#in honor of inaguration day have some filth.... its what this country's built on baybee

[hawnks]

all the way up

shota aizawa x reader

18+

word count: 1,700

You’re not too keen about shaving your legs for a work event. Shota takes it upon himself to make the situation a little more productive.

[[bath time (what else), shaving, edging, “good girl”,  jealous aizawa, also he’s a service top]]

warnings: razors, explicit content

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It was rare that you had an occasion where getting all dolled up was obligatory. Your workplace dress code was particularly lax, jeans or yoga pants sufficed most days. Every once in a while you like to do a little bit more, cute makeup or a higher end outfit. Sometimes you do it for your fiancé, so he can take it all off like he’s unwrapping a present, discover the little back lace panties you bought just for him. His (long, hard) appreciation is more than enough to make up for the effort.

This is less fun.

You're supposed to be running errands right now, but if you procrastinate on those you can also procrastinate on getting ready.

You're sulking a little bit as you stare at the dress laid out across your bed. Glittering and dark, just the right blend of sensuous and coy—you knew it would look perfect on you when you saw it on the rack. It does, however, fall mid thigh.

You’re not particularly attached to the idea of clean shaven legs. You do it when you remember to, or when you feel like it, but most of the time your razors just sit on the shower shelf collecting rust, going to waste. Shota could care less. He’s not particularly good at that kind of upkeep himself, and the state of your leg hair (really, really) doesn’t detract from his eagerness in the bedroom.

So when he sees you pouting down at your stupid perfect dress, his answer is a shrug. “Just don’t do it.”

You’re not totally against the idea of shaving, but the notion that there’s any obligation to it makes you want to dig your heels in. And yet—

“It’s a networking event.”

Shota comes up beside you, one hand on your lower back, peering down at the dress as well. “So?”

“So—“ you say, dragging out the syllable. “Men are more likely to give me what I want when I meet their dumb beauty standards.”

Shota’s fingers grip the back of your shirt, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him. His lips find the tender spot between your jaw and ear. “You’re doing this for other men?”

You lean back against him, give him your weight. “For money, babe.”

His grip doesn’t relax, but you can see the wheels turning. His other hand comes up to pet your arm, almost a hug. 

Then he releases you. “Run your errands,” he tells you.

You pull away, scanning his face for any hints of pique, but his expression is neutral, if a bit blasé.

So you go. It’s a quick journey, not much to it. You’re still relieved to be back at home for a little self TLC before you have to leave again. Even more so when Shota greets you at the door with a kiss, slipping your bags from your wrist.

“I started running a bath for you,” he murmurs against your lips.

You cup his cheek, nails tracking through the stubble at the hinge of his jaw. “Aren’t you sweet.”

A hint of a smirk. “The sweetest.” 

You make a beeline for the bathroom, the idea of relaxing too potent to resist. The room is steamy and lightly floral scented. Even the tiles are warm beneath your feet as you begin to strip.

Shota knows all your preferences by now, from temperature to bath bomb to the particular towel you want hanging on the hook. The size of your tub doesn’t make bathing together easy, but occasionally he’ll sit beside you on the edge, reading as you soak, just basking in the silence and humid warmth. 

As the door rattles open, you assume it’ll be one of those days, but Shota’s movements are more purposeful. He opens the medicine cabinet, grabbing a few items before taking his usual spot. 

You give him your hand, which he takes willingly, pressing a few kisses to your wet knuckles. “Good?” he asks. 

You hum in agreement, turning your palm over in his hold so you can run a thumb over his bottom lip. “So good to me, Shota.”

You recognize the burgeoning heat in his gaze, have a vague understanding of his intent when he rolls up his sleeve and tells you to lie back. 

His touch starts at your calf, trailing up past your bent knee, your thighs, to the hair curling at their apex. “Spread,” he says.

Your reaction is instantaneous, almost subconscious. Your thighs part, and two long fingers take immediate advantage. It’s a teasing touch, quick and light. It’s the hunger in his eyes more than anything that’s making you wet. 

“Look at you, all laid out for me.” The fingers dip, pressing lightly into your opening and then retreating, circling and circling. Then again. And again. “Only for me.”

You reach up to grab his wrist, an imploring look in your eyes. “Shota, please.” 

He holds your gaze as his fingers dip again, pressing and pressing until they’re in to the last knuckle. And he keeps holding your gaze as he begins to thrust them, in and out, always grazing that soft bit of you that makes you gasp. And as his thumb begins to stroke your clit, the tension gaining in your body, slow and tortuous and delicious. 

Your hips are rising to meet him in little jerks. Your combined motion has the water licking the edge of the tub, threatening to spill over. Shota’s clothes are getting wet. He doesn’t care. He’s too focused on the rapt concentration on your face, chasing the pleasure he knows exactly how to give you but just won’t. 

Even so, he sees your peak coming, feels the rhythmic clenching around his fingers, notes the little crease between your brows. 

He pulls his hand back. 

He clicks his tongue at your whine, reaching over and grabbing your towel. “Stand up.” 

You do, still shivering with unspent tension as he wraps you up, then urges you to take his place on the edge of the tub, one foot planted in his lap as he kneels before you. 

“You have the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen,” he says. There’s no seduction to it, just Shota, telling you his honest truth. 

Even so, the words make your chest heat. 

His palms drag up and down your leg, just feeling. Lightly groping the muscle and fat, the curve of you. “Your skin, the shape, the softness.” His voice is low, burred. 

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your bent knee, another to your shin. His warm breath against you brings goosebumps to your skin. He smiles when you jerk in his grasp. 

He reaches down to grab something off the floor—his own shaving gel— and begins applying a thick sheen of it. It’s more of the same, slick strokes up and down, pausing every once in a while to dig his fingers in when he feels tension, working his way up and up. And up.

The first brush of his knuckles against your sex you think is a mistake. It’s light and quick, not particularly salacious. But it happens again. And again. 

You lift your hips, trying to grind against the back of his hand, but as if to punish you he slips away again, fingers trailing back down your thighs.

He picks up a razor. 

“Are you going to hold still for me?” he asks. You nod. He nods. “That’s my girl.”

The drag of the blade is different from when you do it yourself. The angle slightly off, the pressure just a little lighter. There’s the underlying tension of someone holding something sharp against you. You trust Shota completely, with anything, everything. But with every stroke you feel something keening inside you, giddy, anticipatory. You’re still high off the last denied climax and everything is sharper as Shota handles you. 

His face hovers just a few inches above your skin, following the trajectory of the razor. Up and up. Warm, damp breaths following. The loose strands of his hair brush against your shins, and you have to hold yourself back from just reaching down and grabbing. 

As he reaches your thigh, you’d be shaking if not for the firm hold he has on you. One hand curved around your ankle, keeping your foot steady on his own thigh. His gaze tracks your parted lips, the quick rise and fall of your chest. His own mouth is just a few shallow inches from the apex of your thighs. 

With a low groan he presses in. 

There’s no rhythm at first, just him trying to touch every part of you. His pace mellows out after a moment of you bucking, groaning, trying to stay seated on the solid side of the bath with unbalanced wriggles. 

Your towel slips, half of it landing in the dregs of the water. Shota takes the opportunity to stroke the softness of your belly, the sweet fluff of your hips. It’s a firm pet, his fingers already knowing the places you liked to be touched, the places he likes to touch. He loves these more tender parts of you. You’re happy to let him take his fill. 

His arm snakes around your midriff, securing you, keeping you against his face. “You feel so good, kitten,” he murmurs. 

His free hand snakes up your inner thighs, a finger insinuating itself as he pays little teasing licks all around your opening. 

Your hands do grip his hair now, urging him to go faster, please. 

His answer is a grunt. He adds another finger, then goes still. His lips rest on your clit, barely touching. 

“Say you’re mine,” he demands, and you can feel the words against you. 

“Yours,” you breathe. “Yours, Shota. Just yours.”

With a smirk he finally gives you what you want, those firm upward tilted strokes you need to finish as his tongue grows heavy on your clit. You feel his dark eyes on you as you start to twitch with it, your pussy clenching around his fingers, his free hand tightening on your thigh. When you crest he guides you through it, his firm thrusts milking out every shiver and moan until you go boneless, slumping against him, temple to temple. 

“Good girl,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. You can feel the dangerous curve of his lips against you. “Now for the next leg.”

#aizawa smut #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa x reader #bnha x reader #aizawa x y/n #in honor of inaguration day have some filth.... its what this country's built on baybee