date tech boys doing their best to protect your precious feelings from your brainless torment of a boyfriend
date tech vbc x f!reader
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
aone takanobu
you were carrying a stack of books in the hallway, your boyfriend walking ahead like he couldn’t care less. aone silently appeared, looming like a shadow until he carefully took the stack from your arms. your boyfriend scoffed, “she’s not weak, you know.”
aone just turned his blank gaze on him, voice low: “then why are you?”
your boyfriend opened his mouth to argue, but aone had already walked off at your side, holding the books like precious treasure, towering and unbothered.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
futakuchi kenji
“wow, you really let her walk around in those shoes without helping? king behavior,” futakuchi snarked, arms crossed. he leaned closer to your boyfriend with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “don’t worry, though, i’ll pick up your slack. i’m used to babysitting losers.”
he jogged up to you, dramatically kneeling. “princess, may i tie your shoelaces?”
your boyfriend sputtered, “what the hell is wrong with you?”
futakuchi smirked, whispering as he tugged the knot tight: “what’s wrong is you treating her like she’s disposable. don’t worry—i’ll fix that.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
obara yutaka
during class, your boyfriend had his head down on the desk, ignoring you completely. obara leaned over the row, poking your shoulder shyly. “hey… d’you want my notes? they’re color-coded. easier than squinting at his handwriting.”
your boyfriend lifted his head, glaring. “the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
obara blinked innocently. “just that your notes suck. she deserves better. she deserves everything better.” his smile didn’t falter, but his grip on the pen in his hand was white-knuckled.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
koganegawa kanji
you were struggling to carry your bag after practice while your boyfriend scrolled through his phone. koganegawa practically tackled him out of the way to grab it. “don’t worry, y/n, i’ve got this!!”
“she didn’t even ask you,” your boyfriend snapped.
“yeah, but you didn’t offer,” koganegawa shot back, puffing out his chest proudly while holding your bag like it was the crown jewels. then, with a lopsided grin, he added loud enough for your boyfriend to hear: “i’ll carry her whole life if she lets me!!”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
onagawa tarō
your boyfriend had forgotten to bring you an umbrella, leaving you stuck in the rain. onagawa silently held one over you, walking beside you without saying a word.
“seriously? stalker behavior,” your boyfriend scoffed.
onagawa finally spoke, calm and deliberate: “stalker? no. guardian.” he tilted his head, staring straight at him with unsettling stillness. “if you won’t keep her safe, i will.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
fukiage jingo
at lunch, your boyfriend sat scrolling on his phone while you searched for a seat. fukiage practically shoved his whole tray down just to pull a chair out for you.
“wow, simping much?” your boyfriend sneered.
fukiage leaned back, looking him dead in the eye, grinning: “i’ll simp for her until the day i die. at least it’s not neglect.” then he turned to you like nothing happened, asking, “want my dessert? i saved it for you.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
sakunami kōsuke
you sneezed in class. your boyfriend didn’t even look up. sakunami immediately turned, holding out a tissue like it was an offering.
your boyfriend rolled his eyes. “she doesn’t need you to mother her.”
“oh?” sakunami’s voice was soft, but his stare wasn’t. “then why do i get to her needs before you ever notice them?”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
kamasaki yasushi
when your boyfriend made a snide comment about how you “take too long to get ready,” kamasaki’s chair screeched across the floor as he stood up. “say that again,” he barked.
your boyfriend laughed nervously. “what, you’re her bodyguard now?”
kamasaki smirked, cracking his knuckles. “no. bodyguards get paid. i’d kill for her for free.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
moniwa kaname
your boyfriend brushed you off when you asked for help carrying equipment. moniwa jogged over instantly. “don’t worry, i’ll take it. can’t let our manager overwork herself, right?” he said with an easy smile.
your boyfriend muttered, “pathetic.”
moniwa didn’t even drop his smile. he leaned close to your boyfriend, whispering: “funny, she doesn’t look pathetic when she’s glowing under my attention.” then he straightened, carrying the gear like it weighed nothing.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
sasaya takehito
your boyfriend snapped at you for “talking too much.” before you could shrink back, sasaya snorted loudly. “you ever shut up when she’s speaking, or is this your whole brand?”
your boyfriend blinked, stunned.
sasaya leaned his chin in his palm, grin lazy but eyes sharp. “her voice is the best part of any room. if it annoys you, then get out.”
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wc: 0.5k
content warning: fluff, slight smut, aged up, post-time skip, my shitty writing, not proofread
໒*:･🛡️
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to have a hard time expressing his feelings and love towards you but he tries his best to communicate it with small but meaningful gestures. For example, he'd boldly declare his love for you with his resting serious face.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to respect all of your boundaries even if you didn't even tell him what they are. He'd easily pick up on the things that cross the line and remember these little details.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to be not very familiar with physical touch. However, he finds it cute and likes it whenever you're the one giving him your warm touch. When you're holding hands, he'd walk so stiff and try not to swing his arm from being so happy.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to immediately apologize and rights his wrongs if you end up in an argument. He'd bow down and give you the most sincere and gentle apology, wondering what went wrong and thinking about solutions to work around the hurdle.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to always show you this lighter version of himself. His facial features are more soft, he's more prone to have this cute subtle smile on his face whenever he's around you.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to turn a light pink shade whenever he feels a bit flustered or shy with you. You could be discussing about having a date and he'd be pondering about it in his mind, happy with the thought that he's able to spend private time with just you.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to be very honest and formal with your parents which makes them think that he's a very serious person also due to his resting face. They'll later find out that he's a very affectionate person through his smaller interactions and thoughtful words about you.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to shove you full of his cock to the point where he doesn't even need to find your sweet spot because he's able to hit all your spots just being inside you. Aone would also be playing between your sopping wet folds with his fingers while he's at it.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to enjoy pounding into you in a cuddling position while peppering your face with his gentle kisses. His pace is consistent until you tell him to go harder and faster to which he'd oblige in a rough manner till you finish.
-Aone, the type of boyfriend to love whenever you just lay on him with all your weight because he can't feel it with his bigger body under you. He enjoys the warmth your body radiates, wrapping his hands around your torso just basking in your scent under the sheets.
contains: some angst to fluff to smut, happy ending!!, tattoo artist!Aone, social anxiety!reader, thigh riding, fingering(ish), missionary, NOT an accurate representation of getting a tattoo (call it creative liberties)
word count: 3.7k
note: all characters are aged up to 21+!
MDNI | 18+ content
Masterlist
a/n: I'm sorry, I love Aone so much, he's so babygirl!! I'm a sucker for a gentle giant so I needed to get this story down I love him
You’re so excited for your first tattoo. So excited you could throw up, in fact. Oh wait, no, you’re terrified.
The tattoo studio does nothing to soothe your nerves. It’s a small space, seeming all the more cramped for artwork covering every inch of wall and shelf space. You try your hardest not to shrink into yourself.
And then your tattoo artist steps out and a year of social aversion therapy dwindles into nothing.
Takanobu Aone is one of the best artists in the country and you’ve been so, so lucky to get a spot with him. You researched hard, not trusting your first tattoo in the hands of anyone less than perfect. When you saw Aone’s portfolio online, you knew he was the one. Beautiful linework and sweeping designs that seemed to mould to the person’s body. You fell in love with his art.
But his portfolio didn’t have any pictures of him. So when he steps out and greets you with a silent nod, you nearly shrivel up on the spot.
Aone is scary. He’s tall, broad, and – unsurprisingly – coated in tattoos. A seemingly permanent frown is etched on his face, his ice blonde hair cut short. But it’s his eyes – it’s like he’s glaring at you.
“Sorry,” you squeak out before internally scolding yourself.
Sorry?? What are you apologising for? No one’s said anything yet!
If Aone’s confused, he doesn’t show it. He only gestures to an intimidating-looking chair, fitted with an overhead lamp.
Your hands shake so you clench them into fists. You can do this, you tell yourself. This was the whole point of your tattoo. On wobbly legs, you make your way over to the chair and sit down.
Aone looks down at you. You look back up at him. When neither of you says anything, he twirls his finger in the air.
“Oh!”
Idiot, you think to yourself. It’s a back tattoo – he needs to see my back.
You turn around, your chest pressed against the back of the chair, as Aone sits behind you. Even without seeing him, his presence is so large that you feel it. You take a shuddering breath as you hear the buzz of the needle and squeeze your eyes shut.
The tattoo hurts, like a relentless, stinging scratch against your skin. But honestly? You thought it would be worse. Still, the nerves haven’t dissipated yet, and nausea swirls in your stomach. Especially when you feel Aone’s hands on your skin, resting against your back as he works.
“You’re doing well.”
Aone’s voice is so sudden and unexpected that you nearly jump. It takes a second for you to register what he’s said but when you do, warmth rushes to your cheeks.
“Th-thanks,” you stammer out.
“Will music help you to relax?”
His voice is deep and smooth. You’re glad you’re facing away from him because you don’t want him to see the blush in your cheeks just from listening to him speak.
You tell him your favourite songs and he sets up a playlist. By the time he starts up the tattoo again, you are feeling more relaxed. It helps that you don’t need to look him in the face, that you don’t need to mould your reactions to what you think is right. Every so often, Aone will let you know how well you’re sitting for him and each time, it makes your body feel like it’s on fire.
By the time he’s finished, you’re nearly dizzy.
Aone must notice because he offers his hand to help you stand. You take it, gratefully, but keep your eyes averted, too embarrassed to look him in the face.
“First tattoos are hard,” he says solemnly and you’re glad he thinks it’s the tattoo that’s had an effect on you and not him.
Aone hands you his card as you pay up. It has a list of tattoo care instructions as well as his phone number and socials.
“Any problems, contact me,” he says.
You finally look up at him. What you had thought had been a glare before now looks completely different. Aone’s eyes are sharp but they’re kind, his face serious but concerned. Under the intensity of his gaze, you find it suddenly hard to breathe.
You want to thank him, to tell him you’ll be happy to contact him if anything comes up. To say anything normal at all.
But an iron wall wraps around your chest. You don’t want to say anything stupid or embarrassing. So you give a short nod and leave without saying anything at all.
*
It’s only a few days before your tattoo starts to itch. You diligently cream it as Aone’s card instructed you but the position of the tattoo means you can’t reach all of it. There’s a patch in the middle that’s neglected and so, so goddamn itchy.
After all the research, effort and money spent, you desperately don’t want your new tattoo to heal badly. But you have no one to ask for help. It’s your own fault, you know. You’ve spent the years since you left home for college isolating yourself from everyone. Too worried about saying the wrong thing or doing something embarrassing. Too concerned over whether people are laughing at you instead of with you.
And now you’re stuck with an itchy tattoo that you can’t fully reach.
Aone’s card sits innocently on your desk, almost taunting you. It takes another two days before you gather up the courage to tap out a message to Aone.
He responds within minutes with instructions to come to the studio.
That’s how you end up back in the chair, your favourite songs playing again, too embarrassed to look behind you at Aone.
“The itch is worse than the pain,” he says, rubbing cool, soothing cream gently over your tattoo.
Despite yourself, you smile. Maybe it’s your favourite music in the background, maybe it’s the fact you don’t need to look at him. Maybe it’s the feel of his gloved fingers being so gentle on your skin. For once, you don’t overthink before you speak.
“The pain wasn’t so bad after a while,” you say quietly. “But the itching goes on forever.”
Aone chuckles. It catches you off guard – you wonder what he looks like when he’s smiling.
You sit in comfortable silence for a while.
“This is so embarrassing…” you mumble to yourself.
“What is?”
You startle, not realising he heard you. Your cheeks burn.
“O-oh… just… y’know, all of this,” you say clumsily.
“All of what?”
“I-” A lump appears in your throat. You realise how stupid you sound. “I can’t reach my tattoo.”
A puff of air escapes Aone’s nose.
“Not embarrassing,” he says. “I fainted during my first tattoo. That is embarrassing.”
The image of Aone – broad, muscled, serious-faced Aone – fainting during a tattoo is so unexpected you snort with laughter.
“You didn’t!”
“I did,” he says gravely. “I was too nervous to eat breakfast so my blood sugar was low.”
Aone withdraws his hands to lean in close. You can feel the warmth radiating off him on the back of your neck and shoulder. When he speaks, his breath tickles your cheek.
“They had to give me a lollipop.”
You burst out laughing, clapping a hand over your mouth. Aone chuckles and stands, snapping his gloves off. You rise with him, still giggling, and get a glimpse of his smile for the first time.
It’s small, just an uptick at the corner of his mouth, but you can’t stop looking.
“Next time you feel embarrassed, remember the lollipop,” Aone says with a firm nod.
You grin, meeting his eyes. Inside you, a small chip skitters down the iron wall.
A crack.
*
Aone tells you to come back every day at the same time for a week, until your tattoo heals. You find yourself looking forward to it and you end up chatting long after he’s finishing creaming your back. You wonder if this is it – you’ve beaten the insecure demon inside your head.
Until one day you don’t.
It’s the last day you’re scheduled to visit Aone’s studio. Maybe that’s the reason why a stab of icy fear lodges itself in your heart every time you try and open the door to leave.
You stand at your front door, key in the lock, but your hand is frozen. Your breathing turns ragged and your vision swims. You can’t turn the key. You can’t leave your home. Your sanctuary. The only safe space you know.
Except Aone’s studio.
Except Aone.
You know you’re going to be late but still, you can’t bring yourself to leave. With shaking hands, you message Aone, apologising and saying you won’t make it. He messages back instantly.
Are you okay?
You don’t know what prompts you to respond honestly. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from fighting the anxiety in your head. Maybe it’s because Aone has always been sincere with you. Maybe it’s because you don’t have to look at him when you respond.
Maybe the iron wall is breaking.
No, you type back.
He asks for your address, saying he’ll come to you. After chewing your thumbnail down to the quick, you give it and throw your phone onto the other side of the bed.
You barely have the energy to drag yourself from your bed when the doorbell rings. You know you should feel embarrassed opening the door in your pyjamas, hair unbrushed and eyes puffy with no sleep. But when Aone steps in, face serious, and pulls out a lollipop, the only thing you feel is relief.
You burst into tears as Aone pulls you into his arms, pressing you against his chest. He’s firm and warm and holds you tight. He doesn’t say anything. He lets you soak the front of his shirt with your tears.
When you’ve cried yourself dry, your sobs dwindling into sniffles, Aone pulls back to peer down at you.
“Food?”
You spend the day with takeout, watching movies together on your laptop in bed. You sneak glances at him every so often, admiring his profile, and have to quickly look away every time he notices. It should be embarrassing… but you know he’s looking at you too. You can feel his intense gaze when you’re watching the movie, can feel him watching you when you get up to go to the bathroom.
When you return, instead of lying side-by-side, you turn your back to him, pulling the laptop in front of you. Aone turns to spoon you, wrapping one large arm around your stomach. You melt into him, immediately relaxed.
It reminds you of being in his chair, faced away from him but knowing he’s there.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, your voice nearly drowned out by the movie. “I know I get too nervous and say weird stuff.”
“What weird stuff?” You can’t see him but you can hear the frown in his voice.
“Like…” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “Like when I first met you, I didn’t even say hi. I said sorry, for some weird reason.”
Your mouth goes dry as you recall your first embarrassing memory with Aone. The one that still keeps you up at night as you replay it, thinking about how awkward you looked and how weird he must think you are.
“That wasn’t weird,” Aone says, breaking you out of your thoughts. “People think I’m scary. They don’t sit next to me on the train and they apologise when they meet me.”
You blink at the laptop, twisting slightly so you can look at Aone. He looks back at you.
“They do?”
He nods.
“You’re not weird. You’re normal.”
Aone says it with absolute sincerity. You think on this for a moment before fully turning, facing him. Aone settles his hand on your waist, his sharp eyes locked on yours.
You’re normal.
A rush of relief floods through you and your eyes water, nearly bursting into tears again. Aone notices because he tightens his grip on you, his hand on standby to brush away any tears.
“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “I’m okay.”
And it’s true. It’s the most okay you’ve felt in a long time. A flood of affection clouds your mind and you look up at him to smile.
“Thank you for rescuing me today,” you tell him.
“Always,” Aone says seriously.
It’s only one word but it steals your breath. You feel like you’re falling. You grip onto the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.
One word and your iron wall crumbles.
You tilt your head up until Aone’s face is only inches from yours. You’re offering yourself up, offering your heart on a platter, open and vulnerable. You close your eyes and wait, blood rushing in your ears.
Aone moves his hand up from your waist to cup your face. His skin is hot against yours and you can feel his heart beating through his chest.
“Always,” he whispers once more before he closes the gap between you.
Aone presses his lips softly against yours. Your hands snake around his torso, feeling the hard muscle of his back. His lips part yours gently, cautiously, wary not to pressure you too much. You let him, meeting his tongue with your own and melting into him.
Aone uses one arm to wrap around your back, pulling your body flush to him as his other hand grips your thigh. He tugs your leg over his, nestling his thick thigh between your legs, and pressing against your mound. You gasp lightly into his mouth.
Aone pulls back, eyes opening.
“Is this okay?” he asks, searching your face for any sign you’re uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s… it feels good.”
You try hard not to grind against his thigh but when he leans down to kiss you again, you find your hips moving on their own. His firm muscle pressed against your clothed pussy makes your clit throb with need. You haven’t felt this turned on by anyone in a long time, your sex drive long since evaporated. But Aone is awakening something inside you, a heat in your stomach unfurling.
You hold onto his shoulder, solid as a rock, and grind against his thigh.
Aone trails his hand down to your hip, his grip gentle but firm.
“Are you sure?” he murmurs against your lips, reluctant to break the kiss.
“Mhmm.” You catch his bottom lip lightly between your teeth. “I’m sure.”
Aone hardens his grip on your hip, guiding you as you rub your clothed pussy against his thigh. The friction is delicious, sending little sparks up through your body and soaking the crotch of your panties and pyjama shorts. You’re forced to break the kiss to bury your face in his chest, whimpering.
He’s bringing you close to the edge, so, so close. But it’s not enough.
“More,” you practically beg him. “I need more. Please.”
Aone grunts and rolls you onto your back, slotting himself between your legs. He’s large enough that you’re spread lewdly beneath him, thighs open. It would normally make you flustered – embarrassed – but it doesn’t.
Because it’s okay. It’s Aone.
He looks at your with stars in his eyes as his hand reaches down, sliding under the waistband of your shorts and panties. Your hips buck as his fingers find your swollen clit, slippery with your arousal. He traces small, featherlight touches around your sensitive bud. Aone knows his own strength and he’s always cautious of being too rough. He watches your face carefully to see your reaction, applying slightly more pressure until your nails sink into his biceps.
“There!” you gasp. “Fuck, right there. I’m so close.”
Aone listens, his cock straining against his jeans. You would normally feel your cheeks burn under the intensity of anyone’s gaze, let alone Aone’s, but you’re too caught up in the pleasure he’s giving you to care. His fingers are relentless, keeping up a steady pace, no faster or slower than exactly what you need.
When your back arches and your mouth falls open, Aone dips his head to swallow your moan, kissing you deeply through your orgasm, his fingers never stopping. It’s only when you pull away, too sensitive to continue, that he withdraws his hand.
But he can’t stop kissing you. Your soft lips and the taste of the lollipop he brought you still on your tongue. Aone knows you’ve opened yourself to him, he knows you’ve summoned every ounce of courage you have. He feels like he has a baby bird in his hands and he’s scared to hold you too tight. To crush the precious thing you’ve given him.
So when you come down from your high, he makes to roll off you, not thinking of himself or his throbbing cock.
You stop him, hands on his biceps and wrapping your legs around his hips.
“I want you,” you whisper, voice hoarse from moaning. “All of you.”
Aone searches your face for any uncertainty. He only sees your eyes alight, holding his gaze firmly. He thinks back to your first arrival in his studio, when he couldn’t even tell what your face really looked like, you kept your eyes so averted. The corner of his mouth upticks with pride.
You reach up to wrap one hand around the nape of his neck, carding your fingers through his short, white-blonde hair as your other hand reaches down to his jeans. He helps you unbutton them, tugging them down along with his boxers and throwing them both off the side of the bed. Aone straightens to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it to the side.
Your eyes widen at the sight of him. Tattoos decorate his thick torso, artwork following the curves and dips of his body. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, not even hiding how absolutely, completely attracted to him you are.
Aone’s expression doesn’t change much but his eyes glint and you know he’s pleased by your reaction. He reaches down, hooking his thumbs under the hem of your pyjama top and tugging it off. He gazes down at you, face soft, his eyes tracing over your body.
You’d normally be fighting the urge to cover yourself but you don’t feel the need to do that with Aone. You want him to look at you.
Aone leans down to pepper soft kisses down your neck, to your breasts. One large hand massages your tit, tweaking the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It’s like your nipple is directly connected to your clit, making it throb with every touch. Aone sucks your other nipple, mouth hot against your skin as his teeth lightly graze you. It’s electrifying. You can feel yourself getting wetter, a scorching heat between your legs.
You need him inside you.
You tug on the roots of his hair gently, pulling his face back up to yours. Aone kisses you deep and slow, one hand reaching down to line his cock up with your entrance. You can feel the fat mushroom tip nudging between your folds. You pull your knees up, wrapping your legs around his hips to give him better access.
Aone pulls back from the kiss. You chase his lips with your own but he cups your cheek, holding you away.
“I want to see your face,” he says.
He locks eyes with you and pushes himself inside.
Your mouth falls open and your brows scrunch in the middle as Aone slides his cock into your tight hole. You’re more than wet enough for him but his cock is as thick as the rest of him, stretching you with a burn that’s half pleasure, half pain. You whimper, eyes squeezing shut as Aone shallowly pumps himself inside you, going a little deeper each time. Each stroke of his cock sets your nerves on fire, sparks running through your whole body to the tips of your fingers and toes.
“Holy shit,” you grit out. “You’re – ah! – You’re so b-big.”
“Are you okay?” Aone stops still. “Are you in pain?”
You shake your head, wrapping your legs tighter around him.
“Don’t stop,” you beg him.
He gives a short nod and keeps going, slowly working himself deeper until he’s bottomed out. Aone waits there for a while, letting you adjust to the size of him. You’re desperate for more friction, your pussy clenching him tight.
“You…” He collapses onto his forearms, burying his face in your neck.
His hand tangles in your hair at the back of your head, holding you to him.
“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes. “You’re doing so well.”
Aone’s praise sends a thrill up your spine, so reminiscent of the first time you met. He presses his mouth against the shell of your ear.
“I’m going to move, okay?” His voice is hoarse.
You nod and he starts to pull back, keeping his body pressed against yours. It should feel smothering, his large body covering yours, but instead it feels safe. Secure.
Aone keeps a steady pace, not pulling out all the way before thrusting back into you. Your greedy pussy pulling him back in every time, your plush walls squeezing him, not wanting to let him go. His cock rubs against the sensitive spot inside you, the trimmed hair at the base stroking delicious friction against your clit. The combination is indescribable. It doesn’t take long for your eyes to roll back again, your orgasm building faster than you can register.
Aone can feel it. The way your tight pussy gets even tighter, the whimpers you make from the back of your throat, the way your thighs squeeze his hips. He can’t get enough of it. He wants to last as long as possible so he can stay here forever. Stay with you, like this, forever. But the way you’re gripping him, milking his cock, makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna cum, angel,” he groans. “Cum with me.”
His words are enough to tip you over the edge. Stars burst behind your eyes. You cry out his name as your thighs tremble and your toes curl, creaming on his cock. Aone grunts, half-moaning, as buries his cock inside you, thick ropes of cum coating your walls.
You hold him close, not wanting him to leave even as his cock softens inside you. Aone stays where he is, wanting to prolong this moment as long as he can. He presses gentle kisses against your neck, hugging you close to him.
“You’re perfect,” he mumbles in between kisses. “Thank you.”
(timeskip era, fluff / humor)
Includes Futakuchi, Aone, Sakunami, Koganegawa
│ they thought your ‘little baby’ was a toy poodle. they were wrong.
──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────
Futakuchi Kenji
he shows up fifteen minutes early — which, for someone who still talks like punctuality is optional, already feels suspicious. you spot him through the window, hair shorter now but still defiant, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he’s trying to look casual and failing miserably.
when you open the door, he grins. “what, no welcome committee? i even shaved for this.”
“barely,” you tease, stepping aside.
“hey,” he protests, following you in. “i’m trying to make a good impression. you invite me over for dinner, i’m thinking candles, music, maybe some—”
there’s a loud thud from the hallway. a second later, a massive shadow rounds the corner — all jowls, drool, and enthusiasm.
futakuchi stops mid-sentence. “what the hell is that.”
“that,” you say proudly, “is my baby.”
he blinks. “your baby looks like it eats babies.”
the dog, a saint bernard of biblical proportions, pads up to him, tail swaying like a slow pendulum. futakuchi stays perfectly still, every muscle tense, like he’s staring down an oncoming serve.
“uh. hi,” he says carefully. “you’ve got… nice fur?”
“that’s Waffles,” you inform him.
“Waffles,” he repeats flatly. “you named the mountain Waffles?”
you grin. “my niece named her. she liked breakfast foods.”
Waffles snorts loudly and bumps her head into his stomach, nearly knocking him back a step. he steadies himself on the counter, eyes wide.
“okay,” he breathes. “she’s friendly. really friendly.”
you’re laughing, leaning against the doorway. “she likes you.”
“yeah, because she’s plotting something,” he mutters, but his hand still finds her head, tentative at first, then steady when she leans into it. “you better not shed on my jeans, Waffles. they’re limited edition.”
“oh, definitely tell her that,” you say. “she cares deeply about fashion.”
he shoots you a look — the kind halfway between exasperation and amusement — but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. Waffles flops at his feet, tail thumping, clearly content.
he sighs, scratching her behind the ear. “guess i’m not getting up anytime soon.”
“aw,” you tease, “trapped by affection. tragic.”
“yeah, yeah,” he says, glancing up at you with that trademark smirk. “bet this was your plan all along.”
“maybe,” you hum. “you like her though.”
he scoffs, pretending to think about it, then shrugs. “she’s alright. but only because she’s got good taste.”
you arch a brow. “good taste?”
he smirks wider. “she likes me, doesn’t she?”
and even though you roll your eyes, he still catches the smile you’re fighting to hide.
Aone Takanobu
you’d warned him once before — “she’s big, but she’s gentle.”
still, when you open the door, the look on his face tells you he wasn’t expecting this kind of big.
the malamute waiting by your side is a wall of white fur and muscle, eyes bright, tail already sweeping against the doorframe like it’s drumming out a warning. Aone stands there for a second, silent, assessing the situation like a structural engineer evaluating a bridge collapse.
“…that’s your dog,” he says finally. not a question. just quiet realization.
“that’s her,” you nod. “this is Buttercup.”
he blinks once. twice. “Buttercup.”
“yeah.”
he looks from you to the dog again — the size of a small bear, tongue lolling happily — then kneels, large hands resting on his knees. “hello, Buttercup,” he says softly.
she huffs once, then leans forward, pressing her forehead into his chest like a living avalanche. you expect him to flinch, but he doesn’t. he just steadies her gently, one massive hand sliding along her shoulders, movements slow and sure.
for a long moment, it’s quiet — the sound of fur brushing fabric, his breath steadying, her tail thumping against the floor.
“she’s… heavy,” he murmurs, voice low.
“she thinks she’s a lapdog,” you say, smiling.
he gives the faintest smile back, eyes soft as he continues to pet her. “she’s good,” he says, like it’s the highest praise he can give.
you nod. “she likes you.”
“she’s calm,” he replies simply, though his hand stays on her fur, absent, grounding. “that’s good.”
he looks up at you, quiet as always, but there’s warmth behind his eyes — the kind that says this feels right.
you tilt your head. “you’re not scared?”
he shakes his head once. “no. she’s family.”
it’s such a simple answer that it makes your chest go soft. he scratches Buttercup’s neck again, gaze still fixed on her, before adding, “you said dinner’s ready?”
“yeah.”
“okay.”
he stands, the dog still leaning against his leg, and follows you inside without another word — two gentle giants, moving in perfect sync.
Sakunami Kousuke
you hear the truck before you see him — the low rumble of an old work pickup pulling up outside, a sound that’s become familiar over the past few months. he’s been helping you redo your fence on weekends, the kind of project that was supposed to take two days and has somehow stretched into an ongoing ritual of takeout, sweat, and quiet company.
when you open the gate, he’s already halfway up the walk, dust still clinging to his uniform, orange safety vest unzipped. he smiles, tired but genuine. “brought those brackets you needed,” he says, holding up a small bag of hardware.
“you didn’t have to come after work,” you say, taking it from him.
“i was driving by anyway,” he shrugs, easy and unhurried. “figured i’d drop them off before i forget.”
before you can thank him, a deep bark cuts through the air. his head tilts slightly, curious. “...you got company?”
you grin. “my baby.”
the great pyrenees rounding the corner of the house looks less like a “baby” and more like a wandering snowdrift with legs. sakunami freezes for half a second, eyes widening slightly, then letting out a low, surprised laugh. “wow,” he says quietly. “she’s… big.”
“that’s Magnolia,” you tell him, patting the dog’s broad head as she trots up. “she’s friendly. just nosy.”
magnolia plants herself right in front of him, head tilted, tail swaying in slow, deliberate arcs. sakunami crouches without hesitation, letting her sniff his hands, his boots, the faint scent of dust and sun clinging to him.
“you work outside, huh?” you tease.
“guess she can tell,” he says, still focused on the dog. she gives one approving snort before leaning against him with the full weight of her body. he laughs softly, steadying her with both arms. “she’s strong.”
“that’s her way of saying hi.”
he nods, petting her neck with rough, calloused hands, expression softening as he looks up at you. “good guard dog,” he says simply.
“she’s mostly a nap dog,” you admit.
“same thing,” he replies, lips quirking faintly. “you just don’t mess with what she loves.”
the way he says it — gentle, certain — makes you pause for a beat. magnolia sighs against his chest, utterly content.
he stands after a moment, brushing fur off his vest. “i’ll come by saturday, finish the fence,” he says. “magnolia can supervise.”
you grin. “she’s a strict boss.”
“good,” he hums, glancing down at the big white fluffball still watching him. “means i won’t slack.”
and just like that, he’s heading back toward his truck, sunlight catching on the dust in his hair — magnolia’s tail wagging slow and steady, like she already knows he’ll be back.
Koganegawa Kanji
you can always tell when he’s coming over by the sound of his car — a low, uneven roar that rattles the street before he even pulls into the driveway. the thing’s a rebuilt project from his job at the manufacturer, something he’s irrationally proud of. he swears it “adds personality.” you swear it needs a muffler.
he hops out still in his work jacket, hair flattened on one side from a hardhat, the other side wild as ever. he waves a paper bag above his head. “i brought burgers! figured you probably forgot to eat again.”
“you figured right,” you say, opening the door as he jogs up the steps.
he grins, handing you the food. “see? i’m smart sometimes.”
“debatable.”
he laughs, following you inside, setting the bag on the counter. “hey, i’m practically a genius now. day job at the plant, night job with the frogs — i’m a multitasking legend.”
you raise an eyebrow. “a legend who almost fell asleep in his car last week.”
“hey, power naps are a skill,” he insists, pulling off his jacket. he’s halfway through explaining how they’re testing new aluminum frames for hybrid models when something big shifts behind him — a heavy thump, the scrape of claws against the floor.
he freezes mid-sentence. “uh. you got… a roommate?”
“my baby,” you say, fighting a smile.
he turns just as a massive cane corso rounds the corner, dark fur gleaming, broad head tilted with interest. koganegawa blinks. “holy shit.”
the dog stops a few feet away, tail flicking once.
“this is mochi,” you tell him. “she’s protective.”
“she’s terrifying,” he whispers, not moving. “like—if judgment was a dog.”
you hide your laugh behind your hand. “she likes confident people.”
he straightens immediately, puffing up his chest. “yeah? confident’s my middle name.”
mochi stares. unimpressed.
“...okay, maybe like my third middle name,” he mutters.
you grin. “she’ll warm up.”
“yeah, sure,” he says, watching her inch closer, snout twitching. “if i survive the sniff test.”
mochi sniffs once, twice, then lets out a low huff before resting her chin on his knee. he goes rigid, eyes darting to you. “...am i being accepted or marked for death?”
“accepted,” you say. “if she didn’t like you, you’d know.”
he exhales like he’s just won a championship, one hand cautiously finding the top of her head. “good girl,” he says softly. “you’re scary as hell, but i respect it.”
she rumbles contentedly, tail sweeping the floor.
you lean against the counter, amused. “so? you, mochi, burgers, and maybe a movie?”
he looks up, grin bright and boyish. “yeah. but she sits on your side of the couch.”
“she weighs a hundred and fifty pounds, kanji.”
“exactly,” he says, scratching her ears. “and i’d like to live through the night.”
you laugh, tossing him a fry. he catches it clumsily, still smiling down at mochi — who, for all her supposed protectiveness, is already drooling on his shoe like they’ve been friends forever.
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