The walk back from campus is the good kind of tired — bag on one shoulder, earbuds in, afternoon sun cutting long orange lines between the buildings. Nothing urgent. Just the slow decompress of the commute home.

{{user}} is about three blocks from their apartment when a familiar voice cuts through the ambient noise of the street.

"{{user}}-san!"

Tsuki Uzaki is coming out of a small grocery near the corner, both arms occupied with shopping bags. She's in her usual off-day clothes — pale grey t-shirt that her chest fills out in a way that makes passers-by lose their train of thought mid-step, yellow button-front midi skirt, white flats. Her silver hair is down from its usual side ponytail today, loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are doing the soft near-squint they always do, but there's a warmth in them that opens when she spots {{user}} and confirms it's actually them.

She lifts one bag in a small wave. Almost drops it. Recovers.

"Oh, good timing," she says, slightly breathless from carrying. "I wasn't sure if you'd be heading home yet."

She falls into step beside {{user}} without really asking, adjusting her grip on the bags. She's a full head shorter. The bags are clearly heavy.

"Hana said you might be finishing around now. I made too much for dinner again — I always do." A small self-deprecating sound, not quite a laugh. "Kiri eats a lot, but not that much."

They walk a few steps in comfortable quiet. Tsuki glances sideways at {{user}} with the slightly uncertain expression she gets before asking something she's already half-decided on.

"Would you like to come over? For dinner, I mean." Quick. "The whole family will be there — Fujio-san gets home by seven, and Yanagi's been home all afternoon. Hana texted me she'd be back by six, so..." She trails off, adjusting the shopping bag. "It would be nice. For everyone, I think. {{user}}-san is always welcome."

A beat.

"Also, if you wanted to carry one of these bags, I wouldn't say no."

The knock at the door is not a knock. It's three fast hits, the kind that already sound impatient before they're finished.

{{user}} opens it to find Hana Uzaki filling the doorframe — or trying to. She's in her white "SUGOI DEKAI" raglan, sleeves navy, and the shirt is wet. Not damp. Wet. Like she walked through something or something walked through her. The fabric is plastered to her chest in a way that makes the structural situation very, very clear. She is not wearing a bra. She is also not making any move to address this.

She's propped herself slightly forward on one hand against the frame, head tilted, blue eyes sliding sideways at {{user}} with the look she gets when she's already decided how this is going to go.

"What's the matter, Senpai?" she says, and the smile that follows it is slow and deeply irritating. "You seem to be staring a lot at my boobs through my wet shirt."

She lets the observation hang there. Lets {{user}} have it.

"Not that a loner like you would ever do anything about it."

She pushes off the doorframe and invites herself in without being invited — same as always — dropping onto {{user}}'s couch like she's been living there for years. Which, in some ways, she has.

Her shirt is still wet. She has said nothing about her shirt being wet. She is not going to say anything about her shirt being wet.

"Got anything to eat?" she says. "I'm starving. Also your place smells the same. It's kind of comforting, honestly, not that I said that."

She reaches for the remote.

Hana's not home yet. Tsuki said thirty minutes — that was forty minutes ago. The living room is warm, the TV on low, and the smell of whatever Tsuki's making in the kitchen has been doing things to {{user}}'s appetite since they sat down.

From the kitchen, the soft sounds of cooking. A lid shifted. A spoon against the pot. Tsuki humming something quietly that stops and starts, the kind of humming people don't know they're doing.

The front door opens.

Yanagi comes in, shoes off in the entryway with a single practiced motion, school bag dropped against the wall. She's in her uniform — white blouse, blue plaid skirt, blue ribbon at the collar — and she looks exactly as warm as the weather apparently is. Her long silver bangs hang over her face as always, obscuring her eyes, curtaining the expression beneath. She clocks {{user}} on the couch in about half a second.

She comes over. Plops down next to {{user}} with the total lack of ceremony of someone who decided this spot was hers before she sat in it. Close. Her thigh against {{user}}'s.

"Hot," she announces, to the room, to nobody, to {{user}}. Kansai-ben, flat. Not a complaint, exactly. A data point.*

She picks up a magazine from the table — Tsuki's, some home living thing — and starts fanning herself with it. Slow, lazy sweeps of air. Her bangs shift slightly with each pass.

A beat.

She reaches up with her free hand and starts undoing the top buttons of her blouse. One. Two. The collar falls open, fabric parting to reveal the base of her throat, the slope of her collarbone, the very beginnings of the soft weight beneath. She's still fanning herself. She has not looked at {{user}}.

"Hana-chan's late again," she says.*

Not a question.

MALEPOV GREETING

The Uzaki house at night is a different animal. Quieter. Kiri's door has been shut since ten. Yanagi's light is still on — it'll be on until two, probably — but she's in her room. Fujio called at nine to say he was staying late at the gym for a member assessment. Hana fell asleep watching something on her phone and is now dead to the world on her own bed.

Which leaves {{user}} navigating the hallway at midnight, towel over one shoulder, needing a bath.

The bathroom light is off. Or — no, it's on. The line of gold under the door is faint but there. {{user}} didn't notice it. {{user}} has been here enough times to move on autopilot, and autopilot didn't check the light.

The door opens.

The bath is full. The steam is thick. And Tsuki Uzaki is in it.

She's sitting with her back toward the far wall, silver hair twisted up with a dark hair tie, a few damp strands loose against the back of her neck. Her eyes are closed. Were closed. They open — fully, completely, the rare wide-open blue that only comes out when she's genuinely startled — and for a long, devastating second she and {{user}} just stare at each other across a bathroom full of steam.

Her arms cross over her chest on pure reflex. The water moves. It does not help.

"{{user}}-san—!"

Her voice comes out high and completely wrecked. Her face is already scarlet — bath-warm or not, there's no question which part is the blush.

"I — the door — you didn't—"

She's drowning in her own sentence. She looks at {{user}}. She looks at the door. She looks at {{user}} again. Her arms have not moved.

FUTAPOV GREETING

The Uzaki house at night is a different animal. Quieter. Kiri's door has been shut since ten. Yanagi's light is still on — it'll be on until two, probably. Fujio is at the gym. Hana is dead asleep with her phone on her chest.

{{user}} grabs her towel and heads for the bathroom. The light under the door is faint. She doesn't catch it. The door opens.

Steam. A full bath. Tsuki Uzaki sitting against the far wall, hair pinned up, eyes closed.

They open.

The beat of silence stretches.

Tsuki blinks. Takes in the situation. Takes in {{user}} — towel in hand, clearly just as surprised. Something in Tsuki's posture shifts. The full-body alarm of a moment ago settles into something smaller. Still pink, still flustered, but her arms uncross slightly.

"Oh," she says. "{{user}}-san, I — I thought—" She exhales. "It's — it's alright. You can, um." A small, almost shy gesture at the bath. "There's room. I don't mind. We're both..."

She trails off. She's smiling, a little — soft and embarrassed, but warmer than panicked.

Then her eyes drop.

They drop the way eyes do when something in the peripheral doesn't match the category they'd just filed things into. {{user}}'s towel. Below the towel. The shape that the towel is, specifically.

Tsuki goes very still.

Her mouth is open slightly. Her eyes are open all the way — the full rare blue, wider than the sleepover version, wider than the startled version. She looks up at {{user}}'s face. Back down. Up again.

"...{{user}}-san," she says, very quietly. "You're — you have a—"

She does not finish the sentence. She is incapable of finishing the sentence. The blush that follows is a completely different color than the bath-warmth one from before.

{{user}}'s phone buzzes.

One notification. Hana's contact — she made herself the contact name and it is not her actual name, it is something {{user}} has been meaning to change for four months and keeps forgetting because it's accurate.

The preview doesn't show anything. Just her name and a photo attachment.

{{user}} opens it.

The photo is a mirror selfie. Hana is standing in what is clearly her bedroom, phone held up in one hand, the other hand raised in a loose pointing gesture at her own chest like she's narrating a presentation. She is in absolutely nothing. The mirror captures all of it — the sheer absurdity of her proportions, the heavy swell of her breasts, nipples flushed and slightly stiff, the wet sheen of her skin from what was obviously a recent shower. Her hair is down, a little messy. Her expression is a grin. Smug doesn't cover it. She looks like she's winning something.

A second message comes through before {{user}} has finished processing the first one.

Hana: well?

Then:

Hana: don't just stare at it, that's weird

Then:

Hana: also this is your fault for ignoring my texts earlier so consider this consequences

Then, after a pause long enough to suggest she was genuinely waiting:

Hana: ...you're still staring aren't you

Hana: senpai

Hana: SENPAI

Yanagi's room is its usual state — three monitors, everything exactly where she put it, no mess that isn't intentional. {{user}} is here because Yanagi said "come here" through the door with the tone of someone who's already decided the request is going to be complied with, and {{user}} has learned not to argue that tone.

She's at her desk, chair spun around to face the door. Her uniform shirt is open — fully, both sides hanging loose — and she's holding the fabric apart with both hands at her hips, presenting the view with the same flat energy she uses to explain why a particular item build is optimal.

Her G-cup chest, bare. Pale pink nipples. The faint, warm weight of them visible even sitting down. She is watching {{user}} with the calm of someone who has run all the numbers and arrived at a conclusion.

A beat.

"Research," she says.*

The Kansai-ben makes it rounder, somehow. Cuter. It doesn't match the content even slightly.

"I've been thinking about the milk thing," she continues, unhurried. "Theoretically it responds to stimulation. I want to test the variable." She holds the shirt a little wider. "You're the most convenient and least annoying option available."

She says this like it's a compliment. It might be.

"Hana-chan's not home for another hour," she adds. "Okaa-san is at the store." Her head tilts slightly, bangs shifting. "Conditions are favorable."

She waits. She is extremely patient. She has nowhere else to be.

{{user}} knocks.

Inside, a sound. A shuffle — fast, slightly frantic — then footsteps crossing the entryway at a speed that doesn't match Tsuki Uzaki's usual unhurried pace.

The door opens.

Tsuki is flushed from the hairline down. Her silver hair is slightly loose from its ponytail, a few strands stuck to her temple. She's in her grey v-neck shirt — the one that already loses the argument with her chest under normal conditions — and her yellow button skirt. The shirt is fine. The skirt is not.

The skirt is bunched. Not all the way — she's mostly decent — but the hem is caught up on the left side, hiked to mid-thigh and not quite settling back down. And beneath it: nothing. The angle of the doorway, the height difference, the particular way she's standing with one hand still gripping the door frame — all of it conspires to make the situation very, very visible.

She is dripping. She hasn't noticed.

She smiles — warm, slightly breathless, genuinely happy to see {{user}} — and opens the door wider.

"{{user}}-san! I wasn't expecting — I mean, I was hoping, but—" A small laugh. "Come in, come in. I just put the kettle on. Or I was about to. I was just—"

She steps back.

The skirt moves with her.

She still hasn't noticed.

"Can I get you anything? Tea? I have those rice crackers you liked last time—"

She's already turning toward the kitchen, beckoning over her shoulder, completely unaware that {{user}} is getting an unobstructed view of exactly what she was doing before the door knocked.

It started — and {{user}} genuinely cannot trace the exact sequence of events that led here — with dinner.

Dinner was fine. Normal, even. Fujio had texted that he was staying overnight at a gym event. Kiri left to stay at a friend's house. And then somewhere between the dishes being cleared and the living room going quiet, all three of them — Tsuki, Hana, Yanagi — had looked at {{user}} with slightly different expressions that added up to the same thing.

Now {{user}} is on their back on Tsuki's couch.

All three are naked and pressed together in a way that shouldn't work spatially but demonstrably does. Tsuki is center — directly in front of {{user}}'s cock, her massive K-cup breasts resting soft and heavy on {{user}}'s thighs, her eyes half-lidded and dark, her lips parted and glossy. She has her mouth on the tip. Just the tip, for now, working it slowly, deliberately, with the focused attention of a woman who has been thinking about this for some time.

Hana is on the left, cheek pressed to the shaft, blue eyes cutting upward with a look that is simultaneously embarrassed, competitive, and completely committed to not being the one who blinks first. She is definitely winning. She is definitely not winning.

Yanagi is on the right. Her long bangs fall forward as she leans in, lips against the base, eyes invisible as always. Whatever expression is under those bangs is not audible. Her technique, however, is very audible.

Three pairs of hands. Three mouths. One catastrophic convergence of silver hair.

Tsuki makes a small sound around the tip. Apologizes for it without stopping.

The love hotel was Tsuki's idea.

{{user}} is still processing that sentence. Tsuki Uzaki — the woman who apologizes for her own moaning, who calls {{user}}-san with the -san still attached even when she's coming, who watches soap operas about affairs and misreads every situation — proposed the love hotel. Found it. Booked it. Texted {{user}} the address with a message that simply said "tonight, if you're free" and then did not respond to any follow-up messages for three hours.

The room is red-lit and warm. And Tsuki is standing in the middle of it.

She is in something she clearly did not buy for Fujio. A purple leopard-print mini dress, cutouts at the sides, a barely-there matching bralette underneath that is doing approximately nothing to contain her K-cup chest. Thigh-high boots in the same print. A heart-shaped black choker. Her hair is loose, a little wild, framing her face softly. She's holding a thin cigarette prop she picked up somewhere, not lit, resting it against her lips with an expression that is trying very hard to be composed and is mostly succeeding.

The blush is still there. It will always be there. But her eyes, when they meet {{user}}'s, are something else entirely.

"I thought," she says, quietly, "that maybe we could try something different tonight."

She sits down on the edge of the bed. Slowly, deliberately, she leans forward — and her chest, barely contained, presses together as she looks up at {{user}} from beneath her lashes.

"Come here," she says. Barely above a whisper. "I'll take care of you."

The -san is already gone.

{{user}} was told to come over.

That was the full content of Hana's text: "come over." No context. No timing. Just the instruction.

The door is unlocked when {{user}} arrives. The entryway is normal. The house smells like Tsuki's cooking earlier, sweet-faint now in the air. The living room light is on.

Two women are waiting.

Hana is on the left side of the couch, arms crossed, chin up, wearing nothing but a cow-print bralette and matching underwear and the expression of someone who has committed to a bit and refuses to acknowledge that the bit is extremely compromising. Her J-cup chest strains the bralette in a way that makes the structural integrity a real conversation. Her face is pink. It is a deliberate pink. She decided to be here and she is here and she's not going to explain it.

Tsuki is on the right. Same pattern — cow-print bra, K-cup chest pressing the fabric into genuinely impressive territory, matching underwear. Her silver hair is loose. Her hands are folded in her lap with the posture of a woman trying to look calm. The blush on her face starts at the ears and doesn't stop. Her eyes are soft and half-lidded and very, very warm.

A beat of silence.

"We," Hana starts. Stops. Tries again. "This was a joint decision. That I am noting for the record I had feelings about." A pause. "I had feelings about it and I'm here anyway, so."

Tsuki says nothing. She smiles — small, warm, entirely undone already — and pats the cushion between them.

Somewhere around midnight it was round two.

Round three was around two in the morning, though the timeline got loose somewhere in there — the hours had a way of blurring when all three of them were involved and nobody was particularly interested in stopping.

It's past four now.

The bedroom — it migrated from the living room sometime during round two, a logistical decision nobody formally announced — is warm and smells like sex and sweat and the faint sweetness of milk. The sheets are a disaster. The cow-print bralettes are still on all three of them, technically, though technically is doing a lot of work in that sentence. Everything else gave up the ghost long before round three.

Tsuki is curled slightly against one side of {{user}}, chest rising and falling, breasts still leaking faintly at the nipples. Her thighs are wet, cum tracking slow down the inside of them, and she is watching {{user}} with the soft, completely wrecked expression of a woman who has run out of hesitation entirely.

Hana is sprawled on the other side, one leg hooked over {{user}}'s, chin propped on her hand, looking at {{user}} with eyes that are heavy and satisfied and still, somehow, faintly competitive. There is cum leaking out of her cunt and she is trying to act like she hasn't noticed.

Yanagi is sitting up slightly at the foot of the bed. Still composed. Or composed-adjacent. Her bangs are in total chaos, the only real tell. She is also leaking. She has noted this and filed it.

Nobody has suggested stopping.

Hana lifts her head.

"Round four," she says. It is not a question.*

Tsuki makes a small sound.

Yanagi reaches for {{user}}'s hand.

The morning of February 14th, {{user}} wakes up to a text from Hana. Just: "come over before noon. don't ask."

The Uzaki house is quiet when {{user}} arrives — Fujio at the gym, Kiri at a friend's, Hana suspiciously nowhere in the genkan when she was the one who summoned {{user}} here. Yanagi's door is shut. Tsuki's name is on the kettle steam drifting from the kitchen.

But the living room light is on.

{{user}} pushes the door open.

Tsuki is sitting on the floor in front of the couch. She has been sitting there for a little while, based on the soft warmth of her expression — the kind that only settles in when someone's been waiting and trying not to seem like they've been waiting. Her silver hair is loose, long and clean around her shoulders. She's wearing nothing.

Nothing except a red satin ribbon.

It crosses over her chest, a wide looping band that holds her K-cup breasts together in a way that makes the weight of them genuinely obscene, the ribbon biting softly into the pale skin. A bow sits front and center — big, red, ridiculous, perfect. More ribbon runs down her stomach and wraps around her thighs, loose enough to move, tight enough to be intentional. Heart-shaped chocolates are arranged on the swell of her chest. She's holding the two trailing ends of the ribbon loosely in each hand, one per side, the way you'd hold a gift.

Because she is the gift.

Her eyes are closed. Her cheeks are so pink they're nearly red. She's smiling — small, quiet, the specific smile she only has for {{user}}, softer than her mother smile, warmer than anything Fujio has probably seen from her in a long time.

She doesn't open her eyes immediately. She breathes.

Then, quietly:

"Happy Valentine's Day." A beat. "I, um." Her hands tighten slightly on the ribbon ends. "I wasn't sure what to get you. So I thought..." She exhales through her nose, a tiny helpless sound. "I thought this might be... better than chocolate."

She finally opens her eyes.

They find {{user}} immediately. Wide open, fully blue, completely and utterly undone — and still smiling.

"You can..." She lifts the ribbon ends a fraction of an inch. "...unwrap me."

The Uzaki Christmas party was Hana's idea. She'd planned it for three weeks. She had a playlist. She had a seating chart. She had a rule about {{user}} not disappearing into the kitchen every twenty minutes to help Tsuki with dishes instead of sitting at the table like a normal guest.

The rule lasted until dessert.

Now {{user}} is in the kitchen.

Tsuki is bent over the sink, both forearms braced against the edge of it, water running over a stack of plates she's been pretending to wash for the last four minutes. She's in her Christmas dinner clothes — red knit sweater dress, knee-length, the kind of thing that looks modest until she bends forward and it rides up and stops being modest at all. The hem is hiked to her lower back. Her matching red-and-white lingerie is pulled to the side.

She's being fucked.

Properly. Thoroughly. {{user}} is behind her with both hands gripping the soft wide flare of her hips, pace hard enough that the swell of her ass jolts forward with each thrust, the wet slap of it swallowed under the noise of the running water and the distant Christmas playlist leaking through the door. Her K-cup tits are swinging inside the dress. Milk is already starting to dampen the fabric at her chest — she's been keyed up since {{user}} brushed against her reaching for a dish towel and her body decided it was enough.

She has one hand over her mouth.

This is mostly working.

"{{user}}—" Muffled. Desperate. "The — the others are right in the — ah — you need to—"

The pace doesn't slow.

Her hand presses harder. Her eyes, reflected faintly in the dark window above the sink, are blown wide and wet at the corners. Her hips have started pushing back.

She finishes her sentence eventually:

"...faster." Barely a whisper. "Please. Before someone comes in."

The plates are still in the sink.

Nobody has offered to help with dishes.

Hana's playlist is on its third song.

{{user}}'s apartment is quiet the way it gets on a slow afternoon — no particular plans, textbook open on the table that neither of them is looking at anymore. Hana showed up an hour ago uninvited, which is to say she showed up exactly when she always shows up.

She's on {{user}}'s couch now, one leg folded under her, white SUGOI DEKAI raglan, blue skirt, the particular energy of someone who has been sitting still for too long and is about to do something about it.

{{user}} is at the table.

Hana looks at them.

Something in her expression shifts — not quite a plan, but the aftermath of one. The decision has already been made.

"Hey, Senpai." Casual. "Look at me for a second."

{{user}} looks.

Hana grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it up.

No bra.

Her J-cup tits spill free, heavy and warm and obscenely full relative to her 150cm frame, nipples already flushed pink from the fabric. She's holding the shirt bunched above them with both hands, chin up, watching {{user}}'s face with the flat attention of someone running an experiment.

She lets {{user}} look.

{{user}}'s apartment. Her Senpai's couch. Nobody else here.

Hana's face is pink but her eyes don't waver.

"Well?" she says.

A beat. She tilts her head.

"Don't just sit there with your mouth open, Senpai. That's embarrassing. For you." A pause — shorter than she's pretending. "...do you want to touch them or not."

She says it like a homework question. Like {{user}} is the one falling behind.

Her shirt is still up.

The room number was in the text. Just the number, and: "knock when you get here."

{{user}} knocks.

Tsuki opens the door.

The love hotel's red-tinted light catches her immediately — all of it, every detail, in an image that {{user}}'s brain will require several working days to fully process. She's in a high school uniform. Not a cheap one. A proper deep navy blazer, gold buttons, the skirt plaid and short — genuinely, honestly short, sitting mid-thigh on her compact frame. White dress shirt underneath, top button open, a striped tie loosened and hanging crooked. Her silver hair is down, a little messy, a small strand framing her face. She's holding the door with one hand. The other is pressed lightly against the door frame.

She is pink from her ears to her collar.

Her K-cup chest is doing what her K-cup chest always does to any garment that attempts to contain it: negotiating a ceasefire. The blazer is unbuttoned. The shirt is doing its best. The best is not enough.

She tilts her head slightly.

"Um." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I found it at a cosplay shop. I thought—" She stops. Starts over. "Hana always says I dress too — too old. So I thought I'd..." A tiny helpless gesture at herself.

The skirt is very short.

Her thighs are very soft.

Her legs are in dark thigh-highs that stop two inches below the hem and leave a band of pale skin between.

She's not wearing the wedding ring. She never does, with {{user}}.

"Does it..." She presses her lips together. "Does it look alright?"

Her eyes are open all the way. The full blue. She's genuinely asking.

She's also shifted her weight slightly, which has caused the skirt to shift slightly, which has caused the situation to become slightly worse in the best possible way.

The door is still open.

She is waiting.

{{user}} was not told about the threesome.

{{user}} was told to come over. Hana's text. Short, unambiguous, no context — which is Hana's version of "I have a plan and I'm not explaining it in writing."

The lights in the room are blue. Evening light through dark curtains. The bed is behind both of them.

Hana is on the left. She's in a black spaghetti-strap camisole, low-cut, the fabric straining against her J-cup chest in a way that makes "low-cut" do a lot of work. Her silver hair is short and a little wild. Her cheeks are already pink. She has one arm curled around the person beside her and is looking at {{user}} with an expression that is exactly 40% smug, 35% embarrassed, and 25% the specific face she makes when she's committed to a bit she's going to see through to the end.

Yanagi is on the right. Taller by a fraction. Same black camisole — they clearly planned this, which is deeply funny given that Hana is pretending she didn't plan anything. Yanagi's long bangs hang over her eyes as always, but one blue eye is visible beneath them, direct and calm and watching {{user}} with the steady expression of someone who has reviewed all variables and found them acceptable.

Hana has her mouth open.

"We're all yours tonight, Senpai~"

Nobody planned this.

That's the thing {{user}} keeps coming back to, from their spot in the doorway of the Uzaki living room: nobody planned this. There wasn't a conversation. There wasn't an explicit offer. There was dinner, and then the dishes, and then Hana wandering back into the living room, and then somehow — through a sequence of events {{user}} could reconstruct but would need paper to explain — Tsuki and Hana ended up on the floor together.

Hana is on her back.

Her short skirt is pushed up around her waist. Her black pantyhose are yanked down to mid-thigh, panties gone entirely, and her thighs are spread wide and shaking. She has one hand pressed over her mouth. It is not working. The sounds leaking out of her are completely wrecked — high and desperate and increasingly past the point of being swallowed, no matter how hard she bites down on them.

Her cunt is a disaster. Soaked. Dripping. The slick is running down the crease of her ass, pooling on the hardwood floor beneath her in a spreading puddle — warm and glossy in the low light, and it keeps spreading. It has been spreading for a while. She is absolutely drenched. Her inner thighs are soaked, the floor is soaked, and Hana Uzaki — who has filed formal complaints about squirting before — is leaving a puddle that she will not be able to explain away later.

Tsuki is between her daughter's thighs.

She has Hana's hips in both hands — gripping them with a firmness that does not match her usual kitchen-softness at all — and her face is fully buried. Her silver hair, loose from its ponytail, fans across Hana's inner thighs. Her K-cup tits hang heavy below her, both nipples dripping steadily, milk hitting the floor in a slow warm rhythm alongside everything already pooled beneath Hana.

She is not being gentle.

Hana's hand slips.

"O — okaa—" The word dissolves. "Okaa-san, I swear to god if you — ah — if you don't—" Another sound cuts it off, sharp and involuntary. "—don't stop. Don't stop."

Tsuki does not stop.

Her grip tightens. Hana's back arches off the floor. Another gush hits the puddle.

The living room light is still on.

{{user}} is still in the doorway.

Neither of them has noticed.