By the time Yūto Shō dragged himself through his apartment door, the digital clock on the microwave was blinking 9:17 PM in that sickly green that always reminded him of a save-point terminal in Persona 5. He was gassed. Truly. Balls-drained, thighs-aching, spine-noodled gassed. He peeled off his clothes on autopilot, took a shower hot enough to fog the mirror into an Evangelion Instrumentality haze, and crawled into bed without even bothering to check the midnight system settlement. His head hit the pillow and his consciousness AT-Field collapsed on contact.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell chimed through the dark apartment, once, twice, a third patient press — but Yūto Shō was already fathoms deep in REM, snoring soft and steady like a Titan slumbering behind a wall. He didn't hear a thing.
Outside his door, Tachibana Hina lowered her hand from the buzzer, her eyebrows drawn together in that gentle, worried furrow she wore whenever the world refused to behave the way she wanted it to. She stood there in her house slippers and a cream cashmere sweater that hugged the swell of her chest like it had signed a contract with gravity itself, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
She thought: He didn't come home alone last night. That girl walked in with him. Did it work out? God, I hope it worked out. Fridge is empty, I should defrost the dumplings —
Last night Yūto Shō had invited the girl he supposedly had a crush on back to his place — most likely, Hina figured, to prove to the poor girl that his body wasn't broken anymore. Whether or not he'd actually pulled it off was another matter entirely. When she'd heard his footsteps in the corridor tonight she'd wanted to knock, to check on him, to gauge from his face whether the mission had ended in triumph or in another one of those quiet devastations that made her chest ache on his behalf. But the door stayed silent. No answer. No shuffle of feet.
Her worry doubled. What if he'd failed again? What if he was hiding in there right now, curled up in the dark like some hikikomori shut-in, marinating in his own shame?
There was nothing she could do if he wouldn't open up. She padded back to her own apartment, biting her thumbnail, and promised herself she'd corner him tomorrow.
...
The next morning Yūto Shō woke up feeling like a fully-charged Stand user — bright-eyed, springy, humming with restored HP. A whole night's sleep without the energy tonic and his stamina bar had refilled itself. Youth really was cheat-code fuel.
He checked yesterday's harvest on the way to school. Not bad at all. Even though he'd only really "processed" Kirei Ryu, the system had graded the performance as Excellent, dropping a fat +300 Scumbag Points into his account.
[Current Scumbag Points: 4,600]
He tabbed over to the Exchange Shop and one particular item made him pause mid-stride on the sidewalk, nearly walking into a lamp post like some third-tier isekai protagonist.
[Lactation Experience Card — 2,000 pts. Upon use, causes target to enter a lactation state for three days. Milk produced is highly nutritious. Body becomes noticeably more sensitive during the lactation period.]
Not a single microsecond of hesitation. He hit PURCHASE so hard his thumb almost cracked the screen. Two thousand points he could grind back in a week, tops, and in exchange he got the ability to turn any woman he chose into a walking dairy route with hypersensitive tits. That was the kind of ROI that would make even the Joestar family blush.
The only question was — who to use it on?
He rolled the candidates around in his skull like a Persona compendium, comparing stats, weighing outcomes, savoring the anticipation. The other two shop items were mid at best; he passed on them.
School was a ghost town of a specific kind. Egawa Mitsuki, Sato Ruri, and Kirei Ryu were all absent. The first two he could rationalize easily enough — Mitsuki was probably still recovering from her own private hell, Ruri was Ruri — but Kirei? She hadn't seemed to hate what happened yesterday. In fact by the end she'd been more enthusiastic than a JoJo villain reciting a monologue. Had he wrecked her throat that bad? Sore tonsils courtesy of Star Platinum?
No way to confirm, no one to interrogate. A whole school day drifted past without a single girl to torment. Boring as an unskippable cutscene. It ended, mercifully.
Evening. Yūto Shō was still fumbling for his keys outside his apartment when the door behind him — Tachibana Hina's door — clicked open before he could even turn around. She'd been staked out like the world's prettiest hunter on a JRPG side-quest, and she had finally caught her mark.
"Yūto-kun, are you okay?" Her voice came out soft, laced with a concern so genuine it almost made him feel bad. Almost.
Yūto Shō blinked. He had no idea what she was referring to, but instinct — the sharp, oily instinct of a boy who had learned to weaponize other people's kindness — kicked in instantly. He drooped his shoulders, dipped his chin, and let his voice come out low and hollow, like a Yukinoshita heroine pretending she wasn't hurting. "I'm fine."
Hina's voice went gentler still. "Did… did something go wrong the other night?"
Ohhh. Internally, he almost cackled. She'd seen Sato Ruri walk into his apartment that night and assumed the worst. She was worrying whether he'd been able to get it up in front of his so-called crush. And because all three of his usual targets had been absent today — leaving Yūto Shō with zero conquests on the board — he realized the universe had just teed up a fat, juicy home-run pitch. Seducing Tachibana Hina was a standing long-term system quest. Cha-ching.
He let his face do its best impression of a boy too ashamed to speak, mouth twisting like he couldn't bring himself to voice it.
"Come inside," Hina said. "We'll talk in there."
She pulled her own door shut behind her and took his hand — her palm cool and satin-soft, fingers slim, the kind of touch that made men in shoujo manga hallucinate cherry blossoms — and tugged him gently into his own apartment. Her hand was so smooth he wanted to squeeze it, mold it, kiss each knuckle, but he throttled the impulse. Patience. There were bigger prizes on the horizon.
She led him to the sofa and eased him down. Then she just… looked at him, that soft, mournful, big-sister look, the one that said my heart is breaking a little bit for you. From his silence she concluded, with dreadful certainty, that yes — poor Yūto-kun had indeed failed to get hard in front of the girl he loved.
She thought: This is the sky falling for a boy his age. He loves her and his body won't obey him. My fault. My whole fault. If I hadn't been so careless around him, hadn't let him see me like that, hadn't let him touch — he never would've imprinted on me the way he did. God. I've ruined a good boy.
"It's okay," she said aloud, forcing brightness into her voice. "That other night you were plenty energetic, weren't you? So it's not a physical thing at all — it's just in your head, Yūto-kun. You'll get past it. Nee-san believes in you."
She reached out and ruffled his hair with the same tender ease that Misato used to ruffle Shinji's, murmuring encouragement she didn't actually believe. Because privately, she had no idea how to fix this. Surely she couldn't do what she'd done last time. Surely.
The memory of "last time" set her cheeks blazing anyway.
That, right there, was Yūto Shō's cue. Ripe as a summer peach falling into an open mouth. He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the plush, warm, shampoo-scented body of the woman across from him, letting his voice crack with a beautifully rehearsed desperation.
"Nee-san — Nee-san, help me one more time, please? It worked with you. Why won't it work with her? I'm going crazy, I need to be able to get hard, I need to—"
Hina's cheeks went from pink to full stoplight red, but she didn't push him off. She understood him — or thought she did — and that understanding was the leash he had her by.
"Yūto-kun… how does Nee-san help you?" she asked, voice small and shy, though inside a resigned sigh was already unspooling. This was on her, wasn't it? She couldn't leave him drowning.
He pretended to hesitate, cheeks flushed, eyes downcast, as if the words were too shameful to speak.
She tried to help him. "Yūto-kun, does it… feel anything, holding Nee-san like this?"
"…A little."
"Then hold Nee-san a bit longer. Try." Her logic was almost sweet: if a hug was all it took, then a hug they would do. Nothing embarrassing about that. Nothing wrong.
"Nee-san, you're so nice." He crushed her closer, his arms tightening around her waist until his fingers sank into the softness above her hip, and buried his face in her hair. He inhaled — long, deep, obscene. Sandalwood shampoo, warm skin, the faintest ghost of laundry detergent. "Nee-san… you smell so good."
Her ears burned. "If you want to smell me… Nee-san doesn't mind."
That was all he needed. Yūto Shō swallowed audibly — gulp — and dove face-first into the pillowy valley of her chest, rubbing his cheeks against her sweater-covered breasts with the shameless abandon of a cat marking territory. He pushed so hard she toppled backward, her back sinking into the sofa cushions with a soft pomf, and he came down on top of her, still grinding his face between her tits, his knee wedging up between her thighs and locking one of her legs between his own so he could hump her thigh in slow, hidden little rolls.
"Yūto-kun, mmn…"
Hina bit her lower lip, unintelligible little murmurs — nnh, ah, mmm — leaking out despite herself. Every time he behaved like this she felt something in her rewire. She should stop him. She really should. But God, this rough, spoiled, greedy boy — his rudeness, his selfishness, his sheer domineering neediness — set off fireworks in a part of her brain she hadn't known was still wired to a switchboard.
Her thoughts right now had zero overlap with the polite, composed neighbor-Nee-san she was in daylight hours.
A cool draft touched her stomach and — oh — her sweater had ridden up, no, been pushed up. Yūto Shō's mouth latched onto the top of her bra and, through the thin lace, chomped down with actual teeth, hard enough to sting. She wanted to protest. She wanted to shove him off. Instead, her hand — traitor, mutineer — slid up and pressed the back of his head harder into her chest, her face melting into an expression of embarrassed bliss.
She thought: I'm the worst. I'm the actual worst. His teeth hurt and I like it. I hope the neighbors can't hear. He smells like boy-sweat and I can't breathe right. Just — one more minute. One more.
He nibbled and gnawed until her whole torso was pink and radiating heat, until her eyes fluttered half-closed and her hips were making tiny involuntary lifts against the couch. That was his cue. His hands — surgeon-steady now, greedy but focused — slid down the curve of her ribcage, over the flare of her hip, down along her thighs, and gently, oh so gently, parted them. Her pleated skirt rode up, and there, right there, was a pair of white lace panties clinging to the plumpest, tightest little pussy-mound he'd ever seen outside of a tankōbon.
Yūto Shō's eyes went bloodshot. He couldn't wait another second. He dove between her legs, buried his face, and licked her right through the lace — one long, hungry stripe from taint to clit — while his fingers hooked into the waistband and started tugging the panties down. Hina, dazed and stupid with heat, didn't resist. Her hips lifted obediently, ass rising off the cushion, and the little scrap of lace slid down her legs and got flung somewhere behind the coffee table like a piece of used tissue.
He nestled back between her thighs and just… looked. Devoutly. Reverently. Like a shrine maiden staring at holy relics.
Her pussy was a study in pale pink. The thin dusting of dark pubic hair was already damp, curling into wet little commas that clung to skin. Beneath, the delicate slit was pouted open just enough to reveal the tender petal-pink of her inner lips, glossy and slick, a thin bead of clear juice welling at the entrance and threatening to run. His eyes practically shot flames. So pink. So fucking pink. So tight. Way better than any of the pixelated black-out cunts on the internet, fuck—
He couldn't hold himself back another heartbeat. He clamped his mouth over her whole pussy and started sucking — wet, obscene, shluck-shluck-shluck — like he was trying to drink the marrow out of her.
"Aaah — aah — aah — nnh — aahn—!"
Hina's back arched off the sofa like she'd been zapped by a Discharge attack, her hips bucking involuntarily up into his face. His tongue was everywhere. It slid up her slit, curled around her pink clit and sucked, released with a little pop, then flattened wide and lapped from the bottom back to the top. He'd bury the tip inside her — slurp, slurp — swirl it like he was stirring something honeyed, then drop lower and lower still, until his tongue was flickering against the puckered pale-red rose of her asshole, tracing the little ring, watching it twitch and clench in horrified pleasure.
Watching her back door pulse against his tongue drove him feral. His mouth moved faster, sloppier, wetter, the slrp-slrp-shluck filling the entire living room, drowning out even the distant hum of the neighbor's TV two walls over.
Every lick sent a fresh electric pulse crackling up Hina's spine and into her brain. The shame of feeling her asshole tongued alongside the melting bliss between her legs was scrambling her — she'd never been touched there — and the combination gutted her defenses like a Titan going through Wall Maria. Her whole body prickled like ants were crawling under her skin, a thick clogged heat rising in her chest until breathing itself felt like effort. Her moans spiraled up, higher, wilder, snapping loose one after another —
"Aah — aah — so good — aah — don't stop — aaah — I'm — coming — mmnh — nya — aaaahh—!"
A sharp, ragged shriek burst out of her throat. Her body convulsed, thighs clamping around his ears, hands fisting in the sofa cushions hard enough to pop threads, and a hot gush of clear syrup jetted out of her cunt and splashed straight across Yūto Shō's face.
He drank it. Every drop. Swallowed her orgasm down like a shot of vintage sake and licked his lips for more. When he finally lifted his head — chin glossy, cheeks glossy, eyelashes damp — and looked down at her, she was still shuddering, twitching, chest heaving, hair fanned across the cushions in a dark halo. His chest swelled with pure predator satisfaction. He'd made Tachibana Hina — kind, composed, married Tachibana Hina — cum on his tongue in under two minutes. Achievement unlocked.
He stared at her wrecked, panting face and a fresh idea sparked behind his eyes.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the Lust Marker, uncaps it with his teeth, and crawls up her limp body until his knees are bracketing her ribs. He catches her slack, glistening tongue between two fingers, tugs it out past her parted lips, and — grinning like a JoJo villain mid-monologue — clicks the tip of the pen down onto the underside of her tongue, scrawling his name, character by character, into the soft pink meat.