It is said that men are geared towards tunnel vision due to our hunting instincts. Our eyes face forward, not to the sides, so it is perfectly natural (in the most literal sense of the word) that a dense harem protagonist will miss the clues being dropped left and right by the more subtle girls of the cast while his gaze remains nailed to the white piece of fabric bared by the clumsy dojikko defenselessly exposed in front of him. It is just human (biological) nature.

In that vein, it needs to be stated in no uncertain terms that I hadn’t planned to meet Iroha this morning. I had, in fact, planned to come early to school so I could confront Shizu before classes started, and so that was my mindset (understandably mono-focused) at the time.

So it should come as no surprise that, when I see my Christmas Cake teacher come down the corridor, stop dead as our eyes meet, and promptly turn around and flee, my reaction is less ‘cool, collected senior skillfully evading a nosy junior’ and more ‘there is nothing suspicious going on, Isshiki, now I am going to run in that direction for absolutely no apparent reason.’

“Senpai! What the He--heck?!” My arm jerks back due to Isshiki still keeping her iron grip and I nearly dislocate my shoulder. I need to start exercising. Maybe I can convince Zaimokuza to go together to a gym and get a group discount? Or a discount from the gym if I promise them I won’t bring Zaimokuza anymore?

“Isshiki! Let go, I will explain later, I promise!” Curse you, mouth, you are always getting us in trouble. Oh, Isshiki is looking at me as if I am suspicious. And now she’s putting on that foxy smile of hers that makes her look suspicious.

“Of course, Senpai. I can see you are in a hurry, and I would never get in your way, so I will just be expecting a thorough explanation later on,” she says, the very picture of a demure, deferring junior.

Very suspicious.

“Fine, I will take it. Now, let go.” She does, and I am off to pursue Shizu.

Which is a bit… peculiar, as I am chasing down someone who is very much trying to look as if she’s not running away in case one of the few early students or another teacher catches sight of her, while I am also trying not to appear as if I am chasing her, in case anyone who can call the police or pull out a pepper spray does what comes naturally.

Basically, we are kind of rushing a bit, but not too much, while trying to maximize our advantage over each other, given our self-imposed limits on our speed. And suddenly I have a privileged insight into the art of the slow blade and the terrifying skill of Paul Atreides, scion of House Atreides, ruler of Arrakis, Emperor of the universe. Meaning I finally understand how silly it would have looked.

Yes, by all means, try to stab me slowly. See how that works out. This has now become my favorite way to not die against a fictional character.

And then Shizu reaches the stairs, looks around to see they are deserted, and starts running to the next floor, proving in practice that speed is actually a factor in any physical confrontation.

“Ms. Hiratsuka! Wait!” I raise my voice as much as I dare as I start taking the steps two at a time. She almost stops when she hears me, but picks up the pace quickly enough.

“We need to talk!” I insist, using the most dreaded phrase by men anywhere.

“No, we don’t! Everything is just fine!” I believe the gender roles have been inverted in this scenario. Which is a relief, because a girl chasing a fleeing boy is much more socially acceptable than the reverse.

“Shizu, stop!” She stumbles, and I almost catch up with her before she regains her step.

“Don’t call me that!” At the pace she’s going, we are gonna run out of stairs to keep this scene going.

“Make me!” I gasp out, my lungs letting me know in no uncertain terms how much they despise me.

“Don’t tempt me!”

“That’s the whole plan!”

“Wha—” She starts to turn around, red-faced and quick of breath, and I finally catch up to her.

And so, naturally, I kiss her.

It is rough, my hands pawing at her sides to make her face me, my neck stretching to make up for the height difference, my breath forcing me to start and stop in maddening pauses. It is clumsy, my exertion and eagerness making my movements frantic and unfocused. It is hungry, a whole night of longing and expectations pushing me forward.

It is perfect.

Shizu lets out a moan against me before she catches herself and backs away, climbing the stairs backward, and I press forward, our lips somehow not separating (something that seems quite unlikely without her active cooperation). At one point, I overtake her, turning her around and going one step higher than her before I start pulling her up the stairs, my hands on her neck and her back. And then, thankfully, we do run out of stairs to keep the scene going.

This would be an excellent time for a fade-to-black and transitioning to both of us smoking a cigarette.

“Hachi—Hikigaya, you can’t just do… that,” she says, bewildered, flushed, panting. I am tempted to take a picture and send it to Haruno. No, I don’t know why either.

“I am pretty sure I just did.” Cocky smiles don’t suit me, I am sure. This would have been the perfect line for the ikemen character to break down the barriers keeping him from his victim—I mean, destined true love. Speaking of which…

I turn us around at the landing at the top of the stairs, and push Shizu back against the door to the rooftop just before I slam my hand against the wall at her side and lean toward her. She looks at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

“Did you… Did you just kabedon me, Hikigaya?”

“It was listed as the top fantasy for single women in a recent survey.”

“Do you realize it works much better when the man is taller?”

“If it worked much better than this, I think I would be calling an ambulance right about now.” Power of the cocky smile, don’t fail me now!

She snorts, which turns into a chuckle, which turns into full-blown laughter. What is it with me, beautiful older women, and making them laugh when they are far too near?

“All… All right, fine, it is a fantasy,” she concedes, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Finally, some recognition. “Thanks for fulfilling that for me, Hikigaya. Now let me go before we get in trouble.” I frown at her request, but also at something else.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” She looks confused.

I lean forward on my tiptoes, my chin tucked against her shoulder, my cheek caressing hers, and I breathe against her ear. “Stop saying my… Just… Just call me Hachi?”

Turnabout is fair play, after all.

I lean back just enough to catch her reaction and I see the whole sequence go off: visceral confusion, recognition of what she said to me yesterday, a flare of indignation at the brief suspicion I am mocking her. And then she turns her head just enough to look me in the eye.

And she sees me staring back—raw, naked vulnerability, a man that can’t put on a mask for fear he won’t be able to take it off. Sees how… how utterly fragile I can be. I hate myself that bit much for it, but it’s all I can offer. All I am.

And she kisses me.

“Hachi.” She moans my name as she peppers my face with light-feather kisses.

“Hachi,” she whispers, as she does something to my neck that makes me roll my eyes back and try not to moan.

“Hachi.” Her fingers thread through my hair and she pulls me against her, hungry lips devouring and being devoured by my own.

“Mine,” I growl as my hands run under her vest, pulling her against me till our bodies mash against one another, her soft curves flattening to my own shape. She moans at that, as much at the word as at the sensation. I start unbuttoning her vest, much less patient with the frustrating piece of clothing than yesterday, and soon reach her cotton blouse. I should hesitate, stop, ask for permission. And then I remember a silhouette turning around behind ground glass.

And so I don’t.

I unbutton her shirt and pants as quickly as I am able, silencing any protest with hungry kisses that she can’t help but return, her neck craned down to offer me easy access to her lips, her tongue, her everything. She flinches back in surprise when I finally manage to start fondling her over her bra, the stiff fabric insufficient to stop me from enjoying her softness, her shape, her weight, but she soon enough starts moaning harder and faster. Weak spot located. Hit it for massive damage.

I push the cups of her bra upwards, unwilling to try and decipher the arcane engineering required to unclasp these contraptions (or so the cliché would have me think, and I am not about to put it to the test given the current circumstances), and I finally, at last, manage to get a glimpse of Ms. Hiratsuka’s breasts after having speculated about them for far too long (seeing her in a bikini didn’t help—at all).

And I finally stop my assault.

Shizu stands before me, her clothing in absolute disarray, her face flushed, her breathing erratic. Beautiful as I have ever seen her. And her breasts… I know it’s uncouth, that it doesn’t do me any favors if I want her to see me as a mature man rather than a growing boy, but…

They are… I…

Dammit, Zaimokuza, where is that thesaurus when I need it?!

“So… You like them?” she asks, shy, flustered, slightly turned in profile.

My left hand takes her waist, my right lifts her left breast—pale, smooth skin capped by a pink nipple the size of the tip of my pinky finger and half as long, standing with a slightly upward tilt—and I begin to kiss the skin between her breasts, going up with every kiss as my fingers sink into the softest thing I have ever felt. Her scent surrounds me, envelops me, inebriates me, and as her moans start once again, I reach her neck, where I demonstrate I was paying attention by giving her a thorough rendition of what she did to me just seconds ago.

She raises a hand to her mouth, biting her index finger as her eyes clench shut, and I know I must be doing something right (which is a relief, because I still don’t know where half of these ideas are coming from) so I raise my head, nibble on her earlobe, and whisper in her ear, “I love them. They are yours.” And then I slip my tongue in her ear, playing with it as if I was kissing her mouth.

She sags against the door, her knees buckling, opening to let me stand between them.

I press forward, my thigh brushing where her legs meet, and she jerks her head back hard enough she knocks against the door at her back. But she doesn’t protest, doesn’t even flinch, and keeps biting her finger as if it is the most delicious thing she has ever tasted, ecstasy written across her partly obscured features. So I keep fondling her breast with my right hand, playing with circling caresses and stronger pressure, sinking my fingers, and finally tweaking her nipple playfully as my mouth remains occupied with her ear. But I have another hand. And I would like to keep my pants dry.

I let my left hand trail down her stomach, barely brushing it as I feel her defined abs under a thin softness twitch at my teasing touch, so soft compared to what I am offering elsewhere, and I soon enough reach the elastic band of her panties. Neither it nor our positions are ideal, and my wrist strains as I slip my fingers inside the garment, but when I do… Oh, Shizu, you look so beautiful when you are this defenseless.

I think I may be an S. No, that doesn’t stand for “Shizu-maniac.”

… Not exclusively.

The wet heat that greets me inside her panties is yet another stroke to my ego, so I decide to return the favor. As gently as I am able, I cross the thin patch of soft, silken hair and reach a nub of tender, erect flesh that, according to my studies (Fate/Stay Night deserves to be enjoyed in the original format), should be able to do the job on its own without me risking a sprained wrist, so I start rubbing it in a smooth, circular pattern that—

And Shizu grasps my head, pulls me away from her ear, and kisses me harder than she has till now. Which is quite hard.

My head swims as her tongue invades my mouth and her muffled moans reverberate through our joined bodies. She hugs me against her, and I feel my hardness, uncomfortably bent down my pants, press against her, and I shiver, almost forgetting for a moment that I have my hands full.

Almost.

Her own enthusiasm only seems to fuel my desire to bring her over the brink, to show her I can give her this much, that I can be a man for her, even if only in this small measure. I pinch her nipple before rolling it between my fingers, and I press her clitoris down as my tongue stops being pushed around by her own and I turn the struggle into a dance, twisting and twirling around each other. I manage to open my eyes after realizing I had closed them at some point and I catch a glimpse of her, of her expression completely overcome by passion and lust, and it is a miracle I don’t ruin my pants there and then.

Instead, I jerk my hand, a movement unintentionally more intense than I thought (if thinking is even the right verb for what I am doing), and she comes.

A low whine is lost in the distance between her lips and my own, her eyes closed tighter as something that almost looks like pain due to sheer intensity paints her features. It is the first time I have seen a woman climax. The first time I have made a woman climax, and I am fascinated by everything of it. By the way her muscles go taut just before slackening, by the way she so desperately tries to hold back something she has no hope of stopping, by the way I, just for this second, seem to become the center of her world, the pivotal point upon which this all-consuming moment hinges.

I can’t wait for the second time.

Shizu slumps into my arms, and I desperately use all of my meager strength to hold her up (definitely going to that gym—just not with Totsuka). Her skin feels scorching, waves of heat wafting off her and carrying her scent, her very much changed scent, up into me. I kiss the top of her head, my hands gently rubbing her back under her clothes as I silently curse the strap of her bra that occasionally trips me up. I will need to practice with these things. Hopefully, in a way that doesn’t make Komachi ban me from her room.

It is over far too soon, as she straightens up, still flushed against me, and looks into my eyes.

“Hachi… I… This…” I can’t let her finish, so I hug her tighter, pressing into her body, and make a problem readily apparent. Her blush reaches (delightfully) the top of her breasts. “You are… very hard, aren’t you?”

“Oh, how surprising, making a beautiful woman come has gotten me on the brink of ruining my underwear and my reputation. How will my maiden heart stand this indignity.” Uh. It turns out sexual arousal and physical intimacy are not enough to hold back my snark. Truly, it is an unstoppable force of nature.

She punches my chest. Obviously. Turns out the violent tendencies of Hiratsuka Shizuka are also a force of nature.

(Though the punch is weak as a kitten’s paw, and that makes me proud and giddy in equal measure. But that shall remain a secret forever.)

“I could… should help with that?” She looks into my eyes, head tilted down, eyes lidded, small, unsure smile.

Something snaps inside my head. At this rate, I am going to run out of things to be snapped by cute, flustered Christmas Cakes. Such a horrible prospect.

I take hold of her hand and bring it down on top of my erection, pressing it against her.

“Yes. I think you should. It’s only polite to return the favor, isn’t it?” Her smile grows a bit cheekier at my attempt at suave, domineering talk. It is a skill I shall endeavor to practice.

“And we wouldn’t want to leave any evidence, would we?” she asks, leaving me confused before she drops down to the ground and unzips my pants, her eyes intent on what is about to be revealed.

Oh.

Oh.

Shizu maneuvers our bodies so I am the one leaning against the wall, and she hooks her hands into the waistband of both my pants and my boxers before pulling them down, so I am suddenly far more naked than I expected to ever be in front of a faculty member (weird dreams involving the whole assembly hall aside). Her eyes grow far more focused, intent on the rod twitching in front of her, and I expect her to make a comment about my size, my hardness, my readiness, or the huge dollop of precum hanging off my tip. Instead, she looks into my eyes as she takes hold of me (and I don’t let out a squeak at her overpowering touch, no matter what some ill-intentioned individuals—Yukinoshita—would have you believe), and she gathers said dollop with her tongue before visibly swallowing it.

I shudder. She smiles.

It is not a soft smile.

I do not say aloud ‘I think I need an adult,’ but my new mantra flashes through my brain in between the short bursts of coherent, conscious thought that I am allowed as soon as Shizu decides to take my glans between her lips, and her tongue starts devoting herself to reducing me to a drooling husk. I don’t want to be mind-broken the first time I get a blowjob, dammit!

I lean back against the wall and look at the ceiling to distract myself from Shizu’s enchanting eyes and her predatory smirk still visible from where it is comfortably perched on top of my erection, but the suspiciously off-white plaster can’t distract me from the intense, electric bursts of sensation shooting through my body from my groin. Almost of their own volition, my hands travel to the sides of Shizu’s head, and I find myself running one hand through silken hair while another plays with her ear, then I am rewarded by a muffled moan that draws my eyes back down to find hers closed in warm pleasure. The sight is enchanting enough I don’t even care about Iroha’s red face peeking from around the knee wall at the top of the stairs.

…

I feel I just overlooked something important.

Raising my sight from Shizu’s moaning, joyful face, I find myself staring straight into the eyes of the Strongest Junior, who looks not so much as if she has been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, but in the middle of the secure vault with Top Secret and Biohazard signs posted all over. I try to signal to her, with body language alone and an expressive gaze, what I think about her presence here.

‘You are interrupting. I will be very upset if Shizu stops what she’s doing before I am finished. Please be a dear and get the fuck out of here before this gets any messier.’ Which is more or less me jerking my head in the direction of the stairs frantically, but I think it gets the message across.

‘What? Senpai, are you saying that if Ms. Hiratsuka leaves before you finish, you will have me take over to make up for it? That you want to get me messy with your cum, painting over my innocent features with your seed as you climax all over my panting, red face? I am sorry, Senpai, but that is impossible, I could never let you soil me in such a way before even taking me on a date. It just is impossible. I hope you won’t be upset and will still let me act my voyeuristic fantasies on you.' Okay, fine, she’s just shaking her head so fast her hair is whipping about, but I somehow get the whole speech. Operant conditioning is a scary thing.

So, I am getting my bone marrow sucked out of me by my beautiful Christmas Cake teacher as my no less appealing cheeky junior peeks on us with an expression that is the furthest thing from disgust I have ever seen from her, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her without getting Shizu far too flustered to continue. Shizu, who, right now, has the hand that isn’t fondling my member buried in her pants as a drunken look blooms all over her gorgeous face, streaks of saliva and precum gathering around her lips.

…

I will take it.

There is something perverse about being made a spectacle, about knowing whatever you are doing and is being done to you is pure enjoyment for a third, uninvolved party. I know I should be offended at this first time with Shizu being intruded upon by somebody else, but as I look down at my teacher so eagerly lavishing me with her (wet, sloppy) attentions, as I see her body undulate under her own touch and her expression positively radiant at my own, I couldn’t care less about Iroha’s meddling.

I feel that’s a phrase I will regret at some point.

Even so, even if I try to dredge up some kind of grudge, of indignation, I just can’t. I like seeing Iroha watching me. I like seeing her watch Shizu so eagerly, with such focus, as Shizu’s hand accelerates along my shaft, jerking me forward toward her waiting lips. I find it hard to divide my focus between the two, but each time my eyes meet Iroha’s as Shizu gives me a quick lick or sucks just hard enough to make me shudder, the sensation is magnified. She knows what Shizu is doing to me, and is drinking it all with as much intensity as I am. Which is, obviously, a lot.

So it is no surprise that I just can’t hold back anymore.

“Shizu… Oh gods above… Shizu, I am going to cum. Right now!”

Her eyes finally open, pure joy radiating from them as she nods without letting me go, dragging my cock up and down with the motion, and that… that is enough.

I cum.

Burst after burst shoots out of me as my vision goes pure white, as I feel my fingers dig into her scalp and I somehow manage not to pull her down till I am cumming straight down her throat. I empty myself inside her mouth, and feel her swallow frantically, desperate not to let a single drop escape her lips, her eyes capturing my own each time I am able to see anything that isn’t the back of my own skull or blinding light. Finally, with a last, weak spurt and suction strong enough to coax out the dregs of my seed, my strength leaves me and I let myself slide down the wall till I am sitting on the ground, in front of my still masturbating teacher.

I lean forward, our foreheads touching, my hand caressing her neck, and I whisper, “Mine.”

And she cums.

It’s not as spectacular as the first time, not as intense, perhaps due to my lack of involvement or perhaps due to the circumstances and how uncomfortable she must be, kneeling on the ground, but seeing her eyes open so widely, the surprise written on her face as her orgasm overtakes her… It is beautiful. And it is only for me.

And… It may be corny, even if I don’t say it aloud. It may be hormones, teenage lust, desperation, and a thousand other things. But…

I feel it’s genuine.

We lay there, in silence, supporting one another for what feels like ages before, in silent agreement, we separate enough to make ourselves at least halfway presentable. I almost want to banter, to joke around in the middle of the euphoric mood, but instead we let a comfortable quiet remain, an unspoken something still connecting us after the passion of the moment has been spent. I smile, and so does she, and I don’t think any word could improve this.

She takes out some paper tissues and cleans my remains off her face, and I, not nearly half as busy, tuck her hair back in place before she shoots me a grateful look that makes my knees go weak(er). It is a serene silence, something to be savored.

And it is broken by Iroha’s voice.

“Tobe? No, you can’t go up. Student Council’s business. What? What business? Oh, you are offering to volunteer your help? How generous of you, Tobe, you just have to—don’t run away, you coward.”

It sounds like it is coming from the landing below us, but both Shizu and I know well enough that there is no Student Council business here and that Iroha just covered for us. The gratitude is somehow muted at Shizu’s flash of panic.

I try to take her hand to reassure her, but she’s already halfway down the stairs by the time I reach her, and we see Iroha idly playing with her phone. Shizu almost freezes before she decides to nonchalantly march down the stairs with me fumbling behind her in tow. It’s just as we reach Iroha that she tilts her phone just enough that I can see what is on the screen.

A picture of me making a very weird face as Shizu kneels between my legs.

I think I already said it, but at this point it bears repeating:

My illicit romance is messed up, as I expected.

It is an obvious yet easily overlooked fact that words that describe essentially the same concept apply almost exclusively to a select class of people and never the other. If a homeless man starts walking around the neighborhood talking about how the voices of the spirits are responsible for his unemployment, he is a “nutcase,” but if the very same man was an actual millionaire speaking about how his corporally-challenged friends gave him tips to get rich on the stock market, people would pay for the privilege of listening to his rambles and speak in awe about this “eccentric” genius. Much in the same vein, if a traumatized, billionaire bodybuilder decides to spend his rainy days posing on top of an assortment of gargoyles he is “brooding,” but if an unpopular teenager lies on his bed and covers his eyes with his arm after being rejected by the first woman he kissed, he’s “moping or “sulking.”

Truly, the thesaurus is yet another weapon of oppression wielded by society. Rise up in arms, fellow illiterates, destroy the overly flowery Zaimokuzas of the world!

My phone message tone rings, and I jump up from my bed.

It is not Ms. Hiratsuka’s number. My shoulders slump.

May as well read it.

“Hey, Hikigaya, this is Haruno, Yukino’s sister. I am in front of your house, come down.”

I blink in confusion before a cold shiver runs down my spine. Maybe I can fake being already asleep—

My phone screeches its merciless death toll once again: “Stop fidgeting in front of your window and come here NOW.”

I throw my uniform jacket on and rush down the stairs while elevating a prayer to Zaimokuza, Patron Saint of Those Who Will Die Virgins, so that he can spare me his own fate, and open the door. She is there, her back resting against a lamppost, cheerfully waving at me.

“Hey, Hikigaya! Good to see you, come over here!”

It would be less threatening if she was waving a bloody knife. Deliver me from the Yuno Gasais of this world, Saint Zaimokuza.

In front of me stands Haruno Yukinoshita, a beautiful, intelligent, clever, perceptive woman, much like her younger sister if she had about ten robot pilots less insecurities and trauma and about five kuuderes worth of unfathomable depths, a ruthless disregard for societal norms, and a tendency to amuse herself by playing to, or against, the expectations of others. It’s like Yukino’s and my own child has come back from the post-apocalyptic future wearing a killer android flesh as a disguise. I know said future would be post-apocalyptic because that would explain how Yukino and I even managed to think of having a child together.

She’s also, for reasons none of them have ever explained to me, one of Shizuka’s friends.

Which means I am about to confront the sister of my “cathetus” and friend of my “this better remain quiet,” who is also known for playing mind games with me because I am just that amusing. No, I am not nervous.

Nervous is a long, fond memory at this time.

“So, are you going to keep ogling me, or are you going to come over and have a nice, friendly chat,” she asks in a way that is neither nice nor friendly. I mean, she is smiling, sure, but most fish have a genetic memory that screams at them to run away when they see this many teeth.

Which is definitive proof that I must be dumber than fishes, because I am now walking toward her, lazily waving my arm and mumbling a studiously informal “Sup.”

There’s a flash of amusement before the knifey smile makes a comeback. “Oh, you know, not much. I just went out for drinks with a few of my friends and you’d never guess who I ran into.”

“The sample size of our mutual acquaintances who can legally drink is not exactly that big,” I deflect, with a tone so flat I can feel the medical team rush in with crackling defibrillators.

“Right. So it wouldn’t be a guess, but a deduction with a high likelihood of being correct. So I am right: you would never guess,” she presses on, with what would be a smug tone if “smug” had a lethal setting.

I resist the urge to sigh and try to loosen my shoulders. “… What did she say?”

“Well, that about clinches it…” The question must show in my eyes, because she quickly clarifies. “She didn’t name you, Hikki, she still had her guard up, even after drinking… however much she drank before I found her. You know, it’s usually fun to rib her about her bastard exes while she goes on a drunk rant, but… Not today. Today wasn’t fun at all.”

“I don’t even know what I did—”

“Of course you don’t.”

We keep silently looking at each other, and I start getting angry rather than nervous. This is the genius of the Yukinoshita family, the idol that Yukino can’t help but tear herself down over because she won’t ever measure up to her. This is the woman who has made me feel like a heel after her whole “codependency” revelation because apparently I am hurting my friends when I help them. This is the woman I fear as much as an older version of myself. She knows me.

And so, I kind of know her in turn.

“There’s something you want me to say, something you want me to believe has come from a deep revelation about my issues while you have planted the seeds without my knowing. You want me to tell you these words at the end of this conversation and act on them starting tomorrow morning,” I say, acid dripping from every syllable.

She looks at me, really looks, her eyes glinting under the yellow light of the streetlamp. And her smile softens and she chuckles—right before she just starts guffawing, loud peals of laughter making me feel strange coming from this beautiful woman (damn you, hormones!), and she claps my shoulders with both hands, coming uncomfortably closer to me (not the time, hormones!).

“I always forget how hilarious you are, Hikki. It almost makes it up for all the bullshit you are pulling right now.”

“We could get to the end of this much sooner if you started talking straight.”

“Yes, we could, but faster is not always better. Maybe I should have taught you a bit before I let you have your shot at Yukino?” The meaning of the line flies right over my head till it decides to do a one-eighty and dive-bomb me from behind. I feel my cheeks redden, and Haruno’s chuckle doesn’t make it better.

“Much as I would have appreciated your… instruction…” I can’t believe I am saying this with a straight face. “I am not sure how Yukinoshita would have taken it.”

“Another chance to try and one up her dearest, older sister? You would have died a happy man, Hikigaya.”

The blush is about to become an aneurysm. “I feel like I should call an adult.”

“I am an adult.”

Police? Yes, I would like to report a crime in progress…

“Though I think Hiratsuka would be cross with me if I deprived her of the chance to teach you herself…”

A bitter taste fills my mouth. “I think her pedagogical calling has cooled in that regard.”

“You really can be stupid, for such a smart man.”

“You really can be cryptic, for such a duplicitous woman.”

“Oh, if only I was four years younger…”

“That would have made you a year younger than me.”

“And how would it make you feel to have me calling you ‘senpai?’” The otaku in me nearly chokes on his tongue at the line. The male adolescent starts coughing as she claps my back. “Well, that’s my answer, I guess.”

“Right, enough dancing around; what do you want, Yukinoshita?” I ask, with all the authority left in me while I wipe my coughed saliva with my sleeve and try not to have my cheeks spontaneously combust. It’s not much, admittedly.

“Tell me what you think happened. In exchange, I will tell you what I think happened.” Straightforward, and apparently fair enough. So it is obviously a trap, but I am far too tired to look for it.

“Shizu went on one of her rants about how she will die an old spinster, I kissed her in the heat of the moment, and she was apparently fine with the idea. Then we decided to go to a less public place. I went first, and she…” I remember a silhouette through ground glass, long dark hair waving as she turned around, the sound of hard soles clacking against the floor fading into the distance. “And she didn’t come.” I lie. Haruno knows it, but she doesn’t care to press me.

“I asked you what you think happened, Hikki, not to give me a list of events,” she says, not unkindly.

“That I got dumped.”

“Right. That’s what I thought.” Her hands are still on my shoulders, their weight anchoring me in the moment and not on what I was feeling in my room just twenty minutes ago. For that much, I am grateful. “You are wrong, of course.”

“There’s not much wiggle room, Yukinoshita.”

“They call you a ‘monster of logic,’ don’t they? Tell me, Hikigaya, what happens when, in the most perfect logical framework you can imagine, you introduce false assumptions?”

I pause, looking at her, at eyes so often mischievous, so often mercilessly cold. “What don’t I know?”

She smiles, looking at me, at eyes so often dead, inexpressive. Hers are warm, mine are wet. “She never rejected you.”

“She didn’t come.”

“She didn’t. So she didn’t confront you, didn’t tell you she didn’t want you, didn’t reject you. She fled, so she didn’t have to. Now, does ‘Shizu’ strike you as the kind of person who would deliberately hurt you just to avoid being embarrassed?”

She doesn’t. No, not Shizu—oh gods, I just called her Shizu out loud, this is mortifying—she… Ms. Hiratsuka always goes out of her way for the members of the Service Club. She shamelessly plays favorites with us, especially with me, going out of her way to include me, to give details of her life beyond the professional, to be there when I break down. She would never hurt me for something as petty as mere embarrassment, not when she has embarrassed herself plenty enough on my behalf and in front of me.

“You are starting to get it. Shizuka is not a monster of logic, Hikki, but she may very well be a monster of duty. She is a moral person, willing to always go above and beyond what is expected of her for others, always giving more than taking. So…” she trails off, expecting me to finish.

“So, once she calmed down she decided she shouldn’t… do anything with her student, even if that was what she wanted to, and precisely because she wanted to she avoided the temptation. And because it was a temptation and she felt guilty about it, she tried to drown her sorrows in cheap sake and too many salty snacks.” And I do.

“I see you know her well.”

“So do you. Did she ever tell you about something ‘genuine?’”

“… I am not going to answer that question,” she says, her eyes once again hardened. “But if you want something genuine, Hikki… What about my sister?”

“I—I promise I will do things right. I won’t hurt her.”

There’s a blur of motion, and suddenly my back is against the wall and Haruno’s breath is tickling my face. I don’t know what to—

“I am not going to kiss you, Hikigaya.”

Well, that just narrows it down to murder.

“I may hit you, though.”

Or maiming. I guess that’s also a possibility.

She shifts her hands, the way she is holding me, and only now do I realize how utterly incapable of escaping I am. I remember Yukino’s off-handed comment about her sister excelling at everything, including martial arts, and I am suddenly hoping this is a shounen and not a seinen. She presses nearer, the scent of lilacs overwhelming my senses and her breath scalding against my ear.

“You will hurt her. You will likely hurt her worse than anybody ever has, and that pain will be genuine. That pain will help her grow out of the stupid child she has so stubbornly refused to let go of. And you will hurt Shizuka, as you tear down her values and force her to confront them with her feelings, you will wound her, by showing her how irreconcilable they are. You will hurt them both, Hachiman, and that is the best you can do for them. I won’t accept any half-measures, I won’t accept any excuses, nor any compromises. You will be a man, and hurt the women you love, because only that will be ‘genuine.’”

I almost shiver at the end of her speech, and I don’t know whether it is in revulsion or something darker and softer.

“Now, Hachiman, be a man and promise me. Promise you will hurt my sister. Promise you will hurt my friend.”

I look at her, straight into her violet eyes, so harsh under this light, so unlike the frail, thin ice of Yukino’s blue. I lean forward, and whisper into her ear, “I swear I will do what I think is best for them. And if Yukino cries, there will be someone there to hold her.”

She rears back as if struck, and then starts laughing once again, but I think there’s actual mirth this time around. And she kisses me.

On my cheek.

“If only I had met you before her…” she teases, with a longing gaze that I am (almost) entirely sure is affected mocking.

“Then I wouldn’t have been me.”

“Maybe. But I think you would have always ended up being you.”

“And I think I should take offense to that.”

She giggles and finally lets me go, turning around and waving goodbye. I just stand there, in the middle of the street in front of my house, watching as she melts into the night, and I am left with this one looming question:

How am I ever going to fulfill that promise?

**

As I enter the school the next morning, I have yet to find an answer to that question. Unfortunately, there are no walkthroughs posted about it, as it seems my life is still in beta trial and no one wants to leak spoilers. That explains all the bugs, really.

So, it is forgivable of me to forget to activate Stealth Hikki long enough for something to go wrong, that something in question being having a hostile agent intercept me before I can get to class and/or look for Shizuka.

“So, how come you didn’t stop by the Student Council yesterday, Senpai?” Iroha’s cheerful, sweet voice is so fake it’s actually banned by several Food and Drugs administrations, and her grip on my sleeve is currently being studied to hopefully improve next-generation bear-trap prototypes. The Strongest Junior honors her title as she gives me no reprieve.

“I think I need an adult.” This may become my new tagline.

“Senpai, are you insinuating you want to see me as an adult woman? That you need me to be so? That you so desperately want to see me blossom into adulthood that you can’t wait any longer for me to grow up before you get your hands on me? I am sorry to reject you, Senpai, but it is impossible for me to stop being your cute, youthful junior at the drop of a hat—all flowers need time to properly bloom. I hope we can still be friends.”

I should be used to this by now. I really should be.

“Now,” she continues, undeterred by our short-lived romance, “as a show of our enduring friendship, how about you tell me in exacting detail what was so important that you couldn’t drop by and hear about our plans for the prom?”

But I think the day I get used to Iroha being Iroha is the day… Zaimokuza comes up with a good simile?

Yes, let’s go with that.

Author’s note: Obviously inspired by, and starting right in the middle of, this. This. Oh my God, the sheer diabetes!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBmMvnFcf_Y

There comes a time in the life of every man where temptation appears. Should I say I forgot my wallet back home? Should I look at the finished test of the bookworm sitting next to me? Should I look at the walkthrough before fighting the final boss? Should I push Zaimokuza in front of an incoming truck just to grant him a chance at his wildest fantasies? Society conditions us to refuse temptation so that people who are—

“Take me!”

Ahem. So that people who are below the totem pole don’t take advantage of opportunities that are not approved of by the system to rise up. Resisting temptation is a virtue because it allows the system to self-perpetuate, to keep down the ones who are down—

“Take me!”

Oh, for… Say, for instance, that a high schooler on the verge of graduation is entangled in a love triangle for reasons beyond his reckoning. The two girls in question are age-appropriate, both attractive in their own way, and, asides from their unexplainable attraction to the dense harem protagonist, apparently sane. Mostly. Society dictates that he should choose one of them and allow the other to go through heartbreak; that’s the established solution, and anything else would be cheating—

“Take me! Take me! Take me!”

Ms. Hiratsuka, you aren’t making this any easier. So, what is this boy supposed to do when confronted by the temptation of his delicious Christmas cake teacher? Should he go on a diet? Abstain from even the most remote chance of catching diabetes? Gorge himself on ludicrous amounts of plump, round, bouncy icing till his—

“Take me! Take me! Take—!”

“For heaven’s sake—all right! Fine! I’ll take you!”

“Eh? Hmph! Hmph!”

Before I can (finish) talk(ing) myself out of it, I am leaning over the small table that separates me from my gorgeous, middle-aged teacher, grasping her white coat-clad shoulders, and silencing the maddening siren call of her combo-finisher “take mes” by pressing my own lips on hers.

She tastes like cherries. Should have known she would use a high schooler’s lip gloss. Ms. Hiratsuka, don’t you know a woman who doesn’t act her age comes across as desperate and desperation is the ultimate mood-killer? Source: me.

“Hikigaya… I…”

She leans back and breathes my name against my lips, possibly to stop me. It is a very counterintuitive way to reach that goal.

I push forward, bumping my shin against the corner of the table as I try to climb over it. I should have known my first kiss would end up in pain.

Hiratsuka’s eyes are wildly open, looking into my own with something close to full-blown panic. Should have known I would terrify the first girl I kissed. Hey, Ms. Hiratsuka, I called you a girl in my internal narration, aren’t you happy?

Her eyes don’t stray as I advance the last few inches that separate us, and, this time, I am slow enough not to take her by surprise. I lean forward.

Our lips touch.

We move.

After all, I think I like cherries.

Though I could do without the tobacco aftertaste.

I would like to say I leave her breathless through sheer passion, that my heretofore unrevealed abilities as the ultimate lover are awakened and her pupils turn into pink hearts (which would look terrifying, so I am actually glad that doesn’t happen), but this is my first kiss, my shin is hurting like Zaimokuza’s beta reader, and the posture is awkward like… like everything related to both romance and Hikigaya Hachiman. No surprises there. I manage to climb across the table and sit beside her on her chair, mindful of making too much noise as we are still in the teacher’s lounge, even if we have these increasingly suspicious privacy screens. Hiratsuka shuffles, making room for me, and her hands travel up my back before tangling her fingers through my short hair. I like it, so, like the very good and diligent student that I am (LOL), I copy her and grasp her by her nape, making her let a little whimper of pleasure against my lips.

God, she’s so beautiful…

I can’t help myself and grasp her hips, shifting her so she is now sitting on my lap, never allowing our lips to part. Then, shyly, as if asking for permission, her tongue peeks from between her lips and moistens my own.

I lose it.

I open my mouth and devour her. My tongue tangles with hers, muffled gasps swallowed by my eager mouth as my vision goes white, as a torrent of heat rushes up my body, and I realize that yes, I am kissing this gorgeous bundle of insecurities and mature wisdom, this woman who has done so much for me and... I grasp her by her neck and her lower back, pressing her against me as the predictable physiological phenomenon occurs beneath my waistband, and I allow the sensation of her squirming on top of it to take away unnecessary thoughts.

“Hachi… Hachiman, we should stop…”

I nibble the side of her neck with a possessive urge I haven’t felt outside of particularly heated waifu wars. “Why?” My voice is hoarse and my wit nowhere to be found. How surprising. Not.

“Yukinoshita… Yuigahama… Iroha?”

That last name is not like the others, I am compelled to claim, yet the point does not evade me.

“What? Do you want them to watch?”

Though I can still act like it did.

She slaps my chest and pouts at me, so I nibble her protruding lip before she has a chance to retract. Don’t provoke me, woman!

 “You know what I mean. They… and you… And I am so…”

“You are making it far too easy for me to pretend not to know what you actually mean. Keep at it, it makes my job easier.”

The pout turns into a glare. It would look much fiercer without the blush that manages to cross the bridge of her nose in a prolonged, two-pronged campaign. Fight on, Blush-chan! You can do it, Blush-chan!

“You are thinking something stupid to avoid the consequences of this, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s just that all the blood necessary to think not-stupid thoughts is currently devoted to trying to lift your shapely butt through the power of applied hydraulics.”

“…”

“I did say that out loud, didn’t I?”

“This is why Yukinoshita calls you a creep, you know?”

“First of all, I have never mentioned any of the intricacies of the male body going through puberty to Yukinoshita, second of all, could we please stop talking about her?”

“Would you rather talk about Yui?”

My traitorous brain can’t help but conjure Yuigahama’s Yuigahamas. Ms. Hiratsuka is not a slouch in that department (maybe the only department where she doesn’t slouch out of habit), but she’s still far from the reigning champion of my… My something extremely complicated that I dearly do not want to define at this very moment.

What else is new, Hikigaya Hachiman?

“And there’s the brooding look that was missing.”

“At least I am not pouting.”

“I am not pouting!”

I pointedly look at the protruding lip that had been my target not that long ago and she retracts it. Before licking it nervously. I am getting mixed messages here.

“So, consequences. What a fun topic.”

“I am twice your age, your teacher, and you are about to wage war on the whole administration and PTA on behalf of one of the two girls who have been surgically attached to you since you were introduced. This”—she gestures down towards where her excellent derriere is still parked on top of my lap –“is absurd, and you should forget about it.”

“Counterpoint: you aren’t twice my age, more like one and a half”—her knuckles dig into my solar plexus, and I let out a not at all surprised gasp—“I mean, you are much younger than that, almost as young as you look—please stop trying to give me a masochistic fetish—I am just one year from graduation, and I would go to war with the whole PTA over the brand of canned coffee they have available.”

“You care a lot about the brand of canned coffee we have available.”

“Right. Poor example.”

The hand that was still worryingly pressed below my breast bone relaxes, and her palm comes to rest over my chest. Ms. Hiratsuka, taller than me, a gallant figure straight out of a movie poster with fast cars and expensive cocktails, impossibly looks up into my eyes. My mouth dries at seeing them moist.

“This is impossible, Hachiman.”

My hand cups her cheek, and I breathe my answer against her lips.

“This is inevitable, Shizu.”

And I kiss her.

Not frantically, not half-maddened by the desperate litany of someone who fears loneliness as much as I do.

Gently.

Probingly.

Lovingly.

My mind is thankfully silent as I feel our bodies entangle, pressing against one another. The stiff fabric of her vest stops me from feeling her heat seeping into mine, from feeling her softness against my chest, but my fingers make up for it by delighting in the silk of her long hair as they travel down her tresses, exploring a back slim yet toned with muscle and finding so, so many delightful spots that, when pressed, result in little whimpers that I keep swallowing as soon as she releases them. Her whole body is enticing, her legs crossed atop my own radiating a warmth that grows as my pulse quickens, her firm behind molded against me in a way that should be obscene yet falls slightly short, her chest kept prisoner of a vest that, stylish as it is, I am beginning to despise (seriously, get a hint, you pretentious wifebeater). But, more than that, it is her slender, smooth neck that holds my fascination, as I keep making her shiver by softly dragging the back of my fingers up and down its length.

I don’t know how long we take, but we don’t end up brusquely separating while trying to get some much-needed air. We separate gently, languidly, our foreheads touching as our lips barely graze each other. Looking into one another’s eyes.

“Why?” She asks, barely audible over my thundering heartbeat.

“Because it is genuine.” And she smiles, and I smile with her, and it is not a creepy smile, it is not insincere, not trying to show what isn’t there. It… is a smile. Nothing more. Nothing less. Wonderful.

“It won’t be easy.”

“Ms. Hiratsuka, I am offended that you would think I would be easy. I would have you know I treasure my virtue and I am saving myself for my future working wife, to which I will devote my very being as a househusband.”

“There’s that twisted side of yours, I wondered where it went.”

“Twisted? I will have you know I am the very embodiment of the virtues of the Japanese spouse. I swear solemnly to receive you at the end of the day with the sacred phrase: ‘Would you like a bath, dinner, or… me, Ms. Hiratsuka?’”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

She leans forward, her chin tucked against my shoulder, her cheek caressing mine, and she breathes against my ear, “Stop saying my… Just… Just call me Shizu?”

I feel something snap inside my head.

My arms surround her of their own volition, smashing her chest against mine as she gasps.

“Shizu.”

I nibble on her neck, still wet from my last try, and she whimpers as I murmur once again.

“Shizu.”

My hands wander, one pulling her hair so that she offers me her throat, the other venturing towards her backside, grasping it with more daring than I would have thought I had.

“Shizu.”

She moans, surprised as I maul her flesh with my eager fingers, as I suckle on her skin, delighting in her taste that no longer carries tobacco, and I venture to unclasp her vest (vanquished at last, my eternal foe), finally feeling her breasts without the stiff cloth hindering me.

“Mine.”

I growl, and she whimpers.

I grab at her with all my strength, every gasp, every moan, a sign that I have a hold of her, that she is not beyond my grasp. Because she fears being alone, but I… I fear letting go.

So I don’t.

“Hachiman… Hn! Please!”

I don’t listen, now nibbling on her ear, still grabbing her hair, while I finally venture between her legs to find slight wetness soaking through her slacks. I begin to rub her and she jolts, the movement felt too strongly given what still lies beneath her (that is, me—a very much eager me).

“Hachiman, please, please, please, please—”

I rub up and down, not fast, but firmly, with short strokes. I hope eroge has taught me well.

And then she grabs my wrist and, with wild eyes and short breath, she tells me:

“Hachiman, please, stop.”

What a surprise. Not.

Something of my utter dejection must have shown on my face (I guess dead fish eyes can still be expressive), because she hurries to console me: “We are still in the teacher’s lounge, you know?”

Oh.

“Oh.”

The fond exasperation would be more convincing if you didn’t look like a gravure model who has finished an impromptu photoshoot after a bikini malfunction, a hidden camera, and a photographer that would make the #metoo movement faint, Ms. Hiratsuka. Mental note: never even think about gravure models when around Shizu. My brain-to-mouth filter is not to be trusted.

“Yes, oh.”

“Stop trying to act cool while looking like a gravure model who just realized the kind of photoshoot she signed up for.” Damn it, brain! You had one job!

“Stop trying to distract me from how cute my clueless student can look,” she ripostes, her eyes full of cheeky affection.

“Cute? Me? Is that blush from heatstroke, Shizu? Should we go to the nurse’s office?”

We both freeze at that. As we look at each other, we say at once:  “We should go to the nurse’s office.”

I hurry through corridors tinted orange by the evening sun and reach the nurse’s office so quickly that the speed alone would disprove any legitimate reason for me being there. Luckily, the place is empty, and I settle on one of the beds to wait for Ms. Hirat—for Shizu, each second feeling like a minute and each minute feeling like—like something very long. An info dump at the beginning of a fantasy novel written for the likes of Zaimokuza? Yes, let’s go with that.

We decided to come separately in case… Of something that should be obvious, given the very illicit nature of this burgeoning relationship. It may also have been a factor that I have had to walk here in standard adolescent male gait number two (hunched over, hands in my pockets—you know why) and not even the legendary Stealth Hikki would be enough to cover for this if I was walking beside a gorgeous woman who—hormones. Right. My old nemesis, we meet again.

Still, Shizu is taking her sweet time coming and I am starting to get nervous. Not for any actual reason, asides from all the very valid reasons.

Just as I am starting to ponder the merits of pacing around the room in a manner very unbefitting of an energy-saving character—sorry, Houtarou-sensei, it seems I have abandoned your teachings—I hear the unmistakable clacking of hard-soled shoes approaching, and Shizu’s silhouette appears through the ground glass window of the door. I hold my breath.

And she pauses.

I look at her distorted image, awful comprehension sinking in with each second that she doesn’t come in.

And the image disappears as her harsh footsteps vanish down the corridor.

I lie back on the bed that had filled me with so much anticipation just seconds ago, and I look at the ceiling like a traumatized robot pilot—I should buy myself some headphones. As I finally let out the breath I had been holding, I can’t help but say:

“My illicit romance is messed up, as I expected.”

I should come up with better taglines.