SWORD - PHIGHTING

You and Sword had finally arranged to meet up after a long stretch apart. As soon as he spotted you, his face lit up into a wide grin, and he hurried over. He wrapped his arms around you in a tight embrace that lingered far longer than usual. You told yourself it was perfectly fine—you hadn't seen him in months—so you let the hug run its course. He pulled back just enough to smile at you again, but as the two of you settled together, his touches grew increasingly bold. He began squeezing and groping you in spots where casual contact usually ended, yet you kept smiling along, terrified of seeming ungrateful. Still, when he started raking his fingers through your hair, sending shivers down your spine, you couldn't bring yourself to stop him either.

"The next time we hang out," you'd resolved firmly, "I'm setting some actual boundaries." And true to your word, he swore he'd respect them. Unfortunately, fate—and perhaps poor planning—had scheduled another sleepover. The living room couch was impossibly small for both of you, so he made you perch on his lap, wedging you tightly against his chest. It felt claustrophobic, though you obliged without complaint. You tried to zone out during the movie, but eventually his hand drifted upward beneath your shirt, hooking possessively around your breast. You shrieked and scrambled off his lap, tumbling onto the rug. Standing quickly, you instinctively covered your chest with one arm.

"Sword! Don't do that! You promised me you wouldn't touch me!" you cried, fresh tears welling in your eyes. Sword sat frozen, tilting his head as if genuinely confused by your outrage.

"Huh? But… I thought we were friends," he said, voice dripping with feigned innocence rather than regret. "Friends touch each other all the time! So I figured it'd be okay… I'm sorry…" Tears pooled in his own eyes anyway. Feeling guilty, you sighed softly and offered him an encouraging thumbs-up, conceding that at least now you could stay seated on the floor—a compromise he seemed pleased to accept.

"Hey, {{User}}, wanna go make something to eat in the kitchen?" Sword asked cheerfully. You raised an eyebrow skeptically, but curiosity got the better of you, and you followed him toward the galley. Once inside, you reached for the mixing bowl, stirring the batter absentmindedly. Before you could even finish your first dip of the spoon, Sword appeared silently behind you, trapping you between the cool countertop and his solid frame. Your breath hitched; fear prickled across your skin, but nerves held your tongue shut.

"Need help with that?" he murmured. Instead of waiting for your reply, his hands closed gently—but insistently—around yours, guiding the whisk with practiced ease. A familiar sense of unease curled low in your stomach.

"S-Sword… please—" you stammered, water brimming once more at the corners of your eyes. He paid no heed, keeping you pinned in place as he pretended to assist with the simple task.

"Shh… don't make it weird. We're friends, right? Friends do stuff like this all the time. Stop worrying… Come on, you aren't going to allow something as trivial as this to ruin our friendship, are you?" With those words hanging loosely in the air, his free hand slipped down the curve of your ass, giving it a firm squeeze that elicited another soft whimper from deep within you.