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[pumpkin-pi-e]

I've debated how best to approach this, so I'll just say it. I'll most likely be stepping away from the blog indefinitely. I'm always excited to share what I've worked on and see people's reactions, albeit anxious about how they'll be perceived. I wake with horrendous stomach pains the morning after posting. It hasn't improved with time, which is why I haven't been as active. I had many fun things planned and many stories lined up, but the anxiety isn't something I can stomach any longer. It's worth it when I get lots of engagement and the likes/reblogs pour in, but when they don't, it's demoralizing (loath, as I admit it). I'll finish the asks I've received until now but will no longer be sharing my own personal works. The blog can remain an archive since I don't want to take away stories people have liked and enjoyed. Thank you for following, and thank you for your support thus far.

[pumpkin-pi-e]

Your Hanzo and McCree are so good omg 🛐🛐🛐. I love your blog! Hehe makes me rethink returning to the MHA fandom

Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed my characterization. This is primarily an MHA blog, but lately, I've been branching out and experimenting with other fandoms. Hanzo and McCree are so fun to write for. I might do a poly Hanzo/McCree/reader fic someday if I can think of a cool prompt.

[pumpkin-pi-e]

Yanderes Aizawa, Hanzo, McCree, and Toji like to pretend you don't know what your clit is for.

I Ain't As Good As I Once Was

“This is your pussy. This is your pretty little pussy. You might have touched her before, but I’ll teach you how to spoil her.”

God, I love sad older men.

Content Warnings: forced cunnilingus (female receiving), overstimulation (female), c*mming in pants, fingering, kidnapping themes, self-flagellation (Hanzo), worship (Hanzo), dirty talk, mommy kink (Toji), implied gambling addiction, your implied age is -26 (Toji), Age gap, neglect on account of gambling addiction, breeding kink, pregnancy talk, (Toji) forced pregnancy? (Toji), dubious consent (Toji)

Not recommended for those under eighteen.

You try and touch yourself to show that you know how to make yourself cum. You've been doing this for years.

Aizawa

Aizawa swats your hand. No, no. You won't do it properly. You won't do it until you shake, cry, and run down your thighs. But he will. He won't overstimulate you if you don't want him to. He will work you through your orgasm, though. No matter how much you claw, beg, and squirm. You'd wanted to get off, and Aizawa will ensure you get every last bit out of this. He'll make sure you come in his mouth, make sure your cum slides down his chin. No matter how angry you are at yourself. No matter how hurt you feel. He can be tender—can make those thighs burn and those tits jiggle in a way you can't. "This is your clit, sweet girl. I'm gonna make it purr for you."

The last remains of his words drive into your ears as his mouth finds yours. The finger in your panties swept back and forth over the smooth, leathery skin of your clit the way a slow tide would swathe and flee a shoreline.

"Nn!" Fizzy pleasure bloomed in warm, scattered waves throughout your pelvis. You twitch forward the slightest amount, subtly humping yourself into a breathy, whining mess. "'s not a cat."

Aizawa draws a lazy circle around its sensitive edges, and your thoughts water.

"It can't—" Ah! "—caaan't purr." Your voice curled. It rose and wavered like a tilde symbol—building high and going all melted butter toward the end as you lurch into the wonderful crest of good he inspired. Your hips obeyed the spasms in your tummy and curled without decision or thought.

"It already is." It's practically vibrating. Singing.

"Can't you feel her purring?" Aizawa made the most agonizing, thigh-shuddering passes over your clit. You arch, arch (uhn, God!), arrrrrrrch into each one. Your clit is ringing, purring.

"Kitty's melting in my hand." She's really showing out for attention, wetting and trickling down his palm. Your small cravings are his responsibility, as were all your larger needs. He's your provider and caretaker. You rely on him for everything else, so why not this? When are you going to learn that Daddy does it better? He can satisfy them better than you ever could.

"Don't—don't call it that."

"But it purrs."

Oh! Oh, oh! It—it—oh, please, god, oh. He's using his nails, teeth, whatever he has. Aizawa sucks a bruise right into your neck. You shiver, squeal, and wriggle. How could a neck be this sensitive?

Aizawa doesn't budge. His heart thumps as you push at him, half-hearted. Enamored with any short amount of contact, Aizawa hums. You twist away from that, too, the sensation foreign on your skin. Aizawa takes a deep huff of your neck (your scent) and falls onto you like a dead weight. The new position traps his hand down the front of your panties and you underneath him.

"If it purrs, then it's a kitty. This cute kitty makes you a queen. And a purring queen means it's time for a litter." He's still working on you—working your clit and mons. You're soaking. You're hot. You arch into his hands, desperate, nearly out of your mind.

"Why do you have to be such a kinky bastard?"

"Because you like it." His stubble scrapes against your neck. Aizawa does it often, notably during 'quiet moments,' so you'll familiarize the sensation with safety.

Or so you suspect.

The brambly term of affection came often, but from what you gathered, it reserved itself for special occasions (you're convinced he stole it from his cats). When cramps left you withered and spent, Aizawa lifted you from the lonely little corner you'd carved for yourself underneath the kotatsu and reoriented you onto his lap for something to lean on—something to wring your grief into, should you need it. Shouta said he could take it—that he wouldn't mind—and had the scars to prove it, namely, the one beneath his eye. It was hard to argue in the face of something so tangible. Yet, it left a sour feeling of worms in your gut.

You're in pain. You don't want to be pain for someone else. You don't want to hurt him—he's never hurt you.

Just because he can doesn't mean he should.

He's pushing you forward, wanting you on your knees. "Because it gets your kitty panting."

It vibrated.

"W-who said I liked it?" Your tummy tremors and sweats as his fingers trace those hidden valleys.

"She did." Aizawa dove in for a quick, lascivious kiss. "She purred so sweetly." He lapped at your clit, hot and moist and delicious. "It must be love."

Calls your vagina 'kitty.'

He talks to it (which perturbs and delights you to no end). Cum for me, kitty. Isn't Daddy treating you nicely?

You know in your soul you aren't the 'kitty' he's referring to. Aizawa only called you kitty when you were topping. He had a habit of going into a deep mantra whenever you did. "Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty..." Aizawa sighed under his breath, sometimes moaned, and others thinly whined as you rode him and as he watched through sexed eyes progressively getting lower and lower until they would eventually close. He'd seize shortly after. And if you didn't stop, Aizawa gasped it (half-heartedly attempting to shuffle out from under you, gently pushing at your coasting thighs with jittery palms. Outside of that, you were 'kitten.'

When she obeys, Aizawa gives her kisses and licks—so many that you'd stammer and beg him to stop. He attacks with fervor, and with your weak-kneed body, he pins you there, grunts, and gives you mouthfuls of his tongue, which leads you to beg, this time more openly.

Aizawa repeatedly kissed the top of your vulva, where your clit lay beyond its folds. Such an obedient kitty. —kiss— Such a perfect darling. So good. —kiss— So perfect.

He doesn't torture you for too long. Aizawa (generally) won't overstimulate you unless you want him to. He'll even apologize. He just had to give his kitty her due.

The guiltiest (second to Toji) in pretending you're too naive and innocent to know what your clit is for, let alone how to use it. He'll smack your hand away (reawakening memories of your father swatting your chubby little hands when they had something they shouldn't).

You can insist you know what you're doing, and he'll insist you don't.

"Feel these?" You touch your outer labia. Aizawa's hand is over yours, guiding it. "These are your pretty lips." Gummy, soft, and perfect for his teeth. He'd use them for pillows if you'd let him. You wouldn't, though. There's no way Aizawa could get close enough to smell you without getting a taste.

"They'd look prettier curing my insomnia." In other words, he's telling you to ride him until he passes out, or rather, throwing out an invitation. Your lips have erased his dry eye and lifted his depression. Simply gorgeous.

"How would I..." How could your vaginal lips cure someone's depression?

"Simple," He's against your ear. His hair gave you shivers as it fanned your neck. "You sit on my face," Together, your hands rode parted lips. They kneaded love into your skin that settled in your ovaries. "and rut." Your hips went forward with a gasp, unexpected and on cue. No matter the situation, Aizawa never failed to sound like a college professor three years away from retirement. He speaks to you as he would his colleagues and students. There is no bedroom voice, growl, or husk other than his natural warmth—warmth that made you swallow from the very lips he made you touch. Made you restless on his lap.

"If you knead them gently," he says, "they'll make you feel nice." Your knees knock when Aizawa focuses on the entrance hidden in your labia, circling it. "But not as nice as this," Aizawa pats your pussy, sending ripples through your body.

Slap!

Something liquid-warm fires across your hipbones, following a path up your spine, reminding you of when Aizawa kissed you. You call his name in a panic. What is this, and why is it delicious? Unadulterated joy tore through you like a storm in Texas-May. It stole your tongue, and the thoughts it couldn't finish—stole the bones from your body. The ache reverberating in your core was a flash-bang replacing everything but Shouta's name with bright white. It rang like a bell from the ovaries out, telling the rest of your body it was in love. It scares you. "Shouta—"

Slap!

"You're alright, pretty. You're going to be a big girl and cum, that's all."

Slap!

Oh, God.

"Intense, isn't it?" His chin sits in the crook of your neck. Aizawa watched you stutter after his hand and gently convulse.

Slap!

Your body hums like a Ford Mustang at a stop light. It lurched into each tap—tipping over the crosswalk markings in the concrete, eager and desperate for him to take you over the edge. Nervous foot on the petal, it waited for green.

"Come on, pretty girl. Almost there."

Slap!

Your thighs snap shut. Pleasure so soft and sweet spreads throughout your body. The ache becomes ecstasy, and the guilt becomes glee. It swells and sways like storm clouds in New Orleans, easily hitting your lungs and filling you with the finest summer rain.

Did you think for a second Aizawa wouldn't praise you? "Yes, kitten. Yes, kitty." He's agreeing with all your sobbed gibberish, rubbing you out because he knows you won't. His finger is hard on your clit when you buck and shimmy to escape the rush—the pleasure that won't stop knocking. Again, he won't take you past what you can handle, but you're riding that coaster to the end: no stops or pauses. You're getting every single clench, every tooth-chattering, leg-shaking, hip-raising flood of absolute 'God, yes,' that follows.

Aizawa was a decent man—was. It's wrong. It goes against every code, the oath he'd taken with the acceptance of his license. He made excuses for the inexcusable. Every day he went out and fought for freedom while ignoring yours. Swift on his legs when avenging the cries of the innocent, Shouta let yours fall on deaf ears.

Hanzo

Hnng. But forced cunnilingus. Dubcon, only because you're overstimulated, and Hanzo is stubborn. If you haven't squirted, he hasn't done his job. He had his pride as a man to uphold.

Hanzo raises your hand to his lips. He kisses it, clasps it, and restrains it to the bed. "Let me tend to you. So long as you warm my bed, you won't lift a finger." He kissed your neck and collarbone. "Not for your pleasure," Hanzo gently spread your labia. "Not for mine. This time it is for you, my queen."

A shiver runs down your spine. Your mind fills itself with visions of Hanzo taking you. He never has—claimed he could never 'defile' you. That didn't stop him from fingering your clit, drawing you to orgasm, or turning you into a mess of nerve endings.

"You are divine." You're a gift from the gods. Hanzo prayed they would keep him from succumbing to temptation, but it was useless. He had never been able to resist a challenge, and this time would be no different. His prayers didn't stop his cock from sliding against his expensive sheets, wishing it were your body his seed had coated, giving the legacy he'd spent a lifetime chasing.

His queen enjoyed testing him, denying him his duty as a husband. Why trouble yourself with matters such as these when he is so capable? He had solved many puzzles and navigated treacherous waters with ease, yet she seemed to think his skills were limited to a bow and arrow. Do you truly believe he cannot satisfy your needs?

Hanzo fondled your clitoris. "This is a husband's duty."

He moved down between your thighs.

"This is a wife's duty." He said as you whimpered. "To moan as a man pleasures you. To lie back and know your body is in his hands. To take your pleasure and offer your own." His tongue found you. You writhed against the bed, unable to stop your body's rhythm from matching his tongue's motions.

"Allow me." Hanzo touched your clit the way you'd tried to, his tongue deep in your core.

You wouldn't know the first thing about settling your body's aches. That was Hanzo's business. Your hands need only grab onto his hair when it all becomes too much for you.

Hanzo is skilled with a tongue, with a cock, with a razor-edged sword.

"Let me tend to what is mine."

Hanzo kisses your thighs, thighs that a man has never kissed. Thighs that tremble and shake so terribly you fear for your health. You can't breathe. Your heart is pounding, and you feel your mind slipping away. Colors bleed into the corner of your vision, static and buzzing like an old TV.

But Hanzo keeps kissing, licking. Your thoughts slur, and your tongue is no better.

'an...H-han.. c'n.. cn't... Your eyes roll—your back arches. Tears run into your hairline; Hanzo tightens his grip on your hand as your other one blindly scrabbles at his bedsheets. "H-han! Z-z—Oh, my God..." A wash of electricity ravaged your body. Pleasure so raw and sweet your voice croaks out hoarsely, love pouring from your lips in a flood of passionate syllables.

His grasp remains firm as you jerk into his waiting tongue. You try not to. You try and fight your body's natural curl toward the very thing bathing it in pleasure—foolish woman. Hanzo tongued harder and doubled his hold to keep you pinned throughout your cries and gurgles.

Cry for me, my Goddess, my queen, so I may worship you harder. Seek my hand if you are overwhelmed. Cling to me. I promise to be your source of strength and comfort. Security is the least of a husband's duties. Make me strive for the breath of freedom, then deny it to me all at once. Show me with cries that I am worthy, yet prove with the heat in your thighs that I am nothing.

Unable to praise you to the extent he'd like, Hanzo returned your moans from deep between your clenched thighs. He licks harder and faster, and he just isn't stopping. You deserve all this and more—to drown in your own wet and swallow hard enough to see heaven.

So beautiful. —Lick— So generous to me, my queen.

Your body is a waterfall that Hanzo would happily kneel underneath. Hanzo was no Buddhist, but he believed you could purify his wretched soul. In you, he'd find redemption. Your heat could make a blind man see. Surely, it could cleanse the stain of his past.

No matter how many passes his tongue made, you had more to give.

You scratch his sheets, and Hanzo has never been so jealous. The skin of his back tingles at the mere thought of hovering above you, thrusting into you - warm, soft, and perfect as you carve into his back and warm his ear with your crying breaths.

You can feel your breath swelling, becoming a low chant of pleasure as Hanzo continues to lap at the valley between your hips. Hanzo rewards your pussy for each hungry gulp as it comes and comes and comes by flicking his tongue over its pounding entrance. Wildly twitching, it swallowed deep and hungry—a trail of wet escaped. Hanzo licked that too.

"Can't… Hanzo, can't…." You reach out desperately for the headboard, using the bed covers to help propel you forward. When this failed, you mustered all of your strength and used your core to drive yourself forward, shoving his head with a surprising force. With each attempt, you inched closer and closer toward freedom.

His hand grabs at your waist, pulling you towards him as he licks and sucks. You can feel yourself trembling on the edge of something big—an adventure you aren't ready to take.

Hanzo watches you above your knees; he looks you in the eyes as you gasp and wheeze. You plead, and the archer licks your outer lips. Hanzo sucks your clit, hums. Your words gargle in the back of your throat.

The hand in his hair turns into a fist. Hanzo moaned.

At some point, he mumbled in your folds, snippets of "goddess" and "queen" as his hips repeatedly struck the mattress. The groans he's making have your ovaries flushing, your cunt fluttering. Hanzo's panting by the end, but he doesn't stop licking.

Hanzo, for all his dignity and grace, wants you to put him on his knees. Make him work and beg for air. Then, smother him.

Can you imagine Hanzo pinning you to the bed, claiming he's wronged you and needs to atone? You can scream that you forgive him, that it's unnecessary, but he won't accept it. What good is forgiveness if he doesn't earn it?

Or, he goes down on you before every Overwatch mission to "strengthen his mind and body" to better prepare.

"H-Hanzo. Why—" You bit your finger to keep from moaning (squirming). You don't need any bruises. Your hips still bear the thick shape of his fingers.

"Why not just—ah!—just train more?"

"You are the only meditation I need."

Hanzo’s bed once filled itself with women from all walks of Asia. Sojiro filled his bed with women from all walks of Asia. Differing accents, differing traditions. Same economic status. None of them would have been good enough for his father. The thirst for an heir may not have originally been his own, but the need still burned beneath his painted skin. The dragons grew restless, for Hanzo’s desire was their own. The dragon lord had never truly given up on his future children.

Unconsciously plays into your worship kink

Step on him

Physically a virgin, spiritually a whore

Not inexperienced, per se. The terms by which Hanzo lost his virtue weren't his own, so Hanzo ignored them.

Vanilla in theory and theory alone. Missionary, no anal. Ever. But he'd clean his spend from your 'temple' (inside and out) in gratitude and penance. First, for deeming him worthy of such a privilege. Second, for dirtying you and finishing without your consent.

He's kneeled at your feet, kissing them and offering his sacrifice.

It's all amusement and spectacle until he asks what punishment you deem suitable for his transgression.

Is he serious? You came three times in the last forty minutes.

You should be at his feet. You could never cum like that on your own.

Hanzo decides for you

You're shuffling off the bed when he reaches for his bow

He expects you to use honorifics after his name. You are his wife, and he is your husband. You must address him with respect.

Call him 'lord Hanzo' in jest, and the archer closes in on himself. Memories of a life he'd long abandoned close in on all sides. He kindly asks that you don't tease him in such ways. You know nothing of his past. Hanzo doesn't blame you for his reaction to your words; you only meant to play with him, as a wife should. Humor, and not ridicule. (Not that he thought himself undeserving of it. If a divine creature decided he needed humbling, who was he to feel any different?

Hanzo shies from titles that place him above you, "master, King, God, etc."

Jesse McCree

"Now," Jesse stood with his hands resting on his belt, the light from its buckle glinting off into your eyes and reflecting the terror you felt. His hips tilt to one side as he observes you silently. "Why doncha tell me again what you were hopin' to accomplish with them tiny little hands o' yours."

Panic flashed in your eyes because Jesse widened his stance and raised his hands.

You still scramble further up the bed.

"Nah, ya ain't in trouble," Jesse said as he removed his hat and tossed it on the side of your dresser. Always mindful of Ma's etiquette lessons, Jesse knew better than to enter a lady's room wearing his hat. Was impolite. You don't enter a lady's room 'less you come naked. "Pity she didn't teach me to knock," he added with a smile.

Confusion twisted your features. Jesse often said things that you weren't sure how to interpret.

His slow smile told you he was a man looking out after his own. It made your heart beat faster. He wasn't here to hurt you.

"Just show Uncle Jesse what you were up to 'fore I came in." He moved closer, the bed frame squeaking beneath his boots. "Lemme see what you got," he said. Jesse reached out, and you flinched.

But his hands only brushed a finger across your cheek, pushing away a strand of hair. "Ya got somethin' special in those hands," he said gently as his fingers pressed against your skin.

You become aware of the hands covering your modesty. You glance at your bare thighs out of habit when Jesse references the heat between them.

"Come on now, don't get all bashful," He said before you could try to hide under the blankets. You had a way of scurrying off like a little mole whenever he teased you too much. Shy, sweet, and gentle. He could eat you up for days.

"Show me how ya touch 'er when you're all alone."

You pull your cami over your thighs to deter those mocha-brown eyes. Jesse raised a brow that was just as dark. "Ya ain't got nothin' to hide, girl. I already seen it all." He said. Good-natured, southern charm oozed from his every sentence. Yet, you still felt like you were standing in the principal's office and caught doing something wrong.

But Jesse smiled as though what he said was meant to make you feel better. He leaned down, kissing your forehead as if it were the world's most natural thing.

"I'm… I'm loud.." Your knees draw together.

His smile was lopsided. "Good thing all the gunfire and explosions drown out hearing." He said, referencing the hearing aids he wore in his ears.

Did you think a little thing like that would ever be a problem? Bless your sweet little heart.

You weren't sure what to say. 'I'm sorry?' Would he think you're pitying him?

But he just let out a chuckle and shook his head. "Don't sweat it, sugar." A large palm ruffled your hair affectionately. "Now, why don't you show Uncle Jess what you were playin' with?" He asked again, his voice a little more playful this time.

"You..you really can't hear?" You fidgeted with the hem of your cami, not wanting to make eye contact.

His grin widened, "Not a thing." Jessie lied. "I'll even take 'em out if ya want." He started to take off his hearing aids, but you stopped him.

"No, no! That's... That's not necessary." You said quickly.

"Well, alright then." He said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"How's 'bout you let this old cowboy have that weapon yer holdin'?"

Weapon?

"Oh, she's lethal." Jesse winced playfully. "One could take out a man if it's aimed properly."

"She?" You asked, curious.

Jesse held back the brunt of his laughter. "Yer pussy, sugar. It's a she."

Your expression has him losing his composure. He had the courtesy to turn away and chuckle. The insult on your face had him in stitches.

"Well, shoot." He said after a while, finally managing to compose himself. "I ain't mean to make no fun of ya. Just thought you'd like to know your kitty got a name."

Your body ran hot, and your heart thumped against your chest. You can't believe how Jesse made you feel with just a few words and one little joke. You could see the mischievous glint in his eyes and knew he would make you squirm again.

"Respectfully, I'm gonna need to see those hands of yours." He said, that same southern gentleness in his voice like before.

Jesse whistled as your hands lifted, low and appreciative.

"I'll be damned..." You're sweet enough to top his apple pie. If he had it, Jesse would've held his hat to his chest; those thighs could carry him through the Arizona desert.

"You can take my breath away any day," Jesse said with a grin. He drank those thighs ten times over before they'd self-consciously shut. He was drunk on you as he was on moonshine.

"Hands back on your holster. Show me how you use it."

With his boot planted firmly on the mattress, brown eyes staring you down, you touched yourself. You'd jumped at the first brush of a hesitant finger against the peach fuzz clothing your mons—prickly and on its way to growing—cold fingers startling skin that hardly ever felt a temperature change. You've never been more thankful for those stubborn hairs that always grew back despite your best efforts. It offered a level of decency—privacy—during a private act made public. You map your vulva, getting a feel for it. Your legs spread as you become more comfortable with the movements and sensations that kiss you nightly when the house is sleep—as comfortable as you could be with a man like Jesse McCree looming over you.

You were very aware of him—his presence, his smell. You could feel him in your veins as you touched yourself, and he watched. He dared not move a muscle lest it scared you off.

The situation might be foreign, but the sweetness in your abdomen isn't. The toe-curling warmth made you want to rock and hum into its beautiful calm. It took the stress out of a very stressful situation. How odd to find yourself tense in the middle of your go-to stress relief.

You moved with clinical precision, not for pleasure but to show Jesse you weren't helpless. You felt like the Tin Man—joints stiff, robotic, and locking together when thoughts of what you were doing and in front of whom caught up to you. The need to defend yourself from any infantilism oiled them and kept them going. Your breath gets heavier as the pleasure builds inside of you, regardless.

Could you even cum like this?

Doubtful.

There wasn't anything too exciting about tracing up and down your lips, still wet from the 'exercise,' Jesse interrupted. Your clit still pulsed despite cologne tickling your nose like spice (or maybe because of it).

He was so close.

With the scent of tobacco and leather on his clothes, Jesse Mccree had your undivided attention. You can't look at him, but the thought of staring into those deep brown eyes while you circled your clit and cried the prettiest you could make you swallow down below. Your clit throbs, and you massage it before you can stop yourself. You play with the hood, fragile and unsure. It isn't enough, but you don't want to appear indecent. God, if only you could throw open your legs and—

"That ain't how ya do it. Touchin' 'er like that, bet you don't even know what she's called."

Of course, you do. It's a vagina. Not a 'her,' not a 'she.' You told him so.

"Aw, now. You'll hurt 'er feelings. Tell me what you call 'er, darl.'"

"It… it's my vagina." You emphasize the word 'it.'

Jesse shook his head. Shoulda knew you'd call 'er somethin' dull and childish.

"Move aside, sugar." Jesse motioned for you to stand. A cigarillo was all that was needed to complete the toothy grin as he sat, cybernetic hand hitting his thigh. "Come sit on Papa's lap. He's gon' show ya what she's for. How to touch 'er."

You stood uncertain before him, blanket held to your sex. The red fabric pooled between your legs and onto the floor.

"I don't bite, sugar." He said. It's the softest you'd ever heard him.

Your lips thin to a pensive line.

This is a bad idea. But the prospect of this man sipping you like he did his whiskey was thrilling.

You look past him toward his hat on the dresser, and the blanket drops. So do Jesse's eyes. But that grin? It stretches to something boyish, handsome, and white. He savors, just as you'd hoped; he savored himself so fully your legs ache to cross over each other. He's fixated on your vagina. You hope he can't see it swallow.

"This is your little pussy." Jesse spread you open with two fingers. You squirm on his thick thighs. He's mountainous and warm against your back; you hardly cover two-thirds of his broad chest. He must spray cologne directly on it. Woodsy Pine and Old Spice took you to a campfire with marshmallows and Southern folklore. You don't think about the chestnut hairs peeking out of his flannel. You can't. You'll die.

"This is your pretty little pussy." He rubbed your fatty, wet lips with four fingers—rough and widened in a V-shape.

Your vag—your pussy clenches, tingly.

"You may have touched 'er before," He swiped your clit side-to-side, hitting nerve endings that had you bucking on his tan, human finger. "but I'll teach you how to spoil 'er." He dipped one deep inside.

"And fill 'er up."

Your cries are as helpless as your hips as they help him fuck your pussy open. He stretches her so good you can't recall when you began referring to her as a she. You fuck yourself on his fingers until pleasure gushes from your cunt.

An involuntary gasp escapes your lips as he collects his first load in his fingers. You're there.

"You wanna cum, and I can make it happen, sugar." Jesse held you as you shook. Robotic arm slung over your waist, he let you use his finger to draw out your end. He pumped into you occasionally—lazy and matching your weakening thrusts.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with bein' greedy. Uncle Jesse will let ya have seconds if ya want 'em."

You just keep goin', doncha? You're a lil fighter—pushin' those shuddery hips forward even as you gasp and choke.

Ya weren't lyin'. Yer loud. Not in a cutesy way, either. You're raw, unapologetic.

Jesse loves it.

Nothin' worse than a woman who does all that dainty shit.

You cried so long and hard your voice tapered into a husk.

"These fingers were made for women. Made for touchin' 'em." Any internalized shame blew in the wind when Jesse used his thumb to swipe your sensitive clit. You groan like a cavewoman. Guttural, primal.

"Made for makin' 'em come. You gonna come for me again?"

You're already trembling, unable to get your tongue working as you tighten on his fingers.

"There ya go, sugar. Cum like I'm gettin' it in. Goin' six inches deep and cummin' hard on 'er lips." Jesse pumped his fingers deep again as you began panting, panicking—he was insistent on getting you off—a knot of orgasm tightened in your waist until you snapped like a whip against your backside and seized.

"Ain't nothing wrong with cryin'."

You can't stop shaking. Crying. Tears fall off your chin, and you don't know where they came from. At this moment, you're a helpless baby—wailing and hoping he understands. You need him to fuck the soul from your body. You need him to stop.

"I've got somethin' of a confession," Mccree said, his drawl thickening with each syllable. The thumb on your clit sent his words through one ear and out the other. He's knuckle-deep in your cunt and seated near your pleasure spot as he slowly curls into it. You curl with him, hot and whining.

"I may be aurally challenged, but I can still hear you, sugar." You're drooling in every figurative sense—mentally and emotionally sloshed from the pump of his heavy fingers. "Every time you whisper my name at night." He said, his tone low and warm.

Your thighs clamp around his hand.

Fiery shame swept like lava and left coals on your chest, leaving you with prickly, uncomfortable goosebumps.

Oh, now we can't have that.

You've stopped chasing his hand, chasin' that release you'd wanted so bad.

A gentleman, Jesse puts in enough work for both of you. If you aren't meetin' him, he'll have to try that much harder, won't 'e?

God, what would your family think? They'd shun you. Getting off to thoughts of your captor's big, impossibly wide hands instead of biting them.

This needs to stop.

Oh, but you can't. You're grinding on his finger again, helpless to stop. It's so good. It's too fucking good.

"That's it. Get it, sugar." Jesse starts flying in and out of your thighs. Something coughs from your throat like a drowned victim spitting up water. You grab his wrist for stability and don't make it halfway around.

"That's what I like to fuckin' see," Jesse growled.

Fuck it. You'd let him pull your panties aside and cream your pussy right there on your bed with your family in the doorway for them to see every desperate clench it made, each spasm in the base of his cock as it emptied inside their precious daughter, sister, and loved one. They could watch the conception of their grandchild and niece/nephew for all you care.

"Jesse! Oh god. Feels good!"

"Sounds even better up close." Mccree chuckled. Breathy, strained. As if it'd come through gritted teeth. His cock pressed into your ass—hard and hot. He made no attempts to relieve it.

"You come to Uncle Jesse when your pussy needs some lovin', ya hear?"

He pulled out, leaving you so, so empty.

You quickly nodded. No, no. Please put it back! He'd stopped touching your clit.

Jesse doesn't leave you empty much longer now that he has an answer. "You let ol' Jess handle it. I'll give the lil lady what she wants."

You're too damn polite. Callin' 'im 'sir.' He ain't no 'sir.' Jesse would tell you to stop if he ain't like it so much.

He pretends to hate it, gives you grief about it, but let you come 'round askin' for somethin'. Jesse stops you mid-sentence and tells you to call 'im that thing he likes.

"Come on, honey. You'll make me feel old."

Your name might as well be 'pretty.'

"C'mere, pretty. Wanna show ya somethin' real quick."

Toji Fushiguro

It's one of those days.

Toji stood in your doorway, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He had a can of beer in his left hand and a race ticket in the other. You should be happy to see him. There's no milk, and your stomach could grow teeth and devour. Your heart drops instead. The paper had as many wrinkles as a white shirt straight from the dryer. Crumpled, meaning he'd lost. The one Toji wore was stretched and spent. He hadn't come home last night. A sour odor of alcohol told you why. Toji celebrated his losing streaks with bottles of sake at the bar. Usually, he'd be out looking for a job to 'make up what he lost,' as he'd always promised.

The hunt must've been unsuccessful if he had been back so soon.

Toji was bitter before he'd even come in the door. Catching you with your fingers in your pajama pants put him over the edge.

"What ya doin' touchin' what's mine?"

Toji scoffed when you continued giving him that owlish stare.

"Y'think I'm good for nothin', dont'cha." His posture remains loose and bored, his tone detached. The slip crinkled in his balled fist.

This isn't going to end well.

"Of course no—"

"You ain't gotta lie, Seven."

Toji was more superstitious than met the eye. He set you up in his home like a Maneki-Neko for good luck and fortune, laughable.

You aren't lucky. Trouble raced after you like tin cans on an exhaust pipe, with your situation to prove it.

Trouble stepped further into your room—swept across your floor like tumbleweed, kicking the ground with every slow, drunken step. Trouble knelt on your bed, knocked your plushies off to the side, and snatched your arm when you scurried.

"Y'think I'm a deadbeat." Trouble pulled you under him and ripped your pajamas off your hurling legs. His triceps bulged beneath his tee as his hips rolled into your cunt, wet and bare. He held you still to take each stubborn, mouth-watering rut. "Think I can't take care of ya anymore."

Toji's still beating the headboard into the wall as you quake around his thighs. Frantic hands tear at his upper back, tugging his shirt for him to go harder despite the worrying cracks and splinters of wood.

"'m gon' prove you wrong." Toji put his weight on his elbows and fucked you like he meant it. He'd buck forward and knock your eyes to your skull.

'God, yes,' is all you can think as he presses you into the mattress and shoves into you until you can't get air. 'More, more, more.'

"Gonna make you cum so hard you wet yourself," he growled in your ear. "Gonna make you scream and cry." And he did.

"Oh God, Toji!"

Toji rabbits at the first sign of tears. "I'm gonna fuck you right to hell."'

"Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God, oh—uhn!"

Spleck!

Your thighs squeeze and judder into his cock. Wetness dribbles past your lips regardless of how tightly you clench your legs. You cum hard—the spasms in your cunt deep and violent. So fucking slutty and messy.

"God!" The word tore from your throat in a ragged sob. Feral. Hysterical.

There's no way you should clamp this fiercely. It's been so long Toji let you tighten up. He needed to stretch you back out. This pussy should be loose and sticky always. A constant fullness to fill the pangs and help you forget your troubles.

You wanna be fucked.

You wanna be bred.

"A little girl like you don't know what you're doin'." Toji got between your thighs and licked you from slick perineum to juicy clit.

"Says you." In your head, you're pushing his face deeper into your sex, hand in his hair as you grind on his tongue. 'Show me, baby; show me. Show me what I'm too stupid to do.'

Toji eats you alive.

His fingers brush up your bum while he tongues you into orgasm. Toji piles your juices on his fingers and licks them clean, again and again.

"Lookit how excited she gets." Toji rests on his knees. The crotch of his sweatpants is a darker shade of black and damp from your sex.

"She can't quit talkin'." Spasming, spitting, and wetting.

His cock is visible, sitting on his lower left thigh, right above his knee. A footpath of the same dark shade runs down his left pant leg.

Did he cum? Did he cum just from eating you out? Was that fat, ruddy cockhead drooling over the very hint of your sex when he'd rutted against you before?

There's something so primal about him kneeling over you, your juices on his tongue, his cock jutting out so proudly, hung like a horse between your thighs. It makes you aware of just how filthy this whole act is, how raw.

You can smell yourself on him, and your legs self-consciously close.

"Still think you know how to get this pussy to clamp as she should?" Toji's voice was low and gruff.

"No." You whimpered.

"Then why the fuck are you playing with my clit?"

"I wasn't playing with it! I was just..."

"You won't even squeeze your thighs together without askin' when I'm finished," his lips close around your clit.

Toji licks every slippery skin fold and nibbles your clit until it's throbbing. You fuck his mouth with your hips, desperate. You reach deep, guttural tones no woman should.

Would nut if you called him 'sir.'

Call him 'sir,' and he'll call you 'ma'am.' Especially in bed. It's shamelessly kinky, given the age gap between you. Might just call you mommy if you're okay with it. You're still under your parent's insurance and barely have a driver's license. Your wisdom teeth haven't come in, and here this forty-year-old man was calling you mommy.

And if you are? Agreeable with it, that is? Toji does his best to make you one.

He missed out on Megumi. Thoughts of another child hadn't crossed his mind until he was deep in your green, twenty-something pussy calling you mommy in that aged murmur.

You love everything he's saying. "Gon' fuck a baby into your teenage pussy—get you pregnant." Toji liked to poke at your age. He'd call you a teenager when you're particularly difficult. Little girls can't talk to me like that. Those nights remained the same. Toji fucked you on the floor and bred you until you couldn't speak. Cum ran from your entrance in a thin, constant stream. Milky, thick-flowing, and filthy. You just need some good lovin'; that's all it is—needed attention. You didn't know how to ask for it without pitchin' a fit like a child.

Make-up sex where he'd hold your hands as your thighs shook. Toji made up for leaving the cabinets empty by leaving your thoughts emptier. Cramming you six inches full of excess and relief, Toji filled you over and over until debt became greed. He's slow, thorough—men his age typically were. Toji was no boy. Wasn't in no hurry to finish. Thrusting between your hips, deep and thick in your cunt and inches from your face, Toji murmured, "'m gon' set it right."

You love what he's saying so much your appreciation lands on the base of his cock and lower abdomen as you squirt. "Dirty little girl. Dirty teenage pussy, begging for her senpai's cum." He burns right through your chest.

The words, "What are you going to do about it?" sit on your tongue.

"Gonna breed that pussy good. Gon' get you pregnant. Get you knocked up." Toji tugs your legs up higher, pulling you into his body as he snaps his hips. He thrusts into you, quick and hard.

Give it to me, give it to me. Put a baby in me. Oh, God, fuck me!

"Pussy'll be so sweet with my cum between those pretty, swollen lips. Might just eat it. Might have to. Might be all the sugar I need."

Muscles jump in your lower belly. Toji grinned above you, rotten, when your pussy quivered. Toji is feral when he gets his face between your legs, unlike any man you've met. The enthusiasm for your pleasure as he dug, sucked, licked, and scraped with his tongue (all while his right hand held your slippery cunt open for him to discipline and drink down) was primal and terrifying. It had you there in minutes. He had no direction, no idea, and no technique. All he had was the hell-driven desire to please you—make you come fast and hard 'many times as he could before his tongue gave out.

Every little thing you told him to do. That's all he had. You asked for more, and he gave it. You tell him to scratch that itch between your thighs, and he knows exactly what that means—squeezing his cock into your too-small ass. From there, all you did was tell him what you wanted, and he performed like a dog with a bone.

Toji wasn't above holding you down so that you took your pleasure on his face, fingers, and lips.

No, this dog took every ounce of his strength and overpowered your body to ensure he got his pound of flesh. What sorta man was he if he couldn't please his woman? An embarrassment, that's what. You ain't gonna insult him and walk away with steady legs.

"Gonna ride that pussy, make it mine."

Ride me, baby. Oh, God, yes!

Toji hunkers over you—that thick, heady scent of sweat, cologne, and body heat. He smells good. "Bet this teenage cunt loves feeling like it's mature, getting filled and stretched into a mommy's pussy." He's telling you how you'll look so good with your freshly creamed pussy.

Wanna be slutty for you. Make this pussy creamy.

"Gon' get that cervix wet. You'd better drink up, girl."

God, you'll drink every last white drop of it. You're already spasming.

"There she goes talkin'. Swallowin’. She's thirsty." Toji tilts your face towards him. "Boy or girl? Which one ya like?"

You struggle—feebly pressing his chest with jellied wrists to get him up and off of you. Out of you. You have to keep yourself from melting outward and running onto the sheets when he snatches you up in his arms as if you were nothing and hemmed you to the bed, hemmed you to his chest in a bear hug, and fucked you. He caged you beneath him and held you there. You’re held down and bred. Pre-cum drooled out of you onto the pillow like the real thing. Each thrust sent your hips violently into him, bobbing, circling, and returning to meet him as you rubbed your slick folds against his cock when it slipped out. He had you humping his wet dick like a bitch in heat. That was you on him. He's covered in you. He hugged you so hard that the bed felt like a paper bag under you.

"Ain't no running. Y'gon' take this dick. Take this apology."

"Don't! Don't—" The fight to free your arms was heavy and impossible as he lined himself up just as quickly as he'd left. Eager to fill. Eager to please. Hands trapped between your sweaty bodies, you settle for pushing against his stifling weight despite rising to help him resettle himself. And God, do you feel like home. Comforting, warm. He can already smell Ma's cooking. Slick, like the blood of his bounties. 'Specially when his bosses demanded a trophy as proof of his service.

White. All you see are the whites of his eyes as Toji's cock overfilled you to bursting, assisted by your curved spine and lofted hips.

He does it so gently—sliding into you like a Spanish kiss. Indulgent. Letting you admire the breadth of him, the ridge of cockhead that made your walls flutter and sing as it moved through you like drugs flooding a bloodstream, peddling euphoria throughout every corner of your body until you were floating and light in the giddy breeze of his possession. He looks demonic, possessed. Your cunt groaned from how full it was, glutted. Feel-good chemicals left you gooey and barely conscious as he stroked into you, exactly where you needed him and weren't ready for him. The deep grinds into your G-spot had you losing your breath, but he wouldn't stop. He wouldn't stop fucking you.

Uhhhn, God. Your eyes flutter. Your walls squeeze him against your will. You could kiss him.

"N-noooo, you can't. Don't cum in my pussy." You moaned. "Don't—hnn!—don' cum..." Your arms close around his waist, hips arching and rocking like you couldn't decide what you wanted more, to push him off of you or get creampied in one go. Bred.

"Mommy, ya gotta tell me." Your pussy clamps. Fissures of resistance disappear like they never existed when Toji calls you "mommy" like it's a sin. He's whispering dirty in your ear as if he knew your secrets. As if he knew you were two pumps and one shuddery male moan away from pleading the exact opposite.

"Tell me, Mommy, so I can do it for you." Toji's voice had gone sugary-sweet and deep.

But no...no. Nnn. No. "You… can't...do that." It's cheating. He's cheating.

"Tell me how you want this baby."

God, it just feels so good. You want him to cream you. Breed you. You like the fantasy of it all (it gets you wetter than anything), but he isn't financially stable, and you're no mother.

"We can't! Not 'nough money." Your lips don't sing lullabies. They sang heartache and blues. Emotionally immature and mentally thin, you're no mother. The slightest inconvenience, and you're ready to cannonball off a bridge.

"Ain't what I asked ya." Toji put you in a headlock. Ears hot and pounding, you twist and thrash as best you can underneath him. He doesn't leave you much room to grapple—still bearing down on you with all his strength and thrusting. 'Overwhelming' couldn't begin to capture the wave of shivers washing over you. Toji scratches that itch inside of you so good it nearly hurts. God, it's good—the beating he gives that secret, special place you can never reach alone. Where fingers clench into knots, your womb feels like a fever. You're in heaven. Your thighs burn from all that friction. You're in hell. Your body wants nothing more than to let out a primal scream as you battle to cope with the intensity. It takes you a few moments to realize you are—hollering in absolute hysteria. You unclench your fingers long enough to shove fruitlessly at his chest, claw at his arms and pelvis.

The thick arms caging your head tighten. "Answer. Or I’ll put one in your backside."

"Girl!" You shouted—voice rough and strangled behind his grip.

"A lil princess just like 'er Mama." Toji bucked into you, closing his eyes with a groan. When they opened, they stared down at your hostile mouth. If there was one body part of yours Toji was fascinated by, it was your lips.

He's been staring at them while he fucked you, lust in his eyes. Toji watched them threaten and plead.

"You get off me, or I'll—" Your words clung thickly together, dragged in places they shouldn't as if they were moaned.

"I'll..." Your lashes fall to your cheeks as Toji moves down, nose rumbling softly with steamy breath as he latches onto a nipple and sucks.

Your cunt swallowed and sang; you rose to meet his next push. The way his tongue and teeth work together on that sensitive spot is enough to make you light-headed.

"I'll..."

Toji stared at you, expression unreadable as ever. "You'll what, Mommy?"

He watched 'em gasp and form his name. He needed 'em. Needed 'em more than his own mother's rotted eyes.

"You'll cum?" He ground into you, and you gasped.

"Yes." You wrapped your arms and legs around him. God, your skin was on fire.

Toji released your breast and latched onto your mouth instead, groaning against your lips. His tongue flicked inside, and you opened wide.

"H-harder. Toji, I'm—"

Ughn!

Toji hits it like he couldn't miss—rutting, grinding, and humping into that sacred spot. Your kiss had him rabbiting and murmuring, moaning, and biting. He was gasping. He was growing—swelling at the base of his cock. He was coming apart.

Seeing you thoroughly enjoy yourself and falling apart on his cock has Toji's hips faltering. Mama's never yelled for 'im quite like that before. He had mama screamin', had 'er eyes rollin' back. Had her thrusting on his cock like she wanted her green, little pussy filled—wanted his kid.

"Sound so good, Mommy." He's coming already, eyes shut as the first few spurts escape him. Toji's thrusts deepen each time you moan. He'd shiver, pushing hard into your g-spot. He spoiled it for every hunger pain while he was away.

"Hands." His voice shook with effort—the physical strain of staving himself off.

When you don't immediately respond, Toji's head rests on your shoulder—miserable like an old dog. "y'know I can't cum without 'em. Know I need 'em."

His breaths come in rough pants. "I'm gonna cum, Mommy. Imma go right up your pussy and spill my seed."

"Toji—" You squirm, "Toji, don't!" You'd damn near drooled as the first squirt of hot cum hit your pussy, unconsciously bucking into him for the umpteenth time.

You beg Toji not to cum inside you, hugging him and pumping those hips all the while. Desperately, at that. A man's gotta wonder.

"Let me apologize, mama," he said between labored breaths. "Let me give you this baby." His fingers pry into yours, clutching them against the mattress as he rutted and sighed into you. "Let me."

"No." You fight. "No, no, no, no, no! No. Don't!"

His thrusts pick up as you try and wrangle free.

"I forgive you, Toji! I forgive—"

Toji licked into your mouth, grabbed onto your hips, and emptied himself in a long, thick stream. He shivered in your arms through spurts and convulsions, letting you swallow his shuddered alphabet of husky groans.

You can't help but buck into each warm shot of his seed. You're a whore. And you're tired of pretending you're not.

You're still moaning for him not to cum inside you as he does just that, pushed up against your G-spot, gently grinding you toward an orgasm of your own.

He could've positioned himself at your cervix and got all nice and snug, but then he would've missed the sleepy look on your face. Eyelids hung low, mouth parted—sated, full, and still working that pussy against him, swallowing miserably around him because it hasn't cum. She will. He'll show ya he ain't useless, that he's good for somethin'.

Besides, they'll swim. He doesn't need to be lined up to hit a target. It'll be fine once you're shiverin' against him; you'll send 'em right where they need to be.

"Please don't, sir." You said, still thrusting through the zips and tapering shocks of your orgasm. Your arms are helpless, bumbling, and unresponsive.

'Sirs' nice and all, but he'd prefer 'Mister.'

Author’s Note: This was Valentine's gift for myself and I decided to share it. If this performs well, I'll finish the second installment. The next part will feature Erasermic, Bob Velseb, Daddy Dearest, Mommy Mearest, and a fourth character I haven't decided on.

Tips: Please consider tipping if you're well-fed. It would incentivize me to keep sharing. https://ko-fi.com/pumpknpie

©️pumpkin-pi-e | Do not copy, edit, paraphrase, plagiarize, translate, or borrow from my work. I do not give my consent for any of my works to be reposted. I only write on Tumblr. Should you find this anywhere else, please alert me because it was stolen.

For your listening pleasure:

The title was based on the song below.

Do Not Interact - Writers and blogs who actively write white-coded reader inserts (blush, turn red, a flush of color). I can’t eat at your table, and I don’t want you at mine. You will be blocked. Blank blogs will also be blocked.

[pumpkin-pi-e]

You Take Me By The Heart When You Call Me Your Man

Aizawa/gn!reader

A/N: I just had the cutest thought. Hi, yes, I'm here to share the cuteness.

Synopsis: You call Aizawa your husband, and he undergoes a heart attack.

Aizawa is a certified zombie as he shuffles outside his office. He braves a perilous hallway while avoiding wayward cat toys strewn along the floor. Shouta side-steps his responsible fur babies who refuse to nap in the expensive beds he wasted his money on, all in search of that sweet, sweet, life-saving bean juice.

The first time you say it, his legs give out, and he dramatically clutches his chest like a heart attack.

Stoicism doesn't mean he can't be dramatic. Aizawa can be quite the drama king when it suits him. Spending too much time around Hizashi is a curse, not a blessing.

As Shouta's life hangs in the balance, coffee becomes an afterthought.

Sure, you've done adorable things before. Doing cute things is in your DNA. It's only natural for you to express your feelings in adorable ways.

But this? This? This takes the cake.

Curious cats check on their downed father, who sunk to his knees, but it's too late. He's too far gone for saving. He's already accepted his death—died and gone to heaven because you called him your husband.

Kitten, how could you play into his domestic kink like this? You know how weak he gets.

When you rush over to help him (thinking he had an honest-to-God heart attack), You find yourself pulled down by the very hand that reached out to him, and soon you're face-to-face with a blushing Aizawa begging for your lips.

Kitten, please, please, kiss him. Aizawa doesn't think there’s ever been a time when he needed you as badly as he does now.

He all but shoves his forehead against you, still desperately seeking your permission. The hero’s breathing is strangely labored as he takes your hands, interlocking your fingers together. “Kitten, kiss me.” You hear him swallow just before he pushes his head against you a little more. “Please.” His eyes flutter closed. “Please.”

Of course, he asks for you to repeat it. Again. And again, and again—until you’re breathless from all the kisses Shouta takes from you.

The second time, you were on one of your rare dates (hauling Aizawa around a mall and buying whatever he happens to glance at as compensation.) Shouta tugged your sleeve, pointing to a cupcake vendor. You'd initially sighed. Figures. Him and his sweet tooth. Of course, that would be the first thing he'd want. Godless--hasn't even had lunch yet. Shouta’s eyes widen a fraction as you request two vanilla cupcakes for your husband. There’s no outward reaction besides his blushed skin and the sudden kiss he gives you afterward.

You use your newfound ability as a bargaining piece. It proved rather handy in persuading a tall, rugged, and handsome ‘someone’ to take a break from working.

You can tell he's overworked just by looking at him. His hands are constantly pressed against his temple, kneading a headache in slow, methodical circles as he grades the paper in front of him. Twice in the minute you've been standing in his doorway, you’ve seen him rub his eyes and reach for a bottle of eye drops beside him - no doubt used to keep them functioning despite the strain he’s putting them under. You shift your weight, wishing he'd be more kind to himself.

“Shou?” you ask softly, hoping it would be enough to get his attention.

“Mm?” is all he says, not looking up. You can't help but let out a sigh.

“I'm ordering lunch. Can I get you anything?”

“I should be fine until dinner. Thank you for the offer, though.”

See--that would be fine if breakfast weren't ten hours ago, and dinner in another five. Aizawa is a morning bird—a creature of habit. Breakfast is waiting for you by eight, and dinner is reheated for him at precisely eleven pm. Shouta scoops you into his chest at twelve next morn, and time repeats itself the day after.

And quite frankly, you don't think it's very healthy. It isn't sustainable.

He can't keep going like this.

If his body doesn't break down, you will.

You can't watch him neglect himself like this—you won't.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Shouta copies your sigh. “Kitten-”

“When?”

“...This morning.”

At least his pen has stopped moving. Perhaps it's your imagination, but he sounds timid—guilty even.

“Uh, huh. My love, could you humor me again and remind me when precisely that was? How many hours ago?”

You can hear his wince as he mutters, “Ten?”

You hum, nodding along to his answer. “And don't you think that's a bit long to go without even a snack? A jelly pouch, maybe?”

Aizawa stretches, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tension beneath his skin. When he finally looks up at you through his glasses, his ebony tresses are swept loosely into a bun—a practical style meant for convenience rather than fashion.

“The number sounds worse than it is. I'm fine, kitten. Honest.”

You tap nervously against the wooden door frame. “And... How would you feel if it were me who went ten hours without eating?”

The statement flies right over his head; Aizawa narrows his eyes, suddenly concerned. “When was the last time you ate?”

You blink, surprised. "Shouta, this is about you..."

“Please.”

His tone is enough to pause you mid-sentence. Looking him over, you see that his pen is clenched between tight fists, and there’s a new crease in his forehead from furrowed brows.

His protective attitude is a comforting reminder that someone cares for you, and it's hard to criticize the hypocrisy considering how much he looks out for you. But he doesn't practice what he preaches. It's nice to know someone gives a damn whether or not you're looking after yourself, but why can't he show himself the same level of compassion?

“I had some fruit earlier.” You're quick to offer a response, not wanting to worry him needlessly. Lord knows he has enough to worry himself over. “I bought grapes earlier this week--they're pretty sweet; you should try some.”

“Grapes? Are you sure that's enough?” Shouta questions, skeptical.

Heaven’s above.

“Yes, prince. I'm sure, considering I'm about to have lunch. And you, sir, are going to join me.”

His ears flush at the pet name, and the hero finds himself regretting the ‘convenience bun.’

“Kitten, I'm sorry--but I really have to-”

“It would be nice to share a meal with my husband.”

His breath hitched; a blush gradually suffused his cheeks.

“He's always so busy lately, but I miss curling up on the couch with him.”

Aizawa can't take his eyes off you. He looked seconds away from pulling you into him. “I-”

“I miss movie nights; I miss his cute smile--his smell, his laughter...” You giggle, reminiscing—his heart thumps at the sound. “His sense of humor...”

“Where did you want to order from? I'll pay.”

You say the magic word, and suddenly Aizawa is bringing you gifts on his way home. He may not talk much during conversations (he’d much prefer to let you do all the talking so he can hear your voice), but Aizawa listens to all the breathless gushings whenever you're raving at him about an advertisement that caught your eye.

You call him your husband, and he's taking you out to dinner the next second. Suddenly, he's treating you to everything he can think of. Shouta Aizawa isn't fond of outings, but you breathe those perfect words, and the erasure hero asks if you'd like to go out anywhere.

Okay, but I could see Aizawa being super apprehensive about proposals. He isn't romantic in the traditional sense. Gifts aren't teased; they aren't surprises at the end of a trail of roses. Although, they’re more common than those who bought into the scare tactics would believe. His hair would flicker like black fire—a void of tentacles licking the surrounding air (lashing like the tail of a furious cat). The sash of his capture weapon haloed his shoulders like a loaded gun, a rattlesnake coiled to strike (an ominous warning), bluffing he was something bigger and scarier than he was.

Aizawa is a cat through and through—hidden underneath his thunderous demeanor was a sleeping kitten, waiting for someone to come and pet him. Granted, he tended to fluff up and hiss more than he should.

Gifts from Aizawa aren't what most would consider 'gifts.' They pop up like daises in a meadow—randomly but expected. Late morning (Aizawa presumably with his first-period class), coffee greets you in the microwave with his name scrawled in warm cocoa, extra cream, and just a hint of caramel (always a little too sweet).

Can I—can I rant for a second? His gifts are practical. He always knows just what you need. In the summer, it's a nice bowl of ice cream to beat the heat. When it gets cold, he's got extra gloves ready and waiting. And, of course, food is never in short supply when he's around! It seems like every day he's hauling in groceries, essentials like bread, eggs, and milk (plus the sweets he’d try and hide around all the celery and carrots strategically placed in the bag).

“Just in case.” He’d say, answering your concerns.

When you question the hard candies and chocolate cake, he’d shrug. “You never know when you might need it.”

Or, the more familiar, “Low blood sugar.”

“You do not have low blood sugar.”

“How would you know?” He always says, a spoonful of ice cream poised in his hand, ready to pop into your mouth. And then you can’t help but giggle, “I have your medical records, you dolt.” Playful shoves follow, and it just keeps going—endless jokes, teasing, and laughter. When it all dies down, your mouth opens to accept the outstretched spoon, and you’re hit in the tastebuds with a delicious blend of mint chocolate.

Shouta Aizawa had a romantic streak that was undeniable. He scaled buildings to watch the sun bleed on the horizon, and he'd collect fish from the fishmonger, taking it upon himself to feed the unofficially adopted strays in town from his bare hands. In antique shops, he followed in the seniors' footsteps – silently agreeing to buy whatever they pointed to, no questions asked. And if those seniors needed help carrying their bags? Shouta was there, happy to lend a hand. His flair for romance might have been understated, but it was still alive and well nonetheless.

Aizawa, romantic? Absolutely. He just expresses it a little differently. Aizawa's unique brand of romance is one that many don't understand.

Yes, he's all for snuggling and sharing kisses. Yes, he's all too happy to offer you a fresh cup of coffee in the morning (and spend the time silently snuggling until the afternoon), but Shouta isn't known for his spontaneity outside of getting the jump on his foes. His sharp intellect has afforded him many victories, but at the moment, his mind is conspiring his defeat as he can't. stop. thinking. By now, you're aware of his romantic deficiency and have accepted his lack of tact (hopefully).

It should be the gesture itself that counts, right? The indication that you're the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. However, he's heard of proposals being rejected because they weren't grand enough--romantic enough. Present Mic did a whole segment on the topic during his last broadcast, and Shouta had caught it pretty early.

And this bred his newest fear--what if you reject him?

Shouta’s never been the best at conversation; what if he doesn't do the right thing? What if he gets choked up because his uncomfortable suit is suffocating and itchy?

What if you're wearing that outfit, and his tongue gets tangled in knots?

-

"I am a very romantic person. I don't mean romantic in a flowers and chocolates kind of way. It's more like if it's raining, I'll go up to the window and press my nose against the glass and sigh at how beautiful it all looks." (Amy Winehouse, The Irish Times, December 2006)

Shouta: I'm getting married.

You: That's good--

Shouta: You. I'm getting married to you; *slaps a marriage form on the table* sign these papers.

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Pairing: erasermic/gender neutral reader

Word Count: 715

Author’s Note: I’ll update between works and as I think of new ideas. I might also consider taking requests for other My Hero Academia characters. If you have a request in mind, use the hashtag “bedtime stories” when you ask so I can keep track of them all.

< I got a new journal, and this was the first thing I wrote, so I titled the book “erasermic bedtime stories.” Hopefully, I’ll fill the pages with cute mha fluff. >

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was looking through the soulmate au tag and saw your post about killers faking their soul mark to lure their victims (which let me just say was very well written, i have not read mha fics in a long time but that was a great read!) but i was just wondering if that concept is something that i could write about? it is your idea so i completely understand if not but i love the concept and have a few ideas on fics for it. if so i would give credit to you in the post but if not thats ok. thank you!

Hello! You’re more than welcome to expand on the idea (as well as any other works I have). No need to credit me! I would, however, appreciate a link so I can read it once it's finished. ☺️

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Imagine Erasermic being very disappointed when you get hit by a quirk that gives you animal ears and tail but they aren't cat ones.

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So if we took advantage of being able to make Aizawa to fall asleep by doing the Lilo and Stitch thing, could we find a way to escape? Like if Hizashi isn’t there and we got Aizawa to knock out for a few hours could we get out or would Aizawa wake up and stop us? And what would they do if their darling did try to escape?

Hello, anon! Thanks ever so much for stopping by!

While that particular prompt wasn't necessarily yandere, I don't suppose you'd be able to take advantage of Aizawa's penchant for fuzzy fabrics. Being bundled up might make him a little drowsy since it evokes feelings of safety, coziness, and comfort, but I doubt he'd let his guard down around you for them to take full effect. Shouta certainly won't underestimate you. Any darling of Aizawa is likely a cunning little fox. Meaning, he isn't going to take naps and actively put himself at a disadvantage. Your careful evaluations and quick intellect are some of the more charming qualities you possess, and Shouta loves that about you. However, he won't allow you to use them against him. In the fluffy headcanon, the dynamic between the three of you is different. Without needing to worry about possible escapes, Shouta relaxes in your presence and succumbs to his weakness for all things downy. Aizawa falling asleep in your company signifies the VAST amount of trust he has for you—a trust that darling assumably hasn't earned. Realistically, there's no way he wouldn't constantly be on edge, even when he's relaxing. Shouta's just waiting for you to try and escape. It might be disheartening to hear, but it's the sad truth. You'll have to forgive his lack of faith; the hero industry has taught him it's better to be safe than sorry.

It's only logical that you'd try to run—not yet understanding the depth of love he and his husband have for you.

It's the only rational response. Aizawa would be more skeptical if you didn't try.

[“Hello, yes? My darling is broken. They haven't tried to run once, and it's fucking with my mind.”]

So, now we have a basis for why he won't open himself up to vulnerability, at least not yet. Shouta is ready and willing (and impatiently waiting) to let himself be defenseless around you and do cute couple activities like lazy midday naps, but now isn't the appropriate time regardless of the comfy scarf you knit him.

[Not unless he bound you in metal alloy and hugged you to his chest the entire time.]

Aizawa is such a backwards yandere. For as long as you don't attempt it, he won't trust you. Obviously, you're plotting something.

Oh? You need ‘alone time’ in your room? Why? So you can scheme your little getaway? Tch. Typical darling.

Moreover, if Aizawa did indulge in a nap, he'd need the solace of locks and heavily bolted doors that probably require a retina scan and DNA matching. It's no secret that heroes make a good living for themselves. No price is too high, and no countermeasure is too drastic when they have something sweet and invaluable to protect. Financially blessed enough to splurge on a high-tech home security system, I'm talkin’ some serious Tony Stark shit.

‘Lochlan,’ nicknamed ‘Goddess,’ served as their eyes and ears when the Pros were away from home. 24/7 real-time surveillance meant the heroes could check in with you from their phones at the tap of a button. Shouta and Zashi often sneak a peek between their classes to see darling and get that little extra boost to help them through the day. The workday is long, and both heroes feel the loss, missing your lovesome weight in their arms. And most importantly, ensuring you ate breakfast and lunch.

Lochlan, who you've affectionately nicknamed ‘the snitch,’ essentially tattles on you via motion detectors and those cameras you can't find for the life of you.

“Kitten, get away from that door.” The firm reprimand came from everywhere and nowhere, making you jump out of your skin.

“You march that cute caboose to the kitchen and get you some grub.” Hizashi orders. Enthusiastic, babying, and frustratingly complacent.

You groan, ditching your plans to stomp in the direction obediently.

“After they return that safety pin to the bathroom closet.” Aizawa clips. His tone lets you know you're in for a scolding when the heroes return home.

Erasermic spends a good chunk of their day working, so the two-way communication system is a godsend when it comes to keeping in touch. More importantly, ‘keeping you out of trouble,’ as they’ve phrased it. Their voices kept you company during meals—filling you in on the odds and ends of their daily commute, (along with the many joys that came with educating today’s youth.)

“I wake up to my desk covered in w’s.” Eraserhead grumbled from the small rectangular screen of their Google Nest Hub Max centered on the kitchen island. “I swear these are the most irrational bunch of kids I've ever worked with.” Shouta explains how his problem children cover his workspace in cutouts of the letter ‘w’ whenever he takes a nap, has a quick lunch consisting of jelly snacks, and any other activities that involve taking care of himself.

“Uh-huh, so whaddya do ‘bout it?” Mic asks, his voice thickened with mirth and barely withheld laughter. God! His husband is hilariously dense. It's honestly endearing how much 1A cares for him.

“I gave them extra hours of training. If they have the time to deface school property and slack off, they haven't been pushed hard enough.”

“Babe—” You listen to Yamada snort and clarify the meaning behind the letter ‘w’ as your work on finishing your sandwich.

“…Oh,” Shouta mumbles.

Continuing with the impossibility of escape: even if you somehow managed to immobilize him, you wouldn't exactly benefit from it. These two spared NO expense. Any areas they don't want you meddling in are accessible only through fingerprint scanners.

Kitchen cabinet with sharp cutlery? Locked.

Medicine cabinet full of meds that could make a certain Erasure Hero unbelievably drowsy? Lockity-locked.

They may be soft, but they're incredibly anal about keeping you out of places they consider ‘dangerous.’ Whether that ‘danger’ pertains to them or yourself. I suppose you'd get a few hours of peace where a lovesick Erasure Hero isn't trying to cuddle you (and sneakily get his cologne all over you), but other than that? Zilch. Nada.

And in response to a poorly constructed escape attempt, the heroes cuddle you rather aggressively in their stingy little paws. They aren't temperamental because of the effort itself. Instead, they're huffy over the implications you want to leave them.

“Where would you even go?” A testy Hizashi demands.

“What’s out there that you want so badly?” Shouta is much calmer than his spouse but equally desperate for a motive. “You know we’d get you anything you asked for.” His voice is soft as ever as the hero lightly squeezes down on your hand. Aizawa and Hizashi each have one, and they look up at you with matching expressions of quiet desperation as you sit on their laps. “What do you need that we can't bring to you?”

You had watched a few too many spy movies and foolishly aspired to copy their fingerprint with tape. You put in the odd request to hold hands and then not-so-covertly rubbed at their fingertips to transfer natural oils that would hopefully fool the scanner. Meanwhile, Aizawa gave his spouse a decidedly overt look of exaggerated exasperation. Do you think they spent a small fortune on shoddy security that you could dupe so easily? Have a little faith. If not in the heroes themselves, at least their desire to protect you from outside danger—their determination to keep you inside.

If I didn't specialize in soft yanderes (and if they weren't such patient husbands), maybe they'd give you a genuine punishment besides taking one of the many comforts they've provided to you away. In a nutshell, their disciplines can be boiled down to, “Maybe you don't need quite so many throw pillows.” additionally, “You can have your game back in a week. And in that period, I expect you to reflect on your reckless actions.” Moreover, if it was a minor offense, “Kitten, you’ll be helping Zashi and me with dinner. Go wash your hands and come straight back.” Of course, Shouta can't send you off without a forehead kiss.

On the bright side, every situation provides an opportunity to learn! Don't think of it as a punishment. Think of it as a lesson in appreciation for the luxuries the heroes have so graciously provided. Your time outdoors will teach you to be a little more thankful towards them and the comforts of your shared home. Nature is one our greatest teachers, after all!

“Y’know, a lot of folks don't have such nice amenities. Ya feelin’ me?” It makes little sense to the heroes why you're anxious to escape the warmness, love, and soft furnishings they've given you.

“Kitten, we don't think you take our feelings into consideration.” Conversely, he and Hizashi always consider yours—from the type of laundry detergent they use, mindful of your skin sensitivity, keeping the fridge stocked with foods of your choosing. Ensuring you have everything you need for your monthlies, skincare routine, and physical maintenance. They keep you stored on aromatherapy in case of anxiety. You even have a little thermostat in your room so that you can regulate its temperature to the coziest setting for you! Dinner is always, always your pick. “In other words,” the finality in his tone worries you. Both heroes act like they're about to deliver bad news. “We feel as though you've been highly ungrateful. And it isn't fair to us.”

If you're going to act so unappreciative, perhaps you should go outdoors and see the harsh realities of life outside your cozy home. They don't leave you out there long—just overnight. Long enough for your tummy to start rumbling after only a light breakfast before your attempted getaway, and long enough for you to shiver and pine after your warm bed with its velvety blankets and mounts of pillows.

The pair come and get you at six o'clock sharp the next day. Shouta roused you from unconsciousness as he lifted you toward his chest, murmuring soft words you can't make sense of this early. You're groggy and blinded by the morning sun—instinctively curling up in his arms in search of heat while Hizashi inundated you with woeful kisses, rambling about how sorry they were. The heroes usher you inside, and you all but dissolve when the house receives you with incredibly warm arms. Shouta cradles you deeper in his chest as you melt against him. He's still whispering sweet nothings as Hizashi races to set the table. Hizashi and Aizawa encourage you to eat as much as you want, and they spend the entire day spoiling you. They're softies at heart; your punishment was as difficult for them as it was for you. It's unlikely they slept at all, hence the group nap you take while piled on the couch.

Think malicious compliance where they give you precisely what you thought you wanted, and then you learn how much you don't.

Imagine EM asking Quora the following, “So, hypothetically speaking, if I were to custom-build a home with absolutely no means of escape, how would I go about this? Hypothetically.”

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No but dry humping your fav and they cum in their pants bc omg you're so hot and cool and they've been crushing on you forever and aw jeez now their underwear is all messy :(

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Sometimes I forget that talented people follow me and I accidentally shitpost.

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Pairing: Erasermic/reader

Reader Gender: Female

Citrus scale: Orange?

Content Warnings: None! :3

*cough* probably crackhead energy.

Synopsis: Erasermic fluff + shin-son! A collection of three lighthearted drabbles, I suppose. Honestly, I'm not sure what to call them. I'll provide snippets from each down below!

1st: Bully!zawa (homeless cat man) picks on the local hero and beloved radio host, ‘Present Mic.’

“Songbird, Shou’s bein’ mean.” That pout never failed to melt your heart—that cockatoo’s cruisin’ for a smoochin’.

“C’mere, sweetie.” Shouta pretends not to be jealous as you give his husband that tender lovin’—generously warm lips and deep nuzzles that look painfully inviting. He can't help but envy.

“Prince,” Shouta's ears are immediately red, and he stiffens as you address him.

“That wasn't very nice of you, my love.”

─────────────────────

2nd: You, Shinsou, and Hizashi do a little science experiment! (The three of you conspire on how to achieve that gravity-defying hairdo.)

“Let me get this straight.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging the thin layer of skin to soothe an oncoming migraine. “You want me to activate Erasure, knowing it'll exacerbate my dry eye for a science experiment?”

You three share a look and answer in unison. “Yes.”

He sighs. “Fine. Let's get this over with.”

─────────────────────

3rd: A homeless resident is trying to enjoy his rare day off and is highly against the cardinal sin of putting buns in ovens.

“Shouta.”

“Mm?”

“Babies are cute.”

Shouta eyes you skeptically, unsure where this is going and wary of finding out.

─────────────────────

A/N: lol, I'm just here to goof around and have fun. These are some shenanigans I wrote in between stories I'm working on. Hopefully, you can get a chuckle out of them.

Aizawa bundles up in his Snuggie™️ after work hours and sets you in his lap so you can help him win levels in Candy Crush (and because it's prime cuddle real estate)

Interestingly, Aizawa has a plethora of stored in-game boosts that he never uses. He doesn't allow you to use them either. The hero isn't saving them for burdensome levels; on the contrary. Aizawa mentioned he didn't want any handicaps. Shouta thought it didn't count if he didn't win on his own. He neither wants nor needs the game to hold his hand.

You know, unlike Hizashi, who runs through power-ups like they’re candy.

Shouta likes it because it's both relaxing and stimulating. On the flip side, you enjoy it because you get to see him in those cute bifocals he wears whenever he has his tablet in hand. (heh. Such a dad.)

To your absolute joy, you discovered both heroes wore them in their downtime. And, on the odd occasion where a student's paper was so flagrantly horrid, it gave them literal cataracts. The teachers would be forced to put them on to see that shit clearer, and it was still the most offensive thing they had ever seen.

Laughter could not be con ta in ed when Mic claimed that a singular piece of paper simultaneously spit in his face, gave him acne, pissed in his Cheerios, and insulted his mustache in the breadth of one sentence.

And when you (foolishly) thought the pain in your chest couldn't get any worse, you were mercilessly thrown into hysterics when Aizawa piped up from his sleeping bag, surrounded by his nest of junk food: jelly pouches, hot chip, macarons, and every other sweet he could get his grubby little mittens on without the DJ chastising him. “Truth hurts. It isn't an insult if it's accurate. Maybe you'll take the hint and finally shave it off. Accept your fate as a babyface.”

Mic sputtered, offended by this latest insult to his darling, totally-hip-and-not-all-lame mustache, and from his husband of all people! “Babe! That's hurtful!”

Shouta didn't look away from his tablet and the cute kitties it depicted, but he was snickering under the collar of his sweater.

“Songbird, Shou’s bein’ mean.” That pout never failed to melt your heart—that cockatoo’s cruisin’ for a smoochin’.

“You think your man looks handsome, don't you?”

Poor baby. Sweet summer child. “Of course I do, cutietoo.” How could you not? He's too sweet in those red-rimmed frames and soft pastels. That gold hair is a halo accentuating his round cheeks, drawing attention to the adorable gap between his two front teeth.

Zashi hums sadly into your kiss, melting into your hands as you cup his face. “Need kisses. I'm heartbroken, mama.”

“C’mere, sweetie.” Shouta pretends not to be jealous as you give his husband that tender lovin’--generously warm lips and deep nuzzles that look painfully inviting. He can't help but envy.

To make matters worse, you cradle Zashi in your soft bosom. Shouta swears it looks like pillowy heaven, and the DJ is suddenly smug as he shoots him a look that the erasure hero scoffs at.

Suck up.

Fuckin’ teacher’s pet.

“Prince,” Shouta's ears are immediately red, and he stiffens as you address him.

“That wasn't very nice of you, my love.” He blooms like a rose, albeit one with more than a few thorns, as he grumbles at the pet name. He pouts heavily and hunkers into his sleeping bag.

“My love?”

He turns over, grabbing his snacks as he does. Don't speak to him or his children ever again. He won't stand for this blatant favoritism.

“Sweetest sleep prince?”

More flustered grumbling.

(The sound of velcro zipping.)

“My hero? Handsome tomcat?”

The zipper drops, and Aizawa is startled by the two faces grinning at him. His magic hair levitated from fright.

“...What do you-mm!” Those eyes are wide and red when two pairs of lips smooch his grumpy face, and all too quickly does it dissolve in gentle, husky giggles and the smallest of smiles.

...Fine. He'll forgive you this time.

He’s peppered in kisses and compliments. No inch of him is left unloved. Similarly, no place is safe from the cluster of kisses--not his warm cheeks, his forehead that had to be revealed by sweeping his bangs aside, and certainly not his rosy nose.

“Handsome kitty.”

*kiss*

“Cute caterpillar.”

*kiss*

“Sweet valentine.”

*kiss*

“Extra special squeeze. My VIP baby!”

“Sleepy beauty.”

“Shouta beau.”

“Sweet listener.”

“Jelly Belly.”

Zashi pauses his ticklish assault, and Shouta breathes a sigh of relief--he was this close to losing his shit.

The radio personality repeats your strange endearment, “Jelly Belly?”

You pat Shouta’s belly in response, eliciting a groaned protest from said sleep-deprived dilf. “This bad boy can fit so many jelly pouches!”

Mic shrugs; it's good enough for him.

“It can fit so many [name’s].”

Le gasp! You stare at Shouta in mock horror, drawing back.

“You can't eat me, you fiend!”

Shouta, the aforementioned fiend, merely huffed.

He might be hairy, but he's no wolf, and you don't own a house made of straw.

Shinsou takes this most innoptune moment to walk into the living room and promptly spins on his heels.

Parents being weirdos? Yeah, hard pass.

“Um, songbird? I'm sure he already has...”

“I mean... technically.” Mic supplied.

“Shouta, you indecent kitty.” You narrow your eyes--judgemental.

And here you thought he was a sweet angel. He's more like a sin-ammon roll.

“Shouta, there are children around.” Zashi, admonished.

“He’s hardly a child,” The hero scoffs. “And I didn't mean it that way.”

“Sure you didn't.”

Aizawa cut his field of vision to match his husband's narrowed gaze.

“Pervy!zawa.”

Shouta inhales. “Hizashi, I am this close.”

“Ew! TMI, babe. Think of songbird.”

...

Shouta lunges.

A whole fiasco ensues where you had to pull the heroes away from each other, putting an end to their playful wrestling. The kissing marathon resumed somewhere in that mess of testosterone and sweaty bodies.

It turns out his swatting was half-hearted. Shouta commands you both to keep going after you stop. “No...keep going.”

Anyhow, back to the glasses™️.

You reacted like any other rational adult the first time you saw them in glasses. Meaning, you only turned into a complete sap and waxed poetic about how angelic they were for a minimum of thirty minutes. Anything more would have been excessive.

Both pros are (endlessly) entertained by how quickly you simp over them. Hizashi, that clever cockatoo, discovered it's a sure-fire method to bag himself a couple of kisses.

[Enter a cranky Aizawa walking in on his three idiots rubbing balloons on the carpet to give themselves static cling for whatever godforsaken reason. Grouchy from insomnia, he would’ve pulled a ‘Shinsou’ and turned right around if you three hadn't stopped him.]

“Let me get this straight.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging the thin layer of skin to soothe an oncoming migraine.

Since being unceremoniously shoved into a chair, he’d learned that you three goblins were trying to imitate a side-effect of Erasure. More specifically, the apparent scientific marvel of his anti-gravity hair.

“You want me to activate Erasure, knowing it'll exacerbate my dry eye for a science experiment?”

You three share a look and answer in unison. “Yes.”

He sighs. “Fine. Let's get this over with.”

Shinsou and Zashi share a fist bump, and the three of you partake in a round of high fives.

“But,” Aizawa stresses, cutting your celebration short. “You only have fifteen minutes to figure out whatever it is you're looking for. And for the record,” There’s a slight pause as he drags one of the dinette chairs from the kitchen and subsequently plops into it. “I highly doubt this will yield any meaningful results.”

“Babe, you let us worry about that.” Zashi kisses his forehead, squatting further down to connect their lips, when Shouta lifts his head, searching for them.

“Yeah! You're just worried you won't be the only one with magical floaty hair.” You back-up your DJ, lifting a handful of Shinsou’s ube-colored hair and raising it by the ends to imitate the levitation effect of Erasure.

“Whatever.” Aizawa makes himself comfortable since he’ll be sitting for the next ten minutes and counting.

You, Zashi, and Shinsou scramble for solutions when his eyes blaze red and do the cool glowy effect; you examine the hero’s hair thoroughly, and a series of trials and errors follow (with Shinsou as the guinea pig). Hizashi is too protective of his hair, and who knows if you, darling reader, even can participate. So! Shinsou is the man of the hour. Shin-son is given a thorough head massage with two balloons, one held by you and the other held by Zashi.

Meanwhile, Shouta slurps on a jelly pouch (peach flavored) to divert his attention away from the itch behind his eyelids.

The static pull was pretty weak when Zashi lifted his balloon, but with your accompaniment, you had a decent replication of Aizawa's Erasure. However, it's clear that if you three want the full effect, you're going to need at least six of them.

And guess which goobers have six hands combined?

“Hold these for us, munchkin!” Shinsou accepts both balloons with nothing more than a hum, ignoring that each is a shade of purple; Hizashi is a menace, but his antics are expected.

“Seven minutes left.” The gruff voice of Aizawa informs.

“Okay, all at once!” Your excitement can't be bottled—anxious for this spontaneous science experiment to come to fruition. But if it could, you'd buy the entire stock to relive this moment all over again. You're on the cusp of greatness—the edge of success. And God, is it going to taste sweet.

“Count’a three?” Shinsou drawled, sounding as lethargic as his father (on his fifth jelly pouch.)

That dry eye must be a pain in the ass.

And oh, did that get Hizashi’s DJ spirit pumping. There's nothing like a good count down to rev up a hype man. “Yo! I'm gettin’ hype! Let's knock this puppy so far outta the park they’ll need Sir Night Eye to see how far into the solar system it's gonna land!!”

“One!” You enthusiastically chirp.

“Two.” Shinsou’s monotone is the spitting image of Aizawa.

“THREE!!” Mic screamed.

Armed with double ammo, the three of you are a blur of color. Shinsou is given the deepest scalp massage of his life, and Aizawa is five moves away from either victory or defeat (he’s immersed in the sugary world of Candy Crush).

“We did it!”

“Pog.”

“That's how you do it, baby! GG, gamers. We got that bread.”

Shouta looks up from his phone, stilling in his seat when he sees a reflection of his younger self.

Shinsou has worn the binding cloth Shouta gifted him every day without fail since he received it. You, Hizashi, and Shouta found it cute, so neither of you commented on it. The metal alloy bound around his neck only made the resemblance more uncanny—more emotionally moving.

Unbeknownst to Shouta, Shinsou is equally floored. He's looking in the mirror, and he sees his hero staring back. All the times he'd dressed up in costume as a child had nothing on this moment. He's given supportive hugs from you and his blonde father when he wipes his eyes. That's all Shouta needed to see. His arms silently envelop his son, and he murmurs how proud he is, not only of how far Hitoshi has come in his hero training but of the young man Shinsou has grown into and the man he's still becoming. Those accolades lose neither sincerity nor vehemence as Hitoshi's shoulders tremble, and they don't stop when he grabs the front of Aizawa's hero outfit for stability. Aizawa hugs him just as fiercely when Shinsou throws his arms around him.

You take three separate photos: the first depicts Hizashi, Shinsou, and yourself. You're holding your balloons over Shinsou’s rather electric hairstyle. The second illustrates you, Shinsou, and Zashi yet again. You each have one balloon held above your respective heads, throwing peace signs toward the camera. And last (a personal fan favorite) is a photo relatively similar to the first one, except Aizawa is activating Erasure to help demonstrate the resemblance.

The last shot finds itself on Mic’s Instagram for all those little listeners out there who haven't decided what they want to be for Halloween yet. Present Mic invites them to try the ‘Eraserhead Challenge.’ It's a fun activity and an excellent way for children to learn about the ins and outs of static electricity!

You and Shinsou stick the balloons to Aizawa’s body. And unfortunately, the many cats and kittens descend upon him like mini lions on a fresh t-bone steak.

Don't worry, he “died” a happy man.

[Enter you, Hizashi, and Shouta mellowing out on the couch, snuggled up like lovebirds]

“Shouta...!” The hero spares you a glance after the dramatic groan but goes right back to his Kindle.

“Yea?”

‘Yeah?’ ‘yeah?!’ How dare he ‘yeah’ you?!

“Prince.”

He sighs. “Yes, kitten?”

You smile, cuddling into his side. “That's better.” You kiss his cheek and fizzle like soda and pop rocks when he leans over to return it.

“Shouta.”

“Mm?”

“Babies are cute.”

...?

Okay, that got his attention.

Shouta eyes you skeptically, unsure where this is going and wary of finding out.

You pull out your phone at the suspicious side-eye he sends your way, showing him the adorable baby videos you'd been watching on Pinterest. “That’s...subjective.” He eventually mutters.

Why are you showing him this?

“And while we’re on that subject...”

Apprehensive, Shouta sought help from his husband. Hizashi is already tuned in to the conversation, gaze shifting between you and Aizawa.

“CanIhaveababy?!”

It took him a minute to unravel the compound sentence you threw at him, but when he eventually untangled it, he merely sighed. “No.” His eyes are still narrowed, uncertain if this is another one of your pranks. “We already have Shinsou.”

“Ugh!” You groaned, flinging yourself against the cushions. “Shin-chin is cute, but he's a teenager. I want a baby.”

“We’ll get you a kitten.”

You flail your limbs like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “We already have like three of those, thanks to you!”

“Well then,” Aizawa pockets your phone. “problem solved.” Shouta kept it out of your reach when you groused and fussed at him. He hides his smirk under his turtle neck; even now, you're the most lovable sweetheart. “You don't need to be watching things like that.”

You pout and turn your sights on Zashi. “Hi-Fi? Can I have a baby?”

Oh, Zashi can't stand his baby frowning! If something is wrong with his princess, something is wrong with him. He looks from your pleading expression to the death glare Aizawa spears him with. Those puppy eyes break him in seconds; already, he's scooping you up for cuddles. Mic’s kisses are snow flurries on your grinning face.

“Of course, pumpkin! How many?”

“Zashi!”

“Hizashi, already said yes.”

Shouta looked toward the DJ in disbelief, a comical expression of betrayal on his face. “Zashi?!”

“I asked him earlier.” You preened, hugging Hizashi. “Two against one. You're outnumbered, caffeinated kitty.”

Not caffeinated enough.

Hizashi is looking ANYWHERE but his husband. “In my defense, I thought you'd be down for it.”

“So you decided to make such an important decision without consulting me first?”

“Uh, yes? I'm sorry? ...I love you?”

“Fine... No more than three.”

─────────────────────

You: Can I have a baby?

Hizashi: Yes.

Aizawa: No.

EM: *glances at each other*

Hizashi: No.

Aizawa: Yes.

EM: *looks at you* “Yes.”

[pumpkin-pi-e]

Don't you worry about that, Shinsō

[pumpkin-pi-e]

You know that scene in Lilo & Stitch where she puts the flower crown around his neck, and he’s instantly docile?

Yeah, you do something like that to Aizawa when he's overworking himself.

You've had a lot of free time to explore some new hobbies, and your husbands™️ spared no expense on their sweetheart’s newfound love of hand-knitting. (it's domestic and adorable, and they love it.) You had access to the world’s softest fibers. When you creep up on an unsuspecting Shouta to wrap him in your ultra-soft creation, his fingers are immediately still over the keyboard. It's getting tough to keep his eyes open, and he just kind of...slinks to the floor. “I’ll take a nap right here.” He murmurs from the bed he made with his arms, already half-asleep.

He's learned to associate being wrapped up in a cushion with nap times, thanks to his sleeping bag.

Now, you can't lift him, but you cover him with a weighted blanket and cross your legs beside him to keep him company.

Zashi walks in with a tray of tea and cookies; you had to silence him and point to a resting Shouta. (not that it mattered, that man can sleep through anything.) Yamada nods and tiptoes around him. You two enjoy a nice snack, and Shouta’s cup of tea is placed next to him for whenever he stirs from his nap.

Shouta:

[pumpkin-pi-e]

Hi! It’s been a while since i’ve asked anything but this is the anon with a dog named Mochi. I just wanted to see how you are doing and just making sure you are still taking care of yourself (drinking water, not skipping meals, etc.) also not sure if this has been said already or not but I adore your writing! It cheers me up on a bad day and I hope you know that. Anyways have a lovely rest of your day :)

Le gasp! Kind nonnie, I’m so glad you’ve graced my ask box once more! Hehe, it’s so kind of you to check in with me. >w<

Yes, I’m taking care of myself, and I hope you are too! (Water is bland and tasteless and I refuse to partake. >3>)

I’ve just been working on some (hopefully) nice content for you guys. I still have your previous asks and I’m working on finishing them! You’ll have to forgive me, I’m very slow at the writing process. ;-;

asdfghjkl, I'm so happy you're able to find comfort in my writing and thank you for the compliment. 🙈

You have a lovely day as well! Give Mochi a treat for me. <3

[pumpkin-pi-e]

This behavior is truly disgusting. Content creators have lives outside of fanfic and experience dilemmas, you, the reader, are completely unaware of. That's why most of us write in the first place, to escape from them. Weeb, I'm so sorry you had to deal with this ugliness. This series is your baby, and you've poured so much time and effort into it, and it clearly shows. I know it's been cathartic for you to write, and it's been cathartic to read as well. And here this entitled a-hole comes and leaves this insensitive comment without caring how it would affect you. I'd still be eternally grateful for what we do have, even if it never gets finished. I give creators soooooo much leeway in terms of time and patience even when I commission them. You never know what people are going through, and I’d want the same courtesy in return. Even if you paid for a commission, you still shouldn't act like this. Again, the golden rule: treat others how you'd like to be treated.

y'all ever see something so outrageously entitled that you're not even sure how to respond to it, just like genuinely fucking confused

I'm just genuinely curious why this person would think that this would even remotely motivate me to work on this fanfic rather than associating it with this poor behavior? With the badgering? And actually make me that much less motivated than I already could be?

Like I'll be completely honest and say this is the first time I've ever received this sort of deliberately rude "hurry the fuck up" message but like, really? Have you paid me in any sort of way? Have I hung up a sign that reads "please treat me like shit and I'll continue to provide this free service for you"?

Not even on anon either??? Just full unashamed poor behavior on display

It's one thing to be eager to read the next chapter and ask me about it. It's entirely another to just straight up insult me while DEMANDING I cooperate. That's not how this works and it never will be and frankly the only thing you'll accomplish is hurting my feelings and pissing me off.

[pumpkin-pi-e]

I saw a panphobic post on my dash from someone I thought I could trust, so this is a reminder:

This user supports bisexual people

This user supports pansexual people

This user supports polysexual people

This user supports omnisexual people

Being bisexual is not panphobic

Being pansexual is not biphobic

No sexuality is transphobic

If you don’t support all mspec people equally, then get the fuck off my blog