wc: 0.6k
content warning: kinktober day 26 - dumbification, smut, hubby ushiwakkaa x reader, mating press :33, not proofread
•°. *࿐
ushijima might be the gentlest man you've ever met, but down there told a different story.
the room's simmering, it felt like every touch dissolved into your skin. he's got his two big palms right under your knees, delicately pushing you down to your chest as you panted for air.
blood rushed to your brain, circulating from every inch of your body as your husband's slowly inserting his fat tip in—feeling like he was carving his own new hole at this rate. the way your lips stretched to adapt to his size was searing and stung as you gripped the sheets with all your might.
ushijima's taking it nice and steady, not wanting to cause any more discomfort than what his own size does upon entrance. he's kissing away your tears that've dripped down your wet lashes and towards your chin, moving lower to press his warm lips onto the free reign of your neck.
he's got his cock nestled right inside your tight cunt that felt like it was going to snap his cock in half as your cunt molded to his shape and girth. ushijima's got you in the most vulnerable position, folded absolutely in half with your ankles near your ears when he starts to thrust.
one was enough for you to realize you won't be the one standing by tomorrow morning. a few thrusts in you could feel him gradually squeeze against your plush walls and crevices you're never able to get to—to which he can and easily at that.
he's got you filled to the brim, moving in and out and paving the inside of your cunt, specially just for him. gosh, it was like he was melting into you, feeling his body get gradually hotter and shiny with a sheen layer of sweat while he sent you sparks up to your core.
kissing your cervix with his tip, you can't help but arch at the sensation. he's roughly digging into you, but so gentle at the same time—giving you kisses as his hips connected to your pelvis as his balls swelled and slapped against your ass.
your eyes damn well rolled back into their sockets when he's got you breathless, uttering out babbles and moans as your vision of him blurred and became of blob version of your husband. you couldn't even think anymore, it all washed away due to the overwhelming pleasure ushijima fucked into you.
it was like he fucked all the worries and stress away, leaving you with nothing to say as you couldn't even fathom anything besides how good his thrusts were and how ushijima started to only hit the most sensitive parts of your desperate cunt.
drool seeped out from the corners of your lips to which they curled as you blinked blankly, like how your pussy pulsated around the circumference of his cock and mixed fluids that dripped and stained the sheets.
his thrusts weren't so cohesive anymore when he realized he's got you fucked dumb, making his pace all sloppy while pounding you through your orgasm to get to his. his breathing's gotten all hot and raggedy as he plants messy kisses all over your pretty face, his grip on under knees coming apart.
you couldn't even say anything but mumble about his dick as he's pumping his hot sticky load inside your cunt—taking his cock out to reveal the slimy, white, frothy rim around the base of his cock that was still connected to your entrance by a thin thread of his goop.
Summary: A storm of anxiety brings you to Toshinori’s door, and into a world of gentle touch, whispered comfort, and the kind of love that heals you from the inside out.
Notes: You can see the list of characters I will take requests for here.
The walk to Toshinori’s building is a blur. You hardly register the streets you take or the people you pass. Your feet carry you while your mind churns, a mess of panic and noise. All you know is that your hands are freezing cold, and your keys are cutting into your palm where you’re squeezing them too hard.
When you get to his door, you realise how much you’re shaking. You swallow. Your throat is tight. There’s a thickness—phlegm, nerves, anxiety—that won’t go down. You can hardly see—tears prick your eyes, rain trickles down your forehead, cold and unwelcome. The world blurs: streetlights smeared in water, the shape of your own reflection warped in the window by his door.
Everything feels wrong: breath too shallow, skin too tight. You can’t stop replaying the last hour in your head, a carousel of shoulds and can’ts. Shouldn’t be this weak. Shouldn’t come here. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.
But your hand moves anyway, knuckles rapping against the wood. The sound is too sharp, too loud. You flinch at it. For a second, you wish you could take it back, but it’s already done.
Silence. You count heartbeats. Your breath rasps, harsh and scraping—like skin against sandpaper inside your own head. Then: his steps, gentle, familiar—almost a shuffle—and the door swings open. Toshinori stands framed in the spill of warm lamplight. His blond hair is wild in every direction, eyes fond and impossibly blue behind a pair of reading glasses. The apartment behind him is a nest of quiet: an open book flat on the couch, steam curling from a mug abandoned on the table, the radio humming old songs, low and staticky, in the kitchen.
“Ah—my dear.” His voice goes low at the edges, shaped by worry. His loving gaze takes you in, cataloguing every sign—eyes rimmed red and glassy, lips bitten raw, your arms wrapped so tightly around yourself it’s like you’re trying to disappear inside your own coat. “I'm so glad you’re here.” No questions. No surprise. Just a welcome, warmer than anything you’ve ever known.
Your throat closes. You can’t speak.
But he doesn’t need any words. He just opens his arms—awkward, elbows too angular, sleeves rolled up past his wrists. You step forward because there is nothing else to do. His hug folds around you, loose and careful, his hand cupping the back of your head. His chest is bony under his old t-shirt; you breathe in green tea and a faint, metallic trace of liniment.
The moment you press into him, you break—tears spilling over, breath hitching, shoulders shaking as you clutch desperately at fistfuls of his shirt. You cry like you’ve been waiting all day for permission.
He draws you tighter, tucking you beneath his chin, his long fingers threading through your hair in slow, soothing strokes. “Shhh, you’re safe now. Breathe with me. That’s it. In, out.”
You try, dragging each breath in and out to match his, but it’s ragged—hiccuping sobs catching on every exhale, your chest still tight, your body clinging to him for something solid. Curled against his chest, you can’t see much at all—just the faded weave of his t-shirt, the pale line of a scar at his collarbone, strands of his blond hair brushing your forehead. The rest of the room feels far away: golden kitchen light somewhere behind him, shadows drifting across old wallpaper, rain hammering against the glass. Everything else is distant, muffled, your mind slipping sideways, but he is real and solid, his voice gentle and close, the warmth of his arms anchoring you in the hush that wraps around you both.
You murmur, “Sorry. I didn’t know where else—”
“Never apologise...” His voice is tender, the kind that settles somewhere deep in your chest. “Come in, let's get you warmed up.”
He guides you—one arm around your waist, a little hesitant—over to the couch. His apartment is cluttered, lived-in, but not messy. Books line the shelves, stoppered by old photos; his slippers are left askew on the floor, and a small blue blanket is folded over the back of the sofa. He slips the damp coat off your shoulders and replaces it with the blanket, it's weight grounding. Before you know it, a warm mug is in your hands. The steam smells of chamomile and honey.
He sits close, knees bumping yours, long fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket. He doesn’t look away from your face, watching every tiny tremor, every stuttered breath.
“I can make you something to eat,” he says softly. “Onigiri, maybe. Or soup—whatever you like. Would that help?”
You shake your head, words thick. “Just—can I stay here? Just for a little while?”
He nods. “As long as you need.” He sets his hand on your knee, sure and steady, thumb tracing quiet circles that promise he’s not going anywhere.
Your thoughts stutter, still scrambled, but they start to slow. You try to concentrate—account for your senses, one by one, like you’ve been taught. The ticking of the old wall clock. Toshinori’s hand, so careful and soothing. The faint smell of eucalyptus and old paper in the living room, his cologne from days gone by barely clinging to his shirt. You close your eyes and feel your body drop back into itself, inch by inch.
While you try to steady your breathing, he tells you a quiet, meandering story about a stray cat who used to visit his window—how it always looked offended when he set out a saucer of milk, how it preferred his company over the food. His voice is gentle, full of fondness and a thread of quiet humour. You find yourself smiling before you realise it.
But then, just as you start to feel yourself gather—sitting in the hush between his words—the tears come back. It’s not a storm now, just a quiet trembling. Tears slip out, softer, easier to carry. You lean into him and let them come, the blanket clutched at your chin. This time, you don’t feel alone inside it. You feel held, anchored by the weight of his arm around you and the simple, patient way he's right there.
“It’s alright,” he whispers, pressing kisses to your hairline. “Just let yourself feel it. I've got you...”
You don’t remember moving, but somehow you end up tucked against his side, his arm coiled around your shoulders. Your cheek pressed to his heart, listening to the steady thumps—a strong, living thing, just for you.
His other hand smooths your hair and thumbs away your tears, over and over, patient. You let yourself be small, just for a while.
“Thank you,” you whisper, voice thin.
He shakes his head, a fond, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You never need to thank me. Not for this.”
You turn your face up, eyes meeting his. He’s close, his eyes a little watery, mouth curved in a faint smile, the barest colour high on his cheeks. Then, you kiss him—a brush of lips, meant only as gratitude, but the warmth of it lingers. His breath catches. You feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he stills—careful not to move too quickly, afraid to break the fragile peace you’ve finally managed to find.
He draws back just enough to study your face, worry flickering in his eyes. “Would you like me to put on a movie? Or I can make more tea, if you’d rather.”
You swallow, shake your head. “No... I— I need you, Toshi. I just… I want to feel close to you. Is that alright?”
Those blue eyes scan your features for a moment before his mouth finds yours again, delicate and protective, his fingers trembling now. You taste chamomile again, the ghost of tears, the all-encompassing warmth of a man who would give you anything, if only you asked.
He doesn’t rush. He kisses you like you’re something precious, irreplaceable—patient, searching, as if memorising every shape and sigh.
The world narrows to his mouth, this couch, the blanket around your shoulders, the sheltering embrace of his arms.
You lose track of how long you sit like that, cocooned together in the hush of the apartment. Toshinori’s hand moves in gentle, looping patterns through your hair, and you breathe him in—press kisses to the hollow of his throat. The city sounds are distant, blurred by rain. It’s only a gentle patter now—nothing like the hard drumbeat from before—like the world is finally giving you this small, precious pocket of time.
“I'm sorry,” you mutter, embarrassed. You don’t know if you mean for coming here, for falling apart, for needing so much. It’s all a tangle.
His brow knits. “Don't.” His voice is low, certain. “You're mine. I'll always protect you.”
You’re tired, body heavy, but the chaos inside you has softened to something longing, an ache instead of panic. You spend a long moment admiring your partner—at the worry written in the deep lines around his eyes, the pink that lingers at the tips of his ears. Then the urge to be close rises, sudden and yearning, chasing out the shame. You want to touch him everywhere, to feel him, real and human, against you. You want to lose yourself in the warm weight of his love, to let him remind you there’s something beautiful in being wanted.
You lift your face, catching his mouth again—this time not just in thanks, but hungry, needing. He freezes, startled, and then returns the kiss: hesitant at first, then deeper as you urge him on. You open for him, and his tongue flicks tentatively against yours, testing, reverent, tasting the shape of your need.
His hand slips to your jaw, cradling it as if you’re spun glass. He pulls back, reading your face, quietly asking. His lips are wet and parted, his breathing a little unsteady. The way he looks at you makes your heart skip a beat.
“We don’t have to—” he starts, voice thick.
“I want to,” you whisper, and it’s the truest thing you’ve said all day. “I want you to hold me. To make it all go quiet.”
Toshinori closes his eyes, a soft, shuddering breath leaving him. When he opens them again, you see nothing but devotion—raw and naked, undiluted by doubt. He stands and holds out his hand.
You take it.
He leads you down the short hall, past photos tucked into the mirror frame (old friends, faded sunsets, you with your arms around his waist, both of you laughing). The bedroom is dim, late-afternoon light slanting through rain-streaked glass, painting the rumpled covers gold and grey. There’s a plant on the sill, leaves reaching for the last of the sun, and a mug half-full of forgotten tea.
He closes the door behind you, gently, as if afraid a louder sound might break the spell. His hands are shaking when he reaches for you—not with nerves, but with the weight of everything he feels. He touches your cheek, thumb gliding over the faint, salty trail at your cheekbone.
“If you want to stop…” he murmurs.
“I’ll tell you,” you promise.
You let him undress you, piece by careful piece—his fingers never fumbling, but slow, as if every button, every inch of skin is something sacred. He pauses at your shoulders, pressing kisses to the curve where your neck meets your collarbone. The brush of his lips is grounding; your worried thoughts disappear, focus shrinking to the exact place his mouth touches you.
When you’re bare before him, he stops, breath catching. His gaze rakes over you, awe-struck and adoring, as if he’s seeing you for the first time.
“You’re so very beautiful,” he hums, adoration thick in his voice.
You help him shed his own clothes: shirt first, then the thin, soft undershirt he favours, slacks, and the old boxers you teased him about last week. His body is all long lines and old scars, narrow chest rising and falling with measured breaths. He blushes under your gaze, but doesn’t shy away.
You guide him to the bed, sheets cool against your back. When he kneels over you, his hair is a wild corona in the light. For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s memorising every detail—the sweep of your ribs, the flutter of your pulse at your throat, the trust in your eyes.
He settles between your legs, the heat of him familiar, welcome. You unfold for him, knees bracketing his hips, and he strokes his hands up the outside of your thighs with languid, calming grace. Your eyes slip closed at the touch, heat curling low in your belly.
“Don’t drift away from me,” he whispers, his thumb tracing your lower lip, feather-soft. Your eyes open immediately, finding his, and the world goes quiet—there’s only his breath on your lips, the comfort of his weight encasing you.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring every ounce of care into the way his mouth moves over yours. His hands frame your face, brushing away hair, tracing the soft shell of your ear, the line of your jaw.
When he finally sinks into you, it’s slow—so slow you feel every inch of him as he fills you, the gradual stretch stealing your breath, the slide of heat and fullness drawing a soft gasp from your throat. Your fingers tighten at his shoulders, holding on to the quiet tension in his body, to the warmth of him, to the moment. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead to yours, breath shallow, eyes searching your face—not just for pain, but for anything he might have missed.
“Is this alright?” he murmurs, voice rough.
You nod, but words feel too small, so you pull him closer, legs wrapping around his thin hips. He shudders, the softest moan dragging from his throat. His movements are deep and drawn-out, heavy with meaning, holding himself back until you guide his pace, rocking up to meet him. His mouth finds yours again and again, breaking only to whisper sweet things that you gather like treasures: “You’re safe. I have you. Just you and me, my love. You're perfect.”
You feel your heart beating in time with his, every ragged breath syncing. His hands cradle your head, his thumb stroking your cheek, anchoring you where your thoughts threaten to scatter. The room is thick with the sound of rain, the quiet creak of bedsprings, the low, broken gasps you both share between kisses.
When you start to shake—overwhelmed, full to bursting—he holds still, letting you cling to him, his lips light at your temple. “That's it,” he breathes. “I love you.”
You crest, with his name half-formed on your lips. It feels like dissolving, like coming home. Toshinori catches you, gathering you closer, hips stuttering as he follows, burying his face in your neck with a quiet, shuddering groan. His arms tighten around you, holding you through the aftershocks, like he never wants to let go.
You stay tangled together, neither of you moving for what feels like hours. The storm outside has eased by the time you move. His hand smooths your hair, lips pressed to your forehead, and you realise you can finally breathe again—deep and full, soft and golden.
He still doesn’t leave you—not even for a moment. Only when you ask does he slip away, just long enough to bring you water, pull the duvet over you both, and return to your side. His heartbeat thrums beneath your palm like a lullaby.
“You could ask anything of me,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your cheek. “And I’d give it. Gladly.”
You believe him. And in his arms, the world finally feels safe.
CW: gn or fem reader, reader is described as sweet + other things, you're married to Shota cause I said so, insecurities, slight Toshi angst, giving them flowers, uhh lmk if I missed anything
A/N: This kind of thing is like my favorite thing to write. Also I couldn't resist adding a ship dynamic picture for Toshi's. (Tags: @nnnyxie, @bingewatchintilldawn)
Shota Aizawa
No one knows how he managed to catch your attention.
He had a messy appearance, and he could be harsh at times.
But you were absolutely stunning. Not to mention you were incredibly polite and sweet.
The first time you met his class, almost everyone was shocked. You had probably brought him flowers after the USJ attack to hopefully cheer him up.
Just about everyone knew he was married, as he wore a ring, but they did not expect someone so utterly gorgeous and kind to be his partner
Hizashi and Nemuri were the only ones you had met, as they had gone to your guys' wedding.
But his students are a bit flabbergasted, and are mainly the ones who don’t understand why you married him.
But it doesn’t mean they don’t like you, in fact, they love it when you drop by.
Mainly because you’re just nice, but also because Shota relaxes more around you, and they have a lower chance of being scolded…
Or higher, depending on how you look at it
But Shota is very thankful that you don’t mind the way he looks.
He was initially surprised when he found out you liked him, but he quickly accepted it.
Though he will admit he was slightly skeptical at first, wondering if you had an ulterior motive.
But you truly just loved him for who he was. And he did eventually understand that you just had pure, innocent intentions.
Toshinori Yagi
He himself has no idea how he pulled you.
He doesn’t have a great self image, so he doesn’t understand why you of all people would be interested in him.
At the start of your relationship (also when he was crushing) he could barely breathe around you.
And early in your relationship people warned him that you might be using him, or something like that, and using your attractiveness to your advantage.
He tells them that he knows you would never do that, and he’s correct.
It just might take some time for other people to see that.
But as your relationship progressed, he became less flustered around you.
He’ll occasionally have doubts, and say stuff like “You should be dating someone who still has their life ahead of them.”
He was at the point where he was having a hard time comprehending how he could keep living without saving people
But you reassure him that he’s the one you want, and that nothing is going to change that
After he fought AFO, you brought him some flowers to put on his desk.
But you wanted to surprise him, so you didn’t tell him you were coming
So when you’re directed to the teachers lounge, there’s some awkward silence before he stands up and goes towards you.
“You brought me flowers.?”
He seriously didn’t expect you to get him anything, much less a bouquet of flowers
He’s very grateful for the flowers, and he’ll keep them and then press them when they dry out (they’re sunflowers.)
He wants to kiss you, but he feels that doing it in front of the other staff members (specifically Present Mic) wouldn’t be the best idea.
And out of the students, Izuku is the first to find out, as he’s known Toshinori the longest.
You probably end up calling him when he’s training him, and Izuku is able to tell reasonably quickly that whoever he’s talking to is very special to him.
But he ends up meeting you when the other students do.
And when you are introduced to them, you both receive a lot of questions.
But in the end everyone likes having you around, and Toshinori is thankful for you and loves you very much.
