Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Now

Osha almost misses her connecting flight to Seattle.

She’s the dumb-dumb who decided to fly Spirit fucking Airways, so on top of losing half her luggage (luckily, not the one with the presents in them), barely avoiding a snowstorm and spilling coffee all over her pullover, she almost sprains her ankle in her rush to get to the gate on time.

LAX is a maze, no wonder it swallowed up her luggage. Fifty-five minutes is hardly long enough for a proper layover, and Osha vehemently swears to never cheap out on plane tickets again.

She makes more than enough to cover business class, but she just had to be budget-friendly and sensible. She should have listened to Mae, who’d told her to get that flight with United.

Doesn’t matter now, anyways. She’s here, scrambling out of the Uber in the snow, balancing her duffle bag, a small rolling suitcase and her ludicrously capacious handbag.

Of course the Uber driver doesn’t jump up to assist her. Chivalry is clearly dead and buried, six feet under.

Not that she’d let him, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Oh God, now she sounds like Dr Holden.

She’d have something to say, about the way Osha’s hesitating outside of Sol’s house. It’s a picture-perfect colonial with the roof and bay windows covered in a layer of frosted snow, like a gingerbread house.

It’s only four but the sun is already setting, typical winter, and the windows are lit up, warm and glowing golden.

Home.

She hasn’t been home in four years, not since…

Not since Qimir.

But it’s unlikely that he’s back, now, after years of missed Christmases where Osha’s had to fly Sol up to spend time with her in Chicago.

He’s off doing what he does, travelling snake oil salesman bullshit.

Does Osha talk to her therapist about Qimir?

Fuck no.

The shit she'd have to say about him, the shit she's done with him, would probably get her sectioned faster than you could say ‘ Zoloft’ .

What she does talk to her therapist about, however, is her relationship with Sol. The filial piety she owes him, her sense of obligation. Her guilt and gratitude.

Her deep-seated need to please, probably stemming from her abandonment issues.

Her saviour complex, because surely someone who dedicates over sixty hours a week to her job has got to have some sort of fucking complex. She'd thought about becoming a social worker, for a hot minute there. Like Indara.

But that's too close, too much. She needs distance, that the rules and structures of the law provide her. She's always felt too much and too deeply, enough that she's repressed a fair few non-workable emotions.

Her inability to keep a relationship, although that's a thorny one to untangle because it's hopelessly entwined with Qimir. She’d managed to avoid the brambles, somehow, vaguely obscuring it with the story of a toxic ex from her high school days.

(It's more than a little too close to the truth for her liking)

Nevertheless, she persists. It's better than the alternative, which would involve stewing in her thoughts until she soaks up enough vinegar to pickle her insides.

She even gets some good coping techniques out of it.

Like the breathing techniques she's using to calm herself down right now.

It's been years since she last saw Qimir; four years, to be precise.

Four fucking years.

They've been apart for as long as they'd been together— for a given definition of 'together'.

Sometimes, Osha thinks she's exaggerated it. It couldn't possibly have been that incredible, right? He can’t possibly be that beautiful, that incredibly hot?

No one truly fucks that good. She must have blocked out the bad and focused on the positive, as the human mind tends to do.

But, no, as it turns out, he really is that unreal, that stupidly pretty.

And he’s right in front of her, the moment she lets herself into her adoptive father's house.

Her eyes skip over him, almost burned by his unreal beauty, before she forces herself to ignore him.

Osha sets her bags down and out of the way, leaving her hands free. Sol will probably ask Qimir to deliver them upstairs, and she doesn’t trust him with her luggage, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It's annoying that he's here, ruining her holidays, but she can deal with Qimir. 

Not the way that she always does. That usually ends with her in his bed.

No, this time she has a steel will, an iron resolve.

“Osha!”

Sol’s familiar pine and wood smell envelops her as he draws her into a hug, and Osha smiles, despite the devil lurking in the corner.

“It’s wonderful that you could make it on time,” Sol practically gushes, the moment he pulls back.

The smile is starting to hurt the corners of her mouth, but she keeps at it

It had been a slog to get here, one delay after another, and all Osha wants to do is collapse but she doesn’t want to ruin Sol’s moment. 

“I’m so happy to be here,” she assures him, instead.

“Oshie!”

Mae’s locs hit her right in the face, her sister colliding with her with the force of a car crash.

Geez, this is a day for hugs; probably the most close human contact Osha’s had for months.

Osha squeezes her sister tight and inhales her warm, spicy scent. It’s so good to have her here. Genius idea of hers, really, to invite Mae along to Sol’s for the Christmas holidays.

Mae’d arrived a few hours before her, and clearly she’s had time to settle in, judging by her fluffy socks and knitted cardigan. Her boyfriend is supposed to be tagging along as well, but she doesn’t see any sign of him here.

Maybe he’s inside the living room and has crippling shyness? She had said she was bringing a plus one...

Mae talks of him sparingly, and Osha hasn’t met him yet, on account of work being super fucking busy for the last few months, not even letting up to allow for a quick trip down.

She’d liked Jecki, Mae’s ex, a lot. They’d got on like a house on fire, and Osha was sad to hear that she and Mae had broken up.

Oh well, that’s life. You live and you learn. Hopefully Mae’s new boy toy is at least tolerable...

Qimir stalks forward, really there’s no better way to describe it, and settles very cosily against Mae’s side.

Mae curls her arm around Qimir's arm and smiles, somewhat determinedly.

Oh no. Dread curdles in Osha's stomach.

It couldn't be...

"Osha," Mae takes a deep breath, feline eyes glancing up at Qimir. "Meet my boyfriend."

What.

What the fuck.

Osha knows she's wide-eyed, mouth hanging and catching flies. 

Qimir tries his false sympathy on her, so earnest, "We know this must be weird for you. You know, you're my sister—"

Yes, fucknut, I know!

"— And she's your sister, but we can't help it." he shrugs, and pulls Mae closer. Plants a kiss on her locs.

That's very brave of him. Sol gives a little clap behind her. Osha barely restrains herself from ripping out Qimir’s throat.

She's never seen Mae shy, but this is as close as it comes. Shit. Fuck.

Osha allows herself to look at him, now, under the guise of assessing his suitability as Mae’s boyfriend.

God, he looks....

Osha grits her teeth, subtle as she can, without making it obvious that she's glaring daggers at him.

Qimir looks fucking exquisite, is how he looks. 

Angelic. The perfect son, the perfect boyfriend.

Hair neatly trimmed, bangs swooping over his forehead, brown eyes soulful behind his stupid horn-rimmed, round-framed glasses. 

He's wearing a plushly soft-looking grey hoodie under a faded brown oversized jacket. Dark wash jeans and those boots he's always loved, his slightly scuffed, dark brown leather Chelsea boots.

No wonder Mae's clinging to him, looking close as she gets to beaming.

Or perhaps that's just her happiness at seeing Osha again, who knows?

Regardless, he's not going to ruin her reunion with her twin, so many months in the making. She won't fucking let him.

This is home, this is where she's meant to be.

No one is going to drive her away, least of all Qimir.

Then

He'd tried his level best, though, when she'd first arrived on Sol’s doorstep, all those years ago.

Bruise-hearted and guarded, wary of another foster family who'd likely end up turfing her out and leaving her high and dry, a few months before her eighteenth birthday.

Osha is so close to freedom she can taste it; it's a little like the humid summer air of Washington, the salty sea breeze off the Puget Sound.

However, she'd promised her social worker that she'd try.

Poor, long-suffering Indara, who's put up with one carer after another, acting as an efficient buffer when shit, inevitably, hits the fan.

Osha has cursed fucking luck, but if not for Indara, she'd be a lot worse off.

Still, a secret crack house? Another, a drug smuggling ring. The home after that had a foster dad with creepy vibes that she'd barely escaped and a negligent foster mom only in it for the money.

The family before all of them had been just perfect, but had to move to Germany for work, and obviously couldn't take her along. And they'd had three bio kids themselves, so it wasn't like they needed to adopt her,

So, Osha is used to change. She's used to shifting surroundings, meagre belongings, insinuates herself into new schools and different friendship groups.

She knows exactly what Sol Kim needs the moment she meets him.

He wants a daughter.

Does she want a parent? Not necessarily, no. 

Osha has essentially raised herself since she was twelve, when that nice family she'd thought had loved her smoothly shuffled her out of her life. 

The system hadn't kept the twins together, despite all their pleas. Her heart aches something fierce for Mae, but she always knows that one day. 

She just has to make it to eighteen.

There's a shadow, lurking behind her new foster father. Dressed in all black, head-to-toe. And Doc Martens, in this muggy heat? 

"Mr Kim," Indara shakes 'Mr Kim's' hand firmly, a professional smile fixed on her face.

Her eyes soften when she turns to Osha, blue eyes clear and reassuring. 

She remembers what Indara had told her on the drive here.

"Mr Kim, Sol, has a great track record with transitioning older foster kids to higher education or employment. He's a good fit for you," she'd recited, turning the wheel to guide them off the highway. "I hope you'll be good to him as well."

Osha had smiled softly. Indara wanted someone easy to work with, who wouldn't give her trouble. She's determined to be that girl.

"I will," she'd affirmed.

Now, with Sol before her, she sees the way he barely holds himself back from hugging her.

Yet, she doesn't sense any bad vibes from him, the way she had from that one foster dad she'd had before. That was a sour taste on her tongue, a prickling at the back of her neck, a curdling-dread feeling that she couldn't explain, until she'd gotten him on audio confessing what he wanted to do to her.

Ugh, no use thinking about that now.

"Verosha," Sol beams, clasping his hands together. "We're so pleased to have you."

'We' ? She didn't read anything about a partner in the file…

"Call me Osha," she replies, a bright grin plastered on her face. "Thank you for welcoming me into your home."

Another foster parent would complicate things, an unpredictable variable…

Sol steps away, and there he is.

Osha's breath catches.

The owner of those scuffed black leather Docs. Black hair, dark eyes, golden skin dotted with moles.

Hot, hot.

The type of attractive you find in Abercrombie & Fitch catalogues. Airbrushed and sleek. Future Calvin Klein model. Scouts queueing up to hand him their business cards. 

"Meet my son, Qimir. He’ll be your new brother!"

Oh fuck.

"Foster brother," Qimir mumbles, petulant teenager with his gaze on his shoes, until his eyes lazily make their way up and seize on her, like a fly caught in honey.

Oh, she thinks. It's mutual.

He smiles at her, a fake-smile, dimples popping yet his eyes are cold, so cold.

"So pleased to meet you, Osha," he purrs.

She is so fucked.

Qimir’s always somehow there .

Larger than life, an intense yet mostly silent presence in her life. He haunts the hall, the peripheries of her vision and dogs her steps.

After Osha settles in, post the massive shopping trip Sol takes her on with state funds, she familiarises herself with the space.

She explores every nook and cranny of her new home, feeling like a thief all the while. Unworthy to be in this space, setting her grubby hands on the nice linens and drapes and silverware.

Despite being the Police Chief, or perhaps because of it, this house is firmly middle class. Edging into the middle-upper class, really, because who has a theatre room and a pool room and an actual pool? As well as four bedrooms?

It’s swankier than any of her previous foster homes.

The first few days go by in a blur, Osha adjusting to all the changes and enjoying having her own space again.

The last place she’d been in, she was sharing a room with two other kids.

And one of them had severe hygiene issues.

Her fourth day there, she comes downstairs to a sight for sore eyes, indeed.

Half-bleary from sleep, she thinks she’s hallucinating until she blinks three times in a row. Her vision doesn’t waver.

Qimir’s leaned up against the pantry door, bare chested with naught but a pair of tiny gym shorts on. His chest gleams with sweat, and Osha traces the droplet sliding down his neck until she snaps back to herself, shaking her head.

When she looks up, Qimir’s tilting his head to the side and looking at her like she’s a bug under his microscope. Something to be examined.

“Hey,” Osha says timidly, rounding the kitchen island.

“Good morning to you,” he greets her, and she swears he knows she’s been checking him out.

Well, he needs to stop parading around in barely nothing. It’s obscene, and she knows better by now than to fuck her foster brother and risk getting kicked out, so close to the finish line.

Yet... there are no rules against looking, are there?

Osha’s eyes are drawn back to his chest, then his arms, then his thighs. He must be on the track team, with legs like those. Lean legs, muscled legs.

Sleek and strong, like a jaguar. Or a black panther. He certainly yawns like a big cat, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders.

Get a fucking hold of yourself.

She actually pinches her thigh, and that brings her focus back to her body.

Osha realises she’s just been standing there, like an absolute freak, staring at him the entire time. Likely slack-jawed, as well.

She clears her throat, swinging her arms and scooching around him to get to the fridge. She doesn’t tell him to move out of the way, even though his sweaty, massive body is parked in the middle of the kitchen.

It’s his house, after all. She’s just a guest.

Nice, nice. Meek and mild.

Maybe Osha should offer to make him something? He looks like a gym junkie, based off that body. Maybe he’d appreciate breakfast?

“Do you…”

She chances a look at him, to find him staring right at her.

Ay, jumpscare.

“Do you want… eggs?”

The end of her sentence rises uncertainly, as if she’s doubting the existence of eggs in this household.

He looks her up and down, that same penetrating look from when they first met. Osha feels nude, in her loose t-shirt and shorts.

Maybe she should have worn something more covering? But no, Sol had told her to make herself at home. So she is.

“He’s not here, you know,” Qimir waves at the house. “So you don’t need to act like… that.”

Osha temper awakens, the rumbling of a sleeping beast, though she tries to keep it mostly leashed.

“Like what ?” she challenges him.

“So friendly. We’re not friends.”

And with that, he walks away, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, leaving Osha gobsmacked.

She fumes, opening the fridge, retrieving the carton of eggs and shutting it in a fury. She’s trying to be fucking friendly, yes, because she lives with them.

What’s wrong with that?

She cracks the eggs open in a pan with a pat of melted butter, watches sightlessly as the edges bubble.

A small part of Osha, that young and uncertain part of her that she’s tried so hard to quash, whimpers a little in disappointment. She clenches her jaw against the flood of emotion that rises in her, the sense of being unmoored.

It’s not the end of the world if Qimir doesn’t like her. It’s not.

But she’s always strived to have people like her, before.

Her foster siblings, the real kids of the couple that had moved to Germany, had adored her.

Granted, they’d all been younger than by a couple of years, but they’d idolised her. Clung to her.

And when it came time to go to the next house, they’d held her tight. She’d kissed their heads, inhaling their little kid smell. She’d watched them grow up in front of her for those four years, from toddlers to these independent young creatures that begged her for another cookie, to sneak in another horror movie, to help them make waffles and eggs on special occasions.

She’d held back her tears, not wanting to make it worse, but when Mr Kelnacca had picked her and her bags up, she’d broken, crying like her heart was breaking in his car.

He hadn’t looked at her, not wanting to embarrass Osha, but he’d held out a little handkerchief, seeming tiny in his massive hand, and she’d taken it with a sniffle.

He hadn’t asked for it back.

The acrid smell of burning eggs hits her nose, and osha realises she’s been standing like a statue in front of the stove, while the eggs sizzle and blacken in the frying pan.

“Shit,” Osha hisses, taking it off the heat and around to the sink, dousing it in water.

You even can’t fry eggs properly, a voice hisses, sounding suspiciously like Qimir.

Her hands clench around the handle, rage and sorrow rising in equal measure, before she pushes it down.

Down, down. Where all those negative emotions go.

Summer here is lonely.

Everyone has their own friendships groups, connections and cliques made at the local high school she’ll be starting at in September.

She thinks about how different it would have been if Mae—

Well. It doesn’t bear contemplating.

That leaves Osha at loose ends, wandering the mall endlessly, ducking into local diners and cafés and bookshops, of which there aren’t many.

She tries befriending some of the guys at the local arcade, but that’s a bust.

Qimir is no help, in a class of his own. He usually spends summers or winters here, and he has his own elite group of friends that he takes off with.

Even if he was friendly, and the eighteen year-olds he surrounds himself with didn’t disdain the concept of Qimir’s younger foster sibling tagging along, she wouldn’t want to be the only girl in a group of guys, taking off to unknown locations with God knows what substances.

It’s Sol that suggests the library, and Osha wants to smack herself in the forehead when she realises.

It’s free, it’s air-conditioned and she can fuck around all day, as much as she likes.

And if she’s lucky, really lucky, then she might make some friends. Fellow outcasts like her.

And she does.

Tasi finds her first, in the Youth Fiction section, when their hands collide on a copy of Shadow & Bone.

“You take it,” Osha encourages her.

“No, you had it first,” she insists. She’s a short, sleekly brown-haired girl in a prim, chequered blue sundress. Her eyes are an intense shade of blue, almost lilac.

“I’ve already read it,” Osha reassures her, stepping back. “You take it.”

“Me too,” she counters. And then, shuffling her feet, she says, “I could show you other recommendations, if you want.”

She seems almost… nervous.

Osha beams at her, and that’s that.

She has a shocking amount in common with Tasi, despite her quiet nature; they watch the same shows, read the same things, follow the same big Tumblr blogs.

Instant connection. Like kismet.

And with Tasi, comes Mog, as well. A tall, lanky, nerdy looking guy whom Osha doesn’t immediately connect with, but feels an affinity to, regardless.

A week later, when she tentatively broaches the subject of inviting her friends over, Sol practically vibrates with happiness. It's a sign that she's 'settling in' and 'laying down roots'.

Just what the counsellor ordered.

Osha really just wants to take advantage of the pool room and theatre room, none which she actually gets a chance to enjoy, because of course, because Qimir and his boorish friends are there.

One of Qimir's friends calls them the ' unfuckable nerds' , or 'U.N' for short, and laughs. Osha doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she's not a virgin, and hasn’t been for a few years.

Nothing… untoward. High school hook-ups, too ashamed of her background to actually call her a girlfriend. Whatever, it’s all in the past.

Yet, Qimir says nothing; he just stands there, hands in his pockets, smiling enigmatically.

Mona Lisa smile, so infuriatingly opaque that she wants to smack it off his face.

(Or ki—)

He doesn't tell them off, doesn't utter a word in their defence.

G.R.L. were right, she thinks, tracing the beauty marks stamped over his face. He's cover-boy pretty, achingly so, but with an ugly heart.

Her own heart hardens against him, at allowing this ridicule in a space where she’s meant to feel safe.

“Whatever,” she mutters, gesturing for them to get the fuck out of here. They can watch something on her laptop in her room, as long as she leaves the door open.

Sol’s rule for any boys she has over, even though they’re a) in a group and b) Mog is helplessly gay.

Not that she tells Sol the latter fact, but it is relevant.

It makes for a good story for Osha’s state-sponsored counsellor, proof that she’s making some positive progress.

She's had the same counsellor for the past six years, even as she'd moved all over Washington state. Dr Andor, 'call me Maarva' , is a calm and serene presence in her life, with a defiant undercurrent.

She's been an anchor for Osha, these past few years. She wonders if she can trust Maarva with the truth of her situation, or if she might be shuffled off to another foster home.

Habit wins out; she keeps her mouth shut about Qimir, makes noncommittal, mostly pleasant noises about Sol.

When she's prodded about Qimir, she says, "He's there."

Maarva doesn't pry. That's why they work so well.

She waits, biding her time, until Osha deigns to unburden herself.

Maarva still feels a little guilty, she reckons, for not catching the warning signs earlier.

Until it was almost too late.

(Hands inching ever closer, saccharine words crafted to convince, the looming threat of—)

But Osha had needed proof, incontrovertible evidence. Otherwise, he'd get away with a slap to the wrist, like all the other times; she hadn't let that happen.

Someone had to get their fucking hands dirty, and better her than another kid, more naïve and likely to fall for that bastard’s poisonous bullshit.

The recording on her phone. Audio, because she hadn’t wanted to risk video. Everything he’d said to her, while stroking her locs with his slimy, clammy hand. The fantasies he’d laid out in explicit detail, that she’d closed her ears to and disassociated, only remembering to end the recording at the right time.

Then she’d called Indara, the only person who’d believe her, who’d gotten into contact with the police, and it spiralled from there.

She’d given her testimony and that was it. No need to further traumatise her as a juvenile, even though the bastard’s argument had been that it was just talk , he didn’t actually do anything to Osha.

She sweeps the recollections away. They have no power over her; she’s grounded in the here and now.

Maarva asks her about college plans, now that she’ll be a junior, and she lights up, pulling up her mental list of pros and cons, details of scholarships and awards she can aim for.

Osha’s grateful for the distraction as she discusses her options, weighing up between U Dub or out of state colleges, like Stanford or UChi.

Qimir waylays her just as she’s exiting the kitchen, one fine Wednesday afternoon when she’s finally managed to secure her dominion over the theatre room. She’s setting up for Tasi and Mog’s imminent arrival.

“You know he wants to fuck you, right?”

Osha’s head jerks towards Qimir, almost upsetting the bowl of chips she’s balancing on top of a mountain of dips and the two drinks under her chin.

“Huh?” she says elegantly.

“Mog, your little friend.”

Um, what?

“Mog?” Osha laughs. “Mog Adana, wants to fuck me ?”

Qimir folds his arms across his chest, impassive as always, yet she’s learning how to read him. He’s irritated.

That’s interesting. What would he be irritated about? Mog is her friend, her problem to handle.

If there’s even a problem, like Qimir’s insinuating.

“Mog’s gay,” Osha says definitively. Her gaydar hasn’t let her down once, yet.

“Is that what he’s told you?” Qimir says, almost… pityingly. “That’s how they get you.”

The nerve of this guy. Ignoring her, letting his friends ridicule her and now trying to be chummy with her, by driving a wedge between her and her new friend?

“Why do you care?” she asks him flatly. Osha is very interested in what he has to say in response

“I don’t,” he shrugs. “But you live here, and you’re making it my problem. Gotta say, I didn’t take you for being so naïve.”

Naïve.

No one gets to fucking call her naïve , not after—

You know what? Fuck him.

It bursts out of her in a rush, an explosive outpouring of emotion, “What is your fucking damage?”

Qimir blinks, lazy, eyes-half lidded. Osha pants, almost rendered breathless by her outburst.

“Do you want to know, Osha?” he comes closer, smelling like aftershave and freshly-washed hair. “Do you really want to know what I think?”

She can hardly breathe, whether at his proximity or the tension weighing heavy on her chest.

“Yeah,” she says.

Lay it on me.

“I think it’s pathetic,” he says that one word with such relish, a sharp ‘c’, “how much you cling to Sol. Like he’s your real daddy, not just someone the state assigned to keep you out of trouble, so they can push you out of the system when you turn eighteen.”

Osha huffs a breath through her nose, opening her mouth to retaliate, but he’s not done.

“So desperate for a scrap of positive attention, you’d do anything. Who’d you fuck, just to stay here?”

Qimir smiles, and it’s an ugly fucking thing, for all its surface beauty. “Would you fuck me ?”

His voice lowers to a raspy undertone, as deep as the bowels of the Earth, where he must have crawled out of.

Is this… What is this?

Does he want to fuck her? That’s laughable, but why would he bring it up? Why would he… why would he plant that thought in her head, ignite the barest flicker of possibility, if he didn’t want it too?

No, Osha shakes her head. That can’t be it.

But he comes closer, almost looming, now.

Osha’s hands tremble, almost upsetting the bowl and condiments and beverages.

“Here,” he says, changing moods so quickly, she almost gets whiplash. “Let me take this.”

Qimir grabs the Mountain Dew bottles from under her chin and tucks them under his arms, then grabs the rest of the snacks as well, leaving her empty handed.

And empty-headed, staring after him like an idiot, as he strides away.

Is that it?

He says all those things and just leaves it at that? Doesn’t even let her answer?

There’s no way she’s say ‘yes’, but…

Fuck. He’s letting her twist herself into a pretzel trying to decipher his true intentions and actions, when she should just take him at surface value.

He’s trying to run her off. That’s all this is.

Maybe, maybe he feels an inkling of attraction to her. His eyes don’t lie, but he wants her gone, more.

Too bad she’s here to stay.

There's a part of her, a tiny, disgusting part, that still craves his approval. Ever the people-pleaser.

She doesn’t understand this animosity he has towards her, when they could just... be friends. Confidants.

Not— not siblings. God knows she doesn’t look at him like a sibling should, but. At least, allies.

Not enemies, or rivals, with this wall between that he’s erected with his own two hands and enforced ruthlessly.

It doesn’t matter, Qimir’s meant to go back to LA at the end of summer. Back to his normal life, his wealthy mother and his massive, palatial home.

He won’t be there to bother her anymore, and Osha can live in peace.

Qimir makes the first move in their little dance, the game that Osha hardly knew they were playing.

It’s like he’s pulling at her pigtails, deploying schoolyard techniques to try and capture her attention, like the child he is.

He tries to narc on her, which is fucking hilarious, actually.

Osha knows how to act and when to act out. She knows she’s got it good here at Sol’s, so why would she try to endanger that? Risk bouncing to another foster home where her foster parents might not be so understanding, or free with their money and their space.

Sol had spent an embarrassing amount of money on outfitting her with a new wardrobe, once he realised that the duffle and trash bag of Osha’s belongings was all that she’d brought with her.

She’d withstand whatever humiliation it takes to have this, a bedroom overlooking the water in the distance, a teak desk filled with stationery supplies, a bookcase full of novels and a walk-in full of clothes.

She’ll even play nice with Qimir, when she finds a stash of cigarettes secreted away in her backpack, the carton inconspicuously shoved in a side pocket.

Amateur hour, over here.

Sol does room checks as a matter of course. Of course he would, he’s not stupid.

Just because he’s stupidly generous doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a brain. But this isn’t Osha’s first rodeo, so she does a preliminary check.

And what does she find?

The vape pen in her drawer, the aforementioned cigarettes, condoms stuffed under the bed and...

Lacy underwear?

What the fuck.

Whose thong did Qimir get his hands on? Gross, gross.

Osha gathers all of this in a plastic bag, ties a tight knot on top and dumps it Qimir’s car, which he’s dumb enough to leave unlocked, typical Calabasas mentality.

She takes it one step further by writing on his windshield in marker, ‘Nice try :) ’.

While Osha waits for him to wake up and see it, she enjoys the fruits of her labor, relaxing with a cup of Sol’s green tea.

She drains it as she hears his rushed steps, mourning the lack of opportunity to savour it in her haste, and hustles over to the farmhouse-style sink, rinsing out her cup.

The marker is still in her pocket, so Osha uncaps and draws a smiley face on her hands as Qimir stalks in, looking furious but desperately trying to hide it.

He’s clad in nothing but a pair of black boxers, his golden chest and taut stomach and dusky nipples on display, long legs eating up the distance between them.

She sees him coming down the hall, straight-shot from the staircase.

“What the fucking fuck ,” he hisses, sounding so incensed, so thunderous.

His precious Roadster was defaced? Aw, how bad.

He’s gorgeous when he’s angry; she traces the furrow of his brow, his messy dark fringe shadowing his eyes, the petulant pout of his pink lips, the clench of his razor-sharp jaw.

Osha lathers her hands with soap, smiling benignly at him. “Washable,” she says pointedly, and his left eye twitches.

Osha wipes her hands on the tea towel near her hip, still grinning, and leaves him to it.

It wouldn’t do to look too smug, but God, she loves getting one over on Qimir.

It’s when she’s luxuriating in bed that she realises; he’s not going to let this go. He’s going to come back twice as hard, thrice as fast.

Whatever. That’s a problem for future-Osha.

Present-Osha smiles into her pillow, laying on her stomach, giggling and kicking her legs.

She very rarely secures a win in their war of silent attrition, so forgive her for being giddy.

Two days after she defaces his precious car, the entire time spent being on edge and wary for any sign of revenge, she lets her guard slip, a little.

This is when he retaliates, in his own special way. Choosing to escalate it further, using an unexpected method.

She almost mistakes it for the house settling.

It's an old house, Sol's house. Not inherited, but bought. Something that he'd clearly gotten as a consolation prize in the divorce, whereas Vernestra won the lion's share of marital assets.

Yes, Osha has gone snooping on Zillow. It's not her fault that Qimir's mom is some hotshot entertainment lawyer in LA.

LA property prices are insane as it is, but her eyes almost bug out when she sees how much the house in Calabasas is valued at: ten fucking million?

Damn, Vernestra must be making mad bank. Enough to send Qimir to a fancy college prep academy, one that he clearly disdains but tolerates only for lack of any better option.

Nothing like the school Osha will be attending, come fall. The local high school is as pedestrian as they come, boring and normal.

Osha can’t wait, so excited to be joining Tasi and Mog in Junior year. She’ll have friends that she can keep, maybe even join a few clubs to pad out her extracurriculars.

And then writing college applications, prepping for SATs, studying in the library and hanging out after school at her friend’s houses.

It’s so wonderful, and Osha loses herself in the fantasy of finally having a  substantive high school experience, when she hears the first moan.

She takes it for the wind, at first. It is howling outside, a muggy summer downpour raging late at night. Sol has the night shift at the station, so it’s just them.

But no, the wind has calmed down. It’s not that.

The house isn’t groaning either, as it does from time to time.

There it is, again!

It sounds like someone’s in pain? A woman?

No, her skin flushes hot and cold. Not pain.

Pleasure.

Has Qimir invited someone over? Is he fucking someone in his room, in direct violation of Sol’s house rules?

Osha listens closer, even rolls off her bed and presses her ear against her door; his bed isn’t creaking and the female voice is distinctly echo-y, like a recording.

Like he’s watching porn.

Relief washes over her, followed by fury,

What’s he doing, watching porn at a high volume like this? It’s disgusting, a violation.

Osha should tell him to put some fucking headphones in like an adult, like the eighteen year old he claims to be.

She’s going to, has her hand on the doorknob and ready to turn it and storm in, give him a real piece of her mind, when he groans.

It’s deep and rumbly, so wanton it makes her ache.

Her stomach lurches pleasantly, mind clouding over as all the blood in her brain flows down to her cunt.

Osha sways on the spot, dizzy and so overcome with lust, it’s almost sickening.

Her nipples brush against the soft cotton of her cami, achingly sensitive. Her thighs rub together through her sleeping shorts.

And those sounds keep playing on, the high, keening cries of the woman in the porn video, the low groans from Qimir.

And she knows it’s Qimir, because who else has such a distinctive, raspy voice?

She grips the hem of her cami in her fist.

Don’t do it, a tiny Jiminy Cricket in her head whispers. Don’t you fucking —

Her cami falls to the floor in a heap.

Her shorts follow.

Her hand is on the doorknob, but she only twists it slightly, enough to have the door opening soundlessly, a few inches in.

Enough so sound will travel more easily.

Her feet draw her back to her bed, into the high thread count sheets and satin pillows.

Osha settles onto her back, one hand tracing the folds of her cunt and the other playing with a nipple.

God, she’s already so wet. Her clit is throbbing, begging for attention.

She indulges it, brushes it with the side of her index finger, then applies the barest of pressure.

Pleasure zings through her body, shooting up her back and down to her feet, her toes curling and tingling.

Osha gasps out a moan, barely a breath.

It’s so good. Better than it was with her last boyfriend, even without touching her clit full on.

She plays with herself a bit more, still hearing the pornstar getting fucked, except now she’s crying , “daddy, daddy, fuck me, harder, right there—"

“Fuck,” she hears him curse, and there’s the sound she’s been looking for, the slick slide of his fist on his cock.

Sound carries, in this house. Thin walls and even shoddier insulation. Draughty hallways and space between the floorboards.

So he must hear it, the shocked noise Osha lets out when she slides two fingers into her pussy, straight off the bat.

A counterpoint to the high-pitched pornstar moans; it’s deep and guttural, ripped from her throat, an expression of absolute satisfaction.

The pads of her fingers rub her front walls, despite the awkward angle she’s twisting her wrist at. She spreads her legs wider, digs her heels into the bed, feet almost slipping underneath her.

“Please,” Osha begs, someone, anyone, thrusting her fingers in, tossing her head and undulating her hips.

“God,” she sobs, clenching down, hips stuttering, adding a third finger, but it’s not enough. “More, please, fuck, fuck me, please —”

She cuts herself off, palm of her other hand sealing over her traitorous mouth, except that makes it hotter, imagining a broader hand there, with squared off fingers, nails trimmed neatly.

Osha squeezes her eyes shut, and she can almost imagine it. Her moans rattle against her hand, thin and reedy, as she climbs higher and higher.

Her forearm is cramping, but she doesn’t give a fuck, so close—

“Fuck,” he groans, across the hall, “so good, baby.”

And that’s it, for her.

She comes, that pool of pleasure inside expanding so rapidly, it floods her entire body with bliss.

Osha shakes and convulses and cries, cunt squeezing her fingers, pulsing and fluttering, and she keeps rubbing and rubbing, the heel of her hand mashing her clit roughly, until she comes again, soaking the bed.

She lays there for a good minute, staring up at the ceiling blankly, hand still buried in her pussy.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in—

Post-nut clarity hits her like a fucking truck; what is wrong with her?

Moaning like a fucking bitch in heat, shoving all three fingers in and riding her hand like some desperate slut?

And then moaning for it, loud and shameless. Loud enough that he can definitely hear it, getting off in tandem.

Their mutual masturbation session.

Shame drenches her like the sweat dripping between the valley of her breasts, gathered under her knees as she sinks back into the bed, still panting heavily.

Like she’s run a marathon, instead of fingerfucking herself into oblivion.

The porn noises from Qimir’s room have long since ceased, the only explicit noises being their own.

How is Osha going to face him tomorrow, knowing that she’s given into him like this?

That she’s accepted his invitation, even indirectly? It’s humiliating. She’s a slave to her body, to her desires.

She’s tired, though. It’s late, almost two in the morning, and her ensuite is too far away.

Yeah, she’s going to fall asleep with slick still all over her fingers. It’s effort enough just to lift her ass off the bed and curl up under the sheets.

When Osha wakes the next morning, at dawn like she’s inadvertently trained her body to do, she dreads what the day will bring.

More taunting from Qimir, likely. Oh God, what if he recorded her?

What if he plays back her orgasm sounds, blackmails her by threatening to show it to Sol?

She expects all manner of things to happen, except —

He doesn’t look at her, the entire day.

Qimir acts like she doesn’t exist, in fact, eyes skating over her, tracing the air around her future, like she’s invisible.

And that pisses her off.

She’d expected more, okay? She’d been anticipating it, hyping herself up, and being let down like this is immensely disappointing.

There’s all this energy but nowhere for it to go.

So, Osha plans an offence of her own. She can use this, right?

It’s petty of Osha, but life is all about the small pleasures. The tiny wins.

Knowing what she knows now, about Qimir, she decides to test him.

With a bikini.

See, petty?

But if it works…

Look, it’s high summer and it’s scorching hot, almost surprisingly so. You wouldn’t think Washington state could get hot, but boy, does it.

She’s used to being closer to the pleasant sea breeze, not mired in this humid heat.

Sol has a pool, and she’s been dying to take a dip. She decides to set the scene in two days, when she knows Tasi will be busy with a trip out of town with her parents, and Mog will be attending SAT-prep camp.

Just a day for herself, no Tasi or Mog. She wants to catch up on her reading, maybe make a nice sweet tea and relax at the poolside, wetting her feet occasionally.

One of the items she’d bought during one of her shopping trips with Sol, albeit covertly, was a tiny red bikini.

The top ties behind her back and neck, and the bottoms tie at the hips, on each side. It’s something she’s only seen models or influencers wear, something scandalous and grown-up.

Something for her, which she hadn’t had the courage to wear at any of the foster homes before this.

Osha wiggles in front of her gilt-edged full-length mirror, admiring the way the red of the bikini contrasts against her brown-gold skin. She’ll be getting a wicked tan today.

Sol is at work, being the calm and stalwart Chief of Police. Osha can rely on him to not be there, most of the time.

It’s not like Sol is negligent; he just thinks that providing for her material and spiritual needs is all that she requires.

He’s right, because she doesn’t need a father figure.

Mostly. Maybe. It’s feeling like more of a lie as the days pass by, as she settles into this life and this home.

Qimir’s car is still in the driveway, and his bedroom door is closed. He might still be asleep, as it’s only eleven in the morning. Practically dawn for teenage boys who probably slept at 4AM.

His window looks down over the backyard. It has a prime view of the pool.

Her hands don’t shake as she loops a bow behind her neck, smoothing down the bikini top. Christ, she’s spilling out of it. She picks a wedgie out of her ass, where the fabric has lodged, pirouetting in the mirror.

She looks good.

Osha normally wears fairly baggy layers, a force of habit after growing up too fast and too quick as a Black girl in the foster system. She’d seized on any form of protection with both hands, eager and willing to sweat in the summer heat as long as it meant that eyes and hands didn’t stray too far.

This is the first summer, since she was twelve, that she feels wholly and fully safe.

Even taking Qimir into account.

Sure, he throws her off balance, gets into her head and makes her doubt herself, her desires. But he never makes her feel unsafe.

Not in that way, not in a way that she doesn’t secretly yearn for.

So, she puts herself on display.

The terracotta tiles are warm under her feet as she pads over to the lounger, adjusting the umbrella. A pitcher of sweet tea drips condensation on the small table, next to a high-rimmed glass cup, a platter of freshly cut fruit beside it. At her feet lies a tower of books and sun glasses rest on her head.

This is absolute heaven.

She leaves her phone inside, charging on the cable. There’s no need for it, anyways. She just wants to disconnect.

Osha stretches out, luxuriating in the warm sun. Even as it plays peekaboo with the clouds, the heat still lingers, heating her from the inside.

She knows, somehow without even opening her eyes, that Qimir is standing stock still at his window, staring down at her.

Look all you want, baby.

An hour, maybe two, passes like that; she eats fruits languorously, sucking the juice from her fingers and wiping them on a napkin. She makes headway in the first book of a new fantasy series, about parallel universes and a unique magic system. She sips at the sweet tea, until all the Ice cubes melt and the liquid warms up.

From time to time, she gets up and dips into the water, taking a lap around the pool, locs piled high on her head to avoid wetting them. Chlorine wreaks havoc on her colour; the red has almost faded at this point, but she wants to preserve what she can.

When Osha exits the pool, clutching the guardrail as she does, she chances a look back; each and every time, he’s there.

At his window, unmoving, a fixed point.

Staring at her like a man obsessed.

Osha should be wary. She shouldn’t be poking the bear, flaunting herself in front of him like a tasty morsel. What if he takes it as an invitation?

Because she can’t lie to herself and say that she doesn’t want it, doesn’t want him .

It would be so easy, is the thing, to pin her to the lounger, one strong knee between her thighs, hands pawing greedily at her breasts. Pulling the strings tying her top, the bows at her hips.

She’d feign shock, palms rising up to cup her tits, to shield herself, but he wouldn’t let her.

He’d hold both of her wrists in one of his broad hands, and tear away any barriers between them.

Fuck. Fuck .

Osha wiggles in the water, feeling incredibly warm, even though she’d been shivering just a second ago from the chill of the pool. Her nipples are uncomfortably tight, pebbled through the thin fabric of the bikini top, and her pussy pulses in time with her heartbeat.

If she slips her hands into her bottoms, she’d find her clit puffy, oversensitive. Her fingers spasm at her side, aching to touch.

But not there, out in the open. The neighbours could be watching.

Qimir is watching.

Osha needs a drink of water, not the sweet tea that just serves to parch her. She hauls herself up and over the edge, forgoing the steps, and looks up at Qimir’s window just as she rises to her feet.

Her stomach swoops; he’s gone, leaving a square patch of darkness and parted drapes.

He’s coming. Qimir’s coming.

She leaves droplets everywhere as she scrambles for her towel, but fuck, she’d left it inside. Her brand new beach towel, with a funky red and white palm design.

Osha paws through her belongings for a second look, bending down and looking under the lounger, but nope. She’d forgotten it, like a dumbass.

Nothing to it. She can go without.

She squeegees her body free of water, then slips into her flipflops, footsteps squelching as she makes her way to the glass French doors that lead to the kitchen. It’s faster this way, rather than going through the laundry or the patio doors to the living ro—

It’s locked.

She tries the handles again, jiggles them a little.

And now she’s the idiot who locked herself out. Fuck.

She swears she’d left it open, but she must have nudged it shut while carrying the tea and fruit platter through, then the lock must have caught.

Well, there’s always the other doors.

Osha pivots on her heel, bun on her head swaying heavily, and marches over to the side of the house.

Locked, again.

Once is a mistake. Twice is a pattern.

And thrice…

She tries them all, and every single entry is locked.

Panic beats in her breast and her palms are sweating. Osha wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, beaded with perspiration, suddenly feeling exposed in her bikini. Droplets slide down her back and pool under her breasts.

 If not the back, then she can try the front of the house, despite being in nothing but a tiny swimsuit. The front door is usually left unlocked, because this is a good neighbourhood. There’s no threat of robbery or home invasions here.

She ignores the dread suffusing her body, weighing her limbs down as she races against time, feet pounding the sandstone tiles as she hurries down the path at the side of the house.

She’s fenced in, but she can’t breathe, feeling like she’s suffocating.

It’s can’t be— Qimir wouldn’t —

He would.

And he has.

Her breath comes in pants as she rounds the corner to the front patio, reaches the painted black door and its golden handle.

Please be open, please be open.

She depresses the handle but it’s stuck solid, unmoving.

Locked, again.

She’s locked out. With no way to reach Sol, because she’s idiotically left her phone inside, so fucking smug and assured that she’s the one in control, that she has any power in this scenario when he’s been driving it all along.

The sheer white curtains flutter on one side of the doorway, through the right side light. Osha’s heart leaps; maybe it’s Sol, maybe he’s home early from the station, even though he’d said he was focusing on a serious case, but.

She’s not that lucky.

Maybe Osha was born under a cursed star, because it’s Qimir.

Once again, he’s shirtless, only wearing a pair of grey Nike shorts that leave scandalously little to the imagination, baring his slim and muscled legs, his knobbly and slightly endearing knees.

He’s awake and bushytailed, despite his atrocious bedhead, smirking gleefully and dangling a keyring from his middle finger.

Four keys are threaded through the loop.

Motherfucker .

Motherfucking cunt —

He’s locked her out and he’s taunting her. The nerve of him! The utter fucking gall.

Yet, she can’t make a scene.

She’s a young Black girl, some would call her a ‘ woman’ already, in a bright red, skimpy bikini at the doorstep of a ‘ pillar of the community’.

Osha doesn’t look behind or to the side of her, sure that the neighbours must be watching the spectacle that is her misfortune playing out in front of them.

She can’t show her anger, because that would be bad. And she doesn’t want to be bad, she wants to be a good girl. The good child.

She’s only been here for a few weeks, and Qimir is Sol’s son. Albeit, his adopted son, but whose side would he take, really?

The troubled foster kid who sent her previous foster dad to prison or his privileged, spoiled brat of a son?

It’s too early to tell whether he’d believe her, despite how earnest he’d been about being different from other foster carers, wanting to make a real difference.

Qimir mouths something, and Osha’s bleating lizard-brain struggles to comprehend it, tripping over itself to understand.

She shakes her head, hair scrunchie finally giving up the ghost and snapping off, falling to the ground and leaving her locs to cascade down her neck.

Qimir watches it all hungrily, then drags his eyes from her collarbones up her neck, tracing over her face and ensuring that he has her total attention, when he says it again.

“Beg.”

Osha burns, flushing all over and digging her nails into her palms.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ she wants to say, even opens her mouth to articulate the words, but they hang on her tongue, heavy.

Acting rashly is not going to help her at all. That’s how she’d ended up in this clusterfuck of a situation in the first place.

What options does she have? Bend the knee? Widen her eyes and plead so sweetly, please, please Qimir, let me in? I’ll suck your dick and everything?

No.

Her mind recoils from that idea so fast, it sends her head spinning, even as inconvenient arousal shoots down her spine.

Osha blinks rapidly, the smirk still fixed to Qimir’s face as he tracks her deliberation.

God, she hates his fucking guts. She’s caught between a rock and a hard place, and despises all of her options.

So she chooses a third path.

No one has ever called Osha good at de-escalation. She can escalate with the best of them when the moment calls for it.

Thrill-seeker, danger-chaser, but covert.

He’s trying to play sex chicken with his porn watching and masturbation and general fuckery, but Osha can play chicken as well.

She’s wiggled out of more difficult situations before.

Let’s assess the problem: her bikini is the issue, right?

So, let’s take it out of the equation.

Her hands go behind her back, inadvertently pushing her tits out. His eagle-eyed gaze traces the obvious tightening of her nipples, so he misses it when she unties the back knot.

The strings fall loose, but Osha clamps a hand over her chest to keep the top from shifting.

One eyebrow wings upwards, his eyes widening imperceptibly as he understands, yet he doesn’t relent, idly spinning the keys on his finger.

Osha takes it further.

She reaches the free hand behind her neck, loosening the tie there. She’s fast enough to catch her tits in her hands, halting the fall of her top.

Qimir takes an aborted step forward, jerking his head as the muscles in his jaw feather. She hopes he clenches his jaw so hard, he breaks teeth.

It’s Osha’s turn to smirk and roll her neck. Come and get it, asshole.

She’s teasing the loop at her left hip, sliding a finger underneath to trace the bare skin of her hip, back and forth.

She clenches her legs together, hoping the muscles of inner thighs will hold up the bottoms, and moves to tug the bow.

The jangle of keys, a heated curse and an almighty creak as the front door is yanked open.

There you are.

Qimir grabs her arm and shoves her inside, Osha falling over her feet as he sets her in the entryway, her arm still clamped over her tits.

He’s breathing hard, nostrils flaring and cheeks tinged bright red.

“Fine,” he bares his teeth, ungracious in defeat. “Fucking fine, Jesus Christ.”

Osha wrests the keys from his slack grip and brushes past him on her way to the kitchen, nipples tingling as they scrape his hot chest, through the thin fabric of the cup.

She doesn’t look back to see if he’s watching her ass, but she puts an extra sway into her hips.

After that, Qimir changes tactics.

He’s suddenly solicitous, even overly-familiar. Offering to take her friends to Seattle for a daytrip, so that they don't have to take the ferry. Making himself absent when her friends do show up, leaving them in peace to have their run of the basement or pool.

Even reprimanding one of his friends when they make their usual U.N. jokes.

Too bad for him; now that he's overplayed his hand, he can never go back to that charming façade. Osha sees right through him.

She ignores the fact that he can see right through her, too.

It’s a two-way street, mutually assured destruction. She has her finger on the trigger, her choice when to pull it.

He’s crazy if he thinks she’ll give in so easily.

Qimir ramps up the charm, finally turns on that charisma he deploys as easily as breathing, that’s been missing in their interactions before.

She gets home from helping Tasi plan outfits for the upcoming term and is immediately inundated by a delicious smell.

It’s been a surprisingly chilly summer day, the rain not letting up and she’s soaked from head to toe, from the short walk down the driveway where Tasi’s dad had dropped her off.

Qimir has been… cooking?

She knows that he cooks, but it’s usually only for dinner, and sullenly, at that. He usually throws together whatever cold cuts and cheeses are in the fridge for lunch, or one of his hideous meal-prep bowls.

Never for her, though.

She’s drawn to the kitchen, taking off her shoes then following her nose right up to the counter, where Qimir’s hunched over a chopping board.

He’s chopping green onion to add to a steaming round bowl, filled with… chicken?

It’s chicken soup.

He’s taken into account her preferences, clearly being watching her over the family dinners that Sol enforces, when he’s home to do so.

Osha doesn’t like traditional summer fare like salad or other cold dishes, preferring warm comfort foods like lasagne, minestrone and udon.

Qimir glances up, looking at her through his fringe; it’s a devastating look, soft and enticing. He looks so domestic, with his soft black t-shirt and grey shorts, with a half-apron tied around his waist.

“ Samgyetang ,” he says simply, nudging the bowl forward. “Chicken ginseng soup.”

Osha hesitates, looking around as if he’s addressing someone else, but it’s only her.

“It’s not poisoned,” Qimir scoffs, waving a hand over the bowl near his elbow. Oh, he has his own serving portioned out.

Just to put her at ease, he swaps the bowls, then picks up the chopsticks and takes a bite of the tender chicken.

He groans a little at the taste, throat bobbing as he swallows.

Osha ducks her head as she takes a seat at the barstool closest to her bowl, picking up a soup spoon for a tentative sip.

It’s surprisingly flavourful, the flavours of the ginseng and saltiness of the chicken mingling. Osha sighs after she takes a mouthful.

God, that hits the spot.

“Good, right?”

He sounds entirely too self-satisfied, so she shoots him a warning look.

Careful, bud. Thin ice.

This is a side of Qimir that she hasn’t been privy to, before. Suddenly, she understands why Sol is so blind to his faults, if this is how presents himself.

What a good boy, she thinks derisively. But you can’t fool me.

“It’s okay,” Osha says primly, in response.

Qimir scoffs, “Just ‘okay’, she says.”

Oh, so now they’re friends? What is this, banter?

Too little, too late.

She’ll play along, though, and reap the benefits of his overtures. It won’t last long, he’ll go back to being despicable any day now.

Now

No matter what, Osha can't help it; she's drawn to him.

No matter how far she runs, how many people she fucks, it's him. It's Qimir.

That twin flame bullshit everyone goes on about? Yeah, that might be real.

Because how else can she explain it? The hold he has over her is absolute, has been since the first time she saw him

The worst part about seeing Qimir again, even four years later, is how she forgets herself.

He's charming, is the thing. Slyly funny, with wicked observations and a silver tongue. He makes you feel like you’ve known him for years.

Osha finds herself laughing at his stories, despite herself, only sobering up once she sees the way Mae is touching his arm, the way he's touching her back, tracing patterns over her cardigan.

Eyes on Osha, all the while, as to gauge her reaction. As if this is another of those little games they used to play in their late teens and early twenties.

Jealousy, jealousy.

Fucking whoever they could to rile the other up, bandying texts and calls and voice messages throughout the semester, then colliding explosively during breaks.

The sex had been phenomenal after their time apart. Her core clenches and pulses to recall it, the way he’d fucked her like an animal, a rough hand wrenched in her hair, fingers digging bruises into her hip, his low and raspy moans—

“Do you remember?” he whispers to her, loud enough that Mae can overhear, over the tea that Sol had served in the casual living room. “When Sol used to make us attend Sunday Mass?”

Osha looks down, refusing to answer his question, face burning in shame at her vivid recollections, but Mae jostles her with her elbow.

Right, playing nice. She can do that.

“I do,” she murmurs, and really, she does. That's not really what he's referring to, though.

She remembers it all; she remembers everything.

Then

Osha is a chameleon; she adapts. She finds what people wants and she gives it to them.

For Sol, she folds away the sceptic and brings out the wide-eyed girl she's meant to be. Osha doesn't allow herself to be vulnerable, instead crafting another face, another act to hide behind.

Something a little more soft, a little more open. She plays up the doe eyes and adds a bit of poutiness, a bit of youthful petulance.

Sometimes it rings truer than she means it, times when reality and playacting meet in the middle.

Only Qimir sees the cracks in her armour, the moments where her hardness peeks through.

And he exploits them for all he's worth.

A barbed comment here, a brush of his hand there. Long, penetrating looks.

And, of course, the nights that they both pretend that nothing’s happening, that they’re not doing anything special; those nights, that are now occurring at an increasing frequency, where Osha gets herself off in any number of creative ways, with her door very slightly ajar.

He’s a moment, a breath away from calling her out on it, but she tries not to spend too long in his presence. Counting down the days until he’s gone, and she can finally breathe without it feeling like he’s clouding her head with the intoxicating smell-taste of his presence.

Go back to LA, she wants to scream. Why the fuck are you still here in Washington? 

According to Sol, he would have fucked off (her words) by now, six weeks in, so there must be something special keeping him here.

“Qimir wants,” and here Sol beams, “to bond with his foster sister! How lovely.”

Poor Sol, darling Sol.

He only sees what he wants to see. And she has to give up a large part of herself to meet his expectations, to be the girl he wants her to be.

Osha doesn't believe in God.

She never has, despite various foster parents trying to push religion on her, trying to save her soul from hellfire.

She'd scoffed at them, in secret. How could a righteous and just God allow what happened to her?

But for Sol, she can try. She can be the good girl, the Catholic girl, penitent and kneeling to receive absolution.

She can wash away her sins. Or attempt to, at least. 

"This'll be fun to watch," Osha overhears Qimir mutter, sprawled in a dining chair as he watches Sol and Osha, dressed in their Sunday best, chat over breakfast.

She slants a look at him; he's almost painfully beautiful to look at today, a faded black tee under a blue jean jacket and cuffed charcoal jeans, with his customary scuffed Docs.

Osha, on the other hand, is in a long-sleeved, knee-skimming white and black houndstooth dress with a sweetheart neckline. Very elegant and demure. 

Her locs are pinned back, the front falling like a fringe. She even wears the gold crucifix necklace Sol had gifted her, despite her multiple protests.

When he'd seen her come down the stairs, he'd almost had tears in his eyes. "Like the daughter I never had," he'd whispered, and Osha felt like dying.

Will she burst into flames, the moment she steps across the threshold? It seems like she might, with her multitude of sins.

Once they're cleaning up, Sol and Qimir nursing twin mugs of black coffee, Qimir stands abruptly. 

"I’ll join you," he announces, and Sol is overcome with joy, embracing his son.

“This is wonderful! We must do something special afterwards, to celebrate!”

He brings them into his arms, side by side, their shoulders touching.

“ Fuck you,” she mouths at Qimir, but he only smirks at her.

He's up to something; no way Qimir would attend Sunday Mass, which he's made a face at the entire summer, without an ulterior motive.

And she's right, because he does try it on her.

Sunday Mass is crowded, as it always seems to be, Sol greeting people with handshakes and shoulder touches and back slaps as they move through the lines of people streaming into the church.

It's not a Korean church, not exclusively; though there is a large proportion of churchgoers that are Korean. 

Osha stands out, as one of the few Black girls there. She's glad she has Sol to hide behind, playing up her shy routine so she doesn't have to interact and strain her social battery too much.

Qimir hangs behind her, eyes burning a point between her shoulder blades. She straightens up on reflex, determined not to give him any ground.

Sol seats her next to Qimir, ostensibly so he can teach her the hymns and prayers. Osha doesn’t protest, though she tenses up as soon as she slides into the end of the pew and Qimir shuffles his leg, so that his thigh presses against hers.

Qimir proves himself an adequate teacher, despite her assumptions, so she lets his low murmur wash over her, complying with his directions. She stands shoulder to shoulder with him for the hymns.

He doesn't sing, but Sol does, a lovely baritone.

She kneels beside him, knees on the wooden kneeler, during the prayer. Qimir's head is bowed, blank-faced. She wonders what he's thinking, what's going through that pretty head of his.

They go straight to standing, after kneeling.

"Another prayer," Qimir explains in a long-suffering tone, his nose brushing the top of her head.

Osha covers her mouth against a snort, clearing her throat and rolling her shoulders. Her feet are aching in her heels. She flexes her feet, knowing that she'll need to soak them in hot water after they're done.

Qimir watches her fidgeting, then adds, "There's Bible reading after this. We'll sit for a bit."

She sighs, clasping her hands in front of her body as she listens to the voices mingle in the hymn. She doesn't know which one it is, only that the words are beautiful.

Sol certainly seems to be enjoying himself, completely absorbed in worship. Osha wishes she could find fulfillment in it, the same way her foster dad is.

"Thank you," she tells Qimir, hushed.

He ducks his head again, fringe falling over his eyes. "Don't thank me just yet."

Osha allows herself to relax, despite her previous reservations, lulled into a sense of security. It’s almost… comfortable.

More fool, her.

She thought Qimir would behave for Mass, maybe not put on a show in a public fucking place, a holy space, but she was dead wrong.

He starts slow, during the Bible Reading; it could almost be mistaken for an accident, when he brushes the hem of her skirt while adjusting himself in the wooden pew. These benches are dreadfully uncomfortable, after all.

Her suspicion crystallises, because he gets brave enough to slide a pinkie finger against her thigh.

She should have worn a pantyhose.

Osha despairs at the thought, because she was going to, then she couldn't find the fucking package of the new pair she'd bought the other day, electing to go bare-legged.

A mistake, a deadly fucking mistake.

Qimir takes judicious advantage of her slip-up, tracing higher. Osha can't say anything; Sol is seated on his other side and she can't make a fuss, or he'd notice something amiss.

Osha can't even slap his hand away; she'd tried, but he's just too sneaky.

She stops trying to resist; it takes up all her attention, when she should be focused on the reading, the priest droning on, the air filled with the warmth of a hundred bodies, the sacred ritual. 

It almost works, but for Qimir choosing to escalate matters by slipping his hand under her skirt, right to the apex of her thighs.

Osha tenses, back ramrod straight, barely daring to even breathe, as his hand creeps up her thighs, slowly, slowly. Dragging the pads of his fingers across sensitive skin, nails scraping the tender flesh.

He brushes the edge of her good girl cotton panties, and her entire body erupts in goosebumps.

Osha's hips jolt and she lets out the slightest of sounds, barely a moan, but Qimir catches it.

It's like a white flag, a capitulation. A surrender. He wins; he's gotten the reaction he wanted out of her, as if her body could lie about how much she wants him, even as she breathes in the smoky incense, her head spinning.

Because of the scent, she tells herself. Not because all of the blood in her body has rushed south, leaving her fingers to tingle numbly, her heartbeat pulsing from her cunt.

The tell-tale cunt. 

She almost giggles at the delirious thought, and the mirth must show on her face because Qimir bows his head, looking very sombre and serious, and whispers, "What's so funny?" while still continuing to trace the elastic of her underwear.

"This," she murmurs back. "This whole fucking situation."

And it is, it's truly hilarious, and she almost starts howling with laughter then and there.

They'll think she's possessed, that a demon has taken hold of her, and maybe it has. 

That's a better excuse than whatever this is, whatever fucking game Qimir is playing. 

Maybe he's the demon.

Osha could almost believe it, with his darkly gleaming eyes, the wicked smirk on his face, hidden by the loose hair framing his face, those plush pink, tempting lips.

A vision of sin incarnate.

Temptation made flesh, which she’s tried valiantly to resist.

Alas, to no success, because he finds her fucking drenched for him. His fingers alight on the gusset of her panties and he sighs, mouth dropping open as his pupils rapidly dilate.

He looks like he’s in raptures, trying his hardest not to stare at his hand moving covertly under the skirt of her dress, but Osha just knows.

He’s aching to drop to his knees, ruck the skirt above her waist and bury his face in her pussy.

A surge of heat prickles over her body, despite the cool radiating from the marble tiles and sandstone.

Fuck, she can imagine it now. His dark head bobbing, his jaw working and his soft hair brushing her legs. The plush heat of his mouth, those sinful lips put to a better use.

There’s a whisper of cloth as Qimir drops down to the kneeler, and Osha almost has a heart attack at his audacity.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, but he smirks up at her.

“Prayer.”

She looks around to check that he’s correct, and quickly follows as the priest resumes the prayer. She ignores the shaking of her hands as they’re clasped in front of her, the trickle of wetness making its way down her thighs.

The contrast of the cool wood and her hot flesh makes her sweat, all-too-aware that she’s a sinner.

What was she thinking, letting Qimir pull her skirt up like that, almost fingering her in the middle of Mass?

And, even worse, how she wants him to do it again, to resume their little game of chicken and go even further, trespassing the limits of her boundaries, delving deep within.

Her cunt pulses and she shifts, discomforted.

She eyes Qimir out of her peripheral vision, sees him press the fingers of his clasped hand to his mouth.

Two of them are gleaming. With slick.

She gasps when his tongue flickers out to taste the tips of his fingers. His eyes close in pure bliss, like he’s communicating with the Holy Spirit itself.

Fuck, fuck.

Mercifully, it’s a short prayer, and they’re soon on their feet again for the last of the hymns. Osha smooths her skirt down, sweaty palms sliding over her trembling thighs.

She watches Communion, awkwardly seated in the mostly-empty pews, alongside Qimir, as the line of churchgoers go up to partake in the offering of sacramental wine. Then comes the final prayer, time stretching into infinity before her as her body insists on being touched, despite Sol sitting right next to her after taking Communion.

The Announcements pass by like molasses, Osha alternately bunching and flattening her skirt, until the Final Blessing arrives.

She sighs with a little too much relief, muttering, “Finally.”

Qimir laughs but Sol sends her a sharp look, before it softens. She’s never been to a service this long before, and Sol expects them to attend every Sunday?

Torture. Fucking torture.

But he’s been so good to her, so she can’t say anything. It’s worth it, just another thing to endure.

Next time, though, she’ll sit in between Sol and the nice old white lady on his other side.

No more allowing herself to be a victim, to be vulnerable to Qimir.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

It doesn’t stop the dreams from coming, though.

Osha’s dreamt about Qimir before, but this is the most vivid; probably, because this is the first time he’s actually dared to touch her like that.

His hands, all over her. Strong and broad, with thick fingers that dig into her bare waist.

His mouth, hot on her breasts. Osha’s nipples are sensitive, but no one has actually taken the time to play with them, before, too focused on rushing to the final act.

She knows Qimir would. He’d probably find a way to make her come just by playing with her tits alone.

Then his mouth, that wicked, sinful tongue at the apex of her thighs, licking wetly.

Her dream self bows up, clutching at the insubstantial sheets of the bed, the room a blur as she closes her eyes. She wavers between dreaming and waking, and fights hard to keep herself here, where she can fantasise about him, guilt-free.

“Osha,” he drawls, so dark and delighted, breathing her name into her cunt. “What do you want?”

“Fuck me,” she sobs, shameless.

“As you wish.”

And he raises onto his haunches, suddenly naked, She swears he was clothed just a second ago, but whatever.

In dream-logic, the sequence of events don’t matter because suddenly he’s sliding in, so thick and firm and utterly bare.

No STIs in fantasy-land, so she moans loudly and clutches his shoulders as he hunches over her, hitching her legs higher over his hips.

Her cunt clenches around his length, feeling every ridge and vein, and it’s so good. She’s wetter than a firehose, and it sounds obscene when he pulls out and punches back in, but also the best thing she’s ever felt in her life.

“Fuck me,” she cries, digging her nails into his shoulders, and wow, the fact that she can do this in a dream is really something.

“Harder,” she begs, and he obliges her.

“As you wish,” he grunts, grabbing her ass, practically bending her in half to pull her back onto his cock as he thrusts forward, rubbing all over her front walls, the head of his cock glancing at the bundle of nerves that sends her spasming.

“So sensitive,” he taunts, because of course, even dream-Qimir can’t shut up and fuck her in silence.

That’s okay, because here she can be bold.

“I told you,” she clamps hard around his cock, bearing down, and he curses, hips stuttering, “to fuck me . Not talk.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” he threatens, and follows through when he gets his bearings under him to pummel her pussy, setting an unreal pace, practically drilling into her.

It jolts her entire body, and she clenches around his cock helplessly, held in place, unable to even move her hips because of his iron grip, but she arches her back, scrapes her nails down his back, draws blood.

In no time, she’s climaxing, the walls of her cunt cramping so hard that it’s painful, pleasure suffusing her fully, settling languidly into her bones, but he’s not done. He doesn’t let up, fucking her through another orgasms that slams into her with the force of a punch to the stomach, winding her.

Then another, and another.

It blurs together until she’s openly sobbing, her face wet with salty tears, body wrecked but not sore or aching, because this is just in her imagination, and she can be as loud and wanton as she likes, because he’s never going to know , is he?

When she wakes, long after the sun has risen and her room is warm with mid-morning light, it’s to Qimir’s bedroom door creaking shut.

She’s breathless, panting up at the ceiling, knowing that this can never happen again. Her cami is soaked through with sweat, and so are her cotton shorts, and she’s slick and still throbbing.

Her gold crucifix lies heavy on her chest, mocking her. She’s not worthy of it, or any good will from Sol, but she’ll still take it.

She’ll whatever she can get with both of her hands, greedy and grasping.

This dream, this fucking diversion, is all a distraction from her true goals. To find a family, somewhere to stay and rest her head. A place to call home.

Osha is not going to ruin it by giving in to the demands of her libido, or a silly crush on a cool, available older boy who happens to be Sol’s adopted son.

She’s not going to fuck her foster brother. She isn’t.

She isn’t.

They maintain the peace, for the most part.

Another thing that they don’t talk about directly. It’s nice, if Qimir could even be called that, for him to indulge in her delusion.

Mutual delusion, mutual madness. Folie à deux.

He’d drag her down with him, if she let him.

So she rebuilds that wall, sequesters herself in its fortifications, watches the mirth and friendliness drain out of Qimir’s eyes when he notes the renewed distance.

As if it’s a fucking surprise, to him. He’d crossed the line, several lines many times over, and he knows it.

It comes to a head after dinner one night, closer to the start of the school year, when the clock is ticking down on Qimir leaving.

Sol broaches the topic of adoption, specifically adopting Osha, and it’s like all of her dreams have come true.

“Staying here,” he searches her face over the meatloaf Osha had cobbled together. “Is that something you’d like? More long-term?”

He’s hesitant, tone soft and gentle, but he brightens up when Osha beams at him.

“Yes,” she stumbles over her words, “Yes, please, Sol. Do you mean—”

“Formally adopting you?” Sol lets out a breath, shoulders straightening. “Yes.”

Osha’s practically vibrating, when Sol adds, “With your assent, of course. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable…”

“You could never,” Osha smiles, so widely her cheeks are hurting.

“Well then, I hope you’ll forgive me, because I already went ahead and started the process…”

“Oh, Sol!”

Osha’s eyes prick with tears, a lump forming in her throat, a ball she swallows down roughly because she’s not going to burst into tears here at the table. She hugs him, delicately, across the dining room table.

But he really, truly does want her as his daughter. It’s intoxicating, this parental love, this promise of unconditional love…

When she’d said she didn’t want a father figure? What a lie.

“When you feel comfortable,” Sol says meaningfully, petting her hand, “and only when you’re ready, you can call me ‘ Appa’ .”

‘Appa’ . Osha mouths the word. She knows it’s Korean for ‘father’.

Wow. Wow wow, this is really happening.

She wants this more than anything, to be someone’s daughter. She wants to be Sol’s daughter more than she wants Qimir, and he knows it.

Does she look at Qimir, throughout all of this? No. She refuses to.

So that’s why he corners her long after dinner has been cleaned up, portioned and packed away in the fridge.

Sol has retreated upstairs to shower and change out of his work clothes, and Osha is rubbing at a particularly stubborn stain in the marble.

Who the hell puts marble counters in a kitchen—

"His love is still conditional, you know." 

Her head whips up so fast, she almost hits her head on the cabinet door, left ajar above her.

It’s Qimir, leaning against the kitchen island, both hands shoved in his thin sweatpants, tense and clenching his jaw.

Okay, let’s do this.

Osha sets the rag down, wiping her hands on the kitchen towel and crossing her arms.

“So don’t fool yourself,” Qimir continues, relaxing now that she sees he has her attention. His neck stretches, like a panther. “You think he’d be so forgiving if he knew—"

"Shut up," Osha says heatedly. "What would you know about love?"

"Far more than you, I’d imagine," he tilts his head. "Why do you love people who can only go so far? Even your twin abandoned you."

How does he even about Mae? She’s never, ever once brought her up. Not even to Sol.

"Don't talk about Ma—"

He continues on, steady but louder, more resonant, "Who can't go as deep as you can?"

Osha is floored by his audacity, blood roaring in her ears, even as moisture pricks her eyes, fists clenching and unclenching. 

"If this is you playing one of your games again—"

"I'm not," he says it so simply, without any of his usual sly artifice, that she can't help but believe it. Even after she's been fooled so many times, she still chooses to hope.

"Then, what? Would you love me better?" she spits scornfully, and he steps closer. So close that she has to crane her neck back, cursing her lack of height. It's not fair.

He lifts a hand up, and she tenses, but it’s only to close the open cabinet door above her head, so it won’t collide with his head.

On his way down, however, he strokes the tops of her head. Osha shudders.

“I could," he rasps, lifting a finger to toy with one of her locs, rolling it between his index finger and thumb. "Would you ever consider?"

"No," the answer shoots out by reflex. 

What sort of 'love' is he talking about? 

Certainly, not the brotherly kind, not with the way he's looking at her, practically devouring her with his eyes, covetous.

Not with what they’ve done, the way he’s touched her. The way she’s imagined him touching her.

He's possessive, she knew this already. He'd tried his hardest to get in between her and her friends, even if at the time she'd thought he was still trying to run her off. 

Why does he capture her attention? Why does she turn towards his voice, seeking his opinion, checking in when something funny happens so she can share the reaction? 

The answer lies within her, in a place that she's terrified to uncover, to consider the truth that hides within. 

How long can she lie to herself? How long until she's forced to fully face the truth?