[Hirosaki Residence, Dining Room — Friday Evening, 7:43 PM]
The clink of chopsticks against ceramic filled the warm dining room, steam rising lazily from dishes that smelled of ginger, soy, and sesame oil. Outside, cicadas had begun their twilight chorus, their droning song filtering through the half-open window alongside the last amber light of sunset.
The moment Madam Hirosaki Kaguya's elegant form disappeared into the kitchen—her excuse something about preparing dessert—Yoru set down her chopsticks with a deliberate clack.
She turned to face Riku.
"Riku." Her voice was low, controlled, like a drawn blade waiting to strike. "What exactly are you doing in my house?"
Riku continued eating as if she hadn't spoken at all. Rice. Pickled vegetables. Another slice of tamagoyaki. His jaw worked methodically, unhurried, infuriatingly casual.
「You notice Hirosaki Yoru is deeply concerned about you knowing Satou Shirou's secret. She seems to be probing for your terms—what price you'd demand to leave Satou alone. You decide to set down your chopsticks. While Madam Hirosaki is away... why not tease her daughter a little?」
The last grain of rice disappeared. Riku placed his chopsticks across his bowl with the same deliberate slowness, then finally—finally—turned his gaze toward her.
Yoru sat rigid in her seat, wearing simple loungewear—a cream-colored oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder, soft cotton shorts that ended mid-thigh. Ordinary clothes. But on her body, nothing looked ordinary. The sweater's loose weave couldn't hide the generous swell beneath it, the fabric clinging where it counted. Her legs, pale and smooth, were tucked primly together.
This girl really did inherit seventy percent of her mother's looks, Riku mused. The same delicate bone structure, the same impossibly long lashes, the same cupid's bow mouth that looked perpetually ready to be kissed. Yoru had her father's sharper chin, maybe, but everything else—the midnight-dark hair currently pulled into a messy ponytail, the large doe eyes that could probably make weak-willed men do anything she asked—all Kaguya.
"I don't have any conditions," Riku said, his tone conversational, pleasant even. "I simply told you what Satou Shirou did. That's all."
"Impossible!"
Yoru's hands curled into fists on her lap. Her eyes narrowed—the same look Asuka Langley gave Shinji whenever he did something particularly spineless, all fire and fury and wounded pride.
There's no way this scum would just... help me out of kindness.
"You? Being kind?" She practically spat the words. "You're absolute garbage. You expect me to believe you'd do anything without wanting something in return?"
Riku didn't answer with words.
They were sitting on the same side of the table—a detail that hadn't seemed important until right now. His hand shot out, grabbing the leg of her chair.
Screeeech—
Wood scraped against hardwood floor as he yanked, his arm strength pulling Yoru—chair and all—directly beside him before she could even yelp in surprise. The motion was so fast, so effortless, that for a moment Yoru forgot she was supposed to be furious.
Then his fingers were on her chin.
Warm. Calloused. Tilting her face up toward his.
What—
Yoru's hands flew up instinctively, her left palm swinging toward his cheek in a slap that had all her indignation behind it.
He caught her wrist. Easily. Like swatting away a fly.
"Then let's call this... interest."
His voice dropped low. Intimate. The kind of tone that belonged in darkened bedrooms, not dining rooms that still smelled of miso soup.
"Wha—mmph!"
His mouth was on hers before the question could form.
There was nothing gentle about it. His lips pressed hard against hers, forcing them apart, and then his tongue was inside—pushing past the barrier of her teeth, invading, claiming. The wet muscle swept across the roof of her mouth, tangled with her own tongue whether she wanted it or not.
No, no, no—
Yoru's free hand pushed against his chest, but he might as well have been made of iron. His tongue explored every corner of her mouth with lazy, thorough strokes. He tasted like the dinner they'd just eaten—soy sauce and rice and something underneath that was just him, masculine and warm.
She tasted like honeyed tea.
Sweet. So goddamn sweet.
The kiss lasted maybe five seconds. Maybe an eternity. When Riku finally pulled back, a thin thread of saliva connected their lips for a heartbeat before breaking.
Yoru's face had gone scarlet.
"You—!"
She scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, wiping furiously, as if she could erase the sensation of his tongue against hers. Her lips felt swollen. Tainted.
"You absolute garbage!"
"Mm." Riku licked his lips, savoring. "Delicious."
It was unclear whether he meant the meal or her.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
Yoru's thoughts spiraled, shame and rage blending into something toxic in her chest. She and Satou had been dating for months now—months—and they'd never even kissed properly. He was always so respectful, so careful, treating her like she was made of glass.
And now this... this animal... had stolen more from her in one week than her actual boyfriend had ever taken.
"I'm warning you!" Her voice trembled with barely contained fury. "If you keep doing this, I'll—I'll—"
Riku leaned in.
Closer.
Closer.
Until his breath ghosted hot against her ear.
"You'll what?"
His hand—the one that wasn't still loosely gripping her wrist—settled over her breast. Right there, casual as anything, his palm pressing against the soft sweater fabric and the softer flesh beneath. He could feel the shape of her through the material, round and heavy and warm.
SLAP.
Yoru knocked his hand away, her own palm stinging from the force.
This bastard... this absolute bastard...
But for all her outrage, for all her fury—
She had no actual recourse.
If she told her mother, she'd have to explain why Riku was taunting her. If she went to the police, same problem. If she told Satou...
...Satou would be ruined.
「Satou-kun's secret... if it gets out, his family will disown him. His future will be over. I can't let that happen. I can't. But this guy... what does he even WANT from me?」
Yoru's head dropped, her bangs falling to shadow her eyes.
When she spoke again, her voice had lost all its sharpness. It came out soft. Defeated.
"Riku... if you promise to keep Satou's secret..."
"If I promise... what?"
"I'll..." The words stuck in her throat like broken glass. "I'll agree to anything you ask."
Her voice was barely above a whisper—quiet as a mosquito's whine, so faint that someone standing two feet away might have missed it entirely.
Riku heard it perfectly.
And smiled.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that." He cupped a hand to his ear, expression innocent. "Could you say it again?"
"I—"
I can't.
The first time had taken everything she had. Every scrap of pride, every ounce of dignity—she'd poured it all into those eight words. Saying them again was impossible. Saying them again would mean she'd truly surrendered.
Riku reached out, tucking a strand of fallen hair behind her ear. The gesture was almost tender. Almost.
"Hirosaki Yoru," he murmured, his eyes tracing down the elegant column of her neck, the tempting slope of her shoulder where the sweater had slipped again. "Your body really is fascinating. You want me to keep Satou Shirou's secret?"
His fingers lingered at her ear, trailing down to brush against her throat.
"Then you'll do exactly what I say at your birthday party tomorrow. If you can't manage that..." He let the silence stretch. "Well. You know what happens."
Yoru's blood ran cold.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow was supposed to be perfect. She'd invited Satou, of course—they were going to celebrate together, maybe finally share that first kiss at midnight like something out of a shoujo manga. She'd invited her closest friends, planned the playlist, picked out the perfect dress.
And now this demon wanted to control her during all of it?
What would he make her do? In front of everyone she cared about?
Her imagination supplied possibilities, each worse than the last. Her stomach lurched.
"Not—not tomorrow," she blurted, grabbing his sleeve before she could stop herself. "Any other day. Please. I'll do whatever you want any other day, just—"
Her eyes glistened, wet and desperate.
"Tomorrow is too important to me. Please. Please."
「She's begging. Actually begging. Those eyes... like a small animal caught in a trap. It's almost enough to make me feel bad.」
Almost.
"Since you're asking so nicely," Riku said, his tone magnanimous, "I suppose I can offer a second option."
Hope flickered across Yoru's face. Fragile. Pathetic. Beautiful.
"What is it? As long as it's not too extreme, I'll—I'll do it."
Riku leaned in until their faces were barely three centimeters apart. Close enough that she could see the individual lashes framing his dark eyes. Close enough that his breath mingled with hers.
"The second option," he said softly, "is that you come with me to the library again."
One beat.
Two.
Yoru launched out of her chair, the wooden legs screeching against the floor as she scrambled backward.
"You—!"
The library.
The memory hit her like a truck. That dim corner between the shelves. His hands on her body. The way she'd had to bite her own knuckle to keep from crying out while other students walked past mere feet away.
No. No, no, no, absolutely NOT—
"Oh my, Yoru?"
Madam Hirosaki appeared in the doorway, a plate of sliced fruit balanced on one hand. Her perfect eyebrows rose at the sight of her daughter standing bolt upright, face flushed crimson, chair askew.
"What's wrong? You look startled."
Don't let her see. Don't let her know.
Yoru grabbed her empty dishes with trembling hands, forcing her expression into something approaching normal.
"Nothing, Mother. I'm just—I'm full. I'll take these to the kitchen."
She practically fled the table.
"Just leave them, I'll wash everything lat—oh... mm..."
Kaguya's voice hitched mid-sentence, her composure flickering for just an instant.
Under the table, hidden by the long navy tablecloth that draped to the floor, Riku's foot had slid up between her thighs.
But Yoru was too distressed to notice her mother's strange pause. She deposited the dishes in the kitchen with a clatter and headed for her room, pausing only to shoot Riku one final murderous glare before disappearing down the hallway.
I'll figure something out. I have to. There has to be a way out of this that doesn't involve... THAT.
Her bedroom door slammed shut.
Kaguya lowered herself into the chair her daughter had vacated, her movements careful, controlled. Beneath the tablecloth, Riku's foot continued its lazy exploration—pressing, rubbing, teasing through the thin material of her house dress.
"Riku-kun." She tried to make her voice stern. It came out breathy. "You and Yoru seemed... tense."
"Just a small misunderstanding between classmates," he replied easily. "Nothing serious. By the way, Madam—tomorrow is Yoru's birthday. What kind of gift does she like? As her... friend, I'd like to give her something."
Kaguya's brow furrowed in thought, though her thighs shifted subtly beneath the table, pressing together around the intrusive foot.
"A gift? Hmm... Yoru has always loved music. Piano especially. Other than that, she doesn't really have many hobbies."
"I see. Thank you, Madam."
His toes curled, pressing deliberately against her clothed mound.
"Riku-kun—!" Kaguya hissed, shooting him a glare that had no heat in it. "You can't just—my daughter is right down the hall—"
"She went to her room," Riku said, as if discussing the weather. "The door closed."
The statement hung in the air.
Kaguya's cheeks colored—a delicate pink that made her look a decade younger. Her breathing had quickened, her chest rising and falling beneath the modest neckline of her dress.
「This is insane. I'm a married woman. I have a daughter. I'm sitting at my own dining table letting a boy half my age touch me like this and I should STOP, I should definitely stop, but...」
But instead of stopping, she found herself slipping beneath the tablecloth.
The heavy fabric fell around her like a curtain, creating a dim cocoon beneath the table. The smell of polished wood and something else—something muskier, more primal—filled her nostrils as she crawled forward on her knees.
Riku spread his legs accommodatingly.
Her manicured fingers found his belt buckle in the darkness, working it open with practiced efficiency. The button. The zipper. And then—
There it is.
Even after everything that had happened between them, the sheer size of it still made her breath catch. Thick as her wrist, already half-hard, pulsing with heat against her palms as she freed it from his underwear.
"Madam..."
Riku's voice drifted down from above, slightly muffled by the tablecloth.
Kaguya poked her head out from beneath the fabric, glaring up at him with flushed cheeks and indignant eyes.
"Riku-kun." Her voice was a fierce whisper. "Don't you want this?"
Before he could answer, she disappeared back under the table.
Her hands wrapped around the shaft—one wasn't enough, she needed both to properly encircle its girth. Slowly, she began to stroke, feeling the thick veins pulse beneath her fingers, feeling it grow even harder under her attention.
When did I become this kind of woman?
「This is wrong. This is so wrong. My daughter is twenty meters away, probably crying into her pillow, and I'm under a TABLE about to—」
She took him into her mouth.
"Mmph... mmm..."
Her lips stretched wide around the swollen head, her jaw aching already from the effort of accommodating him. The taste of him flooded her senses—salt and musk and something indefinably male. She could feel him throb against her tongue, feel the way his cock twitched as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked.
Above the table, Riku reached for another piece of fruit, his expression serene.
Below, Madam Hirosaki Kaguya—wife, mother, respectable member of society—bobbed her head like a woman possessed, her muffled moans vibrating around the thick shaft invading her throat.
「More. Deeper. I need—」
"Nnngh... glk... glk... gllk..."
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