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Could you imagine Aizawa’s forearms while he chokes you? Thick with veins popping out as he holds you down by your neck and fucks you

tw: choking/breath play

-

Most of the teachers have left, but you're still there with the final stragglers, happily sipping on your fourth espresso martini of the night.

Not that aizawa's counting.

No, he's not even paying attention to you. Not at all. He's only came to this end of the year celebration because he likes overpriced beer and dealing with his annoying friends.

No other reason.

The group has dwindled down to a smaller inner circle, just close friends and their close conversations. Aizawa isn't sure how the conversation turned to sex (probably Midnight's fault) but he can't help but be a little intrigued.

Especially since the questions are now being directed at you.

"Oh come on, don't be like that! Everyone has some sort of kink!" Mic says, much too loudly. He's gesturing with his beer, spilling little splatters across the table, much to everyone else's chagrin, "I like mean women, Midnight likes-"

"Everything." Midnight herself interrupts with a laugh before stuffing a dumpling into her mouth.

You join into the laughter, coyly shielding your smile with the back of your hand, a secret that only Aizawa can discover from where he sits. Your eyes flicker to Aizawa's and he immediately looks away, down to the slow rising bubbles of his drink. Tomorrow, when you're both dry, you'll probably regret the accidental flirtations.

"So, spill!" Mic demands.

"I can't!" you whine, "It's embarrassing."

"Vlad once told me he likes feet-- it can't be more embarrassing than that," the blonde leans in over the table, waggling his brows, "Unless you're into feet, then I have the perfect man for you."

Aizawa scoffs. Thankfully, the sound of it is swallowed by the ambient noise of the bar.

"Well, I guess..." Your hand travels up your chest, coming to rest on your collarbone. There's a far off gaze in your eyes and a toothy smirk unfolding across your features, like you're remembering something that you'll never share, as your hand travels even farther up. Your fingers close around the soft of your throat, nails into skin, and Aizawa's breath catches in his throat--

"I like being choked," you admit.

It almost doesn't break him. He's almost strong enough to pretend he's not captivated by the idea-

"Makes me cum really hard."

and then you squeeze. Your forearm flexes and your eyes flutter just for show, pulling scandalized giggles and laughter from the rest of the group, but Aizawa is immediately locked in fantasy.

The thought of how just one of his hands could wrap itself easily around your neck, how much thicker his palm is next to yours, how it can cover the whole spanse of your throat-- it knocks a breath out of him with much he enjoys it. And god, he'd look so strong, veins bulging as he fucked you stupid, those pretty little eyes getting that far off glaze again as you make a mess of his cock, no breath in your lungs to even beg for more-

"What about you, Eraser?" Mic's voice breaks him out of his daydream, "Are you ever going to confess what tickles your fancy?"

Aizawa takes a long chug from his drink, until the heat of desire is replaced with the burn of alcohol. Instead of quieting him like he wants, it makes him brave-

and stupid.

His eyes flicker to you for a second before returning to the group. "I like choking."

i’m so lesbian i luv women sm

mdni!!! (≧∀≦)

UMMMMM UHHHHHHH BLAME THIS ON THIS POST AND VALE I DIDNT DO ANYTHING!!!!!!!!!

cw’s!!: light(?) petplay (sugu calls u puppy + clicker trains u hehe), very very light dacryphilia, gn! reader (no specific parts mentioned other than the fact that ur bottoming!!), husband sugu…. the loml……..

wc: 792 :3

it started off as something silly! “for positive reinforcement.” suguru had explained simply when you narrowed your eyes at his initial mention of the idea. even after that (very poor) explanation, you still weren’t completely convinced.

“i’m just worried about you, my love. we’ve exhausted every option, haven’t we? why not try something unconventional?” and you would’ve refused once again, but ohhh, the way he wrapped his arms around your waist as he spoke… he was only worried for your wellbeing, after all…

he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head after your reluctant agreement.

and honestly? it wasn’t that bad at first! you had honestly thought that he forgot about the whole thing after a week of radio silence on the topic.

it wasn’t until he got home from a full day of errands that it was brought up again.

“did you eat, pretty?” he asked softly after pressing a peck to your lips in greeting. as soon as you let out a small hum of affirmation, there was a distinct sound coming from your husbands pocket that made your eyes narrow in suspicion.

two distinct clicks.

it took you a second to realize what it was, but an annoyed huff left you when you saw the smug look on his face. fucking bastard…

“good job, puppy.” you could only push him away as he laughed and heat rose to your cheeks.

it became almost routine after that. yes, you did huff and pout a couple of times after that initial instance, but you were used to the clicker after the first week. it was the same routine every time — you did something to take care of yourself, you got two clicks and a small praise from him.

and maybe… after a while… you found yourself purposefully taking care of yourself just so he could praise you… (you weren’t very good at hiding it, he saw the way your perked up expectantly whenever you told him about something good that you did.)

the thing is: if this whole arrangement started off as an experiment, why was the small, plastic device resting in his palm while you were struggling to sink onto his cock?

“c’mon pup, you got it...” his free hand is squeezing at your hip, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft skin there (it’d probably bruise later, but that’s the last thing on your mind at the moment).

“stop-… stop callin’ me that…” your voice comes out much whinier than you would’ve liked, but who could blame you? it was always so hard to take him in this position.

your bottom lip is in a small pout and wobbling slightly in frustration, your watery eyes fixed on where you and suguru meet. he stays quiet, running his hands over your skin in a comforting gesture to ease some of the tension in your muscles (it works, of course. his touch always brought you an unexplainable sort of comfort.)

you finally take all of him a few minutes later with a small, whimpered curse, the building tears in your eyes finally rolling down your cheeks when you feel the tip of his cock nudge right against that spot inside of you.

click click!

“thaaat’s it, puppy… fuck-“ a winded sort of chuckle leaves him. “— squeezed so tight when i used the clicker… you like it that much?” his hips twitch up into you involuntarily, making a strangled little whimper leave you against your will as you shake your head adamantly in denial.

“no? i must’ve been imagining things, then.” he breathes, finally starting the slow rock of his hips (of course he’d never let you do any of the work on your own!)

even so, your hips move to meet his motions while small, punched out moans escape your lips.

“there you go, puppy…” he groans softly. “takin’ me so well, so good f’me.” he’s practically babbling out praises at this point and as much as you wanted to deny it, the annoying little nickname he gave you was getting you close embarrassingly fast.

and fuck, the final thing that does you in are the godforsaken two clicks! that your brain had seemed to be specifically searching for.

his eyes are wide as he watches you unravel on top of him, the small whimpers leaving you only further confirming your puppy-like nature to your husband.

“did you just-” “shut up.” your voice is weak with embarrassment and your orgasm, but he’s quick to listen despite that.

he silently hopes he could train you to do that every time he used the clicker. how fun would that be?

i am a hater before anything BUT one of my biggest pet peeves is when ppl will post “ugh i hate this trope!! why do fanfic writers write this write smth different!!!” no!!!!! if u have such a problem w it write it yourself!!!!!!!!!!!

like authors write things for their own pleasure and joy, not for an audience…… learn how to write and write it urself if it bothers u so much!!!!

i have such a specific prompt in my mind rn that’s like very fluffy and sweet but i also have half written angst that i need to finish up……. every day is a roulette on this acct

C/w: Mentions of blood/murder

I am once again thinking about mist's yandere suguru fic and holding my head in my hands, do you understand how fucking goated that dynamic is? He feels flattered that you care enough to take your time with murdering him, that is genuinly the best thing in the whole wide world

i think the scariest part of just like. the baseline, fundamental parts of asylum therapist! suguru is the origins of his obsession if that makes sense??

(referring to the au i established in this and this oneshot :]])

like this man truly, truly believes that you’re an angel just because you were able to see through his charm. you saw the darkness in his eyes — in his smile — that he always tried so hard to hide… but you. you saw it from the first time you ever met him. even when you’re sedated and your judgement is clouded, you know the sort of evil in his heart.

you knew him better than anyone within the first half hour of knowing him and you weren’t scared. you threatened him. for someone as damaged — as delusional — as suguru geto, that’s the biggest sign of divinity that you could’ve given him. why wouldn’t he want to keep his angel safe?

and even if you are an angel, he knows you were given to him as a punishment. too much of a good thing is bad for you and suguru is convinced that you are that good thing, that his indulgence in you will surely lead to his fall. knowing that, who could blame him for stalling his inevitable demise? if he was to die by your hands at least let let him hold those hands for the time being. even death row prisoners get a final meal, right?

now to you, suguru geto is the devil incarnate. you don’t believe he was some “divine punishment” (hell, you barely believed you deserved the worldly punishment given to you), but he was… something.

to have a man fully take away your power, make you weak… he had to die, that was your only option. even if you tried to escape you know he’d only use that as an excuse to restrain you even more when he caught you again (when. not if.)

you were smart, you had a plan. you just had to wait it out.

my pupils just comically turned into hearts

I've recently been doing a lot of Drawpile sessions with pals, they're so much fun. Here are some of the doodles I've done that I might eventually do stuff with

tw: weed, reader gets visible bruises.

He isnt sure how his apartment became your after club crash pad, but you're here, on his couch. drink and a little high. Tomura knows you're fucking stoned from the way you sink into the couch, legs spread, head tilted back. It almost looks like sleep has taken you, but you'll occasionally look his way, eyes barely open.

"So the guy tried to fuck me, right?" you continue your story. "Pulls down his pants and he's completely soft. Like, completely. Like trying to jam a marshmallow into a keyhole."

Tomura grimaces so hard that he can feel the wrinkles forming. "Jesus christ."

"That's what I said!" you say. "He was like 'baby, I can't get it up, we're in public, blah blah blah.' It was barely public, for the record. A bathroom stall with a door? Like, come on, dude. Man up and fuck me."

Tomura can't stand these stories. He also thinks about them when he watches porn.

"Can't believe that shit ass perfume works for you." He snubs the roach of the joint in the ashtray.

"You like it so much, don't you?" you coo. "Makes your fucking mouth water."

With a scoff, Tomura rolls his eyes away from you. "I have dry mouth."

"Hey," you glance over to him with half closed eyes and a cocked smile. "Do you wanna do me a favor?"

Tomura is swimming on the moment. God, he hates how you know you're hot, how you sway that pretty body specifically for male attention.

"No."

"Aw," you say. "But it's something you'll really like."

With just a hooked finger, you drag your top down, all the way until they pop free. Jewelry catches the light. He knew your tits were pierced - you never wear a bra - but seeing them, pretty gemstones against your skin, makes his body go rigid.

"Suck on then?" It's not a request. It's an order.

Tomura thinks he's smoked too much pot. His lungs suddenly ache.

"Fuck off."

The fat of your tit jiggles when you flick at your jewelry bar.

"Fuck off. You're just horny because that guy couldn't fuck you."

But Tomura is already crawling towards you, staggering across the room, slotting himself into the space between your legs... Your ribs vibrate with a giggle as he desperately leans over, his chapped lips ghosting over your skin.

There's nothing soft enough on him, nothing worth touching you. He shouldn't do this, shouldn't be so fucking pathetic, and yet he presses his lips into you.

The metal is so warm in his mouth. He presses the flat of his tongue against it and breathes in, pulling on you gently.

"Not like you're a fucking baby." You pull him away by his hair, just far enough to give him a fucking look. "Suck'em like a whore."

His inexperience is showing. Tomura sucks until his teeth go hollow and your body rolls, bucking into him as your legs kick out. He toys with the bar clumsily, with his pointed tongue, wetting it with his tongue and testing anything for your approval.

"Yeah, fucking flick it. There you go." Your hand is shifting beneath him, working in jagged little circles. "Knew you didn't have dry mouth."

Oh, that pisses him off. Your smart ass attitude. He catches your skin between his teeth in defiance.

"Mm, fuck." Your back arches. "Yeah, use your teeth."

Up close, your perfume is less gummy bear and more complex. It's flirty, slightly floral, marked with the musk of your sweat.

"Fuck yeah. Mmm. Leave a hickey. Aa-- aaa--"

He does. Tomura will do anything you ask him to. He doesn't know where to put his hands; if he should be touching you or keeping himself away from you. Just as he starts to get a rhythm, you jank him back by his hair again. This time, your skin is glistening with his spit.

"I have another tit too," you direct his mouth to your neglected tit.

You're going to cum; Tomura can tell by the way you're whining and cooing and squeezing that fist in his hair. He can smell your arousal too, hear how your pussy clicks with its own wetness-

It's with a garbled, high sound that you come undone, feet sliding against the couch, torso twitching. Tomura pulls away when you push at his forehead, pulling in a breath he didn't know he needed.

"Shit." Tomura wipes the spit from his mouth.

"Hey." Your skin is blossoming with bruises. "Can you roll another blunt?"

That cuts through the haze of his arousal. He leans back onto his knees.

"Yeah. Sure. Fine. Whatever."

The rhythm of his heart just won't go down, not even as he rolls the paper and licks the edges. It's Spinner's weed, but he doesn't care about that right now, not when you're lounging like that, tits still out.

(He almost wishes that Spunner would come home and see you like this, with him.)

((He hopes Touya never comes home ever again. He'd see you like this and immediately flash that hot smile or whatever he does-)

"Tomu," you coo. "Wanna take a couple puffs and keep going?"

"What do you mean 'keep going?'"

Your knees fall apart, exposing your wet soaked panties, the cotton visibly damp-

"You can try to put that marshmallow in," you laugh. "If you're up for it."

ugh i’m such a whore for soft smut w nanami!!!!! literally in luv w him he’s so husband

Nanami is aware of the effect he has on women. It’s not that he minds the attention, it’s just that he feels it is hard to live up to certain expectations. He’s overheard friends (Gojo) talking about getting choked, getting their hair pulled. He sees the eyes he gets when he’s in a suit. He’s very secure in his masculinity, but he feels he is not the tough, commanding man he seems to come off as.

When you told him you wanted someone to take charge in the bedroom, he panicked. What did that mean, exactly? You didn’t give any details. What if you wanted him to hit you? He had no judgment of it, but he didn’t think he could talk himself into touching you in any way that wasn’t gentle. When he looks at you his voice always comes out a few notes higher than he meant it to.

Luckily, he asked for clarification, and you assured him you didn’t want him to do anything that didn’t sound enjoyable. You told him what you wanted. He thought about it for nights on end.

Outside it is raining.

One of the reasons it is so easy to be with you is that your ideal weekday date is a night at his place, watching a movie and eating a meal that he says only took “a few minutes” to put together. And even though you intimidate him— how could you not, you’re gorgeous and brilliant— it’s easy to ask you to sleep over, too.

He knows that you love to validate his concerns about whether he is taking charge enough or not, but he doesn’t want you to have to. He’s determined to practice.

“Any day, now, sweetheart,” he says, thickly sarcastic. Then his face freezes and he glances over at you. “How was that?”

You laugh and finally stop putting up your hair. “Very good, Kento. Very commanding.”

He’s sitting on the edge of his neatly made bed and watching you, one leg bouncing tellingly. You stand in front of him, and feel the heat of his body against your thin clothes.

You’re trying to make eye contact but he won’t look up from your lap. You tilt his head up, and finally, he meets your gaze.

His soft brown eyes are glazed, lightly, and the longer he looks at you, the wider his pupils become.

You can feel his breath on your bare neck.

“Can I… “ he whispers as he leans in.

Something about his nervousness inspires a comfortable anxiety in you, and all you can do is nod. And you know you should close your eyes, but you want to watch, you want to see the outline of his hand coming to rest on your cheek, you want to see the way his eyes flutter shut as he gets closer, you want to see the way his lips move right before they are on you.

And then it doesn’t matter whose idea it was, because you’re kissing, finally. His tongue presses gently against yours, finally. You catch the softest moan from the back of his throat, finally.

And then everything is easy.

You throw one leg over him and sit in his lap, wrapping your arms over his broad shoulders and leaning in. You feel the bulge of his cock as you drag yourself instinctively against it, and he places an arm firmly around your waist to keep you where you are. You kiss him hungrily— a description you hate, but what else can describe the way you are trying to breathe him in, to consume him?

You feel his lips fumble against yours, and pull away softly. “What?”

“I said I want you to get on your back,” he says breathlessly.

It drives you all the more wild to know that he probably sat for a minute or two, wanting you, thinking about what to say before he said it.

In one move, and without taking his lips off yours, he stands and twists you so that you are pressed against the bed.

For a moment he pulls away and looks down at you, blonde hair mussed and falling down his forehead. Then he leans back down and whispers in your ear, “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

Then he is kissing his way down messily, running his tongue against your neck, your collarbone, stopping to pull off your shirt, then kissing delirious circles around your breasts. You feel his smile against your skin as your nipples react, hardening, desperate for him to reach them. But he takes his time, slides his tongue perilously close before retreating.

“Fuck, Kento,” you moan.

And with that— the sound of his name— he finally presses his lips over your left nipple. Your breath hitches as he runs his tongue lightly, back and forth. You try to reach for his belt buckle but he catches your wrist and pins it to the bed. His teeth graze your nipple and you feel his wide chest, still clothed, pressing against your stomach, your hips. Finally, he lets you fall from his mouth, and as he moves to your right, he reaches down to your thigh.

He doesn’t even touch you where you want him to, just traces lazy circles up the inside of your leg. Your hips twitch involuntarily, and he uses the hand that was holding your wrist to cup around your waist, keeping you still. The restraint makes you whimper, and his tongue seems to twist around your nipple in response.

He breaks away and begins to kiss a line down your stomach. Again, your hips move, but this time he lets them, hinging his arms around either one of your legs and looking up at you. He is kneeling in front of you now, and all you can say is, “I want you to make me come.”

And performance anxiety be damned, that’s all he needs to hear.

He pulls down your underwear with one hand and moves lower, kissing each thigh, kissing where each leg connects to your body, his breath hot and heavy against your pulsing clit, already thinly veiled in your own desire. You can feel him staring, and it doesn’t make you shy, so adoring is the way he touches you.

Then you feel his tongue on you, and your eyes close.

He is good without trying to be good, just desperate to make you feel the way that he feels. Your hand flies to the back of his head and grabs a soft fistful of his hair as he sucks lightly at your clit, flicking his tongue over the corner he knows you like best. One of his arms rests on your stomach, fingers pressed down against your hip bone, and the other holds your legs open, his heavy silver watch cool on your thigh. He draws you in closer, his lips bumping against yours, and when you open your eyes you see that his are closed, and his expression dreamy.

His tongue drops to the opening of your pussy and you buck forward against him, very suddenly on the edge. He traces his tongue back up to your clit with a pace so slow it’s cruel. As soon as he reaches the little bulb, he arches over it, around it, and back down, slowly, slowly. Your legs press against his hand but he holds you in one place, seemingly indifferent to how hard you are accidentally pulling on his hair. You feel the hand on your leg sliding upward, and his watch rests on the inside of your thigh as he dips one finger inside of you and curls it. His tongue laps along the base of his finger as he begins to pump his hand, again so slowly that you whine a little and drag your hips quickly against him. The arm resting on your stomach presses down, just firmly enough to keep you from going too fast.

Your knees press hard into his pectorals, which he knows means you’re close to coming. He slows his pace even more for just a second and looks up at you. “Does this feel good, princess?” he says.

“So… good,” you manage to say, before you make the mistake of making eye contact with him right as he pushes another finger inside you.

Then he is moving quickly, his knuckles bumping against your wet clit. As he fucks you with his fingers, he twists one over the other and taps against that spot below your belly button. He could find it in his sleep.

He doesn’t even have time to return to eating you out before you are coming on his fingers. But on the bright side, this way he gets to see you do it. Your hips lift up and your back arches, and the hand that has been locked onto his hair has fallen back against the bed. His fingers keep moving, slowing only slightly.

He remembers what you asked him to say to you. He had thought it would be too embarrassing, but when you’re writhing against his body like this, it’s easy. “Good girl,” he murmurs, sliding his thumb over your clit and letting it rest there.

And it feels like another spiral of pleasure sent seconds after the first, the orgasm chasing the breath from your throat. “Fuck, Kento—“

He pulls back gently, as he always does at the slightest indication of discomfort. “What is it—” he starts.

But you don’t give him the chance to finish. You are pulling him up by the collar of his shirt and shifting so that there is room for him beside you on the bed. Face to face, he kisses you as you fumble with the buttons of his shirt— why is this still on?

He moves to rise over you, and you push him back down. He’s done so well being in control, and now you want to take care of him. “Stay there,” you say, lifting yourself over him and pulling down the strained zipper of his pants.

You watch him stare as you guide the head of his cock against your clit. The warmth, the soft wetness covering his tip, the way he is watching you like you’re his favorite movie— your eyes close and a moan escapes your lips.

You feel his arms around your chest, his lips pressing into your collarbone. “Fuck me, princess, please…” He sucks lightly on your neck. “Please, just… fuck…”

You lean down and take a handful of his hair again. “Eyes on me.”

As he is looking up, you push the head of his dick inside yourself. You glide down his length, and he shutters underneath you.

You bounce on his lap, your knees pressed into the bed for leverage. For a moment, he is completely lost in the feeling of being in you, of you grinding yourself against him needily, of the soft moans rolling out of your mouth every time you come down all the way.

Then the hands that were limp on your waist clench, and suddenly he is guiding you, as if he knew exactly when your muscles would tire. There is no slowness now, no teasing, no wait. You are riding him hard, the tip of his cock nudging against your innermost skin, your fingers pressed into his chest. He pants against your chest, his hands folding indents into your skin as he tries to pull you closer.

“Now who’s desperate?” you breathe into his ear.

You see him squirm under you. “Keep… keep going just like that… please…”

His dick spasms in you. In response, you slow the wave of your hips to a crawl, dragging yourself up and down him as if you are in no rush to feel him release.

He groans, his head coming to rest against your shoulder. “Baby, you can’t… I can’t… last like that…”

You take his chin in your hand, tilt it up. His brown eyes are wet and heavy with desperation. “Not even for me?” you say.

But the way your clit bounces against his body, the feeling of him slowly filling you up, the way he is looking, still, like you’re the only thing he has ever wanted— you can’t last like this, either.

You press a clumsy kiss against his lips and feel his breath catch as you pick up the pace again, thrusting harder than before. He is pressing upward, hands now clawing at you blindly, the man completely undone by you bouncing on his dick. His brow furrows and you feel him pulsing hard inside you. “I’m gonna—”

“Me too,” you manage as the pressure rises in you. You bury your face into his neck, drawing yourself in as close as you can get.

“Fuck…” he whines, one arm wrapping around your waist, so tightly that you can only grind desperately against his cock as he comes in you. The surge of it hits you, his twitching tip rubbing against your G-spot right as you pull yourself into him, clenching hard. You spasm against him, momentarily helpless as you ride it out.

When you are able to open your eyes again, he is breathing heavily, looking at you, and smiling like you never see him smile. He sinks to the bed, bringing you down on top of him without pulling out. You collapse in a heap onto his chest as he kisses whatever skin he comes into contact with.

And he thinks how easy it is, how anything is, if it is for you.