Araon's entire frame convulsed as he fought the suffocating pressure of Monkia's embrace. He twisted with the frantic, desperate energy of a creature caught in a snare, his muscles bunching beneath his shirt. His claws, usually sharp and precise, raked uselessly against the thick fabric of her clothing over her chest, the sound a muffled, grating scritch against the silence of the hallway. He strained to push, to create even a sliver of air between them, but Monkia was an immovable, dense weight, her strength seeming to multiply in the confined space.
She countered every thrust with a subtle shift of her hips, her hands moving from his shoulders to press firmly against the sides of his neck, applying just enough pressure to make his struggles feel futile. A raw, strained sound ripped from Araon's throat—not quite a shout, more a guttural plea born of sheer physical exertion and mounting panic. He tried to wrench his head sideways, aiming to escape the relentless advance of her face, but the proximity was absolute; there was no wiggle room on the cold, chalky white pavement beneath him.
"Stop it, Monkia! Get off me!" Araon managed to rasp out, the words thin and reedy. A deep, angry crimson spread from his collarbone up to his hairline, a testament to the furious effort he was expending just to maintain a shred of personal space. He gathered every ounce of strength, attempting the desperate maneuver: driving his knees upward, aiming to use the leverage to catapult her over his head and break the terrifying physical bond.
But the momentum was lost. Just as his knees began to lift, her mouth slammed down onto his.
The impact was jarring, silencing the fight instantly. Araon's wide, struggling eyes froze open, the frantic energy draining out of him like water from a broken vessel. The tension that had coiled his shoulders snapped, and his wrists, released from their vice-like grip, slapped softly onto the pavement. Where her fingers had been, angry red welts immediately rose, stinging fiercely before beginning the slow, agonizing process of fading back into his skin.
Monkia pulled back just enough for her voice to reach him, a low, silken purr that seemed to vibrate directly against his eardrum. "Ah, yes. That's a good boy. So much better when you stop fighting."
She didn't leave his lips entirely. Instead, she began a slow, agonizing exploration, using her mouth to trace the contours of his own, punctuating the contact with tiny, feather-light smooches along his jawline and down the sensitive column of his neck. Each contact was a deliberate, warm pressure, a tactile invasion that sent electric shivers down his spine. He could feel the faint, humid warmth of her breath against his skin, a sensation both intimate and deeply wrong.
Araon clenched his jaw, fighting the involuntary response. A small, pathetic moan escaped when one of her kisses lingered too long near the pulse point in his neck. He tried to clamp his tongue down, to refuse her the sweet taste of compliance, to hold onto the last vestiges of his protest, but his body was staging a catastrophic rebellion. The sheer novelty of the physical contact, the first time he had ever been kissed with such intent, overwhelmed his ability to resist.
"Let Mommy take care of you," she whispered again, her breath a soft, sweet cloud mingling with his own ragged gasps. She took full possession of his mouth once more, tilting her head with practiced ease, drawing out the contact into a deep, consuming make-out session.
Araon's frantic heart rate began to slow, replaced by a terrifying, heavy thudding. His muscles, moments ago rigid with resistance, began to go slack, melting into the overwhelming sensation. He found his arms rising, not to push, but to clutch desperately onto the curve of her hips, clinging to her for the balance his own collapsing body could no longer provide. He was holding on, not to escape, but to stay conscious, hoping to wake up from this horrifying, sticky reality.
He blinked slowly, the world seeming to swim back into focus. He saw the soft, dark sheen of her long brown hair framing his vision, momentarily blackening the edges of the bright school pavement. In that instant, all external sensation—the cold floor, the distant sounds of the school day—receded. There was only Monkia, her inescapable warmth, her scent, and the terrifying, undeniable feeling of her claiming him, marking him as undeniably hers.