The Power of Friendship.
Yes, we've already tackled this subject in our lecture series, but, as pivotal as the matter is to the shounen genre as a whole, as central to otaku culture itself, I fear we may not have delved as deep as it deserves. You see, as we've already explained, the Power of Friendship consists, more often than not, in taking power from one's friends.
It's just natural for the author, of course. A way to make the narration revolve around the main character while acknowledging the secondary ones, even if just as resources to be expended. As moral support by the campfire before the final confrontation, as dramatic deaths to trigger a superpowered evil side transformation, as stepping stones for an underdog that fools absolutely no one about their destined place in the totem pole.
There are many ways for homicidal rivals, lifelong friends, unsuccessful haremettes, and other friendly acquaintances to contribute to the advancement of a good protagonist's career, and that is, indeed, a part of the Power of Friendship.
The pettiest, most despicable part, but, well, that's humanity for you. We [thrive] in pettiness.
Except when we don't.
Because as much as I've extolled the virtues of keeping a grudge, of having every slight carefully accounted for, of making it an absolute certainty that retribution will come to pass at some point…
The other side of the Power of Friendship are… friends.
Or, well, loved ones in general. People that you trust enough to give them the chance to hurt you. To show them your back, hoping that they will guard it rather than stab it.
And, other than when an Uchiha gets stubbornly tsundere… it can work.
It can let each of you work at things the others can't, complementing strengths, ameliorating weaknesses, and…
No.
That's not it.
It just…
It lets you live.
"I love you," I whisper into a small, round ear as I hug its naked owner harder against me, her back fitting marvelously between my arms and against my chest.
Iroha smiles without opening her eyes, and it makes my heart soar.
"I know," she finally says. "Keep telling me."
I can't help but chuckle, going from her ear to the side of her neck, kissing the sensitive skin until she giggles and kicks with both legs, shifting inside my protective, possessive hug to look up at me with luminous honey that not only keeps taking my breath away but does it faster and with greater ease each and every time.
"I love you," I say with something between a whisper and a raspy grunt, just because she asked me and not at all because I'm overwhelmed by the sheer need to tell her.
"I love you," she says, a trembling smile on her lips, hesitating fingers reaching up to my face until I turn aside to kiss the sensitive tips and she then cups my cheek, holding me steady so that eyes that light up her living room can stare at me until I notice my own silly smile.
And so, naturally, I kiss her.
Slowly, deliberately, my tongue only coming out to trace a single line over her lips before retreating as I keep myself from diving in and losing myself in the sheer barrage of sensations that the shorter girl in my arms can so easily bombard me with.
And, despite the gentle intensity of it all, when I manage to pull back, we're both still breathless.
So we just keep staring at one another, exchanging tremulous smiles and looks of wonder. Saying 'I love you' in many ways that don't need words to convey the implied promise.
Until, finally, my body insists that I stop awkwardly holding myself up over her, and I lie back down on a sofa that may have a bit more of my sweat than many good hosts would think acceptable, Iroha immediately turning over between my arms to rest with her front on top me, crossed hands on my chest, her chin resting on them, her eyes fixed on mine as her bare legs bend to kick back and forth, making her thighs shift too pleasantly over mine and [other] parts.
"Just a bit more," she says with that tone that is so hard to resist.
"Iroha, as flattering as that is, I think I should drink some water before—"
"Not [that]—even if I'd be willing. I just… I just want you to hold me a bit more. Before you go off to right wrongs and save the world. Just… Just hold me. Make me feel loved."
"I [do] love you," I say, automatically squeezing my arms around her waist.
"I know. But… It's just… It's been too long since we just had a moment like this," she says with both a hint of guilt and regret.
"Ah," I say.
"Not like I blame you!" she says, making me wonder who the cute girl on top of me is, what has she done with Iroha, and how can I make sure it isn't undone. "I like that you are [you]—" Oi, "—but I also… I think I needed this. Just a break. Just you, holding me, letting me know that we still have us despite everything else."
Okay. Now I feel guilty.
['She just told you she doesn't blame you.']
I know! Can you believe the sheer [nerve]? That's just plain scheming. The level of mind games displayed—
['Or, hear me out, she could genuinely not blame you.']
That's so much worse.
['I know; isn't it great?']
"You're having dumb thoughts. I just know you're having dumb thoughts," she says, rolling her eyes and unwittingly freeing me from her line-of-sight Mesmer skill.
"If it's any consolation, this time they didn't involve you and a kunoichi cosplay—"
"It is, in fact, [not] any consolation. And when are you ever going to let that go—"
"[Never]," I say, my voice about as deep as it can get now that the seals have been momentarily restored via the kind of magic ritual that can only be found in certain kinds of games and their multimillion gacha spin-offs.
"… Okay," she says, looking…
Small.
Small and cowering in front of my intense stare as her cheeks darken and she bites the corner of her lip before offering me a shy, bright smile that makes me want to squeal at the sheer cuteness overload.
Then I'd likely die of self-induced cringe, but, alas, it would've been a life well spent.
['Doubt.']
I didn't ask [you].
'[Which I think is a perfect summary of almost everything that has gone wrong throughout your entire existence.']
Except the parts where I kept asking you.
['Well, yes, but that's on you. After all, who would be stupid enough to ask for my opinion?']
"Eyes on me…" Iroha whispers.
And, really, who am I to disobey her?
To do anything but stare, transfixed as her slight pout shifts into a shy smile before she turns over her hands, part of her warm, soft cheek lying on my bare chest as she nuzzles me, her hands slowly sliding away, her palms leaving warm lines over my body before she pushes them between the sofa and my back.
And then her eyes close.
And I keep staring.
As something inside of me mends.
***
"This is horribly unfair," she complains.
"It wouldn't do for the student council president to arrive at school at the same time as a notorious delinquent," I tell her, straightening the lapels of her uniform while we wait for the traffic light to change just because I need to touch her and I don't know of a better way to do it while in public and not in a park at night or a secluded alley.
"You're [not] a notorious delinquent," she lies, making my delinquent blood roar at the often repeated scene of the powerful trampling down on the existence itself of rebellion against the system that gives them all their advantages.
"I skip classes," I politely offer, fussing with a single strand of hair trying to escape from the confines of her bob as she pretends to be displeased with my attention.
"Just skipping classes doesn't make you a delinquent," she says, almost grumbling.
"It does if it's to have sex with a teacher that I have incriminating videos on," I gently correct her.
She blinks at me.
Takes a moment to process my words.
Flushes.
Heh.
"Please, don't get a tan and bleach your hair, Senpai. There's only so much my gentle, maidenly heart can take."
"I'm pretty sure that you can take everything that I can throw at you. Your couch has been witness to it."
"You're incorrigible."
"I should hope so. It's one of the traits of a delinquent, after all."
And she groans, grabs my tie, and pulls me down into a searing kiss.
I guess I'll tell her at another time how corrupting the student council president is also a very delinquentish thing to do.
['Sure. You corrupted Iroha. You corrupted the girl who blackmailed you into a threesome. Likely story.']
It's not blackmail if you end up with saccharine confessions of love, Brain-chan. Josei has taught me so.
Sadly, before Brain-chan can offer her erudite and no doubt insightful riposte, Iroha's hands settle on my cheeks, and she pulls back to stare into my eyes.
"Good luck," she says with her smile turning complicated.
And then her hands leave my face as she searches for something in her pocket, only for her to then slide the small piece of plastic into my open hand as we exchange a look that is slightly less pure and lighthearted than what we've been enjoying since I woke up with my face resting on her soft thighs.
***
The Power of Friendship.
If I'm being honest, there are many ways to actually show it as something positive rather than exploitative. Super Sentai shows often feature combining robots, the physical and utterly unsubtle metaphor of how the power of each of the characters can turn into something greater when they are united under a single purpose.
Chrono Trigger and other, lesser, RPGs featured combination techniques, attacks in which more than one character acted in unison, each of them taking their own part in a visual display far more striking than what each of them could accomplish on their own.
But, if there's something that is almost universal, that appears in shows of almost any genre…
That's the baton pass.
Sometimes, it's just literal: a relay race during the much-vaunted sports festival, with the whole class relying on the anchor to carry them through, to pull ahead and earn those desperately needed points that each and every member of the race has worked so hard to attain.
Sometimes, it's a bit more symbolic: a character walking away from something they can't handle, his hand briefly clapping the offered one of the comrade about to step in.
Sometimes, it's a mix of both.
Sometimes, it's a young man walking toward his first girlfriend's apartment, clasping in his increasingly sweaty palm a USB drive handed to him by his second girlfriend.
Because she already did her part. Because this one baton was handed to me by Yukino, filled with enough information to do something, even if we didn't know what.
And then I handed it to Iroha, and she…
She's so damn brave.
Talking with her mother, taking that first step at mending something broken for years, telling her about [us].
And getting the reporter to dig up a truth that she would be willing to keep buried.
That's what I have in my hand: the baton. The baton that carries within it the efforts of people who love Haruno or care for those who love her. Who are fighting for her.
Sacrificing for her.
I wonder how furious she would be at me if she knew. How she would rage at me sacrificing my principles for her rather than her for my principles.
In a way, this is the polar opposite of what I would have done months ago, yet precisely the same thing.
Hachiman Hikigaya, sacrificing a part of himself because of others.
The more things change, you know?
"Hachi?" Shizu says, the door to her apartment opening fully as she stands there, dressed only in grey, calf-length socks and a long, white button-up shirt that reaches down to the middle of her thighs and leaves a shadowed line of her cleavage exposed for me to try and not stare at.
The more things change…
"Hey," I say with an attempt at a smile that gets her to immediately frown at me.
Then, the unrelenting hand of the one woman who never hesitated to manhandle me grasps my tie and pulls me into her apartment, the door immediately closing behind me to cut off my retreat.
I can barely kick my shoes off by sheer reflex before she carries me to her kitchen counter.
"Why are you skipping classes [again]?" she says, her back to me, on the other side of the counter, rummaging in her fridge before she turns back to offer me a blessed can of Max Coffee that I immediately take off her hands, drinking from the life-giving nectar with as much need as somebody who doesn't care that they will end up injecting insulin into an abused organism before they reach their forties.
Of course, when I stop at the point where the can is half-empty, I do so to meet a raised eyebrow and two crossed arms that are unwittingly making it that much harder for me not to stare at that line of shadowed cleavage.
The more things change.
"It's just a way to establish firmly in the minds of the viewers that my delinquent arc has not been forgotten and is, in fact, ongoing," I explain as slowly and carefully as she may need me to.
The eyebrow twitches.
Heh.
"I swear, if you end up bleaching your hair…"
"Iroha already begged me not to."
"Which may only give you a greater incentive to go ahead and do it."
"You know me so well…"
The eyebrow lowers. Her gaze softens. Her arms uncross before she rests her palms in front of me.
And then, leaning over the counter, she reaches forward to lie a heartbreakingly caring kiss on my brow.
"I do," she whispers.
"And yet, you still haven't run away," I offer with a wry smile.
She rolls her eyes.
I chuckle.
And she takes my lips, soft and tender, the caress of warm skin taking my breath away as she lingers in a single, prolonged touch that doesn't go as deep as I want it to.
"Can't run away," she says. "I already promised to introduce you to my parents."
I look at her.
Then, after Brain-chan recovers from an apoplectic fit, I manage to blink in confusion.
"What?"
['What?']
Huh. An echo inside my head. Guess it was as empty as I've often been told.
"Don't worry. After meeting Haruno, they're gonna think that you're the sane choice," she says, her lips quirking with more humor than the immediate threat to my prolonged survival merits.
"Shizu, I'm pretty certain that no father on Earth would think I'm the sane choice for anything other than a quick insurance scam that no self-respecting police officer would bother looking too deeply into."
"… I mean, that would be one way to take care of the household finances."
"You drive sports cars. [Plural]."
"Please, don't remind me. I had a job when I got it."
Damn it.
"It's going to be all right," I say.
"I was [joking]. I'm far from the poverty line, Hachi," she answers with a dismissive, sweeping gesture.
And I grab her wrist.
She looks at me, and I stare back, something in steel eyes that often look like silver telling me that she's tempted to pull away.
I don't let her.
I pull her toward me until she ends up bending over the counter, the can of coffee almost knocked to the ground by the abruptness of it all as I look [down] at her. At surprised eyes staring wide open.
"I don't have all the answers," I say.
"I will never ask that of you," she answers.
"Good," I say.
And then I tug on her arm, not forcing her to move but guiding her along until she accepts my lead and turns over the counter, lying on her back, under me.
So that I can take her lips.
So that I can look at her, at wide eyes, at black hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, supplementing the morning light streaming in from the living room's balcony behind me.
At a beautiful, disheveled woman who looks as stunning as she ever does, no matter whether she's wearing her customary long coat or a half-open shirt that a rabid part of my mind insists should be [mine], because I've already seen her wearing my clothes and the sight is too tempting not to want to see it every day of the rest of my life.
"I can't solve everything," I finally say after a long moment of what should've been silent communication but was just transfixed admiration. "As much as I want to, as much as I need to… There are some things that I just can't do on my own."
"Hachi," she murmurs, her hand reaching for my cheek in a way that is both entirely too similar and not at all like how Iroha did when we were both naked on her sofa.
"But… I no longer have to, do I? I… I have you. All of you, but particularly you. I have people I trust. People I love. People who know things I don't, who can do things I can't. Who can reach where I can't."
She looks at me in wonder, as if admiring something unique and fragile that is about to pass, never to be seen again.
I suspect it's how I looked at her the first few times we kissed.
So I turn and kiss her fingertips like I kissed Iroha's.
Yet not.
Because she's Shizu, not Iroha. Because I love them, but not in the same way. Because they mean the world to me, but each one is a different world.
And, sometimes, I'm so damn scared that those worlds will one day drift away.
"What are you trying to say?" she asks me.
Because she knows me.
She did, long before I got carried away and took her lips in the teacher's room, banging my shin on a traitorous desk when trying to get closer to her than I'd ever been.
She knew me since… I feel since the very start. Since the first time that I stared in shock at a woman who should have been too busy being the main character in a movie rather than walk into my classroom as if being as extraordinary as she showed herself to be with every gesture was a mundane, everyday thing.
Something that I should've gotten used to.
I never did.
It's just… I wish I knew her as well as she knows me. I wish that every little thing that I keep adding to my mental file on Shizuka Hiratsuka let me see deeper than I do, past the steel and silver and into her soul.
Deep enough that I could understand why she loves [me], of all people.
But… But I at least see deep enough to understand why she loves Haruno.
It, in some ways, is for the same reasons that I do.
So I think about the hand that I haven't used at all since I came here. Not to grab a can of coffee, or to take her wrist, or do anything but keep anxiously sweating around a piece of plastic.
I take her right hand, slowly opening each slender finger by itself with tugging caresses.
And I drop the weight that Iroha entrusted to me.
"Baton pass," I murmur with a tired smile.
She blinks at the neon blue drive, the container of blackmail. [Maybe] the piece of the puzzle that we need.
And then looks at me.
"You need to stop reading sports manga," she says, rolling her eyes.
"I don't want to hear that from [you]," I answer.
And then, before we can get mired down in explanations, and planning, and everything else that will go down today, she takes my tie yet again and drags me down on top of her, the sounds of giggles and kisses filling her apartment like they always should have.
==================
This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/all-right-fine-ill-take-you-oregairu.15676/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 104 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).
Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Brain-chan's intrusions into Hachiman's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance
Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!
A baton pass.
He can be so goddamn corny at times.
It's one of the things I like best about him.
One of the others has to do with how he's looking at me right now, hovering over me, making me feel unable to move away from where he's laid me down across my kitchen counter. Making me feel…
Wanted.
Desired.
Loved.
"Hachi…" I murmur in a languid tone that matches my smile as I squeeze his hand before letting go and moving to his hair, caressing over his ear, my fingers reaching past to his nape, to the two standing lines of taut muscle that I would love to massage all tension out of, even if I suspect that's not a feasible goal at all.
"You're so goddamn unfair," he murmurs as he lowers just a bit more. Just enough that I can feel his lips even without touching them. That there's that sensation of barely-there pressure as if the air heated between us wanted to push us apart.
So I lean up.
I push past the unseen barrier, opening my mouth to swallow the barest traces of it, to have the taste of him over my tongue even before he answers my gesture and [enters] me.
It's every bit as erotic as I'm making it sound. As intimate as every time I've had him inside of me, between my legs, moving in ways that made me feel as if he could reach deeper than anyone before him, not by virtue of size, hardness, or enthusiasm, but…
But because he's him.
Because he won't stop at the first sign of something beyond a pretty façade. Because he will [never] stop until he finds me, the real me. Until he reaches the Shizuka that so many people have shied away from and left behind.
I close my eyes tightly, losing myself in the soft sensation of his lips and the demands of his tongue, letting him wash away unwanted thoughts and emotions and bring up all those that I [do] want, even if I shouldn't. All the things a student should never have made me feel.
But it's him.
[Hachi].
Mine.
I purr into his mouth, and I love the way he swallows my sounds of pleasure. The way he hungrily muffles everything coming out of me as if he yearns for all that I am, all that I can give him…
As if he loves me.
I have to push away more unwanted thoughts at that. More feelings of what that love of his brings to mind. More memories that are unwelcome at this very moment.
And then he pulls up, and I can't help but whine when I lose the one thing that had been my anchor to this very moment. To a present where nothing should matter but him pushing me down on my kitchen counter.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice rougher than it should be if he wants to show concern rather than something else entirely.
"Nothing," I immediately say, my hand on his nape playing at the start of that massage I envisioned earlier.
… I'm going to need some grip strength training.
"Really?" he says with a skeptical eyebrow that…
Damn it.
"I'm just… trying to focus. On the here and now," I say, lamenting not for the first time that very thing I love most about him. That need to see the truth in others.
But I also see.
I see the gears turning behind dark eyes. The need to know, to [understand]. That desperate search for a connection that he often builds with his logic rather than the intuition he should not distrust as much as he does.
The spark of guilt.
"We shouldn't—" he starts to say.
And I go from caressing him to hugging him to me, his body on mine, the hard muscle he's already managed to build pressing down on me in a way I would enjoy far more if we weren't who we are.
"It's not your fault," I say.
"Of course it isn't. It's yours for opening the door wearing [that]," he answers.
I furrow my brow, trying to rerail my thoughts after the nonsensical—
Oh.
"It's perfectly sensible! And comfortable!" I say, defending the honor of my socks and button-up shirt combo.
"You look like the cover of a doujin! And you're making me wish to turn you into the last panel!"
"… That's the most cringily suave line you've ever told me."
"What can I say? You inspire me," he says.
And there's laughter in his tone, but a forced one. And desire, but not…
Not what I want from him. Or what he needs from me.
So I tug back on his hair and have him look at me with those eyes of his that I often berated because of how apparent they made what he thought of those around him and how unflattering those thoughts were.
Because I wanted him to find something genuine, but I could also have done with him not getting murdered along the way.
"Hachi… There's nothing wrong with being happy while also suffering. It's… It's healthy. To find love, and comfort, and support, and… And whatever you want to find with me. Haruno wouldn't begrudge you—"
"[Of course] she would," he cuts me off with a dismissive eye roll.
…
How can this man have three lovers?
"That was a joke," I inform him. "That was you making a joke about Haruno's character rather than making stupid assumptions about the woman I love."
He has the grace to look chastised.
And then he opens his mouth and ruins it:
"In my defense, it can be both a joke and an assumption—"
I glare.
He, blissfully, stops talking.
"Okay, seeing as I'm not having you ravish me here and now anymore, we're moving this conversation to a more comfortable place—"
"Did you vacuum—"
"Keep going. See how likely it will be for me to ever again wear any of your shirts."
"… If this is when you reveal to me that you've been a mind-reader all along, I feel like I must apologize for some pretty persistent thoughts I had every time you turned around to write on the blackboard."
I blink at him.
Then my cheeks tingle bad enough that it isn't hard to guess I'm blushing like a damn [schoolgirl].
Something that his slow smirk confirms.
"You're incorrigible," I mutter.
"I'm willing to give you as many tries as it takes until you give up," he answers.
Which makes me take a deep breath so that I can sigh in his face, but that makes my chest push harder against his, and that, in turn, makes me vividly remember that, for comfort's sake, I am not wearing a bra under my shirt.
Let's just say that the blush is staying in place for the foreseeable future.
"Come on, get off me—"
"Don't you mean 'get off [on] me—'"
"Not until we've had a talk."
"I was thinking more 'instead' rather than 'after.'"
"Such clever wordplay. I see that your Japanese grade is well-earned."
"What can I say? My teacher always has me [stand at attention."]
I blink.
Then I burst out laughing.
"Up. Up before you make me breathless in all the wrong ways," I manage to get out between peals of laughter.
And he smiles at me, mirroring the tautness pulling up the corners of my mouth before he [does] stand up, his absence above my chest about as disappointing as I knew it would be, so I hurry to take his hand and pull him toward my [perfectly vacuumed] couch… that I may need to replace at some point, given the complex the two brats have already instilled in me just because, no more than a couple of times, I may have gotten careless in my use of an ashtray.
But I vacuumed! I did!
"All right, let's get comfortable," he says in a tone that nobody rational would take as anything other than a statement of fact.
And I'm not surprised at all when he sits down and drags me to sit on his lap.
… Yeah. That tingling on my cheeks still hasn't left.
"Incorrigible," I mutter, trying not to meet his eyes as I lace my fingers behind his nape by sheer reflex and try not to be overly conscious of the rough feeling of his pants on the bare skin below my panty line.
"You've got a lifetime to try," he offers before kissing the side of my neck.
And there's… There's the tingling, the brief tightness in my chest, the butterflies in my stomach, and all sorts of things that I should never have felt for one of my students, never mind two plus an Iroha.
I'm still incredulously happy, even now. Even in the middle of everything going on. Even with my life thrown into a whirlwind that I can see no way out of and Haruno being stupidly un-Haruno. I'm still happier than I've been in years.
It helps that Miki seems to hate being unable to drink while pregnant a bit more after every one of my updates.
"I love you," I say, finally meeting his eyes yet again.
"I love you," he answers, making me feel defenseless, small, and at his mercy.
Even if I could crush him one-handed.
"See? Nothing wrong with that. That's… That's what I'm here for, Hachi. To make good times better and bad times bearable," I say, my smile still in place, even if a bit more fragile.
His hand is on top of my bare right thigh, his shirt-covered forearm along my left, his firm legs under my sensitive skin, his other hand caressing long circles over my back, his breath washing over lips that are still sensitive from his last kiss.
None of that compares to what his eyes do to me.
"No. That's what [we] are here for," he corrects me, lowering his tone yet again, making me take a sharp gasp that has me notice precisely how my nipples brush against my shirt and—
Wait.
"Why is your shirt collar stained with coffee?" I ask.
He blinks at me. Which is never a good sign.
"I… May have provoked Iroha's mother into sharing her cup of coffee in a topical way," he says, trailing off at the end before briefly licking his lips.
My eyes narrow.
"And what form did this provocation take?" I say as I stop clasping his nape and instead take the stained collar in my hands to examine it.
He licks his lips. Again.
"[Hachi."]
"I… was sleep-deprived and worried sick. I'm not responsible at all for what sleep-deprived Hachiman does. He's a reckless misfit, and not at all like me, a hot-blooded young delinquent who—"
"Just tell me you didn't seduce her," I mutter.
He blinks.
And [blushes].
"What the [Hell.]"
"No! It wasn't—I only was shirtless because I was washing the coffee before it stained! And me clasping her chin to make her look at me was perfectly innocent! Platonic, even! And not in a homosexual way!"
"What the—[shirtless?] Clasping her chin? [Homosexual?]"
"Iroha saw! She can confirm nothing happened!"
"Did she [record it?"]
"She asked if she should bring in her lighting rig!"
"You—her lighting—I'm going to murder—"
"I told her very explicitly that I didn't want to seduce her mother, and the idea only went through my mind after she said her mother is a depressed Christmas Cake in need of emotional support!"
"You're not making this any better!"
"It's not my fault that I love cake! Cake is designed to be loved! That's why it has so many calories—[ghuck]!"
"The last thing I want you to do right now is to imply that I'm [overweight]," I say as I slowly retract the pointer finger buried in his solar plexus and repress the need to yell 'Atatatatatata!' like somebody who wanted to be an acupuncturist but was born in the wrong era.
"I mean…" he says, staring down at [my cleavage].
…
I'm going to murder him.
"Off," I say.
"You're the one sitting on top of me," he predictably protests.
"Not you, [your shirt]."
"Ah. Is this sexual harassment? Because I'm okay with sexual harassment if the alternative is physical violence."
"I'm going to wash the stain away and calm down [before] I resort to physical violence."
"That doesn't sound as hot as I thought it would. Could you repeat the line while looking like you're about to reach for a kitchen knife and then praise a very nice boat?"
"… Yes. Yes, I think I can," I say, finally giving up and unbuttoning his shirt on my own, revealing the well-defined chest under the white fabric and getting distracted from my [homicidal rage].
Fortunately, he lets up on the banter as he stares at my hands with a weird focus that doesn't calm down my inner turmoil at all, so I follow his lead and remain silent until the last button is undone, his shirt is tugged out of his pants, and I meet his eyes as I push the shirt down his shoulders, baring more recent muscle to me, the smooth skin that my fingers glide over, and the eyes I stare into yet again, making me feel anything but small. Making me feel [coveted].
I wet my lips and try not to smile nervously at the man whose attraction to me couldn't be more obvious unless his pants stopped being in the way.
And then I finally take his shirt off with his help as he leans forward and away from the sofa's backrest—
"I don't know how I feel about having my bare back against this," he says, looking back at the slowly inflating indent behind him.
My eye twitches.
And another finger stab follows.
This time, I [do] mutter the 'Atatatatatata.'
***
Coffee stains are a bit tricky, but as a single woman who sometimes had to grade tests well past what one would consider sane working hours, I'm not unfamiliar with the process.
Lukewarm water to soak the stain into, enough dishwashing detergent to have my kitchen sink filled with foam, and white vinegar. Keep scrubbing and check just how much of the beige remains until it's clear that the process isn't doing any good.
Then rinse with hot water and, for the piece de resistance, blot whatever remains with rubbing alcohol.
I lift the wet piece of clothing up to critically examine it, and it seems like that did the trick. I can find a very faint line of color along the trim, but it's at that point where it's hard to know whether it's there or just your eyes seeing what they expect to see.
Much like, out of the corner of my eye, I see a pair of legs that should lead to a very nervous [boy] sitting on my sofa and awaiting the final form of my retribution.
Iroha's mother. [Really].
I take a deep breath and lower his shirt back to the sink, pouring more hot water over it so that it doesn't stink of alcohol when he goes to his home, the smell damning him far more than any stain would.
And then, as warmth washes down my arms, right below the rolled-up sleeves of my own shirt, I let myself think.
Iroha's mother.
Which means he has met her, talked to her, and done whatever it is that he does.
In this case, helping Iroha overcome something that has haunted her for years.
I bite the inner part of my cheek, trying very hard to hold back the smile. To just think about the facts rather than what my intuition tells me. What my knowledge of [him] tells me.
I give up.
I smile as tingling warmth washes down my chest. As more and more of what he makes me feel turns from frustration and anger toward love and affection.
And…
I look to my left, at the pair of feet still resting on my carpet, the rest of him hidden by the corner of the kitchen wall.
Then I look down at the shirt I'm washing.
His shirt.
And I… I'm a moron. A fickle woman who falls in love too easily. Who wants to love too much, too fast, too deep.
But… But sometimes, your faults aren't that bad. Sometimes, you just find the one person in the whole world who needs you just as you are.
Sometimes, it's three of them.
So I let his shirt go, and I slowly and hesitatingly reach for the buttons of my own.
I undo them, one by one, pausing at every stretch of skin revealed as if I was once again teaching Iroha how to strip for a lover. As if I had the eyes of both of them following my hands with yearning and hunger.
I shudder when I reach the last one, the ghost of their memory making me thrill as I shrug and let my shirt slide down my arms and caress my back and behind before falling to the charcoal-grey floor of my kitchen.
I bend down, my hands on the waistband of my panties, and I pull down, slowly rolling the white piece of clothing along my legs, the elastic digging just enough into my flesh to make me bite my lip as I still remember that first lesson and how it ended. With me on my knees and Hachi [desiring me].
With Iroha kissing my breasts with his cock in her mouth.
I'm already wet. Wet, and aching to be filled because of something that only rivals the eroticism of everything that came after while effortlessly surpassing all that came before other than two drunken, confused kisses that would lead to too much regret over the years.
I close my eyes as I reach my sock-covered toes, pinching the two big ones as I just breathe in and out, letting the emotions and memories flow through me. Not holding onto them. Not pushing them away. Just… just letting them pass.
And I'm both surprised and happy to discover that only the good ones remain.
That I'm still Shizuka Hiratsuka, the broken, emotional mess of an unmarriageable woman.
But that I love, and I'm loved.
So my smile isn't as bright as it could be, as unambiguously, uncomplicatedly happy.
But it's still there.
And it's still genuine.
I bend back up, inhaling as I do, through the whole motion of straightening my body before I step out of my discarded panties.
And I grab his shirt from the sink.
The wet cloth feels warm on me for a brief moment before cooling down in the morning air, and it's a struggle to push my hands down sleeves that stick closed. It's uncomfortable to put on, every stretch of it adhering to my skin and fighting me until it hangs heavily down my breasts, dripping water on my tiled floor as I fight to pull my hair somewhat in place.
And then I button it up.
Until it sticks closed. Until semi-transparent fabric reveals the top of my breasts in patches of pink broken through by wrinkled, white cloth sticking up from the cold adhering to me. Until my hardened nipples all but reveal each and every rugosity of my skin, pushing through a cold, wet, and heavy shirt.
[His] shirt.
And I know how he will react. I know precisely what he thought the one time he walked into my bedroom to find Iroha and me wearing his clothes. I know the hungry look in his eyes, the incredulous, stunned bolt of desire right before he focuses and sends something my way that makes me shiver.
I know it.
I know it, and I want more of it.
So I slowly walk out of my kitchen, on my tip toes, my legs as straight as if I were wearing stiletto heels, my feet one in front of the other as I sway my hips in a way that's about as subtle as his usual social graces.
"There, the stain's gone. Your shirt should dry up in a few minutes," I say, trying not to sound as cocky as my smile.
Finding his eyes.
And [shivering].
==================
This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/all-right-fine-ill-take-you-oregairu.15676/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 104 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).
Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Brain-chan's intrusions into Hachiman's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance
Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!
Paragraph comment
Paragraph comment feature is now on the Web! Move mouse over any paragraph and click the icon to add your comment.
Also, you can always turn it off/on in Settings.
GOT IT