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The day comes—Saturday. The weekend when Yori be coming over to speak about their sexual preferences and maybe—maybe—they'd have their first scene.
The knock at his door comes precisely at the agreed-upon time—not a minute early, not a minute late. Aizawa has always admired Yori’s punctuality, but today, it sends a flicker of something sharp through his gut. He exhales, rolling his shoulders once before moving to answer the door.
Yori stands on the other side, dressed in her usual muted colors—a deep plum turtleneck this time, paired with tailored black slacks. Simple. Understated. But Aizawa notices.
He steps aside wordlessly, letting her in. Yori brushes past him, her scent—subtle, floral—lingering in the air as she moves into his apartment. She pauses, glancing around with mild curiosity. ".. Cleaner than I expected," she remarks.
Aizawa shuts the door with a soft click, crossing his arms. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Yori shrugs, setting her bag down on the kitchen counter. "Just an observation."
Aizawa exhales through his nose, but doesn’t argue.
There’s a beat of silence—comfortable, charged—before Yori turns to face him fully, her expression shifting into something more serious. ".. So. Boundaries. Preferences. Safety protocols."
Aizawa nods, matching her tone. "Right."
She tilts her head slightly. "Where would you want to start?"
Aizawa runs a hand through his hair, thinking for a moment. "… Boundaries."
Yori hums her agreement, leaning back against the counter. "Of course."
Aizawa takes a deep breath. "Starting with safe words."
Yori nods, her expression still serious but unfazed. "Agreed. I assume the usual—red, yellow, green?"
Aizawa nods, folding his arms loosely. "Standard works for me." His gaze flicks to hers, assessing. "Any hard limits I should know about?"
Yori considers for a moment before shaking her head. "Nothing extreme—no lasting marks where normal clothing won’t cover, no breath play past light restriction." Her lips quirk slightly. "I trust you not to break anything important."
His eyes narrow at the faint challenge in her tone. "Confident."
"Observant," she corrects softly, tilting her head. "You’re meticulous when it matters." A brief pause. ".. And you?"
Aizawa exhales through his nose. "No interruptions once we start. No hesitation if I check in." His voice drops lower. "No hesitation when I give commands."
"Understood." She hums, thoughtful. "I also do prefer being degraded. Harshly, especially in the depth of it, but not with things like slut, whore, but more of things like pet, toy, et cetera. I also do enjoy praise to know when I've done something that pleases you."
Aizawa exhales sharply through his nose—processing, filing that information away for later. His fingers flex once against his own forearm, his voice lowering further. ".. Noted."
Yori watches him—quietly assessing—before tilting her head slightly. ".. And aftercare?"
Aizawa’s shoulders tense minutely. "Non-negotiable. Hydration, cleanup—at least with a cloth if you're not able to shower, and a check-in." Yori nods again in response.
Another silence—this one heavier, charged.
Then Aizawa steps forward, closing the distance between them in two strides. His hand lifts, hovering near her jaw.
Yori doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just holds his gaze steadily. "What titles do you prefer?"
Aizawa’s fingers finally make contact, brushing lightly along her jawline—testing, gauging her reaction. His thumb traces the curve of her cheekbone before his hand settles firmly against the side of her neck, fingers pressing just enough to feel the steady pulse beneath her skin. "Sir," he murmurs, the word deliberate. "Just sir."
Yori’s lips part slightly—just a quick, shallow inhale—but her gaze doesn’t waver. "Understood.. Sir."
The title rolls off her tongue effortlessly, and Aizawa feels something hot and sharp coil low in his gut. He hums, tilting her chin up with his thumb. ".. Good girl."
Yori shivers—barely perceptible, but he feels it.
And just like that, the atmosphere shifts.
Aizawa’s grip tightens slightly, his voice dropping into something darker. "Kneel."
Yori doesn’t hesitate. She sinks to her knees instantly, the motion smooth, fluid, natural as she looks up at him. Her chin still tilted in the palm of his hand.
Aizawa lets out a low breath—a sound that might be a huff of laughter, might be a sound of approval—as he combs his fingers through her hair. "Good. Very well done."
Yori exhales softly, her gaze never leaving his. Her eyes are still steady, her expression still calm, even as she yields to him completely.
Aizawa observes her—her posture, the way her shoulders relax into the position, the slight flush creeping up her neck—and feels something dark and possessive curl in his chest. He tightens his grip in her hair, just enough to make her breath hitch. "Eyes down."
Yori obeys immediately, her lashes lowering as she fixes her gaze on the floor between them.
He lets the silence sit.
“Hands on your thighs.”
She adjusts.
“Back straight.”
She corrects herself.
Aizawa circles her slowly, footsteps deliberate. He says nothing for long enough that her breathing shifts—controlled, but faster. “You move without instruction,” he says calmly, “and we reset.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Aizawa hums, satisfied. "Perfect." The word is quiet—almost reverent—before his voice hardens again. "Now stay."
Aizawa steps back, watching her—the elegant slope of her spine, the perfect stillness of her hands resting on her thighs. No fidgeting. No resistance. Just quiet, unwavering obedience.
His chest tightens.
He continues to circle her slowly, his footsteps deliberately loud—letting her track him by sound alone. Her breathing stays even, even when he stops directly behind her, his shadow draping over her like a second skin. Aizawa leans down, his breath hot against her ear. ".. Tell me why you're here."
Yori inhales sharply—but her voice doesn’t waver. "To serve you, Sir."
Aizawa hums, fingertips ghosting along her shoulder. "And?"
"To prove I can be good for you."
Aizawa feels his grip tighten again, almost involuntarily, as the words send a surge of dark, satisfied heat through him. But he keeps his voice impassive. "And what if I'm not satisfied?"
He feels her breath catch this time, her shoulders tensing ever-so-slightly. But her words remain steady, her voice unshaken. ".. Then I'll keep trying."
Aizawa circles back around, stepping into her line of vision. He stops directly in front of her—not quite close enough to touch. Testing. She doesn't budge, her gaze fixed on the floor.
Aizawa takes a moment to just look. Her position is perfect, her expression flawless. His fingers itch with the urge to touch—to grip, to pull—but he reigns it in for now. Instead, he hums quietly. "Look at me."
The words are a command. Gentle, but sharp, and Yori obeys instantly. Her gaze lifts, meeting his without any hesitation. The flush on her face is more noticeable now—her eyes dark and wide. Waiting. Aizawa's gaze roams over her face—taking in every detail. The way her lashes flutter beneath his scrutiny. The subtle parting of her lips. The faint flush dusting her cheeks.
He hums again. "Open your mouth."
This time, there is a pause. Just a split second of hesitation. But she obeys—slowly parting her lips, her eyes never leaving his.
Aizawa's thumb brushes over her lower lip, his eyes narrowing. “That pause? Don’t do it again.”
"Yes, sir."
He stares at her for a few more moments before his thumb digs into her lip. "Stick your tongue out." Yori obeys again, her eyes fixed on his. Her tongue peeks out, pink and wet, and Aizawa can't stop the sharp inhale that escapes his throat.
He tugs on her lower lip ever so lightly with his thumb, tilting her chin up. His tone is still low, still even—but there's some dark, hungry tone to it now. "Wider."
Her mouth parts more, her tongue still exposed. And Aizawa can't resist the urge any longer. His index finger slips into her mouth—just past her lips. It brushes against her tongue, his touch light, exploratory.
She doesn't move, just holds still. Lets herself be explored without protest. And the fact that she's so pliant under his touch, so willing to surrender herself to him unconditionally.. It's more intoxicating than he could have ever imagined.
His finger presses down on her tongue. A silent command. And Yori sucks lightly, her eyes still fixed on his as his finger strokes her tongue.
"So obedient," he murmurs, his tone just shy of approval. "Good girl." Yori's breath hitches—almost a whimper—but the rest of her stays still. Her pulse is racing under his touch now, her cheeks flushed darker.
Aizawa can't help himself now. He slips a second finger into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue again—a little more firmly this time.
Her mouth opens wider, accommodating him. And she sucks again, her gaze still fixed on his, her expression worshipful. Aizawa's fingers slide deeper, pressing down on her tongue and pinning it down. He can feel the heat of her mouth, the wet softness and it burns, heat unfurling through him in thick, heady waves.
His voice comes out low, almost hoarse. "Such a good girl. So willing. So obedient." His thumb brushes over her cheek. She's panting now, her eyes still fixed on him—and just the sight of her, on her knees for him, panting and waiting…
He hums, fingers pressing against her tongue as he observes her. "Would you be able to behave if I replaced this with something more of your taste?" A muscle in Yori's jaw clenches—almost imperceptibly as she nods, not able to give a verbal confirmation.
Aizawa sees it, though. He almost smiles as he withdraws his fingers—slowly, deliberately. Watching her mouth part, tongue still sticking out. Waiting.
His thumb is still stroking her cheeks, and he notices the flush staining her skin even darker. "Good girl. Open wider." Aizawa doesn’t rush. He takes his time—stroking her tongue once more before finally sliding his fingers free with a slow, slick sound. Yori’s lips stay parted, her breath uneven. Waiting.
He grips her chin firmly, tilting her face up further. "Beg."
Her voice is thick when it comes—soft, but unwavering. "Please, Sir."
Aizawa exhales sharply. His grip tightens. "Louder."
Yori swallows—then obeys, her voice more firm. "Please."
A sharp inhale. Aizawa leans down, his lips brushing her ear as he murmurs, "Properly."
Yori's breath hitches, the sound loud in the silence. There's a pause—a beat where he wonders if she'll refuse. But shortly after her voice comes in a quiet, ragged whisper. "Please, Sir. Allow me to have the pleasure of sucking your cock. To please you, sir."
Aizawa exhales, slow and measured. "Good girl." His hand moves, gripping her hair again. His voice is still dark, still commanding. "You won't move until I tell you to. Understood?"
Yori shivers, but her response is immediate. "Yes, Sir." Aizawa stands back for moment, taking in the sight of her on her knees. Her head is tilted back, her lips parted and mouth open—wet and inviting, her eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed and expression obedient.
He can't take it anymore. He needs to—he needs to feel her, to taste her, to claim her in this moment.
But he knows his place. Knows his role.
So instead he slowly starts to unbuckle his pants, watching her reactions closely. Yori is still—almost unnervingly so. She gives nothing away except for the racing of her pulse—too fast to be considered relaxed. Her breathing is measured, her gaze fixed on him, watching.
She doesn't move when he pulls his cock out—not even a twitch. Just stares up at him, her mouth still parted, her expression still obedient. But her gaze darkens at the sight of him—hot, hungy, eager and Aizawa feels almost dizzy with it, the knowledge that she wants this, craves this. Aizawa exhales slowly through his nose, forcing himself to keep control. One hand grips her hair again, holding her still—the other gently tilts her chin up. "Open wider."
Yori obeys. Her tongue sticks out even more, her mouth wider, lips glistening in the low light. Waiting. Aizawa strokes himself once—slow, deliberate—watching her reaction. His thumb brushes over the flushed head, spreading the wetness gathered there before pressing it against her tongue.
Yori doesn’t move. Just lets him smear it across her tongue, her breath shuddering. Aizawa’s grip tightens in her hair. “Taste.”
Her tongue laps once—experimental, obedient—and her lashes flutter at the bitter-salt of him. Aizawa exhales sharply. “Again.”
She does. Longer this time. More deliberate. A quiet moan escapes her throat, muffled against his skin. His voice drops to a growl. “Good girl. Now suck." With the command given, Yori closes her lips around him—slowly, carefully—her tongue pressing flat against his length as she takes him deeper.
Aizawa’s fingers tighten in her hair, his breath catching as she hollows her cheeks and sucks, her lashes fluttering. The heat of her mouth is almost unbearable—wet and tight and perfect.
She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hesitate. Just takes him in with practiced ease, her eyes flickering up to meet his—dark and hazy with obedience. Aizawa exhales sharply, his grip tightening further. "Good girl."
His hips twitch forward—just slightly—testing her control. Yori doesn’t falter. Doesn’t gag. Just swallows around him, her throat working as she takes him deeper.
Aizawa groans, low and rough. "Look at you—taking me so well. Such a good girl."
Yori moans around him—the vibration sending a shock of pleasure down his spine—and he fucks forward, just once, just enough to feel her throat tighten around him. Her fingers clutch at his thighs—not pushing him away, just holding on—and the sight of her, flushed and desperate and his, is almost enough to unravel him completely.
He would normally reprimand her for moving without his permission, but this is their first scene. He takes a deep breath, his fingers curling into her hair. "More."
Yori responds instantly, sucking him deeper, faster, her tongue working relentlessly—until Aizawa is panting above her, his fingers tangled in her hair, his hips canting forward. Aizawa’s entire body tenses—his grip in her hair tightening almost painfully as he holds her in place, fighting the urge to thrust deeper. His breath is ragged, his voice rough with restraint. "Keep going—just like that."
Yori obeys—taking him deeper, swallowing around him, her tongue pressing hot and relentless against his length. Aizawa’s vision whites out for a second—his hips jerking forward involuntarily as pleasure coils tight in his gut—before he forces himself to pull back, dragging himself free with a slick, filthy sound.
Yori gasps—her lips swollen, her chin slick—and she blinks up at him, dazed but obedient. Aizawa exhales sharply, stroking himself once—hard—before gripping her chin again. "Swallow."
Yori opens her mouth instantly—tongue out, waiting—and Aizawa groans as he spills over her tongue, his entire body shuddering with the force of it. She swallows—once, twice—before closing her mouth, her lips parting again only when he releases her chin.
Aizawa exhales—slow, unsteady—before brushing his thumb over her swollen lower lip. "Good girl." His voice is rough, and Yori shivers—her chest rising and falling rapidly, her gaze still fixed on him with quiet devotion.
Aizawa smooths a hand through her hair, gentler now—soothing. "Stand up."
Yori obeys—her legs trembling slightly as she rises—but she doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t falter.
Aizawa pulls her close, pressing his forehead against hers. His breath is still uneven—his pulse still racing—but his grip is steady. ".. Color?"
Yori's fingers curling into his shirt—before exhaling softly. "Green."
Aizawa hums—low and satisfied—before pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Good."
Then he tugs her hair, pushing her towards his bedroom. "Bed, pet." Yori's breath hitches softly at the command, but she moves without hesitation, walking toward his bedroom with steady steps despite the lingering tremble in her thighs.
Aizawa watches her go—the way her shoulders remain straight, the controlled sway of her hips—before following.
His bedroom is dim, the curtains half-drawn. The bed is neatly made—uncharacteristically so—but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he gestures to it, voice still rough with lingering arousal. "On your knees. Facing the headboard."
Yori obeys wordlessly, climbing onto the bed and settling into position—knees spread slightly, back straight, hands resting loosely on her thighs. Waiting.
Aizawa circles her again—slow, deliberate—his fingers trailing lightly over her shoulders, down her spine. ".. Still green?"
"Yes, Sir."
Aizawa hums, satisfied, before leaning down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Then tell me—do you want to be fucked, pet? Or do you want to be used?"
The question is low—dark—and Yori shivers, her breath catching. ".. Both, Sir."
Aizawa's lips curl into a smirk. "Greedy." His hand grips her hip—tight—before pulling her back against him. "Good thing I planned on giving you exactly that either way." Yori gasps—her breath hitching—as she feels the hardness of him against her back, his hand wrapping around her hip to keep her in place. She leans back into him, her head tilting back against his chest, her eyes half-lidded.
She feels the heat from him—the coiled strength, the control. And she craves it. Wants to be taken, used—wants to be owned. "Thank you, sir."
Aizawa exhales sharply through his nose—half amusement, half hunger—before gripping her chin and forcing her to meet his gaze. "You don't thank me yet." His thumb strokes the hinge of her jaw, pressing just enough to make her pulse jump. "First, you prove you can take what I give you."
Yori's breath catches—but she nods, slow and deliberate.
Aizawa releases her chin with a final brush of his thumb before stepping back. "Undress. Slowly."
The command is simple—but the implication is clear. This is a test. A performance. His to watch.
Yori doesn't hesitate. Her fingers move to the buttons of her turtleneck—each one undone with deliberate precision, her movements measured, unhurried. The fabric slips from her shoulders, pooling at her elbows before she lets it fall completely.
Aizawa's gaze burns over her—the slope of her neck, the flush creeping down her chest—before flicking back up to her face. "Continue."
Yori obeys—her hands moving to her slacks next, the zipper drawn down with agonizing slowness. She steps out of them carefully, leaving her in nothing but a simple black bra and matching underwear.
Aizawa hums—low, considering—before circling her again. His fingertips trace the line of her spine, lingering at the clasp of her bra. "Off."
The word is a growl—a command—and Yori reaches back without hesitation, unhooking it swiftly. The fabric slips away, baring her completely to his gaze.
Aizawa pauses—just for a second—before his hands settle on her hips, pulling her back against him once more. His lips brush the shell of her ear, his voice a dark, possessive murmur. "Perfect."
His hands slide up her torso—rough calluses catching on soft skin—before settling over her breasts, kneading slowly. "Now—" His teeth graze her earlobe. "Beg for what you really want."
A shiver runs through Yori, his touch lighting a fire beneath her skin. She leans back into him, her voice coming out in a ragged whisper. "Please," she breathes, her words trembling. "Please, Sir. I need you. I need to feel you. To be used by you, to be full of your cock and your cum until you're sated."
Aizawa’s grip tightens—fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips—as a low, approving growl rumbles in his chest. "Good girl," he murmurs, biting down lightly on the curve of her shoulder. "So eager. So desperate."
One hand slides down her stomach—slow, deliberate—before slipping beneath the waistband of her underwear. His fingers glide through wet heat, and Yori gasps, her thighs trembling. Aizawa hums, pressing two fingers inside without warning—stretching her, testing her. "You’re already so wet," he murmurs against her skin, curling his fingers just enough to make her jerk. "Do you really need it that badly?"
Yori whimpers—her nails digging into her own thighs—before nodding frantically.
"Words, pet."
"Yes—Sir—please—"
Aizawa withdraws his fingers with a slick sound, bringing them to her lips. "Taste."
Yori opens her mouth instantly—tongue darting out to lick his fingers clean—and Aizawa watches. Aizawa’s breath comes out ragged as she sucks his fingers clean, her tongue swirling over each digit with deliberate obedience. The sight of her—flushed, bared, submitting—wrings another low growl from his throat.
He removes his fingers with a wet pop, gripping her chin to tilt her face toward him. His thumb traces her lower lip—now slick with her own arousal—before he murmurs, “Such a good girl.” Then he releases her, giving a sharp command. “Bend over the bed.”
Yori obeys instantly—arching her back as she presses her torso against the mattress, arms outstretched, presenting herself to him.
Aizawa wastes no time. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties, dragging them down her thighs before tossing them aside. His hands grip her hips—hard—as he steps between her legs, lining himself up. One slow, deliberate thrust—and he’s home.
Yori gasps, her fingers twisting into the sheets as he fills her completely. Aizawa groans, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades as he adjusts to the tight, wet heat of her. His grip tightens, hips pulling back before slamming forward—hard—and Yori cries out, her entire body shuddering beneath him.
Aizawa doesn’t relent. He sets a fast and unrelenting pace—snapping his hips in sharp, controlled thrusts—each one driving her further into the mattress. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with Yori’s ragged gasps and choked whimpers.
Aizawa leans over her, one hand fisting in her hair as he drags her upright, her back flush against his chest. His teeth sink into the junction of her neck and shoulder as he fucks into her. The bite sends a sharp thrill through Yori's nerves—pain and pleasure colliding—as her head falls back against his shoulder with a ragged moan. Aizawa's grip in her hair tightens, angling her face toward his as his other hand slides possessively down her torso.
"Look at you," he rasps against her lips, hips still driving into her with relentless precision. "Taking me so well." His fingers dip between her thighs—finding her clit with unerring accuracy—and Yori whines, her entire body tensing as pleasure coils tighter. "Come," Aizawa orders, voice dark with command. "Now."
The dual stimulation—his fingers circling ruthlessly, his cock grinding deep—is too much. Yori shatters with a broken cry, her walls clenching around him in pulsing waves.
Aizawa groans, hips stuttering as he chases his own release—chasing the way her body milks him. "One more," he growls, pinching her clit to hear her mewl. "Give me one more."
She does—her second climax crashing over her before she can even catch her breath, her nails biting into his thigh as she shakes apart in his arms. Aizawa fucks her through it, his thrusts turning erratic before he finally stills—burying himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan. His forehead drops against her shoulder as he spills inside her, pulse pounding in his ears.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of their ragged breathing—the slick heat between them—the aftershocks still trembling through Yori’s body. Then Aizawa presses a kiss—unexpectedly tender—to the bite mark on her shoulder before murmuring, ".. Color?"
Yori’s voice is hoarse, but steady. "Green."
Aizawa hums, carefully withdrawing before guiding her onto the bed. He presses a kiss to her forehead as he pulls back. "Good. You did well."