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.

 

 

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This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ, where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon. 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).

Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, 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 Amazon. Thank you for reading!