After cursing him out, Sato Ruri tried to shove Yūto Shō away and bolt, but Yūto Shō grinned like a shounen villain mid-monologue. "Don't move, okay? If I slip and cut your pants, you'll be walking home in your birthday suit."
The scissors were still clamped on the frayed edge of her ripped jeans, gaping open like they might snip through at any second.
Sato Ruri's whole body locked up. She didn't dare twitch. The thought of her pants getting sliced apart sent a jolt of panic through her, because Yūto Shō — this absolute degenerate — was unhinged enough to actually do it.
"What do you even want?" Sato Ruri glared daggers at him, clutching the hole in her jeans shut with both hands so not a sliver of thigh showed.
"Didn't I already say? I just want to sign my name on your thigh." Yūto Shō put on his most innocent face, the kind of look that wouldn't fool a five-year-old. "Besides, I promised I wouldn't take your pants off. Why are you freaking out so hard?"
Sato Ruri ground her teeth so hard she could've cracked enamel. So somehow this was her fault now?
Yūto Shō didn't feel like dragging this out — he was still waiting on her to cook for him, after all. So he leveled the threat plain: "Let go and let me sign, or I'm cutting."
He kept gesturing at her thigh with the scissors, and even nudged the tip against the zipper of her jeans, tap-tap, like he was testing his luck.
"Mmnh~~"
She must've hit some weird nerve, because a muffled, embarrassingly soft moan slipped out of her throat. Her thighs snapped together on reflex, her pretty face flushed crimson, and she shot him a glare full of shame and fury rolled into one.
Yūto Shō ignored the death-stare entirely. Instead, with way too much interest, he dragged the scissor tip up and down along the zipper track, slow, deliberate. Then the blade caught on the little metal pull tab and started tugging it downward.
"No!"
Sato Ruri's hands flew off her thigh and clamped down over the zipper, pinning the scissors in place against her own crotch.
"Hold them tight. If you let those scissors drop, I'm ripping the whole thing open."
Yūto Shō smirked, full Joker-energy, and let go of the handles. He fished a marker out of his pocket — the desire marker — and signed his name across her bare thigh.
The felt tip dragged across the silky skin and her body shivered, totally outside her control. Her face went tomato-red. She wanted so badly to slap him away and end this nightmare, but the scissors were right there, balanced like a guillotine.
After a few seconds of internal screaming, she finally turned her face away, biting her lip, and let him scrawl his stupid name into the soft inside of her thigh.
The signature wrapped up quick. Yūto Shō capped the marker and stared at his own name inked in black across her milk-pale skin, and a weirdly possessive thrill rolled through him — like he'd just put a name-tag on something that belonged to him now.
He couldn't help himself. He reached out and brushed his fingertips over the signature. The second he touched her, he registered exactly how stupid-soft her thigh was — plush, springy, like memory foam wrapped in silk. He squeezed before he could stop himself.
"Hnn…" Sato Ruri jerked her chin up, sniffling through her blush. "You said you were only going to sign!"
"Ahh, sorry, sorry — Sato Ruri's just way too cute, I lost control for a second there."
Yūto Shō gave her his best apologetic anime-protagonist smile and, miraculously, actually pulled his hand back. He stood, took a couple of steps away, and went full nothing-to-see-here mode. "Alright, get cooking. I'm starving."
Sato Ruri's face stayed flushed pink, eyes confused, like she couldn't compute why he'd flipped the switch so fast. She didn't dare drop her guard either — she kept watching him sidelong, definitely not willing to turn her back. If she did, who knew, he might bury his face against her ass again.
"Sato Ruri, I'm seriously hungry," Yūto Shō stressed, deadpan.
She gave him a long, complicated look, and finally turned toward the stove anyway, because honestly, if Yūto Shō decided to force the issue, fighting back wouldn't help much.
Just as she was about to pour oil into the pan, Sato Ruri froze. A faint, prickling itch had started up on the exact patch of thigh where he'd signed her. She couldn't help reaching down to rub at it, and — oh. That felt weirdly good. So she rubbed again, and again, her breath catching shallow in her throat.
What is going on? Why does scratching my own leg feel like this? Why don't I want to stop? Yūto Shō's literally right behind me.
Her face twisted with conflict, then she bit her lip and let her fingertips drift slow over her thigh, stroking, careful, sneaky. She thought she was being subtle. She was not being subtle. Yūto Shō clocked it instantly.
"What are you doing over there?" he asked, casual as anything.
She jolted — but her hand didn't stop. She rushed out, breathless, "N-nothing, I'm cooking—"
"Bullshit. You're totally rubbing your thigh. I can see you."
Yūto Shō pointed straight at her leg, then padded forward, dropped into a squat behind her, and craned his neck around to get a front-row view of the show.
Watching her plump thighs — his name still fresh and dark across the skin — get worked over again and again by her own small, restless fingers, Yūto Shō felt something twist hot and uneasy in his gut.
"N-no I'm not, I just… it just itches a little." Sato Ruri was breathing rough now, her almond eyes half-lidded, like she didn't even have the bandwidth left to fight with him. Her hands wouldn't stop moving across her thighs.
She could feel something climbing in her, bit by bit — but it kept stalling just short of where she needed it, and the frustration was making her quietly frantic.
Right then, Sato Ruri's brain was static. Shame had logged out. She had no idea how completely off the rails she looked.
Yūto Shō clicked his tongue under his breath. No wonder they call it a desire marker — this stuff is broken-tier. If he'd signed his name somewhere even more sensitive, the girl probably would've been moaning it out loud for him on the spot, no shame, no brakes.
He noticed, though, that Sato Ruri had this antsy, dissatisfied edge to her — like she kept reaching for something she couldn't quite grab.
Then it clicked. Maybe, since it was his name on her skin, only his hand could push her over the edge.
Yūto Shō swallowed thick, reached out, and slipped his hand through the ragged hole in her jeans straight onto her bare thigh. Her whole delicate frame shuddered. She turned her head back, glassy-eyed and shy. "Wh-what are you doing?"
"Helping you out."
Yūto Shō said it with a straight face, like a paramedic on duty, and started stroking her thigh in slow circles. Sato Ruri opened her mouth to protest — and then her eyes fluttered shut, a full-body shiver rolled through her, and her face went slack with something close to bliss.
While he kneaded her leg, Yūto Shō couldn't resist pressing his face forward against the seat of her jeans, feeling the firm, round shape of her ass through the denim, and a smug little wave of satisfaction crashed through him.
"Nn… don't… bump… my butt—"
The girl was babbling now, words tripping over each other. Her hands braced hard on the edge of the stove, heels lifting a little off the floor, hips tilting back almost like she was meeting his face instead of running from it.
Yūto Shō nuzzled in for another moment and faintly felt a warm patch of damp soaking through the denim. A black, mischievous heat surged up through his chest.
Copping a feel wasn't enough anymore. He pushed up to standing, turned the dazed girl around to face him, one hand still working slow circles on her thigh, the other looping around the dip of her waist. He tilted in and caught her bottom lip between his, sucking it into his mouth, taking his sweet time.
"Mmh…"
The girl moaned into him, no fight left in her body. If anything, the heat climbed higher. She twisted her waist, sinuous, and instinctively pressed her full chest forward against Yūto Shō's, fitting herself against him like she'd been waiting for the cue.