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In which Aizawa decides this game of cat and mouse has reached its end…
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
Aizawa Shouta was running on fumes.
The day had already been a special kind of hell—first-years nearly blowing up the training ground, a third-year with a newly unlocked mutation quirk that refused to listen, and enough paperwork to choke a lesser man. Then the agency call came in right as the final bell rang. Night patrol. Multiple villain sightings across the district. By the time the last capture was secured and the reports filed, it was well past midnight.
He was halfway to his apartment, capture weapon still loosely coiled around his neck, when his phone buzzed.
He almost ignored it.
Then he saw the name.
Y/N
A photo loaded. Soft lamplight. A bed. And draped across the sheets like an invitation—black lace, delicate, barely-there. The kind of underwear that would leave almost nothing to the imagination once it was on. The caption sat underneath, casual and sharp:
I bet you wish you could see this in person, huh?
Aizawa stopped walking.
The street around him faded. All he could see was that picture and the quiet, deliberate way she had been pushing lately. The lingering looks in the staff room. The way she leaned a little too close when she handed him coffee. The soft brushes of her fingers against his when she passed him files. And lately—especially lately—the edge of something sharper. He had noticed the way other women looked at him. Pro heroes. Support staff. Civilians who recognized the underground hero and decided he looked like something worth claiming. Y/N had noticed too. And she had started answering with bolder texts. Longer looks. More deliberate touches.
She was done pretending she wasn’t jealous.
And he was done pretending he didn’t want to ruin her for it.
He stared at the photo for a long moment, thumb hovering. Then he locked the screen without answering.
Left her on read.
Twenty-three minutes later he was standing across the street from her apartment building, capture weapon already loosened, eyes narrowed as he used a low-powered pair of binoculars he kept for exactly this kind of quiet work. The light was still on in her bedroom. Curtains half-drawn. And there she was—standing near the bed in a thin shirt and little else, phone in hand, clearly waiting for a reply that wasn’t coming.
He raised his own phone. Zoomed. Snapped the photo. Sent it with a single line.
Run, little mouse.
Your phone lit up.
The picture loaded first—your own silhouette framed in the window, clear enough that you could see the shape of your body through the thin fabric of your shirt. Then the message.
Your stomach dropped and twisted at the same time.
You knew that tone. You had been poking at it for weeks. Teasing. Testing. Watching him watch other women and deciding you were done sharing even the idea of him. You had sent the underwear photo because you wanted a reaction. You had not expected him to answer by proving he was already outside.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
You turned the bedroom light off.
Moved.
The apartment was small. Nowhere truly safe. You slipped into the closet first, breath held, listening. Then the bathroom. Then behind the couch. Every place felt too obvious. He was Eraserhead. He found people for a living. People who were better at hiding than you.
The front door unlocked with a soft, deliberate click.
You froze.
Boots on the hardwood. Slow. Measured. No rush. He wasn’t hunting yet. He was giving you time to feel it.
“I can hear you breathing,” he said, voice low and rough from the long night. “Poor little mouse. You started this game. Did you think I wouldn’t finish it?”
You stayed silent.
His footsteps moved through the living room. Past the kitchen. Stopped outside the bedroom door.
“I saw the picture,” he continued. “Saw what you wanted me to see. Then I watched you stand there waiting for me to answer like a good girl who thinks she’s in control.” A soft huff of almost-laughter. “You’re not.”
The bedroom door opened.
You were pressed into the corner behind the open closet door, pulse loud in your ears. He stepped inside. The capture weapon was already in his hands, white fabric glowing faintly in the dark.
He didn’t turn the light on.
He didn’t need to.
“Come out.”
You didn’t move.
“Last chance, Y/N.” His voice dropped even lower. “Or I drag you out myself.”
You bolted.
It was stupid. He was faster, stronger, and already between you and the only exit. You made it three steps before the capture weapon snapped out and wound tight around your waist and arms, yanking you back hard against his chest. The impact knocked the air from your lungs. His free hand fisted in your hair and tilted your head back so you had no choice but to look up at him.
Dark eyes. Exhausted. Hungry. Completely focused.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My little mouse finally decided to run.”
You struggled. He let you. Let you feel how useless it was while the binding tightened just enough to remind you who was in control. When you finally went still, breathing hard, he leaned down until his mouth was against your ear.
“You sent me that picture because you wanted me here. You wanted me to stop pretending I don’t think about bending you over every surface in the staff room. You wanted me to stop letting other women look at me like they have a chance.” His teeth grazed the shell of your ear. “Jealous little thing. I noticed.”
The capture weapon shifted. In seconds he had your wrists bound behind your back and a length of the fabric looped around your throat—not tight enough to choke, just enough that every breath reminded you it was there. He walked you forward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed, then forced you down onto it face-first. The mattress dipped as he climbed over you, knees bracketing your hips.
“Stay.”
You didn’t.
He shoved your shirt up and over your head, leaving it tangled around your bound arms. Cool air hit your skin. Then his hand. Rough. Possessive. Sliding down your spine, over the curve of your ass, between your legs. He found the lace you had teased him with earlier and made a low, approving sound.
“Still wearing them. Cute.”
He tore them.
The sound was sharp in the quiet room. Fabric gave way under his fingers like it had never stood a chance. He tossed the ruined scraps aside and pushed two fingers into you without warning. You were already wet. Humiliatingly so. He felt it and laughed once, dark and quiet.
“Look at that. Already soaked and I haven’t even touched you properly yet. Such a dirty little slut for me already.”
He worked his fingers in slow, deliberate strokes, curling them just right, then stopping the second your hips tried to chase the friction. Edging. Cruel. Exact. Every time you got close he pulled back, wiped his fingers on your inner thigh, and started again.
“Beg.”
You didn’t. Not at first.
He added a third finger and pressed his thumb against your clit, circling once, twice—then nothing. You made a broken sound against the sheets.
“I said beg, mouse.”
“…Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please touch me. Please—fuck—let me come—”
“No.”
He pulled his hand away completely. You heard the soft sound of his belt. Zipper. The quiet rustle of fabric. Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, not pushing in yet. Just resting there while he leaned over you again, mouth against the side of your neck.
“You’re going to take every inch like the good little whore you are,” he said, voice soft and filthy. “And you’re going to thank me for it. Understand?”
You nodded against the mattress.
He thrust in hard.
The stretch burned in the best way. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just set a deep, punishing rhythm that forced the air from your lungs with every snap of his hips. The capture weapon around your throat tightened whenever you tried to push back, a constant reminder that you weren’t going anywhere. His free hand pinned your bound wrists to the small of your back while the other reached under you to find your clit again, rubbing in tight, mean circles that kept you right on the edge without letting you fall.
“Feel that?” he gritted out. “That’s what happens when you tease a man who’s spent all night thinking about burying himself in you. You wanted me to stop playing. So I stopped.”
You were shaking. Close. So close it hurt.
He stopped moving entirely, buried deep, and pinched your clit hard enough to make you cry out.
“Not yet.”
You sobbed into the sheets. He started again—slower this time, dragging every stroke out until you were trembling, then slamming home once more. Praise and filth spilled from his mouth in the same breath.
“That’s it. Good girl. Taking my cock so well. Such a perfect little cumslut for me. Look how wet you are. Fucking dripping down your thighs like the desperate whore you are. You wanted this. You asked for this the second you sent that picture.”
The fear was still there—threaded through the heat. The knowledge that he had watched you from outside. That he had walked into your home like he belonged there. That he could have done anything and you would have let him. It made everything sharper.
He reached up and tightened the fabric around your throat just enough that your next breath came thinner. Not dangerous. Just enough to make your head spin while he fucked you harder.
“Come for me,” he ordered, voice rough. “Come on my cock like the good dirty little mouse you are. Now.”
You broke.
The orgasm tore through you so hard your vision went white at the edges. He kept thrusting through it, relentless, chasing his own release while you clenched and shook around him. When he finally came it was with a low, guttural sound against the back of your neck, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you.
He stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, still buried to the hilt. The capture weapon loosened slowly. His hand stroked once down your side—almost gentle—before he pulled out.
You felt the loss. Felt the mess he left between your thighs.
He didn’t say anything else.
1/2 parts continued here: https://www.tumblr.com/macabreviridian/824444015105671168/stay-little
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
other than BDSM, i'm interested in psychology, literature, art, and music (mainly midwest emo & nu-metal) i play bass guitar and i'm a beginner tattoo artist & piercer. i have 2 piercings and 4 tattoos.
youre having an argument with your dad in the car, driving on the highway, and he starts speeding up. he races past the cars honking at him and youre so sure that hes gonna kill you both, and you can do nothing more than beg and apologize until he maybe, maybe, decides to slow down again. but either way, sooner or later, your last words will be empty "i love you"s and taking back all the horrible things you said.
