The bus rattled down the avenue, engine grinding through gears like a beat-up Initial D hauler that had seen one too many mountain passes. Inside the packed cabin, wedged into the thick sweaty perfume of square-dance aunties in matching neon windbreakers, Yūto Shō and Kirei Ryu stood pressed together — bodies flush, no daylight, not even a folded receipt could've slipped between them.
Yūto Shō stood behind the girl, molded to her back with the airtight precision of an Evangelion plug-suit sealing to its pilot. Not a millimeter of space. Around them, the aunties cackled and gossiped, comparing footwork routines and rival dance squads, none of them paying the two teenagers the slightest bit of attention.
Even the aunties who did glance over just smiled to themselves — young couple, obviously, and young couples were always shy about PDA. These women had lived, raised kids, buried husbands; a boy grinding into his girlfriend on the 14 line barely registered on their radar. They went right back to arguing about which team they were going to PK against tonight in the plaza.
Kirei, though — Kirei was not okay.
Her plan had been simple, elegant, Death-Note-tier: brush against him a little, catch his interest, plant the hook. Instead, the plan had metastasized into this — her ass crammed against something hot, hard, and unmistakable, riding every pothole with her.
More aunties had piled on at the last stop. The cabin was jammed. She couldn't rotate. Couldn't step forward. Couldn't do anything but stand there and take it.
Even through the layered fabric of her uniform skirt and her thin cotton panties, that heat radiated through — furnace-warm, alive, pulsing faintly to a heartbeat that wasn't hers. Her body shivered once, involuntarily. Then again, as the bus jolted over a manhole cover and Yūto Shō's hips slammed forward, mashing the hard ridge of his cock into the cleft of her ass through their clothes.
Nnh —
The sound almost escaped. She caught it behind her teeth.
What made it a hundred times worse was that this was completely off her curriculum. She'd read about this kind of thing — forum threads, translated doujin, the occasional NSFW manhua panel she'd immediately closed like she was defusing a bomb — but she had never, ever felt it. Not like this. Not a real one. Not one twitching against her.
Her small hand tightened around the pole handle above her head, knuckles going bone-white, thin veins standing up on the back of her hand like faint blue calligraphy.
Then the driver stomped the brake.
The bus lurched. Yūto Shō's whole weight rolled forward with the momentum, crushing him hard into the soft curve of her backside — a full-body slam, cock grinding up into the seam of her skirt with a pressure that punched a small gasp out of her throat.
"Hah — !"
Her eyes glassed over instantly, a wet film blooming across the bright brown irises like fogged glass. Her body locked up, frozen from shoulder blades to heels. But her thighs — her thighs betrayed her, trembling like a Levi Ackerman-tier blade grip that had held one second too long. Her knees nearly buckled. And beneath the shame, beneath the panic, some tiny buried nerve in her body whispered that the impact had felt — good. Deeply, embarrassingly good.
Yūto Shō's arm slid around her waist to "steady" her. His palm found the narrow dip above her hip through her blouse, thumb tracing lazy circles over the silk-smooth skin he could feel through the fabric. He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear.
"Sorry about that," he murmured, voice low, almost apologetic. "Really cramped up here. Nothing I can do."
Kirei felt his fingers walking her waist, mapping the small of her back, and her whole body went rigid. She forced her voice into something like composure. "It's… it's fine. There's nothing to be done about it."
She's not pulling away.
Yūto Shō smiled to himself and let his arm settle heavier, hand splayed possessively across her belly now, pulling her back into him a full inch tighter. The bus bounced, and they bounced with it — front to back, back to front — his hips rolling into her ass with every jostle of the suspension. It was like grinding into a plush pile of freshly washed cotton. Her chest was on the smaller side, sure, but back here? Back here she had serious material. Firm, high, and shaped like a JoJo panel had personally sculpted her.
Kirei clamped the back of her hand over her mouth, biting down on the meat of her thumb to muffle the sound clawing up her throat. She fought her face — mouth neutral, brows relaxed, eyes forward — the same expression-management drill an idol pulls at a fan meet. She couldn't let the aunties see. She couldn't let anyone see.
But her pupils had already gone soft-focus, unfocused and drifting past the smudged bus window without registering the streetlights blurring past.
The thick, hard rod pressed against her from behind had breached whatever line of defense her brain had built. She wasn't thinking about her plan anymore. She wasn't thinking about the hook, or the interest, or Ruri. She was thinking about the shape — the imagined size of it, the girth her body was extrapolating from the impression alone.
What if we weren't on a bus, she thought, hazy. What if it was a dim hotel room. What if we were both naked. What if that thing was actually —
Her entire body went liquid.
Mama, I'm cumming, I'm cumming —
....
She didn't remember getting off the bus.
When Kirei came back to herself, she was already standing on the sidewalk, the evening air cool against her flushed cheeks. Yūto Shō was next to her, and his arm was still wrapped low around her waist, fingers still doing that slow, curious knead against the swell of her hip like he'd forgotten to stop.
She stiffened. He noticed.
Yūto Shō calmly, casually, peeled his hand away from her waist like a Persona 5 confidant sliding out of a cutscene, and adjusted his tone into something borderline concerned. "You blacked out for a minute back there. I had to hold you up and walk you off. Ryu-san — do you not eat enough during the day? You might have low blood pressure."
Kirei stared at him.
He had made her faint. She knew that. He knew that. Her body was still humming with the aftershocks to prove it. And this guy — this absolute Bakugo-level shameless bastard — was standing here diagnosing her with anemia.
The audacity. The Death Note villain-arc audacity of this man.
At the same time, she pressed her thighs together on reflex, and her face flickered through three colors in half a second. Her panties clung wetly to the tender skin between her legs, sticky, cooling, humiliating. That confirmed for her exactly why she'd fainted, and her cheeks flooded a deep rose-petal red. She didn't even know who she was angrier at — him, for being a smug asshole, or her own traitor of a body for folding like a lawn chair the moment he pressed into her.
"Huh — your face is really red. Are you feeling sick somewhere?"
Yūto Shō's voice was pitched into perfect faux-concern. Attack on Titan-tier acting range.
Internally, Kirei rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained something. Externally, she shook her head with a small polite smile, cool as a Ghibli heroine on a summer porch. "It's nothing. I just fainted a moment ago. I haven't fully recovered yet."
The instant it left her mouth she caught how ambiguous the phrasing was and mentally screamed. She rushed to bulldoze past it. "Where are we, anyway? I already told Ruri I'd come see her — we should hurry and pick up some fruit."
Yūto Shō gave her a long, quiet look.
Anyone who could recover their composure that fast after riding twenty minutes on his cock through cotton was either born with a body wired for sin or was running a script on him. Either possibility was interesting. Extremely interesting.
His attention perked up like a shonen protagonist scenting a mid-arc plot twist. He wanted to see what she was actually playing at, and whether she'd hold up under his methods. He still had two open slots on the Lust Marker pen from the system shop. Where to sign her, though — that was the fun question. Lower back? Inner thigh? Right on the —
Yūto Shō smothered the grin before it hit his mouth. "There's a fruit shop just up ahead. Let's check there."
....
The two of them stepped inside Fruits & Roots, a narrow shop lit by warm yellow LEDs, air thick with the tangy sweetness of ripening mango and cut pineapple. Kirei behaved as if nothing had happened at all — no bus, no grinding, no soaked underwear — and pointed casually at a wooden crate of red apples.
"Let's get apples. Ruri loves apples."
She asked the attendant to bag up a couple of kiloes, watched the scale flick and settle, then glanced expectantly at Yūto Shō. Yūto Shō didn't so much as reach for his pocket. She sighed internally, slipped out her phone, and tapped the QR sticker on the counter herself.
Payment ping. Bag rustle. Out the door.
Back on the sidewalk, Kirei swung the little plastic bag of apples at her side and smiled sweetly, sweetly, at him. "There. Consider your feelings delivered — I'll pass them along in person for you."
"I'll walk you a bit further."
Kirei's smile went subtle. Very subtle. She nodded. "Come on then. Ruri's place isn't far up ahead."
She turned and started walking. Yūto Shō hung back half a pace, gaze drifting down over the S-curve of her figure — narrow shoulders, cinched waist, the flare of her hips into that pleated school skirt swaying with each step. His eyes locked in on the back panel of the skirt, and there, dead center below the curve of her ass, a dark irregular patch of damp fabric was clinging to skin.
He hadn't noticed on the bus. But now, in the softer streetlight, it was unmistakable.
Kamehameha-tier soak.
Does she know?
He jogged the half-step to catch up. "Hey. Your skirt looks a little wet in the back."
Kirei froze mid-stride, then reached one hand behind her, palm smoothing over the pleats. Her fingers found the damp patch immediately. Her cheeks flushed all over again — deeper this time — and she quickly clamped her palm over the spot, her voice going thin and awkward. "It must've — the fruit shop. Water must've splashed on me when they were rinsing something."
"Should you maybe wipe it?" Yūto Shō suggested, all innocence.
Kirei hesitated. Nodded. "Yes, wiping it would probably be better. But…"
They were standing on a public sidewalk, cars idling at the light not ten feet away. Reaching back to wipe her own ass in full view of the intersection was not the kind of poise she had trained for.
Yūto Shō, however, apparently decided to misinterpret her hesitation with the deliberate obtuseness of a JoJo villain declaring a stand ability. "Ah — your arm's not long enough to reach properly, right? Here, let me. Don't worry about it."
He'd already palmed a wad of tissues from the fruit shop counter. Before Kirei could get a syllable out, he'd stepped behind her, crouched low, and pressed the tissue paper against the wet patch on the back of her skirt, dabbing.
By the time her brain rebooted, it was already happening. She startled, face going pale-then-red, mouth opening to stop him — but Yūto Shō's hand pressed a little too firmly, a little too purposefully, and the thin pleated fabric of her skirt got mashed inward, driven straight into the deep groove between her cheeks, dragging the damp cotton of her panties along with it.
"Nnh — !"
Kirei's whole body jolted like a Persona had just been ripped out of her. Her knees folded a full inch. Her free hand flew to the strap of the apple bag and clenched it white-knuckled, the plastic handle biting into her palm. She almost went straight to the pavement, thighs quaking, breath catching high and shallow in her throat as Yūto Shō's knuckles pressed the wet fabric flush against the softest, most sensitive seam of her body — and slowly, slowly, dragged the tissue upward.