pink petals
Rating: E
Fandom: Persona 3
Pairing: Kotone Shiomi/Shinjiro Aragaki
Warnings: Semi-public sex, fingering, hand-jobs
Ao3 Link here!
Plain text under cut!
Shinjiro felt… kind of insane, actually. September had been a blur, October had reared its ugly head, and one lousy month back in that dorm from hell had been enough to render him all kinds of soft, like a well-marbled steak meeting sizzling stone. Shiomi, bright and shining like the sun, had kissed him once, after four weeks of whittling him down, and then, apparently, decided that that was her favourite activity in the whole wide world. She couldn’t get enough of him, like his tongue was made of candy, and Shinjiro had the weight of the world on his shoulders but he was still only barely eighteen—his birthday had come and gone, buried together with the end of summer—and he was selfish. Every time she chirped something mildly amusing at him and then pursed her lips as if waiting for her prize, he found himself idly considering that she would soon have to stand before his coffin. Then he gave her her kisses and tried to forget. She made it so easy to forget, welcoming and warm like a tomb.
"Senpai,” Shiomi groaned. Being called that—by her, because Takeba called him that and Iori called him that and Yamagishi called him that, deferential and intimidated and bordering on afraid, and none of it felt like Kotone Shiomi’s mouth shaped around the word and aiming it at him—scratched an itch inside him that he wasn’t even aware he had. He didn’t deserve that sort of respect. With all his stubborn refusal to show his face at school, and how in the few scarce months she’d been part of S.E.E.S. she’d accomplished more in Tartarus than him, Aki, and Kirijo could have ever dreamed in their years at it, he barely counted as any sort of senpai, barely had any claim of superiority over her. She called him senpai anyway.
They were alone in the dorm, almost everyone out and about for one thing or another, and despite being distantly aware that their solitude would not last long, it didn’t stop him from looking up at her from under his beanie when their leader—scrawny and unassuming when she wasn’t bathed in the flickering, iridescent dimness of Tartarus, as if Shinjiro didn’t know exactly what was hidden under her uniform, taut forearms and strong shoulders that could swing that naginata of hers hard enough to disintegrate a weaker Shadow on impact—came up to him, shyly holding a bright cassette case to him. The blonde woman on the case grinned at him, holding the pink leash of her little dog like a curl of her finger could make it obey, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell Shiomi no, because he was only human. Not like she seemed to care much about the movie, anyway. She’d sprawled on the couch, carefully plastered against Shinjiro’s side despite the ample room to sit, and fifteen minutes in, well after Shinjiro had definitely stopped paying attention to the plot in favour of staring at the thin slivers of soft, squishy skin he could see between the hem of her long socks and the hem of her uniform skirt and the warmth of her arms wound around his own, a scorching hot little hand gently laid over his cool wrist like it had fallen there by accident, she shifted. Stirred, like she’d fallen asleep, but Shinjiro knew better. She’d been sneaking glances up at him, and he’d been studiously refusing to meet her gaze, even when hot fingers tangled with his on the scratchy couch cushion and he could feel his ears warm up under his beanie.
“Senpai,” She tried again, “Don’t ignore me, that’s so rude.” “You’re the one who wanted to watch this,” Shinjiro said, “Shouldn’t we be paying attention?” “Sure, sure,” she said, waving a nonchalant hand in the air, “Kiss first, though?” Shinjiro tsked, a low click in the back of his throat, but ducked low to meet Shiomi’s lips anyway. She tasted like the instant ramen she’d had for dinner, like minty toothpaste on her teeth and that raspberry lip balm that had to have some kind of tint to it, because there was no way her lips were that warm, inviting rosy colour naturally, and Shinjiro had to fight valiantly to swallow down the pliant groan that left him when she swiped her tongue against his lower lip, again and again. “Your lips are all chapped,” she murmured, a thin line forming between her brows, and something about her thoughtful pout, like his dry lips had done something to offend her personally, was so funny to him he couldn’t hold a chuckle back. “Don’t laugh at me! Doesn’t it hurt?” Baby girl, he wanted to tell her, everything hurts all the time. Cracking lips were very, very low on his list of worries. What he said instead was, “I’ve had much worse, miss Leader. Don’t worry about me.” Her lips twitched, displeased. She brought a hand to her waist, and Shinjiro held his breath, eyes fixated on the place where her shirt rucked and bunched up under the waistband of her skirt, and she pulled out the little lip balm tube from—fucking—nowhere. “Did… Do you keep that in your underwear?” Shinjiro croaked out as she applied a fresh coat, lips dark and slick, and he was insane. “No,” she chirped, like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing to him, “I have a pocket sewn to the waistband of my skirt, senpai. Don’t be crass.” Tell that to his cock, suddenly extremely interested in the long, hot line of her body plastered against his arm, his side. “I told you, just Aragaki’s fine.” Shinjiro said, because if he thought too hard about her dark eyes looking up at him like she was a predator and he was prey, backlit by the blue glow of the television, he would spark into flames, “Shinjiro, even. Hell knows we’ve fought enough battles side by side to be over formalities.” That, and, well. The make-out sessions probably counted for something, too.
“Let me help you with your lips, senpai.” Was what she said instead, calloused, warm fingers curling gently around his cheek. He shifted and she shifted and he had no time to bemoan the loss of her warmth before she was skittering closer and closer, a leg swinging across his lap and hands pushing and pulling him close, just where she wanted him, and his hands flew on her waist of their own volition, unwilling to let her sway too wildly and fall off the couch altogether, and then soft, plump, warm lips, slick and tasting of raspberries, were pressing against his own, and Shiomi sighed, pleased and airy against him. Fuck, she was straddling his lap in the middle of the common room. A small, tiny part of Shinjiro’s brain was screaming at him that this was the worst idea, that Aigis could come down from her room at any minute, that Amada and Koromaru would be back from their walk soon, that Akihiko was bound to be rushing back from his oddly-prolonged evening run by now and while their leader might be endlessly flippant about whispers and gossip and embarrassed silences, he didn’t care to deal with the headache. A much bigger, dumber part of his brain went off like fireworks in a cacophony of sparks of machinery failing when she groaned against his too-eager tongue and pressed closer; so close he could feel the shape of her, through the heavy cotton of their clothes, her shirt and uniform jacket and his heavy fucking coat that barely kept him warm these days anyway and the threadbare turtleneck he wore under it, through four layers of fabric he felt her like they were naked, chest to chest like she was made of fire. She shifted again, whined a cut-off noise in his mouth, and when they shook apart, her eyes were shining bright like wildfires. Shinjiro was caught. Shiomi licked her lips, wrapped scorching hot, sharp little hands around his wrists, too large, too clunky, carefully gripping at her waistband like touching her shirt or anything underneath would kill him, and she guided his hands to ruck her carefully tucked-in shirt tails out of her skirt, the last two buttons already undone, and he could feel her skin even through flimsy white cotton, warm and yielding and warming his chilly hands right up.
“We—” he croaked out, belatedly, when she moved to drag her lips along the line of his jaw, spiky with stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave this morning, because someone had to be reasonable here, “Not here. The others could…” “They could watch you fuck me into the couch cushions all night long for what I care,” she rumbled against his skin, nipping with too-sharp teeth at the column of his neck, and Shinjiro had to screw his eyes shut, count to ten, ignore the flaming heat he could feel pool in his cheeks. “You are… something else.” He said, eventually, voice rough. He let himself trail a hand up to undo the ribbon around her neck, flames licking down the severe black of her uniform, and that was all he would allow himself, his other hand tightening around her waist, rubbing circles into her with his thumb. She laughed against him, warm hands tilting his head back so she could kiss at the hollow of his throat, the underside of his chin. “You’re spiky.” She said, voice even, light, stretched around a smile. “Yeah, no shit. I didn’t shave this morning.” “Why not?” “Cuz I had nowhere else to be and no plans to get ravaged by a horny teenage girl,” he sneered, as if he wasn’t a horny teenage boy, himself. “If you wanna get off me, I could go shave and come back for you.” “You wouldn’t come back!” She huffed, cheeks flush, “You’d just dart up into your room and lock the door!” He would, to be fair. “That’d learn ya to not get horny in the common room, wouldn’t it?” He could salvage this. Leverage her competitive streak, catch her off-guard, cajole her into switching her attention to anything else that wasn’t the hardening shape of him in his jeans. Keep it silly, and he might survive this.
Shiomi ducked her head low again before he could get a word in, slotted her lips around a tender patch on his throat, sucked hard, tickling one, two marks in his skin, too pale and too cool and clammy all the same, and every plan to escape this situation melted out of his brain and dripped to his cock. So he hooked his chin over her head and closed his eyes, counted his breaths one at a time with a hand curled in her soft hair, pinkie finger snagging on her hair tie. “You’re taking your sweet time stripping me,” Shiomi said, pressed in a smile against his throat. She lifted herself away from him, and he looked down at her: with the ribbon untied and hanging limply around her shoulders, he had eyes only for the hollow of her throat, peeking from the undone button of her collar like a snowdrop. She was grinning still, and kept smiling as she unzipped her jacket and shrugged it off, to fall in a sorry heap across Shinjiro’s knees and off to the floor. The vague, scratching instinct to pick it up and fold it died in his throat the moment he got a good look at her. “You’re not wearing a bra.” He said. Blunt like a bat to the skull. “Whatever makes you think that, senpai?” She grinned up at him, the very picture of angelic grace. Shinjiro tried his best to look her in the eyes, and not down at the gentle shapes of her nipples, two soft little peaks in the cotton of her shirt. “I’m wearing what I normally wear.” “What, you just go around like this?” “I keep the jacket zipped up, nobody knows.” I do , Shinjiro thought, deliriously, I do know, now. I can never come back to school, because knowing I might see you with your jacket zipped up and know this would kill me. “You’re a tart,” he said, instead of saying any of that. “Oh, I love those! Can I be a lemon kind, please?” “You’re the most infuriating person I have ever met.” He kissed her again, tongued at the loose seal of her lips and slipped inside, guided by her soft humming. Swiping his tongue along the sharp enamel of her teeth was always exhilarating; toeing along the edge of a precipice and risking a peek down. Shiomi shuffled on his lap again, bare legs warm against his jeans, and when he moved his legs, tried to get comfortable and sink deeper into the couch cushions because this was fucking happening and it was happening here and he might as well make his peace with it, Shiomi squeaked a breathless noise, and another one when she twitched with her hands tight on his shoulders, and while Shinjiro could imagine what it was she was getting worked up about, he studiously redirected the flow of his thoughts to carefully, meticulously undoing the fiddly little buttons of her shirt, and not looking down at how her skirt stretched over their tangled legs. The last button came slow like the tide, and Shinjiro curled his fingers around her solid shoulders and carefully slid the thing off of her. She shrugged it off, cheeks suddenly flush, almost moving as if to try and cover herself.
“Pretty,” he said, not trusting his voice to say any more, “Very pretty.” And she was. Her pretty flush had travelled down her neck and shoulders, hiked up around her ears, her tits, small and vaguely uneven, nipples perked and the same colour as her lips, the vague line of auburn hair under her belly button, dipping in her waistband. “Don’t… don’t tease me, senpai.” Fuckin’ cute. She acts all brazen and horny and jumps his bones in the middle of the dorm but the moment he reciprocates and strips her half-naked, she’s suddenly shy. Shinjiro had no pity for her antics, opting to instead run his hands down her sides and try to will the healthy flush he could feel in his cheeks away. He thumbed at her left nipple, just to try, just because he was only human—so warm, so soft—and watched her gasp and squirm with a grim sort of satisfaction. She’d started falling apart relatively quick, but you could never know with her, so he curled his hands around her waist and pulled her in close to kiss her again, even when she gasped in his hold and tried to squirm away.
“Se–senpa—Shinjiro, your—your coat! Cold!” The call of his name, unusual on her lips, went unheard. Trying to wrap his head around the sound, and how much he wanted to hear it again, would not be good for Shinjiro’s heart. He kissed the corner of her lips, and ignored her shivered pleas with all the glee in the world. She groaned and pushed off him, a pout too pretty to put into words on her lips. Her nipples were prettily flushed and pebbled on her soft skin. “The studs on your coat poked me in the nipples!” Her outrage was too cute to take seriously. “Sucks to be you, ‘cuz I’m fuckin’ cold.” Truth be told, he was starting to feel a little bit hot under the collar, but she didn’t need to know that.
Shiomi was silent for a moment, considering, hands skating down his arms. Then, “Senpai, if you don’t want to take off your coat, that's fine. It’s kinda hot when the girl is naked and the boy is fully clothed, anyway…” The noise Shinjiro let out was not a squeak, high pitched and indignant, but it came close. “What the fuck, Kotone, how can you just… say—”
He never called her by name. She knew that too, and grinned. She slid the peacoat off his shoulders, left him with a bunch of wool piled around his elbows and his turtleneck, suddenly stuffy and too warm under the scorching heat of her.
She placed both hands on him, thumbing at the divot in the middle of his chest, and Shinjiro reached both hands up now, plucking his courage with both hands to finally give her nipples the attention they deserved. He pinched one, gently between thumb and forefinger, watched Shiomi’s lips for reactions. She was flushed, shivering under his hands, a thin line between her scrunched up eyebrows, and moving her hips in slow, wide circles. Half of him wanted to be mean, keep her still with hands on soft hips, but she curled her arms around his head, knocked his beanie askew, and pulled him close, close, close, pressing his whole face against her warm skin; Shinjiro, being a pragmatic man, took the chance for what it was and closed his lips around a patch of skin, soft scar tissue where a Shadow had slashed her open a few nights ago, and dragged several kisses along her side as she huffed and flung his beanie away, somewhere on the dark floor of the common room. The rush of cold air on his ears was bearable, especially because, when he travelled up to close his lips around a rosy nipple and suck, Shiomi gasped an alarmed little noise and pulled him further in her embrace, hips rutting quicker against him.
“What are you doing?” He said, low, smile smushed against her skin, even as he shifted again to press his knee between her legs and revel in her choked whimper. “Shinjiro…” she whined, teeth chattering, all fight gone. It was a good look on her. “Please.”
He let out the gust of breath he’d been keeping in. Castor rumbled through his veins, sang in the enamel of his teeth, wishing nothing more than to sink them down in soft, supple flesh, rend and tear until there was nothing left of her, and, for once, he was inclined to agree with him, Damascus-hard and neighing his impatience at not being allowed immediate satisfaction. He just hummed, one hand curling low on her hip to lightly guide her movements as she ground in slow circles on his thigh, her breath heavy and damp.
“Damn,” he ground out, “You’re really getting off on this.” He didn’t sound nearly as ruined as he felt, to his own ears. Small blessings. Kotone huffed, a frustrated little noise like a bunny chuffing and thumping. “Of course I am,” She muttered, “It’s you.” She reached a hand under her skirt, and Shinjiro did not stare at the vague shape of it moving under the dark cotton, imagining what it might be she was doing. He just closed both hands around her hips, bit gently at the bony protrusion of her sternum, guiding her hips into a steadier rhythm than her sole legs could keep up, and she hiccupped out a pretty noise, eagerly following his movements. A damp patch was growing on the fabric of his jeans, Shinjiro could feel it, and something about her cloudy eyes, her hands tight on him, nails biting against his shoulders, the healthy, rosy flush across her naked chest and disappearing prettily under the waistband of her skirt…
Well, he was just human. His cock was so hard it hurt, straining against his button, trying to reach her warmth.
Before Shinjiro could do anything, Kotone took matters in her own hands and rucked her skirt up, finally, like a flash of lightning, revealing hidden skin that the sun had never kissed but he was about to, apparently; the tender tops of her thighs, squishing gently out of the constriction of her stockings, the rest of that pretty line of auburn hair, darker and thicker as it disappeared under her panties, simple, white, vaguely darkened by age. Funny. Somehow, he’d imagined something different. Pink, or bows, or frills, or a design on the fabric, perhaps. Like this, instead, blank like a mask, Shinjiro could see every shape of her through pleasure-damp cotton, flushed pink. Every time she shifted, in the dim air of the lounge, he could see the dark patch left on his jeans in her wake. Even though she was the one holding her skirt up, Kotone was suddenly shy: her cheeks were dark, her eyes flighty, her lower lip—swollen and dark with kisses, and Shinji had been the one to make it so—caught under her teeth.
“Shit,” Was all Shinjiro could get out, eyes caught on the barely hidden shape of her. Then, “Fuck,” as he reached down to undo the button of his jeans, pull down the zipper, letting the hard shape of his cock out, clear through the cotton of his boxers with all the pleasure he’d drooled on himself. He had barely noticed it, how hard he’d gotten, the wetness between his legs, the sheer hurt of it, of ignoring it for so long. Kotone gaped down at him, eyes dark. “See,” he huffed, cheeks ruddy, “We’re even now,” which wasn’t true in the slightest, but she seemed too transfixed to retort. He tried to swallow down a shiver. In his haste, he’d dislodged the careful tuck of his turtleneck in his pants, uncovering a small triangle of skin above his boxers, and even that little patch being exposed had a chill settling into his bones.
Instead of saying anything, she sunk deeper in his lap and pressed herself against the tent in his underwear. The scorching, damp imprint of her pussy pressed against the shape of his cock was all the heaven he thought he didn’t deserve; he could feel her so clearly he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Kotone placed a hand, small and calloused, on the bare skin above his waistband, pushed down as if to keep him still as she ground against him, biting her lip and throwing her head back like just that little touch was enough to drive her mad.
“Help me,” she said through gritted teeth, hands twitching on Shinjiro.
Shinjiro, to his credit, was so busy staring down at where the two of them met, the growing wetness seeping through their underwear to mix in a single slimy concoction, he almost didn’t hear her. Then he grunted his assent and finally pushed his jeans halfway down his legs and closed his hands around her hips, pulling her close until they were properly slotted together, and rutted his hips up. Kotone moaned, a high, hiccupping noise that set Shinjiro all aflame. “D'you like this?” He ground out, brain unable to compute anything past the feedback loop of pleasure and noises and slickness. She pulled away, barely a hair away and already leaving him aching desperately for her warmth, but he put away the wounded animal of himself to stare at the patch of her pleasure in her panties, dark and slick and almost bulging with how swollen she was. “What do you think ?” She crooned, voice thin. Shinjiro swallowed down the saliva pooling under his tongue and reached down between the two of them to run a shivering finger along her. She gasped, thighs twitching inwards and only stopped by the simple fact that they were wrapped around his hips.
“Can I…” He started. Stopped, fingers hovering on the elastic of her waistband. “Have you… ever done this before?” As if to say he had. The couple sad, half-drunk blowjobs he’d gotten back when he spent his nights in that alley definitely didn’t amount to much. Kotone huffed. “No, but how hard can it be?” And, okay, she was cute, and he was an animal, but not that much. “I ain’t takin’ your virginity on the goddamn couch.” Nor was he particularly keen on losing his virginity on the goddamn couch.
She huffed again, aggravated, but whatever she was going to say died on her lips with a little cheep when Shinjiro slipped his finger in the elastic and pulled her panties aside. His knuckle came away wet, and he couldn’t resist the urge to reach in with both hands and spread her puffy, buttery-soft cunt apart to stare at the mess of her. Strings of something thick and off-white stretched between the flushed red lips, cradling her clit. It was… bigger than he’d expected, but all in all, nothing egregiously appalling. And his cock gave a hopeful twitch at the sight, obviously better acquainted with the situation than his brain was, but he snuffed his excitement down and licked his thumb to start flicking her clit in slow, timid circles. Kotone twitched like electrocuted, whined out a shrill little noise, her hips jumped in his hold like she didn’t know whether to pull away or push closer.
“Fuck,” she squeaked, emphatically, which was kind of funny to hear from his polite little leader. “Too much?” “It’s… different than when I do it.” Shinjiro licked his lips. “And what do you… usually… do?” “I…” Kotone bit her lip, rocking into the knuckles barely grazing her entrance, cheeks dark. “Well, I usually… do it with a pillow.” Once again, Shinjiro carefully rerouted his train of thought around that particular new piece of information, because focusing too long on the mental image of Kotone in only half her pyjamas, frantically humping a pillow held tight between her thighs would not be good for his performance time.
As things stood, he valiantly fought the urge to push her down on the couch and put his mouth on her and just kept loosely swirling his thumb, eyes on her flushed face as it contorted with sharp pleasure. Her eyes were squeezed closed, her eyebrows pinched together, her lips slack like she didn’t have the strength to pull coherent noises together. It was a very good look on her, Shinjiro had to admit. He gave a few flicks to her clit and she whined, her hands twitched towards him, warm and delicate on the cotton waistband of his briefs. A finger curled around the elastic, and then another, dubious and unsure, but Shinjiro was past niceties and worries, past early October and past late-night shame, so he tilted his head up to nuzzle kisses against her face, hips twitching into her touch. Kotone pulled his boxers down and fished his cock out, holding it gingerly, touch too light around him.
He bit down on a noise trying to escape his throat, muffled his pleased sigh against her skin, and she had the gall to giggle. “Do you like this?” What a brat. But she wrapped her hand around his cock properly now, big enough—or maybe she was just that much smaller than him?—that her fingers couldn’t meet around his shaft, the warm ball of her thumb curving around the base of him, and—
She hummed, thumb catching in the little metal ring sitting pretty at the base of his shaft. Her eyes were wide, looking up at him and then down at his cock. “You have a piercing,” she said, tugging gently at the ring. “That I do,” Shinjiro replied, mouth dry. He could feel the gentle tug pulling him apart at the seams, her fingertips barely grazing salty skin. “‘S’at a problem?” “I’ve never seen one before…” “A piercing?” “Well,” Kotone flushed, pretty pink all over her cheeks and ears and the tip of her nose like she’d just been out in the snow, “T–that, too…” Reroute, reroute, for the love of all that is holy. Shinjiro gulped in a breath of too-warm air and licked his hand again, crooking his fingers down around the shape of her to just do something . She gasped when his slick pointer finger slipped easily between her folds, way made easier and slicker by her own wetness, scorching warm and slippery and yielding for his fingers. Her hand around his cock fell slack, hips hitching into his hold to seek the pleasure he was giving her, and the sudden lack of stimulation was maddening but it was worth it because he had Kotone–fuckin’–Shiomi, shirtless and writhing in his lap and all but begging for his fingers. She closed a hand in the front of his sweater and dragged him down with her to half-lay on the couch, his cold, bony, lanky form curled around her like a well-loved jacket.
“Inside, inside,” She muttered against his mouth, hand tight once again around his cock, “Please.” She’d regained her footing quick, huh. Her tugging on his cock was insistent, warm and dry and bordering on uncomfortable like trying to pull him close by the leash, and he could feel himself drip heavily down on her bare wrist but it still wasn’t right. “W–wait,” He grit out, “The… too dry, wait—” He plucked her wrist away, white and red with callouses and rushing blood under delicate skin, and he spat in her cupped palm. It looked obscene , off-white and foamy and quivering in her trembling hand, but it did its job; when she reached down again to stroke him, hard and wanting, the slide was slick, warm, wonderful. He bucked into her loose fist and chased her lips with his, the warmth of her cheeks against his day-old stubble, carved himself a place in her with his fingers because he could not just stand there and come in her hand like a dog.
Her other hand flew to his wrist when he ran two fingers down her slick slit and started making his way inside, her fist tight around him.
“Warm,” he muttered in her mouth, dumbly. Kotone giggled, airy and high-pitched, “You–you too,” and then, “fuck, Shinji…” all breath, which was just all sorts of cruel to him and his brain power, really. He carefully slipped his index in; she made way for him easily, and soon he was knuckle deep in her and wiggling his finger this way and that in slow, wide crooking motions. A second finger followed the first one, careful in how he filled her up. Her grip on him tightened, she moaned an urgent little sound. “Close?” He asked. The ‘Already?’ he had tipped on his tongue died with her shaky nod, her white teeth sinking in the pink pillow of her lower lip. “You’re so wet.” He said, instead, which was just as mortifying, but she bucked into his fingers and drooled out a wanting noise. “Please, do that thing again,” She said, “on my—”
Shinjiro dug his thumb under her slick hood and started working her clit in tight little circles, fingers prodding inside her until she arched her back and bucked into him and came with a sharp, loud noise, dripping love on his hand and wrist.
Her hand fell from his cock, replaced by his own working himself in short, angry tugs, way slicked with her pleasure. She pulled him close with a leg hooked around his hips and he sighed when his cockhead nestled prettily in the crook of her thigh, scorching warm. Half a dozen tugs—he wasn’t keeping count, probably less—were all it took for him to bite out a groan and come, squirting pleasure all over her soft thigh and the inside of her skirt, soaking into the cotton of her panties.
Let it be known that the reason he buckled heavily down on her was because she pulled him in, faces slotting against shoulders and arms knotting together, uncaring of the mess inside her skirt, and together they stood, basking in the afterglow, for hours or minutes or maybe years. It was hard to tell, with his nose buried against Kotone’s throat. The vague floral perfume she’d had on at the beginning of the night was gone, replaced by sweat and sex and the coconut shampoo she used. He could feel her mouth work at his own neck, sucking tickling mark after mark.
Then the front door clicked.
Shinjiro couldn’t bring himself to look back at it, body locked into panic. Kotone, as always, was quicker: she scrambled away from him and bent down low to pick up his discarded coat to drape over her shoulders, a hand firmly planted in the middle of his chest. The rush of being pushed upright was enough to bring Shinjiro back to earth, and he sat up straight, doing his jeans back up. The gathering of her strewn about clothes was as quick as they could make it; her shirt was surreptitiously slipped on under his coat, her jacket gathered and hidden, her panties shoved in his pocket, her skirt hastily pulled down straight.
Mitsuru looked at them with her eyebrows knitted tight as she let Yamagishi in first, and Shinji tried to keep his gaze even in reply as Kotone shuffled up to go get the cassette from the player.
“Well,” she sounded exceedingly even for a girl who had just been fucked, “Thanks for watching this with me, senpai. I had a lot of fun!” “What did you watch, Kotone-chan?” Said Yamagishi as she hung her coat by the door. Mitsuru was still staring at him, so he did not look away. “A western movie about a girl going to law school to follow a boy she’s in love with. It’s really fun. Oh, and thank you for lending me your coat, too, senpai. Kinda cold in here.”
She shrugged the thing off her shoulders, looking perfectly put-together underneath, and handed it back to Shinjiro.
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered, even as Mitsuru raised an eyebrow. That woman’s ability to read his goddamn mind would be the end of him some day, he was sure. “If you’re cold, go tuck in bed. It’s gotten late.” Kotone trotted upstairs with Yamagishi, chatting about watching the movie together sometime, and Shinjiro was left with Mitsuru, trying not to think of the dripping mess under her skirt. “I hope the couch was not debased by your activities.” Was all she said. “The couch is fuckin’ pristine,” he grit out, “I assure you.” “Keep it to your rooms from now on, please,” she said, all prim, sitting down on the armchair and picking up the book she’d left on the coffee table, “The smell is very striking, and it could linger.” “Don’t lecture me about the damn smell.” Shinjiro got up, slipping the coat back on. “I’m goin’ to bed.” “In your room?” “That’s none of your fuckin’ business.”