All Right! Fine! I Will Take You! – Chapter 89

Among the many, [many] things that anime characters tend to do that may seem unremarkable at first blush (and, no, blushing doesn't number among them; that could be another whole lecture entirely) are the… all-nighters.

We have all seen it in one way or another: from the fighter too filled with nervous energy before the big day who goes out at night to train with his bald, noseless childhood friend that he cares about more than his own future son (just compare how he reacts when one of the two of them is beaten within, or past, an inch of their life), to the students heartwarmingly doing their best to prepare their last Culture Festival until the Sun rises up and one member of the chosen couple tenderly lies their jacket over their sleeping partner, thus solidifying who of the two will get up when the baby needs a diaper change in the middle of the night.

Look, I get it. It makes for gorgeous imagery, the coming dawn signaling an overcoming of a struggle that we all can empathize with. The exhaustion of a night filled with anything but rest giving way to light and warmth, maybe falling upon the delicate features of a beautiful girl defenselessly asleep in the same room as a character who we all hope isn't addicted to the Sleeping Sex tag.

It seems… almost mundane. A way to humanize the characters we're all supposed to relate to, bringing their struggles to this one note of mundane issues.

Except then the fuckers go and [keep acting like nothing happened].

Yeah. Sure. No problem. You spend the whole night tossing around on your bed until you finally give up, get dressed without alarming the 'I can't believe it's not yandere' younger sister peacefully snoring in the room beside yours, grab a single can of coffee out of the fridge and walk toward your (second) girlfriend's house, and that's no issue at all.

It's not like your stomach revolts at the heavy fall of dense coffee and milk when it's so early that the Sun is no more than a gray presence on the horizon. Not like you discover that your feet are unsteady and your eyes blurry. Not like you just want to close your eyes at every intersection, hoping to develop a functional form of sonambulism.

Not like you then arrive at your destination and realize that nobody even slightly sane would already be awake at this godforsaken hour, so you decide to stand up and rest against the wall opposite the door of the house where your [presumably] asleep girlfriend lives.

['To be fair, it's not like we have that much experience interacting with sane people anymore.']

That's incredibly hurtful of you, Brain-chan. Just insinuating that bitches be crazy—

['They are sleeping with you.']

Point taken.

['Also, never let Shizu or Iroha hear you say the line "bitches be crazy" out loud.']

As endearing as it is that you keep trying to take upon yourself the burdens that Self-Preservation-kun left unattended, I can't help but notice that you didn't include Haruno there.

['She'll tear the truth out of your far too spacious cranium with no issues whatsoever. Speaking it aloud will only amuse her at that point.']

Right.

['…']

What?

['I don't know, it's hard to engage in vapid back and forth when we're… like this.']

Yeah.

['And you love her too much to let go of it when you're tired and alone.']

It's… Do I? At… Damn it, I can't even pretend to take that question seriously, not after…

['After looking into a mirror. With her.']

Yeah. It… It was supposed to… I wanted her to see herself. To look into those gorgeous eyes of hers and watch as they opened to… To what she thought for so long she'd never have.

['But you also looked. And you saw her. With you.']

I did.

[And now you're stalking another woman, you philanderer.']

It's [not] stalking. Not if you have sex afterward. Josei has taught me so.

['You mean "consensual sex," right?']

What part of 'josei' don't you understand?

['… Right.']

Of course. I'm [always] right. That's my one defining, most endearing character trait, after all.

['I don't think "endearing" is the word you're looking for…']

Mayhaps. As vast as my vocabulary is, I'm struggling to come up with an alternate descriptor that fits better than—

['Cursed.']

Cursed?

['Yup. How would you explain getting caught in the middle of stalking twice in a row by the same guy otherwise?']

It's [not] stalking if—wait, what?

With an effort of will the likes of which Zaimokuza would spend three paragraphs describing, I lift my gaze from the stretch of deserted pedestrian road and look to my left, past the red brick wall surrounding the small yard that prefaces Iroha's house entrance, trying to focus on the (slow) blur of motion that I just caught, and I'm sure it's most definitely [not—]

Security-kun, the long-suffering character in search of a heroine to defend from plenty of tags and likely frustrated at all those heroines so enthusiastically enjoying the tags in question, stands right outside of a still-open door set in the middle of its own brick wall and looks at me.

I look back at him.

Then, like an idiot, I wave.

"What are you doing here?" he asks with, mayhaps, a tad more familiarity than our two previous encounters may warrant.

But my heart is as broad as the plains, and my compassion equal to that of the Buddha himself—at least while sleep-deprived and mildly suspicious of being trapped in a hallucination the likes of which would make an Uchiha brat squint really hard—so I answer his somewhat insolent approach with a warm smile that surely has nothing to do with the young man flinching.

… Rude.

"So, funny story…" I start.

"I somehow doubt it," he mutters.

"Remember that girl who chased me after I pinned her to a wall?" I push forward with the utmost example of Japanese politeness I can conjure, given the circumstances.

"Which of them?" he immediately ripostes.

"That's completely unfair. Haruno didn't chase me, and it was her who pinned me to a wall," I say, straightening the lapels of my jacket with all the dignity I've learned from anime butlers.

"… So. The second one."

"Yes. The second one," I concur, even if the first woman I had to chase was actually Shizu.

Up the stairs.

To our first blowjob.

Look, I just don't feel like oversharing with poor Security-kun over here. He already looks stressed enough.

"What—" he starts.

"She lives here," I say, pointing at Iroha's door.

"Are you [stalking her?"]

['Don't you fucking dare—']

"Not according to josei rules."

"Wha—okay, I [know] what that means, and you and I are going to have a—"

"Hachiman Hikigaya, I presume?" a fourth interlocutor interjects, making all three of us, Brain-chan included, stop abruptly and slowly turn toward Iroha's door.

Where a middle-aged woman dressed in a powder-blue bathrobe who's not as blessed as Yuigahamama (but that may still manage to get Iroha to kick my shin) glares at me from her open door.

And, well…

"The one and only," I say, for lack of a better way to answer such a question—

"Gods, I hope so…" Security-kun grumbles.

And so, despite my heart being as broad as the plains themselves, I throw a glare at him.

It's just the politely Japanese thing to do, you understand.

***

"Damage control?" Iroha's mother asks me from the other side of a round kitchen table.

"I don't care about the brand; just give me coffee," I politely answer.

She blinks at me.

Then closes her eyes, groans, and pinches the bridge of her nose.

Heh.

"Don't get cute with me after the night I just had, young man," she grumbles.

"I'm afraid the cuteness is an integral part of my persona. Asking me to not be cute is like asking Iroha to act sincerely and unguarded in front of people she doesn't trust," I answer with a measured, reassuring tone.

['You do realize we don't want this woman to hate us, don't you?']

Too late. I exist, and she's a popular woman. Those two facts are bound by an inextricable law of reality that can't be so easily infringed upon.

Not without a stand, at least.

"I should slap you," she says, staring up at the ceiling, her head draped over the backrest of her expensive-looking leather and metal chair. Because let it never be said that class warfare doesn't have a place in kitchen furniture.

"Wasn't there a saying about reporters better avoiding becoming a headline? Because I'm pretty sure that 'Middle-aged Woman Assaults Daughter's Lover—'"

Huh.

Well, on the bright side of things, I can now confirm that I like whatever brand of coffee they have.

"This is going to stain," I dispassionately say, looking at the cold coffee spreading over my shirt.

"If you expect an invitation to take it off and wash it, I should remind you that [middle-aged women] should not invite their daughters' lovers to undress in front of them," she says with unexplainable hostility.

"Let it never be said that I can't take a hint," I said, hoping against hope that my statement becomes somehow literal.

"What the Hell are you doing?!"

"Not expecting an invitation," I say, already shrugging my half-unbuttoned shirt off and then using it to towel off the coffee on my face and chest.

For some reason, Iroha's mother stares.

Which, quite frankly, it's better than her stabbing me, so I'll take as much staring as she can dish out. What, does she expect me, [me], the veteran of a foursome including the likes of a fully unleashed, genuine Haruno Yukinoshita and a voyeuristic and fully-equipped Iroha Isshiki to get [shy]?

…

['I'm pretty sure the burning tingle on your cheeks is you blushing.']

It could be an allergic reaction.

['To coffee?']

Oh God. Mom was right. I'm dying.

['… Shut up and go wash that shirt.']

Yes, Ma'am.

So, due to Brain-chan's prompting and not at all because I can no longer keep a straight face while a woman wearing a bathrobe eyes up my glistening chest, I stand up and go to the metallic sink set in a dark grey counter, immediately running cold water over the stain, hoping it hasn't had enough time to set as I pump the ceramic soap dispenser a few times and then start scrubbing—

"So. You really want to be a househusband," a dry tone says from behind me.

"She told you that much, uh?" I answer, working the suds into the fabric.

"She told me about the [pregnancy scare]."

"I'm going to murder her."

"Can't say I particularly blame you. But I'll still stab you through both kidneys before you can lay a finger on my little girl."

My lips try to quirk into half a grin.

I don't let them.

The… The water is cold. Not cool, but cold, the level rising slowly as it numbs my hands after running over my bare arms, as I keep using it to try and distract myself from the woman behind me.

The woman I have come to confront.

It's kind of counterproductive.

"I could say about ten things, off the top of my head, that would get you to flinch back in horror, guilt, and repulsion regarding how misguided your protective urges have been over the past few years," I finally say.

Most of the coffee seems to be gone, but there remains a stubborn splotch of faint beige spread across the collar.

I may need to borrow actual detergent.

"And you won't?" she says.

"Won't what?" I answer, pumping a bit more soap into my cupped hand and hoping it will do the trick.

Then the water cuts off, and I have to look up from my drenched shirt and into a woman's eyes that are more chestnut than luminous honey.

A woman standing right beside me, her arm stretched around me to push down the faucet's lever.

"Won't tell me. Those ten things," she says in a low tone I don't recognize.

So I, reluctantly, let the mess of wet fabric plop down into the steel sink, wipe the soap on my shirt, and turn around, the grey granite counter digging into the small of my bare back as I lean on it and look down at a woman who's only slightly taller than her daughter.

"She already told you everything that mattered. I won't add what I think to that," I say.

Her arm's still around me, clutching the faucet tight enough that it trembles even as her eyes remain impassive and fixed on mine.

"It matters. To me," she says, her voice finally unsteady.

"What?"

"It [matters]. Everything. Every way I failed her. I want to—I [need] to know. I hurt my daughter, Hikigaya, and if you know something I don't—"

Damn it.

I am not good at this.

I am good at digging up weaknesses. At coming up with ways to [attack.] To make people confront how awful and terrible they are under their nice masks. Not to realize it, but to face it, because it wouldn't work if they didn't, on some level, [know]. If they didn't shy away from all the parts of themselves that shame them.

I am good at that.

I am not good at what should come after.

So it's a wonder that my cold, wet hands are clutching a woman's cheeks, holding her steady as her ragged breath washes over my bare chest.

It's a wonder that I search her eyes for any hint of deceit. For anything other than a mother who has spent a night flagellating herself for the failures that Iroha heaped upon her before asking her for that favor that we couldn't ask of anyone we didn't trust absolutely.

It's a wonder that I smile.

Gently.

"I could've spared you all of this, you know? This is all my fault," I offer.

She shakes her head minutely, staring at me all the way.

So I allow the bitterness to sour my smile.

And continue.

"I told Iroha that Yukino and I could search the files but that we weren't knowledgeable enough to properly leverage them. That it would be better if you did. And she… she understood what I was doing."

She blinks.

Because she doesn't.

"I… She has told you. Not everything, because I don't think there has been enough time for Iroha to tell you everything that she would consider important to tell you about us. Me. But… you know. Enough. You know that I see people as problems, and that I keep trying to solve them because that's the particular way in which I'm damaged. And so, while I was conspiring to commit a series of felonies, I saw a chance to solve [another] problem. To twist my plan and include a little detour that would make my girlfriend confront her mother about things they haven't talked about in years."

"We talked," she finally says, the words tortured. "Plenty of times."

"No," I refute as gently as I'm able. "You pretended to be all right and carefully chose the words to keep that charade going."

Her eyes close, and it's far too easy to imagine luminous honey behind the lowered eyelids and over the purple-black bags under them.

"I… I thought I was [helping] her. I thought… I just wanted to protect her. To keep her away from—"

I let go of her cheeks and lay a single finger on top of her lips.

I hope she doesn't bite.

"From the truth," I say, finishing her line in the way she didn't mean to.

The way that hurts.

Because that's what I do.

And then her eyes open, and the illusion is broken as chestnut wavers, searching my own eyes for something other than my attempt at being gentle and comforting and failing miserably—

"So, should I go look for my camera? Set up a good lighting rig?" a voice [slightly] less playful than usual says from somewhere to my right. And behind me.

So, about as slowly as if I was trapped in the nightmare my exhausted brain insists the situation is, I turn toward the kitchen door by the side of the counter.

To find Iroha in utilitarian, checkered pajamas that, nonetheless, do a wonderful job of conveying the allure of a domestic girlfriend—fuck.

I've read [too much] incest-themed manga.

Yes, Domestic Girlfriend counts, even if it's the bullshit, non-blood-related kind. The intent is what matters.

"You're thinking something dumb," my girlfriend of the not-domestic variety says, right before sighing in exasperation after the conclusion of the ritual that she often partakes in with my two other, not-at-all incest-themed girlfriends.

"As unfair as I find that accusation, it may be slightly truer than usual given my state of sleep deprivation," I answer, slowly retracting the finger on top of her mother's lips and hoping against hope that motion-tracking vision is now a thing.

Would that work if I asked her to cosplay as Godzilla? I mean, it's not precisely my fetish, but if it would get me out of this, I may even consider adding American Godzilla to the scenario.

Just, you know, so that I can incinerate the costume afterward.

['Some things aren't worth the sacrifice.']

We're talking about my survival here.

['Oh, now you worry about Self-Preservation-kun.']

"This isn't what it looks like!" a panicked middle-aged woman who I just now realized broadly fits into the Christmas Cake mold shouts as she pushes me away, and the back of my head hits the cupboard above the sink.

"Hey! I've got voices living inside this cranium!" I say, as stalwart a defender of squatter rights as ever.

"Senpai, I'd rather you keep seducing my mother. It would make things less awkward than explaining that."

"I was [not] seducing your mother. Heck, I didn't seduce [Yui's] mother, and that was more tempting—[ghk!"]

"I should have grabbed that knife…" the woman stabbing her fingers just below my ribcage says.

"I mean, you haven't met Yui's mother, Mom…" Iroha defends me.

For a given value of 'defending.'

That, given the twitching eyebrow the recently revealed kunoichi sends her trainee, may not have landed that well.

"I [could] seduce your boyfriend," she says.

"I mean…" Iroha answers, waggling her hand in a doubtful manner.

"He's into older women, and I look like you with better curves."

"Hey!" Iroha says before her eyes dart down to her [perfectly adequate], not at all Yukinoshita, hopes and dreams.

['Please, please, please, for the love of JoJo, shut the fuck up—']

"Abundant doesn't mean better. A flat chest can be a status symbol, and—"

"All right, now I don't want to seduce your boyfriend."

"Look, the actual concern is him seducing [you]—"

"I'm not so fickle in my affections that I could so easily fall for you mother—"

"Oh? Tell me, Senpai, how would you feel if I started talking about a middle-aged yet still sexually appealing woman who has struggled with betrayal and a hostile world for years, doing her best to raise her daughter by herself, [maybe] having a bit of an issue with going for drinks after work, who only needs a gentle, guiding hand to get out of her depression and—"

"Stop! My penis can only get so erect!"

"If it gets even [slightly] erect, I'm kneeing you in the groin," The elder Isshiki says.

"You're just making it worse, Mom…"

"Wha—he gets off on that?"

"Don't look so happy about it, please," I beg of a cruel, indifferent world deaf to my desperate pleas.

"I mean… He's more of an S, but he has this thing for domineering, older women into martial arts, so…" Iroha says, the hand waggle making a surprising comeback that is sure to be foreshadowing for a secret move about to be unleashed.

I think.

Look, either the sleep deprivation is catching up with me, or accumulated Brain-chan damage is.

['Does that mean damage to me or damage done by me?']

Yes.

"And just what, precisely, does he being an S mean?" the icy tone of what should be a kitsune kunoichi elder but may actually have some yuki-onna blood states.

Which ends up with me licking my lips right before I catch Iroha's affected mask of indifference letting a single glint of mischief through.

"I mean, I have videos—"

Somehow, a distant part of my mind realizes, tackling her and covering her mouth with my palm right before she bursts into giggles only to then lick my hand, this may all have been part of her plan.

Luminous honey right in front of me and flushed cheeks under my fingers confirm my suspicions.

And a heavy hand falling down on my bare shoulder from behind reassures me that I haven't heard the last of it.

"You're taking revenge. This is all you taking revenge for me making you confront your issues with your mother," I mutter.

Iroha's eyes narrow into the only visible sign of a cheeky grin, and a small finger runs up the middle line of my abs.

…

This is just going to make my scarousal thing worse, isn't it?

***

"We don't have Damage Control. I hope the Mixed Signals blend will be good enough," a perfectly polite woman who's still wearing her bathrobe says as she deposits a steaming cup of expresso in front of me.

"As long as it isn't meant to be consumed topically, I'm game," I say, lying through my teeth.

Seriously, an expresso? What, do I look like a detective character who, somehow, decided to go shirtless after losing their trench coat?

… Darn it, I miss Haruno.

['Yeah, I also miss shirtless Haruno.']

… Okay, that too.

"I will have—" Iroha starts.

"Orange juice," her mother finishes. With finality. As is often the case with finishers.

The demon in clearly-not-disguise pouts from the chair to my left, and the mother of the spawn of Satan briefly (and unwisely) turns her back on us as she goes to the fridge to retrieve the offensive carton of juice.

"So. I presume this whole thing was your misguided attempt at making sure that none of your plans backfired?" she says, taking a seat in front of me.

"I'm a caring, loving boyfriend who would never desert his girlfriend in the face of adversity—"

"He speaks like he's being sarcastic. He isn't. The only reason I'm not madder at him right now is because I know he was worried sick all through the night," Iroha points out before taking a sip of industrial orange liquid.

"You [could] have sent me a message to tell me how things were going," I point out, not at all resentfully.

"And how would you have been worried sick all through the night then, Senpai? Seriously, it's like you're missing the point entirely."

… I think I may be about to develop a tick.

Iroha's mother giggling is [not] helping.

"Oh, she has you right where she wants you," the older woman whispers in that way actors have of not whispering at all.

"That is a lie," I confidently answer. "I'm not panickily reading parenting guides—"

"If you get my daughter pregnant, I'm [murdering you on live TV."]

"Before ending college! She means if you get me pregnant before ending college!"

"I most certainly fucking [don't—"]

The next hour or so is spent with me trying to defend myself from the chaotic, dizzying tag team of the Isshiki mother and daughter duo.

It ends, more or less, when I fall unconscious on top of the kitchen table, only to wake up at the pain on my forehead.

Then Iroha gets concerned, starts fussing over me, and her mother leads me to the sofa for me to lie down.

Because real-life all-nighters have, after all, a magnificent advantage over their anime counterparts:

They are a wonderful way to get out of arguments.

==================

This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/all-right-fine-ill-take-you-oregairu.15676/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 105 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).

Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Brain-chan's intrusions into Hachiman's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance

Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!