#aizawa x y/n
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Funny (y/n) x MHA pt 3
(Y/n): *points finger guns at Aizawa* I’ma play your butt like bongos
Aizawa: No you most certainly will not
(Y/n): aww… but you have such a nice one
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Midnight: Nothing in life is free.
(Y/n): Love is free.
Aizawa: Knowledge is free.
All Might: Friendship is free.
Nedzu: Self-respect is free.
Hizashi: Everything's free if you don't pay for it.
The Squad: ...
Aizawa: Hizashi, that's illegal-
Midnight: No, let them finish!
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(Y/n): All Might is too tall for me to kiss them on the lips. What should I do?
Hizashi: Punch them in the stomach. Then, when they double over in pain, kiss them.
Nedzu: Tackle them!
Aizawa: Dump them.
Midnight: Kick them in the shin!
All Might: No to all of those! Just ask me to lean down!!
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(Y/n): Make her pussy wet not her eyes.
Midnight: Make his dick hard not his life.
Hizashi: Break her bed not her heart.
Aizawa: Play with her boobs not her feelings.
(Y/n): Get on his dick not his nerves.
All Might: Always salt your pasta while boiling it.
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All Might: If I fall…
Midnight: I’ll be there to catch you.
Aizawa: *looks at Hizashi* What if I fall?
Hizashi: Then I’ll fall with you, never leaving your side.
(Y/n): *watches these two interactions*
(Y/n), to Nedzu: And if I fall?
Nedzu: I’ll be the one who pushed you.
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(Y/n): If you bite it and you die, it's poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it's venomous.
Nedzu: What if it bites me and it dies?!
(Y/n): Then you're poisonous. Jesus Christ, Nedzu, learn to listen.
All Might: What if it bites itself and I die?
(Y/n): That's voodoo.
Hizashi: What if it bites me and someone else dies?
(Y/n): That's correlation, not causation.
Aizawa: What if we bite each other and neither of us die?
(Y/n): That's kinky.
Midnight: Oh my god.
——————————————————————————
*The squad is asked what they would do with 5 children with only 3 chairs.*
All Might: Get two more chairs!
Hizashi: They can get their own chairs.
Midnight: Make them fight for it.
(Y/n): You only need one chair to beat them all with.
Aizawa: I would never be near children.
Nedzu: Kill two.
——————————————————————————
*The squad's reaction to being told they're the chosen one*
(Y/n): I will not let you down.
All Might: Sounds fun.
Hizashi: K.
Aizawa: No, I'm fucking not.
Midnight: Do I have to be?
Nedzu: Please god, I am so tired.
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(Y/n) : You look good in that hoodie.
Aizawa: You know where else I'd look good?
(Y/n), zero hesitation: My bed.
Aizawa, at the same time: By your side- wait, what?
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Aizawa: It doesn’t have a bone.
(Y/n) : Then why is it called a boner?
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(Y/n) : *banging a pen on the table out of frustration*
Aizawa: Stop that. How would YOU feel if I banged you on the table?
(Y/n) : I—
(Y/n) : I don’t know the correct answer to that question.
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(Y/n) : Wait, what's going on? Are we all talking about how hot Aizawa is? Because Aizawa is a straight up sexual fox riding a red-hot nuclear bombshell right toward the yowza plaza in the heart of Babe City, Assachusetts, U S A. The last A just stands for more ass.
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well-
#jjk#mha#aizawa shouta#nanami kento#jujutsu kaisen#aizawa sensei#eraserhead#aizawa x reader#hwajin na#jjk nanami#nanami x reader#nanami smut#aizawa smut#aizawa x y/n#kakashi hatake#kakashi x reader#kakashi sensei
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𝒮𝒲𝐸𝐸𝒯 𝒯𝒪𝒪𝒯𝐻 — shouta aizawa x male reader
w.c: 12.4k
warning: dbf!shouta, age gap, (sho in his early 40s, reader is 23), bottom!reader, daddy kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, feminization, mentions of gettin ‘knocked up’ regardless of anatomy, sneaking around, creampie, unprotected sex ( wear condoms ! ), praise/degradation, brat!reader, jealousy, mutual teasing, reader has an oral fixation, improper use of lollipops, mentions of exhibitionism, blowjobs, cumming untouched/hands free orgasm, ‘ taboo ’
sonny says..: not proof read, msorry !! did lotsa jumpin around while writin this. . . n five months later !! she’s all done !! ໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝T ˘ T⸝⸝꒱ྀི১ ♡ m’a lil rusty, forgive me !!
You’re back home for the summer.
Well— not entirely. You’re back at your family’s summer house for the season. Gifted from your grandparents, it teeters at the beginning of a beach, crystal sands and clear, blue waters that stretch out into the horizon. You’ve been looking forward to it since you’d graduated, even if it did come with a set of overbearing parents and a sinful amount of sunscreen.
The air is hot and thick, sticking uncomfortably to your skin through the windshield as you watch an everlasting stretch of greenery and trees pass you by. The road has stretched on for miles, every upcoming exit and street sign blending into one as each hour passes by. You’ve got the company of staticky radio stations and news outlets, spewing something nonsensical about sports, politics, car insurance. . . But it’s the trip you enjoy more than the destination. Traffic and all, you prefer it over the muggy air and parental scolding. Though, the beach is nice. . .
“You’re sure you’re taking the right route?” It’s your mother speaking, her voice crackling through the speakers of your car. You’re sure she’d smack you upside the head for the aggressive roll of your eyes in her. . . general direction, but she’s not exactly within eye-contact distance. Not for another five minutes, anyway.
“I’ve been doing this for years,” You have— it’s true. Though you’re only twenty-two, you’d driven this distance since you’d left for college. There’s a sound akin to the sucking of teeth through the radio, and you have half the mind to turn around and restart your road-trip all over again.
“Why’s there so much attitude in your voice?” Her cheerful, smiley voice suddenly sounds much more shrill, to your chagrin. You thrum your fingers along the leather of the steering wheel, biting back a long, drawn out groan.
“There isn’t any,” Gravel crackles under the weight of your rubber-tire car, snapping and popping into the air as it makes a smooth halt into the driveway. Shifting gears to park, the radio switches off with the twist of your keys. And, perhaps with more force than necessary, you’re slamming the door to your car and face to face with your mother. Her phone is still in hand, eyebrows pinched at the thought of her very own son hanging up on her. “. . . attitude, Ma.”
She hugs you with a squeal, ushering you up the stairs to your childhood ‘home.’ It’s almost exactly like you’d left it— save for a few recent porch decorations and repainted walls. You hope the years have been kind to it, with the irregular weather and constant pipe problems. Floorboards creak under your weight, welcoming you home after a few long years of studies. There’s an everlasting stream of bubbly speech behind you, your mom speaking, but there’s already so much to take in.
The air is fresh and salty, hints of beachy winds flowing upstream through the doorway. It smells like home, and looks like it too, as you situate your small duffel bag by the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Your room. You hadn’t packed much— there was still a dresser overflowing with old clothes in your bedroom, after all. And now that you think about it, you should probably change into something more fitting for the weather.
“I know you just got here,” The sound of ice swirling against glass catches your attention, and you turn to face your mother. “But could you bring these out to your father?” She’s holding a tray of decorative glasses— or at least, you’d always thought they were— full of oblong ice and freshly squeezed lemonade. The glasses are stocky enough to adorn lollipops— one each, which are probably sickeningly sour. Topped with tiny, colorful umbrellas and intricate swirling straws. It’s almost like she’s trying to impress someone, with the way she’s put so much effort into the drink’s presentation.
Your lips curl to form a playful ‘no’, a boyish smile pulling at your cheeks when she huffs— as if she already knows what you’re about to do. So you shake your head instead, stealing the tray with one hand, “Let me change first.”
In hindsight, wearing clothes about. . four years too small wasn’t a great idea. The shorts that once fit you perfectly— before your growth spurt— are now much too short, like they’ve been tossed around in the laundry one too many times. You feel almost naked, moving the pink hem down with the shake of your legs.
Your mother insists they look just fine, a dramatic downturn to her lips as she rambles on and on about how fast her boy has grown up. Still, as you walk through the sliding glass doors parallel to the open patio, the sunlight bathing your legs does nothing but make you feel stuck under a rapidly growing spotlight.
It all clicks as you walk outside— the detailed drinks, the smell of barbecue and fresh coal. There is someone she’s trying to impress, someone other than your father. Maybe both of them. On a good day.
Wiping the bead of sweat from your brow, your eyes squint at the man in front of you. Around your dad’s age— maybe slightly younger, he stands at a whopping six foot something. There’s age in his face, and worry between his brows as if he’d spent most of his youth grimacing. His hair is long and black like charcoal, save for a few streaks of gray and a salt and pepper ensemble of stubble littering his chin and jaw. Two scars— forming a cross of sorts, one beneath his right eye, horizontal and thin. But the other is much longer, starting below his brow and ending at his cheekbone. It draws your eyes to a milky gray iris— heavily contrasting against the natural black-brown of his left one. It’s pretty, cloudy and almost pearlescent.
His silhouette— tall and thick, with broad shoulders that travel on and on as he crosses thick biceps over his thick chest. He’s standing in the way of the sun, and yet, it peeks through his long hair in small, short leaks. And, surprisingly, his waist is small in his black tank top. If you feel hot he must be scorching, draped in black— down to the beaded bracelet adorning his wrist. His hands— they’re big, maybe enough to cover the entirety of your face, curled into loose fists at his biceps.
And— right, you’re here to help, not gawk. But you can’t help it, shifting your weight from one leg to another as his intimidating gaze slowly sweeps you over. He’s like sex on legs, and if you can squint enough to get the sun out your eyes, you swear you can see the imprint of his cock through his black shorts.
“Uh,” You blink dumbly after introducing yourself, and suddenly the tray you’re holding is weightless. “Ma made these. I’m supposed to help. . . or something. . .”
“Or something.” The man echoes, but it’s quiet and you barely catch it. His voice is deep, way deeper than your own, rumbling in your ears and smooth like butter. Almost husky, with a dark edge to it as flames roar in his face. But it makes your father laugh, hearty and jubilant as he bounces over to where you stand. He gives you a small pat on the back as a greeting, ushering out a small, “son.”
The heat emitting off the grill is enough to make a grown man cry, but neither of you wince when you walk by it. Cold glasses of lemonade are handed out, fingers imprinted on cold condensation painting the surfaces of each glass as they’re passed around— one for you, one for your dad, another for him. You watch rivulets of water drip from his fingertips, down his wrist, past the collection of veins adorning his forearm.
“Mr. Aizawa,” There’s a beat of silence, but it’s quickly filled once you’ve been introduced. “World’s cruelest teacher.”
“Shouta Aizawa.” Is all he says, a correction of sorts, voice grumbly as his fingertips brush against your knuckles. Your eyes flicker down to where he’d touched you, his skin warm and inviting despite the roughness of his palms. You see now, that he’s accompanying your father, occasionally taking over when he walks back into the house every. . . five minutes or so.
“An old friend of mine, we go way back.” Your parents have an odd habit of rambling, it seems, because you and the handsome stranger make exasperated eye contact as your dad begins to reminisce on old memories. “You met him a few times— remember? He’ll be staying with us, so be respectful, you hear me?” His gaze seems to dip for a moment, down your lips and straight to the extra exposed skin of your thighs, then settle back to the ocean before you can comment.
But those five minutes must start now, because after a firm squeeze to your shoulder your father heads inside, leaving you alone with his. . . friend. He’s awfully quiet, busying himself as the patio door slides shut— occasionally sighing as he wipes away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s obvious you’re staring, maybe a bit too hard, but he’s the best scene around, really. Even with the beach right behind him.
And maybe it’s wrong to think this way— but he’s hot. Old enough to be your dad and then some, sure, but it doesn’t make him any less attractive. He almost makes you nervous, the slow blink of his eyes as he pays you no mind.
“So you’re staying with us, huh?” You eye the juicy meat he’s been flipping for the last five minutes, golden brown and sizzling in the heat. It’s rather thick, soon to be lazily flattened by the tongs he's holding and— you can’t help but wonder. . . Is he good with his hands?
“Don’t make a habit of asking strange old men questions like that.” It’s not entirely clear if he’s serious or not, but he’s certainly assertive. Like a firm, guiding hand placed at the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch in confusion, but before you can ask what he means, it clicks. You’d said it out loud, let it float into the air like an everyday, casual question. But Aizawa doesn’t seem exactly bothered, more passive (if anything), as he takes a swig of the fruity, sour concoction.
“You’re not strange.” Is what you conclude, slamming the tray down hard enough to rattle its contents, and the man notes your lack of regard. Even with a slight spill you don’t bother to clean, you’re already turning to walk off the patio and dig your toes into the hot sand before it can be mentioned— but not without plucking a lemon coated lollipop free from its icy enclosure of glass. There’s an arrangement of seashells hidden beneath the coarse mounds of the glimmering seaside. Different sizes and colors, different textures and shapes. Where some would scrape the soles of your feet, others would glide across them. But as a kid you’d liked the search for tiny crabs much more than the search for shells. Though you’re much older now, you’re not afraid to say you miss it.
“But I’m old?” Aizawa says, not too far behind you from where he stands. There’s a light glint of dry humor in his voice that sends butterflies down your throat and straight into your stomach.
“Yeah. Old enough.” Your small laughter is sweet, dancing in the air in a way that has Shouta nearly pressing his palm flat into the skillet— just to check if his heart is still beating. What do you mean by that, anyway?
There’s a divot where the tightness of your shorts dip into your skin, pressing against the plush skin of your ass whenever you bend over. Even as you’re upright, Shouta can’t stand to look for too long— you’re a real, proper, honest and genuine distraction. Yet here he is, watching you move around on your hands and knees, ass taut and round— shorts tight enough to show off the cute bulge of your balls from behind. And now that he’s really looking, it’s obvious you’re not wearing anything underneath.
He shakes his head, grunting to himself as he peels processed cheese free from its plastic packaging. You just met, that’s not right, you’re simply just minding your own.
“Ugh!” You share a groan, and for completely different reasons. Aizawa can’t help but watch you scramble in the sand, presumably after whatever sea-creature that had the pleasure to pinch you right on the finger. But you seem happy once it’s retrieved, stuck in the seclusion of its tiny shell as you hold it in your palm. From what he can see, you’re not much of a brat at all. Maybe your parents are just too hard on you. He’s always known them to be dramatics.
Still, he has half the mind to drag you over by your ankle, or maybe to press your handsome face into the sand while he fucks you from behind. Ever since you’d brought out that damned lemonade— tugging on the hem of the fabric as if you’d suddenly grown conscious of just how short they were— he’d been hard. And now he has to listen to you grunt and groan over the smallest of injuries. . . His best friend’s son, his presumed pride and joy.
He’s fucked.
From where he stands, slightly elevated, he can see the bulge of the sweet protruding from your cheeks, stuck afore your teeth. Cute, as it swishes from side to side, stuck in your mouth as your occupied fingers caress the diaphanous shell in the palm of your hand. Your lips move, puckered, around the sucker, curled and glossy with molten sugar— it’s hard to make out exactly what words your mouth forms, yet Shouta doesn’t think he’d be able to listen anyway.
Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.
Shouta learns this at dinner, the day’s hard work shared on plastic platters and glass
bottles in the middle of the beach. There’s a roaring flame between the four of you, it casts golden embers along your skin every so often, crackling into the air. Cicadas chirp with the night’s welcome, loud and joyful in retaliation to the silent, serene fireflies and settling ocean.
You’re all sipping on beers, some more than others, but it’s enough to loosen everyone up. Even Shouta, whose eyes look lidded with sleep the more he drinks. He’s not incoherent, he never is. If anything he’s observant. For one, you have an awful habit of holding onto this evening’s lollipop, it seems, as you have it situated between your fingers like a cigarette. Sometimes your grip around it tightens, like when your mother wraps her hand around his bicep, squeezing the flesh in small, sporadic rounds. And though neither of you want to say it, let alone think it— you’re jealous. That’s the second thing.
Even with Shouta’s knee brushing against your own, you can’t help it. He’s so warm, muscly legs pressed against your own in a manner that’s almost electrifying. You want it all to yourself, to suffocate in his heat and capable hands.
You zone out of the conversation, blinking at the fire with reserved eyes until a thick screwer pokes at the flesh of your shoulder, leaving behind a tiny dimple. Jet black hair invades your vision for a moment, smelling of faint seasalt and warm cologne, until you turn, “What?”
“You want chocolate on your marshmallow, right?” Your mother asks for him, squeezing a transparent bag of thick, soft marshmallows. It’s tossed to you in a flash, to which you catch, but not before stealing a glance at the man beside you. His jaw sets, poking out from the mass of stubble. Like she’d stolen a precious moment away.
“Right,” You mumble, stabbing the skewer through the excessive amount of sugar. The stick hovers above the fire, the sweet melting to a crisp, flaky brown. Sticky and gooey, it slowly begins to lose its form. Through all the conversation you can’t help but glance at the older man to your left, taking in the glow of yellow and orange caressing his tan skin. His silhouette is bold and broad, legs spread wide as he sits on a thick log. What was once brown turns a deep, dark charcoal. “Oh, shit! Fuck. I meant shoot, sorry.”
You’re not supposed to swear in front of your parents— Aizawa’s paternal intuition picks that up. But shoving the marshmallow into your mouth, even as it has yet to cool down, he doesn’t quite get. Either way, your expression. . . it’s sickeningly cute. It’s cute to watch you fumble. With lips pursed into a tight line, cheeks bitten and eyebrows pinched with apology despite how obviously uncomfortable you are with the piping, burnt sugar spreading along your tongue.
His heart could almost burst.
“You’re fine, kid.” Shouta’s voice is a gentle whisper, airy like the waves brushing against the shore. With his eyes caught on the sticky white lingering on your cheek, he's desperately aware you’re not a kid. The way you move and speak, the way you carry yourself. The way you suck on lollipops like they’re something else. He’s never been one for dirty jokes or subtle innuendos but. . . yeah, this is doing something to him. His fingers twitch with want, the desire to wipe it away and rub his thumb along your lips. He should really get it together.
And maybe the fact that he’s more worried about your parents being in the way than the fact that they’re your parents proves that.
But they’re pretty preoccupied, lost in conversation neither of you are exactly interested in. Whirling his own marshmallow, chocolate melts down its fluffy outside. It’s steaming, hot and fluffy after twirling around the fire. Looking at it now, it looks comically small in his large hands, much bigger than your own. His lips part, cool air leaving the ‘o’ shaped mold of his mouth as he blows on it with a low, “Here.”
There they go again, mouth open as your pink tongue covers your row of bottom teeth, Shouta doesn’t let go of the skewer despite the light squeezes you press along his knuckles. Instead he holds on tighter, lifting and reaching until the desert melts in your mouth and sticks to your lips. Messy on purpose, your heart plummets into your tummy when dark eyes watch marshmallow fluff pull away from between your teeth. Hungry, starving.
“I can do it myself.” You mumble, wondering if the heat prickling your skin is from the brush of his fingers against your own or the wilting fire.
“Can you?” His expression is tired and flat, but his voice tilts with blooming amusement. It’s odd, the way you’re so quick to shut him down. You almost respond more openly when you hear sneaky comments or listen to gossip— ‘that boy just doesn’t know what to stop,’ ‘why’s he such a smartass?’ — spoken about you directly by you.
“Yeah,” There’s a shine in your eye that isn’t just a product of the glowing fire. Mischievous, almost. “I don’t break that easily.”
Shouta could definitely take your dad in a fight. It’s the first thing that pops into mind as the two of you stand in the dark, dimly lit kitchen. Your parents had gone off to bed almost an hour ago, and with the clock approaching half past midnight, it leaves you two alone. So, yes, he’s considering who would win in a brawl because he can’t stop staring at his best friend’s son and his pretty, kissable lips.
They’re sheen with spit, your pink tongue licking them over as you scrub away yesterday’s dirt from the kitchen counter. It’s a noncommittal motion, your arms wiping suds and heavy contents of water along the granite surface. Yet you seem absolutely dead-set on getting that one stain. The stain that has your ass brushing against his side, bare skin rippling the harder, lazier, you scrub. Not that there’s even a stain to clean.
Yep. He’s fucked.
You suppose he should be focusing on the dishes— not that there’s much of those either— but his attention strays.
It carries him through the motion of leaning over, his body practically draping your own as you bend at the waist. Black hair again, wisps of it, lightly pressed against your back as he leans down, lips by the shell of your ear and an arm trapping you in. His cock is pressed right against the swell of your ass, and he may have to consider slipping it between his waistband.
“I think you got it.”
“Oh, really?” Your hips are moving again, side to side as you scrub shapes into nothing. “Double check for me?”
A low groan sounds behind you, big hands at your thighs that squeeze enough to have the plush skin bruised and tender in the morning. His hand travels, snaking up your thighs to meet the silky skin of your ass. Spread nicely with the way you’re bent over, warmth radiating off each globe as his thick pointer finger loops around the thin layer of pink cotton pressing against your balls.
It’d be so easy, perfect access to slip his thick cock into the warm, tight walls of your hole and pound you against the counter. You could sit on his dick for the whole day, drooling and dumb the more the head kisses your prostate again and again and again. Your Daddy could fuck you on your dad’s favorite sofa, make it squeal and whine under the weight of him filling your fucked-out and used cunt over and over.
Dark pupils blow wide as he pulls the fabric away, watching your hole flutter around nothing. He coos, sweet and deep. Just give him a minute, he’ll give you everything you need. Everything and more, until you’re a braindead fucktoy with glassy eyes and sticky, dripping holes. Until—
You’ve slipped past his arm, twisting as your growling stomach makes itself known. You inhale a quivering breath through your nose, eyes wide and expecting and waiting. His best friend’s son, wriggling and writhing under his palms, handsome face twisting as pearly teeth bite at your stout bottom lip.
He’s almost frustrated with himself, voice flat and distant when you puff out your cheeks. Forget a distraction— you’re a real, honest brat. “You’re still hungry.”
“I’m a growing man, Sho.” It’s almost consequential how your voice cracks, breathy and teetering the edge of a whine as he releases his grip on your body. Light from the fridge illuminates your silhouette in a yellow, halo-adjacent glow, and once again Shouta is staring a little too hard at his best friend’s son as he bends forward at the waist.
Aizawa weighs the juxtaposition between the middle of that sentence for a moment before his breath catches in your throat. Sho. You’d called him by a nickname, ten times sweeter than the candied fruit (grapes, are they?) you’re now sinking your teeth into. You’ve grown alright, and the proof stands hard, throbbing, and pressing against your shorts once you’ve returned to face him. It’s obvious your ploy with the fruit was just something to keep your mind off cumming in your cute, soft shorts— but he’d honestly have preferred to see that.
“I can see that.”
Rough palms press into your jaw— firm, but not aggressive, until fingers close and clasp at your cheeks. A dissolving layer of baby fat at your cheeks spills between his stern fingers, and you blink as the older man turns your face from left to right, then reverse. Seems he’s got a nasty habit of looking you over, breaking you down— bare bones. You still have enough room to chew, teeth grinding on the crystallized sugar with a hard and resounding crunch.
There’s always something in your mouth.
Dark eyes flicker to the lump appearing and disappearing in your throat as you swallow, sweet sugar dotting your lips, “You’re hard.”
“Yeah,” It earns a dark chuckle, though there’s not much light humor in it, “So are you.” His lips curl as he releases his grip, slow and lingering.
“Usually,” your gaze drops to his lips. “When two men,” Then up to his deep, dark eyes as you press against him, chest to chest. His cock twitches against the heat of your body, you can imagine it now— thick and pretty, curved upward with a sticky head and throbbing, heavy veins. “Make eachother. . . hard, they—”
A door slams upstairs, the air going still as your breath catches in your throat. As if that single disturbance has stolen all the oxygen in the world, your body goes rigid and stiff, and the sound of tired steps make their way descending down wooden stairs. The candied grapes are swapped for thick fingers, with light peppers of hair at the knuckles, and you can’t help but suck the seasalt right off.
“Behave.” He takes a single step back, dripping with indubitable authority that makes you feel light and airy. Ready to bend at his will with lazy eyelids and hazy eyes. It’s not a question, not a suggestion— it’s a demand.
“You’re still up,” Your father, shameless as he walks by the two of you with barely any coverings, makes a sleepy gesture in your general direction as he opens the fridge. “Both of you, huh?” He sounds faintly out of breath, and his skin sheen. The mental implications make you cringe, taking a step toward the characteristically nonchalant man who’d just stepped away from you.
Shouta’s eyes narrow.
“Don’t tell me I’m being replaced!” He’s always been a loud man, your father, but it seems tonight his one-too-many beers have finally caught up to him. It’s just a joke, the both of you know it, but you can’t help the prickle of heat poking at your throat. You’re pulled in by the back of your head, your father’s hand pressed against your hair as he holds you in a firm side-hug, “Rather Mr. Aizawa be your old man?”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Your smile is wide and tantalizing, heavy and dripping with something that has yet to be named. “Are you a good Daddy, Mr. Aizawa?”
Then, his eye twitches, “When I want to be.”
Your laugh is instantaneous and loud, an awkward thing that stretches into deep silence. There’s a lot of things you’d like Mr. Aizawa to be— rough, gentle, sweet, and mean. But your dad? It’s laughable, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. And sure, maybe the title you'd like to use on him sounds similar, but they’re most definitely not the same. If only he knew.
“I’m sure you’re the best,” He watches you smile, opposite ends of your mouth pulling at your cheeks in a motion that doesn’t quite meet your eyes— but it’s convincing enough. “Better than your other friends, right Dad?”
Shouta is avoiding you.
You know it, you can tell! He’s always gone nowadays— a couple weeks into your vacation and you can only count a mere handful of the times you remember seeing him. You’ve barely talked, barely stole a few glances here and there— he may as well have disappeared. He’s out somewhere, somewhere that involves your father, and the ocean, and his generously sized deck-boat. You don’t want to say it, but you know you’re the reason why. You’ve gone a bit overboard, perhaps, with the flirting. Ever since that night— even before then, it’d become a natural habit of yours to call the man Daddy.
And, now, he’s grown even closer to your parents because of it. Whenever you come down for breakfast they’ve already finished, leaving your plate in the microwave— as if you’d want cold, limp eggs and soggy, get charred bacon. You want to scream, really. There’s your mother, who leaves lingering touches and bats her eyelashes like some sort of schoolgirl. You feel almost evil for the rage that sears your blood— even more so when your first thought is she’s pushing fifty.
Then there’s your father. Who is and always will be, not if you can help it, closer to Shouta than you ever will be. They drink together a lot, the guest more in moderation, but it still hurts to see them laugh about old times— over, and over, and over again. Even when you’re the topic of conversation, despite your presence being completely ignored, it hurts. You’re right here.
So you mope, lounging around in your swim trunks. Your skin sticks to every surface, humid and thick as your mother complains to you about getting some sun, stepping out the house, then something about how you need to fix the look on your face. She says the warm rays on your skin will do you some good, the salty water of the sea against your body will toughen up your bones and loosen your muscles. But there’s really only one thing on your mind.
It trickles into about an hour and a half when Mr. Aizawa finally comes back. Your father too, you suppose, with flushed cheeks that only sake can replicate. It’s once you’ve been pulled outside and forced to stand in wet, thick sand that washes away from your feet with every sweep of the shore— that they return. Once the sun has begun to set, yet still bright enough to have your brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, they return.
“There’s my boy!” No one’s boy, actually. Your father shouts with an intoxicated wave, and the grimace on Shouta’s face is hidden behind his whipping hair as he slows the boat to a stop.
Or at least, you think so. It’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes, yellow and orange flakes of the gold star percolating your vision.
It dances along the surface of the ocean, pretty and shimmering the closer you step, the further you go, until you’re submerged in water from your knees—down. There’s a shout, something akin to a ‘catch!’, and you have barely any time to react to the ball that’s flying to you with an oddly precise amount of speed and velocity. You gasp, whipping your head back to catch the ball between two sea-soaked hands.
“What the hell?!” Your hands sting, pretty eyes blinking back at the two silhouettes in your vicinity. Mainly at Aizawa, who hasn’t even acknowledged you, let alone looked away from the resplendent horizon. And what’s so good about that? Of all things to look at— you’re right here! You don’t leave with the setting sun, nor do you only ever arrive with the rising one. You’re a constant, and you know you don’t hurt to look at.
So you throw the ball back, all your force behind it with a smug look on your face until it smacks Shouta in the leg— right in the center of his calf with a horrifying thump of a sound.
“Fuck,” You shout in horror, despite it all. Despite the desire to maul him the last few weeks, rushing forward into the water with the cutest tremor to your brows. “Fuck, okay, shit, my bad!”
And it seems you can’t move fast enough to wade through the rippling waves, where schools of tiny, nipping fish and textured shells had twirled and danced about through the currents of pellucid water. But Shouta seems just fine, almost as if he’d forgotten how to react to the feeling of getting punted with a ball at full force. He picks it up, waves it in his large palm, and throws it back. You can hear it tear through the air, just as it smacks you in the shoulder with so much force you don’t register it at first.
Numbness spreads along your arm, eyes blinking up at the older man who laughs. It’s quiet yet hearty, and not at all a pretty sound. It’s more contagious if anything, a wheeze of sorts, but your lips still curl into a petty frown regardless. You can make out a huff of “Your face!” broken up with laughter, biting back on his tongue.
“I’m not laughing.” You grumble, rubbing at your shoulder with faux diligence.
There’s an eerie smile on his face, enough to send shivers down your spine as water drapes your face and drips down your body— boat engine revving with ferocity as the men float off into the boarding dock— Aizawa’s presence arrives just as fast as it leaves.
You’re left to your devices, gawking as you process the last few minutes— his smile, your brattiness and stupidity, the way you’d only just noticed his prosthetic leg— at the mention you can feel miscellaneous fish brush against your own, scales shining through the transparent waters. You can’t help but smile too, wiping it away with the back of your water-draped forearm. Fuck.
It’s only been a month and you’re smitten. He’d left you in favor of your father again, and all you can do is giggle about it.
There’s not much you know about the man— now that you think about it. There’s been a brief drunken mention of him having kids of his own, a little girl, you think. Maybe a son? Despite his affliction for quiet, Aizawa looks as though there’s more he wants to say. To share, to tell. Your father must know it all, seeing as they grew up together, and part of you can’t help but feel a bit jealous.
Hmph.
“What’re you sulking for?” His voice has broken you out of a daydream, turning your body to look him in the eyes. The man of the hour— Shouta. You almost hate how quick you are to melt under his gaze, squaring your shoulders with the stability of poorly glued popsicle sticks.“That ball bounce off your head, too?”
“I’m not sulking.” You watch him walk around the perimeter of the shore, slow and calculating, with his hands balled up in the fabric of his black t-shirt. He pulls it overhead, tummy contracting and biceps rippling— it still manages to catch you by surprise, how much muscle he’s hiding under his baggy clothes. Your brain sets off a symphony of ooh’s and ahh’s, unable to tear your gaze from the light rise and fall of his chest.
Your eyes trail back up, past the bend of his collarbones, up the display of stubble on his throat— he’s staring right at you.
“Uh — I wasn’t. . anyway. . What’re you looking at?”
His lips twitch, briefly pressed together before relaxing as he steps into the cold water. He’s slow, hair rippling just as smooth as the ocean, the further he moves forward. And, despite that, he slowly curls a finger to and fro, as if he’s talking to a small kitten. “C’mere.”
You’re frowning when you trudge forward, hesitance in your step. “Mr. Aizawa,” you grumble, still something of a cute little sound, using the prefix your father introduced him with. Something about it makes Shouta’s frame stiffen— the title, or maybe the pettiness behind it. It’s not like you call him that when you’re in a particularly good mood. “You didn’t seem to want me around earlier.”
“Quiet,” He tuts, clicking his tongue as if he knows the game you’re playing. But despite the curt, clean-cut execution of his tone, his thumb finds your cheek with the same gentleness as a spring breeze. “Your parents were always around earlier.”
Oh.
You play off your surprise well enough, swatting his hand away with a deep grunt. Sure, it feels good. His hands on your skin— such rough palms that cover your body — but you’re not desperate. Not entirely, not even when he fixes the twist of your face with a quick look to your furrowed brows. You settle for a sigh, grumbling, “They don’t have shit to do with me.”
“You’re, what, twenty-five—“
“Twenty three.” You interject, almost proud you can correct him. Rivulets of water trail down your arms, and his gaze seems to follow its motion.
“Twenty three,” He echoes with something of a breathless sigh tilting his voice. For a moment you think it’s the interruption— he’ll work on it later. Maybe he’s been struck by just how much younger you really are. “They have everything to do with you. You’re still their kid, I doubt they’d be enthusiastic about leaving you alone with an older man. A stranger, at that.”
“But they did,” You look around, as if to prove your point. Shouta’s never been one for dramatics, let alone those fueled by snappy attitudes and rolling eyes, but it looks cute on you. Maybe even cuter if it were accompanied by tears. “They left us alone. . . Half naked. . . At a beach. . . Alone..”
“I get it. We’re alone,” Shouta’s voice has always been so deep, rumbly and tired and smooth in your ears but even more so when he’s irritated. “Drop the attitude.” It’s different in a way. Leaves no room for argument, though you still feel the overwhelming need to stomp your foot and keep on pressing. You can’t help the shudder, nor the goosebumps crawling up your thighs. It’s just so fun to push his buttons, to watch his passive face twist for a split second as he processes your words.
It’s not exactly hard when he allows it. Shouta lets you push until your heart’s content, only reprimanding you with a glance or cleared throat— and it’s almost eerie. You can’t help but feel
like you should be anticipating something, even as you stand flush against his thick body in lukewarm ocean water and he looks at you with contentment.
Then it occurs to you. . . He’s letting it build up.
“And you’re not a stranger, Mr. Aizawa.” Obviously you’re softening the blows, so he watches you step forward, arms crossed over his thick, plush chest. You’re just so cute, brushing past his overwhelming seriousness with a smile— albeit sly. He can’t stay mad forever. It’s not fair, how cute you are, with lips stretched out and teeth on display, with the apples of your cheeks rising, and the cutest little twinkle in your eye. He wants to kiss you. . . He wants to kiss you so bad it’s starting to hurt.
Especially when you lean forward, sunlight bouncing off the ocean surface and across your body— painting you in pretty, golden slivers of glow. Across your face, your chest, your stomach, your thighs. It’s been a while since he’s felt his skin against your own. Since he’s run his large, calloused hands along your body.
“What happened to ‘Daddy’?” He asks, absentmindedly.
“What?” You break his trance, looking down at yourself with a hint of something Shouta can’t quite place. Uncertainty, perhaps? Vulnerability, maybe. It’s odd, you usually prance around so confidently. You wear the tiniest— tightest— clothes known to man, have the smartest mouth, egg him on day in and day out.
That’s not it. You look smug. You’re playing him for a damn fool.
“Nothing.” Aizawa sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s wrong— it’s cliché, maybe even taboo. He wants to wipe that look off your face. He wants to kiss his best friend’s son stupid. The man he’d just shared parenting advice to, the man he’d spent years upon years of highschool, college, divorces, with. It’d been so innocent when he’d visit— maybe he should’ve never stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back to see you in full bloom, so handsome and lithe and sweet.
“ ‘Nothing,’ ” You echo, snarky as you mimic the flat, detached tone of Shouta’s voice. If you weren’t sulking before you definitely are now, readying yourself to push past him like some spoiled brat who was just denied their favorite candy after being caught trying to steal it nonetheless. So He holds onto your bicep, squeezing the flesh as it flexes with your feeble attempt at struggling.
“Are you done yet? Or do you need a minute to calm down?” He shifts his weight, voice calm and level as he holds you still despite the straining. Not a single hair on him is out of place, his tranquility almost alarming.
“Let go, old man!” He has to ignore the rush of adrenaline the back and forth gives him— the way he has an incessant urge to squeeze your jaw just a bit tighter.
“Hey,” You watch his lips curl to coo, a tone somewhat akin to a parent shushing a fussy child. Your face is turned to face him directly, “How many times do I have to talk to you?” Then impossibly close as his warm breath pans over the expanse of your face, “What’d I say about the attitude?”
“I don’t care what you say about it.” Your face is squished against his palm as you go to squirm your way out of his hold, but with the way his head angles down toward your face— you can barely get the words to sound convincing. There’s a giggle in your voice, like you think his frustration is amusing.“You like it, don’t you? Forget strange, you’re dirty!”
He’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes narrowed and lidded, “Stop fuckin’ playing with me, little boy.”
“Dad never lets me drive the boat,” Though the man can sense your whining from miles away, it still manages to catch him off guard. Shouta quirks a brow in questioning, hand hovering a polite foot away from your calf as you stand to walk along the wading boat floor. “Destroyed his last one when I was a kid,” (He doesn’t have to know you were actually nineteen when you did.) You speak in a tone that makes him think just maybe you consider it more your father’s fault than your own. “This one’s nicer anyway.”
“That’s wasteful.” Aizawa bites the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed into a familiar line. Had one of his kids done that it’d be a completely different story. Surely one they wouldn’t be proud of telling either. Through the corner of his eye he watches you dig into the cooler, scrabbling past the beer bottles and iced hennessy, to pull out an ice cream.
“To you,” You spare him a glance before finally plopping down in the passenger’s seat with much more force than necessary— especially when sitting on a boat. “I did him a favor.”
The cooler did a poor job— your ice cream is already melted and soft once it’s unwrapped. Thick, velvety cream that you lap up with your tongue dribbles down your knuckles. He should find it gross, but your pretty eyes flickering upward to meet his own as you take one long, slow lick up each bend of your fingers has done the complete opposite. Fuck. It’s hot— your sticky fingers and messy lips, your pinched brows and tiny, pleased whines.
If only it were his cock.
Shouta’s thick. Much thicker than your ice cream, he’s sure you’d feel a good stretch to your lips if you wrapped them around the head of his cock. You’d probably whine about how hard you have to try, how heavy it is on your tongue— how much it’s stuffing you full when it hasn’t even slid down your throat yet. You’d cry too, maybe, with drool slicking your chin and coating his dick in a pretty, shiny layer of thick saliva.
“Want some?” You lean uncomfortably forward, though your legs are over the arms of your seat and draped across Shouta’s lap. Already close, Shouta can smell the oreo on your tongue and vanilla cream by the corner of your lips. “You’re staring pretty hard.”
“Sit up,” The deflection is an answer in itself, yet the dark-haired man can’t find a reason to look away. “Before you hurt yourself.”
Instead, you take his wrist, thick and decorated with a long vein, to fiddle with his fingers. They’re long— healthy, strong, clipped haphazardly— big. He watches you split his fingers apart, lacing your free hand with his own— and though he remains with all five fingers up, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the urge to close them around your much smaller ones. Shouta clears his throat while you hum, lapping at your ice cream before pressing your lips against his knuckles, “Want you to hurt me instead.”
“Hush,” There’s a sharp intake of breath, dark lashes fluttering as multicolored eyes glance past your shoulder. It’s evident he wants to say more— in the way he shifts his weight to lean outward. “You hardly know me.”
Your foot nudges his upper thigh, pressing into the firm skin as the boat moves further toward the horizon. It feels more secluded that way.. Private, even. As if there’s only the two of you left on the dreamy island. Your face looks a bit exasperated, like you’ve never had to work so hard in your life, and he has to admit it— it’s cute.
“I know you grew up with my dad,” He ignores the venom behind your tongue as you mention your father, letting out a low hum of confirmation. “I know you have two kids— adopted, right?”
“Hitoshi and Eri.” He interjects, voice soft and fond. You’d never noticed it before, but now you’re acutely aware of the gentle presence of breeze and rippling waters. Shouta’s relaxed face is much sweeter, still creased with age but not quite as deep. The cute, pinched dips between his brows are gone, but you know how to bring it back.
“Lucky. Wish you were my Daddy instead,” Aizawa isn’t sure which word he’s more hung up on, nor how it's so easy for you to completely twist his words— but as much as it rushes to his cock, gets him twitching in his pants and throbbing all the way down his heavy shaft— he doesn’t like it. You talk entirely too much. With lips much too sweet and sheen with cream. With a tongue that flicks and presses against your teeth when you smile. With a pretty voice he could listen to, all day. Something that’d sound better through choking and gagging—ragged and crackly and used. Your lashes flutter, soft and gentle against your cheek. “How old is Hitoshi? My age? If he takes after you, then. . .You’re just—“
“Listen to me,” Perhaps it’s not very characteristic of him, but he just can’t stop. Shouta moves without thinking, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your lips are puckered. “For as long as I’m here,” he offers a squeeze. “For as long as your father is here,” then another, “Turn. It. Off.”
Your face melts into something floaty and distant, the smirk melting right off your face into something much more preferable. His thumb is so close, so close to your pretty lips. You blink once— twice, even— before regressing back into a grin, lips pressing against his long fingers. Fucking brat.
“I’ll just have to hit up Hitoshi sometime, then.”
The persistent comment nearly knocks him over, straight off the boat and plummeting into the cerulean depths of the sea. Instead, Shouta finds it better to step on the gas. . . To ignore the prickling heat in his blood, to ignore the easy taptaptap-ing of your fingers against the screen of your phone. It’s so easy for you to say anything around him— like a deliberate disregard for his reaction. His fingers thrum against the tiller, then wrap around its leather exterior to squeeze, and he doesn’t miss (not even for a second) the glance you give him through the corner of your eye.
The silence is almost painful. The motor speaks for you, loud and rushed and heavy. Aizawa’s jaw sets, clenched at each chiseled edge. His eyebrows furrow deep, angry, and his lips remain tightly shut. You can’t help but stare, watching his hair whip in the wind, dreamy and mellifluous. Not a moment of eye contact is shared, and you feel yourself slinking back into the white leather of your chair for the first time this evening.
Come the wooden dock just adjacent to the shoreline, Shouta’s throwing away wrappers (they’re all yours) and unbuckling his seatbelt. Your arms cross, a pout heavy in your lips as your eyes flutter closed. . Almost as if you being unable to see him makes him unable to see you.
“C’mon, baby.” You both miss the nickname, and despite the tension, it feels so natural dripping from his tongue.
Still, you whine. Mind occupied by your nearly offset tantrum prior to getting back at the dock. “I’m staying outside.”
“You’ll get heatstroke.” Shouta sighs, stepping back to lift you into his arms not even a moment later. You consider it ironic, for a moment, he always wears black despite the scorching heat. Bent at the waist as he leans over the open inside of the boat to unbuckle your seatbelt, his face remains stoic as your arms flail and fly to push him away. Your pretty face morphs into a nasty scowl, grumbles and mumbles toppling from your lips— you’re embarrassed.
He sets you down on the creaking wood, hands placed steady at your waist and shoulder to keep you upright— in your feeble attempt at escapism, your last result was simply going limp.
You just won’t budge, standing planted at the end of the dock despite the tugs to your biceps, forearm— hands, wrists. Your last attempt at pushing him away ends up in stumbles, nearly tripping over your own feet as you stomp down the polished dock, eyes hardening with the contact of deep, dark pools in Aizawa’s irises.
You were holding hands.
It’s been days. You haven’t left your room in days. At first, Shouta doesn’t worry. He doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t question why you don’t come downstairs. When he asks your parents about it it’s always the same thing— ‘That’s just how he is when he doesn’t get his way,’ or ‘He’ll come around.’ The more he asks, the mode suspicion, More questions, mostly wondering why he’s so enamored by their son— even if he had been closer to you when you were younger. But that was long ago, and you hardly remember.
And that isn’t even it.
He starts to worry, to feel bad, on day six. Not a single sound that even points to your presence. No creaking floorboards, no music playing from your old, antique and overpriced record player, no sounds of muffled laughter. It makes him feel out of his skin, like a bystander watching the inhabitants of this very beach house go about their day like nothing is wrong. But this wrong, so very wrong—
He wants you. His boy, his brat, his best friend’s son. It’s wrong and it’s taboo, but so help him, he yearns.
His feet had carried himself upstairs before his mind could, following after you a good half-hour later. You heard him on his way in, the shuffle of his slipper-clad feet from the outside of your door. Still, you’d made no effort to move, no effort to free yourself from the cocoon of your childhood blankets, no effort to open the door despite his gentle knocking.
“You ready to talk yet?” He was willing to brush it all aside. The pushing, the persistent flirting, the slight disregard for his feelings, the mentions of his son. Really, he was jealous. Maybe it’s unsavory for him to admit, maybe he shouldn’t think of his son as competition. And he knows, of course, there’s nothing there— he’s only ever competing with himself. He just can’t help it.
Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.
“I don’t like being ignored.” Your voice was small, but he could still hear it through the door. He heard it all, every implication. His sweet boy, his spoiled brat. You froze, just briefly, before he let himself in. The door creaked slowly with its open and close, a gentle click of the lock as the air grew thick.
Your old bed is small and creaky. Almost as much as the underused floorboards, your old bedroom screams with just as much personality as it does neglect. There’s tiny figurines, posters, awards, memorabilia— but it’s all too clean. Even if it has collected dust, not a thing is out of place. Pristine. There’s a few scattered photos— awkward haircuts, familial pets, the works. . Unapologetically you, maybe when you were just a tad bit more naive— but you nonetheless. It even smells like you, just with a hint of sea salt and warm, summer-y vanilla. Shouta wants to bury his nose in it.
“None of my fancy college boyfriends liked it here, Maybe ‘Toshi would.” You shift your weight as Shouta sits at the edge of your bed, the springy mattress creaking ever so slightly. There’s something left unsaid between the small string of words— and it’s sour. Twists on Shouta’s tongue, like he’s bitten into old bread, and it’s not just the mention of past boyfriends. Sure, that’s not exactly what he’d call this. . . relationship, but it’s not like it’d feel wrong. And he’d certainly feel bitter if his son were in his shoes. “Guess my sheets weren’t silky enough. Can tell you what was, th—”
“I like it.” It’s simple. The admission— simple and sweet, like it’s obvious. Shouta watches your lips part for a moment, just to close again, like a fish out of water. You look so small when you’re caught off guard, glancing to the side and shifting your weight onto your palms as you sit in the comfy middle of your bed. He knows what you’re doing— redirecting the conversation by flirting (it does get his heart beating, he’ll admit it)— and it makes you seem softer, almost.
He watches you sniffle for a moment, a quiet sound as you shift your knees with exuberating coyness. Your eyebrows furrow, cheeks puffed into a pout because, “That's it? You just ‘ like ’ it?”
He’ll give it to you, you never give up. He’d been warned, he was skeptical, and he’s been proven wrong. And, in the brunette’s head, you’d tallied over three strikes. Perhaps he was being too lenient. And now, Shouta, the weak man that he is, simply wants to indulge.
“What else would I say?”
“That it’s nice,” You cock your head to the side. “That you’ve never seen a room so nice. Which m’sure is true, anyway. . Are you low income, Sho? I can’t imagine what it’s like being a single father of two— or one, since Hitoshi moved out forever ago.”
The older man takes a breath through his nose, and out through his mouth. Pretty irises flicker down to meet the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, like the tidal wave of emotion has washed away back into shore, his voice is level as he speaks, “You spoke to him.”
“You ignored me,” You say it as if it’s obvious, simple, that if you can’t have Shouta you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. And though it’s not entirely true, you only really stalked his social media to learn more about his father, you don’t think your heart can stomach seeing pride swell in Aizawa’s chest. “Wanted your attention, Daddy.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, cold air rattling the bones as he watches you stare up at him. Your eyes look softer, boyish, wider at this angle. His pink tongue darts over his equally pink lips, “You don’t know what you do to me.”
“Show me.”
“Shh, sh, sh,” Shouta’s cock slips down your throat with a low grunt, the slippery walls clench around the fat head of his cock. Just as he imagined it, cutting off pretty whines and gasps, head bobbing back and forth— like you can’t tell whether it’s too much or too little. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his thick, sticky cock nestled against your throat— but it feels good, heavy and throbbing in a way that makes your brain shut off so quickly you drool. It sticks to his shaft and slides down his balls, painting your chin in a syrupy-sweet layer of saliva, but you’re too far gone to wipe it away. Such a good boy.
He must’ve said it aloud, because there you are nodding, lazily bobbing your head as he grinds in and out of your mouth. There’s a loud, sticky sound coming from your throat, squelching and soaked, obscene in a way that makes you whimper around your heavy mouthful of cock. He’s quick to correct himself— you only ever seem to behave when you’re stuffed with his dick, and he can’t have you thinking your behavior is acceptable. With a grunt, deep and velvety, Aizawa pushes deeper into your mouth until you gag— tight throat convulsing and quivering around his shaft.
You slurp loudly, choking and gasping as you struggle to pull back. His balls hit your chin, heavy and sticky and so fucking good as tears stream down your face. You’re starting to get into it now, making a mess of yourself as you stick out your tongue to lick along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, eyes focused on the rings of saliva holding you together. Shouta pulls out to let you breathe, his cock quickly liding upupup your throat and past your lips until all you can do is whine and lean forward, lips wet with spit as you chase after what you’ve been wanting for the past month.
“Stop fuckin’ moving. Let Daddy use your throat, wanna hear you cry on it,” The bulge of his fat cock shows in your throat, in and out, in and out, in and out.
You want to whine, to beat your fists against his thighs, and kick your feet— it’s all so much. He has you by the hair, big hand pulling and tugging, lifting you on and off his cock like a warm, tight fleshlight. You fail to bite back a growl, though it emits more as a cute, pathetic sound, glassy eyes focused on his cock being shoved down your hot, wet throat. It’s so easy to press your lips against the darkness of his pubes, to smear pre along your pouty lips and cheeks. His cock jumps in your mouth, thick and long and curved, leaking at the tip.
It’s hard to adjust to the stretch, sputtering and gagging with such cute, greedy sounds. You’re getting ahead of yourself, eager, tongue lapping at the achy underside of his dick, pressed against his balls. And, with a gasp, Shouta pulls out, huffs and unintelligible groans filling the air. The blushing head of his cock taps against your cheek. Once, twice, again and again. “C’mere.”
And yet, despite all that bark, your eyes barely make contact with the ones above you. Instead they trace the pulse of his shaft, how heavy his cock hangs between his legs, how it makes his long fingers almost smaller in comparison. The way pre dribbles from the tip, sticky and warm and oh, so inviting. It’s as if he can read your mind, knows how badly you miss the weight of his thick cock stretching your throat, “You can do better than that," and you almost can't believe it.
Better? Your eyes flicker to the saliva dripping from your chin, suddenly aware of the slick pre smeared across your pretty cheeks and the heavy pants leaving your lips. What gets better than this? You let him use your throat like a new fleshlight, cried on his cock and muffled the sounds in his pubes. Ignored the aching of your own cock just to focus on his own, absentmindedly bucking your hips into nothing, even if it made you look like a pathetic puppy. Fine— you can show him better. You can break him first.
You blink rapidly, tears clumped in your pretty eyelashes, lips parting to, indubitably, sass the older man. “What, need help gettin’ it up? Fuck you, can do it m—”
Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.
“— I wasn’t asking.” You really fucked up now, eyes wide as you’re lifted up by your throat and manhandled into Shouta’s strong arms. He smells good, and just as strong, as your face is pressed into his chest and your tiny, tiny shorts are pushed past your thighs. The air is cold, it spreads goosebumps along your skin, and you’re sure Shouta can feel them along his palm as he grabs handfuls of your ass. He ignores your off guard ‘Hey! I wasn’t done!’, ignores the squirm of your waist, ignores your poor, weeping cock.
Being the smooth, calculated man that he is, you’d expect Aizawa to put a rhythm and pace to his spankings. But no, there’s nothing for you to latch onto but the bundles of his hair as he hands out sporadic, random, and hard smacks along each globe of your ass. There is no back and forth, no favoring one over the other— it’s just where he wants, when he wants. If he wants to watch your thighs convulse and jiggle beneath his heavy palm he will, and if he wants to smack your hands away from his wrists as you tug and tug— he will.
Shouta groans when you let out a particularly pathetic cry, biting your lip and whimpering into his warm skin. You can feel his big hands part your cheeks, squeezing the skin until it spills over each finger and your ass has turned tender and sensitive. He coos, feeling you squirm and wriggle against his hold, “S’it too much? Daddy’s poor baby.”
It shouldn’t sound so sweet coming from his lips, even when it’s condescending and rough, even when he’s cracking his palm down again and again despite your kicks and squeals.
But it does.
“Da—ddy. . !” your voice quivers, hips rocking to an uncoordinated tune. So little contact and yet it feels like so much, his hot palms against your warm skin. . . The tears rolling down your darling face. . . The way your cock throbs against your tummy, your mouth aches with emptiness, your hole twitches beneath the weight of his fingers. The thought makes you want to whine all over again, body squirming and trembling as he holds and kneads the flesh of your ass.
“Quiet. I should shove my fingers down your throat to shut you up,” Shouta murmurs, so unnecessarily mean, kissing the dampness of your forehead before his hand cracks down against your plush ass three, four, five more times. You try to keep up your resolve, pretty legs trembling and knuckles clenching— but it’s just so hard. Being a brat is easy— it’s fun— you’ll give up a few tears, cry and pout, get your way. Easy. So you won’t break and give him what he wants. He’ll have to work for it, get a taste of his own mean, mean medicine.
Delayed gratification.
Wet llips open to speak, something smug and almost smart, but it’s reduced to a wet moan. You feel it—fingers spreading apart the globes of your ass, and more cracking down between them, on your empty, pretty little hole. For a moment your brain slips out of your body, thoughts static and turned to mush, fuzzy and convulsing where you lay. You process the sound of hushing, the feeling of wetness, the sound of slick spit against your skin. . . Thick, merciless fingers rubbing and tapping and sliding against you.
“Oh, god,” You sob, eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows pinching the second more pressure builds and— oh, a finger slips inside. “Fingers— that’s, oh god..” Inching in slowly, rubbing against your velvety walls and so fucking slick you’re beginning to see stars. Whatever you had your mind set on earlier flies straight out the window, your brain short circuits as your sopping hole flutters around his fingers, sucking them in.
“Fuck, baby, look at you clench on Daddy’s fingers. Want Daddy to finger-fuck this cute little cunt silly?” If you could see his face you’re sure he’d be smiling— an eerie thing, eyes trained on his fingers getting sucked back into you. Such a needy boy. “C’mon, say it. Tell Daddy you want his big fingers in your sweet, greedy little pussy.”
You can’t help it, hole throbbing rhythmically along his long fingers, squelching and gushing with stickiness. The swell of your ass ripples as you wiggle your hips, rising and falling to grindgrindgrind. “Fuck me already, c’mon, old man.”
“That what your little ‘boyfriends’ do?” Your lip quivers— he hadn't even flinched at the sass— and instead used your own words against you. “Oh, baby. They didn’t give that little boycunt the attention he needed, hm? That why you throw so many tantrums?”
Your hand finds his wrist, fingers wrapping around thick and strong limp just enough to get his hand moving, trying to guide him deeper, faster, harder. He should reward bratty behavior, but the words spill from his mouth almost immediately, “That’s it, just needed something to fill you up, nice and full.”
It’s ironic— he says it just before pulling out his soaked fingers. And, at your nightstand, opens the drawer to retrieve lube. You watch him pause, eyes scanning the contents of the drawer until his lips quirk downward. Lollipop wrappers. An ungodly amount— you really went on a hunger strike because he ignored you? For six whole days?
“What am I gonna do with you.” He sighs, but grabs a sucker regardless, tearing open its pretty, pastel blue packaging to reveal its red, shiny hard candy. He pops the treat into his mouth, holds it on the right side with his teeth, and squirts a generous amount of lube over the globes of your ass. His hands slip and slide as he guides it around, watches it dribble down your thighs and relishes in the way your hole opens up for him, soaked and sticky.
Your eyebrows pinch, hips wiggling as he pulls the lollipop free from his mouth and directs it against your own, “Suck,” He murmurs, but it’s forced past your lips before you can process the demand. Here come more tears, burning your nose as you hiccup out a tiny, overwhelmed, “Daddy?”
“It’s okay, I’m here,” He coos, circling the pad of his thumb along the rim of your hole. Even as your feet instinctively kick, there’s no reaction from him, just a pleased hum. “Keep sucking, atta boy.”
His thumb feels like a lot, makes you squeal and shiver as he presses it inside, and something hot and wet accompanies it. That's good, the heat of his tongue licking and sucking at your throbbing rim, bubbly spit dribbling down his chin and caught in his stubble. One hand is focused on fucking your boyhole raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re incoherent. His palm presses into the small of your ass, tongue working hard until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. He takes the opportunity to snatch the lollipop back, keeps his tongue pressed against your walls until—
He trails the glossy sphere of the candy down to your sloppy little hole, nudging and prodding until he slowly works the lollipop inside. “You can take it,” He growls, eyes trained on your fucked-out face. He can feel it, the tightening of your balls, the way your hole aches and pulses with the treat inside you. “That’s it, sweet thing. Wanna make this pussy cum, give it t’me. Let Daddy have it..”
He murmurs, and suddenly, instead of the treat that he’s popping back into his mouth, there’s the head of his perfectly thick, so big, cock pressing against your slick, thoroughly fucked-out hole and—
Oh.
“Sweet.”
You sob into nothing, back arching and spongy walls clinging down on Shouta’s cock as it’s worked inch by inch into you and— you can’t fucking believe it. You fought for so long, put on a bratty attitude and stomped your feet. Why would you ever push Shouta and his cock away for so long? Your breaths are short. Tiny little gasps as his large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs open to get a better view of the thick dick pumping you full. Your pretty little hole, sheen with spit and lube, exposed and on display for him and his cock. And, yeah, this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. . . You want him to break you.
“You’re— fuck, you’re so gross, Daddy,” Shouta grits his teeth, “Ohh, havin’ your best friend’s son on your fat cock, fuckin’ my pussy so full. . !” You’re straight up babbling, cross-eyed as each thrust knocks coherent thoughts out your brain. A real, proper slut, desperately humping upupup to fuck yourself on his dick. With this position— knees to your ears and holes on display, you barely have the control to move— but it’s cute to watch you try anyway.
“Shut up and take it,” He rasps, voice deep and scratchy in a harsh whisper as his hips snap back and forth. “Don’t want mommy and daddy to hear their son calling someone else daddy, do you?”
“Daddy— Daddy, my pussy—“ You’re babbling, it’s all you can do since Shouta is all force with his thrusts; takes what he needs, feeds you his cock good and so, so deep. Over and over, you let out broken whines, desperate for it, looking down as best you can to watch your own cock bob and jump against your tummy, thighs sticky with spit and lube. You can hear the sound of your slutty, pathetic moans, the wet plaplaplap of skin, lube trailing and frothing between your bodies as Shouta fucks into you. You can’t stop twitching— your legs, your hole, your cock.
“This is Daddy’s pussy,” He corrects, angling his hips just right, the heat of his cock pressing against every special spot you’ve got. Every bundle of nerves, every silky, spongy wall you’ve got wrapped around him. “Just like that,” You’re gagging for it, pouty lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he continues to watch your hole tighten around his thick, veiny cock. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into you, your body jerking back as he pounds, and pounds, and pounds. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. . .” Your breath is caught in your throat, and if you could, you’d scream, your body tensing as your cock throbs and bounces, cum spraying across your bare chest — stickiness shooting out your spent cock until you’re twitching, handsfree and body set ablaze. Shouta shows no signs of stopping, instead keeping his cock inside you as he flips you around, eyes narrowed. He fucks you through it, watching more cum squirt from your cock, leaky hole milking him for all he’s got.
“Dumb sluts love cock, baby. S’that what you are?” His voice is a low purr, pressing your face into the mattress, watching your ass fall back onto his cock until he feels himself aching hard, hard enough to start cumming inside you.
“Yeah, mhmm,” You drool into your pillow, absentmindedly fucking yourself back onto him. You’re desperate to chase after it, the searing spiral of pressure growing in your stomach, tight hole bearing down on his cock. “Daddy’s slut, s’me!” For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you ride out his hard thrusts, offering tiny movements of your own, up and down to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, to feel his balls slap against your thighs.
“Good sluts take Daddy’s cum,” Your eyes, so glassy and empty, is what gets him, groaning loud as he pumps a load inside you. “Take it, boy. Let Daddy knock you up.” It’s messy, and downright pornographic watching his cum leak out of you, just for him to fuck it back in with the head of his dick. Shouta’s cum starts to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move.
He ignores your needy, overstimulated whines when he pulls out completely, his spent cock hanging heavy between his thighs. Even when you’re limp and boneless, body trembling violently, you want more.
“Da— Da—ddy,” You sob, eyes squeezed shut as strong arms pull you up and into even stronger thighs. Sitting on his lap now, Shouta coos hums, basks in the sight of his pretty boy’s afterglow.
“Daddy’s here. I’m here, I got you.” He whispers into your shoulder, and that’s all you need to hear. The thought of his best friend melts away— you’re more than that. You’re not just his best friend’s son. . .
You’re Shouta’s boy.
Summer is coming to an end.
There’s a seasonal chill in the air and it’s getting dark in the early afternoon. The beach has switched its course, currents changing direction and fish disappearing from the shoreline. The weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up, and the clouds have yet to dissipate into the sky. . Shouta helps you pack, grumbles when you press chaste kisses against his skin the whole time— shuts down the stomps of your feet while you whine, “I don’t wanna leave.”
“Spring break,” Is all Shouta says, his mismatched eyes downcast in a way that highlights his long, pretty eyelashes. Then, voice barely audible, he whispers, “I don’t want you to, either.”
Your body visibly straightens, giddiness painting your boyish face as you smile wide and big. The older man almost regrets saying it, huffing with you lean impossible close to hug him tight. “Will you call me?”
“Whenever you want,” He says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. You watch as he throws your large bag of lollipops into your carry-on backpack, but not before plucking a treat free from the others. “You know I will.”
And that’s all you need to hear.
#₊˚⊹♡ 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓎 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒#mgonna be outta commission for 18-20 business weeks#kiddin.#shota aizawa x reader#aizawa shota x reader#shouta aizawa imagine#aizawa headcanons#shouta aizawa x reader#aizawa imagine#aizawa smut#aizawa x reader#anime x male reader#x male reader smut#bnha x male reader#x male reader#x bottom male reader#bottom male reader#x sub male reader#aizawa x y/n#shouta x you#shouta x reader#mha x male reader#mha x trans reader#mha x y/n#mha x reader#mha x you#aizawa x you#aizawa x male reader
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BNHA Incorrect quotes #2 EGG-celent
UA Secretary+Assistant Quirkless Y/n...
Secretary!Y/n*Currently looking for a therapist for 1-A in their spare time in your desk*...better make sure to look for one who specializes in anger management for the little chihuahua-
Aizawa*Coming in*Y/n i need the-
Secretary!Y/n*Handing him the freshly printed test sheets*
Aizawa*Blinks and hums taking it*oh also didn't have chance to-
Secretary!Y/n*Already handing him a thermo with fresh coffee with a still warm breakfast egg sandwich in the shape of a cat face, not even looking away from the screen*
Aizawa*Grabbing the breakfast and looking at you*...Marry me?
Secretary!Y/n: I took care of that too, We've been married for the last 7 years~
Aizawa*Sipping his coffee with a hum and slight smirk*Excelent...
#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#mha#bnha#bnha x reader#bnha x y/n#mha x reader#mha x y/n#aizawa x reader#aizawa shouta#aizawa shouta x reader#aizawa shouta x y/n#aizawa x y/n#bnha fluff#secretary y/n#bnha incorrect quotes#mha incorrect quotes#incorrect quotes
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Over the years following his early retirement, Aizawa has developed a dad bod.
He is no longer the pale and lanky man you've fallen in love with– all these years ago, and his once prominent dark circles and tired demeanor are long gone and replaced with a more relaxed aura.
You love the little changes he's unknowingly flaunting: the soft tummy protruding under his shirt, the thickness of his strong arms and thighs, the healthy glow adorning his rounder cheeks, and most of all, that cute plumpy butt filling out his bottoms perfectly.
You can never help the heat pooling into the pit of your belly when seeing him dressed lightly, and you get consumed by an uncontrollabe desire to strip him off of whatever sleepwear highlighting his seductive frame at the moment.
That hungry look in your eyes does not go unnoticed as he knows you too well to miss it, and gladly grants your undeclared wish without a second thought.
With an amused smirk on his face, he kneels down between your legs and pushes in slowly while watching the way you breathlessly utter his name and run your hands over his plump chest, and it's a heavenly view that you cannot get tired of seeing, although you really want to feel him pressed against you as well.
You desperatly claw at his forearms demanding to have him closer, and encase him in your embrace when he finally is.
His thrusts quicken and his lips devour yours in a sloppy kiss, while your nails rake his broad shoulders and travel lower and lower until reaching his bum and clutching onto the luscious buttocks you so much adore, squeezing his fleshy globes to mimic the erratic pace of his hips.
He goes mad everytime you do that, singing your praises and grunting promises of making you lose your mind soon.
His words and relentless plunges are what drive you over the edge with a broken cry of how good he's making you feel, and he follows suit in a matter of seconds, stuffing you full of his milky seeds before collapsing onto your quivering body with a soft "I love you" whispered to your ear..
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
#aizawa shota x reader#aizawa shota x you#aizawa shota smut#aizawa shouta smut#aizawa shouta x reader#aizawa shouta x you#aizawa headcanons#aizawa x reader#aizawa x y/n#aizawa x you#aizawa shouta fluff#aizawa shouta imagine#aizawa imagine#aizawa fluff#aizawa shouta headcanons#shouta aizawa smut#shouta aizawa imagine#mha smut#bnha smut
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The light creaking of your bedroom door is what wakes you from the light slumber you found yourself in. The lamp next to your bed casts your bedroom in a hazy yellow glow, and you rub your cheek against your pillow with a contented sigh. It still smells like Shouta.
Speaking of your boyfriend, he glances at you from where he stands in front of your dresser.
“…didn’t mean to wake you up, baby.”
His voice is deeper and more grainy than usual, telling you how tired he is from his patrol tonight.
“Wasn’t asleep. Waited for you.”
He hums in response, and you can tell by his tone that he doesn’t believe you. He turns around to look at the grumpy glare he knows you’re sending him- and he’s right. You’ve brought your blanket up to your nose and only the top of your head is visible, sleep crusted eyes narrowed his way.
Shouta can’t hold the huff of laughter that builds in his chest. He feels his heart beat harder, and he marvels at how you still make him feel like he did the first time he met you, even all this time later.
He’s lifting his arms to put on a sleep shirt when you see it. There, on his ribs is a smudge of black covered in something that looks like plastic. You’re wide awake now, and you quickly jump out of bed to head towards him, shivering slightly at the chill of the room.
At your sudden movements, Shouta lowers his arms and looks at you quickly, scanning your body to make sure you’re ok. You tug the shirt out of his grasp and pull his left arm back up straight in the air. The look he gives you is one that you’re quite used to: bemused and endeared.
“Oh, I was going to show you that in the morning.”
Shouta had talked to you about how he was going to eventually get a tattoo, though he wouldn’t let slip what he was getting or where. Looking at it now, you know exactly what it is, because it’s a drawing that you look at every day whenever you go to your fridge. Only, you noticed this morning that it had gone missing.
Three messy stick people are outlined on Shouta’s ribs holding hands, two significantly bigger than the one in the middle. The one on the left is tall, and has a shock of black, long hair falling over his face. The middle is a little girl, with long hair and a horn growing out of her forehead. And the person on the right is you. It’s a picture Eri drew for you just a year after being taken from Overhaul and into protection.
Shouta is observing you quietly, obediently keeping his arm in the air as you lightly run your fingers over the shiny plastic wrap covering it. It’s only when you start sniffling that he moves, pulling you into his arms.
“Knew you’d react like this.” He says, amusement lightening his voice.
He’s still warm from the shower, and the hair that covers his chest tickles your cheek as you press your forehead against his collarbone. Your tears hit his skin whenever he runs his large hand over your head, his own cheek pressed against your crown. His stubble is prickly and uncomfortable against you, making you sniff loudly and say meekly, “You need to shave.”
“I will.” Is his only reply. He rubs his cheek against your hair, the same way you did to your pillow only moments before. You lean back slightly in his arms and look up at him tearfully. His eye is so dark, yet it gleams beautifully as it stares back at you. He’s taken his eye patch off, showing you the large scare that runs across his other eye. A callused thumb swipes under your own eyes softly.
“I love you.” He says before you can speak, which only makes you tear up again.
Shouta huffs again, a small grin forming on his face as he mumbles “silly baby” at you. He decides to forgo the shirt, and pulls you back to the sleep rumpled bed. You snuggle under the covers, still sniffling, and wait for him to finish taking off his prosthetic before sliding in next to you.
Immediately, you sling your leg over his and press as close as possible to him as you can. Shouta wraps his arms around you with ease, barely moving whenever you decide he isn’t close enough and move half your body on top of his. Under his chin, where his jaw meets his neck, he smells like his body wash and home.
#I had a similar idea for izuku which then led to this one#maybe I’ll write the izuku one as well :)#mat’s writing#mha#aizawa x y/n#aizawa x you#aizawa fluff#aizawa x reader#mha aizawa#aizawa shouta#bnha aizawa#aizawa shōta#my hero academia fanfiction#my hero x reader#my hero imagines#my hero academy fanfiction#my hero academia#my hero academia headcanons#shouta aizawa x reader#bnha shouta aizawa#shouta aizawa imagine
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Reblogs and comments are appreciated
#yandere aizawa#aizawa shouta#bnha aizawa#shoto aizawa#aizawa headcanons#aizawa sensei#aizawa x reader#aizawa x you#aizawa x y/n#aizawa x female reader#aizawa bnha#aizawa hcs#aizawa fluff#aizawa shota x reader#aizawa shota smut#aizawa shota x you#aizawa fanart#aizawa fanfiction#bnha smut#bnha fanart#anime#bnha x fem!reader#mha x reader#aizawa smut#shota aizawa#mha aizawa#mha smut
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𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Aizawa wasn't really the one to keep you tied up like one of his captives, his scarf only delicately wrapping your wrists every now and then– but when you just wouldn't keep still...
warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem!reader, tired!aizawa, bondage (aizawa's scarf), positions: missionary & riding, p in v intercourse, slight dirty talk & praising, mentions of cunnilingus, creampie, bit of frustration (reader squirms and he slips out), aizawa fucks reader after a mission basically (he's v blunt).
a/n: haven't thought about him for a minute so i took the liberty of watching a couple scenes of him in action and- yeah i'm still obsessed haha. wc: 600ish.
v-day m.list | m.list
thirst count: 1
divider credit: @hitobaby & @firefly-graphics
Aizawa had you pinned– binded up in his scarf with his cock driving you up a wall. He was still in his pro hero get up, his goggles pushed up into his hair so he could see you properly and his hands tightened their grip on the scarf as he picked up his thrusts. You had your legs wide for him, trying desperately to keep up with his stamina, but the idea of his scarf wrapped around you made you squirm.
You felt like you were one of the villains he’s captured, completely immobilized in a way that made you so fucking wet. Your pussy squelched every time he fucked into you, your legs shaking around him as you tried to wrap them around his waist– but you just couldn’t and ended up arching your back a little too much, causing him to slip out.
A sharp groan escaped him, his grip falling away from the restraints and you fell back onto the bed with an exasperated sigh. You wanted to be closer to him, but he made it difficult with his scarf. “Sho–”
“I won’t say it again, Y/N.” You heard Aizawa say above you before flipping you both over, forcing you to straddle his waist. “Stay still this time.”
Sometimes you needed to fuck the tiredness out of him– not this time though, his body was reeling for more of your dripping cunt and you were making it nearly impossible for him to get anywhere with you. Not with the way you squirmed at every little thing he did, your pussy so incredibly sensitive tonight that it made him huff in frustration.
Maybe if you were in this position– hoisted on top of him, he could actually get somewhere.
His cock slipped back inside you with ease, your walls fluttering around him as you took him deep once more and a guttural moan was drawn from him as you sat down fully. “Good girl– stay like this for me... Let me do all the work.”
He drew the scarf around you, binding your chest, waist, and arms together in order to lift you up more steadily. You pouted at him once he resituated himself, the cloth holding you hostage as he aimed to bounce you on his cock.
And he sure fucking did, the first thrust sending you spiraling with ecstasy as he rammed into your sweet spot. God, he felt so much bigger this way– he was sooo deep in you, kissing your cervix everytime he fucked up into you with harsh pants falling from his lips.
Looking down at him past the hazy pleasure, his hair splayed out against the pillow and his eyes were lidded with desperate aching. He looked so tired– but with the way he had you rocking your hips down onto him, you wouldn’t be able to tell otherwise. The stubble on his face had grown out considerably, plaguing you with thoughts of him between your legs; lapping at your entrance afterwards. Maybe you should ask him– your impending orgasm rushing up your spine as his scarf got tighter around you.
You watched his wrists curve around the scarf, pulling it taut and his muscles flexed as he held it in place. “S-Sho–”
“Yeah?”
“Clean me up afterwards?” You whined innocently before spasming around his cock, your eyes rolling back as you were pushed over the edge by the stutter of his hips. Aizawa groaned out as you clenched his cock harshly, his movements stilling as he came inside you from your dirty question.
“Cum on my tongue quickly now– I’m tired.” You knew it wasn’t going to be quick, his tongue had to caress every inch before he’s ever satisfied.
#𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒'𝓈 𝓋𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 ꨄ#𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚜 ☾#mha smut#mha x female reader#mha x reader#mha x y/n#mha x you#my hero academia smut#my hero academia x y/n#my hero academia x reader#my hero academia x you#aizawa smut#aizawa x reader#aizawa x y/n#aizawa x you#aizawa x female reader#aizawa shota x reader#aizawa shota smut#aizawa shota x you#aizawa shōta#aizawa shouta#fem reader#𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚠 ✰
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“Babe, babe.” He calls to you, grabbing your face to look at his. His eyes glaring into yours as he soft whispers. “look.”
he says, slighting raising his eyebrow as he stares at you with love and lust in his eyes.
He swiftly thrusts harder, going faster and deeper as you roll your head back, shutting your eyes as you let out a moan.
His eyes glare you down as you squeeze his arm, softening like putty as you melt into him . ༯
#hawks x reader#Hawks smut#pro hero hawks#kinktober#Keigo takami x reader#Keigo x reader#Keigo smut#aizawa shota x reader#aizawa shota smut#eraserhead x reader#aizawa x reader#aizawa x you#aizawa x y/n#aizawa smut#jean kirschtein x reader#jean kirschtein x you#jean kirschtein imagine#jean kirschtein smut#jean smut#shinsou hitoshi#shinso hitoshi x reader#shinso smut#eren Yeager x reader#eren Yeager headcanons#eren Yeager smut#eren jeager headcanons#Hawks headcanons#Levi ackerman x reader#Levi ackerman smut#levi ackerman x y/n
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hiii!!
hope it's okay if i request a little something for sinful sunday (i'm 19)
would it be okay to ask for dumbification kink with aizawa?
thank you anyway!
SINFUL SUNDAY
The room echoes with nothing but your sweet moans and Shota's heavy breaths, well, if you discount the occasional creaking of a wooden desk, wet noises and the enticing sound of skin slapping against skin.
The ceaseless clinking of his leather belt buckle coaxes forth a weighty sob from the depths of your throat, a blend of lust and despair intertwining. The anticipation in your belly unravels at a leisurely pace, and the looming orgasms skulk back into their corners, denied their moment of reckoning yet.
"Love, come on," your endeavor to pull Shota closer is abruptly thwarted. "H-Harder."
Aizawa's rhythmic thrusts into your dripping core momentarily erase any grasp on how limbs and words function. Instead, he intertwines his fingers with yours, directing your hands back beneath his grasp, once again pinning them above your head as they were just moments ago. "Apologies, love," his snicker drips with wicked delight, "but this time, you're not the one setting any rules here."
Even in your half-defunct state of senses, you sense the man leaning over you, your leg draped over his shoulder feeling the stretch of his movement – and then he pauses as he reaches his intended destination. A sharp nip to your earlobe clears the fog, and as his tongue glides over the tingling skin, a ragged mewl escapes you. "S-Shota!"
"You're familiar with the rules, baby," Shota purrs into your ear, his silky voice contrasting sharply with your disheveled state. He remains nestled in the crook of your neck, thrusting harder into your dripping core at a new angle. Pulling you into a fervent kiss, he licks into your mouth with unbridled lust. "I'm in charge. Your only job is to sing for me. Just the way I like it the most. That's it, kitten."
Aizawa gazes into your bewildered eyes, a smile so sweet and angelic that, for a moment, you almost buy into the idea that he's about to make things smoother for you, especially as he releases your arms.
Frantically, you search for something to grasp onto, an opportunity to seize control, to set the pace — but your autonomy is short-lived.
A hefty glob of saliva makes a precise landing on your swollen clitoris, followed by the nimble, skillful fingers of your husband working the drool around your sensitive bundle of nerves.
"O-Ooooo," your lips form a perfect "O" as you cast a gaze up at Shota with teary eyes; a solitary tear makes its way down your flushed cheek, landing on your naked breast.
"You brought this upon yourself, didn't you," Shota coos into the air, delivering a few playful slaps to your slicky folds, followed by an indulgent rubbing that elicits an arch in your back toward him. "My little, naive girl didn't think things through, hmmm? What did you expect when you sauntered in here in that skimpy skirt, tempting fate by presenting your beautiful ass while filing documents into a cabinet, hmm? I've had a taxing day, dealing with class 1-A for just an hour, and I needed a release for the accumulated stress. And what better way to do that than fucking with my stunning wife?" The black-haired man mused.
You're itching to protest, to inform him that he could exercise more self-control and that you didn't intentionally provoke this.
However, as he resumes relentlessly pounding your throbbing and drenched pussy, hoisting both your legs over his muscular shoulders, and murmuring about your brainlessness for him, your comebacks meet an untimely demise. All you can manage is to nod along with the intensity of his thrusts, fervently moaning, "m-more, mo-more, moooore, p-please, p-please, p-please, Shota."
Aizawa's momentum doesn't show any signs of slowing down, a primal rhythm that vividly illustrates the depth of his own arousal. Shota thrusts into you with precision, a raw hunger guiding every move. His robust arm envelops your thighs as you plant your heels atop his shoulders, and Shota tenderly glides his calloused hand up and down the plush, warm skin, squeezing wherever he pleases, urging your legs closer to his chest adorned with a long-sleeved, black shirt. With each forceful thrust, with every instance his rock-solid cock glides against your tender, spongy walls, his midnight-black, tousled locks cascade onto his forehead, a few damp strands clinging to his temples.
With a final cry, your orgasm crashes over you, a powerful force that brings forth unintentional tears. "O-Oh! Shota! Yes!"
Shota relentlessly pursues his own climax, the tight grip of your pussy on his member leaving him little room for endurance. He only relents when he's completely spent, his cum erupting deep in your warmth. Soon, the man's leaning forward to press a little kiss to your forehead.
You both are panting, and you're left undeniably senseless.
"I never asked for this, you little devil," you playfully scold the man, earning a small snort from him.
"Mhm, yeah, sure, I'll believe you, kitten. We both know well you're the one with the insatiable desires in our marriage."
Your mouth drops open with a loud gasp, a frown appearing on your forehead as he assists you off his desk, handing you your clothes. "Excuse me, Shota, you're just making things up now. You're the needy one. If you weren't, we wouldn't have… done that… now, in the teachers' lounge…"
He helps you get dressed and presentable again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "It doesn't matter, kitten. Thank you for helping me ease the stress down."
#doumadonos sinful sunday 🔥#sinful sunday#aizawa smut#aizawa shota#aizawa x reader#aizawa x you#aizawa x y/n#aizawa x reader smut#anime smut#mha smut#bnha smut#aizawa shouta#mha x reader#aizawa sensei#eraserhead#eraserhead smut#divider by cafekitsune#shouta aizawa
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I had a concept.
y/n: Do you think I have pretty eyes?
Aizawa: Yes, I love your eyes.
y/n: What do you love the most about them?
Aizawa: I like watching them to see how much I can make your pupils dilate.
I think of this and combust on a regular basis.
#aizawa shouta#mha#aizawa sensei#eraserhead#aizawa x reader#bnha#bnha aizawa#bnha x reader#bnha smut#mha imagine#mha x reader#mha smut#aizawa shōta#aizawa x y/n#aizawa smut
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like a princess
Shouta Aizawa x afab!reader
Warnings: dirty talk, afab!reader, PIV sex, fluffy smut, bondage, like two spanks, begging, pleading, crying, name calling (Sir and baby),
Aizawa is a respectful man. He's never treated you poorly, raised a hand at you (even jokingly), and has always treated you like a princess. He's all gentle touch.. calm, tired voice.. and warm, soft skin..
But sometimes, you want more. Don't get it twisted, Aizawa fills the role of husband better than any man ever could and you're not thinking about cheating! All you want is for him to get a little… rough in bed. You were both virgins when you met and you've explored sex together as partners ever since. You've both discovered the things you like, the things you don't like, together.
All of it changed with a book. A stupid, erotic romance novel involving a dominant man and a submissive woman. It was a throw-away, there was barely any plot, but the sex scenes were graphic, detailed, and you were engrossed in the book because of them. You’d never really thought about.. anything like that. Shouta had read the book over your shoulder one night, plucked it out of your hands, and pulled you right along to the bedroom.
He made you tell him everything that you read, everything that you liked, and when you were done he bent you over the edge of the bed and made you scream. It was the only time he was ever rough with you since you’ve been together and you’re addicted.
That's how you ended up where you are now, the end of Aizawa's scarf in his hand, the remaining length of it wrapped around your arms behind your back. You're kneeling on the bed, naked, chest pushed forward, skin prickling with desire. You'd give anything to have his hands, his mouth, any party of him, on you right now.
"T-Touch me?" You ask, eyes flicking from his hand gripping the scarf to his face. His eyes are sharp, dark, and the lust in them makes you squirm.
"When you earn it." He's got this horribly smug smirk on his face that makes you wetter. Your husband is so hot, you don't have to be reminded of that, but this scenario, giving him control of your body like this, has made him impossibly hotter.
"Please," you beg, thighs squirming, "Sh-Shouta, I need you."
"Do you?" He asks. He flicks his wrist and you spin, thrown off balance and falling. Your chest hits the bed and you throw your head to the side to avoid breaking your nose at the last second with a gasp.
The control he has over that scarf is impressive. You struggle, hands and arms pushing against the fabric. You're turned around and when you shuffle up on your knees you realize you've given him the best view of your pussy you could ever imagine. Shouta groans, his free hand reaching out to grope your ass and thighs.
"This is so much hotter than I thought it would be," he admits, voice low with arousal. You nod and agree in a whimper consumed by the sheets.
The soft, silk sheets of the bed you share with him. You're gonna have to replace them, you'll never be able to look at them the same. Shouta's hand leaves your skin and then comes back down with a crack of skin on skin. You gasp, body shaking forward, and then press your hips back again. He brings his hand down again and the sting makes your head spin. You whimper please, please, into the sheets when he brings down the third. The fourth has you moaning and attempting to grind your hips back.
“Please what, sweetheart? Hmm?” he soothes his handprints with soft, kneading fingers. You feel the mattress dip and it’s only when you feel the skin of his thighs against yours that you realize he’s behind you. He twists his wrist, the slack of the scarf tightened.
“W-Want you,” you beg, “need you, baby,”
You push your hips back and the tension leaves your skin when you grind against his bulge in his boxers. You keep going, thinking that if he wanted you to stop he’d tell you, and you think that you could cum like this. You’ve been thinking about this for so long, had this little fantasy tucked away for so long, and now you’re about to cum like a horny teenager by humping him like a fucking dog.
It feels dirty, especially when his hand finds your hips and pulls you back against him. You try to spread your legs wider, arch your back deeper, but the hold the scarf has on your arms is misleadingly tight. It gives you barely any room to move. You might be getting yourself off on him but he’s got all the control.
“That feel good, baby?” Shouta asks. You whimper, nodding, hips moving faster.
“P-Please, I just, I c-can’t take it-” you feel like you’re going to explode, like your heart is going to give out.
“You’ll take what I give you,” he commands it of you, he stops your rutting hips with one hand. You sob, clenching around nothing, losing all thought process fast.
“Please!” you cry out, “Sh-Shouta-”
“Sir.” he corrects and oh, oh my god, how are you going to survive this? He wants you to call him Sir.
“Sir,” you beg, “Please fuck me, please, I need it, sir, I can’t-” Shouta’s thumb touches your clit and you moan, eyes rolling back, shaking all over. He’s got you so pent up you can barely breath, can barely think.
“Can’t what?” your reply is muffled by the sheets. Shouta’s thumb leaves your clit to allow him to wind back and give you another handprint. You cry out, the sudden pain unexpected.
“What can’t you do, baby? Answer me.”
“I can’t take this," your voice shakes, "Please, sir,"
He leans over you and releases your hip with a warning of stay still growled into your ear. You nod, whimpering, and Aizawa lets go of the fabric to get off the bed. You try to take deep breaths, try to calm your heartbeat and your racing mind. It doesn’t work. You’re aching for him, no amount of deep breathing is going to change that.
You shiver when you feel his hands touch your shoulders. There's barely a tug on the scarf before it comes undone. You feel it slide over your skin, off of your wrists and arms. Confused, you shift your weight to look up at him. God, what a sight. He’s holding the scarf, his boxers are gone, and you have the urge to put your mouth on his cock.
"Wh-What-" you stutter as his hands trail over your skin.
"I want to see you while I fuck you," he cuts you off quickly, already knowing what your about to ask, and a shock of arousal strikes through you at the image your brain conjures up.
"M-kay," you mumble as you turn over. He leans down to kiss you when you get to your back. You’re lost in him in seconds, his lips are soft, his hands are rough, and his hair is falling over your cheek.
Those rough hands wander over your cheeks, your shoulders, and they play with your nipples, twisting and tugging. You jolt, back arching, whimpering into his mouth. He pulls back, breathing hard and smirking. He loves this, loves every second of having you under his control.
"Hands above your head, baby." You blink stupidly at him for a second before you do as he says.
"Y-Yes, sir," you lift your arms above your head and shuffle your shoulders to get comfortable. He secures your wrists to the headboard, tied together, and then he’s back between your legs. He adjusts you, big hands moving your thighs and your hips around.
You can feel him, hard and heavy and pressing against your thigh. He puts one leg on his shoulder and you squirm, body thumping with your heartbeat. His eyes are heavy lidded, clouded, and you have to look away to save yourself from the fire it ignites in you. He takes himself in hand and guides himself until his head is pushed up against your hole. You shiver and gasp.
“S-Sir,” you sob, whining, “Please, puh-”
You’re cut off by your own moans when he pushes his hips forward and slides himself in. He takes it slow, so slow, savoring the way you feel around him with his head tilted back. You struggle against the fabric, wanting to touch him, grab him, pull him down over you and rake your nails down his back. His eyes open, looking down at you, devastatingly handsome.
“Struggling already, sweetheart?” he asks, hands curving up your sides to tug and pinch your nipples. You cry out, clenching around him.
He grips the bottoms of your ribcage for leverage as he pulls his hips back and snaps them forward. You can’t stop the sounds that come out of your mouth as he fucks you, you never could. Shouta knows how to make you scream for him, how to fuck you so good you forget your own name.
“That’s it, baby, fucking take it,” he growls, one hand leaving your side to grip your thigh, “it’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”
You nod frantically, trying desperately to fuck yourself down on him. You want to cum like this, tied down and pinned under your husband, being used by him.
“Sh-Shouta-” you’re cut off when he goes still inside you, confusion taking hold of you for a second as he leans over you and reaches for your bedside table. Did the condom break? Your head is spinning.
“Close your eyes,” he commands, you follow his order quickly and feel him start to fuck you again, one hand gripping your hip to pin you down. Something cold, hard, plastic presses against your hip and you whine.
“W-What are you- Sir!” you sob out his name among a string of incoherent syllables as he turns your vibrator on and presses it right to your clit. Shouta moans too, fucking you harder.
“F-Fuck, sweetheart, I can feel you twitching,” he moans. His fingers dig into your thighs, his hips rough. You tug on the binds, struggling, wanting more or wanting to stop you aren’t sure.
“I-I-” you want to tell him it’s too much, you can’t take it, you’re gonna shatter into a million pieces if he keeps fucking you like this. Shouta fucks you right into your orgasm, watching you shake and fall apart beneath him with that smirk still on his face.
“Fuuuck, baby,” he groans, pulling you down onto his cock roughly and burying himself inside of you. He pants, the same as you, as he comes down. You take deep breaths, trying to calm your beating heart.
He pulls out, discards the condom, and then he comes back to you. He pulls the scarf free, throws it to the floor, and lays down with you to rub your wrists and kiss your hands. You’re sore, boneless, and you let yourself fall to a calm in his arms. He runs a hand over your hair, whispers praise, and you can’t help the way your eyes drift close. He takes such good care of you all the time, respects you and loves you, how did you get so lucky?
#aizawa#shouta aizawa#shouta aizawa x reader#shouta aizawa smut#shouta aizawa headcanons#aizawa sensei#bnha aizawa#aizawa x y/n#aizawa x you#aizawa headcanons#mha aizawa#aizawa fanart#aizawa x reader#aizawa shōta#aizawa imagine#aizawa smut#mha imagines#mha smut#mha x reader#aizawa x reader smut#mha x reader smut
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ೃ⁀➷ 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟑 * ੈ✩‧₊˚
➼ 𝙗𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣
✦ 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿!𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘁𝗮 𝗮𝗶𝘇𝗮𝘄𝗮 𝘅 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿
✦ 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘄𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿, 𝗮𝗶𝘇𝗮𝘄𝗮, 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 “𝘁𝘂𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴” 𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁.
✦ 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝗯𝗶𝗺𝗯𝗼𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝘀𝗹𝘂𝘁, 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁-𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿, 𝗺𝘂𝗳𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗻𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆, 𝗲𝘅𝗰 (𝗹𝗺𝗸)
✦ 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 𝟭.𝟮𝗸
✦ 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: 𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗵𝗸𝗲𝘆, 𝗶 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗶𝗻 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗶 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗳 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱, 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀𝗳. 𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝘁��𝗽𝗼𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝟰 𝗺𝗲!!
The lecture hall was empty aside from Professor Aizawa and you, who was sitting on his lap. You grinded your damp, pink panties across the print poking at you through the fabric of your professor’s dress pants. You knew in your head this was wrong, but whenever you saw someone good-looking, no matter who it was, you’d automatically turn into a horny mess.
“You listening, y/n?” he asked smoothly, pretending his dick wasn’t hardened up waiting to feel the warmth of your walls around it. “Sorry, guess I’m distracted” you mumbled, batting your false eyelashes, pretending to be some innocent girl despite your mini skirt riding up your legs.
There was an open book plopped on his desk, along with a few pieces of paper, and some writing utensils too. This “study session” was going well, but as time went on, you became more eager to learn more about what was in your professor’s pants rather than the actual lesson.
“We can’t have that can we?” he whispered into your ear, lifting up your skirt, leaving it sitting loose around your waist. “Needa get your mind off of work for a while?”
You nodded, gently closing the book, scooting it over to the side incase you two went a little crazy and needed more room. “Can you take these off for me, sweetie?” he said, using his index finger to tug on the elastic of your panties before reaching to pull your tight little crop top over your head. “Mhm” you purred, slipping your panties to your ankles leaving them hanging next to your heels.
You felt a a slender hand pushing you against the desk, arching your back into a good position. Biting your lip, you prepared yourself for the feeling of Professer Aizawa’s cock rubbing against your entrance the way you imagined all those days in class before.
As you heard a pants zipper unzip from behind you, your face heated up and your heart began to race. His cold hand gripped your left tit, squeezing your pierced nipple in between his index finger and his middle finger. It took a moment for your body temperature to adjust to his, but right as you thought things had leveled out, you felt the tip of his veiny dick split between your folds and penetrate your pussy.
“Fuck!~” you moaned, vocalizing your pleasure a little too loud, forgetting this was taking place in a classroom. “Quiet, baby” Aizawa soothed, slowly inching the rest of his girthy cock into your wet cunt.
You instinctively nodded, trying ever so hard to hold back any sort of whimper or wail as your pussy loosened to adjust to the girth and length of his dick rubbing against your walls.
You closed your eyes, enjoying his initial slow thrusts. They were languid and affectionate, only leaving a slut like you desperate for more. You bucked your hips and attempted to inch yourself further down onto his cock.
“You want more, sweetie? Think you can take it?”
Whether you thought your cunt could swallow all of his length or not, a quick “Yes-” rolled off your tongue, followed by “Just fuck me please~”.
Aizawa quickly rammed the rest of his cock inside you, unknowingly slamming against your g-spot, leaving you disheveled, aching for the tip of his dick to strike your sweet spot again, at a more frenzied pace.
You stopped leaning on the desk and decided to brace yourself on your professor’s thighs, giving you a good balance. As Professor Aizawa pumped his cock in and out of your pussy, grunting as he played with your nipples, you began to bounce on his dick, using one of your hands to stretch yourself open even wider.
“If you keep wearing slutty clothes like this, you wont be the only one distracted in my class you know” he teased, gripping your waist and slamming every inch of him into you all at once.
“Mhm-“ you stammered unable to find words to appropriately reply to his banter. Your head jerked as the force of a hand tugging your hair pulled you backwards. “Are you listening, Ms. l/n?”
Your cunt tightened on his cock as if it we’re trying to influence his body to continue moving. His tip applied pressure to your g-spot as he sat there, waiting for you to reply.
“Yes, sir- Listening-“ you cooed, lying through your teeth, simply trying get him to fuck you unapologetically rough, leaving you out of breath. “Promise if I fuck you good, you’ll do better in my class?” he taunted, slowly moving himself within your body.
A needy “Promise~” fell from your lips on impulse, bringing tears to your eyes knowing you couldn’t yell as loud as you wanted to. A sense of hopelessness washed over you, as you could feel every part of your body begging to touched. However, it was then your professor stood up from his chair and bent you over, now pinning you to the desk in the exact same spot you cleared room for earlier.
A gasp tried to come out of your mouth due to the sudden movement, but Aizawa had already placed his hand over your mouth and began brutally pounding your cunt. “This what it take for girls like you to pass my class? Getting used like a cumslut?”
A set of muffled moans filled the room, as the will power you had to hold any noises back had disappeared the moment his pace had picked up. Tears began to roll down your face as your pleasure reached it’s peak and your body attempted run from the cock you’d been begging for all this time.
Your hand grasped at the air and you pleaded into the hand of your professor, as his length caused you to paint his dick white and drip cum onto the pants hanging around his ankles.
The euphoric feeling of your walls clenching down on his dick, lead to your mascara running down your cheek. A few grunts and groans came out his mouth before he quickly removed himself from your cunt, leaving you feeling relieved, but empty and ready for more.
Professor Aizawa gave himself a few pumps before releasing his nut onto your back, leaving some residue on the mini skirt he had pulled upon your waist. You layed there catching your breath as he reached down and pulled your panties up for you, redressing you with your shirt and cum covered skirt as well.
Eventually, you sat up and Professor Aizawa pulled you close to his face. Taking his thumb, he wiped away your running mascara, before moving his hand to your chin, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “When you go home make sure you study, baby. Mkay?” he whispered gently, as if he were a completely different person than the one that was corrupting you, making you cry tears of pleasure just moments before.
You replied with a small, sinless “kay~” before grabbing your purse that was set aside and limping your way towards the exit of the building. However, little did your professor know, instead of studying when you got home, you simply began planning out an even sluttier outfit for tomorrow in hopes that maybe he’d see you again and you two could start a nightly routine of hooking up together for the rest of that term.
#aizawa x you#aizawa x reader#aizawa shōta#mha aizawa#aizawa smut#bnha aizawa#aizawa x y/n#aizawa x student!reader#aizawa shouta#aizawa sensei#shota aizawa#mha smut#mha x reader#mha imagines#mha fanfiction#bhna x reader#bhna smut#bhna fanfiction#bhna imagine#mha headcanons#smut#mr aizawa#mha#bhna#bhna headcanons#aizawa#kinktober#kinktok#smutober#oc tober 2023
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HIIIIIIII!!! I was wondering if you could do Aizawa x student!reader?? Ik you don't normally write anything but JJK but i rlly like ur writing and would js love to see you make this. 💐TYSM BABESSS ^^
DARLING CAN I BE YOUR FAVORITE?
[•~teacher!aizawa x student!reader SMUT !!~•]
[•~synopsis: aw man you failed another test, guess you'll have to fuck your hot teacher.~•]
[•~a/n: i tried my best anon !! js for you, and keep sending in request ppl :D ~•]
"heeey eraser!!" present mic squeals, rushing into the classroom. aizawa looks back at the yellow haired male, obviously fed up with all his bullshit. "whatcha doin?-" eraser mic asks, dragging a chair next to aizawa, not noticing the students were taking a test.
"grading papers"aizawa replies, not paying any attention to the yellow haired individual who was interrupting his class.. present mic looks across the room, admiring all the students and just taking on the sight of the future generation of heroes. "shouldn't you be-" aizawa begins, soon cut off by present mics loud and obnoxious voice "Ooo, this class looks promising shouta, whose ya favorite?"
aizawa rolls his eyes, "don't have any. I don't like picking favorites." he says firmly. present mic is slightly baffled at his response, "really? if I could pick a favorite, I think id pick that red haired kid- actually no wait maybe the green haired one but-" present mic continues to babble on and on to aizawa. who was very obviously tuning him out.
as the bell rings, you watch all the other kids leave the classroom. all giggling and chattering about their plans for the weekend. they all seemed so busy in their conversations, so busy that they didn't notice you were staying back, which was perfect.
as soon as the last person exits the room you walk over towards aizawa. a sly smirk creeping up on your lips. "you said you needed to talk to me?" aizawa places the stack of papers he was grading down, on the table, he leans back in his chair. eyes fixed on you and your figure. "you failed another test, y/n." he says coldly, "and I hope you remember our little deal, hm?" he asks, tapping on his desk, signaling you to come sit.
"how could I forget..." you mumble sitting down on the table, watching as the black haired man approaches you. he was emotionless and rough looking. but you knew deep down he was just as excited for this as you were.
he stands in front of you, in between your legs, and he lifts your chin up with his hands. he stares down into your eyes, "bet you failed on purpose too... didn't you? fucking slut" he mumbles before crashing his lips on yours, you feed back into the kiss, the intensity and passion increasing. aizawa's hands sneakily begin to grope your tits through the fabric of your uniform, caressing them with his rough hands. making you let out breathy moans.
aizawa continues to sloppily kiss you as he begins to unbutton your top, your moans only making his cock harder. you could feel his bulge against your thighs. aizawa pulls away from the kiss, looking down at you with hazy eyes, he places your uniform top on his chair, leaving you in your bra.
he gives your breasts a tight squeeze, admiring the way they bounced. you let out a sharp cry from the sensation. "so pretty f'me aren't you sweetheart?" he coos, hands reaching to your bra's clasp, quickly unclasping it. he throws your bra across the room and leans you back slowly, making sure not to hurt you.
as you lay back down you can feel aizawa playing with your nipples, his finger grazing the surface. he watched as you would squirm more and more whenever he went harsher. aizawa then places one of them in his mouth, tongue swirling all over your nipple. you gasp at the sensation and place a hand in his hair. you can feel the wet patch in your panties grow as he continues to play with you.
his hand reaches towards your other nipple, making sure to give it attention too. he squeezes it lightly as he sucks on your other tit. you let out soft moans as you feel the sensations overtake you. "thought you didn't like pickin favorites?" you mutter, voice shaky and hoarse. aizawa responds by squeezing your nipple harshly, a muffled mumble leaving his lips which sounded like a "shut up..."
soon enough aizawa also gets your skirt off, leaving you in your panties. he lifts both of you legs onto his shoulders, pressing his bulge against the wet patch on your panties. you let out a mewl at the feeling of his clothed cock pushed up on you. "see what ya do to me pretty girl? fuck- I could do this all day..." he groans, grinding against the wetness seeping through your panties.
aizawa hastily unbuckles his belt, and slides his pants and boxers off. freeing his long dick. a soft sigh leaves your lips at the sight. you had fucked aizawa a couple times before but still, his long shaft always surprised him and made you crave him even more. "look at m'pretty girl, so mesmerized by my cock, it's okay sweetheart you'll get it soon..." he pushes your panties to the side, aligning himself with your hole.
"c'mon sweetheart y'know what you gotta do now..." he hums, tucking hair behind your ears. "aizawa... pleaseee" you whine, hands reaching for his hips. aizawa slaps your clit, making you jolt back "y'know damn well that isn't good enough, beg for it like the dirty bitch you are." he demands sharply.
"p-please daddy, need your cock so badly..." you mewl, you didn't care how stupid you sounded, you had one thing on your mind right now. and you needed him badly. aizawa smirks slyly and whispers "anything for my girl..." and he pushes his cock in. you both let out content moans and groans as you feel each other.
he lets you adjust to his size before ramming himself in and out of you, your slick coating his cock fully. "so fuckin wet f'me, baby..." he groans, hands gripping on your hips. his pace was so quick and rough, just the way you liked it. his hips bucked into you without any mercy.
"you're so slutty for this, fuckin ya teacher just to raise your grades? dirtyass slut." he mocks, pushing your thighs closer to your chest, his shaft abusing your cunt even deeper now. you let out sobs and cries from all the pressure, the feeling of his leaky tip constantly hitting your cervix. you were in pure bliss.
aizawa admires the sweet noises, both your mouth and cunt makes. he could feel the way your walls would tighten around him with each thrust he gave, signaling you were close. he looks back up at your face, you looked so dazy and lost. babbling about how good you felt, so cock drunk you couldn't even speak correctly. aizawa chuckles at the state you were beneath him. "we just started pretty girl, don't tell me yer already too fucked out-" he teased.
his calloused fingers start trailing down to your clit, rubbing soft circles on it, as aizawa begins to feel his own orgasm creeping up on him. the pressure on your clit makes you yelp out with pleasure, the familiar knot in your stomach tightening at a hasty pace.
your walls sucked in his cock snuggly, aizawa knew you were on the brink of your orgasm. "c'mon baby, tell me who fucks you the best..." he grunts, his voice hoarse and raspy. his words simply didn't register in your brain, all you could focus on was the release that was building up in you. aizawa slaps your clit again, his voice harsh and demanding "answer m'fuckin question slut. who fuck you the best?"
you jolt up at his words, "y-you do daddy!! you do!!" you mewl, a sob leaving your lips as you cry out from the harsh orgasm you just endured. aizawa felt your liquid wash all over his shaft, which was enough to bring him to the brink of an orgasm. he pulls out of you quickly. and begins jerking himself off quickly, hot strings of semen decorating your stomach. you both let out heavy pants of satisfaction. "made such a big mess pretty girl, let's clean up okay?" he affirms, helping you back up.
#mha x reader#my hero academia#anon ask#send anons#aizawa x reader#eraserhead#aizawa#aizawa shouta#shouta aizawa x reader#aizawa x y/n#aizawa smut#mha smut#bnha#bnha smut
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❦ KITTEN
cw: mature, mdni!, reader is a stripper, gentleman!aizawa that’s about to snap (yummy), also there’s a collar lol
PART 2 | MASTERLIST
“eraser head!” you call as you sit at your vanity. the dressing room wasn’t very crowded at the moment, and that’s probably why aizawa chose this time to walk in.
“y/n.” he nods. you pout.
“if i have to call you by your stage name, you have to call me mine.”
“not a stage name—hero name.” he corrects you.
you push your hair back, ready to go now that you’ve changed and taken off your makeup. effectively, you jokingly ignore aizawa, standing up with your bag as you hear him sigh and say, “kitten.”
you smile. close enough.
initially, he called you kitty, that was your stage name for the sole fact that you loved hello kitty. but shota decided on ‘kitten’ along the way, and because you liked him, you accepted it.
“will you be walking me home today, shota?”
he ignores your use of his first name and nods.
you two first met after a stalker incident. the emergence of quirks in society gave certain men the idea that they were above the morals of society. unfortunately, you were the target of one (being a stripper is not a safe job), and eraser head was who you turned to. over time, he came as a customer a couple times, but really, he would walk you home at the end of your shift.
it became obvious that he started walking you home because he wanted to. he told you himself that the stalker was not a threat anymore a few months ago, yet he continued to see you at the ungodly hours of the day despite his tired eyes.
you wanted him. you made that clear. he was apprehensive. the first excuse was that you were too young. you reminded him you were barely four years younger. the second was that he was protecting you. its been nearly half a year since there was any semblance of a threat towards you.
you were chipping away and he was breaking.
upon reaching the front door of your apartment, you say, “chamomile with honey.”
it was how he took his tea, and it was a slight command for him to come inside.
he didn’t argue.
you fix the drinks and bring it to him as he sat on the couch.
“oh! i have something i need your opinion on.”
you quickly left the room to change.
aizawa barely showed emotions. you danced and flirted and wore your skimpy outfits, but nothing. his eyes stayed on yours, arms crossed like always, and calm expression on his face. you wanted to see his face break, blush, you wanted to see his head thrown back.
so you come back to the living room.
he takes a quick study of your outfit. not as long a look as you wanted, and no physical reaction.
“it’s cute.” he says.
you huff and step closer.
“really? that’s it?”
“i like the collar, its good for work.”
you had no intention of wearing this to work. even for your profession, this was out of your comfort zone. it was definitely a kitty—ears, collar, accompanied by your nails—but the skirt was a belt to show your panties and it dug into plush of your thighs with garters that you just wanted to take off.
you sigh in defeat. you wore this for him and only him.
“you don’t look happy.” he comments.
you admit, “i was hoping for more.”
he holds your eye contact for a second before he lifts his finger to spin—asking you for a twirl.
you smile and obey, giving a nice mini fashion show.
he doesn’t say anything, but his finger makes a beckoning motion and you walk towards him.
“give me a lap dance.” his voice sends vibrations up you spine.
“what?”
“i can pay you.” he assumes that’s the problem. “your costume’s cute, but doesn’t look too comfortable. wouldn’t be good if you can’t dance in it.”
“i’m not on the clock.” you mumble.
his hands reach out to your hips, grabbing you and turning you around before pulling you onto his lap; your back to his chest as the breath gets knocked out of you.
“neither am i.”
#mha x reader#bnha x reader#mha smut#bnha smut#aizawa x reader#aizawa smut#aizawa shota x reader#shoto aizawa#aizawa x y/n#my hero academia aizawa#aizawa shouta#aizawa x you#aizawa headcanons#aizawa imagine#eraserhead x reader
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So, Aizawa's neck is extremely sensitive. Yup I called it.
There is a reason why he conveniently keeps it wrapped in his capture weapon most of the time.
Finding out about it was purely coincidental, it was never your intention to brush your fingers along the pale skin when you reached out to tuck a loose strand behind his ear, you couldn't help it either, he looked breathtaking in a simple black tank top and similar colored sweatpants as he emerged after his evening shower.
What was meant to be an innocent gesture, soon turned into something else entirely when his breath suddenly hitched and goosebumps appeared where your fingers had touched.
It was a new and unexpected sight that triggered something within you, and you needed more of the sensation it had evoked..
_ "So even the incredible Mr Aizawa has a weakness like the rest of us huh?" you teased for the nth time as you tightened your grip on his wrists and pressed down on his throbbing bulge before diving in to suck another bright red spot on his once flawless neck, "you've kept it well hidden this far, I'm impressed."
It's no wonder to be frank, he has always been dominant and well guarded even with you, and it is unusual of him to show any sign of vulnerability, which is why you held on to this rare instant with all your might.
_ "Alright that's enough, you've had your fun haven't you?" he huffed in apparent annoyance but did nothing to stop you, and how easy would it have been for him to free himself of your clutches, had he truly wished to.
_ "Just a little more, please." you whined a plea and kissed his delicate skin again, relishing the strangled groans he so desperately sought to muffle.
_ "Whatever.." but his feigned indifference couldn't fool you.
How could it, when his restless hips unveiled his growing impatience for something more?
Divider by : @/saradika
#Assal! we'll have to talk more about this 😉#aizawa shota x reader#aizawa shota x you#aizawa shota smut#aizawa shouta smut#aizawa shouta x you#aizawa shouta x reader#aizawa headcanons#aizawa x reader#aizawa x y/n#aizawa x you#aizawa shouta fluff#aizawa shouta imagine#aizawa imagine#aizawa fluff#aizawa shouta headcanons#shouta aizawa smut#shouta aizawa imagine#mha fluff#bnha fluff
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