#content.squishy

The hazy smell of alcohol and cigarettes sticks to your skin, barely buried under the scent of sex. Getou watches from the bed, his legs tangled in the cheap, thin sheet, as you pull on his shirt, his eyes never leaving the hem as it falls, savoring every last inch of skin before it gets covered. The way his gaze continues to trail down your body, hungrily staring at the almost pearlescent wetness that's smeared down your thighs as if he's going to devour you once again, makes a chill down your spine.

"Sometimes I think you're the only good thing left in this fucking world." he mumbles it like it's a prayer, a soft plead for something you'll never fully understand. When he reaches for you, you follow, falling into his touch without a second thought, straddling his waist, his softening cock pressed against your sex like he'll take you again.

The ambient light of the moon, peeking through the window shadows, paints sad shadows across his features. You run your hands through his hair, pulling it back into a sloppy bun with all the gentleness and love you can physically muster, but it does nothing to make him look happier. It's been so long since you've seen humor in those eyes.

"That's a terrible compliment, Suguru." you tease, trying to pull a smile from him, "It's doesn't feel good to be the best of the worst."

He just stares back, devoid of humor, sliding his hands up your knees.

"So needy," Getou tuts as he squeezes the hem of your shirt between his pointer and thumb, lifting it ever so slightly until he can see where your bodies meet. The sight of him between your folds, just resting as if he belongs there, makes the corner of his mouth tug up ever so slightly, "Didn't I praise you enough earlier?"

You press a kiss against the smooth, perfect skin of his forehead. Despite the stress, despite the time, not a single wrinkle has started to form. If you didn't know better, you'd think he had simply stopped aging, forever frozen in his twenties. "It's never enough."

"I'm sorry," Getou tugs you in by the fabric until he's flat against you, head buried into the curve on your neck, breath heavy and thick against the dip of your clavicle. "Let me worship you correctly."

His teeth graze your pulse point- greedily catching you in his pearly grip for a moment past comfort. It hurts, but as his lips creep up and up, you want to hurt. He could destroy you, tear you apart at the seams, and you'd allow him.

"You're resplendent." he murmurs into your jaw, lips soft against the indentations his teeth left.

"Transcendent." He pushes his body into yourself, harder and harder until you tumble back into the down comforter. "Rapturous. Divine. "

Getou is too much and not enough all at once; every drag of skin is overwhelming, burning already overstimulated nerves and yet you want more. Every move is like worship, every kiss a silent psalm that only he knows.

"Preeminent." his hips rolls against yours and the spongy head of his cock barely catches against your opening. The angle is wrong -it makes both of you wince- but it doesn't stop him from trying again and again, just fucking himself through the petals of your pussy. When he finally slips inside, sinking his full length into you once again, it feels right- a comfortable, reassuring fullness. "Inimitable."

New Years Day, 4am

You can barely hear the click of the front door opening over the gurgle of the coffee marker. This stupid thing is on its last legs, chugging much too hard to make a half of a pot. You silently chastise yourself for not buying a new one as a Christmas present; Aizawa clearly wasn't going to get himself one. Maybe for Valentine’s Day.

Is that an appropriate gift? It's kind of self serving-

"You should be in bed." The man in question stands in the kitchen doorway, stepping on his own heel to slide off his work boots.

Both of you are used to his late night patrols by now. It's just a part of life, not seeing your husband until the early morning,

Despite who absolutely worn he looks, with wild hair, unshaven face, dirt and mystery stains across his knees and elbows, there's an inherent relief and excitement to seeing him.

He slowly unravels his capture weapon, letting it gather where he stands. Those ever present dark circles seem even darker now as he shuffles over to where you sit on the counter.

“I was hoping-” His hand falls on your knee, suddenly tugging your legs apart. You're wearing pajamas, but Aizawa's eyes trace down your body, hungrily measuring every curve, with an intensity that makes you shiver. He takes his time staring at where your legs spread before meeting your gaze again. “-you’d still be in bed.”

You giggle, playfully pushing his hand away before pressing a finger to your lips.

"Behave, tiger." you whisper, jerking a head  towards the living room. "Eri's sleeping on the couch."

“Why isn’t she in her bed?” Aizawa's voice drops low, all interest in mischief immediately gone. "Is she okay?"

"She tried to make it to midnight but ended up falling asleep at 10." you say, hand over his, tracing fingers over his calloused knuckles. "Didn't have the heart to move her."

He leans back, his touch never leaving you, to look into the living room. Even from here you can see the mess of white hair where Eri still peacefully sleeps. Aizawa just hums, trying to hide his relief.

He's a great dad. You know there's silent doubt he bares, trepidation to the task of raising of child unexpectedly, but he's truly spectacular.

"How was patrol?" you reach out for him and he  melts -eyes closed, humming softly at the mere thought of being in your grasp- only for you to pluck a piece of confetti from his hair. "Eventful New Year's Eve?"

"Rowdy." Aizawa whispers, stepping closer until he's in-between your knees. You gently pull his goggles from his neck and place them on the counter. His uniform shirt is next; you guide it up his chest, hands sliding up his undershirt. He lets you undress him, lifting his arms to help, still watching you with the same exhausted smile. Without his outwear, he smells less like the city and more like home; there's the faintest, lingering scent of your new detergent (the pink one he bought solely because Eri liked the color.)

The coffee maker chimes, reminding you that it's ready, but instead you pull him closer, until his chest pressed against yours and his chin is tucked into your shoulder. Again, he melts, folding completely into you, every once of tension in his muscles now gone. The faint tickle of his breath into the crook of your neck and scratch of cheek stubble against your collarbone makes you squirm, but Aizawa holds you in place with the weight of his body.

Kita pours tea with the same care and attention he does everything with. He starts by pouring the first bit into your cup, covering only the bottom before moving on to his. He alternates cups over and over again until both cups are filled, the smallest bits of unfurling leaves settling at the bottom.

"You do it this way-" Kita explained on your first date, sitting in this same booth all those months ago, "-so you both have the same strength tea. The first sips will be weaker than the last drops."

He drained the last couple of drops into your cup, those dark, concentrated droplets diffusing into your drink. "And I want your tea to be just as perfect as mine."

Kita takes the first sip. As always, he pauses, lips still on the cup as he thinks-- then looks to you with a slight raise to his brow.

You nod with a smile. You already know the question he's asking; yes, you ordered the genmaicha, just for him. His smile is hidden by the rim of his cup as he tilts it back again, drinking deep.

It's a particularly good cup. You can tell by the way Kita wiggles his nose when he sets the cup down. All of his idiosyncrasies mean something, each a tiny message you're not sure he knows he's sending.

"I'm sorry," Kita eventually breaks the spell silence held between you, "I guess this isn't a very exciting date; I'm so quiet today."

You finally take a sip of your own tea. Kita's nose was right- it is a particularly good brew.