𝐈 𝐋𝐔𝐕 𝐔 !!

This was your usual routine. You'd text Nanami on the Thursday evening, coordinate an outfit with her, and then on the Friday drag her out with whoever you were currently seeing and their friends. It was your idea of heaven and Nanami's idea of torture. But she loved you - as best friends do - and so she put up with the headache that came from alcohol fuelled nights of dancing. This night, of course, had been no exception.

And yet for Nanami Kenna, it had been the night that everything had changed.

Nothing extraordinary had happened. In fact, the change had come in the most mundane of moments. The two of you found yourselves stood by the men's bathrooms waiting for your boyfriend and his friends. It was easier when you had dated girls in the past, if they went to the bathroom, you went too. But now, when your boyfriend goes, Nanami finds herself in a position where she has to babysit you. She doesn't mind, of course, she'd do anything for you, but stopping a drunk you from running back to the dance floor was like trying to keep a wild bunny still.

Keeping you calm and patient was a great feat, one that required promises of movie nights and free drinks later, but Nanami didn't mind spending extra money on you. Especially when it made your eyes shine in a way that only she could notice. She has a way of reading you that none of your exes ever had. But that's completely normal, I mean she's your best friend, of course she notices how your eyes shimmer, and how you bounce on the balls of your feet when you're bored, and how your hair falls to frame your face perfectly, and how your jeans hugged your ass just right, and-

Her train of thought is broken by you trying to brush your hair out of your face and then bouncing around so much that it immediately falls back into place. Idiot, she thinks… Cute idiot.

Half an hour later, she catches herself staring again. More people had crowded into the club, filling up the booths around the dance floor. You had ran off ahead, claiming one of the last free booths, sitting smack in the middle so Nanami could sit on one side and your boyfriend could sit on the other. The latter was preoccupied at the bar, buying you a drink to help you 'loosen up' after you'd refused to grind on him earlier. Nanami had rolled her eyes at the idea, and did so once again when your boyfriend returns with a beer. When had you ever drank beer? It wasn't like you were picky with your drinks, but fruity little cocktails with paper umbrellas or decorative cherries were always the safest option with you. Nanami just barely caught your boyfriend whisper to you to just drink it because he 'wasn't going to spend more than ten dollars on a stupid drink'.

Well that just wouldn't do. Not when that little pout pulled on your lips as you stared at the glass bottle. Nanami slid out of the booth, making her way to the bar ordering a sex on the beach. Classic, fruity, what could go wrong?

Condensation was rolling down your beer bottle, creating a little pool on the table as Nanami returned. It got wiped away by a paper napkin and then replaced by the tall glass, a small cocktail umbrella decorating the drink along with not one, but two little straws for when you inevitably offer to share your drink with Nanami.

"Drink it, sweetheart" she said calmly, the pet name sliding out naturally as you started thanking her, a familiar twinkle returning to your eyes. She focused on you, completely. Eyes fixed on your lips around one of the tiny straws, your eyes watching your boyfriend, your airy laugh when he told a bad joke. This environment is where you thrive, loud noises, bright lights, endless conversation. It's easy, it's busy, it's Nanami Kenna's personal hell.

Her idea of a nice evening with you would be a quiet sleepover watching a movie. Preferably at your place with your twinkling fairy lights and cosy blankets. Nanami loved when the two of you had sleepovers, you'd insist on making a fort, she'd sigh but comply. You'd order too much takeout and she'd watch as you ate enough to make a normal person sick. You'd fall asleep halfway through whatever romcom you'd selected, your head would rest on her shoulder, your breaths would even out. Those moments, those quiet moments of peace are the moments when Nanami feels that she can truly breathe.

And yet, instead of being at peace, Nanami is sat in a sticky bar listening as your boyfriend tries to impress you with his knowledge of sport — a topic that Nanami knows that you do not care about. Eventually, after what feels like hours of him droning on and on and on and — you get the gist — your boyfriend finally goes to dance, leaving you and Nanami to chat. Which is exactly how Nanami ended up listening to you explaining why he wasn't what you need.

"I just feel like he doesn't listen, you know? Like, when have I ever expressed interest in soccer or drinking beer? It's insane…" You'd complain, mixing your drink with your straw. "I don't know what it is about men, I mean, at least my ex-girlfriends listened to me! I mean, sure, we argued a lot, but she at least heard me out!"

Nanami would nod through each complaint feeling a little guilty at how happy she gets when you mention breaking up with your current boyfriend. And then came the kicker.

"He's also just not my type, you know? I mean, he's attractive, but he's not a bit of me."

"What is your type then?"

"I think I'm into blondes," you answered casually. "Oh, and someone a bit more serious. I know I'm a bit… bubbly… maybe I need someone who can balance that out."

Nanami almost choked on her drink, pausing briefly before recovering. She watched you as she sipped from her glass, testing, seeing if you were looking at her the same way that she was looking at you. Praying that you felt the same way.

Then you joked "maybe I should just date you" and it took every ounce of Nanami's self control to not seriously agree.

Things only got worse from there.

Before, Nanami had thought about you a normal amount. Occasionally seeing something in the store and thinking you'd like it, or sending you TikToks of bunnies that she thought you might enjoy. But suddenly, you consumed her every thought.

It was you that she thought of when she woke up.

It was you that she thought of when she chose her outfit for work — wondering if you'd prefer her in trousers or a dress.

It was you that she texted the moment she thought of something funny.

It was you that she thought of when she sought out women to take home. Usually, she dated all kinds of women, not picky about looks or personality. But now, the women had started to look more and more like you, and they became louder, bubblier, gigglier. Soon enough, Nanami had found that if they didn't resemble you in some sort of way, she just wasn't interested.

However, the biggest change came at a moment she least expected. Because now it was you that she pictured as her hand travelled across her body. She imagined how you would squirm as she circled her own nipples. She pictured your lips and how soft they'd probably feel as she squeezed her own chest. Her hand slowly slid down the soft expanse of her stomach, fingers light as they teased at the waistband of her panties. It was like she was in her own world, like she wasn't alone in her bed after a gruelling eight hours at work.

No, in her mind, Nanami Kenna was in your room, hovering over you as you panted and whined for her. Maybe she's going crazy, but she swears she can actually hear your voice begging for her. Sweet, saccharine whimpers of her name on your tongue as her middle finger teased you through soaked lace.

Real Nanami gasped, her own middle finger stroking lightly over cotton feeling how aroused she already is. It isn't like she struggles to get aroused normally, but picturing you has undoubtedly sped up the process. Slender fingers lightly tease her clit, further soaking the fabric as she imagines pressing her lips to every inch of your body. She'd start at your jaw before slowly moving down to your neck, finally free to mark what she wants to be hers.

Would you prefer her hands on your breasts or her mouth? Nanami has no idea, but she can't help but imagine sucking a peaked nipple into her mouth, tongue swirling around the bud until you were whining. Would you beg her to move down or would you let her take her time? Were you quiet or loud? Would you want toys or would she be enough? These are all things that Nanami wonders as her hand slips into her panties.

Her fingers gather her own wetness, using it to coat her clit before drawing slow clockwise circles, barely touching. Yet it's still enough to make her pant your name. Her eyes close, envisioning you beneath her. Your moans would be intoxicating, she'd want to record them and play them on a loop like white noise. Slowly her own moans grow louder as she imagines you panting out her name. Before she can process what's happening, her back is arching, legs trembling as her orgasm crashes over her like a wave.

It's almost embarrassing how easily she came, just by imagining your voice, picturing your body, envisioning the way your mouth would open around a moan as you finish.

After that sinful night, Nanami had pictured you again and again. Enough times that she felt guilty when she looked at you, but as long as you didn't know it'd be fine, right? And maybe one day you'd feel the same, so for the time being, she was happy to sit back and wonder what she could do to win you over sooner.

Soon enough, it was impacting every interaction she had with you. Sweet, oblivious you, you never noticed. Assumed she'd become more affectionate. I mean, it's normal for friends to play with each other's hair, hug, and kiss each other on the cheek to say goodbye. Sure, it's new for Nanami, but she's your best friend; it's only natural that she'd feel more comfortable with you.

It impacted her in more hidden ways, too. She started reading into conversations too much, started searching for clues that you felt the same. If told her you had a crush — she assumed it was her. When you said you were feeling closer to someone from work — she assumed it was her. The worst was when you started talking about asking a girl out. Nanami spent the next few days imagining how you'd ask her out, waiting for it to happen.

And then, one day, it all crumbled around her.

"She's actually just the sweetest person ever," you'd been rambling for five minutes. Confiding in Nanami about the girl you were interested in. "She's blonde and a little taller than me, which is so hot, and she always looks so serious, like she could just tell me off — God, I wish she'd tell me off-"

Nanami was barely listening anymore. Just enough to hum along with what you'd been saying. Until she heard those words…

"Nanami, will you be my girlfriend?"

Shocked, she glanced up at you briefly, frozen, waiting for you to repeat what you'd said.

"Hello?" You joked, waving a hand in front of her face. "Earth to Nanami. Kenna, are you listening?"

"Sorry, sweetheart, could you just repeat that last thing for me?"

"Yeah, of course! I was just wondering if you think I should ask her to be my girlfriend…"

A/N: Happy Pride everybody!!! Wowie, this took a while. I really hope you all enjoy this, I'm currently unsure how I feel about it but I think I like it (this is prone to change as I am my own biggest critic).

This is a part of the pretty girl avenue event by @seventasia so definitely go and check out everybody else's fics and send them love too!!!

I had hoped to have this out earlier this month but I am i the process of moving (I have survived the flatmate from hell everybody cheer)

Perm taglist: @ackpplepie, @cassideezlife, @coralbae, @fricks, @kixxtie, @kireampie, @lemonswirlss, @purescription, @shnauwi, @strawb3rryhachi

Nanami taglist: @caramelluxe, @stellarixe

Info on how to join or leave my taglist here!

© 2026 xstars-alignedx. All work belongs to @xstars-alignedx Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms or AI chatbots.

All of these things and more have been done by you thousands of times, right by Suguru's side. You've been in the circus together as long as you can remember, grown closer and rose to sideshow fame—all with him.

You are nervous tonight. Of course, pre-performance jitters are normal, but it's different tonight, like a severe nausea that you are close to succumbing to. The lights of the dressing room are turned low as you kneel over the metal bucket kept there for times like these, but nothing comes up, nothing happens. It is out of your character to be like this.

"Hey."

You practically jump away from the bucket as Suguru appears in your dressing room, as if trying to destroy evidence of a crime. You have no idea how long he's been standing there, holding his props, watching you in your bout of anxiety.

"Are you sick? Do I need to go tell Yaga you can't—"

"I'm fine," you interrupt him, standing all the way up and dusting off the skirt of your dress, "just nervous."

Another wave of sickness hits you when you look at Suguru in his attire, all leathery and rich, hair messily tied but still flattering. He looks like a knight wielding his swords, in all his glory with muscles and a beautiful face—God, does he look like that every night?

"We've got ten minutes, beauty," Suguru informs you, using the dumb stage name that's stuck to you over time, "let me lace you up. Come on."

As long as you can remember, it's been a tradition to let Suguru lace up your corset before showtime. It's a sweet show of his care for you, how much he wants you to look and feel your best before you go on stage together.

Suguru guides you over to the mirror, hands gentle on your waist, softly smoothing the fabric out towards the middle of your back. His fingers are intricate as he pulls the satin of your laces, shrinking your waist and pushing your bust up, up, up towards your chin. He ties the perfect bow, smooths over your waist again, and gives a small sigh.

"Ready?" Suguru asks, arm wrapping around your waist, sending another shock of nausea through you. His chin rests on your shoulder as he searches your face for an answer, and try as you might to hide it, he can always read you like a book.

"Ready as I can be," you reply with a forced smile, taking a deep breath through your nose and out your mouth. You stare at your reflection, Suguru latched around your waist, and try to build up your confidence before you're called onto stage.

Suguru always impresses his crowd. He captivates those around him, builds everyone up for him and for you. He's difficult to upstage, which is why he's always saved for the end of the show—even after hours of tricks and talent, he makes a striking conclusion to the night.

You watch from the side of the stage as he finishes up his act, hearing the screams of women who would catapult themselves at him if they had the chance. He makes a show of licking his blades up and down, lubricating them, putting graphic images in the minds of the crowd. Suguru tells the crowd they must count for him, number the iron blades that will slide down this throat.

Suguru bites the tip of the first blade, throws his head back, and lets the sword sliiide all the way down. The edges of the blade are forced down his esophagus, stretching out the walls, pressing up against his heart—the crowd cheers out a one. The second blade is placed right over the first, metal on metal scratching against one another as Suguru swallows it without a scratch. He waves his arms around, queuing the applause and oohs, and everyone in the room shouts out a two! Lastly, the third sword is placed over the other two, and instead of letting it safely slide down his throat, Suguru basically impales himself on the iron, shoving the blade down his esophagus.

Your stomach lurches at his grotesque display of talent, knowing how unsafe that could be. People in the audience scream and holler and woo—and eventually scream out the three! in unison. Suguru remains calm and collected, bends over and bows to the crowd, pulling more noise from them. You can see the arms of multiple women reaching out, aching for a taste of him, and you almost laugh to yourself as he pulls away from them and makes a performance of dislodging the swords from his throat.

Suguru continues to control the crowd, he smiles beautifully and bows, thanks everyone for being such an amazing audience and winks at a few women along the way. He begins to introduce you, who he demands everyone give a warm welcome to. You smile at him off stage and he returns it, bowing his head as he queues your walk onto stage, his own hands doing more clapping for you than everyone else combined.

Tonight is the time for your electric lady act. It's simple, but more dangerous than anything else among the performers, considering the sheer amount of electricity moving through your body. You straighten your back as you walk on stage, stepping with all the poise in the world, as if you float on air. You take your place next to the electric chair and wait for Suguru's whole spiel about what you're going to do.

"My wonderful partner here has some unusual talents—but you'll see the least vile today," Suguru begins walking over to the chair and grabbing the tube light out of the chest placed next to it. "She has a high tolerance for a lot of things, electricity being one of them, and this chair runs around 100,000 volts into the user."

Suguru flips the switch and turns the chair on, a harsh buzzing coming from the box beneath it. He grazes an end of the light over the surface of the chair, and it comes to life, flickering on, the bolt of electricity connecting the light and the chair.

"Now, if we add something flammable to the mix," Suguru steps away from the chair and switches the light out for a fire torch, "it'll light on fire, like so."

He sticks the torch on the seat of the chair and it ignites, and the crowd watches in awe of the flames. The torch is then passed on to you, the attention shifts, the chair is turned off, and all eyes go to where you're standing at the back of the stage.

Like always, you smile, keep your back straight, and gracefully bring the tip of the torch up to your tongue, extinguishing its flames in your mouth. The audience erupts once more, even with such a simple trick, and you bow your head in thanks.

Now is time for the chair. You mosey over to your throne like a queen, taking a seat and crossing your legs, letting Suguru set the rest of your act up for you. He douses the torches in gasoline, hands you your lightbulb, stands to the side of the chair and waits for your call.

You take a deep breath, your final one for the next few minutes, and give Suguru the go ahead.

The chair buzzes to life once more, as does the light bulb, an indicator that this is all real. Your eyes immediately roll back into your skull, your body fighting the electricity, the warmth of the volts crawling over your skin. Yet, your mind knows exactly what to do, find Suguru. Despite your eyelids twitching, you see him, make out all of his features, and you try to focus in on the torch he holds out towards you.

You are beginning to shake. Your arms are not moving how they usually do, they are stalling, your brain cannot make your arm lift your free hand, and your hand cannot lift your finger. The light bulb clatters to the floor, glass shattering upon impact, the audience gasping with worry. Through the fog of your mind, you save the production as best as you can.

A pink sliver of your tongue pokes out of your mouth, dangerously small, too close to your face for comfort. Suguru hesitates, but he knows he can't for too long—the timer on how much longer you can handle the electricity is running out. Against his better judgment, he takes both of the torches and sticks them to your tongue, two little bolts of electricity igniting them in one giant flame together.

He rushes to turn the chair off, looking at you all concerned, calling you insane without saying it outright, without allowing the crowd to see. And all you can do is give that apologetic smile to him, knowing you'll talk about it later. You don't have a choice in the matter.

The show must go on, anyways.

Gracefully, you lift from your seat, widening your smile for the crowd and taking the torches from a now riled-up Suguru. He steps back and lets you do your bits of swallowing fire and spitting it back out, watching from the back of the stage with darkening eyes. You take your bow and pull him to bow with you and thank everyone, quickly exiting the stage before he can stop you.

You are surprised when Suguru doesn't barge into your dressing room right after you. Even more so as you wait ten, twenty, thirty minutes—and he does not show up.

It's abnormal, to say the least; you spend every waking minute with the man. Before and after shows, in between each performance and on the bus travelling together. He's been by your side for years, your best friend in the whole world. A palm rests under your chin as you go lax in the arm chair in your dressing room.

No matter what, it's always Suguru, isn't it?

You're nauseous again, and your head feels weird, like you realized something you shouldn't have. Or maybe it's something that's always been there and come to light. A strong thrumming comes from your chest, heartbeat quickening, overcome with an unfamiliar emotion you'd never let yourself feel.

Your body moves before your mind can think to stop it.

Suguru always takes his time fraternizing with the fans after each show. It encourages people to keep showing up, to come back again and again to see him. He's particularly talented at talking and interacting with others, something that couldn't be said about his partner. You'd always told him that you envied his interpersonal skills.

"Can I take a picture?"

What?

"Huh?" Suguru accidentally slips up, eyes going a little wider when he realizes he's still around people. There's a girl in front of him—wide eyed and curious, waiting for an answer. She's pretty, he supposes, in the kind of way most everyone could agree on.

"A picture," she says, head cocking to the side, "can I take one? With you?"

"Oh, sure," Suguru agrees, taking a beat before fixing himself for the photo. He does his normal thing of wrapping a hand around her waist, pulling the girl in closer, and—in the spur of the moment—presses a chaste kiss to the girl's cheek. He's not sure why he does that.

The girl, however, perks up, smiling wider while she waits for her friend to capture the moment. She squeals after the flash goes off, turning to Suguru and mashing herself even closer.

"Thank you! I'm a huge fan, I've been following you for years," she admits, twinkling eyes looking up at him. Her own arm wraps around his back, keeping him in place.

"Really? Thank you so much, that means a lot," Suguru replies, trying to tone up his voice to sound more appreciative rather than channel the guilt beginning to settle in his stomach. "I'm sorry but—"

"You're so much more handsome up close," she continues her compliments, smoothing over the ends of his hair with her fingers. "Are you married? I've never seen you with a woman anywhere."

Suguru looks down at the girl, who is obviously trying her best to make a move on him. He wrestles with his mind, because, by all means, he should be indulging this girl. There should not be a second thought in his mind about talking her up, taking her home, even. He used to do this all the time—woo a crowd and choose a pretty girl to take back to his hotel or camper.

But, God, it feels so wrong now. Not when you are in his vicinity, or when he has the chance to go back to the hotel with you and bid you goodnight. He could walk you there, unlace your corset, give everything he has to you.

He comes back to Earth when he locks eyes with you, too. Across the large stage of the meet and greet, in the entry of the hallway back to the dressing rooms—you witness everything. He sees the tear rolling down your cheek before you understand that you're crying. He watches as you disappear from his line of sight, slipping through his fingers.

"Did you hear me? I asked if—"

"I'm sorry, I need to go," Suguru interrupts the girl, ripping himself from her side. He doesn't bid her a goodbye or a farewell, only the gush of air that follows him as he rushes away.

Things cannot end this way. As much as it's been Suguru for you, it's been you for Suguru. He's been awful, selfish in his previous ways, and you've stayed by his side, hiding your emotions in a locked box, far from his grasp. People call after him as he cuts through the bodies around him, focused on only one thing.

You feel like an idiot by the time you retreat to your dressing room. Cheeks wet with unnoticed tears, palms sweaty from all the nerves and emotions you've just felt. Maybe, it's not meant to be, because you know there isn't any room in either you nor Suguru for anything more than friends. Best friends, if you can remain so.

A loud clatter bursts through the room as your door slams open. You jump out of your skin, your first reaction being to wipe the salty tears that stain your cheeks, quickly turning to look at your performance partner. He closes the door behind him.

"Suguru," you breathe, chest hurting from the scare he'd given you, and from the pure sensitivity he causes to your heart, "what are you doing? You're supposed to be—"

Words die in your throat as he gains on you, closing the space between the two bodies in the room, warmth from his hands coming to cup your jaw.

He leans in, not another thought in his mind but you.

Now, your words are swallowed by him as he locks his lips with yours, keeping you pressed against him. You can't, you don't want to pull away—no, you allow him to take every bit of your breath into his mouth, messily swapping spit, your own hands coming up to his forearms. Not to drag him away, just to rest there, to feel the muscles beneath his skin growing stiff with how he holds you.

Nothing about the way he kisses you is soft; it's animalistic, almost, hot and heavy and filled with emotions that have been repressed for God knows how long. Suguru doesn't need to say a thing to get across how he feels, he lets his body do the talking. He lets his hands drag down to your shoulders, then behind you, one in between your shoulder blades, chests flesh to one another. The fingers of his other hand dip down to the bow of your corset, making quick work of unlacing the satin.

Your own hands move to wrap around his neck, allowing him to undo his work, lungs slowly filling with more air the looser the bustier becomes. He helps undress you without breaking the kiss once, unhooking the front of your corset and allowing it to fall to the floor. The garment is forgotten on the creaky boards of the floor as you and Suguru stumble backwards, towards the embroidered arm chair in the corner of your dressing room.

He forces you down into the chair and gets on his knees in front of you, slotting himself between your legs, leaning over to meet your lips once more. You card your fingers through his hair as it falls around your face, his hair tie barely putting in work to hold the dark strands back.

Suguru leans back for a moment to admire you. He just honors how you look beneath him, eyes glossed over, lips sticky and messy with lipstick, laying like an open book in front of him, giving him your all. You've never been so vulnerable with him before, despite how close the two of you are. Opening up has never come easy to you, even with Suguru, except for right now.

You feel his fingers sneaking under the hem of your skirt, slowly trailing towards your most intimate area, gripping into the pantyhose that separates him from what he wants. He rips it with reckless abandon, causing a surprised squeal to fall from your lips, quickly turned into a fit of giggling. He smiles at your amusement, relishing in the rare sound of your laughter, absolutely sick with love.

Suguru pulls your skirt to bunch around your thighs, noticing how your legs twitch, wanting to close and shield yourself from his gaze. A hand comes to the back of your knee and pushes it up, eyes trailing down your figure to the pretty pair of lace panties he'd only been able to see in his dreams.

"Pretty," he comments, boldly leaning down to place a sweet kiss right over your covered cunt. He can feel the aching and wetness underneath his lips, how badly you want him to take them off, he finds it cute how easily your cunt pulses at something as small as a kiss. He gives a breathy chuckle at how jittery you're starting to get.

"Suguru, stop," you breathe, yet your breath hitches when Suguru takes his fingers and hooks them into the gusset of your panties, pulling them to the side and exposing the last part of you he hasn't been able to see. He holds off on eye contact, knowing how nervous it'd make you, but he admires your pussy as if it's the most precious painting in the world.

Your chest heaves, anticipating his next move and overthinking about what he's thinking. Truth is, Suguru's seen a lot of women like this—vulnerable and spread out for him—but you're his favorite by a long shot. He wants to experience every part of you. He can only hope that you'll let him.

His thumb strokes the back of the knee he's holding, eyes watching your body like a hawk, and goes in to lick a stripe up your cunt. A small gasp leaves you at the feeling of his tongue on you, legs threatening to shut when he circles around your sensitive clit, making your mind go a bit fuzzy. It's a foreign feeling, almost—you've barely been with anyone in a sexual context, and those people weren't near as attentive as Suguru's already been.

He closes his lips around the swollen bud, beginning to suck lightly all the while moving the tip of his tongue around. It's embarrassing how quickly he's riled you up, even more so how he went from teasing your clit to now full-on making out with it. He enjoys how wet he's made you, it inflates his ego a bit knowing that he did that to the most closed off person he knows.

The fingers that were once holding your panties come to prod at your hole, the tip of his index barely poking inside to test the waters. Suguru moans around your clit at how tight you are, feeling your walls squeeze around his fingers as he starts to go deeper. It doesn't take long for him to pop two fingers inside and begin searching for that sweet, sweet spot inside, continuing his overbearing assault on your clit.

You're holding back from touching Suguru, knuckles wrapped tightly around the arms of the chair, holding on for dear life because it's all too good. So badly do you want to reach down and run your fingers through his hair, or touch the veins on the back of his hand, feel his pulse rise as he gets more aggressive towards your heat—but the thought is cut short by your own self doubt.

All of a sudden, Suguru hits a spot inside of you, knocking a screech from your throat. Your hand slaps over your mouth, trying to silence your noises, and Suguru only grins against your pussy and tries to find it again. Soon, your legs are quivering around his frame, feeling that tight knot in your abdomen that only gets worse the longer Suguru goes.

Your orgasm shocks you, head thrown back and mouth open beneath your hand, unraveling under Suguru's mouth. He works you through it, gradually slowing down his movements until they dissipate into nothing. He's careful about removing his fingers and his mouth, moving to place kisses along the insides of your legs as you come down.

He trails back up your shaking thighs, soft kisses meeting soft flesh, tender and caring—only what you deserve from him. Your chest rises and falls quickly, looking down at Suguru, watching how delicately he treats you. He's the contrast for what you put yourself through.

Suguru smiles as your knee quivers next to his head, fingertips running over the outside of your legs, soothing your nerves. There was nothing to be scared about with him.

"Why'd you use your tongue earlier? During the act," Suguru asks, voice low and sweet, pulling the edge of your skirt back down to give you a bit of dignity back. "You know I don't like putting the fire so close to your face."

"I don't know," you admit, fingers meeting his as he continues his strokes on the exposed bit of your thigh. "I think I need to take a break." You intertwine your hands together, no longer afraid of touching him, of being with him.

"We can leave," Suguru offers, head resting against your leg, "run away from the circus if you'd like."

You nod your head in agreement, knowing you'd run anywhere if Suguru was by your side.

Third wheeling was a special kind of torture. The circus should've been fun—it certainly looked fun from a distance. Strings of golden lights stretched overhead like stars caught in spiderwebs, illuminating winding paths lined with food carts and game stalls. But up close, the atmosphere sent a subtle chill down your spine. The distant melody of a carousel organ drifted through the night air, always sounding just a beat too slow, a note too flat. The scent of caramelized sugar and popcorn, lingered in the cool evening air.

Instead of a festive crowd, a thin layer of freezing fog crept along the asphalt, weaving between people's feet and curling up tent poles like ghostly fingers. And every now and then, you caught sight of a costumed performer from the corner of your eye, already staring right at you with fixed, painted smiles that didn't reach their hollow eyes.

Ahead of you, your best friend laughed, latching onto her boyfriend’s arm. You let out a dramatic, soul crushing sigh—but they didn’t notice.

"Aw babe, look at that one!" your friend cooed, pointing toward a giant stuffed bear hanging above one of the game booths. Her boyfriend immediately followed her gaze. "Want me to win it for you?"

"I'd love that."

You made a loud choking noise—this time they noticed.

Your friend glanced over her shoulder, irritated. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing" you shrugged.

"You just made a choking noise."

"I inhaled wrong."

"You're a terrible liar."

You folded your arms. "You're lucky I care about you."

She snorted. "Why?"

"Because watching you two flirt for an hour straight should qualify me for financial compensation."

Her boyfriend laughed, and your friend rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."

"I'm serious. I've become an unwilling participant in your date."

"You were invited."

"Yeah, before I realised I'd be serving as decorative background scenery."

"You've been complaining since we got here."

"Because you're holding hands." You gesture to their intertwined fingers.

"That's what couples do."

"You've been holding hands continuously for 45 minutes."

"You timed us?"

"I had nothing else to do."

Her boyfriend doubled over laughing, causing your friend to groan. "You know what? Go away."

You blinked. "What?"

She dug a few crumpled bills from her pocket and shoved them into your chest. "Go find a game to play."

"I don't want to."

"Go get food."

"I'm not hungry."

"Go talk to people."

"I don't like people."

"Then go get kidnapped by a clown." She pinched the bridge of her nose, already sounding tired of the conversation.

"See? That's exactly what a bad friend would say."

"I'm willing to take that risk."

You stared at her and she stared right back. Her boyfriend was already trying—and failing—not to laugh. Eventually, you threw your hands into the air. "Fine. But if I get murdered, I'm haunting both of you."

"We'll miss you."

"No you won't."

"Probably not."

"Wow." With one final glare, you turned on your heel and disappeared into the crowd. The further you wandered, the quieter the circus became. The laughter grew muffled, and the fog thickened, swallowing the lower half of your jeans. You drifted toward the extreme edge of the grounds where the crowd thinned to nothing. A single flickering string of lights guided your path. And somewhere nearby, metal creaked under tension. A prize bell rang once.

Then, absolute silence.

Your gaze snagged on an isolated game booth. Unlike the brightly coloured stalls, this one looked weathered, its canvas stained. Hundreds of stuffed animals hung from the awning overhead: bears, tigers, and a bizarrely out of place hello kitty plush. Their glass eyes caught the dim bulb light, reflecting it like dozens of tiny, dead spectators watching you. A wooden sign swayed gently above.

THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS.

And scrawled beneath it in dark, dripping paint: YOU'RE WELCOME TO TRY.

A heavy chill crawled straight down your spine.

"Y'know," a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from the shadows of the booth. "Staring's rude."

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

Leaning across the countertop was a man lounging on a stool behind the booth counter.

Well.

Lounging was putting it lightly.

He looked as though he'd been there the entire time, stretched comfortably across a stool with one arm draped over the countertop. Watching you.

He looked like a part of the fog itself, watching you approach. Under the dimly lit booth, his magenta eyes possessed an unnatural glow, while his blonde hair was brushed up and away from his forehead. The man was unfairly attractive. Broad shoulders strained against a fitted black shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick, muscular forearms mapped with veins. Gold rings glinted on his fingers, matching the thin chain around his neck and the sharp, smug smirk framed by a neat line of stubble on his upper lip. A grin tugged at his mouth. "You always stare at strangers like that?" His gaze drops down the plunging neckline of your white halter top, tracing the exposed skin before dipping lower to where the denim of your jeans tightly hugged your thighs.

You blinked, trying to find your voice. "No."

"Liar." His grin widened.

Immediate dislike settled in your chest.

"You always sneak up on people like that?" you shot back at the booth operator.

"Only the pretty ones." His grin somehow widened further.

The bastard looked delighted.

"Do you work here?" you asked.

"Nah." The man gestured vaguely toward the booth. "I broke in 20 minutes ago."

"Really?"

"No."

A beat.

"Yeah, I work here."

"Thought so."

"You're observant."

"I saw you sitting behind the counter."

"Still counts." Far too pleased with himself. "Name's Hakari." The blonde man extended a hand across the counter. You crossed your arms instead.

Not happening.

For a moment, Hakari simply stared at your rejection before letting his hand fall back to his side, but the grin never left his face. The other side of the circus buzzed with movement and noise. Laughter carried through the fog alongside the distant melody of a carousel organ, yet this corner of the circus remained strangely isolated. And Hakari seemed completely unaffected by it. Like this booth belonged to him, or maybe like he belonged to the booth.

Your gaze drifted toward the sign overhead.

THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS.

"Are you trying to scare customers away with that sign, Hakari?"

He followed your gaze. "Oh, that?"

"Yes, that."

"It works surprisingly well."

"Scaring people away works?"

"No." His smile sharpened. "Making them think they can prove me wrong does."

You snorted. "Aren't circus games supposed to encourage people?"

"They do." Hakari leaned forward against the counter. "I encourage poor decision making." A bell chimed somewhere nearby, the carousel music drifted through the fog, and the lights overhead flickered. You looked away. And when you glanced back, he was still staring—not in a creepy way, just attentively. Like he found something entertaining.

"What game is it?" you asked.

Immediately, he perked up. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"The question." He winks. "I've been waiting for the question."

You regretted asking already. The game itself looked simple enough—a pyramid of bottles sat at the back of the booth, and several baseballs rested in a wooden crate nearby. Knock down every bottle. Win a prize.

Easy…probably.

"How much?"

"10 dollars."

A gasp caught in your throat, brows knitting together in immediate disbelief. "That's robbery."

"Inflation."

"You have giant stuffed bears hanging from your ceiling."

"Inflation affects us all."

A dramatic roll of your eyes followed, but your hand was already betraying you, reaching deep into your pocket for the cash. And the grin he shot you was absolutely insufferable. "There she is."

"There who is?"

"My favorite customer."

"You've known me for 30 seconds, you don't even know my name."

"Do I need to?"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

He took the bill, Hakari's fingers intentionally brushing against yours. His skin was warm, contrasting heavily with the freezing night air. He dropped the money into a metal lockbox with a heavy, final clink. "The house is winning."

"I haven't even played yet."

"You already paid." That grin again. You were beginning to suspect it was physically impossible for him to stop smiling. He slid the crate of baseballs toward you: three balls, three chances. Simple enough.

Probably.

You picked one up.

The leather felt overused beneath your fingers. Like hundreds of people had stood exactly where you were standing now. "You ever let anyone win? Has anyone actually gotten that Hello Kitty?"

"No" Hakari said smoothly, leaning his chin in his hand, his eyes tracking the slight movement of your chest beneath the low top as you breathed. "The tiger's gone twice, though."

"Seriously?"

"No."

You groaned and his laugh followed immediately.

Annoyingly attractive.

You hated that too.

"Whatever, you're a freak" you muttered, turning your back to him and focusing on the target bottles. You align your shoes with the white line on the asphalt. And the moment your back was turned, Hakari’s eyes raked down your spine, locking onto the exposed skin of your lower back where the halter top ended and the low rise jeans began, snugly shaping your hips. His gaze lingered on the curve of your thighs in the flared denim, his chest rising with a quiet, appreciative breath.

Unaware of the intensity behind you, you aimed and threw. CRACK. The ball struck dead center. The top bottle wobbled violently, shook, and then magically settled right back into place, causing your eye to twitch. As you slowly turned around to glare at the booth operator, Hakari immediately looked away, whistling innocently

Suspicious.

"Did you just look away?" you demanded, crossing your arms.

"Nope."

You pointed a finger directly at the targets. "Then why didn't it fall?"

Hakari leaned back, entirely unbothered. "It didn't feel like it."

"The bottle," you repeated flatly, deadpan meeting deadpan.

"Yeah."

"Didn't feel like falling?" You planted your hands on your hips.

"Hey, everyone's entitled to their own choices" he said, putting his hands up in defence.

Grumbling, you grabbed the second ball, turning around again. This time, Hakari didn't even pretend to look at the game. He openly checked you out from behind, his eyes tracking the way your body twisted as you threw harder. THUD. The ball cracked against the pyramid. Two bottles shifted, one tipped, and then visibly nudged itself back upright.

Silence.

"Hakari."

"Customer."

"This game is rigged."

He gasped, his hand flying dramatically to his chest as if he’d been wounded. "The accusations."

"The bottle moved."

"No, it didn't" Hakari said flatly, not an ounce of shame in his voice.

"I watched it move" you protested, crossing your arms.

"You imagined it."

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, looking at his smug face. "You're literally standing a few inches away from me."

"Exactly."

"And somehow I'm the one seeing things?!"

"Seems that way."

You nearly threw the third baseball at his head—the temptation was strong. Very strong. Unfortunately, you wanted to prove him wrong. Taking a breath, you turned back toward the bottles, and threw in a fit of frustration. CLANG. The ball ricocheted off the side wall and disappeared beneath the counter.

Absolute silence.

Then, Hakari’s shoulders started shaking.

"No" you warned.

A choked wheeze escaped him anyway.

"Don't."

That only made it worse. His head dropped against the wooden counter, his large frame trembling. The bastard was laughing.

"You missed the entire booth" he gasped out.

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"It clipped the edge!"

"Which is generally not where the bottles are."

You pointed a finger straight at him. "Something's wrong with your game."

"Skill issue" he chuckled, shrugging carelessly.

"Who do you think you are?! This game is a shithole!"

"You’re still here" he points out, eyes dropping back down to the low cut of your top, watching your breathing hitch. You hated that he had a point. Even worse—you were already reaching for your wallet again, and Hakari noticed immediately, his eyes lit up. "There she is."

"Oh, shut up."

"My favorite customer returns."

"I never left."

"That's the spirit."

The lockbox opened with a click. Another 10 bucks disappeared inside, making Hakari look positively delighted—like he'd been waiting for this exact moment all night. Like he'd known from the second you walked up to the booth that one round would never be enough. The lockbox clicked shut. 10 more dollars gone—Hakari looked too happy about it. Narrowing your eyes, you scoffed. "Most people try to hide the fact they're scamming someone."

"Scamming is such an ugly word." Hakari tutted, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"Fraud?"

"Also ugly."

"Robbery?"

"I prefer entrepreneur." The grin he flashed was far too self-satisfied, making you roll your eyes.

A sudden, aggressive gust of wind swept through the midway, causing the hanging stuffed animals to swing violently. Their glass eyes caught the light again, and for a terrifying second, they didn't look like toys. They looked like a crowd of dead things, waiting for you to lose. The carousel music grew louder, distorted, sending a violent shiver through your limbs. You turned your back to him for the second round, trying to block out the eerie atmosphere. You threw the first ball. CRACK. Three bottles rattled, one tipped, and then defied gravity to stand upright again.

You spun on your heel, furious. "You're a scam artist!"

"Thank you."

"Are you sure nobody has ever won?" you asked, gesturing to the rows of untouched prizes.

Hakari followed your gaze, his sharp smile softening just a fraction. He leaned in closer, the faint scent of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne rolling off him. His eyes locked onto yours. "Depends on what they're trying to win."

The words sent a completely different kind of chill down your spine—hot and heavy.

"Anyway," Hakari grumbled, his voice dropping low as his eyes raked over your outfit one more time, settling on the curve of your hips. "You gonna keep staring at me, sweetheart, or are you gonna play?"

You rolled your eyes, turning back to face the game. "You're delusional."

"Little bit."

You grabbed the next ball and threw it with everything you had. CRASH. Two bottles actually toppled over, clattering against the wood. "Ha!" you gasped, turning to face him, a flush on your cheeks. Hakari clicked his tongue, looking genuinely disappointed. "Oh, that's embarrassing. For the bottles." But the grin he shot you was entirely too pleased, his eyes burning into yours. "You know, most people don't laugh when they're losing."

"I'm not losing."

"You've spent 20 dollars."

You paused. "...I'm losing financially."

Hakari barked out a loud laugh, the sound echoing in the fog. "You're funny. I like you."

You grabbed the final ball. The remaining bottles seemed to blur together. The lights overhead flickered wildly, casting long, distorted shadows across the booth. You threw. THUNK. The ball hit the bottle, but the bottle didn't even flinch.

"You suck" you groaned, dropping your head. Hakari was laughing so hard his shoulders shook. "You’re such a hater sweetheart. Any proof I rigged it?"

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You hated that look. You hated his smug, beautiful face. You reached for your pocket for a third time, Hakari noticed immediately. A slow smile spreading across his face as he realised you were trapped in his orbit. "Oh no" he murmured. "I know that look. You're out."

"I am not."

"You are."

Hakari extended a hand across the counter, his large, ring-adorned fingers open. "Tell you what." He reached beneath the counter, grabbing a fresh crate of baseballs, sliding them right to you. "Try again. No need for money."

You stepped closer, the heat radiating from his body cutting through the freezing fog. "For free? What's the catch?"

A dangerous, wicked look crossed Hakari's face. He leaned over the counter, his face so close you could feel his breath against your lips. His eyes dropped to your lips, then slowly dragged down your halter top, before rising back to hold your gaze captive. "Nothing in life comes for free, sweetheart" Hakari whispered, his voice dripping with a dark, heavy promise. He nodded toward the sign above, then back to you. "Careful. Most people lose a lot more than money at my booth."

The carousel music suddenly felt entirely silent. The fog pressed in around the two of you, isolating the booth from the rest of the world. You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. "...Was that supposed to sound mysterious?"

Hakari’s grin widened. "Was it working?"

Unfortunately... it really, really was.

The air between you is thick enough to choke on, a suffocating mix of freezing carnival fog and the sudden, radiating heat of Hakari’s body. He doesn’t back up. If anything, he leans further over the worn wooden counter, his broad shoulders framing you in.

"So" Hakari mutters, his gravelly voice dropping lower. "You taking the free round, or are you scared the house is gonna take something you can't afford to lose?"

Your fingers tighten around the leather of the baseball. You want to snap back with something witty, but his eyes are making it incredibly difficult to think. "I'm not scared of a rigged game" you challenge, your voice a little breathier than you intended.

"Good." Hakari’s smirk sharpens. "Then turn back around. Let’s see what you’ve got."

You swallow hard and turn your back to him, stepping up to the line. The shift in temperature is instant—the cold fog hits your front, but your back is entirely exposed to his gaze. And Hakari doesn't hesitate to take advantage of it.

From behind you, you hear the low, heavy creak of the wooden counter as he leans his weight into it. You can feel his eyes like a physical touch, dragging slowly down your body, lingering heavily on the exposed dip of your lower back. "You're losing your focus, sweetheart" he’s stepped out from behind the booth, moving with a quiet grace that completely contradicts his muscular build.

You freeze, the baseball heavy in your hand. "I'm focusing fine."

"Liar."

Suddenly, the space between you vanishes. You catch the heavy scent of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. His chest brushes against your back, towering over you—casting a long shadow under the flickering booth light. "Your posture's all wrong" he murmurs. Hakari's breath brushes right against the shell of your ear, sending a wave of goosebumps down your arms.

Before you can protest, his hands find your hips. His large fingers gripping the fabric of your jeans. The heavy gold rings on his fingers press into your skin. With a slow flex of his hands, he guides your hips back an inch, aligning you with the booth. The movement forces the small of your back directly against his front. He’s solid as a brick wall. "There" Hakari whispers, his breath hot against your neck, making your knees feel embarrassingly weak. "Now you’re steady."

"Hakari" your heart beats faster. "This is cheating."

"I told you" the booth operator chuckles. His grip on your hips tightens just enough to keep you pinned flush against him. "I'm an entrepreneur. I manage the risks." He doesn't move his hands. Instead, his right hand slowly slides up the side of your waist, stopping at the edge of your halter top, his thumb brushing against the bare skin of your side. "You still have the ball" Hakari reminds you, his voice dripping with amusement. "Gonna throw it, or are you too distracted?"

Your face is burning. You raise your arm, trying to focus on the blurry pyramid of bottles across the tent, but your entire body is hyper-aware of the way his chest rises and falls against your back, and the way he’s pressed up against your tight denim jeans.

You throw.

CRACK.

The ball hits the center bottle. It doesn't just wobble—it flies off the platform, taking two others down with it. A genuine, successful hit.

"Look at that" Hakari hums. But he doesn't look at the bottles. You feel his head dip, his jaw brushing lightly against the crook of your neck, his lips almost touching your skin as he inhales the scent of your perfume. "You win a prize."

You try to turn your head to look at him, but the angle only brings your lips inches from his. His magenta eyes are practically glowing in the dim carnival light. "What do I get?" you whisper. Hakari’s eyes drop to your mouth, his thumb pressing a fraction deeper into the soft skin of your waist. The smug, teasing carny was gone—there was something intensely hungry in his expression now.

"Whatever you want" he teases, his grip on your hips pulling you just a fraction closer against him. "But like I said... the house always wins. You sure you can pay the price?"

The distorted organ music of the carousel fades into a dull hum, completely drowned out by the thudding of your heart against your ribs. Hakari’s chest rises and falls heavily against your back, the solid muscle of his torso hot through his thin black shirt.

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer his question.

With a low grunt, his large hand slides fully around to the front of your waist, his fingers hooking firmly into the waistband of your low rise jeans. The heavy gold of his rings presses cold against your skin. He tugs backward, guiding your hips firmly against his, making you dizzyingly aware of just how much effect you’re having on him.

A quiet gasp slips past your lips, and Hakari catches the sound with a satisfied chuckle. "You're shaking, sweetheart" his gravelly voice dropping to a rough whisper right against your ear. His lips brush the sensitive skin of your neck, his sharp stubble sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Thought you weren't scared of a rigged game."

"I'm not" you breathe, though your hands find the edge of the wooden counter just to keep your balance.

"Good."

In one swift movement, Hakari grips your waist and turns you around to face him. Pinning you right against the edge of the counter, trapping you between the weathered wood and his body. He leans in close, his broad shoulders blocking out the flickering carnival lights.

His gaze slowly tracks down your face, lingering on your parted lips before dipping lower. With his hands still resting heavily on your hips, Hakari's thumbs slowly trace the exposed skin above the low dip of your denim.

"The stuffed animals are out of the question" his eyes locking back onto yours. "You aren't looking at them anyway."

"Then what's the prize?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. Hakari’s smirk returns, his hand slides up from your hip, his calloused palm cupping the side of your neck, his finger tilting your chin upward. The blonde man leans down and takes your mouth in a kiss that instantly burns away the freezing circus fog.

It’s not gentle. It’s heavy, demanding, and hot—exactly like him. His lips are firm, tasting faintly of tobacco smoke and something intensely sweet. You let out a soft whine into the kiss, your hands automatically reaching up to grip the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his forearms. Hakari groans, the deep sound vibrating against your tongue as he deepens the kiss, his other hand flattening against the small of your back. The thin fabric of your white halter top offers no protection against the heat of his body.

Hakari shifts his weight, his thick thigh sliding between yours, forcing your legs apart. The friction makes your head tilt back as his mouth leaves yours to trail a line of biting kisses down your jawline, stopping right at the sensitive crook of your neck. He sucks softly on the skin there, his hands sliding down to grip the underside of your thighs, lifting you just enough to press your back against the wooden counter. Hakari steps between your parted legs, his hips locking your firmly against the wood, pinning you to him.

The low halter top dips even lower with the movement, exposing the vibrant red lace bra cupping your breasts. Hakari’s eyes instantly locked onto the sight. "Look at you," He reaches out, and with one slow, deliberate tug, he undoes the knot, letting the fabric loosen as he hums. "Sitting on my counter like you own the place."

"Hakari..." you gasp, your fingers tangling into the messy blonde strands of his hair, pulling him closer.

"Hm?" he mutters against your skin, pulling back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his thumb wiping your wet lower lip. "You still think the house is losing?"

Looking up at him through slightly blurred vision, lips swollen and red. "I haven't done something like this before." A shy smile tugged at your lips as you feel the heat pooling between your legs. A wicked grin broke across Hakari's face in response. "Told you. Most people lose a lot more than money here."

"I won the round" your voice trembling as your hands instinctively find his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the soft black cotton of his shirt. "You said I get whatever I want."

"Yeah?" Hakari leans down, his chest pressing flush against yours, flattening your breasts against him. "Show me what you want, sweetheart. I don't do handouts."

Before you can answer, a soft, deliberate cough sounds from the dark corner of the booth.

"You know, it's incredibly rude to start the party without checking the guest list."

Both of your heads snap toward the sound. Stepping out from the shadows and into the flickering light is a woman so gorgeous it makes your breath catch. A stark, vivid streak of cyan stands out sharply against the rest of her dark bangs. As she tilts her head, the silver facial piercings just below her bottom lip catch the dim light. Kirara crosses her arms, a playful pout twisting her lips as she steps closer to the counter, her eyes locked onto the two of you. "Hakari, you started without me!"

"Well, it's never too late to join" Kirara adds, her pout melting into an inviting grin as her gaze slides down to trace the flush on your neck. She leaned against the counter. "In fact, I think the timing is just right" she purred, her delicate fingers moving a strand of hair away from your face.

Hakari doesn't pull away from you. Instead, his grin only widens, clearly thrilled by the backup. "The circus closes in 20 minutes" his hand slides down the front of your torso, scarred knuckles brushing against your stomach as his fingers hook into the button of your jeans. The booth operator looks up, catching Kirara's flashing eyes before locking his gaze right back onto yours.

"But I think we're gonna be locked in here a lot longer than that."