Agrippa
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All Right! Fine! I Will Take You! – Chapter 61
🕑 Added 2022-12-07 03:36:26 +0000 UTCKojirou Sasaki and Musashi Miyamoto, the most famous swordsmen in Japan, the ones who could be said to have solidified the very concept of rivalry itself as it’s come to be understood nowadays. And what are rivalries but one of the very pillars of shounen, nay, of Japanese culture itself? Indeed, we now see it as two characters who complement one another, being weak where the other is strong, clashing again and again, honing their skills through an intimate, shared struggle that turns into a microcosm of their whole relationship, of who they were and who they strive to become.
Of who they are… together.
So, what does it matter if Kojiro was summoned as Assassin (Fake) while Musashi turned into the ever more ephemeral existence of a genderbent Saber class gacha waifu with a drop rate inversely proportional to how much skin she’s displaying? What does it matter, indeed, when what they became, the very symbol of true rivalry, echoes centuries down the line, incarnated in Goku and Vegeta, Naruto and Sasuke, Ranko and Ryouga, and other doujin fodder for both fujoshi and connoisseurs of the genderbender tag?
What does it matter if the intimacy gained through a clash that is not always violent shaped my whole conception of what romance is meant to be?
“Oh my, I seem to have dropped the ladle. I’m being so clumsy today,” Haruno says, yet again bending at the hip to pick up her latest dropped implement in a way that showcases to Shizu, Iroha, and me her impeccable taste in underwear.
(Lacy, but not overly so, a dark purple thing just digging tempting lines in her overflowing derriere as contrastingly white garters keep holding up silk tights I’m pretty sure would remain in place with no other incentive than the one offered by thighs yielding to the elastic band at the top, in case you were wondering.)
And I…
“Miss Yukinoshita, I’m afraid if you keep displaying such unbecoming behavior, I shall be forced to… reprimand you,” I tell her, mayhaps straining the seal a tad more than usual when I drop my voice as I visualize my very words caressing her back and stopping to dwell on the small dip right above her coccyx.
‘I just want it on the record that I completely disapprove of this entire series of events, yet I’ll happily mock you when it spectacularly backfires.’
Thank you, Brain-chan. I expected nothing else from you.
Haruno, instead, is shooting me a lip-biting look over her shoulder as if she clearly expected something more from me as she delays in straightening up with all the alacrity she displayed when picking up a head of lettuce from this very kitchen floor not that long ago.
And yes, her maid uniform has an apron.
Of course it does.
“I’m so dreadfully sorry, Mister Hikigaya. Please, discipline me as you see fit…” she outright purrs as her smile turns into the kind of thing I could envision looking at me in a mirror that evoked an entire Castlevania rant in my stress-fueled imagination.
Iroha, mayhaps solidarizing with my plight, whines.
Shizu, sitting really close to her on their shared yet maybe a tad lighter sofa, pats her back.
And whimpers.
I, instead, remain as dignified as ever, trying not to struggle with the erection pushing past the left leg of my boxers as I grasp the lapels of my butler’s uniform and straighten them.
Because, as it turns out, and in a way that’s making whatever sane parts of me remained to run away in a mad, screaming dash (because, as they are sane, they’ve been isolated from the rigours of Shizu’s training regime and don’t know they should save their breathing for the struggles ahead), I may have…
Well, I may have become Haruno’s rival.
‘If this ends like in that NarutoXSasuke doujin, I’m going to laugh.’
Naruto has that body transformation technique! A sexy, twin-tailed, pornstar transformation technique! That thing just wasn’t right!
‘Not to you.’
That’s it; I’m keeping you away from the internet.
‘Good luck, I’m behind seven proxies.’
“How is the rice coming along, Mister Hikigaya?” she asks as she starts washing the ladle while excessively swaying her hips to a maddening tune that likely involves both flutes and an idiot god.
I pretend to meticulously examine the pilaf rice being cooked in a pot filled with chicken broth and take a small sip of it with a wooden spoon.
Then remember what I’m supposed to accomplish here and get a few grains of rice on that very same spoon, forcefully (yet not tooforcefully) clasp Haruno’s shoulder before turning her to me, and look straight into her eyes as I put the spoon right in front of her lips.
“You tell me, Miss Yukinoshita,” I growl.
She lids lavender eyes and leans forward, kissing the side of the spoon as she brushes her hair behind her right ear in a gesture that makes my pants even tighter before she opens her mouth and licks the underside of the wooden utensil, pulling it past glossy lips that slowly close around it before she purrs in pleasure, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Oh, that’s just unfair,” Iroha mutters, yet again showing how interlinked our hearts and minds can be.
Shizu, instead, just whines yet again, displaying the economy of action all martial artists ingrain into their very worldview.
“It’s… very sating, Mister Hikigaya. Now, how is the garlic butter coming along?” Haruno asks, leaning back slowly enough that I can’t help but take a look at her pressurized cleavage, at her breasts bulging slightly up and over the white, lacy hem of the tight cloth barely containing them.
And I look back at the mixing bowl where I’ve pretended to know what I’m doing while Haruno discreetly handed me the proper proportions of garlic, parsley, and butter.
It’s… pretty homogenous? There are no chunks; both the garlic and parsley have been finely minced and then mixed in with butter that was just cold enough not to melt until the mixture had an almost creamy consistency.
“I think it should rest in the fridge while we ready the dishes,” I tell her, my tone not asking the question that’s left up to my eyebrows.
She minutely nods, reassuring me that her furtive lessons in French cuisine are going mostly according to plan.
The plan being to put on a show for both Shizu and Iroha, but of course Haruno pressured me into the kind of show that she would feel more comfortable with, which, given the croissant sandwiches she prepared for breakfast the last time we were all here in this apartment and her insistence on a French fish dish when we are in Japan, of all places, makes me suspect she might be more infatuated with the foreign country than I first guessed.
The French maid uniform just about clinches it, much like it clinches tightly around her waist, the short skirt flaring around generous hips that—
‘Down.’
It’s already down. The damn boxers aren’t letting it get up. It’s getting painful.
‘OK, just think about how wide Iroha’s eyes will get when you serve her a dish from behind, the very clear outline of your cock straining your pants at her eye level—’
Not. Helping!
‘Of course not; why would you think I’d do that?’
I despise you.
‘Praise me more.’
“I think you’re going to need some relief at the rate things are going,” Haruno mischievously whispers when the open door of the fridge gives us a brief visual cover that she uses to yet again push her behind toward me as she pretends to rummage inside Shizu’s depressing emergency food rations.
Except, this one time, she pushes until she touches me, until soft flesh presses against my hard cock, until I can’t restrain myself and grasp her hips, bending over her back until my lips are by the side of her ear.
“I’m not the one wearing wet panties, Miss Yukinoshita,” I tell her before I lick up the back of her ear.
She… shivers.
And I struggle not to tear her panties off and fuck her over the counter of Shizu’s kitchen while she and Iroha watch from the still not in the clear sofa.
I’m onto you, Sofa-chan. Your crimes shan’t evade justice for long.
“Mister Hikigaya… what would the Mistress think about this indiscretion?” Haruno says, quickly reprising the roleplay while keeping precisely as much Harunoness as she needs to make my struggle even harder.
‘So, you are now calling it “Struggle?” At least it’s not the “General’s Blade—“’
Brain-chan, you’re going too far.
‘And you, according to Haruno’s insistent rubbing, are not going far enough.’
Right.
My girlfriend.
My girlfriend who likes to push boundaries just to see me not cross them, who keeps being both relieved and happy that I can keep myself back even when she’s at her worst.
Who keeps doing things that are very unhealthy for the both of us, yet in a way that I can’t blame her for. Because we are very much not healthy, and we’ll likely struggle with this kind of thing for years to come, if we’re lucky enough to last like I desperately hope we will be.
My girlfriend, who may… need a bit of a lesson.
So I let my hands wander up, below the thin white apron and over the black satin fabric of her dress, from the sides of her waist to her belly and then to cup her generous breasts before I sharply squeeze them, the tips of my gloved fingers going above the hem of her decolletage, sinking into bare skin as I bite down on her earlobe and I press forward, not against her soft behind, but against the damp panties I just accused her of, her warmth seeping through my pants and making my eyes lose focus for a brief moment from which I only return because of her soft, suppressed whimper.
“The Mistress would think you deserve it, Miss Yukinoshita. The Mistress would look at you as I stripped off your uniform, her eyes roaming your every curve before settling on your sex as I forced you to spread your legs in front of her, as I made you look at her watching you get fucked. Because I wouldn’t hesitate to ram my cock inside of you, Miss Yukinoshita. I wouldn’t hesitate to make you moan and grunt when I plowed as deep as I could reach, to make you sigh and gasp when I slowly and tenderly pulled out, spreading out your lower lips with my fingers so the Mistress could stare at us being joined, at your pleasure made into a spectacle for her.
“The Mistress would think you’re beautiful when you’re made love to, Miss Yukinoshita.
“Just like I do.”
And then, just as Haruno gasps, just as her hips shiver against mine after that last almost growl caresses her as intimately as my hands on her breasts or my cock on her panties…
I let go.
And I stand up while pulling my lapels straight with a two-handed grip that only my gloves disguise as something not white-knucklingly anxious.
Haruno…
She remains bent over, her hips shivering, her head pressing down against an empty glass shelf, her also gloved hands gripping the side of the fridge’s door and the same cold shelf she’s resting on.
And then, very slowly, she lets go, stands up…
And turns toward me.
I try really, really hard not to swallow.
“You, Mister Hikigaya, are the devil,” she says, maybe loud enough for Shizu and Iroha to catch it.
I cock a perfectly trained eyebrow at her and, with my most butlerish tone, reply:
“I assume, Miss Yukinoshita, that you intend to convey that I’m a man of wealth and taste?”
And then I very obviously drag my eyes across the maddeningly attractive body of my newest girlfriend, making it very clear what it is that I have a taste for until I reach sparkling lavender eyes that tell me that was the right thing to both say and do, but that I’m still going to pay for it later.
Totally worth it.
‘On the bright side, if you die young enough, you may not have to have that conversation with Yukino about what you can or can’t do in her apartment.’
There are only upsides, Brain-chan. Only upsides.
‘Other than the crippling pain at your cock not being allowed to rise in all its gravity-defying glory?’
OK, that would be another upside if I could just maneuver something in these ridiculously tight pants that Haruno, for some reason that I’m sure has nothing to do with the smirk she just shot me, prepared for me.
***
There are things that are, and always shall be, a reassuring, constant reminder that the world, while chaotic and ever-shifting, still holds some familiarity. Things that can be relied upon.
Such as Iroha’s camera.
“This is just perfect,” she mutters to herself as she does what any teenage girl in front of fancy food does nowadays.
Except she isn’t, not really. She isn’t photographing the dish of garlic butter pilaf rice in front of her that will serve as an entrée or the deep dish filled with richly colored bouillabaisse, the fish stew reddish with both tomato and saffron. She isn’t even photographing the wide platter of the fish used to cook the soup, with the carefully arrayed white chunks of monkfish and the pale langoustines punctuated by black and ninja orange mussels while surrounded by slices of toasted baguette adorned with a sauce that at some point was mayonnaise until Haruno worked arcane, culinary wonders on it and it turned into something deeply fragrant with both garlic and cayenne pepper.
She isn’t even photographing the lonely bowl of garlic butter meant to slather on the non-sauce-laden slices of bread in case somebody would be blasphemous enough to dislike her more traditional offering and opt for something that pairs with the rice.
No. Iroha is, yet again, photographing me.
Me and Shizu.
How nostalgic.
Shizu, unlike that very first time, is perfectly aware of it, which explains her bashfulness, her maidenly reticence, and even her, shall we say, prudent, chaste demeanor.
Except not.
Because, right now, and to Haruno’s silent laughter and Iroha’s wide-eyed glee, Shizu is deeply blushing, staring at a silver spoon moderately filled with the rice I was the main contributor to (next time, there will be Japanese food, and then we will have a proper battle, Haruno).
The spoon is held by me.
Mostly? Because why waste a good idea only using it once.
“Brat, I swear to—” she manages to say after quite a few false starts.
“Ah, my dearest Mistress, I seem to have been derelict in my duties. Please, allow me to correct my mistake,” I say as I lean forward.
I keep the spoon steady in front of her lips, held up in what I think is a fancy way of offering a spoon yet may be just me unnecessarily straining my wrist, and I bend over Shizu’s bare shoulder, my jacket brushing both her skin and that delightful blue dress that never fails to make me choke.
So it’s only fair I return the favor.
In this particular instance? I do so by having my burning cheek so near to her own that I can feel our heat mingling in the thin air between us, and then I push slightly forward, just enough that my ear rests near the corner of her lips as my arm keeps surrounding her, holding the spoon in place.
Then, after a brief side glance at her to commit to memory anything that will not show up in later pictures, I blow over the steaming rice with a slow breath that can only be heard because none of the three girls around the dining table we forced Shizu to get out of her storage room are saying a single thing.
Iroha’s camera keeps clicking. I presume she’s trying to steal my soul.
As if she needs to, at this point.
And Shizu, warm, overheating Shizu, keeps staring between my pursed lips and the rice.
Then, going back just enough that I’m right by her ear, I whisper with as deep a voice as I can manage:
“There. The food should be now as perfect as you are, Mistress.”
And Shizu’s eyes widen right before she lets out another of her frustrated whines, which only the swift application of a spoonful of rice interrupts.
Iroha keeps frantically looking for the best angle to capture my Christmas Cake teacher melting, Haruno keeps silently shaking, and I try very, very hard not to pat myself on the back and loudly proclaim that all is going according to keikaku.
After all, I’m pretty sure that if I started eating potato chips right now, Haruno would murder me.
French people are touchy like that with food.
