"Y-Yūto Shō… you really don't have to… bother."
Kirei Ryu's long, even legs quivered under her skirt, her voice threading out in a panicked whisper. She'd meant to physically stop him — meant to swat his hand away like a proper girl would — but her body still hadn't rebooted from that bus ride. Her nerves were fried, every input reading double, like an Eva unit with the sync ratio pushed past critical.
What looked, from any passing angle, like Yūto Shō considerately dabbing at her skirt was in fact something a lot more sinister. His palm pressed flush against the fabric, and beneath it his fingertips were roaming — sliding, testing, finding the exact stitched seam that ran up between the plump halves of her ass and pressing there, deliberately, over and over. The pen-marked itch inside her flared with every pass.
Just a graze. That was all it took. A ghost of pressure against that ruined little seam and her whole body jolted like she'd been tazed, thighs going noodle-soft, that awful drippy sensation blooming again in her panties. She was terrified that if she so much as shifted her hips she'd leak straight through the cotton.
"Don't mention it. We're classmates, right?" Yūto Shō flashed her a picture-perfect Ann Takamaki smile — the wholesome, sunshine-boy variety, the exact expression that would have every mom in the neighborhood cooing about what a nice young man he was — while his hand simply pressed harder, deeper, tissue crumpling wetter against her cleft with each fake, considerate stroke.
The napkin darkened. Yellow-white bleeding into translucent gray.
"Nnh — aah…" Kirei clenched her teeth so hard her jaw creaked, but the sound tore out of her anyway — a broken little yelp, kitten-sharp — and then all the air in her body seemed to evacuate at once. Her knees folded. She slumped forward like a puppet with its strings snipped mid-scene.
Mom, I did it again.
That was the only coherent thought that fluttered through her whited-out mind before the static took over.
Yūto Shō caught her under the arms, Star Platinum reflexes, no wasted motion. She fell into his chest like a wilting flower — eyes screwed shut, cheeks blooming that intoxicating cherry-blossom pink, and beneath the shame there was something else. A soft, glazed satisfaction pulled at her eyebrows. The look of a girl who had, against every wish of her polite self, just cummed her panties on a public sidewalk.
From under the hem of her pleated skirt he saw a few beads slip loose and patter to the concrete — no more than four or five drops, thank god. Small enough to plausibly deny. Nobody around, no witnesses, the intersection empty as a filler episode.
He gave her shoulder a gentle shake. "Hey. You okay?"
He knew perfectly well she hadn't fainted. She was just refusing to open her eyes, hiding behind her own eyelashes like a Nagatoro-flipped uke, hoping the world would evaporate if she squeezed hard enough. But an opportunity like this — the chance to twist the knife of embarrassment while she was already limp — wasn't the kind of thing his Scumbag Points sensor was going to let him pass up.
Her lashes fluttered. "Yūto Shō… I feel a little dizzy," she managed, her voice tissue-thin.
He ignored the invitation to comfort her. Instead, cheerful as a weather report: "I think you peed yourself. There's, like, drops on the ground."
"That's SWEAT!" she squeaked, mortified, face going from cherry-blossom to full Bakugo-explosion red. "I'm sweating. Do you know what sweat is?"
For half a second Yūto Shō had no comeback — the puddle really was small enough to pass for perspiration on a hot evening, and her indignation was so committed it deserved a participation trophy. But he could smell it. That warm-milk, salt-sweet spike of a girl who'd just cummed — that wasn't sweat, and both of them knew it.
Watching her stubborn little pout, he couldn't help laughing. "Sure. But your skirt is soaked, princess. If you walk down the street like that, everyone's gonna assume you wet yourself."
"Uuu—" A wet, plaintive sound broke out of her throat, halfway to sobbing. She had no idea how her afternoon had detoured this hard. She'd only wanted to test the waters, flirt a little, run a low-stakes reconnaissance mission on the guy her best friend had gone all quiet about. Instead she'd walked into an ambush like Wall Maria on day one — Yūto Shō wasn't some flustered high school boy she could tug around by the ego; he was a fully-leveled veteran who read her every move and countered before she'd committed to it.
Even worse, her own body had betrayed her twice in one hour. She'd never live this down. Every last shred of composure had just been drop-kicked into the sea.
But he was right about the practical problem — she still had to see Sato Ruri. She could not, under any protocol of the girl code, arrive at her sick best friend's apartment with the back of her skirt darkened in an incriminating patch.
The thought of Ruri gave her a small, sudden burst of energy. She peeled her eyes open at last, looked up at him from beneath her lashes, all injured-doe softness. "Could you help me find somewhere to rest? Just for a few minutes. My head's really spinning."
Her thin brows knit together. Her delicate features held that tragic, hurt-kitten expression that would make any half-decent guy immediately want to wrap her in a blanket and bring her hot cocoa.
Yūto Shō was not any half-decent guy. His brand of caretaking came with a very particular price tag.
He glanced up the block. Neon flickered above a squat storefront: Net Café — 24hr. The corner of his mouth curled. "There's a PC café right there. Let's grab a private booth for a bit. It's dinner hour, place'll be dead."
Kirei, whose entire universe had shrunk to the wet cotton clinging between her cheeks, wanted nothing more than to disappear into a hole. Alone with Yūto Shō, in a private room? Not ideal — but a PC café was still technically a public place. People around. Attendants. Safe enough. Right?
Except the last "public place" she'd been in was a bus, and look how that had turned out.
She hesitated for half a beat. Then nodded.
Yūto Shō didn't give her a second to reconsider. He looped an arm around her waist, steering her forward, and inside two minutes they were pushing through the smoked-glass door of the café. The inside smelled of hot electronics, cheap instant noodles, and the faint chemical tang of somebody's melon vape from the smoking section. Exactly as he'd predicted — the place was a graveyard. Two guys in the far corner grinding some mobile MOBA, a bored attendant scrolling her phone at the counter, and rows of empty stations glowing blue in the gloom.
He walked Kirei to a private booth in the back corner — the kind meant for couples who wanted to "watch anime together" without being watched — and eased her onto the couch. Then he went to pay.
When he came back, she was perched on one buttcheek, primly, like a bird trying not to drip on someone's carpet. She'd angled the wet half of her skirt away from the upholstery. Cute. Considerate even in the middle of her own personal apocalypse.
Yūto Shō stepped in, shut the door, then reached up and tugged the curtain across the booth's little window. The interior dimmed to the low, cathode-blue hush of just the monitor.
Kirei flinched — some primal part of her brain flashing a red DANGER: AT FIELD DOWN warning — but she didn't stop him. The only thing worse than being alone with him in a dark booth was being seen by anyone in a lit one.
He dropped onto the couch beside her, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers, and clicked the monitor awake. His grin turned conspiratorial. "I'm gonna show you something good."
"What thing?" She leaned in, curious despite herself, her chin drifting close to his shoulder.
"You'll see."
His fingers moved with the smooth, unhesitating rhythm of somebody who had done this exact sequence a hundred times. He typed the URL directly — no browser history, no autofill required — and cued up a video already sitting near the top of the "most watched" column. The screen bloomed with color.
A woman. A very loud woman. A very loud, very naked woman being pinned face-down over a desk by two men in dress shirts, her makeup already streaked to hell, her tits swinging beneath her like heavy fruit each time the guy behind her drove in.
Slap. Slap. Slap. The pornstar's ass rippled on impact. "Aa-ahn~! Ha-ahnnn~! Muri, muri, muri~!"
"See? Good, right? This ravishment series is my favorite," Yūto Shō said, in the exact same tone a normal person would use to recommend a ramen shop.
Kirei's face did a full-system reboot. She knew he was screwing with her. She should be angry — this was the kind of thing you slapped a boy for — but slapping Yūto Shō felt about as viable as slapping DIO. Instead she pouted, brows pinched. "Yūto Shō, you're the worst. Making me watch this. I'm telling Ruri."
Why is she bringing up Ruri right now?
He filed the tell away for later. "Hey, it's genuinely good. Watch a little more. If it's not good, I'll apologize."
Kirei bit her lip. He's just trying to trick me into watching porn with him. She knew. She absolutely knew. But — and this was the trap — she was curious. And more damning, she had come out today with the express intention of getting closer to Yūto Shō, of trading a little "fanservice" for information about what he and Ruri had been up to. So refusing him outright, right now, would blow her whole recon mission.
She wavered. Then, with the resigned dignity of a girl who had already lost twice today and was now voluntarily walking into round three, she leaned forward and squinted at the screen like it was homework.
"See? Good, right?" Yūto Shō leaned in too, so their shoulders were touching, both of them staring at the pixelated debauchery unfolding twelve inches from their noses.
She couldn't answer. So she didn't. Silence was safer than commitment.
On-screen the scene detonated. Two more men had entered the frame. Restraints came out. The heroine's protest track rose an octave — "Yamete, yamete, yametekudasai—!" — before dissolving into that specific broken-flute sound that only happens in porn and in Evangelion openings. Kirei's eyes went huge, her pupils dilating, her breath catching in her throat. She was too stunned to look away.
Which meant she also failed to notice the hand.
Yūto Shō's right arm had drifted down, unhurried as a JoJo stand materializing, and slipped around her slim waist. His palm settled at the sweet inward curve of her side, thumb tucked just beneath her ribs.
She jolted. Twisted uncomfortably against him. "Yūto Shō — what are you doing?"
"Kirei, this video's making me feel really weird." His breath brushed her ear, warm, deliberate. "Let's make out. Just like they're doing in the video."
Before she could parse the sentence — before the make out had fully rendered — he'd already turned into her and closed his mouth over her cheek. His lips latched onto that soft place just under her cheekbone with an audible chuu—, hot and wet and shameless.
"Nn—! Yūto Shō, no — this is a PC café!" Her hands came up, pushing at his chest.
"Then whatever you do, don't make noise." His breath was hot against the shell of her ear. "You wouldn't want the attendant to come check on us."
Yūto Shō's mask came fully off. He wrapped both arms around her, dragged her flush against his side, and began kissing her face — proper wet, sucking kisses, the kind that leave a shape. Chuu. Chuu. Chuup. One after another, plastering saliva-glossed prints across her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. He was already whispering threats between kisses, in the same purring tone as a Persona 5 confidant maxing out a Rank.
Wait, she thought dizzily, isn't that the exact line the guy in the video just said—
Her cheek felt scorched. Sucked-raw, blushing under his mouth like fruit going soft. Shame rolled through her in waves and, buried underneath it, hot and unwelcome, the beginnings of that awful liquid weakness again. She squirmed in his grip, her small breasts pressing against his chest through her blouse, her breath coming in short, high hitches. "Please — stop — didn't you want to watch the video? Let's just finish the video first, okay?"
With you sitting next to me, who the hell has attention span for porn.
Yūto Shō snarked internally as his hands got to work, and this time they weren't playing coy. One palm slid up her ribcage and cupped a soft, tender little handful of tit through her blouse, fingers kneading in slow, exploratory squeezes; the other slipped down over her hip and settled possessively on the pillow of her thigh, thumb tracing the crease where thigh met ass. He pinched. He rolled. He mashed.
Her breath broke apart. "Hyah — nn — ahn—!" Her face went from pink to crimson to a color that probably didn't have a name outside of anime. Her chest heaved. Her hips squirmed involuntarily, rubbing that tender, still-sensitive seam of her panties against the couch.
...
Rewind — three minutes earlier — the system prompt had floated across his vision in that clean red-and-white Persona 5 UI:
> [ROUTE 1] A boy and a girl. A locked, private room. The vibes are, frankly, unmistakable. To fail to make a move here would be to betray your identity as scum itself. You resolve to, at minimum, empty one load on the maiden's body before you leave.
>
> [ROUTE 2] The girl is currently mortified, terrified of being seen. To grind her dignity into powder and ensure she never talks back to you again, you shove her out of the booth and force her to walk a full lap through the café floor in her stained skirt.
His mental cursor had barely hovered.
"Route One."
Now he tightens his grip on her waist, hauls her sideways onto his lap, and pins her squirming little body against his chest as his mouth chases hers across the dim blue glow of the booth.