#Aizawa x reader

[sugarwarachan]

touchstarved!aizawa who genuinely believes that nothing good lasts, so goes out of his way to deny how he feels about you

touchstarved!aizawa who still can’t help but yearn for a reprieve from it all, who traces your smile with his eyes so often that he’s practically memorized your face

touchstarved!aizawa who tells himself this is a one-time thing, even as he’s moaning like a whore into your neck as your fingers card through his hair, “feels so fuckin’ good, kitten, fuck. where you been all my life?”

touchstarved!aizawa who loves nothing more than the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his cock. can literally cockwarm you for hours, loves feeling like he’s molding your insides to the shape of him, "open up more for me, baby, attagirl. show daddy where you need him, huh?” (shrieking)

touchstarved!aizawa who likes slapping your ass red while he takes you from behind, "i’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you, princess, make sure the only dick you’re begging for is mine"

touchstarved!aizawa who fingers you in between orgasms, pumping his seed back inside you, "not wasting a fucking thing, sweet girl"

‎♡⃕ touchstarved!mha headcanons here. accepting requests <3 reblogs and comments always appreciated, so glad yall are enjoying this series!

[earthtochase]

YEAHHHHHHH

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Lucky Undies

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Warnings: oral sex ( f -> receiving) m.masturbation, mentions height difference (reader implied shorter than Aizawa), reader implied big belly, thighs + ass (ie. not skinny), prev. established relationship, sooooo self-indulgent don’t look at me

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Note: disgusted with myself honestly.

“What are those?”

You stop in your tracks, toothbrush lodged in your cheek and foam threatening to drip down your chin.

Aizawa stands behind you in the bathroom doorway, eyes trained dark on the tug of your sleep shirt over your ass. Spitting into the skin, bending lower and offering more of a view, you finish washing your mouth with heat all over your face,

“I didn’t have anything else clean, s’all I got,” you explain yourself, eyes connecting with his in the mirror,

“And they’re your last resort because?” Arms folded over his broad chest sprayed with dark hair, Aizawa cocks his hip against the doorway, eyes never leaving the peak of your asscheek from beneath the t-shirt. It’s his and it’s soft and he offered it to you on your first sleepover years ago, a little tighter round the middle now but still long enough to pass as a nightie.

“They don’t fit!” You resort with embarrassment, “they pinch my hips and they go up my butt ‘nd roll down my belly if I bend down or even move,” you feel as though there’s steam hissing from your ears, suddenly regretting even putting on the offending underwear. You’d miscounted your laundry days and found yourself wearing either silky lingerie or old high legged cheeky style undies that were a very adorable baby pink and sported a little red rose at the front. Usually you wore comfortable high rise with a trusty band and often times sensible colours so to not show through your chosen trousers or skirts of the day. Maybe you’d wear a thong if you felt adventurous but comfort was key in your relationship with underwear, and being with Aizawa for so long helped you not only explore that a little bit but also enabled you to stay comfortable without judgement or ridicule.

And Aizawa liked your plain underwear, didn’t care much for it really because all he often wanted was them off or not even on in the first place. Complaining about his partners choice in underwear was beneath him; he’s a man, he’s mature and he’d much rather eat your pussy than muse over what’s covering it.

But these? He’s not seen these before.

“Cute,” he says with a gravelly voice, stalking forwards slowly, “you look cute,”

Biting your lip, you shake your head,

“I’ll just put some gym shorts on and do a quick wash, s’stupid to even try to do anything in these,” you grumble dejectedly, turning and even in your limited movements, the seam tugs over your cheek and makes you cringe.

But Aizawa is as sturdy as he is stubborn, a wall preventing you from leaving and a large hand sits heavy and inviting on your hip.

“I said you look cute,” he says pointedly, “not just the underwear, but you in general, seeing your skin makes me - desperate,”

That hand smoothes under your sleep shirt, fingering the thin, stretchy band of the panties with a heavy breath in his chest. The harder he pulls the band, the higher up your hip they go and the further up your -

“They’re just panties Shouta,” you blink up at him, leaning closer to ease his fondling, “stupid uncomfable panties that is,”

“Shh,” Aizawa kisses you quiet, a peck to keep you satisfied while his other hand drifts over to your ass, fisting the fat and spreading you meanly, “just - lemme look for a sec,”

His eyes catch the flash of your asshole in the mirror, panties caught taught and high over your ass and he groans low and deep from his belly. You clear your throat and whimper when he buries his face into your neck, teeth scraping the delicate skin there. Then - his hand rounds to your stomach, fiddling with the little silky rose before tickling the exposed skin of your belly from where the panties had dislodged and folded down.

He doesn’t often explore you this selfishly, having listened to your qualms and insecurities over your body, doing it to prove that no weight could distance him from desiring your body. But he touches you with a filthy selfish agenda and filthier moans.

Thick fingers tease you over the fabric, slippery with your arousal, sliding between your folds and circling your clit with loud little click. It’s shameful how turned on you are at his exploration of your underwear, but he’s no better; hard and heavy and leaking against your hip. ‘Nd when you look down, mewling at the thick forearm jammed between your cushiony thighs, you can see the flushed tip of his cock peaking from the sagging waistband of his underwear, black and tight and baring a hole just above the seam on his thigh.

And suddenly you understand exactly how Aizawa feels with you in underwear he’s never seen before. Because those are boxers you bought him three christmases ago and are also a result of not doing laundry often enough. And when you look up at him with your hand squeezing him through the thin fabric; your shameful desperation is reflected in his eyes.

All too suddenly, Aizawa is on his knees and your lower back is cradled uncomfortably against the bathroom counter, and he’s all up between your thighs with devastating groans and grunts.

“Taste’s fuckin’ divine,” his tongue is hot and so wet against the gusset of your underwear, pulled tight over your cunt and practically frothing with how aroused you are. One hand cups your ass and spreads you, the other is crude and sharply tugging on his cock. At the taste of you. At the smell of you. Nipping your clit through the fabric and sucking hard enough to send you shuddering and shaking right down to your toes.

“Shouta ! S’too much !” You grip the top of his head, hair tangled from sleep but the tugging of the knots seem to encourage him, groaning into your cunt and huffing deep agonising breaths against your pubis. You’re on your tiptoes, one leg lifting a little even to give him space and Aizawa shuffles closer on his knees, haphazardly throwing your leg over his broad, sinewy shoulder.

It’s almost like the sensations are muted, dulled through the thin fabric of your panties. But they’re still there and you fumble with your shirt for a moment before lifting it and tucking the hem beneath your chin so you can look down, down at your boyfriend so eagerly and so messily slurping at your pussy.

He’s feral like this, eyes fluttering and nose pressed hard into your clit, tongue trying to rip through into you but failing miserably. Or not, as it seems that wasn’t his goal, simply content with tasting you through the panties that had entrapped him so suddenly. You couldn’t even feel confused and weird at his random bout of arousal over your too-small panties, too thrummed with pleasure and the shivers of an orgasm to really deep dive it.

It rears its head slowly, but with a strength you’d yet to experience before. All suction and desperate licks, moans and grunts vibrating you just enough to send you jerking into his mouth. Hips moving on their own, tits falling from the grasp of your shirt and shuddering with your movements. Your underwear slips and tugs harshly as you grind through your orgasm, pulled taught only by Aizawa’s insistent tongue and fingers. He seemed to have given up on his own pleasure, or got enough from watching and tasting you, both hands clutching your thighs around his head.

“Let up, oh my god, give me a sec Shouta,” you’re still panting hard, limbs boneless and belly throbbing with every aftershock, cunt fluttering against the sodden and stained panties, “you’re such a - now I really don’t have anything to wear today,”

Your words die from a telling off to a small sigh at the sight of him, drunk on the sight and taste of you. His eyes are heavy, mouth open and shining with your spend, cheeks flushed and chest heaving,

“Good news for me then,” he stands with a grunt, coming in close enough for you to smell the remnants of your orgasm on his lower face - but he doesn’t kiss you. Instead massaging your hips and the tangled band of your underwear, “I’m having you on my face next, ‘nd keep these on,”

He’s a pervert really, snapping the band and making you tut in disapproval. But as you follow him into the bedroom with a sheepish grin and nervous lust building in your chest; you realise you are too, for letting him indulge in this and letting him.

all rights reserved © matchamiko. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[mayajadewrites]

deprivation

shota aizawa x reader

characters: shota aizawa, fem! reader

synopsis: the teachers of UA are out at a bar for their weekly happy hour. aizawa is (reluctantly) there, sipping on a beer after a long week of dealing with his students. reader has had a long week dealing with her own classes and other hero work, so she's letting loose tonight.

warnings: alcohol, unprotected sex (wrap it up kids), smut!!!

IM BACK! this is the first thing i've written in months so pls be kind to me :) i've missed u guys!

"Another round, bartender!" Present Mic, Hizashi, slams down his shot glass and smiles at the bartender with his pearly white teeth as he lowers his glasses on his nose.

You feel the warm liquid go down your throat as you throw back yet another shot - courtesy of Hizashi and Nemuri. Your mouth curves into a pout as you feel the burning sensation down your esophagus, shaking your head.

"Fuck, what was that? Acid?" You take a sip of water, shaking your head as you look over at Shota Aizawa, who's leaning lazily on the wall next to the table, his gaze lazily on you.

"Tequila." He speaks up quietly before sipping on his beer. He has his hair half up, half down and his sleeves are rolled up slightly so you can see his forearms. His muscular, manly forearms.

The truth is, you've had feelings for Aizawa for awhile now. You're pretty good at masking them, however you can have to stop yourself from letting your feelings crawl up your throat and out of your mouth.

You've known Aizawa for about 3 years, been friendly and even had some lunches together in the faculty break room.

He's a friend. A coworker. A colleague. And he doesn't do relationships, according to... well, everyone.

Being a teacher and a hero means your schedule is always busy. Almost no time to relax, except the weekly happy hour.

"Well, it's gross." You look up at Aizawa for a moment before turning your attention back to Hizashi and Nemuri.

Aizawa chuckles lightly before shaking his head, going back to being quiet and observing.

Another drink can't hurt.

It must've been a couple hours later, but you've lost most of the control of your limbs and mind. Shot after shot, drink after drink - your mind was hazy.

Your eyes are half lidded as you rest your cheek on your palm, shamelessly staring at Aizawa as you give him a warm, drunk smile.

"You're cut off." He says, putting his beer bottle on the table. You give him an uncharacteristic pout, leaning up slightly.

"You're no fun." You stand up, almost falling as you try to stand up straight. You feel large, warm hands on your hips, catching you before you fall.

When you look up, you're almost hypnotized by the dark eyes that are staring back at you.

"I'm taking you home." Aizawa says, grabbing his jacket, then helping you put yours on.

When you lift your arms, a pout is still on your face as he pulls the sleeves over your arms. He's treating you like a child. "I can put my jacket on myself."

Aizawa looks at you, giving you a knowing look before he rolls his eyes, pulling your sleeves up. He doesn't answer verbally, but you know he's saying some sarcastic remark in his head.

You pull your purse over your shoulder, running your fingers through your hair to try to gain some sort of control. To feel something.

You feel the strands of your hair, taking a breath as you look down. How did you get so drunk? Did the bartender put more liquor in the drinks than usual?

You feel Aizawa's large hand grip your arm, gently pulling you out of the bar. You hear a mess of drunk goodbyes, most of the other teachers probably won't even remember you left.

The cold air hits your skin when you walk outside, immediately crossing your arms over your chest. Aizawa looks down at you, giving you a soft smirk before taking his keys out of his pocket to unlock his car.

Like the gentleman he is, he ushers you into the passenger seat, closing the door softly. You lean your head on the window, closing your eyes as you try to breathe slowly.

"You okay for me to drive?" He looks at you, the keys already in the ignition.

You only nod, your hands on your thighs as your fingers fumble with the rips in your jeans.

"I'm sorry you have to drive me home." You say after a few minutes of silence.

"I'd rather me take you home then you get in some Uber drunk." His eyes are on the road, not looking at you for a second.

Your eyes fall down his arms to his hands, almost mesmerized by them. His hands are big, slightly rough from his years of teaching and hero work, the veins visible.

Fuck.

When he pulls up to your apartment, you sigh as you look at the front of your building. Aizawa looks at you, finally, and huffs softly. "Come on, before you throw up in my car."

Was the apartment clean enough? Did you leave your clothes out that you were picking out before work?

It's too late to give a shit now.

You unlock the front door to the apartment, sighing as you took your shoes off and looked around the room. It's not messy, thank goodness.

Your cat Salem (yes he's an all black cat, how cliche but cute), trots up to the door and rubs his body against your calves, stopping in front of Aizawa. You didn't look, but you could feel the glare Salem was giving him.

When you turn around to look at Aizawa in the doorway, your cheeks flush pink. He's leaning against the doorframe, his broad shoulders on full display as your eyes wander his body.

When you finally look in his eyes, he's already looking into yours.

"Are you okay if I go?" He clears his throat, standing up straight, looking away from you for a moment.

No. Fuck no, it's not okay. You wanted to say.

It might be the liquor talking, but - "N-no. I'm not okay for you to leave."

Aizawa blinks, looking rather confused as he stays leaning against the doorframe. "Why not? Are you gonna be sick or something?"

You close your eyes, pressing your palms to your face as you sigh, shaking your head.

"My quirk isn't mind reading, you know. You have to tell me what you're thinking." He steps into your apartment. Just one step, but a step none the less.

You remove your hands from your face, looking up at him as he steps closer to you. Damn, he's handsome. His hair is wavy, some pieces framing his face, a slight pink in his cheeks from the cold temperature outside.

"I want you to stay here with me." You slur your words slightly, wincing after hearing the way they came out. He gives you a sympathetic look, shaking his head slightly.

"I don't know if-"

"What, you have a girlfriend? A wife? A fuck buddy?" The liquor keeps talking. You're more confident now as you speak, but the liquor in your system has nearly taken over.

"No, I don't. But you're drunk, and -"

"And what!" Your voice is almost a whine when you look up at him. He's looking down at you, a slight - very slight smirk on his lips as he speaks slowly.

"You just need to sleep, okay? I'll help you -" He reaches his hand out to usher you to your bedroom, but you refuse to leave from the spot you stand.

He's still touching your arm, but you're closer to him now. You can smell his cologne, musk with a hint of vanilla. Your fingers gently press to his broad chest, gauging his reaction.

He doesn't move, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks at you. You toy with the button on his shirt, pressing it between your thumb and index finger.

When you look up into his eyes, he's staring into yours again. This time he doesn't look away.

This is it. This is your shot.

You lean in, pressing your palm flat onto his chest as you stand on your tippy toes, your lips hovering in front of his as you close your eyes.

"No." He whispers, his large hand moving to the back of your head to stop you from falling back. "You're drunk."

You huff, opening your eyes and looking at him through your lashes. "So what? I know what I'm doing, Shota."

The man's fingers lace in your hair, caressing your scalp gently as he looks in your eyes, the look on his face far softer than you've seen.

"If I kiss you, I want you to remember it." His tone is so... affectionate. Soft. As if he wants to make sure the words don't hurt.

"Please stay." You look in his eyes again, pleading. "Stay on the couch, please. Just don't leave. Don't leave me."

After a moment, he nods, moving his hand out of your hair and to the small of your back. "Let's get you ready for bed."

Once you had your pajamas on, brushed your teeth and did your skincare, you hand Aizawa a pillow and blanket for the couch, giving him a soft, still intoxicated smile.

"Thank you."

"No need to thank me. Sleep well." He lays down on the couch, pulling his phone out to scroll as he lays the blanket on his body.

You don't remember going to bed, but you do remember the butterflies you felt in your stomach as you closed your door.

The next morning your head is pounding, but apparently your guardian angel left a glass of water on your nightstand along with Advil. You silently thank this angel, taking a sip of the water with the Advil, sitting up on your bed. Salem is curled up next to you in bed - his usually spot.

7AM.

Quietly, you open the door from your bedroom, peering into the living room, looking for Aizawa. The blanket was neatly folded on the couch along with the pillow.

No Aizawa.

You sigh, your hand pressed to the doorframe as you feel the sadness seep through your pores. He really left in the middle of the night?

Of course he did. He owes you nothing. He's just your colleague, coworker.

When you go to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wake yourself up, you hear your front door open.

With your toothbrush in your mouth, you walk out to the living room, eyes widening when you see the figure at the door.

Aizawa. With a bag of bagels and coffees.

"Good morning to you too." He says flatly, putting the breakfast and coffees on the counter as he takes off his shoes.

When Salem heard Aizawa's voice, he hopped off the bed and walked over to him, rubbing along his legs. You raise an eyebrow, watching the interaction.

Coming out from the bathroom after finishing brushing your teeth, you raise an eyebrow. "I thought you left."

"You thought I would leave without saying goodbye?" He presses his palm to his chest, feigning pain. "I'm not that kind of man."

"Well what else was I supposed to think? You took me home, helped my drunk ass get ready for bed, and I even tried to kiss you. I wouldn't blame you for escaping." You look down, sighing as you feel the embarrassment from last night. "I'm so sorry, by the way."

Aizawa didn't respond, only getting plates and napkins from the cabinets, opening a few to see where everything is. "You're awfully organized."

"I know." Slowly, you walk up to the kitchen island, leaning on the counter as you smell the savory aroma of the bagels, grabbing your iced coffee from the drink tray. "You remembered my coffee order? We've only gotten coffee together once."

"Yeah." His back is to you, his reaction unseen as he puts the bagels on plates, your eyes wandering to his broad shoulders, cascading down to his waist.

Breakfast was spent together, talking about the past week of teaching and enjoying each others company. With Aizawa, you can be yourself. Effortlessly.

When you finish your bagel, you lean your palm onto your cheek, letting your eyes wander to his gaze, a soft smile on your lips.

"What?" He his tone is lighter than usual, not as stoic and flat.

"You have cream cheese on your lip." You smile softly, reaching your thumb out, hovering over his lips. "May I?"

He nods, leaning his head towards yours slightly, his dark eyes looking down into yours as your thumb gracefully presses to his bottom lip, wiping off the cream cheese.

Bravely, you bring your thumb to your lips, tongue darting out to taste before pushing it into your mouth, your lips wrapped around your thumb as you keep your eyes on his.

Aizawa's face turned slightly pink, but his expression was still solid.

You stare at him, speaking softer than before as your body leans in slightly closer to his.

His heartbeat slightly increased, his head tilting slightly to the side. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

Fuck, his voice is like velvet.

"The fact that I'm not drunk right now." You clear your throat, giving him a lazy smile. "And I still want to kiss you."

A noise came from his throat, it sounded almost like a purr. His eyes are hypnotizing, half-lidded as he leans in, bringing his large hand to your cheek.

"Are you sure?" He whispers, letting his thumb gently caress your cheek.

When you nod, he doesn't waste another second.. He presses his plush lips to yours in a soft, slow kiss. His hand slides down to the side of your neck, letting his fingers gently wrap around. His thumb grazed the front column of your neck, earning a soft noise from you.

When he heard the noise, he needed more. You let your hands press to his chest, gripping his shirt between your fingers as you part your lips slightly as your lips move in time with his.

You felt his fingers press gently against your throat, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he takes a sharp breath through his nose, deepening the kiss.

"Sh-Shota." You mumble against his lips, pulling his shirt to get him closer to you.

"Mm?"

"Bed. Please."

Aizawa's hands must have been crafted by the Greek Gods themselves, they fit perfectly on your body as he slid his palms from your neck to your ass, lifting you up as he stands, one of his hands grabbing your thigh to wrap around him. His lips stayed on your skin, kissing your neck, chest, the valley between your breasts - like he was addicted.

Once he opened the door to your bedroom, to your bed that was left unmade, he gently laid you down on your back, his eyes wandering over your figure before crawling on top of you.

You both hear a soft meow - Salem at the door looking for attention.

"Sorry kid, I have to give your mommy some special attention." Aizawa gently shoos him from the door, closing the door gently before turning his gaze back to you. "Where were we?"

Aizawa's lips tasted like black coffee, his natural scent invading your senses. You couldn't keep your hands off of him - from his jawline, across his stubble, his chest, biceps, no part of him was off limits.

Contrary to his stoic appearance, he's a very attentive, caring lover. His hands cascaded down your body, occasionally bringing them to your thick thighs, squeezing the skin as his tongue slips into your mouth.

Your fingers run through his wavy black hair, moaning into his mouth as you grip on the inky strands. You could feel him hardening above you, pressing his pelvis against your thigh.

"Sh-Shota." You let out a soft moan as you wrap your leg arond his waist, his hand instinctively moving to your thigh to assist you.

"Yes, kitten?" He fucking purred, moving slightly back as he looked in your eyes.

You couldn't speak, your mouth just hangs open slightly as you watch him take a hair tie from his pocket and pull his hair back. His front pieces of hair fall around his face before he leans down again, kissing your lips softly before moving his lips to your neck.

"You've always been so shy, kitten." Aizawa mumbles into your neck, biting it after his new nickname for you. "I've been waiting for you to make a move."

You furrow your eyebrows, closing your eyes as you tilt your head to the side slightly to give him more space to assault your neck.

"Why didn't you make a move first then, Eraser?"

"I didn't know if that's what you wanted." He pressed a kiss to your jawline, then your ear, then your lips as he smirked.

"You're the worst." You close your eyes to stop yourself from staring at him, biting at your lower lip to stop a moan from escaping.

"I'm the worst? I don't think you mean that." Aizawa smirks, a dirty smirk - one that you'll never forget. He lowers his body, moving down to your stomach as he pushes your oversized tshirt up, kissing your bare stomach gently as his hands pull your sweatpants down. "Is this okay?"

You nod, not able to get words out as you watch him pull your sweatpants all the way down, throwing them on the floor before his fingers hook on the side of your panties - black lace.

"These are cute." You could hear the smirk on his lips as he kisses the lace.

"The worst." You whine, your fingers pressing into your palms as your eyes roll back.

"Look at me." His voice is muffled against your thigh as he looks up at you. You look down into his beautiful dark eyes and nod, a sharp breath escaping your nostrils. "I want to see your pretty face when you come on my mouth."

He wasted no time pulling down your underwear, discarding them to the side as he pulls one of your legs over his shoulder, nestling between your thighs.

Your hand found it's way to his hair, your fingers digging into his scalp as you feel his lips get closer and closer to where you need him the most. Your hips bucked as you squirmed, his lips planting wet kisses on the inside of your thighs before his nose grazed your slit - a smirk on his lips. The slick covered the tip of his nose, causing you to shudder.

"She's excited to finally meet me."

Fuck you, Shota Aizawa.

He plants a soft kiss near your clit before pressing his tongue flat along your slit, dragging it down before devouring you.

Your fingers gripped his hair as you felt his magical tongue inside you, like you're his last meal. Your hips bucked slightly, causing him to hold onto your hips, keeping you still.

"Eyes on me, baby." He mumbles against you, the vibrations making your toes curl. This man knows how to use his tongue and you envy any other woman that's gotten to experience this.

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking gently as he plunges two fingers inside you, curling them as he starts pushing them deeper.

"Shota, fuck, please -"

"Please what, kitten. Use your words."

"Don't stop, y-you're perfect." Your eyes roll to the back of your head while Aizawa drinks in every moment.

Your thighs start to shake in a way that makes him squeeze your skin, not breaking eye contact as he sucks on your clit while plunging two digits in and out of you.

He can feel your spongy walls tighten around his fingers, signaling your orgasm approaching.

"That's right, baby. Come for me. Make a mess." He mumbles against you, his fingers moving faster and faster.

You start to see splotches of white in your vision, trying your best to keep your eyes on him as you come, but you're overcome by the pleasure he's giving you.

He never stops sucking, licking, and finger fucking you through your high. "Thats it kitten. You taste so good." His low, sultry voice vibrates through your entire body.

When you finally open your eyes, Aizawa rises up, your slick glistening on his plump, pink lips. You suck in a sharp breath as your chest rises and falls, your eyes never leaving his as he crawls on top of you, his hand moving to his own pants as he palms himself through the fabric.

"Let me-" You reach your hand out to touch him, but he shakes his head.

"Baby, I can't not be inside you any longer." In one swift movement, he slides his pants off, along with his boxer briefs. He takes his length in his hand, letting the tip graze your still sensitive post orgasm pussy. "My girl is still so sensitive, hm?"

You let out a whimper, your hands pressing to his shirt as you pull on the fabric, pulling it over his head. His hair is in a now messy ponytail, thanks to your fingers, and you swear you've never seen anything more beautiful.

"I'm gonna go slow, okay?"

You look down at his length in his hand, and fuck, he's big and girthy. You nod, swallowing some spit that gathered in your mouth.

Shota Aizawa is an attentive, communicative lover. He doesn't speak much outside of the bedroom, but inside - god damn.

He slowly guides himself inside of you, his eyes rolling back as he feels your spongy walls grip him, swallowing him.

"That's it, kitten. You're taking me so well." He used his free hand to run his fingers through your hair, caressing your cheek as he pushes his hips into you, filling you entirely to the hilt.

"Sh-Shota, -" You gasp as you feel him in his entirety as he plants a soft kiss on your parted lips.

"I'm gonna start moving, baby." He grunts, moving his hips to create momentum, his hand still caressing your cheek. "You're fucking perfect."

As he picks up his pace, you get lost in the pleasure. You feel like you're one with him, unlike any other parter you've had.

Aizawa keeps kissing you through this, mumbling affirmations as his own eyes roll back.

"So tight. So perfect."

"She takes me so well, like she was made for me."

"I've dreamt about this pussy."

Next thing you know, he has you in a mating press. Your legs at your head, his thick cock sheathing into you, watching him disappear inside of you.

His pupils are blown as his his jaw hangs open, completely in a trance as his hands wrap around your ankles, pushing them down.

"Sh-Shota -" You're breathless at this point, struggling to make a cohearant thought.

"I know, baby. I-I'm close." His dark eyes roll back as he thrusts become more messy, his hips almost stuttering as he empties himself inside of you.

As he climaxes, his dark brows furrow and his eyes roll back, a truly beautiful sight.

As your insides become coated in white, Aizawa finally slows down, with one last slow, deep thrust inside of you before he pulls out, rolling onto his back. He brings his palm to his forehead, breathing heavily.

"I can't believe I deprived myself for so long." He finally spoke, his red dusted cheeks fading slightly.

When you turn to look at him, he has a love struck, dumb ass look on his face. An uncharacteristic smile on his face as he pulls you closer to him, kissing your temple. "You're perfect."

Your insides truly feel rearranged. After some time, both of you falling asleep but waking back up soon after, he pecks your lips gently.

"I won't be depriving myself anymore." His voice is soft as he nuzzles his face into your neck. Your hand find its way to his hair, letting his ponytail down as a soft hum leaves your lips.

"You better not."

About 15 minutes later, you both hear a soft meow at the door, followed by sounds of claws on the door. You're laid on Aizawa's bare chest as he traces random shapes on your skin.

"Sorry kid, daddy had to take care of mommy." Aizawa smirks, kissing your temple before pulling his underwear on, padding to the door and opening it, letting Salem into the bedroom.

[guesswhojusttt]

peace, peace, my love (Aizawa/reader)

Summary:

aizawa is not a good person, but he can try to be. you are not a person at all, but you can pretend to be.

(to those who wish they were a little easier to love)

Read on AO3

In which Aizawa adopts a cat. (You are that cat.)

It's never a bad time to bring a grown man to his knees.

Your nose twitches, smelling the petrichor before it happens. Big fat drops splash onto dry, grey pavement, spreading like stains on a shirt, like ink in a pond, and wet cat fur takes forever to dry, so you dart to the nearest shelter (the word shelter doing a whole lot of heavylifting here).

You huddle beneath a coarse bush, make a home of its sharp brambles and drooping boxwood leaves, the edges eaten away by crawling caterpillars or tiny ants or Japanese beetles. Your claws pick idly at the loose dirt, with its dead leaves and snapped twigs, its sharp rocks and wriggling worms that have made this damp earth their home. It would be so much easier, wouldn't it, to be a worm? You do not have to scavenge and hunt and fight for food- you can simply nibble at the nearest shred of vegetation. If it is cold, you need not seek shelter, merely crawl into the nearest pile of filth. What luxury it would be, wet mud your bed, soft grass your blanket, and all manner of greenery as your feast. No one to adopt you, coax you into a false sense of security, only to replace you and toss you out once they find someone better, someone who gives them everything you never could no matter how had you tried, no matter how you forced yourself to mold and change into anything, anything they desired, but it was not enough, because you were not enough, even when you had warped yourself into a form you did not recognize, metamorphosing yourself at their beck and call-

But, though you feel like one, though you may certainly be treated as one, you are not a worm. So you gather your limbs beneath you and tuck your head below the bush, chin resting on a patch of pillowy leaves, and watch the shoes of the people as they pass. An expensive pair of Nike's or Jordan's or whatever type of shoes high school boys obsessed over these days, pencil-thin, hot pink stilettos all tall and elegant and just a step closer to permanently disfiguring the woman's poor heels, chafed black boots that are well-worn (well-loved, your favorite type of shoes- and thus the type of people who wear them- are those that have clearly seen better days, were once shiny and polished and brand new, but have since been broken in, lost color and shine but are still worn year after year- loyalty, you think, to keep them around instead of replace them. Or maybe this man's just poor and can't afford a new pair, but… you like to think, well. Wouldn't it be nice to be a pair of shoes, kept around year after year, regardless of how you lose whatever was first appealing about you- never tossed out, never abandoned or replaced?)

What kind of life is it, if you spend your days dreaming of a worm's life, fantasizing about being a torn pair of old shoes?

You gaze out from your comfortable perch- this bush is yours, if nothing else is- and you may be parched, you may be starving, you may feel fur and fibers clinging to your ribcage till it caves in, concave chest and nothing else between your skin and bones except the thinnest most breakable layer of tissue- but at least here, you're safe from the oncoming rain. A cute pair of cats all snowy-white and speckled and spackled in cheerful orange dart past, and a little girl tugs on her mama's skirt and eagerly points at them, bouncing on her feet in her dusty-pink ballerina slippers until the mom sighs fondly, reaches into her purse, pours out a water bottle the cats eagerly lap up, nuzzling into the little girl's legs as she giggles and squeals in delight.

Well, of course (you think bitterly), everyone loves a cute kitten. You sigh and burrow your face deeper into your arms, tail flicking irritably. Why are they out so late anyway? Shouldn't the kid be asleep by now? Way past her bedtime.

The familiar pair of scuffed snow boots walks past your bush- this pair of shoes is always home well after most people are, must work a late shift, poor guy- but with your tail still agitating, it rustles the marcescent, withering leaves just a bit, just a touch, almost imperceptibility- you're never one to make much noise, why draw attention to yourself, why incite what'll only hurt you- yet the boots stop short, because of course they do. Of course he has superhuman, doglike hearing, because you truthfully weren't making much noise at all.

(You never do, anymore.

[You know better, now])

The tall figure stoops down, and if he has any regard for how dumb and silly and frankly pathetic he looks, grown-ass man bent in half, hair nearly brushing the dirt as he tries to get on your level- well. This sort of man seems to have no regard for anything, if that lackadaisical, languid, lethargic demeanor is anything to go by. He blinks at you- slowly, slowly now- and you blink lazily back.

He leaves.

Can't say you're surprised. He'd probably thought there was a cute fluffy kitten cloistered in the bushes, had wanted to take sympathy on it and feed it and maybe even pet it a little, but the moment he took a good look at you- matted fur and missing ear and mucusy eyes- he'd regretted having stooped down to inspect the bush to begin with. Well, of course he did. Wouldn't want to risk rabies or ticks or whatever else might be hitchhiking in your hair. You almost can't blame him.

Almost. For such a little thing, you really are full of more hatred than your small body knows what to do with.

You idly bat at a sprouting crabgrass weed, displacing a black ant that had been edging up its stem, when the thick, peeling boots come back, and with them, the foreign, exotic, salivating mouth-watering gourmet heavenly scent of-

Tuna.

No, not the stubby little can with cold watery shreds, but ahi tuna steak. Easily a fat inch thick, juicy and tender and comes-apart-in-your-mouth meat.

Oh. He must've seen the cute twin cats earlier and his old little heart must've softened and he must've wanted to why is he crouching down at your bush again? Are they behind you? No, would've heard. Your one ear hears better than two, really. But, no, neither your eyes nor your ear lie to you- he really is offering you this blue-ribbon tuna steak.

He digs his long index finger into it, peels off a morsel, and plops it down on the cracked curb before you. You're no idiot and make no move to take it. He backs up- five feet, ten feet- and only when he is no longer within grabbing distance do you pounce on it, snatching it up in your jaw and scurrying back to hide in the bush before he can blink.

You down it so quickly you choke. Not even a second to savor the rare, precious, once-in-a-lifetime flavor. You'd squandered your chance to delight in its taste and you'll never again-

He's offering another scrap. backing away- one arm's length, two arm's lengths-

You seize it and dash back into hiding and gobble it up and-

You continue this little song and dance till you've eaten the steak whole.

The next day, you do not perk up when he comes by, nor do you spend your full day awaiting his return. Because you are better than that, and you know better than that, and you know it was a fluke. A one-off encounter, because either he'd been drunk (though your sharp nose had not detected any traces of alcohol) or sentimental (his no nonsense manner does not strike you as the sentimental sort), and you weren't gullible enough, naive enough, foolish enough to really think he'd come by for you again.

And your shoulders do not relax when he sits at the park bench, stretching his long legs out, sighing off the weight of his day. The mini-playground, consisting solely of a small, faded red slide and an airplane spring rider, sits in wood chips which conveniently double as a big old litter box. A grey tabby- one you'd benignly dubbed Thief- scuttles over to the man's boots, its tail winding round his leg affectionately. He droops his large hand down, lets Thief sniff it, scent it, lick it.

You tamp down your envy. You expected this, and you can't be mad about things you knew would happen, right? That's like being mad at the weather for raining after you'd already checked the forecast and chose not to bring an umbrella.

Thief paws up the man's leg to settle on his lap, reveling in the scritches behind his ear and under his chin, leaning into the man's large, warm body.

You shiver under your bush, suppress an aggressive hiss (the time for fighting is long since over, for you. As far as you were concerned, Thief could have him, goodbye and good riddance), and curl your limbs closer, ever closer, around yourself.

It's going to be a long night.

Best you go to sleep now.

Night after night, when the moon is high in the sky or when the sun is just beginning to crawl up from the horizon, he comes back. Night after night, you are still on the waitlist for every homeless shelter within a 50-mile vicinity, and go back and forth between cat and person as if it makes a difference at all.

It would be nice to believe he was looking for you, but really he is just here to play with whatever stray cat is out. So you hide while he feeds fat, big, strong Garfield, and you bristle, because he snatches up any scrap you find before you can even smell it, batting at you and hissing at you or even scratching at you even if you were in the middle of eating something- if he spots food, it's his, doesn't matter whose mouth its currently in- he can and will and does snatch food right from between your jaws, still spit-slick and half-gnawed.

Even the big black cat- almost-panther-like, in size and appearance, but not as strong, or if he was as strong before, he's had it long since beaten out of him. He lopes over with a fluid agility that promise once I was something great, but now, with gunky black stains trickling from the corners of his great big eyes in permanent tear tracks, flinching, just like you, at the slightest sound, jumping, just like you, at the first sign of a motion just a hair too fast, conceding, just like you, to any cat half his size or strength the moment it wanted to steal his food right out from under him.

Yeah. Weak and a little pathetic, just like you. You get him. He's your favorite. You look out for each other, the both of you. All that really boils down to is that he doesn't steal your food and you don't steal his, and if he seeks shelter under your bush, you let him, and if you trail after him, he lets you.

It is the closest thing you have tasted to love. To friendship.

(It is not enough.)

But maybe that is because you are greedy, all-consuming, always wanting more than the little slivers and scraps they toss you. One day someone will extend an itsy bitsy droplet of kindness and you will think this solitary drop is enough to sate years and years of parched mouth and dry tongue, others you go from night to day without a single interaction and back again, and the starvation is back, like it never left, like its only compounded exponentially, worse and worse every day you go without a single moment of affection and-

And the last and only time you've been touched in a way meant not to harm is-

Is-

Is years ago, in that shelter's end of the year catch-and-release program. They grabbed you, vaccinated you against ringworms and parasites, and subsequently released you back into the wild as if you could survive out here.

Well, you're fine. You're all good out here. Just peachy.

The sky breaks open. It's happening less and less, and this worries you. Rain used to be common. Snow used to be common. Now, you're lucky to see even a smattering of snow, it's an unmitigated miracle if there's baker's sugar powdering the streets. Gone are the days of snowballs and snow forts and snowmen, lamenting long-gone snow days where children get to stay home from school and snow so high it drowned the park benches in its crests and dips. The rain is good, yes, in the sense that there'll be plentiful water to lap up when it douses the clefts of the cement, the fissures of the sidewalks, but immediately it only means that this bush isn't enough, the dappled leaves a contented for the water to seep through and soak the dirt at your feet. you scurry to the tall trash cans only to find a family of cats has already made it their home, using the plush, overflowing trash bags- thin and black and shimmery as drips slip down and coat them- as bedding, as shelter from the storm. The pitter-patter of the rain gushes into a torrent, and you dash to the overhang above the doors to the apartment buildings but of course, of course, both Thief and Garfield are already there, albeit on opposite ends since both are too competitive to really get along. Your precious bush is colonized by a drove of rabbits that in any other time or situation would know better than to come here, of all places, where bigger cats like Sushi and Fushi would eat them alive. Stupid, ugly, disease-ridden, tapeworm-carrying, flea-infested furbags, they thump their hind legs and lunge and you really, really don't have the energy to deal with them.

You can weather bad weather. You certainly have before- you are capable of it, more than capable. On one hand, you could probably slip through a train station and take it as your bed for the night, on the other, the last time you did that, someone reported you, so. Cat form it is.

Sure, the life expectancy for stray cats is about a fourth of house cats, but you've adjusted better than most. You're not weak, like the rest of them.

Even if… even if you weren't born into being a stray like some of them are. Even if, once, you'd actually been gullible enough to believe…

But there was no use worshiping that family in your mind. They never appreciated it once anyway.

The man comes back (late, as always), his eyes alighting on you as if he'd been searching for you. As if worried about you. as if. He takes a step towards you. You take three back. He crouches low, makes himself smaller, less intimidating.

He is not any less intimidating than a lion that rears back before it strikes.

You do not want his help. Not because you do not need it- you are not arrogant, nor are you so foolish so as to believe you, or anyone else, is entirely self-sufficient- not even because you do not want it (who would not welcome a warm, dry shelter from the thrashing storm lashing the trees themselves in all their height and grandeur?)- but rather, because you cannot have it.

Not permanently.

Last time you'd actually fallen for it-

So no. You have no interest in letting him warm you and dry you and take care of you only to abandon you the moment the rain stops. What is the point of love if not everlasting? What is the point of letting him give you just a sliver, just a finite taste, of what warmth could be like only to toss you back out like garbage?

No. You will huddle under this tree even as the rain slips through the leaves and douses you. He's getting soaked, too, but those heroic types are always willing to sacrifice small comforts for the greater good. You leap to the lowest hanging branch when he makes to approach you, dig your claws into rough bark, buried in the little crevices and cracks along the wood, skittering and scrambling up the tree to get away from him like a cat possessed. Take the hint, you want to growl, I don't want you. I'm not fine on my own but I'm still better off than I would be with anyone else.

He misinterprets your distaste for fear (it isn't, but of course he is the arrogant sort), and carefully lopes over to the base of the tree, craning his neck up to look at you, blinking the rain out of his bloodshot eyes. He raises one long arm to shield his stubbly face from the onslaught of rain, other hand weaving two long fingers into his stretchy grey scarf- grey, like the overcast sky, grey, like the sheets of rain separating you and him as a thick and much-welcome curtain. He takes another step closer, jaw set as if intending to scale the tree and rescue you, so you arch your back and hiss and do everything a cat does to say go away and leave me alone, but all he does is cock his head in sympathy, making a cooing noise that is so condescending and infantalizing that you'd all but gouge his eyes out were you not set on keeping him as far away as possible, scrabbling up to the next branch, ever higher, the torrent of icy water stabbing through your fur coat and right into your skin, again and again, cold sharp needles battering away at you- the leaves do not protect you at all, the tree swaying in the wind and bending and bowing to the harsh winds. When he realizes that no amount of pspsspsssting is going to bribe you to abandon your safe harbor, he squares his shoulders and straightens his slouch and tightens his grip on his loose grey scarf, tugging at it, winding it-

Then shakes his head, as if thinking better of it.

Instead, he offers his hand. Palm up. Crooks one long finger in a come hither motion.

You snort. Does he really think this would work?

He digs around in his trouser's pocket. Pulls out his phone. Your heat jackrabbits- is he trying to send you to a shelter? Not again not again- you're ready to leap off the tree and take your chances to outrace him, but-

Cats. Yowling. He's pulled up a Play this to attract your cat and make it meow back (works instantly!) video, and … he looks up at you so hopefully, so expectantly, that you almost feel a little bad for the sopping wet cat of a man before you. Almost want to throw him a bone. Rain ricochets off his moisture-wicking raincoat, douses his mop of black hair, stringy strands falling into his face (weathered, less so with age than with weariness). He fishes in his oversized pockets again, replacing his phone with a…

Carton?

CATMILK: TREAT FOR CATS & KITTENS, a cartoon of a bright orange cat heartily licking a milk mustache off its upper lip.

Does he… carry around a carton of milk for cats? Just in case? [1]

Does this man not have hobbies outside of following stray cats like some sort of stalker? [2]

He makes those soft kissy sounds that you know he thinks attract cats but really just make him look like a silly old man.

He's certainly tall enough, long-limbed enough, that if he really wanted to, he could just scale the tree and seize you himself, so it's beyond you why he's going to such bizarre, near-comedic lengths to lure you down. His pants are plastered to his legs by now, the rain sticking his clothes to his skin and isn't he cold, even in those thick boots and even with the turtleneck peeking out beneath his coat- it is the sort of wetness where it not possible to get any wetter, a drowned rat in a gutter. (You've seen and eaten enough of them to know.)

Put this poor idiot out of his misery, you huff, give him what he wants and then he'll leave you alone. As you always are. As you always should be.

You rear back on your haunches, slowly, slowly, and his eyes widen so earnestly that he must be a child seeing Santa is real, spreading his arms wide to catch you.

Well, fine.

Placate him and he'll go away soon enough.

You leap off the tree, claws out, head first, the branch left trembling from your jump off it, and he does not startle, does not react- you think dully, this must be a man who is used to catching people, to adjusting to unpredicted weights, permanently prepared. He draws his inky rain coat open, letting his sweater get rain-splattered in the process, tucking you into his jacket and bundling you close and tight before speed-walking to his home, kicking up sprays of water and splashing up perfectly good puddles in his haste to get home.

No.

To get you home.

He treks up the stairs, water-sodden boots squelching with every step, strong arm keeping you tucked closer than you think is strictly necessary, and you hold your breath and remind yourself the other shoe will have to drop.

He will release you back into the wild. It's what they always do. He's accomplished his heroic endeavor of getting you out of the cold wet rain, and as soon as the storm ceases, he'll be done with his task and done with you and honestly, honestly, you pray it stops raining right this second so you can leave. Before you learn his name or his mannerisms or what his phone-

His phone, blaring the generic, cheerfully chirping ringtone he apparently never bothered to change- he's pulling it out and you avert your gaze, not wanting to know his lockscreen, his phone case, how new and shiny and expensive it is or isn't. You tuck your small head further into his thick, dense jacket, an action he mistakes for affectionate nuzzling when really it's to cotton your ears with the fabric so you don't hear his conversation- or so that it's at least muffled. Don't want to know the low cadence of his voice, don't want to learn the slow, steady way he speaks as he sighs, "I'm not- no, Hizashi you are always pulling some- you can survive one night without me. Yes you can. Yes you can. Well if you die that's a you problem. To say I would laugh at your funeral is to imply I'd bother showing up to begin with. Mm-hm. I'm just busy right now. Yes it's more important than you, but that's not a very high bar. It's not really canceling plans because I never wanted to go anyway. No I don't. No I don't. You and Nemuri need adult supervision? Can't argue with that. I'm tired. I want to sleep. We'll go out for drinks- sooner if you have a say in it, later if I can avoid it. I said I want to sleep. Good night. I'm hanging up now. Yes I am. Yes I-"

And he really does hang up. Huh.

What a shame, too. The more time he spends talking to his friend the less time he'll spend bothering you, so it would've been in your best interest if he'd kept the conversation going just a little longer.

It's better when that sonorous, canorous timber isn't directed at you. When you can't feel it resonating from his chest into yours, can't feel his lungs steadily expanding into all of you, all of you, consumed by all of him. His rain-slicked coat may have been all rubbery and wet on the outside, but on the inside, where he had stowed you away? A fuzzy, dense fleece lining blanketed you on one side, his cable-knit wool sweater blanketing you on the other. All droopy and roomy, the shapeless collar sagged so low that your little head nestled right against his cool, smooth collarbone. The more your soggy fur presses into his sweater, the more he stinks of wet wool and wet cat and wet mud, but he only chuckles fondly.

"You stopped thrashing when i was on the phone. Does my talking help calm you down?"

No, no, no, no you do not need to hear more of that all-encompassing, steady-as-a-mountain voice. You squirm and convulse in a bid to pry yourself out of the cotton cocoon he has entrapped you in, but all that does is confirm his theory that he needs to soothe you.

Like some child.

Like some pet.

But you are not his pet. You are just a stray, that he happened to stumble across once or twice, and he had nothing better to do (he canceled plans with his best friends to stay here with you), and the moment he's done he'll toss you out and it'll be better, be safer, not to get attached to something you'll lose before you even have it.

It's not worth it, the way a cut takes only a second to stab into you but takes weeks, takes months, takes years, takes forever takes eternity takes infinity to heal and even then, even then, it leaves a scar behind to mar you; you can't risk that, not again, not again, not again-

He grunts, one large hand still cupping your head as the other fishes for his keys, jingle-jangling against each other as he unlocks the apartment door, kicking off his waterlogged boots, elbowing the door shut and flicking the light switch on. Warm, orange light bathes his apartment in a dreamy glow- the sleek wood paneling leading to a shaggy carpet, the overcrowded desk shoved to one corner, the stuffed-full bookshelf against the white wall- all so toasty and cozy and promising, awash the hazy orange glow.

Keeping a firm arm around his chest to cradle you close, as if scared you'll slip away the second he loses hold of you, he hushes and soothes you through every action he takes: his keys clink when he plucks them down onto his kitchen counter, shedding his rain coat, shaking off the water the way a cat shakes water off its fur and hanging it on the hook at the door. For just a moment, he pauses, back slumped against the wall as if his legs can no longer carry the weight of him- sighing, running a hand over his face, the quiet, irregular drip-drip-drips of his hair and clothes puddling at his feet- composing himself. Catching his breath. His heartbeat thrums slowly into yours- steady, steady, steady.

The man hooks a thumb through his thick grey socks, peeling them off, toes over to a long, pillowy, yellow sleeping bag, and eases you in.

A sleeping bag…?

Oh, shoot. You'd been taken in by a poor man. He'll shake stale Cheerios from a tattered box for you and call it dinner.

Well.

It would still be a kindness, and you would be grateful for it just the same.

You shuffle, kneading into the plush, well-used, well-loved fabric-

No, no, no. See, this is exactly what you were hoping to avoid. Now you know things about him. Things like- he has kept this sleeping bag around for a while, he has not replaced it, he has tossed it into the washer hundreds of times and it has lost its color and whatever deluxe softness it once held, whatever sleek shiny shades it had on the outside, and yet he has kept it, he has not thrown it out in the same way he has not replaced that scuffed pair of boots, he has used them both till it's molded to the contours of his body, and look, his phone's not new either, not at all, he does not throw things out on a whim, doesn't just abandon- he keeps, he keeps, long after the object is outdated and expired and obsolete, and there is no good in knowing any of this at all, because all this does is inflate a bubble of false hope, that you too could be a constant, something to keep around like a worn-out pair of well-trodden shoes-

You close your eyes. It is the only way to stop observing things.

Again, the man does not understand you. He doesn't- he doesn't get it. Doesn't get you. Delighted, babbling like a fool in love, "aw, you gettin' comfy, kitty? All cozied up? Good, make yourself at home. Oh, I know, you were just so cold and scared outside, huh? Brave girl. Such a brave girl. Trust me, you don't have to be scared, anymore. Wanna get a little warmer? Yeah? Of course I'll turn on the heat, just for you. Such a sweet little kitten."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

The dull rumble of the gas kicks on, heat seeping into the apartment like a nice hot shower after a snowy day, cradling you in its warmth till staying awake and sober is an active effort. The ambiance does not flood, but trickles into, your ears: feet shuffling along cool floor, fridge pops open, rustling, fridge snaps shut, tap water gushes, tap water off, glass clinks on the counter, cabinet opens, soft rattling, cabinet closes- the quiet, cyclic sounds of his pitter-pattering about the kitchen could've damn near soothed you to sleep, a homespun, home-baked, homemade lullaby of just- of just- someone going about their day. Someone going about the meniality of life, the same humdrum of a routine smoothed and honed and rounded the way a river sands down a stone till it's a comforting weight in your palms… when was the last time you had a place to sleep with no shouting, no crying no clanging no yelling no slamming-?

Okay, fine.

Just for tonight. You'll sleep here, just for tonight, just to weather the storm, just to dry off, and in the morning when he opens the door to go to work, you'll slip out when he does, and part ways as unlikely friends. [3]

Which unfortunately means, no matter how hungry you are, you can't take his proffered gifts. Normally you have no problem accepting help- you need food, and would never pass up a free chance to eat without neither cats nor people competing and drawing blood for each and every bite- but to eat now is- well-

It's the basic Greek laws of xenia, yeah? Same for the Islamic hospitality rules. If you have a guest, you feed them; if you are a guest, you eat and be merry and thank your gracious host. To do otherwise is to say I am not your guest; I am merely a traveler, passing through; I will not sit at your table, I will not drink your wine: I will not sleep under your roof and bid you a good night, and you will not wish me safe travels and thank me for brightening your day.

We are strangers. Let us remain so.

So when you hear the sharp snap of a metal can, when the salty tang of sardines permeates the air, when he places it reverently at your feet like a worshipper, you do not grant it so much as a cursory sniff.

"Some cats don't like seafood, right? Or is it that you don't like wet food?" He scuffles off only to come back with a bowl full of cat kibble and oh God this is not a cat bowl this is a human bowl. The man is using his own dishes to feed you. Come to think of it, that was just a normal can of packed sardines, not a can of cat food. Is he just feeding you whatever he has in his own pantry? No, the dry food for sure smells like bonafide cat food. Still. His own bowl. His own food.

Oh, well, now the reason you're eating isn't just to reject hospitality and show him you're not one to keep around, it's because he's this poor broke sorry man who's sacrificing his own meals to feed you. Poor thing, going hungry for a sorry stray. To accept his kindness would be a cruelty. It's okay, you would tell him, if you didn't have the basic social decorum that says if you turn back into a human now he'll freak out because no Quirk justifies tricking someone into providing you with food and shelter and warmth.

Because no matter how much you had fought tooth and nail to keep him from bringing you in, no matter how much he'd been the one to insist, it still felt like you'd… manipulated him. Coerced him, somehow. But there was no room for guilt: you become a cat specifically because… well. People are… kinder, to cats. Still cruel, still overlook them, still do not save them or take care of them or adopt them or love them, but no one is going to call the cops on a famished, bedraggled, ugly cat the way they would on a famished, bedraggled, ugly woman. A homeless person is a threat. A homeless animal is a tragedy.

So you give thanks for your Quirk because at least, as a cat, your stomach is smaller, your needs lesser, and no one's going to think you're some scary, smelly drug addict who needs to be reported for disturbing the peace (sleeping on a park bench).

You nudge the can back to him and hope it conveys, I'll just scavenge for mice and birds outside, so don't you worry about me! You'd leave out the part that normally the moment you get your grubby little paws on a scrap, every other cat within a 50-mile radius can somehow smell it and pounces so viciously that you're left without even the bite you'd held between your teeth. Still, go mix it with mayo, shred some lettuce, wrap it up in some tortilla, you skrunkly old man. Judging by the broken red capillaries all over the whites of your weary eyes, you need this boost more than I do.

But he does not understand you, just as you do not understand him, not even a little bit, not even at all (why is this penniless old man giving up the last of his food to feed a bony old cat, you wonder, and do not know that he is neither penniless nor that old and has a whole stockpile of catfood and cans and bags and pouches specifically on the luck occasion that he comes across a cat, you do not know that being an underground hero and a teacher at the most prestigious school in the county means his pockets are lined with far more than lint and cobwebs, you do not know, you do not know-)

Just as he does not know you. He clicks his tongue, "picky girl, huh? Princess wants to be spoiled? Want a Fancy Feast Classic Pate ™? Want a Churu Puree Lickable Treat™? Come here," and he does that fake-groan thing humans do where it's not a grunt of actual effort but they exaggerate it like it is, scooping you back up into his arms- doesn't he care that wet cat is getting all over his perfectly good nice sweater?- and you squirm viciously, struggle and writhe, but all he does is bring you to the open pantry, holding you up to eyelevel with a dizzying, colorful array of options.

Oh, bless his heart. This man's a cat mom with no cat.

Well, this explains everything.

Big brand names and wand toys and bags- not just of kibble but of litter, a scoop, a cat bed- why does this man stockpile like it's going to be a damn apocalypse. An apocalypse where specifically cats are in danger, because you know damn well he doesn't have this much in the fridge.

You dig your claws into his arm and use the split second of distraction to leap out his arms, bound over to the fridge, because you've gotta know. you can just tell he's the sort to come home at midnight, open the fridge to nothing but leftover take out (from a restaurant he didn't even want to go to but was dragged along), sniff the sticky rice, decide it's maybe decent and probably won't give him food poisoning, and eat without bothering to heat it up in the microwave.

"Refined taste? Sorry, sweet little kitty, I don't have much to offer you in the ways of human food." He pops the sleek black fridge door open, and-

And-

Oh, you were so right it sort of hurt a little.

One- because you are so set on not knowing this man, (the more you know the more you get attached is how it works you see), but damn if he isn't easier to read than a picture book with big bold neat letters.

Two- because this sorry excuse of a man was just much in need of help as you. If anything, having you around might encourage him to buy himself some food, as it had already pushed him to turn on the heat (would he had just let the apartment stay cold if it wasn't for you being here?), to go to bed at a reasonable time and to come home earlier to take care of you.

You could do him some good, you think, but that is an arrogant thought, and a condescending one to boot, so you squash it down along with the worse, rotten, traitorous he could do me some good. You give a disdainful sniff to the low fridge shelf, carrying the impressive feat of no less than half a bottle of soy sauce and a yellowing onion and a dented, open can of sparkling water that you just know had gone stale and should've been tossed out weeks ago and-

You've been here too long. Getting too comfortable with each other. What are you doing, sniffing up his fridge? Fuck's sake!

Piss him off.

You scale the pantry with its veritable cornucopia of feline delights, and it is not hard to send everything toppling over like a collapsing tower, to wreak havoc and destruction upon his frankly creepy shrine, because otherwise- and you can hear it so clearly, an impartial, detached observer spectating the actors as they take their stances upon a stage when you've already memorized the script right to the bitter, yet crudely obvious end:

"I'd love to adopt you, but I'm so busy with work; I just wouldn't have the time to give you the attention you deserve: I'm barely home as it is." And it would be true, because you always see those scuffed boots trudge home when the moon is bright, or even when the dawn has first begun to break. It wouldn't be a half-baked lie or a flimsy excuse.

(It wouldn't make it hurt any less.)

"You have a very special place in my heart, and you always will, but I'm just not in a place in my life where I can adopt a pet."

"Why is she in a room by herself? She got behavioral problems or somethin'? I'm not interested in an aggressive animal."

"It's just that I already have all the cats I need and besides what if you don't get along with them?"

"I'll still visit you. Of course I will."

(She did not).

"I wish I could, but my mom's allergic-"

"She won't let me pick her up."

"What's wrong with her face?"

"My dorm doesn't allow-"

"Not very friendly, is she?"

"I'm looking for a lapcat, but this one's been cowering and hiding in the corner like I'll kill her-"

"Can you introduce me to a better-?"

"Way too shy-"

"I'm sure she'll find her forever home, but I'd prefer a-"

"No, really, what's with her face?"

"She bit me!"

"We'll find you your person eventually," the shelter worker would promise (lie), every time, "I'd even adopt you myself, but-"

Whatever. People don't owe loyalty to strays; only to the housepets waiting for them at home, the ones they keep around for years and years till one of them dies and then they grieve carry a piece of their pet with them forever because they love them, they love them, and people can certainly be nice to strays like you, and feel sorry for you, and wish they could find a home for you, and then walk right past. They do not love them (you), they are no more loyal to them than to a trampled weed. Yes, they might see it once upon an idle stroll, might peer at it closely on their way home, but that is the start and end of the relationship.

It would… save you both a great deal of time and trouble to just nip it in the bud.

Yet even as the metal cans clatter to the ground and your claws rip into a paper bag of kibble, waterfalling onto the yellowed kitchen tiles you realize, as you exert every manner to make him turn you out sooner rather than later- so you can only feel a smug, I-knew-it-all-along satisfaction, rather than a hollow I thought this time was different pang- that the stockpile of food is assorted in the sense that- that- with a marked difference in expiration dates and brands and states of being, old and new alike, that he must've-

You can see it now. Every time he goes grocery shopping, indulging his curiosity, making a harmless little impulse purchase, flitting into the pet food aisle, perusing the shelves and grabbing one or two things just in case, for the somedays and what ifs and hopefullys, and repeating this ritual every single time he ever goes to a store until they build up into whatever the hell it is he's got going on here. You had sat in your bush a thousand times over, had watched him follow strays in his free time (so you know what he is doing is not out of kindness nor the goodness of his heart, he just has nothing better to do with his life. Probably works a miserable job with shitty hours and shittier pay and this is the only part of his day that gives his life any real meaning, makes him feel like he's useful), watched from the safety of your foliage as he extends an arm out to offer up packets of pate and cans of carp, sprawled on the park bench, rubbing the heel of his palms into his bloodshot eyes and sighing, long and heavy and aching, days- nights- when your nose tingled with the tang of blood, and what kind of job is this, that leaves him bloodied and scratched up and dented like an old beaten-up car?

So you understand that taking care of strays is just his passion project, and yes, yes, you can understand that. Respect it, even. Appreciate it the way a parishioner appreciates a bite of sacrament.

Just…

You need so much more than one bite.

(I know love does not come easy.)

You don't want to be someone's charity case, yeah? It's a little embarrassing. At the same time-

You do not have that sense of pride everyone else seems to, the sort that makes them say we're not taking free food and I'd rather work three jobs than accept handouts and I want not your pity but your respect. Can't relate. You would love to pitied. If someone felt sorry for you, that means they acknowledge bad things have happened to you. If they smother you with sickly sympathy, at least it means they know you've had a pitiable life. And your desire for dignity is so much lesser than your desire for someone to just- to just get it.

But no one fucking gets it.

(Oh, there must be someone who hears me.)

Because no one else is in your position. Oh, everyone else has a partner, if no partner, then a friend group, if not a friend group, then a best friend, if not a best friend, then a loving family, if not a loving family, then someone, somewhere, who understands them a little, who loves them a little-

But you do not have anyone to couch surf with, to 'can I crash at your place till I get back on my feet?', a special sting of misery when shelter workers, when every intake worker asks if you have any family or loved ones you can stay with, because they have limited beds and every homeless shelter is underfunded because don't you know money should go to bombs, because war keeps our country safe so you can starve in peace; a special stab of humiliation, that there is a not single person you can put down as your emergency contact, it is just a big blank line staring back at you, the dash of N/A where you're to put a phone number taunts you like a playground bully and- and it's-

At least a cat can be cute.

This man, kind as he may try to be- he doesn't get it either, can't get it, because he has friends that were waiting for him. Who want to met up for drinks with him. He does not need you, because already he has people who love him, and people he is protective of, and he is in the business of taking care of strays, not taking in strays.

And what is more violent than being taken care of but not being taken in? If he keeps you safe tonight, but is rid of you in the morning, then…

What could be worse?

Painfully patient long fingers pluck up every item that clattered to the floor and ease it back into the shelf. Get a broom too short for his tall form, sweeping up the kitty kibble like it was no bother at all,

He closes the cabinet. He sighs, and there it is, he is disappointed in you he hates you you've upset him he'll finally toss you out and you won't have to spend another excruciating minute choking down his vile, suffocating, poisonous kindness-

"So!" He claps his hands together. "Your palate is simply too sophisticated that neither my own food nor the cat food satiates it, but I can't just not feed you. Let me check again, m'sure I can throw something together."

He pries the white Styrofoam takeout container from his fridge, muttering "guess I should thank Hizashi for forcing me to try that conbini stand."

Mackerel. You do not even like seafood unless it is salmon or tuna. (You have learned that the food at a cat shelter is generally safer than food at a homeless shelter). But this poor man is trying so hard to help you, to take care of you, and even if it is to stroke his own fragile ego, it would just be cruel to reject him, at this point.

So you bend your head and you eat it and you try not to look at him when he smiles as if you are a kindly fairy who has granted him everything he didn't know to wish for.

He just… sits there. Crouching, hunching, staring. Well. Perhaps staring is the wrong word- staring (glaring gawking leering glowering) is what they do to you when you're sleeping on the train and you stink of sweat and vomit and piss and your prone form is taking up three seats, staring (watching waiting waiting waiting) is what you do when you've found a particularly good dumpster and you can't decide if it's safer to approach it as a cat (and risk bigger cats fighting you for every scrap of food) or as a human (and we all know what happens to a woman walking alone at night), staring (studying observing poring over) is what you do when you get your greedy little hands on a book, soak it up word by word and page by page and throw yourself into it, headfirst, submerged in the feel of ink and paper and thoroughly immersed that everything else just disappears-

Yes. That's the type of staring he's doing now: poring over you. Like everything else doesn't matter because finally, finally, he's fed you. Doesn't touch you. Doesn't even try. Just goes to the bathroom, door clicking shut, water running, brush-brush-brushing his teeth and just… leaves you to eat. In peace. Gives you your space.

You can almost hear him say: if my heart was a house, you're right at home.

Home.

It's enough to make you want to vomit all over his carpeting just to make him kick you out, but-

You're not about to give up the only food in your stomach for spite.

That, and…

You can't stay in your cat form forever. It's like laying down too long or sitting too long, your body can't just- can't just stay in this 'mode'. It's a mode to turn on and off, not keep running forever, like a laptop never shutting down till it overheats. And you will. Overheat. But he could come back out any minute, and- he'll think you're a burglar and he'll call the cops on you or worse he'll just kill you himself and no one would ever know, it's not just that they wouldn't care or wouldn't miss you there just genuinely wouldn't be anyone who would even know-

His footsteps, when he comes back, are enough for your shoulders to jump. Footsteps and knocking are about the scariest sounds out there. But he just flicks off the lights. Peels back his blanket- soft, well-worn, why is it that everything he has, he's owned for years, why is nothing here new, why are you the sole intrusion upon an ancient sanctum, does that means he really is the loyal type like you judged when you first saw those stupid boots?- he eases himself into it with a soft groan, pats a spot next to him to tuck you in for the night. You blink at him, attempting to convey as much disdain and dislike and distaste as physically possible-

But again, he does not understand you. He slow-blinks back, and he must think he is reciprocating love, as a cat's languid blink would normally mean a sign of affection.

He keeps misinterpreting you- giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming your every rude, insensitive, petulant action is so much better than it is, that you're so much better than you actually are.

Nor do you pretend to understand him, either, and while he tries to see the best in you, you force yourself to seek out only the worst in him-

Yet despite every miscommunication and misconstrusion-

He finds a way to make it work. So he keeps the corner of the blanket peeled back, waiting just for you, even as you slink away to the window, hopping up on the sill, stretching your back and marveling how, for once, you did not have to be careful of your movements. You would not startle anyone around you, nor would anyone startle you, either. You do not have to be careful of how your jaw stretches as you yawn- no one will interpret at as a threat, because this man does not see you as anything more than a pathetic little charity case. (You suppose he's not wrong). You can outstretch your arms all along his cool windowsill, and he will not be mad at you for making too much noise and can you keep it down some of us are trying to sleep here. For once you are on the other side of the windowpane, the rain battering the glass practically a world away— though you can hear the pellets pound the pane, though you can feel the icy chill of the water seep into the glass, it does not seep into you, because the heat he turned on has settled quite comfortably into your boenes- for once, no one is hurting you, for once, just for now, you are safe.

You are safe.

Oh, yes, you know, you know- he'll let you go soon enough. Just as soon as those storm clouds wither up and dry.

Outwardly, you'd hissed and squirmed and clawed every step of the way.

Inwardly, you hope the rainy season stays forever.

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Permission Denied

Pairing: Dark Shouta "Eraserhead" Aizawa x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: You’re bored – stuck inside the house while it’s sunny and nice outside. Aizawa doesn’t care about that. 

WARNINGS: Implied Kidnapping; Captivity.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊

--

From your spot on the couch, you steal a glance at the black-haired man that sits on the table, surrounded by piles of paper. Midterm exams, he said.  

It seems like a boring task, but Shouta doesn’t seem to mind. Unlike you, who’s getting restless by the minute. 

There’s nothing for you to do.

Your hobbies are fairly limited, only granted when Shouta is feeling generous enough to notice your boredom, which hasn’t been the case lately. 

He’s too busy between the Hero course class and patrols, which inevitably results in neglecting you. There are no new books for you to devour and the TV’s control remote is still “missing”. 

The kitchen is off limits, which means no cooking or baking.

There’s nothing to do!

Perhaps you’re not being as sneaky as you believe yourself to be because Shouta’s suddenly looks up to meet your gaze, catching you off guard. 

“If you have something to say, then spill it.” 

You look at him, eyes still round with surprise. 

“Well, I…” The words stammer when coming out and you tautly twist your hands. “I’m bored.” 

Shouta looks at you. 

“Yes, I have noticed.” 

It’s a bit disheartening when he goes back to marking papers, leaving you at that. 

“So…I don’t know. Maybe…I could go to the garden?” 

He pauses his scribbling, and you rush to add, “I wouldn’t be alone, of course! You’d be there too, you could grade the papers on the outside table, right?”

His eyes are sharp when he looks back at you, the neutral expression on his face making it harder for you to decipher his true thoughts. 

“I could.” 

Your heart positively jumps at that, and almost fool yourself into believing that you’ve successfully convinced Shouta to do something for you. You’re wrong.   

“But I won’t.” he denies your request just like that, barely batting an eye as he crushes down your hopes. 

Feeling so upset over it makes you feel stupid, but then again, you haven’t left the four walls of Shouta’s home in weeks.

You’re so tired of being here, trapped in the bland ugly house. Tired of him and his insensitivity. Tired of the obnoxious boring routine that has been forced upon you. Tired of everything.  

“Why not?” you burst, even if it comes out more as a demand. 

Shouta’s eyebrows raise at the intensity of your words, and you inhale a small breath, calming yourself down. 

“Why can’t I go outside?” 

“Because at this moment I have a task at hand. I’m sure you can see that.” 

"But I’ve been good. You said that yourself.” your nails leave half-moons in your palms, an attempt to keep your anger at bay. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over these past months is that Shouta doesn’t appreciate hysterical displays of frivolous emotions.

Useless and energy-consuming – that’s how he calls them. 

“You have.” he pauses for a moment, tone slightly softer as he sets the pen down. “I’m not denying that. You have been exemplary these past weeks.” 

Even when you don’t ask it, the question lingers in the tense air. Then why?

Aizawa answers it.

“It’s got nothing to do with your present behavior.” his reassurance does little to soothe your bubbling frustration. Aizawa seems to sense it, semblant turning somber and stern as he stares at you.

“However, my priority is your safety, not your happiness. Perhaps you still remember the last time you were allowed outside? Or of the … incident that occurred?”

He grimaces at that and so do you. 

The incident meant the one-single time Aizawa took you on a late evening walk, where you ended up bumping into one of his neighbours – an overly enthusiastic blonde man – and in the moment of heat, you ended up taking the poor decision to reveal your hostage situation, hoping for help.

Only for said neighbour to turn out to be Aizawa’s close friend, someone Shouta had asked to test you. 

Needless to say that you failed his loyalty test. Hence the house arrest. 

You glance away from him, opting to ignore his question. Aizawa sighs, taking his sweet time cracking his neck from side to side. 

“Like I was saying,” he resumes the conversation, “I’d prefer to reduce that sort of risk from the root. Perhaps one day, if your behavior remains ideal, we can have this discussion again – in a few months.”

Aizawa looks at you with red-streaked eyes, taking notice of your well-concealed frustration as well as blatantly ignoring it.

Picking up the pen, he continues to correct the papers, marking the end of your little discussion and leaving no space for argument. 

Leaving you back in the reign of boredom. 

[starkissedmallow]

Accidentally Sending The MHA Boys a “Hear Me Out” Text pt. 2

DENKI KAMINARI-

- Denki would be flustered and excited to receive a text like that from you

- He would be filled with a lot of enthusiasm and would send a couple of jokes to you to lighten the mood

- “Whoa. I wasn’t expecting to receive a text like this from you.”

- “But I think you’re pretty awesome too.”

- He would be smiling from ear to ear and would send you back a couple of teasing messages

- Denki would be sure to tease you about this in person later

SHINSOU HITOSHI-

- Shinsou would be reserved in his reaction to receiving a hear me out text from you

- He would be sentimental but wouldn’t know how to express that to you at first

- “Thanks, y/n. That means a lot.”

- Shinsou would be very touched and would think of a way to properly express his gratitude later on

- Later, he would invite you out to properly share his feelings about you in private

TOYA TODOROKI-

- Toya would be skeptical at first when he receives a hear me out text from you

- He knows you meant to send it to your friend but is still curious about the text

- Toya’s not used to receiving this type of affection so he would ask you about it later

- “Is this a joke? If not- then thanks, I guess.”

- He’d be a bit taken aback and he wouldn’t know how to respond

- But deep down, he appreciates the text more than he lets on

SHOTA AIZAWA-

- Shota would be cool, calm, and collected when he receives this type of text from you

- You explain that is was accidentally sent to him and he doesn’t believe it for one second

- He knows you’ve liked him for awhile now and he’s glad you finally acted on it

- Shota handles the situation easily and practically makes you confess to him in person later that day

- Truth is, he just wants to see you get all cute and flustered, as you confess to him in person

- “I appreciate the kind words you sent me earlier, y/n.”

- “How about we go out for coffee sometime?”

- He wants to show you his appreciation for accidentally sending that text so he takes you out for coffee later and expresses his feelings for you then

KEIGO TAKAMI-

- Keigo would be smooth and charming in his reaction to receiving an accidental confession text from you

- You on the other hand were freaking out because he wasn’t supposed to find out you liked him yet

- You were panicking and worried about him not feeling the same way about you

- Keigo knows how to handle this situation though and handles it with his smooth charm

- “Wow, that’s really sweet of you, y/n. You have great taste.” He replied back, including a winking emoji

- He then sends a cute and sweet lighthearted message about wanting to meet up with you later to grab some food

- You eagerly agree and from that point on Keigo continues to show you more affection and eventually asks you out on a proper date after getting to know you better

[anime-fan-art]

Howdy there partner 😩

[uwtloml]

Ok so what if we accidentally send the mha boys nudes

- 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘪����𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘩𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘯𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘴!

𝘧𝘵. 𝘬𝘢𝘵𝘴𝘶𝘬𝘪 𝘣𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘨𝘰𝘶, 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘬𝘪 𝘬𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘪, 𝘦𝘫𝘪𝘳𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘢, 𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘪 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘰, 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘺𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘪, 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘬𝘪, 𝘬𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘮𝘪, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘢 𝘢𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘸𝘢

a/n i hope i added all the characters u wanted 🤍

[deathc-re]

oh, how he just wants to make a pretty little house wife of you. leave you with absolute freedom and autonomy over your time.

you want to go shopping? here's his card.

you want to join a yoga/ pilates/ kickboxing class? let's register you together!

you want to renovate the kitchen? my buddy knows a guy.

he wants to come home and smell the amazing cooking you have for him. or on lazy days, plop on the couch with you and eat take out.

he wants to smile at his phone while at work because you sent him a selfie of you eating breakfast at noon, or taking the dog for a walk, or with shopping backs in the trunk or with the people you're volunteering with or whatever it is your heart desires.

he wants to see you on the porch, barefoot and pregnant, rubbing your belly and waving to him as he pulls up in the driveway.

he wants to hear you ramble on about the new book you read and hated/loved. or help you brainstorm ideas for your passion project.

he wants to brag about you to all his work buddies and bring you to all the corporate dinners and stroke his own ego while you bashfully tell his coworkers that you "don't have a job, my husband takes care of everything."

NANAMIN, BAKUGO, KIRISHIMA, FATGUM, IZUKU, aizawa, yuuta, armin, iida, iwazumi, sugawara + whoever else you want!

[tsubaki3192]

Men who are so emotionally constipated, or have been through enough trauma that they don't... exactly... do well with touch, but are extremely touch starved and crave love beyond anything else physical.

Men who suddenly gain an adorable S/O who is willing to do all that and more.

Men, who suddenly find themselves having someone to come home to every night; who find themselves lying beside said person every night; who's willing to hold them for as long as necessary when it gets difficult; who refuses to abandon them no matter the circumstance.

Boyfriends, who find it difficult to truly express themselves when they want to, and get frustrated whenever they have that difficulty.

Boyfriends who find their S/O so attractive that they can't help themselves, so they end up blurting out the thoughts that come to mind.

.

Boyfriends who become your husband because he made that same mistake one day, and scrambled to grab the ring.

(The same ring that had been sitting in his pocket for the last three months.)

--------------------

JJK: Gojo, Megumi,

ToRev: Hanma, KAZUTORA, Shinichiro, SANZU, Izana, Kokonoi

HSR: Blade, AVENTURINE, DANHENG,

Genshin: KAEYA, DILUC, Scaramouche/Wanderer, Xiao,

BNHA: Aizawa, TODOROKI, DABI,

Haikyuu: OIKAWA, Atsumu,

[rumisgf]

“ YOUR BEST EATER ! ” (MHA EDITION)

ꕥ summary: rating how well mha men would eat you out ! (this is canon cause i said so)

ꕥ includes: keigo takami, mirio togata, touya todoroki, shota aizawa, katsuki bakugou, denki kaminari, enji todoroki

ꕥ warnings: dom/sub implications, oral f!recieving, dirty talk, crack ofc this is for fun, slander (sorry lol), black!reader as always, timeskip chargebolt and dynamight

KEIGO TAKAMI - ♾️/10

⊗ he’s a REAL eater.

⊗ you have to cry and beg for him to pop his mouth off you because he has an addiction

⊗ he thinks you taste so good

⊗ there’s not one morning his head doesn’t end up between your thighs

⊗ and at events, he’ll find a way to pull you to the nearest bathroom and get a quick one out because you just looked too good

⊗ he loves having you sit on his face

⊗ “imma eat it. AHHHHH”

⊗ he doesn’t care if you just got off of work or if you’re tired he needs your pussy on his tongue stat.

⊗ he’s such a slut.

“please- ‘s too much~!”

“c‘mon i know you got one more, i got you~”

TOUYA TODOROKI - 3/10

⊗ you thought he was an eater…?

⊗ you’re funny.

⊗ yeah unfortunately mr. long dick over here doesn’t like eating pussy

⊗ his ego is bigger than his dick

⊗ however,

⊗ on the rare occasion that he’s feeling extra nice, he’ll do more than plunge his fingers into you before he makes you take him from the back

“o-oh~..!”

“couldn’t help myself…too fuckin’ wet…”

ENJI TODORKI - 0/10

⊗ like father like son (he’s much worse)

⊗ he’s not particularly a…. giver

⊗ he’s a meanie he’d rather manhandle you instead

⊗ he don’t even like his wife and kids so what makes you think he likes you enough to eat you out

⊗ besides….even if he tried…it wouldn’t be…well…good.

⊗ he’s too rough he might bite your shit i don’t know pookie

⊗ if you beg him enough he’ll do it for like a split second

⊗ you immediately regret your decision

⊗ help him.

“wait- it’s ok it’s o-ok. nevermind…”

“what’s wrong?”

SHOTA AIZAWA - 7/10

⊗ he likes to pretend he doesn’t like giving head

⊗ but you catch him on one of those days….

⊗ he becomes a different man

⊗ and he’s mean with it, too

⊗ your thighs will have bruises from the way he forces your legs open

⊗ he likes eating you out before just because he feels satisfied having you weak before he even fucks you

⊗ he’ll edge you and tease you just to have you begging him to cum

“stay fuckin’ still, or you’re not cummin’. understand?”

MIRIO TOGATA - 10/10

⊗ yes i’m sneaking my man in here. i do not care.

⊗ he’s a certified munch y’all hate to say it

⊗ he gets it from fatgum.

⊗ (i would put him in here but then imma get nasty)

⊗ please just sit on his face and give him three minutes you will be dripping before he even puts it in

⊗ he massages your thighs and kisses your clit ‘cause he really is just so in love with you

⊗ not only will he shove his head between your thighs before he fucks you just to get a quick taste

⊗ he’ll clean you up after he fucks you, tastes himself and you

⊗ he’s a huge giver

⊗ please marry him

“such a pretty pussy, baby…’m gonna clean you right up~”

BAKUGOU KATSUKI - 9/10

⊗ oh give him five minutes

⊗ put him between your legs and he’s done for

⊗ he’s a nasty FREAK and he cannot hide it in this predicament.

⊗ he swears up and down ‘he doesn’t eat pussy’ to all his friends and every girl who brings it up

⊗ but if it’s his baby? someone he’s really into?

⊗ you see a completely different side of him

⊗ and he makes everything so messy

⊗ he’s so focused when he does it and when he looks up at you… you are done for

⊗ he can make you cum quick to get you wet enough to just slip in– then he gets right to business

“kats~…”

“taste so good…so fucking good..”

DENKI KAMINARI - 11/10

⊗ y’all thought i wasn’t gonna put him here?

⊗ he refers to himself as an eater

⊗ he has no shame

⊗ he’ll eat it in the morning, for lunch, after dinner, for dessert- he really doesn’t care

⊗ he definitely can get off just from giving you head

⊗ the feeling of you dripping down his chin and the sound of your moans is enough to get him up

⊗ you will be orgasming more than once

⊗ and he can go on for hours if he really wanted to

“my messy baby…you sound so pretty~

©𝑹𝑼𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑮𝑭

[connorsui]

"How beautiful was she?"

"Was? ...please ..she is beautiful, but not like those girls in magazines. She is beautiful, for the way she thinks, She is beautiful for the sparkle in her eyes when she speaks about anything she loves. She is beautiful for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She is beautiful, deep down to her soul ....

She is the love of my life"

The man: Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, John Price, Jason Todd, Sam Winchester, Higuruma Hiromi, Halsin, Astarion Zayne, Sylus, Xavier, Levi Ackerman, Simon Riley, Johnny Mactavish, Leon Kennedy, Aizawa, Dabi, Hawks, Rafayel, Cooper Howard, Logan Howlett, Aemond, Nikto,

[lady-lauren]

❥ SHOTA AIZAWA X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 2.3k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: cam girl!reader, former student/teacher relationship (but you're still his ~favorite~), praise, mutual masturbation, sex toys, use of "good girl", lots of dirty talk, aizawa is a pervert and we all know it

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

“Look how far you’ve come.” Shota loves how you still tremble at his praise, fingers faltering on the screen. “Remember when you used to be so shy? And now you’re just spreading your pussy open for me.” 

His gaze follows every movement, breath in his throat as you part your labia and slide your fingers down your folds.

He really thought it was just a rumor that the young generation of heroes had taken to social media to make money. Less villains meant less pay, sure, but he never thought he’d find you on one of his favorite sites, using the body he trained to stuff yourself with toys.

“You were always one of my favorites. Always such a good girl.” 

“I’m still a good girl, Sensei. Promise.”

You prove your point by smearing your fingers over your clit, moaning as your hips buck.

“Yeah? Then show me your face, sweetheart. Wanna fist my cock to every inch of you.”

It’s so wrong. He feels like a dirty old fuck in his bedroom, sweats shoved down to his knees and his laptop screen glowing in the dark on the bed next to him. His camera faces the muscles of his chest, angled just perfectly so you can see the dark trail of hair that leads down to his cock. The frame captures the pump of his bicep as he strokes his dick, yet he leaves it up to your imagination to piece together what’s happening off screen. 

“Then you have to show me your face too, okay?” 

There’s the nervousness he’s used to hearing crackle in your sweet voice. Always so studious, so sweet, the most pleasant of all the brats to deal with. You only ever wanted to please. 

He knew it was you by your bedspread in the thumbnail to your page. You still have the same pillows you used to have at U.A., all plush and girly with a memorable stuffie tucked off to the side.

“Maybe next time,” he offers, watching your tits heave and nipples tighten as you debate fulfilling his request. 

Your camera lens is focused from the bottom of your bed, allowing him the perfect view from your spread thighs to your delicate collarbone. You never show your face, not to anyone, not even in one-on-one chat rooms. He read your rules, but he’s special—he’s no scary stranger, just a perverted sicko who wants to watch his former student fuck herself for him.

He shouldn’t be doing this. But god he can’t help himself. He’s seen you flourish as a pro hero, tight suits and bright smiles to the public, and all he’s ever thought about is how fucking pretty you must look naked. 

“Then at least show me your cock, Sensei.”

You have got to stop calling him that. Yet his cock throbs and leaks at the honorific. 

“Fine.”

His simple answer is enough to convince you. You sit up on your knees on the bed and lean forward, making his mouth water as your breasts fill his screen. 

Shota strangles his cock in his fist as all of you comes into view. You raise the camera high enough to show your whole bed from an upward angle, letting him leer at you from head to toe. 

“Atta girl.” He groans as you lean back against your pillows with one hand anxiously running a finger over your lips. You stare right at him through his laptop screen and it makes his balls swell. “I’ve missed your pretty face.”

He watches how his words make you press your already sticky thighs together, like his voice shot straight down to your cunt.

“Oh yeah? Have you missed me, too? Do you think about your old Sensei?”

Moaning, you’re unashamed to slide your hand down your stomach, spreading your thighs so you can relieve the ache he’s building between your legs. 

“Mhmm, I do. Right now I’m thinking about what your cock looks like.” 

He’d almost forgotten his promise. Shota looks down at his length, sucking in a deep breath at the sight of himself swollen and drooling for you. He pumps himself a few times just to feel the pleasure, to gain the courage to drag the laptop with his free hand just enough to bring his dick into the picture.

A sharp little gasp from you echoes into his room and he’s suddenly far too self-satisfied. He admires how you writhe on your bed, pulling your knees up so he can once again see the full image of your wet pussy. 

“You’re so big,” you whisper like you mean it, like you’re wishing you had his cock in your hand instead of his. 

“You think I’d fit inside you, hm?” 

You’re like a curious cat eyeing him across the screen, lashes fluttering as you glance him over from base to tip. You must have a screen set up right next to your camera because your gaze is still meeting his as your head bobs up and down with the way he strokes his cock. 

“I dunno,” you moan as you spread your legs wider, two fingers dipping to prod at your hole, “you’re bigger than my toys.”

“And I bet that little cunt is so tight. Put your fingers in and show me.”

You still listen so obediently, just like when you were his student. 

He thumbs the head of his cock as he watches you sink two fingers into yourself, the microphone picking up the wet squish of your cunt. Your belly tightens with pleasure as you start to pump the digits into your pussy, slow at first and then picking up pace as your bliss builds. 

“Tell me what you would want me to do to you if I was there.”

There’s no filter for him now, not with your messy cunt filling his screen and your hand now plucking at your nipple. 

You take a moment to think, pretty head falling back to the pillows as you moan for him.

“Always wanted to kiss you, Sensei. Want to feel your hands all over me, ah,” you press the palm of your hand against your clit as you talk, making you nearly whine between breaths, “and I’d want your cock in my mouth.”

“You like sucking dick, sweetheart?” 

He starts matching the pace of his fist to your fingers, picturing his cock sliding between your plush, parted lips.

“I like having my face fucked,” you admit and it makes him groan. 

His noise spurs you on, makes you grab your tit and squeeze as your fingers move faster. 

“I’d love to slide my cock past your sweet lips and into your throat. Want you to gag on it, spit running down your face as I take what I want.” 

“Yes, want you to take what you want from me. Want you to use me, fill me up and fuck me with that fat cock, Sensei.” 

He nearly chokes at your words, blushing at how filthy your mouth is. He pumps himself faster, picturing having your soft body in his lap, your sloppy cunt sinking down onto him. 

“How do you want me to fuck you?” 

The moan that sounds from his laptop is so lovely, the slick sound of your fingers in your pussy making him shiver. 

“I can show you?” you ask more than state, pausing to look straight into the camera feed. “With a toy, I mean. Y-you can pick.” 

God, you’re such a delightful little minx. Shota squeezes the base of his cock as the mental image of you fucking yourself on a toy nearly topples him over the edge. He doesn’t know how he will handle actually viewing it. 

“Get your biggest dildo. Let’s see how it compares to me.” 

Any ounce of guilt he feels fades when you return to your bed with a purple, silicone cock, long and thick but not nearly as fat as the throbbing flesh he holds in his hand. 

“Guess you weren’t lying, were you, sweetheart? I’ll be the biggest thing that little pussy has ever taken.” 

Shota doesn’t care if he’s stepping beyond the realm of hypotheticals—he’ll get his hands on you, one way or another, all in due time. 

“Wanna see how I want you to fuck me?” you ask with the cutest smile, like you’re hiding such a naughty secret. 

“Show me. Fuck yourself for me, tell me every little thing I’m doing to you.”

He props an arm behind his head to get comfortable, the muscles of his abs and lats rippling in the dim light of the screen. He threads his fingers through his long hair and tugs the moment he sees you turn and get on your knees, bending until you’re in the most sinful doggy position he’s ever seen. 

“You start slow,” your voice drops to a sensual note, thick like honey, “cause you want me to feel every inch go inside me.”

The hand wrapped around his cock is moving before he can even think to stop, squeezing hard as he watches you reach around your body and start pushing the dildo between your pussy lips. 

Shota gets too close to the screen, strands of black hair grazing the edge of the camera, face still out of sight. His gaze scans from corner to corner, watching as if he intends to commit every single detail to memory. 

Your pussy sucks in the tip of the dildo, making you mewl, and slowly, torturously, you shove the length of it into your hole. 

“How do I feel?” 

“So good, want you to move, want you to fuck me hard.” 

You take the initiative to start bouncing the dildo in your pussy, sliding it in and out, building speed. The sound is licentious, wet, all mixed together with the short, airy moans you let out with every push into your body. Slick is starting to build on the silicone, creamy and thick. 

“Do you always get so wet or is it just for me?”

“All for you, Sensei. Cause you feel so good, you fuck me like I’ve always wanted.” 

Shota smears his thumb through the pre-cum freshly leaking from his cock, using it as lubricant as he starts a brutal pace on himself. He can hear the repetitive slap of his wrist hitting his thigh echo into the laptop microphone.

“That right? You’re a dirty girl for wanting to fuck her teacher.” 

“You’re so good to me, you rub my clit just how I like it.” 

He examines how one of your hands reaches under your body, two dainty fingers swirling around your clit before kneading it quickly, like you’re just so desperate to cum for him. 

The strokes he gives his cock are furious, other hand now coming down to cup his balls and roll them in his palm. His stomach flexes at the pleasure, picturing how that perfect cunt of yours would be squeezing him so tightly. 

“You wanna cum for me? Wanna cum all over your Sensei’s cock?”

“Please,” you groan into the sheets, hips now bucking with the pace of the dildo slamming into you, “will you let me cum? You said I’m such a good girl? Ah, ah, one of your favorites?” 

“Always my favorite, sweetheart. Show me how you cum, let me see you make a mess of yourself.”

Your knuckles are tight against the base of the dildo, using all your strength to fuck into yourself. You’re so close to the edge, panting, whining, hole stretched and practically weeping around the purple silicone. 

“You know I’ll fuck you faster, right? Harder. Just wait until I get my hands on you.”

Your tongue falls loose, “Want your hands on my hips, want you to spank me, oh god, pull my hair, kiss me and fuck me and tell me I’m all yours.” 

“You’re gonna cum for me, scream for me, all for me, got it?” 

He can see the way your head shakes on the bed, mascara dripping down the side of your face that he can see. Tears are in your lashes, your lip caught between your teeth, and even still you’re looking back for him, watching him tug and pull his cock with your name in his mouth. 

“God you’re so hot, your cock’s so big—”

A beautiful, strangled noise comes out of you as you finally come apart, your cunt clamping down around the dildo and your motions stilling. You scream into the mattress, all high-pitched and fucked out. Slick squelches from your stuffed hole, dripping down your thighs. 

With the scene before him, it only takes a few more pumps before he’s unloading, cum spurting out over his knuckles and up onto his stomach, rope after rope spilling out for you.

His room goes quiet, his pants and your whiny breaths the only sound he hears over the pounding of his heart. 

Finally, you shift on your bed, and he does his best not to look at the mess he’s made in his hand.

“Um,” you awkwardly clear your throat, looking away from him as you slide the dildo from your cunt. He can’t help but watch the way your pussy lips drag along the length. 

The post-nut clarity hits him like a steam roller. His clean hand grabs his laptop, ready to shut the screen and pretend none of this ever transpired except in the guilty pit of his daydreams—

“Shota,” you mumble, sitting on your knees and holding your body, “this was, uh, well really…hot. I…I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

His ears perk, unsure if he’s ever heard you call him by his first name. 

Before he changes his mind, he drags the laptop on his bed until the camera catches his face. You blink so prettily at the sight of him, dropping one of your hands from your breast like you’re just so comfortable seeing him. 

“Next time will be in person.” 

You give him the most genuine little smile, “Promise?”

[crushmeeren]

Sex chocolate with Hawks, Dabi, Aizawa and maybe Toshinori???

⋆ ft. izuku ⋆

⋆ this is written as if the guys didn’t know they’d eaten the chocolate and how they’d react to the treat. sorry I didn’t put Toshinori in this, I’m not quite sure how to write his personality yet. (ó﹏ò｡)

𝛏 master list link 𝛏

// @emmab3mma hope you enjoy! ₊˚ʚ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎₊˚✧ ﾟ.

Izuku’s lips would tug into a sheepish smile, no doubt thankful for the sweet treat pick me up. His eyes would brighten, a satisfied hum dancing in the air.

Izuku would be unbearably jittery out on patrol that evening, hopping from the sidewalk on one side the street to the other, green light crackling in his wake. He’d do it mindlessly, thoughts wandering to you and what you currently could be doing.

Suddenly, he’d be flailing mid air when he vividly imagines you on your knees, plush lips stretched so wide on his cock he knows it must hurt your mouth. Izuku would stumble when he hit the concrete, catching himself on the bench nearby.

Izuku’s expression would twist from calm to horrified, thoughts running a mile a minute when he steadies himself and realizes his cock is…hard. Throbbing. Straining against his hero suit. He’d make haste running to the nearest building with a public restroom.

Izuku would shut the door to the restroom and lock it before anyone could even notice he entered. He’d be frantic, shoving his pants down mid thigh as he leaned against the wall and hissed through his teeth when the cool air hit his freely bobbing cock.

He’d have a million concerns in the back of his head but not be able to focus on a single one. Izuku would have a one track mind, wrapping a hand around himself and jerking until he came in less than 20 seconds to the image of you on your knees.

Izuku would be so embarrassed afterwards, cheeks bright pink as he adjusts his clothes and washes his hands.

Being as smart as he is, he’d have a suspicion this is related to the chocolate you gave him and he intends to find out once he’s home. Once he returned, he’d tease you until you’re on the edge of tears and blurting out the truth, fucking you until your mind whites out and you scream his name.

Lucky you.

Keigo would give you a flirty grin, winking playfully as he snatched the chocolate from you and swallowed it within two bites. You’d give him an unimpressed look but he’d just laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Keigo isn’t surprised when he got a boner while soaring through the skies on the way to his agency. He’d been thinking about you anyways and his dick getting hard wasn’t uncommon when he thought of you. It’d be fair to say that happened often, if he’s honest.

Keigo would take note of the violent flush crawling down his neck and snaking under the fuzzy collar of his flight jacket. He’d suck his bottom lip in between his teeth and adjust his cock in his pants so it’s sticking straight up instead of outward.

He’d be able to somewhat focus on the business meeting he didn’t want to attend in the first place, only being reprimanded a few times more than normal for zoning out.

Keigo’s pulse would thunder. He’d wear a neutral expression, letting his chin rest in his propped up hand as he sent a feather to find and turn on the air because why the fuck is it so hot in here?

He’d text you something filthy as discreetly as he could under the table, biting his knuckles when you sent back a picture of yourself with your tits on display. Keigo would come to the conclusion that maybe he was a bit more pathetically horny than normal and he needed to ditch this meeting yesterday.

Keigo would go straight home, ignoring anyone who had tried to speak with him on his way out. He’d find you on the couch with nothing on but an oversized shirt and waving what’s left of the chocolate bar at him with a smirk when he entered through the balcony.

He wouldn’t even be upset when you told him what you’d done. He’d just crowd close, looming over you with a wolfish grin that shot a thrill down your spine.

Keigo would succumb to the aphrodisiac completely. He’d bend you over the backrest of the couch at hip level and wrench your arms taut behind you, fingers circling your wrists to secure you in place.

Keigo would have no mercy, sliding his cock in your tight pussy before you’re turned on enough to take him smoothly. He’d send a feather down to play with your clit until you strain to escape, not stopping despite your pleas because “this is what you wanted, isn’t it baby? yeah, so stop yapping and take it.”

In the end all you can do is nod, because if you truly wanted him to stop you’d only have to say the safe word.

Shouta would raise an eyebrow with a bored expression on his features. He’d roll his eyes and eat the chocolate after you pushed your lower lip out and fluttered your lashes at him.

Shouta’s a sucker for you.

He’d be grading papers that afternoon, knuckles rubbing at his sleepy eyes in the office of your shared home. He’d take a break, pressing his palms to his eyes and resting his elbows on the desk.

A scenario would pop into his head, one where you sat on the edge of the desk while he’d relax in his chair and lazily eat you out. He can imagine the way your clit would feel against his tongue, how warm and soft your pussy would be on his lips.

Shouta would lean back in the chair, a hand absently dropping to his lap to palm his cock and he’d be startled at just how much he’d filled out already. His dick hot and sticking to his inner thigh. Shocked at the unavoidable thick warmth swirling in his belly when it’d usually take a bit more than a brief daydream to get this worked up.

He’d be certain that you had something to do with this and irritation would lance through him. He’d sit in the kitchen once he’s finished, arms crossed and cock stubbornly refusing to flag until you returned home.

Shouta would ask you about it as if he were asking a child if they had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar. Easily, you admit to it. No hesitation, no shame, just a smug air about you.

Then, Shouta would make his fantasy a reality. He’d eat your pussy until you were right on the edge of cumming and then he’d stop. He’d speak condescendingly, saying “poor baby, your pussy just wants to cum doesn’t she?” as he sits you roughly down on his cock.

He’d spank you a few times, teasing you a bit more but he’d make you cum so intensely your toes would cramp — and then he’d keep going until his own brain got fuzzy.

Touya would say fuck no at first. He doesn’t like chocolate. Until you mention there’s something special about the sweet and he assumes it’s an edible. You don’t bother to correct him because, technically, it is an edible, just not the kind filled with weed.

Touya would be leaning his back against the railing on your balcony, angled so he can peer into the open doors of your living room. He’d have a cigarette dangling from his lips, scrubbing at his cheek with one hand because yeah, his cheeks are typically roasting but they’re never this hot.

He’d shrug it off and nonchalantly light up the cigarette with his pointer finger. He’d startle as the tiny flame bursts into a fireball that he really didn’t mean to create when you stride past the doorway in soft shorts that show the crease of where your thigh joins your ass.

You’d freeze mid step and turn to stare at him incredulously, lips parted slightly when the aftershock of heated air damn near singes your skin.

Touya would be flustered. Cheeks painted rosy pink with embarrassment at the lack of control over his quirk. He’d scowl harshly, pinching his brows together as he dropped and stomped on his cigarette to put it out. He’d stalk towards you and snarl “why the hell are you wearing those fucking shorts?” as if his sudden overbearing lust is your fault specifically.

You’d roll your eyes and begin walking in the direction you’d intended in the first place but Touya would snatch your wrist tight enough the bones grind together and drag you to your bedroom. He’d ignore your obviously fake bewildered expression and shove you onto the mattress. He can’t focus on the fact that you seem to be going along with this a bit too easily.

His cock would be jumping and pushing painfully against the zipper of his jeans before he so much as kissed you. He wouldn’t get either of you truly naked, he’d just slide your soft shorts to the side and unzip his jeans. He’d shove your shirt to your collarbone so he could watch the way your tits are about to bounce.

Touya would yank your ankles up and over his shoulders until the backs of your thighs press into his chest and then fold you in half like you’re a fucking blanket. He’d tilt his hips until his tip catches on your pussy and then he’s shoving his cock all the way inside to steal the breath from your lungs.

Touya wouldn’t have the self control to stop for a long time that evening and you’d almost regret giving him the chocolate. Almost.

[siriuslywounded]

well-

[sqtorux]

you cunningly rock your hips while sitting on his lap and he's STRUGGLING.

and you're so sly knowing exactly what you're doing to him. you can see him visibly struggling, his jaw clenched hard but you have no intention of stopping.

"isn't it so hot guys?" you adjust your seating, grinding against his erection subtly. your circle of friends agree but he's not listening or contributing to the discussion about some temperature.

you push further bravely upon seeing how desperate he was and move up a notch, gently brushing your hands on his rock hard dick.

he exhales a breath of hot hair, tickling the back of your neck and your confidence splurges. you boldly rock your hips again, just one more and you're done — you promise yourself.

but just as you were about to execute your amazing idea, big firm hands stop your motions short. they hold against your hips, immobilising you in place.

he leans closer into the crook of your neck, grunting softly "you're gonna regret that."

"regret what?" you look at him innocently.

he huffs out an annoyed scoff as his hot breath tingles the side of your neck "lets see how slick you can be when i have my way with you later."

gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, toji fushiguro, nakahara chuuya, tetcho suehiro, michizo tatchihara, shota aizawa, dabi, akaashi keiji, tsukishima kei, wakatoshi ushijima, levi ackerman + your contributions?