John pressed his nose against the classroom window. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the soccer field into gray-green smudges. Inside smelled like chalk dust and wet wool. Thirty unfamiliar faces stared at the back of his head. Someone giggled.
A sharp elbow jabbed his ribs.
"Stop fogging the window, foreigner."
The girl beside him glared, orangish bangs falling over her narrowed eyes. She slammed her pencil case shut with a click that made him flinch.
"And move your stupid bag."
Her voice was low, tight. John scrambled to shift his backpack from the aisle, cheeks burning. Shirabe Ako, the teacher had said her name was. She turned away before he could apologize.
The next day, John found a bento box balanced precariously on the edge of his desk. Inside, rice balls shaped like clumsy stars sat beside slightly charred octopus wieners. Ako stared fixedly at her textbook, knuckles white around her pen.
When he whispered "thank you," she snapped, "Don't misunderstand! I...er...my grandfather made extra."
But her ears flushed scarlet all through math class. John ate every grain, even the burnt bits.
During cleaning hour, Ako shoved a wet rag into his hands.
"You missed a spot," she huffed, pointing at a gleaming floor tile.
When he crouched to scrub, her voice dropped almost inaudibly. "...Your shoes were muddy yesterday."
John glanced up. She was polishing the same windowpane three times over, shoulders rigid. Her reflection watched his hands instead of the glass.
After school, thunder growled as John struggled with his umbrella near the shoe lockers. Ako marched past without looking, her own umbrella snapping open like a black flower. Ten paces down the rain-slicked street, she halted. "Hurry up," she muttered at a puddle. John jogged to catch her, their steps syncing on the wet pavement. Her umbrella tilted infinitesimally toward his shoulder. Neither spoke until the station turnstile.
In science class the following Tuesday, Ako's pencil rolled off her desk. John caught it mid-air. Her fingers brushed his as she took it back, a spark of static jumping between them.
"Clumsy," she hissed, but didn't pull away immediately. For the rest of the period, she drew tiny lightning bolts in her notebook margin instead of taking notes.
At lunch, John placed a strawberry daifuku beside her bento. It was perfectly round, wrapped in clear cellophane from the convenience store downstairs. Ako stared at it like a live grenade.
"Americans just like to waste money," she declared, but peeled the wrapper slowly, revealing the pink mochi. She ate it in three precise bites, powdered sugar dusting her lower lip. John pretended not to see her wipe it away from her cute small mouth with her tiny thumb.
During gym, they were -as if by some stange act of fate - paired together for badminton. Ako served like a hurricane, smashes whistling past John's ears. When he finally returned one, the shuttlecock caught the net tape and dribbled onto her side. Silence hung heavy. Then her racket clattered to the floor as she doubled over, shoulders shaking. John froze—until he heard the muffled snort. She was laughing, really laughing, hands pressed over her mouth. The sound was bright and unfamiliar, like wind chimes after rain.
Afternoon sunlight slanted through the library windows as John puzzled over kanji. Ako slid into the opposite chair unannounced, dropping a worn workbook between them.
"Here. Page forty-seven explains some of the most common radicals."
She flipped it open decisively, but her finger trembled against the paper. They bent over the pages, heads almost touching. For twenty minutes, her low voice mapped the intricate characters, steady and clear.
When the bell rang, she snapped the book shut. "Don't expect help tomorrow."
They were halfway home when the sky tore open. Rain hammered down like pebbles, instantly soaking John's shirt. Ako shrieked, grabbing his wrist—her grip surprisingly strong—and yanked him toward a sagging wooden shed half-hidden by hydrangeas. They stumbled inside, gasping, the scent of wet earth and decaying wood thick in the sudden gloom. Water streamed from their hair as they leaned against splintered walls, listening to the drumming roar on the corrugated tin roof.
Silence stretched, broken only by their breathing and the downpour. Ako shivered violently in her drenched uniform. Without a word, John shrugged off his sodden blazer and draped it over her shoulders. She stiffened, then pulled it tighter, burying her nose in the damp fabric. Exhaustion settled over them like dust. Gradually, imperceptibly, her head tipped sideways, coming to rest against John's shoulder. Her breathing deepened, evening out into sleep. The warmth of her cheek seeped through his thin shirt. He closed his own eyes, lulled by the rain's rhythm and the soft weight against him.
He awoke to profound stillness. The rain had stopped. Late afternoon light filtered through cracks in the weathered boards, casting dusty gold stripes across the shed floor. Ako stirred, her eyelashes fluttering against his collarbone. She lifted her head slowly, blinking sleep from her eyes. Their gazes locked – inches apart in the sudden quiet. Her cheeks flushed pink, mirroring the heat rising in his own face. Words tangled in his throat; hers seemed lost somewhere deep inside.
Silence pulsed between them, thick and electric. A stray drop of water slid from her hairline, tracing a path down her temple. John watched its journey, mesmerized. Her breath hitched, a tiny sound swallowed by the damp air. He saw the hesitation flicker in her dark eyes, the unspoken question hanging there. Time stretched thin and fragile.
Ako set herself to pull back but instead fell forward slightly, in a nearly imperceptibly manner. Neither John nor Ako could find the internal strength to pull away. Her eyelids drifted shut just before their lips met – a tentative brush, soft and uncertain, tasting faintly of rainwater and powdered sugar. Then something shifted; the kiss deepened, became deliberate. Her hand found its way to his chest, fingers curling into his damp shirt. His own hand rested gently against her cheek, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. The world outside the shed dissolved into the quiet rhythm of shared breath.
A sudden shift in her balance sent her pitching forward against him. Instinctively, John’s arms wrapped tighter around her waist, his right hand splaying wide against her back – but his left hand, caught awkwardly, pressed firmly against the swell of her small breast beneath her wet uniform blouse. He could feel the training bra beneath - there was not much breast in it, but the padding made it feel otherwise.
Ako froze. A choked gasp escaped her lips, her entire face flooding crimson. Her eyes flew open, wide and startled, locked onto his. She didn’t push him away; she seemed paralyzed, suspended in the sudden intimacy.
John felt the warmth beneath his palm, the slight firmness of the padded cup and the unmistakable softness beneath the wet fabric. He saw the panic flicker in her eyes, then a deeper need, a flicker of something else entirely. Slowly, deliberately, she tilted his head, capturing his lips again. This kiss wasn't tentative; it was deep, searching. His thumb began to move against her breast, a slow, gentle circling over the fabric, feeling the small swell respond beneath his touch. A small whimper vibrated against his mouth.
The paralysis broke. Ako pushed forward, not away. Her hands slid up his chest and tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer as her body pressed flush against his. The kiss grew frantic, hungry. Her knee nudged between his legs, and with surprising strength, she pushed him backwards. He landed softly on the dusty shed floor, blinking up as she straddled his hips, her damp skirt pooling around her thighs. Her face hovered above his, flushed and fierce, her breath coming in quick gasps.
Her hands trembled slightly as they traced the line of his jaw, then slid down to clumsily fumble with the buttons of his soaked shirt. He didn’t move, his gaze locked on hers. Her dark eyes weren’t panicked anymore; they held a raw, terrifying intensity, a silent question echoing his own thundering heartbeat. When his fingers tentatively found the hem of her blouse, slipping beneath to touch the warm skin of her waist, she shivered violently but didn’t stop him.
The dusty air filled with the ragged sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of fabric. John’s hand drifted higher, brushing the edge of her training bra before gently cupping the small swell beneath, feeling the frantic flutter of her heart against his palm. Ako gasped, arching into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut as she pressed her forehead against his. Her own hand slipped lower, hesitating only a moment before sliding under his shirt, her cool fingertips tracing the ridges of his ribs, sending sparks across his skin.
John’s fingers trembled as they hooked beneath the thin elastic band, pulling the bra down just enough to reveal two tiny, pink buds. He lowered his head, his lips closing softly around one nipple. Ako cried out—a sharp, breathless sound—her fingers tightening convulsively in his hair. She rocked against his hipbone, the damp friction of her panties against his shorts becoming a frantic, instinctive rhythm. Her hips moved of their own accord, seeking pressure where heat pooled low and insistent.
Her hands scrabbled clumsily at his waistband, fingers slipping on the wet fabric. The zipper rasped open. She pulled his shorts down just enough, freeing his tiny erection—small, hard, and slick with anticipation. Ako hesitated for only a heartbeat before lifting herself slightly, guiding him past the lace trim of her panties. Then she sank down, gasping sharply as he slid inside, filling her tight, untouched warmth in one smooth, sudden stroke. The sensation stole her breath—a bright, startling fullness.
Then the pain hit as John's organ tore her virgin flesh. Ako's eyes crossed as she fought against crying out.
She forced herself still. Her legs shook as she slowly slid up and down his shaft, each motion stretching her tighter than the last. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she bit her lip until it bled. John watched her, transfixed—the pain-pleasure war playing across her face, the way her small breasts trembled with each tentative bounce. He pulled her bra strap down further with his teeth, exposing more of her delicate skin, and suckled harder. Her nipple puckered tight against his tongue, drawing a ragged whimper from her throat.
Time dissolved into sensation. The shed filled with wet sounds—their frantic breaths, the slick slide of her body taking him deeper with each downward thrust. Her movements grew less hesitant, more rhythmic. Ako arched her back, throwing her head back as her hips found a desperate, grinding tempo. Her cries softened into choked moans, punctuated by John’s low groans. He gripped her hips, guiding her, urging her faster until she rode him with wild abandon, her damp skirt bunched around her waist, her small frame shuddering with every plunge. John could smell Ako's sex as it was filled by him over and over. Her need and his had synchronised - and he could no more deny her this than herself.
John felt the coil inside him tightening unbearably.
"Ako," he gasped, his voice thick and raw.
Her name was a plea. Her eyes snapped open, dark pools of frantic need meeting his. She understood. With a final, desperate cry, she slammed down hard, taking him to the hilt just as his body locked. A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as his hips jerked uncontrollably upward. Inside her, deep where she was hottest and tightest, he pulsed violently, thick jets of semen flooding her virgin womb. The sensation was scalding, overwhelming—a sudden, shocking fullness deep within her core that made her gasp and clench around him.
Ako froze atop him, suspended. Her own climax hit like a delayed tremor, rippling outward from that molten point deep inside where his seed pooled. Her body arched impossibly backward, a silent scream shaping her mouth, her fingers digging bruises into his chest as wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure washed through her, amplified by the raw ache and the incredible heat spreading inside. She trembled violently, her tiny perky nipples quivering, her inner muscles rhythmically milking the last spurts from him as aftershocks racked her frame.
The two 5th grader had made love and they now felt they existed outside of the universe. Nothing else mattered, but each other.
The kiss began softly, a gentle exploration in the aftermath. John tasted salt—her tears? Rain?—mingled with something uniquely Ako. Her lips moved against his with a newfound languidness, fingers tracing the shell of his ear. Time dissolved again, soft sighs replacing the frantic rhythm of before. It was tender, almost reverent, a quiet claiming in the dusty stillness.
Ako pulled back first, blinking dazedly. Her gaze drifted past John’s shoulder to a thin sliver of fading orange light slicing through the shed wall.
"The sun..." Her voice was husky, raw. "The sun..."....It's late," she whispered, panic sharpening around the words. "Grandpa..."
John followed her gaze. Dust motes danced in the dying light. Reality crashed back—the damp chill, the gritty floorboards, the distant sound of a car engine.
"Oh...damn." His own voice sounded foreign.
He sat up slowly, wincing as Ako shifted off him, a slick warmth escaping her as she moved. A trickle of fluid dripped out of her sweetness onto his body. A faint, metallic scent hung in the air.
Ako scrambled to her knees, fumbling with her bra strap, her face burning crimson. She wouldn't meet his eyes. John grabbed his crumpled shirt, pulling it on over sticky skin. Silence stretched, thick and awkward, broken only by rustling fabric and shaky breaths. Ako smoothed her skirt down with trembling hands, staring fixedly at a knothole in the wall. Her blouse was misbuttoned. John reached out, fingers brushing hers as he fixed it. Her breath hitched. She glanced up—just for a second—and he saw it: the raw vulnerability beneath the panic.
He leaned in, kissing her gently, a soft press of reassurance against her bruised lips. She melted into it for a heartbeat, a small sigh escaping her.
They slipped out of the shed into the hushed, dripping world. The streetlights flickered on, casting long, watery shadows on the wet pavement. They walked side-by-side, not touching, the space between them charged with everything unsaid. Rainwater dripped from the eaves, a steady *plink-plink-plink*. Ako kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, hands clenched at her sides. John watched her profile—the tight line of her jaw, the flush still high on her cheeks. His own mind replayed the feel of her trembling beneath him, the choked gasp when he entered her, the shocking heat flooding her core. The metallic scent lingered faintly on his skin.
He walked her all the way to her doorstep. She paused, fingers twisting the strap of her bag. Her eyes flickered to his for a second—dark pools filled with confusion, lingering sensation, and dawning panic.
"Um...er..see you, tomorrow, I guess." she mumbled, voice thick, before vanishing inside.
John stood rooted, listening to the lock click shut.
The walk to his own house felt unreal. Every splash of his shoes echoed the slick sounds in the shed; every streetlight glare seemed to illuminate the image of her arched back, her small breasts quivering. The sticky dampness cooling against his thigh was a relentless reminder. Explanations loomed—to his host family, to Ako’s grandfather—but his thoughts were a tangled mess of her warmth, her cries, and the blood trickled down her thigh.
Ako’s grandfather greeted her with a weary smile as she slid off her shoes. "You’re soaked, little princess," he rasped, reaching out a kind hand. She hugged him stiffly, avoiding his gaze, inhaling the familiar scent of tea and old clocks.
"Just got caught in the rain," she lied, her voice tight.
Ako quickly fled to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She wasted no time in washing herself down and rinsing before getting into the hot tub. Steam rose as she submerged her small body in the hot water of the deep tub. She sank in, scrubbing fiercely at her skin as if she could erase the afternoon’s imprint—the phantom pressure of his hands, the deep ache between her legs, the startling fullness she still felt low in her belly. Her reflection wavered in the misted mirror: flushed cheeks, bruised lips, eyes haunted.
Reaching beneath a folded towel, Ako withdrew a small, iridescent oval device—smooth as sea glass. Her thumb trembled over its surface.
"Report status on subject—Princess Ako," she whispered.
The device pulsed softly, projecting a shimmering beam that scanned her body. A tiny, winged hologram materialized.
"Checking vital parameters," chimed a fairy-like voice. The light flickered over her damp shoulders, her trembling knees. "Status complete. Minor hypothermia risk detected due to cold condensation. Core physiology remains robust."
Ako exhaled, sinking deeper into the water.
The voice sharpened. "Gynecological scan: Vaginal micro-tears healing sub-optimally. Uterine implantation confirmed. Fetal viability at 98.7%. Gestation: Four hours."
"FFUUUCCCKKKKKK!!!!!"
"Yes, Princess Ako apparently did." The voice responded.
"SHUT UP!"
John tugged his damp pajama shirt over his head when his phone buzzed—a single, harsh vibration. An unknown number flashed on the screen. The message was stark, devoid of punctuation yet vibrating with cold fury: *My name is Shirabe Ako I am the Princess of Majorland and a Precure And I am now the mother of your first child Take responsibility*.
The words glared in the dim bedroom light. John’s breath hitched. He reread it, fingers numb. Precure? Princess? The shed, the blood, her choked gasp—all collided with this impossible declaration. Responsibility. The word echoed like a gong in his skull. He gripped the phone, knuckles white. Outside, an owl hooted, the sound slicing through the silence.
What had he gotten himself into?
