Fanservice.

Fanservice has often been vilified, the herald of poor writing, of a show racing to the lowest common denominator. A clear sign of the creators running out of ideas and bogging down the narrative with anything at all that won’t force them to advance a plot or a character arc while still keeping the fans engaged, no matter how much the very forces of nature may need to be subverted to grant yet another gratuitous pantyshot or a nipple slip that will only be uncensored from divine rays of light in the (ironically enough) Blu-ray release.

It’s an argument that has merit. After all, it’s not like multi-million franchises spanning several forms of media would ever revolve around a moron screeching about his love of breasts in the middle of climactic battles. Not at all. Indeed, every anime and manga worthy of respect, the classics themselves, will go out of their way to make things as sexless as possible.

Never mind the lesson about thermal expansion from a girl wearing a bikini in a scene that reveals her status as an actual genius feeling out of place in her new environment. Never mind how the emotionless albino having her chest groped shows us precisely how little she cares for herself and how much for a person with a sinister ascendence over her. And let’s not even mention the Christmas Cake mother figure revealing a hint of her tragic backstory and motivation when a scar on her belly is shown in the ever-present hot springs episode.

Yes. Definitely. Fanservice has no place at all in a serious anime, manga, light novel series, visual novel, JRPG, or doujin circle. It’s something to be decried, to be vigilant of, to ever be on guard against.

And that wariness is precisely the only reason why I can’t tear my eyes away from Shizu wearing a wet shirt.

My wet shirt.

“Hachi?” the woman standing on her tiptoes, with her left, still socked foot right in front of the right one and her hips cocked to the side, asks while looking at me with a measure of hesitance.

There’s no reason to be afraid, Shizu. Don’t you see? I’m just very invested in the integrity of the narration about to unfold.

That is, the wet shirt clinging to your breasts? It’s transparent enough to show a shade of flushed pink washing over them and two darker peaks pushing through, but it doesn’t quite cross the line that would require mysterious wafts of steam to float in front of those darker patches, or almost vertical beams of yellow, opaque light shooting across your living room in a display that would be more at home in a battle manga.

No, the cloth itself does a perfectly adequate job of hiding things from sensitive audiences.

“Are you… Are you all right?” she says.

All right? I’m stupendous. Fantastic. Peachy.

‘You’re kinda scaring me.’

Go away. I won’t be needing you in the next couple of hours.

“Hey, are you really—eep!” she says.

And then she says no more.

Because I’m holding her wrists above her, pushing her against the wall that ensconces her fridge, the low murmur of a quiet engine drowned by my ragged breathing as my chest moves faster than it ever does when I’m not challenging a riajuu to a marathon, my bare skin pressing against my wet shirt on her breasts, the cold fabric sticking to me and her, her stiff nipples poking at me.

She’s arched back, her shoulders against the wall, her face below me.

“I’m not responsible for what’s about to happen,” I growl.

“Oh gods, no, you aren’t,” she answers as she shivers against me.

And I take her lips.

She doesn’t fight me, her arms tensing and relaxing, at times falling limp from my grasp on her wrists as her lips open to let me in, to let me take her tongue with mine, tasting her as I shove my leg between her bare ones, the lower part of the shirt dripping cold water over my pants in irregular rivulets that, in my fevered mind, seem to synchronize with the weak struggling of a body I know to be stronger than mine.

Except now, it isn’t.

Not when I’m like this. When she is like this.

Now I can forcefully take her left arm and pull it to her right so I can grab both wrists with a single claw, my right one now free to roam down. To trail the wet, unbuttoned sleeve and trace along the bulging wrinkles, pushing them to stick against the pebbled skin of her arm before I reach her armpit and make her jerk upward, against me.

Against my leg shoved between hers.

She moans.

And I almost lose my mind when I realize she’s not wearing any underwear.

‘I could argue you already—’

Shut up.

‘Yes, sir.’

Shizu shudders beneath me, like she did ages ago, years ago, seconds ago, on a teacher’s room right after I banged my shin on a traitorous coffee desk. She yields to me like she did at that moment, when I poured into our first kiss as much of me as I dared, when I shared with the one woman who remade me the man I had become thanks to her.

I trail lower, and I surround her waist, the shirt hanging loose now stuck between her lower back and my inner wrist, the trace of cold inciting yet another shiver that has her chest press even harder against me.

I take my tongue out of her mouth and suck her lower lip between mine, pressing on it as hard as I can get away with my teeth, sawing side to side without damaging the sensitive skin as her left leg leaves the carpeted floor and wraps around me, reaching my own bare back, above the waistline of my pants.

Pulling me toward her.

Struggling against myself, I suck harder on her lip and let go of her arched back.

So I can undo my pants.

She writhes under me, protesting wordlessly when I pull away the slightest amount that I need to maneuver my hand to tug at my button and lower my zip. To pull my pants down with one hand as I keep her pinned to the wall. To then struggle with getting the elastic of my boxers past my erection.

The wetness she’s dripped over my legs makes the fabric stick to me, makes it harder for me to get my pants down.

But I manage.

And she whines when she feels my cock push up between her legs, finding wetness that has nothing to do with the water still dripping from my shirt and tracing gleaming rivulets over her thighs, shifting with the morning light behind me, the fluorescent tubes in her kitchen, and the rapid pulse apparent on parts of her toned legs.

Not as rapid as mine.

I let go of her lip, and I can see how red the flesh is, how swollen.

But not for long as I once again meet her eyes, and I fall for silver and steel all over again.

“You’re beautiful,” I say.

“Hachi,” she pleads.

I dive to the side of her neck, going as low on her flushed skin as the widely open collar allows me to, not a hint of a beige stain to be found in the brief moment I take to examine her domestic prowess before a satisfied grin stretches my lips and I find the spot where the corded muscle of her shoulder meets her long, slender neck.

I bite down.

And suck.

Hard and deliberate, intending to mark her. To make her see who she belongs to the next time she strips in front of a mirror. To have her reach up with tremulous fingers to my proof of ownership.

To have her smile incredulously at my brand on her skin like I know she will.

Because I first kissed her in that room. I first showed her what she means to me in a burst of unrestrained passion and reckless vulnerability.

I first told her that it was inevitable.

And I’ll show her.

How serious I was. How right I was. How right we are.

I’ll show her.

Today, tomorrow, and every day of the rest of our lives.

Because as I pull away from her neck and stare down at her once again, I find wide eyes that once were behind the translucent window of the nurse’s office, on the other side of it. On the wrong side of it.

On the side that I wasn’t in.

But there’s not a door between us. There’s only wet clothing without enough air flowing over it for the water to cool.

There’s only my girlfriend, the woman I love, wearing my shirt.

And it is, was, and will be inevitable.

“Stop… looking at me like that,” she mutters as she twists under me and her covered nipples drag over my chest. As she tries to look away and fails to.

“How. How am I looking at you?” I say, the words coming out with no thought at all, just sheer impulse.

She doesn’t even blink.

“Like I’m more than I am,” she breathes out.

I smile.

And lean down to lick over the colored spot I left behind just a moment ago, licking up her neck until I reach her ear to mutter inside of it with as heated a whisper as I can manage:

“I’m not looking at you like you’re more than you are. Just like you’re more than you believe.”

A soft line. A caring line. A tender line.

Except I’m throbbing between her legs, the upper side of my shaft pressing against her wet, heated folds, her breasts under me like when I laid her on her kitchen counter moments ago.

Her wrists shift in my grip, almost struggling, but I’m not Haruno, and I couldn’t stop her if she really resisted me. If she fought me at all.

I wouldn’t stop her.

Like I didn’t chase her when she left. When she walked away from the other side of a closed door.

Because I only chased her when somebody told me that it was all right. That I should. That I could.

Even if that somebody was Haruno Yukinoshita.

And it still feels wrong. Indecent. To have a moment of shared happiness while she suffers. But I remember Iroha’s relief at being able to share warmth and love with me not even an hour ago. I remember how guilty I felt at having deprived her of the comfort I know she finds in my arms.

And… And Shizu’s right. Haruno wouldn’t want us to suffer when she’s done everything she can so that we won’t. When she’s pulled her own sacrificial play for us. To make us possible.

“Hachi…” she murmurs before she twists aside to kiss my left temple, clumsily reaching as far as she can without breaking my hold on her.

Something clenches in my chest.

And I pull her away from the wall.

She stands in front of me, once again taller, once again making me look up into steel and silver even as I stretch not to let go of her wrists.

My cock still presses up between her legs. Without entering her despite our clear yearning.

But I just stand. I just stand and look into those eyes of hers, at the beautiful woman who, even without her long coat and a drifting trail of purple smoke, looks ready to be turned into the promotional poster for a movie that will always have hard alcohol, fast cars, and lonely music.

Into the messy human being who always complained about her failures and loneliness, who always shared too much with students too young to do anything but look uncomfortable during her rants.

The woman who saved me.

She twists her right hand, and a slim wrist slides from my grasp even as the left one remains.

She cups my cheek.

And she looks down at me.

Smiling at the young malcontent. At the eyes that never learned to disguise contempt or whatever mood took him. At the boy who never cared to hold back whatever he felt like sharing on rambling compositions that rarely stayed on topic.

The one that she dragged into the one room in the world where he could become… me.

“I love you,” she whispers, a meaningless, trite line that has been repeated so often and in so many times and places. Three words that will never be as impactful as they should have been when first uttered. The refuge of those who don’t know what to say.

“I love you,” I answer. The line that she’s offered me. The three words that are true and genuine. My life and my world.

I almost cry.

And her smile quivers as her thumb traces my cheekbone. As she unmakes me with that warmth and caring that I always feared I’d never find. As she makes me hers all over again.

I close my eyes. Just for a second. Just for a moment of cowardice as I cannot feel even a bit more than I’m already feeling for fear that something in me will break irreparably, beyond even her power to mend.

It’s a stupid fear. A baseless fear.

Because she already healed me.

Her lips find mine, and they’re softer and less demanding than I was. They reassure me and soothe me rather than inflame me.

But I’m still hard between her soft thighs, holding up her hand, and she’s wearing my shirt.

So I unbutton the already open collar, our bodies shifting as my hand comes between us, Shizu all but swaying as she tries to keep our kiss going while offering me enough space to undo the next button.

And then the next.

And the next.

My arm is shoved between her soft breasts as I reach the last button I intend to undo, the one that allows me to tug my shirt farther open, pulling the closed buttons up until they press under the chest spilling free from wet fabric.

Pressing against me.

I shudder when I finally feel her wet nipples against my skin, with nothing between us. When I push forward and they sink into pliant flesh. When she stumbles back, and my hand flies to her ass to keep her steady and against me even as her shifting thighs work along my cock.

“I love you,” I say as soon as her lips lose mine, my warm breath washing over both of us.

And I open my eyes.

Her smile is… quivering. Hesitant. Halfway into becoming something else, from disbelieving joy to a hint of uncertainty.

I pull her closer, my hand sinking into her toned ass, and she whimpers as our hips collide and I walk forward, against her, pushing her not toward the wall but the counter where we started all of this.

“Hachi, if you aren’t in the mood to—” she says.

I almost laugh.

“I am with you,” I say.

And I push her back.

The hand on my cheek flies to my nape, holding herself up, hanging from me when she stumbles against the counter behind her, the grey expanse of granite that separates the cooking area from the foyer of her apartment, where we sat down to chat, share a breakfast, and just be happy and together.

I push her up, my hand on her ass helping her jump on top of it before I lower her to lie down, sprawled on it like when I greeted her and decided to kiss her as thoroughly as she deserves.

And now she’s looking at me, once more below me. Defenseless.

My wet shirt clings to her skin in alternating patches of white and pink, her bare breasts framed by it, a struggling button under the always enticing line of her cleavage.

Her legs are open.

And I’m between them.

I keep looking at her, at the beautiful woman lying on top of her wild hair, the black far glossier than the stone below her as it shines in waves of shimmering light reflected at me like the love in her eyes.

She opens her mouth, possibly to say something about what she feels for me, or what I make her feel, or if I’m sure about this, or…

Or a thousand things that I don’t need words for. That she doesn’t need words for.

Because she’s not Iroha. We don’t have that… that thing I have with the Strongest Junior that was born of our trust before there was any love between us.

But she’s Shizu.

And we have this.

So I smile, and she closes her mouth to return something encouraging and accepting that has me slow down and breathe, taking in her scent and the piquant note that mingles with it when she desires me before I slowly pull my hips away from her and my trapped member drags against the underside of her sex hard enough that her parted lips show me her clenched teeth as she hisses at the stimulation.

At the feeling of the upper side of my shaft dragging across her open labia.

Until it’s my head pressing against her. Between those very lips. Against a pulsing entrance of heat and wetness completely unlike what makes her skin shine under the kitchen’s lights.

I push. Not enough to go in, just a bit. Just what it takes to have her whine in protest when I stop, looking at me like I’m being terribly unfair.

My smile changes.

And I push.

This time, I go in smoothly, nothing stopping me when I slide inside of her as she lets out a surprised gasp that makes me bite my lip to avoid saying something horribly stupid as I finally let go of her trapped wrist, only to then…

To clasp her hand, my fingers interlaced with hers, the gesture so intimate that it makes me feel indecent as the absence of her body plays a ghostly caress on my chest.

“I love you,” I repeat with a criminal lack of originality.

Then her gasping surprise melts into a warm, wonderful smile, and my heart clenches at the absolute unfairness of so much beauty being gifted to a single woman.

So I pull back.

But the smile remains, and so I can’t avoid rushing back in.

And it should be, at this point, something slow and sensual. It should be me taking my time, engraving my touch on her as thoroughly as I did my mark on her neck.

But she closes her eyes as she bites her still swollen lip, a spark of joy flashing across her face when I bottom out, and her breasts bounce up on top of her.

Her legs close around me, her heels hooked over my tailbone.

And I can no longer stop.

So I go fast, but not hard, crashing against her body, making her sway and writhe on top of now wet grey stone, my shirt still clinging to her skin tight enough to make me jealous, her breasts shifting in interesting ways as my buttons do their best to keep them together even as they spill over the white fabric, but leaving the middle of them touching in a tight, maddeningly enticing line that I barely refrain from fucking yet again because I’m already inside of her. Because she takes pleasure and joy from me being inside of her.

Because of how beautiful she looks when she’s this happy.

I regretfully let go of her ass to caress her breast. To hold the left one steady as the right one bounces freely, to dig my own set of shadowed lines on the soft flesh with fingers that reach just far enough to feel the firmness and the softness. To feel her heartbeat as frantic as my own.

Her eyes beg me, demanding something from me.

I lean down farther over her, my cock as deep inside of her as I can reach, stopping for a few agonizing seconds as I kiss up the free breast that only moves with her rough breathing and the shivers of sensation that travel across her whole body.

I force myself to take my time. To avoid looking at her pleading eyes and what I’ll do when I see them, and I taste as much of her as I can, licking up droplets of water that still hadn’t dried on the exposed globe, leaving trails of my saliva instead, making her shine in another way, one that’s entirely mine.

My cock throbs inside of her, and she clenches around me.

And I, finally, reach the stiff nipple that’s been begging for my touch and swallow it, tracing around it with my pointed tongue as I turn around over the soft flesh until I do meet her eyes.

Her eyes begging me past an open, gasping mouth.

Something snaps inside of my head.

And I push.

I was already inside of her, but I make her body bounce along the counter, a yelp coming out of her lips as her fingers tighten around mine before I pull out just the barest amount that I need to thrust back in, the yelp turning into a gasp, then a whimper, then a moan, then—

“Hachi! Hachi!”

My name.

So I stare into her eyes. Into steel, silver, beauty, and love.

And I fuck her.

I give her my all, everything that I have, my whole strength.

I push far inside of her, touching something with my tip each time I grind against her hips.

I work hard between her legs until she strains to follow me, the hold of her feet on my back loose enough that it feels like they’ll fall off me.

I push myself, faster and harder, until my muscles scream at me. Until the air coming in from my nose is not enough, and I have to breathe around the nipple carefully trapped between my teeth, my cheek pressing down on her breast to keep it steady, her softness almost a contradiction to the heat and pressure enveloping me down below.

Then her fingers tighten against mine yet again, and her other hand reaches to my hair and pushes me harder against her breast and trapped nipple, her teeth clenched as something keening still escapes past them.

She closes her eyes.

And her whole body jerks under me, her back arching up, her hips finally answering my demanding thrusting rather than just receiving me as she moves in sharp, short lines along the cock that never leaves her entirely, that always reaches as far inside of her as there’s to reach.

“Cum! Cum inside me!” she demands.

And I close my lips around her nipple and suck on it as hard as I can before thrusting one last time, meeting her rising hips and pushing her down, pinning her to the counter below as she writhes in desperate half circles around my shaft, rubbing her clitoris against me so hard that I can’t help but return her movements until I, finally, let go.

The first jet flies out of me hard enough that I could swear I hear it splash inside of her as she suddenly goes still, her mouth open and her eyes looking up into the ceiling above.

Then there’s a second, and she screams, her fingers digging into my hair, her nails into the back of my hand, her heels on my lower back.

Then there’s more, but it’s lost in the wave of fire consuming everything that isn’t Shizu.

***

Her kitchen counter has many virtues that, after today, I’ll be the first to extoll.

Being the size of a king mattress is not one of them.

“Stop sulking,” she says with a giggle in her tone as she keeps combing my hair with ten soothing fingers.

“I’m not sulking,” I say, being perfectly factual.

“There’s nothing wrong with you resting on top of me rather than the other way around,” she says, trying her best to change the current, factual state of affairs.

“Never said there was,” I mumble between a set of perfect breasts that have the virtue of not being hidden behind a blue bathrobe.

“And now you’re thinking something rude just to make me let the topic go…” she grumbles.

“To be fair, it’s very unusual that somebody complains about the rudeness of thoughts.”

“It’s about as rare that somebody can show their level of inner discourtesy without speaking.”

I turn around over a magnificent cleavage still held in place by a strained, dare I say heroic, button and look at her with a raised eyebrow.

She returns it with her own.

And, given the stalemate we find ourselves in, it’s no wonder that we end up laughing.

 

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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!