the shift in the mattress, the minute tensing of Bambi’s body beside them. They lay frozen, staring blindly at the ceiling’s faint water stain, the image from the bathroom – Chris, water-slicked, huge – superimposed over the soundtrack. Their own traitorous pulse hammered against their ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the lewd chorus next door. Shame warred with a terrifying, unwelcome heat blooming low in their belly.
Bambi wasn't pretending anymore. Her breath hitched in tiny, sharp gasps against Elia’s shoulder, warm and rapid. Her entire body seemed coiled, tight and trembling. The subtle arch of her hips became more pronounced, pressing forward, seeking friction. Elia could feel the frantic movement of her arm beneath the quilt, hidden but frantic.
"H-harder..." The plea from next door was muffled but crystal clear. "Fucking harder!"
A strangled sound escaped Bambi’s throat, half-moan, half-sob. Her hidden hand moved faster, the rustling of fabric against skin suddenly loud in the charged silence between them. Her fingernails dug into Elia’s hip bone where her other hand still lay, possessively, pointlessly. She turned her face fully into Elia’s shoulder, muffling her own ragged breathing. Her hips jerked in small, sharp thrusts against Elia’s thigh.
Elia felt paralyzed. Trapped. They loved Bambi. They chose Bambi. But the raw, undeniable carnality radiating from Chris’s room, the visceral memory of his naked power, and now Bambi, their Bambi, getting off to the sound of him fucking someone else… It was a fucking psychic grenade. Jealousy, sharp and acidic, clawed at their throat. Confusion scrambled their thoughts. And beneath it all, that treacherous heat pulsed, insistent and shameful. They squeezed their eyes shut.
A sharp cry tore through the wall, high and broken. "God! YES!"
Chris’s answering growl was primal, triumphant. "Take it, you fucking slut!" The bed slammed against the wall, a final, brutal crescendo.
Bambi convulsed against Elia. A choked whimper vibrated against Elia’s shoulder as her body went rigid, then shuddered violently. Her fingernails bit deep into Elia’s skin through the thin pajama fabric. Her hidden hand stopped moving, clenched tight. She held that breathless, trembling peak for a suspended second, hips grinding down hard onto her own fingers.
Then, she collapsed. All the tension rushed out of her, leaving her limp and trembling, her breath escaping in a long, shaky sigh that fogged warm against Elia’s skin. The frantic energy vanished, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness.
The sounds from next door subsided into low murmurs, indistinct male laughter, the rustle of sheets. The immediate performance was over.
Silence crashed down between Elia and Bambi, thick and suffocating. Bambi didn’t move. Didn’t remove her hand from beneath the covers. Didn’t lift her face from Elia’s shoulder. Her breathing was still ragged, but slowing. The hand clutching Elia’s hip had gone slack, but her fingers remained hooked there, a ghostly claim.
Elia didn’t move either. They stared into the darkness, the flickering bathroom bulb replaced by the afterimage of Chris’s body and the raw sound of Bambi’s climax echoing in their ears. The heat in their own belly hadn't faded; it felt like a branding iron now, burning with confusion, betrayal, and a terrifying, unwanted curiosity.
Minutes ticked by, measured only by the slowing of Bambi’s breaths and the distant thump of bass from downstairs. The air in the bedroom felt charged, thick with everything left unsaid.
Finally, Bambi stirred. Her breathing hitched again, but this time it sounded suspiciously wet. She pulled her hand slowly out from under the covers, a damp warmth emanating from it. She didn't look at Elia. She carefully, cautiously, withdrew her other hand from their hip. Then, she rolled away, turning onto her side, facing the wall, pulling the blanket up over her shoulder with a jerky motion. Her back was a rigid line in the gloom.
Elia remained frozen on their back. The ghost of Bambi’s touch burned on their skin. The phantom sounds of Chris’s exertion echoed in their skull. The silence stretched, taut and brittle.
A low, choked sob escaped Bambi’s hunched form. Just one. Muffled by the pillow.
Then, quiet. The kind of quiet that settles after a disaster. Elia didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak. The shared apartment walls seemed thinner than ever, the space between them in the bed suddenly a vast, uncrossable chasm. The afterglow of Chris’s conquest next door hung heavy in the air, a vulgar perfume clinging to their fractured intimacy. The night felt far from over.
The silence in Elia’s bedroom was thick enough to choke on. Bambi’s rigid back radiated shame and withdrawal. Elia lay frozen on their back, staring at the ceiling’s faint water stain, now illuminated by the creeping grey light of dawn filtering through the cheap blinds. Their mind was a battlefield. The visceral image of Chris, water-slicked and shockingly endowed, warred with the raw, desperate sounds of Bambi getting off to the sound of him fucking someone else. Jealousy was a cold knife twisting in their gut. Confusion was a fog. And beneath it all, a treacherous, persistent heat pulsed low in their belly, refusing to be extinguished by guilt.
Bambi’s choked sob echoed in the stillness. Elia didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare touch her. The chasm between them felt wider than the room. Minutes crawled by. Eventually, Bambi’s breathing evened out into the shallow rhythm of exhausted sleep. Elia carefully, silently, slid out from under the damp warmth of the shared blanket. The air was cool against their skin. They pulled on a worn band t-shirt and loose pajama pants, avoiding looking at Bambi’s sleeping form. The urge to flee the apartment was overwhelming.
The hallway outside was dim and quiet. Chris’s door was shut tight. Elia paused, their hand hovering near the knob. A sick curiosity warred with disgust. What state was his room in? What girl was still in there? They pressed their ear lightly against the cheap wood. Silence. Thick, post-coital silence. The image of Chris sprawled naked, spent, with some faceless woman curled beside him flashed in Elia’s mind, sharp and unwelcome. That heat flared again, hotter this time, accompanied by a fresh wave of anger – at Chris, at Bambi, at themself. They jerked away from the door as if burned.
The kitchen was a disaster zone from last night’s pre-drinks. Empty beer cans littered the counter, sticky rings marked the cheap laminate. The faint, sour smell of stale alcohol hung in the air. Elia filled the kettle, the metallic clank jarringly loud in the pre-dawn hush. They leaned against the counter, arms wrapped tightly around themself, trying to still the frantic thrumming in their veins. The memory of Bambi’s frantic hand beneath the covers, her choked whimper as she came… it was seared onto their retinas. They squeezed their eyes shut.
The scrape of a chair leg on linoleum made Elia jump. They whirled around.
Chris stood in the kitchen doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. He wore only low-slung grey sweatpants, riding dangerously low on his hips. His broad chest was bare, the barbed wire tattoo stark against his skin. He looked rumpled, sleep-tousled, but utterly relaxed. A faint, satisfied smirk played on his lips as he scratched his stomach, fingers tracing the line of dark hair leading down beneath the waistband of his sweats. His gaze, heavy-lidded and assessing, swept over Elia.
"Morning, sunshine," he rumbled, his voice thick with sleep and something else – smugness. "Or is it still night? Fuck knows." He padded barefoot into the kitchen, moving with that easy, predatory grace that suddenly felt unbearably potent. He headed straight for the coffee maker, his back to Elia, muscles shifting powerfully under his skin.
Elia’s throat tightened. They couldn’t look away from the expanse of his back, the way the sweatpants clung to the curve of his ass. The image from the bathroom slammed back, vivid and undeniable. Their mouth went dry. The kettle hissed violently behind them, startling them again.
Chris turned, leaning back against the counter opposite Elia. He crossed his arms over his chest, biceps flexing. His eyes, sharp and knowing despite the sleepiness, locked onto Elia’s face. There was no friendly joviality now. Just a cool, appraising intensity. He didn’t say anything. Just looked. His gaze travelled slowly down Elia’s body – the thin t-shirt, the loose pajama pants – then back up, lingering on their face, their turquoise hair, the flush Elia could feel creeping up their neck.
Elia felt pinned. Exposed. Like he could see right through them. See the forbidden heat, the confusion, the image of his cock burned into their brain. See Bambi’s betrayal. Their hands clenched into fists at their sides.
"Rough night?" Chris finally asked, his voice low, almost a purr. He nodded slightly towards his own bedroom door. "Heard you guys moving around. Sounded… restless." A knowing glint flickered in his eyes. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Elia’s breath hitched. Fury warred with that insistent, humiliating pulse between their legs. They wanted to scream. To throw the boiling kettle at him. To demand what the fuck he thought he was implying. But words stuck in their throat, thick and useless. They just stared back, trapped in his gaze, feeling small and flustered and terrifyingly aroused.
Chris pushed off the counter. He took a single step towards Elia, closing the small distance between them. He was close now. Too close. Elia could smell him – the lingering scent of sex, cheap cologne, sleep, and something uniquely male, musky and potent. It filled their nostrils, dizzying. Their heart hammered against their ribs like a trapped bird.
He reached out, not touching Elia, but leaning past them to grab the kettle just as it clicked off. His arm brushed against Elia’s shoulder. The contact, fleeting and accidental, sent a jolt of electricity straight down Elia’s spine. They flinched violently.
Chris paused, kettle in hand. He turned his head slowly, his face inches from Elia’s. His breath was warm on their cheek. His eyes, dark and unreadable, held theirs. That smirk was gone, replaced by something harder, more focused. Predatory.
"Jumped a mile," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to resonate deep in Elia’s chest. He didn’t move away. His gaze dropped deliberately, lingering for a fraction of a second on Elia’s mouth, then lower, tracing the rapid rise and fall of their chest beneath the thin t-shirt. "Something on your mind, El?" The question hung in the steam-filled air, loaded, dangerous.
Elia couldn’t breathe. The kitchen felt impossibly small. Chris’s proximity was a physical force, radiating heat and raw, masculine power. The memory of his naked body, Bambi’s desperate sounds, the forbidden ache blooming anew in their own core – it all crashed together in a dizzying wave. Their gaze flickered downwards, against their will, drawn to the loose waistband of his sweatpants, the shadowed dip where fabric met skin. The outline beneath the thin grey cotton was unmistakable. Thick. Heavy. Even soft, it was a blatant, undeniable presence. A promise. A threat.
Chris saw the look. A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, devoid of warmth, filled with pure, arrogant understanding. He shifted his weight slightly, his hip brushing against the counter beside Elia. The movement caused the fabric of his sweatpants to pull taut across his groin for a split second, outlining the thick, impressive length resting against his thigh.
Elia’s breath caught in a ragged gasp. Their face burned. They tore their gaze away, staring fixedly at the grimy tiles on the floor, but the image was seared onto their retinas. The heat in their belly surged, molten and undeniable, a traitorous flood that drowned out anger and shame. They were trembling. Chris remained motionless, looming over them, radiating silent, confident dominance. The air crackled with unspoken tension, thick with steam, cheap coffee, and the terrifying, electric pull of something forbidden and raw. Elia’s fists clenched tighter, nails digging into their palms, as they fought the overwhelming urge to look back up, to meet the challenge burning in Chris’s dark, knowing eyes.