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There’s a nagging suspicion growing like mold in Aizawa’s stomach; it festers and expands, little by little until acid reflux sours his tongue with every swallow of spit.
But Aizawa Shouta is a trained Pro Hero.
And despite people’s assumptions of him, Aizawa doesn’t believe in acting on gut feeling alone – there is of course a time and place for everything, and had he been on the battlefield, having to make minute decisions back to back, he might’ve popped the balloon this suspicion sits inside of; but without backed up evidence and proof, it’d be irrational to jeopardize the trust that he’s spent years building.
The proof that ends up flooding his cup of worry comes when he does laundry a random Tuesday.
There hadn’t been enough laundry in his own hamper for a wash, so he decided to check yours and Shinsou’s for dark clothes. You’d been sitting by your desk with your headset on, doing the homework he assigned you, and he’d just smiled at your back before going back to the bathroom to finish filling the machine. Shinsou went on a mission in Kyoto a few days ago, scheduled to come back late into the night. Aizawa had purposely taken the days off to spend some time with you, a surprise trip to the aquarium planned for the afternoon after he’d caught up on the chores at home.
Aizawa holds a firm rule of privacy in his house. Living with his adult son and his recently adopted daughter needs a harmonic symbiosis to occur, otherwise the house of cards would fall. You’d only started living with them a little under a year ago, whereas Shinsou and him had lived together since Shinsou had been very young.
So despite the worries that’s been circulating in his brain for months now, he’s wholeheartedly held back from eavesdropping on closed doors and snooping through his children’s rooms when you weren’t home, hoping that evidence would fall on his lap instead of feeding the baseless assumptions and fears.
He’s going through the pockets of his son’s jeans, making sure he isn’t washing coins or keys when his hand grabs another bundle of fabric inside.
Curious.
Expecting it to be a sock that Shinsou might’ve changed at the Agency or the gym, he pulls it out so that it can be cleaned properly too, but chokes on a gasp when he finds his daughter’s sky-blue panties instead, something dried at the crotch making them hard and crunchy.
With shaking hands, he forces them to unfold, praying, hoping that all he’ll find is dried period blood staining them and a touching story of a brother helping out an embarrassed little sister.
His blood runs cold at the dried, white substance that another man can easily identify, and drops them on the floor.
He leans back against the wall with a groan, dragging his palm over his face, leveling his breathing. Jesus fucking Christ.
And now that he has the evidence, now what?
With the laundry completely forgotten, he goes to the kitchen to pour himself a strong cup of coffee – he adds a shot of Yamada’s vodka for the hell of it – before he lies on the couch, arm over his eyes. An old man like him isn’t built for shocks like these. He tries to level his shaky breath; the simple, hopeful answer is that Shinsou’s simply a pervert who stole the dirty underwear from your bedroom and used it to get off.
But when Aizawa comes home late from night patrols once in a while, he’ll find you asleep in another room than your own, and you’d seemed particularly obsessed with your brother and with pleasing him; it’d been a quiet awestruck love for your brother that’d grown into worship at some point, your eyes always looking after Shinsou, acting according to his movements. The devotion you’d displayed for your brother had at times been so obvious that it bordered on painful to watch.
Not to mention his first suspicion; when you’d started giving out light pecks to both of the men. You’d kiss their cheeks goodnight, or their lips if you were really happy. They were all innocent and quick, but there’d seemed to be a heavier connotation in the look between his children, and it’d always made it run cold down his spine.
As he downs the cold and bitter concoction that’s left in his cup, he inhales deeply. He promised to confront you after he finished the cup, and he’d been procrastinating the last sip for at least an hour.
When he knocks on the door frame to your open bedroom door, he can’t help but smile when you look back at him with stars in your eyes.
“Papa! I’m done with the math assignment soon,” you announce proudly as he walks across the room to your desk, “that’s good, sweetheart.” he manages after clearing his throat.
He squats next to your chair and you swivel in the seat so that you’re facing him. You tilt your head to the side, “are you okay, Papa?”
This would’ve been the moment he’d told you about the aquarium, if he hadn’t started sorting laundry.
Instead, he has to gather his courage for another subject, “I was wondering about something sweetheart.”
You nod and fold your hands on your lap. You’re wearing a red skirt that you chose only two weeks ago at the mall. He’d tried making you buy a sweater with a cat on it that day, but you’d rolled your eyes and laughed instead.
His breath shakes as little as he’s able, “does your big brother ever….” he smacks his lips together once, twice, “…touch you?”
You’re quiet for a moment, a flash of guilt overriding your features – it’s gone as soon as it appears, and hadn’t he been a Pro Hero he would’ve surely missed it. His heart drops.
“’m not supposed to tell you,” you say, fidgeting with your hands, “he says it’d make you sad.”
Aizawa thinks this might very well be the day that he turns into a villain and kills a person.
“No, no sweetheart, no.” he reaches out for your hands and squeezes them, “you can always tell me everything, okay?”
You nod with a sigh, hands relaxing in your father’s. Aizawa gives you a careful smile, “wanna talk to me about it? Where does he touch you, baby?”
You hold your breath for a moment, “d’you promise you won’t be sad?”
Aizawa takes your pinkie in his, “pinkie promise.”
You nod before you pull your hands back, Aizawa’s own going back to his squatted thighs. You lift your skirt, revealing your striped panties and your father’s breath hitches. He shudders when you put your hand on top of your babycunt, “he makes me feel so good right here! And then-”
“With his hands?”
It comes out more choked out than Aizawa would’ve liked, and when you smile proudly and continue, it feels like a bucket of ice water is poured over him,
“Mhm! And with his cock, too. We’ve become so close that it doesn’t hurt at all! Jus’ feels good!”
Your father’s eyes narrow at your choice of words. He keeps himself deceptively calm on the outside, but the bucket of ice has melted into something burning hot and it’s taking everything in him to not clench his fists and show you his anger.
“Doesn’t hurt?”
“yeah,” you nod and let your skirt fall back down and Aizawa swallows thickly when the back of his mind wants another look. To make sure everything’s alright.
“Mhm, we’re close enough siblings so that it only feels good.”
Yeah, murder might definitely be on the table right about now.
“Did he use his quirk on you?”
“Wha-? Papa, he-”
“Did. He. Use. His. Quirk?”
“No, he would never!” you raise your voice at your father for the first time in a while, “Onii-san would never use his quirk on me!”
Aizawa blinks, only somewhat relieved that his son isn’t using his quirk; irked still that he’s been lying his way onto you.
“Onii-san’s lying to you.” he says matter of factly, leaving no room to argue. But you get up from your chair in defense of your brother, the jolt so strong that your chair falls to the floor behind you as you yell, “he would never, ever lie to me! He loves me!”
There’s white hot anger in your eyes as you breathe in heavily, anger rising by the second at the accusations your father is throwing at your beloved brother.
Aizawa slowly gets up to his full height as he repeats his words, “he is lying to you. Big brothers aren’t supposed to touch their little sisters.”
Your brows furrow as you clench your fists at your sides, “you just say that because you’re sad, Papa! ‘Cos you don’t have any siblings of your own to bond with! You promised me you wouldn’t get sad.”
Aizawa tries to be as calm as possible but his son’s actions are pissing him off as you heave in a breath before a shaky sob leaves you. He breathes in harshly from his nose, “sweetheart, it’s not about sadness – he says it feels good because you’re close? Anyone can feel good if they get stimulated enough; that’s just human nature. Anyone could touch you and it’d feel good.”
You shake your head as tears start filling your lash line, threatening to spill, “no! Papa you’re the one lying! You’re a liar! It feels good because we’re bonded!”
Aizawa reaches out towards you, to pull you into a gentle hug and caress your hair. He wants to communicate that he’s telling you the truth and that you’ll be fine. That he’ll always protect you. “It’s okay sweetheart, Papa’s here, right? It’s not your fault. Please listen to me, okay?”
You let him hold you for a moment, snot and tears wetting his shirt as he coos at you and kisses the crown of your head, “there’s my baby, Papa’s right here. I’ll always be here for you; we’ll figure it out together, there’s no reason to be sad,” he says, hand going to rub circles into your back, “I’m so sorry your brother lied to you, sweetie, I really am…” your shaking doesn’t stop and he has to hold back the exhausted sigh his body wants to let out. “I’ll make sure Onii-san moves out so he can’t touch you, and then we’ll-”
You push Aizawa away forcefully as fat tears start running down your cheeks, “no, I hate you! Onii-san loves me, he wouldn’t lie! Onii-san wouldn’t lie! Don’t take him from me, please.”
Aizawa’s not sure what he says after those words, doesn’t remember what you reply because for a second everything is static noise; hearing your angry words flips a switch that he didn’t know existed.
He still remembers when he met you the first time; you’d been a cruel installment in a carefully crafted dollhouse of lies. A villain who needed to blend into high society with a fake life; a wife, daughter and a beautiful house by the sea side.
He’d found you when he helped raid the house; inside a locked room where you’d been confused as to all the noise and people there.
The villain and his wife had taken you out in the gardens at scheduled times, dressed you and told you to act out specific things, say and do as they told you to and they would reward you; every other part of your day was spent in your room, locked from the outside.
DNA results hadn’t been a match between you and the villain nor his companion, but they’d never found a match anywhere else. They had no idea where they got you from, so you were handed to the hospital where they kept you for the better part of your childhood due to your mental health; Aizawa had faithfully visited you every week since then, and when they wanted you to enter the foster system, he offered to adopt you. You’d already called him Papa several times anyway.
He’s not entirely sure how or why he grabbed you underneath your armpits and lifted you up. It feels like he blinked once and then suddenly he was hovering over you on your bed, your arms pinned over your head while his hand’s reaching underneath your skirt.
“Papa, no! Stop! That’s Onii-san’s place!”
You’re kicking and screaming but ultimately powerless underneath your father.
This isn’t logical, isn’t rational, and Aizawa can’t ever defend himself for this, will never be able to explain how he ended up with his hand caressing his daughter’s pussy, circling your clit forcefully to prove that any and all stimulation will feel good at some point.
“This is not your brother’s, and – calm down,” he dodges your kick, “-and I’m just proving that he’s lying, yeah? Lie still baby, Papa’s not gonna hurt you, would never hurt you, my love.”
You sob and twist in his grip, “Papa, please, I’m scared.”
But you’re getting slicker by the second as Aizawa starts hushing you, kissing and sucking gently on your neck, your jaw, “that’s it,” he whispers again and again and when he hovers his lips over your own you don’t move or flinch; the tears simply roll silently now from your eyes.
“That’s a good girl, yeah? Calming down for Papa,” he says, pecking your lips softly as a reward, shivering at the feeling, of the new meaning to the kiss; he’ll tell himself he did all of this to prove a point, to get you to understand.
But there’s no arguing the blood rushing to his cock. It twitches in interest when you whimper and chase his lips with your own so sweetly, like sex as a love language is all you know and he groans into your neck. God, your pussy’s soaked. You’re still crying softly, but his praise and his touch seems to pacify you, so your father keeps nuzzling and caressing you. He doesn’t let go of your wrists yet, though.
“That’s it, sweetheart, feels good, right?” His fingers move down through your velvety soft folds and circles your hole. You try to close your legs again with a whine, some protest still left in you, “that’s Onii-san’s hole, Papa,” you scold, and Aizawa kisses you again, “but Onii-san’s my son, right? And you’re my daughter,” he leans his forehead against yours, and asks you, out of breath, “so doesn’t it make sense? That I get to make you feel good, too? Don’t you love Papa, too?”
When did the argument change? Nausea grips him at the realization of his own words.
He doesn’t stop running his fingers through your drenched folds though.
Like father, like son. It’s disgusting. It’s wrong.
Your eyes are shiny and wet as you search your father’s eyes. “I don’t want to make Onii-san angry,” you confess, legs squirming now instead of kicking.
Aizawa ignores your words; maybe he could’ve fooled you into calming down another notch, but his patience is as thin as his backbone. Shinsou’s lying to you and he’ll prove it, get this over with and get far away from you before he does something he’ll regret.
Your slick makes the penetration easy, your greedy hole sucking his fingers in hungrily despite your protests, limbs flailing again, kicking your father on the hip and wrists tugging at his much bigger hand holding you down.
Aizawa groans as he curls his fingers, your breath hitching and back arching. “Papa-ah!” you screech, trying and failing at moving your hips away from him. His long fingers don’t stop though, effortlessly following your pussy as the room is filled with the sound of your crying and your squelching, greedy hole being emptied and filled in a forceful rhythm, in and out, in, out, in, out.
And you take it so beautifully.
“See?” your father sneers in frustration at your unruly movements, pushing three fingers into the knuckle and letting them stay there, watching you as you throb and throb and throb.
There’s no way it doesn’t feel good with any other fingers than your brothers, you must realize it by now. With gritted teeth he curls his fingers again, hitting that spot inside of you, “Tell Papa how wet I make you.”
He vows to himself that he’ll let you go once you understand the lesson.
Your father’s voice is more ragged, deeper, muddier above you, and you don’t recognize the look on his face. It makes your core clench, but the blood rushing through you doesn’t warm you up or cushion you. A dribble of drool escapes your mouth at the overpowering sensations and you can’t help the moan that escapes you as your father leans down to lick it, to taste you. Your breath keeps hitching until you realize that you’re hyperventilating in his grasp.
“Breathe for me sweetheart, nice and deep.” he instructs you and you have no choice but to obey, listening to his own deep breathing and trying to follow his rhythm. The breath is shaky at last but he praises you nonetheless, “tell Papa that he’s making you feel good. I am, aren’t I?” You yelp when his thumb presses at your clit while fucking into your cunt; it’s too much, all at once. You’d barely just calmed down.
It’s not supposed to feel good; not with him, not with anyone but your brother.
So why is your father pushing you so close to the edge without any effort? You’re still squirming around the bed but with a surge of panic you realize how your body’s betraying you; you’re rutting your hips against his hand, asking, begging for more. Cunt spasming around him in an effort to gain more of him.
You cum as your juices squirt onto the thigh of his pants. Your mouth begs for him to stop as your babypussy begs for him to ride it out for you, to not stop massaging your clit until you’re back on earth, on your bed, with your father above you.
Your leg accidentally drags over his crotch in your jumping and fidgeting and your father hunches over in a surprised moan. Fuck, shit, Christ. He haven’t indulged in sex for years, the act of finding someone to fuck too much of a bother, but seeing your fucked out face while his cock gets stimulated is almost enough to topple him over the edge.
He should leave, right now immediately. You’ve learned your lesson. He should pull his fingers out of your spasming pussy, dry off his hand and call someone, anyone. Someone who’ll take you away from his horrible, perverted son and your equally horrible and perverted father.
In a moment of weakness, while his mind thinks all of this, his body moves of its own accord and he hovers his crotch over your bent knee and gives it an experimental thrust, humping it just to know what it’d feel like. Before he leaves. Just a quick taste. He won’t do any more than that.
The move becomes his downfall.
The stimulation alone is enough to make him grit his teeth and lose his breath. He clenches his eyes shut before he drags his cock over your leg one more time, sucking in his spit at the sensation it brings, the warmth it curls around his stomach.
His fingers are still fucking into your abused pussy, and with the last of his morality shot out with his precum, he starts moving his hips in tandem with the fingers inside of you, moaning and cursing. “Fuck, fuck, sweetheart I’m so sorry, Papa’ll be done in a second, I promise.”
He looks down with a pained expression and sees you observing him curiously before you start to grind against him in earnest, “Papa, are you okay? Does this help your sadness?”
Your sudden willingness consumes his soul and whatever oxygen enters through his lungs does not reach his brain anymore. He refuses to blink as he watches you try to match the timing of your own hips with his. Your breath hitches, “Papa please, don’t want you sad, don’t want you lonely.”
Aizawa abruptly pulls away, hands and crotch as he falls back onto his ass and you wail out at the emptiness, “Papa, did I make you sad? Why’d you stop?”
You sit up on your knees and look at your father. Your hair is a mess and you’re breathing heavily, red skirt bunched up around your waist, revealing your drenched panties. Something changed after you thought he was lonely, and it feels like his tongue is swollen, choking him from the inside.
“Papa?” you almost whisper, leaning forward and crawling over your father’s spread legs, your innocent, big eyes searching his for a reason. “Papa, I, I don’t want you to feel alone…”
You’d often told him of your loneliness during the years at the hospital, how one of the few things keeping you afloat were his visits.
In turn, he’d often reminded you that you and Shinsou made him feel less alone after he adopted you.
Did you think he felt alone now? That he felt like you rejected him?
Aizawa clenches his fists in your sheets as he feels your body heat envelop him, your face dangerously close to his. He can hear his heart hammering, the logical part of his brain screaming at him to put a hand between you, to stop you from coming any closer. It’s begging him at this point to leave you be, to leave your innocence alone.
But the twisted part of his mind reminds him that Shinsou already took it away, the fact that you took his fingers like a good little slut all the prove he needs. Aizawa flinches when your hands rests on his shoulders. There’s fear in your eyes but determination in your voice at your next words, “don’t tell Onii-san… but if it helps I’ll let you fuck me, too. Would it help, Papa? Would I be useful? Could I pay you back? Would you like to be in my pussy, too?”
You shoot the questions in rapid succession, breath shaking, “you said it, right? That Onii-san’s your son, that I’m your daughter, so you can touch me, too… right?”
“…It’s okay, right, Papa?”
This is a perfect opportunity to say no, to tell you that it’s messed up and that you need to move somewhere else. That he loves you, but he shouldn’t love you like he this.
“I love you, Papa.” you whisper right as he opens his mouth to protest your offer. You lean forward to kiss his open mouth, and he moans when your tongue hesitantly licks inside. You let out small sighs of pleasure as you explore your father and Aizawa watches as your brows furrow in real time in frustration when his tongue doesn’t play with yours, and he isn’t kissing you back.
Ah, fuck it.
Aizawa’s always been one to indulge and spoil you, and when you ask so nicely to be full of your Papa’s cock, what kind of father would he be if he denied you?
It’s not his fault that you’ve got a greedy hole hungry for more than just your brother. He’ll just help you. He doesn’t want you to feel rejected, alone, sad.
You yelp when he kisses back suddenly, a hand wrapping around the back of your head as he pushes against you, forcing you to lie back down again, all the while not breaking the contact between your lips.
You spread your legs willingly and wrap them around Aizawa’s waist, arms going to your father’s long, black locks, scratching his scalp and pulling at the length, whining so sweetly into his mouth as he indulges in your sweet taste. It’s like an aphrodisiac, fucking his tongue into your mouth, feeling your hips and your hands and your legs react to his ministrations.
He snakes a hand up underneath your shirt and bites at your lip with a groan when his thumb caresses your nipple, your tits soft and plumb, his big adult hand swallowing it whole, and you sigh out in pleasure when he pinches your nipple, kissing and licking at Aizawa’s chin, jaw, down his throat. He forgets how to swallow his spit, and almost doesn’t stop himself from drooling.
“Papa, can you touch me again? Can you fill me up? ‘m so empty.”
His hand flinches when you take it in your own and guide it back to your cute baby panties. The drenched fabric is still hot, sticking to your fat pussy, outlining your folds.
Aizawa groans and pulls the undergarment down unceremoniously, ignoring the way they rip when he pulls aggressively by your knees, directing your legs up in the air forcefully so that they can come off, “I’ll buy you new ones sweetheart, any you want. All of them.” You giggle at his desperation as you start unzipping your skirt and help him get it off, too.
He doesn’t hear the fabric hit the ground before he’s hovering over you again, pulling at the top and revealing your chest to him, “’m I pretty, Papa?” you ask as you remove the top the rest of the way. He watches your tits bounce with the movement as you lie back down.
Your father hums as he kisses at your collarbone, your chest, biting and nibbling, soaking your skin with his saliva. Marking you.
Purposefully ignoring your nipples and the fat of your tits. You whine and pull at his hair to try and direct his attention to where you want it.
“You’re my pretty girl,” he agrees with you easily as he pops a nipple in his mouth, his tongue circling your nub. You moan when he bites down and his eyes goes to the back of his head; there’s a fire burning in his gut, his unattended cock desperate to break free. He ruts into you, harshly, desperately, humping you like he’s the slutty, desperate one.
“Papa, Papa,” you keep repeating, head falling back as your nails scratch at his scalp, his nape. You slither your fingers under the collar of his shirt, stretching the fabric for more contact with him. You’re rocking yourself against his thigh, your naked pussy drenching the fabric of your father’s pants,
Aizawa groans before he leans back up to pull his shirt off for you. Your eyes rake over his hairy upper body, flushed from the exertion. You watch as the fat, pudgy part of his tummy ripples from clenching and unclenching under your scrutiny, and smile up at him, “Papa, you’re so handsome.”
Aizawa snorts in surprise, a skewered smile appearing on his face at your unexpected compliment. He pulls his hair back from his face and locks eyes with you, “that’s very sweet of you, baby, thank you.”
You follow his hand as it goes from his head down his chest, his stomach, following the happy trail to his pants. You gulp when you see the head of his cock just peeking out from the hem of his pants, the fat and long outline visible before he unzips his pants with a groan.
Your Papa’s cock is giant.
You squirm at the thought of having him inside of you, throbbing and clenching. You bite your lower lip, “Papa, will you fit?”
Aizawa’s chest heaves as he pumps himself while admiring your beautiful, relaxed form underneath him. “Papa’ll make it fit, I promise.”
You nod as you reach out for the back of your knees to pull them up, hoping your father will fill you up soon. Aizawa almost shoots his load right then and there, vision blackening for a second seeing you in a mating press.
“You really want it, huh? How many days since you last got fucked?” he laughs, moving forward to kiss your clit with the head of his dick before he drags it back and forth through your folds, coating himself in your want. You shiver when you feel the rough material of his zipper against your perineum.
You don’t answer his question, too focused on his cock. When he’s slotted perfectly against your folds, balls heavy against your hole, the fat head of his cock is hovering over your mound.
You gulp, hole painfully empty.
As your father starts pushing his cock inside your pussy, one hand goes to your jaw, “hey, look at me,” he says, forcing you to hold eye contact with him, “look at me as I stuff your cunt full.”
It’s all you can do to obey, opening your mouth at the stretch, despite no sound coming out, eyes locked onto your father’s. Every time he manages to give you an inch, he pulls back out and starts over, inch by slow inch. “That’s a good girl,” he says every time, licking the underside of his lip, listening to your breathing for any signs of discomfort.
Keeping eye contact with you is what keeps him going, too; truly and honestly if Aizawa were to look down at his perfect, sweet daughter’s pussy swallowing his massive cock, he would surely cum on the spot.
Tears are starting to form in your eyes and Aizawa hushes you, “it’s okay, baby, you’re almost halfway,” he praises as his other hand goes to your clit, swollen and desperate for attention. Your pussy jumps and flutters every time it takes a new inch, and when your hand goes to your stomach, right by your navel, Aizawa’s cock twitches and he accidentally pushes in a little harder and further than planned, “’can feel you in here, Papa,” you whine, drool gliding down your cheek, making your hairs stick to your nape in a way that makes Aizawa’s stomach churn.
“You love to be filled like this, don’t you?” your father muses as he fucks even deeper into your tight pussy, walls tightening around him in throbbing pulses, “Papa’ll always fuck you. I’ll wake you up with my cock,” you both moan as he bottoms out inside of you, “bend you over the breakfast table too, let your brother watch as you cum on my cock.” At the word my, he ruts into you forcefully, and your mouth falls open in a wail from the force. Your head almost hits the headframe of your bed.
You cum as he circles your clit again. “F-fuck baby, loosen up,” he wheezes, upper body giving in and falling over you at how tight you become, trying to milk him before he’s even gotten to fuck you.
You shake your head wildly, calling for your Papa over and over again, scratching at your father’s back now that he’s close, encasing you. It’s warm, hot, and there’s sweat dripping from Aizawa onto you, gliding down over your rib and onto the sheets. He curses as he takes you in, chest heaving and glistening from his earlier ministrations and Aizawa can’t hold back from spitting onto your chest, his right palm coming up to spread it all over you, adorning you in his juices, just like your pussy is doing to his cock.
His hand then goes to your face, pressing it onto its side and down onto the pillow, thrusting into you in earnest now that you’re done clamping down on him, loose hole sucking him in like he belongs there now. You’re moaning nonsense, and he can’t figure out a single word you’re trying to say, fucked out of your own brain.
“Shit, baby, you’re like a bitch in heat. Desperate for cock. Can’t believe I let Hitoshi fuck you alone like this under my roof,” he grits his teeth as he watches the fat of your stomach and your chest bounce, holding you down, watching the pillow get more and more soaked from your drool, “you’d let anyone fuck you, wouldn’t you? Hungry and greedy little cockslut.”
You want to say something, to deny your father’s mean words, but all that comes out are nonsensical sounds and wails, your abused cunt taking him like you really were made only for cock.
Aizawa’s not going to last long, not when you sound absolutely debauched, cunt squelching lewdly as your father carves out a space for himself in there. He’s so deep in you it feels like he’s stretching out your cervix.
“You naughty girl, swallowing me like you want to milk me.”
His words seems to trigger something in you, “Pap-ah! Milk! Papa’s milk, want to be full of it!”
You writhe and buck into the sloppy thrusts, “somethin’s cumming, papa, papa ,” you reach out for your father, scratching and pawing at his chest, his shoulders, reaching for his hair. And then you cum again, squirting all over your father and his stomach. You’ve never cum like that before, it’s so wet. Your father picks up speed, “you want my milk? I’ll give you Papa’s milk, all of it. All of it, for the rest of my life, baby.”
The obscene sound of Aizawa’s balls slapping onto your wet ass is only fueling him further and he cums then and there, so hard that he nearly blacks out, sticky ropes of cum painting your insides, “be Papa’s good girl and take it.”
He doesn’t stop thrusting into you until he lets out his own whines of overstimulation, cock softening and your precious milk squirting out with his movements, coating him, you, the sheets, the room absolutely defiled with the stench of sex. He’s drooling onto your forehead by the time he comes back to himself.
He doesn’t remember ever getting a headache from an orgasm.
When he looks down and removes his hand from your face, he sees your unfocused eyes and jaw hanging slack, your body intermittently shaking and twitching in his grasp.
You’re barely awake when he gets you into the tub and cleans you up, his own muscles straining and breath still shaky as he washes away the spit, the cum, soothes the bite marks with the loofah, kissing your forehead at every bruise he sees blooming under the worst ones.
As he passes the mirror to get a towel, his dick gives a lazy twitch when he sees all the bruises you gave him with your nails, some of them with small, dried out blood clots still attached. He can’t make himself clean them up before he gets you to bed.
____
Aizawa waits up by the kitchen island for his son to return home, coffee in his cup and no lights up in the house. Shinsou doesn’t flinch when he comes home and finds his father there like that.
“I brought Kyobaum for you,” his son says as he unpacks the food from his travel bag on the kitchen island, “it’s not as sweet as the mochi I bought for the little one but it is pretty sweet.” he promises with a teasing smirk.
Shinsou likes finding regional sweets for his father and little sister to try. It’s become a whole thing for him to try and find the most obscure, local treats.
“We need to talk.”
Shinsou jumps up to sit on the counter, ripping open the wrapping for a matcha milk bun. He bought it to eat on the train but ended up sleeping the entire way instead, “yeah? Shoot.”
“I know what you’ve done,” his father says ominously. Shinsou doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver, only puts the plastic packaging down and takes a careful bite to stall for time, “what’d I do?” he asks with his mouth full.
Aizawa slams his fist down onto the counter, “oh, don’t act coy with me. You fucked her, Hitoshi.”
Shinsou narrows his eyes for a split second as he takes another bite, reaching out for his bottle of water, “yeah?” is all he reacts with.
“Don’t just yeah me, I could throw you out for this, cut you off.”
“But you won’t, isn’t that it? Otherwise…” Shinsou takes a big sip from his bottle before he continues “...I would’ve found my things out in the trash and the key changed. You’re tougher than…” Shinsou waves his hand around his father to refer to all of him, “…this.”
Shinsou smiles and jumps down from the counter.
There’s a confidence that stems from his father’s choice of words. Aizawa’s a rational man – had he truly been disgusted by his son’s actions, his choice of words had been more logical, description’s more… fitting, to what he believed had happened.
He would never use the word fucking to refer to rape, sexual assault, molestation.
Shinsou walks up to where Aizawa is sitting and tilts his head with a smile, “did she feel good? When she took your cock?”
In truth, Shinsou doesn’t like the thought of sharing you. He enjoys having the control over your pleasure, of being the only one marking you with his semen. He’s been raised as an only-child, and it’s a stereotype that he’s not beating.
Aizawa doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, isn’t visibly disgusted like Shinsou expects him to be and his son knows that he hit the jackpot. Aizawa would’ve been outraged if his morals hadn’t been erased by the melody of your sweet moans.
Sharing his little sister’s pussy with the person holding the figurative authority over you is probably his best case scenario at this time and place.
A small price to pay, even.
Shinsou leans his hip against the counter and pops the last of the bread into his mouth, “did you come onto her? Or was she just lonely, desperate for cock while I was away?”
“Enough.”
Shinsou laughs and leans up into Aizawa’s personal space, “yes, Papa.”
His father chokes on his spit at the sultry way Shinsou says it. Shinsou pecks his father’s lips quickly, innocently, before he turns on his heels and walks out into the hallway, yelling out a “sleep tight” on the way to his bedroom.
Aizawa recognizes that this will all work out in Shinsou’s favor. It always does.
A shiver runs down his spine at the realization that he might not mind that.