The first time it happens, his brain simply short circuts, he doesn't even comprehend what is happening. The last thing he knows is cradling your face as you lay underneath him, still a little breathless from the making out session you two are in the middle of. His thumb strokes over your cheek, towards your chin when suddenly, swiftly, you turn your head just enough to catch his thumb in between your lips.
The warmth of your mouth envelopes his finger, your spit coats him and he doesn't know why, doesn't know what it is - the suddenness of it, the intimacy of it, the look of your flushed face, the moan you let out - but not a single thought exists in his brain as he pushes his thumb deeper into you, drives his hips harder against yours. All thoughts of maybe being too heavy on top of you are gone too, only you exist, only your love and the love he has for you as he spills into his pants, finger as deep in your mouth as possible.
He doesn't yet understand why he loves this so much, but with the amounts of times he wants to do it again, he is sure he will have plenty of time to figure it out.
You’re halfway down the snack aisle, doing your best to keep things calm.
Your kid has already asked for three different treats, and you’ve said no every time — not unkindly, just firm.
Then they spot something new on the shelf.
A neon-colored, overpriced, sugar-loaded monstrosity.
“Can I have this?”
“No, sweetheart. Not today.”
An eye roll.
A deep sigh.
Then they give you one long, judgmental look and say loudly enough for the whole aisle to hear:
“Maybe if you knew how to shop, we’d have good food.”
Then — the kicker —
they drop the snack into the cart like they run the house and march off toward the cereal.
You freeze.
And so does Futakuchi.
He was grabbing pasta two feet away, one hand on the cart, the other pushing his hair back. But when those words hit the air?
He lowers his hand slowly.
Turns his head.
And stares at your kid like they’ve just said the stupidest thing he’s heard in his entire life.
“…Excuse me?” he says, voice too calm.
Your kid pretends not to hear.
Futakuchi doesn’t follow fast — he corners slowly.
Like a shark.
He drifts the cart toward them, parks it, and steps in front of their tiny runaway path.
“Try that again,” he says, voice low and flat.
Your kid tries to sass: “I said—”
“No. Don’t repeat it,” he interrupts. “Think about it for two seconds. Really think.”
Your kid’s bravado falters.
Their lips tighten.
They glance at you — guilty, ashamed — then try to walk around him.
Futakuchi steps left.
Blocks.
Steps right when they try again.
No raising his voice, no big gestures.
Just a six-foot wall of unimpressed dad.
“Put the snack back,” he says.
Your kid’s chin wobbles. “I want it!”
He laughs once — short, disbelieving.
“Yeah? Well I want respect. Guess we’re both out of luck today.”
Your kid’s eyes water.
They try to shove the snack onto a random shelf.
“Nope,” he says, taking it and placing it back exactly where it belongs. “We don’t make messes when we’re in trouble.”
And then the meltdown hits — loud, messy, almost feral.
“I don’t care! I hate this! I want to GO HOME!”
People start looking.
Your stomach drops.
Futakuchi doesn’t blink.
“Great,” he says dryly. “Same.”
Then he turns to you.
“We’re done. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t even pretend to keep shopping.
He rolls the cart to the nearest employee, stops it gently, and says:
“Hey — sorry. Family emergency. We have to head out.”
The employee nods sympathetically, taking over the cart.
Your kid is still crying, still muttering angry half-words, still overwhelmed.
Futakuchi takes their hand — not gently, not harshly, just firmly enough to keep them grounded — and walks all three of you straight out of the store.
You barely make it past the automatic doors before he crouches down to your kid’s level.
“You don’t talk to your mom like that,” he says evenly. “Not in the store. Not at home. Not anywhere.”
Your kid sniffles, face blotchy. “I didn’t—”
“You did.”
No heat in his voice this time.
Just truth.
“You’re losing screen time for the rest of the day,” he continues, “and there’s no treats this week. None. And next time we go grocery shopping? You stay by the cart the whole time. No wandering.”
Your kid’s shoulders crumple. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
He nods. “Good. You’ll tell her that again when we get home.”
And then he stands, takes your hand too, and squeezes it.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod.
Futakuchi exhales, long and tired. “Good. Because that attitude? Not happening again.”
He loads your kid into the car, buckles them himself, then looks back one more time before closing the door.
“And for the record,” he adds with a smirk, “you shop great. They’re just dramatic.”
Your kid hiccups.
You laugh weakly.
And he drives you all home — consequences in place and absolutely done with grocery-store theatrics for the day.
Aone Takanobu
It happens in the quiet part of the afternoon.
No chaos.
No noise.
Just you, your kid, and the little drawing you made for them — a cute doodle you’d spent time on, something silly and warm that you thought would make them smile.
“Here,” you say softly. “I made this for you.”
They’re tired, overstimulated, and already in a mood. You can see it in the way their shoulders slump and their eyebrows pinch together.
They take the drawing…
…and without looking at you, they crumple it into a tight ball.
Then they throw it onto the table and mutter:
“I don’t want it.”
You blink — just a little.
Not angry.
Just hurt.
Aone hears the sound of the paper crumpling from across the room.
He turns his head slowly.
He sees your face.
He sees the balled-up drawing.
He sees your kid’s stubborn little back turned toward you.
Aone stands.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just stands.
And the atmosphere changes instantly.
Your kid stiffens, but pretends not to notice.
They cross their arms tighter.
Aone walks over and picks up the crumpled paper from the table.
He unfolds it with those big, careful hands, smoothing out the wrinkles, tracing the creases with his thumb.
Then he crouches — not in front of the kid, but beside you.
He holds the drawing toward you gently.
“Did you make this?” he asks softly.
You nod, trying not to look as hurt as you feel.
Aone exhales once through his nose.
Then he looks over at your kid.
“Come here.”
His voice isn’t loud.
But it lands like a heavy stone.
Your kid turns slowly, lip trembling, eyes already shiny. They walk toward him with tiny, hesitant steps.
Aone holds the drawing up between them.
“You do not treat something your mother made like this.”
Your kid’s throat closes. “I… I didn’t mean—”
He shakes his head once. “You did. You were upset. But you still chose to hurt her.”
And that’s when your kid breaks into loud, shuddering sobs — panic-meltdown crying, the kind that comes from guilt and exhaustion tangled together.
They hide their face in their hands.
Aone doesn’t comfort them yet.
He waits — calm, steady, present — until the sobs soften into a hiccuping whimper.
Then he lifts them under the arms, sets them gently on the couch, and sits beside them.
His size alone makes them feel sheltered and too small to hide.
“You will fix this when you are calm,” he says quietly.
Your kid sniffles. “H-how?”
“You can tape it,” he says. “Or draw something for her. But you will make it right.”
He brushes their hair once with those huge, careful fingers — not to soothe, but to settle them.
“And no treats today.”
Their face falls again, but they nod. They know that tone. It’s not negotiable.
Aone stands and turns to you.
“You okay?”
You nod, though your chest feels tight.
He steps closer and gently places the smoothed-out drawing back into your hands.
“Keep it,” he says. “It’s good.”
Something soft and warm hits your throat.
You swallow it.
Later — after the meltdown has burned out and your kid has taped the drawing back together with shaky little hands — they shuffle up to you.
“I’m sorry, Mom…” they whisper, offering the repaired paper.
You take it, smoothing their hair. “Thank you.”
Aone stands behind them, one large hand on their back, grounding.
Because he doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t punish harshly.
He doesn’t tower to intimidate.
Aone simply makes sure the lesson lands — gently, firmly, completely.
Sakunami Kosuke
It starts over something tiny.
A cup of juice.
Your kid has already had their limit, and you tell them gently, “Okay, last one. No more after this, sweetheart.”
They nod.
Seem fine.
Until dinner ends and they ask again.
You shake your head. “No more tonight.”
And their entire face crumples.
“I want more!”
“We’re done.”
They stare at their cup… then at you…
and then, slowly, defiantly, they slam it on the table.
Juice splashes over the edge.
Before you can react, they tilt the cup fully, deliberately emptying the rest across the table — right across your phone.
The liquid rushes toward the edge, drips down the case, pooling underneath.
You gasp, snatching the phone up.
And Sakunami — who had been quietly wiping down the counters behind you — hears the splash, sees the spill, and freezes mid-motion.
Your kid mutters, small and sharp:
“Should’ve moved it.”
Sakunami’s expression changes.
He doesn’t yell.
Doesn’t gasp.
Doesn’t even say your kid’s name.
He just goes completely still.
Then he turns around, slow as a shutter click.
“Did you spill that,” he asks quietly, “on purpose?”
Your kid’s mouth opens — then closes.
They try to run.
They make it two steps before Sakunami moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, scooping them up by the waist and setting them back into the chair.
“No,” he says, breath trembling only slightly. “Sit.”
Your kid shakes their head. “I didn’t mean—”
“You did.”
The calmness in his voice makes the air feel heavy.
Your kid’s eyes fill with tears instantly.
Sakunami picks up a dishtowel, wipes your phone with careful, shaky hands, then places it far from the spill. He exhales once — not anger, not panic, just a soft, controlled disappointment.
Then he turns back to your kid, kneels down so he’s eye-level, and places the towel in their small hands.
“Clean it.”
Your kid bursts into loud tears. “Noooo!”
“Clean it,” he repeats, gentler this time, but completely unmovable.
They try again to escape, but Sakunami places a steady hand on their shoulder.
“Running won’t help,” he says softly. “You made the mess. You fix the mess.”
Your kid’s sobs grow louder — the kind full of hiccups and snot and collapsing shoulders. They wipe the table with messy, dramatic swipes, crying so hard the towel barely stays in their grip.
Sakunami waits.
Not towering.
Not intimidating.
Just quietly, firmly present.
When the spill is cleaned, he takes the towel and sets it aside.
“No more juice for the week,” he says calmly. “And no screens tonight.”
Your kid wails again. “Why?!”
“You disrespected your mom,” he says, voice steady. “And you were careless with her things.”
The tears shift — now guilt, not just anger.
He lifts them gently, sits down on the couch, and places them in his lap facing him.
“Listen,” he says, softer now. “Feelings are okay. Being upset is okay. But hurting someone else’s things because you don’t get your way is not okay.”
Your kid sniffles hard. “I’m sorry…”
He nods. “You’ll say that to her, too.”
Later, when the meltdown has run its course, your kid shuffles up to you with puffy eyes and a small, shaky, “I’m sorry, Mom…”
You hug them, smoothing their hair.
Sakunami watches from the doorway, shoulders finally relaxing.
And when you step aside a minute later, he pulls you into a gentle, worried hug.
“Is your phone okay?” he asks softly.
You nod.
He rests his forehead against yours.
“Good,” he breathes. “Next time, I’ll keep the juice across the room.”
Because Sakunami doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t punish harshly.
But when someone hurts you — even a little?
He becomes quietly, unshakeably firm.
Koganegawa Kanji
Getting out the door is already a mess.
Your kid is overstimulated, hungry, mad about the color of their socks — one of those little-kid storms where everything feels like the end of the world. You kneel down, trying to help them with their jacket zipper.
“Hold still, baby. Let me just—”
“NO! STOP TOUCHING ME!”
They flail their arm wildly—
And their hand smacks your cheek.
Not a gentle brush.
Not a graze.
A real hit.
You gasp softly, more from shock than pain.
Koganegawa was bouncing in place by the shoe rack, excited about leaving, talking about the weather and what snacks he should pack for the outing — pure sunshine energy.
But the second he sees your head jerk to the side?
His expression collapses.
He goes completely still.
Eyes wide.
Jaw tight.
Posture straightening like someone yanked a string.
Your kid freezes too, but only for a heartbeat. Then panic floods in.
“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t! I didn’t!”
Their voice cracks, high and scared.
They start to flail again — not to hit, but of pure frantic— tears coming hot and fast, limbs kicking at nothing. They scramble backward, bumping into the wall, then dive behind a pile of bags like it’s a bunker.
Koganegawa moves fast.
Surprisingly fast.
He doesn’t yell.
Doesn’t lunge.
He just reaches you first.
“Are you okay?” he asks quickly, hands hovering near your face but not touching until you nod.
Once he sees you’re not hurt, he stands up and turns toward the chaos corner where your kid is curled up behind the bags, sobbing into their sleeves.
He takes a slow breath — grounding himself — and then walks over.
When he crouches down, his voice is deeper than usual.
Steady.
Controlled.
Serious in a way that makes your kid peek up through their fingers.
“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”
Your kid shakes their head violently and hides again.
“No,” he says firmly, but not unkindly. “Look at me.”
They peek.
Barely.
Koganegawa doesn’t crowd them.
Doesn’t reach for them.
He just speaks, calm and sure:
“You do NOT hit your mom. Ever. Even by accident.”
Your kid bursts into louder sobs. “I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t trying—”
“I know you weren’t trying.”
His tone softens — but only a little.
“But you still hit her. And when we hit someone, even if we didn’t mean it, we stop what we’re doing.”
He sits fully on the floor, legs crossed — big, patient presence.
“We’re not leaving yet,” he continues. “We’re going to sit together until your body is calm. And then you’re going to apologize.”
Your kid shakes and cries, overwhelmed by guilt and panic. Their breaths come too fast, little hiccups breaking between words.
Koganegawa holds out a hand — open, palm up.
Not grabbing.
Not forcing.
Just offering.
Eventually, tiny trembling fingers reach for him.
He pulls them gently into his lap, wrapping those long arms around them like a safety net. They sob into his chest, clutching his shirt in tight little fists.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, rocking slightly. “You’re safe. But we don’t hit. Not ever.”
When the crying finally slows — their body going soft and heavy with exhaustion — he kisses the top of their head and helps them sit up.
“Now,” he says gently. “You’re going to say sorry to Mom.”
Your kid slides off his lap, wipes their eyes with the back of their wrist, and shuffles toward you with tiny, apologetic steps.
“I’m sorry, Mom…” they whisper, voice shaking.
You pull them into a hug.
Koganegawa watches, shoulders finally dropping, relief spreading across his face.
When you look up at him, he gives you a soft, worried smile.
“She didn’t hurt you, right?” he asks again, just to be sure.
You shake your head.
He exhales, long and loud. “Good. Because I was about to cancel our whole day.”
Then he ruffles your kid’s hair — gently this time.
“Okay. Let’s try this again. Slowly. No flailing.”
Because Koganegawa may be loud, goofy, and chaotic —
but when it comes to your safety, he’s the tallest, fiercest wall in the house.
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.
