Crystal

“Jesus H. Christ.” You mumble, flopping back on the bed. Thankfully there’s a pillow behind you to cushion your fall. 

At this point, you find yourself regretting your old promise that you wouldn’t use Michele for your waxing appointments. Even though the staff at Ostera was predominately female, your current gal wasn’t always the most dependable. So, when she flaked on you, you tended to use him instead.

But the problem with that arrangement was that Ari wasn’t really on board with the idea of another man seeing you in such a vulnerable state, even though you both always kept things strictly professional. Your Beast had pretty much had a fit the last time you’d used the poor guy. In fact, he’d made a point of telling you that he was the “type of man who was gonna enjoy his meal however you were fixin’ to serve it” the last time you’d argued over this particular topic. 

Which is what had then led to your current predicament. Because when you had unknowingly confessed to your bounty hunter that you were feeling a little self-conscious after having missed your appointment, he had apparently taken upon himself to fix your little problem.

By taking matters into his own hands and grooming you himself. 

Truth be told, you’d initially balked at the idea. But since Ari was also the type of man who got a little pouty whenever you unnecessarily and unreasonably denied him access to his pussy, you eventually gave in. 

“Maybe we should just wait.” You hedge, briefly closing your eyes as you try to get a handle on your dueling feelings of embarrassment and anxiety. 

Ari had wanted to eat you yesterday. He’d arrived at his place that evening claiming he’d spent the entire day fantasizing about what he would do the moment he finally had a chance to get between your lusciously thick thighs. So it made sense that he wasn’t happy when you turned him down. It took him all night to convince you “get his taste”, as he put it. And, as he put it, he couldn’t possibly bear to go through that again.

Such a handsome, incorrigible Beast. 

“Take ‘em off.” He grunts as he wanders out of the bathroom, his arms laden with various items. “I wanna see my sweet girl. Let her know she’s in good hands.” Ari winks at you then.

Grimacing, you finally do as he asks. With a slight pause, you allow your hands to go to the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down your hips. However, you still manage to keep your legs closed. 

Because…while you’re not sure why, this whole situation suddenly felt a little too intimate. 

“Okay, okay.” You toss your panties to the opposite side of the room before your man can snatch them. Although you’d been together for months, he remained committed to wreaking havoc on your underwear drawer. Which meant you had to be strategic.

“Why you hidin’ from me, pretty Bird?” Ari keeps his tone soft and light as he takes a seat in front of you. You knew without a doubt that he was genuinely excited about taking care of you. But more than anything, you had to allow yourself to let him. 

“Fine.” With a deep breath, you quietly part your thighs for him, allowing him a glimpse at your already glistening cunt. Although you might not be fully on board with this idea, apparently she was.

Fucking traitor.         

“There she is.” He purrs, his eyes darkening with purpose. And lust. “There’s my greedy girl. Always fuckin’ wet for me.”

“It’s probably because she lacks common sense.”

“Hey. No disrespecting my pussy.” He gently slaps your most intimate flesh, making you jump. And then the suave jerk has the nerve to lick his palm, briefly savoring your taste. “God, I wanna fuckin’ eat you so bad.”

“Ari. Focus.”

“Baby, I am focused.” 

“ARI.”

“But I didn’t get my taste yesterday.” And just like that, your bounty hunter was officially back to pouting. “As your resident Beast, I need a fix at least five days outta the week. And that’s with me bein’ conservative.”

“Even if it means navigating your way through all this stubble?” You respond as you attempt to close your knees, only to have him block you. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to get super up close and personal with the whole prickle patch situation I’ve got goin’ on right now.”

“Baby.” Ari can barely contain his laughter as his massive shoulders begin to shake. “Just what the hell is a goddamned prickle patch?”

“All of this!” You whine softly before slipping your hand between your thighs to delicately cup your mound. “I mean, this really doesn’t bother you?”

“Nope.” He pauses long enough to catch his breath before continuing. “Not at all, Bird.” His large go to grip your calves, giving them a gentle squeeze. “But I can see it bothers you. And you know how much I hate when things bother my girl.”  

Ari’s lips curve into a smile when he notices you visibly begin to relax in his hold. At the end of the day, he just wanted you to be comfortable in your own skin. And if performing this simple act would help make that happen, then he was all for it. 

“We’re gonna take things as slow as you need, okay?” His already deep voice dips another octave as his calloused palms tenderly begin to massage your legs. “I’ve done my research, watched a few how-to videos.” His eyes shine with mirth when you instinctively throw an arm over your face. “And while we’re on the subject, you’ve still got the prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen. And I’m lookin’ forward to lettin’ her drench my beard when we’re through.”

“Oh my God…” The groan that escapes your throat is tinged with laughter. “Sometimes I swear that’s all you think about.” 

“Ain’t no laws against daydreaming about the sweetest treat my woman has to offer. If anything, I’m a victim – a mere slave to her whims.” He replies with a roguish grin.

Heat suffuses your cheeks when you hear Ari quote a line from one of your favorite romance novels. Clearly, he’d gotten into your stash and enjoyed himself.

Cracking one eye open, you watch him rise from her perch and traipse back into the bathroom before emerging several minutes later with a basin filled with hot water that he then places on a nearby nightstand. 

“Alright.” Ari’s warm gaze collides with yours as he dips a rag into the bowl. “Time to take care of my Duchess.” He rings out the excess water before delicately draping the cloth directly over your bare pussy, making you flinch. “Too hot?” 

Briefly overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment, all you can do is shake your head “no”. 

“Good. Let’s give this a couple minutes and then we’ll move on.”

His work-roughened hands find their way to your thighs once more while he waits to proceed to the next step. He gently kneads your curves, reveling in the way you eagerly respond to his touch. It was a subtle reminder that your body belonged to him.  

You find yourself content to enjoy the silence as you wait for Ari to continue with his tender ministrations. Even though you were nervous, you were confident that this man wouldn’t hurt you. Which is the only thing that keeps you from bolting off the bed when he places your feet atop his muscled thighs, forcing you to splay your thighs even wider. 

Almost as if he were putting you on display. 

“Ya know, Duchess…” Your bounty hunter hums as he uses the rag to wet your skin even more before reaching for your favorite peaches and cream scented shaving gel. “While I have you here, I guess now is as good a time as any to talk to you about one of those daydreams I’ve been havin’ lately.”

“O-okay.” You barely manage to suppress a shiver as he begins liberally applying the cream onto your damp pussy, taking his time as he works it into a lather. Of course, he takes special care to avoid your sensitive little clit that is desperately trying to peek out from between your folds.

“You feelin’ open minded?” 

“I suppose.” You muse as you feel your empty cunt spasm. “Lay it on me, cowboy.”

“Alright.” 

With expert precision, he dips a brand new razor in the warm water before gently gliding it along your left lip – all the while making sure he goes against the grain. Ari pulls your skin taut with the next swipe, but he doesn’t rush the process. He planned to take his time with you this afternoon. 

Your bounty hunter wanted to love you slow and sweet. 

“Well…” Ari clears his throat, his bearded cheeks now stained with just a hint of a blush. “Now, I know how much you care about your…appointments. And while I’m committed to helping my lady keep herself feeling silky smooth, I uh…” He trails off as he leans over to rinse the razor. And then he reaches for the still damp cloth, using it to wipe away some of the shaving gel to admire his handiwork. 

“You what, Beast?” 

Now this man has you curious. Because just what was he working up the nerve to ask?

“I was wonderin’ if you might ever consider lettin’ it grow out?” He eventually responds, his gaze straying to your already partially shaved cunt. 

“Growin’ it out?” You parrot, suddenly confused. This man couldn’t possibly be asking you to rock a full–

“It’s somethin’ about seein’ you all natural.” Ari continues, his skilled fingers still making magic happen with the help of the razor. “I always get so fuckin’ hard picturin’ you standing in the kitchen with your robe open, all your wild curls just glistenin’ in the sunlight.” A strangled moan rattles deep in his chest as he pauses long enough to adjust his thickening cock.

“You…you want that?” You rasp, your tone rife with disbelief. “You actually want to see me…like that?”

“Uh huh.” He presses a swift kiss against your inner thigh. “I wanna come home to you lookin’ like that – like a fuckin’ goddess – so I can fall to my knees and bury my face in all of your earthy sweetness, baby. I already know you’d smell divine.” 

To say you were stunned would be one hell of an understatement. Because there was no way that this sexy as sin man had really just asked you to rock a full bush…for him? Was he being serious right now? 

For a moment, you’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t immediately respond. That is, until you hear Ari’s softly rumbled “nevermind, Bird”. The sound of rejection in his voice immediately thrusts you back into the present.

“It was just a thought. Forget I even–”

“Wait!” You hurriedly sit up, temporarily forgetting all about the razor hovering mere centimeters above your most intimate flesh. “I–I’m not sayin’ no.” Reaching for his hand, you guide him to set the blade next you on the bed. “You just…took me by surprise is all.”

Ari doesn’t say anything. Here he was, allowing himself to be vulnerable with you, and you’d almost blown it. Key word: almost.

“I reckon’ it’s a little late to try it this time around.” You sheepishly respond, vaguely gesturing at the makeshift spa experience your man had been kind enough to create for you. “But maybe… we could do it in a couple weeks?”

“Yeah?” His large, warm hands go to cup your face, drawing you in for a kiss. It’s soft, and sweet, and full of unspoken promise. Tendrils of heat unfurl in your belly, making you feel equal parts shy and needy. “You sure?”

“I am now.” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him even closer to capture his mouth once more. Because you felt it was important to let him know that your interest was genuine.And that you would absolutely indulge him in this.

Hell, if he decided he wanted to devour you out on the back patio you’d even let him do that too.   

“Is my Duchess gonna be kind enough to let me take a few photos?” Ari rasps, his sharp teeth lightly nipping at your jaw. “Just in case you don’t like it, or you don’t wanna do it again…I wanna have something to, eh, commemorate the moment.” His wicked kisses begin making their way down along the sensitive column of your throat, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re asking for permission to add pictures of my bush to your personal spank bank collection?” You ask before collapsing into a fit of giggles. 

“I’m thinkin’ I might prefer the term secret garden.” Once again, his hungry blue eyes stray to your cunt. After all, he was still waiting on you to feed him. 

“And I’m thinkin’ you need to stay away from the stack of romance novels I keep by the nightstand.” You counter before allowing your body to fall backwards onto the mattress. "Look, I'm not sayin' yes or no. But I might be willing to let you convince me."

“Say no more, darlin’.” He gifts you with a cheeky wink before rising from his seat to add more hot water to the bowl. “Now, don’t you move, alright? I’ll be right back to finish what we started.”

“And then what, you menace?”

“And then…” Ari pauses outside the bathroom door, his muscled body filled with determination. “I'm gonna sink my teeth into my sweet little Duchess until I make her cum so hard she forgets her own name.”

END

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I want you to ruin me, you think. I want you to make me forget my name. I want everyone who thinks they know you to be dead wrong.

"You know what I want," you whisper instead.

His smile turns wolfish. "I want to hear you say it."

"Then make me."

Something flares in his gaze. A challenge accepted.

"Wrong answer," he says softly, and then his hands are everywhere at once.

He strips you with an efficiency that makes your head spin — jeans gone, shirt gone, bra undone with a single flick of his fingers. You're left in nothing but your underwear, and he's still fully dressed, and the imbalance makes you feel exposed in a way that only makes the heat pool hotter.

"So pretty." He trails a finger down your sternum, between your breasts, over your stomach. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Show me."

"I plan to."

He sits back on his heels and pulls his hoodie off in one motion. The t-shirt goes with it, and you forget how to breathe for a second — because you've seen him shirtless before, but you never get used to it. The sharp lines of his collarbones, the lean muscle of his chest, the way his waist narrows and his shoulders stretch broad. He's built like a swimmer, all economy and power.

He catches you staring and his mouth quirks. "Like what you see?"

"You know I do."

"Yeah." He leans down, kisses your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. "I know."

His mouth traces lower, and lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your hips, the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your underwear. His fingers hook into the fabric and pull it down slowly, deliberately, like he's unwrapping a gift he's been saving.

"I'm gonna take my time with you," he says against your thigh. "We've got all night."

You don't have all night. You have maybe four hours before his roommate comes back, and you both know it. That's exactly the point.

He settles between your legs, and his breath is hot against you, and you brace yourself for the first touch of his tongue.

It doesn't come.

"Look at you," he says, and his voice is casual, almost conversational. "So wet already. And I haven't even done anything yet."

"Gojo — "

"Satoru." He bites your inner thigh, just hard enough to sting. "Use my name when I'm between your legs."

"Satoru." It comes out breathless.

"There we go." His thumb traces your slit, featherlight, not quite where you need him. "You ready for me, baby?"

"Yes — please — "

"Please what?"

Your head falls back against the pillow. You're going to kill him. You're going to goddamn kill him.

But then his mouth finally meets you, and murder is the last thing on your mind.

His tongue is merciless. He knows exactly where to press, exactly how to flick, exactly when to pull back and let you chase his mouth. He eats you out like a man possessed, like he's been thirsting for it, and maybe he has — because Satoru in private is insatiable in a way that no one would ever guess.

"That's it," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, and his chin is slick and his lips are wet and the sight of it makes you clench around nothing. "You taste so fucking good. I could stay here forever."

His fingers find you without warning — two at once, crooked just right, and you cry out. He doesn't slow down. He pumps them in rhythm with his tongue, fast and deep, and you're already close, embarrassingly close, because he's done this to you before and he knows exactly how to break you.

"Don't you dare come yet," he says against you.

"I — Satoru — "

"I said not yet."

He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss. He shushes you, soft and cruel, and then he's shifting, crawling up your body, and his mouth finds yours.

You taste yourself on his tongue. Salty and intimate in a way that makes your head spin.

"Suck," he says, and pushes two fingers past your lips.

You taste yourself on them too. You suck without thinking, hollowing your cheeks, and the groan he lets out is raw, guttural.

"God, your mouth." He pulls his fingers free and drags them down your chin, your throat, your chest. "Look at you. So pretty on your knees for me."

"But I'm not on my knees."

"Not yet."

He shifts off the bed, lands on his feet, and offers you his hand. You take it, and he pulls you up, guides you off the mattress until you're kneeling on the floor in front of him.

"That's better." His voice is a low caress. "Now show me what that mouth can do."

Your hands find his belt. Your fingers fumble with the buckle, and he lets you struggle for a moment before he covers your hands with his, guides you through it.

"Eager," he says, not unkindly. "I like that."

His jeans drop, then his boxers, and he's hard and heavy and right in front of your face. He's already leaking, a bead of moisture at the tip, and you lick your lips without thinking.

"Go on," he says, and his hand settles in your hair — not pulling, not yet. Just resting there. A reminder of whose hands are in charge.

You wrap your lips around him, and his head falls back, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

"That's — fuck, yeah. Just like that."

You take him deeper. His grip tightens in your hair, not quite pushing, just holding. Waiting.

"More," he says. "Take more."

You try. You gag, and he shushes you again, but this time his hips twitch forward, just a fraction, just enough.

"Breathe through your nose," he reminds you. "You can do it. I know you can."

You focus on breathing, on relaxing your throat, and you take him deeper. He groans, long and low, and his hips start to move — small, shallow thrusts at first, testing.

"That's my girl. Taking me so well."

His pace picks up. His hand in your hair tightens, and you let him guide you, let him fuck your throat at the rhythm he wants. It's messy and wet and your eyes are watering and you've never felt more completely owned.

"S'too good," he pants. "Gonna — don't stop — "

You don't stop. You double down, take him deeper, and when he comes with a guttural moan, you swallow everything he gives you.

He stays there for a moment, breathing hard, his hand still tangled in your hair. Then he pulls out slowly, and his thumb traces your bottom lip, smearing the moisture there.

"Look at you." His voice is gentler now, but still rough. "Did so good for me."

He lifts you to your feet and kisses you, soft and slow, like he didn't just have your throat wrapped around him. Like he's reverent.

"Get on the bed," he says against your lips. "On your hands and knees."

You scramble onto the mattress. You hear him behind you and then his hands find your hips.

"You ready?"

"Yes."

"I need to hear you say it."

"I'm ready, Satoru."

He pushes into you in one smooth stroke, and you both moan.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "You're so tight. So perfect."

He bottoms out and stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel full. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, and you don't mind. You want the marks.

"Move," you beg.

"Since you asked so nicely."

He pulls out and thrusts back in, and the pace he sets is brutal from the start. Deep, punishing strokes that hit somewhere so deep you see stars. His balls slap against you with every thrust, and the sound of it — wet — fills the room.

"Yeah, take it," he grunts. "Take all of it. You can do that for me, can't you?"

"Yes — "

"Good girl."

One hand leaves your hip and snakes around to press against your clit. He rubs tight, fast circles in time with his thrusts, and you're already so close, teetering on the edge.

"You gonna come for me?"

"Yes — Satoru, please — "

"Then come. Now."

And you do. You shatter around him, crying out his name, and he fucks you through it, doesn't stop, doesn't slow down.

"That's one," he says. "I want another."

"Too much — "

"No, it's not." He slows his thrusts, grinds deep, and the overstimulation makes you keen. "You can give me more. I know you can."

His fingers keep working, relentless, and he pistons into you at a new angle that has your vision going white. The pressure builds again, impossibly fast, and you're coming before you can warn him, gushing around his cock.

"Oh, fuck," he groans. "That's it. That's so fucking hot."

He doesn't let up. He fucks you through the aftershocks, and a third orgasm builds somewhere behind the first two, too much and not enough.

"Please — I can't — "

"One more," he says, and his voice is breaking. "One more and I'll let you rest. Give me one more."

You sob his name, and it crests over you, and this time he follows — three more jerky thrusts and he's coming with a sound that's almost pained, his body shuddering against yours.

He collapses forward, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your neck. You feel every inch of him, heavy and warm, and you're shaking.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then he pulls out, and you wince at the emptiness. You hear him cross the room, the sink running, and then he's back with a warm, damp cloth. He cleans you with the same care he used to take you apart — gentle, thorough, reverent.

"Roll over," he says softly.

You do, and he's there above you, his hair a mess, his eyes soft again. The mask is back. Or maybe this is the real him, too. Maybe both versions are true.

He kisses your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.

"You okay?"

You nod, still breathless.

"Was I too rough?"

You shake your head.

"Use your words, baby."

"No. It was perfect. You're perfect." A pause. "I keep forgetting."

"Forgetting what?"

"That you're like this." You reach up and touch his jaw. "Everyone thinks they know you. And they have no idea."

His smile is small, private, meant only for you. "Good."

He settles beside you and pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Let's order food," he murmurs. "I'm starving."

"You're always starving. You just — "

"Shh." He grins, and for a second, he's just your goofy boyfriend again. "Don't ruin the moment."

You laugh and burrow into his chest, and his hand traces lazy patterns on your back.

“It’s okay,” you wave it off before kneeling to give Nanako a proper hug. Lightly, Mimiko weasels her way in. “Did you two bring a lunch, today?

The question is superfluous—of course, they did. Mimiko is allergic to most things, and it’s a much safer play to simply bring food from home. But, if you forget to remind them immediately, they’ll forget to give it to you, and you’ll forget to remind them once the chaos of class starts. It’s an endless cycle of forgetting.

Nanako nods vehemently, digging into her themed backpack for two modern bento boxes, and hands them over with chubby fingers. “Yep! Papa made it!”

You smile and nod, getting to your feet to refrigerate them. With knees popping and aching on your way up, you wonder how long you’ll have until you feel truly, properly old. Mr. Getō lingers in the doorway, pays a swooning mother no mind as she unleashes her feral child in the room, and you find an excuse for small talk, because you can.

“What’d you make them?” You’re digging into the mini-fridge now, the one by the front door, and place their lunch boxes in the spot you always put them. Lower level, to the right. Mr. Getō shrugs in his suit like he doesn’t have somewhere to be.

“Just leftovers,” he says. You stand to your feet, brushing the apron off. “Tako sausage and omurice.”

“Awh, I love tako sausage,” you gush, and eye the room as it slowly begins to fill. Single mothers whisper behind your back. You know, becase your hackles raise. “I don’t know why, but sausage always tastes better squid-ified.”

Mr. Getō lifts an eyebrow. “…Squid-ified.”

“Yeah,” you nod away the stark reminder of exactly why you’re not this man’s type. He seems like such a no nonsense guy, and here you are, yapping.

“Well. If I knew that, I would’ve brought you some,” he offers with a kind smile, and your knees buckle. Just a little.

“Bah,” you wave the platitude away. “I’m an adult. If I really want tako sausage that bad, I can make it.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what.”

“Make it.”

“Oh! No.” You snort, suppress a giggle, and breathe. “I’m lazy.”

Crossing his arms, Mr. Getō rests a shoulder against the door frame. “Says the woman taking care of twenty gremlins on a daily basis.”

“Hey, they may be gremlins, but they’re my gremlins,” you say, eyes scanning the room. Yūji Itadori gnaws on a jumbo block. You should probably take it from him before he hurts himself. Thankfully (unthankfully) Mr. Getō checks his watch, and realizes—

“Shit, I’m going to be late. I will, um, see you at pick up,” he pushes away from the wall, smile never failing. Class is going to begin soon, anyways. Before you can respond, though, he perks up with an afterthought. “Oh, and—if Nanako says anything else, please disregard it. It’s not…she has a fixation, right now.”

You don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.

“Um…okay?”

“Okay,” Mr. Getō exhales, wavering by the door for one more second. “See you at five?”

“Sounds good,” you smile, and avoid thinking about how it sounds like a promise. Lock the fuck in. You’re no better than any of the mothers that swoon under the smooth of his voice. And, you hate yourself for it, every single time.

Once Mr. Getō leaves, so do the rest of the parents—the mothers, lingering, hoping that he might give them a sliver of his day. Fools, you think, because they won’t get anything if it doesn’t concern Nanako or Mimiko.

You walk to the front of the room, taking Yūji’s block away from him on the way. Luckily, he’s not a crier.

“Okay, everyone! Quiet Coyote!”

“Papa’s crying again.”

“I know.”

“He’s lonely.”

“I know.”

Suguru Getō is such a good dad.

While this something you know, it doesn’t make your heart swell any less.

“See! He likes you, lots!” Nanako holds up the sticky note plastered to the interior of her lunch. You crouch to read, instead of taking the note and pulling it to your face.

have a good day at school! i love you both so much. please don’t give ms. y/n a hard time. (nanako)

And, while there’s no proof that ‘he likes you lots,’ you appreciate Nanako’s match making sentiment nonetheless. Mimiko eats quietly next to her. Eyeing the tako sausage in their bento boxes, your mouth waters. Just a little bit.

But, you brought a sandwich. God, adult food is so boring.

“Yes, your Dad is a very nice man,” you smile, and ruffle ginger hair. Nanako beams.

“Exactly! So you’ll marry him?”

“No, Nanako.”

Nanako whines at that, and even Mimiko seems a little disappointed. “What? Why not?”

You suppress a groan. How do you explain without alluding to adult concepts that run right over children’s heads.

“Because, that’s not how relationships work, Sweetie,” you sigh, and adjust your legs so your knees hurt less. “Both people need to be on board. It’s a partnership.”

Nanako frowns. “Pardnership?”

You hum and nod. “Yes. Like the buddy system—marriage is one big buddy system.”

“But,” her bottom lip warbles, and shit, fuck, “Papa wants a buddy.”

“And, he’ll get one,” you know he will, it just won’t be you. And, you’re fine with that, you barely know the man—he’s just nice to look at, and takes very good care of the only two angels on Earth. “But, he has to choose. You can’t choose for him.”

“But—”

“No buts, Nanako,” because, you really can’t have this conversation for much longer. “Eat your food before it gets cold, okay? Your Papa will find a buddy, soon.”

“But,” Nanako begins again, because she’s stubborn, and has never been a good listener unless she wants to be. “But, you’d be a good buddy—I want you to be his buddy.”

You sigh. Swallow. Pat Nanako on the head in hopes it’ll placate whatever is going through her little mind at the moment.

“Eat your food, Nanako.”

“Papa, why don’t we have a Mommy, yet?”

“Girls—you’re four years old. Papa need a little more time than that.”

“Why?”

“…Because.”

“That’s a bad reason!”

You’re a little lonely. You can admit that, at least.

It’s not easy—after wrangling 20 five year olds all day—to have the energy for much else but recuperation. You’ve gone on a few dates, during the summer when class is no longer an something to worry about. You make as much time as you can for friends, on the weekends, maybe once or twice a month, when you don’t have a laundry list of errands to run because you waited the whole week to do them. That doesn’t make your apartment feel any less empty, though.

Heating up the other half of your sandwich, you try to remember the last time you went on a second date. Your boyfriend from college, maybe? You both lived on opposite sides of the country, and it wasn’t long after graduation before everything fell apart. Most parents you meet are surprised that you don’t have kids of your own by now, but that’s not the case—the issue is that you have twenty of them, from eight to three.

(To five, if you count the after school program.)

The microwave beeps, and you take the sandwich out. It’s cold in the middle, you should’ve flipped it open, but you’re too tired to care. That’s been a reoccurring thing, lately—being tired. Being cold.

“But, you’d be a good buddy!”

Yeah. You wouldn’t mind a buddy, either, Nanako.

“…What are you two doing?”

“Nothing, Papa!”

“Girls—thank you. Now, go to bed. I won’t ask again.”

“Okay, goodnight!”

Click.

“There’s an h in spaghetti, Nanako—”

Now. As stated, Mimiko is just as bad as her sister. Possibly worse—at least, Nanako is easy to say no to.

“My Papa is sad—and you can make him happy.”

Yeah. That’s what she starts with. What the fuck.

She holds out a homemade card with two hands, thumb and index pinching both sides until it wrinkles. From what you can see, there’s a pink glittering heart on the cover, with the names Miss Y/N and Papa above in crayon and stilted handwriting. This is a form of guilt tripping you’re severely unfamiliar with.

You take the card—because fuck, are you supposed to just make her stand there?—and open it because you can. Curiosity killed the cat.

THEESE WEKEND

PAPAS HOWSS FOR SPAHGETI

You snort. It takes you way too long to understand ‘howss’ is house.

“Mimiko,” you sigh, because, out of the two sisters, “you know I can’t. Your Papa has to choose his buddy, remember?”

She lets out an exhale, curling a lip of frustration, and wow, Mimiko, the fuck. “Yes, but—he’s not choosing one.”

“And, that’s okay,” you smile, pocketing the card before kneeling to her level. This is totally going on your fridge, your feelings surrounding the situation be damned. “Maybe, he doesn’t want a buddy right now.”

“Then—Then, he doesn’t get to cry about it!” She stomps a foot, and you want to say who’s crying about what, but keep it to yourself. “He won’t even see Uncle Gojō anymore. Just—come this weekend. Please.”

You sigh. You won’t, but, “I’ll think about it, Mimiko.”

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think—”

“Yes.”

“Did you know your daughters invited me to your house, this weekend?”

“I did not,” Mr. Getō huffs with levity, and you join him in watching the girls climb the monkey bars. It’s a few hours since school ended, and the afterschool program is in full effect. Luckily (unluckily), you’re in charge of that, too. It’s not like you have anything better to do.

You pull the card out from your apron, and wave the cover design in his face before opening it, and trying your best to stay true to the spelling. “Theese wekend…papa’s howss…for spahgeti.”

“Wow.” Mr. Getō runs a hand over his lower face, chucking before he asks, “May I see that?”

Gladly, you hand it over.

“This is what they were doing last night,” he realizes aloud. “I was wondering why there was glitter all over the floor.”

“Ah yes, she’s elusive,” you nod solemnly, remembering how many times that godforsaken powder followed you out the class and into the home. Mr. Getō lifts an eyebrow. “Glitter, I mean.”

He snorts, nods, and passes the card back like he knew you wanted to keep it. The twins finally notice their Dad waiting, and come bounding over, covered in a level of sweat and grime that only a child could tolerate.

It’s immediate—the way Mr. Getō lights up.

He kneels down with open arms, each girl taking one, squeezing and pulling with no care for his pristine black suit. He doesn’t seem to care, either, as he cradles both of their heads and leaves twin kisses in his wake.

“How was school?”

“It was great! Did you know bears sleep for so long?!”

“Miss Y/N is coming to our house this weekend.”

You gawk, and look at Mimiko with absolute betrayal, because that’s not what you said. “I said, I’d think about it!”

Mr. Getō looks at you over his daughters head with a grin in his eyes.

“Is she, now?”

“Yep, I invited he—”

“We invited her!” Nanako adds loudly, lifting a hand in the air like she’s still in class. “But Mimiko delivered the letter because no one can say no to her!”

You knew it. You knew it, that wretch.

Mr. Getō laughs and stands, patting his daughters on the head on the way. You sigh but keep a good natured smile, knowing you will be screaming about this into a pillow later.

“You two are scary,” he says with a smile, then redirects it to you, and you’re…

“Sorry, about that,” you breathe, because this is embarrassing. Beyond, actually, because it’s like his girls have a radar for your exact type—their dad.

“No, I should be the one apologizing,” Mr. Getō steps forward. Mimiko forces a conversation out of Nanako, a sidebar, away enough to give you two privacy. Both of their eyes drift, though. “I told you—they have a fixation. They’ll get over it.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” you wave his words away with both hands. “I get it. Plus, it’s endearing, when it’s not…”

“Embarrassing.”

“Yeah,” your fingers curl into the bottom of your apron. “But um, you should, like, totally put yourself out there more—not that, um, only if you want, but y’know, you could have anyone! So, uh, go for it!”

Mr. Getō snorts, and the sunset dances in his eyes and turns them molten. He’s staring at you too much. You should probably put the anxiously supportive thumbs up away. “And, that was supposed to be…encouraging.”

You clear your throat. “Yeah, it was an attempt. I—”

“What’s your answer?”

What.

“What?”

“Or,” Mr. Getō tilts his head, edits the sentence. “What would be your answer. If I, um, asked you. For…spahgeti.”

You snort at the pronunciation, too focused on the way he smells to notice the fact that Mimiko and Nanako’s conversation has come to a lull. Now, they’re watching in rapt attention.

“Uh, sure—yes,” you blink, pinch your arm just to make sure this isn’t a dream, and—nope. It’s still Thursday. You’re still at school. Covered in washable paint. “Yes, I would, um, I like spahgeti.”

He laughs a little, and you scrunch away a smile. You want to hear that, again.

“Six on Saturday?”

“Yeah,” you nod, you keep nodding, you need to stop nodding. “Yeah, sounds great.”

“No, you cannot cook the spaghetti yourselves.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not—Mimiko, how’d you learn how to turn on the stove?!”

“…Watching you.”

Maybe, you shouldn’t be going to a random man’s house. But, that random man is Mr. Getō, and he has daughters—so it’s not like he’s going to murder you, right?

Though, you’re more worried about accidentally murdering yourself on the way. You don’t notice the bright orange hand until after you’re honked at, a third of the way through the crosswalk.

“Watch where you’re going!”

Well. Fuck you, too.

The bottle of wine feels weird in your hands—too heavy and too cold, and the closer you get to your destination, the closer you get to the expensive side of town, the lump in your throat swells to a softball. You get comfortable with regret when you knock on his door thrice, hurting your knuckles in the process.

Christ, Mr. Getō lives here?

It doesn’t take long for him to open the door…ostensibly, not in a suit.

It’s strange seeing him outside of school. The issue is, outside of school, you dress the same. Apparently, Mr. Getō doesn’t wear suits all day, in the comfort of his own home, and that’s…weird.

(Not that you thought he would—but also, he totally seems like the type of guy who would.)

“Ah, hello! Thank you for coming.”

Today, he dons jeans and a button down shirt, both oversized enough to be comfortable, but nice enough to be…nice. His hair isn’t as neat as it typically is, but half-up nonetheless, with a stray hair working its way out the hair tie. There’s a streak of green marker on his chin, and you giggle at it, gesturing to your own.

“You’ve got…um…”

Mr. Getō slams a hand over his chin with a groan. “Marker?”

He steps out of the doorway to let you in, and you take the opportunity with a smile. “Looks like it—”

“Miss Y/N!”

Nanako and Mimiko come screaming down the hall and around the corner. You take them to the chest—well, the waist—as Mr. Getō disappears to, presumably, wash the green off his face.

“You came!” Nanako beams. You give her a small smile, because the little girl has no idea what you went through, internally, to drag yourself out of your apartment this evening.

“I did,” you nod, and give a very happy Mimiko a soft glare. She doesn’t even waver. They both guide you to a pleasantly placed table in the dining room, decorated with the works—roses and candles and actual porcelain plates. You don’t even think you own actual porcelain plates. Certainly not due to your own volition. The lighting is warm, and cozy, and could easily put you to sleep.

They sit you at the head, fussing over your hair, your outfit, and apparently, the way you sit.

“Papa has been working all day,” Mimiko says as Nanako tries to push your chair in, but can’t, because she’s five and you’re four times her size. “He wouldn’t let us help. Be nice to him.”

That or else hangs heavy in the air, and you gulp. This isn’t intimidating at all.

Before you start to regret your decision for the third time, Mr. Getō comes out of the kitchen while patting his hands dry with a reusable towel. Immediately, the girls scatter—sprinting down a seemingly endless hallway, and duck into the third room on the left. The door slams shut. Then, a series of giggles.

“…I’ve never seen them move so quickly,” Mr. Getō mutters, and you laugh quietly in agreement.

But, now, without Nanako or Mimiko to fill the void with insanity, you don’t know what to say. Silence lulls, and it’s loud.

“Me neither.”

This…is awkward.

Mr. Getō seems to feel it too, because immediately, he gets the ball rolling, and points to the kitchen. “So, dinner is ready but, um, I don’t know if you want me to make your plate, or if you want to make your own, or…”

“I can make it,” you insist, standing to your feet and grabbing the very nice, probably very expensive plate. You pray that you won’t drop it, somehow. “I wanna see what your kitchen looks like, anyway.”

Mr. Getō chuckles, light and good-natured. And, if you sway, it’s not your fault. “Why?”

You shrug, following him into through a doorway. “Tells you a lot about a person.”

Mr. Getō makes a sound, a hum of contemplative agreement. And, the kitchen is…aggressively domestic. This is about to be the worst first date of your life, you already know—not because it’s going to end poorly, but because you kind of want this man. And, you can’t tell yourself the last time you’ve been on a second date.

Two bowls fill the island—one with spaghetti (spahgeti), one with salad—and a plate of garlic bread. It smells heavenly and your mouth waters, completely forgetting your mission to judge this man into unattractiveness.

(Though, there’s nothing to judge. All it says is that he’s quite organized, and loves his daughters.)

You notice a familiar drawing pinned to the fridge—it’s a simple one, with three stick figures holding hands, the two on the ends much shorter than the one in the middle. They stand on a poorly crayoned field, and the names mimi, nana, and papa are written above their respective figures in black crayon, along with a date in the corner.

“They drew that the first day of class,” Mr. Getō reminisces, coming around the counter to get a better look. The date lines up—as does the fact that you struggled to place it. “Came home ranting about how they wanted Miss Y/N to be their mama.”

You snort, and ignore every feeling in your being—including the weight of the plate in your hands. It doesn’t drop, though. “Kids have no shame.”

“None. Especially mine.” Mr. Getō adds, moving past you to rummage through a cupboard. Then, offering, “Water? Also—help yourself.”

As your eyes follow his arm when he gestures to the counter, your stomach grumbles on cue. It’s not your fault you don’t know how to cook. You nod, grabbing the giant plastic spoon, and try your best to not seem greedy.

“Yes, please! This looks so good, Mr. Getō, I—”

“Suguru,” he corrects, and you nearly jump. He’s behind you, now, reaching for something, you don’t know, you’re not paying attention. Suguru, your brain goes. Suguru, Suguru, Suguru—

“Y’know, I don’t think I ever knew your first name,” you realize aloud, taking the last spoonful you’ll allow yourself. He drifts away to fill the glasses with water, and you exhale, finally being able to breathe. You move onto the salad.

“That’s it?” He asks and hands you a glass, eyeing your plate. You gulp. Did you fuck up, already?”

“Have some more.” And then, he’s grabbing another spoonful of spaghetti—one much fuller than any of the three you gave yourself. “Please—I made so much food.”

“Well, yeah,” you defend. “But, y’know, Nanako and Mimiko are gonna eat some, so—”

“And, they’re five. They eat this much,” Suguru takes the plate from you (you’ve lost your privileges, clearly) and fills the spoon again, lifting it in the air like it represents ‘this much.’ “It’s okay if you don’t finish it, I just—I want to make sure you get enough.”

He hands the plate back to you, not before adding two pieces of garlic bread, much heavier than you found it. It’s accompanied by a sheepish smile, one that makes it seem like he’s digging a grave for himself deeper than necessary. Your heart swells nonetheless. Then, you stomp on it, chanting stupid, stupid, stupid, because, if you think he isn’t doing this just to humor his daughters, you’d be just that. Stupid.

“Oh!” You remember, “I also brought wine—I don’t know if you’re, like, a wine guy, or not, but—”

“Sure,” Suguru shrugs as he starts to fill his own plate. You waver with your own by the threshold, because you don’t know what to do otherwise. “There are wine glasses on the table. Let’s pop it open.”

“Yes, now kiss! K-I-S-S-I-N—”

“Shhhh—they’re going to hear us!”

“Opa!”

You love opening a wine bottle. You love the pop of the cork, the resistance from the air—but, you let Suguru open it this time. Because, God forbid your elbow goes flying, or the cork, and you knock over one of his lovely candles, and set his very nice place on fire. Suguru scrunches his nose with a smile at your exclamation. You remember where you are, again.

“Sorry,” you recant, and Suguru just shakes his head, slowly filling your glass.

“No—I like it when you’re comfortable.”

With that, he passes the glass back and smiles, and you…ignore what he just said, actually. Because, you’re already a hop, skip, and a jump from falling for this man, and there is absolutely no point in doing that.

“What do you do for work?” You ask instead, because anything other than small talk would turn garbled. Suguru eyes lift from his own filling glass, to you, like it was a question he wasn’t expecting.

“Oh, um, I’m a Lit professor, actually.”

“Lit as in…literature, or as in lit-lit, like turnt lit?” You’re reaching, you doubt the word lit is anywhere in Suguru’s vocabulary unless he means literature, but you just need to double-check.

“As in literature,” he chuckles, swirling wine around the glass like a professional. “I, unfortunately, doubt any of my students would refer to me as lit.”

“You never know,” you shrug, taking a bite. After a swallow and a hum, you nod. “This is really good.”

“Thanks,” he grins, and takes a sip of the wine. His eyes widen, like he wasn’t expecting it, but, “so is this.”

You thank him in return, and silence comes back screaming. You hate to say it’s because you’re stuffing your face, and you try to do so as politely as possible, but you are, and it’s not your fault—the food is good, and you haven’t found time in between grading obscure drawings and letter identification tests to eat today.

Suguru props a chin on his hand and watches you eat, swirling his glass again—you start to wonder if that’s just something he does with his hands. It isn’t until you realize his fork is clean, food untouched, that you finally falter. With food in your cheeks, no less.

“…Are you not hungry?”

Suguru blinks himself to the present, and whatever look he wore dissipates into his usual. He picks the fork up, after that.

“Yes, sorry,” he huffs a laugh at himself, seemingly self-deprecating. “You’re cute, is all.”

You start choking—partially, because you had the bright idea to swallow when he opened his mouth. You try to wash it down with wine, but when it only prickles the itch, you choose water instead.

“Sorry, was that too forward?” He asks, with a smirk, which makes you think he doesn’t mean it. Not in the genuine way, at least. You wave it off, recovering and trying to breathe through the embarrassment of choking on a noodle like a child.

“No,” you croak, though you want to say yes, but not in a bad way. “No, I’m just…”

You’re just what? Floored? Flabbergasted? Fucking sweating beyond repair?

“Flattered,” you finish. You should probably slow down on the food before you give yourself a stomach ache, but most of it is already gone. Suguru smiles as he chews behind a hand.

“Good.”

You are going to scream. What the fuck is this.

Because, you’re quickly beginning to learn, Mr. Getō and Suguru are two very different people. And, while Mr. Getō is hot, yes, Suguru is…

“What do you think they’re doing, right now?” Suguru’s eyes dart to the hallway, and you snicker.

“Probably eavesdropping!” You yell the last word, only to hear tiny feet scatter. Shaking your head, you mutter, “nosy.”

Suguru snorts. “Tell me about it.”

“Oh, I will,” you nod, unfortunately getting comfortable enough to yap. Well. There it goes—the second date. There it goes, sprinting out the door and on a flight to a different country, until the concept of a second date is no longer feasible. “Those two in class? Little rascals. Sometimes, I have to separate them.”

“Lucky,” Suguru laments with a chuckle. “Wish I could do that at home.”

You shrug, and take a sip of wine. “I’m complaining, but. They’re good kids. They’re smart, and they liven up the place. Even help other kids if they finish their work early—though, that’s mainly Mimiko…Nanako always finds something to do. You did good.”

“Thanks,” Suguru says, and suddenly, the burning candlelight is much more interesting than your face. “I get…worried, you know? That they don’t have a mom.”

“Sure, but,” and you look into the hallway again, wondering if the girls came back, how much of the conversation they can actually hear. “They’ve got you. And, from what I hear, you fill both roles spectacularly.”

Suguru shrugs. “I try.”

Suguru shrugs, and you overstep. Possibly. Maybe. “Am I allowed to ask what happened?”

“Oh,” he laughs, tight and bordering on bitter, with eyes trained tight on the plate before him. “I’m, um, technically not their dad. We’re related—cousins, but I’ve been taking care of them since they were babies. Their parents, uh, weren’t exactly up to the task.”

He keeps it vague but answers anyway. You take the hint, and don’t pry anymore. There’s a part of you that relaxes at that fact, the fact that there isn’t another woman, but you berate yourself for it immediately. It doesn’t seem like a good thought to have.

“Well—I think you’re the best dad they could ask for. This spahgeti? Fire.”

Suguru laughs, for what you realize, is technically the very first time—not around words or to hide behind, but an actual laugh, that rumbles from his belly outward with a smile that crowds his eyes. You want to hear it again, and again, and again, until you’re too dizzy, and have to get off the ride, or else.

He’s still smiling upon recovery. “You’re sweet.”

You frown, “but, I mean it!”

Suguru snorts, and looks back down to his plate. That smile doesn’t fade.

“I know.”

Dinner goes by faster than you want it to.

To stall, you offer to help with the dishes. Suguru doesn’t let you—but he does let you stay.

“—and then, she said God fucking shit.”

“No,” you gasp from your seat by the kitchen island. Suguru nods wisely.

“Oh, yes,” he hisses. You ignore the way his back works as he dries the last dish, opting to fiddle with a ring on your finger instead of drool, but, occasionally, lift to partake in the sinfully domestic sight. “I wish the walls weren’t so thin when I stub my toe, but.”

“But, they’re always listening,” you finish with a giggle, because, been there, done that. Suguru huffs in agreement.

“Yes,” Suguru laments, and after placing the dry dish into a cupboard, turns to you. “Top five most horrifying moments of my life when I heard her say it.”

“I can imagine. I…also stubbed my toe a while ago, said dammit, and we had a kid that wouldn’t stop saying it for weeks. Had to explain it to his parents and everything,” you sigh. The embarrassment from the whole situation comes back in full force as you tuck a head into your hands. He chuckles, placing the towel over the sink.

“Sounds like you have it worse than me.”

“Meh, only from 8-5,” you shrug, but he shakes his head.

“Exactly,” Suguru insists while resting a forearm on the island across from you. “And I have mine from 5-8—but only two kids, not twenty.”

“They wrangle each other, half the time,” you wave. “Quiet Coyote works wonders.”

“I’m sure it does,” Suguru chuckles, and stands up, pushing away from the counter. “Let me walk you out.”

Ah, yes. It’s that time, now, isn’t it?

Suguru walks you the few steps to the door, it not being too far from the kitchen. You’re about to say goodbye, maybe shake his hand or something else equally awkward—whatever people do after first dates when they don’t go horribly. But, the second you reach the foyer, little feet come bounding around the corner.

“You’re leaving already?”

“No, stay! We can have a sleepover!”

You giggle when Suguru sighs, getting down on a knee to turn to his daughters. “Girls—We’ve taken up enough of her time. Miss Y/N has a life outside of class, you know.”

Which, is false, but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. They whine and pout but Suguru has the last word, and after you hug them goodbye, he sends them to their rooms. Knowing them, they’re still lingering in the hallway, hiding behind a wall.

“Good to know they had fun, too,” you snort, and Suguru stands, fighting a smile and failing.

“Nosy little brats,” he mutters under his breath. Then, hollering over his shoulder, “Go to bed, you two!”

More shuffling feet, and you sigh. “They’re not going to bed.”

“Nope,” Suguru shakes his head in agreement. “Not at all.”

“Well, um, that’s my cue,” you say, stilted, and tightening the grip on your purse. “I should probably go before the trains stop running.”

“Oh! Yes,” Suguru says, like he forgot, and like he expected to linger with you in his doorway forever. “I had fun.”

“I did, too.”

Suguru makes no move to let you out—and you make no move to leave, because you don’t know how his front door works, whether you have to unlock before you exit, and would prefer to avoid embarrassing yourself after an genuinely decent night. Suguru scratches the back of his head.

“I was wondering, actually, if you’d like to go on a proper date,” he says it around a breath, one he was holding. “One without my daughters right around the corner.”

“We’re not listening!”

“…Like that,” he mutters, but you’re too busy trying to make sure your feet are firmly planted on his lovely wooden flooring, not floating in the air on cloud nine.

“Oh, as in,” you breathe, and promptly black out. Hopefully, you say something that makes enough sense. “Uh, yeah. Yep. Definitely down for that.”

“Okay, great,” he smiles, and it’s that smile again, the one you want to bottle and keep forever. “When are you available?”

“Oh, whenever,” you say, before you realize you should dial it back, dial it way back. “I mean—uh, preferably not school days, but I’m pretty free on the weekends.”

“How about a week from now? Next Saturday.”

Next Saturda—do you even have time to purge your closet by next Saturday?

“Sure, sounds good.”

“Ice cream, Papa!”

“No.”

“Pleaaaaase?”

“No.”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“…Fine.”

“Really?!”

Monday comes, and you’re fucking terrified.

Because, Suguru is a guy straight out of a YA novel—and you don’t know whether he asked you out again to humor his kids, again (you’re in denial), or if a guy that you actually find physically and emotionally attractive wants to go on a date with you. Again.

But, you’re about to find out, because—

“Good Morning, Miss Y/N!”

You put on a brave face, the bravest face you can muster. Also, just your luck, you’re running out of laundry, and instead of doing it Saturday night like you usually do, you went to Suguru’s. Sunday, you were too busy panicking to be useful. So, yes, maybe you have on the ugliest cat sweater you own—but it was either that, or a cacti shirt.

“Good Morning, girls, how was your weekend?” You ask, before quickly realizing playing dumb was not the way to go.

“It was good! You made Papa so happy he took us to get ice cream the next day, and he never does that!” Nanako tries to whisper, but she’s a child with little control over her vocal chords, and you flinch.

“Oh, really?”

Mimiko nods in agreement—but, before she can respond, Suguru is quick in ushering them deeper into the room and, more importantly, away from you.

“They need to stop telling on me,” Suguru chuckles as he returns to usual perch by the doorway. “Like, now.”

You giggle. “That’s all kids ever do, Sug—I mean, Mr. Getō.”

You’re sweating. That was a close one.

“Suguru,” he corrects, looking at you with eyes bordering on a beg. “Please.”

“Well, Suguru,” you say, swallowing panic when another parent gives you an appalled look. “Uh, how was your weekend?”

“It was nice,” he nods, watching the room. “My daughters harassed this woman into going on a date with me. Luckily, I already had my eye on her.”

Oh, you think, and try to wrack your brain for who it could be. Definitely not you.

Your stuck, actually, literally frozen, despite the sweat forming at the small of your back. Suguru keeps talking. “Six, again? I’ll pick you up.”

And, because your brain is stupid, and, you don’t know, maybe he wants to go on a hike or something—

“Wait—am or pm?”

Suguru snorts. “Pm.”

Oh. That’s like, date-date time. Though, you suppose it was last time, but this is an actual date, not a ‘my daughters won’t quit unless we do this’ date.

“Sure, yeah. Totally—six is great.”

Suguru squeezes your hand before he leaves for the day. His harem of single moms glare like you killed the child support they get from their divorcees. And you…

You almost forget to put Nanako and Mimiko’s lunch boxes in the fridge. Almost.

katsuki's always had this knack — a silent understanding of the way your brain works. your quietness was never something he pushed against, only something he wished to ease.

even as his thumb drags slowly over your cheeks, you know he's only trying to steady you.

you whisper a small breath of his name, circling your hands around his wrists as your foreheads press together — that's all it takes.

and maybe, that's when something in you finally gives — when all that hesitation breaks the moment his eyes stare patiently into yours, and why you're the one pressing your lips together before you can even think twice.

he tastes like caramel, a warmth that settles onto your tongue slowly, like the sunlight peeking through an open window. 

surprisingly tense under your touch, his hands pause against your back — his mind insistent on following your guidance. 

he presses his lips gently against yours, slow and tentative, like if he rushes this moment it may end too soon. groaning breathlessly into your mouth when your hands card through his hair, and give the strands a gentle tug before they're back on his face.

it's not long before your confidence wavers, his muscles tightening subtly underneath your palms as you pull your lips away, breathlessly.

katsuki's cheeks are red, hair stuck to his forehead and a faint shine coating his chest. his lips are flushed a bright pink, spit-soaked — breathing unsteadily as he looks at you like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking.

"again," you murmur, chest heaving against his, "please?"

a toothy grin spreads across his face when your eyes dart over his features — as if they're in search of something — some kind of reassurance.

which katsuki is glad to give when he presses a teasing peck to your cheek, adjusting himself underneath you so your body's pulled even closer and whispering, "you drive me crazy, you know that?"

you can't help but smile.

lips skimming his for the last time tonight — this time with no intentions of pulling away. guiding his hands to your lower back as you press into his palms. 

your hips move against his thigh at a steady pace, soft sounds of your lips meeting blending with the hum of the AC.

"katsuki?" 

there's an annoyed sigh that tumbles from his mouth when your lips detach, "hm?"

"my bra . . . take it off"

© — tokkushin : all rights reserved. all works belong to me .ᐟ pls do not repost/copy, or feed into ai.

a/n: kali loves intimacy! i like writing this more than smut let's be so fr. i tagged it as smut cuz i don't want people yelling at me so just to be safe! -> masterlist. | comments and reblogs greatly appreciated! 💋

It’s only muscle memory to follow his instruction, gasping when you push it inside your tight walls.

“Good baby, work that finger in you, take your time.”

You give your home such lazy pumped with your fingers, thighs squeezing together as you keen, “Toji.”

Your older boyfriend’s hands grip the steering wheel, Adam’s Apple bobbing, “Now put another finger in, slow, yer’not rammin it in there.”

Tojis deep voice swirls I’m your mind, easing another finger into your tight heat. Fluttering while you imagine his thick digits opening you up- more— the way he’s have his shaft filling you up to the brim, hold your legs open while he bottoms out. You start to thrust your fingers inside you faster, eyes low and hiccuping on your own moans. But it’s not enough, not wide enough, fast enough. “Mmph- fuck!” You groan out.

“There’s your second issue kid,” Toji drawls out, eyes focused on the road, almost crashing once from the way your pretty moans fills his ears, “‘S never gonna be enough, think about what’s I’d do for ya, huh? How I’d make you take it, legs over my shoulders while I got my cock through alll those tight little ridges ‘f yours, till you’re shaking and crying. Nipples all hard beggin f’me to suck on ‘em— shit, bet they’re all perked up for me right now, want my tongue around em, lapping you up don’t you baby?”

“Uugh- Yeah,” You mewl, hips bucking into your hand, more slick water falling out of you.

“Course ya do angel,” his voice so so hypnotic, makes your insides tingle, “get em all wet, biting and kissing up your neck to your plump lips, squeeze on you— fuck, wont you spank it for me? Lemme hear it.” He groans.

You’re trembling, fingers coming down on your chubby clit, hard, just like Toji would. The wet plap, plap, plap of your sobbing pussy filling Tojis ears, your sticky string of juices down your pruned fingers. You’re chanting his name between curses, eyes squeezing together. The pace of your fingers sloppy as you grind into your hand.

“God she’s messy, all f’me yeah?” He shifts in his seat, pulsing cock throbbing as your moans only get louder, trying to relieve some of the tension but you’re only making it harder.

Your lips purse out, head burred in the pillows, you can practically feel his large hands on you, guiding you, filling you, pressing right against that spongy slot that makes your cream, you’re babbling. “aaah- bastard, asshole-“

“Looove the way you talk t’me puddin, keep goin.”

The older man can imagine how disheveled you’d look around him, sobbing and your skin all clammy in the moonlight, nails going down his back as he drills deep into you, hands gripping your hips so hard Thry bruise. His jaw clenches, “Needed your old man t’talk you through it didn’t you? Wanted me more than 7 inches deep inside you while fucked you all mean ‘nd rough—”

“Fuck, mmm- yes!” Your toes curl, that deep feeling in your stomach snapping apart when you cum all of your digits. You’re still dazed as you come down from the high, rolling over to the side Toji usually sleeps on.

“Come home soon Toj.” You speak softly, still panting, your tired eyes finally closing, and he hums. Something about only being ten minutes away. “I’ll ‘pologize proper… so bring somethin good for breakfast.”

“F’Course puddin.”

And there’s a comfortable beat of silence before Toji speaks, “Love you kid.”

And your voice is so sweet, melodic in his ears, you purr, “Love you too Toji.”

Katsuki Bakugou, as you've now come to know him, lives lavishly — expensive furniture scattered around his apartment surely making for good company. The walls are surprisingly bare, save for a handful of art pieces you're sure costs more than your rent.

He doesn't stop long enough for you to inspect them, only dragging you through the apartment with his hand around your wrist.

"You live alone? Mr. Bakugou . . ?" you question, following closely behind him.

Lost in the haze of tattoos and his woodsy scented cologne, not once did the idea of him being taken cross your mind. Nor what you were meant to call him — Mr. Bakugou? Sir? 

Although judging by the grin on his face, he'd probably enjoy hearing either.

"You sure ask a lotta questions," he smirks, twisting the golden knob of the bedroom door. 

He drags you into the darkness of his room, guiding you towards the bed while he flicks on a lamp. The sheer force sends your body flying off the mattress, bouncing against the plush foam before its grounded by his body over yours.

"You askin' if I'm a cheater, sweets?" 

A thigh slots itself between your legs, the stitching of his pants piercing through the thin fabric of your panties. The feeling makes your back arch — hips moving against him as if they had a mind of their own. 

"Of course not," 

Pressing yourself harder against his leg ,your body buckles at the feeling, a hand snakes it's way to his face as you tug him towards your lips. Warm breath mixes in the minimal space between you two before he closes the distance.

Every clash of lips and tongue is messy, much unlike his composure before. The sloppy grinds against his thigh forcing your mouth to fall open. 

It only makes room for his tongue, weaving itself into the soaked confines of your mouth as he swallows every sound you make. 

"Take off my shirt," he whispers, ending his statement with a kiss against your cheek. Katsuki towers over you as he watches, ruby eyes boring into your needy form as you reach for the plastic. "A good listener too? Someone's horny."

You roll your eyes.

The buttons on his shirt come loose with little effort, his collared shirt slipping from his shoulders and pooling onto the floor. Bold ink stretches over his right arm, trailing it's way over his chest — the dark lines winding over golden skin. 

Your gaze follows the pattern from his forearm to his shoulder — until the design stops. His left side surprisingly bare in comparison.

"Did you run out of things to tattoo?" you smile, reaching out to brush your fingertips over the untouched skin.

"No."

"Then why's this one empty"

A crooked grin tugs at his lips as he fiddles with the hem of your dress, eyes flicking over you like he's already distracted, "Savin' it."

Much like him to answer so vaguely. 

Amused, he watches you, laughing as your brows crease in thought.

"I can hear you thinkin' about it." 

"I'm not."

Liar.

The blonde doesn't waste his breath arguing, actions speak louder than words, after all — like the way your hips buck when he blows softly at your clit, or how your thighs squeeze around his head when he gives the swollen nub a kiss.

He licks a long stripe on the outline of your slit, saliva coating the thin cotton of of your underwear as it sticks to your wetness. Rough hands busying themselves with your chest.

"Mr. - Sir-, please"

Hips bucking against his tongue, dragging the wet muscle over every inch of your core. His tattooed hand moves in front of you, guiding one of yours to his blonde locs. 

"Sir?" he snorts, signalling you to lift your hips as he slips off your underwear, "You're makin' me sound ancient. Just call me Katsuki, yeah?"

His tongue is on you before you can dwell on it — two hands sprawling your thighs apart, as he basks in the glow of your cunt under the dim lighting. He hikes your thighs over his shoulders, inching himself closer to the spot he knows you need him most.

His tongue darts out as if he's testing the waters, dragging it along your slit as he hums against you — his fingers rough on your waist.

You're putty under his touch, thighs clamped around his head as you moan softly into the dim room.

Too quiet for his liking.

He pulls away with your slick coating his mouth, trails of sticky release spanning from his chin to his nose as he mumbles, "Fuck are you so quiet for? You gettin' shy on me, pretty?"

You whine at that, rolling your hips against the air as his lips ghost over your cunt.

"Just feels different."

You certainly caught his attention with that.

"Different, how?" he questions, trailing two fingers from his tatted arm against your soaked entrance, "You gotta talk to me."

His body's now fully on top of yours, bare skin rubbing against your chest as his free hand cages your head. Lips giving a teasing lick to your ear as he watches your writhing form.

With a sigh, your hands cover your face — your body betraying your coyness when his fingers prod at your entrance.

He knows what he's doing — shallowly pressing two fingers inside you before he's pulling them away. Bringing his lips to your face as he commands, "Tell me how it feels."

"G-good. Feels good, Katsuki" you whine, smashing your lips on his to hide the embarrassment clearly written on your face. Your voice is honeyed with want and lust, pressing yourself closer to him as his fingers curl inside you. 

He nods knowingly, nose brushing yours lazily as his fingers move faster. "Yeah? That's a good girl"

Wet squelches bounce off every wall, the sound ringing in your head as heat fills your tummy. Your hands cradle his face as you near your high, moaning into his mouth from the speed of his fingers and the steady gaze of his eyes. 

Even as you cum, his pace doesn't falter — only pulling his fingers from your sopping cunt when you push at his arm. He licks the digits hungrily, milking the droplets of your slick for its every last inch.

Palming the bulge uncomfortably tucked in his pants, he laughs, "That wrecked just from my fingers, hm?"

That earns him another eye roll.

He makes quick work of taking off his clothes and yours, his belt clanking on against your dress thrown in the corner of the room. 

Every inch of his body is a sight to behold, muscles protruding against his honeyed-skin as he fists his cock. It was as if he was sculpted by hand, every detail crafted with the utmost care. 

He's so hot.

"Do you have a condom?" he asks, digging in his drawer. His hands raise in defence when you stare at him offended, rummaging through the drawers of his nightstand as he pulls one out.

He makes slow work of the latex — painfully slow. Thick fingers fussing with the plastic as the room washes over with silence — you have half the mind to yank it from his hands.

So you do.

The shimmery packaging tossed onto his floor. 

"That's not safe sex." he taunts, although the subtle bounce of his cock against his toned chiselled torso tells a different story. 

You ignore him, opting for focusing on the reason why you "actually" went home with this man in the first place. 

"Why wear long sleeves when you've got all…" you pause, gesturing to his arm " … these" you murmur, scooting yourself towards his spot on the bed as you lie back against the bed, watching him impatiently.

You're the one being ignored this time — tattooed hand pumping itself lazily as he coats himself in his own slick.

Just like the rest of his place, his room doesn't tell you much about him, keeping the blonde man with his scarred skin and smug-attitude an untold mystery, which only makes the tattoos scattered all the more interesting.

Trailing your gaze over every inch of his room — something you probably should've done before had this man turned out to be a serial killer.

"What's that one for?" you hum, eyes catching on the litter of small explosions inked on his arm.

He stares at you, then down at himself, a silent questioning of your timing written all over his face before he follows your gaze, "That one was a stupid mistake"

You eye him suspiciously before pointing at the linear art on his pec, "And this one?"

"Even stupider."

Surprisingly, no eye roll this time.

He's over your antics now, laughing at your defeatedness as he cages you underneath his body. Dragging his tip over the slick of your cunt as distraction. 

"Is this still okay?"

You nod softly, grabbing his shoulders to pull him towards you when you feel the gentle press of his length between your thighs. 

"Enough of that quiet shit," he groans, words cut off as he presses himself in deeper, "Be loud f'me, or else I'll stop"

His threats fall on deaf ears as you whine beneath him, hips twitching against his. The words once waiting to be spoken caught in his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, hips pressed against yours as his face falls into the crook of your neck. 

You whine against his cheek, his thick cock splitting you open in the best way possible — sweat and sex blurring your senses as you adjust to his size.

There's a soft rock of his hips, then another — each thrust a testing push that buries him deeper inside your gummy walls. He groans at every sound that slips past your lips, losing himself in your hear as he drives himself further with every slow thrust.

"Still too quiet" he grunts, finishing each word with a sharp thrust, hips fastening their pace, "Louder."

Your mouth falls into a wide 'O' at the shift in speed, skin slapping in rhythmic motions as he thrusts deep inside you. 

Low, and guttural — you moan into the empty space on the left side of his neck before giving the unmarked skin a teasing nip.

Paintings rattle against their spot on the walls as he drags your hips to meet his, a chilling reminder of just how fast he was going. 

Slipping a hand down the valley of your bodies, he toys with your clit. A whine of his name is ripping from your throat as he does so - his cock reaching lengths so deep it pummels the spongy spot inside you like he's trying to learn it. 

Each thrust is more desperate than the last as he watches you underneath him. His eyes honed in on your every reaction as you cry out blissfully. 

"Feel good?" he asks as if his voice alone doesn't force your walls to clench, squeezing around him like a vice he wouldn't dare try to escape. He smirks when you nod your head, pressing his face just a little closer, "Say it."

"F-feels good, 'Suki" 

The words come out in a breathless hush as the feeling of his cock clouds your mind, thighs shaking around his waist as you desperately try to pull him closer. He grunts in response, whispering a small 'Fuck' at the new name, his body suddenly flustered as his pace falters before they're given less than a second to recover.

Warm breath fans over your lips, his nose forcefully pushing against yours with each brutal thrust. 

Flustered, and maybe a bit shy, your eyes lock on his unmarked skin, waves of lust guiding your every move. 

Mindlessly you bite, plush skin sinking into the whites of your teeth as you gnaw and lap at the his shoulder — you're sure that'll leave a mark.

He hisses through his teeth, hips stuttering their pace as he relishes in the sting before they pick up in speed once again. 

"Yeah, mark me gorgeous. Like I'm— fuck— 'm all yours, huh?"

His. His. His.

Every inch of your body taking on a new wave of confidence as your mouth moves against the spot — licking, biting, sucking on the honeyed skin as your eyes well from pleasure.

The sounds in the room are nothing short of lewd — hips colliding, muffled moans against his shoulder, shameless grunts tumbling from his bruised lips — it's all too much for either of you to take.

His resolve snaps when you squeeze around him. Hips jolting almost painfully against you as he fucks you through your high, his not far behind. 

Symphonies of groans and whines reverberate through his apartment, his last few thrusts sloppy inside your sopping walls before he's pulling out with a wet 'pop' Your juices leak down every inch of his cock, mixing with the white globs that drip from his tip. 

He's fully on top of you now, pounds of muscle stuck to your skin through the power of sweat and pure filth.

"You still with me?"

You hum softly, grabbing at his cheeks to pull him into a deep kiss. There's a softness to it, one that holds a thousand different feelings in the warm hush of your quiet afterglow.

"You should wear more short sleeve shirts" you whisper against his lips.

He chuckles, brushing away the hair that sticks to your forehead, as he smiles playfully, "Yes ma'am." 

Katsuki rolls you over with ease, your body now pressed comfortably against his chest as he holds you in his arms — the tattooed one tracing your curves lazily.

"… Kats?" you whisper, voice hoarse from its earlier exhaustion, "One more time?"

You hide your restlessness by pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, thighs spread over his as you settle on top of his chest. Your hips move slowly against his cock, the appendage still sitting painfully hard against his toned frame. 

A hearty laugh this time.

"You sure, sweets?" he asks, two thick hands making themselves comfortable on the globes of your ass, "You look pretty tired to me."

You huff, adjusting yourself to prod his weeping cock against your entrance."No, that's you." you huff, adjusting yourself to prod his weeping cock against your entrance, "Don't tap out on me, Grandpa."

Katsuki would rather die than do that, especially when the words "tap out" and "grandpa" used to describe him, are something he's more than happy to fuck right out of your head. 

. . . 

Only a few weeks later, and you're glad to call "Mr. Bakugou" your boyfriend. Spoiled in the luxury and comfort of his heart, he dotes on you in a way no man ever has.

The next time you see Katsuki, you're both clad in a lot more clothes — well, sort of. His burly frame looks almost out of place in such a small café, broad shoulders plopping into the seat across from you.

"You look good" he smiles, beckoning towards the few hickeys that have yet to fade

One more eye roll for the books.

You hum at that, swirling your drinks in the white porcelain as you bring it to your lips, hiding your smile "Short sleeves this time?" you question, swigging the drink in your mouth, "Looks good on you."

Now it was his turn to smile.

He stretches his arms under the light of the cafe, muscles tensing as he does. The tattoos now exposed in broad daylight moving across his skin as your eyes trail from his forearms to his neck—

What the fuck was that?

You reach for the collar of his shirt before you can stop yourself, tugging at the fabric to reveal the ink on the left side of his collarbone.

"Katsuki, is that my fucking name on your shoulder?"

He only stares at you blankly, an unfazed look on his face. "'Course it is." 

He smiles at your awestruck face, laughing as you thumb the skin to check if it's real.

Clearly you couldn't put the words together, and Katsuki's smirk is far too good at filling the silence.

"Your birthday. I'll put that—" he points to a spot on his forearm, thick veins pulsing under his skin "—right here." 

If it was any consolation, you still had yet to find the tattoo of your lips at the back of his neck.

© tokkushin — all rights reserved. all works belong to me .ᐟ pls do not repost/copy, or feed into ai.

a/n: i'm too easily influenced, WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT GUYS PROMISE ME!! don't fall for blonde men and their burly builds and their disgustingly hot tattoos </3 also this is fiction, i really don't think he'd ever get tattoos save for a few small ones but we ball and idgaf -> masterlist. | comments and reblogs greatly appreciated! 💋