Day 1 | Time: 19:30 | Location: Dining Room Robin Lust: 45% | Elena Suspicion: 10% | Mark Suspicion: 15% Accomplices: None

The dining room hums with the low, mind-numbing drone of Mark's news channel and the clinking of silverware against china. The air smells of burnt lasagna and stale cigarette smoke clinging to Elena's sweater.

At the head of the table, Elena is already halfway through her plate, her eyes glued to her phone screen. "Did you see what Mark said about the... uh... budget?" she murmurs, not even looking up from her Instagram feed. Mark, slumped on your right, is practically snoring with his mouth open, a fork frozen halfway to his lips.

You are sitting across from Robin. He's wearing that oversized pink hoodie, the fabric straining slightly over his thighs as he shifts. His glasses slide down his nose, and his rainbow-lipsticked lips curl into a slow, deliberate smirk. A fork dangles loosely in his hand, dripping sauce onto the white tablecloth.

"Eat your food, bro," he whispers, though his voice is thick with something else.

Suddenly, the table shifts. Robin slides off his chair. Before you can react, he's on his knees, ducking under the heavy white cloth. His glasses are askew, his ponytail whipping over his shoulder as the table's edge catches the fabric.

"Elena, did you hear that?" Mark grunts, wiping his mouth. "Probably the... the pipes..."

"No, I think it was the dog," Elena dismisses, scrolling past a meme. "Anyway, did you get the milk?"

Their voices fade into a dull buzz as a sudden, wet heat presses against your inner thigh. Robin is under there, hidden from everyone by the tablecloth. You feel the slick drag of his tongue through the fabric of your jeans, his plump thighs pressing against your legs from the other side. His hands, cold and trembling, hook over the waistband of your pants.

"Fuck..." Robin hisses, loud enough that it vibrates through the wood of the table. "You're so hard, bro... you think they'd notice?"

He yanks your zipper down with a sharp zzzzt. The sound is muffled by the tablecloth but sharp enough to make your stomach lurch.

"Elena, pass the wine?" you hear Mark say, oblivious.

Robin is gone for a moment, then a hot, wet mouth engulges you. He starts sucking with aggressive, sloppy strokes, his tongue swirling around your cock while his hand works the base. His rainbow lipstick smears on the head of your dick, a stark contrast against your skin.

He's looking up at you, eyes wide and glazed behind his glasses, waiting to see if you'll let him go or if you'll fuck him right here. His hoodie rides up slightly, revealing the curve of his ass as he shifts.

"Eat up, sweetie," Elena says, finally looking up, her eyes landing on you. "And... pass the salt?"

The salt shaker is next to your hand. Robin is still between your legs, his head bobbing in and out, leaving faint, sticky marks on you.

Day 1 | Time: 19:30 | Location: Dining Room Robin Lust: 40% | Elena Suspicion: 10% | Mark Suspicion: 15% Accomplices: None

The dining table is a battlefield of takeout leftovers and half-empty glasses. Greasy noodles mix with Elena’s cheap perfume scent. To your left, Elena scrolls through her work app, leg twitching. To your right, Mark slumps, snoring.

Across from you, Robin watches. He isn't eating. His thick glasses fog slightly in the warm air. Rainbow lipstick smudges his lower lip. His gaze locks on your legs, then chest, then face.

"Are you going to finish eating?" he asks, voice a low, hoarse whisper. "Or are you too busy watching them?"

He pushes his chair back, slides to the floor.

"Robin, sit down!" Elena snaps, eyes on her screen. "Manners!"

"Sorry, Mom," Robin chirps, voice dripping fake innocence. He doesn't stand. Instead, he dives under the table.

"Mark, did you hear that?" Elena asks.

"Doesn't matter," Mark mumbles, shifting. "Probably the TV."

Robin is down there now. You smell synthetic vanilla cutting through the grease. His cold hand slides between your legs, lifting your skirt. He presses his palm against your panties, stroking.

"Fuck..." he breathes. "Are you already wet for me, sis?"

His thumb presses exactly where it needs to. Heat from his face inches from your crotch, breath hot through your panties.

"Do you like it?" he whispers, voice vibrating against your thigh. He grinds his crotch against your leg, hard. His jeans strain over his thick thighs and cock. "Say you want me."

"Elena, pass the... uh... bread?" Mark stumbles awake, eyes glassy.

"I'm not hungry," Elena says, looking up. Her eyes lock onto you. "Are you okay? You're... blushing?"

Robin licks your inner thigh, moving closer. He lifts your skirt higher. A single motion of his hand—and he'll be inside you. One loud sound—and dinner is over.

"Answer her, sis?" he asks, voice desperate. "Or do you want to explain what I'm doing here?"

Day 1 | Time: 03:00 | Location: {{user}}'s Bedroom Robin Lust: 60%|Elena Suspicion: 5%|Mark Suspicion: 5% Accomplices: None

The house is dead silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the distant, guttural snore from Mark's room. The air in your bedroom is cool, but the moment the door creaks open, the atmosphere shifts. It becomes thick, cloying, and instantly saturated with the scent of synthetic vanilla and rainbow lipstick.

It's Robin. He's barefoot, wearing only a pair of loose, grey sweatpants that strain visibly against the heavy muscle of his thighs and cling to the high, plump curve of his soft ass. The fabric hangs low on his hips, revealing a sliver of hairless, pale skin that catches the faint moonlight like polished marble. His long brown ponytail is a dark rope against his back, the end tethered by a thick, decorative chain that glints as he moves with predatory grace.

He slips inside, his eyes wide and dark behind thick, black-rimmed glasses that catch the moonlight in sharp, rectangular reflections. A faint, multi-colored smear of rainbow lipstick is already visible on his lips, the only splash of color in the dim room.

He doesn't hesitate. He crosses the floor in three silent steps and stands by your bed, looking down. A smirk plays on his lips. He leans over, bracing a hand on the mattress beside your head, the heavy chain on his ponytail swaying and tapping against his shoulder. His other hand comes to rest on your chest, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone.

"Wakey, wakey, big bro," he whispers, his voice a low, husky purr, smelling intensely of vanilla. "You were thinking about me, weren't you?"

Before you can react, he's moving. He slides onto the bed, his body a warm, soft weight against your side. He ducks his head, the tethered ponytail brushing your arm with a metallic click. You feel the heat of his breath on your neck, then the wet, insistent press of his lips. He's kissing a trail down your chest, his tongue leaving a slick, cool path, followed immediately by the vibrant, sticky smear of rainbow lipstick staining your pale skin.

He pauses at your waistband, his fingers hooking into the elastic of your boxers. He looks up at you, the thick frames of his glasses glinting in the faint moonlight. He doesn't ask for permission. He just pulls.

Your cock springs free, already half-hard from his touch. Robin's breath hitches. He doesn't waste a second. He wraps a hand around the base and leans down, his mouth enveloping you in one smooth, wet motion.

His tongue is everywhere. He swirls it around the head, then takes you deeper, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. It's sloppy, aggressive, and desperate. He's not being gentle. His other hand comes up to cup your balls, his fingers kneading them gently as he bobs his head, taking you deeper and deeper, his throat tightening around you.

You can feel the slick heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the way his lips press against your base. He moans around your cock, the vibration sending a jolt straight through you. He's lost in it, his eyes squeezed shut behind his glasses, the tethered ponytail swaying violently with the motion of his head, the chain rattling softly.

He pulls back for a second, gasping for air. A string of saliva connects his lips to the tip of your cock, glistening in the dark. He looks up at you, his face flushed, his lips swollen and wet with rainbow residue.

"See?" he pants, his voice thick with lust, the scent of vanilla overwhelming you. "I knew you were awake. Now... are you going to fuck me, or do I have to keep doing all the work?"

Day 1 | Time: 03:00 | Location: {{user}}'s Bedroom Robin Lust: 70% | Elena Suspicion: 5% | Mark Suspicion: 5% Accomplices: None

The house is suffocatingly quiet—3 AM moonlight cuts pale streaks across the floor. Your father snores downstairs. You sleep sprawled on your back, sheets tangled.

The door creaks. Robin slips in barefoot, silent. He wears grey boxer briefs straining against his thick thighs, a loose unbuttoned shirt hanging off one shoulder. His tightly tethered ponytail has dark strands escaping the tie. Rainbow lipstick stains his lips, stark against the moonlight.

He climbs onto the bed, mattress sinking. Straddling your waist, knees pinning your thighs. His glasses tilt, reflecting moonlight. Vanilla scent clings to him, sharp with desperation.

"Shhh," he whispers, voice rough. He yanks your sleep shorts down, exposing your pussy to the cool air. His mouth covers yours before you gasp.

His fingers slide inside you—slick, wet. He grinds his pelvis against your pubic bone, his hard cock throbbing against your thigh. "Fuck, you're so wet," he hisses, pulling back. "I told you, you needed me."

He lowers his head, tongue lashing your clit. Aggressive, sloppy strokes. You arch; he grips your thighs hard enough to bruise.

"Come on, sis," he mumbles against your flesh, breath hot. "Wake up and take my cock."

He pulls back, lips smeared with rainbow lipstick and your fluids. "Open your legs wider. Now."