You should be embarrassed: blushing, choking on your coffee, at least, that’s how your past self would’ve reacted, but you are so used to it at this point, you just sigh—you kind of hate and love him for making you so nonchalant about things you were always shy about.

“I guess… I always wanted to try being on top…” you avert your gaze, biting down on the plastic straw, because you are not that bold yet.

The silence that follows makes you a bit uneasy, and you glance at Dabura from the corner of your eyes for reassurance.

Your breath catches in your throat when you see his face—he’s staring at you, eyes wide open, mouth slightly hanging agape, and is that a hint of pink you see on his cheeks?!

“What?”

You can’t help but blurt out, frantic. It’s so unusual of him, you panic a little.

“You asked!”

“Yeah, but you never actually answer,” he hides his face, looking to the side, and you are left speechless, because is he really blushing right now?

And that’s all it took?

“Now you are making it awkward, stop,” you wince, squirming in your chair, aggressively slurping air from your now empty cup.

“Can you blame me? You caught me off guard,” he clears his throat, slowly starting to go back to normal.

“It’s you who catches me off guard all the time,” you huff.

“So… why you never tried?”

You stare at him in bewilderment, so he continues.

“Being on top, I mean.”

You avert your gaze instantly, as the topic shifts again, toying nervously with a straw.

“I don’t know, it’s just embarrassing,” you mumble, “also I have pretty weak knees.”

“But you’re light?”

Dabura asks, tone flat, like you’re being ridiculous.

“What that has to do with anything?”

He tilts his head to the side, leaning closer to you—you instinctively lean back. Dabura just smiles, already used to your skittishness.

“You know, I’ll help you bounce,” he makes a motion in the air with his hands, like how would it look like if he held your waist.

Dabura’s eyebrows knit in confusion though, when he sees your distraught face.

“What?“

He suddenly “ohs”, like he just remembered something.

“Too forward?”

“A little,” you answer in a small voice, sounding like a squeaky toy, gripping the poor coffee cup with all your might now.

He just hums in response.

You squeeze your eyes shut and hit him on the back, flustered.

“Is this really what friends d-do?”

You hiccup, tears glistening in your eyes, still wincing at the pain of the stretch.

His fingers are big and mean—you don’t understand how it still feels so good.

“Yeah,” he trails his nose down your neck, placing small kisses on your skin, “it’s really what friends do.”

He looks up at you, tongue pressing flat on your perked up nipple, nightgown up down hastily. His eyes glint in the dimness of your bedroom, and you blink at him back, dazed, watching him take your trembling hand to place it on his bulge.

“Wanna know what else best friends like us do, Princess?”

You gulp, pressing your sticky thighs together.

“But it’s something you can only do with me, yeah?”

He leans down, licking away tears from your rosy cheeks. You wince and nod, completely oblivious, as you let him nudge your thighs open again.

He’s your knight. Your best friend. It’s not like there’s someone else that cares as much as he does. Not even close.

And he cares plenty, you think, as he slips his tongue inside your mouth, keeping his eyes half-open.

“Princess’s pussy is only mine, okay?”

He pulls back, saliva stretching and snapping between the small space he leaves, as he cups your pussy, making you sniffle again.

Everything is so sensitive, it’s getting harder to think clearly.

“O-okay,” you repeat, even though you don’t understand what he means, as he presses your knees up into your chest, almost folding you in two.

You see him smile at your answer and you can’t help but smile back, eyes crinkling up and all, leaving him stunned for a second, eyes widening.

He quickly recovers, though, and chuckles, tilting his head to the side, the smile on his face turning nasty—or, it was never the way you saw it.

“So naive, don’t even know what m’ gonna do to ya, huh?”

You don’t have time to react to his crude words, before he’s pressing the fat tip of his cock into your virgin hole, making you squirm and whine, like the spoiled Princess you are.

“Uh-nuh,” he holds your hips in place, leaning down to kiss away new tears already forming in your glassy eyes, the smile never leaving his lips, “not stopping until I fuck you dumb, sorry.”

You know he’s not, not really, but you say nothing, as you let him do just that.

“What.”

Your brain short-circuits. It’s not even a question, the way you say it. Did you even hear it correctly? Did your childhood best friend Choso—Choso, who gets pale and almost faints every time you complain about your boobs being sore during your period, just ask you to…

“Teach you how to finger a woman?”

“Ah, please, just…” he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, sprawled out on your pink bed, wearing an all black outfit—it stopped looking ridiculous to you years ago, “just forget about it, I knew I shouldn’t have asked you.”

“No, no no, you can’t back out now, mister,” you huff, turning on your spinning chair to face him properly, “what even… why do you suddenly want to finger a woman?”

He lets out a choked sound, like a whimper.

“Please stop… being so casual about it,” he sounds like he is about to cry—the way he always does when the topic is anything sexual.

“What do you mean? You are being the casualest of them all! You just asked me to teach you how to…”

“Okay, okay, just stop repeating it already!”

It’s silent for a minute, before you shrug your shoulders:

“Okay.”

“What?”

His breath hitches. Choso’s eyes widen, as he finally stops hiding behind his hands to look at you.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really, ask me anything you wanna know,” you shrug again. Sure, it’s surprising, but it’s still somehow Choso—he gets curious about stuff from time to time, even if it’s something embarrassing.

You remember the time in middle school he got curious about menstruation—it was uncomfortable for him, but he listened to you thoroughly, almost made notes even, but you told him it was unnecessary.

“Ask? N-no… that’s not… what I meant,” he rubs the back of his neck and looks to the side, suddenly bashful like a schoolgirl confessing her crush, “I meant like, can we… can I… actually, like, in real life… like, physically…” his voice gets meeker with every word he says.

“Choso Kamo, are you saying you want to finger me?”

Silence.

More silence.

“Well? Say something?”

Now that initial shock wears off, you feel intrigued. Tilting your head to the side, you raise your eyebrow, the ends of your lips twitching upwards. This is unusual.

“Yes,” meek, weak, barely audible.

“Oh, wow.”

You stand up to sit beside him on the bed, crouching to look him in the eyes—he is staring at your fluffy rug, nervously playing with rings on his fingers.

“You have to take them off, though,” you point to his rings, scrunching your face up.

“What?”

Choso perks up, looking up at you, caught off guard.

“The rings,” you explain, patiently, “you can’t finger a woman with rings on. Unless she says she is into that, I guess, but I’m not,” you wince.

“Wait, I’m…“

He opens his mouth, then closes it. It continues, until you decide watching him struggle to articulate his thoughts is not entertaining anymore, so you chime in to help:

“Yeah, finger me, why not,” you clarify, “oh my God, Choso! Last time you got this pale you threw up all over my new purse! Don’t you dare…”

—

“I can’t believe you almost threw up,” you mumble, settling between his spread thighs, trying to get comfortable.

He insisted on this position like his life depended on it—your back pressed to his chest, his body engulfing yours from behind. He is so sweet, shy and quiet, sometimes you forget he’s like, twice your size and kinda jacked. You feel hot all of a sudden—you never had this much of a size difference with any of your previous boyfriends.

“But I didn’t,” he whispers back in response.

It’s like both of you are scared to talk too loud, even though no one else is in the house. The moment feels almost surreal—Choso, your childhood best friend Choso you defended from mean bullies in kindergarten, is…

“Choso, what are you doing?”

You turn around, as much as the position allows you to, only to find Choso holding his hands up like he is being arrested.

“What the fuck?”

“I don’t know where am I allowed to touch?”

He sounds unsure of every word he says, glancing to the side, unable to meet your piercing gaze.

“Anywhere, come on,” you reach for him in slight exasperation, pulling his arms down. He lets you, his biceps flexing, “here.”

You place his palms on your thighs.

He gulps.

“Now,” you start, “you can’t just shove your hands down girls pants, you gotta make her wet first, okay? It usually happens naturally, when you make out and stuff.”

You look up at him again, gesturing with your hand for him to come closer—you feel like a perverted succubus, seducing an innocent soul. He looks so trusting and so genuinely eager, like you are helping him study for exams or something, by explaining the very difficult material in easier terms.

“You know how to kiss, right?”

You can’t help but tease, before pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt, leaning up—gentle and controlled. Careful. Like you think he’d like to be kissed.

What you don’t expect though, is Choso’s hand traveling up from its designated place on your thigh to your waist, squeezing it, as he deepens the kiss so abruptly you let out an involuntary sound. He is intense. Pushing forward, cold metal of his piercings pressing into your plush lips, the sensation foreign but not unwelcome. His tongue piercing does feel weird at first, too, but you quickly get used to it, even teasingly running your tongue over it a couple of times.

“O-okay, good start,” you stutter, pulling back.

“Did I do fine?”

He sounds more out of breath than you do and it calms you down.

It’s’s just Choso, you remind yourself.

“You did good,” you hum.

“R-really?”

If he had a tail, it would be wagging from excitement right now.

You chuckle. There he is.

“Yes, really, now help me take my shorts off.”

His hands are shaky (and free of rings—you made him take them off prior), as he pulls your shorts down, breath hitching when your panties are revealed to him. It’s dim in your bedroom, lamp on the nightstand being the only thing dissipating the midnight darkness, but the outlines are clear—floral design, sheer lacy fabric, soft pink.

You hum, satisfied by your morning decision.

“F-fuck,” you will never get over the way his voice cracks, it’s so cute, ”b-beautiful.”

“Thanks, Cho,” the childhood nickname only you call him involuntarily slips out. You giggle at the usage of it during… whatever this is.

“What’s next?”

You have been ignoring something pressing into your back for a while now, but, at this point, it had become a bit too persistent. You clear your throat, shifting slightly between Choso’s thighs.

“Next, you just trust your instincts,” you take his hand and place it directly on your clothed pussy.

Choso whimpers.

Not the best teacher he chose, you have to admit, because you’ve never had a guy take into consideration what you liked and what you were into in bed. You are all over the place, but you try to be throughout—he seems like he knows a little, already.

Probably watched porn.

“You watch porn, Choso, right?”

You can’t help but ask him directly, suddenly curious.

“W-why do you ask?”

He barely gets the words out—you can easily imagine the way his cheek flush.

“Just curious.”

“Y-yes, I do,” he rests his forehead on your shoulder, breathing heavy, “but this is better.”

You shiver, when he grazes your clit over the fabric, “don’t rely on porn too much, though, most girls like a little foreplay and teasing.”

“Do you?”

He whispers right into your ear and you flinch.

“Yes.”

It’s getting a bit more out of your control than you initially thought—you feel your rational mind slowly slipping away every time he grazes your clit, his fingers suddenly more confident in the way they move.

“You like this? When I touch here,” he lifts his knees up, creating a makeshift fortress around your body. Choso presses his fingertips into your mound over the lace and you let out a chocked whine.

“Is it a clit?”

“Y-yes, you have done your research, I see, good job,” you make a lighthearted joke, lifting your thumbs up, attempting to deescalate the growing tension between you two, but it doesn’t work.

Mainly because Choso just doesn’t care.

He is focused. A bit too much. The way he is when he plays with his stupid legos.

“They are pretty, but can you take them off, please?”

He tugs at your panties, which are sticking to your folds now, drenched in slick, and you feel like you have been played. Why is he being so… greedy, all of a sudden?

You slide the lingerie down your legs and kick it to the side, letting it fall on the floor by the bed. Choso couldn’t care less about it right now, though, because as soon as your panties are pulled down, he sinks his fingers into your folds.

“‘s s-so hot and soft, like all of you, you are soft all over,” he whispers feverishly and you whimper, when he rubs your clit without any barriers now.

“Circles, yeah? Girls like circles,” he is mumbling under his nose like he is repeating some kind of mantra he memorized.

“Cho…”

It’s getting foggy in your brain. He has been so considerate—asking and learning, adjusting his movements according to your needs. You would’ve never imagined a guy paying a little more attention to what you actually wanted would undone you so much.

You try to turn to face him, but he refuses to let you, leaning forward, crashing you with his weight and sheer size, forcing you to stay hidden underneath him.

“No, d-don’t, don’t look at me, I g-get confused when you look at me,” he is panting and it sounds like he is panicking.

“Okay, okay, I won’t look at you, just… relax, it’s fine,” it’s ironic you are the one saying it, currently being on the verge of losing your mind and all.

“Can I? Can I f-finger you? Please?”

“Y-yeah.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling the stretch from his middle finger. So long and thick.

“P-press up,” you squeak, “p-please,” you add, feeling shy suddenly, as you buck your hips up instinctively, to meet his unsure thrusts.

You arch when he ads the second one, your thighs spreading wider.

“Like this?”

“Here?”

“You like it when I do this?”

The question are endless. You direct him as best as you can, whimpering in approval every time he hits the particular spot. By the time he finds the rhythm, you are flushed and panting from all the probing and checking. He is brutal in the way he thrusts his fingers into your quivering hole, palm slapping your clit, squelchy sounds filling up the silence in the room. It’s even nastier, when your moans join the dirty symphony, making Choso groan every time you say his name in that breathy tone.

He is panting, almost groaning into your ear from behind, asking nonstop if he is doing it correctly or if you like it.

“You are so good, C-cho, r-really.”

Something snaps in him when you praise him—he hides his face in your neck, whimpering, startling to rut his hips into your back, even though he tried so hard not to.

“Praise me again, please, please,” he is whining like he isn’t violently fingering you right now, other hand wrapped possessively around your waist, “tell me m’ good.”

“You are good. T-the best, the bestest boy,” you are not sure what prompts you to say the last thing, but he seems to like it so much he bites down on your neck, making you yelp, his rutting becoming more erratic.

He whimpers and suddenly stops.

You feel his dick soften against your back.

“D-did you just… c-cum?”

“Y-yeah.”

You turn your head to look down, only to see the dampness spreading on his crotch. While he is distracted by the mess he’s made, you are able to sneak a peek at him, finally.

You almost choke on air when you see his face.

Choso is so red, it looks like he’s ill or something—pupils blown wide, eyes unfocused and completely glazed over. Feverish would probably be the most appropriate word to describe the state he is in right now.

“I wanted to put it inside, and cum inside,” he is blubbering, probably not even realizing what he’s saying, because what he’s saying can’t be Choso, “I wanted you to squeeze my dick like you are squeezing my fingers.”

“Cho—“

“Your pussy is so soft and tight and hot. I want to be inside it.”

Before you can even realize and register that all this filth is indeed coming out of your sweet childhood best friend’s mouth, he is pulling his fingers out of your tight hole and you are being flipped over on your back. He folds you into two, pressing your knees into your chest.

“I wanna cum inside your pretty pussy. It’s mine, right? My pussy?”

“C-choso… j-just wait a m-minute…”

He is shaking and trembling, hastily pulling down the sweatpants and boxers he embarrassingly made a complete mess in just now and your eyes widen when you see his cock.

Long and thick and curved slightly upwards. Twitching, angry flushed tip covered in cum.

You wish you had more time to look or to touch even, but Choso doesn’t give you the opportunity to do so.

“C-can’t wait,” he lines his tip to your entrance, missing the first slide, and it makes both of you moan, “m’ s-sorry.”

He is downright sobbing when he slides it in, the snap of his hips quickly becoming mean.

“s’ soso good, can’t stop my hips, I really can’t,” he sobs, every new thrust reaching deeper into you than the previous one.

“C-cho… so…” you feel like you have completely lost it, too, because you are blubbering some nonsense, kissing Choso back when he leans down and asks if can ‘please, please, please kiss you again and more,’ like he isn’t literally fucking you.

“Perfect p-pussy, just for me. Just for me? Right? Yeah?”

He gets in your face, sliding his hand underneath your shirt to grab your tits, twisting your nipple between his fingers.

You squeak at his ministrations, barely registering anything he’s saying.

Choso takes your hand and nuzzles his cheek into your palm, looking down at you with such lovestruck eyes, you don’t have it in you to get mad at him for being so impulsive.

“Prettiest girl.”

His gaze travels down, looking in awe at the way his cock disappears into your hole, as he reaches for your clit with his thumb.

“Wha—“

You twist, nails digging into his shoulders, unable to stop yourself from scratching him, when he starts drawing fast circles on your clit. You pant, moans becoming more high-pitched with every passing second, before you are squeezing down so hard on Choso’s dick, he throws his head back and groans.

“Oh, shit, fuck, what the…”

You feel when he cums, almost at the same time as you do—so warm. He ruts lazily into you after, whimpering when the overstimulation becomes too much.

Choso hisses when he pulls out, watching mesmerized as his cum spills out of you and onto your pretty pink sheets. He gulps, feeling his dick twitch again at the sight.

But then he hears you whimper,—partly because of the emptiness you feel when he pulls out and partly because he almost fucking broke you in two,—and rushes to fuss over you like a mother hen.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, I… I… was it too much? I didn’t… I just…”

Choso hovers over you, the dog ears you imagine on top of his head hanging down low.

And now he is back to being regular self.

You puff your cheeks out and flick his nose.

He winces.

“Fucking freak,” as soon as he sees you’re not mad at him, Choso nuzzles into your neck, putting his whole body weight on you.

He is so heavy, but you don’t mind for now—it seems to calm him down.

“I can’t believe you really are a virgin,” you furrow your eyebrows, tapping on his shoulder to let him know it’s time to stop suffocating you.

“Not anymore.”

He mumbles, and obliges, slumping to the side, but not letting you go just yet.

“Well, next time, you are letting me play with your nipples piercings,” you grumble, turning to face him, flashing him an exhausted grin.

“Next time?”

He perks up and you chuckle.

Just like a puppy.

“Yes, next time, silly. You gotta repay me somehow for the lesson, right?”

“But it’s okay, we can practice.”

You flinch.

“P-practice?”

“Yes?”

Dabura raises his eyebrows.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to take my cock?”

You can’t really argue with that logic, he’s right, you suppose, but why does he have to be so casual about it? You feel your face heat up again.

You try not to dwell on it for too long, though.

“O-okay, but what about you? Can practice also involve me touching you?”

“You can’t say things like that to me,” he suddenly sounds very stern.

“Why?”

You do that thing he despises and adores at the same time—bat your pretty eyelashes and tilt your head slightly to the side. Damn. You probably don’t even know you do that.

“Fuck. Yes, no I mean, no.”

Did Dabura just curse and sort of… stutter?

“But I want to touch you,” you insist, gaze traveling down to his pants hanging low on his hips, god… even the outline looks huge. You gulp, “not even a handjob?”

“Oh,” he closes his eyes and winces—the visions are becoming harder to ignore, “I am unwell, please stop.”

“Whatever,” you puff your cheeks out, barely holding in a chuckle—who can’t take a little teasing now, huh?

You sigh, before preparing yourself for something you are sure you are going to regret asking about:

“What else?”

After spending so much time with him, you can tell when he is holding something back—out of respect for your poor self, you suppose.

“Do you take care of a lot of man, daily?”

You blink. Then you blink again.

“Really? That’s your question?”

You look up at him incredulously. He looks to the side, avoiding your judgmental stare.

“Hah, you are not joking,” you shake your head, trying to ward off any unnecessary thoughts, as you go back to your task of organizing the medical supplies, “yes, of course I do, it’s my job.”

Dabura frowns.

“You said the other day men were disgusting.”

You almost choke on your own spit.

“T-that’s unrelated right now! It was a completely different topic,” you huff, feeling flustered for some reason.

“But you are right, man are disgusting, you shouldn’t touch them,” Dabura keeps insisting on his point, hit tone unwavering.

Your eye twitches. Is he joking right now? You really can’t tell anymore, especially with him.

“You do realize you are also a man, right, Dabura?”

“I don’t count, I am an alien.”

You almost choke on your own spit again.

“But you said you hated when I called you that!”

“That’s unrelated right now.”

“You… you! Ugh! Whatever! Bandages! In the first aid drawer! Now!”

He obliges, but you swear you see the corners of his mouth lift up in a small smile.

He still doesn’t get it, but he respects you. You look like you are about to burst into small pieces, and he really doesn’t want you to.

Dabura is not a pervert, he is just curious. Who wouldn’t be? Sometimes even you can’t stop yourself from asking him questions of… rather peculiar nature.

“I counted them without getting distracted, finally. You have a 14-pack. Holy shit. How are you even real?”

You stare at his bare torso in bewilderment. He briefly wonders what you mean by ‘distracted,’ exactly.

“I am real,” he nods, and hums, like he said something worthy of writing in textbooks for future generations to learn.

You blink up at him, expression blank.

“I assume humans… aren’t able to posses a physique like mine?”

After you called him a pervert once, he tries to be more careful with words.

You shake your head ‘no,’ looking up at him with those honest eyes again. You are so eager, it makes him feel strange things he’s never felt before.

Dabura stares down at you, like you are a speck of dust—not in a demeaning, but more in an assessing way.

“You are indeed very small,” he settles on the word he deems the most neutral.

“That was unnecessary, Dabura.”

You both can’t help your curiosity, sure, but he has to admit, he is far more intense when it comes to you, specifically.

“You smell different today,” he emphasizes the word ‘different,’ leaning down to smell the air around you, his nose twitching.

You let out an involuntary squeak, jumping back, a bit self-conscious.

“Don’t do that,” you shoo him away, but he is persistent.

“Sweet,” he adds, “it makes me want to…” he crosses his arms on his chest, straightens back up, and stares up at the blue sky.

Today, you insisted on having your lunch outside, because ‘the weather is nice’, you said. It is indeed pleasant.

He thinks it’s so human of you.

Dabura’s eyes widen slightly when he realizes. His head snaps back down to look at you—now also startled by his abrupt actions.

Right.

Of course.

He has been so oblivious, only because you were a human. He indeed knows what the nature of his feelings are.

“Ha,” it’s the only sound he makes.

It’s silent for a while—you look a bit concerned when Dabura finally speaks again.

“I understand now. I need,” he stops, looks down, then up. He doesn’t want to scare you any more than you already are. You seem genuinely distraught every time he steps too close to you, “tch, no,” he clicks his tongue and shakes his head, looking to the side, “want? Also no.”

“What…” you clear your throat, “what exactly are you trying to say? Maybe I could he—“

Before you can finish your sentence, he interrupts you, his tone flat, looking directly into your eyes. Again with unnecessarily heavy eye contact.

“I wish to copulate with you.”

Your mouth hangs open. And you know he isn’t joking because you explained the concept of joking to him yesterday—he doesn’t catch on that quick.

“It’s really bad. It interferes with my sleep schedule.”

“I am… sorry?”

It’s a complete and utter shit show after that—you become his personal google, since he doesn’t really have anyone else to ask those questions to, besides you.

The worst part is, the questions are about you.

“How to court a human woman? How to pleasure a human woman? Though, I don’t think I’d have any problem with that. Are human women fragile? They sure seem like they are.”

You feel like you are going to short-circuit any minute now and unlike google’s search history, no one can delete your memory.

“D-dabura… you… it’s too much. Let’s take one question at a time. First, let’s start with a topic you are most interested in.”

You sigh in defeat.

He doesn’t even hesitate before answering:

“How can I make you feel good?”

You can’t help but let out a small whimper—when is he going back to his home planet (of freaks, it seems like), exactly?

He is everything you want to be, so the first step is obvious—ignore the stupid flutter of your heart every time he leans down to hear you better. Be professional. At least act the part, you can always scream into the pillow later, at home, when no one's watching, except, maybe, your cat.

"You've got a cat?"

Higuruma asks once, sorting through the stack of documents with a blank face.

You nod enthusiastically, not entirely sure how the conversation diverted into talking about cats. But whatever, which cat owner doesn't like talking about their beloved pet?

"Love cats. They are cute," his gaze briefly flickers up to meet yours, as you tilt your head the side, listening to his every word intently.

Everything he says is precious to you. Important.

You remember everything he’s ever said to you, you think.

Even the words that stung, penetrating your heart filled with nothing but admiration for him. Surely, it's just that.

"Fuck," he bangs on the elevator door. Once. Twice. It's stuck, the lights flicker, before the small space sinks into darkness.

You shrink uncomfortably.

"Maybe we should…" you start, unsure.

"Do whatever you want, I am done for today," he interrupts, barking at you rudely.

But before you can even react, he exhales sharply, like he just woke up from a bad dream or surfaced from underwater.

"Fuck, no, I’m sorry," he hides his face in his palms, exhausted, "just... long day."

You nod. You had a long day alongside him—you are his intern, after all—but you are not mad at him. You could never be.

That is one more thing you notice about him, though—how... frustrated he is. Coiled, like he is about to snap any second now. You wonder what it has to do with you and why you feel your stomach flip weirdly every time you are in close proximity to him.

It's bound to happen. Even if you try to avoid it and honestly, you don’t try that hard. There's an undeniable pull between you two and it doesn't bother you as much as it should.

It just embarrasses you. A lot.

"H-higuruma-san, this is e-embarrassing," you say simply, without any sugarcoating, blinking down at him, on his knees, holding your thighs apart. His nose is pressed against your panties, under your hiked up pencil skirt, just... there, breathing you in.

"Mhm,” you hear in response, sound akin to acknowledgment of your words, and it sends a shudder down your spine, "just a little more," he grumbles.

So you let him. Because he says it helps with stress, and you'd do anything to help your boss with stress.

Anything.

"S-shit," he pants heavily, hands squeezing your waist, his office desk rattling with every deep thrust. It's slow and controlled, making your vision blur from the steadily building burn, "such a p-perfect pussy, feels too good."

You whine, arching your back, tits squeezed against the wood, barely able to breathe.

Overtime with your boss never ends right, lately.

"H-higuruma-san..." you start, turning your head to the side to sneak a peek at him.

“I told you to call me Hiromi, didn't I?"

He corrects you, reaching forward to wipe away the drool from the corner of your mouth.

“So cute, it's so easy to overwhelm you," he chuckles and the sound of it makes you clench down on his dick, still inside of you. “oh, f-fuck, don't to that, yeah, sweetheart?"

The way he stutters, just for you, no, because of you, makes your heart flutter.

"C-can't help it, H-hiromi," you mumble, "f-feels so good," you almost sniffle. He is right. It is very easy to overwhelm you.

"Yeah, for me too," he whispers, leaning down to place a kiss on your lips, thumb and forefinger holding your chin steady.

It's nasty, the way he kisses, not something you would expect from someone like Hiromi, the thin string of saliva stretching and snapping between you and him when he finally pulls back, leaving you breathless.

"You are... the best thing that ever happened... to me," he accentuates every word with a thrust of his hips, throwing his head back in bliss, and his praise makes you melt. He must notice it, too, because he laughs, "like seriously, this is heaven."

You just sink further, if that's even possible in this position, feeling flustered. He praises you too much for your own good.

"So shy," he teases, his voice lacking any real malice, but you whine in protest still, "okay, okay," Hiromi laughs again, his skilled fingers easily finding your clit and pinching it, making you yelp.

"Let's stop messing around, mhm?"

And the rest is kind of a blur.

Hiromi Higuruma is... actually not perfect, you realize. He is just a human. With needs and feelings. And you feel kind of giddy knowing you are the one in control of them now, at least partly.

"I feel like I manifested it wrong," you mumble under your nose, sitting on his lap, in his apartment, as he reads his morning newspaper, tracing lazy circles on your hip.

You wanted to be like him, not be liked by him or be with him.

"Did you say something, sweetheart?"

Hiromi hums. Your cat meows from down below, as you blink slowly, shaking your head ‘no’.

You aren't complaining, though.