#aizawa/reader

[dashielldeveron]

soulmate trope | aizawa, part two.

Aizawa's route of soulmate trope.

Part two bc tumblr formatting weird (also it's formatted the texting sextions oddly. pls be patient). Part one here.

Warnings: BTS mention. Reader is explicitly a kissless virgin to make Aizawa feel Worse. Part one: reader gets a mild hand injury. Threat of dub-con. Claustrophobia. Sexual content, with virgin-y themes. Part two: alcohol consumption (not by reader). Sexual content, with virgin-y themes. Fem reader.

Remember that U.A., for the purposes of this fic, is a university. Lore dropped carries over to previous and subsequent chapters.

~38k overall. ~18k for part two.

The semester trudged on.

It ripped you apart, interacting with Aizawa in class as if you were the same as every other student, when you knew what he ordered at his favourite hole-in-the-wall ramen place, what he looked like shaving in the morning, what type of cat treat Konpeito preferred—the trivialities were stacking, and you savoured each one.

YOU

i had a dream about you

SHOUTA

Should you be texting during class?

YOU

Yamada-sensei has abandoned his lesson

YOU

in favour of recording noises for put your hands up radio

SHOUTA

Noises

YOU

bleep bloop

YOU

hey ya howdy doodle doo

YOU

etc.

Present Mic knew about the soulmate bond, as you’d suspected. While you’d been grading for one of Midnight’s underclassmen classes, Aizawa conveniently had been in the faculty lounge at the same time. You still had to be careful, hanging out, because it’s a tenuous boundary to walk, and you never know who’s watching.

For example, Present Mic.

He’d walked by at the same time Aizawa had mumbled a sorry about that in regards to how ill-stocked the faculty lounge was to preparing coffee, and Present Mic had only heard what he wanted to hear.

“OOOH,” he’d shouted, and he’d dropped everything in his arms and contorted his back over the arch of Aizawa’s leather office chair to hang upside down. “ARE YOU STILL GROVELLING FOR BEING A LITTLE BITCH, LOVER BOY?!”

You’d also felt like screaming.

“Don’t call me that.” Aizawa had whacked Mic’s face away, but he’d kept hanging around and slapped his hands to his cheeks.

“OH, HO? SHOULD I SAY LARGE BITCH, THEN?! YOU SHOULD TELL HER HOW HARD MIDNIGHT BLEW INTO YOU FOR BEING A HUGE DICK.” Present Mic had slithered farther into Aizawa’s seat and nearly into his lap.

Aizawa’d reached for his sleeping bag. “Midnight…was pissed at me for treating you the way I did,” he’d said, tucking his feet in and yanking the yellow fabric up around his hips, and he swatted at Mic again, who slinked his way into the sleeping bag, too. “What she’d heard from you—”

“SHE MADE HIM RIDE HER THIGH,” Present Mic had said, somewhat muffled in his headfirst descent into the sleeping bag, “TO GET RID OF THAT SEX QUIRK. SHE SAID IT’D BE ESPECIALLY HUMILIATING AND PATHETIC IF HE CAME WITHOUT HER HELP.”

Aizawa had upturned his sleeping bag to dump Present Mic out of it, and, muttering under his breath, he’d zipped himself in and rolled over to the faculty couch, curling up underneath the coffee table.

Present Mic had spun Aizawa’s chair twice before sitting in it, and he’d propped his chin on both fists. “So! How are you doing? Does he know about your contraband cat yet?”

YOU

he’s trying to bribe dark shadow into bellowing the opening jingle

YOU

i think i’m gonna throw up

SHOUTA

I’ll intervene if the lights pop out again

YOU

rolling around in a sleeping bag is not the fastest method of travel

SHOUTA

Ground yourself. Head between your knees, if you have to

YOU

(◕‿◕✿)

YOU

thanks i’m cured

YOU

but yes back to dream about you

SHOUTA

It isn’t explicit, is it?

It was still all frustratingly platonic and professional from his end. You understood, but that didn’t mean you didn’t hate it. Sometimes you trained with him and Shinsou, but that was all that you could officially schedule. Everything else had to fall as a tired coincidence.

It meant being in the same area of the library doing work, at tables far from each other. Casually bringing him tea when you’re making your rounds through the faculty offices for Midnight. Joining the regular rotation of Eri’s babysitters—but only if Togata or Monoma couldn’t make it that day, and oh, Midoriya’s out, I guess I need someone else who’s not doing anything right now?

(Babysitting meant that Aizawa would be out, but Eri liked you, especially since you brought Dango over to play with Konpeito. If Aizawa had noticed the different type of cat hair on his shitty couch by now, he hasn’t said anything.)

SHOUTA

Don’t put that sort of thing in writing

YOU

of course it’s explicit. how could i tell you any details if it’d been vague and nebulous

SHOUTA

Pedant.

YOU

you love it

SHOUTA Debateable

YOU

(❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)

YOU

anyway so in dream we’re at some sort of outdoor awards ceremony

YOU

and the ground is covered in dead wet leaves

Just like Ito said, there’s been an increase in romantic clichés in your life—but, as you discovered (and reported back to both Midnight and Ito), you have to lean into the cliches for them to happen. A backburner signal goes off in your brain when the opportunity for a romantic cliché arrives, and you apparently have the option to ignore it. Which is nice, because the signal only bleeps (more of a gut feeling, really) at what could be a first step, without elaborating what situation might unfold.

You found you have the most energy for the first step signals surrounding coffee shops, and those have been very stare-at-each-other-from-across-the-room-in-unvarnished-lust (although, one time, you were handed an application to work there. You declined). What turned out to be a forced-to-be-roommates cliché brought about the destruction of your dorm room, and only your dorm room, by a training accident and your first step of opening your window overnight, but the whole cliché was subverted, because not only did Aizawa refuse to let you choose his flat over one of your friend’s dorms, but Cementoss and his team repaired your dorm by bedtime.

YOU

we are alone at the shittiest, kind of broken table at the back of the venue

YOU

and there’s still pressure to keep our relationship secret bc people are weird about professor/former student stuff

SHOUTA

Nice to hear you plan on graduating

YOU

sensei (derogatory)

YOU

and you let me scoot my chair as close to you as possible and h*ld your h*nd. intertwining our fingers. letting me k*ss them. you positioned yourself so that no one else would see

YOU

(notice how i censored the sexual parts. yer welcome)

YOU

you had your hair half-up half-down, some of it pulled back in a bun. v v v sexy btw, you should do this irl more often

SHOUTA

I’ll see what I can do

YOU

and you let me play with your hair a bit, with you leaning into my touch. we shared a very sugary pear that i had to fight Yamada-sensei at the buffet for. v v v v v warm and intimate

YOU

the sharing of the pear. not the fight. obviously

YOU

i swear, not knowing what kissing/physical romantic stuff feels like makes my brain come up with the most intimate shit on the planet

YOU

so yeah i dreamt some damn this bitch lonely hours about you

YOU

/ᐠ - ˕ -マ

YOU

…shouta??

YOU

you’re not in class rn, right??

SHOUTA

You tell me that you subconsciously devised an act so fondly intimatewith me adn hagve the nerve to say yo’ure fuckngi lonely

SHOUTA You’re going to rip me apart

Aizawa still hasn’t touched you in any way that matters. The soulmark flitted from behind your ear to your fingertips, your forearm, the back of your hand, and carefully back into its hidden place behind your ear. If anyone’s noticed, they haven’t said a word. You’ve been careful.

(The terribly, awfully, evilly romantic touch that made your head spin when it happened [and now when you think back on it] hadn’t even been skin to skin. It had been, in a small group of people, his hand flattening and lingering on the small of your back for just a bit too long, in congratulations for getting selected to student-teach a stealth section of a class for hero-course first-years.

Because you know it was an intentional decision to touch you like that. He could’ve just clapped you on the shoulder, like he would’ve done for any other student.

But he chose to spread the warmth.)

YOU

funny. that isn’t on the itinerary until after graduation

SHOUTA

You’re on thin fucking ice

YOU

and if i fall in??? whatcha gonna do, rescue me???

One of these days, when you shift in your sleep to his bed, you’re going to wake up with his arm around you. You can feel it.

***

The academic situation the week before graduation was a joke.

Less than a third of the seniors bothered to show up to class, and those who did sat through classes on their phones and with their friends instead of in the dumbass seating arrangement. Sero, honest to God, brought his switch to class and played Mario Kart with Todoroki and Kouda, and that was the most intellectually stimulating conversation unfolding.

You attended, because Aizawa had to. You figured you could lighten the mood, and the odds of you shifting to be next to him were significantly lower if you were in the same room.

The lax attitude permeated Sakura Grove, too. Ito was incredibly receptive to all rehabilitation efforts, accepting everything thrown at her with enthusiasm, so long as she got to have access to some way of watching hot people. She was easily coerced into tough recovery shit purely through the promise of BTS interviews and josei manga.

She was even allowed to have her home collection of josei and shoujo manga shipped to her, usually in a care package from her aunt. It wasn’t worth the effort it took you to go through them to approve their contents, but you still scrutinised and logged everything according to Grove standards.

Hell, the candy you were sneaking out of your backpack right now was from Ito. You were eating a goddamn villain’s sweets from home, and it wasn’t even the first time. Ito’s aunt apparently confused her flavour preferences with her sister’s, so you got the flavours Ito didn’t like. And everyone, including Midnight, was strangely okay with this.

(Midnight tried some, too, the first time Ito offered, after the bag had been put through the fucking rungs. Days of processing to ensure its safety, and the moment Midnight put one on her tongue, she spat it back out onto her desk, where it rolled off into the carpet and picked up fuzz. She ended up asking the on-site translator what the fuck the Dutch label said, because when you expect caramel and get salted liquorice, it’s a shock.)

Ito hadn’t wanted these little lemon-lime-flavoured bitches, even though Jungkook was beaming into a bouquet of daffodils under the logo, so here you were, a semi-hard green ball surreptitiously stowed in your cheek as you struggled to bite down (they had a bizarre inside texture. Interesting enough to keep eating them despite your caution, because something deep in your gut told you to keep eating them. Signs of addiction, anybody?). Your book splayed open on your desk (actually yours in the seating chart, since it was the closest to the door and therefore sweet, sweet freedom), but you were half-reading it, half-scrolling through your phone in your lap.

The sleeping bag slowly rose and fell from its place lying across the teacher desk, the only indication that Aizawa was awake at all being the sluggish deflation of the applesauce packet he was sucking on. The end of the sleeping bag dangled off the edge of the desk, with his boots mutedly knocking against the metal side when he exerted enough effort to take a deeper breath and thus upset his oh-so-delicate position lying on his back. Cosy little bastard. The instant you graduate, you’re climbing into that thing and sucking the soul out of his cock.

Nothing was happening online, and you were pissed at the protagonist in your book, since she was getting to go on a date with her hotboy emo assassin boyfriend, and you weren’t. And Todoroki’s sudden screech at losing again really kept you from concentrating, but, y’know, it’s not like anything’s going on… You checked the wall clock. An hour left, and then there’s only two more school days until you’re out of here.

You cracked the candy in half, caught a strange, flaky texture against the roof of your mouth, and swallowed it down before sneakily reaching for the next one. Out of here. Out of U.A. Now, that’s actually debatable for you, and it left a weird feeling in your stomach. With the work you’ve been doing for Midnight all these years and what Present Mic and Aizawa have shown you about the academic process, you were doubting yourself: you’ve always planned on being a pro-hero, but (cringe) teaching was actually really fucking appealing. Yes, parents were insane, and emails were the devil, but teaching itself was a goddamn delight. The way those first years’ faces had lit the fuck up as they connected things you’d taught them in the stealth section was the best thing you’d seen in a long, long time. And they were as excited about it as you were.

You low-key hated how much you liked it. Because if you stayed on at U.A. to teach (and Nezu has hinted that he’d be interested in hiring you), you’d never escape the professor/student status with Aizawa, even though you’d be his peer on staff. Because everyone around you would remember, and everyone who didn’t know would connect the dots.

If you taught somewhere else, you wouldn’t get to see him much at all, and you might not even get to teach hero-course-relevant material.

Your tentative plan, agonised over in detail with Midnight, was to keep sidekicking under her at Sakura Grove as a steadier job with more routine, especially since Ito would probably be approved for parole soon, and to work as a pro-hero somewhere else as well. You’d groaned and she’d laughed when you came to the conclusion that, with your skill set, you’d be most useful working as an underground hero like Aizawa.

It was both shitty and gratifying that everything in your life seemed to point towards him.

God, this class was dragging on. You willed the hands to spin around the clock faster as you sucked on a fresh piece of candy, determined to suck down to the centre to see what the odd inner texture was about instead of chomping down again like Ito into a picture of Suwabe Jun'ichi.

Maybe you should play a round of Mario Kart. Might take your mind off things. I bet I can run Todoroki into the lava first try, you thought as you swirled the increasingly porous ball around with your tongue.

Yeah, that sounded brain-numbing enough. Shutting your book, you slid it to the corner of your desk and started to get up, giving up and swallowing the damn candy.

But you’d evidently gotten past the hard-candy coating to something large and dense blooming rapidly right as it hit the back of your throat, and you were choking, loudly, drawing the attention of even a Shy-Guy focused Sero, and after coughing up an embarrassing amount of yellow-green spittle, you unceremoniously hacked up a surprisingly realistic daffodil blossom, unfolding to its true size as it lay in your thickened saliva.

“Eurgh,” you said, testing, and you cleared your throat again, prickly and grating. You had only closed your eyes for a second, but Aizawa was standing in front of you, eyes widened in horror at the flower you’d coughed up. How had he gotten out of his sleeping bag so—?

Before you could get a word out, Aizawa grabbed you by your (bare) forearm and rushed you out of the classroom, arm sliding around your waist before he even shut the door behind him. The pink ink smeared down your arm as he led you to the closest empty hallway, where he skidded to a halt and clamped his hands on your shoulders, looking directly at you with the most serious expression he’s ever shown you.

“I haven’t been kind; I haven’t been honest,” he began, all apologies and concern and a desperate sort of tenderness, “I’ve been putting it off because I’ve been selfish and have wanted so hard to do this right, because I don’t deserve anything as good for me as you, and you don’t deserve anything thoroughly fucked up like I am.” Aizawa’s obscenely large hand cupped your face, taking up your entire cheek with his fingertips grazing your earlobe and neck (oh, man, choke me about it), the pad of his thumb hovering over your lower eyelashes; he jerked you towards him, his gentle grip trapping your arm between your bodies.

What the fuck?

I mean, you’ll take this. You’ll take it.

What the fuck’s he on? Those applesauce packets have addled his brain.

He must have read your complete bewilderment as encouragement, because he kept going like he had to vomit up these words or else get shish-kebabed for Mic’s end-of-the-year barbecue. “But now that you’re fucking dying—God, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I had—plans. For you. But now—Christ—you should know that I haven’t thought of you as a stu—”

“Oh, my fucking God,” you said, your jaw dropping in the smuggest fucking grin and shaking your head, “Oh, my God. Shouta.”

He was flushed and panting, but he stopped to listen. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

(Oh. You’ve never said his name aloud before.

You made a note to tease him about that later. You have something worse to make fun of.)

“You are the dumbest fuck alive,” you said with a shit-eating grin, reaching up to finger-comb his hair out of his face, “I was eating in class. I swallowed a piece of flowering candy at the wrong time. Hanahaki disease isn’t real.”

Aizawa untangled himself from you and took a step back, and then another. “Neither are soulmates,” he said carefully.

“Okay, okay, I can see the logical jump,” you conceded, holding your hands up, “You may continue with your sordid confession now.”

Aizawa blinked, weary again now that the adrenaline was draining away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, fluffing up his capture weapon to cover most of his face.

“Oh, you—you prick! You’re going to hell.” You grinned, poking your tongue into your cheek. “It’s two more days until graduation, and the minute I’m off that stage, I’m yours. C’mon. You can bend your rules with two days left.”

For some reason, he sank more into his scarf. “Let’s go back to the classroom before Todoroki lights something on fire.”

***

You’re vibrating out of your metal chair at the commencement ceremony. Glassy-eyed, you went through the motions of the walk, the pictures, the handshakes, sad goodbyes that aren’t even real, because people were going to the same places and agencies that they’ve been working at for the past few years. Just as pros.

Aizawa’s right there, and his hair’s slicked back, and he’s wearing a suit, and he’s avoiding your ravenous gaze like a good professor should, instead bowing to parents and entertaining the small but constant group that swarmed him.

Hiss, hiss. Back off. He’s yours. You've waited.

When Jirou asked about the twitch in your left eye, you decided it was time to leave. You’re driving yourself insane, watching him like this.

You sat on the front steps of U.A. with Shinsou as the sun sank past the horizon, jovially engaging with your friends who stopped to talk before going out to celebrate. He didn’t ask after whom you’re waiting for, though it was clear you were killing time.

When the night chill swept through the courtyard, Shinsou stood, his hands in his pockets. “I’m beat.” When you didn’t join him, he continued. “D’you wanna go get ice cream, or something, before turning in?”

Aizawa’s still inside. “I’m okay,” you said, stretching, bones cracking, “I think I’ll stay here a bit longer. You go ahead.”

Shinsou stared at you oddly for a second, but he nodded. “Right, then. I’ll go.” He jogged up a couple of stairs before calling back, “You shouldn’t wait out here too long.”

You waved him off.

Eventually, a night wind came that had you pulling down on your sleeves, hunched over on the stairs and rubbing your upper arms. You dug out your phone—no messages—and called him.

He answered after a few rings, his voice groggy and hoarse. “Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“Where am—I’m in my bed. I’m sleeping,” said Aizawa, yawning distantly (he must be tilting his speaker away). He sounded a bit more awake when he asked, “Where are you?”

Fury overtook you. “Where am I? You dense mother—”

You’re straddling his hips in his bed, layers and layers of blankets between you and him.

“—fucker.” You glared down at him, hair mussed up and splayed on his pillow. You hung up your phone and tossed it off the bed; you grabbed his and flung it into the wall. “I waited for you to come out of that building,” you said, planting your hands on either side of his chest to loom over him in what was hopefully a threatening way.

Rubbing an eye with the heel of his palm, Aizawa said, “I hoped you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t you be out with your friends? You’ve graduated. You’ve completed a tough stage of your life.”

“Correct. But aren’t you omitting,” you said, bunching up the fabric of his black henley in a burst of courage (though you didn’t know whether to put your weight on him or not, so you just kind of hovered), “that I’m not your student anymore? I’ve graduated, Shouta. I’ve waited. It’s time. We can start our lives together for real. Aren’t you—aren’t you going to kiss me about it?”

Aizawa’s chest rose and fell underneath your fist, and when he didn’t respond, you released his shirt and sat back with all of your weight on his legs. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.” You crossed your arms, uncrossed them in a nervous fidget, and crossed them again so that you wouldn’t touch him in any way that grossed him out. Though every cell in your body shouted not to, you climbed off of him, kneeling at his side instead. “What’s,” you started, hesitating, “Is anything wrong that you haven’t told me? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Barely perceptible in the crack of moonlight through his partially drawn curtains, Aizawa gave you a sad smile. “There’s something fucked up about waiting until graduation to kiss you, isn’t there?”

“Goddammit,” you said, crumpling and burying your face in your hands, “I get it. I get it.” You ran your tongue over your lower lip. “I hate you.”

Aizawa reached out to brush hair out of your face, not that you really needed it. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you said back, shaking at his cool touch sliding behind your ear to fix the soulmark.

***

The next ten months of your life were a blur.

In an attempt to not feel so terribly lonely, you buried yourself in work, Sakura Grove during the day and moonlighting as an underground hero after dark. You had to be a pro to be a professor at U.A., so you pushed yourself not just to be good but good enough. Hopefully, you’d be firmly established as a pro before you went back.

Nezu had discussed that with you in an unofficial job talk that last week of school. You’d also taken the opportunity to confide in your soulmate situation, and God bless Nezu for being so discreet and understanding. He promised to keep your student ID active so that you could still scan into doors on campus and that you could leave without hassle when you shifted to Aizawa (it did tons for your self-esteem when Nezu suggested going ahead and upgrading your student pass to a faculty one; you’d walked out of that meeting positively glowing).

You haven’t been shifting to Aizawa as often. You figured it was because you were suppressing your desire to be next to him as much as you could—still fucking difficult, since it crossed your mind every day. You kept it as low-stress as you could—you most often shifted to him in your sleep, so you could sneak out before the bastard woke up.

(You didn’t want to think about how he’s keeping to one side of the bed, using bedding and blankets instead of his sleeping bag now. You continued to leave nothing but your indent on the pillow.)

(You could count the number of times he shifted to you [that you were aware of] on one hand, but once, as you blinked away sleep, he was scratching Dango’s neck in what appeared to be a familiar way.)

The ache made its home in your chest again.

***

Then came a mission.

To quell the PLF action outside of Mustafu, a team was going undercover to PLF bases throughout Japan to extinguish them. And hey, who do we know who has amazing track records, already work well together, and aren’t too well known by the public and thus are able to go undercover?

Class A reunited in the back of a rented-out, hole-in-the-wall ramen place (Class B was the other team and met in a different location). The cook waved at you, having recognised you from the times you and Aizawa have picked up takeaway, and you shuffled into the back room, dimly lit, private, and pungently smelling of broth.

Aizawa’s surrounded by the half of the class already present—Mina’s showing him a video of a dance she taught primary school kids; Kirishima, hair ungelled and loose around his shoulders, was asking for advice about perpetually split fingernails; Asui’s handing him a juice box with the straw already popped in.

When Aizawa wrapped his lips around the straw, he locked eyes with you, dance routine video playing on without an audience. He’s looking painfully handsome in a black turtleneck and long coat with his hair pulled back, and he only got prettier when he gave you some semblance of a smile: more around the eyes than the mouth.

The moment was broken when Kaminari slammed into Aizawa in a hug, knocking him off balance, so you were grinning when you neared him.

Recovering, Aizawa grasped Kaminari’s shoulders. “Put someone in your own agency as your emergency contact.”

“But Daaaaad,” said Kaminari, his whine eliciting a few giggles from Yaoyorozu and Jirou, “You’re gonna take care of it better than anyone else.”

“I am no longer your professor and am therefore exempt from responsibility. The last two times I was called during class,” said Aizawa, setting his juice box on a booth’s table, “It’s nearly impossible to find a substitute at the last second.”

“But you did.” Kaminari shoots him a double thumbs-up. “You’re the best, but sure, I’ll add someone else to the list.”

“Ooh, during class—there is a new Class A that you’re latched to,” Mina said, turning off her phone and stowing it, “They’re not as cool as we are, right?”

“They’re certainly less trouble, at the very least,” said Aizawa, and he glanced over the former students who had arrived. “Why don’t you work on pushing the tables together?”

They scattered. You stayed.

The ache lessened now that you were near him.

You bit your lip. “Is it okay to hug—”

“C’mere,” he said, and you did, wrapping your arms around his neck and inhaling deeply the scents of pine and sandalwood. You had to step out of his embrace hastily, since anyone could notice something off, but the soulmate warmth had flooded your system like a sugar rush, especially with the observation that he’d pulled you close by your waist, as opposed to when he’d gawkily hugged Kaminari around his shoulders.

You stepped out of his personal space, clasping your hands behind your back. “I know I’ve said it a lot, but you smell incredible.”

“Thank you,” said Aizawa, picking up his juice box, “The shampoo you’re using is particularly nice, too.”

“Thanks,” you said while he slurped, “Is Eri doing okay?”

“She’s doing well. She misses you,” he said, and after a beat, he smirked. “She wants you to bring Dango the next time you shift.”

You sucked in through your teeth. “Ah, ha, you know who Dango is?”

Aizawa was really and truly smiling now, eyes half-lidded and soft. “Eri told me about how you would bring Dango over to play with her and Konpeito. I’ve known from the start.”

“I can’t believe I now have beef with a primary schooler,” you said, “She promised not to tell.”

“She also didn’t seem to understand why you couldn’t bring Dango during a shift,” said Aizawa, leaning back on the table and tilting his head, “You’ve been leaving before she even gets up. Does your work at Sakura Grove start earlier than regular businesses? It’s a long commute, sure, but you leave earlier than it takes to be on time. I’d told you to stick around, if you wanted. You seem to have forgotten that since you graduated.”

“Oh.” You stared blankly, and you blinked. To fill time, you joined him in leaning against the booth table, the hands between the two of you almost touching. “I, uh. Huh.”

Aizawa leant closer to your ear, a strand of his loose hair tickling your skin. He spoke quietly, in that infuriatingly rumbly voice of his. “If you’re distracting yourself by overworking, I advise you to ease up.” The tips of his fingers grazed yours, exploding in pink. “You haven’t been answering my calls; you’ve been sneaking out in the morning. Midnight called me to ask if you were all right, and it was shameful that I couldn’t answer her.” Your jaw quivered at the brush of his hot breath against your skin, but if he noticed (and he probably did, that perceptive bastard), he didn’t say anything. “If you work yourself to the bone, you won’t be any good at your job, and you won’t grow. You don’t have to push yourself. You don’t have to prove yourself. Stop rushing. Take your time.” He leant back, sitting upright. “Linger when you shift to me.”

You tapped your pink fingers on the table; it was a relief seeing the mark, instead of just knowing it’s behind your ear. He’d been rather close rather quickly, saying all of these caring, helpful things with an undertone of innuendo, and it was a lot for you after the long dry spell, so there wasn’t anything left in your brain besides looking up at him full of yearning and saying, point-blank, “I’m in love with you.”

Aizawa kept soft eyes on you while covering your hand with his, clumsily lacing fingers together. “I know.”

Your friends erupted in a wild cheer when the last stragglers, Bakugou and Midoriya, finally pushed their way through the double curtains, with Midoriya waving brightly as he joined them and Bakugou ducking his head and averting his gaze.

You jumped out of your skin at the noise and placed a hand over your heart when you realised what it was—and Aizawa was fucking laughing at you. His fingers curled more tightly into yours while he covered his mouth with his other hand, unable to conceal a terrible sort of wheezing laugh and a wide grin.

He’s beautiful.

Tempted to ask if he were having an asthma attack, you instead pouted, pursing your lips. “Hey, you know that when you’re doing hero work at night, you have to be alert for any sort of unusual sound—”

“Correct,” said Aizawa, trying to reel himself in, “but you may want to work on having a work mode and relaxation mode, with clear boundaries. If you’re on guard all of the time, it drains your energy. I’d like you to have the space to live.”

Jirou called the two of you over now that everyone was present. Aizawa stopped you from joining your friends at the end of the table, subtly pointing at the chair beside him.

Knowing that everyone would want to catch up, Aizawa announced he’d be waiting until after their food arrived for the debriefing. While you talked with Shinsou, seated at your other side, Aizawa examined the menu but ordered the same thing he always did.

Aizawa ate his ramen faster than normal and pulled a manilla file from his long coat, quieting most of the table with the gesture—it reminded you how careful you have to be in your actions, your inflections, because all of these people instinctively paid attention to him.

“You all have been split into sub-teams based on the size and structure of each Paranormal Liberation Front base and your individual abilities to infiltrate them. The majority of you are going to Tokyo, but to those going to less urban locations, your job is just as important in quashing extremists.” He passed the file to Midoriya, on his right. “Take the envelope with your name and a moment to read it before getting in your group. No, Iida,” Aizawa said before Iida could gesture more, “Midoriya is only involved in the planning stage. As he and Bakugou are the most well-known by the public, they will be staying here to maintain a sense of normalcy.”

Shinsou handed the file to you, and you took the last envelope while Midoriya took over explaining to the table. With Aizawa watching you in his periphery, you ripped open your envelope.

Hero commission stationery. Cute. Secrecy of mission, dedication of self…You’re going to Tokyo. Great, you’ll have to burn your city-grimed clothes at the end of each day.

“Who assigned these teams?” you whispered to Aizawa.

He finished his bite of noodle, swallowed thickly, and tucked loose hair behind his ear. “I did.”

You narrowed your eyes. “My team is you.”

“It’s only logical,” he said with a sly smile as he reached for his drink. “Keep reading.”

You scanned the rest, the soulmate trope signal growing in your gut. “Since when does the PLF have connection with the yakuza?”

“Since the families in opposition to Chisaki bolstered their defences against heroes. Keep going.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Their headquarters is in a club?”

“Beneath it,” said Aizawa, and under the table, his knee nudged yours. “So, tell me: what would be the purpose in sending two underground heroes there?”

You took a deep breath, bouncing your leg. “Heroes specialising in stealth would be trained already in how to infiltrate a place unnoticed. They would be accustomed to reading people, to recognising the details that betray intention. And they’d be less likely to be recognised by their faces. Well, goddamn,” you said, reading over your letter again, “Logical. But again: why am I going to a club? I’ve never been to one and have never wanted to.”

“Because you need to grow.” Aizawa tucked that loose strand into his ponytail. “You’re not at your best in large, social situations. Your crowd work needs to improve.”

“So, you’re sending me to a fucking club—”

“Not sending you,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”

“Pedant,” you grumbled, secretly pleased that you’re rubbing off on him. “Seriously, I don’t know if I can do this.”

Aizawa shook his head. “I do.”

***

You were teeming with envy for your classmates sent to rural PLF bases when five o’clock brought vast hordes of businessmen and freshly released workers onto the train to uptown Tokyo.

You have a firm stance on personal space; you’re not used to touching people or being touched, so you grew more and more visibly flustered as more people packed on. A faint call of the soulmate signal echoed in your gut, and you panicked—is it a romantic cliché to get fucking groped?

But before it can escalate to a true panic attack, Aizawa set his duffel on the floor and reached for your waist—you jumped at his touch but relaxed when you saw it was him. He guided you in front of him, unbuttoned his long coat, and wrapped it around both of you, pulling you back against him with his arms hugging your waist, large hands covering more of your body than you’d imagined. Back against his broad, warm chest. Feeling tucked in under the coat.

Tilting your head back to look at his tired eyes, you mouthed Thank you.

Aizawa nodded, and when you settled into his arms, he rested his chin on the top of your head.

***

The A/C in your hotel room conked out an hour before infiltrating Club Magenta.

“There’s a pin that the yakuza has issued to PLF members for club access,” called Aizawa from the bathroom, the door cracked to let out steam, “It’s a visible marker for who’s safe to confide in, since PLF members haven’t been sworn into the yakuza.”

You pulled the fan chain through its cycle of settings again, and no, that was the highest it could go. “Wait, a pin? Would either of mine look like it from a distance?”

“Unless you’re coincidentally wearing the eye of Horus—” The bathroom door slammed open, steam and light outpouring. “Why are you wearing pins on a mission?”

“It’s to contribute to my I-am-open-and-not-hiding-anything vibes by providing more information about myself than necessary,” you said, kneeling on the bed, crawling off of it, and being slapped with 80 psychic damage at the sight of Aizawa’s clubbing disguise.

How annoying. He’s got on this unbearably irritating all-black ensemble (though that form-fitting button-up peeking out from underneath that stupid leather jacket was more of an ashy-grey-black than straight black), but a flash of his socks revealed neon kittens—if you could get past those funky, leather boots with flowers painted on. He’d shaved away all but a shadow of stubble, and his hair was up in that half-up, half-down bun style that was horribly, horribly attractive.

You had to sit down on the edge of the bed.

Aizawa strode over to you, squinting down at the pins near your left shoulder (the tips of his boots parted your legs where he stood). The expected wave of disappointment washed over his face as he read Good Pussy Gang and experiencing sensory overload—both in pastel, the latter with cartoon frogs.

“What the hell is wrong with you,” said Aizawa, unconsciously edging further between your legs.

“Well, the other options for pins up for borrowing from the girls could imply some things that could turn out badly for me in this situation. There was my sun sign is cocaine, but then what if I were offered cocaine? I don’t wanna do that,” you said, grinning, “And the one that said don’t bully me; I’ll come was a little too close to home, and you’ve taught us to never be that vulnerable about our true selves when undercover. Fuck Nasty wears its joke out quickly. It was tough choosing, though. Runner-up was crab rangoon.”

Narrowing his eyes, Aizawa plucked at the charm on your necklace. “And this, I presume, is the entire clitoral gland?”

“It’s a wishbone,” you said.

He set the charm back against the hollow of your throat. “Figures. Just—just what the hell are you wearing?”

“You’ve seen me in a dress before.” It’s really not that bad: also all-black, long enough to feel safe—but since you’ve been informed you have nice boobs, it’s also got a square-cut neckline to show them the fuck off.

“No, I meant—” Aizawa hooked a finger underneath the leather strap on your shoulder and yanked, pulling you upright and rather close; you laid your hands on his chest to balance yourself (oh, hohohohoho, his chest! You’re successfully touching it).

“That,” you said, biting your lip as his hooked finger ran down the strap from your shoulder to the side of your boob, “is called a harness, Shouta. You seem like the type to know a lot about—”

“Not the point,” he said under his breath, his hands resting at your waist (!!!), just below the leather going across there, thumbs rubbing at your sides. He ran his tongue over his lower lip and then cleared his throat. “Enlighten me. Why do you have a harness?”

(“Because it pushes your boobs up and together, and men are weak,” Mina had said.)

“It’s from Momo’s failed Attack on Titan cosplay,” you said, truthfully, “She got the placement of the horizontal strap wrong. See, it’s supposed to go here.” You drew a line across the tops of your boobs, watching his pupils follow. “But she made it here, under the boobs, like an underbust corset. She was going to throw it out, but I thought it looked good on me.”

He rubbed his thumb over the leather one last time before dropping his hands. “It does,” he said in a sort of croak.

You soared on the high of that croak the entire uber ride to Magenta.

Tinged pale pinks and greens under spotlights, the line outside stretched around the block and into the night. Bit embarrassing how Aizawa’d had to explain ratio to you, and a couple of eavesdropping woo girls thought it was simply adorable that it was your first time in a club and agreed to latch onto you two to be let in. The bouncer talked to Aizawa, not you, but let you pass, stating that first-timers at Magenta need to stay on the first floor unless otherwise invited.

“Can everyone just look and me and tell I’m a virgin?!” you hissed into Aizawa’s ear as you were led down a pitch-black corridor. “How come no one’s talking to any of the other women like that?!”

Harsh drops in the music coming from somewhere shook the walls more and more as you walked farther into the dark, and a heavy, steel door (with a glow-stick around the handle) opened onto a pulsating sardine can of a dance floor coated in way too many people, all writhing and twisting to the beat. The floor sectioned into a panelled grid, with each panel somehow lit from underneath, flashing pinks, greens, and black. The ceiling was similarly gridded but only with white light, from the view below, and you could see the silhouetted footsteps of dancers on the floor above.

Aizawa guided you to an edge booth before going to the bar; you, keeping an eye out for the Magenta pins, camped out and shazam-ed the incomprehensible electro-pop song currently vibrating the chairs away from a nearby table (the table was bolted down, but the chairs weren’t).

When Aizawa slid into the booth with drinks, you dragged him close to you, pressing your face into his shoulder and inhaling deeply. “Thank God,” you said, refreshed by the pine and what was apparently new leather, “Too many people are vaping for me to breathe. And it’s so fucking humid in here.” You popped up, accepting the glass of fancy-as-fuck pink lemonade as he skidded the glass across the table to you (you’d decided ahead of time that you weren’t drinking on the mission tonight). “I’m glad Mina told me not to rely on makeup too much due to the sweat, but fuck, this is kind of awful.”

“Yet the humidity’s from crowds of young people dying to experience this flavour of awfulness,” said Aizawa, the glass of some sort of whisky-based drink eclipsed by his hand (big hand…big hand could hold you…), “Seen anyone interesting so far?”

You cupped your hands around your glass, savouring the cool condensation. “Perhaps. Mostly I’ve been acclimatising myself to my surroundings—”

“Spoken like a true hero and a huge nerd.”

“—and I haven’t seen an eye of Horus pin, or any pin, for that matter, but I’ve seen a couple of people, I think, not dressed for a club leaving through a different door. Just there,” you said, raising your glass in that direction and to your lips. “And I happen to like being a nerd, thank you.”

Aizawa’s knee touched yours under the table when he turned in to speak more quietly. “The bartender was wearing an oversized jacket with pin-holes in the lapel.”

“So, not her jacket. Bartender doesn’t qualify?”

“Suppose she doesn’t have to. Only has to deal with the alcohol and kitchen, not crime. Though the price of their scotch comes close,” said Aizawa, taking a sip—and the chokehold his Adam’s apple has on you when it bobs, yikes. Oof. He leant in closer, his breath grazing your neck, to say, “And trust me, if anyone knows you like being a nerd, it’s your sensei.”

Your life flashed before your eyes (lots of reading, lots of yearning, not enough telling people to shut up). Your face felt tight from suppressing a reaction. “Incidentally, didn’t you say you could handle alcohol well?”

“Correct,” he said, smugly taking another swallow, and the soulmate signal erupted in your gut.

Not…the greatest sign.

“If you’re going to try to harass me about how well I can hold my liquor, which is perfectly well, then allow me to make another extrapolation about you.”

You nervously took another swig of your lemonade. “Go ahead.”

No mercy in his expression. “You have a book in your purse, don’t you?”

“Well, fuck,” you said, shifting in your seat, “Is my not-like-other-girls complex showing?”

“I don’t know what that means, but since it flusters you, yes.”

You tried to down the rest of your lemonade, but the glass was really big. Whatever. You pushed on the table to stand. “I’m gonna go dance. I have no idea how, but it’ll be a learning experience, right, fuck-o?”

Holding his glass in from of his smile, Aizawa rolled his eyes.

“I’ll see if there’s anyone out there wearing the pin who doesn’t fit a stereotype and get to talking. See if there’s any more exits,” you said, successfully finishing your lemonade this time and slithering out of the booth, “You stay here, being effortlessly, excruciatingly handsome, and watch the flow of traffic, yeah? See if anyone approaches. Is the soulmark in place?” You spun around (with a bit of traction from the beer-soaked floor) and gestured to your ear.

When he didn’t touch you, you faced him again. Eyebrows raised, Aizawa was frozen, his glass an inch from his lips.

“You think I’m handsome?”

“Is that what you’re focusing on? C’mon, Sho, you’re the most beautiful creature alive, and you know it. I wanted to drop dead when you walked out in your slutty little outfit earlier. You’re playing to my exact weaknesses, you cunning little fuckslut. I already want to quit the mission and make out with you, but I know you won’t allow that, so let’s get the ball rolling so we can finish, yeah?”

He set his glass down with a loud clink. “Right.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Let me fix your soulmark.”

After that, you fucked off onto the dance floor, a bit discombobulated from the nearly-strobe-but-not-quite lights from the floor panels, but you guess the advantage would be if anyone saw you embarrassing yourself, they wouldn’t be able to get a good look at you.

Dancing was out of your comfort zone, but making people laugh? All too easy. All you had to do was compliment a woman on her heart-shaped nipple stickers, and she invited you over to her friends’ dance group. You elected to lean into the everyone-can-tell-this-is-my-first-time-in-a-club bit, and by being honest and awkward within the boundaries of your mission persona, the more experienced club-goers delighted in teaching you some basic club dance moves.

Yes, the music throbbed through your skull as you pulled questionable moves in a dense, sweaty pack of bodies—but hey, your mission persona’s new bestie said that everyone besides professional dancers fake knowing how to dance, so you do you, girl. Besides, Haru was fishing out her phone to show you pictures of her cat, and Kisa was shouting over the music the premise of her PhD dissertation that she was defending next month (she invited you to the defence, and though you won’t have any good questions about the usage of prosthetic limbs as moral denotation in English Victorian literature, you genuinely planned on attending).

(No pins, no outsiders, no one not young and exceedingly drunk—)

“I think you’ve got it!” Haru yelled, her features illuminated in pink, “I think that’s all the basic solo moves! Do you know how to grind? Should we move on to grinding?”

Outward shouts of agreement from the group. Internal screaming on your part. How do you say my ass belongs to my stupid soulmate undercover?

All too quickly, Haru introduced you to Kazu, who waved politely and offered an honestly endearing smile, but you were pressed up against him way too quickly, with too many people touching you, with multiple pairs of hands on your hips trying to guide their movement, and hey, is that an eye—

When Aizawa yanked you out of the cluster, you could breathe again.

“Oof, ouch, I’m sorry; we’re sorry, sir. We didn’t know we were swarming her,” Kisa was saying while you were reorienting yourself, “She should be just fine, though! Nothing bad has happened to her since she’s been with us, and until now, it’s just been us girls—”

More of that language. Assuring Aizawa, like you weren’t even there. And, like, these were women! Some of whom were in academia and medicine, and shit, fighting the good feminist fight! Why were they talking about you like you were—

“They think I’m your dom,” Aizawa said as he steered you towards a roomier part of the floor, “They want to ensure you’re not in trouble with me.”

You turned to face him. “Shut up. No, they don���t.”

Aizawa didn’t have to say anything—just let his gaze sink to your harness.

“Oof,” you said, clasping your hands behind your back. Biting the inside of your cheek, you bounced on the balls of your feet, and you met his eyes. “Am I in trouble with you?”

“No,” he said evenly, “but you’re not going to learn to grind on anyone but me.” He closed in on you, body heat mingling, and looked down at you, eyes half-lidded. “Do you seriously not know? Do those books you read teach you nothing?”

Aizawa took mercy on your headshake no, spun you around, and grasped your hips, his thumbs digging into the swell of your ass.

(He’s touching you, and it’s lower on your body; it’s intimate. You need to go lie down to think about this. You can already feel you’ll be processing this touch for a long time—)

Aizawa jerked your ass back against his pelvis, and your brain emptied.

“Now,” he said, his voice low in your ear (though you’re already sweating, a different heat started to build in you), “The first step is to relax. The movement will be smoother if you’re not wracked with tension.”

“How can I relax when you’re—” Realisation seized you like a sailor grasping for a fish flopping around on deck. “You’re drunk, Shouta,” you said, sighing, chest heavy with compassion and disappointment that he wasn’t flirting with you entirely deliberately, and you reached up to cup his face in your hands. “Let’s go back to the booth and wait it out. I’m going to take care of you.”

He snatched your hands away before your fingertips could even turn pink. “No, little girl,” Aizawa hissed, forcing you around and pinning your hips against his, his splayed hand pressing down hard on your lower stomach, “I’m going to take care of you.”

You would like pink lilies at your funeral.

“A step-by-step lesson, since you’ve managed to make it this far being so woefully ignorant. Some people say grinding can be for fun and nothing else, but for you, since you’re with me, grinding is always sensual.” Aizawa took your twitching hands in both of his, and he dragged your hands up your thighs, plucking at the hem of your dress before trailing them up to your waist. “Usually, your goal would be to get me hard. Luckily for you—”

Grunting, Aizawa ground his erection (?!) against you, rolling his hips from top to bottom to make you feel everything from the tip to his balls, putting so much pressure on your hip and stomach that you grew aware of your goddamn hipbones (this man is bringing up your skeleton, among other private, inner things you don’t want to think about, and it’s just a dance).

“—I’m already there. So, you don’t have to worry about any responsibility. You just sit pretty and let your sensei teach you, hm? I know you’re a quick learner. You’ll catch on.”

Aizawa tapped the back of your knees, making you bend them when you flinched, but he motioned for them to stay bent, doing the same himself. “Move your hips to the beat, matching my speed. Some songs call for moving your hips in a figure-eight, but most work better if you’re moving them in a circular motion—”

“Circular how?” you asked, swaying along to the beat just barely, not even realising you were doing it, “Like, are we talking circle on the y-axis or the x-axis?”

Aizawa scoffed into your hair. “Fucking—it’s not that simple; it’s not two-dimensional. It’s,” he said, raising a hand in front of you to make a flattening gesture, “There’s another plane intersecting. Not just the y- and x-axes. God, what is it called when there’s a third—forget it.” He huffed and nuzzled against your neck. “Think of the movement as Saturn’s rings.”

You looked back at him, grinning. “Are you Saturn?”

“Cheeky,” he said, and he directed you to face the front again by sliding his thumb along your jaw, “or should I say brat. Jesus, am I Saturn—no, sweetheart, but I’m losing my patience for you. Pay attention.”

Sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

You have the mental image of popping champagne while Midnight and Ito throw confetti.

You’re almost too overwhelmed by the new and very good and oh? to keep absorbing more information and observing more sensations, but the only way out was through.

So, Aizawa taught you the right way to roll your hips, to adjust to different songs, what to do with your hands, with every point of contact along the way feeling like a lit sparkler, and you’re a light that won’t go out.

Both present and far away, you couldn’t keep it together (maybe you were experiencing sensory overload). Being so close to Aizawa, with him wanting to be near and nearer to you, unfurled a heady thrill up your spine as he slid his hands over your hips and ass and waist, tugging back on the harness when your back strayed too far from his chest. The way your bodies moved together, slowly, sultrily—his hips twitched involuntarily against you.

“Let me look at you.”

Grabbing your chin again, he turned you towards him, and your hands trembled under his as he encouraged you to run them down his chest (half of his features highlighted in a flash of pearl green, he smirked at you when you lost your nerve and broke eye contact, gathering the fabric of his shirt in a frustrated fist before noticing you were grazing his abs and let go). But he kept you close.

Head swimming, you hooked a finger into his belt loop and yanked to close the scant space between you. You found yourself saying nonsense, like your sentences were rice-paper butterflies that couldn’t float off your tongue and into the dark fast enough. “I want to take a nap inside your ribcage. I want and love every part of you, even the ones I don’t know yet, even if you want no part of me. I’m always yours, in every iteration of me, in every timeline, forever. I don’t care if everyone else forgets me or hates me so long as you know me. I’m going to make you pancakes in the morning. I’m going to give you the best blowjob of your life. I’m going to eat you alive. I’m also possibly experiencing sensory overload and may pass out, so we may need to rain-cheque the mission and leave soon.”

Nodding, Aizawa leant in to kiss you.

The music and lights and people faded away, and you were weightless, in freefall, with a spark of yet more heat kindling low in your stomach.

(From there, the details escape you—and that kills you when you look back at this moment, because it’s your first kiss. But you don’t remember if his lips were chapped or how it tasted or sounds, or anything [possibly because of how bombarded your senses had already been], but you remember how he made you feel: like you’ve been exploring an endless garden, searching, and then seeing him when you turn a corner, his back to you as he waters greenery, and how blinding his smile is when he turns to you.)

***

The mission. Right, the mission. Really hard to care about it once you’d kissed Aizawa.

It went fine. You returned to the booth and read aloud from your book to him until he decided he was sober enough to continue, and you’d scouted some pin-wearers and sneaked downstairs. The PLF stragglers split you and Aizawa up during the fight, so it thrilled you to bits when the soulmate bond made Aizawa shift to you when he couldn’t get loose from multiple yakuza holding him down. Good shit.

Nothing happened when you made it back to the hotel, because Aizawa passed the fuck out within a minute of unlocking the door, which was fair.

You’d been summoned to aid Hagakure and Kirishima at a base just outside of Tokyo, so you’d taken care of that and were now driving back home.

(He’d told you he’d rented the car because he didn’t want to risk your feeling overwhelmed on the train again. Magnanimous fucker.)

Unfortunately, most of the car ride had to be spent reporting to a hero commission employee and then listening to the next step of the plan on speakerphone. You found yourself nodding off, despite the hard copy of the mission report in front of you waiting to be filled out.

The hero commission had to hang up abruptly (something something Best Jeanist?), and the second Aizawa hung up the phone, it rang again. Groaning, he answered it, turning on speaker again and replacing it in his cupholder.

“Eraserhead speaking.”

Crying out, you hunched over in the passenger seat, the soulmate signal cutting so suddenly and severely that it was as if your stomach had been sliced open with a blunt knife.

A hand flying to your shoulder, Aizawa slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road.

“…been trying to reach you all morning,” the voice on the phone was saying (another hero commission employee, from the legal side, it sounded like), “but I haven’t been able to get through.”

Shaking your head, you held up a hand to Aizawa to let him know you were okay, that it would pass. Still, his jaw tensed, and he slid his hand from your shoulder up to cup your cheek, rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone.

“—because it looks you left some of your financial agreement blank; did you mean to indicate that yes, your wife should be paying child support for Eri?”

Aizawa dropped his hand from your cheek and stared blankly at the phone in the cupholder. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Child support for—”

“No, hold on,” said Aizawa, gesturing and shaking his head even though the other person couldn’t see, “Actually, before we—listen, I don’t have exclusive custody of Eri; she’s under the care of U.A. as an institution. She happens to be near me the most because she bonded with me first. You must have inaccurate—inaccurate information.” He shot a questioning look to you, and you shrugged, excitement bubbling in your gut.

“Allow me a moment?” Mouse clicking was heard. “Okay, well, I’ve got you and your wife’s bank account information pulled up here—”

“When was a quirk incident form for me last processed by your system?”

Aizawa shot you a warning glare while you proceeded to silently lose your shit, clamping a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter. You unbuckled and reached over the console to pepper pink kisses all over a sulking Aizawa’s face while the speaker rattled off an apology for the delay in processing hard copies of paperwork when they’re used to digital, ultimately confirming that due to a mistake in filing and your little jokes on paper, you two have been married for eight months now.

Running your fingers through his hair (sandalwood sandalwood sandalwood), you pressed your forehead to his, and while the speaker was still apologising for the error, you whispered, “I am going to give you the most egregious road head.”

Aizawa laughed through his nose, making a horrible sort of snrking noise, and he slipped his hand over his own mouth to cover the wheeze in his laugh. You kissed the tip of his nose and leant back to your seat after giving his hair a final, gentle tug.

Steeling himself, Aizawa the pink-nosed reindeer cut the hero commission employee off. “I understand, but I’m still in the field right now. Please forgive me, but I’ll have to call you back later.”

The moment you hung up for him, Aizawa let out a loud groan, tilting his head back and sinking down in his seat, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he said over your burst of open laughter, “You got what you wanted, I suppose.”

“Ohhhhh, no,” you said once you got a breath in, “I’m married to the person I love more than anyone, boo hoo. Do you—” A harrowing thought sobered you. “Do you not want this?”

Aizawa peeked from under his hands, and he dropped them to his lap with a sigh. “Well,” he said, sitting upright again and turning the key in the transmission, “It’s certainly not how I wanted to propose.”

Your throat ran dry, and you smiled through it. “Can’t be helped, I guess. Would it make you feel better if we went to pick out rings?” you asked, not quite joking but not quite serious.

You got to see the way his cheeks and ears tinged bright red as he checked behind you to merge into incoming traffic, and he tucked his chin into his scarf, as if he didn’t want to be seen. “The ring’s already at home.”

***

You were to take over teaching Midnight’s classes. Your duties at Sakura Grove would taper off as other employees learnt how to replace the both of you.

You were also to give her eulogy.

As her former student, close friend, and only sidekick, you were the natural choice. You didn’t want to do it, but you knew if someone else did it, they’d fuck it up.

You deliberately didn’t look at anyone in the crowd (students, heroes, and civilians whose lives she’d affected) and instead focused on the clock on the far wall. If you looked Yagi or Yamada in the eyes right now, you’d crumple.

So, you started talking. You have control over the jokes, this way, over the stories, by doing it yourself. You were doing fine, speaking in a disconnected way, until you noticed, for the first time, that Nezu was sitting on a couple of bibles to see over the pew.

For some reason, that made your grief-stricken brain lose the last threads of composure at which you were grappling, and the first fat tear trickled past your waterline.

And you shifted right into Aizawa’s lap, in front of everyone.

His wheelchair was parked on the outside of the second pew (he wasn’t even supposed to be out of the hospital yet and didn’t yet have a prosthetic), so those attending could see the shift without even having to turn their heads much. Gasping, you were straddling/kneeling in Aizawa’s lap with your arms around his neck, his chin almost in your boobs, and he looked just as taken aback as you did.

You ignored it, instead standing, wiping the tear, and continuing where you’d been cut off mid-sentence as you returned to the podium.

You shifted four more times during the course of the eulogy.

So, Midnight celebrated romance even in her death: amidst condolences came the curious congratulations on finding your soulmate.

***

You woke up in his bed.

When the bed creaked and a warm, muscular arm draped over you, there was no scrambling off of each other. No panic. He grumbled something against the back of your neck and tightened his grip around your waist, curling into you.

You woke up in his bed.

“What—why are you leaving?” came Aizawa’s rasping morning voice, his hand emerging from under the covers to grasp your wrist. “S’not daylight yet.”

“I know,” you said, putting a knee back on the bed to lean over him, and you brushed hair out of his face, trails of pink following. “But I can’t go straight to Sakura Grove like this; I need stuff from my flat. One of my replacements starts training today.”

“Mm.” Aizawa blinked blearily up at you, a sleep smile growing as he held your palm to his cheek. “Take some shoes for the commute, at least.”

“I was planning on it. Is my pair of All Might socks still here?”

“Yeah. I washed them,” said Aizawa, and with a grunt, he moved to sit up.

Hands on his chest, you pushed him back down. “No, baby, stay in bed. I’ll get them. You need all the rest you can get.”

You woke up in his bed.

It’s empty, so you followed the scent of coffee into the kitchen, where a shirtless, pink-sweatpants-ed Aizawa stared into a mug with amorphous cats that Eri painted.

“You’re adorable,” you said, opening the cabinet next to him and scanning the mug selection.

The slurp he made was monstrous. “Eri misses you.”

“I miss you, too, Shouta.” You selected a #1 Dad mug from Kirishima, and Aizawa poured the steaming coffee into it for you. “We’ll see each other more when school starts again. The next time the teaching certification test is being offered is late next month, and then I can start orientation here.”

Aizawa nodded, resting his elbow next to you on the counter, grazing your fingers cupped around your mug. “I know you’re still working the fifth district at nights, but is there a chance you could take a leave of absence for this weekend?”

“Hot date?”

He hummed into his coffee. “If only. I’ve got a short mission out of town, and there’s no one I’d trust more to watch Eri.”

You smiled at him, with Konpeito rubbing against your legs. “Of course.”

You woke up in his bed.

“Thank God,” said Aizawa, rolling on top of you and burying his face in your neck.

“It’s only a few more weeks,” you said, wriggling in his hold when his breath tickled you.

“No, I mean—the ring’s finished being resized,” he said, sitting up, “and I’ve been desperate to see it on you.”

Aizawa retrieved the box from his bedside table and slid it on your finger: white gold with an emerald embedded, all strategically designed not to catch on anything—made with your hero work in mind.

You wiggled the fingers on your left hand, the emerald catching the morning light. “I’m going to throw up. It’s gorgeous.”

“Hold your nausea for when you hear Hizashi’s latest ideas for our ceremony.”

“Oh, fuck,” you said, plopping back down onto the pillow, “Does he not understand simplicity? Or not being a fucking tool?” When Aizawa shook his head, grinning down at you, you lifted your hand to run your thumb over his lower lip, and his tongue darted out to meet it. “All right, my love. Lay it on me.”

You woke up in his bed.

Dango had jumped on you and meowed loudly, because she didn’t understand that the feeding schedule was a little different now that she lived in Aizawa’s apartment.

(Dango had pre-emptively moved in before you, because the sooner Dango and Konpeito bond, the better. Eri got so upset when they play-fought.)

You woke up in his bed.

“Shouta,” you said, rolling over towards the lit lamp, “What are you doing up already?”

He crossed out something in red ink. “I’m reworking some of the written tests for my new curriculum. I meant to do it last night but went to bed early instead, and I’d rather do it now than this evening.” Aizawa slid his glasses down his nose, his good eye glinting at you playfully. “Nothing’s come up? You can still come over tonight?”

“Yeah,” you said, scooting over to feel his body heat, “I haven’t seen Shinsou in so long, either, so I’m glad he’s coming over to dinner, too. You aren’t going to keep him busy long, right?”

“We’re setting up the room at the end of the hall for a new tenant, so we should be done by the time you get here.” Aizawa rolled his shoulders back before setting his papers to the side, and he folded his glasses to set them atop them. “What, are you planning something with him to get back at me?”

“Nah,” you said, rustling the sheets as you sat up, “I just need his phone at some point. It’s really fucking weird that my best friend is my soulmate’s, like, ward-mentee, because Shinsou’s got my contact name as Mommy. With a little heart.”

Wincing, Aizawa guided you into his lap, his hands light on your waist.

“I’ve got to change it back to my name,” you said, wrapping your arms around his neck to sink into a hug. You pressed your lips against his neck—not really a kiss, but more of just resting them there. “Who’s moving into the room at the end of the hall?”

Kissing the side of your head, Aizawa stroked your back through your sleepshirt, his fingertips trailing heat down your spine. “Well,” he said, his voice morning-gravelly, “Let’s say it’s another ward-mentee. U.A. wants me in charge. You’ll see.” You felt him smile against your ear, and he kissed it before biting the cartilage gently. “When are you moving in?”

“School starts next Wednesday,” you said, “so how does this weekend sound?”

You woke up in the bed you shared with Aizawa, slammed the alarm clock off, and flipped back over, spooning Aizawa with your nose smushed between his shoulder blades. He laced his fingers back through yours and kept them over his heart.

***

On a weeknight two weeks into the school year, you’re dangling your legs off the top of a water tower, forehead pressed against the railing, watching cars pass under streetlights below.

Being a teacher was tough. Being a teacher and an underground pro-hero at night was tougher. You now understood Aizawa’s need to carry a sleeping bag around. You hadn’t caved and done the same, but you kept a pillow at your cubicle in the faculty lounge because it was just too damn hard to stay awake during your off period.

(At least things with Sakura Grove were wrapping up. You’d stay in their contacts as a consultant, especially for Ito, but you didn’t have to go there anymore. Sad that that part of your life was ending, but it scooted over on the couch for new beginnings.)

You’re dancing around the point: because of your endless exhaustion and the difference in your and Aizawa’s schedules, you’re still a goddamn virgin. It’s stupid as fuck. The longer you put it off (which you’re not even doing intentionally!), the more of a stressful event it’s going to be.

“Sleeping on the job?”

You jolted awake, cold indent of the railing cutting into your forehead, and your head whipped around in search of him. “Dozing,” you said, tilting your head back far enough to watch Aizawa slide down from his crouch atop the water tower, “Too shallow to be real sleep. You don’t even get to R.E.M.”

“All of that to say that you want to go home,” said Aizawa, and he nestled up behind you, placing his legs on either side of yours and wrapping his arms around your waist to pull your back to his chest. He pressed his cold nose to your neck (you yelped) while the ends of his capture weapon trailed onto your lap.

“I guess, but I only have about half an hour more of my patrol,” you said, covering one of his hands with yours (pink didn’t blossom there, probably because he kept brushing his lips where your neck met your shoulder), “I can wait it out.”

“Mm, if you say so. Right now, I’d rather have you in bed. I miss you too much.” He inhaled deeply before placing one final kiss behind your ear and said, “I have something for you.” He took a moment to riffle through the pouches on his utility belt, and your heart dropped into your stomach when he reached around you to retrieve the knife hidden in your boot (oh, my God, the intimacy of knowing where on your body you kept your weapons). Aizawa brought his arms around your waist again, this time with a brown-sugar-coated pear in a brown paper sleeve cupped in one hand, the other cutting into the soft flesh of the pear.

He held the blade to your lips, which you closed around the slice of pear, the brown sugar grains melting on your tongue. He fed you another slice before cutting one for himself.

The pains and care he took for you compounded and curled on your chest like an overweight cat, and you cracked in half: you started fucking crying.

As soon as the first tear track shone under the streetlights, Aizawa, brow furrowed, turned your chin towards him (you automatically took the pear and knife to hold them in your lap).

“What’s—”

Taking in your weak, shaky smile, he took on one himself. “I see.” Aizawa finger-combed some of your hair out of your face and rested his curled fingers at the roots of your hair at the back of your neck. “Still,” he said, swiping away a fresh tear with his thumb, “I can’t have that—not my pretty girl crying.”

No matter how thoroughly he dried your face, it didn’t matter: it started raining on the way home. Both of you were soaked, grinning as you scanned into U.A. under the torrential rain funnelled from the awning where faculty entered, dripping onto the floor when you checked in on Eri for the night (All Might had put her to sleep earlier), and just fucking dropping your wet hero support items to the tile in the kitchen, your shit tangled up in his capture weapon and knocking against his goggles.

A low rumble of thunder shook the windowpanes as Aizawa kissed you, opening his mouth before you even kissed back, the edge of the kitchen counter smarting against the small of your back while you breathed in your soulmate in the dark.

Parting to breathe, you managed a grin as a flash of lightning illuminated his ruddy cheeks and soulmate-pink lips. “I feel like if I go to bed tonight, I’m going to die in my sleep,” you said, panting.

“Good thing sleep’s not on the agenda,” said Aizawa, and his lips seared into yours (fucking peach chapstick, you were of sound mind enough to note) as he fumbled for the zipper on the back of your wet costume.

It plopped with a squelch to the floor, and the chill of the A/C sweeping over your bare skin made you huddle into Aizawa’s chest—but you swore and flinched away, since his body temperature didn’t really help with how wet his clothes were.

Scowling, you kneed him away and rubbed your hands up and down your arms. “Take this off,” you said, plucking at his jumpsuit, “It’s fucking frigid in here.”

Lightning lit his smirk this time, and Aizawa started undressing, the sodden splat of his socks hitting the tile first.

“You gonna let me wear your clothes this time, pretty boy?” Watching him strip, you shivered for more than one reason. “Last time, you only gave me towels.”

Aizawa scoffed. “That’s because if I’d had to see you wear my clothes, you wouldn’t’ve made it farther than the bedroom.” His jumpsuit made a weird noise, and he fished his utility belt out of the belt loops to set it on the counter.

When you gestured towards his boxer-briefs, he shook his head. “Not yet. Yes, they’re cold, but I want to focus on you right now. Leave your underwear on, but go ahead and leave your wet hero costume in here. They can drain in the sink,” he said, tossing his socks in.

“Okay,” you said, doing the same, “but please at least change into dry boxers, or something—”

“I will,” he said, undoing the rest of the buttons on your pants once you’d done the first, and he fucking lifted you onto the counter, kissing you, to drag them down your legs before putting them in the sink. “You with me?”

You nodded and pulled him in for a hug—skin still slick-moist but warmer now that body heat mingled together, and his breath heated your neck while he sucked a wet mark onto it. “I’m with you, Shouta. I love you.”

Grunting against your throat, Aizawa hugged you tighter. “Oh, I love you, too, sweet girl. So much.”

He eased you down off the counter, and you flinched again at the cold. “Oof, ah, I have to get out of this wet fucking bra; it’s too fucking cold in—”

“Want me to go adjust the thermostat?”

“No, it’s fine; it’s fun. I just,” you said, kissing his shoulder on impulse, “need you.”

His eyes fell to half-lidded, and a roll of thunder nearly masked his low chuckle. “All right, then. If you’re sure.”

Aizawa led you to the bedroom, hardly space between the two of you while running his hands over your arms and waist to generate heat, his voice rasping in your ear the whole way (so much louder than the constant sound of raindrops assaulting the windows as the wind picked up). “That time you shifted into my shower—the image of you is burned into my brain,” he was saying, nudging the bedroom door shut with his foot so his hands wouldn’t have to leave you, “You were so confused but keen to do what I said. I was trying so hard to be good, noble, like you said, but the part that stings above all is that I liked the handprint on your back. I liked having my mark on you, on display, in such a large way that anybody could see. Killed me to have to cover you up. Lights on?”

“Let me open the curtains instead,” you said.

“Good. I’ll change into dry underwear so that you don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Don’t look,” he said, releasing you from his hold.

You drew back the first set of curtains and fiddled with the pullstrings to raise the blinds. “Are you telling me you beat yourself up-slash-off about the way you thought about me?” you asked, smiling at your own dumb joke, “I get it. I do, but c’mon, baby. You’ve made a home in my heart and in my own damn blood. What’s the shifting into your bed while I’m dreaming been besides my body calling out to you?” Oh, fuck yes, the blinds went all the way up this time. You crossed to the second window. “What’s my—hey, nice ass. Very cute.”

The elastic waistband snapped in that final rush to pull them up. “I told you not to look,” said Aizawa, frowning as he joined you in tying away the opposite curtain, “Are you really gonna be a brat this early in the—” He cut himself off, slapping a palm over his eyes as he stepped back from you (successfully raising these blinds on the first try!). “No. No, I shouldn’t. Not for your first time.”

Closing the distance, you took the hand over his eyes and held it against your cheek. “You could a little.”

His thumb loosed itself from your fingers, falling to your mouth, and you kissed it, parting your lips to lick the pad just barely.

He swallowed visibly. “Get on the bed.”

You did, and you wormed your arms around your back to unhook your wet bra (fucking frigid half-dried in the A/C, plus you were betting the feeling of your nipples grazing his chest was fucking stellar), whipping it off the bed before he could even join you.

“Notice I didn’t say you could do that,” Aizawa said, laughing through his nose, one knee on the bed. “But that’s all right for now. I like how vulnerable you look, how needy, how—” Aizawa crawled over you, eclipsing you. “—how out of touch with anything but me.”

His lips were warm, soft (peachy), and more consuming than when you’d met them earlier that night, and when his tongue brushed the roof of your mouth, he secured an arm around your back to arch you closer to him, boobs pushing into his chest and held like you’re something precious.

“I’m sure you know this,” Aizawa said, thumbing into your mouth and dragging the spit down your neck (cooling in the night air), “but you have absolutely perfect breasts. Whenever I’ve felt them against me before, I’ve gone fucking crazy—and now I get to—” He kissed you again, giving a firm, final bite to your lower lip (smiling when you tried to suck his tongue back into your mouth but shaking you off anyway), before pulling back to look at you, his wet thumb trailing down between your boobs and then circling up around one of them, pausing when you tensed up before he touched your nipple.

His eyes were dark when he glanced up at you again. “Do you trust me?”

“With everything I’ve got,” you said, feeling your heartbeat pulse in your lips now that the pressure of his was gone.

With a wry grin, Aizawa tilted his head. “Yet you’re not relaxed. I’d say you’re a bundle of nerves, but…” His eyes flicked down towards your crotch, and you rolled your eyes at the dumb clitoris joke (hell, yeah! You’re rubbing off on him).

“I’m trying; I thought was I doing good so far—”

“You are. But let me give you a little task so that you’re not concentrating on feeling nervous, yes? One you can handle.” He kissed your cheek and waited for your minute nod before continuing. “I want you to keep your hands by your head,” he said, moving them on the pillow where he wanted them, “You’re not allowed to move them. I get the feeling you’d like them to be tied there, but we’ll save that for another time, yes?”

You arched up to meet his lips, and he let you, moving his against yours, letting your tongue cross into his mouth before breaking away again.

“Good. You’re so good for me, and sweet. And another thing,” said Aizawa, squeezing your wrists to draw your attention back to them, “I want these hands open. Palms up. You’re not allowed to make a fist, sweetheart.” At your baffled expression, he kissed the corner of your mouth. “Just an extra challenge, but I know you can do it.”

You huffed, pouting (and he laughed over it, that horribly endearing, wheezing laugh). “Sure. Yeah. You want me to relax, so you give me what suspiciously sounds like a test. And wow, we know that I have some sort of stupid complex about being the best and getting the approval—”

“And you can get it so easily, should you do this well enough for me.” He shuffled down your body a bit, fingers sketching around your nipples before squeezing your boobs (crazy insane maniacal ridiculous how his hands cupped them perfectly…).

“Oh, you’re evil,” you said, shaking your head.

“You have no idea,” said Aizawa before he wrapped his lips around your nipple, tongue flicking and swirling around it, languidly, heavy with saliva—careful, dark eyes scanning every reaction from you.

Jumping at the contact—but no, don’t bend your fingers even a little. Flat. Flat against the pillow, where he put them. Okay. Okay, we’ve got a handle on it. The initial shock was just—

“Fuck!”

(No, no—keep them against the pillow; sink them into the down if you have to—)

Aizawa’s teeth had ever so lightly grazed you, and his smug little laugh through his nose burned you up inside, so you refused to look at him. Though anger wasn’t the only reason for heat: it was starting to coil in your lower stomach, too, spreading as your thighs clenched—oh, yeah, you have legs, so you rubbed your thighs together in what was hopefully way he wouldn’t notice (but fuck all if he noticed, though, because at the rate your breath was hitching and how frequently you were twisting away from his mouth, any shred of your remaining pride would be crumpling into nothing before he even made you—)

You were writhing, arching your back, eyes scrunched shut, at the moment Aizawa both closed his lips around your other nipple and pinched the first one, and he kept at it, circling it with his tongue as you came back down, stilling.

“Holy shit,” he said, eyebrow raised, pulling his mouth away with a wet puck, “Are you getting off already?”

Aizawa was reaching for your face, but (there’s a split second where you wanted to bury your face in your hands, but the man liked his technicalities) you screwed your eyes closed again and hid yourself to the side in the pillow. “I’m sorry I’m such a stupid virgin who gets worked up easily. I didn’t mean to upset—”

“No, no, no—open your eyes, darling,” he said, hands cupping your face, wiping away the tiny bit of sweat that’d broken out at your hairline, “You’re fine. You’re perfect. There’s nothing to apologise for. Open your eyes. There. That’s my good girl. Thank you.”

You, biting the inside of your cheek and scowling, dug your head out of the pillow to face him, but you kept your eyes averted, still not looking at him.

(Unfortunately, you were not immune to good girl.)

“I’m not upset. How could I, when I know my pretty little wife is feeling so good?” Aizawa pecked your forehead. “You’re just more sensitive than I anticipated. And that’s good. That’s fine. That’s fun for me.”

“Oh, my God,” you said, wincing, trying to sink farther into the pillow to get away from this beautiful man, “You’ve got to shut the fuck up. You keep hitting me with these lines that knock it out of the park. It’s too much.”

Thunder shook the windows, the bedframe rattling with it.

He grinned, and you wanted to punch him. “Is that so?”

“Shut up, holy fucking shit. Just fuck me already.”

And Aizawa was frowning. “Are you—I don’t think you’re ready enough—”

“Oh, come off of it,” you said, gritting your teeth and averting your gaze again, “I’ve already come once, and you’re so overwhelming that I’m going to pass the fuck out just from you talking. I don’t care if I come again; I just wanna get this o—just penetrate me, I guess.”

Scowling. Scowling now. Grimacing, even. “You don’t really want me to do that.”

“Yes, I fucking—”

“You’re not wet enough,” he said with a growl. “Yes, you’ve orgasmed, but you’re not ready for me.”

“You can’t be that—”

“I am,” said Aizawa, a hand sliding down his stomach (holy shit, he’s got muscles) to hook into his waistband, snapping it, “above average, sweetheart.” When he said the word, his voice teemed with scathing condescension, and your stomach dropped. “When I say you’re not ready, I know you aren’t.”

Your cheeks began to feel blotchy, but you weren’t going to cry. “Would you—please—try? I think I might be overwhelmed already, and I want you to feel good.”

Aizawa sighed, and he crawled back over you, reaching towards your hands flat on the pillows to lace his fingers between yours. “It’s not about me right now. We’re focusing on you, baby.”

You lifted your cheek, leaning into the kisses he was pressing onto it. “I know,” you said quietly, “but I think I would feel good knowing you feel good, so, ish, in a fucked-up way—would you try? Please?”

His lips met yours again, just briefly, and he said, “Okay. If you hurt, we’re stopping.”

“Well, hey, that’s pretty much guaranteeing that we’re—”

He cut you off with an exasperated look while he tossed his underwear off to the side, not bothering to unhitch his prosthetic leg.

Aizawa was pushing into you, beginning to stretch you open on his cock, and he’s only gone just barely what could be considered shallow, not much more than a squeeze around the swollen tip of his cock, and you’re clenching down around him, clamping down tight, and you didn’t even notice your eyes stinging with tears for the strain in your cunt.

But Aizawa did. He pulled out before they overflowed down your face, and he’s kissing them away in apology. “We can stop here. I won’t mind. You’ve already done so, so well for me. Thank you for trusting me.”

After a bit, you managed to get a hold of yourself, and you moved to—well. That first, you supposed. “Shouta,” you said, wiggling your fingers interlocked with his on the pillow, “may I move my hands? I’d like to touch you. Just a bit.”

“Go ahead.” He released them.

You placed your palms on his tits/pecs and instantly felt better (not cured, or anything. But definitely better). “Okay,” you said, scratching him gently, “I’ve had a moment. I’m not as overwhelmed anymore. Fuck you for being right about—about wetness.”

“Thank you,” he said, similarly scratching your head while sliding a calloused hand to your waist.

“Listen, Sho. I was scared that if I didn’t make you try to get in me then, you’d try to make me come again beforehand, and I’m scared that I’m gonna pass the fuck out if I have three orgasms as good as the first one you gave me.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to come if I eat you out, even though I’d like you to,” said Aizawa, smiling at the way your eyes fluttered when he scratched a certain spot, “I can simply go down on you to stretch you out. Everything’s fine. All that’s happened is that you’ve come earlier than expected—which, I assure you, was fucking hot—and now you need different preparation to take me. You’re fine. We can stop here, or—”

“Would you be cool with going down on me?” You bit the inside of your cheek and averted your gaze again. “Or, or, actually, you don’t have to do that. You can just—”

“You’ve got to stop overthinking, baby,” said Aizawa, grabbing your chin to kiss you again, which he did deeply and so hard that he was gasping when he broke away, “because I have been breaking myself over the thought of tasting you. I’ve been—please don’t think that I don’t want any part of you, because I want even the things you don’t like about yourself. Whatever you want, I also want, enthusiastically and desperately. This soulmate shit has reduced me to freshly popped edamame whenever I—”

Aizawa cut himself off at your laughter, sitting back on your hips and crossing his arms.

“Oh, babe, Shouta, that’s,” you said, grasping at his hands to drag him over you again, “I appreciate the effort. I do, really. But that’s a bad metaphor. Doesn’t fit the tone of the situation. Plus, I would argue that edamame bursts instead of pops. It’s a bean, not a pea.”

His ears were tinged red. “Whatever it takes for you to laugh again, you fucking pedant,” he grumbled against your neck, and his fingers trailed between your boobs and down your stomach, took a moment to curl into your pubic hair (tugging), and sliding between your folds, spreading what wetness was already there.

You eased your laughter to a smile, and you plopped your hands, palms up, on either side of your head again. “So, are you gonna make me wet or not, Shouta?”

“And you say I’m evil,” said Aizawa, grinning and shaking his head, and after another kiss, he slithered down your body, kissing and licking as he went, eyes dark and fixed on yours (his good one, anyway), even as he spread you and pressed his lips to your clit for the first time.

He’s right. He’s right. He’s always right: the task of keeping your hands flat and in one place distracted you from getting worried about how you looked or tasted or whatever, and you were laughing at yourself for how hard you were finding it to keep from forming a fist—but that’s the impulse, apparently, when the goddamn love of your life is sticking his tongue as far as he can go into your cunt and moaning like a whore about it in that stupid fucking rumbling way.

“Sweet girl,” he was saying as he licked the inside of your thigh, his scruff scrabbling pleasantly against your skin, “Are you with me? You look a little unfocused.”

You shook yourself and glanced down at him. “I’m good—”

“You are.”

“I mean, I’m with you,” you said, heat flooding your cheeks the fastest it ever has. “You’re very good. As well.”

“Is it all right for me to add a finger into this? All right, sweetness, relax,” said Aizawa, and he dragged his middle finger over your clit, circling it before drawing it back up, this time knuckle-side down, and it’s that finger that first slid into you with a soft wet noise—barely there, but still audible—and dragged and pressed inside you, aimlessly feeling you out, totally unrushed.

Your own fingers strained to lie flat.

After more licking and prodding, he added his index, and the suction on your clit lent a distraction from the stretch when he parted his fingers inside you, though there’s a soft wince from you, regardless. Under your assurances, Aizawa continued, working more space between his fingers though you clenched around him, and the third made your stomach burn, your hips chasing his fingers as your insides wound tight. He’s kissing and sucking your clit, keeping watch over your expression and the growing squelching and spasming of your cunt, and you, a bit dizzy, whimpered without meaning to when he started to pump his fingers in and out of you. You felt his smug grin against you as it reformed into a pucker to give your clit a particularly harsh suck, and you’re falling apart just a little, but it’s cool, it’s fine, and you found yourself coming, again, but this time it’s gentle, a smaller crest, under the careful watch and tongue of your husband—and when he slowly withdrew his fingers, your cunt complained the whole way, leaking and squelching around them.

The smug-as-shit bastard waved his fingers towards you, strands of arousal connecting them and seeping down into his palm. “If you want a taste, this is all you’re getting,” he said, touching your lips for barely a second, “because the rest is mine.”

Your head emptied at the way his tongue slathered the rest of it up, sliding between his fingers.

“I believe you’re wet enough for me to fit,” said Aizawa, still licking at his fingers.

“Hold up! I didn’t get to see you earlier,” you said, sitting up, “Do whatever. I need to see your cock.”

And you immediately saw red, because this motherfucker? Stupid. Stupid as hell. Stupid and hell and handsome and above average, my ass. You were insane for not wanting to prep much earlier. You’d gotten some of what he looked like when Serendipity’s quirk was affecting him, but you’re going to die. You’re going to die and then be able to talk to Midnight about her friend’s cock (too soon? You shook it off), because he’s infuriatingly pretty, and it just isn’t fair.  

Jolting, your hand flew to his wrist when he thumbed over your clit again, circling it.

“You told me to do whatever,” said Aizawa, nudging your thighs a little wider apart.

You shot him a look before returning to trying to fucking grasp (figuratively) his cock. You’re shaking your head at it, sucking in through your teeth. It’s fucking stupid—tilting a bit to the right, a little veiny (artery-y?), flushed a dark pink at the tip, and absolutely fucking weeping for you, cum dripping for the first time onto your thigh and the mattress.

Your hand darted out, hesitating, to touch the trail of dark hair on his abs leading to his cock, and once your ring finger grazed half of that maddening v, you retreated, scooting back an inch or two on the bed as you jerked at his brushing against your clit.

Aizawa raised an eyebrow when you looked up at him, wet fingers stilling.

“I’m going to kill you,” you said on impulse, wide-eyed.

Aizawa opened his mouth and closed it again. He blinked and after a beat, said, “All right. Not the most encouraging thing to hear in reaction to my dick.”

“Yikes. I mean,” you said, cringing and biting your lip, “Maybe you’d ought to prep me more?”

At the very least, you’d expected a burst of laughter from him, but to make matters worse, he took you seriously.

“Noted,” he was saying, kneeling again to put his mouth on your clit, “When I was feeling around inside you, I was thinking that I’d have to work to open you up to take me. You have such a tiny little cunt—”

“Oh, my God, never mind,” you said, burying your face in your hands, “You’re a menace. I’m leaving. I’m leaving forever.”

Laughing to himself, Aizawa peppered kisses over the backs of your hands. “I’m only joking, love. I said it to fluster you.” His hand cupped you, fingers rubbing in slick while you kept spasming every few seconds. “I know you’re ready to take me,” he said, and (your life began and ended in a second), he started slid his cock up and down your folds (swollen from coming twice already), covering it with your slick and dripping pre-cum onto you.

When a choked noise escaped your throat the first time his cockhead caught on your clit, you clapped a hand over your mouth, horrified, but a gently smiling Aizawa released his grip on one of your shaking thighs to uncover your mouth, with his smile twisting into something darker when he put your hands flat on the pillow again.

“Oh, you are the worst.”

“It’s just for a minute more. Then you can touch me. I promise,” he said, watching the way your cunt was trembling erratically when he wasn’t even inside, “You’re probably gonna come the moment I get seated inside you, yeah? Look at you twitch.”

Adjusting your legs around his waist, Aizawa took your hands in his as he pushed in, breaking you open with slow, gentle thrusts. “Easy,” he said, when you grappled with his hands, almost thrashing, to squeeze them harder, “Easy, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

Lightheaded.

And very, very warm.

You might be holding back tears. You’re not sure.

But you’re certain you’re taking deep breaths, as instructed, and you shook your hands out of his to wrap your arms around his chest, to feel him close and warm and over all of you, grabbing at him blindly to hold more (a small voice in the back of your head hoped you were scratching him up).

Aizawa struggled to breathe as well, but he gritted his teeth, his face and heaving chest fucking flushed. His hands shook as they travelled down to your waist, unable to still your shuddering hips underneath him. “And here I thought you were soft all over,” he grunted out, “Turns out that you’re softest inside. Fuck.” He screwed his eyes shut. “My lovely little wife. My soulmate.” Aizawa carefully exhaled before opening his eyes again. “Is it okay if I move a bit more?”

At your nod, he rolled his hips shallowly, keeping a careful watch on your face for any minor reactions that he couldn’t hear, and each time he thrust into you, the further away from any reality but Aizawa you got. You blanked, feeling nothing but how you strained around him, spasming and pulsing, and how your muscles were seizing, how—how it wasn’t feeling like you were full, or that you and he were overlapping, but that hey, this is how it’s supposed to be, soulmates—you and him, together. And separating yourselves just didn’t make sense, in the way that you can’t separate the hydrogen from oxygen and still have water; to have you or Aizawa, you needed the both of you. Package deal. Bonded pair.

And wow, the tears you’d been holding back now flooded down your face, pausing at the resistance from each time his hips met yours before continuing down your cheeks and neck, and you’re out of it, out of anything besides Shouta when you cup his reddening face in your hands (pink handprints blinking before the next thrust) and manage to whine, “Sensei—”

Aizawa broke, expression flashing pure vulnerability, and he kissed you before you could say anything more, and he smushed his hips against yours, hitting you more deeply as he finally circled your clit again. The orgasm was torn out of both of you, but it’s torn in the way that the wind tears a kite away from its flyer.

When you opened your eyes, the bedroom was filled with floating, pink dust, glittering when lightning struck. You had to encourage Aizawa from his spot, buried in your neck, to see it, and the two of you watched it shimmer and dissipate as the storm picked up again, rain audibly hitting the glass.

“Do you think that happens every time?” you asked as Aizawa helped you out of the bed.

Aizawa turned the knob to the bathroom and flicked on the light. “I’m sure we’ll find out.”

He had to help you walk, since your legs were shaking so badly. Luckily, you had a good laugh about it. Aizawa set you up (or rather, down) in the shower, telling you to warm up while he changed the sheets and that he’d join you soon.

By the time the two of you were out of the shower, the soulmate dust had vanished. Aizawa got into bed first (and he had to take a moment to calm down when he saw you wearing his pyjamas), and you climbed in after him. After some brief experimentation, you found that, if you shaped your hands just right and pulled them away all at once, you could leave a soulmark in the shape of a heart. So, you did, just over his real heart, and you leant back, pleased with yourself.

Aizawa glanced down at his chest and grinned. “Adorable. But I’m afraid it won’t stay for long, my love.” He held his hand mere inches from your head, wiggling his fingers in a taunt. “I doubt I can go for long without touching you.”

You caved without hesitation, leaning into his touch as a chuckling Aizawa ran his hand through your hair. “That’s fine. That just means I can constantly make it anew.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Aizawa, and he wrapped his arms around you to pull you close, snuggling into you. “Go to sleep. You can mark me again in the morning.”

soulmate trope taglist: @bakugouspsycho, @pansexualproblemchild, @doonaandpjs, @sunsetevergreen, @the-coffee-is-on-fire, @liberace2, @ladymidnight77, @nonomesupposedto, @gooooomz, @kissmebakugou, @pachiibatt, @celestair

#bnha #aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #aizawa/reader #aizawa imagine #aizawa fic #mha #aizawa headcanons #aizawa fanfiction #aizawa fanfic #aizawa shouta x reader #soulmates #soulmate #soulmate au #dash it all

[stillalittlelostngl]

Aizawa/Pregnant! Reader - More Domestic Life

Takes places after Aizawa and Toshinori go around to all the families and get the kids in the dorms. They kinda...skipped over how heavy that moment must've been in the show from what I remember. So hopefully this does it justice. I also had a request for Aizawa and a pregnant s/o so 2 birds one stone. Reader is gender neutral - apologies if any gendered language is used. Of course TW for pregnancy and mentions of babies kicking in the womb.

His favorite part of his day had always been when he was able to return home. 

Crossing the threshold and having the world shut out for even a few hours had always been something Shouta treasured. Being in his own space and able to do things at his own pace was a luxury he was rarely afforded due to his line of work, both in the classroom and out. 

The relief and comfort of home had grown in recent years as well. While Shouta never cared for having his sanctuary  invaded by others, you had always proved to be an exception. It had taken some adjustment, as living with another person always does, but Shouta couldn’t imagine these small moments of peace without you now. 

On a regular day the tension in his shoulders would ease away the moment he opened the door to the small apartment that you both shared, the troubles and stress of work melting away to be addressed for another time. 

No such luck today. His brain was still buzzing with all of what needed to be arranged to ensure his students safety in the dorms as he entered.

“I’m home,” he called, kicking his shoes off and setting them neatly by the entrance. He noticed the faint scent of the house cleaner that you loved so much and nearly rolled his eyes. 

He had told you to wait until he returned to get to work on packing and deep cleaning. 

“Welcome back,” your voice called from the living room. Shouta wasted no time in making his way over to you.  

Half packed boxes and piles of both of your belongings were strewn about the apartment in an organized chaos that he’d learned years ago to not bother attempting to understand. Normal logic and reasoning never seemed to apply to you anyways. 

He found you perched on the couch, a book in your lap and a smile on your lips waiting for him. He couldn’t help the roll of his eyes as you made a show of scooting over and patting the space next to you, as if he needed the extra convincing. 

“Don’t remember giving that to you,” he said, brow raised in question as he gave a pointed look  to the oversized clothes you had on that looked suspiciously familiar. 

“What’s yours is mine, right?” you questioned, looking up at him through your lashes with a slight pout on your lips in some faux display of innocence he’d become all too familiar with. 

“Did I say that?” you huff as he pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around your middle with hands flat against your stomach in hopes of feeling the fluttering movements of the baby. It had been a few weeks since you both had first felt the little kicks and he hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself since. He hadn’t been very good at it before, as evidenced by your current state, but the comfort of having undeniable proof that his child and partner were both alive and well was something he found himself needing more often these past few months. 

“Everything go well?” As much as he’d deny it, you could read him like a book. He tried to shield you from his job as much as he could but lately it had become unavoidable for you to be entangled in his professional life. There’s no way around it when you’d be moving into the dorms with him and his class. 

“As well as they could,” he answered, fingers tapping against your stomach. If you bothered to pay attention to the rhythm you’d recognize it as morse code. “All of the parents agreed it was the best decision. It went much more smoothly than I expected truthfully.” He didn’t voice that he couldn’t understand how his students’ parents could trust him to protect their children after he failed them so miserably. He didn’t have to. 

“Hey” your said as you grabbed his hands in your smaller ones, “stop thinkin so hard when you’re off the clock.” He’d never been able to hide much from you and even less so now after you’ve spent so many years picking up on all of his microexpressions. While somewhere deep down in the most selfish depths of Shouta he may admit to being thankful that you were there to share his worries, he mostly feels guilt as your eyebrows knit and your smile dim. It’s not fair that he brings this stress home to you and the baby. 

It had been a conversation the two of you have had over the course of your relationship that has ramped up in recent months. Shouta always struggled with the knowledge that he could never keep you entirely protected from hero work. It was a messy business that he could never just dump at the door and forget about. It would stick to him, stick to his clothes, the corner down the street - it bled into all aspects of his life and by extension yours. 

The guilt would eat him alive if you let it. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled before pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“None of that now, there’s nothin to be sorry for,” you were soaking in his touch as you leaned further into him, “look, everything will be alright, you’ll see. I got parent’s intuition, I know these things.” 

“Do you now?” The smile is small, the curve of his lips would’ve been mistaken as a twitch of a facial muscle by anyone else, but it was more than enough to lift your spirits. 

You gave a soft hum in affirmation, “it’s a packaged deal with the morning sickness,” your hands move back over his own, the baby tapping its own reply to Shouta’s message. 

“You’ll see, all your kids are gunna be fine, they got you lookin out for them after all”

_____

Some HCs for this cuz I couldn't get it to flow right in the actual story

Aizawa's pretty clinical and analytical in his thinking so while he feels guilty about the stress he put you through before you got pregnant it's next level now. Stress on the pregnant parent can cause so many issues for the kid so while he's excited to be a parent it's really eating him up that something could happen to the baby and you because of his work

he's pretty upset that y'all have to leave your home and move into the dorms too - it's the logical thing to do and the safest option for sure but the home you two had made just felt so perfect to him. You both had met on the cafe down the street, the owner of the family run restaurant on the block always engaged with some small talk with you. When Shouta had to start doing pregnancy craving runs to the place the family always checked in to see how you were - he appreciated that others in the community were looking out for you. That's hard to find these days. Y'all had made a home for yourselves and he was a little annoyed the kid's first months wouldn't be in that home.

the book mentioned was a baby name book. things had been so hectic the last few months that y'all haven't really had a second to even think about names so that night you both toss some back and forth while cleaning and packing

the purples fabuloso is what he smelled when he walked in. IDK if they got that in japan but that's the only smell i've ever associated with a deep clean before so that's what it is

#boku no hero academia #dabi my hero academia #my hero academy #mha #bnha #aizawa #aizawa shouta #shouta #shouta aizawa #aizawa/you #aizawa/reader #aizawa x you #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta/you #aizawa shouta/reader #shouta/you #shouta/reader #shouta x you #shouta x reader #shouta aizawa/you #shouta aizawa x you #shouta aizawa/reader #shouta aizawa x reader #fan fiction #fanfic #my hero fanfic #eraserhead #eraserhead/you #eraserhead/reader #eraserhead x you

[deathc-re]

oh, how he just wants to make a pretty little house wife of you. leave you with absolute freedom and autonomy over your time.

you want to go shopping? here's his card.

you want to join a yoga/ pilates/ kickboxing class? let's register you together!

you want to renovate the kitchen? my buddy knows a guy.

he wants to come home and smell the amazing cooking you have for him. or on lazy days, plop on the couch with you and eat take out.

he wants to smile at his phone while at work because you sent him a selfie of you eating breakfast at noon, or taking the dog for a walk, or with shopping backs in the trunk or with the people you're volunteering with or whatever it is your heart desires.

he wants to see you on the porch, barefoot and pregnant, rubbing your belly and waving to him as he pulls up in the driveway.

he wants to hear you ramble on about the new book you read and hated/loved. or help you brainstorm ideas for your passion project.

he wants to brag about you to all his work buddies and bring you to all the corporate dinners and stroke his own ego while you bashfully tell his coworkers that you "don't have a job, my husband takes care of everything."

NANAMIN, BAKUGO, KIRISHIMA, FATGUM, IZUKU, aizawa, yuuta, armin, iida, iwazumi, sugawara + whoever else you want!

#[moon's mind] #x reader #reader insert #husband imagines #house wife reader #jjk x reader #mha x reader #afab reader #haikyuu x reader #aot x reader #bakugo x reader #husband bakugo #mha bakugo #kirishima x reader #izuku x reader #aizawa x reader #armin x reader #nanamin x reader #husband nanami #jjk nanami #mha fatgum #husband fatgum #fat gum x reader #husband kirishima #jjk yuuta #iwazumi x reader #mha imagines #aot imagines #domestic bliss #trad wife type shit lmao

[misssmina]

Y’all don’t make use of subtle/weird traits in fics enough.

Dudes—

Bakugou literally has hyperhidrosis. Make him switch shirts constantly, or constantly wiping his hands, or outright refusing to touch things because nitroglycerin is a volatile substance.

Midoriya is constantly chewing on his lips or thumb while in thought. Either his lips are SO chapped or he’s a skin picker and the skin around his finger tips are super rough.

Uraraka is a poor kid. She would absolutely have some kind of financial anxiety. Make her be extremely frugal OOOORRR BETTER YET make her absolutely awful with money.

Aizawa is a hypersomniac. Give the man a nightmare disorder or something. We can be more imaginative than just always kinda tired.

Kirishima has/had really bad quirk envy. Please I need to see this addressed more. Even at the best hero school, in the top class, he talks down on his quirk.

Todoroki really doesn’t think very much. He acts quickly but very thoughtlessly. Coming to incorrect conclusions and moving too fast without knowing what to do next.

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #bnha #bnha eijirou #bnha kirishima #deku x reader #izuku midoriya #kirishima x reader #mha eijirou #mha bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x reader #bnha eijiro kirishima #mha kirishima #aizawa #eraserhead #uraraka ochacho #ochako uraraka #bnha uraraka #my hero acedamia #my hero headcanons #my hero fanfic #misssmina #shoto todoroki #bnha todoroki #todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki

[tsubaki3192]

Men who are so emotionally constipated, or have been through enough trauma that they don't... exactly... do well with touch, but are extremely touch starved and crave love beyond anything else physical.

Men who suddenly gain an adorable S/O who is willing to do all that and more.

Men, who suddenly find themselves having someone to come home to every night; who find themselves lying beside said person every night; who's willing to hold them for as long as necessary when it gets difficult; who refuses to abandon them no matter the circumstance.

Boyfriends, who find it difficult to truly express themselves when they want to, and get frustrated whenever they have that difficulty.

Boyfriends who find their S/O so attractive that they can't help themselves, so they end up blurting out the thoughts that come to mind.

.

Boyfriends who become your husband because he made that same mistake one day, and scrambled to grab the ring.

(The same ring that had been sitting in his pocket for the last three months.)

--------------------

JJK: Gojo, Megumi,

ToRev: Hanma, KAZUTORA, Shinichiro, SANZU, Izana, Kokonoi

HSR: Blade, AVENTURINE, DANHENG,

Genshin: KAEYA, DILUC, Scaramouche/Wanderer, Xiao,

BNHA: Aizawa, TODOROKI, DABI,

Haikyuu: OIKAWA, Atsumu,

#Tsu tries drabble-headcanon writing lmao #Tsu-writes! #JJK x reader #Tokyo Revengers x Reader #HSR x reader #GI x reader #BNHA x reader #Haikyuu x reader #Gojo x reader #Megumi x reader x reader #Hanma x reader #Kazutora x reader #Shinichiro x reader #Sanzu x reader #Blade x reader #Aventurine x reader #Danheng x reader #Kaeya x reader #Diluc x reader #Aizawa x reader #Todoroki x reader #Dabi x reader #Oikawa x reader #Izana x reader #Kokonoi x reader #Scaramouche x reader #Xiao x reader

[hqkalon]

just bc he doesn’t care // nsfw +17

it didn’t matter how many times you’ve pressed your thighs together, he’d just spread them back apart. “it’s t’much!” that sentence alone was like music to his ears, hearing how he was the one making you plea in such vulnerability. “ya sure? ‘cause down here says otherwise.” he teased, stroking every spot imaginable.

your body squirmed underneath his large frame, “look how good you’re taking me princess.” his eyes trailed down where his dick disappeared in and out of your swollen pussy with his thick fingers wrapped around your thin throat, adding slight pressure. your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your pussy squeezed tightly around him. "awn gonna cum for daddy?" he groaned into your ear with such a condescending tone, though his words struck straight down your core— feeling that bubble of pleasure wanting to burst. "y-yes yes!" you cried as his stroke got deeper, "then cum." his stern tone pierced right through your core.

"nghh please!" you begged as he fucked you through your orgasm, hitting your sweet spot with each thrust. painting an opaque coat around his dick as the palm of your hands pressed against his abdomen. "we're not done yet, angel." his free hand grabbed onto your wrist as he deviously grinned, pounding harder into your cunt as you babbled incoherent nonsense underneath him.

matsun, osamu, toji, aizawa, gojo and carlos

#haikyuu smut #jjk smut #mha smut #resident evil smut #matsukawa x reader #osamu x reader #toji x reader #aizawa x reader #gojo x reader #carlos x reader #matsukawa x black reader #osamu x black reader #toji x black reader #aizawa x black reader #gojo x black reader #carlos x black reader #matsukawa smut #osamu smut #toji smut #aizawa smut #gojo smut #carlos oliveria smut #jjk drabbles #scripts .📃

[usopps-goggles]

Mha Boys When You Sleep Over For The First Time

———————————————————

Featuring: Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki,Denki Kaminari, Eijiro Kirishima, Keigo Takami (Hawks), Shouta Aizawa, ————————————————————————————

I.Midoriya: Honestly poor boy would be so nervous he barely could achieve sleep, expect a lot of him asking you if you need anything “are you cold? do you need another blanket? are you sure you wanna be this close?”. . . yeah you’re in for a long night.

K.Bakugo: Starts out farthest away as possible from you claiming he didn’t even want you over to begin with, but… gradually as the night progresses he inches closer unbeknownst to you. you wake up the next morning practically capsuled in his arms, the boy actually looking peaceful for once as he slept.

S.Todoroki: Hesitant at first, offers to take the couch multiple times before eventually giving up as you two climb into bed, is kinda awkward but relaxes gradually as his arm drapes loosely around your neck resting on your collarbone. definitely a back sleeper, you feel comforted by his. slow and paced breathing as you drift off.

D.Kaminari: Is practically bursting at the seems with excitement, can’t help but imagine lewd things that might go down with you sharing a bed, has unmistakable disappointment when he realizes there would be no… suggestive activities. is still ecstatic to be this close to you, accidentally shocks you once during the night because he was so excited…

E.Kirishima: Probably the chillest about it, pampers you and makes sure you have everything you need (because chivalry is manly he says). cuddles galore! lets you play with his hair while it’s down, lacking any product. you braid and put cute little barrettes in it. definitely is a snorer, as well as the one who moves all over the map in their sleep.

K.Takami: Hawks is over the moon on the inside but acts nonchalantly, definitely has a big ass double king size bed for his wings loaded up with pillows, snacks right before bed, you don’t know how but you’ll randomly find a feather or two smushed between some pillows. he’s a stomach sleeper curtesy of his wings, unknowingly drapes a wing around you in his sleep, you wake up to him snoring face down in the pillows.

S.Aizawa: Definitely is out cold once he hits the pillow, is already tired as is throughout the day, so once his head is graced with the luxury of a mattress he.is.gone. on days where he’s not as tired he’ll ask for massage, which you happily oblige to, your fingers working out the stress built up from teaching and being a hero. his worries slip away when he’s with you and there’s nothing he loves more than a night where he’s falling asleep in your arms, his mattress having the extra weight of his lover accompanying him.

#bnha x reader #bnha #mha x reader #mha #deku x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugo x reader #bnha deku #hawks x y/n #hawks x you #hawks x reader #aizawa shouta #denki x reader #aizawa x reader #kirishima eijirou #kirishima x reader #shouto todoroki #todoroki x reader #shoto torodoki #shoto x reader

[tojisun]

the first time it happened, he’s rendered speechless.

big man, known for his indisputable strength, and yet there he is – bundled in the softest blanket you own, tucked in the sofa while you warmed up some soup that frankly got his stomach grumbling.

he is still overwhelmed, slow blinks and quiet rasps of breath replacing his usually sharp focus. the clamour on the coffee table would have usually yanked him out of the fog, and yet there he remains, drowsy as he turns his attention to you.

he tips his head up just enough to watch you place a bowl of soup in front of him, your furrowed eyes shifting towards him in to check if he is still awake, and he doesn’t know what it was that you saw to have the worry fizzle into something tender. replaced with something so soft it almost made him ache.

a pretty smile graces your lips, and his lungs burn. he tries swallowing the lump lodged in his throat as he ducks his head down to avoid your eyes, unusual shyness thrumming underneath his skin, because this can’t be real.

you can’t be real.

“c’mere, baby,” you whisper, falling beside him with a tiny hum, shorter arms reaching towards his bulk to pull him towards you.

his eyes flutter close at the first brush of your fingers through his hair; the tips of your nails – pink acrylics, he catalogues – scratching his scalp just as gently.

he ignores the way his lips wobbled when he feels you press a kiss on the side of his temple. it was a quick brush, just another reminder of your softness, but it was enough for his senses to pick up on your scent. he doesn’t know what it is exactly but it is something so familiar. something that feels like home.

“y’r okay,” you tell him. he breathes in deeply, holding it, before exhaling with a tremor. your arms tighten around him. “y’r okay,” you repeat.

he remembers the tiny box hidden in his drawer, stuffed underneath his clothes, and promises, soon.

— simon (ghost) riley, toji fushiguro, aizawa shouta

#suns.hc #back to vague yearning posts (i might be getting sick) #simon ghost riley x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #aizawa shota x reader #simon ghost riley #toji fushiguro #aizawa shouta #suns

[siriuslywounded]

well-

#jjk #mha #aizawa shouta #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen #aizawa sensei #eraserhead #aizawa x reader #hwajin na #jjk nanami #nanami x reader #nanami smut #aizawa smut #aizawa x y/n #kakashi hatake #kakashi x reader #kakashi sensei

[dashielldeveron]

soulmate trope | aizawa, part one.

Aizawa's route of soulmate trope.

Part one bc tumblr formatting weird. Part two here.

Warnings: BTS mention. Reader is explicitly a kissless virgin to make Aizawa feel Worse. Part one: reader gets a mild hand injury. Threat of dub-con. Claustrophobia. Sexual content, with virgin-y themes. Part two: alcohol consumption (not by reader). Sexual content, with virgin-y themes. Fem reader.

Remember that U.A., for the purposes of this fic, is a university. Lore dropped carries over to previous and subsequent chapters.

~38k overall. ~20k for part one.

You didn’t have a soulmate, and that was just how you liked it.

Because instead of being hooked to one of your weird-ass classmates, you were free to continue to harbour your crush for your weird-ass homeroom teacher, and you nurtured your crush like a stray kitten brought out of the rain. A creature comfort, really, this affection for Aizawa Shouta—a creature no one knew you kept hidden in the back laundry room and sneaked scraps.

You’re not stupid. The man has to stay your homeroom teacher for the rest of the year, until graduation. Besides, you did have a sneaky little goal with your crush, though it will probably never come to fruition. It’s not an immediate plan in which you corner him after class to beg for sexual extra credit, no, but it’s a long, onerous, masochistic plot of delayed gratification: sometime down the road after graduation, you’ll casually run into him on a patrol, casually suggest you two share a drink to catch up, and then casually I-miss-you-terribly-sensei-you-deserve-to-sleep-more-oh-wow-your-hands-are-really-big-what-if-I-place-them-right-between-my-legs your way into his heart.

For now, the most you can do is be the best student you can. Yes, Yaoyorozu is most likely always going to beat you in chemistry and some maths, since her quirk relies on her knowledge of those subjects, but you’re positively gruntled and satisfied with your place at the top for humanities, along with trading top spots in other subjects with the same three or four people.

But mostly, you tried to be 1) resourceful and 2) not annoying, because Aizawa dealt with a lot of teacher bullshit, probably.

So, while you knew about stories in which students would seduce their teachers by favours (sexual or not), lingering innuendo, or flashing lacy underwear from their seats, you weren’t going to do that shit. 1) How dumb, 2) how embarrassing, and 3) you didn’t want your (hopefully future!) relationship founded on cliches for student/teacher relationships. How a relationship starts shouldn’t have to be a secret, either, or be something to be ashamed of.

(Because you could just picture your family’s faces at Christmas if you said something like, “Hey, this is my boyfriend, Aizawa; he used to be my teacher, and we started dating after I sucked him off under his desk while he was giving a lesson.”

Although, admittedly, there’s probably no good way to introduce a former teacher as your boyfriend.)

You figured, for now, it was enough to stand out in a quiet way, never outright begging for his attention, yet somehow landing in situations in which you got it. You liked to think that Aizawa appreciated that you read when you finished your classwork early instead of talking to your friends (guiltily activating your cringey not-like-other-girls complex that you tried to suppress), along with being attentive in class in general, and you landed an unexpected advantage in Midnight.

Since your first year’s sports festival, you’ve been her sidekick. Well, first you were her intern, and then you signed on the next school year. It was mostly academic work instead of hero work at this point in her career, but you found you liked it and her. You tagged along to record events and complete evals and rubrics, and running her errands allowed you into the staff room, where Aizawa was often curled up in his office chair or on the couch. And hopefully, Aizawa heard good things about you from Midnight.

Midnight’s current project when not teaching or on active missions was rehabbing female villains. She was easy to trust. They tended to let down their guards around her, eventually, and it fascinated you the way the system treated male and female villains differently—

“Hey,” whispered Mina, hunching forward in her desk to tap you on the shoulder, “You got back from Sakura Grove Rehab with Midnight really late last night. Did something happen with Tainted Love?”

You shot a look towards the front of the classroom, where Aizawa was gripping the podium intensely in an effort to stay standing, and once you garnered he wasn’t paying attention to you (big sigh), you turned slightly in your seat to whisper back. “False alarm,” you said, shaking your head, “She used her emergency buzzer because she heard that BTS released a music video, and she wanted to see it.”

Grinning, Mina nodded. “Normal BTS fan stuff. Is a member her soulmate, or something?”

“Don’t you think she’d be dead by now if she were? Ito said—sorry, Tainted Love said that they’re all simply very easy on the eyes and that she’s a connoisseur of human beauty. But her ass is in trouble right now, because the staff’s pissed they had to break out the emergency procedures for that.”

“I don’t know,” said Mina, fiddling with her earring, “I think that’s completely fair. It’s, uh—girlboss, gaslight, get-to-see-BTS.”

You snorted, covering your nose with the back of your hand. “That’s the wrong order, and you know it—”

“Since you have the energy to talk during a lesson—” Aizawa called towards you, his voice sharp, and your head snapped towards the front of the classroom. “—then I expect you’ll be capable of a higher calibre of effort and example for the class in your stealth presentation today.”

“Absolutely,” you said, recovering and folding your hands on your desk, “I’m ready when everyone else is.”

Aizawa gave a dismissive wave and allowed the class to leave the four minutes early to change and head towards ground beta. You’d already triple-checked that all of your support gear was ready, because it was your day in the rotation to serve as a combat example to the rest of your peers. Your focus for the past month had been on stealth, so you were presenting on your findings—presenting through whatever challenge was posed to you at the hands of one of the faculty.

 Giddy, you headed towards ground beta much more quickly than your friends, who were still getting dressed. Since you’d be presenting on stealth, you had a good idea of which teacher you’d be facing.

Aizawa was waiting at the entrance, himself clad in full gear. You shot him a cheerful wave, which he lazily returned, and you retreated to one of the benches nearby and opened the book you’d brought along.

(You don’t want to aggravate him, and what’s more, if you talk to him before your challenge, you’re going to be thinking about your conversation during it. Aizawa will be more impressed with your performance if you don’t fuck it up due to daydreaming about his cock.)

Making yourself comfortable, you lay down on the bench, holding the book above you to block out the sun.

Aizawa pushed his goggles back into his hair. “You have a book,” he said (asked?) flatly as he trailed towards you.

“You have a sleeping bag,” you said, jerking your head towards the yellow bundle wadded up by the door, “We must both be relaxed about this presentation.”

Crossing his arms, Aizawa carefully leant against the door and squinted down at you. “Do you not see me as a threat?”

You tore your gaze away from your book to look up at him, tilting your head backwards to smile into his scowl. “Should I?”

Kirishima and Tokoyami burst in and broke up the conversation before it turned into something that got you off for weeks.

Once the rest of the class clambered towards ground beta, Aizawa cleared his throat and addressed the class about the challenge; he spoke with his back to you (and a couple of others), since most of the class clumped in one spot.

“Sero’s melee close-combat presentation yesterday will be a tough act to follow, but today is our first presentation on stealth. Bakugou, Aoyama—your stealth presentations won’t be following the same format, but take inspiration from it.” Aizawa stowed his hands in the deep pockets of his jumpsuit and shifted his weight forward slightly, his broad shoulders lost under his capture weapon. “Hagakure and Tokoyami, I specifically want your critique of your peer’s performance today. Be ready to give her advice. I will be the faculty member she is up against, and—” Frowning, Aizawa cut himself off, did a quick head count, and spun in your direction, his hair whipping at the movement.

Seeing you reading over on the bench (which you were still doing in what was hopefully a sexy devil-may-care, fuck-the-police way), Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose before spreading his palm over both of his eyes, heaving a sigh, and dragging his hand down his face. He then held it out in from of him and curled his fingers to beckon you closer. “C’mon; I know you said you weren’t threatened, but now you’re pushing it.”

You were sunshine; you were ease, and you were pushing it, for some reason. But you were feeling it, so you cheerfully trotted up to Aizawa, in front of whom you halted expectantly and bounced on the balls of your feet, hands holding your book behind your back as you waited for further instruction.

He cleared his throat and snapped, holding out his hand farther to confiscate your book. You shunted it towards him, and when Aizawa took it, your fingers grazed his—your pinkie and ring fingers just barely brushing against his thumb.

And.

And it’s a rickety, staticky, lightning-type thing, this wave of thunder that rushes through you, branching from where you touched him—a two-second, core-shaking rumble that only you can feel.And there’s an electric jolt.

Vibrant pink blossomed from the points of contact, staining the skin like watery ink.

Two seconds. Two seconds compressing what must be years and years of salient moments yet to come, and they—they all had him, Aizawa, in flashes of memories (?) integrating him more and more into your life. And you knew, in that shock and subsequent ooze, how it felt to be pulled into his arms and held like you’re something precious—wrapping around you while he’s half-asleep and acting on instinct, hunching and curling over your back to shield you from a backdrop of  a battlefield—the feeling of you two lying together bare. You heard the crack of his voice in the morning as he nuzzled closer to you in bed, the rumbling vibration when he growled against your skin. Felt a ghost of his fingers digging into your hips as you arched beneath him (rocking, writhing), sucking a small spot on your neck, kissing down your shoulders, your back. A shiver as he trailed his hand down the inside of your thigh. A prolonged kiss to your collarbone. The passage of thunder left your body sore, like live-or-death level adrenaline had just faded. For a moment, your knees were in danger of buckling.

Aizawa must have seen—felt—the same phantom sensations, because once a noise from the class snapped him out of it, he grimaced, tucking your book and the pink-marked hand under his opposite arm.

Ducking your head to stare at your shoes, you took a step back, overheated and too aware that the class was watching.

“Recovery Girl’s office,” Aizawa said, his voice rasping, “Now.”

You bolted.

***

You slumped in the sky-blue plastic chair in the patient area of Recovery Girl’s office, unable to shake the sensation of his arms around you. You shuddered and hunkered over, a wave of misery washing over you as the last vestiges of his warmth (?) faded. Fucking figures that the only time in your life you’ve ever been in someone’s arms is in a goddamn vision and not reality.

On the other hand.

The pads of the two fingers that touched Aizawa were blemished with the same bright pink as that dust you’d inhaled the day Tainted Love’s team had invaded, and the colour wouldn’t rub off on your hero costume when you tried. An evil sort of smile spread across your face.

You jolted in your seat when the door slammed open, the knob banging into the wall, and Aizawa stormed in, shoving one of two clipboards into your lap.

“Quirk incident form,” he spat, a plastic chair scraping against the tile as he yanked it next to (but not too closely to) yours.

You slid the pen out from underneath the clip. “This says it’s a soulmate registry form.”

Aizawa glanced up at you, already a few strokes into writing his name in the first blank. “Tainted Love’s team had utilised her quirk enough before attacking U.A. that a specific form had to be made. Nevertheless,” he said, finishing the kanji for sho with so much pressure that the paper ripped slightly, “it’s a subset of the Quirk Incident Registrar.”

Huh. You supposed you should’ve known about the paperwork, since you’re working with her, but then, you’re dealing with personal rehabilitation, not the bureaucratical aftermath.

Following his lead, you quietly began to fill out your form. Basic stuff, really: name, home address, current address (dorms), quirk, soulmate’s name and quirk…

“How would you describe our inciting soulmate incident? Are you only putting first physical contact, or are you mentioning something about the, uh,” you said, leaning over to see his paper, but he flipped his clipboard up against his chest to hide it from view.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Aizawa, finally looking you in the eye. His tight grip on his pen didn’t dilute the saturation of the pink on his thumb. “And we’re not going to talk about it. You’re not going to tell anyone about this, and I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Oh, he’s repressed repressed. “Not even my mother?”

He shook his head. “Nothing important happened today, and nothing’s going to happen.”

“That’s a shame,” you said, moving onto the next section of the form, “I was already picking out China patterns.”

He flipped his clipboard out enough to continue writing. “Don’t even joke.”

“Hey, it says I need your phone number.”

“Leave that part blank. I’ll fill it out once before turning both of them in.”

That little sneak. “Wow. You really are intent on having nothing to do with me,” you said, sighing, which he echoed.

“Listen,” said Aizawa, running his hand back through his hair to sweep it out of his face, “if you genuinely require an explanation, you don’t deserve to be in school at U.A.”

You crossed your arms. “Try me, sensei.”

Aizawa winced, scrunching his eyes shut. “Don’t call me that. Listen. What I’m about to say does not apply only to me but to teachers in general. No one wants to fu—pursue a romantic relationship with a student because we are tired. Teaching is our job. No one wants to take work home when you don’t have to. You want to have a life outside teaching, and in addition to that, I have hero work.”

“There are lots of books and stuff about teacher-student relationships,” you said.

“Written by deranged maniacs who haven’t been teachers. Sometimes, it’s difficult to see your students as people, let alone the horrific romantic par—God.” Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose again, his fingers moving the press into his eyes, almost like he wanted to gouge them out. “The only reason a student may be brought up in conversation in a non-school setting would be if that student did something particularly moronic that day. At the end of the individual day, teachers are tired of their students and want to slip back into being an individual instead of an educator.”

You pursed your lips. “I have yet to hear that you personally are tired of specifically me.”

“Let me attempt another approach,” said Aizawa, hunching over to rest his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers together, “As your teacher, I would have an unfair power over you in a relationship.”

“Hell, yeah, you would,” you said, grinning.

Aizawa turned his head away, pressing his mouth into his shoulder. “I’m not going to engage with you if you keep making comments like that.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, aware you were getting yourself in deeper shit the more you opened your mouth. “I wouldn’t want you to propose in Recovery Girl’s office, anyway.”

It took him a moment, while you waited by scribbling a doodle of your cat onto the bottom margin of your form, but Aizawa genuinely let out a hiss as he snapped towards you, his teeth gritted as his eyes flashed scarlet, hair flying upwards in an instant.

“You can’t make those sorts of quips around anyone else—at all. Nothing is going to—” He seemed to notice that you’d shrunken in your seat, away from him, your hands held up while you let the clipboard fall to the ground, and he released his quirk, mildly startled that he’d activated it on impulse. He settled back into his own cold, plastic chair and sank his chin into his capture weapon.

“I’m sorry,” you said, quiet and subdued, “Joking about stuff is how I handle it.”

“No,” he said evenly, stooping to pick up your clipboard and pen, “I knew that already. That’s how you show you understand the material in class discussions. I should’ve taken that into account.”

He held out the clipboard, pinching it by the edge. You won’t touch each other, this way.

You took it and clicked your pen, scanning down the document to where you left off. “There’s this checkbox I wanted to ask you about.”

“What checkbox—oh,” Aizawa said, his voice faltering.

Near the bottom. A single, small line and box, for the weight it held: do you want this form to double as your marriage registration?

You crossed your legs to prop one ankle over your knee and tilted your clipboard away from his line of vision. You checked it before he even answered.

“Yeah,” you said, proceeding to shade in the entire box, “Do you—”

His scowl cut you off. “Leave that blank, too.”

“Of course,” you said, drawing a couple of hearts around the inked-in box before moving on.

You finished filling it out before he did, and when he set his pen aside, he pushed on his knees to stand with a soft grunt, taking your clipboard underneath his without caring to glance over it.

“All right. The rest of class has been joined the training session that All Might was monitoring for Class B, and given the circumstances—” His eyes fell to your stained fingers. “—you’ll have to make up your stealth presentation at a later date with a different faculty member. I’ll have someone else grade your work from now on, so you won’t have to worry about my grading you more harshly because of this.”

Aizawa waited for you to nod, and after, he took a step towards the door. He ducked his head for a moment before turning back to you, saying your name under his breath. “I’m serious when I say that you can neither tell anyone about our soulmate bond nor do anything about it.”

Swallowing, you slowly stood up from your seat. “I don’t know how well I can do that, Aizawa-sensei, but I can promise that I’ll do my best not to trouble you. I haven’t been troubling you for the past three years, have I?”

“Not exactly.” Aizawa narrowed his eyes, his shoulders tensing enough that his mouth disappeared underneath his capture weapon. “Why do you ask?”

Okay. You can do this. You’re fine. You’re normal about it. You held up your hands, as if gesturing that he should brace himself. “Because that’s, uh, how long I’ve—” Been in love with you—no! Stop that. “—had feelings for you.”

Grimacing, Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose. He’s done that more in the past hour than you’ve seen in the past semester. “Holy shit.”

“Please don’t—please don’t feel any fucking pressure whatsoever,” you said quickly, trying to backtrack, “I’ve been dealing with this by myself for so long that I’m good at it, so please don’t, uh. I mean, I—I live in my head; I live in my books and stories, so it’s fine and good and tolerable that I’ve never been in a relationship or kissed or anything; I’m used to it, so you don’t have to worry; I’ve been handling this by—”

Aizawa exhaled very carefully, his chest heaving in a controlled way as he dug his fist into his eye, rubbing it. “Are you telling me you’re a virgin?”

“Ah, ha. Ha,” you said, scratching the back of your neck, “Sorry if that’s too much information; that wasn’t the point—”

“You’re transferring to Class B,” said Aizawa, and he spun on his heel and sped out of Recovery Girl’s office.

Huffing, you seized the clipboards and ran after him. “Wait up,” you said, shoving the door to the stairs open after he nearly closed it on your face, “I was just trying to let you know I am open to a relationship if you want it, but I’m more than fine—” Liar, spat the voice in your head as you scrambled down the staircase after him, your footsteps reverberating against the grey-cinderblocked walls. “—if you don’t want anything to happen, but if you—”

Aizawa turned sharply to glare in your direction as you caught up to him, and when you skibbled to a stop on the same stair, he said under his breath, “Quiet.” His gaze followed how your hair fluttered with each of his harsh syllables, so he took another stair down to distance you. “Anyone on the stairs could hear you,” he said, resigned.

He crossed his arms, and you slanted the clipboards away from your chest for him to take them.

“You really didn’t know I’ve liked you?” you asked as he took them, “All this time?”

“It’s never crossed my mind,” he said, and he continued down the stairs at fast pace but one you could keep up with, “Like I said, students are a different category of person once you’re a teacher.”

Biting your lip, you followed closely enough to keep your voice down. “You never knew. That’s comforting,” you said, and after a few more stairs, you grinned. “Could that count as my stealth presentation?”

***

You would think that more was supposed to happen, now that you’re soulmates. More conversation, at least. Perhaps a conversation.

Instead, a lingering, bruising feeling branded your chest, as if you’d been kicked the night before, and often a stifling, smothering pressure weighed down on your shoulders until you could be in the same room as Aizawa again. Sometimes, it felt like steel marbles were playing pinball in your chest, the aches where they hit gnawing and settling into your bones.

(Your cat, your chocolate-point baby Dango, has been upset with the hours you’ve been sleeping away the pain instead of playing with her. Luckily, Kouda has been borrowing her some afternoons. You don’t know what he does with her, but you do appreciate very much being able to tell Dango, via Kouda, that you love her very much.

Kouda also has the advantage of being subtle when you lend him your cat, because cats aren’t allowed in the dorms. You’ve been secretly caring for Dango for over a year now, so it’s as if you, Kouda, and Shinsou, who brought Dango catnip treats, were partners in crime.)

In class, Aizawa interacted with you as little as possible, usually asking Present Mic to grade your assignments in his stead. He didn’t act any different towards you from the perspective of the rest of the class, you supposed, except you made fewer jokes and he fewer retorts. Instead, you kept your head down, reading or working on your Sakura Grove data for Midnight, and you were skimming by.

But sometimes you’d be doing Midnight’s paperwork after finishing an assignment early, hunched over your desk, when your skin prickles and the emptiness in your chest wavers for a moment, and you’d look towards Aizawa—either slumping over his desk with his chin on his palm or almost concealed inside his sleeping bag behind the podium—eyes half-lidded and boring into you.

When you look away, it’s as if he’s the one kicking you in the chest.

***

The Saturday after a particularly painful school day for you (aside from your fucking up in a combat exercise, Aizawa had been going down the line of those who’d participated to give individual feedback, and he skipped over you without hesitation), you’d planned to spend all day huddled underneath layers and layers of covers and throw blankets in bed as yet another snowstorm swept across Mustafu, but you jerked awake, completely fucking frigid, before the sun had truly risen. You blindly fumbled over the edge of the bed for any or all of your six billion blankets and felt none of them, and, making a miserable whimper as you cracked open an eye, you peered over the side of the bed.

No blankets on floor.

No…no little bedside rug.

Jesus, did you somehow kick your bed away from the wall during the night? Wait, where’s all the shit you have all over your walls this isn’t your room.

Something was pressed against your back.

Your life was over. You’re totally getting expelled from U.A. for sneaking into your teacher’s room. It’s got to be his—holding your breath, you slowly peeked over your shoulder before snapping back towards the bare wall. A flash of that yellow sleeping bag, even in bed—it’s Aizawa’s room, all right, and his back was pressed against yours, with only your sleepshirt and his sleeping bag keeping your skin from touching (unless he’s wearing a shirt, which, in that case, get sluttier, Aizawa).

In the case that somehow appearing in his bed overnight made him detest you, you elected to slither out of his living space without his ever knowing. You wouldn’t have any answers for him, even if he caught you, really, at least not this early in the morning.

In the vexingly slow process of getting out of bed without waking him up, you had the time to look around, not that there was that much to see; it was all greyish and sparse and didn’t really feel like a home at all or that he spent much time here, with the most significant pieces in his bedroom being the shoddily painted radiator (in heaven, everything is fine) and a desk with both a PC and a propped-up tablet on it, with some papers spread in front of them. But the layout of his flat appeared to mirror another part of the dormitory, so you bet the door to leave his area entirely was through the next room, and you’d be home-free.

What caught your attention, though, was a well-loved cat tower, with one of the dangling mice for the cat to bat at torn off the string and resting on the middle level. Aizawa must have a cat. Funny, since that’s illegal in the dorms. As you finally slinked off the bed entirely, you resolved to locate the cat to kiss its little forehead before slipping out of his room entirely. Cat detours are allowed.

Walking out of his bedroom, you first were hit by the pungent scent of brewing coffee and then by a cold wave of defeat. Across the kitchen counter, Aizawa’s back was towards you while he fossicked through different brands of sugar packets.

You could’ve punted that empty sleeping bag out the window.

You took one step towards the exit before he spoke, his voice gravelly from sleep: “Do you want to offer me an explanation before I write you up?”

Fucking stealth heroes. “I don’t have one,” you said, shoulders falling slack while trudging into his kitchenette—with an ulterior motive of seeing more of his place before being removed permanently. “I’m—I don’t know how I got here. You didn’t—?”

“Of course not,” said Aizawa, ripping open two differently branded packets and upturning them into his coffee. He turned to face you as he took the first sip, and you wished you could say that his eyes drank you in hungrily, or whatever, but you supposed that you have to get sluttier, too: you were just as completely and unalluringly covered as he was in his Purple Revolution sweatshirt and pants. “You don’t have any ideas from working at Sakura Grove?”

“Uh, no,” you said, “I’m not encouraged to talk to I—Tainted Love. It’s more like bringing her food and filling out paperwork for her craft requests. I am very much the middleman. I can—”

“Don’t.” Aizawa held out his free hand. “I’ll ask Nemuri.”

Nemuri. You’ve known, you supposed, that he was on a given-name basis with Midnight. You resolved to get him to call you by your first name, too. And then the thought came that you might be ruining something romantic between them? Based on every interaction you’ve had with either of them, you had no indication of romance, but Aizawa had said that teachers aim to have very private lives. Yikes. You elected to slough it off for now, because introducing feeling jealous of your mentor whom you admired very much would only complicate the situation more. You could linger on jealousy once you figured out what the hell was happening.

“Right,” you said, pulling at a hangnail, “What if this happens again?”

“We’ll put a stop to it. Simple as that.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “We’ll be able to prevent this once we have more information. Until then, just handle it maturely and without fuss.”

“And here I was hoping we could cuddle,” you said, heaving a huge, fake sigh as Aizawa narrowed his eyes, and you pushed yourself up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs. “This is the part where you offer me coffee.”

“Get out of my apartment.”

“C’mon, Aizawa. Or I’ll spread that you have an illegal cat in the dorms.”

Aizawa hesitated just as he brought the lip of his mug to his mouth. “I don’t have a cat,” he said before taking another drink.

“Come off of it; I saw the cat tower.”

“I don’t have—”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when something prodded your thigh; a lanky, tuxedo-patterned cat had sneaked up to headbutt you before you could notice, and it climbed onto your lap to loaf. It’d be nice if your own cat were this friendly.

“You need to be more aware of your surroundings,” grumbled Aizawa as he poured your coffee.

You flipped over the cat’s tag, the light catching on the rose-gold heart. “You named your cat Konpeito?”

“Eri named it.” Aizawa set the mug next to you instead of giving it to you directly—stubborn bastard, not wanting to touch you again. “Don’t make a scene when you return the mug.”

“You’re kicking me out before I even start drinking?” You tentatively gripped the handle and maneuvered the cat off your lap.

“You keep asking these questions that have obvious answers.” He gave a dismissive wave. “Don’t make too much noise on the way out; Eri’s in the next dorm over, and I don’t want you to wake her.”

***

You woke up in Aizawa’s bed again less than a week later. You’d had a dream that you’d been freezing, and the reason had been, once again, you were, since apparently Aizawa depended on his sleeping bag instead of blankets. You allowed yourself a moment of savouring the sensation of his back against yours (for real, this time, since the sleeping bag was snoring) before slipping out.

The third time, you left him a note to tell him to get a damn blanket, or else you’ll bring one of your own to keep there.

You idly took notes in Present Mic’s class, words coming slowly on paper while he prattled on. How come it was always you who was showing up in his bed? How come you always went to Aizawa, and he never came to you?

Your eyes flicked up to what Present Mic was writing on the board in skewed, thin handwriting. Had Aizawa told him the specifics? Present Mic had to know something, since he was grading your work, but Mic was also Aizawa’s friend—a luxury you didn’t have in this soulmate situation. Midnight would also be a strategic person to tell, from Aizawa’s perspective, but she hadn’t given any hint she was aware.

You drew a heart in the margins, and then you gave it legs. You made it walk off the page and onto the desk, colouring it in by crosshatching. If only you could get up and leave. Class without Aizawa dragged nowadays; where did he spend his time during school on break? Probably huddled in his sleeping bag in a slant of sunlight like a damn cat, maybe out on the grounds where he couldn’t be found. Or maybe he fucked off to a gym closet where the mats were; they’d be cosier than sleeping directly on the floor. And you could cosy up next to him, pressed up against each other in that snug—

You slammed into a wall of solid muscle, papers flying and tea spilling over the tile to seep into the rug in the teachers’ lounge, and you sprawled on your knees in the midst of it in your haste to get the fuck off of Aizawa before he could say anything, hissing as you tentatively raised your hand from the wet, broken cup. Despite the slivers of pottery in your palm, you one-handedly fumbled for the papers that had been dropped—third year evals, now crimped and tinted a yellow-green.

Aizawa took the papers, tapped the bottom to align them, and gave them a firm shake to flick off excess tea, and when you started to sweep the broken cup into your hands, he stopped you.

“Go to the faculty bathroom,” he said, pointing to the connecting lavatory, “I’ll be there in a minute with a first-aid kit.”

You had a moment to yourself in the clean, warmly-lit bathroom, so you pushed yourself up on the green marble by the farthest sink and crossed your legs, ensuring your shoes didn’t dirty anything. The pain’s setting in, but you won’t cry, not in front of him, and you’re crying, but just a bit, right? Fuck.

At the sound of the door, you hastily wiped your nose with your sleeve and did your best to look stoic, like pottery in your hand happened every day. But your eyes were too watery to even see the tweezers as he dug them out of the kit.

Standing in front of the sink, Aizawa clicked the tweezers twice (carcinisation, baby!) and held out his other hand.

You looked at it. “What do you want me to do with that?”

He said your name through a sort of scoff, which would’ve been way hotter if it had been your given name and also in bed. “Just give me your hand.”

Tears ran down your face in an overflow. “You wanna touch me?” you asked, sniffing.

“Fucking hell,” Aizawa said under his breath, “At least I know you’re all right if you’re still joking.” He shifted his jaw, scanning your palm. “If you’d rather have it at an uncomfortable angle over the sink—”

“No! No, I wanna—I wanna touch you,” you said, and you lifted your shaky, injured hand for Aizawa to hold steady. The instant his fingers cradled the back of your hand, everything fell into place: touching him was like breathing in cool, crisp air on a clear night or the smoky kindling of a fire that never goes out, like feeling sunshine on bare shoulders on a spring day with freshly cut grass, like walking into your childhood home’s kitchen when someone’s baked chocolate-chip cookies, like breathing in, like breathing, and—

You lifted your hand just a hair from his hand.

You have a stopped-up nose.

You glanced at Aizawa, whose lips were parted, his chest visibly heaving underneath his baggy jumpsuit. “Did you…?”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “I need to get the pottery out of your hand as soon as possible.”

Bracing yourself, you rested your hand in his again, and that irresistible warmth swept over you again. He’s got to be feeling it, too, so why isn’t he reacting? You’re embarrassing yourself, so why can’t he?

“Were you trying to teleport to me earlier?” he asked (distracting you from the sensation of each shard being plucked from your skin), head bent over the sink and your hand.

“No, I never—I don’t intend anything. But now that we’ve seen it, we at least know it’s not a gradual thing. Instantaneous and painless. Well,” you said, nodding towards your hand.

“Nor, I see, is it limited to my bed,” he said, shifting over when you uncrossed your legs, “What were you doing before the jump?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I was in class.” You dangled your legs off the side to get closer to him (for medical purposes of course), and wow, Aizawa smelled incredible—probably; your stuffy nose wasn’t doing you any favours—what the hell kind of soap did he use?

 “Were you thinking of anything in particular? The bond?”

That’s got to be pine, and there’s something earthy mixed in. You really needed to blow your nose (Can you even name earthy scents? [Dirt?] You’re not up-to-date with masculine scents; you’ll have to find his deodorant next time you wake up in his room). “I was—” You cut yourself off with a hiss as he pulled the largest shard out. “I’m fine. It’s not that bad, really. Keep going. I don’t really remember the specifics of what I was thinking about, but I—” You cut yourself off again, this time with heavy realisation. “Goddammit. I was feeling the acute loneliness hollow out my chest again, and I was wanting to—be near you. Which explains why I’ve been teleporting to you instead of you coming to me.”

“It explains nothing,” said Aizawa, and he set the tweezers next to the shards on the edge of the sink and flipped on the faucet, guiding your hand under the water and reaching for the gauze.

“Yes, it does,” you said, openly wiping your nose on the back of your sleeve, because fuck it, this man didn’t care about you, so be gross around him. “If the teleporting is triggered by intense longing to be close to the other person, then it makes total sense that I’d be the only one teleporting, since I’m the only one who has feelings.”

“It explains nothing,” he said again, drying off your hand, “It’s only a possible contributing factor to the teleportation. Maybe it has to do with location, or timing, or action. It’s highly improbable that this physical action was caused by thought alone.” Aizawa ripped off a long strip of gauze and began to wrap it around your palm. “Don’t feel like this is a weakness on your part. I’ll probably teleport to you before the month is out.”

You let your fingers relax, your pinkie falling enough to graze his own hands as he bandaged yours. The more skin-to-skin contact you had, the more serene you felt—or maybe it was the injury adrenaline wearing off. Either way, you might fall asleep on the bathroom counter. “My bed isn’t big enough for two people.”

“That’s okay,” said Aizawa, and he slowed at the final wrap-around, holding it in place until he found the metal clips in the first aid box. “I’ve gotten very used to sleeping in odd places.”

When he stepped away to pack up the kit, you fucking whimpered on impulse at the loss of physical contact, and he froze, stuck in the motion of clicking the box shut.

“Sorry,” you said, sniffing.

His jaw tensing, Aizawa shook his head. “You should go to bed early tonight. Don’t overexert yourself.”

***

Yeah, except it’s Friday, and Jirou has been arranging this girls’ night for two weeks now.

Apparently, the karaoke bar you’re going to overheats really easily, since it’s in a refurbished building that used to be something-or-other; you’re not really listening to the explanation but were more concerned with having to wear summer clothes while it’s snowing out. The past two weeks have been strategic outfit layering plans from the lot of you, most of which have devolved into being silly and impractical (ranging from “I’ll just take off my skin and hang around in my bones when we get there” to “I will walk out of this dorm in a sleeping bag over my underwear” [the latter reminding you of Aizawa, in a pleasing, warm thought that you had to keep to yourself]).

Either way. Twisting over your shoulder, you strained to tuck in your bra so that it wouldn’t show from a mostly backless spaghetti-strap that you ended up borrowing from Uraraka, and once it was kind of hidden, you stuck your tongue into your cheek. It didn’t really sit right with you to be going out in this shit in this icy weather. You’d be a lot warmer and probably a lot more content if you peeled off these Best Jeanist jean shorts (from the Moulded to Your Ass line, unofficially titled) and crawled into your pyjamas and bed.

In the corner of your eye, your bed beckoned, with all of its blankets and stuffed animals (for when you just need to hold a little guy). What if you ditched the outing and—no. Stop that. You’ll be warm soon enough.

But with an abrupt lurch towards your bed, you found yourself spluttering into the scalding spray of a showerhead, water dribbling into your mouth between gasps and sloshing down your body. Blindly, you took a step backwards out of the cascade, but a flattened palm on the bare skin of your back stopped you before you could move farther.

“Don’t.”

The water still gushed and flowed over you, eyes scrunched tight and heart pounding. The hand on your back maximised the space between the two of you, but with the pathetic size of the shower stall, his body heat still seeped into your skin, complemented by rising steam. There’s a quiet grunt when he knocked against the frosted glass door; his shoulders must be wide enough for that to happen frequently (you swallow against a dry throat, because the man could hold all of you). If he wanted to, Aizawa, the way he has you now, could press his lips to the crown of your head, keeping his mouth there as his eyes flutter shut.

Instead, Aizawa was reaching up to tilt the showerhead away, giving you a good face-full of his bicep, and your eyes followed its movement (his jumpsuit did an excellent job of concealing a fucking powerfully built form), straining as he twisted the showerhead and relaxing as it fell back into place at his side—

“Eyes up,” said Aizawa, using his first two fingers to guide your chin back to face your front, where they lingered for a moment to tap against your jaw to ensure you’d stay there.

(With the shock of getting wet and the heat of his hand flat against your back [still there, still flooding you with an intoxicating headiness], you’d been entirely too overwhelmed to even consider catching a glimpse of his dick.)

“Aizawa-sensei—”

“Cut that out,” he said, huffing, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

For once, you’re out of the loop. But since you’re in his shower, you could take a moment to locate his soap to put a name to what he smells like and perhaps get a look at his cock along the way. Only his washcloth hung over the faucet in front of you, so you moved to turn slightly as you spoke, ducking your head to scan for shampoo bottles: “Earlier today you were saying it wasn’t my—”

Hissing, Aizawa slid two fingers through one of your belt loops and yanked, jerking you backwards into his hips for an instant before establishing that space between you again—pulling you by the belt loop blocked your view of his cock, and his hand on your back kept you from touching him in any meaningful way. But he was still as close as he could be without touching you otherwise, his breath as searing as the steam as he grumbled into your ear: “Bad girl.”

The water splashing at your feet wasn’t so hot anymore.

Aizawa tugged at your belt loop again (for a moment, when a swish of cool air washed down your ass, you worried that he’d look) and kept you in front of himself as he turned sideways to face the shower door, which he (fuck!) lifted his hand from your back to prod open.

Light flushed into the stall, and he scoffed. “I knew it,” Aizawa said, bitterness creeping into his voice, and he unlooped his finger from your belt loop to tap the fabric firmly, nudging you forward.

“Knew what?” you asked, spinning on your heel the moment you were out of the shower, water flying, and Aizawa ducked behind the frosted glass with a defeated expression. “Right,” you said, grabbing the thick towel on the toilet and tossing it to him.

“Check your fingertips.”

Tearing your gaze from his frosted-glass impression of wrapping the towel around his waist, you held up your hands. “They look fine. My bandages are soaked, though, so I’ll have to redo—oh, okay, fuck. My soulmark is gone.” You’re not going to cry in front of him, and definitely not twice in one day, because that’d be—

“Sensei,” you said, choking up and curling your shaky fingers into an even shakier fist, “Sensei, my soulmark is—I don’t want my soulmark to be gone, fucking, I—” On accident, you slammed your elbow into the glass door when you were trying to—please get closer (so goddammit, if your eyes water, it’s from hitting your funny bone). “I don’t want my soulmark to disappear; I adore you and want—”

“It hasn’t disappeared,” Aizawa said softly as he stepped out of the shower, gripping his towel in addition to the firm knot, and he pointed behind you towards the mirror.

While Aizawa eased down onto the closed toilet to towel-dry his hair, you took the four, wet steps to the sink and wiped off the clouded steam. No difference in your reflection.

When you shot a baffled look towards Aizawa, he gently raised his eyebrows and his finger to twirl it once. So, you turned around to look over your shoulder at your back, where his pink handprint put all body glitter to shame in how well it reflected the overhead light and in how quickly it was spreading (ink leaking outside of the handprint in watery bursts before slowing, never detracting from the shape of his hand, though the ink seemed to rise more than fall, especially near his middle and ring fingers between your shoulder blades).

He was holding up his newly pink palm, wiggling his fingers in your direction.

You returned to him (really to stand on the bathmat, since you’re drenching his floor) and raised your hand to touch him, first glancing at him for his approval. Aizawa looked at your hand and back at you, and after he wetted his lips, he nodded and got back to towel-drying his hair.

You hesitated. Is this really so nonchalant, so trivial to him? It’s everything to you.

You dropped your hand to your side, mouth twitching. “What shampoo do you fucking use.”

“Hm?” He didn’t even look at you.

“You smell fucking good all the time. What’s. What scent is your soap,” you were saying, in the same, flat tone you’d use to argue with your landlord about finally fixing your leaky roof after two years.

Aizawa squeezed water out of the last of his hair and spoke in that infuriatingly gravelly, just-woke-up voice of his. “It’s sandalwood.”

Sandalwood. That’s earthy, you guessed. “Then where’s the pine come from?”

“That would be the aftershave,” he said, folding the hair towel in half twice and setting it aside, “You were going to touch me, but now you’re upset. Care to explain?”

You plucked at your wet shirt before crossing your arms over it. “Does this matter to you? The soulmate thing.”

“You matter to me,” he said, standing with a quiet grunt, “Let’s get you reasonably dry before going back to your dorm.”

“Oh, shut up with that teacher bullshit,” you said, following him to a cabinet, “You care about me through the lens of a student, because everyone in this fucking dorm is your—fuck, I’m. You’re insufferable.”

“I can’t lend you clothes, but I should have enough large towels to keep you warm.” Aizawa reached for the top shelf, with beach towels. “However, I recommend against going out tonight with the rest of your friends.” He handed you a new-looking, blue-pineappled towel.

You angrily wrapped it around you, pissed that you instantly felt better. “Oh, is it because you’ve gotten me wet—” Aizawa draped another towel around your shoulders, tucking it in a little to secure it. “—and going out into this fucking ass iceberg weather would get me sick—” Another towel, this one with Present Mic’s radio show logo on it. “—and then I’d have to miss one of your precious days of class—”

“Is that what you want me to say?” He arranged two more towels around you at once, tying the outermost one in a knot. “Or are you waiting to hear that I want you to hide away while you bear my mark?” He tugged your drapery down a smidge so that you could use your arms a bit—at the least, use your key to your room. “When in reality,” he said, taking a step backward and appraising his handiwork, “I want you to be comfortable and content. And I don’t think you’d be either if you went out after this, even if you got ready again.”

Goddammit.

“And you’ve had a long day with strange revelations. You have a new injury. Going to bed for the night will facilitate healing. Your body will have more time to process the day.”

Groaning, you said, “Fuck you for being right.”

“Thanks.”

Since you hadn’t touched him earlier, you took the opportunity to clonk your forehead against his chest (dense muscle was evidently comfy). The soulmark warmth blossomed throughout your body from the spot, and you took your time to appreciate it, taking a couple of unhurried breaths against his skin, dry save for some stray running droplets.

Aizawa sighed, the planes of his chest rising and falling under your close and thirsty scrutiny. “This counts, y’know. As staying up late.” If you hadn’t seen him put his hand on your arm, you wouldn’t’ve known, due to the thickness of the towels. “I told you to go to bed.”

You blearily looked up at him. “Take me there, then.”

After a moment, Aizawa said, “I have to feed my cat,” and he opened the bathroom door to escape. Before he left, he spun back around, and you would’ve sworn he was fighting a smile, if you hadn’t known how he felt about you.

“But first,” he said, “let me fix that forehead situation of yours.”

***

Picking up the folders from the office mailbox, you flipped out the flag for read/empty and trailed back to the office space that you and Midnight shared at Sakura Grove, idly waving to some co-workers as you flipped through the files. Pushing the door open with your foot, you dropped the folders onto Midnight’s desk and hurried over to lift the shaking electric kettle from the heat, since Midnight was too absorbed into her patient evaluation at which she was typing away.

You poured the boiling water the round teabag, watched it rise to the top of Midnight’s teacup, and bit back a cry—you clutched the chilled windowsill to stay standing, struck by an overwhelming dizziness that blacked out the edges of your vision and crept to darken it entirely; a bowling ball has just hit your chest and dropped to your toes, the ache reverberating through your veins as you caved and doubled over, nausea settling into your gut.

Through the dots clouding your vision, you barely make out Midnight stretching her arms over her head.

These attacks have been happening more and more. If Aizawa can have a friend in the know, so can you.

“Kayama-sensei,” you managed to croak, but she didn’t hear you.

You tried again, and she turned, her expression drooping when she saw you. “Is the tea that bad?”

Eventually, Midnight helped you into your seat across from hers with your own cup of tea, the pain draining away in the process of vague explanation.

“So, you genuinely think you’re starting to die because your soulmate won’t acknowledge you romantically. Easy solution in sight,” she said, picking her teacup up by her fingertips to breathe in the steam, “Just pick out some nice lingerie—you can use my sponsor discount for Wacoal—and arch your back when you lie in his bed for him to find. I can give you some tips on how to suck—”

“Kayama-sensei,” you said, your vision finally back to normal, “You do not understand how much I can’t do that.”

Her tongue flicked into her cup, testing the heat. “I’ll bite. Why not?”

“My soulmate is, um.” You frowned into your tea. “I’ve liked my soulmate for a long, long time. Before the soulmate stuff existed.”

Midnight ran her tongue over her lips, the corners quirking upwards. “So? All the more reason to make your feelings known and emphasised, now that you have an excuse for a legitimate relationship. Since he already knows about how you feel, you should keep trying to seduce him. All men crack eventually.”

“He won’t accept a lousy attempt at seduction, because—aside from I have no clue how to do that, I don’t—he’s, uh…” You trailed off, took a swig of tea instead of finishing, and ended up choking a bit at the heat.

“Yes? What’s the juicy detail you’re reluctant to share? Is he married? Is he a public figure? Is he too much older or younger than you?”

Narrowing your eyes, you asked, “Do you already know? Are you just making me say it?”

Tight-lipped, Midnight made a loose, dismissive gesture and moved to get back to her patient file.

“Fine. Fine! If anyone can help me with this, it’s you, because it’s—goddamn,” you said, deflating and sinking down into your seat, “It’s fucking Aizawa-sensei, okay? My soulmate is my stupid homeroom teacher.”

“Congratulations,” said Midnight, saving the document and shutting down the computer, “You have earned the right to call me by my given name for being so honest.” She spun in her chair to give you her full attention. “So. Shouta.”

“Did you know already? Were you just—”

“I had my suspicions but no concrete evidence,” she said, holding up her hand, “Just some observations from watching you for the past three years.” Tilting her head, she adjusted her glasses before lifting her cup to her mouth again. “Now, the reason why you can’t just seduce him is crystal clear now. I submit that you could start going to bed in skimpier clothes in the event you teleport to his apartment again, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Shouta’s got a steel will. He’s not going to violate that student-teacher professional relationship.”

“I know,” you said, slumping so far down in your seat that your ass was falling off of it, your chin touching your chest, “but if I’m in pain from not being with him, he probably is, too. And if he won’t acknowledge me romantically, I wanna know if there’s something I can do to alleviate the pain that we’re both feeling. He shouldn’t be distracted from his work because of it.”

“That’s exactly what I want to hear.” Midnight jabbed a finger in your direction. “Starting today, you’re promoted. You’re going to be Tainted Love’s primary monitor.”

“What?” You shot up in your seat. “But I haven’t—I haven’t even had a proper conversation with her before—”

“But she’s used to having you around,” Midnight said evenly, opening her top desk drawer, “To her, you’re in a position of authority but not a threat. You’ve seen how she likes to talk, anyway, and you’re in a perfect position to find out more schematics of how her quirk works on the individual level.” Midnight smiled and handed you Ito’s folder. “Plus, she can’t do anything more to you, right? You’ve already got a hell of a soulmate.”

“Okay,” you said, hesitantly taking her file to clutch it to your chest, “So, you just want me to talk to her? Try to solve my problems?”

“Yeah. And anything you find out about her quirk that she hasn’t shared so far—because she hasn’t exactly shared much past the first interrogation—is welcome intelligence. Record anything new. Keep Ito happy. You’ll be golden. I know you’re more than capable.”

“Funny,” you said, flipping through the file and joining Midnight as she stood, “This feels planned. Got anything else motivating you?”

“Besides a perverse desire to see my friend and my sidekick get together?” Midnight grabbed her whip from the hook on the side of her desk. “I was going to assign you this, anyway. Ito isn’t a threat anymore, and I need to focus on preparing for Serendipity’s arrival next week from St. Philomena’s. Even the airline we finally convinced to transport her has backed out, so I’m scrambling to bribe another.”

That had slipped your mind—Serendipity was being transferred to Sakura Grove for rehabilitation, mostly because no one else wanted to house the most potently dangerous female villain in the Americas. “Understandable,” you said, holding open the door for Midnight to follow closely behind, “When do I start?”

***

Fifteen minutes later, you were setting a tray with tea and powdered thumbprint-cookies in front of Ito at her desk in her room. She raised a sharp, white eyebrow at how the dishes clattered at your shaky handling, but she nodded in thanks and turned back to her book. You guessed you were lingering awkwardly by the door a bit too obviously, so she rolled her eyes and set her book upside-down on the desk.

“You’re my new handler, right?” she asked, scratching under her eye.

“That’s me,” you said, hands folded tightly in front of you, “Midnight says you cleared stage five, so you’re safe to be delegated off to me. I have your stage six schedule printed out—”

“But why are you still here? Everyone usually leaves as soon as possible.”

“I’m the only staff member immune to your quirk,” you said, sliding her schedule out of her file.

“Immune.” Ito grinned and crossed her legs. “That’s interesting. How do you know that?”

Well, Midnight said to be honest in order to get honesty from Ito. You sucked in through your teeth. “I’m only immune because you’ve already given me a soulmate. I was the, uh, student you landed on when you attacked U.A.”

Scrunching up her face, Ito scanned you from head to foot, and when she finally stopped at your chest, she nodded. “Ah. I remember you. You’ve got good tits, kiddo,” she said, reaching for her tea, “Be proud of ‘em. You allowed to tell me how it’s going?”

You glanced behind you at the door, pretending to be considering the trouble of talking to her, and when you prodded it shut with your foot, Ito’s grin stretched all the way across her face, her teeth cutting into her lower lip.

“I’ve been desperate to talk to you,” you said, dragging the extra chair closer to hers, “My soulmate is being a little bitch.”

“I like you better than Doc Kim already,” said Ito, and she took a noisy slurp of her tea. “Spill it.”

“I need your advice on what to do about the pain.”

“You found your soulmate already? Then you shouldn’t be feeling any,” she said, shrugging.

“No, I need you to tell me about what to do about the pain. I don’t know if he’s feeling it, but it’s fucking killing me, and he won’t do anything about the soulmate stuff because he doesn’t like me—”

“Back up.” Ito slammed her cup on the tray, spilling tea. “You’re not making any sense. Start over. Tell me about your soulmate.”

Groaning, you buried your face in your hands, leaning back in your chair until your back popped. “He’s my professor, and I’ve liked him for years. Since I met him, pretty much.”

“Hot. He got a sensei kink?” She shoved two thumbprint cookies in her mouth at once, and she nudged the plate in your direction.

“Eh,” you said, weighing your options, “It’s possible. But he doesn’t—”

“Nice. So, he says he’s not gonna do anything while you’re his student, which means he’s burning with shame and sexy, sexy doubts about how good of a man he is. Always sexy to bring a man to his moral and literal knees. Are you wearing fun things to class?”

“We have a uniform.”

“Shame,” she said, gulping down more tea, and then she cocked her head. “Unless.”

“No.”

“Spoilsport,” said Ito, gesturing towards the cookies again. This time you took one, pinching it absentmindedly in your lap. “I think I want to go on my daily walk around the courtyard. Is there room for that in my new schedule?”

You checked it. “I’ll make it work.”

Minutes later, you and Ito were bundled up and strolling the perimeter of Sakura Grove’s courtyard, full of other in-patients in team recreation in the middle and in private conversation on some of the benches.

“I’m still not with you,” Ito was saying as she stared up into the bare limbs of a sakura tree, “I don’t understand why you’re feeling the soulmate pain. It shouldn’t be affecting you, since you know and have met your soulmate.”

You huffed, breath visible. “Well, if you don’t know, then I’m lost. But if he’s not going to complain about the pain, then I suppose I’ll just have to deal with it. I like him too much to bitch about it to him, I guess.”

Ito shoved more of her long, white hair underneath her pom-pom hat. “Then it’s probably the same for him, with him liking you too much to bother you about it.”

“Nah.” You stepped into one of her footprints, the snow crunching under your weight. “He doesn’t like me, and I don’t think he ever will, since once a student, always a stu—”

Ito’s head snapped towards you, cheeks rosy from the cold. “What did you say?”

“My soulmate doesn’t like me, because—”

“You said that earlier, too,” said Ito, and she looked around for other monitors before jerking her head for you to follow her. She guided you in a casual-but-not trail away from any doors or eavesdroppers, and she said in a hushed voice, “You do know that my quirk doesn’t assign soulmates randomly, right?”

“What the hell? Say more right now,” you said, taking smaller steps to stay closer to her.

“Oh, well, that’s news for me. I figured they’d captured my team’s notes on my quirk by now. Okay, well, report this, or not,” said Ito, jabbing a finger towards you, “How much do you know about probability? Yeah, yeah, more math—yes, soulmates usually to inhale the same cloud of my quirk to be considered soulmates, but there are other factors, too. See, you were making sense until you said your soulmate doesn’t like you back.”

“Okay, I’m not following—hey, let’s walk more towards the centre; I think those two by the door are watching us.” You steered the two of you back onto the typical path but stayed close to speak quietly.

“In addition to breathing from the same cloud, two people have to have had a moment of genuine, mutual attraction between each other. Not, like, you pass someone hot on the street and think you’d suck the soul out of their dick before dissuading yourself from the impulse, because they’d clearly ruin your life, but a moment of true, lingering affection for someone that you don’t talk yourself out of. A moment worth thinking about later. Hey, Rika,” Ito said loudly as you passed another patient on the path, “Good to see you today. How’s your cult? You don’t know? Great! Healthy! See you later!” Ito and you sped-walked past her, and once Rika was out of earshot, Ito lowered her voice again. “You don’t have to know the person, but maybe a stranger shared a moment of kindness with you. Maybe an old friend laughed in a new way. It’s a moment where you’re attracted to something past the surface level in a person, even for a brief second. I don’t give out soulmates with absolutely no attraction, even if it may seem that way.”

You, fuming, kicked snow out of your path. “That bitch likes me!”

Ito nodded. “And not just for your tits.”

“Shit,” you said, pushing hair out of your face and pulling your scarf to be snugger, “Nothing I do is gonna—”

“I can help,” said Ito, glancing over her shoulders again for eavesdroppers.

You stopped in your tracks. “But why would you do that? I’m just some weirdo.”

“Because when I have employed the help I’m about to offer you, it has been very, very funny to me,” she said, “and I don’t get outside news except through fucking letters.”

You joined her on the path again. “How many times have you done this?”

Ito looked up as she bit the pad of her thumb, trudging through the snow. “You’ll be the twelfth time. It’s like a part two to my quirk, but I usually don’t come across victims again to offer this sort of thing—and people usually don’t need it. Step one: we’ll need an airtight container.”

***

Cut to that evening in your dorm room, with you hunched over a ziploc bag sealed to the brim with her quirk’s pink dust.

Door locked. Lights down. Cosy pyjamas. Already under the covers in bed.

An increased probability of cliches, Ito had said.

You flipped on the flashlight on your phone to shine through the dust, pink light scattering on the ceiling like a home-planetarium.

Inhaling her quirk for the second time would still affect you, but it wouldn’t assign you another soulmate. Rather, it would dramatically increase your chances for romance tropes to occur in your real life. Stuff that only happens in rom-coms and fanfic could start to happen to you and your soulmate.

(“Like sharing a bed when there’s only one of them,” Ito had said, swirling her finger through the leftover powdered sugar and licking it.

“We’ve already got that covered with the teleporting,” you’d said.

“Shifting is what I’ve been calling the teleports, babe.” Ito had smacked her lips. “And maybe you’ll wake up grinding on his hard-on, now. Do you know how big his dick is?” she’d asked, and then she’d clicked her tongue. “Never mind; I wanna know about his thighs.”

“I can—”

“Or maybe he’ll spill coffee on your shirt and have to pat you dry, accidentally making your shirt see-through and getting flustered at your tits. Or maybe he’ll have to pick you up in the rain, and oh, no, the weather’s too bad for you to go home, and you have to wear his clothes, and—”

You’d snorted at the thought of wearing one of his jumpsuits. He didn’t seem to have much else.)

Either way, you had your ziploc bag of soulmate trope dust, and you had a soulmate reluctant to acknowledge you—even though you knew now that he liked you, that bitch. You’d prepared accordingly, already in bed, since Ito had said you’d likely pass out again. It sat a bit unpleasantly in your stomach that you were going to rely on cliches to jumpstart your relationship with Aizawa, since you hadn’t wanted to do that in the first place with teacher-student relationship cliches. But you could avoid that the best you could, you supposed.

You lay down in bed, adjusting your hair on your pillow, and with the bag on your chest, you popped it like bubble wrap, the dust surging into your face in a rosy burst.

***

Popping it Tuesday night led to a cruelly dull Wednesday, since, as seniors, Wednesdays were off-days for the hero course to spend more time in the field. You weren’t needed at Sakura Grove, as you remotely typed up your reports and sent them their way, and since all your friends were with their mentors, the hours crawled. You puttered around online for a while, before cracking open a book whose plot couldn’t hold you. Since no one was around to witness, you plodded downstairs to the kitchen in your pyjamas, stole one of Aoyama’s green tea popsicles for an early start to lunch, and booted up the console Kaminari kept in the commons.

While the screen loaded, you plopped onto the couch, licking the last of the tea off the wooden stick. What does Aizawa do on Wednesdays now that his class is loose? He frequents a cat café; the punch-card was poking out of his wallet on his bedside table last time you shifted to his room. But there are the mundanities—grocery shopping, catching up on sleep, grading, caring for Eri. And hell, how you’d like to share those moments with him—perhaps scrunching his nose at a change of ingredients of his favourite chip, stroking the neck of his cat in a beam of sunlight, braiding Eri’s hair with ribbon at the start of a school day.

Fuuuuuck, when will Aizawa let you in?

The next moment, you’re suffocating. Pitch black softness, swaddling and falling around you, sweltering within seconds, sweat beading at your hairline. You took a desperate, gasping breath—relieved in the slim moment a slant of light puckered in front you, until the hand shoved onto your face, palm feeling for your mouth and shutting your jaw for you. Within the cocoon, the frame on either side of you tensed, and—the hand fumbled, once you’d quieted, in the crack of light to clumsily cup your cheek, patting it abruptly before rubbing the thumb over your cheekbone.

From that touch and the peace it swept over you, you knew where you’d shifted: kneeling right between Aizawa’s legs in his sleeping bag. But he’s sitting upright in a chair and needed to silence you, so where was he right now?

You settled, leaning against the hard muscle of his calf and into his palm, nosing at it to signal you knew it’s him.

“You have twenty-seven minutes to finish your tests,” called Aizawa, and for the first time, you picked up on pens clicking, paper shuffling, and chairs scuffing against polished tile. “Don’t ask me when they’ll be graded; Kuranosuke-sensei isn’t set to return until Saturday.”

Bless him.

But okay. You’ve got about half an hour stuck between his legs under this desk in front of what’s likely a bunch of younger business students.

Huh, if you only inched your chin forward on his chair, you’d be perfectly positioned to nuzzle against his cock, maybe suck it if you maneuvered your arms out of the sleeping bag’s constrictions. But, you supposed, it would be very mean to tease him in that way in front of students who haven’t built that respect for him, and you’d prefer your first blowjob to be where Aizawa could throw his head back, face flushed, groaning loudly with a gentle, guiding hand on the back of your head—hey, now’s not the time.

You didn’t want him to feel the shame of having an erection in front of who were essentially strangers. It’d…you don’t want to humiliate your soulmate. You love that idiot.

But Aizawa was shifting his hips, to your horror, the thick fabric of his jumpsuit brushing your face in the moment his hand retracted, and the sleeping bag was shuffled down past the top of your head, which grazed the underside of a desk drawer.

You rested your chin towards the edge of his chair—yes, mere inches between your face and his clothed cock, but your breath probably wasn’t even hitting it. From this angle, you and Aizawa could share that suspicious glare he shot you, so you backed up the half-inch for your chin to rest of the very brink of the chair—he closed his eyes, his shoulders losing their stiffness—and you leant your head against his thigh, just on the inside of his knee. He heaved a silent sigh, giving a subtle roll of his eyes, and minutely nodded—an act so slight that if you hadn’t been looking for it, you would’ve missed it.

Aizawa’s hand came to rest atop your head, scratching his fingers gently against your scalp. Part of it’s the soulmate bond; part of it’s being touch-starved, but his gentle scratch was so fucking soothing that a hazy, relaxed sleepiness came over you. Your head sagged, nose pressing towards the underside of his thigh, while your eyes crossed. Maybe it’s the magic of his sleeping bag, but you’re so drowsy that the scratch of his short nails almost drowned out clicking footsteps approach the desk.

Aizawa froze, his hand stilling in your hair.

“What are we supposed to do with our tests?” came the whisper of a business student.

Aizawa made a grunt and moved as if he were stretching and reaching for something on the desk. “Whatever you normally do. Is there not a routine?”

“The basket we turn papers in to is missing.” The shadow of the student’s feet grew closer to the desk.

“Not my problem. Just leave them on the corner of the desk—” A tinny clink echoed through the teacher desk when Aizawa tapped it—his thumb swiping over your forehead to calm you.

“Gotcha,” said the business student, and you thought you were in the clear before she asked, “What—what are you doing under…?”

“Oh?” Aizawa jolted the chair forward to hide you, but with the jolt came his clothed cock pressed against your face; even through the thick fabric you could tell it’s his shaft pressed against the length of your nose and corner of mouth and balls nestled against your chin and cheek. “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to text under my desk, the same as all of you do when you think I can’t see.” A metallic-sounding object scraped across the desktop, followed by an impulsively-large-sounding gulp.

“Your phone’s on your desk, sir,” said the business student.

His fingers now curled into your hair in a vain attempt to pull you away from his cock, but he couldn’t, with the scant room under the desk and bulk of his sleeping bag. Trying to be polite, you opted to avert your gaze from his crotch (even though it was right there), which shuddered so hard that you saw and felt it.

“It’s a common practise for pro-heroes to have secondary phones purely for work,” said Aizawa, taking another loud swallow of his drink. “You may want to invest in one.”

“Gotcha,” said the business student again, just as another shadow joined her at the desk and whispered for her to hurry up.

When they both retreated, Aizawa stealthily scooted back to gain some space in a move that looked like he was simply leaning back in his chair to drain the tea out of his cup—and you savoured the unshielded view of the tender skin of his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed—and hey, that’s—Aizawa relaxed enough to glance down at you, elbow on the arm of the chair, holding in the air the teacup you gifted him to replace the one you broke (nowhere nearly as nice as the pottery one you smashed presumably was, but its deep crimson glaze had reminded you of his quirk-activated eyes).

You were strangely moved that he was using your gift so quickly after he received it, in public, and not where you were supposed to see it being used.

Your eyes darted between the cup and his eyes until he noticed, and he raised the teacup just a hair in a toast. Nodding with a tired smile, you wormed your arm around to unwind his hand from its grip in your hair, unintentionally still tight, and held his gaze as you kissed the pad of each finger, starting with his little finger, the pink flashing from each tip until you pressed your lips against his thumb.

Aizawa never looked away, but he narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. You wondered for a moment if he liked the thumbprint bisecting the centre of your lips, the rounded edge aligning with the dip in your cupid’s bow. But his expression betrayed nothing, and instead, he raised the teacup to his own mouth, his hand returning to your hair for the rest of the period.

After the last student had petered out of the classroom and Aizawa had given an uncharacteristic little wave as the last one close the door behind her, Aizawa held out a groan as he kicked away from the desk, his hands flying to adjust his lower jumpsuit and then raking his fingers back through his own hair.

“How are you holding up?”

You balked. “How am I?” You shoved at his knees so that you had room to stand, and you sat on the desk.

Aizawa pointedly nudged your legs together (you hadn’t even thought of it that way). “Nice pyjamas.”

“You’re lucky I don’t sleep naked,” you said, plucking at your shirt.

“Am I?”

Was that…was he flirting?

Your surprise must have shown on your face, because he continued. “You shouldn’t walk back to the dorms like that. I don’t have anything at the school besides a spare jumpsuit, but Hizashi should have his jacket draped on his chair in the faculty lounge.”

“How romantic,” you said, flicking the side of his teacup for the hell of it.

“I don’t have another class to sub until the period after this one,” he said, pocketing his phone and other personals on the desk before handing the teacup to you, “Let’s go.”

Present Mic was gloriously absent from the faculty lounge, so there was no one to stop Aizawa from laying his stuff on his desk and swiping the jacket off the back of Mic’s chair. You set the teacup on the cat coaster and had just barely turned his way before he was sweeping the open jacket around your shoulders. Aizawa lifted the leather while you slipped your arms inside, and he zipped you up, stopping the zipper just above the curve of your boobs. You looked down, and he flicked the zipper up at you with a smirk.

“Are we married yet?”

His hand dropped from your zipper. “I saw what you did with the registration form. You’re not funny.”

“I happen to be hilarious,” you said, “I assume to want to adjust the mark?”

Nodding, Aizawa waited for you to tilt your head up and to the side. “I am not marrying you. You’re my student.” He grazed the usual spot behind your ear with his ring finger.

“And someday I won’t be.” You shivered as the frisson of his touch rolled through you. “You’d rather have even more paperwork, bureaucratical hoops, and possibly a ceremony at a later, inevitable date than one simple checkmark on a sheet? Not very logical, sensei.”

He frowned. “Stop that.”

A beat. “No otherwise rebuttal?” you asked, grinning, “You agree, then, that we’re going to end up together? That we’ll be—”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Funny,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek, eyeing Snipe in the far corner of the room, “Then, hey. Compromise. What if we just hang out with no romantic or sexual connotations whatsoever? I wanna get to know you better. You’re cool.”

Aizawa crossed his arms and followed your gaze to Snipe, who was bent over in his seat, cleaning one of his guns. “Think about it. Would you trust a teacher who spends time outside of school with a student?”

“How’s the training with Shinsou going?”

“You are not funny.”

“And everybody knows you’re training Shinsou, and they’re fine with it. You could say you’re training me,” you said, stepping closer to him, looking him in the eyes despise his hunkering down into his scarf, “Please say you’re training me. I want to spend time with you. Hell, actually train me. You could make me strong enough that you don’t have to worry about me, or any bullshit. C’mon, Aizawa. Please.”

“That,” he said, “I can easily deny you. Now, get back to the dorms. I’d like to—”

“What? Why,” you said with a whine, “How can you say that so quickly? You didn’t even think about it.”

“Yeah?” Aizawa turned to his desk to boot up the computer. “It’s because you’re already strong enough to take care of yourself. I don’t have to worry about you in a fight,” he said, just barely crinkling his eyes, so you figured that he’s smiling beneath his capture weapon, “Keeping you from being a fool—now, that’s something I’ll have to watch for.”

You groaned. Loudly. And for way too long. “Whatever. May I sit on your lap while you grade?”

“No,” said Aizawa, not missing a beat, “Go back to the dorm.”

“You want me to check on Eri?”

“Sure. That’d be—really nice. Let me know—”

“Yeah?” Grinning, you bounced on the balls of your feet. “How am I supposed to do that? Sounds like I might need a certain phone number.”

Aizawa collapsed in his cracked, leather lounge chair and spun it towards his cubicle desk. “No need. If you don’t shift to me in the next half hour, I’ll assume everything’s fine.”

“Oh, come on. I feel like I deserve some sort of treat for not mentioning your half-chub while it was in my face earlier.”

Aizawa rubbed at his temple, his eyes strained. “I’m busy grading and don’t have time to talk.”

He was staring into a blank screen.

“Fine, you big baby. I’ll concede to you this time,” you said, and before you could lose your nerve, you leant over to kiss the top of his head.

You’d bolted for the door before he could even turn around.

***

It was supposed to be a routine field exercise.

The hero course had been split into teams, each under the leadership of a faculty member, for a field assessment as twenty percent of your grade for your final semester. As an extension of the personal study starting with the student presentations from earlier, you were in the group focusing on stealth headed by Aizawa, along with Bakugou, Aoyama, and Todoroki (who swopped into your group last minute, since Midnight declared that he needed to get away from her group working on public relations). Bummed that no other girls were in the group, you resolved to make it work by being better than the boys. Not to mention that the three included would, hopefully, be dense enough to miss the subtler interactions between Aizawa and you that betrayed something else going on.

The four of you were to know as little as possible about the assignment as possible before going in, so you all spent the week leading up to it making contingency plans (you’d been told not to go out otherwise that week, so Midnight had to do her own work, for once, at Sakura Grove), with maps of the city and subway splayed out on the floor in the common room, along with bowls of trail mix Bakugou had thrown together, claiming that Aoyama’s stuff was bullshit (though you had enjoyed it very much when you ate it in secret that morning). All you’d been told was that you’d be making an escort in secret, without the target even knowing you were there.

No contingency plan could account for this.

A thunderstorm popped up on the radar out of nowhere, delaying the plane’s arrival, and the airport radio signal had been scrambled, fed into a different language, and back again. If you’d been allowed more details during preparation, you’d have more of the story, but all you could piece together now was excruciatingly obvious: the airport’s east wing exploded and caved before the plane even hit it, and now you were trapped underground under wet, crumbly tonnes of rubble, confined to a pocket of space barely tall enough to stand in, with the only structure keeping half of an airport bathroom’s mirrored wall from collapsing and crushing you being the charred, lower third of a column from the airport courtyard.

“You can’t blow our way out,” you hissed at Bakugou, who was climbing his way up the column to prod at the ceiling, “The column’s load-bearing.”

“I know that,” Bakugou said, contorting his upper body and neck as he gawped with his mouth open at the debris above him, “I’m just seein’ if there’s any light from the surface comin’ through, or if there’s anywhere rainwater’s drippin’ in.”

Hunching with his upper back grazing the rubble ceiling at the tallest point in the collapsed space, Aizawa frantically fussed with his work phone (which he genuinely had, after all) and his radio, unable to get a signal. “Be careful with your movements,” he said, mind barely in the conversation, “You could make the debris slip, or it could get weighed down with rain and further collapse. At worst, you want it to settle. Aoyama, are you getting anything?”

Tapping the AI filter on his sparkle shades away, Aoyama tore his gaze away from his handheld device’s screen. “Alas,” he said with a quivering frown. His ankle was being wrapped by Todoroki, who had been careful to refill the place in the concrete where Aoyama’s foot had been with ice, keeping the space intact.

“It’s fine; you’re doing well. Keep an eye on the signal. We want to know if we get one.” Aizawa handed his phone to you, giving you a short nod and the same job. “Todoroki, keep that cavity frozen. Keep an eye out for similar spot about to collapse and do the same.”

“I’m assuming this isn’t part of the assignment, since you’re taking charge,” you said under your breath to Aizawa, your back to the others as you stooped to stand yourself, arms crossed, “What relevant information can you share about the assignment that might get us out of here? Who were we escorting? If we know who they have for allies, then we can start to understand how the signals are scrambled and how to walk out of this situation.”

Aizawa stuck his tongue in his cheek. “None of it’s relevant. Our target has been isolated for well over four years and was being processed by professionals. She wouldn’t have had any opportunity to sabotage this procedure; St. Philomena’s has kept our target from having untracked outside communication.”

An uneasy stone dropped into the pit of your stomach. “St. Philomena’s,” you said slowly, biting your lip, “That’s a women’s penitentiary.”

Aizawa opened his mouth to answer but instead inhaled a mouthful of dust as the earth shook and clattered around you. Bakugou braced the column while you and Aizawa kept the bathroom wall steady, but the mirror shattered and fell with the wall, with Todoroki grabbing you out of the way of the sink from crushing your legs, icing the concrete shards into a makeshift support for the column, enough for Bakugou to twist out from underneath it. You gasped in deep breaths of powdery concrete yet dug into wet clods of silt and grime with the heels of your boots.

The ceiling had caved in by about two feet in height, and if Aoyama hadn’t skibbled away from his spot in the corner, he’d be buried under glass and tile. You experimentally knelt and stretched towards the ceiling—good for you, for having some room to move upwards, but Aizawa could only sit, now. Every heaving breath from your friends was too close for your liking, and the stone fell from your stomach right into your gut when you noticed the steady trickle of water between the rocks and down the column, cutting a clear, ivory path through the grey dust coating it. Bakugou scooted out of the ways of its dripping, letting it instead drain in a puddle next to him.

You and Bakugou nearly jumped out of your skins at the skrrrt of Aizawa’s radio, but nothing came through except static.

“We’re okay,” said Aizawa, once Aoyama started to show signs of hyperventilation, “The static is a good sign. Even if we can’t communicate specifics, they have a location on us. They know we’re down here, and if it seems like they’re taking too long, remember that civilians are the priority. We’ll be all right.”

Claustrophobia.

Not your favourite.

But Aoyama was clearly having a worse time handling it, so it’s better to set an example for him—see how calm you are? See how much you’re not being selfish, curling into Aizawa’s arms for him to pet your hair until it’s over, keeping him all to yourself, even though it’d be really easy to pretend like it’s the size of the cavern instead of your own selfish desires that’s making you touch him. See how mature you’re being, not even touching Aizawa, even though he’s right next to you. You’re being rational about the whole thing.

Todoroki stared off, his bright eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, and he parted his lips, wetting them slightly before speaking. “You should move closer to Aoyama,” he said to Bakugou, “Someone’s hurt.”

“The hell d’you mean?” When Todoroki gestured, Bakugou followed his gaze.

The water’s white path through the dust congealed and blushed deep vermillion as it coursed down the column, falling in thick, steady plops next to Bakugou, the upsplash ticking his exposed skin with red.

“Holy shit.” Bakugou scrambled away the best he could, kicking away from the water and practically into your lap, but he shot you a sort-of apologetic look and shuffled into more of Todoroki’s personal space. “Do you think—it’s not blood,” he said, smearing it on his arm, still running a dark red even spread thinly.

Aoyama cringed. “It’s not going to—it won’t fill up the—”

“No,” Bakugou said quickly, “It’s drainin’ through the cracks. We’re fine, Aoyama.” Bakugou made a point of dragging his hard glare from Todoroki to you, as if to say that keeping Aoyama calm was essential to getting out.

You checked Aizawa’s phone again for any signal, and, sighing, you stowed it to keep from scratching the screen.

“Nothing?”

Shaking your head at Aizawa, you resisted the heavy urge to rest your forehead on his shoulder. You know what? Maybe you could. He’s right there, and if you did it in this situation, it could be read as a simply act of comfort that you could have easily shared with anyone, perhaps. The two of you could stare romantically into the dripping, red goop, talk about your lives together, about teaching your psychotic friends, about sidekicking at Sakura Grove—

“Hey, don’t touch that,” you said, jolting in your seat, to Todoroki, who stopped, wide-eyed, in his odd stretch over Bakugou’s lap before he could prod with his outstretched finger the congealed mass accumulating in the puddle, “I think I know what that is.”

Beside you, Aizawa sucked in through his teeth. “Just once, I wish your deduction skills weren’t so good.”

Without averting your gaze, you moved to elbow him in the chest, hard, but he caught your arm and held it deathly still: he only touched you by your sleeve, though, so no soulmark would bleed through. Odds were that the mark was still furtively hidden behind your ear. Frowning, you tried to wrest your arm away from him, eyes on the falling droplet heavy enough to break the surface tension of the gathered, congealed mass, making the whole thing burst upwards in a dense, ruby smoke.

“Get down, as close to the ground as you can,” you said in a rush, cut off when Aizawa shoved your head to the ground with his hand on the back of your neck, his face inches from yours and only moving closer as he made room for the others to join you, cheek smushed against a patch of intact bathroom tile.

“It’s aerosolising,” said Aizawa, eyes darting over the ceiling, where the mist was rising through cracks in the rubble, “Follow where it’s escaping; we might be able to use—”

“No, you fucker,” you hissed (Aizawa squeezed the back of your neck), “Not all of it’s going to escape. It’s going to condense into liquid again on any surface that blocks it and then drop back on us.”

“Someone tell me what the hell is going on,” spat Bakugou, voice muffled from behind you but strangely reverberating back through the curved metal of Aoyama’s armour.

“We’re only going to be safe on the ground if it doesn’t condense, which is un-fucking-likely the way the thunderstorm’s moistened and lowered atmospheric pressure,” you said, the sound of water rinsing through crannies in the rocks growing from the far side of the cavern, “Aoyama, try to breath evenly but shallowly; you don’t wanna inhale this.”

The knuckles of Bakugou’s heavy glove struck the centre of your upper back. “Dumbass. Just tell him to hyperventilate, why don’t you?”

A drop of red water fell onto Todoroki’s pale cheek, sizzling with the impact as it was absorbed into his skin, a miniature puff of smoke emitting from the spot.

After a moment of heavy silence, Aizawa shifted his jaw, his eyes dark as they focused on you. “Academic protocols are over. Time to share what you know about Serendipity’s quirk.”

You dropped your jaw, even with the grit digging into your skin and jaw. “Who’s the insane person who assigned a bunch of students to escort fucking Serendipity—”

“I am,” said Aizawa, grip on your neck tightening and eyes flaring scarlet so briefly that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been inches away, “Considering your high level of academic success, I thought you capable enough to complete a more difficult mission than your—”

“Someone just fuckin’ say what her quirk does!” Bakugou’s hand curled into a fist with the fabric of your hero costume taut between its fingers, his fist lay, overheated, between your shoulder blades.

You jerked your shoulder away from him, but there wasn’t any room to go, so his hand stayed on your back, putting distance between the two of you, though his knees and hips still touched the back of yours. “Okay,” you said after settling, glaring directly into Aizawa’s eyes, “Serendipity is the third most dangerous villain in the western hemisphere, evidently being transferred today to the place Midnight and I work, because fucking no one else wants to handle her. C’mon, Aizawa, is that why I wasn’t allowed at work for the past week? So I wouldn’t know? Fucking—” You tried to give a half-hearted kick to Aizawa, but his thumb curled enough around your neck to locate your pulse point, which he pressed down on in warning. “But yeah, her quirk is so volatile and dangerous because—because yes, it’s a sex pollen quirk, but it’s fast, and you can’t solve it by touching yourself, like other sex quirks we’ve seen used for villainy; you have to orgasm at someone else’s hands. And no one can figure out why your internal organs shrivel and die within four hours—”

You inhaled sharply through your teeth as two droplets sizzled into your skin in quick succession, but the squeeze on your neck told you to continue. “Or the brain damage, or—because her quirk’s been studied, but no one can tell if it requires the feed of dopamine to the body, or not getting enough oxygenated blood cells, or capillary damage, or—” Bakugou thumped your back again. “—but no one is immune to it, and it’s fucking terrifying,” you finished, scrunching your eyes shut at the sensation of more droplets searing into your skin and into those around you, each person inhaling more with each individual puff of smoke from the viscous drops.

Tongue too big for your mouth, you trailed off, eyesight blurring as you zoned out for a just a bit, but you lurched back into reality when a hot ache stung the back of your neck and swept through your body. Aizawa retracted his hand faster than a viper striking, his eyes briefly holding the same dread yours did.

Shaken, you pushed yourself up to sit, and to your horror, an enormous gush of arousal pooled between your legs—you snapped your legs shut at the sight of the wet spot on your hero costume (and worse, the dribbling into the gravel), and Aizawa saw, holding a steady, neutral expression despite your visible panic.

“Fuck, baby—”

It hadn’t come from Aizawa but Bakugou, whose hips you’d inadvertently ground against when you sat up. His large hand came to grip your waist, fingers digging in and pulling your ass back against him, and his other hand clamped over his nose and mouth as he pushed himself up. “I’ve always known you smelled good, but this is somethin’ else—”

“Absolutely not.” Aizawa yoinked you away from Bakugou and put himself between the you and the rest, cramping you into the corner with pointed rocks digging into your back, and he held up his hand, Bakugou glaring a hole into his palm, vermillion streaking down his face. “You’re drugged. She’s drugged. Even if you both say you want it, it’s not a reflection of reality.”

Bakugou clicked his tongue, but Todoroki tilted to the side to keep his tense gaze on you.

“No,” said Aizawa, using the scant room and the end of his capture weapon to snap in Todoroki’s face, “You’d be ruining the professional relationship you have. You’d be violating her. There’s no way she’d actually want you.”

Bakugou scoffed over Todoroki’s quiet how do you know that, already palming himself through his costume. “I’d rather risk it all blasting out of here than suck Icy-Hot’s dick.” His other hand crackled with the beginnings of an explosion.

“You can’t,” you said with effort, mouth and throat coated with dust as heat rose to your skin, sweat breaking out at your hairline, “If you’re not a heteromorph, Serendipity’s quirk suppresses yours. It—it overwhelms your entire system—”

“You couldn’t mention that before I got hard?” Bakugou scowled, thumb playing with his belt buckle in consideration. “I would’ve blasted us out of here earlier.”

Aizawa shook his head. “It wouldn’t’ve worked—”

Todoroki made a sort of horting noise in the back of his throat, drawing everyone’s attention, before hacking a thick glob of red mucus right onto a spot of white bathroom tile, large trails of saliva trailing from his mouth.

“Holy shit,” you said softly, your eyebrows shooting up, and Aizawa held you back before you could even move.

“Mon Dieu,” said Aoyama, and he removed his sparkle shades to see it without a red filter.

Aizawa’s radio crackled static again, but nobody moved a muscle.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” said Aizawa, his hand still up but hardly deterring an increasingly twitchy Bakugou, who kept staring at you over Aizawa’s shoulder, “Aoyama, you’re probably going to hurt yourself and others if you stay in your armour. If you think you can handle being more vulnerable, take it off. Prop it up between the three of you and us.” The radio hissed again. “We’re going to camp out here until help arrives. Waiting is the heroic path to take sometimes,” he said in Bakugou’s direction, “If you find yourself succumbing to the quirk, that’s okay. It’s not shameful. No one is immune to it. If you can work it out among yourselves, that’s fine. No one here is going to share any details you don’t want out.” But here his voice darkened, and though you couldn’t see his face, you knew Aizawa was shooting a hard, unmerciful look towards them. “But you’re not going to hurt anyone here, and you’re especially not going to take advantage of her because she’s the only woman. To get her, you’ll have to go through me, and I do not intend to be kind.”

“Fucking hell,” said Bakugou, unbuckling his belt and sliding it off.

You were feeling a similar way, but Aizawa had you so backed into the corner that there wasn’t room to take anything off. So, instead of tearing off the increasingly abrasive and scratchy fabric of your hero uniform, you hugged your knees to your chest, thighs clenching, and bit down on your arm to keep from crying out. A choked sound still escaped you as a leather strap on your upper thigh rubbed closer to a more sensitive spot.

You couldn’t even lift a hand to fan your face—but with how heavy your limbs felt, even the promise of cool air couldn’t bring you to attempt it, and instead, you tried to find relief in the cold press of busted bathroom tile at the back of your neck—and you turned your head to feel it against your cheek, too.

Your hips rocked, knocking your legs against Aizawa’s back, and when he turned over his shoulder to spare you a glance, you jolted as far back as you could away from him. Not that you could go anyway but barely half an inch backwards. “Sorry,” you said quickly, shaking your head, “Didn’t mean to. Really. I—” Your heart flipped at his concerned face (himself looking a little red), and a sharp cramp curdled into your lower stomach. “Oh, fuck,” you said, a hand shooting to your stomach and doubling over—but your forehead grazed him before you could, and you let out a quiet yelp before jerking back into place, tears welling at the pain. “Sorry about that.”

Aizawa grimaced at your weak smile and turned back towards the others. You hadn’t even heard what they’re doing, since the blood pumping in your ears apparently deafened you to anything besides your own half-smothered sobs into your arm. 

They were growing louder at their frustration, but they were, for the most part, not directing any of it at you. Hey, is—? Over Aoyama’s armour-wall, it looked like Bakugou might have gotten his cock out to start stroking it; maybe you could get a better look—

“Hey,” said Aizawa, blocking your view when he turned over his shoulder, “Stop all that squirming.” Were you? You hadn’t even noticed. “Remember what I’ve taught you. I know you can do better.”

“Oh, don’t say professor-y things like that,” you said with a whine while, yes, squirming in place, “It goes straight to my cunt.”

 Aizawa closed his eyes for a moment, but he soon opened them and continued, unaffected. “Focus. I’m holding you to a higher calibre than your peers, because I know you can do it. What have you been taught about remaining calm in crisis? Ground yourself.”

“But I—”

“Do it.”

You huffed and tried to settle down into your body, counted, and exhaled slowly as you shut your eyes, waiting for your other sense to sharpen. Body scan—focusing on flowing energy, starting at your head, down to your toes, and back up again. But you had trouble on the return to the top of your head, since every cell in your body screamed to zoom in on the throbbing in your lower half—hard to say what’s tremoring more: you, or the walls of the cavern.

But there’s an infinitesimal sound that drowns every other maddening, oversensitive sensation: from the back of Aizawa’s throat comes a quiet, breathy whimper.

And—

“Oh, my fucking God,” you said, noticing all of the surreptitious ways Aizawa was trying to hide how affected he was: his hand clasped in a knuckle-whitening fist covering his lap, eyes watering with frustration, jaw tensed, neck and hand veins pulsating, sweating through his undershirt, and you?

Wetting your lips, you strained forward to brush his hair aside to kiss the back of his neck, and Aizawa fucking shuddered, the thing passing through his whole body. Though it hadn’t been your intention, your legs spread as you did so, parting on either side of him, and his hair flew into your face as he took in your legs surrounding him.

“Hey, no,” he said, and he pushed back on your legs, willing you to scrunch up to hug them to your chest again.

“I’m not doing anything—”

“You fucking are,” Aizawa hissed over his shoulder, “You’re being a goddamn brat.”

That shut you up immediately. Feeling slick drip out of you, you curled in on yourself, tucking your legs up to your chest like he wanted.

“That’s what I thought.” He turned back to keep guard.

His shoulders seemed wider than before.

 Maybe it’s the heady, prickling excitement swarming in your chest at the unspoken threat of a punishment turned sexual, or maybe it’s the incoming brain damage, but you rounded up every nerve not currently on fire to keep pushing your luck. “Aizawa,” you said, soft enough for only him to hear over the squelching from the far side of the cavern, “If we were alone right now, what would you do to me?”

He didn’t respond.

An easy grin stretched across your face.

“Because I know there’s got to be stuff you wanna do to me, not with me, for how I behave sometimes. But I only want your attention,” you said, feeling a bit dizzy as heat flushed all over your feverish skin, “I know you can’t give it to me, because you wanna be all noble and stuff, but—”

Another cramp had you gasping and hacking up red-tinged spit. Aizawa started to turn his head, but you told him, totally deflated, “Don’t bother. I’m sorry—” You coughed up more red mucus. “I know I’m gross; I know you can’t look at me that way; I’m sorry I’ve been—I’m sorry.”

How can he be so calm? It’s not fucking fair that he can just sit there, cross-legged and sweating, with the scent of sex permeating the smoke-hazy air, and yes, he’s hard, but that’s just the stupid fucking quirk.

You’re dripping and clenching but still so, so empty, and the tears finally overflowed as Aizawa looked over his shoulder at you again. “I’m sorry,” you said again, eyes glazing over and breathing irregularly (for all the talk about Aoyama hyperventilating, you might be the one to actually do it). “I’ll—I’ll stop bothering you; I can handle this. I’ll, uh—” You cut yourself off at another cramp, seizing up at a stray spasm, releasing your hold on your legs and yanking at the roots of your hair. “Don’t worry about me; I’ll get—get Shinsou to make me come—sorry I tried to—I’m sorry; I should’ve left you alone—”

“Stop apologising.” Aizawa twisted to brush away your tears with his thumb, the skin that vibrant pink when he pulled away. “Christ, you’re burning up.” He hand returned to your face, this time against your forehead, and he frowned—yeah, he was frowning before you were pathetically raising yourself off the ground to nuzzle into his hand, to mouth voraciously at his palm, which flushed pink with every pass of your lips, and—

“Fuck,” said Aizawa, withdrawing his hand to press the heels of his palms into his eyes. You made a questioning noise, and to answer, he let his gaze drop to where the soaked patch between your legs dribbled into the rubble. He dragged his hands down the rest of his face. “You’re drenched,” he said, rasping.

A vehement moan from the other side of the space made both of you flinch, with Aizawa making a quick check to ensure their attention wasn’t on you.

You grabbed his capture weapon, pulling him close. “Please,” you said, panting, “Please, ‘Zawa, I’m not as capable as you think I am; I’m not good; I can’t take it. Please—”

His teeth dug into his lower lip as a grumbled scoff came from the back of this throat, and he shook his head. “God, not like this. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

Another loud moan and the sounds of skin on skin from the others brought another wince from the two of you, and Aizawa squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he’d steeled himself, determined and set. “I can’t have you corrupting my protégé,” he said (it was a joke, right? Why isn’t he smiling?), “but I can’t offer you anything more.”

“Wha—?”

Aizawa was nudging your knees open, his eyebrows raised, and when he turned to face the others, he scooted backwards to sit between your spread legs, pinning you between the rock and his back, crowding you in, and oh, oh, my God, you should’ve been embarrassed at how wet the back of his jumpsuit got as he pushed himself back to sit right in front of your crotch, but the first, pulsing wave of relief as your clit rubbed against him washed everything else away.

Did this count? Did this count as coming at someone else’s hands? You found the problem less compelling the more you thrashed against him, grinding your clit against his back so hard that your vision blacked out at the edges, breathing in that terribly awful frustrating sexy combination of pine and sandalwood, desperately huffing it in in gasping breaths and curling your fingers into the back of his jumpsuit to bring him closer: you needed to kiss the back of his neck again, to see that pink mark on his skin.

But it’s as if he knew what you were going to do, because instead of letting you pull his hair aside, he reached back to grab your hand, and he (mercifully) allowed the grab to relax into a hold, letting you lace your fingers through his as he guided your arm around his waist (an evil part of you was disappointed that he didn’t place your hand over his cock, instead of resting your entwined hands on his leg [cute]).

And you were quiet: you didn’t moan, so the others wouldn’t know, unless they could somehow make out your laboured breathing behind the hand you cupped over your mouth. You’re grappling for pressure against your clit, but it’s your shiver when he stroked the back of your hand with his thumb that triggered your orgasm—pounding, rushing, and all at once, the throbbing of your clit taking you somewhere distant and piney, with you slowly coming back to reality by an abrupt pulsing, for some reason, in the roof of your mouth.

And the quirk had passed through you.

It counted.

But it kept you bound in a tired haze, sultry and lethargic and red, and lost in the lingering high of both the scarlet saliva you kept hacking up and that Aizawa let you grind against him until you came, you closed in on yourself and did your best to stay awake. Your brain tried to worry about Aizawa, but the quirk shushed you and forced you into a cloudy exhaustion.

You were out of it when Aizawa’s radio crackled to life, when the rescue unit exhumed your team, when the EMT on duty looked you over. You were still foggy when you were put in a passenger seat of a government vehicle, but the fog dissipated when Aizawa climbed in the driver’s seat and told you to call Midnight.

“I don’t know the number for Sakura Grove,” he said, turning on the windshield wipers, “and I need to warn Midnight that I’m asking her to help me with this quirk.”

Thunder rumbled through the sky and into your bones as he turned into downtown traffic, headlights blurring in the rain. Blankly, you wrestled his phone out of your pocket and began to dial her work number. “Okay, traitor.”

Aizawa’s expression darkened, his face glistening with sweat. “You know that I can’t—”

“So I can’t do the same for you?” you asked, putting his phone on speaker and letting it ring (cranking up the volume to hear it over the rain pelting the windows), “I can’t just, like, hold out my hand for you to grind against, or, God forbid, give you an actual fucking handjob—”

“Stop it,” he said, and he snatched his phone from you, switching off speaker, and you crossed your arms to fume, staring out into the miserably grey morning.

You smushed your forehead against the cool of the window, watching the raindrops chase each other down the glass, and you tried to focus on car horns blaring instead of the conversation regarding Aizawa’s sexual release that he and Midnight were currently having.

When he hung up, you sat up from your slouch against the window. “Is that all you need me for, then? You’ve got the number. You might as well drop me off at the next light.”

Aizawa swore under his breath. “Stop being such a—” He cut himself off, his leg not working the pedals bouncing profusely. “I still need you to enter Sakura Grove.”

That was true. You had three number-codes to punch in for clearance, and there was a thumbprint scan at the building in which you and Midnight worked. Still, you scoffed. “Just get Nemuri to let you in. You evidently don’t need me.”

The hand on the steering wheel tensed, veins pulsing. “First name basis?”

“Some professors like me.”

“Forget I said anything,” he grumbled, and when you turned to the window again, he mashed on the car radio, volume loud over the rain.

After a babble of a drum solo and what sounded like shouting in English, you were able to translate the song in your head by the time it hit the chorus:

“Got it bad, so bad, I’m hot for teacher.”

Aizawa stared, baffled, at the radio instead of the road as the guitar picked up, and he changed stations.

Again, in English, but with a hypnotically alt-relaxed beat: “Can’t tell my friends, ‘cause they will laugh; I love a member of the staff.”

You sneaked a glance at the driver’s seat, where Aizawa was fighting traffic, his erection, and his incredulity at what he was hearing.

“I fight my way to the front of class to get the best view of her—”

Aizawa changed stations before the singer could finish the couplet, and he sank into his seat at the safe sounds of synth and guitar, but you sat up straight, eyes wide and biting back a laugh, because you knew what the fuck was coming:

“Don’t stand—don’t stand so, don’t stand so close to me—”

Aizawa smashed the radio’s off button, seething. He ran his fingers back through his hair, and after a deep breath, he opened his mouth. “What’d you do,” he asked flatly.

“Me?” you said, pointing at yourself, doing your fucking best not to smile, “What makes you think I’ve done something?”

Aizawa was panting. Chest heaving. Sweat visibly dripping down his face. Free hand darting between a superfluous position on the wheel, resting on the car door, and bunching up his jumpsuit to hide his erection, which only drew attention to it. “You didn’t—you and Nemuri didn’t orchestrate all this, did you?” he asked, teeming with nervous energy, “It’s a little—it’s a little too perfect for you, to get to see me dishevelled and desperate, to nearly get me to cave into what you want.”

Several feelings flooded you at once: revulsion at the suggestion you made a criminal use her quirk on you, anger that he’d even consider it to be in your character when he’s known you for years (and more anger that he thought you would want to lose your virginity with three other guys in the room), a wretched, clawing desperation to prove him wrong and beg for forgiveness—and a creeping disgust and shame towards yourself, for having been so vulnerable in his presence when he didn’t want it or you.

Time to shut down. “C’mon, Aizawa. That’s not very logical in the grand scheme of things,” you said, scathingly using his favourite word, propping your chin on your fist, and leaning against the window again, “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t let it end with my fucking soulmate going to someone else to make him come, especially when I was similarly helpless.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you—”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” you said bitterly, “but I wouldn’t do that. To you or to me. I don’t do things that would humiliate or hurt you.” You scooted closer towards the car window, away from him and his stupid pine aftershave. “I guess I’m a brat, yeah, but I’m not mean.”

To have something to do instead of talk to him, you exhumed the car manual from the glove compartment and started to read it, and you read that dull fucking piece of crap until you were forced to punch in your clearance codes for Sakura Grove.

As soon as he was inside the main building and out of sight, you slammed the manual and the glove compartment shut, and you screamed. No one would’ve heard you over the thunderstorm, anyway. Comforting that the weather was as angry as you.

You unbuckled and cosied up in your seat, glaring at the curtain of mist blowing rain horizontal outside. Lightning illuminated a worker rushing from one building to another, and she had to double back to get her ballet flat, hopping slightly to put it back on.

You don’t have another work shift until Monday, but you kind of wanted to clock in, anyway. It’d be satisfying to bitch about the whole thing with Ito. She’d tear into Aizawa. He deserves it.

Slunking down into your seat, you were struck with new terror: what if Aizawa were right? What if you did, inadvertently, plan this out, by inhaling Ito’s quirk dust a second time? Sex pollen was…sex pollen was a trope. A pretty fucking common one.

Oh, my God.

You clamped a hand over your mouth and tried to work out the logistics. Serendipity was already scheduled to arrive in Japan regardless of you inhaling the dust again, and—fuck fuck fuck. You didn’t like this.

You swallowed thickly, turning it all over in your head, and as the variables overlapped and blurred in your mind, you started to cry.

“Goddammit,” you said aloud, sitting up and dabbing at your face with your sleeve. You’ve already cried a lot today, and it’s not even noon. You’re taking a nap when you get back to campus.

You know who else likes naps?

You fucking sobbed harder, even though you were laughing a bit, too. You decided that you were too worn out to make any sound judgments. Go to sleep once you get back, and think about it when you wake up.

You sniffed and looked towards the door to the main building. God, he’s taking a long time. You’d figure that he’d edged himself to oblivion and back during the car ride, but no—

The next instant, you tensed up, frazzled, because a half-dressed Aizawa’s straddling you, hips jerking, driving into your own and biting into his fist as he came on your shirt, cum spurting all the way up to your boobs.

The groan he released once the spill of his cum slowed to a slight dribble nearly wrecked your ears and stopped your breath. You’re hastily, desperately drinking up details, eyes flicking over them rapidly in case they’re snatched away before you could notice: the weeping, pink tip of his cock, the only part of his dick peeking out of his jumpsuit’s lower half—the trail of dark hair leading up to it from his naval, framed by an infuriating v on his lithely muscled abdomen—all of his exposed, corded muscles of his chest, tendons visibly stretching and contracting in his forearms—and when he wiped that final drop of cum off his cock, it was with the thumb stained with soulmark pink.

Of course, for how much relaxation coursed through his body, it all fled him the second he finally opened his eyes.

You expected that he’d scramble to cover himself up and off of you, but once that initial panic faded, all he was left with was resignation. He yanked up the elastic of his boxer-briefs to hide his cock, and, sighing, he said, “Please. Please don’t say anything. I can’t handle it right now.”

You nodded. His eyes travelled over your face, his expression cracking. “You’re crying,” he said, voice breaking.

“Not because of you,” you said, wiping at your tears, “It’s something I did.”

He wiped away the tear stains on your other cheek. “Let’s find something to clean you up.”

While he twisted to fossick through the console for tissues, you swiped two fingers through the stuff on your shirt. So, this was a man’s cum. Weird. Thick. (You’ve seen some before; you’re not an idiot, but this was your first time, uh, experiencing it. Honestly, it reminded you a bit of the congealed quirk stuff earlier.) You rubbed it between your fingers.

“Oh, what are you doing—no, stop that,” said Aizawa softly, swatting your hand away from your cum-stained shirt. When you eyed the bit on your fingers, Aizawa sighed again. “Don’t taste it.”

He took your hand and wiped it clean, pink ink seeping across skin with every brief touch. He gave you a tissue from the pack he found for your tears, and he used the rest to wipe off your shirt.

“Doesn’t look like there’s anything else for you to wear,” he said, checking the backseat.

“It’s okay,” you said, balling up the tissues and putting them in the centre console, “We’re going straight back to campus. I’ll just shower and go to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Aizawa, and he lifted himself from your lap and moved to cross to the driver’s seat.

You grabbed his arm to stop him. “You should, too. Don’t run yourself dry.”

Aizawa froze, considering, and then he nodded, slowly sinking back onto your lap.

He braced his hands on his thighs. “I’ve been cruel to you.”

Too exhausted to argue, you shrugged. “You have your reasons.”

“I shouldn’t be so cold to you, though. It’s been wearing away at my conscience,” he said, patting his pockets on his thighs and moving down to his calves. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he said, “Give me your phone. You deserve my number, at least.”

You pulled yours out and opened a new contact before handing it over. “You’re sure you’re comfortable with that?”

“Yeah,” said Aizawa, tapping the screen, “So long as it doesn’t…lead to anything out of bounds. And…maybe you can stick around for a while next time you shift in your sleep.” He shot you a smirk as he returned your phone.

The contact name simply read Shouta. No surname or honorifics. Just Shouta.

Heat rose to your face, but it was much pleasanter than when it had earlier that day.

“Are you good to drive back to campus?”

Tilting your head, you pocketed your phone again. “Yeah, I’m up for it.”

“Good,” he said, climbing off of your lap and into the backseat, “I’m going the fuck to sleep.”

soulmate trope taglist: @bakugouspsycho, @pansexualproblemchild, @doonaandpjs, @sunsetevergreen, @the-coffee-is-on-fire, @liberace2, @ladymidnight77, @nonomesupposedto, @gooooomz, @kissmebakugou, @pachiibatt, @celestair

#bnha #aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #aizawa/reader #aizawa imagine #aizawa fic #mha #aizawa headcanons #aizawa fanfiction #aizawa fanfic #aizawa shouta x reader #soulmates #soulmate #soulmate au #dash it all

[stillalittlelostngl]

Cat Burglar Pt 2 - Aizawa/Reader

Pt 1

What started as a non-date turns into a few maybe dates which leads to perhaps a dinner date?

Coffee with Aizawa had turned into a few coffees with Aizawa until it had turned into dinner with Aizawa.

It was a development you hadn’t been expecting. Hell, you were so nervous the first time that you had spent hours debating if you should cancel on him. You typed out and deleted so many texts with, truthfully, piss poor excuses - your finger would hover over the send button for what felt like an eternity before you'd give a groan of frustration and delete the text entirely. Just to repeat the process within the next hour.

Your hands had been shaking and the butterflies in your stomach couldn’t be contained as you had made your way to the little coffee shop he had suggested. You had felt ridiculous, you were a pro hero for God’s sake and just having a friendly cup of coffee with Aizawa was having you feeling like a sidekick all over again.

He had just offered to buy you coffee because his cat had caused some trouble, he was just being nice. Neighborly. No matter how many times you repeated it to yourself you still couldn't help but think that perhaps there may be something more to it than that. You did your best to fight down the blush that would creep up when you let your mind wander down that path.

It was quite pathetic really, how worked up you were getting over coffee.

You weren't sure what you were expecting, you'd never seen him in his civilian clothes after all, but your voice catches in your throat at the sight of him.

You’d always found him to be attractive, you figured it would be hard for someone not to. His features looked as if they had been carved by some artist, every angle and curve was far too deliberate and precise to have simply been left up to genetics and nature to decide. The serious expression that often graced his face might’ve been off putting to some, to you it spoke of a conviction and decisiveness you’ve often found you lacked and were all the more drawn to him for it.

But his hair is what did it for you today. You don’t know why but it simply being up in a bun instead of the usual tousled look caused you to pause in your greeting.

You really wished you could get ahold of yourself.

It had been much to your surprise that the coffee ~thing~ had went as well as it did. You had been so certain that the blush on your cheeks and the slight stutter that pops up every now and again when you’re nervous would’ve been off putting to him. That he’d see right through you and find something he didn’t care for or was disappointed by. But he didn’t. He had a slight smile on his face and his gaze was warm and inviting the entire time the two of you spoke and caught up.

When he’d asked if you wanted to do it again, meet up for lunch or coffee the next time the both of you were free, you could’ve swooned on the spot. Somehow you managed to keep your composure though and give him a simple ‘Sure, I’ll check my schedule and let you know the next time I’m free.’ It was all very mature and adult like and you were probably far too proud of yourself for it.

Soon enough the meetings and chats had become a routine for the two of you. Both of your schedules were fairly consistent and so at least once a week you’d be able to spend a few hours together. While the run ins between changing shifts were still centered around work the two of you always included some kind of update on how your days had been and confirmation that you both were still free to meet up that week.

You were happy and from the small smiles and soft looks apparently he was too. The only thing that left you with concern was a lack of definition to what exactly the relationship was between the two of you. You felt a bit childish to be caught up on it truth be told. You had no reason to believe he was also harboring some kind of crush on you - he’d made no indication of such a thing. It was far more likely he was just looking for a friendship.

While it stung to acknowledge the reality of the situation you figured ‘just a friendship’ wouldn’t be bad. Far from it. You were happy with how things are now and if they were to stay that way it wouldn’t be a tragedy. So you just went with the flow, each day the two of you grew to know each other more and became more comfortable with each other. You shared parts of yourselves bit by bit and with Aizawa being as private of a person as he is it was really more than you could’ve thought to ask for. You were happy to have him as your friend.

Then one night or early morning, the distinction between the two has become lost to you after so many years working this graveyard shift, he asked if you wanted to have dinner with him at his place.

You’d been taken back because while the two of you had grown closer together over the past few months, dinner together at either of your apartments had never happened. Hell, you don’t think you’ve been inside his apartment at all - there was never any reason to be. It also wasn’t the day you two normally meet up during the week too. You could hardly contain your smile when you agreed.

Besides, you’d missed seeing his little cat. You hadn’t seen the furball since Aizawa had figured out how he was getting out and started putting his apartment on lockdown anytime he left. Your apartment wasn’t big per say, but it was far bigger than what you’d been used to and not having the cat come visit every now and again made you far too cognizant of the fact.

The dinner would have to be a quick affair as you both had to head to your respective agencies and begin your shifts soon after. You wasted no time getting ready to head over to his place.

You heard him before you saw him. Your knock on the apartment door was soon followed by what sounded like a crash and a meow on the other side. If you heard the owner's muttered curses through the door you made no indication.

When he opened the door you were greeted with the same tired eyes you’ve come to know so well and the small smile that never failed to get some color to rise to your cheeks.

“So, we may need to change plans,” he said, hand coming to rub the back of his neck, “the brat just knocked everything onto the floor.”

Sure enough, when you glance a bit behind him into the apartment you could see the remains of whatever it was that Aizawa had planned for the two of you to eat that night on the ground. The brat in question nowhere to be seen having probably ran off to find something else to get into.

“It’s no problem,” you couldn’t help the slight laugh that escapes at his expense as he lets you into the apartment, “we can just order out or something. How about that little ramen place down the street?” You catch the slight nod he gives in confirmation as you remove your shoes before making your way further into the apartment.

It’s…exactly how you expected it would look, minus the mess in the kitchen. It’s neat and clean, everything in its place. The colors of the furniture and everything else are muted and neutral, relaxing even. Hell, if you didn’t know better you’d think you were at some open house with how set up and devoid of personal clutter it was. The only things that suggested a person actually lived in the space was the stack of ungraded papers on the coffee table, the cat tree in the corner, and the newly created mess in the kitchen.

Eyeing said mess you’re reminded of the manners and responsibilities of a polite guest that your parents used to nag you about when you were younger.

“Do you have any wipes or anything?”

“I’m not going to ask my guest to clean up after my cat,” he said with a shake of his head as he moved to get his cleaning supplies.

“Well good thing you didn’t have to ask then,” you teased as you grabbed the items out of his hands and told him to order the food while you get the place cleaned up.

He refused to, of course, saying something along the lines of you being ridiculous and how illogical it would be for him to let you clean up by yourself.

“Seems fitting that one of the only times I bother to actually cook things don’t go to plan,” he says offhandedly as the two of you get to work. The comment causes your movements to still as you processed what he had said.

He’d cooked for you.

You didn’t think Aizawa even knew how to cook. Lord knows he seemed to only live off of those energy pouches he always carried around with him. But he’d cooked for you.

It was all ridiculously sentimental for you but the smile refused to waver the rest of the night at the knowledge he actually put in effort for you to do something he normally avoids.

You’re not sure how much time passes while the two of you eat and catch up, it’s always like that with Aizawa though. The conversation always comes easy and before long you end up staying far longer than you intended. By the time your alarm for work goes off you’re in the middle of some ridiculous story of one of your first hero jobs with a sleepy cat purring in your lap. You feel like a villain having to move the sweet thing, he’d been so happy to see you again that he’d been rubbing up on you and getting cat hair all over you the whole night.

It’s when you finished your goodbye’s to the little furball, calling out a separate goodbye to Aizawa as you move to open the door to head back to your own place, that you see Aizawa’s hand catch the door before you can open it fully. He insists that you wait a moment.

You weren't sure how he crossed the space of the apartment so quickly. You could practically feel his body heat roll off of him in waves as you turn to face him, confusion clear on your face. He was practically hovering over you. His body just a hair's breadth away from your own.

His eyes move over you and for a moment you wonder if this nervousness is what his students must feel when he’s evaluating them. You can’t help the slight gasp and blush when his hand reaches out for yours. His hands are larger than your own and calloused from his hero work - their warmth engulfing you and it feels as if like your dizzy heart would beat out of your chest at any moment.

“I don’t think I’ve said it before, or maybe I haven’t said it enough, but I really do enjoy our time together.”

“Oh, yeah?” it’s more of a squeak than an actual attempt at a human language but with your head spinning as wildly as it was you’re lucky enough to have been able to respond at all.

“Yeah,” he confirms, losing his fight to beat down the amused smile that makes its way on his face, “I’m sorry I haven’t been more direct until now, but I was wondering if you would be interested in going out sometime - on a date I mean.”

“A date?” the word isn’t computing, you’re pretty sure you're hallucinating.

His nod only serves as further evidence for your theory.

You’re positive the blush on your face is a dead giveaway to what your answer is going to be but somehow you manage to find your voice, “Yeah, I’d like that sometime.”

The smile grows in response and reaches his eyes - it’s enough to leave you breathless.

“Good, we can decide on where and when on our way to work.”

“We work at different agencies though.”

“I know.”

_______

aizawa walks you to work and holds your hand - he's such a private person that you damn near swooned

also they decided on a cat cafe for their first date - aizawa remembered you saying you were thinking about getting a cat and figured there’s no reason to hold off on it anymore

coworkers are also very nosey when they saw Eraserhead had dropped you off that night - with how quick workplace gossip is and how connected the hero agencies are best believe U.A. teachers are gunna find out soon enough too. Who knows - maybe the gossip gets leaked to a student

potential third part where you actually get that cat you've been mentioning wanting

#boku no hero academia #dabi my hero academia #my hero academy #mha #bnha #aizawa #aizawa shouta #shouta #shouta aizawa #aizawa/you #aizawa/reader #aizawa x you #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta/you #aizawa shouta/reader #shouta/you #shouta/reader #shouta x you #shouta x reader #shouta aizawa/you #shouta aizawa x you #shouta aizawa/reader #shouta aizawa x reader #fan fiction #fanfic #my hero fanfic #eraserhead #eraserhead/you #eraserhead/reader #eraserhead x you

[ast4tarion]

todays unhinged thought: dry humping. making a boy cum his pants from your grinding alone. Maybe he’s inexperienced or just very sensitive, maybe it’s his first time, but you’ve got that pretty bulge in his pants trapped right up against your hips when you sit in his lap facing him. Maybe it started off as just innocent kissing, but you brushed up against his bulge trying to readjust your position and suddenly he’s grabbing you and pulling you close enough to grind on it. You’re humping messy, no coordination as the two of you desperately stroke and grind and bump against each other. You feel his cock twitching from inside his pants, begging to be jacked off and get some proper release. You’re just teasing him, figuring rubbing fabric will just get him riled up, that’s it. His grasp on your hips gets tighter and tighter and his little whines and moans slip faster and faster into your mouth when you kiss and suddenly he very abruptly stops. He lets out a low whine and his entire face is flushed bright red and it takes you a couple seconds to put together what happened until you see the dark patch forming on the front of his pants. He came a fat sticky load in his boxers from just you grinding on him alone. You coo at him, teasing him as he hides his face in embarrassment. The best part is when you unzip his pants and pull him out of his boxers he’s still rock hard and covered in his own sticky seed, even more sensitive to each and every one of your touches.

#mike schmidt smut #imagine your favorite character #fav smut #mike schmidt x you smut #mike schmidt #fnaf smut #mike schmidt ns/fw #hobie brown smut #hobie brown x reader #aizawa x reader smut #x reader smut #nsft concept #smut scenarios #x reader smut concept #smut imagine #t4tschmidtwriting #t4t nsft #t4t smut #mlm smut

[kleftiko]

❦ HOW MANY KIDS DOES HE WANT

cw: none, this is fluff

i add to this intermittently :)

♡ a million. he wants a whole army of little ones running around. he has an endless list of names picked out and he just can’t help but feel like the most pure way to express his love for you is to create a little life and raise a wonderful person with you.

— HAWKS (mha), gojo, yuji, CHOSO (jjk), kuroo, bokuto, ATSUMU (hq), kiyoshi, kise (knb), julius, yami (bc), rengoku, akaza (kny),

♡ one or two. loves the idea of raising a child or two with you. he wants to watch and nurture a life, he wants to be the best father he can. he wants to support his child and find out what kind of person they’ll be with you right by his side. doesn’t even care if they’re biological.

— fatgum (mha), megumi (jjk), KITA, daichi (hq), akashi, kuroko (knb), nozel, fuegoleon (bc)

♡ doesn’t matter to him. it’s entirely up to you, it’s not like he would grow them in his body anyway. he has unconditional love for you, and if you chose to bring a child into your lives he will love them as well. will love you with a child, will love you without.

— aizawa (mha), LEVI (aot), nanami (jjk), sakusa, iwaizumi, kageyama (hq), kagami, murasakibara (knb), william (bc), kakashi, giyuu (kny)

♡ get those things away from him. will hiss at them. doesn’t have a way with kids, it’s not a good idea. if you really DO want a child, he will give you one. but he will never, EVER, admit that he loves the little bastard. you think you see him cuddling them in the middle of the night? nope, get your eyes checked.

— SHIGARAKI, dabi (mha), sukuna (jjk), tsukishima (hq), aomine, midorima (knb), sanemi, obanai (kny)

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyu x reader #knb x reader #kuroko no basket x reader #kuroko no basuke x reader #hawks x reader #aizawa x reader #shigaraki x reader #dabi x reader #gojo x reader #megumi x reader #itadori x reader #sukuna x reader #kuroo x reader #bokuto x reader #atsumu x reader #sakusa x reader #iwaizumi x reader #aomine x reader #akashi x reader #black clover x reader #yami x reader #nozel x reader #william x reader #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader

[misssmina]

I hate when yall write the same kind of personality for self insert fics.

I don’t want to keep seeing the same easily flustered, no backbone, cries a lot Y/N. Here are some versions that I think would work better for each character.

Sweetheart Y/N: Caretaker, blushy, scolds character for not taking care of themselves. Best for slice of life AU’s or as a quirkless character. [Midoriya, Hawks, Dabi, Toshinori, Aizawa]

Goofball Y/N: Silly, playfully sarcastic, best friend type, takes nothing seriously. [Bakugou, Shigaraki, Todoroki, Aizawa]

Bitchy/Bratty Y/N: Tackless, competitive, well meaning, emotionally constipated. [Kirishima, Iida, Midoriya, Bakugou, Sero]

Bestie/Sacrificial Y/N: Fun, overly understanding, forgiving, compassionate, competitive. Best for angst and/or character development. [Dabi, Shigaraki, Bakugou, Aizawa, Hawks.]

More variety please & thank you 🩵 also please make it long

Edit: The way people are bitching about this post is crazy. I legitimately do not care how you write, it’s YOUR writing. But you have options, that is the point. This post was not a personal attack to ANYONE. Just have fun writing and push yourself.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #mha #misssmina #bnha kirishima #izuku midoriya #shigaraki tomura #mha dabi #mha bakugo katsuki #yagi toshinori #aizawa #sero hanta #mha hawks #deku x reader #kirishima x reader #hawks x reader #bakugou x reader #aizawa x reader #all might #dabi x reader #shigaraki x reader #todoroki x reader #mha todoroki #mha headcanons #bnha iida #iida tenya #bnha headcanons #my hero fanfic #boku no hero headcanons

[dabisbratz]

𝒮𝒲𝐸𝐸𝒯 𝒯𝒪𝒪𝒯𝐻 — shouta aizawa x male reader

w.c: 12.4k

warning: dbf!shouta, age gap, (sho in his early 40s, reader is 23), bottom!reader, daddy kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, feminization, mentions of gettin ‘knocked up’ regardless of anatomy, sneaking around, creampie, unprotected sex ( wear condoms ! ), praise/degradation, brat!reader, jealousy, mutual teasing, reader has an oral fixation, improper use of lollipops, mentions of exhibitionism, blowjobs, cumming untouched/hands free orgasm, ‘ taboo ’

sonny says..: not proof read, msorry !! did lotsa jumpin around while writin this. . . n five months later !! she’s all done !! ໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝T ˘ T⸝⸝꒱ྀི১ ♡ m’a lil rusty, forgive me !!

You’re back home for the summer.

Well— not entirely. You’re back at your family’s summer house for the season. Gifted from your grandparents, it teeters at the beginning of a beach, crystal sands and clear, blue waters that stretch out into the horizon. You’ve been looking forward to it since you’d graduated, even if it did come with a set of overbearing parents and a sinful amount of sunscreen.

The air is hot and thick, sticking uncomfortably to your skin through the windshield as you watch an everlasting stretch of greenery and trees pass you by. The road has stretched on for miles, every upcoming exit and street sign blending into one as each hour passes by. You’ve got the company of staticky radio stations and news outlets, spewing something nonsensical about sports, politics, car insurance. . . But it’s the trip you enjoy more than the destination. Traffic and all, you prefer it over the muggy air and parental scolding. Though, the beach is nice. . .

“You’re sure you’re taking the right route?” It’s your mother speaking, her voice crackling through the speakers of your car. You’re sure she’d smack you upside the head for the aggressive roll of your eyes in her. . . general direction, but she’s not exactly within eye-contact distance. Not for another five minutes, anyway.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” You have— it’s true. Though you’re only twenty-two, you’d driven this distance since you’d left for college. There’s a sound akin to the sucking of teeth through the radio, and you have half the mind to turn around and restart your road-trip all over again.

“Why’s there so much attitude in your voice?” Her cheerful, smiley voice suddenly sounds much more shrill, to your chagrin. You thrum your fingers along the leather of the steering wheel, biting back a long, drawn out groan.

“There isn’t any,” Gravel crackles under the weight of your rubber-tire car, snapping and popping into the air as it makes a smooth halt into the driveway. Shifting gears to park, the radio switches off with the twist of your keys. And, perhaps with more force than necessary, you’re slamming the door to your car and face to face with your mother. Her phone is still in hand, eyebrows pinched at the thought of her very own son hanging up on her. “. . . attitude, Ma.”

She hugs you with a squeal, ushering you up the stairs to your childhood ‘home.’ It’s almost exactly like you’d left it— save for a few recent porch decorations and repainted walls. You hope the years have been kind to it, with the irregular weather and constant pipe problems. Floorboards creak under your weight, welcoming you home after a few long years of studies. There’s an everlasting stream of bubbly speech behind you, your mom speaking, but there’s already so much to take in.

The air is fresh and salty, hints of beachy winds flowing upstream through the doorway. It smells like home, and looks like it too, as you situate your small duffel bag by the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Your room. You hadn’t packed much— there was still a dresser overflowing with old clothes in your bedroom, after all. And now that you think about it, you should probably change into something more fitting for the weather.

“I know you just got here,” The sound of ice swirling against glass catches your attention, and you turn to face your mother. “But could you bring these out to your father?” She’s holding a tray of decorative glasses— or at least, you’d always thought they were— full of oblong ice and freshly squeezed lemonade. The glasses are stocky enough to adorn lollipops— one each, which are probably sickeningly sour. Topped with tiny, colorful umbrellas and intricate swirling straws. It’s almost like she’s trying to impress someone, with the way she’s put so much effort into the drink’s presentation.

Your lips curl to form a playful ‘no’, a boyish smile pulling at your cheeks when she huffs— as if she already knows what you’re about to do. So you shake your head instead, stealing the tray with one hand, “Let me change first.”

In hindsight, wearing clothes about. . four years too small wasn’t a great idea. The shorts that once fit you perfectly— before your growth spurt— are now much too short, like they’ve been tossed around in the laundry one too many times. You feel almost naked, moving the pink hem down with the shake of your legs.

Your mother insists they look just fine, a dramatic downturn to her lips as she rambles on and on about how fast her boy has grown up. Still, as you walk through the sliding glass doors parallel to the open patio, the sunlight bathing your legs does nothing but make you feel stuck under a rapidly growing spotlight.

It all clicks as you walk outside— the detailed drinks, the smell of barbecue and fresh coal. There is someone she’s trying to impress, someone other than your father. Maybe both of them. On a good day.

Wiping the bead of sweat from your brow, your eyes squint at the man in front of you. Around your dad’s age— maybe slightly younger, he stands at a whopping six foot something. There’s age in his face, and worry between his brows as if he’d spent most of his youth grimacing. His hair is long and black like charcoal, save for a few streaks of gray and a salt and pepper ensemble of stubble littering his chin and jaw. Two scars— forming a cross of sorts, one beneath his right eye, horizontal and thin. But the other is much longer, starting below his brow and ending at his cheekbone. It draws your eyes to a milky gray iris— heavily contrasting against the natural black-brown of his left one. It’s pretty, cloudy and almost pearlescent.

His silhouette— tall and thick, with broad shoulders that travel on and on as he crosses thick biceps over his thick chest. He’s standing in the way of the sun, and yet, it peeks through his long hair in small, short leaks. And, surprisingly, his waist is small in his black tank top. If you feel hot he must be scorching, draped in black— down to the beaded bracelet adorning his wrist. His hands— they’re big, maybe enough to cover the entirety of your face, curled into loose fists at his biceps.

And— right, you’re here to help, not gawk. But you can’t help it, shifting your weight from one leg to another as his intimidating gaze slowly sweeps you over. He’s like sex on legs, and if you can squint enough to get the sun out your eyes, you swear you can see the imprint of his cock through his black shorts.

“Uh,” You blink dumbly after introducing yourself, and suddenly the tray you’re holding is weightless. “Ma made these. I’m supposed to help. . . or something. . .”

“Or something.” The man echoes, but it’s quiet and you barely catch it. His voice is deep, way deeper than your own, rumbling in your ears and smooth like butter. Almost husky, with a dark edge to it as flames roar in his face. But it makes your father laugh, hearty and jubilant as he bounces over to where you stand. He gives you a small pat on the back as a greeting, ushering out a small, “son.”

The heat emitting off the grill is enough to make a grown man cry, but neither of you wince when you walk by it. Cold glasses of lemonade are handed out, fingers imprinted on cold condensation painting the surfaces of each glass as they’re passed around— one for you, one for your dad, another for him. You watch rivulets of water drip from his fingertips, down his wrist, past the collection of veins adorning his forearm.

“Mr. Aizawa,” There’s a beat of silence, but it’s quickly filled once you’ve been introduced. “World’s cruelest teacher.”

“Shouta Aizawa.” Is all he says, a correction of sorts, voice grumbly as his fingertips brush against your knuckles. Your eyes flicker down to where he’d touched you, his skin warm and inviting despite the roughness of his palms. You see now, that he’s accompanying your father, occasionally taking over when he walks back into the house every. . . five minutes or so.

“An old friend of mine, we go way back.” Your parents have an odd habit of rambling, it seems, because you and the handsome stranger make exasperated eye contact as your dad begins to reminisce on old memories. “You met him a few times— remember? He’ll be staying with us, so be respectful, you hear me?” His gaze seems to dip for a moment, down your lips and straight to the extra exposed skin of your thighs, then settle back to the ocean before you can comment.

But those five minutes must start now, because after a firm squeeze to your shoulder your father heads inside, leaving you alone with his. . . friend. He’s awfully quiet, busying himself as the patio door slides shut— occasionally sighing as he wipes away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s obvious you’re staring, maybe a bit too hard, but he’s the best scene around, really. Even with the beach right behind him.

And maybe it’s wrong to think this way— but he’s hot. Old enough to be your dad and then some, sure, but it doesn’t make him any less attractive. He almost makes you nervous, the slow blink of his eyes as he pays you no mind.

“So you’re staying with us, huh?” You eye the juicy meat he’s been flipping for the last five minutes, golden brown and sizzling in the heat. It’s rather thick, soon to be lazily flattened by the tongs he's holding and— you can’t help but wonder. . . Is he good with his hands?

“Don’t make a habit of asking strange old men questions like that.” It’s not entirely clear if he’s serious or not, but he’s certainly assertive. Like a firm, guiding hand placed at the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch in confusion, but before you can ask what he means, it clicks. You’d said it out loud, let it float into the air like an everyday, casual question. But Aizawa doesn’t seem exactly bothered, more passive (if anything), as he takes a swig of the fruity, sour concoction.

“You’re not strange.” Is what you conclude, slamming the tray down hard enough to rattle its contents, and the man notes your lack of regard. Even with a slight spill you don’t bother to clean, you’re already turning to walk off the patio and dig your toes into the hot sand before it can be mentioned— but not without plucking a lemon coated lollipop free from its icy enclosure of glass. There’s an arrangement of seashells hidden beneath the coarse mounds of the glimmering seaside. Different sizes and colors, different textures and shapes. Where some would scrape the soles of your feet, others would glide across them. But as a kid you’d liked the search for tiny crabs much more than the search for shells. Though you’re much older now, you’re not afraid to say you miss it.

“But I’m old?” Aizawa says, not too far behind you from where he stands. There’s a light glint of dry humor in his voice that sends butterflies down your throat and straight into your stomach.

“Yeah. Old enough.” Your small laughter is sweet, dancing in the air in a way that has Shouta nearly pressing his palm flat into the skillet— just to check if his heart is still beating. What do you mean by that, anyway?

There’s a divot where the tightness of your shorts dip into your skin, pressing against the plush skin of your ass whenever you bend over. Even as you’re upright, Shouta can’t stand to look for too long— you’re a real, proper, honest and genuine distraction. Yet here he is, watching you move around on your hands and knees, ass taut and round— shorts tight enough to show off the cute bulge of your balls from behind. And now that he’s really looking, it’s obvious you’re not wearing anything underneath.

He shakes his head, grunting to himself as he peels processed cheese free from its plastic packaging. You just met, that’s not right, you’re simply just minding your own.

“Ugh!” You share a groan, and for completely different reasons. Aizawa can’t help but watch you scramble in the sand, presumably after whatever sea-creature that had the pleasure to pinch you right on the finger. But you seem happy once it’s retrieved, stuck in the seclusion of its tiny shell as you hold it in your palm. From what he can see, you’re not much of a brat at all. Maybe your parents are just too hard on you. He’s always known them to be dramatics.

Still, he has half the mind to drag you over by your ankle, or maybe to press your handsome face into the sand while he fucks you from behind. Ever since you’d brought out that damned lemonade— tugging on the hem of the fabric as if you’d suddenly grown conscious of just how short they were— he’d been hard. And now he has to listen to you grunt and groan over the smallest of injuries. . . His best friend’s son, his presumed pride and joy.

He’s fucked.

From where he stands, slightly elevated, he can see the bulge of the sweet protruding from your cheeks, stuck afore your teeth. Cute, as it swishes from side to side, stuck in your mouth as your occupied fingers caress the diaphanous shell in the palm of your hand. Your lips move, puckered, around the sucker, curled and glossy with molten sugar— it’s hard to make out exactly what words your mouth forms, yet Shouta doesn’t think he’d be able to listen anyway.

Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.

Shouta learns this at dinner, the day’s hard work shared on plastic platters and glass

bottles in the middle of the beach. There’s a roaring flame between the four of you, it casts golden embers along your skin every so often, crackling into the air. Cicadas chirp with the night’s welcome, loud and joyful in retaliation to the silent, serene fireflies and settling ocean.

You’re all sipping on beers, some more than others, but it’s enough to loosen everyone up. Even Shouta, whose eyes look lidded with sleep the more he drinks. He’s not incoherent, he never is. If anything he’s observant. For one, you have an awful habit of holding onto this evening’s lollipop, it seems, as you have it situated between your fingers like a cigarette. Sometimes your grip around it tightens, like when your mother wraps her hand around his bicep, squeezing the flesh in small, sporadic rounds. And though neither of you want to say it, let alone think it— you’re jealous. That’s the second thing.

Even with Shouta’s knee brushing against your own, you can’t help it. He’s so warm, muscly legs pressed against your own in a manner that’s almost electrifying. You want it all to yourself, to suffocate in his heat and capable hands.

You zone out of the conversation, blinking at the fire with reserved eyes until a thick screwer pokes at the flesh of your shoulder, leaving behind a tiny dimple. Jet black hair invades your vision for a moment, smelling of faint seasalt and warm cologne, until you turn, “What?”

“You want chocolate on your marshmallow, right?” Your mother asks for him, squeezing a transparent bag of thick, soft marshmallows. It’s tossed to you in a flash, to which you catch, but not before stealing a glance at the man beside you. His jaw sets, poking out from the mass of stubble. Like she’d stolen a precious moment away.

“Right,” You mumble, stabbing the skewer through the excessive amount of sugar. The stick hovers above the fire, the sweet melting to a crisp, flaky brown. Sticky and gooey, it slowly begins to lose its form. Through all the conversation you can’t help but glance at the older man to your left, taking in the glow of yellow and orange caressing his tan skin. His silhouette is bold and broad, legs spread wide as he sits on a thick log. What was once brown turns a deep, dark charcoal. “Oh, shit! Fuck. I meant shoot, sorry.”

You’re not supposed to swear in front of your parents— Aizawa’s paternal intuition picks that up. But shoving the marshmallow into your mouth, even as it has yet to cool down, he doesn’t quite get. Either way, your expression. . . it’s sickeningly cute. It’s cute to watch you fumble. With lips pursed into a tight line, cheeks bitten and eyebrows pinched with apology despite how obviously uncomfortable you are with the piping, burnt sugar spreading along your tongue.

His heart could almost burst.

“You’re fine, kid.” Shouta’s voice is a gentle whisper, airy like the waves brushing against the shore. With his eyes caught on the sticky white lingering on your cheek, he's desperately aware you’re not a kid. The way you move and speak, the way you carry yourself. The way you suck on lollipops like they’re something else. He’s never been one for dirty jokes or subtle innuendos but. . . yeah, this is doing something to him. His fingers twitch with want, the desire to wipe it away and rub his thumb along your lips. He should really get it together.

And maybe the fact that he’s more worried about your parents being in the way than the fact that they’re your parents proves that.

But they’re pretty preoccupied, lost in conversation neither of you are exactly interested in. Whirling his own marshmallow, chocolate melts down its fluffy outside. It’s steaming, hot and fluffy after twirling around the fire. Looking at it now, it looks comically small in his large hands, much bigger than your own. His lips part, cool air leaving the ‘o’ shaped mold of his mouth as he blows on it with a low, “Here.”

There they go again, mouth open as your pink tongue covers your row of bottom teeth, Shouta doesn’t let go of the skewer despite the light squeezes you press along his knuckles. Instead he holds on tighter, lifting and reaching until the desert melts in your mouth and sticks to your lips. Messy on purpose, your heart plummets into your tummy when dark eyes watch marshmallow fluff pull away from between your teeth. Hungry, starving.

“I can do it myself.” You mumble, wondering if the heat prickling your skin is from the brush of his fingers against your own or the wilting fire.

“Can you?” His expression is tired and flat, but his voice tilts with blooming amusement. It’s odd, the way you’re so quick to shut him down. You almost respond more openly when you hear sneaky comments or listen to gossip— ‘that boy just doesn’t know what to stop,’ ‘why’s he such a smartass?’ — spoken about you directly by you.

“Yeah,” There’s a shine in your eye that isn’t just a product of the glowing fire. Mischievous, almost. “I don’t break that easily.”

Shouta could definitely take your dad in a fight. It’s the first thing that pops into mind as the two of you stand in the dark, dimly lit kitchen. Your parents had gone off to bed almost an hour ago, and with the clock approaching half past midnight, it leaves you two alone. So, yes, he’s considering who would win in a brawl because he can’t stop staring at his best friend’s son and his pretty, kissable lips.

They’re sheen with spit, your pink tongue licking them over as you scrub away yesterday’s dirt from the kitchen counter. It’s a noncommittal motion, your arms wiping suds and heavy contents of water along the granite surface. Yet you seem absolutely dead-set on getting that one stain. The stain that has your ass brushing against his side, bare skin rippling the harder, lazier, you scrub. Not that there’s even a stain to clean.

Yep. He’s fucked.

You suppose he should be focusing on the dishes— not that there’s much of those either— but his attention strays.

It carries him through the motion of leaning over, his body practically draping your own as you bend at the waist. Black hair again, wisps of it, lightly pressed against your back as he leans down, lips by the shell of your ear and an arm trapping you in. His cock is pressed right against the swell of your ass, and he may have to consider slipping it between his waistband.

“I think you got it.”

“Oh, really?” Your hips are moving again, side to side as you scrub shapes into nothing. “Double check for me?”

A low groan sounds behind you, big hands at your thighs that squeeze enough to have the plush skin bruised and tender in the morning. His hand travels, snaking up your thighs to meet the silky skin of your ass. Spread nicely with the way you’re bent over, warmth radiating off each globe as his thick pointer finger loops around the thin layer of pink cotton pressing against your balls.

It’d be so easy, perfect access to slip his thick cock into the warm, tight walls of your hole and pound you against the counter. You could sit on his dick for the whole day, drooling and dumb the more the head kisses your prostate again and again and again. Your Daddy could fuck you on your dad’s favorite sofa, make it squeal and whine under the weight of him filling your fucked-out and used cunt over and over.

Dark pupils blow wide as he pulls the fabric away, watching your hole flutter around nothing. He coos, sweet and deep. Just give him a minute, he’ll give you everything you need. Everything and more, until you’re a braindead fucktoy with glassy eyes and sticky, dripping holes. Until—

You’ve slipped past his arm, twisting as your growling stomach makes itself known. You inhale a quivering breath through your nose, eyes wide and expecting and waiting. His best friend’s son, wriggling and writhing under his palms, handsome face twisting as pearly teeth bite at your stout bottom lip.

He’s almost frustrated with himself, voice flat and distant when you puff out your cheeks. Forget a distraction— you’re a real, honest brat. “You’re still hungry.”

“I’m a growing man, Sho.” It’s almost consequential how your voice cracks, breathy and teetering the edge of a whine as he releases his grip on your body. Light from the fridge illuminates your silhouette in a yellow, halo-adjacent glow, and once again Shouta is staring a little too hard at his best friend’s son as he bends forward at the waist.

Aizawa weighs the juxtaposition between the middle of that sentence for a moment before his breath catches in your throat. Sho. You’d called him by a nickname, ten times sweeter than the candied fruit (grapes, are they?) you’re now sinking your teeth into. You’ve grown alright, and the proof stands hard, throbbing, and pressing against your shorts once you’ve returned to face him. It’s obvious your ploy with the fruit was just something to keep your mind off cumming in your cute, soft shorts— but he’d honestly have preferred to see that.

“I can see that.”

Rough palms press into your jaw— firm, but not aggressive, until fingers close and clasp at your cheeks. A dissolving layer of baby fat at your cheeks spills between his stern fingers, and you blink as the older man turns your face from left to right, then reverse. Seems he’s got a nasty habit of looking you over, breaking you down— bare bones. You still have enough room to chew, teeth grinding on the crystallized sugar with a hard and resounding crunch.

There’s always something in your mouth.

Dark eyes flicker to the lump appearing and disappearing in your throat as you swallow, sweet sugar dotting your lips, “You’re hard.”

“Yeah,” It earns a dark chuckle, though there’s not much light humor in it, “So are you.” His lips curl as he releases his grip, slow and lingering.

“Usually,” your gaze drops to his lips. “When two men,” Then up to his deep, dark eyes as you press against him, chest to chest. His cock twitches against the heat of your body, you can imagine it now— thick and pretty, curved upward with a sticky head and throbbing, heavy veins. “Make eachother. . . hard, they—”

A door slams upstairs, the air going still as your breath catches in your throat. As if that single disturbance has stolen all the oxygen in the world, your body goes rigid and stiff, and the sound of tired steps make their way descending down wooden stairs. The candied grapes are swapped for thick fingers, with light peppers of hair at the knuckles, and you can’t help but suck the seasalt right off.

“Behave.” He takes a single step back, dripping with indubitable authority that makes you feel light and airy. Ready to bend at his will with lazy eyelids and hazy eyes. It’s not a question, not a suggestion— it’s a demand.

“You’re still up,” Your father, shameless as he walks by the two of you with barely any coverings, makes a sleepy gesture in your general direction as he opens the fridge. “Both of you, huh?” He sounds faintly out of breath, and his skin sheen. The mental implications make you cringe, taking a step toward the characteristically nonchalant man who’d just stepped away from you.

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t tell me I’m being replaced!” He’s always been a loud man, your father, but it seems tonight his one-too-many beers have finally caught up to him. It’s just a joke, the both of you know it, but you can’t help the prickle of heat poking at your throat. You’re pulled in by the back of your head, your father’s hand pressed against your hair as he holds you in a firm side-hug, “Rather Mr. Aizawa be your old man?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Your smile is wide and tantalizing, heavy and dripping with something that has yet to be named. “Are you a good Daddy, Mr. Aizawa?”

Then, his eye twitches, “When I want to be.”

Your laugh is instantaneous and loud, an awkward thing that stretches into deep silence. There’s a lot of things you’d like Mr. Aizawa to be— rough, gentle, sweet, and mean. But your dad? It’s laughable, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. And sure, maybe the title you'd like to use on him sounds similar, but they’re most definitely not the same. If only he knew.

“I’m sure you’re the best,” He watches you smile, opposite ends of your mouth pulling at your cheeks in a motion that doesn’t quite meet your eyes— but it’s convincing enough. “Better than your other friends, right Dad?”

Shouta is avoiding you.

You know it, you can tell! He’s always gone nowadays— a couple weeks into your vacation and you can only count a mere handful of the times you remember seeing him. You’ve barely talked, barely stole a few glances here and there— he may as well have disappeared. He’s out somewhere, somewhere that involves your father, and the ocean, and his generously sized deck-boat. You don’t want to say it, but you know you’re the reason why. You’ve gone a bit overboard, perhaps, with the flirting. Ever since that night— even before then, it’d become a natural habit of yours to call the man Daddy.

And, now, he’s grown even closer to your parents because of it. Whenever you come down for breakfast they’ve already finished, leaving your plate in the microwave— as if you’d want cold, limp eggs and soggy, get charred bacon. You want to scream, really. There’s your mother, who leaves lingering touches and bats her eyelashes like some sort of schoolgirl. You feel almost evil for the rage that sears your blood— even more so when your first thought is she’s pushing fifty.

Then there’s your father. Who is and always will be, not if you can help it, closer to Shouta than you ever will be. They drink together a lot, the guest more in moderation, but it still hurts to see them laugh about old times— over, and over, and over again. Even when you’re the topic of conversation, despite your presence being completely ignored, it hurts. You’re right here.

So you mope, lounging around in your swim trunks. Your skin sticks to every surface, humid and thick as your mother complains to you about getting some sun, stepping out the house, then something about how you need to fix the look on your face. She says the warm rays on your skin will do you some good, the salty water of the sea against your body will toughen up your bones and loosen your muscles. But there’s really only one thing on your mind.

It trickles into about an hour and a half when Mr. Aizawa finally comes back. Your father too, you suppose, with flushed cheeks that only sake can replicate. It’s once you’ve been pulled outside and forced to stand in wet, thick sand that washes away from your feet with every sweep of the shore— that they return. Once the sun has begun to set, yet still bright enough to have your brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, they return.

“There’s my boy!” No one’s boy, actually. Your father shouts with an intoxicated wave, and the grimace on Shouta’s face is hidden behind his whipping hair as he slows the boat to a stop.

Or at least, you think so. It’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes, yellow and orange flakes of the gold star percolating your vision.

It dances along the surface of the ocean, pretty and shimmering the closer you step, the further you go, until you’re submerged in water from your knees—down. There’s a shout, something akin to a ‘catch!’, and you have barely any time to react to the ball that’s flying to you with an oddly precise amount of speed and velocity. You gasp, whipping your head back to catch the ball between two sea-soaked hands.

“What the hell?!” Your hands sting, pretty eyes blinking back at the two silhouettes in your vicinity. Mainly at Aizawa, who hasn’t even acknowledged you, let alone looked away from the resplendent horizon. And what’s so good about that? Of all things to look at— you’re right here! You don’t leave with the setting sun, nor do you only ever arrive with the rising one. You’re a constant, and you know you don’t hurt to look at.

So you throw the ball back, all your force behind it with a smug look on your face until it smacks Shouta in the leg— right in the center of his calf with a horrifying thump of a sound.

“Fuck,” You shout in horror, despite it all. Despite the desire to maul him the last few weeks, rushing forward into the water with the cutest tremor to your brows. “Fuck, okay, shit, my bad!”

And it seems you can’t move fast enough to wade through the rippling waves, where schools of tiny, nipping fish and textured shells had twirled and danced about through the currents of pellucid water. But Shouta seems just fine, almost as if he’d forgotten how to react to the feeling of getting punted with a ball at full force. He picks it up, waves it in his large palm, and throws it back. You can hear it tear through the air, just as it smacks you in the shoulder with so much force you don’t register it at first.

Numbness spreads along your arm, eyes blinking up at the older man who laughs. It’s quiet yet hearty, and not at all a pretty sound. It’s more contagious if anything, a wheeze of sorts, but your lips still curl into a petty frown regardless. You can make out a huff of “Your face!” broken up with laughter, biting back on his tongue.

“I’m not laughing.” You grumble, rubbing at your shoulder with faux diligence.

There’s an eerie smile on his face, enough to send shivers down your spine as water drapes your face and drips down your body— boat engine revving with ferocity as the men float off into the boarding dock— Aizawa’s presence arrives just as fast as it leaves.

You’re left to your devices, gawking as you process the last few minutes— his smile, your brattiness and stupidity, the way you’d only just noticed his prosthetic leg— at the mention you can feel miscellaneous fish brush against your own, scales shining through the transparent waters. You can’t help but smile too, wiping it away with the back of your water-draped forearm. Fuck.

It’s only been a month and you’re smitten. He’d left you in favor of your father again, and all you can do is giggle about it.

There’s not much you know about the man— now that you think about it. There’s been a brief drunken mention of him having kids of his own, a little girl, you think. Maybe a son? Despite his affliction for quiet, Aizawa looks as though there’s more he wants to say. To share, to tell. Your father must know it all, seeing as they grew up together, and part of you can’t help but feel a bit jealous.

Hmph.

“What’re you sulking for?” His voice has broken you out of a daydream, turning your body to look him in the eyes. The man of the hour— Shouta. You almost hate how quick you are to melt under his gaze, squaring your shoulders with the stability of poorly glued popsicle sticks.“That ball bounce off your head, too?”

“I’m not sulking.” You watch him walk around the perimeter of the shore, slow and calculating, with his hands balled up in the fabric of his black t-shirt. He pulls it overhead, tummy contracting and biceps rippling— it still manages to catch you by surprise, how much muscle he’s hiding under his baggy clothes. Your brain sets off a symphony of ooh’s and ahh’s, unable to tear your gaze from the light rise and fall of his chest.

Your eyes trail back up, past the bend of his collarbones, up the display of stubble on his throat— he’s staring right at you.

“Uh — I wasn’t. . anyway. . What’re you looking at?”

His lips twitch, briefly pressed together before relaxing as he steps into the cold water. He’s slow, hair rippling just as smooth as the ocean, the further he moves forward. And, despite that, he slowly curls a finger to and fro, as if he’s talking to a small kitten. “C’mere.”

You’re frowning when you trudge forward, hesitance in your step. “Mr. Aizawa,” you grumble, still something of a cute little sound, using the prefix your father introduced him with. Something about it makes Shouta’s frame stiffen— the title, or maybe the pettiness behind it. It’s not like you call him that when you’re in a particularly good mood. “You didn’t seem to want me around earlier.”

“Quiet,” He tuts, clicking his tongue as if he knows the game you’re playing. But despite the curt, clean-cut execution of his tone, his thumb finds your cheek with the same gentleness as a spring breeze. “Your parents were always around earlier.”

Oh.

You play off your surprise well enough, swatting his hand away with a deep grunt. Sure, it feels good. His hands on your skin— such rough palms that cover your body — but you’re not desperate. Not entirely, not even when he fixes the twist of your face with a quick look to your furrowed brows. You settle for a sigh, grumbling, “They don’t have shit to do with me.”

“You’re, what, twenty-five—“

“Twenty three.” You interject, almost proud you can correct him. Rivulets of water trail down your arms, and his gaze seems to follow its motion.

“Twenty three,” He echoes with something of a breathless sigh tilting his voice. For a moment you think it’s the interruption— he’ll work on it later. Maybe he’s been struck by just how much younger you really are. “They have everything to do with you. You’re still their kid, I doubt they’d be enthusiastic about leaving you alone with an older man. A stranger, at that.”

“But they did,” You look around, as if to prove your point. Shouta’s never been one for dramatics, let alone those fueled by snappy attitudes and rolling eyes, but it looks cute on you. Maybe even cuter if it were accompanied by tears. “They left us alone. . . Half naked. . . At a beach. . . Alone..”

“I get it. We’re alone,” Shouta’s voice has always been so deep, rumbly and tired and smooth in your ears but even more so when he’s irritated. “Drop the attitude.” It’s different in a way. Leaves no room for argument, though you still feel the overwhelming need to stomp your foot and keep on pressing. You can’t help the shudder, nor the goosebumps crawling up your thighs. It’s just so fun to push his buttons, to watch his passive face twist for a split second as he processes your words.

It’s not exactly hard when he allows it. Shouta lets you push until your heart’s content, only reprimanding you with a glance or cleared throat— and it’s almost eerie. You can’t help but feel

like you should be anticipating something, even as you stand flush against his thick body in lukewarm ocean water and he looks at you with contentment.

Then it occurs to you. . . He’s letting it build up.

“And you’re not a stranger, Mr. Aizawa.” Obviously you’re softening the blows, so he watches you step forward, arms crossed over his thick, plush chest. You’re just so cute, brushing past his overwhelming seriousness with a smile— albeit sly. He can’t stay mad forever. It’s not fair, how cute you are, with lips stretched out and teeth on display, with the apples of your cheeks rising, and the cutest little twinkle in your eye. He wants to kiss you. . . He wants to kiss you so bad it’s starting to hurt.

Especially when you lean forward, sunlight bouncing off the ocean surface and across your body— painting you in pretty, golden slivers of glow. Across your face, your chest, your stomach, your thighs. It’s been a while since he’s felt his skin against your own. Since he’s run his large, calloused hands along your body.

“What happened to ‘Daddy’?” He asks, absentmindedly.

“What?” You break his trance, looking down at yourself with a hint of something Shouta can’t quite place. Uncertainty, perhaps? Vulnerability, maybe. It’s odd, you usually prance around so confidently. You wear the tiniest— tightest— clothes known to man, have the smartest mouth, egg him on day in and day out.

That’s not it. You look smug. You’re playing him for a damn fool.

“Nothing.” Aizawa sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s wrong— it’s cliché, maybe even taboo. He wants to wipe that look off your face. He wants to kiss his best friend’s son stupid. The man he’d just shared parenting advice to, the man he’d spent years upon years of highschool, college, divorces, with. It’d been so innocent when he’d visit— maybe he should’ve never stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back to see you in full bloom, so handsome and lithe and sweet.

“ ‘Nothing,’ ” You echo, snarky as you mimic the flat, detached tone of Shouta’s voice. If you weren’t sulking before you definitely are now, readying yourself to push past him like some spoiled brat who was just denied their favorite candy after being caught trying to steal it nonetheless. So He holds onto your bicep, squeezing the flesh as it flexes with your feeble attempt at struggling.

“Are you done yet? Or do you need a minute to calm down?” He shifts his weight, voice calm and level as he holds you still despite the straining. Not a single hair on him is out of place, his tranquility almost alarming.

“Let go, old man!” He has to ignore the rush of adrenaline the back and forth gives him— the way he has an incessant urge to squeeze your jaw just a bit tighter.

“Hey,” You watch his lips curl to coo, a tone somewhat akin to a parent shushing a fussy child. Your face is turned to face him directly, “How many times do I have to talk to you?” Then impossibly close as his warm breath pans over the expanse of your face, “What’d I say about the attitude?”

“I don’t care what you say about it.” Your face is squished against his palm as you go to squirm your way out of his hold, but with the way his head angles down toward your face— you can barely get the words to sound convincing. There’s a giggle in your voice, like you think his frustration is amusing.“You like it, don’t you? Forget strange, you’re dirty!”

He’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes narrowed and lidded, “Stop fuckin’ playing with me, little boy.”

“Dad never lets me drive the boat,” Though the man can sense your whining from miles away, it still manages to catch him off guard. Shouta quirks a brow in questioning, hand hovering a polite foot away from your calf as you stand to walk along the wading boat floor. “Destroyed his last one when I was a kid,” (He doesn’t have to know you were actually nineteen when you did.) You speak in a tone that makes him think just maybe you consider it more your father’s fault than your own. “This one’s nicer anyway.”

“That’s wasteful.” Aizawa bites the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed into a familiar line. Had one of his kids done that it’d be a completely different story. Surely one they wouldn’t be proud of telling either. Through the corner of his eye he watches you dig into the cooler, scrabbling past the beer bottles and iced hennessy, to pull out an ice cream.

“To you,” You spare him a glance before finally plopping down in the passenger’s seat with much more force than necessary— especially when sitting on a boat. “I did him a favor.”

The cooler did a poor job— your ice cream is already melted and soft once it’s unwrapped. Thick, velvety cream that you lap up with your tongue dribbles down your knuckles. He should find it gross, but your pretty eyes flickering upward to meet his own as you take one long, slow lick up each bend of your fingers has done the complete opposite. Fuck. It’s hot— your sticky fingers and messy lips, your pinched brows and tiny, pleased whines.

If only it were his cock.

Shouta’s thick. Much thicker than your ice cream, he’s sure you’d feel a good stretch to your lips if you wrapped them around the head of his cock. You’d probably whine about how hard you have to try, how heavy it is on your tongue— how much it’s stuffing you full when it hasn’t even slid down your throat yet. You’d cry too, maybe, with drool slicking your chin and coating his dick in a pretty, shiny layer of thick saliva.

“Want some?” You lean uncomfortably forward, though your legs are over the arms of your seat and draped across Shouta’s lap. Already close, Shouta can smell the oreo on your tongue and vanilla cream by the corner of your lips. “You’re staring pretty hard.”

“Sit up,” The deflection is an answer in itself, yet the dark-haired man can’t find a reason to look away. “Before you hurt yourself.”

Instead, you take his wrist, thick and decorated with a long vein, to fiddle with his fingers. They’re long— healthy, strong, clipped haphazardly— big. He watches you split his fingers apart, lacing your free hand with his own— and though he remains with all five fingers up, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the urge to close them around your much smaller ones. Shouta clears his throat while you hum, lapping at your ice cream before pressing your lips against his knuckles, “Want you to hurt me instead.”

“Hush,” There’s a sharp intake of breath, dark lashes fluttering as multicolored eyes glance past your shoulder. It’s evident he wants to say more— in the way he shifts his weight to lean outward. “You hardly know me.”

Your foot nudges his upper thigh, pressing into the firm skin as the boat moves further toward the horizon. It feels more secluded that way.. Private, even. As if there’s only the two of you left on the dreamy island. Your face looks a bit exasperated, like you’ve never had to work so hard in your life, and he has to admit it— it’s cute.

“I know you grew up with my dad,” He ignores the venom behind your tongue as you mention your father, letting out a low hum of confirmation. “I know you have two kids— adopted, right?”

“Hitoshi and Eri.” He interjects, voice soft and fond. You’d never noticed it before, but now you’re acutely aware of the gentle presence of breeze and rippling waters. Shouta’s relaxed face is much sweeter, still creased with age but not quite as deep. The cute, pinched dips between his brows are gone, but you know how to bring it back.

“Lucky. Wish you were my Daddy instead,” Aizawa isn’t sure which word he’s more hung up on, nor how it's so easy for you to completely twist his words— but as much as it rushes to his cock, gets him twitching in his pants and throbbing all the way down his heavy shaft— he doesn’t like it. You talk entirely too much. With lips much too sweet and sheen with cream. With a tongue that flicks and presses against your teeth when you smile. With a pretty voice he could listen to, all day. Something that’d sound better through choking and gagging—ragged and crackly and used. Your lashes flutter, soft and gentle against your cheek. “How old is Hitoshi? My age? If he takes after you, then. . .You’re just—“

“Listen to me,” Perhaps it’s not very characteristic of him, but he just can’t stop. Shouta moves without thinking, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your lips are puckered. “For as long as I’m here,” he offers a squeeze. “For as long as your father is here,” then another, “Turn. It. Off.”

Your face melts into something floaty and distant, the smirk melting right off your face into something much more preferable. His thumb is so close, so close to your pretty lips. You blink once— twice, even— before regressing back into a grin, lips pressing against his long fingers. Fucking brat.

“I’ll just have to hit up Hitoshi sometime, then.”

The persistent comment nearly knocks him over, straight off the boat and plummeting into the cerulean depths of the sea. Instead, Shouta finds it better to step on the gas. . . To ignore the prickling heat in his blood, to ignore the easy taptaptap-ing of your fingers against the screen of your phone. It’s so easy for you to say anything around him— like a deliberate disregard for his reaction. His fingers thrum against the tiller, then wrap around its leather exterior to squeeze, and he doesn’t miss (not even for a second) the glance you give him through the corner of your eye.

The silence is almost painful. The motor speaks for you, loud and rushed and heavy. Aizawa’s jaw sets, clenched at each chiseled edge. His eyebrows furrow deep, angry, and his lips remain tightly shut. You can’t help but stare, watching his hair whip in the wind, dreamy and mellifluous. Not a moment of eye contact is shared, and you feel yourself slinking back into the white leather of your chair for the first time this evening.

Come the wooden dock just adjacent to the shoreline, Shouta’s throwing away wrappers (they’re all yours) and unbuckling his seatbelt. Your arms cross, a pout heavy in your lips as your eyes flutter closed. . Almost as if you being unable to see him makes him unable to see you.

“C’mon, baby.” You both miss the nickname, and despite the tension, it feels so natural dripping from his tongue.

Still, you whine. Mind occupied by your nearly offset tantrum prior to getting back at the dock. “I’m staying outside.”

“You’ll get heatstroke.” Shouta sighs, stepping back to lift you into his arms not even a moment later. You consider it ironic, for a moment, he always wears black despite the scorching heat. Bent at the waist as he leans over the open inside of the boat to unbuckle your seatbelt, his face remains stoic as your arms flail and fly to push him away. Your pretty face morphs into a nasty scowl, grumbles and mumbles toppling from your lips— you’re embarrassed.

He sets you down on the creaking wood, hands placed steady at your waist and shoulder to keep you upright— in your feeble attempt at escapism, your last result was simply going limp.

You just won’t budge, standing planted at the end of the dock despite the tugs to your biceps, forearm— hands, wrists. Your last attempt at pushing him away ends up in stumbles, nearly tripping over your own feet as you stomp down the polished dock, eyes hardening with the contact of deep, dark pools in Aizawa’s irises.

You were holding hands.

It’s been days. You haven’t left your room in days. At first, Shouta doesn’t worry. He doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t question why you don’t come downstairs. When he asks your parents about it it’s always the same thing— ‘That’s just how he is when he doesn’t get his way,’ or ‘He’ll come around.’ The more he asks, the mode suspicion, More questions, mostly wondering why he’s so enamored by their son— even if he had been closer to you when you were younger. But that was long ago, and you hardly remember.

And that isn’t even it.

He starts to worry, to feel bad, on day six. Not a single sound that even points to your presence. No creaking floorboards, no music playing from your old, antique and overpriced record player, no sounds of muffled laughter. It makes him feel out of his skin, like a bystander watching the inhabitants of this very beach house go about their day like nothing is wrong. But this wrong, so very wrong—

He wants you. His boy, his brat, his best friend’s son. It’s wrong and it’s taboo, but so help him, he yearns.

His feet had carried himself upstairs before his mind could, following after you a good half-hour later. You heard him on his way in, the shuffle of his slipper-clad feet from the outside of your door. Still, you’d made no effort to move, no effort to free yourself from the cocoon of your childhood blankets, no effort to open the door despite his gentle knocking.

“You ready to talk yet?” He was willing to brush it all aside. The pushing, the persistent flirting, the slight disregard for his feelings, the mentions of his son. Really, he was jealous. Maybe it’s unsavory for him to admit, maybe he shouldn’t think of his son as competition. And he knows, of course, there’s nothing there— he’s only ever competing with himself. He just can’t help it.

Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.

“I don’t like being ignored.” Your voice was small, but he could still hear it through the door. He heard it all, every implication. His sweet boy, his spoiled brat. You froze, just briefly, before he let himself in. The door creaked slowly with its open and close, a gentle click of the lock as the air grew thick.

Your old bed is small and creaky. Almost as much as the underused floorboards, your old bedroom screams with just as much personality as it does neglect. There’s tiny figurines, posters, awards, memorabilia— but it’s all too clean. Even if it has collected dust, not a thing is out of place. Pristine. There’s a few scattered photos— awkward haircuts, familial pets, the works. . Unapologetically you, maybe when you were just a tad bit more naive— but you nonetheless. It even smells like you, just with a hint of sea salt and warm, summer-y vanilla. Shouta wants to bury his nose in it.

“None of my fancy college boyfriends liked it here, Maybe ‘Toshi would.” You shift your weight as Shouta sits at the edge of your bed, the springy mattress creaking ever so slightly. There’s something left unsaid between the small string of words— and it’s sour. Twists on Shouta’s tongue, like he’s bitten into old bread, and it’s not just the mention of past boyfriends. Sure, that’s not exactly what he’d call this. . . relationship, but it’s not like it’d feel wrong. And he’d certainly feel bitter if his son were in his shoes. “Guess my sheets weren’t silky enough. Can tell you what was, th—”

“I like it.” It’s simple. The admission— simple and sweet, like it’s obvious. Shouta watches your lips part for a moment, just to close again, like a fish out of water. You look so small when you’re caught off guard, glancing to the side and shifting your weight onto your palms as you sit in the comfy middle of your bed. He knows what you’re doing— redirecting the conversation by flirting (it does get his heart beating, he’ll admit it)— and it makes you seem softer, almost.

He watches you sniffle for a moment, a quiet sound as you shift your knees with exuberating coyness. Your eyebrows furrow, cheeks puffed into a pout because, “That's it? You just ‘ like ’ it?”

He’ll give it to you, you never give up. He’d been warned, he was skeptical, and he’s been proven wrong. And, in the brunette’s head, you’d tallied over three strikes. Perhaps he was being too lenient. And now, Shouta, the weak man that he is, simply wants to indulge.

“What else would I say?”

“That it’s nice,” You cock your head to the side. “That you’ve never seen a room so nice. Which m’sure is true, anyway. . Are you low income, Sho? I can’t imagine what it’s like being a single father of two— or one, since Hitoshi moved out forever ago.”

The older man takes a breath through his nose, and out through his mouth. Pretty irises flicker down to meet the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, like the tidal wave of emotion has washed away back into shore, his voice is level as he speaks, “You spoke to him.”

“You ignored me,” You say it as if it’s obvious, simple, that if you can’t have Shouta you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. And though it’s not entirely true, you only really stalked his social media to learn more about his father, you don’t think your heart can stomach seeing pride swell in Aizawa’s chest. “Wanted your attention, Daddy.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, cold air rattling the bones as he watches you stare up at him. Your eyes look softer, boyish, wider at this angle. His pink tongue darts over his equally pink lips, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Show me.”

“Shh, sh, sh,” Shouta’s cock slips down your throat with a low grunt, the slippery walls clench around the fat head of his cock. Just as he imagined it, cutting off pretty whines and gasps, head bobbing back and forth— like you can’t tell whether it’s too much or too little. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his thick, sticky cock nestled against your throat— but it feels good, heavy and throbbing in a way that makes your brain shut off so quickly you drool. It sticks to his shaft and slides down his balls, painting your chin in a syrupy-sweet layer of saliva, but you’re too far gone to wipe it away. Such a good boy.

He must’ve said it aloud, because there you are nodding, lazily bobbing your head as he grinds in and out of your mouth. There’s a loud, sticky sound coming from your throat, squelching and soaked, obscene in a way that makes you whimper around your heavy mouthful of cock. He’s quick to correct himself— you only ever seem to behave when you’re stuffed with his dick, and he can’t have you thinking your behavior is acceptable. With a grunt, deep and velvety, Aizawa pushes deeper into your mouth until you gag— tight throat convulsing and quivering around his shaft.

You slurp loudly, choking and gasping as you struggle to pull back. His balls hit your chin, heavy and sticky and so fucking good as tears stream down your face. You’re starting to get into it now, making a mess of yourself as you stick out your tongue to lick along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, eyes focused on the rings of saliva holding you together. Shouta pulls out to let you breathe, his cock quickly liding upupup your throat and past your lips until all you can do is whine and lean forward, lips wet with spit as you chase after what you’ve been wanting for the past month.

“Stop fuckin’ moving. Let Daddy use your throat, wanna hear you cry on it,” The bulge of his fat cock shows in your throat, in and out, in and out, in and out.

You want to whine, to beat your fists against his thighs, and kick your feet— it’s all so much. He has you by the hair, big hand pulling and tugging, lifting you on and off his cock like a warm, tight fleshlight. You fail to bite back a growl, though it emits more as a cute, pathetic sound, glassy eyes focused on his cock being shoved down your hot, wet throat. It’s so easy to press your lips against the darkness of his pubes, to smear pre along your pouty lips and cheeks. His cock jumps in your mouth, thick and long and curved, leaking at the tip.

It’s hard to adjust to the stretch, sputtering and gagging with such cute, greedy sounds. You’re getting ahead of yourself, eager, tongue lapping at the achy underside of his dick, pressed against his balls. And, with a gasp, Shouta pulls out, huffs and unintelligible groans filling the air. The blushing head of his cock taps against your cheek. Once, twice, again and again. “C’mere.”

And yet, despite all that bark, your eyes barely make contact with the ones above you. Instead they trace the pulse of his shaft, how heavy his cock hangs between his legs, how it makes his long fingers almost smaller in comparison. The way pre dribbles from the tip, sticky and warm and oh, so inviting. It’s as if he can read your mind, knows how badly you miss the weight of his thick cock stretching your throat, “You can do better than that," and you almost can't believe it.

Better? Your eyes flicker to the saliva dripping from your chin, suddenly aware of the slick pre smeared across your pretty cheeks and the heavy pants leaving your lips. What gets better than this? You let him use your throat like a new fleshlight, cried on his cock and muffled the sounds in his pubes. Ignored the aching of your own cock just to focus on his own, absentmindedly bucking your hips into nothing, even if it made you look like a pathetic puppy. Fine— you can show him better. You can break him first.

You blink rapidly, tears clumped in your pretty eyelashes, lips parting to, indubitably, sass the older man. “What, need help gettin’ it up? Fuck you, can do it m—”

Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.

“— I wasn’t asking.” You really fucked up now, eyes wide as you’re lifted up by your throat and manhandled into Shouta’s strong arms. He smells good, and just as strong, as your face is pressed into his chest and your tiny, tiny shorts are pushed past your thighs. The air is cold, it spreads goosebumps along your skin, and you’re sure Shouta can feel them along his palm as he grabs handfuls of your ass. He ignores your off guard ‘Hey! I wasn’t done!’, ignores the squirm of your waist, ignores your poor, weeping cock.

Being the smooth, calculated man that he is, you’d expect Aizawa to put a rhythm and pace to his spankings. But no, there’s nothing for you to latch onto but the bundles of his hair as he hands out sporadic, random, and hard smacks along each globe of your ass. There is no back and forth, no favoring one over the other— it’s just where he wants, when he wants. If he wants to watch your thighs convulse and jiggle beneath his heavy palm he will, and if he wants to smack your hands away from his wrists as you tug and tug— he will.

Shouta groans when you let out a particularly pathetic cry, biting your lip and whimpering into his warm skin. You can feel his big hands part your cheeks, squeezing the skin until it spills over each finger and your ass has turned tender and sensitive. He coos, feeling you squirm and wriggle against his hold, “S’it too much? Daddy’s poor baby.”

It shouldn’t sound so sweet coming from his lips, even when it’s condescending and rough, even when he’s cracking his palm down again and again despite your kicks and squeals.

But it does.

“Da—ddy. . !” your voice quivers, hips rocking to an uncoordinated tune. So little contact and yet it feels like so much, his hot palms against your warm skin. . . The tears rolling down your darling face. . . The way your cock throbs against your tummy, your mouth aches with emptiness, your hole twitches beneath the weight of his fingers. The thought makes you want to whine all over again, body squirming and trembling as he holds and kneads the flesh of your ass.

“Quiet. I should shove my fingers down your throat to shut you up,” Shouta murmurs, so unnecessarily mean, kissing the dampness of your forehead before his hand cracks down against your plush ass three, four, five more times. You try to keep up your resolve, pretty legs trembling and knuckles clenching— but it’s just so hard. Being a brat is easy— it’s fun— you’ll give up a few tears, cry and pout, get your way. Easy. So you won’t break and give him what he wants. He’ll have to work for it, get a taste of his own mean, mean medicine.

Delayed gratification.

Wet llips open to speak, something smug and almost smart, but it’s reduced to a wet moan. You feel it—fingers spreading apart the globes of your ass, and more cracking down between them, on your empty, pretty little hole. For a moment your brain slips out of your body, thoughts static and turned to mush, fuzzy and convulsing where you lay. You process the sound of hushing, the feeling of wetness, the sound of slick spit against your skin. . . Thick, merciless fingers rubbing and tapping and sliding against you.

“Oh, god,” You sob, eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows pinching the second more pressure builds and— oh, a finger slips inside. “Fingers— that’s, oh god..” Inching in slowly, rubbing against your velvety walls and so fucking slick you’re beginning to see stars. Whatever you had your mind set on earlier flies straight out the window, your brain short circuits as your sopping hole flutters around his fingers, sucking them in.

“Fuck, baby, look at you clench on Daddy’s fingers. Want Daddy to finger-fuck this cute little cunt silly?” If you could see his face you’re sure he’d be smiling— an eerie thing, eyes trained on his fingers getting sucked back into you. Such a needy boy. “C’mon, say it. Tell Daddy you want his big fingers in your sweet, greedy little pussy.”

You can’t help it, hole throbbing rhythmically along his long fingers, squelching and gushing with stickiness. The swell of your ass ripples as you wiggle your hips, rising and falling to grindgrindgrind. “Fuck me already, c’mon, old man.”

“That what your little ‘boyfriends’ do?” Your lip quivers— he hadn't even flinched at the sass— and instead used your own words against you. “Oh, baby. They didn’t give that little boycunt the attention he needed, hm? That why you throw so many tantrums?”

Your hand finds his wrist, fingers wrapping around thick and strong limp just enough to get his hand moving, trying to guide him deeper, faster, harder. He should reward bratty behavior, but the words spill from his mouth almost immediately, “That’s it, just needed something to fill you up, nice and full.”

It’s ironic— he says it just before pulling out his soaked fingers. And, at your nightstand, opens the drawer to retrieve lube. You watch him pause, eyes scanning the contents of the drawer until his lips quirk downward. Lollipop wrappers. An ungodly amount— you really went on a hunger strike because he ignored you? For six whole days?

“What am I gonna do with you.” He sighs, but grabs a sucker regardless, tearing open its pretty, pastel blue packaging to reveal its red, shiny hard candy. He pops the treat into his mouth, holds it on the right side with his teeth, and squirts a generous amount of lube over the globes of your ass. His hands slip and slide as he guides it around, watches it dribble down your thighs and relishes in the way your hole opens up for him, soaked and sticky.

Your eyebrows pinch, hips wiggling as he pulls the lollipop free from his mouth and directs it against your own, “Suck,” He murmurs, but it’s forced past your lips before you can process the demand. Here come more tears, burning your nose as you hiccup out a tiny, overwhelmed, “Daddy?”

“It’s okay, I’m here,” He coos, circling the pad of his thumb along the rim of your hole. Even as your feet instinctively kick, there’s no reaction from him, just a pleased hum. “Keep sucking, atta boy.”

His thumb feels like a lot, makes you squeal and shiver as he presses it inside, and something hot and wet accompanies it. That's good, the heat of his tongue licking and sucking at your throbbing rim, bubbly spit dribbling down his chin and caught in his stubble. One hand is focused on fucking your boyhole raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re incoherent. His palm presses into the small of your ass, tongue working hard until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. He takes the opportunity to snatch the lollipop back, keeps his tongue pressed against your walls until—

He trails the glossy sphere of the candy down to your sloppy little hole, nudging and prodding until he slowly works the lollipop inside. “You can take it,” He growls, eyes trained on your fucked-out face. He can feel it, the tightening of your balls, the way your hole aches and pulses with the treat inside you. “That’s it, sweet thing. Wanna make this pussy cum, give it t’me. Let Daddy have it..”

He murmurs, and suddenly, instead of the treat that he’s popping back into his mouth, there’s the head of his perfectly thick, so big, cock pressing against your slick, thoroughly fucked-out hole and—

Oh.

“Sweet.”

You sob into nothing, back arching and spongy walls clinging down on Shouta’s cock as it’s worked inch by inch into you and— you can’t fucking believe it. You fought for so long, put on a bratty attitude and stomped your feet. Why would you ever push Shouta and his cock away for so long? Your breaths are short. Tiny little gasps as his large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs open to get a better view of the thick dick pumping you full. Your pretty little hole, sheen with spit and lube, exposed and on display for him and his cock. And, yeah, this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. . . You want him to break you.

“You’re— fuck, you’re so gross, Daddy,” Shouta grits his teeth, “Ohh, havin’ your best friend’s son on your fat cock, fuckin’ my pussy so full. . !” You’re straight up babbling, cross-eyed as each thrust knocks coherent thoughts out your brain. A real, proper slut, desperately humping upupup to fuck yourself on his dick. With this position— knees to your ears and holes on display, you barely have the control to move— but it’s cute to watch you try anyway.

“Shut up and take it,” He rasps, voice deep and scratchy in a harsh whisper as his hips snap back and forth. “Don’t want mommy and daddy to hear their son calling someone else daddy, do you?”

“Daddy— Daddy, my pussy—“ You’re babbling, it’s all you can do since Shouta is all force with his thrusts; takes what he needs, feeds you his cock good and so, so deep. Over and over, you let out broken whines, desperate for it, looking down as best you can to watch your own cock bob and jump against your tummy, thighs sticky with spit and lube. You can hear the sound of your slutty, pathetic moans, the wet plaplaplap of skin, lube trailing and frothing between your bodies as Shouta fucks into you. You can’t stop twitching— your legs, your hole, your cock.

“This is Daddy’s pussy,” He corrects, angling his hips just right, the heat of his cock pressing against every special spot you’ve got. Every bundle of nerves, every silky, spongy wall you’ve got wrapped around him. “Just like that,” You’re gagging for it, pouty lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he continues to watch your hole tighten around his thick, veiny cock. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into you, your body jerking back as he pounds, and pounds, and pounds. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. . .” Your breath is caught in your throat, and if you could, you’d scream, your body tensing as your cock throbs and bounces, cum spraying across your bare chest — stickiness shooting out your spent cock until you’re twitching, handsfree and body set ablaze. Shouta shows no signs of stopping, instead keeping his cock inside you as he flips you around, eyes narrowed. He fucks you through it, watching more cum squirt from your cock, leaky hole milking him for all he’s got.

“Dumb sluts love cock, baby. S’that what you are?” His voice is a low purr, pressing your face into the mattress, watching your ass fall back onto his cock until he feels himself aching hard, hard enough to start cumming inside you.

“Yeah, mhmm,” You drool into your pillow, absentmindedly fucking yourself back onto him. You’re desperate to chase after it, the searing spiral of pressure growing in your stomach, tight hole bearing down on his cock. “Daddy’s slut, s’me!” For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you ride out his hard thrusts, offering tiny movements of your own, up and down to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, to feel his balls slap against your thighs.

“Good sluts take Daddy’s cum,” Your eyes, so glassy and empty, is what gets him, groaning loud as he pumps a load inside you. “Take it, boy. Let Daddy knock you up.” It’s messy, and downright pornographic watching his cum leak out of you, just for him to fuck it back in with the head of his dick. Shouta’s cum starts to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move.

He ignores your needy, overstimulated whines when he pulls out completely, his spent cock hanging heavy between his thighs. Even when you’re limp and boneless, body trembling violently, you want more.

“Da— Da—ddy,” You sob, eyes squeezed shut as strong arms pull you up and into even stronger thighs. Sitting on his lap now, Shouta coos hums, basks in the sight of his pretty boy’s afterglow.

“Daddy’s here. I’m here, I got you.” He whispers into your shoulder, and that’s all you need to hear. The thought of his best friend melts away— you’re more than that. You’re not just his best friend’s son. . .

You’re Shouta’s boy.

Summer is coming to an end.

There’s a seasonal chill in the air and it’s getting dark in the early afternoon. The beach has switched its course, currents changing direction and fish disappearing from the shoreline. The weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up, and the clouds have yet to dissipate into the sky. . Shouta helps you pack, grumbles when you press chaste kisses against his skin the whole time— shuts down the stomps of your feet while you whine, “I don’t wanna leave.”

“Spring break,” Is all Shouta says, his mismatched eyes downcast in a way that highlights his long, pretty eyelashes. Then, voice barely audible, he whispers, “I don’t want you to, either.”

Your body visibly straightens, giddiness painting your boyish face as you smile wide and big. The older man almost regrets saying it, huffing with you lean impossible close to hug him tight. “Will you call me?”

“Whenever you want,” He says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. You watch as he throws your large bag of lollipops into your carry-on backpack, but not before plucking a treat free from the others. “You know I will.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

#₊˚⊹♡ 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓎 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒 #mgonna be outta commission for 18-20 business weeks #kiddin. #shota aizawa x reader #aizawa shota x reader #shouta aizawa imagine #aizawa headcanons #shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa imagine #aizawa smut #aizawa x reader #anime x male reader #x male reader smut #bnha x male reader #x male reader #x bottom male reader #bottom male reader #x sub male reader #aizawa x y/n #shouta x you #shouta x reader #mha x male reader #mha x trans reader #mha x y/n #mha x reader #mha x you #aizawa x you #aizawa x male reader

[osaemu]

thinking about sleepy sex with him. the two of you can barely keep your eyes open as his thrusts grow lazier and lazier, lulling you to sleep too. after a long, hard couple of days, both of you wanted to fuck to release the tension but ended up fighting to stay awake instead. his clothes are half-on, half-off, and who knows where yours are — if you had to guess, they were probably strewn somewhere in the mess of linen sheets tangled between your legs. and the way he gives you those bedroom eyes filled with all the tenderness in the world just drives you feral, and god, if you weren't slipping away into unconsciousness, you would've been begging him for more.

gojo, GETO, dazai, CHUUYA, fyodor, DILUC, ZHONGLI, childe, LEVI, reiner, AIZAWA, hawks

#✧ — docs #✧ — smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #gojo smut #geto smut #dazai smut #chuuya smut #fyodor smut #aizawa smut #levi smut #diluc smut #zhongli smut #childe smut #reiner smut #hawks smut #im fallin asleep as i write this . . .