#aizawa headcanons

[dabisbratz]

𝒮𝒲𝐸𝐸𝒯 𝒯𝒪𝒪𝒯𝐻 — shouta aizawa x male reader

w.c: 12.4k

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

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

You’re back home for the summer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s fucked.

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

Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His heart could almost burst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep. He’s fucked.

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

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

“I think you got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can see that.”

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

There’s always something in your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

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

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

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

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

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

Shouta is avoiding you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmph.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

“You’re, what, twenty-five—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only it were his cock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were holding hands.

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

And that isn’t even it.

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

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

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

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

Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What else would I say?”

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

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

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

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

“Show me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.

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

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

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

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

But it does.

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

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

Delayed gratification.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

“Sweet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re Shouta’s boy.

Summer is coming to an end.

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

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

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

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

And that’s all you need to hear.

[kleftiko]

❦ TITS, ASS, OR THIGHS?

cw: mature, fem!reader

JJK VERSION | BLACK CLOVER VERSION

—shigaraki

hardcore tits man. big tits? squeeze them into a tube top. medium? push up bra galore so they can sandwich his face. tiny? your nipples through a small tee has him DROOLING. man just loves himself some tits. wants to suck on them like the mommy issues man he is.

—hawks

ass is his favourite pillow. i know because of his wings, he probably sleeps on his stomach—so ass pillow. easy. aside from that? tight dresses. you’re going out? he’s standing behind you like a bodyguard to scare off everyone and waiting for you to back your ass up into him when you dance.

—aizawa

thigh highs and a skirt are the perfect frame for the art that is your legs. garters? lace? fuck it just have those pretty things squeezing the life out of his head. he would die a happy, happy man. he wants his fingers digging into them when he drives too, slowly going higher.

—dabi

smacks your ass like a drum. doesn’t even look up when you scold him for hurting you, just admires the jiggle. leaves bite marks when you fuck too. i mentioned before that his favourite position is doggy and i was RIGHT. shameless pervert too, just loves ass.

[tired-teacher-blog]

Over the years following his early retirement, Aizawa has developed a dad bod.

He is no longer the pale and lanky man you've fallen in love with– all these years ago, and his once prominent dark circles and tired demeanor are long gone and replaced with a more relaxed aura.

You love the little changes he's unknowingly flaunting: the soft tummy protruding under his shirt, the thickness of his strong arms and thighs, the healthy glow adorning his rounder cheeks, and most of all, that cute plumpy butt filling out his bottoms perfectly.

You can never help the heat pooling into the pit of your belly when seeing him dressed lightly, and you get consumed by an uncontrollabe desire to strip him off of whatever sleepwear highlighting his seductive frame at the moment.

That hungry look in your eyes does not go unnoticed as he knows you too well to miss it, and gladly grants your undeclared wish without a second thought.

With an amused smirk on his face, he kneels down between your legs and pushes in slowly while watching the way you breathlessly utter his name and run your hands over his plump chest, and it's a heavenly view that you cannot get tired of seeing, although you really want to feel him pressed against you as well.

You desperatly claw at his forearms demanding to have him closer, and encase him in your embrace when he finally is.

His thrusts quicken and his lips devour yours in a sloppy kiss, while your nails rake his broad shoulders and travel lower and lower until reaching his bum and clutching onto the luscious buttocks you so much adore, squeezing his fleshy globes to mimic the erratic pace of his hips.

He goes mad everytime you do that, singing your praises and grunting promises of making you lose your mind soon.

His words and relentless plunges are what drive you over the edge with a broken cry of how good he's making you feel, and he follows suit in a matter of seconds, stuffing you full of his milky seeds before collapsing onto your quivering body with a soft "I love you" whispered to your ear..

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[sandiaarts]

Reblogs and comments are appreciated

[bonkwrites]

like a princess

Shouta Aizawa x afab!reader

Warnings: dirty talk, afab!reader, PIV sex, fluffy smut, bondage, like two spanks, begging, pleading, crying, name calling (Sir and baby), 

Aizawa is a respectful man. He's never treated you poorly, raised a hand at you (even jokingly), and has always treated you like a princess. He's all gentle touch.. calm, tired voice.. and warm, soft skin.. 

But sometimes, you want more. Don't get it twisted, Aizawa fills the role of husband better than any man ever could and you're not thinking about cheating! All you want is for him to get a little… rough in bed. You were both virgins when you met and you've explored sex together as partners ever since. You've both discovered the things you like, the things you don't like, together. 

All of it changed with a book. A stupid, erotic romance novel involving a dominant man and a submissive woman. It was a throw-away, there was barely any plot, but the sex scenes were graphic, detailed, and you were engrossed in the book because of them. You’d never really thought about.. anything like that. Shouta had read the book over your shoulder one night, plucked it out of your hands, and pulled you right along to the bedroom. 

He made you tell him everything that you read, everything that you liked, and when you were done he bent you over the edge of the bed and made you scream. It was the only time he was ever rough with you since you’ve been together and you’re addicted. 

That's how you ended up where you are now, the end of Aizawa's scarf in his hand, the remaining length of it wrapped around your arms behind your back. You're kneeling on the bed, naked, chest pushed forward, skin prickling with desire. You'd give anything to have his hands, his mouth, any party of him, on you right now. 

"T-Touch me?" You ask, eyes flicking from his hand gripping the scarf to his face. His eyes are sharp, dark, and the lust in them makes you squirm. 

"When you earn it." He's got this horribly smug smirk on his face that makes you wetter. Your husband is so hot, you don't have to be reminded of that, but this scenario, giving him control of your body like this, has made him impossibly hotter. 

"Please," you beg, thighs squirming, "Sh-Shouta, I need you." 

"Do you?" He asks. He flicks his wrist and you spin, thrown off balance and falling. Your chest hits the bed and you throw your head to the side to avoid breaking your nose at the last second with a gasp.

The control he has over that scarf is impressive. You struggle, hands and arms pushing against the fabric. You're turned around and when you shuffle up on your knees you realize you've given him the best view of your pussy you could ever imagine. Shouta groans, his free hand reaching out to grope your ass and thighs. 

"This is so much hotter than I thought it would be," he admits, voice low with arousal. You nod and agree in a whimper consumed by the sheets. 

The soft, silk sheets of the bed you share with him. You're gonna have to replace them, you'll never be able to look at them the same. Shouta's hand leaves your skin and then comes back down with a crack of skin on skin. You gasp, body shaking forward, and then press your hips back again. He brings his hand down again and the sting makes your head spin. You whimper please, please, into the sheets when he brings down the third. The fourth has you moaning and attempting to grind your hips back. 

“Please what, sweetheart? Hmm?” he soothes his handprints with soft, kneading fingers. You feel the mattress dip and it’s only when you feel the skin of his thighs against yours that you realize he’s behind you. He twists his wrist, the slack of the scarf tightened. 

“W-Want you,” you beg, “need you, baby,” 

You push your hips back and the tension leaves your skin when you grind against his bulge in his boxers. You keep going, thinking that if he wanted you to stop he’d tell you, and you think that you could cum like this. You’ve been thinking about this for so long, had this little fantasy tucked away for so long, and now you’re about to cum like a horny teenager by humping him like a fucking dog. 

It feels dirty, especially when his hand finds your hips and pulls you back against him. You try to spread your legs wider, arch your back deeper, but the hold the scarf has on your arms is misleadingly tight. It gives you barely any room to move. You might be getting yourself off on him but he’s got all the control. 

“That feel good, baby?” Shouta asks. You whimper, nodding, hips moving faster. 

“P-Please, I just, I c-can’t take it-” you feel like you’re going to explode, like your heart is going to give out. 

“You’ll take what I give you,” he commands it of you, he stops your rutting hips with one hand. You sob, clenching around nothing, losing all thought process fast. 

“Please!” you cry out, “Sh-Shouta-” 

“Sir.” he corrects and oh, oh my god, how are you going to survive this? He wants you to call him Sir. 

“Sir,” you beg, “Please fuck me, please, I need it, sir, I can’t-” Shouta’s thumb touches your clit and you moan, eyes rolling back, shaking all over. He’s got you so pent up you can barely breath, can barely think. 

“Can’t what?” your reply is muffled by the sheets. Shouta’s thumb leaves your clit to allow him to wind back and give you another handprint. You cry out, the sudden pain unexpected. 

“What can’t you do, baby? Answer me.” 

“I can’t take this," your voice shakes, "Please, sir," 

He leans over you and releases your hip with a warning of stay still growled into your ear. You nod, whimpering, and Aizawa lets go of the fabric to get off the bed. You try to take deep breaths, try to calm your heartbeat and your racing mind. It doesn’t work. You’re aching for him, no amount of deep breathing is going to change that. 

You shiver when you feel his hands touch your shoulders. There's barely a tug on the scarf before it comes undone. You feel it slide over your skin, off of your wrists and arms. Confused, you shift your weight to look up at him. God, what a sight. He’s holding the scarf, his boxers are gone, and you have the urge to put your mouth on his cock. 

"Wh-What-" you stutter as his hands trail over your skin. 

"I want to see you while I fuck you," he cuts you off quickly, already knowing what your about to ask, and a shock of arousal strikes through you at the image your brain conjures up. 

"M-kay," you mumble as you turn over. He leans down to kiss you when you get to your back. You’re lost in him in seconds, his lips are soft, his hands are rough, and his hair is falling over your cheek. 

Those rough hands wander over your cheeks, your shoulders, and they play with your nipples, twisting and tugging. You jolt, back arching, whimpering into his mouth. He pulls back, breathing hard and smirking. He loves this, loves every second of having you under his control. 

"Hands above your head, baby." You blink stupidly at him for a second before you do as he says. 

"Y-Yes, sir," you lift your arms above your head and shuffle your shoulders to get comfortable. He secures your wrists to the headboard, tied together, and then he’s back between your legs. He adjusts you, big hands moving your thighs and your hips around. 

You can feel him, hard and heavy and pressing against your thigh. He puts one leg on his shoulder and you squirm, body thumping with your heartbeat. His eyes are heavy lidded, clouded, and you have to look away to save yourself from the fire it ignites in you. He takes himself in hand and guides himself until his head is pushed up against your hole. You shiver and gasp. 

“S-Sir,” you sob, whining, “Please, puh-” 

You’re cut off by your own moans when he pushes his hips forward and slides himself in. He takes it slow, so slow, savoring the way you feel around him with his head tilted back. You struggle against the fabric, wanting to touch him, grab him, pull him down over you and rake your nails down his back. His eyes open, looking down at you, devastatingly handsome. 

“Struggling already, sweetheart?” he asks, hands curving up your sides to tug and pinch your nipples. You cry out, clenching around him. 

He grips the bottoms of your ribcage for leverage as he pulls his hips back and snaps them forward. You can’t stop the sounds that come out of your mouth as he fucks you, you never could. Shouta knows how to make you scream for him, how to fuck you so good you forget your own name. 

“That’s it, baby, fucking take it,” he growls, one hand leaving your side to grip your thigh, “it’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?” 

You nod frantically, trying desperately to fuck yourself down on him. You want to cum like this, tied down and pinned under your husband, being used by him. 

“Sh-Shouta-” you’re cut off when he goes still inside you, confusion taking hold of you for a second as he leans over you and reaches for your bedside table. Did the condom break? Your head is spinning. 

“Close your eyes,” he commands, you follow his order quickly and feel him start to fuck you again, one hand gripping your hip to pin you down. Something cold, hard, plastic presses against your hip and you whine. 

“W-What are you- Sir!” you sob out his name among a string of incoherent syllables as he turns your vibrator on and presses it right to your clit. Shouta moans too, fucking you harder. 

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, I can feel you twitching,” he moans. His fingers dig into your thighs, his hips rough. You tug on the binds, struggling, wanting more or wanting to stop you aren’t sure. 

“I-I-” you want to tell him it’s too much, you can’t take it, you’re gonna shatter into a million pieces if he keeps fucking you like this. Shouta fucks you right into your orgasm, watching you shake and fall apart beneath him with that smirk still on his face. 

“Fuuuck, baby,” he groans, pulling you down onto his cock roughly and burying himself inside of you. He pants, the same as you, as he comes down. You take deep breaths, trying to calm your beating heart. 

He pulls out, discards the condom, and then he comes back to you. He pulls the scarf free, throws it to the floor, and lays down with you to rub your wrists and kiss your hands. You’re sore, boneless, and you let yourself fall to a calm in his arms. He runs a hand over your hair, whispers praise, and you can’t help the way your eyes drift close. He takes such good care of you all the time, respects you and loves you, how did you get so lucky? 

[stxrrydreamss]

How they hold your hand in bed.

Dabi/Aizawa/Hawks/Bakugo/Deku/Shigaraki

💙 Dabi 💙

Dabi wants to feel like he has complete control. He’ll have you tightly pinned onto the bed beneath him as he fucks you roughly into the mattress. A little sobbing mess, how he likes you. His other hand will be keeping you steady or gripping your face and forcing you to make out with him until neither of you can breathe.

Dabi would love to degrade you. “Your such a fucking whore for me.” “What a dirty little slut.” “You naughty little bitch.” He’d groan with occasional primal growling. His eyes would be crazed as he stared intensely at you in bliss. “Do you feel every piercing on my dick rubbing against your insides, doll?” He moaned out with a cocky smile across his face. “Don’t you love how my dick stretches you out?”

When he cums he is very vocal. Moans, groans, grunts, and growls leave him with curses like fuck, shit, and god damn. Afterward, he hovers above you as he mocks your smudged, tear-stained, and flushed face. “Did you enjoy that princess?” He’d tease. He may be all cocky and shit in bed, but deep down, it was a coverup for how much he loved you and how insecure he felt about himself. He wouldn’t tell you that, though. At least not yet.

Calling him by his real name, Touya, will make him go feral on you. His pupils dilate, and he starts obliterating your insides.

🖤 Aizawa 🖤

He’s usually tired, but on rare occasions when he has the energy and no night patrol. He has you tied up beneath him. He enjoys your flustered face at the sudden change, but you eagerly embrace it.

On the nights when he comes home and decides to lovingly fuck you, he has you doggy style as he rests his face in the crook of your neck, whispering sweet nothingness and nipping at the skin, leaving behind hickeys and bite marks. One hand holds you in place as he slowly rams himself into you while the other is gripping your wrist. He prefers this position because you can’t see his flustered and pleasure-stricken face.

“Such a good girl.” Shouta moaned as his eyes began to glaze over. “Such a good little kitty cat.” He would say in a strained voice, trying to keep his voice even. “Fuck!” He groans as his grip crushes your wrist, and you feel his other hand pull you closer to him as his cock twitches inside you, releasing his cum. He continues to let out choked and restrained groans as he thrusts slowly until he completely stops. He stays still for a few moments before pulling out as cum immediately starts dripping down onto the bed. “Holy shit.” He’s breathing as he pulls you close, burying his face into your neck.

❤️ Hawks ❤️

Keigo loves making eye contact while lovingly fucking you into his mattress. He loves having one hand gripping your wrist while the other is around your throat, gently choking you. He’s so love-struck as he drools at the sight of your pleasure-stricken face with smudged eyeliner/mascara from the tears leaking from your eyes. God, does that turn him on. Your other hand scratches at his back, making Keigo growl in pleasure. His face seems almost crazed. The abuse he endured as a kid made him a complete masochist in the bedroom as an adult. It meant they loved him, right? He also enjoys being so close to you, as touch-starved as he is.

“Oh fuck.” Keigo moans as his grip on your wrists grows ever tighter. “Shit, dove!” He calls out as tears brim his eyes and a loud choked moan escapes from his pretty lips. You feel his body tense up and shake as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, grunting and choking back moans as he cums inside you. “Fuck!” He would moan out repeatedly, unable to say anything else. Once the tension leaves his body and he comes down from his high, he will be quick to hold you tightly and kiss you non stop. You’ll know how much he loves you and how touch-starved he is.

🧡 Bakugo 🧡

This man loves taking you doggy style. One hand is working on your clit while the other pin your other hand down tightly against the mattress. You weren’t going anywhere, princess. He chooses doggy style because he knows you won’t be able to see his watery eyes and pleasure-ridden face. His eyes closed tightly, his mouth slightly agape, and his face almost as red as his crimson irises.

“Fuck baby, you feel so goddamn good.” He’d praise you. “Does that feel good, baby?” He’d question as he worked his fingers like a pro around your clit. You couldn’t respond besides an approving whine in agreement. “You take me so fucking well.” He groaned as he slammed his hips roughly into you. You’d be a drooling moaning mess, unable to hold yourself up without him helping you.

When he cums he slams his hips as hard as he can into you and bites hard onto your shoulder as he groans in complete bliss. You can feel him shake and his cock twitch inside you as the warmth of his cum fills you up. The sudden heat brings you over the edge as well. Afterward, he holds you close against him with his arm on the back of your head while the other massages all the sore parts of your body, especially where he left dark bruises, teeth marks, hickeys, and fingerprints.

“Sorry, babe. You felt too fucking good.” He’d tease.

He would also definitely pull your hair as he fucks you from behind.

💚 Midoriya 💚

Izuku is so sweet, loving, and gentle with you in bed. He's not choking you; he's not biting you; he's just fucking you gently in the missionary position. He loves holding down your hands with his fingers intertwined with yours. “I love you so much, puppy.” He'd whimper above you. His eyes are half-lidded, and sweat coats his entire body.

He's very vocal and can be somewhat submissive. Izuku would whimper and moan as he thrusts into you while muttering phrases like “Oh my god.” “This feels good, puppy.” “Baby.”

When you dom him, riding cowgirl with your arms on either side of his head holding you up, his eyes are tightly shut and brimmed with tears, one hand covering his mouth, face red, and his other hand is gripping onto your waist in such desperation. It only turns you on more. “Puppy, please!” Izuku would whine and whimper. Squeals would leave his lips as well as hold back moans and breaths.

When he's close, he holds you tightly as he trembles, and tears leave his eyes with a loud, choked-out whine. As he comes down, he shivers and whimpers as he continues breathing heavily into your neck, hiding his face in embarrassment. “I'm sorry about the mess.” He would whisper when he came back to it. You would giggle breathlessly as you shift yourself off his cock and admire the condom filled with his cum. He’d stare at you and then at his dick before covering his face with one hand and holding the other out defensively. “Please don't stare.” He’d beg.

Izuku is the king of aftercare. Are you thirsty? He's grabbing you some water. Are you hungry? He runs out to buy you guys some of your favorite snacks. Are you sore? He's massaging and working his fingers over your aching and sore muscles. Izuku would pepper kisses all over you while holding you close to him as he drifts to sleep, muttering about how lucky he feels, how much he loves you, how he'd do anything for you, etc.

Shigaraki

Even if your quirk makes it to where his quirk is ineffective against you, he’s still wearing his gloves as one hand cups your face and the other hover over the other as if you’d disappear if he touched you. You reassured him, though, by holding onto his wrist instead. It had shivers going down his spine.

Tenko was madly in love with you, and anyone who wronged either of you or said otherwise would end up as a pile of dust. You were his princess. His darling. His love. You were everything to this man. The literal best thing that has ever happened to him. You, besides his goal, were his #1 priority.

Tenko would have you with your legs pushed back in the missionary position as he thrust slowly and deeply into you. He used his one free hand to hold your legs as he leaned forward to make out with you leaving you both a panting, breathless mess. His ashen hair tickled your face as he did so, which left his crimson-red eyes gazing upon your bright heavenly smile.

Oh fuck.

Upon seeing your smile, he feels himself get sent over the edge, and he groans loudly and uses his hair to hide his scrunched-up face. “God. Damn.” Tenko would mutter between deep groans and heavy breaths, almost to that growling. He’d then pull out and let your legs fall back down to allow a break before looking back at you with lovesick and glazed-over eyes. “Are you ready for round two, my player two?” He laughs before capturing your lips in another loving kiss and finally finding the courage to use both of his hands to hold your face before pinning you back down onto the bed.

He doesn’t stop fucking you round after round until your bedsheets are soaked in fluids, and you are both sweaty panting messes melded together in an intimate embrace, already drifting off to sleep from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Tenko’s semi-hard cock is still deep inside you.

[luffyvace]

AIZAWA’S KISSES HEADCANONS<3

The gif is blurry but I really like the angle/scene 😗

I did a post called ‘Zoro’s kisses’ a while ago and it did really well! So I’ve decided to make it a official mini series from @luffyvace w/ different anime characters bc y’all really liked those (ﾟ∀ﾟ)

Y’all probably haven’t kissed even if your already officially together

aizawa let’s it come naturally and doesn’t want to force it at a certain time

therefore it isn’t that he doesn’t want to,

he just waits for the opportunity

You two prob don’t kiss until like 2-3 months after making it official

Plus aizawa doesn’t wanna move too fast since this is likely his first relationship

he doesn’t wanna rush in and give you his first kiss and it doesn’t work out

Of course he’s thinking so rational like that

for your first kiss hcs

it’s def happening at yours or his house and no where else

he doesn’t wanna feel uncomfortable or be stared at right after it 🗿

plus he just isn’t for pda

he doesn’t wanna be that couple smooching away in a public place

let’s say y’all were at aizawa’s house on his couch chatting

you two were sitting pretty close but you didn’t realize it because you were used to it by now! Your a couple after all

The conversation kinda ended which woulda been awkward if you hadn’t noticed how close your faces were

you had a slight smile on your lips and then you both just sorta leaned in

his lips were soft and moist but his stuble beard was rough

You didn’t mind though with how passionately and gently he was kissing you

he was a natural!

you probably didn’t expect that!

actually—you didn’t expect this whole situation in the first place!

You were surely greatful though!

it was a rather pleasant kiss!

You drifted apart while softly smiling at each other before you laid your head on his shoulder

he brought an arm around you bringing you closer

you continued sitting there together in solidarity silence

grinning and replaying the scene over and over again in your heads

then kisses become a much more casual thing :)

dont try grand displays of pda in public tho

he sets the boundary that he doesn’t like it

he just thinks these things should be kept more professional especially while at work

he doesn’t mind a quick peck though

or gentle yet subtle touches

Yamada (present mic) teases him about how he went from a ‘emo loner’ to getting this fine looking s/o

LOLL

(even if you don’t think you’re fine yes you are I can’t express that enough—your personality shows and makes you attractive)

his ‘I miss you’ kisses are so much more romantic

say he or you went on a dangerous mission or one of you had your life on the line

As soon as you get home your getting a ‘I miss you’ kiss

an ‘I miss you’ kiss with him feels like

him embracing you in a hug as soon as you get home and not letting go for a while. him pressing you up against a wall, not even in a suggestive way and kissing you for long periods of time. Getting the most out of every second you spend together. him giving you little pecks in between long ones because he just can’t keep his lips off of you after not having you for so long.

After a life/death situation or hard mission he would be really caring and protective of you for a while

not that he isn’t always but you mind find yourself getting a few extra kisses and such <3

kisses on the temple become casual, especially when alone

hand and cheek kisses frequency increases as well

btw if your not into pda?

No prob! He isn’t either!

if you are?

his kisses are so gentle yet paced, making you crave them all the more

<3

I hope you enjoy my new ‘character’s kisses series!!

[mintshrooom]

Just when Aizawa thought he could has his cat to himself but then Hawks shows up with a feather🪶 Finally drew Aizawa :0

[dabisbratz]

PLAY DATE (CHERRY)— aizawa shouta x male reader

wc: ~6.5k

cw: dilf!aizawa, babysitter!reader, sexual tension, slow burn, spanking/impact play, finger-sucking, d/s undertones, daddy kink, praise, manhandling, age gap (21 yr old reader, 41 yr old aizawa), porn with plot, size difference/kink, spit/drool, degradation, rimming, hand holding, full nelson, creampie, breeding kink, light feminization

a/n: yes i was listenin to lana while writin this! howd u know?!

The click of a mouse. The sound of a scroll wheel grinding against plastic— rubbery and restricted. A family of five, four, three..family oriented individuals with more kids on their hands than time. It was late, even for you. Who scoured the internet until the sky’s inky black atmosphere was painted a pacific blue. From there, you’d tend to sleep into the late hours of the evening, beneath the comfort of a heavy weighted blanket, until your phone went off or a nightmare pulled you from your slumber.

Your dry, tired eyes trace the blurry words of your computer screen, the bright white light beaming through the depths of your continuously darkening bedroom. The room is almost radio silent— save for the occasional crunching of chips between your teeth and the fan of your laptop working overtime. The text is almost hard to read, shying away behind a hazy glare.

‘One kid—6 year old girl. One pet— black bombay cat.’

Sounds promising. The letters are arranged in a blunt manner, straight to the point and even somewhat intimidating, but the clear boundaries and requirements listed are fair enough.. Maybe even tilted in your favor. Your cursor wanders, ready to further inspect the profile presumed to belong to the parent who created the listing.

Shouta Aizawa, a middle-aged man with a salt and pepper beard, long hair to match, and a distinctive scar below his eye— which looks milky and clear. The other, however, is a deep pool of brown, warm like melted chocolate. His irises melt into his long lashes, which remain straight and strict, much like the demeanor he emits in the headshot photo. It must be reminiscent of his ID, as his career is listed just below his picture.

Owner of Eraserhead Industries.

Huh.

Chewing the fleshy insides of your cheeks, your eyes dart across the screen, hesitantly inching the cursor over the bright, bolded ‘message’ button. Sparks ignite in your stomach, blooming in the expanse of your tummy as you type out,

‘When can I start?’

You hear yourself squeal, pushing away your mouse with your fingertips and hiding behind the warmth of your palms before your computer chimes in response. The message stares back at you, perforating into you as you read it over and over, trying to imagine how this—practicably— rich man would sound. You settle for a deep voice, giggling to yourself as you read out the message.

‘The sooner the better.’

The man is much scarier in person, and your imitation of his voice was nowhere near accurate.

His voice is much deeper than you thought, gravelly and not nearly as riddled with giggles like you’d tacked on. In fact, it only seems to deepen as he nurses a mug of black coffee, just one large hand completely shielding the cup in its entirety. He’d ordered it, busying himself with the sheets of paper he had placed upon the polished table as you explained just how much whipped cream you’d wanted in your milkshake to the waitress.

He takes up most of the space on his side of the booth in the homely café, his layers discarded and shed along the plush seating. The man with dark eyes, Shouta Aizawa, is a natural born leader. The physical embodiment of sticks and stones, seemingly stronger than Zeus himself, he seems to have no faults.

But that’s not what you should be focusing on, not now, when you’re preoccupied with narrowed, umber eyes. They look at you with nothing but impenetrable suspicion, remarkably intimidating despite belonging to someone who looks incredibly angelic. Tufts of frosty hair, unruly and disheveled and divine. The sun dawns down on Musutafu, framing his locks in a makeshift halo. He looks like a fallen angel, of sorts.

“I don’t trust my kids with other kids,” He says, watching the dark amalgamation of caffeine swirl in his porcelain cup. Does he consider his cat to be his kid, too? “How old are you?”

You perk up, straightening your back as you push your straw in and out of your sickeningly sweet milkshake. Whipped cream clings to the plastic, sticky and bubbly with foam, “Twenty-one, sir.”

Aizawa makes a face at that, steely eyes drooping further with the pinch of his dark eyebrows. They slot perfectly, intricate wrinkles firming between them. Did you… fuck it up? You’d consider yourself an adult— comparable to law, anyway. And you can be mature, especially when it counts, so there shouldn’t really be a problem!

It’s evident he loves his kids, despite the hard exterior that he’s showing off there’s a fatherly glint to his eye. A protective overlay to his words. It’s admirable, if anything. You’d even call it charming, the way his eyes bore into you from the outside-in and pick you apart, if it wasn’t so damn scary being on the receiving end.

“Do you drink?”

“…No?”

“Do you plan to?”

More of an interrogation than anything, you take an awfully long time to reply as you use his suspension as an opportunity to savor your milkshake.

“No.”

You make sure to sound more confident this time.

His questions have been asked before, over text and in a manner not as… blunt as you hear it now. But it’s all down to perception, and you’d managed to wrongfully pin Shouta Aizawa as a care-free, laid back guy. Though, from the looks of it, he seems to live up to the ladder. And, upon closer inspection, it does nothing to tarnish his looks.

“Mm,” Is all he says, humming in acknowledgment as a check is placed his way. “You’re young.”

“Young enough to be your son?” You ask, mouth faster than your brain, and suddenly you can’t stop. Your lips curl upward, a smile gracing your lips as you giggle, “People probably think you’re my sugar daddy or somethin’.”

He doesn’t seem to completely respond to that, letting the comment fly into the air as he shifts. Heat somersaults into your face, heating your body up until you find yourself unable to hold eye contact. Nice going.

You wrap your lips around the plump cherry slowly sinking into your drink, twirling the stem between your teeth. It explodes in your mouth, sharp and sweet along the expanse of your tongue, a nice distraction.

Something alien flickers behind his eyes, “Tech savvy?”

“I— Yeah! I play video games,” You almost forget this is an interview, not a date. The thought makes your brain a little fuzzy, cotton forming in your mouth as you stumble over your answer. “Not— Y'know, never on the clock.”

Shouta looks much more vulnerable with his head turned, his veiny hand reaching into the pocket of his inky pants, pulling out an equally dark credit card. No way. His handwriting is illegible, but the swooning waitress deems it acceptable, thanking him for the tip with a high blush on her cheeks. There isn’t a single ring on his calloused fingers, so it’s almost shocking he doesn’t jump at the opportunity

“Good. Eri likes games.” It’s the most praise you’ve heard all night, and hearing it from the deep rumble of his throat makes it even better. Your gaze must linger, because his dark eyes are staring back into yours, almost looking right through you.

“Eri? Your daughter?”

“I don’t like sharing personal information online.”

You laugh nervously, filling your mouth with the melting drink before he can comment.

“I—Woah, sir… your home is… beautiful.” It’s not just flattery, you genuinely, sincerely mean it. You’ve seen it before, sure, through text and under much more professional scrutiny, but the camera doesn’t do it justice. His house aches with love, wrapped up in kisses and enveloped in a sweet, cinnamon-scented embrace.

There’s a heavy amount of childish memorabilia, like crayon drawings hung up on his stainless steel fridge, miscellaneous toys littering the floor, and a pair of tiny shoes resting next to your own. They look comically small, glittery and pink and utterly, indubitably, reminiscent of a six year old girl. Especially in comparison to the sleek, black sneakers Shouta slips off next to them. Utterly, indubitably, reminiscent of a forty-one year old man.

Aizawa makes his way through the living room while you marvel in astonishment, taking in the sights of his house. Surprisingly, despite his not-so-settle display of wealth, his home is the opposite. It’s the real thing, with lived-in floors and comfy furniture..lively and bright. Sure, his sofa is a muted gray, but the portraits and polaroids and children’s drawings make up for it.

You follow along, nearly tripping over some misplaced barbies and action figures as you quickly remove your shoes and stumble forward. Like a newborn fawn, unfamiliar to its own legs, you walk forward with a bashful smile.

It was almost easy for you to forget that he’s human, and not some strong-willed work-machine designed to finish tasks and take care of children.

But the way his joints pop when he shifts a certain way, the way sweat trickles down his forehead after a long day of working in a stuffy office, proves otherwise. It was then, you realize, that he is all flesh and bones. Not pen ink or an indestructible force.

“Eri’s… picky. Try exposing her to different foods every now and then, there’s a list of recipes she likes on the fridge.”

Shouta’s leaning against the marble of his open-island kitchen, socked feet melting into the cold tile. You half-expected his socks to be just as dark as his clothes, so it’s a pleasant surprise to see cartoonish cat faces littering the fabric.

Right—anyway. You nod, though it’s mainly reserved for yourself, as your eyes rake up the words stuck to his fridge. Freshly printed out, not an inch out of place, you wonder how many times he’s done this. The gears turn in your head, clicking and grinding until your lips part, a breathless expression keyed into your facial features. Wait.

“Does that mean—”

“I’ll text you the extra details. Eri’s bedroom is upstairs, but you should wait for her to show it to you when she’s ready.”

Your apartment is a flimsy excuse of a home, nowhere near as intricate and thoroughly loved as Shouta’s. Walking inside, you realize just that, there isn’t even a hint of glitter or gleam as you walk through the front door. Even though you have yet to meet her, Eri’s already brightened up your life. Your walls scream with loneliness, the sound bouncing off each corner until you’re tucking yourself into bed and curling up beneath the sheets.

And though you barely know him, you can’t help but want to follow the childish urge to open up the website you found Aizawa’s listing on to study his headshot.

Eri, you’ve come to learn, is a very smart kid. Perhaps too smart for her own good, too observant, and way too excited to express said observations. You sit taut on the gray sofa, leaning over a sheet of paper as you carefully color between the lines of the thick, inky, coloringbook outline. But Eri’s got her own leaflet, vigorously coloring something she has yet to allow you to look at.

You haven’t known her long enough for the leaves to brown, to fall off and make room for winter. You haven’t known her long enough to see the leaves return, the chilly air slowly descending into something softer, quieter. Warmer with summer’s welcome. But she grew to accept you rather quickly.

It started soon after your first meeting with Aizawa, and to your dismay, you hadn’t really seen much of him after that. Only small traces and fragments, like the religious filling of Present Meow’s food bowl or notes tacked onto the fridge.

Admittedly, you kinda miss him.

You’ve become quite engrossed in Eri’s choice in television, watching the cartoon with just as much excitement as the six your old. It even makes you laugh, hearty and dinkum.

“How do you feel about niku-dofu for dinner tonight, Er-bear?” She barely moves, her tongue held between the corner of her lips as she furrows her brows in concentration. Whatever she’s coloring is much more important than dinner, apparently.

With outstretched limbs, you stand, reaching for the sky as a yawn is pulled from your chest and your eyes grow heavy. Being dragged along by a six year old all day is exhausting. The hairstyling, the nail-painting, the hero-pretending…the dolls.

(Eri quite enjoyed acting out soap-opera levels of dramatic scenes with dolls. And, of course, you could only be the man in these scenarios.)

But you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ve grown attached in the span of a few weeks.

“I’ll take that as a yes then!” You chirp, setting down your finished page with a sense of pride. Might even have to add a signature to it!

With Eri’s toys scattered along the floor, despite your constant advisory to clean them up, walking through the house has become quite the challenge. An obstacle course of sorts that Aizawa must’ve been a master at getting through.

Aizawa… With dark circles that cast shadows down his mature face. With stubble that’s cleanly shaved, not a single hair out of place.

Aizawa…With his long, dark hair that frames his face with thick bundles.

Aizawa… Who almost constantly looks disgruntled, faintly pink lips pulled into a tight line.

Him and his signature crisp, black button up that barely fights against his large chest and his matching pants that cling to his stupidly strong thighs.

It makes your brain a little fuzzy, the thought of his equally large biceps bulging in his shirt as he crosses his arms and stares down at you through the bridge of his nose. And his eyes— piercing and domineering staring straight into yours, lips curled as he berates you like some sort of misbehaving child.

(Which you’d spent a lot of time arguing with him about through sticky-notes…The fridge is powered evidence, covered in neon paper as you remind him you’re ‘not a kid!’ beneath his ‘not bad, kid’ post-it note.)

“Hey? Are you okay?” Eri’s small voice snaps you out of your haze, wide and virtuous red eyes blinking up at you. Clutching her drawing to her chest, she shifts her weight between each leg. Her small smile is gone, so you do your best to conjure up a frolicsome grin.

“Never felt better! Finally ready to show me what you’re working on?”

“Mhm,” She hums, reminiscent of her father.

Eri’s picture is nothing short of sweet. Advanced for her age, she’s drawn three figures that resemble the three of you— herself, Aizawa, you— sitting happily at the generously furnished dining table. On her lap sits Present Meow, a black ball of crayon-esque fur, who has small, wobbly hearts above his head. You all do, actually, some bigger than others (e.i: you quite literally have heart eyes that take up more than half your crayon face), but big nonetheless.

Is your crush on her father really that obvious?

“Oh, Eri, that’s—”

The front door trembles, the doorknob clicking and jingling as it welcomes silver keys. Before your eyes, Shouta’s welcoming himself in, strong right arm pushing the door open. His shoulders are draped in exhaustion, his gray scarf tangled around his neck as he shuts the door behind him.

Embarrassment wells up in your stomach, overflowing until you’re hiding Eri’s drawing behind your back. He doesn’t typically come home this early. Usually within the late hours of the night, into early morning, he can be seen rummaging through the fridge for a drink until he heads upstairs, straight to bed.

Instead, he’s stalking forward.

Did his steps always shake the house like this, or are you just imagining it? You must be, it must be your heart in your ears, because your face is flooding with warmth as he towers over you and peeks over your shoulder.

“What’s behind your back?” He lifts an inquisitive eyebrow, faintly smelling of cigarette smoke.

“What? Noth—”

“Look!” Eri snatches the drawing from your clammy hands and pushes it into Shouta’s abdomen. He hunches over, just slightly, before taking in the image.

“Jesus, kid,” He clicks his tongue with a tenderhearted sigh, looping his thumb around the waistband of his black slacks. “You’re somethin’ else...”

You’d have thought it was meant for Eri if his gaze didn’t flicker up to meet yours.

Dinner rolled around fast, and you’d found yourself nicking your finger on one of Shouta’s large, sharpened knives. Cutting up a small portion of potatoes shouldn’t have been so trivial, a pained gasp escaped your lips as you pinched the tiny wound. You wince, instinctively sucking on the skin of your mangled finger.

“I told you to be careful,” He took your hand in his, swallowing it whole with his palms, and went as far as to berate you, grumbling, “Watch yourself. Are you okay?”

Breathless as you watched him open a nearby drawer, he pulled out a kiddie bandaid, decorated with polka dots and even more cats. You held still, letting him wrap the bandage around your finger nice and tight. And then, only then, did he place a small kiss on top.

“There you go, all better.” It’s a passing comment, only pried from his lips because he was so used to saying it to Eri, and he didn’t seem to realize just how flustered it made you. So you coughed into your hand, secretly hoping the warmth permeating off his body would return to your skin.

Now, with dinner finished, Eri has no problem shoveling the food into her mouth. Must've been all the running around, gave her an appetite fit for a grown woman. It’s not like you have room to talk, you’ve almost choked on your side of miso soup a whopping three times. Shouta seems to be the only composed person at the table.

“You got a little,” Shouta points to the corner of his mouth, waving his willowy finger in a quick, circular motion. “Right…there.”

“Hm?” He watches your face contort, timid and self conscious. He can’t help but smile, just a small upward quirk to the corner of his lips, that slowly disappears as he leans in to wipe off a few grains of rice from the side of your mouth.

There he goes again, acting all domestic, as he raises the same finger to his own mouth. Your pupils blow wide, heat forming in your stomach as he sucks off the rice with disregard for how this might look to anyone besides a father.

Your eyes flicker to Eri, who’s too busy fighting off sleep with the handle of her silver spoon, her tiny head jerking and bobbing every so often, to notice the display.

“I guess—- guess it’s time for bed!” Your voice cracks embarrassingly loud as you stand, quick to stop in your tracks when Aizawa follows suit.

“I got it.”

Aizawa, you’ve learned, says that quite a lot. Despite his generous hourly pay and your obligation to take care of his child, he insists it’s best if he cleans after her. Too intimidated to argue, you simply nod, falling back onto his couch as he ventures back for forth— upstairs and back.

Each time he returns, he notices the droop in your eyes, the way they slowly fall with each step he takes. It’s late, he should be escorting you home, but he doesn’t want to disturb your well-earned sleep session.

As he sits to finally take a break, letting his joins snap and pop, you fall face-first into his shoulder, smashing your cheek against the firm skin.

Your lips pucker, pouty and almost fish-like. Your boyish face, soft and not yet worn down by the tiresome nature of time in itself, looks undeniably cute. Perfect for kissing and irrevocably inviting. Your eyes are shut, lashes resting against your cheeks. Time stops, minutes passing within hours, as Shouta takes in your essence and stares down at your innocent face. Stealing a kiss would just be… so…easy…

“Fix your face,” He says instead, clearing his throat and directing his gaze to the dimly lit, yellow-tinted lamp resting on the end table placed by his half of the sofa. “Or it’ll get stuck like that.”

“M’sorry.” You whisper, bashful as ever despite the slippery hands of sleep reaching back for you. Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?

It makes Aizawa want to retract his statement, press his thumb into the unobtrusive crease forming between your pretty eyebrows. But it leaves before it has time to arrive— to settle, as your body relaxes once more. He observes for a moment, the dip of the couch as you finally sink your weight into it, the debt collectors contracted with sleep finally having caught up with you.

Preserving himself through all these years, none being particularly good to him, he wonders if you’ve faced any similar endeavors. He’d hate to leave you alone, cold and barren as another side of his bed remains despicably untouched, only the ghost of what could have been keeping him company during this sleep-centric night. Your breaths are slow and steady, lips briefly parting to mumble something he can’t quite grasp. Shouta tries anyway, tucking his stubbly chin against his collarbone as he leans forward.

His face is dangerously close, a mere inch separating the gap between his lips and soft, supple skin. With your head nuzzled against his shoulder—broad and wide—your words dispel into the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Alongside a fine layer of drool, something he's all too used to, that slowly spreads the deeper you fall into undisturbed sleep. A heavy sleeper then, he presumes.

Shouta keeps you close, pressing your body against his as he loops his other arm behind your legs and hoists you up. He’s careful to avoid any furniture, holding you with an iron grip as he steps up the creaky stairs. His hair bounces with each step, curly and dark, flowing down his back and streaked with gray.

“..Zawa…” Nearly dropping you, his mismatched gaze locks onto your face. Blissed out and camouflaged with slumber, you stir in his arms. “Kiss me ‘lready.”

Aizawa clears his throat, neck constricting as it tightens around the air. It’s fine, just a baseless comment, he decides, as he slowly opens his bedroom door, careful of the noise. You don’t seem to move after that, dozing in his arms until he’s setting you down into his bed. He really hopes you don’t mind it— he doesn’t have a guest bedroom, after all.

It’s dark in his room, blackout curtains covering any sliver of radiance from outside streetlights. So he flicks on the lamp on his bedside table, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest as he lifts his arms overhead to remove his shirt. Something cold prods at his back, and before he can shed the clothing, Shouta redirects himself to look back at you.

Half asleep, your foot creeps under the comfortable fabric of his shirt. You must’ve discarded your socks in your sleep, because you’re rubbing your eyes with balled up fists as if you’d just woken up. Doesn’t stop you from speaking, vocal cords strained, “S’this the part where we cuddle?”

Aizawa watches you shimmy out of your pants, obviously groggy and irrational from having just opened your eyes, your warm skin slowly being exposed inch by inch. You must overheat in your sleep.

“No, it’s not,” He groans out, sucking in a sharp intake of air as he takes in the mural being painted in front of him. “Go back to sleep, kid.”

“Don’ wanna,” You mumble, much more awake as your eyes hone in on the skin of his back that he’s partially exposing. “And I’m not a kid.”

“Sound like one.” You hear him grovel under his breath, almost as if you were meant to hear it. Aizawa has quite the ability to be silent when he wants to, he can creep up on you without you ever noticing. So you suck your teeth, sitting up in his bed.

He expects you to respond with something witty, something he has to pretend he doesn’t find funny. But you don’t, instead staying uncharacteristically silent. Had it not been the dip in his mattress, he would have assumed you dissolved into thin air.

God, how you hope he won’t find you childish for this.

“Sir, I,” Shouta stiffens, his hair falling from behind his ear as he turns to fully face you. “Can I kiss you?”

“Can you..” He trails off, watching your bottom lip jut out. Plump and shiny, Aizawa resists the urge to sink his teeth into it. How soft would they feel? Would you cry into his mouth if he bit too hard? Anything in his hands becomes fragile, and he wants to know how far you can bend before you break. “Can you kiss me?”

He doesn’t give you time to respond, grabbing your ankle with his rough hands to drag you down into him. Your pretty eyes widen, large and unsuspecting as he crashes his lips against yours, feverish and desperate.

His tongue swipes over your lower lip and eagerly awaits yours, tasting faintly of cigarette smoke and cinnamon. Undeniably Shouta, you can’t help but whimper into his mouth, tangling your fingers into his disheveled hair. His mouth is warm and wet— almost searing hot, and you can’t help but choke on your own breaths. You sink into the kiss, floaty and dumbstruck by his urgency.

Like a starved man, he pushes you down on your back and tangles his big hands in the waistline of your boxers, tugging the elastic apart until it rips with a ‘snap!’. You’re exposed, legs instinctively closing to shield your half naked body.

“Aht-aht. Sit still,” Aizawa hand quickly latches around the base of your dick, sending shocks of electricity up your smaller (in comparison to his) body. You tug on his wrist, eyes burning with unshed tears as he stares down at you, predatory and famished. “When’s the last time you played with this pretty cock? Did you think of me?”

He doesn’t give you time to speak, instead spitting down onto your cock with a thick, shiny glob of spit. You can’t help but moan, watching it slide down and heat up through his fingers. His hand envelops you entirely, big and warm and squelching as he accentuates his words with particularly sharp pumps.

“Oh, sweetheart,” His voice sounds condescending and feignedly sweet, you swear you could cum just from hearing it. “S’been a while, huh? Yeah? S’why you’re leaking all over my hand?”

You feel yourself nod, quick and enthusiastic as you melt into his palm. Your legs turn into jello, numb against his warm sheets, as your toes curl and your back slowly inches off the mattress. Shouta’s eyes are lidded and heavy, drinking you in and burning you from the inside out. You keen, pulsating in his hand until the warmth is suddenly gone, and you’re blinking away frustrated tears.

“No—!”

“Greedy brat,” Shouta’s quick to shut you up, large hands sinking into the plush skin of your thighs as he spreads your legs open impossibly wide. “Fuck, got a greedy hole on you too.”

Your hole clenches in response, eager to have his attention. You can feel a trail of precum and spit soaking the area, warm and wet, not yet reminiscent of his cum. Soon enough, you hope, he’ll be filling you to the brim and then some. Your hands, somehow forgotten, scramble to unbutton his dress shirt.

Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, you gasp in retaliation to his big hand clutching your jaw with indescribable force and pressure. Trying to leave finger-shaped bruises. Your lips part, tongue pushed free from your squished cheeks as you blink up at him, eyes dancing between one milky-white iris and another, only chocolate brown.

“Go on, say it. Tell Daddy you’re a greedy boy with a greedy little hole,” He’s spitting into your mouth, a thin trail of saliva indirectly connecting his tongue to yours. “You can do it, sugar.”

Oh. Oxygen disconnects from your lungs, dumbly blinking up at him with a garbled moan. You can’t speak if you wanted to, not with his hand around your jaw like this, so you settle for swallowing down his spit with a feeble smile. All you can push out is a mangled ‘Daddy!’ but Aizawa seems to take that for an answer, groaning as he hikes your knees up to your chest, sighing when you squeal in response.

His big, warm body is pressed up against yours, much bigger and stronger, and it’s apparent in every movement he makes. He’s able to push you around, flip you over and push you down with barely a finger, and you’re sure his hand can cover the entirety of your face. You moan, wanton and sweet in his ears as he maneuvers your arms to keep your legs up.

“Gonna take real good care of you,” Shouta— Daddy sighs, hunched over and breathing dangerously close to your entrance. Almost like he’s talking to your hole instead of you, and you’d protest if it weren’t for the hot, wet stripe he’d just licked down from your perineum to your hole. Your body feels warm and tingly, legs twitching as his tongue prods and pokes deeper and deeper, slowly slipping inside. “Gonna let Daddy take care of you?”

He’s sure to make it messy, adding generous amounts of drool and spit along your sensitive hole, eating you out like he gets paid to do it. He makes you lay there and take it, holding your legs open like some cheap whore, settling between your thighs with feverish and hungry kisses. Making out with your hole, you watch with heavy eyes and a gaped mouth.

“Yeah, yeah..” You moan subconsciously, a constant stream leaving your pretty, parted lips. He takes the opportunity to fill your mouth with his fingers, long and scarred as his fingertips run along your pink tongue. His fingers taste vaguely of salt, and you can’t help but suck on them, eyes fluttering in content.

You barely catch it, a small kiss being placed on the curve of your jaw until he’s freeing his fingers from your mouth. He resists the urge to shove them down your throat, watch your eyes get glassy and wet as you gag on his fingers like you would his cock.

“Gotta get this cunt nice n’ ready. Watch me eat you out, boy,” His voice has dropped several octaves—if that’s even possible—thick and heavy and reverberating straight into your hole. It’s like he knows you by heart, even if this is your first time together, because he’s slotting his thick, scarred fingers in along with his tongue. “Such a pretty hole. Matches your face.”

Through the haze you’re still able to mumble out a quiet, “Thank you,” timid, small, and broken up between moans.

“Good boy, still remembering your manners,” He sounds just as breathless as you, pressing his fingertips against the special spot inside of you. Your body jolts, a shriek ripping from your throat as he puts pressure on it, bullies it with his fingers, and follows suit with his tongue. Too much. “Shh, I know. Try to stay quiet for me.”

For me. The implication has you whining, high in your throat and pitiful as you nod to no one in particular, wiggling in your boss’s hold. For me. The implication has you whining, high in your throat and pitiful as you nod to no one in particular, wiggling in your boss’s hold.

You want to be good, be the best boy you can be, but you just can’t help it. The complete opposite of what he’s told you to do, high off his fingers as your body clenches and your moans grow louder and louder, fingernails digging into the soft surface of the back of your knees. He just presses and presses and—

Stops. Abrupt and fleeting until his hand is back, but instead in the form of a harsh slap right across the back of your thighs. Your sit spots.

“Wh- mm-mm…! Waitwait..Daddy—!” You’re stunned, stuttering and stumbling over your words as you fail to recollect what just happened. You press your face into your knees, bunched up tight as tears spring in your eyes. “That hu—urts.”

The pout in your voice is evident, and Shouta can’t help but coo. Especially when your cock, lodged right between the thickness of your thighs, jumps and leaks more precum. His own throbs in his pants, leaking into his underwear and leaving him sticky. God, he can’t wait to feel your hole twitch around his dick.

“You’re a big boy. I know you can take it, you said it yourself, didn’t you?” And there it is again, the fog that casts over your brain as you can only think of being good. Good for Shouta. Good for your Daddy.

There’s a sharp smack right on top of your little hole, the entrance winking back in retaliation as you sob into your knees. The pain doesn’t last long, simmers down and is easily replaced by heat when his fingers rub soothing circles around your rim.

“Daddy,” Your voice comes out much sweeter and wet, letting out a small sniffle as you peek out to watch him place open-mouthed kisses against your hole. “Want you.”

“You have me, boy,” His heart melts, and a soft smile creeps up on his handsome face. His tie dangles as he shifts his weight, opening his bedside drawer to pull out a condom and cherry flavored lube. Ironic. “Now let me in, wanna make your pretty fuckhole cream around my cock.”

“Wait,” You rasp, watching him tear open the packaging with his teeth. You’re still breathless and shaky, but you’re trying your best. “Wanna feel you. Wanna feel you inside me.”

Aizawa’s deep groans are music to your ears, and your eyes threaten to roll back into your skull when he frees himself of his shirt and sheds his pants. His dickprint is big and thick, throbbing in the fabric and sticky with fresh precum. You want to taste it. His cock springs free as his briefs drop to the floor, slapping against his abdomen and weeping.

You watch him fuck his fist, pouring the slick lube down his cock and warming it up with his palm.

“Yeah? You want it? Gonna listen to Daddy so he can put his thick cock in that sloppy little hole? C’mere before I shoot into my fist.”

You nod so hard it hurts, squeezing your shaft to stop yourself from cumming to his words alone. Your cock twitches in your hand, hard and wet as Shouta walks forward to meet you at the edge of the bed and scoops you up into his arms like you’re weightless. It must be easy for him, seeing as he’s so much bigger than you in every way.

“Won’t fit—”

“Shh,” Like he knows what you’re going to say before you can utter it, Shouta lifts you into the air with ease, and you can feel his cock pressing against your puckered hole. “We’ll make it fit.”

Your back presses against his chest, upright as he loops his arms around the backs of your knees. You’re spread wide, and with Shouta’s strong grip, all you can do is sit there and take it. You can feel him twitch and throb from the inside-out, his cock gushing pre as you sink down onto his cock. Your eyes roll back, wanton moans and a chant of ‘DaddyDaddyDaddy’ filling the air as snaps his hips, barely letting you adjust.

His dick is stretching you open, thick and long, and pulsing and veiny as you feel it bulge in your tummy, pushing past your rim and filling you up.

“Thought about this for weeks,” Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly you’re too far gone to answer. “I—yeah, should’ve fucked you in that café.”

From the… Start?

Heat pools on your stomach, his cock punching your insides and kissing each sensitive ridge with every movement he makes. Your moans are unintelligible, barely even coherent, as he fucks into you, lifting you off his cock again, and again, and again. Cock-drunk while his dick rearranges your guts, drool slips from your mouth and down your chest.

You look pathetic and ruined.

“So cute like this, pretty baby. You make the dumbest little faces when you’re fucked stupid on Daddy’s cock, but still so damn cute.”

His cock drags in and out of your plushy walls, precum and lube making a creamy concoction along his shaft with each thrust. Your face is stained with tears and drool, mouth open wide as you pant and whine.

The knot in your stomach tightens, your hole beating around his cock as Aizawa moans, and you feel your body go numb as you shudder and convulse. You’re cumming, and your smaller hands squeeze his big ones as he uses you like a fucktoy, bouncing off his lap with tiny, “Mm, mm, mm’s.” Your hole grips him like a vice, swallowing his cock deeper and deeper until you feel warmth flooding your stomach, your balls tightening by the second.

“Da—addy please, m’cummin’, m’cummin’!”

“There you go, smart little boy,” Shouta groans loud in your ear, twitching in your tummy when you clamp down on his dick. He wants to fuck his cum into you, you deserve it. You deserve his cock, you deserve his load, you deserve to be stuffed full until you’ve milked his dick for all he’s got— all it’s worth. “Just keep bouncin’, so fuckin good at it, gush on my cock. What d’you say, baby? What d’you say to Daddy?”

You wish you could see him, the grit of his teeth as his thrusts turn sloppy and messy. But you know he can see you, staring down at the cum painting your chest as it squirts out your cock in thick, rapid ropes. Mixing with your tears and drool, you know you look like sex on legs, eyes void of everything but the need for cock.

“Thankyouthankyouthank—fu-huck,” His cock is jackhammering so deep you can barely breathe. “Thank you, Daddy!”

“Gonna make you just like Daddy, gonna make you one too,” It must send him over the edge, the sounds of your hole squelching as he scrambles your insides, because he’s quick to shoot a creamy, hot load of cum straight inside you. “Wanna be a big boy so bad? Then—fuuuck— take it like one.”

He gives a few last slow, deep thrusts inside so his cum really takes, carefully freeing your legs as you collapse onto him with a breathy moan.

“‘Zawa…”

“C’mere, brat,” You’re quick to whine, weakly pressing your face into the expanse of his large chest, all tears and snot and cum as he cradles your head between his large hand and his even larger chest. You feel protected in his arms, shrinking even smaller into his lap as your eyes slip closed and his cum leaks down your thighs. “You’re a good boy. My good boy.”

Shouta’s hand is ablaze when he brushes it along your forehead, soon after replacing it with a gentle kiss. He means it.

“Let Daddy take care of you.”

[kleftiko]

❦ KITTEN

cw: mature, mdni!, reader is a stripper, gentleman!aizawa that’s about to snap (yummy), also there’s a collar lol

PART 2 | MASTERLIST

“eraser head!” you call as you sit at your vanity. the dressing room wasn’t very crowded at the moment, and that’s probably why aizawa chose this time to walk in.

“y/n.” he nods. you pout.

“if i have to call you by your stage name, you have to call me mine.”

“not a stage name—hero name.” he corrects you.

you push your hair back, ready to go now that you’ve changed and taken off your makeup. effectively, you jokingly ignore aizawa, standing up with your bag as you hear him sigh and say, “kitten.”

you smile. close enough.

initially, he called you kitty, that was your stage name for the sole fact that you loved hello kitty. but shota decided on ‘kitten’ along the way, and because you liked him, you accepted it.

“will you be walking me home today, shota?”

he ignores your use of his first name and nods.

you two first met after a stalker incident. the emergence of quirks in society gave certain men the idea that they were above the morals of society. unfortunately, you were the target of one (being a stripper is not a safe job), and eraser head was who you turned to. over time, he came as a customer a couple times, but really, he would walk you home at the end of your shift.

it became obvious that he started walking you home because he wanted to. he told you himself that the stalker was not a threat anymore a few months ago, yet he continued to see you at the ungodly hours of the day despite his tired eyes.

you wanted him. you made that clear. he was apprehensive. the first excuse was that you were too young. you reminded him you were barely four years younger. the second was that he was protecting you. its been nearly half a year since there was any semblance of a threat towards you.

you were chipping away and he was breaking.

upon reaching the front door of your apartment, you say, “chamomile with honey.”

it was how he took his tea, and it was a slight command for him to come inside.

he didn’t argue.

you fix the drinks and bring it to him as he sat on the couch.

“oh! i have something i need your opinion on.”

you quickly left the room to change.

aizawa barely showed emotions. you danced and flirted and wore your skimpy outfits, but nothing. his eyes stayed on yours, arms crossed like always, and calm expression on his face. you wanted to see his face break, blush, you wanted to see his head thrown back.

so you come back to the living room.

he takes a quick study of your outfit. not as long a look as you wanted, and no physical reaction.

“it’s cute.” he says.

you huff and step closer.

“really? that’s it?”

“i like the collar, its good for work.”

you had no intention of wearing this to work. even for your profession, this was out of your comfort zone. it was definitely a kitty—ears, collar, accompanied by your nails—but the skirt was a belt to show your panties and it dug into plush of your thighs with garters that you just wanted to take off.

you sigh in defeat. you wore this for him and only him.

“you don’t look happy.” he comments.

you admit, “i was hoping for more.”

he holds your eye contact for a second before he lifts his finger to spin—asking you for a twirl.

you smile and obey, giving a nice mini fashion show.

he doesn’t say anything, but his finger makes a beckoning motion and you walk towards him.

“give me a lap dance.” his voice sends vibrations up you spine.

“what?”

“i can pay you.” he assumes that’s the problem. “your costume’s cute, but doesn’t look too comfortable. wouldn’t be good if you can’t dance in it.”

“i’m not on the clock.” you mumble.

his hands reach out to your hips, grabbing you and turning you around before pulling you onto his lap; your back to his chest as the breath gets knocked out of you.

“neither am i.”

[tired-teacher-blog]

So, Aizawa's neck is extremely sensitive. Yup I called it.

There is a reason why he conveniently keeps it wrapped in his capture weapon most of the time.

Finding out about it was purely coincidental, it was never your intention to brush your fingers along the pale skin when you reached out to tuck a loose strand behind his ear, you couldn't help it either, he looked breathtaking in a simple black tank top and similar colored sweatpants as he emerged after his evening shower.

What was meant to be an innocent gesture, soon turned into something else entirely when his breath suddenly hitched and goosebumps appeared where your fingers had touched.

It was a new and unexpected sight that triggered something within you, and you needed more of the sensation it had evoked..

_ "So even the incredible Mr Aizawa has a weakness like the rest of us huh?" you teased for the nth time as you tightened your grip on his wrists and pressed down on his throbbing bulge before diving in to suck another bright red spot on his once flawless neck, "you've kept it well hidden this far, I'm impressed."

It's no wonder to be frank, he has always been dominant and well guarded even with you, and it is unusual of him to show any sign of vulnerability, which is why you held on to this rare instant with all your might.

_ "Alright that's enough, you've had your fun haven't you?" he huffed in apparent annoyance but did nothing to stop you, and how easy would it have been for him to free himself of your clutches, had he truly wished to.

_ "Just a little more, please." you whined a plea and kissed his delicate skin again, relishing the strangled groans he so desperately sought to muffle.

_ "Whatever.." but his feigned indifference couldn't fool you.

How could it, when his restless hips unveiled his growing impatience for something more?

Divider by : @/saradika

[gglitch1dd]

You Know your Work

Teacher Aizawa x Student Reader

Request: @camilosimping: Hi! Sry if it's too much for you to take another request, I saw you took a lot of them. I was wondering if you could do professor aizawa x fem student, who just got a pretty bad grade.

A/N: Hey babes! I can't tell how much I wanted to cry writing this. Sorry for the long wait. I had to do some other things and my IRL was getting a bit hectic but its better now. I really hope you like it!!

Warning: This is NOT romantic or sexual in anyways so don't get that idea. This is a comfort piece. Also, Reader cries and its okay to cry.

Aizawa was walking around handing back papers. You were silent as your leg moved up and down underneath your table. You had studied so hard for this test and yet when you were writing it felt as if it handed your ass back to you. You were so worried. You really did your best, you tried doing everything you could, taking breaks and not cramming in last minute so you really hoped for the best.

You swallowed down hard as Mr Aizawa walked over to your desk. He placed the paper face down in front of you before moving on to Midoriya who sat behind you. You closed your eyes as you slowly touched the paper. You prayed hard to the heavens hoping that they were in your favour. Carefully you turned the paper around.

48%

You paused as you stared down at the number in front of you, hoping that the longer you looked at it, the numbers would swop themselves. You felt your heart sink as you looked at the number. You instantly felt numb as you weren’t even sure you could breathe nor make a sound.

“Sero,” Denki said outloud turning to one of his best friends as he held his paper. He shook his head with a laugh. “How’s it looking?” He said.

The dark-haired hero in training put a grimace on his face. He shook his head. “Not looking good.”

Denki nodded his head as he looked at his paper. “Yah, not looking good.”

Momo let out a displeased hum as she nodded her head. “Yah.” She spoke as she turned her paper back around with a disappointed look. “I was really hoping for a 95 this time. I can’t believe I got an 85.” She stated almost as if it was the worst thing in the world.

Denki and Sero widened their eyes as they looked at one another. He looked back down at their papers. They grimaced.

You felt yourself shrink into your blazer as you forced yourself not to cry. Everything and everyone around you felt almost as if they were too loud or too quiet. It was all too much for you. How could you have failed? You tried so hard this time.  You really did. You tried your best. Of course, you weren’t perfect and maybe if you spent a bit less time on your phone you could have gotten more hours in, but you tried.

You really tried.

You bit your lip forcing yourself not to cry as you opted just to look out the window and silence out the rest of the class.

Soon the lessons came to an end, and you all had an hour before training at the end of the day. You were slow and the last one to pack away your things. You swallowed down hard, trying to think what you would tell your parents. You closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry as you stared at the ground heading out of class.

“L/N.” You paused at the use of your family name. You turned back to see Mr Aizawa standing with his arms crossed as he looked at you. You swallowed down hard as you turned around fully, forcing yourself  not to frown at the sight of him. Of course it wasn’t Aizawa’s fault you failed, but you really didn’t want to see the teacher of the subject that you fail right now. He motioned for you to come forward and that is what you did. You swallowed down hard, willing yourself to try and stay as stoic as you could be. He let out a breath.

You knew what he was going to say.

Try harder. Do more exercises. Read more. Focus.

The same shit everybody tells you.

“You know your work.” You froze at the statement as you looked at him with wide eyes. He turned to the stack of papers he had and shuffled through them before finding yours. “Your answers… when I was marking them, they showed that you know your work.” He stated truthfully as he took a step forward, his dark eyes on you as he spoke. Although he looked as stoic as ever, borderline emotionless, you could tell there was genuine appreciation behind his words. “I can see when a student knows their work. You just need a bit of an extra push with your answers. Its almost like you know the answer but you’re only giving half of it.” He explained putting your paper back down.

He put his hands in his pockets and let out a breath. He could see you weren’t totally convinced. He didn’t blame you. He saw how you reacted in class and he noticed it throughout the day as you barely interacted with the class or the activities. He frowned slightly, dark eyebrows pushed together for a moment before easing.

“How about you start doing the extra exercises at the back of the textbook and you send your answers to me. We can work through them together and help get your answers to where they need to be. Hm?” He put on a smidge of a smile, more than you would ever get from him. “You’re a good student, L/N. It’s important you know that this exam doesn’t change that.”

You scowled, your jaw vibrating as you tried to stop yourself from crying. You lower your head in front of him, biting back whimpers and sobs. You quickly wiped your eyes as you couldn’t stop the tears no matter how hard you tried. “I’m sorry.” You let out with sniffs. You knew that Aizawa would hate you for crying. You were to become a future hero, you didn’t need to cry. You sniffed as you couldn’t stop the sobs. You couldn’t stop the tears as they came bubbling out of you.

You felt a hand on your shoulder making you suck in a breath. You looked up to see Mr Aizawa, as serious as he always was, with his arms open, offering you a hug. You paused for a second taking it in, before feeling your emotions overcome you once more.

You walked into the hug with a sullen look, looping your arms around him as you clutched onto his black shirt and tried to stop the only intensifying sobs that racked through you. Aizawa wrapped his arms around you as he rubbed your back. You cried only harder. “I-I… I-”

“Breathe.” He reminded you calmly. His hair smelt like jasmine shampoo and you were pretty sure that you were letting tears into his hair but he didn’t seem to mind.

You took a deep breath to stop your hiccupping, letting it out again. You took another breath. “I-I really tried th-this time, Sensei. I promise.”

He rubbed your back soothingly. “I know, kid. I know. You did your best and for that, I’m proud.” He reminded you. Aizawa stood there and let you cry into his chest. Let you cry until you weren’t even sure where you were. Together he would help you get to where you wanted to go. But right now…

Now you just needed him to be there with you.

-Glitch1d

[doumadono]

hello

i'm incredibly sorry to ask for this emergency request

but would it be okay to ask you to write comfort for suicide thoughts with hawks or aizawa? I understand that you may be uncomfortable with it, so it's okay if this ask won't be fulfilled

thank you either way and have a nice day!

Aizawa & Hawks with s/o having suicidal thoughts

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST

Aizawa

Aizawa, typically reserved, expresses concern when he notices the change in their behavior, demonstrating his deep connection with them.

Rather than pressing for details, Aizawa lets his partner share at their own pace, creating a safe space where they feel comfortable opening up.

Aizawa would stay up late, ensuring he's there when his partner needs to talk. His gruff exterior softens as he listens attentively, providing a safe space for them to express their darkest, suicidal thoughts.

Aizawa understands the power of silence. Sometimes, they'd sit together without saying a word, knowing that just having someone by their side can be reassuring.

With a rare smile, Aizawa offers words of encouragement, acknowledging the struggles they face. "You're stronger than you think. I believe in you, Y/N. Please. I can't lose you, baby."

Aizawa works with them to develop a structured routine, focusing on small, achievable goals to gradually overcome challenges.

Aizawa helps them establish a routine, emphasizing the importance of self-care. Whether it's making sure they eat properly or get enough rest, he takes practical steps to support their well-being.

Knowing the therapeutic effects of physical activity, Aizawa suggests training together. It becomes a way to release pent-up emotions and build a sense of achievement.

Aizawa encourages them to engage in activities they enjoy. Whether it's reading, drawing, or another hobby, it becomes a positive outlet for their emotions.

Aizawa gently encourages seeking professional help, emphasizing that heroes aren't just those who fight villains but also those who face their inner battles.

Aizawa assures them that they're not alone in this journey. "We'll face this together, one step at a time."

Aizawa helps them connect with friends and build a support system, reinforcing the idea that seeking help is a sign of strength.

Hawks

Hawks, perceptive as always, notices a change in their demeanor. Without prying, he gently encourages them to share what's on their mind.

When they finally open up about their dark thoughts, Hawks listens attentively, his wings wrapping around them protectively, creating a comforting cocoon.

"You're not alone in this, you know. We're a team, remember? Let me share this burden with you," Hawks says, his voice calm and reassuring.

Hawks takes them on flights, providing a unique perspective and a momentary escape from the darkness.

Hawks uses his playful nature to bring laughter into their lives, understanding that humor can be a powerful antidote to despair.

Hawks is affectionate, expressing love through hugs, kisses, and words of affirmation. "You mean the world to me, and I'll always be here for you. I know those thoughts are super overwhelming but I know how strong you are."

Hawks encourages them to explore creative outlets, channeling their emotions into something positive. Whether it's writing, painting, or another form of expression, it becomes a therapeutic outlet.

He shares stories of his own struggles, highlighting that vulnerability is not a weakness, but a strength that can connect people.

On difficult days, he surprises them with small gestures of affection, whether it's breakfast in bed or a note expressing his love and support.

Hawks collaborates with them on setting achievable goals, celebrating every small victory together. "We'll conquer this together, darling."

Hawks paints a vivid picture of a brighter future, reminding them that each day brings new possibilities and opportunities for happiness.

[sundeathh]

Aizawa’s sick day

One-shot | Masterlist

Pairing: Aizawa × Reader | Word count: 2,5k

Fandom: BNHA | MHA | Tags: fluffy, reverse comfort, home life, romance, SFW

CW: Sickness, of course (nothing too disturbing). Also: stable relationship, cheesy stuff, married couple dynamic, playful threats and teases. Readers' gender and appearance are not described, but there is a mention of reader being a "wife".

Notes: I've been working a lot lately, and I managed to get myself sick. I went to the EM two times now, and I just got some palliative medicine that didn't do much to the overall issue. I'm still sick. But I'm better than before and will be returning to work tomorrow (I can't afford absence anymore, unfortunately). But that's it.

I hate being sick, as real life doesn't pause to let me rest. So, to help me unwind for a little bit, I wrote this piece to take the focus off my sickness and to flutter my chest by pretending to take care of, at least, a fictional character. I hope you'll enjoy it. Sorry if there's any spelling; it is late, I'm sleepy, and my eyes are burning. Take care, love yall.

08:44 pm

"I'm home." The tired man called as he opened the door and took off his shoes. It has been a long day at work, and Shōta is more than exhausted. Slowly, he made his way down the hall to put the rest of his stuff away and grab a quick shower before dinner.

After taking note that you were not in the living room nor the kitchen, he reached your shared bedroom and pushed the door open, where he met with a smile that caused him to relax instantly after stepping inside.

"Oh! Hey, hun! Welcome back!" You greeted as you folded another piece of laundry, which was still warm from the dryer. Neat piles lined up on the king-sized bed.

"Hey." He replied quietly before walking over to you and pecking your lips. It had been rough lately, and every time he got home late from work, you noticed how increasingly tense he seemed as the days passed. 

"I thought you would be home early today." You commented. "Where were you? I was worried."

He sat on the bed next to where you stood, watching as you folded another shirt. Then, he sighed, rubbing his sore eyes as he rested his other hand on his knee.

"I was supposed to, but they needed me for a meeting and kept me late. Sorry I didn't text you." He explains, feeling a slight guilt sting in his chest as he glances at the clothes on the bed. You had to do his chores again. 

"I see." You respond quietly, with no resentment in your voice at all. "It's fine. But it is also late, so you should get ready for dinner." You instructed. 

Aizawa nodded and stood up before heading into the bathroom to shower, coming back moments later looking entirely drowsy.

"You look so exhausted." Your worried words pull Shōta from his sleepy state, the bed now looking pretty free from the clothes as you put the last pile into a drawer. "Didn't take proper care of yourself today, did you?" You questioned. "Did you eat anything besides applesauce?"

His eyebrows knitted together as he looked at you. You know he hates when you call him out like this. But you are right. Today was rough. "Yeah, yes, I know. Sorry. I promise I'll get better." His soft tone had you smiling. 

"No need to apologize, baby. I was just worried, that is all." You reassured as you walked toward him, snaking your arms around his waist and holding on tight, pulling him closer against your body. "You okay?" You asked quietly.

"Yeah." He nuzzled your neck. "Just tired." He explained, and you gently ran your hand up and down his back.

The two of you stayed embraced for a few seconds, pulling apart only after your stomach let out its demands, prompting you both to chuckle lightly. 

"Sorry, I have not eaten yet." You apologized before inviting him to the dining room, dragging his willing self by the hand.

As he followed behind, you heard him scolding you for your behavior. "I told you to stop waiting for me to have dinner when I do not get home until seven."

You rolled your eyes playfully as you turned the corner. "Sorry, I guess I forgot." You replied as you walked into the kitchen. "And besides, I did not have the appetite to eat alone anyway."

That earned you a soft laugh from the man who walked into the kitchen soon after you, helping you bring the food to the dining table afterward.

And, as you made yourselves comfortable, you two started eating. Small talk filled the air as you avoided both talking about work or the things that could be troubling your husband since dinner was not time for stress.

And this goes both ways, as Shōta knows that this small amount of time after he arrives is all he has with you since he needs to leave for work again before you even wake up the next day. 

Not long after, however, you can not help but notice how the dark circles under his eyes looked more purple than you ever saw, and his movements seemed a lot slower than what you were used to;

It worried you. Even though you know the hero and teaching work are naturally wearing, despite his tiredness, he always afforded to act, at least around you, not so worn out.

He had not been sleeping well recently, and you wanted to do something about it; but now was not the time, so you decided against mentioning it to him right now, as you knew it would bother him even further.

But he noticed you staring anyway, and his gaze drifted toward your lips, then back to your eyes. He raised a brow.

"Are you gonna finish those?" You asked, motioning to his half-eaten meal, which he absently turned over repetitively with his utensils. He shrugged. "Maybe later tonight?"

You nodded once in understanding and returned your attention to your plate. "Okay," you said.

He then went back into playing with his food in silence, which you did not mind. You know he was not hungry anymore but was making time to give you company as you finished your meal anyways. 

Once you finished, he rinsed the dishes while you dried them, setting them aside. Then, Shōta followed you back into the living room, where he plopped down on the couch.

Before long, you were cuddling together as something mindless passed on the TV screen. And, at some point during the movie, you began yawning, slowly lulling your head onto the shoulder of your partner, while his head would eventually fall forward as sleep threatened to grab hold of either of you.

So, reluctantly you sat up, stretching your back before turning to face Shōta. "Should we head to bed? Or do you want us to stay up here a while longer?" You asked, leaning in slightly, resting a hand on his leg.

He shook his head. "I think it's time for bed."

You nodded and stood up first, extending your hand toward him to help him stand up too. And, with his hand intertwined with yours, you led him back to the bedroom – where he went straight to lie on the bed.

After you were both settled, you wrapped an arm around his torso, nuzzling your head into his chest as he reciprocated the embrace, snuggling closer. Then, he placed a soft kiss on the crown of your head.

02:51 am

You woke up feeling hot. Well, hot enough for someone who does not bother regard to temperature. It is a bit unusual, and usually, you do not even realize the temperature change when asleep. 

You shifted in the grasp of your husband, turning over to your side as you tried, in vain, to cool down before realizing that the overheating you felt was radiating from the man you tangled with to sleep.

A frown immediately appeared on your face while moving your hand to place it over his forehead. Perhaps he was feverish?

Hmm, maybe. You could not tell for sure, but the skin felt a lot warmer to your touch. It did not feel right. So, carefully extracting yourself from the embrace, you walked to the closet and retrieved a thermometer, which you then returned and inserted into his mouth before sitting on the edge of the bed with him.

After a moment, the beeping of the device signaled that it finished testing; you watched as he started waking up a little after you took it out, his eyes fluttering open and landing upon the sight of you – sitting on the bed beside him, watching him cautiously. 

He blinked, slowly bringing his hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes. "Hey." He greeted, his voice hoarse. 

You gave him a gentle smile. "Hey." You replied, and he glanced back up at you.

"What are you doing?" He asks, squinting slightly in the darkness as if trying his best to decipher your features.

"Doing a little research." You responded. "Feeling alright? No headache?"

He furrowed his brows together. "No, why? Should I?"

You shake your head. "Probably not. But just making sure, you are running a fever, sweetheart."  You explained softly, reaching your hand out to grab his. "Come on, let us get you into a cool shower, and then you can rest a little longer, okay?"

He did not argue or question you, even though he seemed reluctant. Instead, he nodded and complied, rising from the bed, taking the offered hand, and following you into the bathroom.

While you reached the bathtub to turn the water on, Shōta quietly took his shirt off, discarding it into the hamper next to the sink. 

After you turned around, your gaze fell upon his toned muscles for half a second before landing on his face. His hair was sticking up every which way thanks to the ruffling from sleep, his bangs covering half his face and hiding the dark bags beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted as ever, yet also adorable somehow. However, the more you looked, the more you could tell he was getting sick. 

Sighing, you pulled your fingers through your hair, continuing to examine his appearance. You had never seen him sick, nor had you seen him look this exhausted in all the years you were together. 

Shōta turned around, noticing you observing his appearance, and raised an eyebrow. "What? Are you worried?" He questioned.

"Well, yes." You answered, still analyzing him.

His lips stretched into a faint smile as he approached you, cupping your cheek with his hand as he peered down at you, giving you an amused expression. "Why?" 

"You have been running yourself ragged lately." You answered, leaning into his palm. "And I never saw you sick before. I am worried because, especially now, you can not afford to be weak."

He sighed before pulling you close, pressing a tender kiss on your forehead, and placing one last soft kiss on the tip of your nose. "Don't worry. I promise I will be fine." He assured.

"Promise?" You repeated skeptically, staring deep into his eyes, and he chuckled. "Cross my heart."

"Mhm..." you hummed. "I will only believe that if you don't overexert yourself. If you keep worrying me like this, you will become bedridden sooner than you wish."

This time his chuckle was not quiet, and you could hear the whizzing in his chest. "Now, aren't you a good wife?" He teased.

You scoffed at that remark. "Of course I am. I am making sure you do not work yourself till you drop sick!" You retorted.

He gave you a smug grin. "Is that so?" He asked, tilting his head a little. "How mean."

You rolled your eyes in response before staring straight back at him. "But I am serious, Shōta."

"Then I will stop stressing myself and make a good impression on you." He declared, and his playful grin widened, making you chuckle. 

"Yeah, that is what I want. Now go wash off the sweat. I will fix you a cup of tea and bring it up. Alright?"

He smiled again, nodding. "Alright."

And as you made your way toward the kitchen, you wondered how you managed to fall for such a selfless bastard.

But you were not complaining.

03:12 am

Aizawa was still immersed in the bathtub when you returned with a glass in hand and medicine in the other. Then, after he emerged his hands from the water, you handed him one of each before leaning down to sit over your forelegs while resting your arms against the edge of the tub.

You watched as he gulped the medicine down with a generous sip of cold tea.

"How do you feel?" You quietly asked as he pulled the glass away from his lips. 

He merely gave you a small smile. "Not bad." He replied, his tone sounding slightly less hoarse now that he had drunk the tea. "I don't feel any different than usual. Just tired."

"Okay." You murmured, your eyebrows creasing together a little. "If it gets worse tomorrow, I will take you straight home from work, alright!?"

He nodded. "Okay."

"And I will ask Hizashi to check up on you since I know you won't tell me if it gets worse, after all."

He smirked a little at this, snickering. "That is true. But asking Mic to do that is not necessary." He paused, glancing at you before giving you a soft, small smile.

"Oh, yeah?" You asked.

Shōta nodded. "Yes. If it gets a lot worse, I will call you. I don't want to trouble any more people nor make you worry unnecessarily."

Your eyes softened at that. You know how Shōta hated burdening someone else, even though it would never feel like that to you. But he was willing to set his stubbornness aside for your sake. It flattered you a little, and you could not help but smile. 

"Okay, good... so, since you are telling me that, I will try not to worry too much then." You said. He returned your smile with a faint yet truthful one.

"Thank you, though."

"For what?" You inquired in curiosity. 

"Being so attentive like that." He said. "I appreciate it."

A faint blush formed on your cheeks as your eyes widened just a tiny bit. Then, the smile returned to your lips. "No problem, Sho. I care for you. And I love seeing you well."

His eyes softened at your words. "I know you do." He agreed quietly before opening his mouth to speak again but was cut short by a yawn escaping his lips.

"There you go again, falling asleep without meaning for it at all." You chuckled. Then, you reached forward and brushed the stray hairs from his forehead before letting your hand fall back onto the rim of the tub; while watching him intently for a moment. He smiled at you again. 

After a few moments of silence, his face finally showed some signs of discomfort, and you frowned slightly. "Are you uncomfortable? Do you need me t-"

"It’s fine." He insisted, cutting you off, before taking your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours, effectively stopping you from finishing that sentence. "Just tired. It happens sometimes."

"Oh." You breathed, taking in what he said before sighing softly, slowly beginning to rise back to your feet. "Okay, then. I will grab some clean clothes for you now. Take your time resting up. If you need anything, ask me, alright?"

He smiled gratefully at you. "Okay, thanks, babe."

Your heart clenched at the sound of him saying those precious words; they meant everything to you. They always would. He knew how important they were; and how much you cherished them. 

Because, despite his cold surface, he never failed to make you feel loved and appreciated.

So you hoped you would never fail at that too.

Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated! Check the fixed post for requests.

[crimsonkenjii-writes]

Aizawa Shota x GN!Reader headcanons because I cannot get this man out of my head

NSFW • MDNI

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.───

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.───

SFW

Love languages are acts of service and physical contact. He can struggle with his words and translating his emotions into words properly so he’d much rather show you how much he loves you.

Hates the cold so he will always cuddle you to keep warm. If you’re both out when it’s freezing, he’ll stand close to you. Huddled up like a penguin to warm the both of you up. But mostly himself because he’ll turn into a popsicle if he doesn’t lolol

His frozen hand will hold onto your warm one and shove them into his pocket to help warm himself

He’ll act like he doesn’t love you but he really does, you just have to get use to it. He’ll call you an idiot but it really means he loves you.

Very protective, never wants you out of his sight. He’d do literally anything to keep you safe, even if it mean disregarding his own safety.

If you’re a hero as well, he’ll scold you if you made a mistake that almost led to you getting seriously hurt. You’ll think he’s angry at you but in actuality, he was nearly scared to death. He was so worried for you and feared the worst. It came out as an angry scold but it was his way of saying he cared about you.

Emotionally constipated. Took him forever to allow himself to crush on you/realize it. And took him even longer to let himself confess. He honestly probably would have never done it if he hadn’t gotten drunk that night and his filter left him. Letting it slip out how pretty he thought you were and how he can’t stop himself from loving you. Didn’t remember it happening when he sobered up and got so flustered when you told him what happened. Sighs in defeat and asks you out, now sober and red from embarrassment rather than the alcohol.

Squishes your cheeks a lot because he finds it cute. Will kiss your puckered out lips too

Considers naps with you as date as well. Always keeps one arm around you when you both sleep. Often nuzzles his face in your neck, nape or hair. If he had a real bad dream and wakes up with his heart pounding, he won’t say anything. He’ll just hold you even tighter. His uneven breathing will let you know what happened and you’d just hold him just as tightly. Stroking his hair and rubbing his back, whispering that everything is alright.

Is a tad possessive over you. If someone is obviously flirting with you he’s standing behind you staring daggers into this person. And Aizawa’s got a menacing stare so the person is scared off.

He’s only possessive though because now that he’s finally got you, and you make him so happy, he doesn’t ever want to lose you. He never wants to lose anyone ever again. So he’ll do anything to keep you with him forever.

NSFW

Motherfucking tease. Always, always teases you. And always takes his sweet ass time too that it’s torturous. Loves seeing you get impatient and beg for him. Beg all you want, he’s still going to go at his own pace. maybe he’ll quicken his pace a little, your begging really turned him on

But once he’s in you, he obeys your every command. His mind goes blank and you both are just chasing your own highs. Beg for him to go faster and or harder and he’s doing it instantly

Is definitely into the idea of bondage. He won’t use his binding cloth though, he doesn’t want the dirty thing touching his precious lover. He’ll buy nice rope for the both of you. He also isn’t opposed to the idea of himself being tied up either.

Loves eating you out, literally can’t get enough of it. And each time, he eats you out like he’s a starved man. Would actually consider you as his literal dinner please make this man eat actual food

Puts his hair up in a messy ponytail/bun right before going down on you ahskskskahdk literally the hottest thing

Likes to leave a whole bunch of bite marks and hickeys all over you body to make sure people know you belong to him

Not too vocal, Aizawa has more guttural groans and grunts. Deep hums from his chest and throat that literally vibrate through your body. Sucks in air through his teeth a lot too.

This man is a switch, he loves taking charge but also loves it when you do too. It all mostly depends on how much energy and time he’s got.

Also really likes seeing you bounce on his dick. While he lazily lays down and admires you desperately chasing your own high. His hands on your hips and thighs, rubbing firm circles into your flesh. Words of encouragement and praise slipping past his lips.

“There you go, baby. That’s it. Cum all over my dick.”

[not-your-fucking-kacchan]

hi! so i was wondering if i can request a oneshot of class 1a & platonic aizawa or just a platonic aizawa (which ever is easiest for u!) x GN reader where the reader received massive burn scars/just scars in general that covers half of their face and arms? just real angsty and fluffy :)

Angst and fluff coming right up <3

Masterlist <3

Warning: burning, mentioned blindness, depictions of blood and injury...

Aizawa and 1-A x Student Reader (Platonic) - Scarring

The students of 1-A had heard about your accident during the entrance exam. That's why, when you walked into the room, you'd heard hushed whispers invading your ears, the class looking at you curiously.

Your face is covered in thick makeup, but your application is good, so it doesn't smear or melt, and it doesn't look cakey.

It still doesn't do a whole lot to hide the horrific scarring, though.

You had been collecting points like everyone else during the exam, when suddenly everything turned dark. You were still conscious, and still moving, but you were trapped under a robot that had caught fire and shut down, and your ribs were close to crushed.

Everything hurt. You still remember the pain clear as day as your ribs got that much closer to puncturing your lungs, blood seeping from your mouth as you vomited. You were surprised to find that the screaming you could hear was coming from you, desperate wails echoing under the huge tin can, too heavy for you to lift.

Your flesh was burning and the smell reached your nose and travelled along the back of your throat, drawing more vomit from you as you clawed at the gravel beneath you. You're not sure who had plucked you out from beneath the rubble of the malfunctioned robot and the brick wall of a house that it had taken down with it, because by then you were unconscious.

The following few days, you had not left your home. Not once. You hadn't even left your bedroom or so much as drawn the curtains.

Your self esteem was forever crushed to rubble.

The burn and cut scars stretched over your left arm and your neck, reaching your cheekbone in a pattern that seemed some sort of mix between tiger stripes and lighting burns, and they had turned a paper shade in comparison to the rest of your skin, as opposed to darker like, for example, Todoroki's scar.

It almost looked like some kind of vitiligo instead of rough scarring, because Recovery Girl had been so quick to attend to you.

You had never stopped being so grateful to her.

By your first day, you were recognised as the kid who'd been crushed at the entrance exam, and every time someone's eyes landed on you, you'd get horribly self conscious, wondering if they could see the discolouration on your face.

That all changed though, when you had actually started to make friends.

And it makes sense that the first people you made friends with were Shouto and Izuku. Their scars gave you a little more confidence that maybe you weren't so hideous, and it was all in your head.

You and Shouto had bonded over the similarities in your scarring, sharing stories of how they happened and how they affected the both of you, and then you found out that as you were now blind in your left eye, so was Shouto. Or at least sort of. He retained some of his sight, but his vision had been impaired, whereas your eye had been crushed by the metal of the robot that had trapped you.

And Izuku, he always knew the right thing to say. He played a vital role when it came to you accepting what happened to you, and assuring you that noone thought any less of you with the assurance of your fellow classmates. He was a real big help, and his kind and inspirational words had you rethinking the way you saw yourself a lot.

However, sometimes there were days when you looked in the mirror and saw a ghost of who you used to be, and what you used to look like. Memories of your mother taking your, then, unharmed face into her hands and calling you beautiful flashed before your eyes, and led you to having bouts of depression where you would skip class because you had gotten so self conscious.

Aizawa Sensei had thought you'd made peace with the change, and trauma of what happened. Looking back on it now, he could see that he was clearly being naive. He thought you were just skipping class because you weren't so sure about being a hero anymore, or you just didn't care. The thought had him angry, to say the least.

He knocked harshly on the door to your dorm room, hearing a few sniffles coming from the other side. Were you upset? Maybe you were sick?

His suspicions were confirmed as you opened the door slightly, revealing just the corner of your face as you looked up at him with a tired, puffy eye.

You had been crying.

"... What's wrong? Why weren't you in class?"

"... 'sorry-"

"-That's not an answer."

You were shocked silent. You didn't expect him to look so angry with you, but you couldn't face the world like this. The comments you had received at the Sports Festival had absolutely crushed you. People could be so cruel sometimes, it's like they don't even realise that they were talking about a kid.

Finally, you broke into little cries, closing your eye and bumping your head against the door softly, feeling so tired and lonely.

"I can't take it anymore- I just wanna look normal- I don't wanna be ugly anymore- did you know that everyone at the Sports Festival was calling me ugly?! I'm sixteen! There are posts on the internet talking about mine and Shou's and Izu's scars! I just want them off my body, it's not fair!-"

Shouta's heart sinks to his stomach. Your voice is wet shaky, and your words get caught in your throat. For god's sake, he can hear the heartbreak and vulnerability in your sobs. He had failed to protect you. And not just you, but Izuku and Shouto as well? He's such a failure.

He knows the world can be a cruel place, and even though he can teach you to be strong in body, you were still kids, and it was his job to keep you safe from that kind of negative attention. You were kids. You didn't deserve to be judged like pedigree dogs. At least not yet. It's stuff like that that crushes young people's self image.

His shoulders dropped and you looked down at you with a worried expression, slowly pushing the door out of the way and enveloping you in his arms. He feels soft, and secure as you cry into his shirt, sniffling and hiccuping while he rubs your back comfortingly.

"If you tell anyone I hugged you I will deny it. But... Don't worry about what insecure people on the internet are saying, because they must truly be dissatisfied with themselves if insulting teenagers makes them feel better. One day, their life will be in your hands, and they'll regret what they said."

The comment about denying the hug happened actually pulled a little laugh out of you, and you felt much better as he comforted you. Your tears slowed to a stop and your breathing evened out, and once you had calmed down, Aizawa had freed you from his awkward hug.

The world seemed just a little brighter than it did before.