i write fanfic (sometimes)

mammon

- he acts offended that you would even think he'd want to try something like that out. you've seen his search history. you are no fool.

- it takes about 2 minutes of soft touches and whispering in his ear about how pretty he would look under you before he surrenders

- doggy is his fav. yes i am making a joke abt him being a puppy but also if he looks at you for too long while you're thrusting into him he'll immediately cum hands free

- will push back in time with your thrusts to ensure you hit the deepest spots

- likes when you leave hickeys on his back and shoulders. in return, he'll scratch your back up <3

- play with his nipples while you're inside him and it's over. he gets loud, writhing underneath you with pleasure

- wants to suck on your fingers too. stick two down his throat and pull his head back while you dick him down you won't regret it

- HATESSS cockwarming so that's your go-to punishment. he will whine and squirm the whole time until you finally give in and fuck him til he's drooling

leviathan

- he gets a nosebleed when you ask him

- you hardly bat an eye (he passed out the first time he saw you shirtless), telling him you'll go slow and walk him through it.

- he is not brave enough to tell you he knows all about the wonderful world of prostate stimulation

- spends like 2 hours in the shower prepping. this has to be perfect or he will literally die mc you don't understand

- insists on prepping himself, but after four seconds of you watching him he breaks and covers his face with both hands

- if you put his legs over your shoulders his dick twitches non-stop, ankles wrapped tight behind your neck

- SO fucking loud when you hit his prostate. you have to cover his mouth with your hand immediately or you'll have a very angry Lucifer at the door

- cockwarming while he plays video games. you thrust up every so often to throw him off, letting him cum into your palm when he wins

satan

- he's a give and take kinda guy; he'll let you peg him if he gets to try that one thing he's always wanted to with you

- when you initally stick the tip in, his claws immediately come out and shred the sheets beneath him. oops.

- likes missionary, but also riding you. he wants it to be as intimate as possible more often than not. eye contact is huge for him

- mark him up🗣️ if you leave bites along his back, stomach and thighs that only you two will see you won't be leaving the bed until at least noon the next day

- if you ever convince him to try doggy, he likes it when you pull his hair back. he won't admit it, but the growl he lets out tells you everything

- making him read a book? while you peg him? and between every work he lets out this pretty little moans? thoughts?

- likes when you talk him through it. praise or (light) degradation, it doesn't matter - just talk

- when he's pissed, he prefers fucking you. when he's feeling soft, that's when he wants you inside him <3

asmodeus

- yes please he has been WAITING for this day

- he alr knows exactly what strap he wants you to wear, the best lube to use, etc. he's been dreaming of this day for a long time

- any position will satisfy him, so he's more concerned about what you wanna see. and if that's him bent over, ass red and teary-eyed, who is he to say no?

- you're gonna be trying out every pose anyways until your muscles scream. his personal favorite is reverse cowgirl, but he'll let you pick too!

- mirror sex mirror sex mirror sex. bonus points if you film it too, so he can watch it back back and get the full view. he likes to see himself stretch around your dick

- SO loud. you cover his mouth so he doesn't alert the whole house and he purposefully pushes his hips back so the thrusts are louder. brat.

- if you let him, he'll finger you while you're inside him. sometimes he'll grab a dildo, always matching his movements with yours

- he wants to be completely full. shove a gag in his mouth, a rod in his dick, and bend him over the bed. he'll cry out his thank you's later

beelzebub

- he would crush his hand under a rock if it made you happy. uh- i mean, yes! you can peg him :)

- he'll let you put him in any position you can physically manage. if you think you can hold him up against the wall, go crazy!

- throw some whipped cream on it and let him suck you off. he'll stay down there for hours if you want

- likes to hold your hand! you know he's getting close when his fingers start twitching and his grip tightens

- another size king. he can take a lot with little prep, and he wants to - he likes the stretch mixed with your soft hands on him

- he's the most vocal when you've got him bent over the bed, grunting and whining with every sharp thrust

- never ever difficult or hesitant. he trusts you fully, knows you want to make him feel good, and that you'll get plenty of enjoyment yourself

- pls pls pls kiss him when you initially push into him he might cry

belphegor

- i just feel it in my bones that he's been in his own ass before, so it doesn't take a ton of convincing to get him on board. he's saying no at first purely to piss you off

- he totally pretends to be bored. he'll dramatically yawn if you aren't quite literally ruining him, or egg you on with a "Tired already?" as he's done nothing but lazily jerk himself off

- PRONE BONE !!!!! PRONE BONE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

- he won't even lift his hips to meet yours most of the time. he wants you to do all the work cus he's THE brat of all time

- likes to shove his face into his pillow so you can't hear his little moans. he knows you want to, and he also knows this will lead to you roughly pulling his head back by his hair. matter of fact, he counted on it.

- he will never admit how hard it gets him when you force his legs together with your own as you're bottoming out. in similar fashion, he whines if you pull him back on your dick as you're already balls deep, forcing him to feel everything

- cums hands free more often than not. touching his dick in this state usually just overstimulates him past the point of pleasure anyways

- you have taken advantage of this before.

If anything, he shifted his stance, shoulders rolling back as he flexed deliberately under your fingers. The definition popped even harder, veins tracing faint lines beneath the surface. Your mouth went dry.

He rolled his eyes - reading you easily - and bent down to throw you over his shoulder in one easy motion, “C’mon then, pervert.”

The view from his shoulder was sinful - his slim waist, the defined muscle under his tank top, the curve of his ass in those grey sweatpants. You couldn’t resist reaching down to give him a squeeze with a cheeky giggle. He growled a warning, pinching your thigh lightly.

He kicked the bedroom door open, crossing the room in a few large steps. He tossed you onto the bed, hands immediately finding the hem of your shorts, pulling them - and your panties - down in one go.

You giggled as the cool air hit you, resting one foot against his thigh, “Someone’s eager.”

“Yeah, you,” His hand found your ankle, the other swiping your folds. “Fuckin’ soaked already.”

He crawled onto the bed, sitting back against the headboard, one arm extended - palm up. His fingers were glinting lightly with your slick. You sat up, hesitating for all of one second before he scowled, reaching out to tug you forward, “C’mon, I ain’t got all night.”

He did, in fact, have all night - neither of you had plans the next day. You knew the real reason behind his agitation - the twitching bulge in his sweatpants gave away the excitement in his veins.

You bit your lip to hide a smile, crawling over to him. You swung one leg over his arm, thighs stretching as you hovered over the firm muscle. One large hand rested against your back, keeping you steady. The other found your hip as he spoke, looking up at you with a scowl, “Quit hesitating. You were so confident a minute ago. Prove it wasn’t all talk.”

You huffed, bracing yourself on the headboard, “Give me a second, hotshot. I’ve never done this before.”

He scoffed, squeezing your hip. His eyes flicked down to your dripping sex before finding yours again, “How the hell is this any different from riding my thigh?”

You threw your head back, groaning dramatically, “‘Cause it just is! Now shut up and flex.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt, but listened anyway. The already defined lines of his arm grew bigger, veins popping out as he contracted the muscle. Your hips didn’t move, but his arm brushed against your lips anyways.

You let out a small whine as you sank down, covering the hand on your hip with your own. He let out a groan at the feeling of your warm juices soaking his bicep, pressing his forehead into your stomach.

“Can’t believe you’re really doin’ it,” his breath was hot against your skin.

You rolled your hips once, clit dragging alone the peak of his arm. The muscle jumped and flexed under you as he adjusted, veins standing out sharply under your soaked pussy. A needy sound escaped your throat.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” you gasped, gripping the headboard tighter, moving the other hand to his shoulder for leverage. You started moving properly - slow grinds at first, then building into a steady rhythm, sliding back and forth along the length of his arm.

Katsuki pulled his head back, watching you with dark, half-lidded eyes - jaw tight. His eyes flicked from your face, to your hips, to your slick pussy stretched across his arm. Every time you rolled forward, your clit caught perfectly on the thickest part of his bicep, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through you. Your juices ran freely now, dripping down his body and onto the sheets.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growled. “How long you been thinkin’ about this, huh?”

His hand squeezed your hip, pushing you down harder on the muscle as he flexed again. The movement sent little shocks through your body, rock-solid muscle expanding underneath you.

“A while,” you gasped, pushing yourself back against his bent forearm for leverage. “You’re just so pretty, Kats.”

He let out a huff, “Yeah? You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Rubbin’ on my arm like some desperate slut.”

You could only moan in response, hips stuttering as pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly. He shifted his arm slightly, angling it so the thickest part rubbed relentlessly against you with every roll. The friction was maddening - too much and not enough all at once.

You panted, grinding down harder. Your voice came out light and breathless, “Wanted to feel how strong you are- fuck- right there-”

Katsuki’s breath hitched. His cock was straining painfully against his sweatpants, a dark wet spot forming at the tip. His hand left your hip, palming himself roughly through the fabric as he watched you use his arm.

“Faster,” he ordered, voice strained. “C’mon, ride it like you mean it.”

You obeyed, thighs burning as you picked up the pace. The slick glide of your pussy over his hot skin, the way his muscle jumped and flexed under you with every thrust of your hips - it was perfect. Your clit throbbed, sparks shooting up your spine with every pass.

He leaned in, teeth grazing your stomach before biting down lightly, sucking a mark into your skin, “Gonna cum all over my arm, aren’t you? Make a mess like the little pervert you are.”

The words tipped you over. Your rhythm broke, hips jerking erratically as the orgasm crashed into you. You cried out his name, thighs clamping around his arm as you shook and pulsed, fresh slick gushing over his bicep and dripping onto the sheets. He kept flexing through it, milking every last wave until you were whimpering, oversensitive and trembling.

You slumped forward, forehead pressed to his hair, trying to catch your breath. The hand on your back to rub slow circles into your skin, surprisingly gentle for a few moments.

He gave you roughly fifteen seconds before flipping you over, leaning down to press his forehead to yours, “Gonna let me fuck this pretty pussy now?”

You bucked your hips up into his dick, the wet spot on his sweatpants tapping your clit, “Yes, please Kats.”

He grinned, sharp and feral, before leaning back on his heels to pull his clothes down enough to free his cock. It was flushed an angry red, tip steadily leaking pre-cum.

“Y’think you can take me with no prep?” His eyes fixated on yours.

You bit your lip. He was big, always prepping you with three fingers before entering. But, you were also really horny - and didn’t exactly feel like waiting any longer.

Nodding, you grabbed his hair to pull him into a heated kiss. You pulled back, murmuring into his lips, “Be gentle?”

Katsuki’s grin sharpened - all teeth and hunger - but his eyes softened just a fraction at your whispered plea, “Tch. As if I’d hurt you, dumbass.”

He kissed you again - hard, claiming, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to devour the words right out of your mouth. One broad hand gripped your thigh, spreading you open as he lined himself up.

The blunt head of his cock nudged your soaked entrance, slick and hot. You were still fluttering from your first orgasm - the stretch when he pushed in was immediate and intense. A low groan tore from his throat as he sank the first few inches, your walls clenching greedily around him.

“Fuck- so tight,” he hissed through gritted teeth. His hips rolled forward slowly, giving you time to adjust even as his arms trembled with the effort of holding back. Veins stood out along his forearms, the same ones still glistening with your release. “Breathe, baby. That’s it.”

You whimpered into his mouth, nails digging into his strong shoulders as he bottomed out. The fullness was overwhelming - thick, heavy, pressing against every sweet spot inside you. He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours while you both panted.

Then he started moving.

Slow, deep strokes at first, grinding his hips into yours. Each thrust dragged against your walls, pulling filthy wet sounds from where you were joined. His bicep flexed beside your head as he braced himself, the muscle you’d just ridden now taut and glistening with sweat.

“Still think my arms are the best part?” he growled, voice rough with restraint. He hiked one of your legs higher around his body, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes, “Or is my cock better?”

You couldn’t even answer properly - just a broken moan as pleasure sparked up your spine. Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper. Katsuki cursed under his breath and gave you what you wanted, picking up speed. The bed creaked under the force of his thrusts, headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm.

He dropped his head to your neck, sucking and biting marks into your skin while one hand slid between you to circle your swollen clit, “C’mon, ride my dick like you rode my arm. Show me how bad you need it.”

You did - hips rolling up to meet every thrust, grinding against his pelvis when he pressed deep. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter, faster this time, fueled by how full you felt and the raw power rolling through his body.

“Katsuki- fuck, I’m close- ”

“Yeah? Gonna cum on my cock this time?” He slammed in harder, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. His voice dropped into a snarl, “Do it. Soak me. Wanna feel you milking me dry.”

His fingers pressed firmer on your clit, thumb rubbing tight circles, and that was it. You shattered with a cry, back arching off the bed as your second orgasm ripped through you. Your pussy fluttered and clenched around him, gushing fresh slick down his length and onto the sheets.

Katsuki groaned loud and broken, hips stuttering as he chased his own release. “That’s it - good girl.”

A few more brutal thrusts and he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan. His cock pulsed hot and heavy, filling you until you felt it leaking out around him.

He picked his head up, pecking your lips lightly as he pulled out of you with a hiss. You expected him to lie next to you - pull you into his chest like he usually did. Instead, he flopped down on top of you, shoving his face into the crook of your neck.

“Still think you’re a pervert,” his voice was muffled by your hair.

You spoke through a smile, “Yeah, and you love me anyways.”

He shoved his face into your skin even further, sighing deeply.

“Yeah… I do.”

So in love, in fact, that he knew what you needed. What you craved, even when you were too scared to admit it. He wasn’t blind to the way you’d slowly let him in over the months, how you went from clawing at him to clutching his shirt when a nightmare hit. He could see the way you looked at him when he came back from patrol - your eyes lidded as you watched him unwind. Your body wanted him, even if your brain didn’t want to accept it yet.

It didn’t matter what you thought while you were awake though, not with the way you’d been crying out all night. Not in the way you usually did over the past couple months - with tears and fear - but instead, his name. Whimpers and moans and his name, over and over again.

An obvious sign you needed him. And who was Shouta to deny his darling what she needed?

He slowly crawled into bed, arms braced on either side of you. His hair fell, creating a curtain around your faces as he whispered a kiss over your lips. One hand moved - slowly tracing its way from your shoulder, down to your waist, to your hip, stopping to feel the fabric of your panties. He knew what pairs you had, of course, but feeling them was a whole different thing.

His thumb hooked the outer leg, pulling them up, up, up just to let it snap back down into your skin. You jerked softly, scrunching your nose but staying asleep. He pressed his lips to your neck, ghosting over the veins as he worked his way down to your collarbone. Your - his - shirt was gently pushed up and over your chest, nipples perking up in the cool air. So pretty. Always so pretty, even when you’re being stubborn.

He shifted lower, broad shoulders settling between your thighs as he eased your legs apart with careful hands. The soft cotton of your panties was peeled down your hips and off one ankle, leaving you bare to the cool night air and his hungry gaze. A low, appreciative hum rumbled in his chest at the sight of you already glistening - your body honest even while your mind fought.

Shouta pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another higher up, until his breath ghosted directly over your folds. He dragged the flat of his tongue along your slit in one long, deliberate stroke, tasting the slick evidence of your dream. The flavor of you made his cock twitch hard against the mattress. He did it again, firmer this time, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth with gentle, rhythmic pressure.

Your hips twitched involuntarily. A soft, sleepy whimper escaped your lips as he licked deeper, lapping at your entrance and pushing his tongue inside you in slow, wet thrusts. One large hand slid under your ass, tilting your hips up so he could bury his face more fully between your legs. His stubble scraped lightly against your inner thighs while he devoured you - slow, thorough, and utterly focused. Every moan you let out in your sleep, every unconscious roll of your hips, he answered with more pressure, more heat, sucking and licking until your thighs began to tremble around his head.

He could feel you getting wetter, your walls fluttering against his tongue as he worked you open. Two thick fingers replaced his mouth for a moment, sliding into your soaked heat with ease while he flicked his tongue rapidly over your swollen clit. The obscene, wet sounds of his mouth and fingers filled the quiet room, mixing with your growing whimpers.

Your eyes fluttered open just as the pleasure crested sharply, dragging you from sleep into gasping awareness.

“Shouta!” Your hands shot out to push him away.

He pulled his head back but didn’t move - not even with you shoving on his shoulders - hushing you as he pressed another wet kiss to your inner thigh, “You were crying out for me.”

“That doesn’t matter! I was asleep!” You jerked your legs, trying to break free, but his grip around your thighs was iron tight.

He ignored your protests, eyes trained on your open sex, “What were you dreaming about?” He flicked his gaze up to you, “Only took one touch to get you to leak for me.”

Your whole body was tense - a live wire. You could feel your walls flutter with every exhale he let out, breath fanning over the wet folds.

You stilled, no longer fighting - but not relaxing either, “None of your business.” Your voice was as strong as you could muster - weak and breathless even still.

The corner of his mouth twitched, “Everything involving you is my business.” His right hand moved to trace the soft skin between your leg and your sex. You felt your body twitch.

“This is- You can't-" you whimpered, pushing back on his chest with your free foot.

He caught your ankle with ease, wrapping both legs around his waist as he stretched to hover over you. Your hands pushed against his chest as he leaned into your neck, “Why are you being so stubborn, love? I know you feel it, too. You’re only punishing yourself.”

Part of you knew he was right. You did want him. In some weird, twisted way, you were starting to let him in. You craved the warmth of his body pressed to yours when the nightmares were particularly bad, or the way he gently brushed your hair for you every morning. He was never violent with you, always gentle, patient, understanding. He let you attack him, threaten him, spit in his face. And he was still here, broad and intimidating above you, the heavy weight of his hardening dick resting against your skin - almost scalding you through his sweatpants.

A horrible, sickening realization spread through your veins.

He hadn’t touched himself yet. Hadn’t tried to get inside you, just… elevated what was already happening in your mind. Someone who didn’t care about you wouldn’t do that. They would take and take and take, and yes - Shouta took you from your life, but he hadn’t left you with nothing. You had a soft bed, homemade meals, access to a TV. You had him. And right now, he was warm and hot and intense, breathing into your skin as his arms caged you in.

Your whole body shook - whether it was from fear or desire, you could no longer tell. You knew he was telling the truth, that you were calling out for him. Somewhere along the line he had turned from your captor into something… softer. Easier to love.

You were snapped out of your thoughts with a gasp as he ran his fingertips over your folds. He gathered up the growing slick, spreading you open slightly. His voice was nothing but a brush of lips against your jaw, “Talk to me, darling. Tell me to leave with your words if that’s what you want.”

“I…” You couldn’t. You didn’t want him to leave, not really. You wanted him to be normal. To be someone you ran into at a cafe, or a bystander that caught his eye. You wanted to be able to love him. But here, in this place, love would be an admission of defeat. An acceptance of the cards you’d been dealt. You didn’t want that, either.

You didn’t tell him to leave. But, you also didn’t push him away anymore. Letting your hands twist into his shirt slightly, you spoke with a whimper, “What are you gonna do?”

“What did you dream about?” He repeated himself, raising his head to look you in the eye as two fingers circled around your entrance.

You turned your head away from his gaze, too nervous, too scared, too overwhelmed to look him in the eye. A soft ‘You.’ was all that came out. His head fell back to the crook of your neck.

“Me…” He breathed, humming against your throat - the vibrations bleeding from his chest to yours. “What was I doing?” His hand still continued its path around your hole, soft squelches sounding in time with his movements.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Your brain was screaming, fighting for you to shove him off, tell him to leave, bang your fists into him until he gave up. You did none of those things.

“You… You had me, um,” You cut yourself off with a gasp as one finger pressed against the rim of muscle he was teasing. “I- I was…”

He pushed one knuckle in. You squeezed your fists tighter into his shirt.

“It was like this,” Your voice dropped to a whisper, face still turned away from his. Shame curled its fingers around you, amplifying everything bad about this. The chain around your ankle clanked softly.

He hummed again, right against your pulse point - where he had left more than a few marks by now. “Like this, how?” He punctuated his sentence with another knuckle, lips tilting up as you fought the roll of your hips.

You kept your head firmly turned away, eyes still closed. You swallowed heavily, words stuck in your throat. You’d already admitted to too much. Had already been defeated.

“Was I gentle?” His stubble scratched softly against your skin. “Or maybe…” He pulled his finger out. “A bit rougher?”

You felt him press three fingertips to your hole, “W-Wait-!” You squirmed, hands flattening against his chest to push him away.

He did. He waited, pulling his hand back enough to ghost over your clit, lips still pressed into you - kissing softly. His other arm was wrapped firmly around you, pulling your chest into his. It forced your arms to wrap around his neck instead.

You felt sick. You felt loved. You felt disgusted that you felt loved and that made you sick all over again. You knew very well he could take what he wanted right now - tie your hands up and cover your mouth and take, but he wasn’t. He was waiting. For you.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he murmured into your ear. His fingers stopped moving to grip the meat of your thigh, as if he was grounding himself. You could still feel his thick cock through his sweats on your leg, pulsating in time with his heartbeat against your chest.

“What do you need, love?” His tone was gentle, breath tickling your skin.

You couldn’t speak. The weight of the loneliness you’d been feeling pressed down on your chest, far heavier than the man above you. Slowly, like you were scared you would startle yourself, you turned your head into his. Pressed your chapped lips to surprisingly soft ones. It wasn’t a kiss, not really - neither of you moved. He was waiting for you, like he always did. You were fighting an internal war.

He sighed softly into your mouth as his grip on you tightened. You could feel the heat of him through his shirt against your bare chest. It felt nice. Your body was reacting to him - the way your hole clenched around nothing, craving him - and it made your head spin.

His tongue flicked out, testing the waters, moving his lips ever so slightly. Your heart jumped - in the good way. It was nauseating.

You kissed him back anyways, through tears brimming in your eyes, stubble scratching your face lightly. Lust and fear and love and hate all swirled through your veins until it created a muddy mess in your heart.

You were never going home. You knew that. You’d known it from the start, that he was right. It didn’t change what you wanted, though. Didn’t change the fact you had waking dreams of walking through the parks outside, or going out for drinks with friends. None of that would happen again. Life was now marked by periods of soul-crushing loneliness, interspersed by time with the man who kidnapped you.

The fight in you was gone, however. Your mind was breaking, bleeding out into the rug he’d taken from your apartment. He’s inescapable, the little voice in the back of your mind was stronger now. Maybe it won’t be so bad if you give in.

He kissed you deeper, forcing your lips open with his tongue. He tasted like black coffee - bitter and strong. Something in your chest twisted, pulled you further into him.

He backed away long enough to peel his shirt off, before resting his hands on the pushed up hem of the identical one you were wearing, “Arms up, dear.”

You untangled yourself from him, numbly allowing the man to pull your shirt up and over your head. Not that it made a difference in how exposed you were, but it certainly felt vulnerable. The cool air kissed your shoulders, creating goosebumps along your arms that Shouta readily kissed away - left shoulder first, then right. He was even warmer against your skin now - bare stomach brushing against yours. It all made you feel hot, wanted. He’d gone through so much to keep you safe, and you’d repaid it with violence and hatred.

The switch inside you flipped. Your hand flew to his hair, pulling him up and back to your lips. Your stomach twisted with guilt - you were betraying yourself, letting him win.

His mouth claimed yours with a low groan, the kiss turning hungry as your fingers tightened in his hair. It was messy - desperate, tears slipping down your temples and onto the pillow.

You pulled him back slightly, your voice a broken whisper against his mouth, “It was rough… the dream.”

The confession was permission - you both knew it.

He let out a muted groan, kissing you once before pulling back fully, one hand holding your chin steady. His eyes were trained on yours, “Is that what you want?”

It felt ridiculous. He was asking what you wanted, while a chain he bought was secured around your ankle. And yet, even still, something in your chest moved.

You nodded.

His hands found your waist, flipping you over easily. He hiked your hips up until they met his as he kneeled behind you, one hand smoothing down your back - resting in between your shoulder blades. He wasn’t pushing you down - never forceful - but you pressed your face into the mattress anyways.

“Good girl,” his low response was immediate.

His hands left you momentarily as you heard the shuffle of fabric - before landing right back on your hips. His thumbs rubbed small circles into the flesh.

“You understand I love you, right darling?” His voice had taken on a predatory edge - you could feel his gaze on your twitching folds.

“Y-Yes,” you were breathless with anticipation, the edges still wrapped in fear. He lined himself up, the thick tip sending sparks through you as it ran through your slick.

“Good,” he growled. “I’m about to fuck you like I don’t.”

That was all the warning you got before his hips snapped into yours - hard and fast - at a bruising pace. It hurt - the feeling of his cock splitting you open reached all the way to your throat. You cried out, instinctively reaching back to push him away.

He caught your wrist - an unfortunately familiar feeling - and pinned it behind your back. “If you want me to stop you have to say it,” he growled into the charged air, hips never slowing. His other hand pulled your hips back into him with every thrust.

You could have - should have told him to stop. Every nerve in your body was on fire, every rational part of your brain screaming at you to at least try to escape. Escape him, this room, this new life.

But, what if he was right? You did suffer out there, in the real world. The only strife he’d put you through so far was an initial kidnapping - everything else at your hands - and you did hold him at knife point, to be fair.

Somewhere in between that first night and now, you’d slipped. Let your brain find an attachment in him, good in the bad acts he was committing.

You had practically anything you could want for in this room - besides freedom. How large of a price to pay was that, really?

None of these thoughts you could dwell on for long, not when Shouta’s free hand was wrapping around your throat and squeezing lightly.

“Stop thinking,” his voice was strained as he let go of your wrist to lean over your body.

“Just feel.”

He let go of your neck to push his weight onto you further, pressing you flat into the mattress, legs trapping yours as he pounded into you - arms caging you in. “Is this what you dreamt about?” he snarled in your ear. “You want me to ruin this pretty pussy?”

You whined, forcing your face into the sheets even further. Your voice came out broken, little sounds leaving you with every thrust, “Yes- ah!- Please-”

“That’s my girl,” he rasped into your shoulder, sucking a purple mark into the soft skin.

His thrusts grew even more relentless - the wet, filthy sound of his cock driving into your soaked cunt echoing with every snap of his hips. The new angle crushed your clit against the mattress with each movement, forcing sharp, overwhelming bursts of pleasure through your already sensitive body. You were a mess - drooling into the sheets, tears streaming, body trembling as your orgasm built dangerously fast under his brutal pace.

Shouta’s hand slid back around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin while his other arm hooked under your chest, pulling you back against him so he could growl filthy praises directly into your ear, “Taking me so fucking well… squeezing my cock like you were made for this. My perfect girl.” He bit back down on your shoulder, hips stuttering as your walls fluttered wildly around him again.

You came hard, a broken sob ripping from your throat as your pussy clamped down on him like a vice, gushing around his length. The intensity left you shaking, barely able to breathe through the overwhelming waves. Shouta cursed low and deep, fucking you through every spasm until his own control finally shattered.

With a guttural moan, he buried himself as deep as possible, flooding your heat with pulse after pulse of hot cum. He ground against you through it, milking every last drop while keeping you pinned beneath him, bodies locked together in the aftermath.

Slowly, the room quieted except for your shared, ragged breathing. He stayed inside you for a long moment, pressing soft, almost apologetic kisses along the fresh mark on your shoulder and the back of your neck. His arms loosened but didn’t release you, holding you close as if you might disappear.

The silence stretched. Tears streaked down your face that he gently kissed away. Eventually, he pulled out and rolled you both over, resting your head down on his chest. His hand traced sonnets into your back.

Shouta did not think himself a bad man.

You had yet to eat anything he’d made for you, snapping at his fingers when he tried to feed you himself. Water was harder to ignore. You sipped from the cups he left by your bed, but only when you were certain he wasn’t around. Enough to keep you alive, but make him think you were abstaining. You still fought sleep, choosing small intervals of fitful rest over a full night.

Today - what you believed was the eighth day - you paced the small room, chain clinking against the concrete floor with every step. Three steps to the kitchenette in the corner from the bed, seven to cross back over to the bathroom, ten from the bed to the farthest the chain would reach - just a few feet from the way out. Your surroundings had been updated in the past few days - a rug, some books on a small stand, a potted plant you chose to give all your water to. All of it came from your apartment. Your home.

The familiarity of your belongings only sharpened the knife of loss - they all whispered the same thing; He was in your space for months. He knew you better than you realized.

Aizawa returned later that evening, the skylight an inky black. He carried a tray with warm tea, rice, and vegetables. His eyes scanned you immediately, noting the tension in your shoulders, the way you clenched your fists as you walked.

“You’re still refusing to eat properly,” he said, voice low and even as he set the tray down. “Your body is weakening. I can see it.”

You turned away, staring at the wall, “Good. Maybe I’ll fade away and you’ll have nothing left to control.”

He sighed, the sound heavy with something that almost sounded like sorrow, “That’s not what I want. I want you alive and healthy. Here with me, where I can keep you safe from everything out there.”

You turned back to him, face twisted in anger, “People will look for me. I’m sure they already are. It’s only a matter of time before they find-”

“No… they won’t find you.” He sounded almost remorseful as he spoke, a look of faux pain etching his features, “I’ve finalized the details. A sweet, innocent civilian - taken by a villain with a teleportation quirk while walking home from her shift. No evidence, no trail, no clues. A tragic story, really.” He spoke softly, eyes gentle as he gazed at you from his spot across the rug.

You felt tears welling in your eyes, spitting at him, “You’re a sick fucking freak!”

“I love you,” he countered. He made no move to get closer - planted by the nightstand as you cowered at the foot of the bed - but you could see his eye twitch. “Everything I’ve done for you has been out of love.”

You gestured around wildly, “This isn’t love, Eraserhead, this is-”

“Shouta.” He interrupted you calmly.

“Oh my god- Whatever! Fuck you, Shouta,” you sneered at him before throwing yourself on the bed like a child, covering yourself with the blanket. “Get out.”

Silence followed. You heard him sigh softly, the shuffle of carpet, and then the door - open, shut, lock.

You laid there in silence for what felt like hours, peering out to a dark room, lit only by the small night light he had installed. You felt weak, exhausted from dehydration and lack of food. You knew he didn’t like that - he wanted you healthy, he’d often say. As of now, your health was the one thing you could control.

Already deciding tonight was not one for sleep (that would be a victory for him), you took to pacing the room again. In the light of the small bulb plugged into the wall, your shadow stretched across the floor, long and imposing. It ended in the corner, the top of your head lined up with the edge of the kitchenette counter. A counter that was, perhaps, more dilapidated than Aizawa had planned for.

The sharp rock edge connecting to the wall had a chip in it. Not big at all, hardly enough to notice unless you were looking for it. But, you were. Looking for something, anything, to hurt him back.

You steeled yourself as you padded over to the counter, chain dragging across the floor behind you. The chip had created a sharp edge - sharper than the rest - on the counter. You rolled up the sleeves of the shirt he had given you, pressing your inner forearm to the sharp corner.

Just enough to hurt him.

You shoved the hem of the shirt in your mouth and pulled your arm back - fast - creating a gash from elbow to wrist. It was more than deep enough to bleed, the little red dots turning to rivers down your skin. The shirt muffled your cry enough to keep the door from slamming open.

You grabbed a spare shirt, wrapping it tightly around the wound. You weren’t trying to die, just prove that he didn’t have you on as tight of a leash as he thought.

You could feel your consciousness starting to slip as you sat back down on the bed, forearm cradled in your other hand. The sharp, throbbing pain felt negligible in your concrete prison, a reminder to survive, if anything. The bleeding had slowed to a dull flow - dehydration was on your side in this effort. Any faster, and you were sure you would’ve bled out to an unmanageable degree.

You laid down in the bed, pale and shaky, shirt pressed to your wound, and waited for morning to come.

~

Morning showed itself in the form of the skylight bleeding gray light across the concrete floor. Your arm throbbed in time with your heartbeat, the makeshift bandage stiff with dried blood. You hadn’t slept more than twenty fitful minutes at a stretch. Every time your eyes drifted shut, you jerked awake at the phantom sound of the door opening up.

The lock clicked. Real this time.

Aizawa stepped inside carrying a fresh tray - steaming miso soup, rice, grilled fish, and a small bowl of sliced fruit. His hair was tied back, capture weapon absent for once. He looked… rested. The sight made your stomach turn.

His eyes found the bloodied counter first, then straight to you. The bloodied shirt. The way you clutched your arm to your chest. For a fraction of a second, something raw flickered across his face - pain, maybe, or fury - but it smoothed into that calm, exhausted concern he always wore.

“You hurt yourself.” It wasn’t a question. He set the tray on the nightstand and crossed to the bed in three strides. You tried to scramble back, but the sudden movement sent black spots dancing across your vision.

“Don’t touch me,” you rasped, voice cracking from disuse and dehydration.

He ignored you. One large hand gently but inexorably pried your fingers away from the wound. The shirt fell open. The gash was ugly - jagged, still seeping sluggishly. His jaw tightened.

“This is what you do to yourself the moment I give you more freedom?” His voice was low, edging into anger. “I trusted you not to try anything reckless. And you repay that by trying to bleed out on my floor?”

“I wasn’t trying to die,” you spat, but the words sounded weak, even to you. “I just wanted- wanted you to feel something.”

His thumb brushed just beside the cut, feather-light, and you flinched hard enough that fresh blood welled up. He sighed, the sound heavy with something that sounded dangerously like sorrow.

“I feel everything you do, darling. Every tear. Every time you look at me like I’m a monster.” He reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a small first-aid kit you recognized from your own bathroom cabinet. “That’s why this hurts me more than it hurts you.”

You laughed - a broken, ugly sound, “You’re sick. You kidnapped me. You faked my death. I fucking hope it hurts.”

Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He worked in silence, cleaning the wound with careful, practiced hands. The antiseptic stung like fire, and his touch was so gentle it made your skin crawl. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter,

“Have I ever told you about the first night I saw you?”

You didn’t care - didn’t want to know. You didn’t move either, but he continued anyway.

“You were walking home in the rain. No umbrella. You stopped under an awning and laughed at your own bad luck. Just… laughed. Like the world hadn’t already tried to crush you a hundred times,” His fingers paused on the gauze. “I’d had a bad patrol. Lost a kid I couldn’t save. And there you were, soaked and smiling anyway. It was the first time in years… I felt something other than exhaustion.”

Tears burned your eyes. You felt emotion clawing up your throat. You hated how his voice wrapped around the memory, turning into something shared.

“I started watching to make sure you stayed safe. One night turned into weeks. I saw how hard you worked, how kind you were to people who didn’t deserve it. How you came home every night to an empty apartment and still tried to take care of yourself,” He taped the bandage securely, then cupped your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, intense, “You were breaking, little by little. The paranoia, the fear. I couldn’t watch it anymore.”

“So you made it worse,” you whispered. “You became the thing I was afraid of.”

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, “I became the only thing that can protect you. Out there, villains don’t care about your smile. Heroes burn out. Laws fail. But here-” He gestured to the room with his other hand, to your belongings carefully arranged around you. “Here, nothing touches you unless I allow it. Not even you.”

You tried to pull away, but he held firm, not painfully, just… inescapably.

“I know you hate me right now. That’s okay. Hate me. Scream at me. Hurt yourself if you need to,” His voice dropped, soft and devastating. “But every time you do, remember that I’m the one who will sit here and stitch you back together. I’m the one who will hold you through the nightmares you used to have alone. I’m the one who loves you enough to risk everything - my name and my career - just so you never have to be afraid again.”

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it. He pulled you against his chest without hesitation, one arm wrapping around your back, the other cradling your injured arm so it wouldn’t jostle. You wanted to shove him away. Your body wouldn’t obey. Exhaustion and blood loss and the sheer weight of his words pinned you in his hold.

“I don’t want this,” you cried into his shirt. “I want my life back.”

“Your old life was killing you slowly,” he murmured into your hair. “I know how lonely you were. How you wondered if anyone would notice if you just… stopped showing up. I noticed. I’ve always noticed.”

The words sank claws into your chest. Because some terrible, exhausted part of you recognized the truth in them. The late nights. The empty weekends. The way you’d joked with friends about your ‘mysterious stalker’ because admitting the fear felt safer than admitting the isolation.

Aizawa rocked you gently, like you were a child. “Eat for me. Please. I can’t stand seeing you waste away. If you get sick because of this…” His voice hitched - just enough to sound real. “I don’t know what I’d do. You’re all I have now, too.”

After a long minute, he guided a spoon of soup to your lips. You turned your head at first. He waited, patient as ever.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly. “Neither are you. We have time. All the time in the world for you to understand that this is love. The kind no one else could ever give you.”

Eventually, your cracked lips parted. The soup was warm, salty with tears you couldn’t stop crying. He fed you slowly, murmuring praise between each bite - “Good girl. That’s it. You’re doing so well for me.” - until the bowl was empty and your stomach ached from more than just emptiness.

When he laid you back down, he didn’t leave. Instead, he moved to the chair at the foot of the bed, eyes trained on you.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll be right here. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not even yourself.”

You wanted to fight. You wanted to scream that this was still a cage, no matter how softly he lined it.

But, your body was done. Your mind was fracturing under the weight of his quiet certainty. As your eyes drifted shut, you felt his hand gently caress your chained ankle.

“I love you,” he said, a promise and a threat all at once. “Even when you hate me.”

You did hate him. You hated the structure - this bunker he’d put you in. You hated the food he cooked and the tea he made. You hated the way he brought items back from your old apartment like it would make you feel better about all this. You hated the way he’d talk about his day like you cared, like it mattered what villains he took down today when he had you chained up underground. You hated him for holding you when you cried, sobbed, about the loneliness clawing away at your bones.

You hated that as the weeks passed, you felt yourself giving in. You hated that you didn’t hate the way his chest felt against your head anymore. You hated that his voice sometimes, only sometimes, made you feel a little safer. You hated that you wanted him to stay every night, to sit in that damned chair while you slept.

His mom appeared from the kitchen like a storm front, wiping her hands on a towel. Her sharp eyes - identical to her son’s - widened when they landed on you, then narrowed at Katsuki.

“Katsuki! You bring your girlfriend home and don’t even text me first?! I look like I just crawled out of a villain fight!” She gestured at her casual house clothes, then turned to you with a bright, slightly frazzled smile. “You must be the one he’s been muttering about. Come in, come in! I’m Mitsuki. Ignore my idiot son’s lack of manners.”

Masaru waved at you from his place at the dining table, “Welcome. We’ve heard… bits and pieces.”

You bowed politely, cheeks warm, “It’s nice to meet you both. I’m sorry for the surprise visit-”

“Surprise?” Mitsuki cut in, rounding on Katsuki, “Someone has the audacity to drag his girlfriend over unannounced like I run a damn hotel! I haven’t even started dinner properly!”

Katsuki stepped in front of you slightly, bucking up to his mother out of habit, “For fuck’s sake, woman! I don’t bring her home, you get mad at me, and when I do you get mad too! Cut me some slack, you old hag-”

“Katsuki Bakugo.”

The whole room stilled in an instant with the snap of your voice - the only sounds coming from the worn A/C unit and the birds outside. Masaru hid a growing smile behind his cup of coffee. Mitsuki didn’t bother to mask the look on her face - first shock, to fondness when she looked at you, then an expectant look back at Katsuki.

Katsuki, for what it was worth, was stiff. Frozen in place - shoulders high and tense - looking like he’d rather be fighting All for One than turn to face you.

You gave him approximately two seconds before flipping him around yourself, one hand pointing a finger in his face, the other twisted in his shirt collar. “You will speak to your mother with grace, or so help me God I’ll make sure you have no choice but to crawl back home.”

His face twisted, “But, she-”

“No,” you spun him back around to face Mitsuki - who was sporting a small smirk, arms crossed, “Apologize.”

He gestured to Mitsuki, looking at you over his shoulder, “Babe, she knows I don’t mean it- Hey-!”

You stepped to his side, grabbed his ear, and pulled, voice laced with venom as you growled at him, “Apologize to her. Now.”

He clenched his jaw, but made no move out of your grasp - hunched over almost halfway. He glared at his mother, words coming through gritted teeth, with an edge of sarcasm you knew you could never fully sand away, “Sorry. Or whatever.”

Mitsuki opened her mouth to speak, but before she could you tightened your grip, making him wince, “Try again. Like you mean it.”

You heard him grumble under his breath, eyes squeezing shut in frustration for a moment before sighing deeply, “...I’m sorry, Mom.”

You beamed - kissing his cheek, smoothing his shirt and letting him go all at once, “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Mitsuki burst out laughing, a loud, triumphant sound that filled the house, “Holy shit, she’s got you whipped already! I love her.” She wiped a tear from her eye, then pulled you into a fierce hug. “You’re staying for dinner. No arguments.”

Katsuki rubbed his ear, glaring daggers at the floor, “Tch. Whatever.”

You pinched his side lightly, “Watch your tone. That’s your mother you’re speaking to.”

He stiffened but bit back whatever retort was brewing. Masaru hid his grin behind his coffee mug.

The evening settled into a surprisingly warm rhythm. In the kitchen, Mitsuki kept up a steady stream of stories about Katsuki’s childhood while you helped chop vegetables. Every time Katsuki tried to snap at his mom - “Stop running your mouth, hag” - you’d shoot him a warning look or tug his sleeve.

“Try again,” you murmured the second time, voice low but firm.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, “…Can you pass the salt. Please.”

Mitsuki’s eyebrows shot up, but she handed it over with a smirk, “Well damn. Miracles do happen.”

Dinner was lively. Katsuki sat glued to your side, his knee pressed against yours under the table like a silent claim. When he started to bark at his mother about her overcooked rice, you cleared your throat pointedly.

He caught himself, snapping his jaw shut mid-sentence, cheeks flushing. “It’s… fine,” he grumbled instead.

You smiled and squeezed his hand. His ears went red, but he didn’t pull away.

After the meal, while Mitsuki and Masaru cleared plates (insisting the ‘lovebirds’ relax), Katsuki hauled you upstairs to his room. The second the door clicked shut, he crowded you against it, forehead dropping to yours.

“You’re such a pain,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in it - only fond exasperation. “Making me act all polite like some damn extra.”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, “She’s your mom, Katsuki. She deserves respect. I’m not letting you talk to her like that, not in front of me.”

He groaned but leaned into your touch, “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” His voice softened, almost shy, “…Thanks. For handling my dumb ass.”

You kissed him slow and sweet, feeling the tension melt from his shoulders. When you pulled back, he was smiling softly - a small, crooked thing meant only for you.

Downstairs, Mitsuki’s laughter echoed up the stairs. Katsuki rolled his eyes but laced his fingers with yours, “Guess you’re stuck with all of us now.”

You grinned, “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“My eyes are up here, baby,” his voice was soft, pale blue shirt still on, hugging the swell of his shoulders just right.

You whined softly, “I get to see your eyes every day. Wanna look at this instead.” You punctuated your sentence by gripping a hand around his length, pulling a strained gasp from him.

Izuku’s hips jerked into your touch, thick cock pulsing in your palm. It curved slightly upward, the shaft a deeper shade of pink at the base that faded to a flushed, swollen head. Prominent veins ran along its length, throbbing under your fingers with every heartbeat - a bead of precum already welled at the flushed tip, and you couldn’t resist leaning in to drag your tongue over it, slow and deliberate. He tasted clean and a little salty - perfect. The sound that tore out of him was wrecked - half-moan, half-whimper - and his hand flew to your hair, fingers threading gently even as his thighs trembled.

“F-fuck… baby,” he breathed, voice cracking in that sweet, desperate way he only ever let you hear. His green eyes were half-lidded now, watching you with something between awe and hunger. His shirt clung to his chest, the fabric stretched over defined muscle from years of hero work, hem riding up to expose his abs.

You took him deeper, lips stretching around his girth. He was so thick your jaw already ached in the best way, but you pushed forward anyway, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue along the underside. Izuku’s grip tightened in your hair - not pulling, just holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You’re - ah! - doing so good,” he praised, voice hoarse. “So pretty with your mouth full. Look at you…”

The words went straight between your legs. You moaned around him, the vibration making his cock twitch against your tongue. Bobbing your head faster, you worked what you couldn’t fit with your hand, twisting your wrist just right at the base. Spit slicked down his shaft, dripping onto his balls, and you used your free hand to cup them gently, rolling them in your palm.

Izuku’s head fell back against the headrest, a broken groan escaping him. “Yes- just like that- fuck, I’m not gonna last if you keep- nngh-”

You pulled off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening cock. “Then don’t,” you murmured, voice husky. “Want you to cum in my mouth, Izuku. Please?”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and dark with lust. “You sure? You don’t have to-”

You answered by sucking him back down, taking him as deep as you could until your nose brushed the dark curls at his base. You swallowed around him, throat working, and that was it. Izuku’s hips stuttered, a guttural moan ripping from his chest as he came hard. Thick, hot spurts flooded your mouth, and you swallowed every drop, humming happily as he shook through it.

When he finally softened, you pulled off gently, pressing a soft kiss to the tip before crawling up his body. Izuku immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. His heart hammered under your ear, and he buried his face in your hair, pressing kisses to your temple.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, voice still shaky. “I love you so much. Let me… let me take care of you now, yeah?”

His hand was already sliding down your front, slipping under your waistband with that same gentle determination that made your stomach flip. You smiled against his neck, nipping lightly.

“Only if I get to ride you after.”

Izuku laughed softly, the sound warm and fond, even as his fingers found you already soaked.

“Deal.”

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who stands outside your bedroom while you sleep, just to really make sure you’re safe, that nobody gets in.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who gives you a small, personal keychain as a surprise gift one day. he never tells you - and you never find out - about the tracker he installed inside.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who has multiple journals dedicated solely to you. filled with small details about your life and you; what you did today, what you did yesterday, who you talked to-

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who knows your phone password, because of course he does, he’s your best friend!

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who goes through your phone obsessively, checking to make sure you aren’t up to anything - or anyone - he doesn’t approve of.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who seems to hug you longer and longer each time, letting his hands linger on your waist.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who spams your phone when you don’t answer, messages filled with a scary mix of vague threats and unsure apologies.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who slowly starts making you more dependant on him, starting by creating small scenarios he can ‘save’ you from.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who seems to show up everywhere you are, even on off days from training or class.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who cries, fat tears spilling over as he whimpers out apologies when you tell him you need space.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who chokes out an I’m sorry through sobs as he puts the rag over your mouth.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who makes sure you’re comfortable in the cage he puts you in, padded floor and all.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who sits with you for hours, staring at you with wet eyes as you scream for him to let you out.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who never hurts you, never punishes you, only redirects when you lash out at him.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who breaks you down slowly, day by day.

yandere!bestfriend!izuku who only lets you out of the cage when you promise you love him, too.

mammon

- BAD!!!! he SUCKS at slow dancing im so mean to him sorry mam stans

- you will have to teach him but it's okay just promise kisses (and maybe going out to gamble w/ him) as a reward and he's ready to learn

- steps on your feet often but apologizes like he punched you in the throat every time. doesn't even hurt that bad (after the first time he started stepping lightly), but he's still got teary eyes

- he just doesn't wanna hurt you okay?! because... Lucifer would be sooo mad!! NOT because you are super cute and he loves you a lot that's just crazy talk

- eventually gets the hang of it after several hours of practice. the first time yall complete a song with no mistakes he's lifting you up and spinning you around

- his favorite thing to do is dip you into a kiss. he will do it 47 times in a 3 minute song he does not give a gaf🗣️ it's an excuse to kiss you and flex his, in his words, 'awesome demon strength'

- when you press your forehead to his while you sway it takes everything in him not to melt into a puddle right there

- if you wanna slow dance, you need to instigate. if you're looking to be twirled around at a breakneck speed, let him take the lead

leviathan

- another one you're gonna have to teach, but he's not as bad as Mammon

- he's played his fair share of dancing rhythm games in the privacy of his room, so he isn't entirely hopeless - just incredibly nervous

- the second you grab his hand in yours and stand chest-to-chest he's sweating and stuttering. it doesn't matter if you just had the craziest, sloppiest sex and this is aftercare; he is a blushing mess when you dance with him

- he learns quickly, only needing a few practice rounds before he got it down. if you want him to actually lead the dance, you'll need to tell him that, otherwise he's letting you take charge like usual

- it's the quickest and easiest way to calm him down when he has an envy flare up over the way his brothers (or some other demon) interacts with you

- wrap your arms around his neck and let him awkwardly sway you around in the soft blue light of his room, and within a couple minutes he's confident in your love again

- he likes standing behind you, chest pressed to your back as you sway side-to-side, his head tucked into your neck as he nervously plays with the hem of your shirt

- the first time you spin him around he gets a nosebleed almost immediately. this stuff doesn't happen to otakus often, cut him some slack

satan

- i think he's the best out of all the brothers at slow dancing

- he's incredibly romantic with it, one hand on your waist or the small of your back, the other holding yours or wrapping you into his chest

- presses his forehead into yours more often than not; eyes closed, his weight pressing into you. dancing with you calms his anger like nothing else

- prefers to dance in low light - in front of the fireplace after everyone has gone to bed, or with a handful of candles lit in your room (his is a fire hazard)

- likes to talk with you while you two dance, whether it be about your day at RAD or how many stones you want on your engagement ring

- favorite position is simple - hands on your waist with yours around his neck. perfect angle for kisses, duh

- sometimes gets so comfy his demon form comes out. if you have thick enough pants on, he wraps his tail around your leg to keep you even closer

- dips you to just kiss and whisper into your ear like he couldn't have done that fully vertical

asmodeus

- oh he loves slow dancing with you!!! perfect excuse to be pressed up against his favorite human

- insists on eye contact the whole time. he loves seeing the sparkle in your eyes as he tells you how pretty you look (as well as all the things he's gonna do to you after this)

- he makes it a whole production every single time. rose petals, candles, soft music and an even softer elegant outfit for you to wear

- will ask if he can film yall dancing at least once for his socials. he HAS to show off how beautiful you are when he spins you around!!!

- usually very extra and dramatic with it, especially if you're in public. he will snatch you away from anyone who tries to dance with you

- in private, he's more intimate and soft. presses his forehead to yours or kisses your nose as he tells you how much he truly loves you

- tbh uses slow dancing as foreplay. if you aren't ready to jump his bones by the song's end, he thinks he did something wrong

- he always finishes the dance by kissing his way up your arm from your fingertips to your lips

beelzebub

- idc what none of yall say he is GRACEFUL !!!!!

- you step his shoes like every two seconds and he just :) i love you so much mc :)

- eventually you give up up and stand on his feet while he sways best he can with a whole human crushing his toes

- okay crushing is a bit dramatic. you feel like the equivalent of a puppy on human toes. but if he moves too fast you'll go flying

- also king of just. fuckin carrying you while you dance. dw about your feet hurting they aint even gonna touch the ground!!

- picks you up arms extended and spins you around like that one francince and roger scene minus the cliff

- in fact, he does a lot of moves that require lifting your partner. it goes from slow dancing to swing somehow

- he's so tall the height difference can make it awkward, so if you're particulary short sometimes he'll sit on the edge of the bed with you between his legs and "dance" with you that way 🥹

belphegor

- his idea of slow dancing is resting his entire body weight on you as you sway him back and forth

- generally speaking it's less of a dance and more of a hug - he'll rest his head on your shoulder and wrap his arms around you fully, rocking gently

- probably won't dance with you in public. if he does, it's because its a fancy event and Lucifer made him. otherwise, he prefers just the two of you in the attic

- he prefers when you lead, but like with all things he does he'll have an attitude if you don't lead exactly how he wants you to (ie; barely moving at all)

- any fits can be immediately remedied with kisses, or running your hands through his hair while you sway

- eventually you can convince him to actually try, and he's decently good without practice

- he HATES it if you dance with anyone else. even if it's not slow dancing, GET AWAY !!!!

- he'll never admit it, but slow dancing with you makes him feel a little better about life in general. things can't be that bad if he's got you in his arms like this

He’d been getting sloppy lately, too careless. Leaving your dresser drawer slightly open, not refolding your shirts after running his hands over the soft fabric, leaving windows unlocked that you swore you double-checked. Nothing like the precise break-ins he’d been completing for months. Quiet, brief moments in your apartment - whether you were there or not - where he’d update himself on your life. What new clothes you bought (he'd taken more than a few pairs of panties), or who you’d been texting recently (your phone password is very easy to guess, silly girl).

You were starting to notice his presence, he could tell - he wasn’t a passing feeling anymore, wasn’t just hairs on the back of your neck, or a strange notion you were being watched. Over time, he became a muddy footprint on your balcony after a particularly rainy week, a blanket tucked under your chin that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.

He could see you starting to crack over the weeks. More nights full of restless sleep, checking your six every few steps, installing a security system inside your apartment. Sometimes you swore you heard breathing outside your windows, or a creak of the floorboard when you took a shower. You’d chalked it all up to villain-induced paranoia - up until you found the broken security camera.

He had made quick work of it on his latest visit, dismantling it in silence as you slept. Left the discarded pieces on your kitchen table for you to wake up to, as a reminder - of what, you didn’t know. The police had told you without fingerprint evidence there was little they could do besides upping patrols in your neighborhood.

Regardless, you’d stopped sleeping entirely after that. Staying up all night, knife in your hand (cute, like that would stop him), pumping yourself full of caffeine and stress for almost two days. You weren’t being very good to yourself anymore. That was Shouta’s cue to step in fully.

He watched you - perched on a light pole in the dead of night - as you walked home. It was the third day of no sleep. You were starting to fray the edges; seeing shadows in your peripherals, drifting off as you stood in line for coffee, stumbling into work that afternoon like you’d been walking for days.

You had a late shift - he knew that, like he knew all your shifts - and hadn’t been able to head home until the clock on the wall read 11:37. Perfect for Aizawa; who thrived under the cover of night, who followed after you from the rooftops - just a quick flash of darkness cutting through the moonlight above your head.

You were almost home now. That was good. He could slip in through your window while you unlocked the door, be there to greet you when you walked into your bedroom. You would be scared of him at first, of course, but you’d realize in time that he was meant for you. You were meant for him.

Shouta Aizawa was a patient man. He could wait for you to realize your love for him. He knew all you needed was a little push.

~

You could feel eyes on you - you always could these days. The feeling made your skin crawl as you curled in on yourself, speed-walking home through the quiet, foggy night. The moon was full, lighting up the ground in front of you between street lights.

You felt exposed - too vulnerable with nothing but your work clothes and the items in your purse to keep you safe. What if, whoever was following you was here now? Watching you from behind an alleyway or a parked car, or right behind you-

You spun around, breathing heavily. Predictably, no one was behind you. You couldn’t even find another living thing in your line of sight. You shuddered anyways, turning back around to continue your trek home. Every step echoed off the ground, practically an invitation for evil.

By the time you reached your doorstep, you were sweating, tears brimming in your eyes. You fumbled with the key, missing the hole multiple times as you shook. Slamming the door behind you, the first thing you noticed was your lights. You always, always left the kitchen light on, ever since that aching feeling of being watched crept into your bones. It was not on. Instead, your apartment was completely dark, an eerie quiet settling in.

You moved slowly, cautiously to the kitchen - flipping on lights as you went - willing your now-socked feet to be silent on the creaking hardwood. By the grace of God, they obeyed, and you found yourself standing in front of your ajar bedroom door next - steak knife in hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared into the small window of darkness. What the hell could you do? If there really was someone in your apartment, they certainly knew you were home by now - they had to have heard the door slam. The lack of movement in the air made you nauseous.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to call the police, to do anything but stand frozen in your own hallway. It didn’t matter - your legs wouldn’t move. The knife in your grip felt pathetic, useless. Slowly, with a trembling hand, you reached forward and pushed the bedroom door open just a little further, the hinges giving a soft, betraying creak.

Moonlight spilled across the floor from the window, cutting through the shadows. And there, sitting calmly on the edge of your bed like he belonged there, was a familiar figure - long dark hair, long scarf draped loosely around his neck, tired eyes already fixed on you.

…

“E-Eraserhead?” Somehow, you felt even more exposed in front of him than you did on the street.

His voice was rough and flat, a low pitch that you felt in your bones, “Hi, darling. You can call me Shouta.”

Darling? Something sharp in your gut twisted at his words, “Sh- W- What are you- …Why are you in my apartment?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, knife clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

“I’ve been watching you,” he spoke matter-of-factly, rising slowly from his spot on your bed. He didn’t move towards your way, just raised his palms in a gesture of peace, “I worry about you, dear.”

“I’m not- Don’t call me that,” you forced the words out, pointing the knife his way. “Please, just leave. I won’t- Nobody will know you were here. Please.” Your voice dropped to a whisper again at the end, the tip of the knife shaking.

You could see the corner of his mouth twitch in the low light, “I can’t do that… I got reckless, too eager,” he growled, “And let you know I was around.”

He stalked towards you, hands still raised. You backed away as he spoke, “You were doing so good without me. I almost thought I’d never have to step in. Then you stopped sleeping… all because of a broken camera?”

He slowly forced you out into the hall, the cool press of the wall against your back stopping you in your tracks. The knife stayed clutched in your fingers, more of a comfort for yourself than a threat to him.

Eraserhead continued, just a few feet away from you, “That was a reminder that all you need is me.”

“And you… called the cops.”

His words landed heavy between you. His jaw clenched - tired eyes narrowed.

“Eraserhead, please. I don’t- I don’t understand,” there were tears in your eyes threatening to fall, “...a reminder?”

The tension in his body wired itself deeper as he corrected you, one finger twitching, “Shouta.” He took a measured step towards you. “I left those pieces there to make you feel better.” One more move into your space. You tightened your grip on the knife. “You don’t need flimsy electronics to keep you safe, you have me.” Another, and he was close enough to touch. He kept his hands raised even still, eyeing the shake in your outstretched arm with disdain, “You’re afraid of me.”

“Of course I am!” He raised an eyebrow at your outburst, but said nothing. “You- You broke into my apartment! My stuff- you’re-”

You cut yourself off with a choked inhale, whimpering softly when you spoke again. He stayed stone-still and silent, eyeing you through fallen strands of hair.

“What do you even want with me?”

He sighed at your words, a weary sound - like you should’ve already known the answer, “I want nothing with you. I just want you, dear. The same way I know you want me.” His eyes flicked from yours to the window - where the sound of a siren passed.

You took the moment of his distraction to try and cut at him with your knife. One practiced hand shot out to grip your wrist, twisting in a way that forced you to drop the weapon. He kicked it away without looking, turning you around to press your face in the wall. He was rock-solid, warm and terrifying against your back.

You thrashed wildly, panic flooding every nerve as you tried to twist free, elbows jabbing back at him, legs kicking uselessly against the floor. A desperate, animal sound tore from your throat - half-scream, half-sob. “Eraser- Get off me! Let go-!”

Aizawa's grip only tightened, one arm banding across your chest like iron while the other fished something from the pocket of his belt. “Shouta,” he corrected calmly, voice low and steady against your ear, as if you were simply forgetting an important detail rather than fighting for your life. “You keep forgetting, darling. That’s alright. I’ll remind you as many times as it takes.”

You felt the sharp prick of a needle in your neck before you could even register his hand moving up from his belt. Cold liquid flooded your veins, spreading fast and heavy through your limbs. Your struggles slowed almost immediately - muscles turning to lead, vision blurring at the edges, “N-no… please… Sho- don’t-”

The attempt at his name on your lips drew a soft, approving hum from him, “There we go. Good girl.” He caught your collapsing body easily, scooping you up against his chest as the world tilted and faded. The last thing you registered was the brush of his scarf wrapping around you like a cocoon, the faint scent of him - black coffee, something minty, the night air - before everything went black.

~

When awareness trickled back in, it was slow and disorienting. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry. The surface beneath you was soft - a bed, but not yours, though it did have your sheets. The air smelled different - colder, quieter. You tried to sit up, blinking away your headache, only to find your wrists loosely bound to the bedposts.

Panic clawed up your throat, but your body still felt heavy, sluggish from whatever he’d pumped into you. You tugged at the soft ropes binding your wrists to the bedposts, testing them. They held firm, but didn’t bite into your skin. Almost… considerate. Almost.

The room was sparse but familiar in the worst ways - your pillow under your head, a few of your clothes folded neatly on a chair in the corner. There was a nightstand next to you, a connecting bathroom, a small kitchenette in the corner. A chair at the foot of the bed.

But the walls were different - concrete, reinforced, no windows except a small skylight high above. A safehouse? Underground? The quiet pressed in like a weight.

Footsteps approached from beyond the half-open door. You froze.

Aizawa stepped inside carrying a glass of water and a small plate with what looked like rice and vegetables. He had changed into a plain shirt and sweatpants, hair tied back, eyes as tired as ever. He looked… domestic. Like this was normal.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly, setting the items on the nightstand. His voice carried that same low, steady tone that had haunted your nights for months. “The sedative should be wearing off.” He held the glass to your lips, “Drink this slowly.”

You turned your face away, heart hammering. “Don’t touch me.”

He sighed, but didn’t force the water on you. Instead, he set it aside, placing himself on the edge of the bed, close enough that you could smell the faint coffee on him again. His hand rested on the blanket near your ankle.

“I know this is frightening,” he murmured. “But, you weren’t taking care of yourself. Three days without sleep. You were going to collapse on the street if I waited any longer. This was necessary.”

“Necessary?” Your voice cracked. You yanked harder at the ropes, the bed creaking. “You broke into my home. You drugged me. Let me go, Eraserhead, please. I won’t tell anyone, I swear-”

“Shouta,” he corrected gently, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your damp forehead. You flinched, but there was nowhere to go. “And I told you. I can’t do that.”

The words hung between you. He watched you with that piercing, exhausted gaze - like he was cataloging every micro-expression, every tremor. Like he’d been doing it for months already.

“You can’t do this! What- What about your reputation? You’re a pro hero, if someone finds out-”

“Nobody will find out. Because, you won’t be getting out,” he spoke plainly, like he was telling you about the weather outside. “The sooner you understand that, the easier this will be.”

The finality of it stole the air from your lungs. You stared at him, tears spilling over now, hot and angry, “You’re insane. They’ll look for me. My job, my friends-”

“They’ll find nothing,” he said, voice unchanging. “A tragic disappearance. Villain attack, maybe. I’ve already handled the loose ends. Your security system logs, the camera pieces, the police reports… they lead nowhere useful.” He leaned in slightly, dark eyes softening in a way that made your stomach twist. “You’re safe here - with me. No more paranoia. No more nights wondering if someone’s watching. I am watching. And I’ll keep you safe the way no one else can.”

You sobbed, twisting against the bindings. Part of you still expected the hero - the Eraserhead from the news, the tired, principled man - to snap out of it. But the way he looked at you now was different than the TV. It was possessive. Like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

He let you cry for a while, simply sitting there, one hand eventually resting on your knee through the blanket. Not restraining. Just… there. When your sobs quieted into shaky breaths, he spoke again.

“I know you’re angry. Scared. You’ll fight me for a while. That’s alright,” His thumb brushed a slow circle against your leg. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait for you to see it too - that you belong here.”

He stood slowly, taking the time to release your dominant hand from its restraints, “Eat when you’re ready. I’ll be back to check on you soon. The ropes are only until you stop trying to hurt me. We’ll move to something gentler once you settle.”

Before he reached the door, he paused and glanced back. The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips - tired, but genuine.

“You’re home now. Rest, darling. I’ve got you.”

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock engaging with a soft, final sound. You were left in the quiet, wrist bound to your own familiar sheets, the weight of his words settling over you like his scarf had in the dark.

Outside, in the hallway, the hero leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closing. He could still hear your muffled cries. It stung more than he expected. But, this was right. You needed him. And in time - weeks, months, however long - he would make sure you understood that you wanted him, too.

~~

“Aizawa,” you stretched the end syllable out, sauntering into his empty classroom. You had taken the liberty of altering your work outfit, unbuttoning the top few buttons and pulling your skirt up your waist a little - just enough to show off your ass.

Aizawa was in front of the chalkboard, erasing the remnants of today’s lesson, “What do you want, L/N?” His tone was flat, hardly a question and more of a warning, but you pressed on anyways - it’d become a habit over the course of the past few months.

You gasped dramatically, bringing a hand over your heart, “So cold, Shouta. Am I not allowed to visit my favorite coworker?”

“You have no reason to. Chances are, you’re ignoring responsibilities in favor of agitating me,” he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, the ends of his scarf twitching slightly as you moved to the other side of his podium, leaning over so your breasts pushed up against themselves.

The silence stretched on for a few seconds before you decided to break it again, knowing he wouldn’t, “‘Been talkin’ to you for all these months n’ I hardly know a thing about you. If I ask what you do for fun outside of all this, would you answer?” You tapped a finger on your chin in thought.

“No.”

That was expected. He was still facing away from you, all muscle and tension as he worked to get off a stubborn bit of chalk. You tried again.

“You seem stressed, Aizawa-san. Y’know, I’ve been told I give really good massages,” you wiggled your fingers in emphasis.

He turned over his shoulder sharply, “Do you really think that’s appropriate?”

You shrugged, hands raising in defense, “I don’t mean anything by it,” You both knew you were feigning innocence as you pushed yourself off the podium, “I just want to help out my senpai.”

“No, you don’t. You want to piss me off.” He set the chalk down, a little harder than necessary.

“You’re hot when you’re mad. Every other time, too.” The smile was evident in your voice.

He turned around then, bracing himself on the desk as he leaned into you, stare hardened, “Get out of my classroom.” You could see the tension in his body ripple through as his grip on the wood tightened ever so slightly. A small part of your brain told you to listen to him, to not risk your job and take the out he had given you (several times).

But, the more incessant, more primal part of you took over instead as you cocked your head, sly grin growing, “And if I don’t?”

He growled, lip curling as his scarf shot out to wrap your wrists together above your head, “You’re playing a dangerous game, kid.”

He stalked around the podium, towering over you, the smell of black coffee and his cologne filling your nose. His gaze was stern, tantalizing, as he spoke, “Last chance to get out. I’m too old for you.”

You raised your chin at him, smirk faltering but still present, “Are you? Or are you just scared you can’t handle me?”

That did it. After months of back and forth, a little ego hit is what brought him down. He growled again - louder this time - and spun you around over the desk behind you, backside pressed to his crotch. His scarf unwrapped itself for just a second so he could press your hands behind your back before it secured you again.

“You think this is some kind of game? That you can prance around here after hours - shirt unbuttoned, in that skirt - and just push me around?” He bunched your skirt at the waist, running his fingertips over your panty-clad ass. Your hole clenched in response, hips instinctively pushing into him.

He clicked his tongue, stepping back so you could no longer feel the steadily growing bulge in his pants, “Be patient. I’m teaching you a lesson right now. One that’s far overdue.”

His hand came down on your right cheek, hard. No build up, no time to get used to the feeling. You cried out, hands flexing.

“Count,” was the only warning you got before his hand came down again, on your other cheek this time.

“T-Two!” Your voice shook.

Another three in quick succession. Smack. Smack. Smack.

You moaned into the wood, “Five, sir.”

Aizawa let out a small huff at the title, “Only five before you start to crack? I thought you were hard to handle.” His voice was dry and low, sending little shocks straight to your core.

You felt his hands reach for the edge of your panties, pulling them down to expose you to him fully. He ran a finger over your slick, slowly, “My, my. You’re this worked up already?”

You flushed, pushing your face into the desk below you, “Shut up.” Your words had a fraction of the bite you walked in with.

He continued to rain down hits on you, pinching your inner thigh when you miscounted at twelve, almost audibly smirking at the whimper you let out when he reached fifteen.

You finally looked over your shoulder at his imposing frame, face scrunched in what was meant to be a scary face, “You’re mean.”

He let out a sharp laugh at that, hand coming down on the fat of your ass again. He waited for you to count - “Sixteen, sir” - before he spoke, “Mean? I’ve hardly touched you. If you want mean, I can certainly give it to you.”

You shivered at the promise in his voice, the low timbre of it vibrating through your body where you were bent over his desk. Your ass was already burning from the steady rhythm of his palm, but the ache only made you wetter, thighs pressing together.

“Prove it then,” you challenged, voice breathy but still edged with that stubborn spark. You arched your back slightly, pushing your exposed ass toward him in open defiance. Aizawa’s hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make your scalp tingle.

“Brat,” he muttered, almost fondly. Then his palm cracked down even harder than before - sharp, deliberate, no mercy. You gasped, the count tumbling out shaky, “Seventeen, sir-!”

He didn’t let you catch your breath. Another set rained down in quick succession, each one harder, lower, catching the sensitive underside of your cheeks until your legs trembled and your voice cracked on every number. By twenty-five your eyes were glassy, thighs slick with arousal, and the smug attitude had melted into desperate little gasps.

Only when your knees threatened to buckle did he stop, smoothing a broad, calloused hand over the heated skin he’d abused. The gentleness after the sting made you moan pathetically.

“You’re insatiable,” his voice was low as he ran his fingers over your exposed cunt once more. Without warning, he shoved two inside, curling them into your sweet spot almost instantly.

“Ah- Shouta!” You keened, leaning away from him into the desk only to be pulled onto his fingers by the scarf.

He twisted his free hand in your hair until you arched back into him, “You don’t get to use my name, brat. It’s sir, or you don’t speak at all.”

You keened again as his fingers pumped deeper, thick and calloused, stretching you open with a relentless rhythm that made your toes curl against your shoes. The scarf kept your wrists pinned firmly at the small of your back, forcing your chest down against the cool wood of the desk while your ass stayed raised for him. Every curl of his fingers dragged perfectly against that spongy spot inside you, sending sparks shooting up your spine.

“Sir- fuck- please,” you gasped, hips rocking back desperately to meet his hand.

Aizawa hummed, low and unimpressed. He added a third finger without warning, scissoring them wide as he worked you open. The wet, obscene sound of your arousal filled the empty classroom, echoing off the walls, “Look at you. Soaking my hand already. All that attitude, and this is what you really wanted?”

You tried to twist your head to look at him, but his grip in your hair kept you arched and staring at the back of the class instead.

“I said - ah! - I could handle you,” you shot back, voice breaking into a moan.

His chuckle was dark, “Brat.” He pulled his fingers out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whined at the loss, pushing back shamelessly, but he only slapped your sore ass again - sharp and stinging.

“Stay still.”

You heard the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted behind you. For one dizzying second you thought he might finally give you his cock, but instead he pressed his hips forward just enough for you to feel the hard line of his erection through his pants - hot, heavy, and completely off-limits. When you tried to grind back against it, the scarf tightened around your wrists in warning and he stepped back again.

“No.”

“Sho- sir,” you corrected quickly, “please. I want you.”

“You don’t get to touch,” he spoke flatly. His voice was rough with restraint, but the control never wavered. “You’ve spent months teasing me. Now you take what I give you.”

Two fingers slid back into you, then three again, fucking you harder this time. He released your hair to thumb at your swollen clit - rubbing tight, merciless circles. Your legs shook; the burn from the spanking mixed with the overwhelming pleasure until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Every time you tried to reach for him - even just to brush against his thigh with your bound hands - he adjusted the scarf, keeping you perfectly helpless. You could hear his breathing grow heavier behind you, the occasional low grunt when your walls clenched especially hard around his fingers, but he never let you have more.

“Look at the mess you’re making on my desk,” he murmured, voice close to your ear now as he leaned over you. His chest brushed your back, the heat of him maddening. “Filthy girl. All this for a man almost twice your age?”

“Yes - fuck - yes, sir,” you sobbed, so close you could taste it.

He curled his fingers again, pressing hard against your g-spot while his thumb flicked faster over your clit, “Then come. Show me how badly you needed this.”

The orgasm crashed into you without mercy. Your whole body seized, thighs trembling violently as you cried out, pulsing and gushing around his fingers. He didn’t stop, instead stroking you through it, drawing it out until your vision whited out and little whimpers spilled from your lips.

Only when you started twitching with overstimulation did he slow, easing his fingers out with one last lazy curl. You slumped against the desk, panting, cheeks wet with tears of pleasure.

Aizawa reached for your hair again, smoothing it down almost gently. You felt him step closer, the heavy outline of his cock brushing against your soaked folds through his pants - just enough to tease. You tried to push back, to get any friction, but he gripped your hip hard, holding you still.

“I told you - you don’t get to touch. And you don’t get this,” he said, voice low and final, “until you learn some fucking manners.”

You let out a broken sound of protest, but he only tucked your panties back up and smoothed your skirt down over your burning ass. The scarf finally released your wrists. He pulled you upright on shaky legs, turning you to face him.

His cheeks were faintly flushed, pupils blown wide, but his expression was still that same controlled mask - except for the dark hunger burning underneath as he looked you up and down.

“Fix your clothes,” he ordered quietly. “And next time you decide to play this game in my classroom… knock first.”

You stared up at him, lips parted, thighs still slick and trembling. A slow, dazed smile curved your mouth.

“Yes, sir.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost amused, and turned back toward the chalkboard like he hadn’t just ruined you over one of his student’s desks.

You knew this was far from over.

You’d make sure of it.

He’d sat with himself for all of a minute, studying the outside of the notebook that had been decorated in a way that screamed you. Bakugo’s heart sped up - he knew he shouldn’t do this - as he slowly opened the front cover to see your name scrawled beautifully in front of him, surrounded by little drawn-on hearts.

Okay, definitely your notebook. Definitely shouldn’t keep flipping pages.

Naturally, he flipped several, opening the book to the most recent entry - yesterday’s;

Wow. Look like shit today. No surprises there, I guess I just hoped something would finally change. I’m supposed to go to the mall with Mina and Jirou, but I don’t think I can when I’m this repulsive.

What the fuck? Bakugo felt his hand start to spark, quickly pulling it away from the journal to avoid damage. You really thought about yourself like that? You, who’d had his heart under wraps since day one?

He heard the shower turn off. Bakugo shoved the notebook back under the blankets in its original spot and turned his attention to the TV. There’s no way he could let you know he read it, but he’d already set his mind up on how he could fix it. When you came out, damp and wrapped in a towel and utterly beautiful, the only indication something was off was the slight tinge of pink in the blond man’s ears.

~~

Day 1:

Training had pushed you to your limits. You were exhausted, and to make matters worse, you had been paired with the girls all day. You loved them to death, but avoiding comparisons was even harder when you were face-to-face. All you wanted to do was go to your room and curl up in bed, pretending the body you existed in, didn’t.

Bakugo, as it seemed, had other ideas.

“Oi, dumbass!” His shout sounded from down the hall, your hand pausing from where it was reaching out for the door to your dorm.

Bakugo stalked up to you, hands shoved in his pockets, “What are you doing?”

You hesitated, looking from the door to him, “...Going to my dorm?”

He scowled, “No shit. I’m asking what your plans are, idiot.” His stern gaze was fixated on you, nostrils flaring slightly.

“Oh,” you finally pulled your hand back to your side, “Nothing, I guess. Probably just take a nap.” You stared back at him quizzically, “Why?”

It was his turn to hesitate, pausing to look around subtly before lowering his voice, asking gruffly, “Wanna go to the mall with me?”

You giggled in surprise, grabbing your stomach with laughter, “The mall? You? Wanna go to the mall?”

When his expression turned angry, you let your giggles die down, leveling your voice out with a smile, “I would love to hang out Bakugo, I just didn’t expect that from you.”

He shrugged, neck slowly getting redder with every passing second, expression… sheepish?

“‘M bored,” He was no longer making eye contact with you, eyes darting everywhere but your face.

Before you could say anything about his weird behavior, he turned on his heel in the direction of his own dorm, shoulders curved in on himself as he called over his left,

“I’ll meet you here at 5.”

~~

Meet you at 5 he did, knocking sharply on your door at the turn of the hour, never one to be late.

You opened it to see him in an all-black outfit, tank top and sweatpants as usual. You didn’t expect him to dress up, so you didn’t either, wearing a hoodie and some baggy jeans. When he looked up and onced you over, you swore you saw disappointment in his eyes - if just for a second.

“I still need to put makeup on, you’ll have to wait a sec,” You were already on your way to your vanity when he grabbed your arm through the doorway, turning you around to face him.

“Why?” He didn’t have a readable expression, looking down at you with the intensity he always held, hand still gripping your wrist.

“Why?” You echoed, confused. “‘Cause I need it? Or I like it, whatever. I don’t want to go out without any.”

He scoffed, “You don’t need shit. Let’s go.”

You stared at him.

Bakugo stared back, scowling, “I said let’s go.”

“You don't think I need makeup?”

His expression immediately soured even more, like he regretted knocking on your door at all, “No. I don’t. Let’s go.”

“Bakugo-”

“You're wasting time,” he rolled his eyes.

With that, he turned and started walking down the hall. You stood there for a second before hurrying after him, making sure to shut your door. (Last time he dragged you out you’d left it open. The lecture from Iida felt neverending.)

The entire interaction sat strangely in your chest. Bakugo never once mentioned appearances, unless it was to poke fun - like Kirishima “shitty hair” Eijiro.

Yet today, he'd looked almost offended by the mere suggestion of makeup - something you wore every time you went out.

~~

The mall was... surprisingly fun.

Mostly because Bakugo seemed determined to keep you moving. The second you lingered too long in front of a mirror, he dragged you toward another store. The second you started criticizing yourself, he interrupted.

"That shirt made me look weird." "No, it didn’t, dumbass."

"God, my arms look huge." "Shut up, they look normal."

"This color washes me out." "No it doesn't, quit complainin’."

"You didn't even look."

"I did."

"You're lying, I can literally see you."

"Tch."

It happened so consistently that by the fourth store, you started noticing a pattern - every negative thing you said about yourself seemed to physically irritate him. Like nails on a chalkboard.

Eventually, after you put back a crop top you'd liked, Bakugo finally snapped, "Why'd you put it back?"

You shrugged, "Wouldn't look good on me."

His hand clenched by his side, "According to who?"

"What?" All you could do is blink at him.

"Who decided that?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"...I-I don't know."

"Exactly."

He grabbed the top off the rack and shoved it into your arms.

"Try it on, idiot."

~~

Day 2:

The morning after the mall trip started with combat training, and of course you got paired with Bakugo. He was extra intense today - explosions sharper, movements faster - like he had something to prove. You held your own longer than usual, but he still won. Barely.

You lay sprawled on the training mat, chest heaving, every muscle screaming, “You’re a monster, Bakugo.”

“Get up,” He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, standing over you.

“No,” You closed your eyes. “I’m dead. Leave me here.”

“Get. Up.”

You cracked one eye open. Instead of the expected yelling, a hand appeared in front of your face - Bakugo’s, calloused and steady.

You stared at it, then up at him, “Are you dying?”

His face darkened instantly, and he pulled his hand back, “Nevermind, dumbass.”

You laughed despite the exhaustion and lunged for his hand. He pulled you up with more force than necessary, and for a moment neither of you let go.

His grip was warm - firm. Your heart stuttered. His eyes flicked down to your joined hands, then back to your face. The air felt suddenly thick.

Bakugo suddenly dropped your hand like it burned him, shaking his fingers off. You both looked away at the same time, awkward silence stretching between you.

He cleared his throat, “Again.”

You trained for another hour. Every time you messed up, he corrected you with gruff instructions instead of insults. When you landed a solid hit on him - rare enough to feel like a victory - he actually smirked, “Not bad.”

After training, he didn’t disappear like usual. He walked you back to the dorms in silence, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

He stopped at your door, “You free later?”

You blinked up at him, “Yeah… why?”

“Tch. Just meet me in the kitchen at 6. Don’t be late,” He turned on his heel before you could ask questions, ears suspiciously pink.

~~

At 6 sharp you found him in the common area kitchen, ingredients laid out with military precision; fresh vegetables, rice, thinly sliced meat, and spices. He shoved an apron at your chest without looking at you.

“We’re cooking,” he grunted. “You eat like garbage when you’re moping. Chop these.”

You didn’t argue. There was something unexpectedly nice about working side-by-side with him. He barked orders (“Smaller pieces, idiot!”), but his shoulder brushed yours every so often when reaching for something. The kitchen filled with the smell of sizzling food and the low hum of the TV playing in the background.

Halfway through, you caught your reflection in the stainless steel fridge - hair messy from training, face bare, eyes tired. The familiar knot of insecurity twisted in your stomach.

“I look like shit,” you muttered, hands reaching up to smooth your hair.

Bakugo’s knife paused mid-chop. He didn’t look up immediately.

“You look fine,” he said, voice stern. Then quieter, almost reluctant, “Better than fine.”

You turned to him, surprised. “What?”

He slammed the knife down a little harder than needed, still refusing to look at you, “You heard me. Stop fishing for compliments like an idiot. You don’t need all that crap on your face to be-” He cut himself off, jaw tight. “Just shut up and stir the pan.”

After you ate (in awkward silence, several unspoken words between you), he walked you to your room again. At the door he lingered longer than usual, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Instead he just muttered, “Tomorrow. After class. Roof. Don’t be late.”

“The roof? Why?”

“‘Cause I said so,” He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “Night, dumbass.”

~~

Day 3:

The roof was quiet when you arrived, the sunset painting the sky in warm oranges and pinks. Bakugo was already there, leaning against the railing, shoulders tense. He looked like he hadn’t slept much.

You sat next to his feet on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge through the railing. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The city hummed far below.

Finally, he broke the silence, voice rough.

“I read your journal.”

Your stomach dropped, “You… what?”

“It was under my ass in your room the other day. I opened it. Yeah, I know - shitty move. Shut up,” He scowled at the horizon, but his hands were clenched tight. “I saw what you wrote. About looking like shit. About feeling… repulsive.”

Heat burned behind your eyes. All those ugly, honest thoughts you never wanted anyone to see - especially not him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you whispered.

“‘Cause I’m shit with words,” he admitted. He turned to face you fully now, crimson eyes intense and strangely vulnerable. “I’ve been tryin’ to be softer. Trying to show you that- Y'know, at the mall. Yesterday. That you’re wrong. About everything.”

He stepped back as you stood up. The fading sunlight caught on the sharp lines of his face, highlighting the faint blush climbing up his neck.

“You think you need all that makeup and baggy clothes to hide? Bullshit. You’re the only person who makes my chest feel like it’s gonna explode worse than my damn quirk. Every single day since that first festival. You’re strong. You’re funny as hell. You’re you,” His voice dropped, raw and sincere. “And I’m in- …I like you a lot. So stop thinking you’re less. You’re not. Not to me.”

The world seemed to stop. All the little moments over the past three days - the mall, the hand-holding, the cooking, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered - clicked into place.

You stepped forward, heart hammering, and reached for his hand. This time he didn’t pull away - his fingers curled around yours.

“I’m in love with you too, Katsuki,” you breathed.

A beat. Then the smallest, cockiest smirk tugged at his lips.

“‘Course you are, dumbass.”

He pulled you in by the waist and kissed you lightly - hesitant at first, then harsher and fierce, like he’d been waiting years for this. When you finally pulled back, foreheads resting together, he muttered against your lips,

“Next time you write that crap about yourself, I’m burning the journal. Got it?”

You laughed softly, eyes a little watery, “Got it.”

Best friends?