JPEG | Adult | she/ze | auADHD | 18+ only - currently obsessed with mha/skyrim/date everything/slime rancher/. Spoiler warning for everything I talk/write about.
I usually will not beta read or edit out of pure laziness.
Rules;
✦ Ageless and minor blogs will be blocked
✦ I do not consent to my work being fed into ai
✦ I exclusively write about adults unless it is not smut, I will not age up minors to ship them with adults, I do not write incest
✦ Do not screenshot and repost my work onto other platforms
✦ Please understand I may not be able to write for every ask
✦ Be polite, I’ll be polite
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Things my dead dove tag might include - each dead dove will be tagged appropriately so you are not going in blind
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Aizawa loves the sound of your voice, the way you speak, laugh, shout, whisper, anything. But he especially loves to hear your voice when you’re slobbering on his dick.
The way you gag and choke on the sheer size of it, don’t even mention the glossy look in your pretty doe eyes that stare back at him while he pounds your throat.
He loves it.
He asks you questions he knows you can’t answer like, “you’re so pathetic baby girl, do you enjoy being such a whore for me?”
He questions you knowing all you can answer is a whine or a moan which sends vibrations up his fat cock.
However he rarely cums in your mouth, he loves painting your face with his thick hot cum, thinks you look so pretty.
He always thinks your pretty, but with his cock in your mouth and his cum dripping down your face, he thinks you look Devine.
Sleep tight. It’s that wet dream again, the one that hits you like a freight train when the sleeping pills dissolve under your tongue. Plop, plop, plop they fizz out, bitter and chalky, and you’re already sinking into the mattress, limbs heavy, head buzzing. The bottle warned you about those side effects, but the fine print never mentioned this…
That hazy line where reality frays and the dream stitches itself together. The feeling of his hands on you. Your half conscious brain sloshing like a spilled drink, trying to piece it together. Wait, am I awake? Is this happening? His fingers are hooking into your waistband, tugging your shorts down with that impatient pull he’s got down to an art. The air’s cool against your thighs, but his palms are hot, rough, spreading your legs like he’s cracking a book open to his favorite page.
"Fuck, you’re so out of it," he mutters, voice gravelly, but you’re too dazed to answer. You catch the glint of his teeth in the dark, a smirk you’d slap off of him if your arms weren’t lead pipes pinned to the sheets. He knows the pills knock you into this twilight zone, knows you’re a ragdoll for him to play with, and he loves it.
He’s not gentle tonight. No warm up, no teasing, he shoves into you with a grunt, and the stretch burns sharp and sudden, jolting you out of the fog for half a second. Your eyes flutter open, catching a blurry snapshot of him. He’s shirtless, sweat beading on his chest, hair sticking to his forehead like he’s been at this for hours. Maybe he has. Time’s a soup in this dream, all thick and runny, and you can’t tell if he’s been fucking you for minutes or days. Your cunt clenches around him, wet and sloppy, and he laughs. It’s a dark, jagged sound that makes your toes curl.
"Still with me, huh?" he says, thrusting harder, the bed creaking like it’s about to snap. You try to mumble something — yes, no, fuck you — but it comes out as a groan, your tongue too thick in your mouth. He leans down, close enough to smell his breath, a faint hint of whisky, “You’re so fucking wet. Your body’s begging for it.”
The pills keep you tethered, but you still feel it all, the drag of him inside you, the way your thighs quake, the sticky heat pooling under your ass. But not enough to fight back. Or maybe you don’t want to. Maybe that’s the dirty little secret here, you like being his toy when the lights go out and the world turns syrupy. Your fingers twitch, clawing weakly at the sheets, and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. The other slides down, thumb finding your clit. It feels more like a collision than a caress.
Your head lolls to the side, vision swimming. There’s a mirror across the room, and you catch a glimpse of yourself: legs splayed, hair a mess, his shadow rocking into you like some feral thing. The scene sends a spike of heat straight through you, sharp enough to make you gasp. He notices, of course he does, and his thumb presses harder, relentless, until you’re bucking against him, a broken little sound spilling out of your throat.
"Thought so," he growls, hips snapping faster now, chasing his own edge. You’re just along for the ride, body jolting with every thrust, mind a kaleidoscope of static and sparks. The room smells like sex and sweat, and it’s all too much, too good, too wrong. You’re splintering apart, orgasm creeping up like a thief, stealing the last shred of coherence you’ve got left. When it hits, it’s not fireworks or poetry, it’s a gut punch, raw and messy, leaving you trembling under him as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.
He finishes with a long moan, cumming inside you, hot and sticky, and you’re too far gone to care. He collapses next to you, one hand still draped across your stomach like he’s claiming you even now. The dream starts to unravel then, edges blurring, but you feel him kiss your temple, soft, almost tender, a fucked up contrast to the rest of it. "Sleep tight," he whispers, and you’re out before you can decide if you hate him or love him for it.
Sometimes you just want to fall into a tentcale pit and be stuck there hours, being changed.
(assuming reader has pussy and boobs)
Tentcales playing with your chest, squeezing and groping as some latch on to your nipples, sucking away. Each suck, each grope, each squeeze growing them little by little, getting heavier and heavier with milk..
Tentacles coiling around your arms and legs, squeezing, covering you in its slime, only leading you to be more horny as it's full of aphrodisiac
Just feel as it changes you, let the tendrils slide into your mouth, feeding you, as it slithers in and out, pumping you full of cum...
Let it slide right around your leg, to your leaking, desperate pussy. It teases you, sliding it self on your slit, teasing your clit, like it knows what it's dond but it's going to milk the moment. Letting it self in, fucking you, in and out, over and over.
It squeezes your tits again, getting more milk out, it fucks your face at the same pace, your mind broke from so much pleasure. It's deep in you, pounding your holes, over and over
Over and over
Until you feel the pressure build, build build build as it pushes it thru. Filling you with not just cum, but it's eggs. Pump after pump, clutch after clutch, a small bulge of eggs and cum, letting you breath as it slides out, your mouth and cunt leaking with cum. It comforts you, petting your head for a job well done.
A couple minutes of rest, but the pleasure, the sensation, it's running thru you again, and it knows it, as it goes back to wrapping you again, a tentcale in your mouth, a tentcale in your pussy. Perhaps another few rounds and you'll be satisfied~
Hours pass, you leave the pit, breasts swelled, milk leaking, a womb full of gestating eggs, you need to return home, return home and spread the pit, perhaps your friends would enjoy the fun~
𝓖regory house ੭୧ fem! reader ┇ p in v ⋆ dėgradation ⋆ prone bone ⋆ spānking
GREGORY HOUSE was the worst part of your sex life.
Because he was also the best.
He fucked like he argued, all sharp edges and ruthless timing, always a step ahead and never kind enough to warn you. Cruelty came easy to him because of this, honed on the whetstone of your need, wielded with the same finesse as his cane. And right now, that very cruelty had you reduced to a mess of limbs, utterly soft and cock-dumb beneath him.
“God, you’re loud,” House muttered near your ear, his weight branded down along your spine as he hammered into your sweet cunt, prone boning you like a metronome with a vendetta. His fingers snarled stiff in your hair, knuckles grinding against your scalp as he shoved your cheek down into the rumpled sheets. “Bet your neighbors think I’m carving you open with a steak knife. Or auditioning for CSI: Bedframe Homicide.”
You didn’t even get the whole sentence out.
“F-Fuck off! I’m not—”
He cut you off with a thrust so violent it jarred straight through your bones and rattled the headboard. All air and pride stolen clean out your lungs, driving you flat into the mattress with merciless precision.
“Not what?” House drawled from above you, breath scorching the nape of your neck, every syllable a lash. “Not an attention-starved cumslut who gets wet the second I treat her like trash?”
“Please, you came the first time I called you a waste of potential.”
He punctuated his words by sheathing himself balls-deep into your weeping sex, forcing you to feel the sheer, staggering girth of his fat cock twitching inside you. You writhed beneath him. The heat it sparked between your legs splintered sharp and low, a throb that seemed to beat in time under the brutal onslaught of his pelvis meeting your rear. After all, House never moved fast when he could move mean.
The bed creaked, springs whining in protest as he pinned you down with a hand braced between shoulder blades. The hypnotic plap-plap-plap of his hips colliding with your plush ass bounced off the walls, melding into a chorus of your pretty mewls and his animalistic grunts.
Fuck. You hated how your pussy was drooling nonstop for this limp, spiteful son-of-a-bitch.
You gritted your teeth, fighting for some semblance of pride, even with your face smashed into his pillow. It was threadbare, scratchy, reeking of cheap aftershave and whatever brand of arrogance he sprayed on just to offend people in elevators.
“Agh! You’re such a fucking—-”
“Amazing lay? Genius? Local humanitarian?” He cut in, again—so fast it made your blood boil. There was that familiar curl of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth as he quickened his pace, practically bullying your brain through your cunt at this point. “Come oooon. Say it. You’ve never had trouble using that mouth before.”
And there goes your traitorous insides twisting tight around his cock. Pathetic.
Whatever snark you’d been choking out died somewhere in your throat once he yanked you back onto him, the grip on your waist bruising as he rutted into you faster on a series of vicious snaps and grinds, like a greedy mutt claiming something he didn’t plan on giving back—hellbent on teaching your gummy walls exactly what shape they were supposed to take around him whether you liked it or not.
“Because from where I’m standing—”
Thrust. Your body jerked, sweat sliding down the valley of your back.
“You’re dripping on my sheets—”
Thrust.
“And still trying to argue like you’ve got a leg to stand on.” House leaned in, his tone silk-wrapped blade. “Newsflash: you gave up that moral high ground as soon as you started creaming on a misanthropic drug addict.”
Your fingers curled in the tangle of sheets, knuckles bone-white. God he was insufferable, yet you still rocked helplessly to his rhythm while his cockhead battered that hypersensitive knot in you to a raw pulp again. And again. And again.
Why? Because deep down, House was right. Obnoxiously, inhumanly, always-so-goddamn-right. And worse—he knew you knew it too.
“Look at you,” he chuckled, blue eyes darkening as they drag over where you were joined. Slick shine glistened along the veiny base of his shaft, your arousal clinging in obscene webs every time he pulled back. Smug didn’t even begin to cover what he felt. “Squirming like I just dug up your favorite trauma and fucked it into a coping mechanism.” He smirked, lips ghosting down the arc of your clavicle, the scrape of stubble pricking at your skin.
“Lemme guess, daddy didn’t call you a good girl either?”
You choked on a sound—half sob, half moan, your frame wracked with white-hot sensation, caught between shame and delirious want.
“House—”
“Mmm, there it is,” he crooned mockingly, teeth grazing your pulse point. “That’s the real you, huh? Not the mouthy brat—this one. The one that only comes out when she’s pinned under a miserable bastard with a limp and zero respect for her boundaries.”
He let up just long enough to deliver a smack across your ass—hot, piercing, a crack that lit your flesh on fire—before he rammed back in, fucking you down hard into the mattress, dick jabbing so deep you swore he rearranged something vital.
“Mmmf—- ohmygod!! F-Fuck!” You cried out.
“Keep selling that ice queen act to idiots who buy it,” he rasped, voice laced with a razor-edged venom. “But judging by the mess you’re making on my cock? I know exactly what gets you off.”
His thumbs dug back harder right below the tender spot of your ribcage—almost punitively—enough to leave crescent evidence blooming there and make you wince. It only made the ache worse. Your cunt stretched taut around him, pleasure ricocheting through your core until it felt like your whole body was tuned to the point of shattering.
“And lucky for you, I’ve got the bedside manner of a goddamn saint.”
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I can’t stop thinking about Shouta Aizawa with his age gap girlfriend…
He always remembered, pretty vividly, might I add that when he turned thirty, one of the first things that Hizashi said to him was:
“I bet every college girl is gonna want to rip inta ya!”
That pissed him off. Yes Shouta wasn’t the dating type. But he would never and I mean never go for a girl ten years younger than him.
That was until you came along.
All he was doing, was minding his business at a bar. Until he spotted you.
He immediately recognized you as the new upcoming young model. A prodigy if I might add.
You were young, a fresh face. And just turned 21. Whereas he was about 33.
He planned on ignoring you after all, all he wanted to do was get a drink after a long day of work and you were out with a few of your friends living up your best night ever.
Until you walked straight up to him with your beautifully long legs, eyelashes that batted just right and those lips.
Your perfectly plush and glossed covered lips.
Next thing he knew, you talked him into a few shots, and then those pretty lips were perfectly circled around his cock, taking him so well.
Afterwards, the rest was history. You managed to get his number and constantly bombarded him until he took you out on a date.
And that’s how Shouta Aizawa ended up with a very young and very hot girlfriend.
And he hates to say this, he really does, but he loves it.
He loves seeing you in your tight little dresses, putting on a fashion show as soon as you get your new installation of clothes. (That he loves to buy for you)
He loves seeing you put on makeup in the morning while he lays in bed watching you lightly curl your lashes at the vanity. That he so generously built for you.
And he loves spending his money on you.
Not to mention, it doesn’t hurt having a supermodel on his arm when going out for hero events.
God, does Shouta love to show off his pretty girl.
He’s just big. Too big. Broad shoulders that feel like walls—mountains you cling to when you’re on top, desperate for leverage, desperate for him. His arms flex when he pulls you closer, biceps straining against your body, wrapping you up like you’re something small, something fragile. His hands cover too much at once, palms so wide they could swallow your waist whole, fingers digging into your skin until you feel branded.
When you ride him, it’s those shoulders you hang on to, nails clawing into the solid curve of them, your cries muffled against his neck. He doesn’t mind. He never does. He just groans, low and wrecked, holding you steady as your hips stutter. “I know,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and warmth, “I know, baby. I know that dick is big.”
Effortlessly. He picks you up like you weigh nothing, your legs still trembling around his waist, and sets you on the bed without breaking rhythm. His frame eclipses yours, back broad enough to cover you entirely, blocking out the world until all you can see is him, feel is him.
The mirror on the ceiling doesn’t lie. It shows how small you are beneath him, his body spilling over yours, swallowing you whole. Every thrust shakes through you, every roll of his hips forcing you deeper into the mattress. He doesn’t just fuck you. He drowns you—blankets you with his size until you’re gasping his name, pulling him closer, begging for more.
Thick hot ropes of cum fill up your sore pussy, He pushes himself deeper into you, which makes you claw his back with your nails, moaning in pure ecstasy. “You're gonna cum for me again, right, my slutty girl?”
And he gives it, again and again, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.
when he finally bottoms out inside of you and lets out such a low, ragged and almost desperate sound that makes it known he’s been waiting for this alllllllll day
Random Drabble because I’m bored :p. Trigger/content warnings; y/n cheats, (non-kinky) sexually depriving fiancé, y/n is afab and implied straight, poor grammar because I don’t want to beta read and edit. MDNI
Your friend was over, and while typically Aizawa’s presence never set off anything, tonight it did. Your fiancé was off at a work trip abroad, leaving you alone at home for three days now. Though, you suppose his presence wouldn’t change anything, all it would do is remind you to be faithful. Which you were! You loved your man deeply despite his…flaws.
The flaws that have you rubbing against your jeans for anything other than your own fingers.
Before the engagement, he was incredible. Touchy, sweet, and funny. But the moment the ring was on, it was like he was a different man. Everything is dull now. You respected his wish to wait till engagement for sex, but now that it’s actually here it’s suddenly been pulled away from you. Not only has he taken sex off the table until he wants it, he’s prevented you from touching yourself, taken away your toys, and refuses to do anything more than a peck until he wants sex.
The few times you have had sex, it was quick, about him, and bland. Never did you get to experience any of your kinky side, never did he make sure you orgasmed at least once before rolling over and falling asleep.
It was maddening. You were on your wits end about it. Not even lingerie got him wanting more.
So here you were, sitting with Aizawa on your sofa, watching a streamer play a game. You couldn’t focus on the tv, not when your jeans were rolled up so perfectly against your needy clit. It was hard not to rock against them, knowing Aizawa was right there. Years ago during your later years in high school you both dabbled in each other, though it led to nothing, and you wanted nothing more than to start again. Your fiancé was gone, and he wouldn’t touch you anyways. But you didn’t have the heart to do anything, cheating wasn’t your thing ever.
Aizawa’s eyes only shifted to you once, twice, three times before he exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I’ve seen that look on your face enough times to know, y/n.” He grumbled softly, feeling the sofa shift slightly as you stifled a whine.
You wanted to brush off his comment, but fuck your words failed on you desperately, nothing but a whining plea left your lips. Aizawa mercifully gives you a moment to collect yourself before he says anything, though his eyes linger low.
“He never, never touches me.” You bemoan, fist clenched at your thighs till your knuckles whitened. “I need, I need this so so bad-“ you intended to stop there, to finish that sentence like that, though you continued despite yourself. “-please let me, Aizawa please let me touch myself. Now.” You pinch your eyes closed the moment the words leave your lips, face red in embarrassment and shame. Fuck you could imagine the look on his face right now, disgust. “Go ahead.” He whispers instead, making your eyes fly open.
The look on his face only heightens what you feel instead of dissuades it. And in a minute your hand flys to your folds desperately. You’re already shamefully wet, but so are your tear ducts.
It’s in an instant you’re shuddering and whining, eyes drifting to the ceiling with each pass of your index. Aizawa watches each wiggle and twist, awe in the way your face lights up. “Can I help?” He asks breathlessly, eyes on yours when you whimper out the most pathetic yes you’ve heard from your lips.
Next thing you know, his lips are ghosting yours, breathing in each moan, and his fingers are replacing yours. Calloused, raw, big. Fuck so so big. The texture of them is sending you closer and closer to the edge, and the incredible stamina of his fingers blow your unpracticed ones out of the park. “That’s it. That’s it good kitten.” He whispers into your mouth when you start to moan, thighs squeezing his forearm.
When you barrel over the edge, he finishes you off with gentle pecks, not one, multiple. It’s the sweetest anyone has been to you since your engagement with that man. “Don’t think about him.” Aizawa exhales, smoothing over your body with his clean hand before pulling your face down to watch him suck you off his fingers. “We have a week, just us.”
A week. A week of pure unadulterated fun, of being able to get nasty. Fuck you needed this, and to call of the engagement.
Shouta watching your first showing for your rock band during one of his underground missions. Him getting to watch your band grow in popularity, watching the light in your eyes.
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Aizawa knows exactly how to make your coffee, no matter how complicated.
It first began as random paper cups of coffee handed to you that suspiciously was perfect to your taste even though they didn’t have half of the ingredients in the staff room. No matter if you liked extra syrup or chocolate or whip cream. It was there.
He was always adamant in life that the decoration of food was useless. However you always found your coffees decorated—or well, kind of. It was clearly effort, though it wasn’t cafe level beautiful.
It became a tradition, well into your relationship including into your marriage. He makes you coffee every morning, just how you like it. Even if he left before you woke up, you always had a warm cup on the hotplate, or an iced in the fridge.
Shouta who gives you as much peace as he can despite his unpredictable and dangerous job, who makes sure you both have a routine so there’s at least something you both can control.
Shouta who sees your soft edges and appreciates then in their gentleness because he understands how hard it was for you to feel safe enough to let those sides of you show.
