#aizawa shota imagine

[xothatnerdykid]

guilty as sin

You're a dedicated nurse who loves their job even when it means taking care of stubborn, battle-worn pro-heroes (or maybe especially then). Aizawa Shouta x gn!reader. Set between S6 & S7. Fluff, slight angst with comfort. SFW, 2k words.

The sterile scent of antiseptic fills the air as you walk down the pristine white hallways of Central Hospital. The raid against the Paranormal Liberation Front had left the medical facility overcrowded, understaffed, and bustling with activity. You yourself had been working tirelessly for the last 24 hours straight to care for the numerous injured heroes and civilians. 

Exhaustion weighed heavily on your shoulders, your feet dragging slightly with each step. Your shift was supposed to have ended hours ago, and you were more than ready to clock out and get some much-needed rest. However, there was just one patient left to see.

You knock at the door. 

"Good morning," you greet the man lying down on the bed. You don't have the strength to muster a smile, but that's okay. He doesn't seem to either. 

Instead, he gives you a familiar nod. "Good morning."

He was a brooding, reserved man of a few words. With dark hair and even darker eyes - well, eye, the other being wrapped in bandages - he looked more tired than you some days. You can't fault him for that though. You knew he had been at the front lines of the battle that day and had paid a heavy price for it. 

He sits up as you come closer, approaching his bedside. The room is quiet, save for the soft beeping of the machines monitoring his vitals.

"How are you feeling today?"

He shrugs. "I've been better. I've been worse."

"I can see that," you nod, noting the way his complexion is less pale and his hair less unruly today compared to the past week. You open the blinds for him, warm light streaming into the dim room. “More sunlight ought to be good for you.”

“Mhm,” is all he says, blinking up at the bright, blue sky out the window. 

You take that as your cue to go about your usual tasks silently, adjusting his IV, checking his bandages, writing down his vitals. 

Then, out of the blue, he says, “You’ve been working long hours lately. You should get some rest.” 

"Believe me, I will. Just as soon as you're taken care of first."

"I'm fine,” he responds in a clipped, dismissive tone of voice.

“Fine or not, it's my job to make sure you’re comfortable and healing properly. You went through a lot, losing an eye and a leg. Frankly, I’m not sure we should go through with discharging you tomorrow.”

He heaves a tired sigh, “Like I said, I’ve been better, but I’ve been worse, too.” 

Frowning, you sit down on the bedside chair and take a moment to look at him. Despite his stoic facade, you can see the toll all those years of being a hero have taken on him, especially the past few weeks. The dark circles under his remaining eye, the weary lines and scars etched into his face. The worried, pained look that lingers even when he's trying to relax. 

"You know, it's okay to admit that you're not feeling great. From what I've been told, it seems like you've been through hell and back."

He shrugs again, leaning back against the pillows with a wince that he tries to hide. "It comes with the job. If anyone deserves your concern, it's my students."

“It must be hard, seeing them fight in a war. They’re just children, after all.”

He nods grimly, his mouth a tight line. "And because of this—" he touches the bandages covering his eye "—my quirk is pretty much useless now, especially on the villains we’re up against.”

He doesn't say it, but you can hear it in the tightness of his voice, his clenched jaw, his hands fisting the bedsheet. You know what he really means: “I'm useless now."

You want to reach out to touch him, maybe place your hand atop his, but you're not sure if he'd welcome such a gesture, especially from someone he's only known for a short time. You settle for a few sympathetic words instead, folding your hands in your lap. 

"Aizawa-san, do you honestly think your quirk is the only thing that makes you a hero? You've done so much for your students, for so many people. You're a mentor and a role model to these kids. I'm sure they trust and look up to you more because of this, not less.”

He looks at you for a long moment, that same unreadable expression on his face.

"I appreciate that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t protect them the way I used to."

"Maybe not, but even without your quirk, you have your experience, your wisdom, and a heart that cares deeply for them. That's more than enough."

Instead of responding, he stares silently up at the ceiling. You don't push him, resigning to let the moment simply stretch out. After all, this is the most you've ever talked to him the whole week.

As he gets lost in his thoughts, you find yourself mentally tracing the contours of his face, where the sunlight bathes his skin in a soft, warm glow. It accentuates the strong lines of his jaw, his nose. Softens the look in his dark eyes. 

You take a quiet breath, surprised by the fluttering sensation in your chest. It's an odd time and place to notice something like this, but you can’t deny there's a certain rugged handsomeness to him.

You shift your weight, feeling a little self-conscious about your own thoughts. It’s unprofessional, you chide yourself, to think of a patient this way. But the inexplicable attraction you feel for the man before you is unmistakeable.

Aizawa turns slightly, catching you off guard as his eyes meet yours. When he finally speaks again, his voice is softer, almost contemplative. 

“It's strange. There was a time in my life when I wouldn't have cared what happened to me in the line of duty, whether I lived or died. But now...I want to live for those kids. My kids.”

You manage a wobbly smile even as your heart aches at his words. "Your students are lucky to have someone who cares about them so much."

“You remind me of them a little bit.” He lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling softly in the quiet room. “Determined, stubborn, always insisting on helping.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” You ask, tilting your head to the side.

The corner of his lips quirk up, and the realization that he might actually be teasing you sends your heart aflutter. 

“Mostly good,” he murmurs. “A little bit troublesome for me though.”

“Yeah?” You bite back a smirk. “You’ve been a bit troublesome for me, too, you know.”

He raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the pillows. “Is that so? And how do you propose I make it up to you, then?”

Maybe it’s the huskiness of his voice, the quiet intensity of his gaze, or the faint smile tugging at his lips, but something about him in this moment makes your stomach freefall. And you’re suddenly overcome with the urge to kiss him, passionately and spontaneously, as if afraid to see sense. 

You know you shouldn't indulge this, should put a stop to this train of thought before it gains too much momentum. You’re thankful you manage to keep your voice steady despite the rush of blood pounding in your ears. 

“Well, Aizawa-san, you could start by taking me out to dinner. Dealing with a patient as stubborn as you has its price, you know.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you wonder if you’ve made a terrible mistake. But then his gaze flickers down to your lips before meeting your eyes again, and you feel your breath hitch. He tilts his head, his expression thoughtful yet guarded, as if trying to read between the lines of your playfulness.

“I suppose,” he concedes softly. “But you might find that I’m not as interesting as you think, Y/N. I’m just a man who cares about the people in his life and does what he can to protect them.”

"That's exactly what I like about you.” Your voice drops to a whisper, your hand lightly brushing against his.

He groans softly, and you feel a blush rise to your cheeks at the sound. He rubs his hand down his face, seemingly weighing his options. 

It’s not too late, you assure yourself in a rush of anxious thoughts. You haven’t crossed any lines you can’t go back on, haven’t overstepped the delicate boundary between patient and nurse, between flirtation and something more. 

“Will you let me kiss you at the end of the date?”

Oh.

The line is a dot now.

You swallow hard and — heart pounding in your chest, everything else spinning dizzyingly out of focus — you rush forward to close the distance between you, pressing your lips urgently against his. 

The spark you felt before intensifies into an electrifying current now, racing down your spine as he tangles one hand in your hair and another holds you by the nape. He tilts your head back to kiss you deeper, his lips hungrily exploring yours, and you feel drunk on the pleasure of his touch, the intoxicating scent of his skin and his aftershave.

The softness of his lips contrasts with the roughness of his stubble, sending shivers of delight coursing through you. His mouth is warm and inviting, and you lose yourself in the sensation of his kiss, the way he breathes you in, the quiet sighs of pleasure that escape both of you. 

Your mind spins with the realization of how much you’ve wanted this and how many ill-advised daydreams you’ve had of him these past few weeks. When you finally break apart for air, you keep your forehead pressed against his, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. The sound of your blood rushing in your ears drowns out the rhythmic beeping of the machines around you, and for a moment, the world feels narrowed down to just the two of you.

“I-I’m sorry,” Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your fingers gingerly touch your lips, which are pursed in surprise. “That was reckless of me. I shouldn’t have.”

Aizawa blinks at you, his dark eyes wide and dazed, like he’s trying to process what just happened. He licks his lips, a gesture that sends a fresh wave of warmth through your body.

“Do you…” His voice is husky, tinged with uncertainty. “Do you regret it?”

“No, of course not,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “I only regret not doing it at a better time.”

His eyes widen slightly in surprise before softening, the tension in his shoulders seemingly melting away. 

"Good," he murmurs, reaching for you, his thumb cradling your jaw and tracing small, soothing circles on your skin. “Because I’d like to do it again—”

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek.

“And again—”

He brushes his lips teasingly against yours, feather-light and promising of more.

“And again.”

The admission sends a thrill through you, a rush of joy and excitement that makes your pulse quicken. "All the more reason to look forward to dinner, I suppose. After you get better, that is."

He chuckles softly. "Shouldn't be a problem, seeing as how I have an excellent nurse taking care of me."

"Mmmhm. Speaking of, is there anything else I can do to make you…more comfortable before I leave?” You can't help but ask, a playful lilt in your voice.

He captures your lips in a delicate kiss, so sweet and tender, like a dream barely skimming the surface of reality. You've finally calmed down enough to hear the sound of his heart rising, betrayed by the loudening beep of the machine. His hand trails down your arm and he laces his fingers with yours, smiling against your lips. 

“I can think of a few things.”

[tired-teacher-blog]

You coax your six year old daughter into telling her father about the bigger-than-herself crush she's been harboring for the cute little boy who sits next to her in class, just so you could see the mortified look on your husband's face as he struggled to control his temper while listening to his girl's sweet voice bashfully recounting the story of how they exchanged their first love notes today..

And he's now thinking of a proper plan to intimidate the poor boy and keep him away from his little angel, and probably even make him switch schools.

_ "Come on Shouta, something like that is bound to happen sooner or later." your giggles fill the air as you strive to smooth out the frown plastered across his face with gentle pecks and touches.

_ "Yeah! When she's like thirty or something, not now!" his grip on the thick book tightens as his frustration grows, and you ignore him for a second to try steadying your legs on each side of his waist, "I don't understand why you're not more upset about this, she's your daughter too." and he carries on complaining when you fail to respond.

You sigh contentedly after settling on his lap, snatching the book away from his grasp and reaching out to set it on your nightstand, " well I think it's cute that she's exploring some new emotions, don't you remember when we first met? We weren't much older than her."

His scowl deepens at your words and his stare shifts to the side in contemplation, he does not seem to care for the reminder as it only worries him further.

You bite down on your lip in a futile attempt to swallow your giggles, pushing his soft locks back to carefully remove his glasses and trail soft kisses on the scars adding to his beauty.

_ "That's not comforting you know?" he groans in protest against your statement and holds you closer to himself, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and allowing you to kiss him as you please, "I don't want her developing romantic feelings for anyone, not now not ever, she just needs to be my little girl."

Your heart swells with adoration for your man, the same person who used to dislike the idea of having kids of his own, saying that all he ever wanted was to settle down with you and you alone, to have a little peace of mind after his early retirement, away from the troubles bound to come with children.

However, all of it has changed the moment you were greeted with a lovely surprise that you both shared its creation.. your little angel and source of happiness.

_ "She'll always be our little girl." you murmur against his cheek and kiss him there again, "but if you want, we can always have another." you sit back and watch the expression on his face slowly switching to an amused one as he presses you down on his bulge.

_ "Yeah, and maybe this time we'll have a boy."

[perplexedflower]

Someone I Used To Love

Fandom: My Hero Academia.

Category: F/M.

Relationship: Shōta Aizawa/Eraserhead x Female Reader.

Type: One shot.

Words: 2,771.

Summary: On a particularly dark night, Shōta Aizawa finds a mysterious girl alone in the darkness. But something is weird about this young girl. It is like she reminds him of someone…

Chronology: Post-story.

Warning: Angst.

~~~~~~~~~~

As he slowly walked into the rain, he noticed a girl, all by herself, sitting in the middle of the road. He went up to her, only to hear she was crying.

"Hey." He began. "Is everything okay? You shouldn't be out here, alone at night."

Seeing the girl did not respond and simply continued on sobbing, he kneeled next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. He stared at her closely, and without even knowing why, he hugged her; he held her tight in his arms and passed a hand through her hair.

"C'mon, we should move out of the road." He said, turning his face to her.

She calmed down a bit, but still breathed loudly and with difficulty. He took her more in his arms before making her get up and go sit on a bench nearby. He sat her down, holding her hand and warming it up. He could not resist but take a closer look at her: he could not see her eyes, as they were covered by one of her hands and the fact that her face was turned to the ground, but he could see the rest of her body; being used to the darkness, he did not find it hard to see clearly at this point.

She must be a student. He thought. Probably around 18 years old or so.

He sat down next to her and looked around him. He did not know why that girl was there, or what she was doing like that, but he did not dare to ask, too afraid it would only make her even sadder.

"Have... Have we met before?"

He turned around in a swift movement, not expecting a word to come out of that girl's mouth.

"I, uh... I don't know... Have we?"

"Your hug, earlier... It reminds me of someone. Someone I used to love."

He did not know how to react to this confession and decided on staying quiet. A long silence came after that and neither of them talked: strangely, he thought it was better this way.

Sometimes, it's better to say nothing. He thought.

The girl seemed to feel a bit better than before, and that made him feel better as well.

"I understand you probably don't wanna talk about it, but... What's going on?" He said, afraid of what she might answer.

The girl did not say a word and shook her head a few seconds later.

"It's ok, don't worry, you don't have to tell me." He said, taking her hand again.

"What's your name?" She asked out of nowhere.

He wondered why she was so curious about him when in this situation, it should have been the other way around.

"My name's Aizawa, Shōta Aizawa."

The girl laughed sadly.

"Heh. I knew it."

"What do you mean?" Asked Aizawa, confused.

"This tender hug. These warming hands. This soft voice. You're him. The man I used to love, so badly."

Aizawa opened his mouth, only to shut it right back, incapable of finding anything to say. A cat passed by, and without even looking, the young girl felt it.

"You love cats, Aizawa-san, don't you?" The girl said, trying too hard to seem happy when the dark-haired man could hear the sadness in her voice betraying her.

"Yes, I do."

The cat found a clear spot where it would not be touched by the pounding water. Aizawa looked up at the black sky and realized the rain was getting stronger.

"I'm sorry I don't have an umbrella on me for you right now." He said, chagrined.

The girl did not answer, and Aizawa guessed that meant she was ok with it. A sudden noise was heard from where the cat was, and without even raising her head, the girl knew what Aizawa had just witnessed.

"It's dead, isn't it?"

Aizawa looked mortified, as the image of the cat slipping, falling down, and hitting a heavy rock nearby still looped in his head, again and again.

"Don't think about saving it." The girl said before he even was about to stand up. "It's not dead yet, but will be in a minute, and unfortunately, we can't do anything about it."

This girl is scary. Thought Aizawa, not daring to move.

"You think I'm scary, don't you?"

Aizawa looked at her and gasped.

Can she read minds, too?

"I'm sorry, but I can't do anything about it. It's just the way I am."

Aizawa could not find anything to say, so he just nodded patiently.

"Rain falling, cats dying... People changing... We can't do anything about it."

She was right, and Aizawa knew it inside him, but he could feel something was wrong.

"I ran." She suddenly said.

The man looked at her, waiting for the end of her sentence.

"You... ran?"

"I ran away. From home. From friends. From a family that I never really had. From everything." She added calmly.

Aizawa began to understand a bit more what was happening as he pieced out all the information he had in mind.

"I'm bad, ain't I, Aizawa-san?"

Tears started rolling down her face again, and he could hear some of them getting trapped in her throat as she talked.

"You just have a really powerful ability, that's all." He said, trying to calm her down.

"I'm bad, I know it. Something's wrong with me, and all I can do is live with it..."

"Listen... I..." He tried to say but ended up keeping quiet.

"... That's why he left me..."

A long break filled with the sounds of rain, sobs, and whispers followed.

I hate it. He thought. I hate it so much. This situation, right here, where I can't do anything. Why can't I just talk normally, for God's sake?

"Aizawa-san."

The man turned around.

"Yes?"

"... You still remember me... R-Right?" She struggled to say through her tears, falling as fast as the rain surrounding them.

"Oh, I..."

But he did not finish his sentence: instead, he approached her and circled her in his arms.

I'm so sorry. He thought to himself. So so sorry.

"It's ok." She said.

But it was not. The girl stopped crying after a while, though she could still feel water drops on her; and she knew it was not the rain.

"Aizawa-san..." The girl whispered, grabbing him by the shoulders.

The man was now crying, and he only had four words to say.

"I'm so sorry, I..."

But he burst into tears again.

"Oh..." The girl started, caressing his dark hair. "Don't cry for me, please."

She continued to hug him tight, hoping he would stop crying. He held on to her pretty hard, but she did not pay it much mind; as long as it helped him feel better, she was alright with it.

"Don't be sorry, ok? It's ridiculous of you to think that you're responsible for this." She said, looking at him directly in the eyes.

"Then why were you crying when I found you?" He cried while trying to look at her, his tears not allowing him to see properly anymore.

"You don't have anything to do with this."

"You're lying!" He almost screamed. "I know you are! I must have something to do with all this, I can feel it!"

The girl stared at him sadly and continued to caress him.

"God... WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER YOU, FOR FUCK'S SAKE?!" He yelled, his fist punching the side of the bench as he said those words.

She smiled as a tear fell onto her chin.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..." Murmured Aizawa, again and again.

The girl grabbed him by the cheeks and swept off his tears.

"Even when you cry..." She started.

She pulled down his scarf and passed a hand on his neck.

"... You're still as beautiful as the first day I saw you." She continued while seeming to try and hold back another river of tears.

She paused herself a brief instant to stare into his eyes, and it seemed as if they were calling out to her to continue her story; she grabbed Aizawa's hands tenderly, seeing he was hanging on her words.

"That day I met you at U.A... I had gotten lost in the school, wondering which of this maze's classrooms I should step in. That's when I bumped into you; I looked up at you, and I remember thinking to myself that although you were in your early thirties, you looked ragged and grumpy. But who was I to judge, just a lost 15-year-old teenager working on being a professional superhero? You looked down at me, your gaze met mine, but neither of us said anything; I liked to convince myself I had triggered something in you that day, but I was never sure. In silence, you kept walking your own way, heading to a classroom bearing the sign "1-A", and that's how I later found out you'd be my homeroom teacher. Since that day, I never stopped loving you."

The man, now sobbing, listened to her quietly.

"You see this rain?" She asked as the man did not move an inch. "Well..."

And as fast as lightning, the rain suddenly stopped. Staring back into his eyes, she could read a mix of confusion and surprise on his face.

"I've... never truly explained to you what my powers are... Right? Even when I was still a student in U.A.... I avoided the question, managing to always stay vague about it. But... now I think you deserve to know."

Aizawa was still sobbing, feeling in his heart a growing pain as if it was slowly twisting into a knot.

"... When I was little, my parents were convinced I had no quirk since I had never shown a sign of any potential power, even after reaching the age of 4. I was thus marked as quirkless, and seen as such by all... That is, until we discovered the hard way I did in fact have one. My mother's quirk was one of luck, allowing her to have good luck whenever she desired it, for however long she wanted; the backlash was that the longer she left it activated, the more it would exhaust her. And most importantly, after deactivating her power, she would have bad luck for twice as long as she had left her power active beforehand. One day, she died in an accident at home during one of her periods of bad luck: a toy I had left on the ground near our staircase caused her to trip and fall down the flight, breaking her neck on impact. At the same exact second I heard her hit the ground, I felt an outside force enter my body, as if an energy was now residing inside me."

The young girl took a break from her story to look at her hands, still wet from all the rain which had drenched her.

"Her death was marked as accidental, even though I saw it as being my fault; it left my father gravely traumatized, leading him to shut down to the world, including myself. Eventually, it drove him to suicide, and the second he drew his last breath, I felt the exact same sensation I had once felt when my mother had died. I connected the dots together and quickly came to a haunting conclusion: my mother had died because of me, and by extension, it was my fault if my father had died too. And when both their deaths had occurred, I had felt two separate powers enter my body."

Sheepishly, she looked up at Aizawa, her eyes wet with edging tears.

"My quirk is acquiring the quirks of people I kill, or who die by my fault, more or less indirectly. I've never killed anyone willingly, but... Many people have died because of me, simply because of my mother's quirk... When she died and I obtained her power, it was new to me and my body had trouble adapting to it, so I had no control over it: it'd activate on its own, and I had no way of making it stop, so once it would, I'd be left with long periods of bad luck, and whoever was around me would be affected by it. I eventually came to control it, and only use it when I decided to, but by the time I got there, I had already caused too much damage..."

The girl felt herself losing control of her emotions again and cuddled against Aizawa's chest in hopes that it would calm her down.

"All these powers..." She began, her voice starting to tremble. "All these abilities I have in me..."

She hesitated to finish her sentence but decided she had to stay strong and held Aizawa tighter.

"I have so many of them! So many people I've killed just by being around them!" She said loudly, closing her eyes.

She paused herself to breathe a bit and carried on.

"I managed to integrate U.A. by registering with one of the quirks I had acquired over time. But, seeing all these wonderful people around me, all this glory... It made me feel like I didn't belong. I had made friends whose kindness I didn't deserve... I had fallen for you, although I was not worth your care and attention. I knew I could never become a superhero with the way I was... So I decided to drop out of school. I couldn't look at myself in a mirror anymore. I was scared of who I was and afraid of what I might become. That's why..."

The clouds started to go away and the sky got bluer.

"... That's why I ran away. I didn't wanna hurt people anymore."

She looked at Aizawa and noticed he had stopped crying.

"That's why I abandoned you, too. You were the only one left I had, the only one left I loved, and the sheer thought of you getting hurt by my fault was just impossible to imagine. So even if it meant not seeing you ever again, I tried to stay away from your life; I could never say for sure you reciprocated my feelings, but all the more if it was the case, I had decided to walk away before it would hurt us too much."

The girl took Aizawa's hand into her own and passed a gentle finger on the scar under his right eye.

"Now you see why I'm bad, Aizawa-san, and why you shouldn't come near me."

"... No." He simply answered.

The girl stared at him for long, her mouth opened and her eyes shining in the moonlight.

"A part of me knows who you are, and I refuse to ignore it."

The girl did not respond and just stared at the moon instead.

"It's getting late, you should head back home now." She simply said in a motherly tone.

Aizawa did not react and kept on murmuring things to himself. The girl sighed and stood up.

"You really haven't changed, haven't you..." She calmly said to him, putting a strand of hair behind his ear.

She took his hand and pressed on it.

"Even if you don't, I have to get back to my place anyway." She said, glaring at the darkness and the road.

"Wait." He stopped her, grabbing her by the wrist. "Can't you stay, just... a bit more?"

She slightly frowned her eyebrows.

"I... I can't, I..." She tried to say. "... I can't stay around you." She finally whispered.

Aizawa raised his head and the girl saw that his eyes were begging her. In a deep breath, she bent over and left a delicate kiss on his cheek.

"Goodbye, Aizawa-san." She whispered into his ears as she interlaced her fingers with his.

And suddenly, the girl vanished before his eyes. He felt something folding into his hand and opened it; inside was a small piece of paper.

"I'm sorry to leave you this soon. I just found you and I already have to go away. But... Please, think before doing anything too dangerous. I might get you hurt if I stay with you, but, if you really, truly, want me to be something important in your life... Then I will stay around you for that time."

Aizawa raised his hand to the moon above him and held the paper tight in his hand as he swept off his last tears with his elbow.

I'll remember you, I promise. But for now, as long as you're taking all the space in my mind, please, don't go too far away from me.

[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.

[uwtloml]

Ok so what if we accidentally send the mha boys nudes

- 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘩𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘯𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘴!

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

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

@star-the-rabid-dog also requested this!!

[keigos-wings]

aizawa is too pretty to eat pussy. the sight ALONE would kill you.

just making eye contact with him while he hikes your legs over his shoulders would have you six feet under.

he’d eat you out like a man starved, and he’d do it all while looking up at you through thick eyelashes; ripping orgasm after orgasm from you until you’re so sensitive it hurts. he’d take pity on you for a moment, untangling himself from your limbs, letting you believe you’ve earned a rest.

but he is an evil, evil man.

he’d slip two fingers into your cunt, chuckling darkly to himself all the while, and he’d pump them mercilessly.

that man wouldn’t stop until you’re crying and begging for mercy.

god, just the THOUGHT of it is enough to send you to the grave.

[kleftiko]

❦ A PIRATES REWARD

“you expected to fuck some guy in the bathroom at the halloween party, not get absolutely railed by someone you don’t even know”

cw: age gap, mask kink(?), choking, cream pie, unprotected sex, semi-public sex

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

When you're young and you finally get the taste of freedom that comes with showing your ID (the real one) to the bouncer, and instead of a stare down, you get a pleasant "enjoy your night", you tend to go overboard.

Dressed too skimpy for the weather, with the promise that alcohol will help you warm up, you and your girlfriends set your goals for the night. Get someone to buy you drinks, make it to the DJ booth, or hook up in the bathroom with someone you'll never see again.

A jaegerbomb or two, vodka soda, and whatever drink the guy next to you swore was worth it—you think it's a pornstar—and you were blinking with a drowsy smile on your painted lips as you looked around for someone of interest. Halloween was the perfect excuse to let loose and indulge in some wild, anonymous fun. As the night progressed, the music got louder and the crowd became more vibrant, making it the perfect hunting ground. With each drink, you felt a heat in your cheeks and between your legs that you wanted to indulge in.

"And what are you supposed to be?" You looked up at the man beside you.

From across the room, you noticed him in a black compression shirt, one that defined his obviously muscular arms and toned chest. He was tall, even from afar, dark hair that you could see pulled back into a bun, and a mask from a movie your tipsy mind barely recognized covering his face. He was mildly intriguing, and you admired him for a bit, but was only when he lifted it slightly to drink, showing off his sharp jawline and rough stubble, that you beelined for him.

You couldn't see his eyes looking down at you, but his deep, rumbling voice made you shiver. "A guy in a mask."

"Wow," you deadpanned with obvious sarcasm. "so creative."

He turned his head to you and leaned down a bit, and he asked, "Pirate?"

"Aye." You giggled with a curtsy, then nodded your chin at his drink. "What's that?"

"Rye and ginger," he held it out to you. "Want?"

You purposely brushed over the rings on his fingers as you took the drink. "You think I'd like it?"

"It’s a little hard, but sweet."

So you took a sip, eyes locked on his mask as you licked your lips to clean them off.

"I like the harder stuff," you said, and handed it back to him.

He lifted his mask to take a sip, unbothered by the lipstick smudge you left on the rim, then smiled slightly.

You decided that this was the guy. There's something about his nonchalant demeanour and the way he effortlessly hooked you in that had you wanting him in a less than innocent way. The fact that you didn't even know what he looked like only added to the excitement of wanting those gorgeous fingers inside you.

"Wanna take this somewhere else?" You cut him off from whatever he was saying, deciding you've done enough flirting.

"Well, aren't you an eager thing?" He chuckled a bit and took another sip of his drink.

You gulped, shamelessly checking him out as you started to feel the pulse of anticipation. When he finished off his rye and ginger you grabbed his wrist and led him through the crowd. Down the hall, there were a couple people loitering, probably trying to escape the loud music to have a more intimate conversation. The bathroom was even more deserted, and you thanked the fact that drunk people never wanted to leave the fun.

You immediately pushed him against the wall, not waiting for the door to close beside you, and your fingers clawed to his mask eagerly before his large hand wrapped around your throat to still you.

"Ah, ah, ah," he reprimanded you. "Didn't anyone teach you manners?"

You grinned, your lips instead going to his neck, where you playfully bit his skin. He let out a low growl, a mixture of pleasure and warning. His grip on your throat tightened slightly, this time not in caution, but as a reward.

"That's it, baby." He praised, and hooked his free thumb under the mask, pulling it off to reveal the most attractive man you've ever seen. Dark, tired eyes that looked at you with nothing but lust. He was obviously older than you, and the realization made you feel even more vigour at the thought of the pleasure he could give you that you never seemed to get from guys your age. His lips curled into a malicious smile, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth. The intensity in his gaze made your heart race, as if you were the only person in the world that mattered to him in that moment.

You audibly whimpered, the heat between your legs intensifying as you grabbed the back of his head and pulled him in for a kiss. Distantly, there was a soft donk as he threw his mask to the ground and grabbed you, switching places to pin you to the wall instead. The rush of adrenaline coursed through your veins, making you want to act out, but the firm grip he had on your throat had you compliant and submissive—only able to do what he wants. You had never been more happy to fall under the spell of some man, and you found yourself eager to accept anything he gave you. As the world around you faded into oblivion, all that remained was the intoxicating connection between your bodies and an insatiable desire.

Your leg hooked over his hip as you grinded into him, and he easily lifted you up, pressing his hard cock to your needy pussy through your clothes.

The noises of pleasure you made simply from making out and dry humping had him almost laughing.

"Such a cute little pirate." He growled and bit your ear. The hand around your neck moved to shove aside the fabric at your crotch and push two fingers inside you. "Already wet for me."

You squealed at the stretch, head hitting the tiled wall behind you as you threw it back.

"F-fuck." You whined and bucked your hips into him, too lost in the simple way he was giving you pleasure to care about how desperate you were being.

His skilled fingers continued to move inside you, hitting all the right spots and driving you wild. Even if it had just begun, no hookup had ever had you crumbling so easily, or had reduced you to a begging mess so skillfully. The intensity of the pleasure was overwhelming, causing your body to tremble uncontrollably as you surrendered completely to his touch, not bothering to hold back your cries.

Your legs started to shake, the pants you spilled out became high-pitched wanton sounds as you were about to cum; tears pricked at the corner of your eyes as your head knocked against the wall from you bucking into him. But before he could send you over into ecstasy, he pulled his fingers out, leaving you high, dry, and angry.

"What the fuc—!" You tried to scream, but he shoved his thick fingers down your throat. You choked instead as he laughed at you.

"Don't be a brat." He said. "Lick them clean, and I'll give you what you want."

You gagged as his fingers pressed against the back of your throat, feeling a mix of humiliation and arousal. Reluctantly, you obeyed his command, tasting your own essence on his fingers as you sniffled. The thought of finally getting what you desired pushed you to comply, hoping that this humiliating act would lead to the release you craved.

As he pulled his fingers out with a pop, you were rewarded with the sight of his hand undoing his pants and releasing his thick cock. The sight of his harsh pink tip dripping with precum made your heart race, fueling your craving for him even more and making you wiggle impatiently as he lined up with your cunt. With a deep breath, you braced yourself for the pleasure that awaited, ready to surrender completely to his dominance.

He didn't go slow. He thrusted into you with a force that took your breath away, causing a mixture of pleasure and pain to surge through your body.

The hand that gripped the fat of your thigh to hold you up tightened almost unbearably as he hissed.

"Fuck, you're so tight, little pirate." He said, and you whimpered a bit.

There was no more time to waste as he pulled out and thrust into you again.

You felt each unbearable inch of his cock bullying its way into your gummy walls and stretching you out passed your limits. No man had ever had you gasping from simply fucking you, but each powerful movement sent waves of ecstasy coursing through your body. As he continued to pound into you relentlessly, you surrendered yourself completely to the overwhelming sensations, losing all sense of control.

Your noises started to get even louder and more shameless, and you couldn't imagine anyone outside the bathroom wouldn't be able to tell what was going on, especially coupled with the slapping sounds of his cock in your dripping pussy over and over.

His hand came up to your neck again, holding you back against the wall and cutting your airflow as he pumped into you. Your moans became choked gargles, and the lack of oxygen had you squeezing impossibly tighter around him, your own hand gripping his wrist to stabilize yourself as your eyes rolled back and your tongue fell out.

"You just go dumb, baby?" You vaguely heard his condescending voice. "Such a good girl."

The intensity of the moment heightened as he continued to fuck you, his words fueling your desire for him to have his way with you. Each thrust and restriction of breath only deepened your submissive state, pushing you further into a state of blissful surrender that you never wanted to give up. As his grip tightened and his pace quickened, you could feel yourself on the edge of cumming like you never had before, ready to be consumed by the ecstasy he pumped you with.

"Such a good girl." He repeated. "Maybe I should cum in your cunt as a reward for being so good."

The sound of his words sent shivers down your spine, intensifying the pleasure coursing through your body. You eagerly nodded, unable to form any coherent words as you yearned for him to fulfill his promise. You wanted everything he could possibly give you, in that moment, you wanted him to become yours. You wanted him to give you this pleasure over and over again. With each powerful thrust, you could feel the knot tightening, knowing that this release would be better than any one you've ever experienced.

As he continued to ravish you, you came without warning. Head spilling all thoughts from your mind besides the inexplicably pleasure you were feeling and this unknown man that has made you feel something you’ve never felt before. Without a doubt, this would be ingrained in your mind forever, but if the thought of that wasn't enough, the feeling of his hot cum spilling into a second later you would be. It overflowed from your cunt, staining your thighs with hot cum as you held him close.

The smell of sex and the wetness dripping down your hot legs brought you back to reality, and you just barely registered him setting you down onto the ground. Your wobbly legs couldn't hold you as you fell against his sturdy chest, still not in the right stated of mind as you panted and almost drooled against him. The man chuckled as he moved the fabric of your costume back to cover your pussy and keep all of his cum inside you. You whined and twitched when he patted your clit.

Then he gently placed you on the ground, and you were too fucked up to speak up and say that you wanted him to stay and at least hold you until your mind returned. The most you could do was weakly tug on his pants and whine, causing him to bend down and place a chest kiss to your forehead. As he walked away, a mix of emotions flooded your mind: a longing for his presence, a sense of vulnerability, and a lingering satisfaction from everything he gave you.

[starryskyzx]

ೃ⁀➷ 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟑 * ੈ✩‧₊˚

➼ 𝙗𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

✦ 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿!𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘁𝗮 𝗮𝗶𝘇𝗮𝘄𝗮 𝘅 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

✦ 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘄𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿, 𝗮𝗶𝘇𝗮𝘄𝗮, 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 “𝘁𝘂𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴” 𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁.

✦ 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝗯𝗶𝗺𝗯𝗼𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝘀𝗹𝘂𝘁, 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁-𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿, 𝗺𝘂𝗳𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗰𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗻𝗶𝗽𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆, 𝗲𝘅𝗰 (𝗹𝗺𝗸)

✦ 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 𝟭.𝟮𝗸

✦ 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧’𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: 𝗵𝗶𝗴𝗵𝗸𝗲𝘆, 𝗶 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗶𝗻 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗶 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗳 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱, 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀𝗳. 𝗶𝗴𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝘁𝘆𝗽𝗼𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝟰 𝗺𝗲!!

The lecture hall was empty aside from Professor Aizawa and you, who was sitting on his lap. You grinded your damp, pink panties across the print poking at you through the fabric of your professor’s dress pants. You knew in your head this was wrong, but whenever you saw someone good-looking, no matter who it was, you’d automatically turn into a horny mess.

“You listening, y/n?” he asked smoothly, pretending his dick wasn’t hardened up waiting to feel the warmth of your walls around it. “Sorry, guess I’m distracted” you mumbled, batting your false eyelashes, pretending to be some innocent girl despite your mini skirt riding up your legs.

There was an open book plopped on his desk, along with a few pieces of paper, and some writing utensils too. This “study session” was going well, but as time went on, you became more eager to learn more about what was in your professor’s pants rather than the actual lesson.

“We can’t have that can we?” he whispered into your ear, lifting up your skirt, leaving it sitting loose around your waist. “Needa get your mind off of work for a while?”

You nodded, gently closing the book, scooting it over to the side incase you two went a little crazy and needed more room. “Can you take these off for me, sweetie?” he said, using his index finger to tug on the elastic of your panties before reaching to pull your tight little crop top over your head. “Mhm” you purred, slipping your panties to your ankles leaving them hanging next to your heels.

You felt a a slender hand pushing you against the desk, arching your back into a good position. Biting your lip, you prepared yourself for the feeling of Professer Aizawa’s cock rubbing against your entrance the way you imagined all those days in class before.

As you heard a pants zipper unzip from behind you, your face heated up and your heart began to race. His cold hand gripped your left tit, squeezing your pierced nipple in between his index finger and his middle finger. It took a moment for your body temperature to adjust to his, but right as you thought things had leveled out, you felt the tip of his veiny dick split between your folds and penetrate your pussy.

“Fuck!~” you moaned, vocalizing your pleasure a little too loud, forgetting this was taking place in a classroom. “Quiet, baby” Aizawa soothed, slowly inching the rest of his girthy cock into your wet cunt.

You instinctively nodded, trying ever so hard to hold back any sort of whimper or wail as your pussy loosened to adjust to the girth and length of his dick rubbing against your walls.

You closed your eyes, enjoying his initial slow thrusts. They were languid and affectionate, only leaving a slut like you desperate for more. You bucked your hips and attempted to inch yourself further down onto his cock.

“You want more, sweetie? Think you can take it?”

Whether you thought your cunt could swallow all of his length or not, a quick “Yes-” rolled off your tongue, followed by “Just fuck me please~”.

Aizawa quickly rammed the rest of his cock inside you, unknowingly slamming against your g-spot, leaving you disheveled, aching for the tip of his dick to strike your sweet spot again, at a more frenzied pace.

You stopped leaning on the desk and decided to brace yourself on your professor’s thighs, giving you a good balance. As Professor Aizawa pumped his cock in and out of your pussy, grunting as he played with your nipples, you began to bounce on his dick, using one of your hands to stretch yourself open even wider.

“If you keep wearing slutty clothes like this, you wont be the only one distracted in my class you know” he teased, gripping your waist and slamming every inch of him into you all at once.

“Mhm-“ you stammered unable to find words to appropriately reply to his banter. Your head jerked as the force of a hand tugging your hair pulled you backwards. “Are you listening, Ms. l/n?”

Your cunt tightened on his cock as if it we’re trying to influence his body to continue moving. His tip applied pressure to your g-spot as he sat there, waiting for you to reply.

“Yes, sir- Listening-“ you cooed, lying through your teeth, simply trying get him to fuck you unapologetically rough, leaving you out of breath. “Promise if I fuck you good, you’ll do better in my class?” he taunted, slowly moving himself within your body.

A needy “Promise~” fell from your lips on impulse, bringing tears to your eyes knowing you couldn’t yell as loud as you wanted to. A sense of hopelessness washed over you, as you could feel every part of your body begging to touched. However, it was then your professor stood up from his chair and bent you over, now pinning you to the desk in the exact same spot you cleared room for earlier.

A gasp tried to come out of your mouth due to the sudden movement, but Aizawa had already placed his hand over your mouth and began brutally pounding your cunt. “This what it take for girls like you to pass my class? Getting used like a cumslut?”

A set of muffled moans filled the room, as the will power you had to hold any noises back had disappeared the moment his pace had picked up. Tears began to roll down your face as your pleasure reached it’s peak and your body attempted run from the cock you’d been begging for all this time.

Your hand grasped at the air and you pleaded into the hand of your professor, as his length caused you to paint his dick white and drip cum onto the pants hanging around his ankles.

The euphoric feeling of your walls clenching down on his dick, lead to your mascara running down your cheek. A few grunts and groans came out his mouth before he quickly removed himself from your cunt, leaving you feeling relieved, but empty and ready for more.

Professor Aizawa gave himself a few pumps before releasing his nut onto your back, leaving some residue on the mini skirt he had pulled upon your waist. You layed there catching your breath as he reached down and pulled your panties up for you, redressing you with your shirt and cum covered skirt as well.

Eventually, you sat up and Professor Aizawa pulled you close to his face. Taking his thumb, he wiped away your running mascara, before moving his hand to your chin, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “When you go home make sure you study, baby. Mkay?” he whispered gently, as if he were a completely different person than the one that was corrupting you, making you cry tears of pleasure just moments before.

You replied with a small, sinless “kay~” before grabbing your purse that was set aside and limping your way towards the exit of the building. However, little did your professor know, instead of studying when you got home, you simply began planning out an even sluttier outfit for tomorrow in hopes that maybe he’d see you again and you two could start a nightly routine of hooking up together for the rest of that term.

[nightfall-kachiniko]

“Babe, babe.” He calls to you, grabbing your face to look at his. His eyes glaring into yours as he soft whispers. “look.”

he says, slighting raising his eyebrow as he stares at you with love and lust in his eyes.

He swiftly thrusts harder, going faster and deeper as you roll your head back, shutting your eyes as you let out a moan.

His eyes glare you down as you squeeze his arm, softening like putty as you melt into him . ༯

[fixmyfeathers]

5’ clock. golden hour. orange light through the blinds. the sun was kissing your skin so beautifully.

bending down, giving your glowing forehead a warm kiss. he blinked, brows lifting in silent confusion when you moved your head away.

“nooo, i have a boyfriend.” oh. his eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth involuntary lifting up into a small teasing smile.

“i see.” two can play this game. “he doesn’t have to know, my love.”

you tried not to be to affected, but him calling you ‘my love’ always made your knees weak.

he bent down again, lips moving to your neck - mouthing the place between your shoulder and neck, teasing it with small bites.

“are you sure?” your voice was small, his actions leaving you lightheaded.

tilting your head to the side to give him more space, he kissed up your neck, nose nudging behind your ear before moving his mouth close to yours. he mumbled something about being very sure about it, lips touching yours with every spoken word. before finally, finally closing the gap between you two and giving you one passionate kiss.

iwaizumi, osamu, suna, mattsun, makki, bakugou, sero, shinsou, aizawa, suguru, sukuna, megumi, toji, neteyam

[tired-teacher-blog]

On the off chance that Aizawa manages to get you mad at him for whatever reason, your initial reaction would be to let him know, because as quick witted as he is, things like that can easily go over his head if not pointed out clearly.

Surely he hates upsetting you, so when it happens it's usually no more than a misunderstanding, but it's also not in his nature to flat out apologize or ask for forgiveness, that's why he'd do his utmost to lighten the mood and win you back in other ways, and it's a sight to behold.

First he would simply invade your personal space, taking a seat by your side while making sure to bump his knee or shoulder against yours and see if you're willing to have him near.

Obviously you do not react to his advances, but wouldn't push him away either– too intrigued by your own curiosity to dismiss him just yet, so you sit back and enjoy the view of him struggling internally.

He then carefully leans some of his weight on you, will probably even rest his head against yours or place a hand on your thigh, depending on the mood, to which you still say and do nothing.

That's when his patience starts running thin, or rather, when he realizes that he has truly messed up and needs to swallow his pride and apologize properly, and so he does.

_ "I'm sorry I was out of line, but it won't happen again I promise." his voice would be small and anxious as he cautiously takes your hand in his big calloused ones, fiddling with your fingers while gazing at you with a tinge of worry, and that's the only thing he seems capable of doing at the moment.

You immediately give in to a smile that's been threatening to creep across your face this whole time, because in reality, you were never actually upset with him, you were just relishing a side of your boyfriend that you rarely get to witness, but maybe you should cut him some slack already?

_ "It's okay Shouta, let's just forget about it." and you jump in his arms without a warning, giving him no time to react while moving to straddle his waist and watch as his stunned expression slowly switches to an amused one.

_ "Done," he nods in agreement, wrapping his arms around you before nuzzling your cheek to whisper seductively, "now kiss me."

And it doesn't stop there, not with a kiss, never with just a kiss, and his greed for you starts to show when he shamelessly slides his hands lower and lower until reaching your butt cheeks, squeezing your flesh teasingly as a sign of what awaits you, and if that's not enough to tell his intentions, then the smirk curving his lips as they mold perfectly with yours, sure is.

[lady-ashfade]

Sorrow Flowers

Yan!Class 1A x Reader

╰･ﾟ✧☽ Hanahaki disease is hard in all cases. But when you have a group of people in love with you it becomes a bigger problem, since you must love another…

╰･ﾟ✧☽ warnings: short blurb, hanahaki disease, angst, yandere behavior, blood and kinda gory.

dark circles appear under your eyes rather quickly, and in training you seemed to be weaker then normal. at first they thought you were becoming sick with the flu or over working yourself. the class babied you all of the time and made sure to do what they thought was best.

and slowly you came down with a nasty cough. they were so worried and even took you to Recovery Girl to get better. she couldn’t find anything wrong with you- she didn’t know what to test and look for so you went undiagnosed.

clinging to your throat you fell in training and tried to breath and cough up whatever was coming up. your body was sweating and panicking from the pain and lack of air you had. Aizawa was the first one at your side with the others rushing as well.

“Come on, kid.” his hand slapped the back of your back to try and help you breathe. iida was already on his way to get recovery girl. your class mates look in horror, some of them already crying and screaming for you.

blood…

blood splatter onto the floor from your lips and something rolled along with it. you gasped for air as the some blood dripped from down your chin. tears rolled down your eyes. everyone looked down to the thing on the ground, something was blocking your pipes. and what they saw was nothing they thought they had to worry about. a black flower covered in blood, some clots too.

you had hanahaki disease.

the disease for unrequited loved. you loved someone else that wasn’t them. since every one of them was obsessed over you, worship the ground you walked on, wanted nothing more then to have you. that means you didn’t love any of them…and someone undeserving.

the gazes of everyone in the room darkened to black and red. someone had made you this way. you could have died and if it isn’t fixed they could lose you anyway. and that person need to pay. your teacher took you into his arms and carried you to the infirmary to get you some rest and medicine to help, while the others stayed behind to figure everything out.

“this is why I told you idiots to keep a closer eye on them, this is all your faults.” katsuki yelled while pushing pasted them to go and found anyone he could. honestly, after he found the person responsible he might take care of his class mates too because they are equally responsible.

“if you weren’t such a asshole they might have stayed with us! It’s not our fault,” Mina shouted and huffed out.

“whatever it takes we’ll make them better. but for now,” Izuku mumbled with his quirk activated on his own and his body shocks green.

“we need to take care of the disgrace of a person responsible.” 

╰･ﾟ✧☽ Haven’t written something finished in a long time, so this probably sucks. I have been in a big writes block.

[mistressreaper]

Imagine pro hero Kiri and Kats retiring to their apartment after a hard day waiting for you to drop by with the take out you promised them. As they’re waiting they have a conversation about you; they talk about how soft your skin is, how bright your eyes are, the sweet scent of your hair after you get out of the shower. They both knew they needed to do something about their crush on you, coming to the conclusion that they’ll need a taste of dessert after dinner😉

Photo credit to Pinterest

[not-your-fucking-kacchan]

♡︎𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐚 𝐀𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐰𝐚♡︎

Day 20 of Kinktober 2022

Summary: he's woken up with a delightful surprise.

Props to my beta reader for today @sasualblxd - thank you for your amazing help, ily!

348 words.

It's not the first time you've woken up before Shouta. It's also not the first time you've woken up horny and in need of his touch. But this is the first time you've acted on it.

He's joked before about you waking him up with a blowjob, but he's never pressured you for it, but that makes it all the more enticing.

You've been thinking on it for the past half hour while he sleeps peacefully beside you. He's consented, and you know for sure he would be delighted to wake up to this, so why not?

He's already half naked from a long night of fucking, but somehow you're still not satisfied, and you find yourself licking at his flaccid cock which you had slipped out of the confines of his boxer briefs.

Your hot, wet tongue trails up to his head and sucks there, and you pay no mind to the taste of him because thankfully, and contrary to popular belief, your husband does actually take pride in his hygiene.

Every shift of his body is monitored by your watchful eye as you wait for him to awaken, but even as his hips start to rock forward, his eyes still remain scruched shut and his body lax.

Slowly, you part from him, watching with a delighted smirk as his dick twitches, mourning the loss of your warmth, the head a desperate red.

Your pussy clenches around nothing as you manoeuvre on top of him, lowering yourself down and guiding yourself onto his waiting cock, and just like that, Shouta is woken by the intense warmth engulfing him whole and the weight on top of him.

An unhinged groan forces itself past his throat as he tilts his head back, hands instinctively shooting to caress the smooth, squishy skin of your hips. His rough fingers prod at your inner thighs, stroking along the wetness that rolls down to meet his pelvis, and he sighs contentedly at your excitement all while he thumbs your stretch marks to show them every bit of love they deserve.

"Good morning, baby~"

© 2022 not-your-fucking-kacchan

◃ 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 ▹

[princessfizzintine]

dating aizawa pt.2⭑๋܂෨ㅤㅤ

[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.”