---
[Fuyumi's Apartment — Bedroom |
The moment Fuyumi finished the second stroke of his signature, Ruri's body seized—spine arching off the mattress, thighs clamping together as violent tremors rolled through her. A strangled whine escaped her throat, high and broken, before her head lolled sideways and she went completely limp.
Out cold. Again.
Fuyumi capped the Desire Marker with a soft click and tucked it into his pocket. He sat back on his heels, taking a moment to admire his work.
His name sat low on her abdomen—criminally low—the kanji trailing just above where her hip bones jutted beneath milk-pale skin. The waistband of her destroyed jeans had been tugged down far enough that the elastic edge of her panties peeked out, lavender cotton stretched taut across the subtle curve of her pubic mound. A few stray hairs, dark and fine as spider silk, curled past the fabric's boundary.
Fuyumi swallowed hard. His throat clicked.
The room smelled like her now—clean sweat and something warmer underneath, the unmistakable scent of a girl who'd been pushed past her limit. Musk and sweetness, cloying and faint, clinging to the sheets where her hips had been grinding moments ago.
He placed his palm flat against her belly. The skin there was impossibly smooth, soft as rice paper, radiating feverish warmth. His fingers spread wide, spanning the distance from one hip bone to the other with room to spare. Beneath his touch, her abdominal muscles twitched involuntarily—a reflexive clench that made her unconscious body shiver.
"Nnnh..."
A sound slipped from Ruri's parted lips. Soft. Wet. The kind of noise a girl made in the middle of a dream she wouldn't remember.
Fuyumi's hand moved in slow circles, palm dragging across the flat plane of her stomach, fingers dipping into the shallow valley of her navel before trailing lower—brushing the waistband of her panties, feeling the heat radiating from beneath the cotton.
Fuck.
His cock throbbed painfully against the zipper of his jeans. He could feel his pulse in it, heavy and insistent, demanding attention he wasn't going to give it. Not yet.
He forced himself to breathe—one deep inhale through his nose, held for four counts, released through his mouth. Then another. The ache didn't fade, but the urgency dulled enough for rational thought to claw its way back.
Patience.
Fuyumi's fingers found the zipper of her jeans and tugged it upward, metal teeth catching once before sliding home. The button followed—a bit of fumbling required, her hips limp and uncooperative—but eventually it snapped shut. He smoothed the denim over her thighs, covering the evidence of his signature, and stood.
His legs felt unsteady.
The bathroom was fifteen steps away. He counted each one.
Cold water hit his face like a slap, shocking enough to make him gasp. He gripped the edges of the sink, knuckles white, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Dilated pupils. The expression of a man who'd been edging himself for hours without relief.
Too much stimulation lately, he thought grimly. Between Ruri's thighs, her reactions, those desperate little sounds she made—
He splashed more water on his face.
Doesn't matter. Can't rush this.
The Desire Marker's effects were cumulative. Every touch built on the last, sensitizing her body further, eroding her resistance one stroke at a time. She'd already broken twice tonight. A few more sessions and she'd be crawling into his bed on her own, begging him to finish what he started.
All he had to do was wait.
---
[Fuyumi's Apartment — Bedroom |
Ruri's eyes fluttered open to an unfamiliar ceiling.
For three heartbeats, she didn't remember where she was. Then the memories crashed back—Fuyumi's hands on her thighs, his fingers kneading deep into her muscles, her own voice screaming I love it when you touch me there like some kind of depraved animal in heat—
"Mmph—!"
She slapped both hands over her face, muffling the wail that tried to escape. Her cheeks burned hot enough to fry an egg. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill.
What is wrong with me?!
It was just... just leg rubs. That's all. His hands on her thighs, squeezing and stroking, nothing more than that. Normal people didn't react like she had. Normal people didn't lose their minds and moan like pornstars and pass out from something so innocent.
I'm broken, she thought miserably. Something's broken inside me.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that she could still feel the aftermath between her legs. Slick heat. A persistent throb. Her panties were soaked through, sticking uncomfortably to her folds, and the knowledge that Fuyumi had watched her get that way made her want to sink through the floor and die.
He saw everything. He heard everything. He knows I—
"Oh, you're awake."
Ruri jolted upright, heart slamming against her ribs. Fuyumi stood in the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His expression was infuriatingly casual.
"Good timing," he continued, not bothering to hide his smirk. "I'm starving. Go make dinner."
The audacity.
Ruri's embarrassment curdled into rage. She fixed him with the most venomous glare she could muster, hands balling into fists at her sides. Her eyes screamed murder.
Fuyumi raised an eyebrow. "What? Want me to rub your legs again?"
All the fight drained out of her instantly.
Her body remembered—traitor—and a shiver ran down her spine before she could suppress it. Fear flickered in her eyes, chased by something darker that she refused to acknowledge.
"...I'll go cook."
Her voice came out small. Defeated.
She pushed off the bed and shuffled toward the door, acutely aware of the awkward hitch in her gait. Her inner thighs were still trembling, and the wet fabric of her panties shifted against her sensitized folds with every step, sending little sparks of sensation through her core.
Fuyumi noticed. His smile widened.
He let her pass without comment.
---
[Fuyumi's Apartment — Kitchen |
Steam rose from the pot of miso soup, curling toward the ceiling fan. Ruri worked mechanically, muscle memory guiding her through the motions while her mind churned with humiliation.
Just get through this. Make him food. Leave. Never speak of tonight again.
She plated the rice, arranged the pickled vegetables, set out chopsticks. Everything precise. Everything correct. The picture of a well-trained housewife—which made her want to scream, but she buried that impulse deep.
Footsteps behind her.
"I kept my promise," she said quickly, not turning around. "Dinner's ready. I have to go now—I have things to do."
"In those jeans?"
Ruri glanced down at herself. Her destroyed skinny jeans gaped open mid-thigh, the rip so wide that the lavender edge of her panties was clearly visible. Below that, Fuyumi's signature marked her skin in bold strokes.
If anyone sees this...
"There's a pair of sweats in my room," Fuyumi said. "Should fit you. Go change."
She didn't move. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Relax." He sighed, sounding almost bored. "If I wanted to do something to you, could you actually stop me?"
The question hung in the air.
Ruri's jaw tightened. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him to go to hell. But the memory of her own helplessness—how easily he'd reduced her to a whimpering mess with nothing but his hands—made the words die in her throat.
"...Fine."
She turned and walked back toward the bedroom, head bowed like a defeated rooster after a cockfight.
---
[Fuyumi's Apartment — Bedroom |
The lock clicked into place.
There. Now he can't get in.
Small comfort, but Ruri would take what she could got.
The sweatpants lay on the bed where he'd left them—gray cotton, drawstring waist, clearly too small for his current frame. Probably something from his early high school days. The thought of wearing his old clothes made her face heat, but the alternative was walking home with his signature on full display, so...
She stripped off her ruined jeans.
The air hit her thighs and she shivered. Goosebumps rose along her skin. She looked down at his name, written in that infuriatingly elegant hand, and felt her molars grind together.
That bastard.
The ink hadn't smudged at all despite everything. Whatever that pen was made of, it was designed to last.
I'll scrub it off when I get home. Bleach if I have to.
She pulled on the sweats. They fit surprisingly well—snug around her hips, loose through the legs. Soft, too. Worn cotton that had been washed a hundred times.
They smelled like him.
Ruri's cheeks flared pink.
Stop. Don't think about it. Just leave.
She reached for the door, then paused.
Her gaze drifted to the closet.
Earlier, before he'd interrupted her, she'd been searching for something incriminating. Embarrassing photos. A shameful collection. Anything she could use as leverage against him.
Now she was alone. Uninterrupted.
One quick look.
The closet doors slid open with a soft whoosh. Clothes packed the interior—shirts, jackets, more sweatpants—but Ruri's attention zeroed in on the bottom corner, where a pile of underwear sat in messy disarray.
Male boxers. Plain colors. Nothing special.
Except...
One pair stood out. The fabric was lighter. Softer. The cut was different—lower rise, narrower sides.
That's not men's underwear.
Ruri's eyes widened. Her hand shot out, grabbing the anomaly before she could think better of it.
Lavender cotton. Lace trim along the edges. A tiny bow at the front.
These are mine.
The panties she'd given him that day. He hadn't thrown them away. He hadn't hidden them somewhere reasonable. He'd mixed them in with his own underwear like they belonged there.
He's been keeping them with his boxers. Like—like some kind of—
Her face burned so hot she thought she might actually catch fire.
Pervert! Degenerate! Absolute creep!
She wanted to take them back. Stuff them in her pocket. Pretend this never happened.
But if they disappeared, he'd know she'd been snooping.
Ruri stood frozen, panties clutched in her trembling fist, torn between mortification and fury. Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
...I can't.
With a defeated groan, she placed them back exactly where she'd found them, nestled among his boxers like a dirty secret.
The closet doors slid shut.
---
[Fuyumi's Apartment — Living Room / Hallway |
Fuyumi was already eating when she emerged—chopsticks moving efficiently, bowl of rice half-empty. He didn't look up.
"You don't need to walk me out!" Ruri blurted, words tumbling over each other. "Just—eat. Don't skip meals. I can find my own way."
She didn't wait for a response.
The front door opened, closed, and she was gone.
Fuyumi chewed slowly, staring at the space where she'd been.
She told me not to skip meals. Worried about my health.
His lips curled upward.
Definitely has feelings for me.
---
[Apartment Building — Fifth Floor Hallway |
The door across the hall opened.
Ruri froze mid-step, caught like a deer in headlights. A woman stood in the opposite doorway—early thirties, elegant features, the kind of mature beauty that belonged on magazine covers. Her silk robe hung open just enough to suggest the curves beneath.
Yuki Rei.
Fuyumi's neighbor.
The older woman's eyes traveled from Ruri's flushed face to her borrowed sweatpants to the bedroom-mussed state of her hair. One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose.
She saw me coming out of his apartment. Wearing his clothes.
Ruri's stomach dropped.
"I—" she started, then realized she had absolutely nothing to say.
So she ran.
Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, frantic and clumsy, disappearing around the corner before Rei could say a word.
The older woman watched her go, a knowing smile playing at the edges of her lips.
So that's the girl Fuyumi-kun's been chasing.
She tapped one manicured nail against the doorframe, humming softly to herself, then retreated back into her apartment and let the door click shut behind her.