Chapter Text
——————AIZAWA—————
Aizawa moves through the classroom like something half-feral, hood shadowing his eyes, step lazy but never aimless. The late summer heat seeps through the wide, half-opened windows, curling the page corners of student notebooks and bringing a faint, animal stench from the training grounds below. He moves as if sleepwalking, but there is nothing less than predatory about the way his gaze sweeps across the desks. Especially when it lands on Midoriya.
Midoriya is supposed to be working on an assignment—a dry catalog of quirk restrictions—but his hand cramps against the pencil. He’s sweating. The kind of sweat that only a very specific, mortifying biology can explain, and he doesn’t need to glance at the classroom’s clock to know that he’s several hours out from heat. No. This is all Alpha and none of it noble. The scent in the air is pure Aizawa: musk, threat, a low and constant warning threaded with something subtler. His shirt is hitched up again. A scarred line of skin winks at the class every time he reaches for the marker, making a dozen hearts flutter and twice as many heads duck in embarrassment.
For Izuku it’s worse. He isn’t just one of the general populace: a background character with a pleasant enough face and basic scent. He’s an Alpha too, and everyone knows it, even if his secondary sex characteristics haven’t exactly shaken the world. He’s still getting used to how his sweat smells different, how even his tears have bite now. His body is bigger, his voice is lower, but his instincts have not evolved in tandem. His instincts are still a tremulous mess, still Beta or even Omega at their root. When Aizawa lifts his arms, baring both a patchwork of old wounds and a soft, dusky underarm, Midoriya’s brain just—stops.
It’s not the simple awe of a teacher. It’s not even the hero-worship that’s been with him since childhood. It’s something raw, ancient, inexplicable: some molecule in his head that wants to bow down and be made less. Be taught. Be disciplined. When Aizawa’s eyes flicker in his direction, Midoriya finds his gaze held, pinned, inspected. Like prey. He can’t look away. He can’t swallow around the dryness in his mouth.
Aizawa’s voice slides over the classroom: “Focus, Midoriya.” He draws the name out, each syllable a little more deliberate than it needs to be. “You’ll need these notes for tomorrow’s assessment. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me.”
The threat is gentle but real, a collar of heat around Midoriya’s neck. Every other Alpha in the room—Bakugou, Todoroki, even Yaoyorozu—glances up with some small measure of challenge. No one else is watching Aizawa’s body. No one else is sweating. But Midoriya can’t stop.
After class, when the sun is lower and the room has cleared out except for a few lagging Betas, Aizawa lingers near the windows. He’s still in hero costume, a little rumpled from the day’s drills, scarf hanging loose around his shoulders. Midoriya approaches like a supplicant, unable to pretend he’s not drawn in.
“Sensei,” he says, voice sticking.
Aizawa looks him over, expression unreadable. “What is it, Midoriya?”
Midoriya’s mouth is dry. His tongue feels thick. There is no way to say, I want you to break me. There is no way to say, I want to feel you make me less, more, something. Instead, he blurts out, “Thank you for the feedback on my last report.” A script. A distraction. A lie.
Aizawa’s eyes linger at his throat, then his wrists, as if measuring how easily he could bind or throttle. “You’re welcome,” Aizawa says, a little too smoothly. “But you’re not here for that.”
Midoriya flushes. His heat, his Alpha stink, is embarrassing. “I just… I wanted to ask about the new training schedule. If there’s—um—any way I could do more remedial?”
Aizawa leans in. The air is thick with sweat and ozone. “You want more punishment, Midoriya?”
It isn’t phrased as a question, but Midoriya’s knees nearly give.
Aizawa’s smile is not kind. It’s the curl of a cat before it pounces, the promise of teeth. “You’re supposed to be the next Symbol of Peace. You’re supposed to be the best Alpha this school’s ever produced. So why do you keep coming to me like this?”
Midoriya doesn’t answer, because any answer would only damn him further. He can’t explain that his Alpha is defective, soft, barely worthy of the name. He can’t explain that every time Aizawa’s voice roughens, every time he catches a whiff of his teacher’s body, he feels his bones melt into something subordinate, yearning.
Aizawa watches him, lets the silence fill up. “You’ll come to detention tomorrow,” he says at last. “Wear something you can move in.” Then he steps away, leaving Midoriya in the heat-stunned silence of the afterschool room.
In the hallway, Midoriya leans his forehead against the cool tile, breath coming fast, chest tight. He’s never been so obvious in his life, never so transparent. And yet he can’t regret it.
Because when Aizawa looked at him, there was recognition in that stare. There was something hungry, something almost tender. A promise, or a threat: that tomorrow, everything would change.
The sun sets. Night settles in, heavy and expectant. The air tastes of sweat and anticipation.
—————————————————————
After curfew, the dorms are hushed—an artificial calm imposed by digital sensors and the quiet, ever-present threat of faculty patrols. It’s the hour for secrets and private hungers. Midoriya waits until even the most nocturnal classmates are stilled, then slips down the hallway toward the communal showers, towel wound tight around his hips, heart battering his ribs.
The bathroom is warm and dark, tiles slick beneath his feet. He fumbles the light, then decides to leave it off. He prefers the dark anyway; it makes his body’s betrayals less visible. The stall at the end is his sanctuary: here, he can drop the mask, let his brain loop wild and feral around the man who’s ruined him for anyone else.
Aizawa. Always Aizawa.
Midoriya shivers under the first blast of cold water, then dials it hot, stifling. The steam rises, scalding his chest, sluicing the day’s sweat from his skin. His body is on fire—has been, ever since the detention. Not that Aizawa did anything, exactly. But the way he looked at Midoriya, the way he made him wait, the way he spoke: it had set something off inside. He can’t think of anything but hands on him, a voice in his ear, a presence pressing him down and making him stay.
Midoriya drags his palm over his own chest, then down, following the trail of water to his navel and below. His cock is already half-hard, not from any actual sexual thought but from the memory of that stare. Pathetic, he thinks. Weak. An Alpha in name only, barely able to control himself. He lets his mind wander: Aizawa’s hands, Aizawa’s jaw stubbled and sharp, Aizawa’s thigh pressing between his own. The rush is instant, a dizzy spike of pleasure mixed with guilt.
He strokes himself in the shower, slow and deliberate. The pain of wanting is the point; the fantasy isn’t release, but the exquisite agony of being denied. He imagines Aizawa making him beg, holding him down, telling him exactly what a disappointment he is.
So when the stall door creaks open, and the slice of hallway light reveals Aizawa’s unmistakable silhouette, Midoriya’s first thought is that he’s hallucinating. His second is shame.
He jerks his hand away, flushes so hard he feels lightheaded.
Aizawa steps into the stall, not even bothering to close the door behind him. “Breaking curfew, Midoriya. I’m disappointed.”
His voice is perfectly calm, but the subtext is brutal.
Midoriya stammers: “Sensei, I—I was just—”
“Save it.” Aizawa’s arm snakes out, clamps around the back of Midoriya’s neck, wet skin-on-skin. His grip is all muscle, no give. “You want to explain what you were doing just now?”
“I—It’s not what it looked like,” Midoriya lies, but his cock is standing at attention, trembling, and his hands are shaking.
Aizawa glances down. He raises an eyebrow. “Could have fooled me.”
He says nothing for a moment, just watches, weighing. Midoriya feels the judgment as physical weight. Then Aizawa strips the towel away—so casual, so efficient—and tosses it on the wet tile. He pulls Midoriya out from the spray, spins him to face the wall. His breath is in Midoriya’s ear, his scent overpowering even the stench of chlorine.
“Stay there,” Aizawa says, and Midoriya obeys without thinking. His hands flatten against the tile, cheek pressed cold against the wall.
Aizawa’s palm traces the curve of Midoriya’s ass, slow at first, then with intent. “You want discipline so badly, Midoriya? Fine. I’ll give you a lesson you won’t forget.”
The first slap is a warning: just the ghost of a sting, to get his attention. The second is harder, and the third lands with a sound like gunfire. The rhythm is steady, inexorable. Midoriya bites down on a whimper, but the pain is nothing compared to the heat gathering low in his stomach. The humiliation is electric; he feels small, reduced, exactly as he’s always wanted.
Aizawa doesn’t stop until Midoriya’s ass is flushed scarlet, and even then, he only pauses to run his nails—his actual nails, sharp as claws—down the welted skin. “Look at you,” Aizawa murmurs, voice thick. “Getting off on this. You’re supposed to be an Alpha, but you’re more like a bitch in heat.”
The words break something inside Midoriya. He comes, hands still braced against the tile, cock twitching pathetically against the wall. The orgasm is violent, shaming, a full-body shudder. He almost cries from it.
Aizawa laughs, low and cruel. “Did you just cum from getting spanked? How humiliating.”
He grabs Midoriya by the shoulder and spins him around. Midoriya is still coming down, vision swimming, barely aware of his own nudity. Aizawa lifts the ruined towel and wipes him clean, brisk and impersonal, then tosses it aside again.
“Let’s see what we’re working with,” Aizawa says. He drops his gaze to Midoriya’s spent, softening cock. “Pathetic. Is that really all you’ve got?”
Midoriya’s ears burn. His voice is gone.
Aizawa, still fully dressed, steps back and begins unzipping his own pants. “You want to know what a real Alpha looks like?” He shoves his pants down, not bothering with pretense.
The sight of Aizawa’s cock is so excessive, so obscene, that for a moment time itself stutters. Midoriya cannot look away. It’s not just the sheer size—though that alone would be enough to haunt him forever, the length heavy and curved, the girth suffused with heat and blood, the shaft ridged and veined like something evolved for the singular purpose of breaking people—but the knot. The knot is monstrous: a swelling, dark column at the base, visibly pulsing, as if Aizawa’s entire body is pouring itself into this one appendage, intent on shaming anyone who witnesses it. It looks like it could split a person open, ruin them for life, and it’s already half-engorged, bobbing with every heartbeat.
Aizawa’s hips are angled forward with the casual arrogance of a man who knows he can destroy you and is willing to demonstrate. Midoriya’s mouth floods with saliva. His own cock, so recently humiliated, gives a feeble twitch of interest, but the comparison is laughable—he is completely, inescapably outclassed.
Aizawa grins, all canines and mean delight. “Bet you’ve never seen one this big, huh?” The words slice through the steam and the haze, and Midoriya’s cheeks burn with a new, keening sort of shame.
He doesn’t have time to answer. Aizawa steps forward, fists a hand into Midoriya’s hair—tight, unyielding, a leash and a promise all at once—and shoves his face down, so close the tip of Aizawa’s cock brushes against his lips. There’s a drop of moisture already beading at the tip, a milky prelude, and it smears across Midoriya’s mouth like a brand. The scent is overwhelming: sweat and salt, a deeper musk that is pure, concentrated Alpha and absolutely ruinous. It’s like a drug, the pheromones so potent they obliterate thought. Midoriya’s mind empties out, flooded with pure, animal craving.
He goes limp, boneless, jaw slack and tongue dumbly trying to follow the scent even as his knees threaten to give out. All of his training, all of his pride, all of the hard-earned control he thought he possessed—gone, blown away in a single, humiliating instant. He is nothing but a body, a vessel for someone stronger to fill.
Aizawa laughs again, but this time there’s a note of real pleasure in it, and maybe something like pride. “You’re quick to submit for someone who’s supposed to be the best Alpha this school’s ever seen.” He drags the head of his cock across Midoriya’s lower lip, slow and deliberate, painting a wet line of slick in its wake. “Maybe you’re just desperate for someone to put you in your place.”
Midoriya wants to protest, wants to deny it, but the words are gone. He’s already opened his mouth, lips parted and tongue flicking out before he even realizes what he’s doing. He licks at the base, tentative at first, then with an urgency that startles even him. He tastes salt, skin, a faint copper tang from where the knot is already swelling against the root. He can’t get enough. He wants to bury his face in it, to let the scent and flavor erase what’s left of his dignity.
Aizawa’s hand tightens in his hair, steering him with effortless force. Midoriya’s nose is mashed against the thick pelt of Aizawa’s groin, inhaling deep and helpless, shuddering as the musk short-circuits whatever was left of his self-control. The world shrinks to the tunnel of his own need, the heat of the shower, the animal noise of his own panting, and above it all, the unyielding, inevitable press of Aizawa’s cock.
He sucks at the head, lips wrapping messily around the tip, tongue lapping up the pre-cum pooling there. The shape of it is wrong, too big, but he tries anyway, jaw straining as Aizawa fucks into his mouth with slow, shallow thrusts. The knot bumps against his chin, insistent, demanding entrance. He gags, then adjusts, then finds a rhythm—humiliating, but steady. His own cock is hard again, impossibly, leaking onto the tile as he lets himself be used.
“Look at you,” Aizawa says, voice thick and dark. “You’re a natural.” He pets Midoriya’s hair, mock-gentle. “Maybe I should make you clean me off every night. Would you like that, Midoriya?”
He tries to nod, but Aizawa’s grip holds him in place. Instead, he moans around the cock filling his mouth, and the sound vibrates up the shaft, making Aizawa grunt in approval.
It lasts forever, and for not nearly long enough. The pressure of the knot, the heat of Aizawa’s body, the relentless, liquid humiliation—it undoes something in Midoriya. He loses the ability to think in full sentences. There is only sensation: wet, heavy, overwhelming. He wants more, always more, even as his lips crack and his jaw aches and his throat burns.
Aizawa uses him until he’s satisfied, until his own breathing turns ragged and the muscles in his thighs tense. He doesn’t finish in Midoriya’s mouth. Instead, he pulls out at the last moment, releasing him with a sharp, wet pop, and paints the side of Midoriya’s face with a thick, hot stripe of cum. It drips down his cheek, sticky and obscene.
“Perfect,” Aizawa purrs. “You wear it well.”
Midoriya sits back on his haunches, panting, eyes wide and dazed. He doesn’t wipe his face; he lets the cum drip, lets himself be marked. This is what he wanted. This is what he is for.
Aizawa strokes his hair, almost gentle. “Maybe I will. But for now—stay there. Don’t move.”
———————————————————
There are rules to this kind of thing. That’s what Aizawa says, anyway, as he drags Midoriya by the hair into his quarters.
The room is a hybrid of bedroom and office: mess of paperwork on one side, a stripped-down futon on the other, and in the center, a battered desk that could double as a restraining device. Aizawa sits Midoriya down, then stands in front of him, legs spread, cock already out and heavy.
“You’re going to suck me off like a real Alpha,” Aizawa says, tone dry as dust. “Not like a simpering Beta.”
Midoriya nods, but there’s a wildness to his eyes. He’s still reeling from the spanking, from the sense memory of Aizawa’s hand on him. The bruises already bloom, deep and hot, and it makes the humiliation sweeter.
Aizawa places his hand on Midoriya’s head and guides him forward. The first taste is sharp: pre-cum, bitter, tinged with a flavor that’s uniquely Aizawa. It coats Midoriya’s tongue, makes his eyes water. The cock is impossibly thick, and even the tip stretches his lips wide, but Midoriya opens his mouth as far as it will go, eager.
Aizawa presses deeper, feeding it in. The shaft pushes past the back of Midoriya’s throat; he gags, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he breathes through his nose—through Aizawa’s scent, which is all around him, thick and brutal and almost suffocating.
“Not bad,” Aizawa says, smirking. “You’re a quick learner.”
He begins to fuck Midoriya’s face in earnest, using the grip on his hair as leverage. Each thrust is measured, merciless; each time the knot bumps against Midoriya’s lips, he whimpers, jaw stretched to the limit. Saliva and pre-cum pool at the corners of his mouth, drooling down his chin.
Aizawa’s hips snap faster, his breathing deepening. The sounds in the room are animal—wet, obscene. Every time Midoriya’s throat closes around the shaft, Aizawa moans, low and unguarded.
“You ever been knotted before?” Aizawa taunts, slowing just enough to let Midoriya answer.
Midoriya shakes his head, drool spilling.
“Guess there’s a first time for everything,” Aizawa purrs, the words vibrating from deep in his chest. He doesn’t wait for the shudder to pass through Midoriya’s body before he jerks the boy forward, both hands buried in the green thatch of his hair, and slams his hips in with brutal, terminal force. The head flares, splits the narrow cavity of Midoriya’s mouth, and the knot—obscene, monstrous—rams against his teeth like a battering ram. Midoriya tries instinctively to recoil, but there’s nowhere to go; the only thing behind him is the hard edge of the desk and the unyielding grip of Aizawa’s hands. The knot wedges, hard and hot, against the line of his jaw. It shouldn’t fit. It can’t fit. And for a long, endless second it doesn’t.
But Aizawa is relentless, a force of nature, the human incarnation of inevitability and brute will. He drags Midoriya’s mouth down, hard, rolling his hips in a grinding circle, and the pressure increases, unbearable, a white-hot bolt of agony at the hinge of Midoriya’s jaw. He can feel the cartilage straining, the muscles tearing, the delicate click of bone as the joint slides past its natural limit. Then, with a sickening pop that he feels in his ears and the soles of his feet, the knot forces its way inside.
The pain is so blinding, so incandescent, that Midoriya actually loses time. One instant he is fighting against the impossible, the next he is simply beyond it—mouth split impossibly wide, jaw locked in an inhuman rictus, Aizawa’s cock pulsing and alive, sealing off his entire throat. He cannot breathe. He cannot speak. He can barely move. All he can do is stare, wide-eyed, up the length of Aizawa’s body, as the man shudders and moans with the kind of pleasure that sounds like a death rattle.
For a moment, Midoriya thinks he might actually die—choke to death on his mentor’s cock, a cautionary tale for generations of heroes to come—but then Aizawa leans forward, one hand still in Midoriya’s hair, the other bracing himself on the edge of the desk, and begins to fuck. The movement is subtle, just a rocking of the hips, but every thrust drives the knot deeper, stretches the already-ruined mouth even farther. Tears stream down Midoriya’s face, hot and stinging, mixing with the strings of saliva and pre-cum that coat his chin. His nose is pressed into the wiry black fur of Aizawa’s groin, every huff of breath saturated with that wild, animal scent.
Aizawa’s voice, when it comes, is ragged and triumphant: “That’s it. That’s a good bitch. You’re such a fucking sleeve. That’s all you’re good for.” He says the words like an incantation, a benediction, each syllable accompanied by a new wave of shame-tinged ecstasy.
Midoriya can’t feel his lips; he can’t feel his tongue, his face, his own body. There is only the burning, the fullness, the obliteration of self. The knot swells, inflates, locking in place as if Aizawa’s cock has decided to fuse itself to the inside of his skull. And just when Midoriya thinks he might lose consciousness, to the vast relief of his poor nervous system, Aizawa throws his head back and cums.
It is not, as Midoriya had expected, a gentle blooming of sensation. It is a tidal wave, a torrent, thick and hot and so copious that for a second he is sure it’s going to back up into his nose and drown him. The flavor is stronger than before, a distilled essence of Alpha, bitter and animal and utterly inescapable. He swallows convulsively, desperate, but there is simply too much; some of it spills out, slick and viscous, pooling at the corners of his mouth.
Aizawa’s hips stutter and jerk. His grip tightens, then releases, then tightens again, as if he doesn’t trust himself not to let go and collapse. The room spins. Midoriya tries to focus on something, anything: the ticking of the battered wall clock, the warmth of the desk under his knees, the rough scrape of Aizawa’s stubble against the crown of his head. But it’s impossible. There’s nothing left except the knot, the cock, the humiliation, and the knowledge that he has been—finally, completely—used.
Aizawa pants for a while, shuddering through aftershocks, then slumps back, bracing himself on the desk with both hands. He doesn’t move to withdraw. Instead, he just lets his cock rest there, heavy and throbbing, the knot still locked past Midoriya’s teeth, like a plug or a muzzle. There’s a strange kind of peace in the stillness, broken only by their mingled breaths and the slow, viscous drip of cum from the back of Midoriya’s throat.
“You’re going to stay like that for a while,” Aizawa says after a long, lazy minute. His tone is soft, almost affectionate, but the words themselves are a barbed hook. “Get used to it. You’re not a hero. You’re my cocksleeve.”
The phrase lands with the finality of a judge’s gavel. For a moment, Midoriya wants to flinch, to break away, to run screaming from the room and let the world erase this moment from memory. But there is nowhere to go. He’s impaled, pinned, utterly helpless—a living sheath for his mentor’s pleasure.
And, against all logic, all sense, a wave of pride sweeps through him. Not the pride of a hero, or a champion, or a prodigy. A darker, hotter pride, the pride of being wanted, of being chosen, of being used so completely that there’s nothing left to doubt.
Midoriya’s vision swims. The pressure is enormous, but so is the pride. He did it. He took Aizawa’s knot, and now he’s here, used, needed, important in a way he’s never felt before.
Aizawa lies back on the futon, dragging Midoriya down with him. The knot stays trapped in Midoriya’s mouth, jaw stretched wide and locked. Aizawa strokes his hair with lazy affection.
“If you behave,” he murmurs, “maybe I’ll let you suck me off again. Maybe I’ll even teach you how to take a real Alpha knot in your ass.”
Midoriya can’t speak, but he nods, desperate for more.
Aizawa pulls a blanket over them, tucks Midoriya in tight against his body, and closes his eyes.
It’s the first time in months that Midoriya falls asleep without a nightmare.
————————————————————-
Morning comes with the heavy press of Aizawa’s body pinning Midoriya to the futon, the knot still lodged in his jaw. The sunlight through the threadbare curtain turns everything gold and molten, but there’s no illusion of warmth. Aizawa is already awake, hand knotted in Midoriya’s hair, absently petting him like an animal.
Midoriya’s mouth is numb. His jaw aches, throbs, screams, but he doesn’t dare move. Every breath is laced with Aizawa’s pheromones, sweat-dried from the night before. The taste on his tongue is bitter and salt-sweet, and it makes his own cock—shrunken, ignored—twitch with pathetic need.
Aizawa looks down. Smiles. “Still here, huh? Good bitch.”
He stretches, catlike, and lets the knot shrink enough to slip free. The withdrawal is obscene: wet, noisy, leaving Midoriya’s mouth gaping, lips swollen and slack. Before he can close it, Aizawa pushes his cock back in, starting the rhythm all over again.
This time there’s no foreplay, no slow build. It’s pure utility. Aizawa uses Midoriya’s mouth like a tool, fucking it raw and fast, stopping only when Midoriya’s eyes start to roll back from lack of air. Then he pulls out, jerks himself once, and unloads a torrent of cum across Midoriya’s face, hair, shoulders—painting him in thick, sticky ropes.
Aizawa wipes the head of his cock on Midoriya’s cheek, then slaps it against his lips. “Clean up,” he commands. Midoriya licks, swallowing everything offered to him, pride burning bright through the haze of humiliation.
Aizawa stands, stretches, and surveys the scene with satisfaction.
“You can stay here,” he says, voice all business now. “But I don’t want you getting any ideas about leaving.”
He rifles through a drawer and pulls out a length of heavy-duty rope, the kind used for rescue operations. He binds Midoriya’s wrists behind his back, cinches his ankles together, then rolls him onto his side. There’s no need for a gag; Midoriya’s jaw is still barely working.
Aizawa crouches down, produces a battered, sweat-soaked jockstrap from his duffel. He balls it up and shoves it over Midoriya’s nose and mouth, taping it in place. The scent is suffocating, pure Alpha, pure Aizawa—dizzying in its intensity.
He tops it off by pressing one of his old boots against Midoriya’s cheek, so close that the treads scrape skin. “I want you to remember exactly who owns you,” Aizawa says, then ruffles Midoriya’s hair with an almost affectionate brutality.
Midoriya doesn’t struggle. He can’t. He just breathes in the scent, lets it fill him, lets it become the only thing that matters.
Aizawa shrugs on his uniform, knots the scarf at his throat, and heads out the door. He doesn’t look back.
Midoriya lies there, bound and soaked and helpless, the taste of Aizawa on his tongue and the smell of him everywhere.
He could die like this, and it would be enough.
——————————————————————-
The hours crawl past in a haze of deprivation. Midoriya fades in and out, sometimes counting his heartbeats, sometimes counting the drips of condensation from the ceiling. He can’t feel his hands or feet. He’s not sure he wants to.
When Aizawa finally returns, dusk has snuffed out the last of the sun. He’s carrying dinner in a greasy brown bag, and the first thing he does is rip the tape from Midoriya’s face. The jockstrap falls away, damp with Midoriya’s own spit and sweat.
Aizawa peers down. “Still breathing?” he asks, as if it’s a genuine question.
Midoriya tries to speak, but his mouth only works in gasps.
Aizawa takes pity, propping him up and bringing water to his lips. Midoriya gulps it down greedily, grateful for the brief kindness.
“Had a good think?” Aizawa says, wiping water from Midoriya’s chin. “Good. Because I’ve decided for you.”
He undoes the knots with brutal efficiency, then drags Midoriya onto the bed, stomach down. The used jockstrap is balled up and shoved into Midoriya’s mouth, but this time, there’s no tape; the message is clear: don’t spit it out, or else.
Aizawa kneels between Midoriya’s thighs, spreading them apart. The first touch is clinical—a finger slick with something cold, testing the tight ring of muscle. Midoriya shudders, tries to clench, but the lube defeats him. The finger slides in, then another. The burn is sharp, but not unbearable.
Aizawa leans over, whispering into Midoriya’s ear. “You ever been fucked before? Properly? Didn’t think so.”
Midoriya shakes his head, the jockstrap muffling his whimper.
The next moment is a liminal one: Midoriya perched on the precipice, breath shallow, vision flickering with static as Aizawa presses the head of his cock to the tight, trembling ring of Midoriya’s ass. There’s no fanfare—no gentle easing, no slow coaxing. Only a muttered promise, heavy with both malice and mercy: “Gonna break you in right.”
The pressure is immediate, splitting, suffocating. Midoriya’s hips are pinned beneath Aizawa’s iron grip; the scarred fingers bruise and bite, holding him open and immobile while the thick, insistent cock pushes forward, grinds, and finally breaches the resistance in one long, inexorable thrust. The burn is molten, cellular, a line of fire that runs straight to the core of Midoriya’s being. His body rebels—spasms, clamps, tries to expel the intrusion—but Aizawa’s voice is there, a low, guttural purr at the base of his skull: “Good boy. You love it. You were made for this.”
He doesn’t, not at first. All he feels is the tearing, the humiliation, the helpless horror as his mentor’s cock fills him, stretches him, lays waste to every barrier he once thought sacred. But Aizawa doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, not even when Midoriya’s eyes fill with tears and the jockstrap muffles the animal whine that claws its way from his throat. Instead, Aizawa rocks deeper, letting the shaft slide slick and slow, dragging out the sensation until Midoriya’s body yields, if not willingly, then by the sheer inevitability of his own biology.
At halfway, Aizawa adjusts his grip, leans over, and snaps his hips forward with a violence that is shocking even compared to the cruelty before. The knot batters at Midoriya’s entrance, a swollen threat, but Aizawa holds himself there, grinding in a slow circle, letting Midoriya’s body learn the shape of him. The pain flares white, then resolves into a thudding, liquid heat, both unbearable and addictive.
“There it is,” Aizawa says, voice gone sharp with hunger. “You feel that? That’s real. That’s you getting fucked.”
He sets a pace—relentless, metronomic—and Midoriya’s world shrinks to the wet slap of skin, the bruising grip on his hips, the obscene friction inside him. Every thrust is a battering ram, every withdrawal a shuddering relief, every return a fresh violation. He tries to retreat into his own mind, to count or catalog or rationalize, but the sensory overload obliterates thought. His only reality is the stretch, the fullness, the smell of sweat and lube and old jockstrap, the sound of his own muffled gasps and Aizawa’s deep, ragged breathing.
On the second stroke, the knot presses harder, threatening to force its way in. On the third, it pops past the rim, a tidal surge of pressure that has Midoriya seeing stars. He screams, or tries to, but the jockstrap catches the sound, turns it into a desperate, mewling sob. The knot locks them together, a living plug, and Aizawa loses what little restraint he had left.
He fucks with abandon now, rutting, rutting, rutting, until Midoriya’s legs tremble and his arms go slack from lack of blood. The movement is punishing: each thrust slams the knot against sensitive nerves, forces the shaft even deeper, buries Aizawa’s claim past the limits of anatomy. Midoriya’s cock, neglected and soft, stirs to life—half-mast, leaking, aching for friction that he cannot provide. The humiliation is total. He is nothing but a vessel, a receptacle, a hole for his Alpha to fill.
Aizawa’s words become a chant, a litany: “Good bitch. That’s it. Take it. Take all of it. You’re mine now, Midoriya. Mine.”
The need to cum builds, slow but inexorable, a sickly counterpoint to the pain. Midoriya’s ass clenches around the knot, involuntarily milking it for more, and Aizawa grunts, then bites down on the back of Midoriya’s neck, hard enough to draw blood. The mark is deliberate, primal—a signature burned into flesh.
They rut through the agony, through the shame, through the desperate, animal need. Time blurs. Midoriya’s senses collapse to a single point of focus: the cock, the knot, the liquid heat of Aizawa’s body grinding his own into the futon. The only sound is the slap of skin and the wet, humiliating squelch of every new thrust.
When the orgasm comes, it’s less an explosion than a catastrophic failure. Midoriya’s vision whites out, his body bows, and he cums dry, the pleasure hollowed by exhaustion but all the more acute for it. The walls of his ass clamp down, wringing the knot, and Aizawa howls into his flesh—an animal, a beast, a conqueror.
He empties himself inside, the cum flooding deep, sealing the claim. The knot holds them together, and Aizawa drapes his body over Midoriya’s, pressing him into the futon.
“You smell different,” Aizawa notes, nuzzling the back of Midoriya’s neck. “Not so much Alpha left in you. Think I fucked it right out.”
Midoriya sobs, but it’s relief, not grief. He’s never felt so right.
Aizawa pulls out when the knot deflates, but only long enough to roll Midoriya onto his back and do it again. And again. By the end of the night, Midoriya’s voice is gone, and he can’t remember ever wanting anything except this.
He falls asleep knotted, Aizawa’s arms locked tight around his ribs, the scent of Alpha and Omega mingled between them.