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nyankochan · 4 months ago

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Mating Season: Dragon Slayers x fem!reader

Synopsis: You personally hate when mating season comes around, because you are hopelessly lost to your desires. At least you have your mate to generously take care of you. Pairings: [SEPARATE] Natsu x Reader, Laxus x Reader, Sting x Reader, Rogue x Reader, Gajeel x Reader

Content: MDNI, fem! reader, reader is also a dragon slayer, rough sex, unprotected, bodyworship, breeding, Dacryphilia (Natsu), overstimulation, Slight asphyxiation (Laxus) mates (heat and rut cause it makes sense in my head), oral (male and female receiving), dirty talk (Sting & Gajeel), pet names (Sting calls you Angel and Gajeel calles you doll), slight degradation (Gajeel), shower sex (Rogue), cowgirl (Sting), I hope I didn’t forget anything else but sorry if I did.

Word count: 5.4K (I'm tired of my foolishness)

A/N: hoping I resurrect the Fairy Tail fandom with the upcoming release of Fairy Tail 100 year quest. I was going to add Cobra and Acnologia but this shit just got too long

Like clockwork, when early spring rolls around, around mid March to early April, you begin to notice changes. They're subtle changes, unnoticeable to even your closest friends around you at first. You're more antsy when away from your partner for long periods of time, and you've started nesting in your shared home. Just about every article of clothing that has yours and his scent has been gathered and formed into a little fort that brings you a sense of comfort when he's away for work. Still, it does nothing to quell the desire aching in between your legs, and as the days wear on, you grow increasingly frustrated and thus irritable. While you don't mean to, you end up snapping at your guildmates more frequently during this time, only mellowing down when your partner is around and you're comforted by the smell of their pheromones.

It's soon becomes virtually impossible for you to go on quests for an extended duration, and your partner subtly becomes clingier. He's on edge, without even realizing it, always guarding you from other males who foolishly stray too close and making you wear articles of clothing that smell like him. They begin picking fights with others more often, sometimes over the littlest things. They also always return with a gift of some sorts after completing a quest: jewelry, your favorite candy, useless trinkets that just caught their eye and thought you'd like. Your satisfaction appeases their ego and instinct to court you.

The changes in behavior is subtly picked up on by the rest of the guild and virtually no one questions it when the both of you go missing for a few weeks.

Natsu - 「Heated Passion」

Natsu is easily the densest and most combative during mating season. Although you've been mated for about three years now, he never seems to pick up right away what season it is, and you’re too embarrassed to vocalize your desire for him to fuck you senseless. Therefore, the rest of the guild is unfortunately victim to his pent up anger and overprotectivess. Gray talks to you? A fight. Loke offers you something he collected on one of his missions? A fight AND he’s trying to one up him with something even better.

Nastu is particularly hostile with Laxus and Gajeel, as they are the only other male dragon slayers. Laxus couldn’t be bothered. Gajeel on the other hand, definitely taunts him, but not to the point where he’d go so far as to do anything to you. He just likes pissing Natsu off. He would never disrespect someone else’s mate.

Of course though, Igneel had taught him what mating season is. Natsu’s not that dense. Rather, it just takes a minute for him to realize what time of year it is, and when he does, you’re his for the month.

The air is hot from the scent of Natsu’s pheromones mixing with yours. Your mind is hazy and clouded with lust, so you’re not even sure what day it is anymore. Your body is achy and littered with bite marks, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, only wanting more.

“N-Natsu~” your pleas are a weak whimper.

Natsu currently has one of your legs thrown over his shoulder while his mouth’s attached to your weeping cunt. He eats you out like a starved man, greedily slurping down all you have to offer. As his tongue moves in and out of your folds at a rough pace, he holds your thighs tightly, burying his face deeper in between them. It doesn’t matter how many times he tastes you, he will never be satisfied. He gets painfully hard just from eating you out, his cock stiff and leaking pre-cum against his abdomen, and he could cum alone from the way your fingers weave in and tug on his hair.

This unfortunately means you’re left overstimulated from orgasm after orgasm. The bad part is, due to the intense haze caused by the excessive pheromones, Natsu truly doesn’t realize until you’re crying, practically begging for him to stop.

“N-no more.” You writhe against the sheets, turning your body to pull away from the greedy dragon slayer. “C-can’t cum anymore.”

A low growl resonates in the back of Natsu’s throat. He grabs and pulls you by your ankle, an easy feat from the way your legs feel like jello. You’re then pinned under his heavy body, sweat and heat radiating off the close proximity of his chest.

“Mine,” Natsu grumbles. He kisses away the tears trickling your cheeks before nuzzling against your neck. You let out a small whimper feeling the swollen head of his cock press against your hole. As you tense, Natsu intertwines his fingers with yours, a soft, subtle reassurance. “Mine…mine…please don’t leave, y/n”

“I’m yours, Natsu.”

Natsu’s canines graze the side of your neck before biting down harshly to draw blood. His hips snap against yours at quick pace while you keen helplessly against him. You feel so deliciously full, his cock reaching the deepest parts of your inner walls leaving you a moaning mess. Still, you want him closer, deeper. You wrap your legs around Natsu’s waist, your own hips bucking up to meet his. The newfound angle has you both shuddering from pleasure.

“Mine,” Natsu grunts. “Mine. My mate.”

See, when Natsu gets close to cumming, he begins to whine. His thrusts become more frantic and erratic as he desperately chases his release. Not even for his own pleasure, but his dragon instincts are telling him to breed. To fill you up and dripping with his seed.

He captures your lips in a sloppy kiss, biting your bottom lip teasingly. The tip of his cock kisses your cervix and you’re coming undone. Your body shivers and your legs are twitching. Your orgasm releases another wave of pheromones which ultimately pushes Natsu over the edge.

With a low whine, his hips press against yours as his own release hits. He stills completely, ensuring he emptied inside you completely before collapsing on top of you.

After a moment of post-sex clarity and some of the intense pheromones disappear, you groan, “Natsu, you’re heavy.”

But he’s already passed out, and you’re stuck in his hold until he rouses you up for another round.

Laxus- 「Electric Desire」

Laxus tries hard to not show his annoyance when mating season rolls around. After all, you two have been mated for the longest out of any couple, so at this point, he should be used to it by now, right? Wrong. Laxus, despite not showing it, gets jealous easily. He won’t say anything directly, but it’s hard not to notice his intense aura that becomes somewhat suffocating to those around him when a member of the Thunder Legion, or worse, another male dragon slayer gets too close to you.

Laxus is less subtle about whisking you away. In fact, he has no problem with throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you out of the guild to your shared apartment.

“Oi, Laxus!” You squirm in his hold. “Put me down already. I’m capable of walking on my own.” Laxus merely ignores you and the strange stares you both get as he walks through Magnolia. After all, it’s taking everything in him to hold his composure as your scent makes him harder and harder. “Laaxusss~” you whine only to be met with a harsh slap against your ass.

By the time you guys make it home, Laxus has more than enough pent up frustration to release and you’re more than happy to receive. The moment the front door closes, Laxus wastes no time pressing you against it, his large hand around your throat as his lips roughly capture yours. You moan into the kiss, beginning to feel lightheaded. Although you do your best to push Laxus back to breathe, his massive frame overpowers yours. He pins your hands above your head, nudging your legs apart with his knee to get even closer. The overwhelming scent of his pheromones sends blood rushing to your head, a euphoric feeling of the pain, and it felt like you could pass out any moment.

You shamelessly rolled your hips against Laxus’s, groaning at the feeling of his erection straining against his pants. At this, Laxus lets out a throaty growl. Once again, he has you over his shoulder. The relief of air is brief as you’re soon thrown on to the living room couch. You don’t even make it down the hall to your shared bedroom.

Laxus was instantly over you. His hands ran under your shirt, tearing upward at the hem. And you didn't resist when he made short work of your pants. There was already a growing wet stain of your arousal on your lacy panties.

"I'm so wet for you, Laxy," You moaned, grinding your hips against your boyfriend trying to receive some sort of relief from friction. Laxus pinned you down, making you whine more, as he tears your underwear off.

“You like testing my patience, don’t you?” Laxus grunts, through his cheeks are beginning to flush red as the hazy desire begins to chip away at his restraint. He swiftly removes his shirt in one movement and starts to unbuckle his belt, freeing his aching cock from the confines of his boxers.

The thing about Laxus was, he was big. He knew it. You knew it. He was a descent size even before getting erect. But you supposed with the increased testosterone during mating season, he somehow grew even bigger. The swollen, leaky tip is an angry red, and it throbs in Laxus’s hand as he aligns himself at your entrance.

“While I’m still somewhat sane,” Laxus huffed, nudging the tip slowly inside the warmth of your cunt. His body was flushed, muscles tense. “I apologize in advance. I don’t think I can hold back.”

Your raised your hips in anticipation. “Then don’t.”

Laxus glided the last couple of inches, burying his shaft to its hilt inside you. He groaned at the feeling, gripping your hips so tight they'd bruise. He was stretching you so wide that you felt like you would rip apart, your stomach bulging slightly from his size.

With a languid roll of his hips, he experimentally pulled his length out from the clamp of your hole. And with a sharp snap of agility only a dragon slayer could demonstrate, he drove himself back into your, the sheer force of his scorching length shot the first wave of pleasure through the both of you. Laxus's body shuddered slightly anticipation. You dug your nails in Laxus's shoulders trying to keep him close. That first penetration gave way to a succession of increasingly rougher thrusts that threatened to shatter your pelvis with all the force Laxus was propelling into you. Each sharp, shooting pang of pain only amplified your enjoyment and arousal.

Laxus growled, fucking out of pure aggression. You could feel it with every frenzied pump of his hips. Lewd moans and the slapping of flesh resounded through the room. You began feeling light headed all over; your hips ached and your insides burned from Laxus's sharp violent thrusts.

Laxus groans, a telltale sign of him getting close. He hovered over You, leaning down to kiss you. His hands trailed up Your bare chest to your nipples that became erect from pleasure. Lips trailing up the side of your neck, Laxus left several bite marks. He reached the area where he had previously left his dragon slayer mark on You and sucked and bit at it aggressively.

"Ah a-ah t-that feels funny." You squirmed.

“you're mine and mine only," Laxus grunted before he bit down harshly. The mark didn't burn as bad as the first time Laxus had bit you, but it didn't mean that it still didn't hurt. “Mine…”

Laxus fumbled slightly, his aggressive and frantic rutting becoming slower and slightly sloppy, instead. You felt your own orgasm building up, to the point of almost bursting. Your body felt hot and sticky, yet you needed something to tilt you over the edge.

"L-Laxy... I need to cum," you whine. "It hurts. Please!"

"Heh..." Laxus laughed with a pant. "Always such a needy little thing."

Laxus's large hand grazed your clit. You shivered at his touch, crying out as Laxus's thumb traced over the sensitive bundle of nerves. Laxus felt his dick twitch and pressed harder, touching you teasingly slow.

"Mm-ngh- I-I'm g-gonna cum," You whined. your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you felt your insides snap. You cried out, your body spasming slightly.

"Fuck," Laxus swore. His cock, unbearably hard, buried itself all the way to the hilt inside you. It pulsated with each subsequent spurt, swelling still as he emptied inside your womb. The stimulation leaves you trembling and out of breath.

You have little time to recover as your mate puts you over his shoulder and takes you back to your bedroom. He’s still painfully erect and hasn’t had his fill of you yet.

Sting- 「Radiant Sin」

Sting is the most cocky and the biggest tease out of all the dragon slayers. It’s almost like a game to him, and he takes great satisfaction in the sight of you begging for him. Still, he is quite the jealous one and like Natsu, picks fights with the males he feels threatened by in the guild. Poor Yukino doesn’t quite understand the change in behavior at first and tries to mediate some of the conflict, but Minerva, for lack of a better word, tells her to just leave it alone and not to get in between the stupid fights of hormonal men.

You on the other hand are rather antsy. You can tell it’s that time of the year, and you’re slowly losing your composure, becoming more flustered due to the pheromones Sting was unintentionally releasing while trying to arm wrestle Orga.

Rogue is the only one to notice your growing discomfort. While he isn’t really affected by your scent in the sense it turns him on, but rather it’s giving him a headache. And since he views you like a little sister, he hates to see you suffer and your dumbass mate neglect to take care of you.

“Y/n, are you ok?” Rogue gently coaxed, brushing your hair out of your face, noticing how warm and flushed you felt.

“It’s just a little…hot, Rogue,” you mumble, trying not to let him pick up on the way you’re practically squirming in your seat. He’s a fellow dragon slayer, so even as embarrassing as it is, he knows what’s going on. And, he knows how to get Sting’s attention.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Rogue said, “as you know I value our friendship and respect your relationship with Sting.”

You’re too dazed to quite understand what he meant until you picked up on a new scent: Rogue’s own pheromones. As compared to Sting’s almost vanilla like scent, Rogue has a more deeper, woody fragrance that definitely stands out against the sweet scent you’re emulating.

It’s almost instantaneous the way Sting’s head snaps over to your direction. One quick look at your flushed expression and he’s abandoning whatever he was previously doing, rushing to your side, not before roughly shoving Rogue to the side. Rogue merely ignores the menacing glare he receives, while Sting quickly scoops you up into his arms bridal style and dashes out the guild in a flash of light.

By the time you both make it back to your shared apartment, Sting himself’s starting to feel the effects of his rut beginning to mess with his head. The whole time he was carrying you, you kept nuzzling your head into his neck, whimpering quietly with need.

“Sorry Angel,” Sting huffs, trying to set you on the bed, but you cling to his shirt, not letting him go.

“Sting, please,” you beg.

“Please, what, Angel?” Sting coos, prying your hands off of him and pinning them above your head with one hand while the other teasingly traces down the side of your waist. “I can’t help you if you don’t use your words.” You pout, making your mate chuckle at your expression which he honestly finds cute.

“Please, touch me.”

“But I already am.”

You huff in frustration, not in the mood for games. You try hopelessly and fail to break from Sting’s hold. Something about you being so powerless and fragile against him fueled an inner carnal desire within Sting, not one just to protect but in his eyes, you were his prey. And he wanted to dominate you in every way.

“A-ah, fuck,” Sting swore, his composure slowly crumbling away. He tore away your clothes. The sight of you bare and exposed had him brimming with desire. “You’re so beautiful, Angel. And you’re all mine.”

You couldn’t help feel flushed at his words, covering your face in embarrassment when you felt something prod at your cunt. Sting wedges one finger into your core, then a second one, scissoring you to stretch you out. You whimper at the penetration.

“S-Sting…”

“Shh, just relax.” Sting adds in a third finger. Now, the burn is gone and a satisfying stretch is left in its place. You moan. Your hips involuntarily buck against his hand, searching for more relief which makes the blond chuckle. “Eager, are you?”

"Sting, please," you whimper as you chase your high. Sting’s thumb circles your clit, bringing you closer and closer to your orgasm. You clench around his fingers, signaling your release, but at the last second he pulls away. You whine at his teasing and pout.

“Don’t worry, Angel,” Sting said, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it somewhere in the room. He palms himself through his trousers, the low guttural groan he lets out has you shivering in anticipation. His self control has run out. “You’re not going anywhere until I have you cumming around my cock and carrying my child.”

You quickly help Sting remove his pants, eagerly wanting him to fulfill his dirty promise. Sting pulls you into his lap so that you're straddling him. His hardened erection pokes at your core, making your tremble with need. He teasingly rubs against your clit, but never actually enters which makes you whine.

“Please, Sting, don’t tease me.”

“Heh, you’re cute when you beg.” Sting grabbed your hips and slammed you down on his cock. The sudden penetration and deep angle made your breath hitch. Tears prickled in your eyes. “Fuck. Fuck. You feel so good.” String groaned.

Desperate for more, you slowly raise yourself up and down the length of his cock, with minor assistance. Letting out a low moan, Sting tilted his head on the back of the headboard. He loved the way you felt around him. You were so tight, which meant he could only stretch you out more, and you equally loved the feeling.

Eventually, Sting retook the control, bucking upwards in tangent with your own movement, making him reach that sweet spot that had your legs trembling. "Ah fuck, Angel, you take my cock so well!" Sting panted.

He felt you tightening around him even more, practically trying to milk him for everything he had. His dick twitched before the first spurt of his cum shot into your womb.

"S-shit."

Sting hugs you into his chest, biting down on your neck to ground himself. You slump against his hold, all your energy gone as your orgasm washes over you. You stomach feels hot and bloated from being filled with Sting’s release.

You don’t even get a full minute of rest before Sting flips you on your backside, his cock poking at your entrance once more.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet.” A mischievous grin spreads across Sting’s face. “I said I’m not stoping until you’re pregnant with my baby.”

Rogue - 「Shrouded in Lust」

Rogue is the most gentle of the dragon slayers. Your relationship is relatively new as you’ve only been mated for about a year and a half, therefore he often still treats you like porcelain. In fact, he feels guilty when his desires take over, even though neither of you can help it. He often prioritizes your pleasure over his own, so sometimes you have to coax him into letting you take care of him.

In fact, Rogue honestly falls into rut a few days before your heat finally starts, and he’s pretty embarrassed by his lustful urges and tries to somewhat ignore them. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t deny his instincts, and no matter how much he fucks into his hand, it doesn’t replace you.

Rogue grunts as he comes for the nth time, painting the shower wall white with his release. It’s his fourth shower of the day, and the desire only feels more intense, nagging at him and making his head fuzzy. He quite honestly can’t take it anymore.

You’re practically a saint when you arrive home. You immediately notice the thickness of the pheromones clouding your apartment. It catches you somewhat off guard at first and makes you dizzy. After dropping your belongings off at the door, you quickly follow the smell to the source, growing hotter as the pheromones intensify. You’re surprised and immediately worried upon finding Rogue sitting in the running shower, his eyes completely glazed over and out of it.

“Oh my god, Rogue!” You’re instantly at his side. The shower is ice cold but his face is flushed red with fever. “Rogue, love, can you hear me? Come on, let’s get you dry.” Rogue is all but limp as you step into the shower to hoist him up, getting soaked in the process. The water turns your shirt sheer, your nipples poking through your bra as your intoxicating scent fills Rogue’s nose. His breath hitches.

“I-I’m sorry.”

You don’t get the chance to respond when you’re hoisted up and pressed against the shower wall. Rogue’s lips attached to yours in a frantic, desperate manner, and you become acutely aware of his little problem down stairs.

“Mmph, ah! Rogue, w-wait,” you groan.

“I-I’m sorry.” Rogue buries his face into your shoulder, heaving heavily. “I-I can’t control myself. I’m sorry but fuck I need you so bad.”

You cup Rogue’s cheeks, placing a tender kiss on his forehead, making him whimper at your gentleness. “It’s ok. Just let me undress. I don’t like the feeling of wet clothes.”

Rogue has just enough patience to let you remove your clothing. But the minute you unclasp your bra and throw your panties to the side, that restraint breaks and he pins you back against the shower wall, caressing your supple skin. “I’m sorry I’m so impatient, but I want to put it in so bad.” His cheeks are burning red from embarrassment as he grinds shamelessly against you. Despite the shower practically feeling like ice now, the overwhelming arousal has him burning up.

“C-can I put it in?” Rogue peppered kisses against your neck, nipping at the skin. “Please?”

“Always such a gentleman,” you shakily exhale, grabbing Rogue’s leaky cock to align at your entrance. “Fuck me like you mean it, Rogue.”

At your request Rogue bullies his cock in your cunt. As you whimper, he lets out a guttural groan of satisfaction. The feeling of your tight hole finally clamping around him made Rogue want to cum on the spot. Did you always feel this good?

"Ahh f-fuck..." Rogue stammers. His mind slips into a haze of lust, and his body moves on its own, rutting into you rough and fast in desperate search for his release. He hikes your leg up higher around his waist to fuck into your deeper. You gasp at the feeling, the uncomfortable arch in your back made your toes curl and stars dot your eyes.

"T-there! A-again!" You beg, wrapping your arms around Rogue's shoulders to hold him close. "I-I-m close-" Capturing your lips again, Rogue sucked hard on them in order to bruise. With his free hand, he jabbed his thumb against your clit, proving additional stimulation.

You squealed as you came, biting down on Rogue's tongue. The action made him growl. You clit pulsated, feeling like it was still vibrating. Tingles raced through veins, rocking your entire body.

"F-fuck, I'm close!" Rogue pants. Low grunts and moans left his lips. The feeling of You tightening around his dick even more was enough to send him over the edge.

He comes with a low groan. His body rocks and he presses you against the wall, biting into the crook of your neck. You squirm feeling him release into your heat. From the days of pent up frustration, Rogue cums hard and a lot. So much that you feel it trickle down your leg, making you shiver.

There's silence between the two of your for a few moments as you both recover from your orgasms.

“How long have you been hiding it from me?” You gently brush the wet hair out of Rogue's face. His cheeks flush red in embarrassment, which he tries to hide by burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"About four days..." he mumbles shyly.

"You don't need to keep things like this away from me, love. I'm yours as much as you are mine." The gentle kiss you place on his forehead, though endearing, instantly makes him hard again; his body betrays him as his stiff cock aches for your touch once more . You could only giggle at Rogue's embarrassed whine. "Go ahead. I'm all yours."

Gajeel - 「Iron Heart」

Gajeel is another major tease. Your bratty behavior only turns him on and enacts a predatory desire within him. He doesn't particularly care who hears his dirty words in response to any attitude you give him and quite honestly, takes it as a challenge. In fact, it turns him on the way you become instantly shy and bashful when he threatens to "punish your little ass" in public.

"You're so vulgar," you huff angrily. "I can't stand you."

"Gihi," Gajeel merely laughs, following behind into your shared room.

"you have no sense of shame! I won't be able to look at Lucy or Cana the same again."

Gajeel grins. He thinks it's cute how you put on the tough act despite how much he towers over you. "I don't really give a damn. The whole world can know how good I fuck your pussy for all I care."

Your cheeks flush red, the heat burning more as he corners you to the bed. "Y-you asshole!"

"Yeah?" Gajeel groans. You’re appalled when he palms himself through his pants, a noticeable tent forming at his crotch. Was he seriously turned on right now?! "What else?" Gajeel taunts.

"Y-you y-you-" You stammer over your words as Gajeel pins you to the bed.

"What? Where's that attitude of yours now?" Gajeel's devious smile only grows wider at the way you squirm against his hold. "Since you like running your mouth so damn much, why don't you put it to use. On your knees."

Your body obeys before your mind could register. Gajeel sits on the bed while you drop down to your knees before him. After you unbuckle his belt and release his stiff cock from the confines of his boxers, a relieved groan left Gajeel's lips. He was a lot bigger and had a lot more girth than you anticipated. Did your insults really turn him on that much?

"A-ah! Don't tease me, doll," Gejeel moaned. He threw his head back as Your warm mouth fully enveloped the head of his dick. Another moan left his lips as you began harshly sucking on him. You forced yourself to deep throat him. Whatever you couldn't fit, you used your hand to stroke him. Gajeel bucked his hips up, nearly making You gag on him and tears prickle in your eyes. You continued to slurp and grace every inch of his cock with your tongue. The sensations made his mind go blank.

"F-fuck! You suck me so good." Gajeel grabbed You by the hair and pulled you away from him much to your confusion. He then stood from the bed in front of you, holding your head. His dick throbbed, precum oozing from the tip. His release was so close, he could feel it from the way lust hazed his thoughts. "Open up. Let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours," Gajeel said.

You gladly did. He shoved his entire length in your mouth, making you gag. His grip on your hair tightened as he let out a shaky moan. He pulled back before forcing himself back in again and again. You couldn't breath. Drool dribbled down your face as you damn near choked. Seeing your lewd expression only turned Gajeel on more.

"You like that doll?" He panted. "You like choking on my fat cock don't you? That pretty little mouth of yours feels so good around me. I could cum on the spot." You only whined in response. Your hands gripped Gajeel's thighs as you tried to steady yourself and get used to his rough pace. "You like when I fuck that mouth of yours, don't you? You're such a good girl. Taking all of me like that."

His cheeks flushed red. The pressure of his release finally snapped. "Ugh fuck! I'm coming!"

Gajeel quickly halted his movements. He practically had a death hold on Your hair, emptying into your mouth. He came a lot and suddenly. You coughed, spitting some of the salty seed out once it unexpectedly hit the back of your throat.

You tried to regain your breath after being practically forced to choke on his length. But the sight of you sitting in front of him with his cum all over you was enough to make Gajeel hard again.

"Strip," he commanded. "I'm not done with you yet doll."

You quickly shed your clothing and undergarments, leaving you completely exposed before the male. Gajeel licked his lips hungrily, eyeing you up and down. His stare made you bashful, but to the dark haired man, you were the most gorgeous thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Absolutely beautiful," Gajeel mumbled, pressing his lips against Yours. You eagerly let his tongue explore your mouth while his hands groped your breast. You moaned meekly and rubbed your thighs together.

"Gajeel...please..." You whined. The dragon slayer let out a little chuckle.

"So impatient doll~" Lifting you up with ease, Gajeel carried and gently laid you back on the bed without breaking the next kiss. He cupped your cheeks while biting your lip teasingly. "I'm going to fuck you so hard that you won't even remember your own name."

With that, Gajeel rammed his cock into Your wet core. You cried out in pain at the sudden penetration. You held on to his shoulders and wrapped your legs around his waist. Your nails dug into his back leaving red marks.

"F-fuck!" He put one hand on the headboard trying to steady himself. "Ahh you're so tight doll," Gajeel groaned, giving his hips an experimental roll. The way you clenched around his cock nearly made him cum on the spot. He captured your lips again before pulling out and hitting again. His pace soon quickened and the two of you lost yourselves in the pleasure.

"Ah fuck doll, you take my cock so well!" Gajeel panted. Sweat covered both your bodies as the sound of skin slapping against each other filled the room. "You like it when I fuck you senseless, don't you? You're clenching around me so tight I could just explode."

"G-Gajeel! Please!" You moaned out. Gajeel grabbed both of you legs and placed them over his shoulders. The new angle hit harder and deeper. You cried out, begging for more.

"Such a greedy girl aren't you? You like it when I'm this deep in you?" Gajeel grunted. "No one else can make you feel this way. Got it?" When you couldn't form any words to respond, Gajeel slapped your thigh making your squeal. "I said you got that? Who can fuck you this good?"

"Y-you-" Y/n gasped.

Gajeel grabbed your hair, pulling harshly. "I don't think I heard you properly, doll. Who can make you feel this good?"

"You Gajeel!" You yelled. He smirked letting out a chuckle.

"Damn right." His orgasm quickly approached. His pace faltered just a bit, making his thrusts more sloppy. His low grunts turned into loud moans. "Ah, fuck I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come so deep you're going to be dripping with my seed."

A loud moan left his lips. His hips stilled and his release hit; he bites down on to your shoulder, drawing blood. You shivered feeling yourself be filled. After he was sure he finished, Gajeel pulled out and sat back on his heels. He stared down at you with a satisfied look on his face as some of his seed leaked from your swollen sex.

Gajeel then flips you over, hiking your ass up to the height he wants.

“W-wait-Gajeel-“

"Gihi We're not done. By the end of the night, everyone will know who you belong to."

Round 2?

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dabisbratz · 1 year ago

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𝒮𝒲𝐸𝐸𝒯 𝒯𝒪𝒪𝒯𝐻 — shouta aizawa x male reader

w.c: 12.4k

warning: dbf!shouta, age gap, (sho in his early 40s, reader is 23), bottom!reader, daddy kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, feminization, mentions of gettin ‘knocked up’ regardless of anatomy, sneaking around, creampie, unprotected sex ( wear condoms ! ), praise/degradation, brat!reader, jealousy, mutual teasing, reader has an oral fixation, improper use of lollipops, mentions of exhibitionism, blowjobs, cumming untouched/hands free orgasm, ‘ taboo ’

sonny says..: not proof read, msorry !! did lotsa jumpin around while writin this. . . n five months later !! she’s all done !! ໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝T ˘ T⸝⸝꒱ྀི১ ♡ m’a lil rusty, forgive me !!

You’re back home for the summer.

Well— not entirely. You’re back at your family’s summer house for the season. Gifted from your grandparents, it teeters at the beginning of a beach, crystal sands and clear, blue waters that stretch out into the horizon. You’ve been looking forward to it since you’d graduated, even if it did come with a set of overbearing parents and a sinful amount of sunscreen.

The air is hot and thick, sticking uncomfortably to your skin through the windshield as you watch an everlasting stretch of greenery and trees pass you by. The road has stretched on for miles, every upcoming exit and street sign blending into one as each hour passes by. You’ve got the company of staticky radio stations and news outlets, spewing something nonsensical about sports, politics, car insurance. . . But it’s the trip you enjoy more than the destination. Traffic and all, you prefer it over the muggy air and parental scolding. Though, the beach is nice. . .

“You’re sure you’re taking the right route?” It’s your mother speaking, her voice crackling through the speakers of your car. You’re sure she’d smack you upside the head for the aggressive roll of your eyes in her. . . general direction, but she’s not exactly within eye-contact distance. Not for another five minutes, anyway.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” You have— it’s true. Though you’re only twenty-two, you’d driven this distance since you’d left for college. There’s a sound akin to the sucking of teeth through the radio, and you have half the mind to turn around and restart your road-trip all over again.

“Why’s there so much attitude in your voice?” Her cheerful, smiley voice suddenly sounds much more shrill, to your chagrin. You thrum your fingers along the leather of the steering wheel, biting back a long, drawn out groan.

“There isn’t any,” Gravel crackles under the weight of your rubber-tire car, snapping and popping into the air as it makes a smooth halt into the driveway. Shifting gears to park, the radio switches off with the twist of your keys. And, perhaps with more force than necessary, you’re slamming the door to your car and face to face with your mother. Her phone is still in hand, eyebrows pinched at the thought of her very own son hanging up on her. “. . . attitude, Ma.”

She hugs you with a squeal, ushering you up the stairs to your childhood ‘home.’ It’s almost exactly like you’d left it— save for a few recent porch decorations and repainted walls. You hope the years have been kind to it, with the irregular weather and constant pipe problems. Floorboards creak under your weight, welcoming you home after a few long years of studies. There’s an everlasting stream of bubbly speech behind you, your mom speaking, but there’s already so much to take in.

The air is fresh and salty, hints of beachy winds flowing upstream through the doorway. It smells like home, and looks like it too, as you situate your small duffel bag by the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Your room. You hadn’t packed much— there was still a dresser overflowing with old clothes in your bedroom, after all. And now that you think about it, you should probably change into something more fitting for the weather.

“I know you just got here,” The sound of ice swirling against glass catches your attention, and you turn to face your mother. “But could you bring these out to your father?” She’s holding a tray of decorative glasses— or at least, you’d always thought they were— full of oblong ice and freshly squeezed lemonade. The glasses are stocky enough to adorn lollipops— one each, which are probably sickeningly sour. Topped with tiny, colorful umbrellas and intricate swirling straws. It’s almost like she’s trying to impress someone, with the way she’s put so much effort into the drink’s presentation.

Your lips curl to form a playful ‘no’, a boyish smile pulling at your cheeks when she huffs— as if she already knows what you’re about to do. So you shake your head instead, stealing the tray with one hand, “Let me change first.”

In hindsight, wearing clothes about. . four years too small wasn’t a great idea. The shorts that once fit you perfectly— before your growth spurt— are now much too short, like they’ve been tossed around in the laundry one too many times. You feel almost naked, moving the pink hem down with the shake of your legs.

Your mother insists they look just fine, a dramatic downturn to her lips as she rambles on and on about how fast her boy has grown up. Still, as you walk through the sliding glass doors parallel to the open patio, the sunlight bathing your legs does nothing but make you feel stuck under a rapidly growing spotlight.

It all clicks as you walk outside— the detailed drinks, the smell of barbecue and fresh coal. There is someone she’s trying to impress, someone other than your father. Maybe both of them. On a good day.

Wiping the bead of sweat from your brow, your eyes squint at the man in front of you. Around your dad’s age— maybe slightly younger, he stands at a whopping six foot something. There’s age in his face, and worry between his brows as if he’d spent most of his youth grimacing. His hair is long and black like charcoal, save for a few streaks of gray and a salt and pepper ensemble of stubble littering his chin and jaw. Two scars— forming a cross of sorts, one beneath his right eye, horizontal and thin. But the other is much longer, starting below his brow and ending at his cheekbone. It draws your eyes to a milky gray iris— heavily contrasting against the natural black-brown of his left one. It’s pretty, cloudy and almost pearlescent.

His silhouette— tall and thick, with broad shoulders that travel on and on as he crosses thick biceps over his thick chest. He’s standing in the way of the sun, and yet, it peeks through his long hair in small, short leaks. And, surprisingly, his waist is small in his black tank top. If you feel hot he must be scorching, draped in black— down to the beaded bracelet adorning his wrist. His hands— they’re big, maybe enough to cover the entirety of your face, curled into loose fists at his biceps.

And— right, you’re here to help, not gawk. But you can’t help it, shifting your weight from one leg to another as his intimidating gaze slowly sweeps you over. He’s like sex on legs, and if you can squint enough to get the sun out your eyes, you swear you can see the imprint of his cock through his black shorts.

“Uh,” You blink dumbly after introducing yourself, and suddenly the tray you’re holding is weightless. “Ma made these. I’m supposed to help. . . or something. . .”

“Or something.” The man echoes, but it’s quiet and you barely catch it. His voice is deep, way deeper than your own, rumbling in your ears and smooth like butter. Almost husky, with a dark edge to it as flames roar in his face. But it makes your father laugh, hearty and jubilant as he bounces over to where you stand. He gives you a small pat on the back as a greeting, ushering out a small, “son.”

The heat emitting off the grill is enough to make a grown man cry, but neither of you wince when you walk by it. Cold glasses of lemonade are handed out, fingers imprinted on cold condensation painting the surfaces of each glass as they’re passed around— one for you, one for your dad, another for him. You watch rivulets of water drip from his fingertips, down his wrist, past the collection of veins adorning his forearm.

“Mr. Aizawa,” There’s a beat of silence, but it’s quickly filled once you’ve been introduced. “World’s cruelest teacher.”

“Shouta Aizawa.” Is all he says, a correction of sorts, voice grumbly as his fingertips brush against your knuckles. Your eyes flicker down to where he’d touched you, his skin warm and inviting despite the roughness of his palms. You see now, that he’s accompanying your father, occasionally taking over when he walks back into the house every. . . five minutes or so.

“An old friend of mine, we go way back.” Your parents have an odd habit of rambling, it seems, because you and the handsome stranger make exasperated eye contact as your dad begins to reminisce on old memories. “You met him a few times— remember? He’ll be staying with us, so be respectful, you hear me?” His gaze seems to dip for a moment, down your lips and straight to the extra exposed skin of your thighs, then settle back to the ocean before you can comment.

But those five minutes must start now, because after a firm squeeze to your shoulder your father heads inside, leaving you alone with his. . . friend. He’s awfully quiet, busying himself as the patio door slides shut— occasionally sighing as he wipes away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s obvious you’re staring, maybe a bit too hard, but he’s the best scene around, really. Even with the beach right behind him.

And maybe it’s wrong to think this way— but he’s hot. Old enough to be your dad and then some, sure, but it doesn’t make him any less attractive. He almost makes you nervous, the slow blink of his eyes as he pays you no mind.

“So you’re staying with us, huh?” You eye the juicy meat he’s been flipping for the last five minutes, golden brown and sizzling in the heat. It’s rather thick, soon to be lazily flattened by the tongs he's holding and— you can’t help but wonder. . . Is he good with his hands?

“Don’t make a habit of asking strange old men questions like that.” It’s not entirely clear if he’s serious or not, but he’s certainly assertive. Like a firm, guiding hand placed at the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch in confusion, but before you can ask what he means, it clicks. You’d said it out loud, let it float into the air like an everyday, casual question. But Aizawa doesn’t seem exactly bothered, more passive (if anything), as he takes a swig of the fruity, sour concoction.

“You’re not strange.” Is what you conclude, slamming the tray down hard enough to rattle its contents, and the man notes your lack of regard. Even with a slight spill you don’t bother to clean, you’re already turning to walk off the patio and dig your toes into the hot sand before it can be mentioned— but not without plucking a lemon coated lollipop free from its icy enclosure of glass. There’s an arrangement of seashells hidden beneath the coarse mounds of the glimmering seaside. Different sizes and colors, different textures and shapes. Where some would scrape the soles of your feet, others would glide across them. But as a kid you’d liked the search for tiny crabs much more than the search for shells. Though you’re much older now, you’re not afraid to say you miss it.

“But I’m old?” Aizawa says, not too far behind you from where he stands. There’s a light glint of dry humor in his voice that sends butterflies down your throat and straight into your stomach.

“Yeah. Old enough.” Your small laughter is sweet, dancing in the air in a way that has Shouta nearly pressing his palm flat into the skillet— just to check if his heart is still beating. What do you mean by that, anyway?

There’s a divot where the tightness of your shorts dip into your skin, pressing against the plush skin of your ass whenever you bend over. Even as you’re upright, Shouta can’t stand to look for too long— you’re a real, proper, honest and genuine distraction. Yet here he is, watching you move around on your hands and knees, ass taut and round— shorts tight enough to show off the cute bulge of your balls from behind. And now that he’s really looking, it’s obvious you’re not wearing anything underneath.

He shakes his head, grunting to himself as he peels processed cheese free from its plastic packaging. You just met, that’s not right, you’re simply just minding your own.

“Ugh!” You share a groan, and for completely different reasons. Aizawa can’t help but watch you scramble in the sand, presumably after whatever sea-creature that had the pleasure to pinch you right on the finger. But you seem happy once it’s retrieved, stuck in the seclusion of its tiny shell as you hold it in your palm. From what he can see, you’re not much of a brat at all. Maybe your parents are just too hard on you. He’s always known them to be dramatics.

Still, he has half the mind to drag you over by your ankle, or maybe to press your handsome face into the sand while he fucks you from behind. Ever since you’d brought out that damned lemonade— tugging on the hem of the fabric as if you’d suddenly grown conscious of just how short they were— he’d been hard. And now he has to listen to you grunt and groan over the smallest of injuries. . . His best friend’s son, his presumed pride and joy.

He’s fucked.

From where he stands, slightly elevated, he can see the bulge of the sweet protruding from your cheeks, stuck afore your teeth. Cute, as it swishes from side to side, stuck in your mouth as your occupied fingers caress the diaphanous shell in the palm of your hand. Your lips move, puckered, around the sucker, curled and glossy with molten sugar— it’s hard to make out exactly what words your mouth forms, yet Shouta doesn’t think he’d be able to listen anyway.

Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.

Shouta learns this at dinner, the day’s hard work shared on plastic platters and glass

bottles in the middle of the beach. There’s a roaring flame between the four of you, it casts golden embers along your skin every so often, crackling into the air. Cicadas chirp with the night’s welcome, loud and joyful in retaliation to the silent, serene fireflies and settling ocean.

You’re all sipping on beers, some more than others, but it’s enough to loosen everyone up. Even Shouta, whose eyes look lidded with sleep the more he drinks. He’s not incoherent, he never is. If anything he’s observant. For one, you have an awful habit of holding onto this evening’s lollipop, it seems, as you have it situated between your fingers like a cigarette. Sometimes your grip around it tightens, like when your mother wraps her hand around his bicep, squeezing the flesh in small, sporadic rounds. And though neither of you want to say it, let alone think it— you’re jealous. That’s the second thing.

Even with Shouta’s knee brushing against your own, you can’t help it. He’s so warm, muscly legs pressed against your own in a manner that’s almost electrifying. You want it all to yourself, to suffocate in his heat and capable hands.

You zone out of the conversation, blinking at the fire with reserved eyes until a thick screwer pokes at the flesh of your shoulder, leaving behind a tiny dimple. Jet black hair invades your vision for a moment, smelling of faint seasalt and warm cologne, until you turn, “What?”

“You want chocolate on your marshmallow, right?” Your mother asks for him, squeezing a transparent bag of thick, soft marshmallows. It’s tossed to you in a flash, to which you catch, but not before stealing a glance at the man beside you. His jaw sets, poking out from the mass of stubble. Like she’d stolen a precious moment away.

“Right,” You mumble, stabbing the skewer through the excessive amount of sugar. The stick hovers above the fire, the sweet melting to a crisp, flaky brown. Sticky and gooey, it slowly begins to lose its form. Through all the conversation you can’t help but glance at the older man to your left, taking in the glow of yellow and orange caressing his tan skin. His silhouette is bold and broad, legs spread wide as he sits on a thick log. What was once brown turns a deep, dark charcoal. “Oh, shit! Fuck. I meant shoot, sorry.”

You’re not supposed to swear in front of your parents— Aizawa’s paternal intuition picks that up. But shoving the marshmallow into your mouth, even as it has yet to cool down, he doesn’t quite get. Either way, your expression. . . it’s sickeningly cute. It’s cute to watch you fumble. With lips pursed into a tight line, cheeks bitten and eyebrows pinched with apology despite how obviously uncomfortable you are with the piping, burnt sugar spreading along your tongue.

His heart could almost burst.

“You’re fine, kid.” Shouta’s voice is a gentle whisper, airy like the waves brushing against the shore. With his eyes caught on the sticky white lingering on your cheek, he's desperately aware you’re not a kid. The way you move and speak, the way you carry yourself. The way you suck on lollipops like they’re something else. He’s never been one for dirty jokes or subtle innuendos but. . . yeah, this is doing something to him. His fingers twitch with want, the desire to wipe it away and rub his thumb along your lips. He should really get it together.

And maybe the fact that he’s more worried about your parents being in the way than the fact that they’re your parents proves that.

But they’re pretty preoccupied, lost in conversation neither of you are exactly interested in. Whirling his own marshmallow, chocolate melts down its fluffy outside. It’s steaming, hot and fluffy after twirling around the fire. Looking at it now, it looks comically small in his large hands, much bigger than your own. His lips part, cool air leaving the ‘o’ shaped mold of his mouth as he blows on it with a low, “Here.”

There they go again, mouth open as your pink tongue covers your row of bottom teeth, Shouta doesn’t let go of the skewer despite the light squeezes you press along his knuckles. Instead he holds on tighter, lifting and reaching until the desert melts in your mouth and sticks to your lips. Messy on purpose, your heart plummets into your tummy when dark eyes watch marshmallow fluff pull away from between your teeth. Hungry, starving.

“I can do it myself.” You mumble, wondering if the heat prickling your skin is from the brush of his fingers against your own or the wilting fire.

“Can you?” His expression is tired and flat, but his voice tilts with blooming amusement. It’s odd, the way you’re so quick to shut him down. You almost respond more openly when you hear sneaky comments or listen to gossip— ‘that boy just doesn’t know what to stop,’ ‘why’s he such a smartass?’ — spoken about you directly by you.

“Yeah,” There’s a shine in your eye that isn’t just a product of the glowing fire. Mischievous, almost. “I don’t break that easily.”

Shouta could definitely take your dad in a fight. It’s the first thing that pops into mind as the two of you stand in the dark, dimly lit kitchen. Your parents had gone off to bed almost an hour ago, and with the clock approaching half past midnight, it leaves you two alone. So, yes, he’s considering who would win in a brawl because he can’t stop staring at his best friend’s son and his pretty, kissable lips.

They’re sheen with spit, your pink tongue licking them over as you scrub away yesterday’s dirt from the kitchen counter. It’s a noncommittal motion, your arms wiping suds and heavy contents of water along the granite surface. Yet you seem absolutely dead-set on getting that one stain. The stain that has your ass brushing against his side, bare skin rippling the harder, lazier, you scrub. Not that there’s even a stain to clean.

Yep. He’s fucked.

You suppose he should be focusing on the dishes— not that there’s much of those either— but his attention strays.

It carries him through the motion of leaning over, his body practically draping your own as you bend at the waist. Black hair again, wisps of it, lightly pressed against your back as he leans down, lips by the shell of your ear and an arm trapping you in. His cock is pressed right against the swell of your ass, and he may have to consider slipping it between his waistband.

“I think you got it.”

“Oh, really?” Your hips are moving again, side to side as you scrub shapes into nothing. “Double check for me?”

A low groan sounds behind you, big hands at your thighs that squeeze enough to have the plush skin bruised and tender in the morning. His hand travels, snaking up your thighs to meet the silky skin of your ass. Spread nicely with the way you’re bent over, warmth radiating off each globe as his thick pointer finger loops around the thin layer of pink cotton pressing against your balls.

It’d be so easy, perfect access to slip his thick cock into the warm, tight walls of your hole and pound you against the counter. You could sit on his dick for the whole day, drooling and dumb the more the head kisses your prostate again and again and again. Your Daddy could fuck you on your dad’s favorite sofa, make it squeal and whine under the weight of him filling your fucked-out and used cunt over and over.

Dark pupils blow wide as he pulls the fabric away, watching your hole flutter around nothing. He coos, sweet and deep. Just give him a minute, he’ll give you everything you need. Everything and more, until you’re a braindead fucktoy with glassy eyes and sticky, dripping holes. Until—

You’ve slipped past his arm, twisting as your growling stomach makes itself known. You inhale a quivering breath through your nose, eyes wide and expecting and waiting. His best friend’s son, wriggling and writhing under his palms, handsome face twisting as pearly teeth bite at your stout bottom lip.

He’s almost frustrated with himself, voice flat and distant when you puff out your cheeks. Forget a distraction— you’re a real, honest brat. “You’re still hungry.”

“I’m a growing man, Sho.” It’s almost consequential how your voice cracks, breathy and teetering the edge of a whine as he releases his grip on your body. Light from the fridge illuminates your silhouette in a yellow, halo-adjacent glow, and once again Shouta is staring a little too hard at his best friend’s son as he bends forward at the waist.

Aizawa weighs the juxtaposition between the middle of that sentence for a moment before his breath catches in your throat. Sho. You’d called him by a nickname, ten times sweeter than the candied fruit (grapes, are they?) you’re now sinking your teeth into. You’ve grown alright, and the proof stands hard, throbbing, and pressing against your shorts once you’ve returned to face him. It’s obvious your ploy with the fruit was just something to keep your mind off cumming in your cute, soft shorts— but he’d honestly have preferred to see that.

“I can see that.”

Rough palms press into your jaw— firm, but not aggressive, until fingers close and clasp at your cheeks. A dissolving layer of baby fat at your cheeks spills between his stern fingers, and you blink as the older man turns your face from left to right, then reverse. Seems he’s got a nasty habit of looking you over, breaking you down— bare bones. You still have enough room to chew, teeth grinding on the crystallized sugar with a hard and resounding crunch.

There’s always something in your mouth.

Dark eyes flicker to the lump appearing and disappearing in your throat as you swallow, sweet sugar dotting your lips, “You’re hard.”

“Yeah,” It earns a dark chuckle, though there’s not much light humor in it, “So are you.” His lips curl as he releases his grip, slow and lingering.

“Usually,” your gaze drops to his lips. “When two men,” Then up to his deep, dark eyes as you press against him, chest to chest. His cock twitches against the heat of your body, you can imagine it now— thick and pretty, curved upward with a sticky head and throbbing, heavy veins. “Make eachother. . . hard, they—”

A door slams upstairs, the air going still as your breath catches in your throat. As if that single disturbance has stolen all the oxygen in the world, your body goes rigid and stiff, and the sound of tired steps make their way descending down wooden stairs. The candied grapes are swapped for thick fingers, with light peppers of hair at the knuckles, and you can’t help but suck the seasalt right off.

“Behave.” He takes a single step back, dripping with indubitable authority that makes you feel light and airy. Ready to bend at his will with lazy eyelids and hazy eyes. It’s not a question, not a suggestion— it’s a demand.

“You’re still up,” Your father, shameless as he walks by the two of you with barely any coverings, makes a sleepy gesture in your general direction as he opens the fridge. “Both of you, huh?” He sounds faintly out of breath, and his skin sheen. The mental implications make you cringe, taking a step toward the characteristically nonchalant man who’d just stepped away from you.

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t tell me I’m being replaced!” He’s always been a loud man, your father, but it seems tonight his one-too-many beers have finally caught up to him. It’s just a joke, the both of you know it, but you can’t help the prickle of heat poking at your throat. You’re pulled in by the back of your head, your father’s hand pressed against your hair as he holds you in a firm side-hug, “Rather Mr. Aizawa be your old man?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Your smile is wide and tantalizing, heavy and dripping with something that has yet to be named. “Are you a good Daddy, Mr. Aizawa?”

Then, his eye twitches, “When I want to be.”

Your laugh is instantaneous and loud, an awkward thing that stretches into deep silence. There’s a lot of things you’d like Mr. Aizawa to be— rough, gentle, sweet, and mean. But your dad? It’s laughable, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. And sure, maybe the title you'd like to use on him sounds similar, but they’re most definitely not the same. If only he knew.

“I’m sure you’re the best,” He watches you smile, opposite ends of your mouth pulling at your cheeks in a motion that doesn’t quite meet your eyes— but it’s convincing enough. “Better than your other friends, right Dad?”

Shouta is avoiding you.

You know it, you can tell! He’s always gone nowadays— a couple weeks into your vacation and you can only count a mere handful of the times you remember seeing him. You’ve barely talked, barely stole a few glances here and there— he may as well have disappeared. He’s out somewhere, somewhere that involves your father, and the ocean, and his generously sized deck-boat. You don’t want to say it, but you know you’re the reason why. You’ve gone a bit overboard, perhaps, with the flirting. Ever since that night— even before then, it’d become a natural habit of yours to call the man Daddy.

And, now, he’s grown even closer to your parents because of it. Whenever you come down for breakfast they’ve already finished, leaving your plate in the microwave— as if you’d want cold, limp eggs and soggy, get charred bacon. You want to scream, really. There’s your mother, who leaves lingering touches and bats her eyelashes like some sort of schoolgirl. You feel almost evil for the rage that sears your blood— even more so when your first thought is she’s pushing fifty.

Then there’s your father. Who is and always will be, not if you can help it, closer to Shouta than you ever will be. They drink together a lot, the guest more in moderation, but it still hurts to see them laugh about old times— over, and over, and over again. Even when you’re the topic of conversation, despite your presence being completely ignored, it hurts. You’re right here.

So you mope, lounging around in your swim trunks. Your skin sticks to every surface, humid and thick as your mother complains to you about getting some sun, stepping out the house, then something about how you need to fix the look on your face. She says the warm rays on your skin will do you some good, the salty water of the sea against your body will toughen up your bones and loosen your muscles. But there’s really only one thing on your mind.

It trickles into about an hour and a half when Mr. Aizawa finally comes back. Your father too, you suppose, with flushed cheeks that only sake can replicate. It’s once you’ve been pulled outside and forced to stand in wet, thick sand that washes away from your feet with every sweep of the shore— that they return. Once the sun has begun to set, yet still bright enough to have your brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, they return.

“There’s my boy!” No one’s boy, actually. Your father shouts with an intoxicated wave, and the grimace on Shouta’s face is hidden behind his whipping hair as he slows the boat to a stop.

Or at least, you think so. It’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes, yellow and orange flakes of the gold star percolating your vision.

It dances along the surface of the ocean, pretty and shimmering the closer you step, the further you go, until you’re submerged in water from your knees—down. There’s a shout, something akin to a ‘catch!’, and you have barely any time to react to the ball that’s flying to you with an oddly precise amount of speed and velocity. You gasp, whipping your head back to catch the ball between two sea-soaked hands.

“What the hell?!” Your hands sting, pretty eyes blinking back at the two silhouettes in your vicinity. Mainly at Aizawa, who hasn’t even acknowledged you, let alone looked away from the resplendent horizon. And what’s so good about that? Of all things to look at— you’re right here! You don’t leave with the setting sun, nor do you only ever arrive with the rising one. You’re a constant, and you know you don’t hurt to look at.

So you throw the ball back, all your force behind it with a smug look on your face until it smacks Shouta in the leg— right in the center of his calf with a horrifying thump of a sound.

“Fuck,” You shout in horror, despite it all. Despite the desire to maul him the last few weeks, rushing forward into the water with the cutest tremor to your brows. “Fuck, okay, shit, my bad!”

And it seems you can’t move fast enough to wade through the rippling waves, where schools of tiny, nipping fish and textured shells had twirled and danced about through the currents of pellucid water. But Shouta seems just fine, almost as if he’d forgotten how to react to the feeling of getting punted with a ball at full force. He picks it up, waves it in his large palm, and throws it back. You can hear it tear through the air, just as it smacks you in the shoulder with so much force you don’t register it at first.

Numbness spreads along your arm, eyes blinking up at the older man who laughs. It’s quiet yet hearty, and not at all a pretty sound. It’s more contagious if anything, a wheeze of sorts, but your lips still curl into a petty frown regardless. You can make out a huff of “Your face!” broken up with laughter, biting back on his tongue.

“I’m not laughing.” You grumble, rubbing at your shoulder with faux diligence.

There’s an eerie smile on his face, enough to send shivers down your spine as water drapes your face and drips down your body— boat engine revving with ferocity as the men float off into the boarding dock— Aizawa’s presence arrives just as fast as it leaves.

You’re left to your devices, gawking as you process the last few minutes— his smile, your brattiness and stupidity, the way you’d only just noticed his prosthetic leg— at the mention you can feel miscellaneous fish brush against your own, scales shining through the transparent waters. You can’t help but smile too, wiping it away with the back of your water-draped forearm. Fuck.

It’s only been a month and you’re smitten. He’d left you in favor of your father again, and all you can do is giggle about it.

There’s not much you know about the man— now that you think about it. There’s been a brief drunken mention of him having kids of his own, a little girl, you think. Maybe a son? Despite his affliction for quiet, Aizawa looks as though there’s more he wants to say. To share, to tell. Your father must know it all, seeing as they grew up together, and part of you can’t help but feel a bit jealous.

Hmph.

“What’re you sulking for?” His voice has broken you out of a daydream, turning your body to look him in the eyes. The man of the hour— Shouta. You almost hate how quick you are to melt under his gaze, squaring your shoulders with the stability of poorly glued popsicle sticks.“That ball bounce off your head, too?”

“I’m not sulking.” You watch him walk around the perimeter of the shore, slow and calculating, with his hands balled up in the fabric of his black t-shirt. He pulls it overhead, tummy contracting and biceps rippling— it still manages to catch you by surprise, how much muscle he’s hiding under his baggy clothes. Your brain sets off a symphony of ooh’s and ahh’s, unable to tear your gaze from the light rise and fall of his chest.

Your eyes trail back up, past the bend of his collarbones, up the display of stubble on his throat— he’s staring right at you.

“Uh — I wasn’t. . anyway. . What’re you looking at?”

His lips twitch, briefly pressed together before relaxing as he steps into the cold water. He’s slow, hair rippling just as smooth as the ocean, the further he moves forward. And, despite that, he slowly curls a finger to and fro, as if he’s talking to a small kitten. “C’mere.”

You’re frowning when you trudge forward, hesitance in your step. “Mr. Aizawa,” you grumble, still something of a cute little sound, using the prefix your father introduced him with. Something about it makes Shouta’s frame stiffen— the title, or maybe the pettiness behind it. It’s not like you call him that when you’re in a particularly good mood. “You didn’t seem to want me around earlier.”

“Quiet,” He tuts, clicking his tongue as if he knows the game you’re playing. But despite the curt, clean-cut execution of his tone, his thumb finds your cheek with the same gentleness as a spring breeze. “Your parents were always around earlier.”

Oh.

You play off your surprise well enough, swatting his hand away with a deep grunt. Sure, it feels good. His hands on your skin— such rough palms that cover your body — but you’re not desperate. Not entirely, not even when he fixes the twist of your face with a quick look to your furrowed brows. You settle for a sigh, grumbling, “They don’t have shit to do with me.”

“You’re, what, twenty-five—“

“Twenty three.” You interject, almost proud you can correct him. Rivulets of water trail down your arms, and his gaze seems to follow its motion.

“Twenty three,” He echoes with something of a breathless sigh tilting his voice. For a moment you think it’s the interruption— he’ll work on it later. Maybe he’s been struck by just how much younger you really are. “They have everything to do with you. You’re still their kid, I doubt they’d be enthusiastic about leaving you alone with an older man. A stranger, at that.”

“But they did,” You look around, as if to prove your point. Shouta’s never been one for dramatics, let alone those fueled by snappy attitudes and rolling eyes, but it looks cute on you. Maybe even cuter if it were accompanied by tears. “They left us alone. . . Half naked. . . At a beach. . . Alone..”

“I get it. We’re alone,” Shouta’s voice has always been so deep, rumbly and tired and smooth in your ears but even more so when he’s irritated. “Drop the attitude.” It’s different in a way. Leaves no room for argument, though you still feel the overwhelming need to stomp your foot and keep on pressing. You can’t help the shudder, nor the goosebumps crawling up your thighs. It’s just so fun to push his buttons, to watch his passive face twist for a split second as he processes your words.

It’s not exactly hard when he allows it. Shouta lets you push until your heart’s content, only reprimanding you with a glance or cleared throat— and it’s almost eerie. You can’t help but feel

like you should be anticipating something, even as you stand flush against his thick body in lukewarm ocean water and he looks at you with contentment.

Then it occurs to you. . . He’s letting it build up.

“And you’re not a stranger, Mr. Aizawa.” Obviously you’re softening the blows, so he watches you step forward, arms crossed over his thick, plush chest. You’re just so cute, brushing past his overwhelming seriousness with a smile— albeit sly. He can’t stay mad forever. It’s not fair, how cute you are, with lips stretched out and teeth on display, with the apples of your cheeks rising, and the cutest little twinkle in your eye. He wants to kiss you. . . He wants to kiss you so bad it’s starting to hurt.

Especially when you lean forward, sunlight bouncing off the ocean surface and across your body— painting you in pretty, golden slivers of glow. Across your face, your chest, your stomach, your thighs. It’s been a while since he’s felt his skin against your own. Since he’s run his large, calloused hands along your body.

“What happened to ‘Daddy’?” He asks, absentmindedly.

“What?” You break his trance, looking down at yourself with a hint of something Shouta can’t quite place. Uncertainty, perhaps? Vulnerability, maybe. It’s odd, you usually prance around so confidently. You wear the tiniest— tightest— clothes known to man, have the smartest mouth, egg him on day in and day out.

That’s not it. You look smug. You’re playing him for a damn fool.

“Nothing.” Aizawa sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s wrong— it’s cliché, maybe even taboo. He wants to wipe that look off your face. He wants to kiss his best friend’s son stupid. The man he’d just shared parenting advice to, the man he’d spent years upon years of highschool, college, divorces, with. It’d been so innocent when he’d visit— maybe he should’ve never stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back to see you in full bloom, so handsome and lithe and sweet.

“ ‘Nothing,’ ” You echo, snarky as you mimic the flat, detached tone of Shouta’s voice. If you weren’t sulking before you definitely are now, readying yourself to push past him like some spoiled brat who was just denied their favorite candy after being caught trying to steal it nonetheless. So He holds onto your bicep, squeezing the flesh as it flexes with your feeble attempt at struggling.

“Are you done yet? Or do you need a minute to calm down?” He shifts his weight, voice calm and level as he holds you still despite the straining. Not a single hair on him is out of place, his tranquility almost alarming.

“Let go, old man!” He has to ignore the rush of adrenaline the back and forth gives him— the way he has an incessant urge to squeeze your jaw just a bit tighter.

“Hey,” You watch his lips curl to coo, a tone somewhat akin to a parent shushing a fussy child. Your face is turned to face him directly, “How many times do I have to talk to you?” Then impossibly close as his warm breath pans over the expanse of your face, “What’d I say about the attitude?”

“I don’t care what you say about it.” Your face is squished against his palm as you go to squirm your way out of his hold, but with the way his head angles down toward your face— you can barely get the words to sound convincing. There’s a giggle in your voice, like you think his frustration is amusing.“You like it, don’t you? Forget strange, you’re dirty!”

He’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes narrowed and lidded, “Stop fuckin’ playing with me, little boy.”

“Dad never lets me drive the boat,” Though the man can sense your whining from miles away, it still manages to catch him off guard. Shouta quirks a brow in questioning, hand hovering a polite foot away from your calf as you stand to walk along the wading boat floor. “Destroyed his last one when I was a kid,” (He doesn’t have to know you were actually nineteen when you did.) You speak in a tone that makes him think just maybe you consider it more your father’s fault than your own. “This one’s nicer anyway.”

“That’s wasteful.” Aizawa bites the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed into a familiar line. Had one of his kids done that it’d be a completely different story. Surely one they wouldn’t be proud of telling either. Through the corner of his eye he watches you dig into the cooler, scrabbling past the beer bottles and iced hennessy, to pull out an ice cream.

“To you,” You spare him a glance before finally plopping down in the passenger’s seat with much more force than necessary— especially when sitting on a boat. “I did him a favor.”

The cooler did a poor job— your ice cream is already melted and soft once it’s unwrapped. Thick, velvety cream that you lap up with your tongue dribbles down your knuckles. He should find it gross, but your pretty eyes flickering upward to meet his own as you take one long, slow lick up each bend of your fingers has done the complete opposite. Fuck. It’s hot— your sticky fingers and messy lips, your pinched brows and tiny, pleased whines.

If only it were his cock.

Shouta’s thick. Much thicker than your ice cream, he’s sure you’d feel a good stretch to your lips if you wrapped them around the head of his cock. You’d probably whine about how hard you have to try, how heavy it is on your tongue— how much it’s stuffing you full when it hasn’t even slid down your throat yet. You’d cry too, maybe, with drool slicking your chin and coating his dick in a pretty, shiny layer of thick saliva.

“Want some?” You lean uncomfortably forward, though your legs are over the arms of your seat and draped across Shouta’s lap. Already close, Shouta can smell the oreo on your tongue and vanilla cream by the corner of your lips. “You’re staring pretty hard.”

“Sit up,” The deflection is an answer in itself, yet the dark-haired man can’t find a reason to look away. “Before you hurt yourself.”

Instead, you take his wrist, thick and decorated with a long vein, to fiddle with his fingers. They’re long— healthy, strong, clipped haphazardly— big. He watches you split his fingers apart, lacing your free hand with his own— and though he remains with all five fingers up, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the urge to close them around your much smaller ones. Shouta clears his throat while you hum, lapping at your ice cream before pressing your lips against his knuckles, “Want you to hurt me instead.”

“Hush,” There’s a sharp intake of breath, dark lashes fluttering as multicolored eyes glance past your shoulder. It’s evident he wants to say more— in the way he shifts his weight to lean outward. “You hardly know me.”

Your foot nudges his upper thigh, pressing into the firm skin as the boat moves further toward the horizon. It feels more secluded that way.. Private, even. As if there’s only the two of you left on the dreamy island. Your face looks a bit exasperated, like you’ve never had to work so hard in your life, and he has to admit it— it’s cute.

“I know you grew up with my dad,” He ignores the venom behind your tongue as you mention your father, letting out a low hum of confirmation. “I know you have two kids— adopted, right?”

“Hitoshi and Eri.” He interjects, voice soft and fond. You’d never noticed it before, but now you’re acutely aware of the gentle presence of breeze and rippling waters. Shouta’s relaxed face is much sweeter, still creased with age but not quite as deep. The cute, pinched dips between his brows are gone, but you know how to bring it back.

“Lucky. Wish you were my Daddy instead,” Aizawa isn’t sure which word he’s more hung up on, nor how it's so easy for you to completely twist his words— but as much as it rushes to his cock, gets him twitching in his pants and throbbing all the way down his heavy shaft— he doesn’t like it. You talk entirely too much. With lips much too sweet and sheen with cream. With a tongue that flicks and presses against your teeth when you smile. With a pretty voice he could listen to, all day. Something that’d sound better through choking and gagging—ragged and crackly and used. Your lashes flutter, soft and gentle against your cheek. “How old is Hitoshi? My age? If he takes after you, then. . .You’re just—“

“Listen to me,” Perhaps it’s not very characteristic of him, but he just can’t stop. Shouta moves without thinking, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your lips are puckered. “For as long as I’m here,” he offers a squeeze. “For as long as your father is here,” then another, “Turn. It. Off.”

Your face melts into something floaty and distant, the smirk melting right off your face into something much more preferable. His thumb is so close, so close to your pretty lips. You blink once— twice, even— before regressing back into a grin, lips pressing against his long fingers. Fucking brat.

“I’ll just have to hit up Hitoshi sometime, then.”

The persistent comment nearly knocks him over, straight off the boat and plummeting into the cerulean depths of the sea. Instead, Shouta finds it better to step on the gas. . . To ignore the prickling heat in his blood, to ignore the easy taptaptap-ing of your fingers against the screen of your phone. It’s so easy for you to say anything around him— like a deliberate disregard for his reaction. His fingers thrum against the tiller, then wrap around its leather exterior to squeeze, and he doesn’t miss (not even for a second) the glance you give him through the corner of your eye.

The silence is almost painful. The motor speaks for you, loud and rushed and heavy. Aizawa’s jaw sets, clenched at each chiseled edge. His eyebrows furrow deep, angry, and his lips remain tightly shut. You can’t help but stare, watching his hair whip in the wind, dreamy and mellifluous. Not a moment of eye contact is shared, and you feel yourself slinking back into the white leather of your chair for the first time this evening.

Come the wooden dock just adjacent to the shoreline, Shouta’s throwing away wrappers (they’re all yours) and unbuckling his seatbelt. Your arms cross, a pout heavy in your lips as your eyes flutter closed. . Almost as if you being unable to see him makes him unable to see you.

“C’mon, baby.” You both miss the nickname, and despite the tension, it feels so natural dripping from his tongue.

Still, you whine. Mind occupied by your nearly offset tantrum prior to getting back at the dock. “I’m staying outside.”

“You’ll get heatstroke.” Shouta sighs, stepping back to lift you into his arms not even a moment later. You consider it ironic, for a moment, he always wears black despite the scorching heat. Bent at the waist as he leans over the open inside of the boat to unbuckle your seatbelt, his face remains stoic as your arms flail and fly to push him away. Your pretty face morphs into a nasty scowl, grumbles and mumbles toppling from your lips— you’re embarrassed.

He sets you down on the creaking wood, hands placed steady at your waist and shoulder to keep you upright— in your feeble attempt at escapism, your last result was simply going limp.

You just won’t budge, standing planted at the end of the dock despite the tugs to your biceps, forearm— hands, wrists. Your last attempt at pushing him away ends up in stumbles, nearly tripping over your own feet as you stomp down the polished dock, eyes hardening with the contact of deep, dark pools in Aizawa’s irises.

You were holding hands.

It’s been days. You haven’t left your room in days. At first, Shouta doesn’t worry. He doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t question why you don’t come downstairs. When he asks your parents about it it’s always the same thing— ‘That’s just how he is when he doesn’t get his way,’ or ‘He’ll come around.’ The more he asks, the mode suspicion, More questions, mostly wondering why he’s so enamored by their son— even if he had been closer to you when you were younger. But that was long ago, and you hardly remember.

And that isn’t even it.

He starts to worry, to feel bad, on day six. Not a single sound that even points to your presence. No creaking floorboards, no music playing from your old, antique and overpriced record player, no sounds of muffled laughter. It makes him feel out of his skin, like a bystander watching the inhabitants of this very beach house go about their day like nothing is wrong. But this wrong, so very wrong—

He wants you. His boy, his brat, his best friend’s son. It’s wrong and it’s taboo, but so help him, he yearns.

His feet had carried himself upstairs before his mind could, following after you a good half-hour later. You heard him on his way in, the shuffle of his slipper-clad feet from the outside of your door. Still, you’d made no effort to move, no effort to free yourself from the cocoon of your childhood blankets, no effort to open the door despite his gentle knocking.

“You ready to talk yet?” He was willing to brush it all aside. The pushing, the persistent flirting, the slight disregard for his feelings, the mentions of his son. Really, he was jealous. Maybe it’s unsavory for him to admit, maybe he shouldn’t think of his son as competition. And he knows, of course, there’s nothing there— he’s only ever competing with himself. He just can’t help it.

Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.

“I don’t like being ignored.” Your voice was small, but he could still hear it through the door. He heard it all, every implication. His sweet boy, his spoiled brat. You froze, just briefly, before he let himself in. The door creaked slowly with its open and close, a gentle click of the lock as the air grew thick.

Your old bed is small and creaky. Almost as much as the underused floorboards, your old bedroom screams with just as much personality as it does neglect. There’s tiny figurines, posters, awards, memorabilia— but it’s all too clean. Even if it has collected dust, not a thing is out of place. Pristine. There’s a few scattered photos— awkward haircuts, familial pets, the works. . Unapologetically you, maybe when you were just a tad bit more naive— but you nonetheless. It even smells like you, just with a hint of sea salt and warm, summer-y vanilla. Shouta wants to bury his nose in it.

“None of my fancy college boyfriends liked it here, Maybe ‘Toshi would.” You shift your weight as Shouta sits at the edge of your bed, the springy mattress creaking ever so slightly. There’s something left unsaid between the small string of words— and it’s sour. Twists on Shouta’s tongue, like he’s bitten into old bread, and it’s not just the mention of past boyfriends. Sure, that’s not exactly what he’d call this. . . relationship, but it’s not like it’d feel wrong. And he’d certainly feel bitter if his son were in his shoes. “Guess my sheets weren’t silky enough. Can tell you what was, th—”

“I like it.” It’s simple. The admission— simple and sweet, like it’s obvious. Shouta watches your lips part for a moment, just to close again, like a fish out of water. You look so small when you’re caught off guard, glancing to the side and shifting your weight onto your palms as you sit in the comfy middle of your bed. He knows what you’re doing— redirecting the conversation by flirting (it does get his heart beating, he’ll admit it)— and it makes you seem softer, almost.

He watches you sniffle for a moment, a quiet sound as you shift your knees with exuberating coyness. Your eyebrows furrow, cheeks puffed into a pout because, “That's it? You just ‘ like ’ it?”

He’ll give it to you, you never give up. He’d been warned, he was skeptical, and he’s been proven wrong. And, in the brunette’s head, you’d tallied over three strikes. Perhaps he was being too lenient. And now, Shouta, the weak man that he is, simply wants to indulge.

“What else would I say?”

“That it’s nice,” You cock your head to the side. “That you’ve never seen a room so nice. Which m’sure is true, anyway. . Are you low income, Sho? I can’t imagine what it’s like being a single father of two— or one, since Hitoshi moved out forever ago.”

The older man takes a breath through his nose, and out through his mouth. Pretty irises flicker down to meet the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, like the tidal wave of emotion has washed away back into shore, his voice is level as he speaks, “You spoke to him.”

“You ignored me,” You say it as if it’s obvious, simple, that if you can’t have Shouta you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. And though it’s not entirely true, you only really stalked his social media to learn more about his father, you don’t think your heart can stomach seeing pride swell in Aizawa’s chest. “Wanted your attention, Daddy.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, cold air rattling the bones as he watches you stare up at him. Your eyes look softer, boyish, wider at this angle. His pink tongue darts over his equally pink lips, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Show me.”

“Shh, sh, sh,” Shouta’s cock slips down your throat with a low grunt, the slippery walls clench around the fat head of his cock. Just as he imagined it, cutting off pretty whines and gasps, head bobbing back and forth— like you can’t tell whether it’s too much or too little. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his thick, sticky cock nestled against your throat— but it feels good, heavy and throbbing in a way that makes your brain shut off so quickly you drool. It sticks to his shaft and slides down his balls, painting your chin in a syrupy-sweet layer of saliva, but you’re too far gone to wipe it away. Such a good boy.

He must’ve said it aloud, because there you are nodding, lazily bobbing your head as he grinds in and out of your mouth. There’s a loud, sticky sound coming from your throat, squelching and soaked, obscene in a way that makes you whimper around your heavy mouthful of cock. He’s quick to correct himself— you only ever seem to behave when you’re stuffed with his dick, and he can’t have you thinking your behavior is acceptable. With a grunt, deep and velvety, Aizawa pushes deeper into your mouth until you gag— tight throat convulsing and quivering around his shaft.

You slurp loudly, choking and gasping as you struggle to pull back. His balls hit your chin, heavy and sticky and so fucking good as tears stream down your face. You’re starting to get into it now, making a mess of yourself as you stick out your tongue to lick along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, eyes focused on the rings of saliva holding you together. Shouta pulls out to let you breathe, his cock quickly liding upupup your throat and past your lips until all you can do is whine and lean forward, lips wet with spit as you chase after what you’ve been wanting for the past month.

“Stop fuckin’ moving. Let Daddy use your throat, wanna hear you cry on it,” The bulge of his fat cock shows in your throat, in and out, in and out, in and out.

You want to whine, to beat your fists against his thighs, and kick your feet— it’s all so much. He has you by the hair, big hand pulling and tugging, lifting you on and off his cock like a warm, tight fleshlight. You fail to bite back a growl, though it emits more as a cute, pathetic sound, glassy eyes focused on his cock being shoved down your hot, wet throat. It’s so easy to press your lips against the darkness of his pubes, to smear pre along your pouty lips and cheeks. His cock jumps in your mouth, thick and long and curved, leaking at the tip.

It’s hard to adjust to the stretch, sputtering and gagging with such cute, greedy sounds. You’re getting ahead of yourself, eager, tongue lapping at the achy underside of his dick, pressed against his balls. And, with a gasp, Shouta pulls out, huffs and unintelligible groans filling the air. The blushing head of his cock taps against your cheek. Once, twice, again and again. “C’mere.”

And yet, despite all that bark, your eyes barely make contact with the ones above you. Instead they trace the pulse of his shaft, how heavy his cock hangs between his legs, how it makes his long fingers almost smaller in comparison. The way pre dribbles from the tip, sticky and warm and oh, so inviting. It’s as if he can read your mind, knows how badly you miss the weight of his thick cock stretching your throat, “You can do better than that," and you almost can't believe it.

Better? Your eyes flicker to the saliva dripping from your chin, suddenly aware of the slick pre smeared across your pretty cheeks and the heavy pants leaving your lips. What gets better than this? You let him use your throat like a new fleshlight, cried on his cock and muffled the sounds in his pubes. Ignored the aching of your own cock just to focus on his own, absentmindedly bucking your hips into nothing, even if it made you look like a pathetic puppy. Fine— you can show him better. You can break him first.

You blink rapidly, tears clumped in your pretty eyelashes, lips parting to, indubitably, sass the older man. “What, need help gettin’ it up? Fuck you, can do it m—”

Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.

“— I wasn’t asking.” You really fucked up now, eyes wide as you’re lifted up by your throat and manhandled into Shouta’s strong arms. He smells good, and just as strong, as your face is pressed into his chest and your tiny, tiny shorts are pushed past your thighs. The air is cold, it spreads goosebumps along your skin, and you’re sure Shouta can feel them along his palm as he grabs handfuls of your ass. He ignores your off guard ‘Hey! I wasn’t done!’, ignores the squirm of your waist, ignores your poor, weeping cock.

Being the smooth, calculated man that he is, you’d expect Aizawa to put a rhythm and pace to his spankings. But no, there’s nothing for you to latch onto but the bundles of his hair as he hands out sporadic, random, and hard smacks along each globe of your ass. There is no back and forth, no favoring one over the other— it’s just where he wants, when he wants. If he wants to watch your thighs convulse and jiggle beneath his heavy palm he will, and if he wants to smack your hands away from his wrists as you tug and tug— he will.

Shouta groans when you let out a particularly pathetic cry, biting your lip and whimpering into his warm skin. You can feel his big hands part your cheeks, squeezing the skin until it spills over each finger and your ass has turned tender and sensitive. He coos, feeling you squirm and wriggle against his hold, “S’it too much? Daddy’s poor baby.”

It shouldn’t sound so sweet coming from his lips, even when it’s condescending and rough, even when he’s cracking his palm down again and again despite your kicks and squeals.

But it does.

“Da—ddy. . !” your voice quivers, hips rocking to an uncoordinated tune. So little contact and yet it feels like so much, his hot palms against your warm skin. . . The tears rolling down your darling face. . . The way your cock throbs against your tummy, your mouth aches with emptiness, your hole twitches beneath the weight of his fingers. The thought makes you want to whine all over again, body squirming and trembling as he holds and kneads the flesh of your ass.

“Quiet. I should shove my fingers down your throat to shut you up,” Shouta murmurs, so unnecessarily mean, kissing the dampness of your forehead before his hand cracks down against your plush ass three, four, five more times. You try to keep up your resolve, pretty legs trembling and knuckles clenching— but it’s just so hard. Being a brat is easy— it’s fun— you’ll give up a few tears, cry and pout, get your way. Easy. So you won’t break and give him what he wants. He’ll have to work for it, get a taste of his own mean, mean medicine.

Delayed gratification.

Wet llips open to speak, something smug and almost smart, but it’s reduced to a wet moan. You feel it—fingers spreading apart the globes of your ass, and more cracking down between them, on your empty, pretty little hole. For a moment your brain slips out of your body, thoughts static and turned to mush, fuzzy and convulsing where you lay. You process the sound of hushing, the feeling of wetness, the sound of slick spit against your skin. . . Thick, merciless fingers rubbing and tapping and sliding against you.

“Oh, god,” You sob, eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows pinching the second more pressure builds and— oh, a finger slips inside. “Fingers— that’s, oh god..” Inching in slowly, rubbing against your velvety walls and so fucking slick you’re beginning to see stars. Whatever you had your mind set on earlier flies straight out the window, your brain short circuits as your sopping hole flutters around his fingers, sucking them in.

“Fuck, baby, look at you clench on Daddy’s fingers. Want Daddy to finger-fuck this cute little cunt silly?” If you could see his face you’re sure he’d be smiling— an eerie thing, eyes trained on his fingers getting sucked back into you. Such a needy boy. “C’mon, say it. Tell Daddy you want his big fingers in your sweet, greedy little pussy.”

You can’t help it, hole throbbing rhythmically along his long fingers, squelching and gushing with stickiness. The swell of your ass ripples as you wiggle your hips, rising and falling to grindgrindgrind. “Fuck me already, c’mon, old man.”

“That what your little ‘boyfriends’ do?” Your lip quivers— he hadn't even flinched at the sass— and instead used your own words against you. “Oh, baby. They didn’t give that little boycunt the attention he needed, hm? That why you throw so many tantrums?”

Your hand finds his wrist, fingers wrapping around thick and strong limp just enough to get his hand moving, trying to guide him deeper, faster, harder. He should reward bratty behavior, but the words spill from his mouth almost immediately, “That’s it, just needed something to fill you up, nice and full.”

It’s ironic— he says it just before pulling out his soaked fingers. And, at your nightstand, opens the drawer to retrieve lube. You watch him pause, eyes scanning the contents of the drawer until his lips quirk downward. Lollipop wrappers. An ungodly amount— you really went on a hunger strike because he ignored you? For six whole days?

“What am I gonna do with you.” He sighs, but grabs a sucker regardless, tearing open its pretty, pastel blue packaging to reveal its red, shiny hard candy. He pops the treat into his mouth, holds it on the right side with his teeth, and squirts a generous amount of lube over the globes of your ass. His hands slip and slide as he guides it around, watches it dribble down your thighs and relishes in the way your hole opens up for him, soaked and sticky.

Your eyebrows pinch, hips wiggling as he pulls the lollipop free from his mouth and directs it against your own, “Suck,” He murmurs, but it’s forced past your lips before you can process the demand. Here come more tears, burning your nose as you hiccup out a tiny, overwhelmed, “Daddy?”

“It’s okay, I’m here,” He coos, circling the pad of his thumb along the rim of your hole. Even as your feet instinctively kick, there’s no reaction from him, just a pleased hum. “Keep sucking, atta boy.”

His thumb feels like a lot, makes you squeal and shiver as he presses it inside, and something hot and wet accompanies it. That's good, the heat of his tongue licking and sucking at your throbbing rim, bubbly spit dribbling down his chin and caught in his stubble. One hand is focused on fucking your boyhole raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re incoherent. His palm presses into the small of your ass, tongue working hard until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. He takes the opportunity to snatch the lollipop back, keeps his tongue pressed against your walls until—

He trails the glossy sphere of the candy down to your sloppy little hole, nudging and prodding until he slowly works the lollipop inside. “You can take it,” He growls, eyes trained on your fucked-out face. He can feel it, the tightening of your balls, the way your hole aches and pulses with the treat inside you. “That’s it, sweet thing. Wanna make this pussy cum, give it t’me. Let Daddy have it..”

He murmurs, and suddenly, instead of the treat that he’s popping back into his mouth, there’s the head of his perfectly thick, so big, cock pressing against your slick, thoroughly fucked-out hole and—

Oh.

“Sweet.”

You sob into nothing, back arching and spongy walls clinging down on Shouta’s cock as it’s worked inch by inch into you and— you can’t fucking believe it. You fought for so long, put on a bratty attitude and stomped your feet. Why would you ever push Shouta and his cock away for so long? Your breaths are short. Tiny little gasps as his large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs open to get a better view of the thick dick pumping you full. Your pretty little hole, sheen with spit and lube, exposed and on display for him and his cock. And, yeah, this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. . . You want him to break you.

“You’re— fuck, you’re so gross, Daddy,” Shouta grits his teeth, “Ohh, havin’ your best friend’s son on your fat cock, fuckin’ my pussy so full. . !” You’re straight up babbling, cross-eyed as each thrust knocks coherent thoughts out your brain. A real, proper slut, desperately humping upupup to fuck yourself on his dick. With this position— knees to your ears and holes on display, you barely have the control to move— but it’s cute to watch you try anyway.

“Shut up and take it,” He rasps, voice deep and scratchy in a harsh whisper as his hips snap back and forth. “Don’t want mommy and daddy to hear their son calling someone else daddy, do you?”

“Daddy— Daddy, my pussy—“ You’re babbling, it’s all you can do since Shouta is all force with his thrusts; takes what he needs, feeds you his cock good and so, so deep. Over and over, you let out broken whines, desperate for it, looking down as best you can to watch your own cock bob and jump against your tummy, thighs sticky with spit and lube. You can hear the sound of your slutty, pathetic moans, the wet plaplaplap of skin, lube trailing and frothing between your bodies as Shouta fucks into you. You can’t stop twitching— your legs, your hole, your cock.

“This is Daddy’s pussy,” He corrects, angling his hips just right, the heat of his cock pressing against every special spot you’ve got. Every bundle of nerves, every silky, spongy wall you’ve got wrapped around him. “Just like that,” You’re gagging for it, pouty lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he continues to watch your hole tighten around his thick, veiny cock. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into you, your body jerking back as he pounds, and pounds, and pounds. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. . .” Your breath is caught in your throat, and if you could, you’d scream, your body tensing as your cock throbs and bounces, cum spraying across your bare chest — stickiness shooting out your spent cock until you’re twitching, handsfree and body set ablaze. Shouta shows no signs of stopping, instead keeping his cock inside you as he flips you around, eyes narrowed. He fucks you through it, watching more cum squirt from your cock, leaky hole milking him for all he’s got.

“Dumb sluts love cock, baby. S’that what you are?” His voice is a low purr, pressing your face into the mattress, watching your ass fall back onto his cock until he feels himself aching hard, hard enough to start cumming inside you.

“Yeah, mhmm,” You drool into your pillow, absentmindedly fucking yourself back onto him. You’re desperate to chase after it, the searing spiral of pressure growing in your stomach, tight hole bearing down on his cock. “Daddy’s slut, s’me!” For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you ride out his hard thrusts, offering tiny movements of your own, up and down to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, to feel his balls slap against your thighs.

“Good sluts take Daddy’s cum,” Your eyes, so glassy and empty, is what gets him, groaning loud as he pumps a load inside you. “Take it, boy. Let Daddy knock you up.” It’s messy, and downright pornographic watching his cum leak out of you, just for him to fuck it back in with the head of his dick. Shouta’s cum starts to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move.

He ignores your needy, overstimulated whines when he pulls out completely, his spent cock hanging heavy between his thighs. Even when you’re limp and boneless, body trembling violently, you want more.

“Da— Da—ddy,” You sob, eyes squeezed shut as strong arms pull you up and into even stronger thighs. Sitting on his lap now, Shouta coos hums, basks in the sight of his pretty boy’s afterglow.

“Daddy’s here. I’m here, I got you.” He whispers into your shoulder, and that’s all you need to hear. The thought of his best friend melts away— you’re more than that. You’re not just his best friend’s son. . .

You’re Shouta’s boy.

Summer is coming to an end.

There’s a seasonal chill in the air and it’s getting dark in the early afternoon. The beach has switched its course, currents changing direction and fish disappearing from the shoreline. The weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up, and the clouds have yet to dissipate into the sky. . Shouta helps you pack, grumbles when you press chaste kisses against his skin the whole time— shuts down the stomps of your feet while you whine, “I don’t wanna leave.”

“Spring break,” Is all Shouta says, his mismatched eyes downcast in a way that highlights his long, pretty eyelashes. Then, voice barely audible, he whispers, “I don’t want you to, either.”

Your body visibly straightens, giddiness painting your boyish face as you smile wide and big. The older man almost regrets saying it, huffing with you lean impossible close to hug him tight. “Will you call me?”

“Whenever you want,” He says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. You watch as he throws your large bag of lollipops into your carry-on backpack, but not before plucking a treat free from the others. “You know I will.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

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