The floorboard in the hallway creaked, the same one Kawaki had memorized weeks ago. He paused, a statue in the moonlit dark, listening to the deep, even breaths from Naruto and Hinata's room. Silence. He moved again, a shadow slipping into Himawari's room, closing the door with a soft, final click.
She was asleep, just as he'd left her an hour ago after administering the sedative in her evening tea. The streetlight outside cast a pale stripe across her bed, illuminating the gentle rise and fall of her chest under the blanket. She looked peaceful. Innocent. The word was a shard of glass in his gut. He stood over her, his own breath shallow, the frantic drum of his heart the only sound in the world. This was the third time. The ritual was becoming familiar, yet the storm inside him never calmed—a churning mix of desperate hunger, nauseating guilt, and a terrifying, possessive love that felt like it was cracking his ribs.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hand, trembling slightly, reached out to brush a strand of dark hair from her cheek. Her skin was so warm, so soft. She's eighteen, he reminded himself, the transmigrator's knowledge a cold, clinical fact that did nothing to quell the sickness. In this world, she was of age. In his heart, it was a pathetic justification, a bandage on a gaping wound.
He had just begun to pull the blanket down, his fingers tracing the collar of her nightshirt, when her lips parted.
A soft, muffled sound escaped her. Not a moan, but a whimper. Kawaki froze, every muscle locking. His blood turned to ice.
"…don't…" she murmured, the word slurred and thick with sleep.
His heart stopped. No. No, no, no.
He didn't breathe. He became part of the room's furniture, a petrified sentinel. Her eyelids fluttered, but didn't open. Her head turned slightly on the pillow.
"…cold…" she whispered, and a small shiver ran through her body.
Cold? Was the window open? Did I not close it? His mind, always racing, always calculating, spiraled into panic. She's feeling the air on her skin. She's sensing the blanket moving. She's going to wake up. She's going to see me. She's going to scream.
The terror was absolute, a white-hot wire tightening around his throat. This was it. The perfect, hidden crime unraveling because of a single, sleepy utterance. He saw it all in a flash: her eyes flying open, wide with horror. The scream that would shatter the household's peace. Naruto's roar of fury. The betrayal in Boruto's eyes. The end of everything. The loss of her.
He waited, poised to flee or to… he didn't know. To explain? To lie? There was no lie for this.
But Himawari just sighed, a deep, settling breath. She nuzzled her cheek deeper into the pillow, a small, contented smile touching her lips. Then, her breathing deepened again, returning to the slow, drugged rhythm of untroubled sleep.
Kawaki's lungs burned. He finally sucked in a ragged, silent gasp of air. The release of tension was so violent it left him dizzy. He slumped forward, his forehead nearly touching the mattress, a cold sweat beading on his brow and neck. Too close. That was too close. The veil between her subconscious and the truth wasn't just thin—it was gossamer, and he was dancing on it with leaden boots.
The fear curdled, transforming in the furnace of his obsession. That whisper… 'don't'. It wasn't a memory. It couldn't be. It was just a dream. A random fragment. But what if her body, her body that he knew was beginning to respond to him even in sleep, was whispering to her mind? The thought sent a dangerous, illicit thrill through the panic. She's dreaming of me. Even her fears include me.
The incident fueled a new, more frantic need in him. He couldn't just take her in the dark anymore. He needed… more. A deeper claim. Proof that this bond, however twisted its origin, was becoming real for her. He needed her to want, even if only in the deepest, most hidden part of herself.
The opportunity came a few days later, a sunny afternoon that felt too bright for the shadows in his mind. Naruto was at the office, Hinata out shopping. Boruto was training with Sarada. The house was still, save for the sound of Himawari humming in the living room.
He found her on the floor, a large, leather-bound photo album open in her lap. "Looking at ancient history?" he asked, forcing a lightness into his voice that felt like ashes on his tongue.
She looked up, her smile immediate and warm. "Kawaki-nii! Come look. Mom was organizing and found this."
He sat down beside her, careful to leave a respectful space between them. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and clean—wrapped around him. She pointed at a page filled with pictures from a village festival a few weeks prior. There was Naruto, grinning like a fool with a takoyaki stand owner. Boruto and Sarada in a mock shuriken-throwing competition. And there, in the center, was Himawari.
She was wearing a vibrant yukata, her hair up, laughing at something off-camera. She tapped the picture of herself. "Look how silly I look. I feel like I slept through that whole day… I don't really remember it." She laughed, a light, airy sound. "Too much festival food, I guess!"
For Kawaki, the world did not just stop. It shattered.
The air was sucked from the room. The colors of the photo bled into a gray haze. The sound of her laughter became a distant, mocking echo. That was the day. The first day. The day after the first time he'd drugged her tea. She'd been sluggish, out of sorts, and he'd blamed it on staying up late. She'd slept through most of the festival in a haze, and he'd stayed by her side, the devoted brother, his insides screaming with secret triumph.
And now she'd said it. 'I don't really remember it.'
His blood was ice, then fire. She knows. She's piecing it together. This is it. The end. His mind, so adept at spinning lies, went blank. He could only stare at her smiling face in the photo, then at her real, living face beside him, utterly oblivious.
He had to say something. He had to move. His facial muscles felt like stone. He commanded them to form a smile. It was the hardest physical act of his life.
"Yeah," he heard himself say, his voice strangely flat. He cleared his throat, forced a chuckle. "You were pretty out of it. Must have been the… the sugar from the dango." The lie was weak, pathetic.
"Probably!" she agreed, turning the page, already moving on.
Internally, he was screaming. A silent, endless scream that filled the vault of his skull. The close call with her sleep-talking was nothing compared to this. This was her conscious mind brushing against the truth. The terror was paralyzing, but beneath it, the obsessive part of him, the part that had taken root in this stolen body, saw an opportunity. She has gaps. Gaps I created. And who does she turn to to fill them?
He needed to reinforce the bond. He needed to make her need him, not just her missing memories.
That night, the fear and the desperate need coalesced into a sharper, more reckless plan. He didn't just want to take her while she slept. He wanted a reaction. He wanted a sign.
The drug he used was a refined version, one that induced a pliant, suggestible state rather than deep unconsciousness. A twilight sleep. He watched from her doorway as she drank the cocoa he'd made, her trust a knife in his heart. He waited, counting the seconds until her movements slowed, her eyes grew heavy-lidded and glassy.
When he entered her room, she was sitting up in bed, blinking slowly at him. "K-Kawaki-nii?" she slurred, her voice dreamy. "I feel… funny."
"It's okay, Hima," he murmured, sitting beside her. His pulse was thunder. This was different. Her eyes were open, looking at him, but they weren't seeing. Not really. "You're just tired. I'm here."
He leaned in slowly, giving her drugged mind time to process. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. Then he brought his lips to hers.
It started as the softest pressure, a barely-there touch. Sensual kissing. Her lips were full, impossibly soft, and tasted faintly of chocolate and sleep. He kept it chaste, pulling back to look at her. Her eyes were half-closed, her breath a little quicker.
"Warm…" she mumbled.
He kissed her again, firmer this time, parting his lips slightly. He teased the seam of her mouth, and with a soft sigh, hers parted in response. The kiss deepened. His tongue touched hers, a slow, tentative exploration. A low, sleepy moan vibrated in her throat. "Mmmmh…"
The sound went straight to his cock, which was already painfully hard. He kissed her with more urgency now, his hands moving from her face to her shoulders, down her arms. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, to look at her. A string of saliva connected their lips for a second before breaking.
"Do you like that, Hima?" he whispered, his voice rough.
She nodded, a slow, drowsy movement. "Feels… nice."
"Good," he breathed, and kissed her again, more passionately. This time, her hands came up, clumsy and slow, to rest on his chest. She wasn't pushing him away. She was holding on. The triumph was a vicious, guilty spike of pleasure.
He laid her back on the pillows, never breaking the kiss. His hands slid under her nightshirt, skimming up her sides. She arched into his touch, another soft moan escaping into his mouth. "Ahh…"
He pulled the shirt over her head. The sight of her bare breasts in the dim room stole his breath. They were perfect, pale mounds with small, pink nipples already pebbled tight. He lowered his head, taking one into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the peak, then sucked gently.
Her back arched off the bed. "Oh!" The sound was clearer now, laced with a shock of pleasure. Her hands tangled in his hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. "K-Kawaki… that's…"
"Shhh," he soothed, moving to the other breast, giving it the same attention. Her hips began a slow, unconscious roll against the mattress. Wetness focus. He could smell it now, the sweet, musky scent of her arousal cutting through the floral shampoo. His own need was a painful ache.
He kissed down her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel. She squirmed, her breaths coming in little pants. "What… what are you…?"
"Making you feel good," he murmured against her skin, his voice a dark promise. "You trust me, right?"
She nodded, her eyes glazed. "Y-yes…"
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her shorts and panties, pulling them down her legs in one smooth motion. She was completely bare to him now. He settled between her thighs, spreading them gently. In the moonlight, her folds glistened. She was soaked.
He didn't use his fingers to prepare her this time. He needed to see, to hear. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her slick entrance. He looked up at her face. Her eyes were wide, confused, but her body was open, welcoming.
"This might feel… big," he whispered, a twisted echo of the Converted Size Queen trope playing in his head. He was above average, and she was small, tight. A virgin until he'd taken that from her.
He pushed forward, just an inch.
Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp. Her inner walls fluttered around the intrusion, impossibly tight, impossibly hot. "Ngh…!"
"Okay?" he gritted out, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort of holding still.
She nodded, a tear leaking from the corner of her eye. Crying. But it wasn't from pain alone. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards, taking him another fraction of an inch deeper. "F-feels… full…"
That was all the encouragement his fractured psyche needed. He sank the rest of the way in, a slow, relentless slide that buried him to the hilt. Her body stretched to accommodate him, a perfect, snug fit that made him see stars. She cried out, a sharp, choked sound that she muffled by biting her own lip.
"Fuck… you're so tight…" he groaned, the filthiness of the words, of the situation, fueling him. Hardcore sex. He began to move, setting a deep, grinding pace. The bedsprings creaked a soft, rhythmic protest.
Her moans came freely now, lost in the drugged haze. "Ah! Ah! Kawaki-nii… it's… it's too much…"
Dubcon. Rape kink. The fantasy was alive in the room. Her words were protests, but her body was a symphony of surrender. Her legs, which had been tense, wrapped around his waist, locking him deeper inside her. Her nails dug into his back.
"You don't mean that," he panted, driving into her harder. "Your pussy is dripping for me. Listen to it." The wet, squelching sounds of their joining filled the room, obscene and undeniable. "You're so fucking wet. You love this."
"I don't… I don't…" she sobbed, but her hips rose to meet every thrust. "It's too deep… you're splitting me open…"
"You take it so well," he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, more punishing. He shifted her legs over his shoulders, bending her almost in half, increasing the pressure, the intensity. She screamed, a sound of overwhelmed pleasure-pain. "Oh god! Oh fuck! Right there! RIGHT THERE!"
Her orgasm hit her suddenly. Her body seized, her back bowing off the bed. A gush of hot fluid soaked his pelvis and the sheets beneath them. Squirting. "I'm—! I'm cumming! I'm cumming! No, stop, I can't—!" she babbled, her eyes rolling back.
He fucked her through it, his own climax roaring up his spine. He was going to fill her. He was going to claim her. Begging for creampie.
"Where do you want it, Hima?" he grunted, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. "Tell me. Beg for it."
"Inside! Please, inside me! Fill me up, I need it!" she screamed, the words torn from her, a perfect mirror of his darkest desires.
With a final, savage thrust, he slammed home and erupted. Massive cum. It felt like gallons, a hot, endless flood pumping into her depths, claiming her, marking her from the inside. He groaned, long and low, as he emptied himself, his hips jerking through the pulses. Post-orgasm creampie continuation. He stayed buried inside her, both of them panting, soaked in sweat and her release, connected by his spend already leaking out around where they were joined.
He collapsed on top of her, then quickly rolled to the side, pulling her against him. He was still inside her, softening. He held her close, his face buried in her hair. She was already slipping back into deeper sleep, her breaths evening out, her body pliant and spent.
He had done it. He had gotten a reaction. Words of pleasure. A begging request. An orgasm that she, in some foggy part of her mind, would remember as powerful, confusing, his.
As he lay there, the guilt came crashing back, a tidal wave that threatened to drown him. He held her tighter, as if she could anchor him. I'm a monster. I'm destroying her. I'm destroying myself. But beneath the self-loathing, the obsessive core remained, soothed by the feel of her in his arms, by the scent of sex and her skin, by the secret they now almostshared.
He carefully extracted himself, wincing at the flood of his release that followed. He cleaned her with a warm, damp cloth with practiced, meticulous care. He redressed her. He stripped the wet sheets, replacing them with a spare set from the linen closet. He bundled the evidence into a hidden compartment in his own room, to be disposed of later.
He stood in the hallway, looking at her closed door. He was a serpent in the garden, and he had just tasted the sweetest, most forbidden fruit. The terror of almost being discovered was now entwined with the euphoria of a deeper conquest. The bond was tightening. He could feel it. And he knew, with a certainty that was both his damnation and his salvation, that he would do it all again.