VEXA

Requested by @princeasimdiya12 ✨

Sub Aizawa shota x fem Dom Reader

Aizawa usually didn’t squirm

But tonight, there was something in the air—something quiet and strange that made him pause every time you walked by. You were calm. Too calm. Focused. Measured.

You kept glancing at him like he was a box you were about to unwrap.

And maybe he was.

You sat on the bed, folding something over your knee. You weren’t looking at him, but your voice cut straight through the stillness.

“You ever been gagged before?”

Aizawa looked up, caught off guard. “…That’s blunt.”

You smiled without turning. “It’s a simple question.”

He scratched behind his ear, unsure. “No.”

“Tied up?”

His lips parted. Closed again.

You finally looked at him. “Would you?”

He blinked once. Hesitation lived in his posture, but not in his eyes. Not really. There was a glint there already. curiosity.

“I might,” he said, slowly. “If I trust the person…”

You stood and stepped closer, rope loose in your hand, not saying a word. You didn’t need to. He let you walk right up to him, watched you tug the rope between your fingers.

You stopped a breath away. “Then lie back for me.”

He didn’t say yes. But he did.

⸻

You worked him into it slowly, letting the ropes tighten around his frame like a secret being written into his skin.

Arms pinned behind his back. Chest pulled down into the mattress. Legs parted, thighs tied wide open. His breathing changed the deeper you went—slow at first, then shallow.

He didn’t ask questions. He just let you. And when you finally straddled his waist and brought the thick gag to his lips, he opened up for it without a word.

It filled his mouth fast—so tight his eyes fluttered. You layered it until his jaw was stretched and locked, soft fabric muffling every sound. He whimpered once, a low and strained noise.

“Mmmnnph.”

You smiled. “There’s my good boy.”

You leaned forward, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest, his stomach, to the heat already straining in his briefs. He bucked under your touch—barely able to move an inch.

You squeezed. His whole body twitched.

“Sensitive already?” you murmured. “You’re going to be in so much trouble when I start teasing you.”

And then—like fate with cruel timing—the doorbell rang.

Aizawa stiffened, eyes wide.

You smiled like you’d been waiting for it.

“Stay still.”

He groaned behind the gag, desperate. “MMMPHH—!”

You reached for the blanket and pulled it slowly over him, tucking it all the way to his chin. His arms. His chest. The knots. His cock—all of it hidden beneath the soft fabric. Only his face remained—flushed, hair mussed, gag snug across his mouth.

Then you kissed the corner of his jaw.

“Shhh.”

And walked out to answer the door.

⸻

“Toshi,” you greeted, calm and warm. “I was starting to wonder if you forgot.”

He laughed. “Sorry. Traffic’s a nightmare this time of night.”

You let him in without a word, guiding him toward the hallway.

As he stepped inside, his voice dipped. “Wait—someone here?”

“Mhm. Aizawa’s feeling under the weather.” You motioned toward the bedroom. “He’s resting. Blanket burrito.”

“Oh—hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Not at all,” you said smoothly. “Just needed some sleep. He’s been quiet all night.”

You led him into the room.

Aizawa didn’t move a muscle.

He was lying on his side, covered completely. The gag was mostly hidden, angled out of view. From the door, he looked almost peaceful—if not for the rigid, terrified tension under that blanket.

Toshi glanced toward the desk. “I left that drive… somewhere in the folders?”

“Right there,” you said, walking over. You sat on the bed—right beside the bound, gagged mess of man hidden under the blanket. “You want anything?”

“Oh—no, no, I’m fine,” Toshi said, rifling through the folders.

“Really? Then I’ll keep you company while you look.”

He paused, halfway through flipping a folder. “You sure? It’s late.”

“Totally fine. I’m up. Always happy to talk.”

You slid your hand under the blanket.

Aizawa jerked.

“Mmmmphhh—!”

Toshi looked up.

You didn’t blink.

“He makes little noises like that when he’s feverish. Sleep sounds.”

“Right…” Toshi said slowly.

You found his cock—rock hard, leaking—and pressed your thumb under the head. He throbbed. His body twitched under the rope. He was breathing like he might lose it.

Toshi stayed. Talking casually.

You kept stroking him in secret.

Each second dragged Aizawa deeper into his own personal hell—helpless, flushed, humiliated while his old friend stood less than two feet away, talking about folder structures and meetings.

You made him drip under the blanket.

And Toshi just kept chatting.

“I really should let you rest,” he said after a while. “Or let him rest, I guess.”

You smiled sweetly. “Thanks for stopping by. Say hi to the others.”

He nodded and headed out, folder in hand. You closed the door behind him.

⸻

You peeled the blanket off slow. Aizawa looked wrecked—hair soaked with sweat, cock swollen and twitching, mouth slack against the gag.

“Poor thing,” you whispered, crawling onto his thighs. “All that stress, and no one even noticed.”

He moaned in protest. Or maybe in shame. You couldn’t tell anymore.

You slid his briefs down and wrapped your hand around his cock.

“You want to come, don’t you?”

His eyes fluttered.

“Then do it. Come for me. Right now.”

You stroked him fast—tight, controlled, unforgiving.

He moaned loud into the gag—his whole body bucking under you, bound and breathless as his orgasm hit like a wave, hot and thick across your fingers.

You watched the tension melt from his body, his limbs useless in the ropes, his head sinking deep into the pillow.

You leaned down and kissed his cheek.

“Good boy.”

⸻

Later that night, Toshi stood in his apartment, the folder unopened on his kitchen counter.

He was still wearing his shoes.

His mind was quiet, but not still.

Something about the night—it just didn’t sit right.

Aizawa had been too still. The room too quiet. Your eyes a little too calm.

He tapped his fingers once on the countertop, then stopped.

“…Weird,” he muttered to himself. “Almost like what she did to—”

He stopped. Frowned.

And decided not to finish the thought.

But the heat in his chest didn’t leave for a long, long time.

Professor Abullah x Male Reader

A request from @princeasimdiya12

⸻

You feel the cage before anything else.

It’s heavy between your legs, snug, unforgiving. The polished gold presses against your skin—cool at first, now flushed warm. Every tiny movement makes it shift, grind. You’re already hard inside it, which only makes it worse. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t care.

Even now, standing in line with four other harem boys in the waiting chamber, arms behind your back, eyes lowered—you can feel it pulsing.

Your body is lean, clean, oiled. Strong legs. Trim waist. You’ve kept yourself toned, flexible, exactly how clients prefer you. The towel sits low on your hips, but the outline of the cage still shows. That’s intentional. You’re meant to be looked at. Not touched—unless chosen.

The other boys are just as still. One is tall and broad, arms thick with muscle. Another has sharp shoulders and smooth skin, standing loose but ready. A third is dark-haired, mid-thirties, with a chest full of quiet control. All trained. All caged.

But you know—none of them are you.

The door opens.

Footsteps. Slow. Steady. Heavy.

You don’t look up.

You feel him before you see him.

Professor Abullah doesn’t speak. Doesn’t announce himself. His footsteps are steady, slow, and confident—just enough weight to remind the room who walks in.

He’s taller than you remembered. Broader, too. His body is solid, not sculpted—he’s built like a man who doesn’t have to impress anyone. His chest is wide and f dusted with hair, his arms heavy with quiet strength, forearms slightly rough. The towel he wears is simple—black, low on his hips. His belly rounds subtly, strong and relaxed, like he eats well, sleeps well, and never lets anything interrupt him.

He walks the line slowly.

And when he stops in front of you…

Your heart stutters.

There’s no hesitation. He lifts a single hand.

And that’s all it takes.

You follow.

—

The private suite is warm, soaked in gold light and soft steam. The door closes behind you with a whisper. You keep your posture low. Waiting.

He doesn’t say anything. Just moves across the room and drops his towel like it means nothing. And there it is again—his cock, thick and relaxed, heavy between his thighs. He doesn’t look at you when he climbs onto the massage table. He lies on his stomach, arms resting loose at his sides like he owns the space completely.

Because he does.

He speaks, finally. “Oil. Back first.”

You move quietly, dipping your fingers into the warmed bowl. The oil glides between your palms. You walk to the table, towel still knotted at your hip, and start at his shoulders. His skin is warm, the muscle underneath hard and tense.

You press your palms down, working carefully, not too fast. You don’t want to mess this up. Your cock is swelling again inside the cage, the pressure intensifying. The gold rings are tight. You can’t get harder—but your body tries anyway.

By the time your hands move lower—past the ridges of his spine, toward the deep slope of his back—your breathing is uneven. Your towel shifts with every step. The knot at your side loosens slightly.

“You’re hard,” he says, voice quiet but clear.

You flinch. “Yes, Professor.”

He still doesn’t look at you. “Towel.”

You let it fall.

The fabric drops to the floor with a soft whisper, and now you’re bare. The air brushes your thighs, cool against hot skin. Your cock is trapped—locked in the tight curve of shining gold, gleaming under the low lights, already red and swollen at the tip.

You see him glance down. Once. Calm.

“Dripping in gold,” he mutters. “But still completely fucking useless.”

You don’t answer. You don’t dare.

He rolls onto his back, his cock now resting heavy against his stomach. Half-hard. Waiting.

He lifts his gaze.

“Touch it.”

You oil your hands again, trembling a little, and reach out. He’s hot in your palm. Thick. The skin silky over iron. You stroke him slow, keeping your grip steady. His cock grows under your hands, swelling full and hard.

And your own?

Your cock pulses behind the cage, fighting against the metal. The tip is wet now. It stings. But nothing escapes. You’re not allowed to come. You can’t.

He watches you work.

“On your knees.”

You sink to the floor without thinking.

“Now use your mouth. Just the tip.”

You lean forward. Lips parting. You kiss the flushed head softly, then again, then drag your tongue around it slowly. He groans. Low. Approving. One hand settles on the back of your head.

“That cage bouncing while you suck me off?” he murmurs. “Might be the best thing I’ve seen all month.”

Your hips jerk forward before you can stop them. The cage grinds against the floor. You whimper.

“Greedy,” he says. “Up.”

You stand. Your knees feel weak. Your cock aches violently behind the gold.

“Over the table.”

Your heart pounds as you turn.

You brace your hands on the edge, chest lowered, back arched. Your ass is exposed now. Your caged cock hangs, pulsing. Waiting.

You hear the oil again—then feel it, warm and heavy, poured straight down your crack. It slides between your cheeks in a slow trail, rolling over your hole until you’re slick, wet, exposed.

His hand follows. He spreads you open like he owns the view.

Two fingers slide through the mess, lazy and slow. He doesn’t rush. Just rubs circles, letting you clench around nothing.

“Still twitching,” he murmurs. “Haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Then one finger sinks in.

You gasp, forehead pressed to the table. It slides deep, all the way down to the knuckle. Then another joins it, stretching you open, slick and hot. He moves them slow at first—just enough to make you moan—but it doesn’t stay gentle.

He curls them. Hooks.

Your back arches.

“Shit—fuck—”

His hand slaps your ass hard, leaving heat behind.

“I told you not to talk.”

You bite your lip. Your caged cock pulses violently, the cold gold digging against your skin. The ring behind your balls is too tight. You’re swollen, aching, dripping with nothing.

He fingers you harder.

The table creaks. Your thighs shake. You’re already flushed, open, dripping.

“I could make you come from this,” he mutters. “Just fingers. Just this hole.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

You’re too fucking close, too wound up, your body trying to do something it physically can’t. That fucking cage holds everything back. Even your orgasm feels caged—stuck, silent, screaming.

Then he pulls his fingers out, slow and cruel.

You hear him spit again. Then feel his cock.

Hot. Thick. Pushing right against your hole.

“You’re going to take it all,” he says, pressing in. “No whining. No pulling away. You wanted this.”

Then he shoves forward.

Your body splits open around him.

You cry out—loud, filthy, desperate—as his cock stretches you wide and slides in deep, deeper than you thought possible. The sound of it is obscene—wet, slick, skin against skin, cage tapping faintly beneath you with each shake.

“You fucking love this,” he growls. “Being used like this. Bent over. Caged. Leaking. And you don’t even get to come.”

He pulls out just enough to make you gasp, then slams back in. Hard. Over and over.

You’re drooling into the table. Your moans go hoarse.

“F-fuck—s-sir—fuck—”

His hand wraps around your throat from behind, pulling you up slightly so your back arches harder. His cock hits deeper that way, dragging against your spot with every brutal thrust.

“Louder,” he hisses against your ear. “I want them to hear you on the other side of the wall.”

You’re sobbing now. Not from pain. From frustration. From being so full and so completely unable to do anything but feel him.

“Say what you are,” he growls.

“I—I’m your hole,” you moan, barely able to speak. “Locked—just a locked fuckhole—please—”

“Exactly.”

He starts pounding you. Brutal, rhythmic, relentless. The sound of it—smack, smack, smack—echoes around the room. Your cage bounces with every thrust. Your cock tries to throb. It can’t.

His cum is already building—you feel it in the way his grip tightens, in the growl in his throat, in the sharp slap of his hips.

And then he slams deep, groans into your neck, and fills you.

Hot.

Thick.

Messy.

You can feel it inside you. Dripping back out. Leaking down your thighs.

And your own cock?

Still locked.

Still twitching.

Still aching with every second.

He pulls out slowly, letting his cum spill from your hole. You collapse forward onto the table, arms weak, body ruined.

He smacks your ass once.

Not playful.

Just final.

“You’ll stay like that,” he says. “Don’t clean up. Walk through the spa like this.”

You don’t speak.

You just nod.

And behind you, that gold cage pulses uselessly. Heavy. Beautiful. Unforgiving.

Heyyy! Just a few things so we’re all clear:

I only write x reader stories.

Nobody underage in my writing—ever.

I don’t write anything non-consensual, incest, scat, or bestiality.

I do take requests right now (max 2 at a time)!

Feel free to ask if I write for a certain show—I’m open to different fandoms!

You didn’t mean to get on top of him.

Not at first.

You were just watching him sleep — the way his lashes rested against his cheeks, lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling so steadily beneath the covers.

His white hair was a mess, soft and wild.

He looked peaceful. Perfect. Way too good.

And hard.

Thick under the blanket, already swollen, already twitching like he’d been dreaming about you.

You bit your lip. The ache between your thighs was already there, low and warm and pulsing.

You didn’t plan on riding him.

But the thought came and didn’t leave.

Shouldn’t I…?

Just a little?

He’s already hard… I could just…

You swallowed, breath shaky as you peeled the blanket back and slowly straddled his hips. The head of his cock nudged between your folds, and your body reacted before your brain did — wet, throbbing, soaking him instantly.

You rolled your hips once, dragging your clit over him. Your legs trembled.

Then you lined him up and slowly sank down.

“Mmm—f-fuck…”

You covered your mouth with both hands as you seated yourself, tight around him, the stretch hitting too deep too fast — and so good. He felt even thicker like this, even warmer.

You moved again. Just a little.

Another moan slipped out.

You were doing it.

You were really doing it — riding him while he slept.

And then—

He moved.

Just a twitch.

Then his hands landed on your thighs, slow and firm.

“…Shit.”

His voice hit your spine like a jolt.

Gravelly. Deep. Still thick with sleep.

Your eyes flew open. You froze, halfway into a bounce.

But then his hands tightened around your thighs.

“Don’t stop.”

You stared at him.

He was awake now. Blinking up at you through half-lidded eyes, pupils dark and blown wide. A slow grin curled at his lips.

“Fuck, baby… keep going. Just like that.”

You whimpered — breathless, desperate, hips already grinding down again.

And he groaned. Low. Like it was killing him in the best way.

“Yeah, just like that. Ride me nice and slow…”

Your thighs burned. Your breath hitched. His name fell off your lips in little broken sounds with every bounce.

His hands slid from your thighs to your hips, guiding your rhythm — letting you do the work, letting you soak his cock until you could barely take it anymore.

Then, without warning—

He sat up. Grabbed your waist.

And flipped you onto your stomach.

You gasped as your cheek hit the pillow, arms scrambling to steady yourself. But he was already behind you — already sliding back in with one long, slow thrust that made your back arch and your toes curl.

“Fuck… look at you,” he muttered, voice thick as his hands gripped your waist, holding you still. “So wet. So fucking tight…”

He set a rhythm — deep, controlled, skin slapping skin, his hips hitting yours again and again as your moans got louder, messier, hotter.

Your fingers clawed at the sheets. Your eyes rolled back. You could barely breathe.

And when he leaned over you, chest to your back, lips brushing your ear—

“Let me hear you, baby.”

—your whole body broke.

He fucked you through it.

Deep backshots. Slow at first. Then faster.

And you took every inch, every moan, every sharp thrust that made your voice rise with it.

By the time he came — buried deep inside, panting your name against your neck — your legs were shaking, your thighs soaked, and your mind gone.

And you knew you’d ride him again.

not new to fandom, just new to writing here.

mostly smut, some fluff, whatever fits the mood.

anime-based, character-driven.

writing for:

jjk / mha / haikyuu / fire force / aot / blue lock /

hxh / 7ds / Chainsaw Man / Demon slayer /

Greys Anatomy / Chicago fire / one punch man /

Death Note / Tokyo ghoul /.