Hey It's My First Time Requesting So Idk If This Is The Correct Way To Do It But...

Hi, I read you're yandere erasuremic with the skin picking habit. I'm kind of curious with how they would react to their s/o having a bad anxiety habit of biting the inside of their mouth/bottom lip without realizing it

Yandere Erasermic x darling who bites their lip/inside of their mouth due to anxiety

Enjoy! I hope I didn't overwhelm you guys with yandere Todoroki clan too much.

Yandere Erasermic:

They'd try really hard to get you to drop the habit.

Especially since you bite your lips hard and if you have chapped lips, then you often pick on your lips as well, causing it to bleed.

At first, they'd just tell you to stop doing it.

But its a nervous habit, so its not easy to let go. Its painful, but you just can't stop.

When talking doesn't work, they start becoming physical.

Hizashi will often pull your bottom lip from your teeth. He'll swipe his thumb over your chewed out lip, trying to soothe you. He’ll also put a lot of Vaseline on your lips too.

Aizawa would tap your cheek or your chin; giving you a pointed look and tutting at you, causing you to focus on him and stop abusing your lips.

When that doesn't work, Aizawa suggests another measure. Humiliation.

Whenever you start biting your lips again, Hizashi will immediately kiss you. He'd deepen his kiss, always making you breathless. And he has no qualms about doing it in public either. He'll pull you in by you neck, no matter how much you try to push him away. And just when you're about to loose consciousness, he'd pull away, chuckling at your red face. "Oh darling, you really shouldn't have tempted me like that."

Aizawa wouldn't be as nice as Hizashi though. No, his way of humiliating you will have you dropping the habit in no time.

So maybe you stop biting your lips in front of them; you don't want them to get the "wrong idea". But due to your anxiety, you now bite the inside of your cheeks. Its harder to tell when you're doing it, but Aizawa has a keen eye. He'll know, and when he does, he'll turn your face towards him, squish your cheeks and force 2 fingers into your mouth. He'll push the fingers onto your tongue and pull your face near his. Your eyes are wide, face flush with embarrassment as you try to back away but with his thumb around your chin and the fingers in your mouth, he'll pull you back in. "Stop hurting yourself, kitten. Or do you like being gagged?"

I got a few really cute messages, so thanks everyone!💞

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“Just the tip,” he begs you, his voice rough and deep. “Please, baby, just keep the tip of my cock warm for me, ok?”

And how can you say no to that?

He has you on your back, legs spread wide to accommodate his body, his big hands on your thighs. And when he slides in, your slick making for a smooth glide, you squirm at the feeling of being so stretched and full. 

“You – you said just the tip,” you whimper, clenching your thighs around his hips, not knowing whether you want to press him closer or push him away. 

And he leans over your body, cradles your head and neck is his big palm and lifts you just a bit, just enough to see where he’s inside of you, and the inches and inches of cock left to go.

“It is just the tip, baby, see?” he coos, his voice still lust-rough, but sweet.

He rolls his hips back and then forward again, fucking you with just the head of his dick, stretching your pretty pussy around the mushroomed tip.

“Unless you want more?” he says, sliding in just another inch, making you arch your back and moan, shutting your eyes tight to stave off the tears. “How about just half?”

Yooooo that dark Mic anon might be onto smthn...u just know he’d get off to the thought of flipping up his favorite student’s skirt and bending her over his desk while she calls him Mr Yamada

The Mr. Yamada tho ♡♡♡♡

That makes my coochie flutter so much ♡♡♡♡♡

Hold on just a second. Just one itty bitty second. I just- I need to-

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

He thinks about it more often than he should.

He likes to think that you think about it, too.

His favorite little student- so easily flustered and so very sweet, so eager for praise and such a good little girl that gives it all for her beloved teacher. You’re so fuckin’ cute- a real sweetheart- and, god, Yamada loves sweethearts- you’re his true weakness with your innocent face and shy smiles, your soft giggles and sparkling eyes. He loves you and he loves how good you look in your uniform. He loves how soft your thighs look and how hard you work to please him, how you savor his compliments with an eagerness that can’t be faked.

Such a good girl. So genuine. So pure.

He’d love to see the faces you make while grinding on his cock. He’d love to see how sweet you’d look with teary eyes dazed with pleasure and your lips trembling with anxious desire.

He’d love to bend you over his desk and flip your pleated skirt up, get a real good glimpse of your cotton panties.

You’d like it, he knows- you’d like the attention from your sensei and you’d like him teasing you over your wet little pussy and your soft, whiny gasps of “Mr. Yamada!” You’d like him eating your tiny little cunt and you’d like him stuffing you with his cock, making you cum and filling it up and fixing your pretty little panties. You’d like having to sit in your own come for the rest of the school day and you’d like whimpering and rubbing your thighs together, trying not to pant as you wait out the time until you can suck his cock like a good little student and let him fuck and fill you all over again.

A grunt leaves Yamada and he arches up into his fist, bites back a groan as he fucks his hand to the thought of his most favorite little student.

He gets so close to cumming thinking about your tight little peach of a cunt and he gets so close to getting off to your sweet whimpers and mewls as the thought of turning you into his darling little slut.

He gets so close but then-

The bell.

A snarl of a sigh leaves Yamada and he huffs to himself, stuffs his cock back into his pants and wipes his hand down his jacket. He pouts as students begin to file back into the classroom, but a small smile melts it away when he alights his eyes on you.

Yamada licks his lips as he watches you sit down, as he catches a flash of striped panties as you cross your legs.

Maybe he’ll keep you after class today...he knows you wouldn’t mind some one on one time with Mister Yamada.

Lips twitching with a smirk, Yamada picks up and his chalk and begins to teach.

Me when i was younger: i like horror movies cause gore!!

Me now; uh,,,,,stabby,,,,boy,,,,pretty

Fervency

Non-Ascended Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Synopsis: After falling into mysterious spores in the Underdark, you start to experience some... strange side effects. Astarion is more than happy to assist.

Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough), aphrodisiac/glorified sex pollen, established relationship, discussions of consent, fingering, oral sex (both giving and receiving), blood drinking, multiple orgasms. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.

Word Count: 5.7k

There’s not much that surprises you anymore.

It’s true - being kidnapped by illithids, having a tadpole implanted behind your eyes, facing the gods themselves - all of that does make it difficult for mundane life to come anywhere close enough to truly shock you. Your days aren’t necessarily peaceful, but they never seem quite as exciting as that blind haze of companionship in the aftermath of the nautiloid, trekking through the wilderness and shadow-cursed lands and the city, finding yourself in the company of strangers but soon-to-be family.

Still, these days, there’s something every now and then that catches you off guard. The trouble is, you’re never quite left in a space to know how to handle it. Unlike your earlier adventures, things are rarely solved with a dagger in your hand or a dash of flattery in your words. No, the burdens of day-to-day life are much more complicated than that.

Falling into a patch of mysterious spores, for one.

The Underdark is full of various mushrooms. Poisonous. Explosive. Befuddling. You could go on and on. You’ve had your number of close calls with them, but the sensation coursing over your skin feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced - and it doesn’t help that you’ve never seen spores like this.

Hells. Of course this is where your day would end up. 

Just a little stroll, you’d told yourself. It’ll be harmless. And it had been, for the most part. There’s an unearthly beauty to the Underdark that you’ve never encountered anywhere else, one you’ve come to appreciate just as much as the upper surface. But halfway through your usual route, your feet had snagged on a branch and you’d gone tumbling, and now - now you’re in a patch of glowing, red spores, feeling like…

Gods, what do you feel? 

Hot. You feel very, very hot. Sweat trickles down your back. Warmth blooms like poppies in a number of strange places - your cheeks, your lips, your neck. The feeling is spreading fast, bleeding through your ribs as you get to your feet.

Alright, you think to yourself, ignoring the sharp, bleeding panic in your throat that’s threatening to take over. Situations like this call for a sense of rationality. You’re going to get out. 

It takes much longer than it should for you to slowly stumble back to familiar ground. Your movements are jerky, as if you’re being puppeted around, and it’s getting harder to think straight when you’re feeling as if - whatever this is - is slowly consuming you. The heat is in your lungs, coursing fire near your pounding heart, raging with every inhale. 

You need to get this off of you, and as quickly as possible. After that, maybe it will fade and maybe it won’t. You’ll… you’ll figure it out. 

By the time you make it to the river, your knees are trembling so much that you nearly fall in. The water barely scratches the surface of the fire when you splash it over your skin, but the coolness of it is euphoric. You go as quickly as you can, covering area by area - your clothing, your arms, your face and neck - until most of the spores are off, but the feeling pulses and throbs in you all the same. Whatever it is, it isn’t killing you, but it certainly isn’t pleasant. 

You could tell Astarion. He’d tease you a little, but he’d also be certain to search endlessly to find something to stop your discomfort. And you ache for him. His touch, his voice, the fondness in his eyes when he looks at you. 

Had it really been just this morning when you’d last seen him? It seems like lifetimes away - lost to a very, very different type of ache in your veins that won’t seem to fade. You’ve just made up your mind to go find him, rising to your feet again, when the heat rushes to a very specific place between your legs and all thoughts of looking for Astarion are instantly cast out.

Oh, you think, somewhere between dizzy, needy, and utterly humiliated. So that’s what this is.

You’ve read about things like this - plants, pollen, potions -  but most of them had been in bad romance novels, and none of them had ever come with any mention of an antidote. And, needless to say, you won’t be making your way to the Myconid Sovereign to learn more. It’ll have to be handled on your own. 

You could risk going home and pretending to be ill, but Astarion is far too perceptive for that. He’d see through your ruse immediately. Which leaves the only option: hiding in a cave and waiting this out, praying he won’t notice you’re gone and come searching for you before you’re back.

And really, how bad can it be?

Bad. It can be very, very bad. 

You’ve been sitting in this cave for who knows how long, and your sanity is fading more and more by the minute.

It had been manageable at first. The heat spread through you like warm cider on a cold night - a slow, steady increase, the way a candle gradually burns down to the wick. You’d thought it would stop at a certain point (it had to, didn’t it?), but no. It just… kept going. 

Now, every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire, and it’s not slow, or steady, or even remotely bearable. It’s a strange, pleasurable flame, but a flame nonetheless. You can’t even decide whether touching yourself would even help at this point. Even just grazing your hand along the length of your thigh sends the fire rising, and you’re not keen on experimenting at the moment.

Your hands have gone stiff from balling your fists. Your mouth keeps switching between being as dry as sand and overly salivating. Each breath ignites more warmth, and you’ve been trembling for so long that you don’t remember how it feels to be still.

Gods. If you trusted yourself to get to your feet, you’d go see the Sovereign - a lifetime’s worth of humiliation or not. You don’t have any clue what time it is. There’s no sun or moon down here to guide you, no mechanism to spell out the hour. Has Astarion noticed your absence? How long until he’s concerned?

You know enough to know that you should have been back by now - that it’ll be unusual for you to have been gone so long. At least this spot you’ve found for yourself is relatively private. A dark, dry little place with a stone floor; fluorescent ivy in shades of lavender and coral; remote enough that, if your willpower fails and you end up making some noise, no one will be around to hear. 

You attempt to swallow, but the action dies on your tongue. You attempt to breathe, but you can’t seem to suck in any air. You’re just thinking you really might die in this painful, mortified state when the pad of footsteps on stone hits your ears, and your whole body pulls as taut as a rope. 

Oh, gods. Please not him. Anyone else. The Sovereign. The Society of Brilliance. Anyone.

But it’s him, because of course it is. He slowly makes his way inside, pressing through the narrow entrance and around the corner, and when he sees you curled against the cave wall, his brows rise - alarm.

“Wait,” you blurt out, determined to speak before he can. “Don’t come any closer. Please.”

Astarion stays where he is, but his eyes start instinctively scanning you over, searching for ailment or injury. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, even though you’re anything but. You want to say more, but your thoughts trail off as another wave of heat flares inside of you. You’ve started trembling again. Your fingers accidentally graze against your thigh, and you let out a small, involuntary noise.

Astarion hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Darling,” he starts, raising a brow, “you make a terrible liar.”

Of course you can’t fool him. Not even a little. You let out a laugh, but the sound hitches into a strange, choked sob. You pull your knees to your chest and let out a long, shaking breath, trying to get a grip. “I know,” you say softly. “Gods. I’m sorry.”

He takes another step closer, and concern writes itself into his expression. “Gods below,” he exclaims. “Er - my sweet, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look...”

“Horrible?” you finish for him. “I know.” 

“I… was going to say ill, actually,” Astarion replies, laughing a little. “This dark cave lighting looks beautiful on you, my dear.”

You can’t resist another laugh. It’s less burdened this time, but it fades away as you hesitate, very pointedly gazing down at your fingernails instead of meeting his eyes. “I may or may not have fallen into a patch of mysterious spores.”

“And?” Astarion says, lifting a hand into the air and giving a small, contemplative gesture. “Go on, darling. Seeing as you aren’t dead - I’m assuming they weren’t poisonous?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. How the hells are you going to phrase this? “No,” you answer. “I just feel… hot. Not like the explosive ones, just… hot.”

“Well,” Astarion says, “That’s… interesting. Alright - let me take a look at you.”

Half of you wants to protest, but what’s the point? He’ll find out the truth sooner or later. So, instead, you nod.

He steps closer, kneeling down at your side, and you have to ball your fists to keep from doing something stupid. You’re expecting more flame at his touch - a painful flare, like when you’d grazed your thigh - but when the back of his hand meets your forehead, his touch is like a salve. Soothing, cool, sweet. It mellows out the fire, makes you feel sane again.

You shut your eyes in relief, staying as still as you can, and when you open them, you find him giving you a look you know all too well. Smug. Affectionate. A glint in his eye that can only mean trouble.

“My, my,” he purrs. “Darling, I’m no healer, but… a racing pulse, dilated pupils, feverish to the touch? That, I know.” He leans in, his voice low in your ear. “And I can smell how much you want me.”

A shudder runs down your back, betraying you. Astarion leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours - soft and gentle and perfect - and it takes everything in you to pull away.

“Wait,” you protest. 

He instantly halts, pulling away from you and scanning over your expression. “What is it?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” you say quickly. “But you don’t… I mean - I can manage this on my own, you know.”

His brows rise. “My dear, you do realize I am very capable of helping you in this situation?”

“Gods, Astarion,” you say, biting back a delirious sort of laughter. “Believe me, I’m well aware. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. I can manage this.”

A fondness enters his expression - the rare kind, reserved for the most meaningful of moments. He leans closer, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. “I know,” he says softly, the words tender and delicate. “Trust me. I want to do this.” He trails a finger along your thigh, and you shiver again. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “And, unless I’m wrong, you’ve missed me, too.”

After searching his gaze and finding him entirely present, you let yourself relax into his touch. “I’ve missed you more than anything.”

“Good,” he says. “I was almost worried.”

He skims his knuckles over your jaw, leaning in to kiss you once more, and the flame in you seems to bend to his touch. It rages in you like a furnace, bellowing and cruel, but with every frigid brush of his fingers, the feeling subsides. Even the feel of his lips on yours seeps away the discomfort.

He’s slow with his actions, but he doesn’t tease, even though you can see the amusement in his eyes when he pulls away to look at you. He’s enjoying this, and if you’re honest with yourself, you are, too. If only it didn’t come at the price of your dignity - but if it’s going to fall away in front of anyone, it might as well be him. 

His hands slide down to your thighs, and your whole body pulls tight, torn between wanting him to touch you now and not wanting him to stop what he’s doing.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting against your ear. “I’ve got you, darling.”

You let out a shaky breath and try to coax your body into cooperating, shutting your eyes and letting the feel of him drown out the path of your thoughts. The sensation of his mouth, trailing down your neck, ranging between feather-light kisses and the barely-there sting of his teeth against the skin, making every inch of you melt into his touch like clay. His hands, sliding to the front of your top, deftly unlacing it and pulling it away from your skin.

Thank the gods no one is anywhere around this area - if anyone were to interrupt you, you’re sure you’d die right here and now. The simmering need that lies under your skin is bordering on painful, a white-hot delirium of impatience that will not be ignored any longer.

Astarion’s fingers skim across your sternum, further soothing the burning inside your chest, and his lips soon follow downward. You let out a soft noise from the back of your throat, something choked and desperate, and he hums against your skin in response.

When your eyes flutter open again, you find that he’s staring up at you as he kisses down your abdomen, eyes dark and hands curled lightly around your ribs, ardor and affection both palpable in the heat of his gaze.

Your instinct is to shut your eyes again - to shut out the intimacy and vulnerability that comes from holding his stare - but you don’t. Instead, you move the stiff muscle of your arm and coax your hand into working again, gently tangling your fingers into the silky-smooth, silvery curls in your lap.

He gives you a roguish grin, tugging on your bottoms until they finally, mercifully, pull away from your skin, leaving you in nothing but your smallclothes.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, the words dark and heavy on his tongue, but they feel more for him than for you. His brows crease together and his actions turn sure and firm and quickened - as if he can’t wait to have his mouth on you.

Beautiful. It’s the second time he’s called you that word tonight, but it doesn’t stop the heat from rising back into your cheeks, and that feeling of the warmth seems to spark a chain reaction. 

It’s as if his voice is stoking the fire - more heat, all rushing to the very place his lips are heading to now, only to be soothed by his touch. He gently pulls at your thighs, coaxing you to lay on your back, and you’re so desperate that you nearly knock your head against the hard floor laid out beneath you in your effort to obey.

Your mind isn’t processing things the way it usually does: in an even, progressing line of events, every moment spread out from one to the next. Rather, everything comes in bursts of feeling, flashing between being a thousand miles away and all too close, all too present. You barely feel the graze of fabric when he removes your smallclothes and leaves you entirely bare, but the gentle, wet press of his tongue against you feels amplified a thousand times over.

“Astarion,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair. 

He hums again, and the feeling of it has you shivering, muscles going slack in pleasure. Short, soft flicks of his tongue over your clit and you’re left a shuddering mess, not thinking to try to be quiet - not really thinking at all, anymore. He grips at one of your thighs, looping it over his shoulder as he pulls away for a moment, nipping at the tender flesh there. Soothing it with a gentle kiss, then returning to his work.

You’re a walking - or perhaps laying - contradiction. Your arousal is lava hot, but your pleasure is cold as ice. You can’t decide if you’re cold or hot or both or neither. You’re not in a place to think, not as blinding bursts of pleasure course up your spine, rendering you a lump of skin and bones and not much more. His mouth is nothing if not fervent.

You aren’t sure how long it lasts - your hand in his hair, his mouth against you, writhing in dizzying pleasure against the hard, stone floor and barely feeling the discomfort. It might not be very long at all - but it feels like hours before his fingers enter you.

You’re soaking wet. If you weren’t so focused on, well, everything else, it’d be humiliating. Still, when two fingers slip into you and meet no resistance whatsoever, Astarion groans. The pace he’s setting with both hand and tongue is torturous, slow and even, and it takes everything in you not to beg him for more. 

But when he goes a little faster, a moan pulls from your throat, and you look down to find him grinning as he pulls away, fingers still at work. “Look at you,” he says, praise lilting the words as he curls his fingers - sending your hips rolling. “You’ll come for me, won’t you, darling?”

And as if he’s flicked a switch in your mind, you’re coming around his fingers, gasping and shuddering and clenching. Electricity seems to coarse through your veins, hot and sharp, flaming and radiant, and when it’s gone, there’s only the slickness between your thighs, a slight breathless laughter that escapes from you without a thought, and the fading warmth of the spores.

For a moment, it seems as though there might be relief. Your thoughts clear and the heat wanes, but after a sparse second or two of relief, it comes back as strong as ever. 

You’d be disappointed at its reappearance, but then Astarion is crawling over you, using his knee to coax your legs apart for him, so how could you ever be disappointed? Everything else slips away except for him. His eyes, dark with want, his lips, molding against yours, his tongue, gently pressing into your mouth as he buries a hand in your hair.

He’s hard for you. You can feel it, and that realization has you grinding against him. He groans, cursing under his breath, then reaches down to undo his trousers. “Are you ready for me, love?” he asks, his voice half-broken with want.

You laugh, still trembling from your climax. “You know I am.”

“Mm,” he hums, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “But maybe I wanted to hear you say it for me, darling.”

Gods. He’s beautiful - always so beautiful - even here, in this dark, cold cave you’ve found. A work of art down to the dark circles under his eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes, his smile lines. 

You could spend a thousand years studying the art of him and never, ever get bored; not of his voice, and the way his confidence sometimes, ever so rarely, breaks into something real and raw. Not of his hands: nimble fingers and the calluses from his blade and soft skin - and not of his eyes, which seem both dark and light depending on his mood, and which can seem so sharp and severe at times, but sometimes soften into something soft and round. Sometimes. When they’re looking at you.

You could spend a thousand years admiring him and never, ever get tired of him, and never, ever deserve him. And he’d never believe it.

He’s noticed you staring, because of course he has, and he tilts his head. “What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?”

You can only smile, deliriously happy and wanting and both hot and cold - hot where the warmth burns uncontained, and cold everywhere his skin meets yours. “I love you.”

Your words must catch him by surprise, because it’s shock that meets his expression first. It fades away into affection, placing itself on his lips in a soft smile. “I - I love you too,” he answers, brushing a stray strand of your hair out of your face. “More than anything.” 

He clears his throat and shifts, and as you feel his erection brush against you, only then do you remember the conversation you two had been having. Him between your legs. You, still needing him inside of you.

“I’m ready for you,” you breathe. “Please. I want you.”

“How could I say no?” he asks, leaning in and biting at the lobe of your ear.

He presses into you slowly, even though you don’t need it - not after the effects of the spores and your first climax still evident on your thighs. Only when he once again begins a slow, torturous pace do you realize that he’s doing it to tease you, and when you look up and find a certain amount of devious intent in his eyes, a shudder runs down your back.

He’s always seemed to enjoy watching you fall apart. How many times have you looked up in the middle of one of your late-night trysts to find his eyes on you, the darkened ruby gaze that seems as starved for you as his hunger for blood? 

How many times has he eased your arm away from your face when you felt the need to hide yourself, and how many times has he gently pulled your hand away from your mouth so he could hear the noises you made for him? 

There’s never really been a question about it; Astarion gets off on your pleasure, and the feeling is very, very mutual. Vulnerability aside, it does something beyond words to you to know how much he enjoys giving you pleasure. And, sure as the hells, you like to give it right back to him. So, keeping your gaze locked on his, you grind your hips down to meet him and let out a moan.

His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, his thrusts deepening as he props himself over you. You watch the lovely path of the action over the bob of his Adam’s apple, then flit your eyes back to his, letting out another noise.

“Gods,” he says, and his pace quickens. His hands wrap around your shoulders and he groans, panting as he rocks into you, his grip turning into something almost bruising. 

Part of you desperately wants him to keep going - but the other part of you wants to give him something, and now seems the proper time for it. So you tilt your head to give him access to your neck and murmur a few, soft words, and he slowly comes to a halt: breathing heavily, nails digging into your skin as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.

He kisses down your jaw, slowly drags his teeth along the skin, then sinks his fangs into your neck. You’re used to the sharp pain of his bite, but it’s different today. Intensified. It’s as if his mouth on your skin, the barely-there pain, is salving through that fire and every single limb of yours goes slack with…

What is it? Pleasure? Affection? Relief? It’s something in between, something warm but not scorching, something sweet but not overly-saccharine. He starts moving his hips again and you’re instantly on the edge, planting your hands on his lower back underneath his scars and resisting the urge to dig your nails into the skin.

He’s drunk from you enough times since you met to know where the limit lies, even on the cusp of his climax. He drains you until you’re sufficiently lightheaded, but not enough to harm you, then pulls away, planting a messy kiss on your mouth. 

Messy. It’s how you know he’s close. His actions are usually so graceful, his movements lithe and calculated. Only on the edge of orgasm do the pretenses fall away - his shaking thighs, soft moans into your lips, panting, blood smeared across his lips and almost certainly yours. 

There’s a blinding moment of pleasure as he thrusts harder, deeper, neither of you caring about the level of noise you’re making, and your nails dig into his back. He lets out a groan of approval, then - gods, you’re climaxing again, your whole body trembling with the waves of pleasure that crash over you. Overwhelming at first, then receding into the brief moment of clarity that lasts a minute or two this time. 

Then the spores start their work again.

The heat isn’t nearly as intense this time, but it’s still there. Part of you wonders if it’ll ever really fade. You lay still, gasping, as Astarion slowly pulls out of you. Then he brushes the damp hair out of your face and kisses you again. 

“Darling,” he starts breathlessly, flashing a mischievous grin at you, “if this is where we’ll end up, you should fall into mysterious spores more often.”

You laugh, sending a playful, light hit toward his shoulder. He catches your hand mid-action, pressing a kiss to your palm, holding your gaze the entire time. “You’re not the one who feels like they’re on fire, Astarion.”

He hums, kissing back down your neck, cleaning up the remnants of blood from his bite. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, his voice gravelly with want. 

That gives you pause. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says with some effort, propping himself above you, “whatever those spores were - they seem to have entered your bloodstream, my dear. It’s - an interesting sensation, I’ll admit.”

You’re searching his face for a tell that he’s not being serious, but instead you find wide, blown out pupils, flushed cheeks, and nothing beside his usual mischievousness. Any blood left in your face quickly exits. “Gods, I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He presses another soft kiss to your lips, and you see a small smear of your blood on his lips. When you lick your lips, you can taste the iron of it on your tongue.

Astarion is watching you. His gaze darkens, and he lets out another thin, broken groan. “Darling. At this rate, we’ll be going the whole night.”

And, honestly? With the rate the heat is returning - you don’t doubt it. 

Still, you gently ease him off of you to sit up, then make your way into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck. 

There’s something addictive about Astarion - there always has been. From the moment he’d had you against the dirt, a dagger to your neck, he’s been your fix.  

In those first days when you’d had to hide your want for him - not even lust or sheer desire, but want; the ache to run your finger through silver curls, the warmth in your cheeks when he held your gaze just a moment too long, and the rare moments of vulnerability that came more and more as you’d gotten to know him - it had been torture. 

And then he’d propositioned you. And all at once, you’d found yourself in a clearing under silver moonlight, alone with him, long before you ever knew the extent of what had been done to him - and after all this time, the craving for him, the need to lay beside him in the long nights and find him there come morning, has only ever gotten so much stronger.

The heat is somewhat bearable now. Enough to take a moment to admire him, head tilted as he gazes up at you, pure need simmering in his eyes. Dark, glinting rubies. His fangs, barely visible under parted lips. Flushed cheeks. That will fade before long; the rosiness of drinking never lasts more than a few minutes, but you admire it all the same. 

“You’re beautiful.” The words are hushed. You hadn’t even meant to speak them, but your mind isn’t really yours at the moment, not wholly, not as firm as it should be. You feel half-drunk, half-needy. 

The corners of his lips flick into a smile, and he raises a brow. “Oh?” he asks, clearly stealing for more flattery. “Do you think so?”

You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You know I do.” 

You gather a single, loose curl in your fingertips and gently roll it between your thumb and index finger, admiring the softness of it. You could use the same soaps, wash your hair with the same things he uses a thousand times over, and it’d never matter. It’d never be as soft as his.

“Anything in particular?” he asks. His voice is particularly airy; he’s battling between begging you for what he needs, and the compliments he likes so much.

You think back to when you’d first described him - that night beneath the stars, when he’d tossed the mirror aside and asked how you viewed him. Words hadn’t been enough then, and they still aren’t, but you’ll try.

“Your eyes,” you start, running your finger over his crow’s feet. “They change color in the light. Right now, they’re dark. Hungry. I can tell you want me, and I like that.”

His hands, which have strayed to the back of your thighs, tighten against your skin. “And? What else?”

The heat’s strength is back, clawing its way up your abdomen. “The way your hair curls around your ears,” you murmur.

He frowns, and you know you’ve gone too poetic. To distract him, you lean in and nip at the lobe of one, and any of his upset disintegrates. 

“Gods,” he murmurs, bringing his hands up to your waist. “Darling, I can’t wait much longer-”

You’ve trailed down to his jaw, alternating between kisses and sharp little nips just like the ones he likes to give you, and the words die in his mouth in favor of a sharp inhale. 

You won’t keep him waiting much longer. In fact, you have a plan. A plan that’d hatched from the moment you’d realized that the spores were in his system, too. Since you’d seen the hungry look in his eyes - every inch a predator circling around its prey.

Only, you’re not content to be the prey. You want to disarm him, and if any of the time you’ve spent together means anything, you’ve gotten very, very good at that.

His shirt is still on, so your hands are quick to remove it, tugging it away from cooling porcelain skin, silky under your fingers as you drag them down his sternum. He shudders, and you remember how it’d felt when he’d first touched you. If it’s anything like that, he’s probably dying to beg you for more.

Your lips soon follow the path your hands are sitting, taking your time with the softness of his abdomen before you pull his trousers away. He’s panting now, and a frenzied sort of desperation lies in his gaze when you look up at him.

And he’s hard again. Leaking.

You lightly trace your nails down his thighs, silently relishing in the way his breath hitches - the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you. 

“Gods,” he says again, and though it isn’t a direct request, with the broken way it falls off his tongue, this time it is every bit a plea. 

And you’re in a mood to please.

You take his cock in hand, swiping your thumb over the head, where precum is slowly leaking, and he lets out a long, breathy noise. You hum in response, taking his length between your lips, and the sound becomes strained, more needy. His hand gently makes its way into your hair, very lightly guiding you where he wants, but not forcefully.

You alternate between things: long, even movements of your mouth as you drag your tongue down the shaft, swirling your tongue around the head, then sucking him hard and slow. Eventually, simply following the guidance of his hand. His grip tightens in your hair - not painful, just encouraging - and his noises become more drawn out, less coherent.

When you pull away for a moment, using your hand to continue what your mouth had just been doing, you find him dangerously close. You press a kiss to the head and take him in again, increasing pace, accommodating him as you take him in as far as you possibly can, and he starts whimpering. 

“Please,” he says, and if that isn’t a rare word to hear from him. 

On another day, you might tease him, but you don’t want to. Not now, while he’s begging to have you. Instead, you take him as deep as you can again and suck harder. Astarion tugs at your hair and his thighs shudder and you know he’s close.

“Please,” he says again. “Gods, don’t stop.”

And you wouldn’t dream of it. What you can’t take into your mouth, you use your hand to stroke, and that’s it. He’s coming.

There’s something artful about it - the tremor that runs through him, the salty taste of him in your mouth, and those seeking, breathless sounds that come out of him as he spills onto your tongue. A long, shaky inhale as he pumps his hips, still chasing out his pleasure, then the trembling exhale as his mind starts to come back to him.

He doesn’t soften, and you don’t take your mouth off him. Not yet.

Usually, Astarion can be counted on for two orgasms, but if those spores are doing anything remotely like what they were doing to you, there’s certain to be much, much more than that.

“By the hells,” he murmurs airily, running a hand down your back. “You’re going to kill me, darling.”

You pull away for a moment, kissing at his abdomen, keeping his eyes locked on his as you do. “Does that mean you want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, trailing your nails along the skin of his thigh.

He swallows hard. “Gods, don’t,” he pleads.

And you don’t.

the older woman im dating takes me to the park and lets me run around for my daily enrichment

“Where do you think you’re going?” [shouta aizawa x reader]

Rating: E. (Smut, Spanking, Daddy Kink, Protective/Possessive, Yandere.)

Word Count: 4,500+

Summary: Someone may or may not have diverged from an intensely thought-out plan to capture high-tier villains when they find an opening to take down way more degenerates than originally thought. Good news? Your gamble worked, exponentially well. Bad news? Your boyfriend isn’t happy about it. Not. One. Bit. 

•

“Where do you think you’re going?”

A voice - rough, cold, detached - asks you, your muscles going painfully rigid, your instincts screaming at you to run.

“I— uh— we’re going out to celebrate. Keigo and Yu heard about this sushi joint that opened downtown—“

Shouta’s lips are set in a thin, grim line, eyes dark with restrained indignation, before he says, in a leveled voice that rattles you down to your bones more so than if he’d screamed at you—

“Tonight. When you’re done celebrating, meet me at the safe house. Understood?”

For the love of God, your knees nearly give out from the dark, foreboding tone of his voice.

“I asked you a question, (Y/N).”

“Y-yes, sir. Meet at the safe house. Right after we’re done… celebrating.”

“Hmph. So instructions do get through that thick skull of yours. Let’s see if you can obey them this time around.”

You stare down at the ground, praying to deities you don’t believe in that he didn’t see you wince, before you nod minutely and blend into the crowds as an ordinary civilian - not a morally gray vigilante who’s slowly but surely turning to the light because of this atrociously incredible hero.

Who’s left you feeling like a kicked dog.

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Hi! Can I please request a scenario of a female reading waking up in the morning with Aizawa after sex ~together~ for the first time (he's not her first partner, I understand you don't write s/o FIRST times). They've been in a relationship for a few months, but finally moved to the next level of intimacy last night. Reader is just lazily admiring Aizawa, to which he then wakes up and spends a quiet/pleasant morn together - & if you're okay with it, lead to some good ol' morning smut? Thanks!

Ah, last request for this blog (’: Let’s go out with a bang (pun intended), shall we?

Rated Lemon

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Aizawa is addicted to making you cum. Sometimes he wakes up so riled up from you softly sighing and nuzzling into him all night, from being tense and pent up all week, that he starts to finger you first thing. You might try and push him off, laughing, saying that you're not even awake yet, but he'll just mouth at your neck while his long fingers spread you open and coax sweet, soft arousal from you. He makes you cum once on his fingers and then again on his cock, bucking into you slowly, dragging it out. You're more than ready for breakfast after that, and while you brew coffee and he makes food he keeps coming up to you to stand behind you, grope at your ass and tits, kissing your exposed shoulders. You realize that it's gonna be one of those days and make a bigger pot of coffee. He tugs you back into the bedroom after you spend half an hour with your plants, pets and whatnot, and locks the door. He fucks you rough this time, pinning your wrists above your head and watching your tits bounce, telling you how sexy and juicy your body is, how much he wants to never let go of your plush softness, how much he wants to bury his cock in you every moment of every day. He edges himself for what feels like two hours, moaning that he doesn't want it to end, wants more. He makes you orgasm around him by rubbing at your clit while he pounds into you, and the feeling of you squeezing around him, your moans and whimpers, your strangled "Ah...S-Shou!" makes him see stars. His balls tighten up and he can't take it. When he finally cums inside you, your pussy quivering around him from the pretty pretty moans he grants you, he just keeps going. His stamina is insane and you're delirious. He fucks his cum deeper inside you and this time goes slow, almost lazy. He lies on top of you, his tongue in your mouth, panting, praising you. You're my good girl, so sweet for me, so tight. I've been fucking you for hours and you're still fluttering around me. Are you that needy for me? Say it, kitten, say you're desperate for me.. You cum around him with a gentle mewl and a rolling, languid shaking. There's not much energy left in you and your pussy is a little numb from the friction, but you still want him. You still get wetter and wetter when he groans or rolls his eyes. Aizawa is tired too, but he wants to see you cum again. Just one more time, for him, please. He knows you can. You're almost crying from overstimulation, your pussy raw and puffy. He gets comfortable between your legs and latches onto your clit, sucking it so gently that you cum easily and tears spill out. You're still shaking and moaning when he crawls back up your body for a kiss. You beg him to stop now, you need rest. He promises you can have anything you want for cumming so pretty for him - his dick twitched and swelled from your sounds and taste. You're hungry, so he orders food and you cuddle while it arrives. After you both eat and rest a bit he might just get another couple orgasms out of you. He knows you can do it for him.

♠   title, type: mori as your s/o headcanons.

♠   character, fandom, type of reader: mori ogai, bungou stray dogs, gender neutral reader.

♠   genre, rating: fluff

♠   themes, triggers: none.

♠   author’s note: as requested here’s some fluffy headcanons of mori as you’re s/o ! please don’t hesitate to send in more requests, i think writing these up are so cute. 

- unlike fukuzawa, that keeps his work life and private life separate, mori is a bit more open with his. so is s/o most likely plays an active role in the port mafia. while they might not be an employee, they would be at the headquarters oftentimes alongside mori.

- everyone treats you with the same respect as they treat mori. they know damn well that if they disrespect you, they are basically disrespecting their boss. it may cause issues but considering you’re friendly with almost everyone in the port mafia it doesn’t pose as an issue.

- he’s fiercely protective over you and because of that he makes it known that you’re his s/o. since he isn’t afraid of showing affection, he will give you tons of physical affirmation in a public setting. he gives you kisses constantly (on the cheek, forehead, hands, etc)

- he likes when people look at you in awe but is quick to remind them that you belong to him. 

- mori is the type to pamper you. stressful day at work? he’ll draw you a bath to relax. he provides you with as much money you need for spa treatments, manicures, pedicures, etc.

- speaking of providing, he doesn’t hesitate to spend an entire paycheck on you. though he’s adamant on buying you beautiful clothes and expensive jewelry, he will hand over his credit card to you and say “go wild.” maybe you bring chuya along and buy him a new pair of heels.

- “gifts” range from expensive bouquets, ridiculously large stuffed animals, jewelry, handbags, etc. 

- i don’t think mori is the type to use pet names but he will use them sometimes to tease you. he enjoys saying your name. he says it cutely and with so much love.

- he brags about you to anyone he meets. he has a picture of you in his wallet, just you. and he doesn’t hesitate to share it with others. he hypes you up “aren’t they the most gorgeous person you’ve ever seen?” he probably has photos of you and him around his office.

- considering this man is extra as hell, i’m sure he commissioned a giant painting of you two and elise. its displayed in the main entryway of his office.

- part of you understands that elise plays a huge role in mori’s life. and you don’t want to get in between that, but you do make the effort to befriend elise. it’s difficult but he’s thrilled to see you take initiative.

- i do think mori is the type of man who enjoys being scolded. so he’ll intentionally do things to make you upset (little annoying things) when you do scold him he gives you those stupid pleading eyes.

- you’re always close to him because he likes that closeness. if you’re sitting in a chair too far, he’ll drag it closer. if you’re relaxing at home or even at work you take a seat on his lap. you admire his side profile as he works diligently. he blushes.