Araon's legs trembled violently, each spasm a visible ripple beneath his trousers, mirroring the intense, sucking pressure of Monika's mouth against his own. She executed the kiss with a terrifying, practiced smoothness, her eyes locked onto his. His own gaze, wide and frantic, darted across the periphery of his vision. The world had narrowed to a terrifying tunnel: the only clear image besides the ghostly, beloved face of Sayori was the sharp, consuming presence of Monika inches away.
This was the kiss he had secretly craved—the deep, consuming affection he yearned for—but it was being delivered by the wrong hands, twisted into something predatory. He felt his body betray him, moving with an autonomy he couldn't control. With a sickening lurch of self-disgust, his lips pressed back against hers, a reflexive response to the exquisite torment of her teasing withdrawal.
His eyes flew open in shock at his own action. The sudden, involuntary reciprocation made Monika pause, her mouth momentarily slackening. In that brief second of stillness, Monika's expression shifted. The calculating focus melted away, replaced by a vast, triumphant grin that stretched her lips into something sharp and predatory.
Araon watched the color drain from her face, her skin turning a stark, almost luminous pale white that only served to highlight the malicious, consuming glee in her eyes. The sight was terrifying; it felt like witnessing the final moments before a catastrophic ending, a scenario where the quick rescue he desperately hoped for would never arrive, leaving him stranded for endless, dark hours ahead.
"Welcome to the family, Araon," Monika purred, the words dripping with narcissistic satisfaction, each syllable heavy with finality.
She casually reached out, her fingers tangling into the cool, silken threads of his black hair. She worked the strands between her fingers, pulling them taut, then letting them snap back like cheap elastic, mimicking the way she was testing the limits of his will.
He tried to recoil, blinking rapidly to clear the fog, attempting to press the back of his head harder against the cold, unforgiving floorboards. But even the floor offered no escape; the distance covered was only a few squares, and her reach remained absolute.
"You're the first guest I'm going to take my very sweet time with," she hissed, the sound low and sharp, the warm air of her breath carrying a metallic tang against his ear. Her words echoed faintly in the oppressive dimness of the classroom, now bathed only in the bruised, fading light of the sunset. The windows were already shut, the heavy curtains drawn tight, effectively suffocating the room in shadow and trapping the sparks of their encounter away from any outside light or witness.
Araon watched, paralyzed, as Monika's tongue flicked out with deliberate slowness, tracing the wet outline of his lower lip. A single, thick drop of saliva detached and slid down his chin, a physical manifestation of her claim.
He squirmed weakly, a desperate, futile movement, squeezing his eyes shut against the invasion. The sensation was overwhelmingly repulsive—the slick, foreign taste of her mouth, the feeling of being utterly consumed, punctuated by the small, pathetic noises escaping him: choked grunts and whimpers, sounds he never knew he could make, all elicited by touches that mapped territories of sensation he never knew existed.