smashley351

[smashley351]

types of nap, ranked by me (an experienced napper)

the siesta: the oldest and most reliable form of nap! you go to sleep around noon. you wake up an hour or two later feeling well-rested and prepared to face the rest of the day. this is the pinnacle of nap perfection. 10/10

the businessman’s nap: you have a limited amount of time on your hands, so you schedule a nap into your packed timetable and set an alarm. you spend half the duration of the nap worrying that you’re wasting valuable nap time by lying awake, and the other half sunk into a torpor so deep that when your alarm rings, it takes you a good few minutes to remember your own name. once you’ve splashed some cold water on your face you feel much better. 7/10

EW STICKY: you were cold at first, so you piled on the blankets and wriggled into your favourite comfy sweater. this was nice. now you are awake and trapped in a horrible sweaty gordian knot of your own devising. this is not nice. when you peel off the sweater you find to your horror that you have left an actual damp patch behind on the bed, like some sort of giant dead fish that can’t stop leaking its gross fish juice everywhere. 5/10 it was at least cosy to start with

the interrupted nap: someone barges into your room and starts talking to you. “wtsfhggl?” you enquire. they give you a judgemental look, and ask why you are sleeping in the middle of the day. “ghhfshsxkls,” you reply, graciously. they tell you to get up. you get up. the rest of the day feels like an extension of whatever dream you are having before you were disturbed. you boil with quiet resentment and shame. 4/10

the unsuccessful nap: you are tired. you want to take a nap. you lie down. you wait. you wait. time moves sluggishly forwards. you wait. your brain feels like a cup of mushy porridge but your eyes refuse to close. the noise of your fan is infuriating. you wait. eventually, you are forced to accept that this nap is simply not going to happen, and you have wasted 45 minutes doing absolutely nothing. god fucking dammit. 2/10

the handy-dandy fast-forward button: you really just want this day to be over as soon as possible, and the best way you can think of to do that is to take a nap. you only meant to sleep for an hour, but when you wake up it is already evening. the day is over. you glean no satisfaction from this. you kill time until you feel justified in going back to bed again, and spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, unable to sink back into the blissful stupor from which you so recently emerged. 0/10

The Unpleasantness: when you fall asleep, it is dark. when you awaken, it is light. this is the natural order of sleep, but perverted into a form that is frightening and wrong. you feel deeply unsettled and do not know why. are you sick? what does time mean? what does anything mean? maximum despair. -1000/10.

[smashley351]

okay back to tiktok star turning social media manager reader and bakugo

[smashley351]

Imagine a cozy Autumn day with Shouta...

You two are laying in a lounging chair together, in the comfy little nook next to your big bookcase.

His large body is stretched all the way across the chair like an oversized cat, and you are laying comfortably between his legs, with your back propped up against his front.

All you have to do is reach over and pick a book off the shelf, barely even needing to move from your position.

The hours slowly trickle away as you read quietly between his arms. Sometimes you think he might've fallen asleep, but then his arm reaches over to hand you your mug of hot chocolate whenever you make a move to grab for it.

Each time you smile, and each time he kisses your hair.

Your entire body is enveloped in this fuzzy, warm feeling that almost feels like sleepiness, but that never pulls you into a slumber.

The house is pleasantly warm, and the light from the lamp casts a yellowy glow over your little corner of paradise.

All is well, and you are happy.

[smashley351]

Aizawa shouta in My Hero Ultra Impact.

Present mic bonuses because I loved his.

[smashley351]

[smashley351]

※ Bakugou and Izuku had to trade costumes for a pro hero magazine photoshoot.

[smashley351]

Reblog if you’re a member of or support the afab vagina menstruation gang or the bleeding afab parade

Testing a theory

[smashley351]

Sometimes I do anatomy studies and the character suddenly has an automail arm :')

get your own print here ❤️

[smashley351]

cute date idea: LOTR extended edition marathon

[smashley351]

[smashley351]

Fellow Aizawa enjoyers, i present to you more samurai Aizawa.

[smashley351]

calling my lover "mine" but not in the way that my toothbrush or notebook are mine, mine in the way my neighborhood is mine, and also everybody else's, "mine" like mine to tend to, mine to care for, mine to love. "mine" not like possession but devotion.

[smashley351]

no, you hang up! | shota aizawa

kinktober day three: phone sex

word count. 2.2k

content. phone sex, reader and aizawa are coworkers, mutual masturbation, referenced age gap (once and it's minor + doesn't contribute to their relationship dynamic), dirty talk, no genitals for reader mentioned, gender-neutral reader, teasing (reader calls him names but it's all fairly playful), pre-relationship.

♪ agora hills — doja cat

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

You know it's him before you even look.

Your room is blue-dark, cold; the central heating must have turned off hours ago, still on to warm you to sleep even beneath two comforters. The recent winters were no joke—you walked around town at the moment with dry, blistering lips and dull skin and watery eyes. Even now, as you raise your head from the comfort of your sheets to the arid air, gooseflesh breaks over your skin.

Something pulses; it's what woke you in the first place. Some noise, some shift in the quiet. Outside it's still dark, not yet late enough for the light to start turning greyish and buoyant. It takes a muddled, groggy few seconds as the static in your head starts to clear that you realise it's your phone. 

You grope blindly for it; it's only vibrating, but you're a tepid sleeper at the minute, and it's more than enough to rouse you from whatever fitful slumber you'd managed to fall into. You have to be careful not to forget and turn on your side, put pressure on the sling that binds your arm as you reach under the sheets for your phone as it rings, rings, rings out. 

You slap a hand across the plastic case, lift it with a wince at the cold blue light that shines out like fingernails down a chalkboard. But yeah—when you read the name AIZAWA across the top of the screen in informal white capitals, you can't honestly say you're surprised.

You stab the green button on what's probably the eighth or ninth ring. "Yeah?"

There's a moment where he doesn't say anything. Where the line crackles the way the ozone layer does before the first strike of lightning. "...Did I wake you?"

"Yeah," you say again, returning to your back. Your bound arm gives a twinge of protest. 

"Sorry," he murmurs, in that dry tone of his, the one that rarely manages not to sound clipped and bored. "I guess I didn't realise how late it is."

You pull the phone away, glancing for the first time at the time in the right-hand corner. 02.11am. He did have a nasty habit of letting the night slip away from him—and his regular bouts of insomnia mean the lateness of the hour doesn't always impress upon him as it does for most people—but you suspect there may be more to it than that. There's a hesitance, a reluctance in his voice. 

"It's okay," you say finally. "Have to pee anyway."

The static rises as he huffs down the line. "How's the arm?"

"Feels like roadkill," you mumble, which doesn't make a lot of sense. But sue you, you're tired and the painkillers wore off in your sleep. "Why're you calling?"

Another crackle, a soft shift, like an out-of-tune radio adjusting frequency. "No... particular reason."

As the fatigue starts to clear from your heavy brain, you try to picture it. Shouta Aizawa—evidently not patrolling tonight, given the lack of cityscape din in the background of the call. It's quiet; you can maybe hear the low purr of a ceiling fan. Earlier, he'd shifted, and you'd heard the rustling of sheets. So, he's in bed. Lying there. Alone. Calling you.

He's pretty transparent. But to his credit, you don't think he's trying to be conspicuous. It's not incredibly in his nature. And it's not in yours to call him out on it, either, which he knows. It's why he does it.

Does, not like—like this is a regular thing, or anything. There have been one or two what you like to refer to as unrelated incidents over the eight-year course of your working relationship. A kiss at a New Year's party that lingered a moment too long, the time he took you home after a night at the bar with the other U.A. staff and you couldn't be in the staffroom alone with him for about a fortnight afterwards.

"Just missing the sound of my voice?" you ask, trying not to sound too coy. You don't want to make him skittish, and anyway you have a feeling he hates when you try to play up your (in your opinion) minor age difference. 

Another rustle, quieter, shorter. "...Something like that," he murmurs. His voice is soft, despite the timbre of it reaching down to some pit in his chest. 

"So should I talk?" you press. 

"Sure," he replies.

"About what?"

"Anything." He swallows. "Whatever... whatever you'd like to talk about."

You roll your tongue over your lower lip, suck it for a moment whilst you think. "I miss work," you start. Boring, mundane—testing the waters. "Being stuck at home sucks. And all my friends are my coworkers, so you're all at work every day. 'S pretty lonely."

"I see." There's a hint of strain in his voice, one that makes a dim chord strike somewhere low and pitiful inside you. You cross your legs over each other. "You know we'd visit if we had the time."

"Yeah, I know. I bought myself plants to give myself a reason to get out of bed," you say, casting a glance over at them as they rest on your windowsill. Their leaves wink and shiver in the current of cold breeze let in from the crack in your window. "I have to get up twice to water them. And then when I'm up, I think, I might as well get something to eat, exercise. Shower."

The last work is deliberately provocative, like pressing on a ripe bruise to see when it starts to hurt. Your reward is the faintest hitch of Aizawa's breath. 

"I talk to Hizashi every day," you continue, trying to keep your own voice even. The silence on the other end of the phone sounds deafening, your heartbeat starting to get uncomfortably forceful in your chest. "He texts a lot, about silly things. Keeping me up to date on stuff at the school. It's not the same as being there, but it's sweet that he tries." You pause. "I wish I could see everyone, though. Hey—can I see you?"

You let the question hang. Lining up a hunting rifle to a buck's head, letting it decide to stay or flee. Then,

"Hang on." It comes through gruff and short, but it makes your stomach twist all the same. A moment later, your phone hums with a notification. It hangs, a grey banner at the top of your screen. From Aizawa, with a photo attachment.

Your mouth goes dry as you stretch your thumb to tap it. It's a flash photo of a barely-lit room. You can see dark blue sheets and a grey comforter, and two legs in slouchy grey sweats, cocked apart, shoved halfway down his thighs. But in the crux of the photo—

"Jesus," you blurt before you can stop yourself. You hear Aizawa huff a noise on the other end of the phone, could be laughter, could be something else. It’s not like your entirely inexperienced with Aizawa’s cock, but that was a while ago and there’s a big difference between a drunken sticky fumbling in the dark and seeing it properly, in low warm light, heavy and hard with his hand wrapped around it. His fingers, thick and pale, you can’t help but want them on you. Circled around your ankle, maybe, pulling you apart for him with that quiet, unassuming strength of his. 

“Is that a good or bad reaction?” he asks, and the note of strain is thicker than ever. He sounds strangled. “Should I start worrying—about my job position?”

“Probably,” you answer. “But—no. How long’ve you been touching yourself?”

You hear his breath hitch again at the casual crudeness of your words. “How long’ve you been on the phone?”

A hot red flash zips through you. Before your head has given your body permission, you’ve laid the phone down flat on your chest, speakers buzzing through your shirt as you slip a hand beneath the waistband of your underwear. You go straight for what feels good, finding yourself already embarrassingly ready, shuddering as your fingers brush the most sensitive parts of yourself. 

“You’re such a creep,” you groan, head back against the pillow. Aizawa makes a quick, cut noise in the back of his throat. “One week without staring down my shirt in the staff room and you resort to this?”

“I don’t—” He cuts himself off, sighing shakily. “I don’t stare.”

He does fucking stare, it’s just quite subtle and it took you a while to notice. 

“Yeah, right.” Your fingers curl and search, press and glide. You’re hot and wet, for him, for the first glimpse of lust since your leave of absence began. “Bet you’d do anything for a taste.”

“...Maybe,” he stammers, breathing hard and quick against the phone. Now you can hear a soft stream of sounds coming through, a shlck-shlck-shlck that makes your blood hot and your brain fuzzy. “Maybe I’ve thought about it. Once or twice.”

“Dirty old man,” you say, half-babbling, and he groans low in his throat. You wish you could see him, God you can picture it—head thrown back, thick dark hair splayed against the rumpled pillows like a funeral shroud, sleep shirt ruched up to show the soft pale plane of his stomach dusted with dark spiralling hairs. You’d follow the pattern down to where the hair was thickest, push your hand through to where he was hard and hot as a brand for you. You didn’t get much time to play with him before, restless and lazy and horny off the cheapest champagnes you could order at the bar; he’d been inside you before too long and back out far too soon. 

“I’m n-not…” Hearing his resolve start to crack and fracture is the hottest thing in the world. Your own fingers work faster, jamming at the spots that make your legs gooey and your stomach start to tauten. “Isn’t my fault you look like that.”

Your giggle is breathless, half a moan. “Took that right out of the old perverts’ handbook,” you mutter. “Don’t break a hip on your way over here.”

“Shut up, shut up,” he grunts. “Damn it—shouldn’t have called—”

“I’m glad you did,” you say. Sweat is starting to collect in your armpits and the back of your neck. “Been so bored. This is the first time I’ve felt anything in weeks.”

His breath is ragged. “What do you feel?” he asks hoarsely. 

“Hang on.” The photo you send is conservative compared to his; just a shot of your hand disappearing into the waistband of your shorts. But you hear his stifled whimper, low in his throat, crackling with desperation. 

“God,” he hisses. “You have no idea what I’d do to you.”

“I have—some idea,” you mumble. 

“No, not like before,” he growls. “I was too drunk to do much of anything. What a waste. I’d never let you go if I had you now. I’d make you cum three times before I even thought about fucking you. My mouth, my hands, my thigh, anything.”

You imagine the scratch of his stubble on your inner thigh, or your own legs clamped around the thick muscle of his thigh, and nearly white out. You’re not in control, not of the way your hips cant desperately against your hand or the desperate moan his words pull from you, turning to stifle it into the pillow. 

“I want you inside me so bad,” you find yourself babbling, hot with embarrassment over the desperation in your voice. You sound close to tears. “Jesus—your hands, I’m always thinking about it. Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

He makes a keening, desperate noise, like a starving animal going for food. “Show me.”

You barely hesitate, ripping your shorts and underwear all the way off, and it’s only a few more desperate strokes of your fingers until you feel them flood over, your whole body shuddering and legs twitching. Your chest heaves and you blink up at the ceiling, withdrawing your hand from between your legs. Very awkwardly, you manage balance your phone enough in your slung hand to take a photo, the flash illuminating the mess between your thighs, the gleam of your own spend on your fingers. Before you can let embarrassment get a hold of you prematurely, you send the picture to Aizawa.

The result in instantaneous. He pulls a breath through his teeth. “God—fuck, look at you. So messy. God, I’m—” A choked-off moan, the breathiest noise you’ve ever heard from him as he cums. You lie there, warm all over, your skin singing as you listen to him fall apart on the other side of the phone. The speakers tickle your skin as you scrub a hand down your face.

After, you listen to his harsh panting breath. Then there’s a pocket of silence, the sort neither of you know how to break.

Finally, you cave. “...Feel better?”

“Don’t,” he mumbles. “This was… highly inappropriate.”

“Agreed.”

“I shouldn’t have called.”

“Probably not.��

There’s a pause. “...Is it fine? That I did?”

A smile touches your mouth. “Yeah, it is.”

He huffs. You picture him rubbing at his eyes, drawing the skin inward to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Well, then… yes. I do feel better.”

“Get off work early sometime,” you murmur. “I get so bored around here. Could use the company.”

You’re not sure why, but you think he’s smiling. “I’ll clear my schedule.”

taglist: @deltamel (+ask to join!!)

[smashley351]

[smashley351]

The birthday cake is simple for many, various reasons. For one, Shouta's never been the kind of guy for anything over the top, at least, not when it comes to him. For another, it was pretty damn cheap, doing it that way. A single-layer, white cake with just a little bit of black icing scrawled across the top, just enough to say 'its your birthday.' Yes, unenthusiastic period and all. Not that he isn't worth way more than that, but he'd appreciate the fact you didn't spend a fortune on some silly and disposable sweet-treat; the sentiment denser than the calories. It's also just very, very fitting.

Very funny.

Yes, you think you're funny (but so do a few others you let in on it).

There's not even a single candle in the cake, unlit or otherwise.

But, there's a reason for that, too.

At least, there was a reason for that, but Shouta has absolutely refused to cooperate with your little secret plan thus far. All you need him to do is sit down by his own damn cake for like, five seconds --

Eventually, you give up. Inevitably, probably.

It was stupid to think you'd even be able to pull something like that off, anyways. On Shouta Aizawa, of all people. Sure would've been something, though -- to see him, caught off guard with a face full of frosting. Still, there's a party to enjoy, and that's kind of hard to do while so hopefully hyper-focussed on Shouta's every movement.

Not that he's not nice to look at --

So, you let your guard down.

You relax and laugh along with everyone else; it's not a large party by any means, but Shouta knows quite a few people. Which is to say, quite a few people know Shouta. With gifts, good drinks, and great company, it's easy to get distracted.

You don't realize where you're sitting.

Not until fingers thread up into your hair from the nape of your neck, stopping once in the perfect spot to curl against your skull and cradle it, just for a second, in a false sense of security. You're given just enough time to shiver, scalp to shoes, but not enough to figure out who or what or why. And then your center of gravity shifts, your head suddenly forced heavier than the rest of you, and you're promptly suffocated by the dark, squishy, sugary embrace of cake. The very same cake you were trying so, so hard to shove Shouta's face into.

There's more laughter and some cheering, and you think you hear the shutter of a few cellphone cameras going off, all before you're pulled back up for air.

Pulled back up by the very same hand that'd pushed you down, and then had never left.

That grip tugs until taut, until your neck kinks and your head falls back, and you can't help it.

You moan.

And then you flush, heat following the same path as your goosebumps. And someone, somewhere, wolf-whistles while you blink and squint through the smushed confectionary covering your face.

And there, standing both beside and above you, is Shouta, looking every bit the smug birthday bastard that he is.

"You looked like you wanted a taste."

[smashley351]

Happy birthday to this beautiful man 💖