---
[Hirose Residence, Apartment Complex ]
Under the fragile banner of reconciliation, three people filed back through the apartment door.
Riku entered first, expression settled into practiced neutrality—jaw loose, posture easy, as though he'd merely stepped out for a stroll along the walkway rather than pinned a girl against raw concrete two floors below. Shirou shuffled in behind him, spine rigid, gaze nailed to the entryway tile. Yoru came last, each footfall landing with the careful deliberation of someone holding her skeleton together through willpower alone.
The apartment greeted them in overlapping layers—soy-glazed pork belly cooling on a wide ceramic platter, the candied sweetness of strawberry shortcake frosting going slightly stale, and beneath both, the clean bite of yuzu floor cleaner Kaguya-san always favored. Pillar candles along the dining table's centerpiece had melted into soft amber puddles, wax pooling into the crevices of a decorative tray. Half-eaten side dishes sat in neat rows, chopsticks resting at angles that suggested their owners had set them down mid-bite and never picked them back up.
Every set of eyes in the room tracked the trio's entrance. Nobody spoke first.
Yoru dipped her head low, dark hair spilling forward to curtain her face.
"I'm sorry, everyone."
Her voice came out thinner than she intended—frayed at the edges, slightly hoarse, like a thread pulled too taut.
Uta was already smiling from her seat, warm and effortless, hands folded in her lap. Her chestnut-brown hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, and the collar of her blouse sat perfectly centered, not a wrinkle in sight—the kind of composure that looked innate rather than performed. Beside her, Kiyō maintained a pleasant expression, though her gaze moved between Yoru and Shirou with the methodical precision of someone filing details for later.
"It's totally fine! The food hasn't even gone cold," Uta said, waving a hand toward the table. "Come on—let's all eat together, yeah?"
Yoru's eyes are swollen. She's been crying. And Shirou looks like he swallowed a rock. Uta kept her smile steady, but her fingers laced tight beneath the table's edge.
They resettled into their seats. Conversation resumed in careful fragments—Uta shouldering most of the weight with bright observations about the shortcake's piped rosettes and whether the pickled daikon needed more vinegar. Kiyō contributed polite murmurs of agreement. Shirou ate mechanically, rice disappearing into his mouth without registering on his face.
Yoru took small, measured bites. Her chopsticks trembled once when she reached for a slice of tamagoyaki, and she paused, pretending to tuck hair behind her ear while her hand steadied. Concrete dust still lingered in her sinuses—stairwell grit and cedar cologne layered over something muskier, thicker, that no amount of swallowing could clear from the back of her throat.
Just eat. Finish eating and they'll leave and you can breathe.
Three seats away, Riku complimented Kaguya-san's cooking between unhurried bites, his voice carrying none of the low gravel it had held twenty minutes ago in that lightless stairwell. He sounded like someone's well-mannered nephew. Yoru's stomach folded in on itself.
---
The meal ended without ceremony. Plates scraped clean or abandoned half-touched, depending on the conscience of the eater.
Uta was the first to rise, slipping into her camel coat with practiced grace. At the door, she pulled Yoru into a hug—lingering a full beat longer than occasion demanded, her palm pressing flat against Yoru's spine as though checking for fractures beneath the skin.
"Happy birthday, Yoru-chan," she murmured near her ear. Her breath smelled faintly of green tea and cake frosting.
As she pulled away and stepped into the corridor, Uta's gaze traveled one last time across the apartment—landing first on Yoru's strained smile, tracking sideways to Shirou's guilty slouch at the sofa, then drifting briefly to Riku, who had already begun stacking dishes with quiet efficiency at the far end of the table.
Something happened between those three tonight. Something none of them will say out loud.
Her heels clicked a measured rhythm down the hallway, and the front door closed behind her with a soft click.
---
Riku ferried a stack of plates into the kitchen, rolled his sleeves past his elbows, and turned on the faucet. Kaguya-san joined him at the counter, suds climbing her forearms as she scrubbed. Water hissed against hot ceramic.
In the living room, Shirou perched on the edge of the sofa like a bird that hadn't been invited to land. He opened his mouth—perhaps to say something to Yoru, who stood near the hallway with her arms crossed tight against her ribs—but before a syllable formed, fingers clamped around his collar from behind.
Kiyō.
She hauled him toward the genkan with a grip that permitted no negotiation, her manicured nails sinking into the wool of his jacket. Her honey-blonde hair—pin-straight, cut just past her jawline—swung with the motion.
"We're leaving. Now."
"Wh—Nee-san?!"
She didn't answer until they were out the door, past the elevator bank, and halfway down the outdoor corridor. Fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, casting everything in flat, clinical white. Kiyō released him with a shove that sent him stumbling a half-step into the railing.
Shirou rubbed his collar, bewildered. "What are you doing?"
"You pulled that many stunts tonight and you still had the nerve to sit there?" Her voice was a controlled hiss, pitched low enough to stay between the two of them. She planted both hands on her hips, the hem of her cream cardigan riding up. Her eyes—the same warm brown as Shirou's, but sharper, less forgiving—narrowed. "That guy is still in there helping clean. Why can't I—"
"Because that guy didn't make Kaguya-san's face go dark."
Shirou blinked.
He's genuinely this dense. My own flesh and blood, and the boy has the situational awareness of a brick.
Kiyō exhaled hard through her nose. "You three vanished for nearly half an hour before the meal. Did you even look at Kaguya-san when you came back? Her jaw was clenched the entire dinner. She barely spoke." She folded her arms. "Stay any longer and she'll stop being polite about it. Give it a few days, then find a way to make amends."
Shirou's hands curled at his sides.
Kiyō's voice softened—just barely, just at the corners. "I've told you before, Shirou. You and Hirose Yoru... it won't end well. Uta-chan is such a good—"
He wrenched free of her grip before the sentence landed. The motion was sharp, echoing off corridor concrete.
"My business is none of yours."
He turned on his heel and walked ahead, fists jammed deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against something heavier than the October chill that cut through the walkway.
Kiyō watched his back shrink down the corridor. She didn't follow.
Stubborn, stupid boy.
---
[Hirose Residence — 9:14 PM]
The birthday party dissolved like sugar dropped into rain.
Guests gone, the apartment sank into a hush punctuated only by the soft clink of stacked plates and the muffled rush of water through old pipes. The living room still smelled of melted candle wax and soy glaze, but a quieter scent wove beneath— Kaguya-san's perfume, white jasmine braided with sandalwood, warm from the hollow of her throat.
Riku dried a serving bowl with a cloth. Kaguya-san stood at the sink beside him, forearms submerged in suds. Through the kitchen doorway, Yoru appeared in the hall, fidgeting with the hem of her blouse, shifting her weight from one foot to the other with her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt.
"Mother... I'm going to shower and change. The cake got on my clothes earlier."
Almost steady. Almost normal.
What she couldn't say: the viscous warmth still pooling between her legs had nothing to do with frosting. In that pitch-black stairwell, Riku had been relentless—pumping so much into her she'd felt it threatening to overflow the moment she'd staggered upright. She needed scalding water and a washcloth before what remained of her composure dissolved entirely.
Kaguya-san glanced over her shoulder and nodded. "Of course, dear. Go ahead."
She looks pale. The party wore her out, poor thing.
Yoru slipped down the hall. A bedroom door clicked. A lock turned. The faint groan of pipes followed as the shower engaged.
---
Riku counted to five in his head. Then he set the dish cloth down, stepped out of the kitchen, and crossed the living room in three unhurried strides.
Kaguya-san had moved to the dining table, collecting the last of the serving dishes, her back to him. She was humming something low and tuneless—distracted, guard entirely down.
He wrapped both arms around her from behind.
"Ah—!"
The gasp ripped from her chest before she could smother it. Her wet hands flew to her mouth, soapy water dripping down her chin, a serving spoon clattering against the tabletop. His chest pressed flush to her back, solid and radiating heat through the thin jersey knit of her dress, and she felt the defined ridges of his abdomen settle against her lower spine. Lower still—the unmistakable press of him against the curve of her ass.
"You seemed upset tonight, Kaguya-san."
Low. Unhurried. His breath ghosting along the shell of her ear.
Hirose Kaguya stood five-foot-six in bare feet, though the low-heeled house slippers she'd worn for the party added an inch. She'd dressed for her daughter's birthday in a black long-sleeved dress that fell past her knees—the matte fabric clung where it counted: across the swell of her chest, full and heavy, the weight of each breast straining gently against the jersey knit; cinching at a waist that remained improbably narrow for a woman in her early forties; then flaring over hips wide enough to fill a doorframe's worth of silhouette.
Her hair, the same wet-ink black as Yoru's but threaded with the faintest silver at the temples, was gathered in a low chignon that exposed the pale column of her neck. Her face held the architecture of a beauty aged into something richer—high cheekbones, a strong jaw softened by the plush fullness of her lips, dark eyes framed by long lashes beneath arched brows that gave her resting expression a severity her voice never matched. A single strand of pearls sat in the dip of her collarbone. Where Yoru was angular and sharp with youth, Kaguya was lush—a body that carried its weight in the places eyes traveled first: breasts, thighs, the generous curve of an ass that the black fabric draped over like a confession.
"Don't—" she whispered, barely a thread of sound. "Not here, Riku-kun—"
His arms tightened. One palm slid upward along her ribcage, fingers splaying wide just below the heavy underside of her left breast. She flinched, a muffled mmph trapped behind her sealed lips.
"Yoru is still—"
"In the shower. I can hear the pipes."
Her pulse hammered against his forearm where it crossed her sternum. The living room stretched open around them—no door to close, no wall to hide behind. The kitchen had a partition. The bedroom had a lock. But here, twenty feet from the hallway and her daughter's room, there was nothing. If Yoru stepped out right now, she would see everything immediately.
"This is the living room," Kaguya hissed, panic threading her voice. "This isn't—this isn't like the kitchen, or the bedroom, there's nowhere to—"
"Kaguya-san." His mouth brushed the curve where her neck met her shoulder, lips barely grazing skin, and she felt the vibration of his words travel down her spine. "It's been exactly one day out of a hundred. You're not planning to break our agreement already?"
Her breath caught like fabric on a nail.
"N-no... I'm not—that's not what I—"
"Then there's no problem."
"If she comes out and sees—"
"Then she sees." His tone didn't shift. "I'm not the one with anything to lose."
"You can't—Riku-kun, please—"
Please stop. Please don't stop. God, I don't know which one I mean anymore.
His free hand gathered the hem of her dress in a slow fistful—fabric sliding up past her knees, past the smooth pale stretch of her thighs, past the lace edge of black underwear she'd chosen without thinking. Or with too much thinking. Cool apartment air kissed skin that hadn't been bare in this room since she'd lived alone.
"Ah—! Riku—this is absolutely—nngh—"
He hooked a finger into her waistband and dragged the lace down to mid-thigh in one fluid motion. Her ass—round, full, the skin porcelain-pale and impossibly soft—pressed bare against the front of his trousers. Behind her she heard the quiet clink of his belt buckle releasing, the whisper of a zipper, and then heat—the thick, blunt heat of his cock settling against her cleft, the smooth head nudging between her folds.
She was already wet.
She hated that. Hated that her body answered him before her mind could refuse.
One hand gripped her hip, thumb pressing into the dimple above her ass. The other pushed flat against the small of her back, bending her forward over the dining table. Her palms slapped the surface—fingers curling into the tablecloth, knuckles blanching—and he pushed inside.
"Nnngh—!"
The moan tore from somewhere beneath her ribs, guttural and involuntary. He was thick—the girth of him spreading her open with a slow, merciless insistence that made her vision swim. Her walls clenched around the intrusion, spasming, struggling to accommodate a shaft that felt impossibly dense—seven inches at least, curved slightly upward, the subtle bend dragging along her front wall with every centimeter of entry. Veined and rigid, radiating heat that she felt deep in her belly.
Her elbows buckled. Her forehead nearly struck the table. The cloth twisted and bunched beneath her scrambling fingers, pulling a fork off the edge with a muted clatter that echoed through the silent apartment.
"Riku-kun—hhaah—t-too... too deep—!"
He bottomed out. His pelvis pressed flush against the cushion of her backside, and she felt him everywhere—the blunt head kissing her cervix, the thick root stretching her entrance, the full impossible length of him filling a space that had known only absence for years. His balls rested warm and heavy against her mound.
"Kaguya-san." Steady. Almost conversational. "I'm going to start moving."
"D-don't—aahhnn—"
He pulled back and drove forward.
The sound that left her mouth wasn't language. Something animal—a hitched, breaking "Hhaaah—!" that she barely muffled by sinking her teeth into her own wrist. The table lurched an inch across the hardwood with a groan. His cock struck a place so deep that white sparks cascaded behind her eyelids, a spot she'd half-forgotten existed.
He found his rhythm—deliberate at first, each stroke withdrawing until only the swollen head remained inside before slamming home with a force that jolted her entire body forward. The wet, obscene schlck of their joining filled the living room, thick and unmistakable, slick noises punctuating every thrust. Her arousal coated his shaft in a glossy sheen that caught the overhead light when he pulled back.
"Mmph—hahh—ahhn, ahhn, ahhn—"
Her moans came in stuttered bursts, synced helplessly to his pace, each one pitching higher despite the wrist clamped between her teeth. The dining table rocked on its legs. A water glass slid sideways, teetering at the edge. Riku's breathing stayed measured—controlled inhales through his nose—the only evidence of exertion a faint tightening along his jaw and the thin sheen of sweat forming at his hairline.
He leaned over her, chest to back, one hand sliding up her torso to cup her breast through the dress. His fingers found the nipple—stiff, pressing against the fabric like a complaint—and rolled it slow and firm between thumb and forefinger.
"Hiii—! N-not there—not while you're—aaahh—!"
The combined sensation buckled something structural inside her. Her inner walls clamped down in a sudden, fluttering vise, and a rush of slick warmth coated his shaft. She came without warning—silent except for a shuddering exhale that fogged the table's surface, her entire body locking rigid, thighs trembling violently, toes curling against the hardwood until her arches cramped.
Riku didn't slow.
He fucked her straight through the orgasm, hips snapping with mechanical precision, stretching the peak into something prolonged and nearly unbearable. Aftershocks rippled through her in waves, each thrust reigniting nerve endings that screamed for mercy. His pace sharpened—harder, faster—skin against skin cracking through the apartment like a metronome counting down to ruin.
"Inside—hhaah—not inside, Riku-kun, you absolutely can't—"
He came anyway.
A low, controlled grunt through clenched teeth. His hips ground flush against her ass and held there, cock buried to the root, as the first thick pulse of cum flooded her. She felt it—hot, dense, rope after rope painting her insides white in rhythmic spurts that seemed to go on far longer than physics should allow. Her walls milked him involuntarily, clenching and releasing around the shaft in helpless spasms, and she whimpered at the sheer volume of it—the spreading warmth pooling deep, filling her until she felt swollen and unbearably full.
"Hhhnn..."
He held the position for a long, silent moment. Still hilted. One hand resting on the curve of her waist, thumb tracing an absent circle against her hip bone. His cock twitched inside her twice more—final aftershocks—before he pulled out slow, the drag of his softening length followed by a thick trickle of cum that spilled from her swollen, reddened slit and began its lazy descent down the inside of her left thigh.
By the time Kaguya summoned the strength to straighten her spine, Riku had already tucked himself away and buckled his belt. His expression was neutral—settled, composed—as though he'd merely finished rearranging the centerpiece.
"I'll head out," he said quietly. "The tablecloth's crooked."
Then he was gone. Shoes on. Door closed. No louder than a draft slipping through a cracked window.
---
In her bedroom, Yoru folded her soiled clothes into a neat square and carried them to the wastebasket beside her ensuite bathroom.
The shower ran scalding. Steam swallowed the small tiled room within minutes, fogging the mirror into a blank white square. She stood beneath the spray and scrubbed—forearms, stomach, the insides of her thighs—wringing the washcloth until her knuckles ached. Riku's cum swirled down the drain in translucent ropes, and she watched it disappear with an expression she couldn't have named under oath.
Gone. All of it. Like it never happened.
She toweled dry and dressed in clean clothes—a soft dove-grey pullover, cotton sleep shorts that hit mid-thigh. Then she returned to the bathroom and picked up what she'd worn to her own eighteenth birthday party: the cream blouse, the navy pleated skirt, the underwear. Held each piece at arm's length. The fabric still carried traces of cedar cologne, dried sweat, and something sharper—sour-sweet, biological, unmistakable.
She dropped all three into the trash without folding them.
Anything that scum has touched will never go on my body again.
---
Yoru opened her bedroom door and stepped into the living room.
Kaguya-san stood alone at the dining table, her back to the hallway. The apartment was silent—no running faucet, no clinking porcelain, no second voice filling the space. The overhead light cast everything in warm amber, and the air smelled faintly different now, though Yoru couldn't identify what had changed. Something heavier underneath the candle wax. Muskier.
"Mother? Where did Riku go?"
Kaguya flinched—barely, a micro-twitch between her shoulder blades—before turning. Her face was flushed a vivid, startling pink, the color concentrated across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. A thin sheen of perspiration clung to her hairline where the chignon had loosened. In front of her, the tablecloth was visibly mangled—creased, pulled hard to one side, bunched where someone had gripped it with both fists.
"Riku-kun?" Her voice came out breathy, pitched half a register above normal, the vowels soft and slightly blurred. "He... he already left."
Yoru's brow furrowed. "Mother, your face is really red. Are you feeling all right?"
Something about her mother's tone snagged—an airy, unsteady quality, like words spoken through shallow breathing. She'd heard that exact cadence somewhere before. Recently. The recognition hovered at the edge of memory, maddeningly close, refusing to sharpen into focus.
Kaguya's hand rose to touch her own cheek, registering the heat there, and she ducked her head with a quickness that looked like guilt. "I'm fine. The kitchen was warm—steam from the dishes."
She began smoothing the tablecloth with fingers that trembled at the tips.
What Yoru could not see—hidden beneath the hem of her mother's black dress, sliding in slow, viscous trails down the inside of both thighs—was thick, milky-white evidence of what had happened three minutes prior. It clung to Kaguya's skin in warm rivulets, some already cooling, pooling in the soft hollows behind her knees before inching toward her calves.
"I'll take these to the kitchen," Kaguya said, too quickly, gathering a stack of plates against her chest. She turned and walked away with careful, deliberate steps—thighs pressed together, each stride abbreviated, as though moving through waist-deep water.
---
Alone in the kitchen, door half-closed, her daughter's retreating footsteps fading down the hall, Kaguya-san set the plates in the sink and gripped the counter's edge until her knuckles went white.
That boy. Doing that—in the living room—at the dining table where my daughter just ate—
Shame burned through her, liquid and total, pooling in the exact places his hands had pressed. The anger was genuine. The indignation was real, righteous, and completely sincere.
And entirely insufficient to overpower what coiled beneath it.
The thrill of it—the sheer, reckless obscenity of being bent over her own dining table while her daughter showered twenty feet down the hall. His grip on her hips, steady and proprietary. The devastating fullness of him buried inside her, stretching tissue that hadn't been touched in years. The way he'd spoken to her: calm, quiet, as though her protests were weather he could simply wait out.
Her breath stuttered. Between her thighs, the slickness was cooling, tacky now, and the slow drip continued its descent along her skin.
She bit down on her lower lip. Glanced at the kitchen door. Listened. Silence—the faint creak of Yoru's bedroom door closing again, the soft click of its latch.
Kaguya reached beneath her dress. Her fingers found the warm trail tracing her inner thigh, gathered a viscous strand of white on her fingertip, and brought it to her lips.
She tasted it.
Salt. Faintly bitter. An alkaline warmth that coated her tongue and clung to the roof of her mouth. Dense and unmistakably, irreducibly his.
"Riku-kun's... taste..."
Her eyes drifted half-shut. Something that had been locked inside her chest for years—rusted, load-bearing, fundamental—cracked open and did not close again.
---
〔 ♥ AFFECTION UPDATE ♥ 〕
Hirose Kaguya — Level: 100
(Utterly Devoted. Unconditionally Obedient. Short of marriage, there is nothing she will refuse him.)
---
Riku felt the notification pulse through his system interface before the elevator doors had finished opening.
October air bit through his jacket the moment he stepped onto the apartment complex's outdoor walkway, his breath curling in pale threads beneath the corridor's fluorescent tubes. The smell of wet concrete, distant kitchen exhaust, and the faintly metallic tang of coming rain drifted up from the lower floors. Somewhere below, a neighbor's television murmured through a cracked window—canned laughter, a game show jingle.
He pulled up the Hedonist System's display in his peripheral vision and stared at the readout.
Hirose Kaguya. Affection: 100.
His jaw tightened.
Before dinner she'd sat at 75—high, but functional. The grudging compliance of a woman tethered by a ten-million-yen agreement and nothing deeper. During the encounter at the dining table, the number had lurched upward in sickening jumps: 82, 89, 94. By the time he'd finished inside her, it read 98.
And now—barely two minutes after walking out the door—the chime. One hundred. Maximum. The cap.
She was only the second woman in the system's history to reach it. The first had been Yukigami Nahiro, and that conquest had cost him weeks of surgical investment—calculated gifts, perfectly timed vulnerability, emotional architecture built brick by painstaking brick.
Kaguya-san had hit the ceiling in a single evening. One act at her own dining table. One load pumped into her while her daughter stood under hot water on the other side of a thin apartment wall.
I haven't even properly started on Yoru... and I've already fully captured her mother.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled a cloud of white into the cold.
The system narrator's voice materialized inside his skull—smooth, self-satisfied, dripping with theatrical relish:
「How delightful. You burned every resource chasing the banner-rate SSR and came up empty, only to pull the limited-edition off-banner on a single ticket. With Madam Hirose fully acquired, leveraging her cooperation to obtain the daughter is merely a matter of scheduling. After all... who could possibly turn down a mother-daughter complete set?」
Riku stopped mid-stride.
He stood beneath a flickering fluorescent tube, October wind tugging at his collar, and raised both middle fingers at the empty air inside his own head.
"You are genuinely the most degenerate narrator I have ever had the misfortune of hearing."
The voice offered no rebuttal. It never needed one.
Riku shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and walked toward the elevator, its distant ding reverberating through the concrete corridor as the steel doors parted at the far end of the hall.