#m.aizawa

[shibaraki]

meet-ugly with aizawa in which he approaches you to return something you dropped and the first thing you say to him is “I’m sorry I don’t have any change”

[erasershouta]

i can’t believe i just realized no devil m.aizawa is just this meme

[shibaraki]

he’s devastating what is my baby girl doing in the middle of a battlefield it’s criminal he should be at home pampered and in bed never lifting a finger to do anything ever again

[shibaraki]

Upon entering your apartment you’re struck by the distinct smell of citrus.

“What’s this?” you remark, padding into the room. A soft mew threads between your ankles. Bastard, your cat, follows you toward the couches where Shouta is huddled. “Are you actually eating real, organic food? Not in jelly form?”

Shouta’s movements barely falter as his gaze lifts to find yours from behind a curtain of hair. “Very funny,” he breathes, voice low and warm. Sun floods through the balcony window to swallow him in light. Sat cross legged in old shorts and socks, holes forming where the threads wear thin, he is swimming in a sweatshirt that is too big for his frame. You smile, overcome by a sense of peace seeing him so at ease.

The cushion dips under your weight as you climb up onto the couch, legs folded beneath your body. You recline to let Bastard pass over your thighs and curl in his favourite human’s lap. Shouta bends to kiss the top of Bastard’s head as he settles—kneading at the fleece lined fabric—and continues to peel his orange.

“Don’t I get a kiss too?”

“…Have one,” he demurs. Your eyes latch onto the flick of his tongue as he laps absentmindedly at his sticky fingers. “Or more. They’re for us to share”.

You pout and pluck an orange from the bowl, rolling it in your palm. Shouta observes from the corner of his eye with the fond uptick of his lips, pulling his orange apart in clean sections and leaving the rinds in a neat pile. You try to peel your own, applying too much pressure, and your thumb tears a hole into the skin. The juice spurts across your hand, becoming sticky as it meets air.

The silence is oppressive. “Not a word,” you sighed, almost tasting his mirth. “I don’t know how you do it so perfectly”.

Shouta laughs and the sound ricochets through you like a purr. He then gently pushes his slice to your pursed mouth, and you take it between your teeth. A cool fingertip traces the curve of your lower lip. His eye darkens, expression soft. Something stirs in your chest at the intent behind them.

“I hope you never learn,” he murmurs.

inspiration: ‘oranges’ by jean little

[shibaraki]

Shouta’s chest rises and falls beneath your ear. His breathing is clear and steady. A small wing beating against his rib. Bare skin warm, the hair between his pecs slightly coarse, gooseflesh rearing in the tepid air. You feel his fingers at the base of your skull, splayed wide. His hand squeezes gently, heel rubbing wide circles into the muscle, big enough to cover your nape.

At some point in the night you had gravitated toward one another. Shouta liked the right side of the bed, yet always woke in the middle. You’ve thrown your leg over his hip and wrapped an arm around his waist, the other trapped between body and mattress. He takes a particularly deep, satisfying inhale, and your head lifts with it as his lungs bloat.

“Good mornin’ Shouta,” you murmur. The words are thick in your cotton mouth. A shiver runs down your spine alongside his fingertips. He walks to the small of your back, smoothing across your hip and up, resting on your waist after he pulls you closer.

A raspy groan builds in his throat that he clears in the next breath. “Morning, love,” he says. Affection bubbles; the syrupy kind of feeling that fills your belly until it’s all you can think of. Your mouth curves into a slow smile that you turn to press into his breast. He exhales a quiet, indulgent laugh

“What’re you smiling at?”

You tilt your head and look up where he is propped against the pillows. The light is slanted, shadows pleated over his face. You’ve found the origins of Red Beryl in his eyes, emitting a dulcet glow. If your heart is made of strings, drawn tight through the turning pins, then his barely there fraction of a smile must be a hand strumming from pillar to midrib, playing a profound note that swells.

There’s so much to choose from.

He’s alive under you, pressing closer to get rid of the offending space between your bodies. Shouta peers at you, half lidded and fond. You think he might be falling asleep again. Soft footfalls echo throughout the apartment. Not one, but two. They’re light footed and quick, paired with hushed laughter and childlike exhilaration. You can paint the scene in your mind; Midoriya is chasing Eri around the sofa, following her sudden turn toward the dining room table, half bent with his hands reaching out as if to snatch her up. Their arms are wrapped up in protective sleeves — matching the knee sleeve Shouta wore with his prosthetic.

The year had been dark; this peaceful morning comes like the quiet after an elegy. A pensive kind that makes you wonder if it’s okay that you got the happy ending. But what good does that do? you think. There is no penance for surviving.

Only gratitude.

[shibaraki]

YOURE FUXKIFN SNDISODKFKLWMDKDOEMFMF FMDMDM

[shibaraki]

shouta will eat pussy for so long that he has to rest on your inner thigh and lick it from the side

[shibaraki]

aizawa unzips his sleeping bag and stands up with his arms raised. the hem of his shirt lifts. he groans and his joints click. to which I passionately yell “BIIIG STRETCHHH” from across the room

[shibaraki]

aizawa is just completely taking over my thoughts I am a little yellow tweety bird flying around his head with heart eyes I simply cannot be normal about him. the soft layer of fat over hard earned muscle. the hair on his thighs his stomach his chest the stretch marks on his biceps the low pleased hum when you kiss him the speaking through sidelong glances and the rough skin on his knuckles. the dark hair on the back of his hands. the stubble that grows back in overnight and the faint freckles along his arms. the way he’ll drape himself around you as if he desperately needs you to wear him like skin and how he will lie his head in the cradle of your lap hair fanning out over your thighs as you carefully untangle each knot, turning to press his face into your abdomen. how his lips are a little wind bitten whenever he kisses you after work and brings the crisp fresh air with him. the shallow dimple in his lower back. how he laughs with his eyes and not his chest. the hair tie kept around his wrist that he holds in his mouth as he gathers his hair, holding your gaze because he knows you like it a bit too much. how he will stare expectantly when he wants something and that he would live in the crook of your neck if you let him and

[shibaraki]

HONEY TRAP ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

tags: suggestive, GN reader, mild descriptions of violence (excessive force + dislocation of shoulder), reader is a vigilante (with unnamed quirk), brief criticisms of hero system and quirk discrimination, sexual tension, strangers (enemies?) to lovers, kissing, morally grey relationship

wc: 2.3k

If it weren’t for the shift in atmosphere, you wouldn’t have ever known he was near. You can feel how the dipole between your bodies pulls taut, a frisson of excitement dipping the length of your spine. There’s an inexplicable magnetism begging to close the distance, an urge you want to indulge in but can’t, lest you have your arms broken three different ways. 

Instead you acknowledge him quietly, a breathless murmur, “Eraserhead”. 

You’ve been trying to bait him for over a week now. The initial embarrassment of it soon dissolved and you’d become admittedly shameless about using his patrol routes, even going as far as replicating his personal ciphers on every villain you apprehended so he would receive credit. He’s a stubborn man, busy too, so you knew you’d have to shorten his wick enough that he felt compelled to deal with you himself. 

“This was all a bit much, don’t you think?” he rasps.

There’s a low drawl to his voice, an air of sarcasm that releases the tension in your shoulders. You’re poised on the rooftops edge overlooking Naruhata, crouched with fingers hooked like talons into the brick wall, ready to leap over to the next building if his patience wore thin. Eraserhead was known for being more lenient on vigilantes than his daylight counterparts, but you also knew he wasn’t one for nonsense or disruption in his work. Both of which you were skilled at. 

At the very least, he didn’t seem angry. Exasperated at most — and you can’t help but to latch onto the slight endearment in his tone. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,” you reply blithely. 

He huffs, but it sounds suspiciously like a laugh, “This one-sided cat and mouse game you’re playing is becoming a nuisance”.

You feel yourself pouting, avoiding his gaze and focusing on the streets below. Illuminated by dim white light, throngs of people stumble home arm in arm, pink cheeked and loose lipped. The night is cold, and you envy the sake warming their veins. 

“Mean,” you murmur, relinquishing some of your inner restraint to cast him a sidelong glance. He’s closer than you thought, standing two feet away with his arms folded across his chest. Despite your vision being adjusted to the darkness he still appears like a shadow. You’re surprised he hasn’t fallen into a defensive stance, nor does he have a hand ready on his capture weapon. 

Egregious yellow goggles pushed up onto his crown, dark hair no longer curtaining his face, this might be the most you’ve truly seen of him. The first time you crossed paths he’d wasted no time in grappling you; the scarf had been around your ankle and violently sweeping you off your feet without preamble. Though you couldn’t blame him, he had found you in a small warehouse full of Trigger after all. 

Eraser readily dislocated your shoulder that day, seating himself on your back to keep you pinned as you explained what you were doing there, ignorant to the pain. Just reconnaissance, just gathering information to hand off to the police anonymously, nothing more. At that point you’d only been participating in vigilantism for half a year, having slowly worked yourself up from good deeds that escalated with each favour. Every fight, every win, every life saved filled your belly until you were drunk with it. 

He didn’t believe a thing you said, but before he could interrogate you any further the yakuza lackeys had returned for the goods. You ran after helping to disarm them and felt the phantom of his weight for weeks. 

Admittedly, you were more than a little intrigued. The way he’d incapacitated you — bowing forward to speak roughly into your ear, his stubble scratching the cartilage as he spoke — still lingered under your bedsheets. By the third meeting he had taken to reminding you of the law. You appreciated that it felt informative, from a place of concern rather than condescension, but you were well aware of the legalities and told him as such. By the fifth he seemed resigned to accepting your tenacity, instead criticising the makeshift armour you wore for protection and asking about your quirk. 

Seeking infrared eyes over the lower half of the Oni mask worn to conceal your identity, you’d curved forward into his space until your chests touched. “You sure want to know a lot about me, don’t you?” 

He didn’t take well to flirting or to sudden contact, you learnt that sooner rather than later. Less that he didn’t like it, more that he didn’t know what to do about it. The broad, stern and scary Eraserhead would tuck his expression away behind his scarf with shoulders hunched to his ears, and your heart would swell. 

You didn’t get to see each other as often as you’d like. A few times a month at most. But with each encounter came the slow acknowledgment of a real, tangible connection between the two of you. He still manhandled you on occasion, amidst the adrenaline. Restrained or pushed aside whenever you got too reckless. Sometimes you bruised and sometimes you didn’t — you would exaggerate the injury regardless, and he would play along knowing it was a lie, just for the excuse to touch you again. 

Last you saw him, the months long build up crested. You’d removed your mask and kissed him, caked in dirt and blood in your teeth. He’s been avoiding you ever since. 

Thus, you turned to drastic measures. 

“This is hardly one sided,” you grin behind the mask and hope he can see it in your squint, “you chased me down in the end, like you always do”. 

“Forced me up here kicking and screaming more like,” he grumbles. The sole of his boots scuff against gravel once he approaches, the soft hair at your nape standing on end. You allow yourself to straddle the border of the roof as Eraser mirrors you, relaxed by his usual demeanour. No cuffs, no anger, no sign of taking you in. Just him, exactly how you wanted. 

“If you keep this up Tsukauchi will have you taken into custody. You've escalated. The villain you intercepted yesterday will never be able to use his right arm again,” he warns. 

Feigning innocence, you shrug under his pointed stare, extending your leg to gently nudge his calf. He doesn’t move away. “Good. Should’ve been both, so he’ll never put his hands on someone without their consent again,” you reply. 

He hums, the sound reverberating over distant drunken laughter. “That’s not your call,” turning his body to observe the group as they stumble past, you think he’s inclined to agree with you, even if he can’t say it.

“Then who’s call is it?” you exhale through the frustration, “sure as shit isn’t the daylights. Patrolling here gets them no coverage”. 

You feel him push back against your foot, rubbing along your ankle. “It’s not your call,” he reiterates, soft but firm with his instruction. “I don’t disagree, and I’ll gladly leave you to it with the excuse of self defence. But I can’t do anything once you’re arrested for using a quirk with intent to cause grievous bodily harm”. 

This is starting to sound frustratingly familiar. “You don’t know that, you’ve never even seen me use it. It could be that I don’t have one at all”. 

That gives him pause. He blinks away the dry irritation, brow pinched with genuine contemplation. “You’re quirkless?” he asks. 

“Would it be a problem for you if I was?” you return sharply, a test of the waters. You liked him, attractive and reluctantly indulgent with you as he was; most of all you enjoyed how different he seemed in comparison to any other hero you knew. Sometimes you could see yourself reflected in him, as if you were both closer to the blurred line than you realised. 

It would be disappointing if he held baseless prejudice. 

But where another might begin to spew insults or back away with uninformed fear, he is so clearly searching for the right thing to say. “Of course it wouldn’t. Obviously you’re more than capable without,” he blinks again as a chill is blown across the roof, sweeping the clouds above along with it and deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m just curious”. 

You nod, his answer relieving the defensive tension that had slowly wound itself back into your limbs. “You know, centuries ago humans made it to space. They climbed mountains and explored the oceans all without quirks…” a wistful air imbues your rambling, fingers wrung together and fidgeting in what felt like an unusually intimate moment. “I’m not quirkless, but I don’t rely on it all that much. I’m more than just that”. 

The corner of his mouth curves upwards and he regards you tenderly.  “You really are something else,” he mutters, “I wish you’d stop being so careless”.

Drawn towards the warmth in his voice, you stretch across to brace your palms atop the weathered edge, closing the distance. He doesn’t flinch. “Worried that you’d miss me if something happened?” you ask, tilting your head to play coy.

“No,” he says, though it doesn’t hurt, because he’s leaning forward, imperceptibly, just enough that your lungs stutter. “Though I’m sure you would miss causing me problems”. 

“You like it though”.

His jaw shifts, cheeks slightly pink and chill-bitten as he snorts, “Jury’s still out”. 

“Mean,” you quietly repeat, the old brick sharp beneath the pads of your fingers the more pressure you give. The only obstruction now is your mask; you reach behind your head to loosen the strap, letting it fall and hang against your sternum. Left behind is a tight sensation over the bridge of your nose, where the plastic had cut into skin. 

“If not, then why are we still sitting here? Shouldn’t you be putting me in cuffs?” 

“Do you ever stop talking?”

His stare lingers where you wet your lips, still wearing a barely there smile on the end of an amused exhale. You don’t know him all that well — don’t really, truly know the person that he is underneath the hero Eraserhead — but you can gather that he’s a man of few words. The subtle kindling of want in his expression tells you plenty. 

“I guess you’ll just have to shut me up”. 

His fingers are rough along your inner wrist as he idly traces the length of your forearm. You’re still steeped towards him, waiting as he weighs the consequences. If anyone were to peer up at the skyline, they’d find two solid silhouettes turned into one another, teetering on the edge of something more. 

“Any way I can do that without jeopardising my hero licence?” 

“You could be a coward and run off like last—!” 

Your lips part minutely as his nose bumps your cheek, nuzzling gently into the skin. Eraser lingers there, his breath ghosting the exposed curve of your throat, purposefully slow to unwind the spool of heat in your belly. Pressing a barely-there kiss by your mouth, you feel him grin at your sudden silence. 

“Troublesome,” he rasps, hand rising to cup your jawline and keep you from chasing for more. “I don’t think you appreciate what a risk this would be for me”. 

He’s big, warm and calloused; his hands say more about him than he realises. “I do because it’s exactly the same for me,” you sigh. Surrendering to his grip, you turn into the cradle of his palm like a contented cat, peering at him through half lidded eyes. “For all I know you were sent here to seduce me for information. Your charm has already tricked me into revealing my face”. 

“That’s some imagination you’ve got,” his laughter rings in your ears, a low rumbling in his throat that leaves you aching. Eraser angles himself just right, still smirking as your mouths fit together. Any initial hesitance quickly dissipates, the seam of your lips parting to meet his tongue, the hand by your cheek sliding to rest searing against your throat with a thumb pressed to your pulse. Greed swells and you feel insatiable; senses heightened as the breeze passes, strumming your centre of gravity. You fist the fabric of his jumpsuit with a sharp inhale, first steadying yourself on the edge, then feeling the firm muscle behind it. 

Cognisant of your precarious position, he wraps his other arm around your waist and cages you further into his space. You pull away for breath yet still whine his name in complaint — Eraser — and he clucks his tongue before dipping to briefly kiss you again, teasing and with finality. You knew he had to get back to his patrol, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating. 

“Aizawa,” he corrects. When you squint in confusion he adds, “next time call me Aizawa”. 

“Aizawa,” you mumble, rolling the name around your tongue and understanding the weight of what it means to hold it. Next time, he’d said. You watch him get back to his feet with a sense of restlessness, but the trust he’s given you is enough to sate the dissatisfaction. “Is it really alright for you to tell me that?” 

He glances back at you, all teeth as he readies himself to jump over to the next roof, “Why, should I be scared?”

Following his leave you bring your mask up to cover the lower half of your face, and subsequently, your lovesick grin. Just as the clasp is secured at the back of your head, a drunken brawl begins in the narrow alley across the street. In your descent, you can’t help but to laugh at his parting words. 

“If anyone’s the honey trap here, it’s you”.

[shibaraki]

Dust fairies danced in the sunlight where it filters through the curtains. The day started anew. There’s no incessant ring of an alarm nor dregs of anxiety left from the night before. Everything is still, and you are in bed with a man that loves you.

There was once a time in your life that you had gone what felt like years without touch.

You’d never been any good at making people want to stick around. An ugly, rusted thing. Relationships required vulnerability that meant opening up to the possibility of being hurt. Loneliness became the easy option in the end; having been dealt enough pain to last another lifetime, you were too scared someone might smell the heartache on your clothes to let them close enough anymore.

But Shouta was different.

You think you saw it in him first. Call him a kindred spirit— though Aizawa’s loneliness was as deceptive as the rest of him. Unapparent. At some point in his life he learned to spread himself thin enough that no one could see it. Even if you tried he never gave you enough time to parse all the pieces.

Back then watching him made something deep inside you ache. A visceral hunger for companionship and comfort. For true familiarity. Not only did the intensity of your desires scare you, they humiliated you. Stripped you bare and left you frayed like an exposed nerve. For months on end you fretted over who would notice, yet the shoe never dropped.

Progress accumulated slowly. You learn that some things just take time. Brushing against one another in the hallways. Feet knocking together under the staff desks. A finger outstretched to map out your knuckles as he passes you a cup of something hot. Your cravings swallowed you whole and you sought more. He came at you with a soft sort of intent that belied both fondness and caution, repeatedly, until his touches didn't seem so accidental after all.

You lay beside him now, languorously and without grief. A disquieting peace settled over the bedroom. Sound is drowned out by Shouta’s shallow, soft breathing. The limp drag of his hand over your stomach, buried into your neck. You’ve reached the end of a book; the last page, completely blank and there only to cushion its conclusion.

Slowly, you turn to face him. Shouta’s nose wrinkles at the disturbance but he doesn’t wake. You smile at the thin halo of light crowning his head and reach to coil a dark curl around your finger, bloating with a feeling you can’t put a name to. Weightlessness that pinned you heavy to the mattress.

His eye twitches as your finger traces gently along the scar on his cheekbone, soon flitting open only to flinch away from the sun. You laugh at the sound of discontentment.

“Gonna get up?”

Shouta exhales a drawn out breath and smacks his lips. “Mmph,” he grunted inaudibly.

There is no urgency to fill the silence or apologise for your nakedness. You hum, besotted, and happy to let him rest for a while longer, only to startle when he threads your hands together. A quick look at his face tells you he’s not awake.

Even so, held close between your bodies, in his half conscious state Shouta intermittently squeezes every few seconds as if to remind you that he’s still there—

And that you’re not alone.

[shibaraki]

this is so aizawa

[shibaraki]

I’ll die if I don’t inhale his cock and balls ASAP. I need to make his pussy talk. I’m sure u understand 👍🏻

[shibaraki]

I just want to accidentally fall into monster aizawa’s enclosure and have him carry me into his hidden nest where I will remain indefinitely because the facility has been trying to get him to mate for years and this is the first time he’s ever shown interest in anything

[shibaraki]

aizawa knelt between your legs, gathering his hair up into his hands, a hair-tie ready in his mouth. I’m

[shibaraki]

As ridiculous and simple as it might be, the sound of his house key turning in the lock of your door brings you so much relief that you sag into your paperwork. 

Shouta was finally home. 

His voice is monotone and rough as he calls out to you, the familiar greeting of I’m home accompanied by the scuffing of shoes in the entryway. Your head remains resting atop your folded arms, letting your eyes fall shut in his approach to pretend that you’re asleep. 

There’s a certain magnetism at your side, feeling the warmth of his body where he stands, a rough but familiar hand gently squeezing your shoulder. “You think I don’t know that you’re awake?” he says. 

You reply with a hum of complaint, tilting your cheek before you sit up straight just to get a good look at him. He’s still in his hero gear, though the scarf must’ve already been hung by the door, and his goggles have been pushed back atop his head to keep the hair out of his face. He blinks, the action slow as if he’s fighting sleep, while you quickly appraise him for injury. 

There are none, of course. Shouta was more than good at his job, but still, you needed that visual reassurance. It was for all the same reasons that made you stay up and wait for him to get back, even if he insisted you go to bed. His under eyes are a little darker, tiny specks of dirt and gravel on his cheeks that are barely differentiated from his five o’clock shadow. Even like this, you think he’s unbearably handsome. 

You sit back against your chair and lean into his stomach, unashamedly nuzzling against his navel, inhaling the smell of fresh air and sweat from his shirt. It’s so distinctly him, oddly comforting and arousing. 

“Don't do that. I stink and I haven’t showered yet,” he mutters, though the large hand now cradling the back of your head betrays his words. 

“But I like you that way,” is your quiet reply, his abdomen flexing as you grin, and the fingers in your hair slip down to the curve of your jaw to grasp your chin. You peer up at him with the tilt, your husband already tall but taller still from where you’re seated, waiting with bated breath as he strokes his thumb along your lower lip. 

You watch his expression soften, the beginnings of a fond smile quirking at the corners of his mouth upwards as you grab the back of his thigh with your free hand, squeezing appreciatively. It moves him closer, minutely, but still enough for you to feel that he’s half hard.

“If I offered to help you de-stress right now… would you think that’s dirty?” 

He exhaled shortly through his nose, a barely audible sound that only you and those close to him would recognise as a laugh. “Not at all,” his thumb curls, pulling your lip forward and releasing it, “I like you that way”.