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mika-writes-fanfics · 1 year

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Make it up to you

Professor!Touya x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: You're assigned to be the teaching assistant for the new, attractive instructor at your university. His name? Professor Touya. Ever the good student, you hope to maintain a professional relationship with him and stay in good standing, but when he publicly embarrasses you in front of the entire class, all that is thrown out the window.

Warnings/tags: Colleg AU, quirkless AU, older Touya (coded to be in his 30s), female reader, student/teacher's assistant reader, professor/student relationship, dumbification, fingering, creampie, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms (female), public sex, usage of sir, public embarrassment, lots of dirty talking, messy sex

Author's note: Huge shoutout to @dabisqueen and @history-be-written for being my beta readers and giving me good suggestions. I appreciate you guys sm!!! This fic truly wouldn't have turned out the way it did without you two.

Word Count: 7.9K

“So,” Your friend turns to you, asking you in piqued interest, “Who’d the department put you with? You know who you’ll be an assistant for yet?”

“Yeah, I was told I’ve been placed with ‘Professor Touya Todoroki’,” you answer. The name is completely unfamiliar to you, though, you’re hoping she has at least heard of him before.

It’s your turn to ask her a question, and you choose to say, “Have you ever had him?”

Much to your dismay, she shakes her head no.

“Nope, never had him,” she replies. You frown slightly at her answer. Turning to your friend’s roommate, you hope to find that she has had some sort of interaction with him.

“What about you? Have you had him before?” You question her. Just like your friend, she shakes her head, much to your disappointment.

“I haven’t,” shesays. “I don’t even think anyone else has talked about him before either. I’ve never heard his name in my life.”

Damn.

You were wanting to hear your peers' experience with your soon to be ‘boss’ of sorts, so that you could prepare yourself, but it seems you’re shit out of luck. You’ll just have to go in blind.

“You know, they hired a new professor this semester. It might just be him,” your friend points out. She smiles at you mischievously before adding, “And rumor has it, he’s hot as fuck.”

“Ooooh, how lucky. I’m jealous,” your friend’s roommate giggles. You scoff at the reaction.

“No reason to be. He’s my professor, ‘s not like I can, you know, do anything with him,” you counter.

You check your phone, seeing that the time to meet the new professor has come. “I gotta head over to his office before his lecture starts. I’ll catch you around.”

“See you later then. Have fun~” your friend farewells in a singsong voice.

You chuckle at her antics and make your way over to the department building and to his office. When you get there, you stop to peer through the window on his office door, trying to see if he’s inside. Luckily, he’s there, looking down at a paper in his hand, unaware of your presence.

You notice right away he doesn’t look like the rest of the university staff. He looks quite a bit younger than the rest of the aging faculty. Though, he was still a couple years your senior, in his early thirties at least. What makes him really stand out to you, apart from his piercing cyan eyes and dark, shaggy hair, is the way he dressed. He’s wearing tight black jeans, a form-fitting white button up, an expensive wristwatch, and black Converse. You can’t help but admire his intense, blue eyes as he studies the sheet of paper in his hand, too focused to notice your staring. Your eyes travel the expanse of his face, taking in his features.

You remember your friend’s words, her little comment echoing in your brain. ‘Rumor has it, he’s hot as fuck,’ you’re reminded. For once, it seems her gossip is true. Even you can’t deny it; Professor Todoroki is very attractive.

But you won’t act on your feelings, you can’t. You’re supposed to be his assistant after all! And so, with that thought in your mind, you snap yourself out of your daze. You take a deep breath, steeling your nerves and suppressing your desires, before knocking on the door.

He looks up from his papers and glances at you through the window in the door, before beckoning you inside his office. You swing open the door and take a few tentative steps into the room. He quickly looks you up and down, just for a split second, only for his eyes to settle back on your face and look at you expectantly. You hate how his overt glance at your body flusters you and makes you feel hot all over.

“Excuse me, are you Professor Todoroki?” You ask with a soft voice.

“Yep, that’d be me. Although, you can just call me Professor Touya. I don’t use my father’s last name,” he explains. His deep, smoky voice worsens your nervousness. The way his voice drawls has butterflies swarming in your stomach. He tosses the papers he was reading off to the side and approaches you, smirking down at you. “But what can I do for you, sweetheart?”

The pet name is something you’re surprised to hear coming from your professor. It borders dangerously on unprofessional, and yet, you find yourself letting it slide. Hearing him say something like that to you sends a wave of heat between your legs.

Keeping your cool around him is not going to be easy, especially if he keeps calling you that.

You start by introducing yourself and telling him your name before continuing. “I’m sure the department informed you already, but I’ll be your TA for this next semester,” you start. “I look forward to working with you.”

He hums in response.

“So you’re my little assistant? Gonna help me with all the long hours grading, hm?” He asks.

“Yes sir,” you answer. There’s a darker expression that flashes on his face, but it passes just as quickly as it appeared. He narrows his eyes slightly and lazily leans against his desk, supporting his weight using his forearms. Underneath the fabric of his button-up, you can see the muscles of his arms flexing.

Oh god.

He’s fucking ripped too.

“You know, the other faculty told me about you,” he mentions. You can’t help but quirk up at the comment, feeling curious. What did the other teachers say about you?

“Nothing bad, I hope,” you joke.

“They all said you were a good student. Never a rule breaker, always professional. Top of your class too, I heard,” he starts. It fills you with a sense of pride and accomplishment, to hear your hard work has gotten you some recognition. You’re practically preening at the praise. And yet, it feels like there’s something else he wants to add. He straightens up and leans off of his desk. The space between you closes as he stands dangerously close to you.

“But there’s one thing I think they got wrong,” he counters.

You tense up as your mind reels. His voice lowers and he adds, “I’m willing to bet you’re not as good as they say you are.”

Your brow twitches in annoyance at his bold claim. Just who does he think he is?

You clench your jaw, biting down the urge to snap back. He’s your superior. You can’t just yell at him and let him have it, not this early in the semester at least. Thus, you settle for tense questioning. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” he insinuates and takes a step back. The distance between the two of you gives you space to breathe, space to fume. “We’ll meet an hour before class to go over the lesson plan. I give a lot of tests over the semester, so come by every afternoon to help with grading.”

Oh great.

You’ll be spending most of your week nights with this hot asshole.

“Understood?” He asks. His cobalt eyes bore into yours as he looks at you expectantly, waiting for your response.

“Yes sir,” you answer flatly. Despite your lack of enthusiasm, he seems to grin at your agreement.

“Hm, sir. That’s not something I’m used to hearing from my students,” he teases. There’s a darker look in his eyes that disappears as quickly as you notice it. “Your underclassmen tend to be more… casual around me.”

“And does that bother you?” You ask, suddenly feeling a bit awkward at your apparent odd choice of words.

“No,” he says, quickly denying it. His voice seems to drop an octave, and he adds, “I prefer it, actually.”

There seems to be something off about the situation, something greater lying behind the surface of his words, but you can’t seem to figure out what greater meaning lies underneath something as simple as an honorific to him.

The tension is broken after he clears his throat and leans off of the desk upon looking at the clock. “But enough of that,” he starts. “Our first lecture is scheduled to start soon. Let’s start talking about the lesson plan.”

If there’s one thing you've learned about Professor Touya over the course of the next few weeks, it’s that he’s both fun to talk to yet incredibly strict. He has a penchant for teasing you and the two of you often banter with one another, but despite the growing bond forming between the two of you, he still insists on you calling him sir.

You suppose he still wants to maintain at least a bit of an aura of professionalism between the two of you. And so, despite how awkward it feels, you continue to address him as such, unaware of the little quirk in his smirk that always follows.

In speaking with him and sitting in during his lectures, you find yourself being intrinsically drawn to him like a moth to a flame. You reason it’s because you admire his remarkable intelligence, amongst other enigmatic qualities.

He’s driven. Witty. Mysterious. Captivating, even.

With how much he has going for him, it’s no mystery why the university hired him; he’s easily one of the brightest minds in his field, and an engaging professor as well. You could learn from him.

Yeah.

That’s all it is.

You just want to learn from him, is all.

That’s why you’re gravitating to him.

You don't want to think about him outside of class.

You don’t want to think about the way his attractive smirk gives you butterflies.

You don’t want to think about kissing those soft lips of his as you stare at him speaking.

And you definitely don’t want to think about his fingers descending down your body and touching your aching core.

You try to avoid thinking about those less than pure daydreams you have about him, both out of self respect for yourself, considering the insulting implication he threw at you during your first meeting, and out of aversion to entertaining lewd ideas about your professor. However, despite this conscious decision, your subconscious has other plans. You find yourself often stealing glances his way, admiring his attractive features, much to your own dismay.

Today is another instance of your subconscious betraying you, and your eyes are now fixated on him, taking in the frustrated scrunch in his brow and tensed shoulders. He abruptly stops setting up the presentation on the computer and walks over towards the windows in the classroom. In an attempt to get respite from the rising heat in the room, he cracks open all the windows.

“You’d think with the high tuition they’d have enough money to fix this damn AC already,” Professor Touya scoffs. The building’s lack of cool air is a well-known problem, which is why you wore such a thin, short dress today in the first place. It was too damn hot to show up to class wearing much else.

He sighs in annoyance as he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls up the sleeves, revealing something that has your breath hitch in your throat. They start from his wrists and travel up his arms. Shades of purple and blue accent his black ink work, the hues of blue matching his mysterious, cerulean-colored eyes. From what you’re able to discern, his tattoos go even farther than just his forearms. You wonder just how many he has, and where. The curiosity makes your mind entertain some less than pure ideas, picturing his bare skin and imagining just what kind of ink work he hides underneath his clothes. You try to reign in these fantasies of yours, but you’re too busy drooling over him.

Too busy to even notice that he’s caught you staring.

He smirks to himself upon seeing you ogling him. His hunch was right, there was something more between the two of you; an unspoken, mutual sexual tension. Though, you seem to be fighting your apparent attraction to him, he could see it in the way you quickly caught yourself and looked away, avoiding looking at him much more at all. He’s hoping he can change that. Maybe he can make you see there’s no shame in it. He’d be more than happy to indulge your naughty fantasies.

He lazily glances at the clock, seeing how the scheduled lecture will start shortly. It’s then that he remembers something. He leans closer to you and taps the desk, startling you and flustering you with his sudden closeness, and requests, “Hey, I had some handouts for today’s class printed out upstairs. Will you go pick them up for me?”

“Yes sir, I can do that,” you agree.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says. And with that, you leave the class and head to the printing room. Shortly after you leave, a couple students trickle into the room, all belonging to the same close-knit clique of fraternity members. They each take their usual seats and continue to talk amongst themselves freely. Their conversation is painfully loud. He can hear them all the way from the front of the classroom, even though they sit far in the back.

“Aw man, that hot TA isn’t here today,” one of the frat boys bemoans. “She’s usually around before class.”

“Fucking bummer,” another complains. “Was hoping to get her number.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t mind getting a piece of that,” the other agrees. “She’s a total fucking nerd but I bet she’d be a decent fuck.” They all loudly laugh at that comment and continue making their comments about you.

He knows their type, and just how it would end for you should you associate with them. Besides the fact that they’re all idiots and that alone would be enough to disappoint you, you would be wasted on them. Those frat boys wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you. They wouldn’t know how to make you cum. They wouldn’t make you completely dumb with pleasure. There’s just something special about getting a normally smart girl to completely fall apart for him, to give a girl so much pleasure that everything else melts away. And truthfully, he wants to take you there. He wants to see just what it would take to fuck you stupid. He has to know, just how much pleasure does it take to turn your brain to mush.

His desire for you is why these frat boys irk him so much. They casually talk about seducing you into their bed like you’re an easy lay. But the fun that comes with you is the cat and mouse game, the deliberation in your brain between suppressing your attraction towards him and wanting to cave into your own desires. Your little errand couldn’t have come at a better time. He’s glad you’re not here to give them an opportunity to make a move on you, but he can’t keep sending you away before class starts to spare you the misfortune of these idiots making a pass at you.

No.

He needs to send a little message to the competition.

And lucky for him, he’s got just the idea.

More students start filing in as he makes his plans. He has everything thought out, and all that is left is the final piece: you. But shortly before Professor Touya starts the lecture, you make it inside the classroom, papers in hand. You attempt to start passing out the handouts, when he stops you in your tracks. He takes the stack of sheets from your hands and haphazardly tosses them aside.

“I thought they needed that for today?” You ask, thrown off by the apparent change in plans.

“Nah, we’ll just have them copy the diagram themselves for today. I saw some research that suggested it helps more with memorization. You’ve seen their test grades, the students need all the help they can get,” he lies. You can’t help but genuinely chuckle at his light jab at his own students. As much as you think it’s a waste to discard the handouts– if Professor Touya believes it’ll help the students, you won’t argue with him.

“Alright, whatever you say, sir,” you laugh. The lecture starts as it normally does and follows the previously discussed lesson plan, until it comes time to show the students the diagram. He turns to you mid-lecture, about to ask you for some sort of assistance.

“You’ve got better art skills than me. Draw this diagram. Top of page ninety,” Professor Todoroki instructs. He slides over his copy of the textbook, pages turned to a rather complicated figure. It’s far too much information to draw from memory.

“Sure thing,” you answer. You pick up a marker and uncap it, before holding the textbook in the crook of your arm. You’re about to start copying the figure near the bottom of the board when he interrupts you.

“Ah, I’m going to write more notes there in a minute. Why don’t you put it over here instead?” He points far up the whiteboard to some blank space tucked in the upper corner. Your stomach sinks at seeing where he wants you to place the diagram. You’re regretting wearing such a short dress today. But still, short dress or not, you have to do this. Maybe… Maybe you can manage it, without flashing the entire class?

Without much of a choice, you study the diagram, balancing the heavy textbook in one hand while you reach up the whiteboard with a dry-erase marker in hand. You start to stand up on the tips of your toes and you try to aim for a slightly closer area of blank space, all the while your mind is preoccupied with the hem of your skirt. You’re dangerously close to accidentally erasing all of his previous notes, something you’re not too keen on doing given his strictness.

“Having trouble?” Professor Touya teases, with an amused grin on his face.

“No, ‘m fine,” you lie. Not that you would admit it to him, but it’s more than just a bit awkward to both hold onto the book and stand up high to draw the figure.

“Here, let me,” he insists. He comes up behind you, his crotch just barely brushing against your ass. Your breath gets caught in your throat at your body involuntarily stiffens. You internally cringe at how something so simple as a passing touch makes your body feel hot.

He plucks the textbook from your hands, allowing you a bit more freedom of motion to stand up higher and draw with precision. He sidles up next to you and holds the book open for you. Still, even with his help, it’s still hard to draw exactly where he wants you to. Your dress already feels rather high on your legs as is, you’re sure disaster would happen should you stand up higher.

“Come on, you’re almost there, just stand up a little more,” he encourages and goads. You almost jolt when you feel a warm hand touch your waist, egging you on to push the envelope just a little further. Not wanting to disobey him, you do as he says, though the regret is instant. The skirt of your dress hikes over your hips and reveals the curve of your ass. A sharp, hushed silence sweeps over the room. Your ears feel like they’re burning and tears are welling up in your eyes at the sheer humiliation you feel in this moment. You draw the figure anyways, albeit carelessly and sloppily.

You just want this to be over.

But since your back is turned to the class, you’re completely unaware of the silent exchange happening between Professor Touya and the frat boys in the back row. While you are doing as he asked, ever his obedient assistant, he’s busy glowering at his competition.

The message is clear.

You are off limits.

When the diagram is finally drawn, you straighten back out and place your feet flat on the ground. You should be a bit relieved when your dress finally covers your body once more, but you’re unable to feel that respite. The damage is done, and you’re now left to simmer in your own embarrassment.

“Is that all you needed from me, sir?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper and thick with emotion. There’s a lump in your throat forming as you fight back the urge to cry.

“Yeah, that’s all, sweetheart,” he answers, in a manner that’s almost a subtle attempt at soothing you. You let out a shaky, uneven breath.

“Okay,” you say through a tense sigh. Your voice cracks when you speak once more, “I-I’ll be in your office to… get started on grading.”

You dismiss yourself and nearly rush out of the classroom, all too eager to distance yourself from the source of your shame. Once you’re in the safety of the hallways, you freely let the tears flow down your face. You’re at least thankful the halls are somewhat sparse, meaning that few are able to see you fall apart like this. The last thing you can handle emotionally is someone asking you what happened or if you were okay. Talking about it would just make the humiliation much more real.

When you finally reach Professor Touya’s office, you close the blinds on his door behind you and prop yourself up against the desk with your hands. You try to recollect yourself, to no avail. Your shame just eats away at you. But at least with his office so far out of the way of all other classes and the blinds drawn down, no one can see you fall apart like this. You can stew in your emotions somewhat privately, at least until Professor Touya gets back.

Professor Touya.

You want to sneer at the thought of him. The more you think about what happened during the lecture, the more you can’t help but assume he wanted to embarrass you on purpose, like the asshole he is. He enjoys toying with you too much, but this time, he really went too far. You think you’ve been much too cordial with him. When he gets back, you swear you’ll give him a piece of your mind. Fuck professionalism, that was thrown out the window when he forced your hand and caught a peek up your dress.

Speak of the devil, or rather, think of the devil, and he appears. More time than you thought must have passed while you were smoldering in your feelings, as Professor Touya leisurely strolls into his office, now apparently finished with the lecture. You wipe your tears on the back of your hand, trying to make yourself look a little less weak in front of him and steeling your nerves to tell him off.

“So what the hell was that about, huh? Why do you get off on being an absolute dick to me? I know you did that shit on purpose,” you accuse. He makes his way over to you and stands in front of you, partially caging you against the desk. The close proximity to him makes you feel hot with what you assume is indignation.

Yeah, that’s what this feeling is.

You despise him.

He doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to let you vent out your frustrations, taking the spite you hurl at him. You’re very much angry at him, filled with so much frustration that your voice is unsteady as you yell, “You’re such a fucking ass. And for what! I did nothing to you, I’ve been nothing but helpful and polite. What could possibly make you want to humiliate me like that? What have I done to make you hate me like this?”

“Oh sweetheart, I don’t hate you,” he soothes. His voice sounds much more husky when he adds, “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Well I still think you’re an asshole for that little stunt you pulled, even if it wasn’t because you hated me,” you counter, speaking in between breaks in your voice. There’s still tears breaking past your lash line as a consequence of feeling so heated. Your emotions are only further worsened by the confusion you feel. If it wasn’t a malicious attempt to knock you down, why would he do such a thing to you?

“I know, I know,” he agrees. “How about I make it up to you then?”

“How could you possibly make it up to me?” You question as your voice cracks under the weight of your emotions. You move to wipe your face when he beats you to the punch, brushing away the tears falling down your cheek with his thumb. His hand stays on your face and he tilts your chin to him, angling your face closer to his.

“Well, I could start by making you feel good, give you something else to think about,” he insinuates. Your breath gets caught in your throat at his implication. “I know you feel it too, this tension between us. I’d love to indulge your fantasies about me, if you’d let me.”

You part your lips, searching for the right words and the strength to reject him, but with his face hovering tantalizingly close to yours, lips mere inches away, you realize you don’t have it in you.

Fuck.

You want him so bad.

“P-please,” you whisper. He has a shit eating grin on his face at your meek and embarrassed begging.

“What was that? You’ll need to speak up, sweetheart, I can’t hear you,” he teases. You swallow the lump in your throat, and lock eyes with him.

“Please, make me feel good,” you say again, this time with a little more conviction.

“Atta girl,” he praises. And with your agreeance, he closes the distance between the two of you and slots his mouth against yours. A gasp escapes you at the feeling of his lips working against your own. Your yearning and daydreaming didn’t prepare you for the intensity of this, for the pure wanting behind every movement of his lips.

The kiss becomes more and more heated as he presses his body further against yours, leaving little space between the two of you. His tongue dips out from his mouth and runs along the seam of your lips and you part slightly, allowing him the space to slip the wet muscle inside. You find yourself shuddering at the contact and gripping onto the fabric of his button up as a way to tether yourself in this moment. It’s almost a bit embarrassing just how much you’re melting into his touch from something as simple as kissing. Your body is eating it up regardless, sending waves of warmth throughout your entire being and pooling between your legs.

“Can I touch you?” He asks, after parting from the kiss, his breath fanning over your lips. Although you’ve been dreaming about this moment, and you desperately want to feel his touch all over you, your mind can’t help but chime in; you shouldn’t.

You really shouldn’t.

But with his hardening cock pressing up against your stomach and professionalism now abandoned, you throw caution to the wind and give in. You give him a nod and allow his hands to roam over your body. It’s almost dizzying to feel his touch, especially when his hands palm your chest and grope your ass, squeezing the plush flesh in his hands. He dives back in to press his lips up against yours in an intense, crushing kiss once more. You whimper against him, flustered at the feeling of his hot touch over your clothes. You’re becoming drunk on lust just from touches alone.

Your arousal is heightened as the hands at your ass trail to the front, reaching your hips, before snaking up your dress. His fingers press against your clothed mound. He smirks into the kiss upon feeling the wetness already clinging against the fabric.

You whine at the loss of friction when his fingers pull back, but the absence of his touch is short-lived. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties and tugs the clothing down your thighs. You part your legs to allow him to completely rid you of them, leaving your cunt now bare before him. You’re glad the blinds on his door are drawn, preventing anyone else from seeing the debauched sight of your panties on the floor in front of your professor.

The pads of his fingers teasingly trace up your inner thighs, slowly inching bit by bit up your legs and making his way to your aching core. You let out an involuntary gasp when he finally grazes your pussy, his touch now no longer separated by a layer of clothing.

His fingers run up and down your folds, spreading your juices over yourself and teasingly avoiding sinking into your eager hole. You squirm and jolt every time the tips of his fingers brush against your clit. His warm touch on your engorged bundle of nerves sends jolts of pleasure up your spine. The embarrassment and shame melts away into pure, unadulterated desire with every drag of his fingers over your slit, leaving you wetter and wetter. Your slick coats his fingers as he grazes over your hole. He looks down to see his skin glistening with your wetness, causing him to suck in a breath at the sight.

Realizing he’s teasing himself by waiting any longer, he decides to give you what you’ve been wanting. Two fingers finally dip inside of your heat, slowly at first. You let out a breathy moan as his digits sink into you. When they bottom out inside of you, you want to squirm at how full you feel with just his fingers alone. They’re the perfect combination of long and thick, stretching out your cunt with ease.

A sharp inhale escapes you when he slowly pulls out, almost entirely, before pumping back inside of you. He sets an agonizingly slow pace at first as he watches your every reaction, studying what movements and angles have you panting for him. Ever observant, he effortlessly finds your most sensitive spots and hones in on them before quickening his pace.

Your legs tremble and shake with every harsh thrust of his fingers, bringing you closer and closer to cumming with little effort on his part. He knows just how to curl them up, just how to press the ball of his hand against your clit, just how to get you panting for him. The relentless pumping of his fingers in and out of your hole sends floods of wetness to your core, coating his fingers with your slick. Moans loudly tumble out of your mouth when he slips another into your heat. Though as much as he’s enjoying hearing your slutty moans, he seems distracted.

He puts his palm over your mouth and leans into your ear. “Shhh, someone’s coming,” he hushes. “Might wanna quiet down unless you want your classmates to barge in and see your pussy full with my fingers.”

You don’t have to see him to know he’s smirking at the comment, feeding off of your apparent embarrassment. The sounds of footsteps and talking nears closer and closer to the door. Knowing your classmates are nearing the door while your legs are obscenely spread for your professor and stuffed full of his thick fingers makes you feel hot with humiliation and overwhelmed with panic, but the pleasure Touya gives you is too much to give up. And so, you bite back your moans in an attempt to stay completely silent. Your body tenses with the risk of getting caught, causing you to clench down even tighter around his fingers. But even though you’re desperately fighting back the urge to whine and wail for him, with very obvious strain, the bastard keeps pumping in and out of you. You just hope the sound of wet squelching isn’t audible through the door.

“I can’t see in, the blinds are closed. Is he not here today?” A student asks, her question partially muffled through Touya’s office door.

“No, he’s here. My roommate just left his class a while ago,” another student replies. The door knob jiggles as she tries to open the door. You hold your breath, expecting it to swing open and to be caught in the act.

Only, it never happens.

The knob refuses to yield to the student’s attempts. She mutters out of frustration, “Damn, must be in a meeting right now. His office is locked.”

“Huh, I guess we’ll come back tomorrow,” the other classmate shrugs.

You sigh in relief, letting some of the tension dissipate. So long as you’re quiet, you can make it through this without anyone knowing what went on in his office. Still, even that is proving to be a challenge with the way his fingers continue to slam in and out of your pussy. Your knuckles turn white as you grip onto the desk like it’s your lifeline, pouring all your urge to moan into tensing your hands. His half-lidded, cobalt eyes stay trained on your face, seemingly searching for something, while a lazy and smug expression plasters his own face.

A change in the angle of his fingers sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body and a stifled squeal wrangles past your lips. He snickers at your failed attempts at staying quiet. You instantly feel yourself sweating, either from the anxiety or from quickly racing towards your peak, you’re unable to discern. Hopefully the students didn’t pick up on it.

Much to your horror, one of the students speaks, “Wait, did you hear that?”

“No? What’d you hear?” The other asks in confusion. You cringe, worrying that their curiosity will lead to your social downfall. If they know someone is in there, they’ll demand you answer them. Should that happen, you’re sure Professor Touya will make you answer the door. Not only that, but with the way he’s eating up your embarrassment, you worry he’d make you answer their questions, all the while he still fingers you out of view.

“It was like… a squeak or something,” she explains.

“Might have been a mouse, this building is super old ya’ know,” the other offers.

The suspicious student laughs and says in disgust, “Ew, let’s just get the hell out of here. Lab starts in 5 minutes anyways.”

You can’t seem to hear the sound of their footsteps leaving over the sound of your heartbeat in your ears and the wet noises of your cunt gushing around his fingers. Evidently, Touya hears. “They’re gone, sweetheart,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. The feeling of his breath against your ear has you shuddering in response. His hand retracts from your face, no longer muffling your sounds. “Since we’re alone again, why don’t you let me hear those loud, slutty sounds of yours, yeah?”

He starts to mouth your neck, intermixing his kisses with rougher bites against the delicate skin of your throat, leaving behind blooms of teeth marks and hickeys in his wake. It’s almost as if he wants everyone on campus to talk, like he wants your classmates to know you slept with him; the marks all over your neck damning evidence of your hookup. The sensation of his lips all over you and the curving of his fingers against that bundle of nerves inside you has you keening for him, whines now freely escaping your mouth.

“A-ah, feels so good,” you moan with a drawn out voice. He thrusts his fingers in and out of you in earnest, spurred on by your sweet sounds echoing in his office. You let out a choked noise upon feeling him speed up, and your walls clench down on his fingers, sucking them further into your heat. He can tell you’re quickly nearing your peak with the way your pussy flutters around him, contracting wildly.

He pulls away from your neck and mutters against your skin, his breath fanning over the sensitive flesh, “Yeah, my fingers fucking your cunt feel that good? Gonna come on fingers then?”

The sound of his deep voice spewing such filthy words pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes into you like a harsh wave, stealing your breath away at the impact. You loudly moan as your cunt contracts around his fingers, all the while he continues to pump in and out of you, working you through your release. True to his orders, you gush around him, and your slick freely leaks from your sensitive hole. He finally relents and pulls out of you when you squirm from the overstimulation, attempting to wriggle away from the excessive pleasure. A pleased smirk paints his face upon seeing his fingers glisten with your wetness in the light. The sight gives him an idea, one that goes straight to his cock just at the thought.

“Open up,” he commands. The fingers wet with your juices hover over your lips, waiting for you to follow his demands. You shyly part your lips, allowing his fingers to slip into you. The tang of your own slick touches your tongue and you hold eye contact with him as your mouth closes around his fingers.

The feeling of your tongue swirling around his digits and the sight of your lips closing around him has his mind racing. He can’t help but think of how your mouth would feel on his cock and how filthy you would look on your knees for him, pretty face nestled against his pelvis and teary doe eyes looking up at him. But he’ll save that for another time.

He needs more than just your mouth right now.

Once his fingers are sufficiently cleaned off by your tongue, he pulls them out. He surges forward and kisses you, sliding his tongue past your lips. The taste of you still lingers in your mouth. He lewdly moans into the kiss, feeling that much hornier upon sampling your taste.

“Shit,” he curses against your lips after pulling back. “You taste so good.” He dives back in, passionately kissing you once more and tangling his tongue with yours. “Fuck, sweetheart. I’d bend you over this desk and devour this cunt, but I’m just dying to be inside you.”

“I need it, I want it too. Please, take me,” you beg. Never once did you anticipate you’d be begging for your professor to fuck you in earnest. Never once did you think you’d see the smirk on his face at your lewd pleading. And you certainly didn’t believe you’d ever feel his hands slide under your dress and lift it over you, unclasping your bra along with it, leaving you bare before him.

He pulls back from you and starts to unbuckle his belt. The sound of the metal clinking in the room makes your ears burn at the lewdness and your pussy clench in anticipation. He frees himself from the confines of his dark jeans, leaving you salivating at the sight of him.

You want to drool upon seeing how he’s quite thick and long, with prominent veins running along his shaft. You’re then pushed down flush against the top of his desk, splayed over a mess of papers, and he hooks one of your legs over his shoulders. Your breath hitches when he positions his cock in between your folds with his other hand and runs the head up and down your slit, collecting the slick dripping from you and lubing his cock.

He locks eyes with you as he finally pushes the tip in, relishing in your expression as he slowly slips in, inch by inch. Meanwhile, your full attention is focused on the way his thickness stretches you out and how the veins on his shaft drag against your walls as he sinks into you. You feel a bit breathless when he finally bottoms out and his tip kisses your cervix.

He starts to pull his hips back until his cock nearly slips out, before pushing back into you and filling you up once more. You feel completely stuffed. True to his words, you can’t think about anything else, the embarrassment you felt frowning more and more distant in your mind and being replaced by sheer, mind numbing pleasure.

But when he really starts rutting in and out of you?

Your brain is filled with cotton. He can tell by the way your eyes glaze over and soft moans sound from your parted, panting lips that he’s slowly fucking you stupid. It fills him with a bit of pride to see you being reduced to a brainless, horny mess for him, and the realization goes straight to his cock.

“T-touya,” you stammer and moan upon feeling his thrusts increase in tempo. You never called him by his first name before, but now that he’s inside of you, it was reasonable for you to believe the two of you are well past formalities.

“It’s still sir to you,” he growls, correcting your slip up. He punctuates his statement with a hard and deep thrust, making you sharply gasp. His stern voice draws a shudder out of you and you find yourself clenching down on him.

“‘M sorry, s-sir,” you apologize. You can feel his cock throb in your walls at the honorific. Even through your lust clouded mind, you put the pieces together.

Oh.

That’s why he liked you calling him sir.

“Yeah, that’s better,” he breathes. “Like the sound of that out of your mouth more than my name. Keep it up, sweetheart.”

Spurred on by your words, he hooks your other leg over his shoulder, slightly raising you off of the desk and angling his thrusts to hit even deeper inside of you. You grip onto the edges of the table as he fucks into you harder.

He’s canting into you so deeply and sharply that the desk shakes with every harsh clap of his hips against your thighs. Papers scatter onto the floor, picture frames fall flat on the table top, pens spill out of their holders and clatter onto the ground, all the while he chases one goal: to make you a stupid, incoherent mess from his cock.

His pace quickens and you bite down on your knuckle in an attempt to muffle your whines and moans, not wanting to fill the entire wing of the building with the sounds of sex. You feel the pleasure rapidly building as he hammers into you, pressing up against that sponges bundle of nerves along your walls. It’s easy to tell he is feeling the same, as more and more deep moans and curses tumble from his lips while he ruts into you. The sound of his voice moaning out for you combined with the angle of his cock pushes you to the verge of orgasming.

“Hah, fuck. ‘M close. Wanna cum, sir. Please make me cum,” you desperately beg. He throbs at your dumbified state and from the word sir coming out of your mouth.

Shit, he’s getting close too.

“Yeah? You gonna make a mess all over these papers then?” He asks, amid pants. He becomes drunk at just the thought of you cumming and dripping all over his cock. It sends a shock wave of pleasure straight between his legs and he rambles on, “Think you can squirt f’me too?” His hips brutally snap into yours, giving you the friction you need to finally be pushed over the edge.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, fuck!” You chant, slurring each of your words in drunken pleasure. You finally fall apart with a silent scream, and just as he was hoping, you gush around him.

“That’s it, cream all over my fucking cock, sweetheart,” he encourages. Strings of your slick cling to his cock and snap with every clap of his pelvis against your skin. He continues to thrust in and out of you, recklessly chasing his own release as you lay below him, now teetering on the edge of overstimulation.

Your pussy clamping down on him and your walls fluttering finally pushes him over. His hips stutter and he cums with a deep groan, painting your insides white.

He stills, momentarily keeping his cock nestled in your walls, as he lowers your legs back down against the desk. Slowly, he pulls out of you, glancing down between your legs to see your combined releases leaking out of your hole. He watches, eyes transfixed, as his seed slowly starts seeping out of you and pooling on the sheets below.

The two of you really did a number on his desk, and his entire office, for that matter. You lay there on the table, dazed and panting, attempting to catch your breath and come back down from your high. He can’t help but smugly chuckle at your dumbified state, before he tucks himself back into his pants.

“What a mess you’ve made,” he teases. He walks off and heads to the door, about to leave, when he turns over his shoulder and adds, “Make sure to clean up after yourself.”

You steal a glimpse at the wrecked state of the desk, partially horrified at the wetness pooling between your legs and onto the assignments and handouts. You stare at the wet spots on the sheets of paper.

Fuck.

Maybe it’ll dry off.

You hope so, at least.

Your face burns when you walk into his classroom the next day. You make eye contact with him as you go to stand near the computer, bringing up the PowerPoint for the lecture. The situation is more than just awkward.

How do you proceed from here?

You’re not even sure what to say to him, if you’re supposed to greet him as usual. Your mouth feels dry from nervousness, and you take a drink from your water bottle. A student then walks up to Professor Touya, thankfully taking the heat off of you to speak to him.

“Professor Touya?” The student starts, preparing to ask him some sort of question.

“Yes, what is it?” He answers.

“Did you spill something on my papers?” The student confronts. You choke on your drink as he presents his graded assignment that looks to be partially sullied by water damage, only you and Professor Touya both know- that is definitely not water.

“Hm, good question. I’m not sure, my TA graded most of these,” he deflects, feigning ignorance. He thinks for a moment, before snapping his fingers and saying, “You know what? Why don’t you ask her? She might know what happened.”

To your horror, the student takes his suggestion, turning to you and interrogating, “What is this? Is this milk?”

“Haha, yeah. Milk. It’s just milk,” you force out. You wish you could crawl into a hole and disappear at this moment from the sheer amount of embarrassment you feel. You awkwardly apologize, “Um, sorry about that.”

“I mean, it’s okay I guess. Accidents happen,” the student shrugs.

“Alright, if that’s all, we have to set up for today’s lecture. If you’ll excuse us,” Professor Touya intervenes. The student then walks off to take his seat as other students start trickling in. With the student now out of earshot, you confront him.

“I hate you so much right now,” you say. “That was so embarrassing!” He chuckles at your situation, evidently very entertained by your dismay.

But as much as this circumstance embarrasses you, you can’t help but want more of last night, ruined papers be damned. Feeling bold, you ask, “Make it up to me?”

He gives you a cocky smirk, thrilled to know you want to be fucked dumb yet again. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” he agrees. “I’ll be waiting in my office whenever you want me.”

Tags: @the-milk-anon , @mirayasimpinghard

1K notes · View notes

shibaraki · 2 years

Text

FILL MY LITTLE WORLD (RIGHT UP) ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: you are employed by aizawa shouta to nanny for his vulnerable adoptive daughter eri while he’s at work. as time passes you find yourself equally smitten with them both, longing for a more permanent place in their family.

tags: AFAB reader, no quirk au, single dad aizawa (+ adopted daughter eri, + prev. foster son hitoshi), professional nanny reader, falling in love, fluff and angst, slice of life, child ptsd + past child abuse (eri), aged-up characters, best friends touya + rumi, brief talk of a parent with addiction (hitoshi), domesticity, handling of child trauma, finding your place in a family, eventual smut, vaginal oral sex (reader receiving), a lot of kissing, no power dynamic

wc: 20k+ (oops)

The address the agency had given you is still open and blinking in your Maps app, a congratulatory finish-line flash to indicate the end of your journey. Given the lack of response after five minutes of firm knocking, you’d have half a mind to consider that perhaps, this was the wrong house.

“Maybe I should call…” you mutter under your breath, fiddling with the touch screen and huffing as you rebalance the slipping rucksack back onto your shoulder. Despite all your years of professional nannying, the first face to face meeting always left you slightly anxious. You’d been granted access to your new employers profile after your initial verbal interview — Japanese male in his thirties, over six foot tall and employed as a criminology professor at an esteemed university, unmarried with a single adopted daughter — but all the contact you’d had with Aizawa had been either mediated by the agency or over the phone. No photographs. The only thing you truly knew about the man thus far was the low baritone of his voice.

Not forgetting the air-tight requirements that came with caring for his daughter. You had been chosen specifically for your experiences with vulnerable children, and apparently for the fact that you held some modicum of self defence skills. A protective parent, then. While the gritty details had not yet been shared with you, it didn’t take much to put two and two together. Eri, a young girl of only six years, would be in need of more than just someone to keep her occupied; you would have to be a genuine care giver, someone she could really trust. Another adult in her life that signified safety.

The title of a ‘Nanny’ was typically looked down upon. Armed with a bachelor's degree and qualifications in child development, professionals still viewed you as nothing more than a glorified babysitter. But you loved your job, and not just because you were good at it. You liked the kids. Their odd sense of humour and their thought processes, their imaginations and the lens through which they viewed life. You enjoyed expanding their worlds, and the simple yet joyful way that they would expand your own.

More than that, the kids liked you. They appreciated your honesty, how you would treat them with respect and truly make the effort to listen to their thoughts. Given that your services were hired, the adults around them were often too caught up in their careers and personal affairs to indulge in anything more than provision of the basics. It wasn’t something you could judge them for — the new parents you have worked with in the past were genuinely wonderful and most, if not all, carried a large amount of guilt for having to leave their children at home.

You only hoped that you could help this family, too.

Tongue pressed into cheek, the pad of your thumb hovers over the contact name. Aizawa Shouta. Just as you're about to hit call, you are startled backwards by a series of weighted clicks. Counting, it sounds like there are two locks alongside the turning of a key, and soon you are meeting the gaze of a slightly dishevelled man.

He appears out of sorts, as if he’d only just woken up. You think, absentmindedly, that he is handsome. Broad and built beneath his loose black shirt, square framed glasses low on the bridge of his nose and overnight stubble shadowing his jaw. He pushes the hair loosely curtaining his face back and tucks it behind both ears, sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows. The good looks are almost enough to distract you from the neon pink sweatpants.

“Ah… hi,” you smile sheepishly, straightening your back and withholding a wince as your bag almost slides from your shoulder a second time. “You’re Aizawa Shouta, I presume? We spoke over the phone”.

The man grunts an affirmative, scratching idly at his cheek. He inhales deeply, sharp eyes almost too quick to catch as they appraise you in the doorway. “Yeah. You’re from UAtots?”

You nod, “I am”.

He mirrors the action, though the movement of his head is heavier, swaying him forward. Part of you is concerned he’s falling asleep on his feet. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” stepping back into the threshold, he beckons you into the house, “we were taking an afternoon catnap”.

You step inside, a zip of apprehension along your spine at the proximity. He’s warm at your back where he waits to lock the door behind you. “Catnap?” you smile, sliding off your shoes and lining them up neatly by the others. You step aside so he can bypass you into the hallway, inhaling to steady your nerves and catching the smell of his cologne.

“Eri likes to sync weekend meal times alongside the cats so she can nap with them afterwards, since eating makes her tired,” he explains, walking you further into the house, his voice entirely monotonous as if the answer should have been clear to you. “I’m sure if this goes smoothly you’ll be subject to plenty of them yourself”.

Well, you’re not sure you could object being paid to nap.

You’re shown to the living area, finding it littered with evidence of a young child. Toys, colouring pencils, storybooks. Chaotic, but it is organised chaos. Splayed out in the centre of the main room is a double futon, covered with wrinkled mismatched blankets that have been thrown aside. You take note of the shelves and bridge-like structures built into the walls, some leading to little alcoves or cushioned platforms. One looks to be occupied by a mass of black fur.

Right, cats. Aizawa hums contemplatively. “She must’ve run off to her room after I left to answer the door. Not a fan of strangers”.

“Can’t say I am either,” you reply empathetically, chewing the skin of your inner lip at his lack of response. He guides you towards the kitchen; somewhat narrow in comparison to the other rooms, but still bright where the sun bleeds in from the large patio doors. The cabinets are a deep green, almost black in colour, and there are potted plants dotted along the windowsill. One particular pot has a small sign pierced into the damp soil that reads property of eri.

In your distraction, Aizawa has returned to your side with a full binder of paperwork. He sets it on the counter and pulls back the cover, revealing a numbered contents page. “I don’t expect you’ll read this now, but it’s a detailed folder of Eri’s circumstances and conditions,” he continues on the end of a shallow sigh, “I’ve also written up a list of instructions for a number of issues that might arise in my absence, along with emergency phone numbers — both my personal and my office, as well as some others in case you can’t reach me”.

The folder was fine. Appreciated, actually. You had endured far more peculiar parents than him, and his anxious preparation warmed you. Nerves were always to be expected, and not just from the children.

“I’ll make sure I familiarise myself before my next visit. Thank you, Aizawa-san,” you say, awkwardly gripping the strap of your bag. Drawn to the movement, his eyes squint somewhat at the things you were still carrying.

“Drop the honorifics, I hear that enough at work. And you’re welcome to leave your bag somewhere. Take a seat and I’ll bring out something to drink”.

Sitting on the far left of the couch, your rucksack tucked beneath the side table to avoid any accidents, you spend the brief wait absorbing the smaller details of the room. A fair few of your wealthier clients were largely minimalist, their homes brimming with things that sticky fingers should not touch. This house, while big for a two person family, is lived in. You think there might be nothing better than a well loved space.

When he hands you the hot mug of herbal tea, your fingers slip through the ringed handle with care. Even the kitchenware is well loved, a pattern of multicoloured paw prints surely but steadily scrubbed away from the ceramic with each use. “Thanks,” you murmur, ducking to blow against the rising steam.

The cushions dip as he sits adjacent to you, appropriately distanced. “Eri will be out once she’s ready,” he tells you after a drawn out sip of his drink. You can’t help but wonder how it didn’t scald his mouth. “I thought I could tell you a bit more in the meantime”.

You nod eagerly and take a sip of your own. It burns, and your tongue numbs.

“I’ve legally been Eri’s father for around a year and a half now, and she’s not a difficult kid by any means. Though she is quiet and struggles with anxiety she’s still kind, still curious,” his voice drops into something gentle, staring at the rumpled blankets and warming at the sight. “She’s always thinking of others first. She loves to read fantasy books about heroes and villains. Her imagination is vast, and because she can’t write well yet she has taken to acting out stories”.

“Very rarely does she fuss, and she loves to help with chores and cooking, which I can’t complain about, but,” Aizawa continues to speak and you drink while you listen, the tea cooled and more tolerant as you swallow, “…it doesn’t sit right knowing they’re done in an effort to placate me”.

To placate, to appease. To keep the peace, and keep their caregiver happy. After all, a happy caregiver is one that doesn’t raise their voice, or their hand. “It’s entirely normal for you to think that,” you offer comfort in the brief silence, “you aren’t the first parent who has felt that way”.

He finally turns his head to meet your gaze, and you find yourself remaining firm under his scrutiny. Then, imperceptibly, his eyes soften. “I just want her to feel safe. To act her age and enjoy her childhood,” then you hear a huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, “I might actually shed a tear the day she finally throws a tantrum”.

You laugh with him, close mouthed and short. An amused hum to cover the twist in your chest. Working with vulnerable children never got any easier to stomach. Some would respond to neglect by loudly seeking your attention, creating mess and yelling until their stomachs hurt. Others, like Eri, would shape themselves into timid dolls that never spoke out of turn, because attention often meant harm.

With lips parted to speak, you’re stopped short by an inconspicuous creak from the hallway. Observing from behind the door frame, only partially visible from where you’re sitting, is a little girl with silver hair. Your eyes meet, and she flinches back into hiding.

“One sec…” Aizawa mutters offhandedly as he gets to his feet, first leaning down to set his cup on the floor. Footfalls loud enough to be heard, the slight clearing of his throat to announce his approach, he slips into the hallway.

Like him, you place your drink down and listen. Minutes pass, and while you aren’t privy to the conversation you do hear a pair of muffled voices. Aizawa’s tone is soothing, and he waits patiently for his daughter's timid responses. Eventually, he reappears with her shielded behind his thigh, and weaving between her feet is another cat; chunky, flat faced and grey. Unperturbed by the uncomfortable atmosphere, it slinks into the room to sniff the abandoned mugs and ignores your presence.

Wordlessly asking permission to greet her, Aizawa encourages you forward with the tilt of his head. Luckily, you had a fool proof introduction when it came to children, one that covered all the bases. Eri’s grip on her fathers pink sweatpants visibly tightens as you close the distance, but she doesn’t run.

Lowering yourself to her height, you begin with a smile and your name, then you give her your birthday. What follows is your favourite animal, then your favourite colour, one thing you like and one thing you don’t.

It’s easy, simple, and likens you to them in a way they can understand. To a young kid, that’s all the important stuff.

Knowing more about you seems to set her at ease somewhat, and she steps out from behind her father after an encouraging look from him. In an abrupt motion she considers holding out her hand, but then chooses to clutch the hem of her knitted sweater.

“My name is Er— Aizawa Eri. My birthday is the twenty-first of December…” she glances towards Aizawa once again for his approval, only continuing with his assurance. “I like cats and the colour green. I think apples are the best fruit and… I don’t like mean people”.

You nod, humming in agreement to assuage her anxiety. “Mean people can be pretty scary. And I like cats, too,” — the grey-coated feline by the futon chooses that moment to yowl, pawing at Aizawa’s half empty mug — “I haven’t been able to properly meet yours yet. I’d love it if you could introduce us”.

Give her a chance to control the narrative, and in doing so allow her to tell you about something she feels confident about. It’s an infinitesimal thing, but all things are so much bigger when you’re young.

She straightens her back, shoulders no longer hunched forward to make herself appear small. Unobtrusive. No — there is now a dim glimmer of pride in her eyes as she shuffles forward, leading you back over near the sofa and pointing ahead at the noise-maker.

“That’s Bastard. He’s old and kinda grumpy but that’s just ‘cause he’s scared,” Eri looks almost as if she is pleading with you, concerned you might misunderstand her beloved pet’s behaviour. “Some people hurt him before, so… so he’s just trying to protect himself. If you’re slow and let him sniff you I think it’ll be okay”.

Some people hurt him, huh. Your thoughts subdue your initial amusement, though you try not to let it show in your expression. Heeding Eri’s guidance, you crouch at her side and allow her to extend your arm towards Bastard with her chubby fingers clasped around your wrist. He glares suspiciously between the two of you, but eventually his tail lifts into a clear signal of hello as he leans forward to huff at your fingertips.

He turns his nose up at you in what you read as disgust and stalks off to the other end of the room, but according to Eri’s bouncing feet it was a success. “He didn’t bite you or anything,” she pats your shoulder in a reassuring manner and Aizawa snorts as he collapses into the sofa cushions.

You’re pointed in the direction of the other cat — the black mass that has been curled into a ball atop one of the shelved platforms since you arrived. “Her name is Sourpuss. She likes to sleep a lot and we cuddle sometimes,” she explains seriously, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Following a pause she adds, “don’t worry. She won’t bite you either”.

“I’m glad to hear it,” you reply, a pleasant kindling in your chest at her efforts, “I look forward to getting to know you all better”.

“Bastard and Sourpuss aren’t related but they are brother and sister. Just like me and ‘Toshi, right?” Eri glances over to her father to wordlessly seek his reassurance, cheeks dipped in pink. For a moment, the exhaustion in Aizawa’s body seems to bleed away, and he smiles affectionately.

“Exactly right, Eri,” he murmurs.

You straighten your knees at the sound of Bastard’s mewling, rewarded quickly with Eri’s devoted attention. Returning to your place on the couch, you lean towards him and subtly ask about the aforementioned ‘Toshi’.

“He was already my foster son when I first took in Eri as a foster. I cared for him on and off from age fifteen to eighteen”. Recognising your poorly veiled curiosity, he adds, “Hitoshi used to watch her for me but he recently started university. Her psychologist suggested someone more permanent and better equipped for her care”.

You nod amicably, turning to watch Eri as she offers her own small hand to the older cat. Bastard leans forward with nostrils flared, turning his head into her palm, and she beams. A stark contrast to how the feline felt about you. With the hope that you aren’t overstepping you ask, “You didn’t adopt him too?”

“Fostering isn’t just a doorway to adoption,” he replies. In your periphery you see the beginnings of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he observes his daughter. “More than anything, I think it’s about keeping families together. Hitoshi was old enough to decide for himself, and I still view him as a son regardless of the legalities”.

Somehow, the answer leaves you feeling scolded. “Right, of course,” you bow your head slightly in apology and his lips thin into a subtle smirk. Smothering the spark of irritation, at both his amusement and your own attraction, you push the conversation forward. “Then, uh. Will I be meeting him too, eventually?”

“I’d assume so. If he does visit I’ll make sure you know in advance”.

For the remainder of your afternoon visit, you observe their family dynamic with a keen eye. Eri’s shell does not fracture much, but you don’t take personal offence to it. She’s polite and friendly, often giving the answers she thinks you want to hear. You eventually join her amongst the blankets, recalling how she found confidence in helping around the house.

“Shall we put these away together?” you suggest. The little girl smiles and spring comes again. Under the moving sunspots cast through the living room window, the two of you get to work folding up the cotton linens. Eri is so preoccupied that for the first time that day, she doesn’t realise when her father leaves the room to wash up the mugs.

You understood Aizawa’s initial worry with Eri’s need to prove her worth around the house; but you also think, perhaps, she is just grateful and happy to help him.

When you leave, they both walk you to the front door. Your first goodbye to her is a perfect rendition of your first hello — little hand fisted into neon pink, shielded by the man she trusts the most. “Will you come back?” she asks quietly.

“If your dad is happy for me to,” — excitement pushes Eri onto the tip of her toes, her head barely reaching Aizawa’s hip — “when I do, we should read some stories together”.

Later that night, after a long hot shower to swiftly rid you of the tension in your spine, you settle into a heap of cotton and pillows with Eri’s binder. The cover is hard, like cardboard, and coloured blue. It’s heavy in your lap, and you find that daunting. Not because you don’t think you can handle it, but because you already want to do right by them both.

After the contents page comes the emergency contacts. You recognise Hitoshi’s name, and beside each other person is their immediate relation to Aizawa and Eri. Her school office. His best friends. Aunts. Uncles. Coworkers. A part of you unravels with the knowledge that the two have such a support system in place.

Then comes the lists. Food Eri does not like — she enjoys sweet things but tart is much too sour for her palate — and the medication she can not take. There are steps to follow if ever she gets sick, instructions on where to find the first aid kit and her favourite hot water bottle. More important than anything else, there is a page dedicated to summarising her triggers and subsequently how to handle them. No sudden touch, noise cancelling headphones always on her person, explain what you’re doing and why as you do it.

It’s incredibly comprehensive. The latter part of the binder is made up of her initial caseworkers notes, or observations from her psychologist that are important to her care. You learn that Eri might sometimes dissociate, is prone to freezing up when frightened and struggles with communicating her emotions. There are scars littering her body that need to be tended to once a day with steroid cream, but Aizawa notes that he will do that himself. She has little appetite and no tolerance for the dark, spending a lot of her earlier days in her father's care completely withdrawn and selectively mute.

Given her history you can’t blame him for covering all his bases; part of you wonders if he had put all this together in order to test you, to see whether the responsibility would scare you off. He would be mistaken, if that were the case. After all, you’d promised to befriend Bastard by the years’ end.

The next time you see Aizawa Shouta, he is in fitted suit pants and a dress shirt. It is sharp and tailored, accentuating the broad strokes of his shoulders and the dip of his waist. As he bends an arm to fiddle with the cuff, the material strains around his bicep. He looks handsome, and decidedly uncomfortable.

“Good morning,” he mutters, turning away from you expectantly. You amble after him once the door is shut, walking into the kitchen. Throat bared and leaning against the counter, he quickly downs the remnants of his coffee with an dissatisfied sigh.

“Bad nights sleep?”

A brow lifts as he glances up at you. You try not to focus on the absentminded swipe of his thumb at the corner of his mouth. “Always,” he replies. “You want some?”

Your mouth thins as you try not to smirk. “No, that’s okay. Thank you though,” you follow the movement of his hands as he leaves the mug in the sink, then extends his arms to expose his wrists and roll the cuffs mid forearm. Despite arriving at the time he’d given you, he appeared to be in a rush. You make a note to come earlier tomorrow, if only to make things a little smoother.

Eri’s footfalls are light, barely audible as she totters into the kitchen — you try not to think about the implications — and she stops short when she sees you. “Good morning Eri,” you greet warmly.

“Good morning,” she mumbles.

“You look very cute,” dressed in burgundy dungarees over a white long sleeved shirt, cuffed at the ankle to reveal frilly cream coloured socks, her hair has been tied haphazardly into two long pigtails. “I like your Sailor Pluto clips!”

“Thank you…” she pokes at the clips on her crown self consciously, timidly pleased at your recognition of them.

Aizawa circles around you both as he heads back into the hallway, “Sailor Pluto? I thought she was called Sailor Moon”.

Eri follows at his heels. “No dad, Sailor Moon has yellow hair,” she corrects him kindly, waiting by the coat rack as he bends to slip into his dress shoes. “But it’s okay, I get them mixed up sometimes too”.

Her attitude is a testament to his parenting. In the short time you’ve spent with them he has only ever spoken to Eri respectfully, in a manner that grants her agency. He clearly allows her to make decisions herself and experience the consequences of them, bad or good.

Before he has the chance to reach for his bag, Eri releases an abrupt sound of protest and grabs it herself. Both of her hands fit around the long handle with room to spare, and it drags by her feet as she gives it to him.

“I appreciate that sweetheart,” he replies, taking one of the jackets from the hooks and linking it through the crook of his arm. “Which one did I like best again?”

“Sailor Saturn!”

Dark hair curtaining his sober expression, he nods sagely and repeats, “Sailor Saturn”.

They are so caught up that, for a few minutes, you are nothing but a fly on the wall. It’s endearing, the interactions sitting warm like honey-lemon tea in your chest. At the sound of your laugh, Aizawa’s eyes snap over to your silhouette in the kitchen doorway. Eri glances between the two of you, and appears to hamfist the precious little courage she has to ask you, “Who— who’s your favourite?”

“I really loved Luna the cat,” you say. Her mouth forms the shape of an ‘o’ before it spreads into a small smile. You get the inkling there was no wrong answer; you feel accomplished anyway.

“Right,” Aizawa cradles his hand against her head to garner her attention. She peers up at him, eyes wide. “Her teacher is aware you’re going to be picking her up but you’ll need to give her the code just to be safe,” he says, settling the strap of the satchel across his chest. “It’s ‘candy apples’”.

“Got it”.

Gentle, he pinches her cheek between his thumb and forefinger. “Be good, alright?” Eri hums, giving her enthusiastic agreement, “have a fun day at school. And make sure you hold hands when you cross the roads”.

“You too dad,” her demeanour is slightly more unnerved at his imminent departure, fingers tightly curling and unfurling against her palms. “Be good at work”.

He laughs — low and undeniably fond, almost like a purr in his chest — and then he leaves.

Eri is cautious in his absence, but she still answers when you speak and smiles when you look at her. You can see what Aizawa meant by her placating nature — she’s scared to upset you, because she doesn’t yet know your boundaries. There was not enough time to have that discussion before school, but you endeavoured to do it some point later.

Her bag is garish, block colours of red blue and yellow. Different from her Sailor Moon accessories, the bento and backpack are distinctly Hero themed. Hanging from the zip is a cat keychain that looks suspiciously like Bastard, and it bounces as she moves.

The walk isn’t too far. The early air is still tepid and the morning traffic has mostly dispersed. You see other parents with their children, laughing and scolding and sprinting ahead. Eri remains at your side, hand in hand, and quietly tells you about a dream she had the night before.

Confoundedly, “Dad told me he doesn’t have dreams”.

“Maybe he does dream, but he forgets them as soon as he wakes up,” you reply. Her nose wrinkles slightly in a way that suggests she is thinking quite hard, and eventually she nods.

A staff member waiting by the gate recognises Eri and bids you both good morning, motioning for her to join her classmates. “I’ll see you after school, alright?” you say. The hand clutching at your fingers squeezes twice before letting go.

You linger for a few seconds longer, only to observe as Eri runs up to one boy in particular. His cap is red, too big for him and adorns two horns at the front. When she dips her head forward, you know it’s to show off her hair clips.

With five hours to spare, you decide to utilise the time by clearing up the house. There’s not much mess but it’s better than nothing, and if you spent most of it nosing around the spots you’ve yet to see, that’s no one’s business but your own — aside from Bastard and Sourpuss, who still deign to return your affections and settle for stalking you at a distance.

Mounted bridges and tastefully placed hiding spots can be found in most of the rooms; Aizawa’s respect for individual space clearly extended to his pets as well. There are fragments of them everywhere, in tchotchkes and photographs and framed stick figure pictures. You catch glimpses of the other people in their lives, of Eri much younger than she is now, of a too-big violet haired boy curled up in one of the cat beds.

In each new room, you make sure to tidy up somewhat. Aizawa seemed the type to be particular about what fell under the definition of mess and what did not, and in that vein you stay away from reorganising anything that looks important, but it doesn’t stop you from picking up any stray socks.

One place you do not enter is Aizawa’s bedroom. Eri’s, however, has been left wide open.

The first thing you see is the feelings chart taped to the door, a small magnet with her likeness has been stuck in the ‘nervous’ box. Inside is surprisingly neat for a child her age. Cohesive. There are hues of yellow and grey along the walls, a white canopy hung over a brass ring in the corner of the room to curtain a pile of pillows. Her bookshelf is full, the pages are worn, and her plush toys have been organised in a line from big to small on her mattress.

There is a faux vine of leaves threaded through the bed frame, dotted with small LED lights. She must like plants, you think, recalling the greenery in the kitchen. You’d have to look it up, or ask her father.

Aizawa hadn’t requested you do any specific chores, but you don’t do well with idle hands. So you throw the collected laundry in the washer, clean and dry the plates and cutlery from breakfast, and refill the coffee machine with the beans kept in the cupboard. It’s the good stuff, expensive. You almost regret not accepting his offer that morning, but the dregs left in his mug smelt far too bitter.

At the start, as you’re acclimating to the chosen family, you are always left slightly aimless. Floundering. Especially with parents that have never hired a nanny before; they seldom understand how much the role entails, and struggle with letting go of certain responsibilities.

Thus, with precious little left to do, you end up leaving early to pick up Eri later that afternoon and taking the long route. You press the divots of the house key into your palm as you walk, metal cool in the late spring sun. With time to observe, you admit that Aizawa’s neighbourhood is undeniably beautiful. Passing a large nearby park, eyeing the climbing frames and slides and triple seated swings, you wonder if Eri would like to go there with you on occasion. There’s even a quaint, sectioned off area of land privated for communal gardening.

Maybe, on your scheduled weekends, you could take her to other places too. The aquarium, the movies or the science museum. You’d have to ask Aizawa’s permission.

Waiting behind the gate is another member of staff, different from the woman stationed there this morning but she greets you amiably all the same. Other parents are flocking into the grounds, some grouping together for small talk while others — such as yourself — lingered off to the side and waited alone.

When the children begin rushing through the school doors, it is organised by class number. Eventually you spot the little boy with the horned cap rushing towards his own guardian, but no Eri with him. Instead she is led out hand in hand with whom you presume is her teacher. You smile as she points in your direction and waves, jostling the cat charm on her bag strap.

The woman greets you first, a slight accent to her words that you can’t place. German, maybe. “Hi! I’m Eri’s teacher, Amano-san. You must be the new nanny I’ve heard all about”.

“That would be me,” you lower your head into a subtle bow, offering your name in a much more formal introduction than the one Eri had received. “I’ll be picking Eri up regularly from now on. It’s good to meet you”.

“And you,” Amano grins, the movement pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. At a second glance, you notice a thin silver chain attached to the frames and looping around her neck. Coupled with a green pantsuit and the specks of paint along the lapels, you suspect Eri’s teacher may be the more eccentric type. Easy-going and comforting.

“I hope you don’t mind but I have to ask for Aizawa-san's passcode,” Amano motions flippantly with her free hand as she speaks, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “it’s just school policy, ya see. Can’t let the baby go without it — only for the first few pickups while the staff get to know you”.

“That’s perfectly fine. He informed me you might ask,” Eri’s head pivots back and forth between you both with bright, inquisitive eyes. Giving her what you hope to be a secretive look, pointer finger pressed to your lips and voice hushed, you add, “the code is ‘candy apples’”.

Rewarded with a minute grin, Eri toddles over to your side as soon as Amano lets go of her and bids you both goodbye. Reflexively, you reach to fix her pigtails where they’ve come loose but think better of it — she does not react well to sudden touch. “Oh,” you pause to count the remaining clips in her hair. “One of your Pluto’s is gone”.

“I gave one to Kota… he’s my friend”.

Kota. You silently mouth the name, and resolve to remember it. “Is he the boy with the cool hat?”

Eri hums a quiet affirmative, peering up at you and shyly extending her hand. You take it, giving a gentle squeeze. “That was very nice of you to do,” you tell her.

“Dad said love grows by sharing,” she replies. You notice that when she speaks about her father, her voice is a little louder. Proud, even. “That’s why he always lets me have his last pur— Purin cup”.

You try to picture Aizawa eating something as sweet as crème caramel and bite back a smile. He seems more the coffee jelly type. “Your dad is right. I bet Kota felt very special to have Sailor Pluto”.

You return home the morning route, in consideration of Eri’s short legs and growing exhaustion. Bastard and Sourpuss are theatrically pleased by her arrival, yowling in glee as if she’d been gone for months. They must recognise that you brought her back, and you try not to preen when the older cat begrudgingly rubs his gums against your ankle.

“Okay, Eri. What first? Homework or food?”

She wrings her hands together, pressing palms flat to her stomach. Face pinched, she looks like she wants to ask something of you. “Eri?”

“Can I…” her courage diminishes and she glares at the floor, scuffing socked feet against carpet. Lowering your body to her level, knee clicking as you crouch, you wait patiently with a small smile. You can see her internal battle with your own eyes, squeezing her own shut and taking a deep breath.

The drawn out exhale follows, and the tension bleeds from her muscles. Still unable to meet your gaze, she asks, “Can I show you my room first?”

You don’t tell her you have already seen it. Children deserve to be treated with respect, but some truths were worth keeping. Guided to the grey-yellow painted space, Eri is in her element. Homework and hunger can wait a few more minutes — strengthening her comfortability with you was much more important.

Once she starts she can’t seem to stop. Eri shows you all her magpie clutches of treasures and brings them to your lap, a back and forth skitter across the room. The knit blanket from when she was an infant, a pretty rock she found with her dad, a friendship bracelet from someone called Izu. Her love has no limit; you’re holding old shells and framed pictures and memory-imbued trinkets. Each one receives equal praise, indulgent sounds of awe that warm her cheeks.

‘Love grows by sharing’ is what she’d said. Steadying the heap gathered in your arms, you think you feel your heart swell three sizes.

By afternoon's end, Eri is fed and sitting contentedly in the middle of the living room. Aizawa had texted that he would be home soon, so you were simply enjoying the peace until then. Having tucked one of the couch cushions under her knees to alleviate the discomfort, all her focus is on the worksheets splayed out along the floor. Fractions. You grimace, watching Bastard bat at her pencil as it moves with her wrist.

Click, click. Eri is at her feet in less than a second. The sound of a key entering a lock and turning, the door jarred open as Aizawa shoulders into the house with arms full of assignments. He doesn’t startle as his daughter knocks into him, but he does scowl at the realisation that he can’t hug her. You hover cautiously in the hallway, “Ah— do you need some help with those?”

He looks up, the frown smoothing into something a little more vulnerable. Exhausted, but in a different way than he was this morning. You feel a misplaced sense of guilt for not having a cup of coffee ready for him.

“No, I can manage,” he replies, kicking off his shoes and lining them up half heartedly with his foot as he readjusts his grip. “I’ll be fine once I can sit down”.

He sets the papers on the far end of the couch and upon reaching the opposite, Aizawa falls back heavily into the cushions with a relieved groan that strums at your centre. You smother the feeling. Eri trails after him with her features pensive, carefully gauging his mood before doing anything further. The moment he limblessly opens his arms to her, she is clambering up beside him and pressing to his side.

Intuitively, you hold your breath. You take the opportunity to really appreciate how gentle Aizawa is with his daughter. Cradling the top of her head in a show of affection, his eyes slide from Eri to where you stand in the doorway. You’re left sheepish under the expectant lift of his brow, all too aware of how awkward you’re being. “How was it today? Anything happen that I should know about?”

“Everything went well. We held hands to and from school, didn’t we?” Eri nods, and the large hand in her hair further disturbs her pigtails, though she doesn’t seem to mind. “We’ve eaten our dinner and finished her fractions worksheet for tomorrow. She’s been nothing short of a dream”.

“A dream, hm?” he nudges Eri gently to encourage her to smile, and she does. “Always is”.

“I met…” your attention is quickly drawn to the tail curling around your leg. Sourpuss barely spares you a glance when she butts your calf, as if to pass it off as a simple accident. You don’t bend at the knee to pet her, because you know she’ll scatter and leave you pitifully rejected. “I met Amano-san,” you continue, “I introduced myself since I’ll be seeing more of her. She’s very… friendly”.

Aizawa’s mouth lifts in subtle amusement, “She’s boisterous but a good teacher. Eri loves her,” he pats his thigh as Sourpuss approaches, ready as she leaps onto his lap. He’s content, relaxed with his head tipped slightly in a way that accentuates his jaw, the shadow of stubble fading down the length of his neck. You quickly drag your thoughts back into the present before they can drift into inappropriate territory, steeling yourself under his gaze in the hopes he hadn’t noticed.

“You have your hands full and you’ve had a long day, so I’m happy to see myself out if that’s everything,” you say.

Eri’s eyes widen, her bottom lip slightly jutted. You aren’t sure whether she is wordlessly beseeching you to stay, or displeased at the thought of not walking you to the door — either way, you allow yourself some pride for having won some good favour with her so soon.

Aizawa must notice, because his hand slides from her crown to soothe along her back. “Don’t worry,” he reassures, “they’ll be back again in the morning, bug”.

He’s pensive as he appraises you, perhaps looking for what it was in you that his daughter had latched onto. Whatever he does or does not find, he begins to move. Sourpuss chirps a sharp noise of complaint, jostled from her place in his lap and leaping back onto the floor. “C’mon,” he says, getting to his feet and rubbing the nape of his neck as he clicks it to the left. Then, stubbornly, “I’ll walk you out”.

The next month and a half with them passes between blinks. You come to learn that even if every day is the same, there are a million ways to do it. And the place you carve into their lives is comfortable. Comforting.

Your attraction to Aizawa only festers. It seems that at some point, you had won favour with him, too. He begins leaving you offerings of food without explanation, and in turn you have a pot of coffee ready for when he gets home. He isn’t much of a cook and usually sticks to snacks, but occasionally you’ll find leftovers with your name written on a postit note.

Love grows by sharing.

Against better judgement you start finding excuses to arrive early and stay later, and sometimes your conversations linger like his gaze, until the only word left to describe the way he looks at you is ‘fond’.

Venting to your friends does nothing helpful, since they only encourage you to poke further at the relationship just to see where it’d go. Likened to a yellowing bruise on your arm, you knew exactly what would happen if you were to poke it — it would hurt.

Worse is, your feelings are not just an unfortunate result of being attracted to Aizawa. You adore Eri, and she likes you too; watches you with wide ruby eyes, collecting your speech patterns and body language like the tchotchkes kept on her shelves. With every reluctant shedding of her shell, a quiet but creative and joyous little girl is slowly unveiled to the world, and you know you want to be there to watch her grow beyond what your contract states.

At best, you are teetering on the edge of being very unprofessional. At worst, part of you is already one foot in the door and willing to step forward.

Today you were at the park. The grass is damp, sparse dots of moisture littering the pavements. You peer up mid-step and a drop of rain hits your nose, squinting against the light that bursts through the canopy. There’s petrichor in the air, fresh and crisp. Eri stands at your side at the crotch of the maple tree, watching quietly as the sun shower passes.

“Pretty…” she whispers, stepping towards the edge of shelter with her arm outstretched, fingers splayed like branches to catch the rain. She does this, but not before first seeking your approval, as she did with most things. The evolving comfort she felt with you didn’t negate any of the survival instincts she’d learnt in her earlier developmental years.

It hurt to know she didn’t get to have that — the new realisation that she was an individual person, with power of her own that she could wield. You were only glad that Aizawa always gave her a chance to make her own choices. She felt far safer accepting such freedom from him, because Eri knows that he trusts her. He trusts that she will eventually get it right, even if it isn’t immediate.

His unconditional patience when it came to making mistakes, and learning from them, paid off. You’ve no doubt that it came into practice with his own university students, too.

“Everything will be too wet to play on now,” your eyes scan the playground, finding the tarmac dark and saturated with water. The sun shifts and bounces sharply off the curve of the slide. You hadn’t been there for more than half an hour, so it was a little disappointing. “What shall we do instead?”

She rocks on the balls of her feet while she thinks, the end of her sleeve growing damp with every scoop of the oncoming shower. Peeking beneath them are the protective wrappings she keeps around her arms to cover the scars you’ve yet to see.

Her wet hand curls to form a fist, and she steps back into the shelter of the maple tree. You bend forward and beckon towards you, using the hem of your hoodie to gently dry her off. Minutes pass, and you can tell her lack of a definitive answer is making her nervous. “It’s alright if you’re not sure,” you tell her, quick to assuage whatever thoughts she may be having.

“Well, I picked the park so— so maybe you can pick next?” she hesitantly suggests.

“That’s very considerate!” Eri outwardly preens, tucking her chin to her sternum as she smiles. “I think… I’m craving sweet things today. How about we go home and see if we can bake something?”

It’s as if the rain takes pause and the skies open just for the two of you. There is no puddle left untouched on your walk home, Eri pulling you ahead by the hand, uncharacteristically hasty. Every time you find something new for her to enjoy you feel like you’ve swallowed a drop of sun. Aizawa’s expression in the face of her smile and freshly baked goods make it all the more worth it.

Leading up the street towards the house, you squint at the sight of a person. Sitting on the doorstep under the overhang is a violet haired man. Young, still a little youthful in the cheeks. Nineteen or twenty, if you had to guess.

“‘Toshi!”

Eri’s voice draws his attention from the phone in his lap, and when he looks up you’re met by a weathered grin adorned with two vertical rings hugging the left of his bottom lip.

The spider bites aren’t his only piercings; there are other jewellery cuffed along the shell of his ear, an industrial bar cutting across the cartilage of the other, and glinting in the light are two small spikes through his right eyebrow. Dappled shadows dance across his face, an oversized navy sweater hangs comfortably on his frame and pools around the waist of his tattered jeans.

You aren’t alarmed when he sweeps Eri into a hug, pleased by her melodic laughter. This was her brother, Hitoshi, presumably, the purple boy you’d seen in some of the framed pictures around the house.

“You must be—”

His voice overlaps your own simultaneously, “You must be the nanny”.

Prickly. He stands then, keeping Eri cradled in his arms, her own looped tight around his neck as her feet kick happily either side of his hips. No, you think. Protective. And taller than you realised.

“That’s me,” you reply stiffly. You had no idea he would be visiting today — Aizawa hadn’t mentioned anything about it, so you can only assume he isn’t aware.

Turning to smoosh her cheek against his own and glancing between you both, Eri is emboldened by the stilted atmosphere. She makes a point to introduce you to Hitoshi, reciting your favourite colour and animal word for word. Like flame to wax, her efforts soften the blank exterior and his expression wanes into affection.

This time, when he looks at you it is measured. He appraises you much like Aizawa had on your first day. A positive reference from Eri is invaluable, clearly. “I’m Eri’s big brother, Shinsou Hitoshi,” he concedes, the thud of his boots heavy as he steps forward. Readjusting Eri to his hip, he extends a hand and motions to shake your own.

Years of professional experience has your grip firm out of sheer habit, while his remains slightly loose, the cool metal of his ring pressed to your palm. “It’s good to meet you. Aizawa mentioned that I might, eventually,” you reply.

Hitoshi hums, though not absentmindedly. “Same. I’ve heard a lot about you”.

“Mostly good I hope?” you busy yourself with finding the house keys, hoping to get Eri inside to warm up sooner rather than later. “Let’s get you both comfy, then we can get started”.

“Started?”

Stepping into homes’ embrace is a relief, the chill dissipating from your cheeks. “We’re gonna bake!” Eri chimes her excitement from behind you as you toe your shoes to the side, turning to beckon them both inside. Hitoshi quickly closes the door behind him before the cats can slip past, and places his sister back on the floor with a small noise of curiosity.

“Bake what?” he asks, grunting in exertion as he crouches and begins untying the laces to his boots, wiggling his fingers at Bastard as he bats at the string. Eri mirrors him to fiddle with her buckles, slipping both shoes off and lining them up neatly by yours before looking to you for an answer.

“I was thinking we could make cookies…Ah!” you bring your palms together in a succinct clap, “maybe we could do melonpan?”

A subtle tug to the end of your hoodie. “What's melonpan?”

“They’re sweet, melon shaped buns covered in cookie dough,” you explain warmly, slow in stroking a hand over the crown of her head. She doesn’t flinch, almost feline in how she turns into the touch.

“I’m down for some melonpan,” Hitoshi slides back naturally into the conversation, Bastard held out by the armpits as his long torso hangs limbless. You try not to laugh at the displeasure on his face. “Maybe change into something comfortable and dry first though, bug”.

Prompted, Eri scurries up the stairs on both hands and feet. “And make sure to wash your hands,” you raise your voice after her. That just leaves you and Hitoshi.

He glances at you expectantly, inclining his head towards the kitchen as if to say, aren’t you going in?

“Guess we should get the cookie dough done first,” you suggest, taking the lead.

In Eri’s absence, side by side at the counter, you both fall into a surprisingly comfortable contentment. Quiet murmurings of small talk; while you work on the cake mix he beats the egg until it whites, whisks sugar into the butter until it dissolves. Hitoshi is stiff at first, short in his responses, but he isn’t rude. He’s just cautious, prying gently into your answers but never giving substance to his own. Even in early adulthood, there was an instinct inside him that called to mask the vulnerability within. To feign confidence and guide conversations in a way that conceals him.

He flowers a little when the topic steers to Aizawa.

“Did the old man tell you much about me?”

Old man. A decade and then some isn’t far off for him, but you supposed in a barely-twenty year old’s mind it would be. “Just that he fostered you through your late teens. I didn’t pry,” you reply. “I’ve heard more from Eri, really. She looks up to you”.

He exhales deeply, and you don’t press him to continue before he’s ready. “My mum struggled with addiction…” Hitoshi stares dolefully at the dough cupped between his palms, briefly flickering to the open doorway to check Eri was not within hearing distance.

“I was so pissed when social services first took me,” deft fingers begin to move as his voice returns, kneading the ball aimlessly in bread flour to smooth out his spike of anxiety. “I loved her a lot, still do. She never hurt me and I thought we were fine, y’know? I didn’t understand it back then. But it got to a point that she couldn’t take care of me”.

He avoids your gaze, feigning indifference, and it makes you wonder how others have reacted to his story. You swallow against the dry discomfort in your throat, rolling the inner flesh of your lip between teeth. There’s nothing to say other than, “I’m sorry. That must’ve been incredibly difficult for you both”.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. You watch a thought cross his mind, the corner of his mouth curving into a half smile. “I was such a dick when I got here because I thought I’d never get to see her again. But dad sat me down and told me he isn’t here to be my new parent, that his job is to keep me safe while my mum gets better”.

You recall Aizawa’s words — fostering is moreso about keeping families together — and smile back. “Funny that be ended up bein’ like a parent to you anyway, huh?”

An amused thrum, the dough in his grasp eventually moulded into what resembled a cylinder. “Yeah. He’s not so bad,” he breathes.

Eri joins in a fluffy sweater and leggings, socks pulled up all the way to her calves, fingers still wet and smelling of almond scented soap. Her eyes sweep across the room, alight with curiosity. “You’re just in time,” you tell her, discreetly putting the topic of Hitoshi’s mother to rest. “Grab the step from the corner so you can help rub the bread flour into the cookie dough”.

When she ambles over, gait stilted by the weight of her stool, Eri slots it between you and Hitoshi. Arms held out in front, you help to roll up her sleeves to avoid mess despite the protective compression underneath.

“Ready?”

“Ready!”

Chubby fingers take two pinches of bread flour, sprinkling over the cookie dough and patting carefully into shape. You let her take her time with it, endeared by how determined she looks carrying out a simple task.

Hitoshi supervises her while you begin the first fermentation of the bread dough. It’s lucky, and amusing, that Aizawa has such a random array of ingredients in his cupboards; you didn’t presume him the type to buy things just in case, yet the instant yeast has you sending silent thoughts of gratitude to him through sheer will.

With the cookie dough now wrapped and put in the fridge, Eri insists on helping you knead the bread dough. “We have to throw it a few times first,” you tell them.

Hitoshi smirks, “May I have the honour?”

The pale consistency is sticky and unpleasant as you pass it to him, some caught like glue between your fingers. At the sight of her brother's grimace, Eri pokes at the dough and makes a sound of awe. “It’s so gooey?” she mumbles.

“That’s why he’s gotta throw it. It’ll be nice and smooth,” you curl protectively around Eri as you explain, remembering her dislike for loud noises. “You might want to cover your ears, sweetheart. There’ll be a big thud when he does it”.

Hitoshi spreads far too much flour across the counter. Pressing the heels of her hands either side of her head, Eri steps back into your chest at the first impact and gapes as the white powder billows into the air, smattering the length of his forearms. He leans his body weight into the dough as he stretches it, glancing at her for permission and only throwing it again after she nods.

Gradually, Eri lowers her hands back down as she acclimates, and the next time she touches the dough it is firmer. “You did it, ��Toshi!”

“Ye—!” his nose wrinkles and he suddenly dips into the crook of his arm, turning away from the counter as he sneezes. “Shi— Shoot. Bless me”.

“Bless you,” you laugh at him, trying and failing to wipe away the powder clinging to your own clothes. Somehow the white smudges worsen with the effort, and the flour has even ended up dusting the ends of Eri’s hair. “Next we gotta roll it up. Think you can help, Eri?”

By the time the dough is round enough to satisfy the siblings, the mess has worsened. You nestle it into a clear bowl and cover it with plastic wrap to let it sit — or as Eri had described, you tuck it into a ‘warm bed’.

With time left to spare as it ferments, Hitoshi departs to the bathroom to quickly clean himself up. In your distraction, the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps does not register. It isn’t until you hear the fond invocation of your names from the doorway that you look up.

Covered in flour from your hands to your elbows, with the certainty that it is also dusted across your cheeks, you look up to see Aizawa watching you both wearing a small smile.

“Hi,” you offer lamely. He snorts.

“What’re you making?”

A fool of myself, you think.

Eri’s eyes sweep over the mess anxiously. There is no indication that he’s angry, but her words still falter. She inhales deeply to steady her breathing just as you taught her, counting to four and releasing. Meeting her fathers stare, she strongly replies, “we’re baking melonpan to share!”

“Is that right?” his eyes squint into a smile and he steps into the threshold, tugging the hairband on his wrist off with his teeth and collecting his hair into a bun. “Got anything I can help out with?”

“We just—”

“Yo,” Hitoshi interrupts as he slinks back into the room with an easy wave.

Aizawa’s brow pinches into a frown. “What’re you doing in my house?” he says. You can tell he doesn’t mean it, and judging by the grin pulling at Hitoshi’s mouth, he can tell too.

“Just wanted to surprise you and Eri,” in closing the distance, Aizawa reaches over to Hitoshi and wraps an arm around him, giving a solid pat to the back of his shoulder. You watch as he squeezes, and they briefly turn into one another’s familiarity before letting go.

Feeling your stare, Aizawa looks at you. To the people that do not know him, his expression might be unreadable, but you understand the fulfilment there. He appears settled, like having you all there in his kitchen has thawed him. “I hope he hasn’t given you any trouble?”

“No more than you,” you cajole, dutifully ignoring the smirk plain on Hitoshi’s face. “They’ve both been very helpful”.

Pleased by your praise, Eri beams as she climbs down from the step stool. “We’re waiting for the bread dough to fer…fer…?”

“Ferment,” you whisper.

“Ferment!” she nods resolutely, stumbling over to her father to greet him. Before you can warn them, Eri has wrapped herself around his leg and pressed into the side of his hip, black dress pants now embellished with loose flour.

He cradles her head as he always does, his hand large around her silver crown. She peers up at him with unfettered joy, in their own private, unspoken exchange. You’re struck by the thought that it isn’t only Eri who thrives under his care. Aizawa, too, even as he tires, becomes that much brighter with her.

The house begins to breathe. It is more alive now than you’ve ever experienced it. From the upper floor is Sourpuss’s distinct yowl as Aizawa heads up the stairs to change, Eri on his coattails telling him about the earlier sun shower.

Hitoshi is moving around the kitchen alongside you, cleaning up the aftermath of his ephemeral flour-storm and avoiding Bastard’s abrupt burst of energy from the shadows as he darts through the remnants; fading white and sugar plum sized paw prints left in his wake.

You laugh when Hitoshi chases him, hissing disjointed curses as he tries to wipe away the prints with the sole of his socks.

When the dough is suitably risen, Aizawa sidles up beside you, shoulder to shoulder. You don’t lean into him, but you don’t move away. Each of you takes a cut, shaping it into the intended melonpan. The spheres wear their cookie sheet coats, dipped in sugar and engraved overtop with clumsy diamond patterns.

Eri lines them up on the baking tray and you put them into the oven. Calls for her to relax go unheard as she waits with her nose pressed to the glass pane until the buns are finally golden, face heated by the orange glow.

You sit with the three of them in the middle of the living room, cushions pulled from their spots and rearranged in a tight circle, and something eases into place — a quiet sense of belonging that you’ve never experienced in all your years as a nanny. The melonpan is warm and sweet in your mouth, so soft it almost dissolves on your tongue. “S’good, right?” you hum happily at the taste, finding Eri nodding alongside you with pink cheeks filled and a bright sugar coated smile.

“It really is,” Hitoshi affirms, almost an air of disbelief as he leans back onto his left hand, savouring his own melonpan with the other. You notice his eyes lazily following the movement in your periphery; Aizawa reaches across your front to brush the grains of sugar from his daughter's chin, his own pastry devoured.

The man ate unnaturally quietly, and quickly. Maybe he really did have a secret sweet tooth.

In retracting his arm, he glances to you. Thoughtlessly, Shouta wipes the crumbs from the swell of your own cheek. You feel sinnew turn to sand, sifting through his gentle hands. In that split, narrowed second, the rest of the room fell away. You’re returned to your body by the sound of Hitoshi’s pointed cough, and the touch disappears.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, furtive in his avoidance of your stare, “force of habit”.

The smile you wear is brittle over the cacophonous rush of blood in your ears. Poor of an excuse as it was, you still wonder whether it had any truth to it — ruminating over how he really saw you.

Soon enough it’s difficult to ignore just how long you’ve overstayed your welcome; atleast, in a professional sense. All five of the Aizawa’s, legal, honorary and feline, walk you to the door to bid you goodbye.

“Be good, alright?” Shouta calls after you, leaning against the doorframe long after the children have returned to their cushions. His monotony makes it all the more endearing.

The real paradigm shift comes with a flinch. Aizawa lets you into the house silently wearing a desperate look. He glances to the top of the stairs, but when you follow his line of sight there is no one there. “She froze up,” he murmurs, regret bleeding into his voice as it rasps. “I lifted my hand to pat her head and she froze, like she thought I’d hit her. She’s been avoiding me all morning”.

You frown, worrying your lip between your teeth. “Is there anything that might’ve triggered her?”

His shoulders deflate, mouth set in a grimace, and you realise then just how crestfallen he is. “Not that I'm aware of. She was fine before bed and didn’t have any nightmares to my knowledge,” — as he bends to pick up his own satchel, Eri’s helpful absence is particularly stark — “if anything goes south let me know. I’ll come straight home if you need me to. We were going to see her psychiatrist soon for a review so I’ll try to have it brought forward”.

“Alright. I promise I’ll take care of her,” you reply, watching with brows pinched as he turns to the front door. You don’t like the slouch to his back — different to the typical exhaustion. This is defeat. Grief, in some ways. While you cannot hear his thoughts, you know intuitively that he is blaming himself.

He stops as you grab his wrist, door partially open. Pray tell, what is the right thing to say?

“Things like this aren’t linear,” your grip tightens, squeezing around his pulse. There’s soft hair under the pads of your fingers, the skin there rough from decades of use. “I’m willing to bet this minor setback isn’t your fault. Bad days happen”.

“I know,” he rasps, still refusing to look at you.

“I know that you know, probably better than most,” you smile where he can’t see it. “I just wanted to remind you”.

You experience a palpable sense of accomplishment when his arm turns, inner wrist twisting and sliding forth until your palms kiss. Aizawa holds your hand and peers at you through the curtain of his hair. As clouds part and the sun pierces through the threshold it refracts in his eyes. In a fleeting trick of the light, you think they look red.

“Thank you,” he says.

Away at work, the house is too quiet. Eri isn’t a rambunctious girl by any means, but her presence can always be heard. Can always be felt. No pitter patter of socked feet, no muffled laughter, no hushed conversations between girl and cat.

A part of you whispers how similar it is to being in your own home. But acknowledging that loneliness is another bruise you don’t fancy poking.

You find Eri curled up in her bed. She has pressed herself to the wall and brought both knees to her chest. The small bundle quakes, cheeks wet with tears that have begun to saturate the pillowcase. Eri keeps her cries unsettlingly quiet, in a way you’ve only ever seen in children afflicted with soul-deep wounds.

“Eri?” you call out to her with gentle cadence. She is, visibly and emotionally, an animal cornered. You move in closer, keeping to the edge of the room, focused on the worrisome flush to her skin and her laboured breaths. It worsens as you close the distance, a frantic gleam in her eyes.

“It’s just me, Eri. You’re safe here,” pausing a foot away from the edge of her bed, you gingerly lower yourself to sit on her bedroom floor. “I think you’re having a panic attack, bug. So we’re gonna try to slow your breathing. Can you do that for me?”

Her mouth quivers, pursed right as she hiccups. Another quick blink, another round of tears. You try not to collapse with relief when she nods, “You’re already doing so well. I know it’s scary right now but you’ll get through this”.

Despite the frenetic ache in your chest and the instincts in your body urging that you reach for her, you remain as you are. This is ultimately why you were chosen. Years of schooling and experience puppets your body, autopilot taking lead.

“First we’re going to breathe in through our noses for three seconds, nice and deep so your chest opens up. I’ll do it too,” — motioning inwards with your hands, you inhale until your ribs expand and lift a finger for each second that passes — “brilliant, sweetheart. Now hold that breath in for two more seconds. Ready? One… two…”

The minutes progress excruciatingly slowly. You continue to instruct her, keeping your voice soothing and calm with each cycle of breathing. Gradually, the tension bleeds from Eri’s body and she’s cognisant enough to say your name.

It follows an aborted reach for you, halted midway and dropping onto the bed, small hand hamfisting the bedsheets. “Is it okay for me to touch you?” you quietly ask.

With her permission, keeping your movements telegraphed, you shuffle toward the mattress on your knees and wrap your arms around her like one might cradle a baby.

Pulling her closer to your chest, you realise something is off. There’s heat soaking through her clothes, and in stroking a hand along her shoulders you notice they’re wet. “Eri…?” chin against sternum as you peer down, the back of your hand finds her forehead too hot.

“Are you sick?”

The question makes her freeze, statuesque where she’s curled against your chest. “I’m sorry,” she whimpers. Unease settles in your gut.

“I’m not angry, Eri. It isn’t your fault you’re sick, it happens to everyone,” you say, gently brushing the hair away from her face. “Is that why you were anxious today, you thought I would be upset?”

“They… they get mad”.

“Who does, sweetheart?”

“Grown ups,” she rasps, her voice thick and cloying in her throat. Steadily, the breast of your shirt becomes damp too. The hand threaded into her hair lowers to thumb away the fresh onslaught of tears.

“Grown ups can be scary,” you affirm, beginning an instinctive back and forth sway as you hold her. “But not all of them. Your dad, Hitoshi and I won’t be angry if you’re sick because we want to take care of you”.

Aizawa’s earlier expression flashes unbidden through your thoughts. What he had interpreted had been fear, but not for the reasons he initially thought. Eri was not scared of him — she just didn’t want him to know she was sick. No doubt, if he had caught wind of her fever he would have called off work completely.

While she doesn’t speak about her past to you, it's clear the adults in Eri’s life before entering foster care had treated her needs as something burdensome. Your gaze drifts to the bandages on her forearms and realise they may have even harmed her for it.

“I bet these feel all sticky and uncomfortable now, huh?” you’re cautious to trace the protective sleeves with the pad of your finger. As expected, they’re sweaty.

She readjusts in your grip, a sheen of perspiration across pink skin. Panic at bay, now she is exhausted. “Sticky,” she weakly agrees.

“Then how about I run you a bath?”

It’s this that leads to you finally seeing the extent of Eri’s scars.

When you settle her into the tepid water, your eyes do not linger on mottled skin. Expression carefully schooled into something familiarly pleasant, you keep your thoughts in the present, away from the horrific what ifs and the whys. Unawares of your inner struggle, Eri raises her cupped hands steeped with bubbles and blows them across the bathroom with a tired smile. Having earned so much of her trust is not unlike Atlas, the heavens on your back.

You find Eri enjoys routine even while sick, but she isn’t especially particular about it and for that you’re thankful, as she is forgiving of your initial clumsiness. She uses the lavender bubble bath because it soothes her, not the raspberry scented wash. Eri’s towels are softer and brighter than Aizawa’s, and the difference is important because they are hers. Socks are stifling, so you needn’t lay them out. The nightlight stays on when the curtains are closed, but you still need to leave a crack in the door for Sourpuss and Bastard, who’ve both dutifully stationed themselves outside her bedroom.

You turn around and fuss with her bedsheets while she changes into something thin and light. The pyjama top is on backwards, and after retracting her arms into the shirt so you can swivel it around correctly, she clambers into the quilts. Dekiru: The Can Do Hero was her chosen story. Satisfaction thrums through your chest as her eyes start to grow heavy, a damp cloth wrung out and placed across her forehead.

There’s a pull to your sternum as you leave her room, dipoles strengthening and compelling you to stay — to make sure she’s still alright. Bastard and Sourpuss watch you with bright eyes, pupils needle-thin. Something very human in you feels as if they’re saying thank you.

More importantly, you need to text Aizawa.

You : 11:16

Just thought to update you. I think Eri might have a virus, or a stomach bug. She’s okay and resting.

Aizawa Shouta : 11:20

Do you need me to come home?

You : 11:21

We’re okay, but do whatever you think is best. Will let you know if anything worsens.

When he eventually returns home it is with cold-bitten cheeks and tension in his brow. A long day looks good on him, you think, stray hair falling loose from his bun and the collar of his shirt crooked. “Any more problems?” he asks with veiled trepidation.

“She’s alright for now,” you don’t bother hiding the wry smile that pulls at your mouth, “I heard all about the different voices you use when you read to her. Apparently I don’t hold a candle to you. Didn’t think you were the type”.

He holds your gaze with intent, “I’m full of surprises”.

You exhale a laugh, quiet and warm behind closed lips, “I’m starting to see that”.

“Only just?” his initial teasing slowly retracts, a gradual sink back into melancholy. “Is she really okay?”

“Still slightly feverish, but her temperature is down from thirty eight to thirty seven…” your weight shifts between each foot as you internally debate how to inform him of the panic attack. Aizawa lends an ear while he removes his coat, and the soft hair on your arm lifts at the chill still clinging to his clothes. You imagine taking his hands into your own and coaxing the blood back to his fingers.

“Speaking of temperature, let’s get you some coffee”. Already boiled and percolating on the counter, you’d made it in conjunction with his journey home as you always did. A little extra something you enjoyed doing for him. Aizawa would say that you do plenty in taking care of his family — but this was just for the two of you.

A quiet moment together, kitchen dimly lit in the oncoming twilight. With this, you can warm him from the inside and out. With this, you can tell him without words, I was thinking of you.

You stand opposite him, boxed into the narrow space. He appraises you from his place by the sink, leaning back casually against the counter. Heat settles in your belly before your first sip. Eyes never leaving yours over the rim of his mug, Aizawa drinks, and hums a low, pleased sound at the taste.

The sting to your palms tethers you to the present. A light, somewhat floral aroma fills your senses as you inhale. You lift your own coffee to your mouth, blowing away the plumes of steam. It is rich on your tongue.

Your gaze lingers where he licks his lower lip. “It’s a little different this time. Almost… spicy and sweet?”

Smile hidden behind your mug, you say, “I tried steeping cardamom with the coffee grounds this time. Do you like it?”

“I do,” he murmurs. He takes another sip, wearing a subdued smile of his own. In the muted light, it accentuates the bags beneath his eyes. Even in his contentment, there’s a pensive air about him that lets you know his thoughts are elsewhere.

With his daughter.

“You should know that after you left this morning I found Eri having a panic attack”.

“Shit,” he halts. Regrettably, the frown is back. “Did she hurt herself?”

“No! No,” you demurred, hastening to reassure him, “I knew what to do. She was scared at first, but I calmed her down”.

The mouth you’re so enticed by is caught between teeth, his fingers tapping restlessly against the ceramic of his cup. Aizawa sighs, erring on a scoff as he places the half drunk coffee in the sink and scrubs a hand against the stubble on his jaw.

“Do you know what caused it?” he asks. Did I do something wrong? you hear.

“It wasn’t until she let me touch her that I realised she had a fever. I thought she’d just exerted herself during the attack,” you mirror his actions, setting aside your mug carefully on the countertop. “She told me… before she came into your care, adults would be angry if she needed help or got sick”.

His eyes are cast to the floor, in a haze almost. He nods but you aren’t sure that your words are registering. Resting against sternum, his hand clenched into a fist.

“Eri wasn’t scared of you. She just didn’t want you to know about her fever because she feared it would disrupt your work,” and then gently, to truly make sure he understands, you repeat: “she isn’t scared of you, Shouta”.

He breathes the reality in and slacks against the counter with an exhale, as if the tension had been the only thing holding his strings together. You’re drawn forward by the urge to comfort him, moving into his space with a hand laid overtop fist before you’re able to consider the professional consequences of crossing such boundaries.

But he doesn’t bat you away or scold you. The warmth of your touch slowly softens his grip until you’re able to unfurl each finger without fanfare. There are faint crescent moons embedded into the heel of his palm. Without speaking, Shouta overturns his wrist and holds your hand again.

“I thought about what you told me this morning. About none of this being linear,” he continues to speak somberly, his voice so tender you felt you could marinate in it. “Eri started out as a foster with me when she was four. It was awful at the start — constant appointments with doctors and the police and social services. I’ve temporarily fostered a few kids in my time but a case as severe as Eri's was a first”.

This wasn’t a time to interrupt, just to listen. You can’t look away from him as he looks at you; looks at the space between your bodies where you currently intertwine, like he was memorising every dip and peak of your knuckles.

“Adopting her scared the hell out of me. Even though she’d become my daughter in every way that counts, there were always times I worried I’d fuck it up. Still are,” he murmurs. You do not shy away when he peers up to keep your gaze. “But you reminded me that bad days are expected, not something always within my control, and not a reflection of my parenting”.

To anyone looking in from the outside, this would be an intimate moment. You and Shouta, curved toward one another like coupled swans. “Thank you,” he squeezes around your knuckles in successive beats as if to press the sentiment into your skin. “For taking care of both of us”.

The corners of his eyes wrinkle, and you find yourself on the precipice of something more.

The depths and the possibilities that lie within haunt you through to the weekend. You cannot forget the rough pad of his thumb stroking across your knuckles, the intermingling scent of flora and cologne, or how easily you could have dipped forward to kiss him.

Eri remains sick for two days and Shouta promises you it’s fine that you stay home. You can appreciate that he wants to spend time with her, to assure her that he is a safe and constant presence in her life. Still, you miss them far more than you should.

Your best friends don’t take well to moping. Touya and Rumi are not the type to mope — their stubborn, vindictive natures were a large part of why you loved them. You just much preferred it when those qualities were not inflicted upon you.

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just drink at my apartment?”

You are dragged to a little hole in the wall Touya had found during your university years. It’s slightly industrial, a wide open space with tall, steel beams spaced around the room. What differs is the warmth; lighting low, muted orange bulb fixtures in the centre of each table casting an intimate glow, accompanied by soft acoustic music overhead.

A large drinks bar had been built into the centre, corners slightly rounded with stools around the outer — one of which you have taken for yourself. The three of you sit together on the curved edge so you can face one another, Rumi contented to be in the middle. Being here felt similar to huddling around a campfire, or candlelight. Alcohol insulating your bones and loosening your tongue, easy laughter shared with friends.

You were brought here on a quest for distraction, and yet—

“I don’t think you understand how dire this is,” you bemoan, feeling yourself pout at Touya’s self indulgent eye roll. “He tells me to be good before he leaves now, too. Looks right at me and says ‘be good, both of you’”.

Your initial goal may have been overly optimistic.

“Like a bit of praise, don’t ya?” Rumi laughs.

Touya smirks, wiping away a stray bead of soju from his mouth as his eyes sweep across the bar. “Who doesn’t?”

“It isn’t funny,” limp wristed as you swirl the sweet tasting concoction in your glass, Rumi slips her arm along the back of your stool. “I want to kiss him. All the time!”

A hand rubs firm circles between your shoulder blades. At the very least, neither of them are irritated by the topic. Embarrassing to admit, Aizawa Shouta had featured prominently in your group chat over the past month. Most of their responses have been either good natured teasing or detailing complaints about their own love lives, for which you’d been thankful, because at the time you’d only needed a place to vent and an ear to listen.

Now you weren’t so sure. Heartbeat in your mouth, his phantom touch around your fingers. You knew him sleep mussed and lazy, his low rumbling laugh, the way your name sounds when he smiles. Inch by inch the spool unravels, you take more than you need, left wanting still.

You couldn’t pretend a line had not been crossed anymore, and you tell them as much.

“So, we’re actually talking about this now?” Touya asks, waving his hand between the three of you. “I know we’ve been joking and shit, but if we’re getting serious I’ll need another round”.

Though he acts nonchalant, you can tell Touya cares. Turned inward to face you and leant forward across the bar with his cheek against his palm, the scarred skin slightly glossy as it pulls taut. Where his words say very little, his body speaks for him. Rumi coos and throws her other arm around his shoulders when you reach across, and he reciprocates in taking your hand.

“Dumbass,” he mutters. “We’re here for you. But I’m not joking about that drink”. You grin, tucking your head into the crook of Rumi’s neck, draped beneath white, to return the hug while she waves over the bartender. Another grapefruit soju, a kirin lager and a cocktail of the night.

Words come easy when you’re loose-lipped. “I’m anxious that it’s obvious to him,” you say. “Fuck. I don’t wanna make anyone uncomfortable”.

“Is this Aizawa guy really the type to tolerate anything that makes him uncomfortable?”

“I think so…”— he is, and he would, if it were for someone he cares about —“…But not without saying anything about it”.

“There ya go then,” Rumi replies, exhaling happily at the end of a long sip from her pint glass. “And you’ve told us before that he’s always honest with you. What was it you said…?”

Touya clears his throat and warps the pitch of his voice to mimic your own, “Why is emotional maturity and clear communication so hot?”

“Fuck off,” you laugh, heat thrumming beneath your skin. You wished you had a stray straw wrapper to flick at him, jokingly adding, “it is hot. I love you, but not all of us get off on being ignored, y’know.”

“Sue me,” he jests, narrowing his eyes into a drunken glare that at best, looks like a squint. “And I don’t get ignored. I do the ignoring”.

Noticing his empty bottle, Rumi slides him her glass sympathetically, “sure ya do”.

The bar is notably less empty than it had been an hour ago. Not full by any means, but the music has slowly been overwhelmed by the quiet lull of overlapping conversation. Tuning out the lovable bickering at your side, you take a moment to appraise the new crowd.

Something sinks into the pit of your stomach and you baulk, caught on a familiar sight.

Fuck, you think. How long has he been there?

There he sits, aglow with the sunset hue affixed to the centre of his table. Hair loose, ebony drapes over his shoulders. He’s in a pale turtleneck sweater, looking distinctly out of place. Beside him a lean man, bright in demeanour and loud across the room; a blond braid follows the line of his spine, tinted glasses resting on the end of his nose.

A woman approaches the pair, beaming. Curved and soft, wearing a lilac, off the shoulder dress that hugs the line of her body comfortably. She sets a tray of drinks down beside their numerous empty glasses and presses herself between the two, unperturbed by the lack of space.

A spark of recognition frissons through you. They must be the friends you often see framed around the house; Nemuri and Hizashi, if you remember correctly.

Shouta’s clear exasperation as he moves to accommodate Nemuri makes you want to laugh. But still, there is a fondness there that rolls over him like mist. He sinks into the arm around his shoulder, surrendering himself to the affection.

“Oi. What’re you staring at?” You blink, startled by the large hand suddenly waving in your face.

“He’s here”.

“Your hot dadboss?” Touya mutters, doing a poor job of acting natural as he abruptly turns to scan the room, “where?”

“Could you be any more fucking obvious?” Rumi cackles, bumping their shoulders and forcing his attention back to the table. “‘Sides, it’s clearly the trio on your two o’clock. Scruffy guy with long dark hair, eyebags that couldn’t legally board a plane — the works”.

As Touya peers over his shoulder towards Shouta, you release a long, suffering groan, slumping forward with elbows propped on the bar surface to bury into your palms. You hoped a sinkhole would open up beneath you. From behind your hands you hear, “I find your taste in men questionable”.

“Like you have any room to talk,” you glare at him through the spaces in your fingers, “didn’t you fuck a guy that had a poster of your dad over his bed?”

Seated adjacent, Rumi chokes on her drink while you knock back your own. “A poster of your dad? Hasn't he been publicly disgraced in every print media possible?”

A dismissive wave of his hand. “I will not be commenting at this time,” he sneers.

“Holy shit. I’m gonna tell your brothers—”

“—Like hell you are!”

Amidst your friends' loving exchange of insults, your phone buzzes.

Aizawa Shouta : 21:34

You handle your drink better than I thought.

Sensing the playful tone, you pointedly take a sip of another. Glancing up from the screen you meet his eyes across the bar, a smirk hidden behind his scotch glass. Chewing the inside of your cheek to withhold a grin, you text him back.

You : 21:34

Look who’s talking. I spy four empty glasses on your side of the table.

“Are you seriously messaging him right now?” Touya asks dryly, unperturbed by the middle finger you throw in response. Rumi laughs at his side, tucking her chin into the palm of her hand as your phone lights up again.

Aizawa Shouta : 21:36

You sure are paying a lot of attention to me.

And then:

Aizawa Shouta : 21:36

But you’re right. No doubt I’ll miss your coffee tomorrow morning.

A shot glass is placed in front of you. Goaded into bringing it to your lips, you grimace at the burn in your throat. Coffee sounds like bliss.

You : 21:37

I’ll miss making it. Who is watching Eri?

Aizawa Shouta : 21:37

Hitoshi. They’re having a movie marathon.

You smile to yourself, imagining the apoplectic way in which Eri would likely detail her night to you in a few days. Feeling the weighted stare, you glance up and meet Aizawa’s eyes again, half squinted into a private smile of his own. He nods in acknowledgement and warmth settles in your chest. Rumi, inebriated and loose-lipped, leans into Touya incognisant of his scowl, “Jesus. I feel like I’ve stepped into a romcom”.

You : 21:38

I can’t wait to hear all about it.

It is expected that they stay with you after a night out. Your place is closer to the bar — a matter of routine and convenience. Rumi, lightweight with alcohol and heavyweight with musculature, passes out unceremoniously on your couch before she’s halfway through her large glass of water.

Touya had sobered up on the walk home. Mostly. Just a two man party, you retire to the bathroom together with intentions of skin care and gossip. He watches you in the reflection of the mirror, bent over the sink and applying the pale clay mask to his face with careless strokes. The colour is almost identical to the faded pink of his burn scars, tight and slightly raised over the swell of his cheek. “You’re not the first person who has wanted to fuck their boss and you won’t be the last,” he mutters.

“Do you really have to put it like that?” you huff, leaning back against the toilet tank. The seat is closed and cold against the back of your thighs. You didn’t often have time for nights like this anymore, but made sure to pencil them in wherever possible for your own sanity — even if your best friend was the complete opposite of comforting.

“You’re so delicate,” he rolls his eyes at you, pushing the cat-eared headband further onto his crown to keep his hair out of the clay. Mockingly, he adds, “My apologies. I meant ‘make sweet love to’”.

Your wide smile cracks the clay dried to your skin as your leg extends to kick him behind the knee, laughing at the hissed string of expletives while he steadies himself. “Dick…” the amusement tapers, a memory of Eri flashing unbidden through your mind.

“His daughter has had it really rough. She has scars all over her body,” you quietly tell him, fractures forming in the words as your emotions swell. Of all the people you know, you think he alone understands, “it isn’t fair”.

Touya exhales, clicking the small container shut and loudly dropping the brush into the sink to rinse. Not unkindly, he says, “If I ever meet her we can bond over our shitty biodads. Make an exclusive club”.

You smile weakly at his comment, picking idly at the small wick of flesh embedded in the corner of your fingernail. “They’re both so important to me now, Touya. I don’t want my feelings to mess with this, or to hurt either of them”.

“It’s not— look,” he huffs, turning to face you where he stands, slumping back onto the counter with a comically serious expression. “I’ll say this once. Your feelings aren’t a burden, and they’re fucking lucky to have you. If the-walking-dead doesn’t want you back it doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world, but it does mean he’s an idiot”.

You might laugh again if you didn’t recognise how sincere he was being. Touya struggled with reassuring others in need and was renowned for giving terrible advice, but he loved you enough to try anyway. Tiled flooring tepid against the soles of your feet, you cross the short distance to hug him, angled awkwardly to avoid getting pink clay on his shirt.

“Thank you,” you murmur thickly.

“Better appreciate it. Being nice isn’t my forte,” he knocks his chin against your crown, comforted in the narrow clutch of his arms. “Takes a lot outta me. Kinda feel like I need a cigarette now”.

“You haven’t had one in a month. Don’t even think about it,” you flick the space between his brows, dodging his retaliation as he reaches to pinch your waist with a less than coordinated stumble.

Out in the living room on the edge of your coffee table, your phone buzzes twice.

Aizawa Shouta : 00:08

If you’re free tomorrow, can you come over to talk?

Aizawa Shouta : 00:08

Just us two.

Possibilities ran amok in your head. The anxiety thorning through your chest is reminiscent of the very first time you’d met him. Shouta was not a religious man but if there was anything that man insisted on, it was that Sunday’s are for rest. You knew he liked to lie in, a small weekly respite, and so you hesitated to knock.

A door you had opened, locked, leaned against and lingered under, now seemed so foreboding. From here on out, you imagine there will be a before and an after. Had he heard you in the bar? Had one of his friends? Or, had you been too obvious, just like you feared?

Touya and Rumi had practically ushered you out of the apartment that morning, promising to stay behind and wait for an update. Greasy food and camp horror movies were in the wings incase of a broken heart.

With bated breath, you lift your arm. The momentum of your swing slows until your knuckles are soundlessly touching wood. You really, really didn’t want to knock. The idea of your feelings being spurned far outweighed the desire to see Shouta soaked in sleep and early afternoon sunlight again.

Amidst your trepidation, the decision is made for you. You pull back at the familiar click of a key being turned, hand now clutched against your chest. The door is opened.

Belatedly, you notice that his face is clean shaven; hair combed and half tucked behind his ear to display the smooth skin. Absent is the neon pink, today the sweatpants are dark and cuffed around his ankles. You hold his gaze, resolutely avoiding how his shirt hangs loose enough to expose his pale collarbones, and find that each of his socks is a different colour — one green, one yellow.

“Will you be loitering out here all day?” he asks in lieu of a greeting. There’s an amused inflection to his tone that, at the very least, softens your embarrassment.

“I didn’t plan on it,” you reply, stepping into the entryway to be embraced by the house’s warmth. Anticipation strums deft fingers through your centre of gravity. Shouta barely moves, a hair's breadth between your bodies as you slip by him, head turning to watch you pass. “Eri isn’t here?”

Bending to remove your shoes, you hear him say, “She’s staying with her aunt Nemuri tonight. Coffee’s brewed, so you can sit if you want. Get comfortable”.

“You made it?” playful in the way you glance toward him over your shoulder, slightly invigorated by how natural this all feels. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s about to fire you — quite the opposite. “I’m a little scared”.

The first time you’d caved into drinking one of his morning coffees it'd had the taste and texture of tar. It had been nothing short of punishment. As if he was reliving the memory alongside you, Shouta huffs a short laugh.

“I’ve improved. I won’t be shown up in my own home,” he dismisses you with a wave and heads into the kitchen, “now go and sit”.

Bastard observes your entrance perched atop the back of the couch, expression etched into a permanent glare. A soft thud follows his leap down, slinking into your lap once seated and rolling his body weight into your stomach. You smile down at him, carding through his soft fur and feeling the vibration of his purr beneath your fingers.

Befriending this fickle little creature is a testament to how far you’ve come with their family.

“Here,” you look up to see Shouta standing before you, a familiar mug decorated with multicoloured pawprints held out. You take it by the handle, wary of its heat. The other end of the couch dips as he settles beside you, notably close.

“It smells a little like… cinnamon?”

He hums an affirmative, bringing the rim of his mug to his lips and taking a long sip, unconcerned by the temperature. “I added some to the pot this time. Not too bad”.

The tawny surface ripples as you lightly blow across it before having a taste. It’s full on your tongue, but in a way that is creamy rather than viscid. You can feel his stare boring into the side of your face as you savour the subtle sweetness of the cinnamon.

“Not too bad,” you echo with a wry smile, meeting his gaze. Shouta appears uncharacteristically… relieved by your answer. You’d never known him to actively try to impress you. His shoulders relax, rubbing his hand awkwardly along the line of his jaw.

Without forethought, you blurt, “You’ve shaved”.

His movement halts, and you regret having said anything.

“I did,” he replies dryly. “...I was pestered by some very annoying people into putting some effort into my appearance before we had this conversation”

You stroke the pad of your thumb around your mug handle, made restless by the implication. Shouta was always effortlessly considerate of you, but his actions as of late are so obviously purposeful, and you didn’t know what to make of it. “I don’t think you needed to,” you tell him, your voice almost wistful in how sincere it sounds. “The scruffy look works for you. It’s handsome”.

The contact breaks for a moment as he lifts his coffee in effort to disguise his snort. You watch his throat bob, swallowing deeply. Brow quirked, he asks, “You think I’m scruffy?”

“I think you’re handsome,” you correct, a giddy sensation bubbling in your chest as the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Stop fishing, you said I’m here to talk about something”.

“You are,” he agrees, abating his mirth and returning to a more serious tone. You immediately miss the warmth. “I’m no good at this kind of thing. But I want to remind you that you can leave, if at any time I make you uncomfortable”.

Bastard fidgets, but dull claws kneading through your clothes does nothing to alleviate your sudden anxiety. “Alright… What’s— what’s all this about?”

You can see the breath he takes to steady himself, the internal monologue you aren’t privy to. There’s a discomfort that sinks into his expression, almost like a grimace. Like predetermined regret. Despite your earlier concerns, this was clearly about him and not about you.

“I admired from the very beginning how brilliant you were with Eri. You weren’t the first nanny we’d been introduced to, but she never took well to any of the others,” as he begins, you tuck a hand beneath the feline in your lap, distractedly stroking his chin. “We both saw something comforting in you. It was unnerving how easily you fit into our lives”.

Mirroring you, Shouta reaches his free hand across to scratch behind Bastard's ear. “Eri came to love you, and eventually I…” the bridge of his nose wrinkles, lips thinning as if he tasted something sour. You’re both hesitating, teetering over a cliff's edge, wary of the jump. Your pulse beats loud in your ears, and part of you worries you’ll mishear him all together.

“Over time, I developed strong romantic feelings for you,” he says. In admitting it, the fight visibly bleeds from his body. He sounds apologetic, and it hurts. “I might have dealt with it myself had Hitoshi not told me I was being too obvious. If that’s the case, and I’ve crossed any boundaries with you I want to apolo—”

“Don’t apologise,” you hastily interrupt. “Sorry for cutting you off. I— I didn’t know, but, I like you too”.

The grip on your mug is shatteringly tight. He stares at you unblinking, eyes widened in imperceptible surprise. “You do?”

“I thought I was embarrassingly obvious,” You laugh weakly, seconding him another glance. He’s still watching, a light shade of pink creeping up his neck. “I’ve been feeling so guilty. Not only about crossing professional lines, but because I don’t want any of this to hurt Eri”.

“Then we’re on the same page,” he concedes.

Your reciprocation sees a shift in atmosphere. As you both soak in the words, and all the consequences that may follow, his hand gradually slips beneath Bastard’s chin and brushes against your own. Fingers twitch, gluttonous, the moment held in suspension.

And then they’re spreading, unfolding like a flower in bloom. Your palms align and stems intertwine. Shouta holds your hand like it’s something precious, filling the spaces between your fingers. Bastard remains incognisant of the world around him as he sleeps, resting his head heavily against your wrists.

“Realistically,” you begin again, after a brief silence. “Where would you want this to go? Between us”.

His grip tightens, and he runs his thumb along the points of your knuckles. “Well. I initiated this discussion knowing things likely would not be the same again after,” he murmurs gently. “Best case scenario, I hoped either we would come up with a schedule that kept more concrete boundaries in place so my feelings wouldn’t disrupt your relationship with Eri, or I’d get lucky and you’d want to build something more with me”.

More. Maw. The aching hunger in your heart is suddenly startlingly prominent. The very thing you’d been wanting for, offered to you on a silver platter. Knowing he had always planned to keep you in Eri’s life strikes a chord, and you feel like you might cry.

Squeezing his hand back, you blink away the sting in your sinuses. “This is… slightly overwhelming”.

He smiles heistantly. You never thought you’d see the day that Aizawa Shouta looked shy. “Do I need to get the feelings chart?”

“Shut up,” you laugh. “I’m just happy. This is a big thing, and it’s about more than just us, but for now... I’m happy”.

Then, with the lines in the sand patently smoothed over, you relinquish restraint and lean into his shoulder. He rests his cheek against your temple, and you shape around one another instinctively. “If I could be the one to pick, then I think I’d choose to build something more with you”.

“Yeah?” There’s a raspy baritone warming his voice that pulls at your centre. You want to curl up next to it like kindling.

“Yeah”.

“So,” he turns his head and his lips are softer than expected along your skin. “You wouldn’t mind if I took you on a date?”

“I wouldn’t,” you breathe. He hums, a sincere happy little sound.

“Would you mind if I kissed you?”

The mug of coffee, still held in your right hand, is cold. Bastard remains heavy, spread across your lap like a blanket. You can feel Shouta’s apprehension, the uncertainty that comes with drawing new lines on a blank slate. Again, you repeat, “I wouldn’t”.

He doesn’t fumble. Shouta rests his drink beside the couch, a fleeting loss of his warmth, and then he’s back to take your own. All without releasing your left hand. Bastard complains when your legs move, knees turning inwards to face him as Aizawa moves to cradle your face between palms, and the feline departs your lap, stray hairs dotting your clothes.

A sense of weightlessness floods through you, fingers entangling into the fabric of his shirt to keep yourself tethered. He reveres you for a moment, eyes lingering on your expression as he brings your foreheads together. This close, you can see a faint scar curved along his cheek that you had never noticed before.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs.

Heat pricks at your skin. You can feel his breath on your lips. “Hurry up,” you insist.

The lilt of desperation in your tone inspires a lazy grin, “You could say please”.

You had no problems parting with your dignity. “Please”.

And so, he kisses you.

You’re certain you would be formless without Shouta’s hand smoothing along the column of your throat, untethered. The other moves to your hip. He grounds you, thumbs circling the soft skin of your waist, he pulls away for breath only to dip and capture your lips in another tender kiss. It’s slow, patient and lacking in direction. It’s without expectation and arousal. It is just that — loving.

When your lips part, he murmurs your name softly into your mouth. His tongue is wet and languid, smooth as it maps out the grooves of your teeth, sliding warm against your own. Excitement frissons along the length of your spine, compelling you to press closer and sate your hunger.

He tastes like cinnamon.

The touches evolve into something more frantic. You end up curled into him as he sinks back against the couch, half pulling you onto his lap. Appreciative and firm, a hand squeezes the fat of your thigh where it is strewn over his knee. You swallow every sweet murmuring, every soft groan he gives you, and it falls like a small stone into the pit of your stomach. Barely filling.

You wanted more, and between gasping breaths, you knew he did too.

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks, the question rough in his throat.

The muscles in your legs clench at that, pressing tightly together. It wasn’t that you didn’t want it— you felt yourself throb at the thought, shrinking under the weight of his hunger — but you’d hardly come here expecting anything. Especially not this.

“I— I didn’t come prepared for that?” you answer honestly. His gaze grows heavy, brow curved in a silent bid for explanation. “I didn’t… shower for very long,” and you hadn’t worn particularly alluring underwear, either.

He takes a measured breath and you shy into the couch cushions. “You think I care about that?” he says. Your eyes flicker then at the gentle stroke of his fingers along your jawline. He tilts your chin with the hand cradling your cheek, and forces you to look back at him. The pad of his thumb traces along your bottom lip, and he smiles when you reflexively kiss it.

“We don’t have to, I know this might be too fast. We can stop right here, ” he murmurs, enunciating each word as if to stress his sincerity. “But know that I do want you, I want all of you. And I want you now, as you are”.

You shift in place, reflexively seeking friction. Still, he waits. “Do you have condoms?”

“I do,” his eyes are half lidded, and they gleam with mirth. “Two kids at home and twenty in my criminology programme. Not looking to have more anytime soon”.

Maybe your transparency should be, at the very least, a little embarrassing. No doubt you’re wearing a lovesick expression. But you can’t find it in you to care. “Then okay,” you tell him. “Take me upstairs”.

Excitement stirs in your gut during the walk up, feeling his presence at the small of your back. The door to his room has been left ajar, and when he overtakes you to enter first you’re struck by the realisation that this is the only room you’ve never been in.

You aren’t sure what you were expecting. It’s a cool off white colour, save for an accent wall painted a dark emerald green — so dark, that without the sunlight you could mistake it for black, not unlike his kitchen. There are two alcoves fixed with shelves, lined with books and titles you haven’t heard of, and a small desk beside his chest of drawers covered in paperwork.

The bedframe is high, but there is no headboard. Pillows upon pillows, blankets old and new. Sitting square in the middle of the mattress is Sourpuss, her paws tucked against her belly as she stares at the intrusion.

You aren’t given much time to process. There are hands on your hips, teeth paving tender nips down the curve of your throat. “Still ok?” Shouta rasps, nosing the delicate skin beneath your ear.

“Yeah,” and you’re sinking into his chest like warm water as he gently guides you into the room. Before reaching the bed, you turn in his arms to kiss him. Your fingers thread into his thick hair, light as you scratch against his scalp.

Sourpuss complains when you’re lowered onto the bed, jumping to the floor as you scoot up towards the pillows. You offer her a half hearted apology, already distracted by the roll of Shouta’s hips.

His cock is hard beneath his sweatpants, rocking deliciously against your clothed sex. Everything is hot. “Shouta—!” face turned into the sheets to muffle your whine, you note that they smell like him.

“I know love,” he ruts forward again, expression pinched in pleasure. With your throat bared, he continues the path of open mouthed kisses to your collar, a hand rising to cup your chest. You arch into the touch as he squeezes. “Bet you could make me cum like this—”

“—But not before you do,” Another kiss to your lips, chaste in comparison. He pulls away to meet your gaze, seeking permission. “I want to taste you”.

“Okay…” you tilt your chin, pecking the corner of his mouth, and you feel it curve up as your hands find purchase at the hem of his shirt. “Just take this off, first”.

When he sits back on his knees, arms crossed to lift the fabric over his head, you are left adrift to enjoy the view. He is well built but appears to have lost definition over time, with his biceps and pecs still thick but his stomach soft. There’s sparse hair on his chest, thicker beneath his belly button.

Indulging the urge to touch, he shudders as you trace your finger through it and tease his waistband. “Yours too,” he says, the instruction rough in his throat.

His body moves with yours like the tide as you sit up to remove your shirt, already there to lick the valley between your breasts. You wrap your arms around his head, gathering the dark hair draped over you and brushing it away from his face to watch the way he reveries you.

Your abdomen flinches under his soft kisses. Shouta travels the length of your torso as if he were savouring you. He’s pressing sweet nothings in your skin, inaudible mumblings that still leave you warm because they’re spoken so breathlessly.

He hooks into your waistband and looks at you. Before he can ask, you slip your hands alongside his — “here, let me…” — and begin to push both your pants and your underwear over the curve of your ass. As the material peels away, you can feel it cling to your sex. Wet.

“Fuck, look at you,” a hand gently parts your knees. He forges another line of light, barely there kisses along your inner thighs, and once he reaches the apex he inhales with a quiet groan that has your fingers tugging at his hair. He’s immovable as your embarrassment pushes him back barely an inch, satisfaction twitching at the edge of his mouth. Jaw slack, pupils dilated and almost gleaming in rebellion, he rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit.

Your breathing stutters. It loosens your grip enough that he can tip his head forward to consume you completely, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure like it was his arousal own being satiated. Covetous, he signals contentment with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex.

The beat of your heart ricochets through your centre; pulsing in your throat, your ears and your pussy. Shouta’s tongue slides over you, wet and soft. Where it seems like he’s indulging himself, you realise he’s still adapting each movement to the sounds you make. Wherever a moan falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace, reins himself in to watch the rise and fall of your breasts.

The knot in your belly tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs clamped against his ears with hips bucking into his mouth. The mattress shakes, and when you notice it’s him rutting into the sheets, you moan helplessly louder. “Shouta, I’m—!”

He groans, fingers sinking into the fat of your hips and pulling you impossibly close. Your heels dig into his back as his nose slides against your clit, and he tilts to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over the swell.

“Just like that,” you gasp, grip searing at his scalp. Lewd, wet sounds reverberate around the room. “Fuck!”

A momentary breath is caught in your throat. Your body bends, spine arched forward like a bow as you crest. All at once, the sharp twist in your belly lessens, diffuses, warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses.

In returning to yourself, you realise he’s steadily carrying you through the motions; soft licks and forgiving kisses until sensitivity overwhelms you. He hums again, like a man that has just finished a meal. You relinquish your grip on his hair and begin massaging the roots in apology.

“Hey,” you mumble, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you peer down at him between your legs. Resting against your thigh, face sodden and pink, he looks rather pleased with himself.

He sighs, tongue lazily swiping along his lower lip. Half lidded, he meets your gaze. “Can I preface this by telling you it's been a while since I've had sex?”

You laugh at the unexpected response. “What, why? Did you cum in your pants?”

The question itself is a joke, but when he levels you with a carefully blank look, your mouth parts. “You did?”

“Possibly,” he grunts, tucking his chin to nose along your navel.

Sensing his simmering embarrassment, you reach to encourage him back up the bed until you’re face to face. Unperturbed by what's left of your own arousal, you cradle his jaw and kiss him soundly.

“That’s so—” again and again, punctuating each word, “—so fucking hot”.

Shouta grins against your lips, slipping his arms around your waist and gathering you to his chest. Your palm rests over his heart, fingers idly twirling around the short hair there. “So were you,” he murmurs, pointedly shifting his hips. You can feel his sweatpants are slightly damp. “That was the problem”.

“Sorry,” you offer playfully, enjoying the pleasant buzz prickling under your skin. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve got plenty of time, haven’t we?”

It is then that your intimate afterglow is cut short, by the long suffering yowl of Sourpuss no less. Glaring sharply from her place by the desk, mortification rolls over you.

“Please tell me she wasn’t watching us?”

Shouta snorts, the sound dissolving into peals of quiet laughter as you smack his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he replies amusedly, loosening his grip and turning to the edge of the bed. “I was a little preoccupied”.

He stands and ushers the feline towards the door, which he’d mistakenly left ajar. “I can’t believe this,” you bemoan, crossing your arms over your head to hide your face.

There’s a dip on your side of the mattress, followed by the sound of something being placed on the bedside table. He sits beside you, leaning across to pry away your limbs. “Come here,” he croons, first bringing your inner wrist to his lips. “I’m sure she wasn’t”.

His hair curtains the two of you as he presses your foreheads together. It brings you back into a world made up of just the two of you. “Let me kiss you,” and you do. You can appreciate the distraction.

You part when something vibrates. In your peripheral vision, you notice a screen light up. He must’ve taken your phone out of your pants pocket. “You should check that, it buzzed earlier too. I’m gonna get out of these boxers”.

“Okay,” you smile as he presses another kiss to your temple. You never would’ve guessed he’d be so affectionate.

He busies himself changing while you look at your messages. It’s the group chat with Rumi and Touya.

Sugar tits (Touya) : 13:03

Oi. Are you alive.

Ru-ru (Rumi) : 13:12

Babe. Please reply to us before Touya sets ur mans house on fire lol

You : 13:26

Sorry sorry!! I’m alive. My legs feel like jelly though (´ ꒳` )

Almost immediately, the device is furiously vibrating in your hands again. You rest it against your sternum and grin, choosing to bask in the feeling a little longer.

When you are next tasked with caring for Eri, a few days have passed and the weather has turned. You pick her up from school on the tail end of an unexpected heatwave with the promise of a surprise when you get home. She holds three of your fingers in her hand, and a small handheld fan in the other. It’s Sailor Moon themed.

After cleaning up that afternoon, Shouta sat with you and had a much longer discussion about what the next steps should be. He made it emphatically clear that he didn’t enjoy the thought of being in a relationship with someone he employed — admittedly, it didn’t sit right with you either.

But the importance lies with Eri. For the both of you, she must always come first. Your sudden upheaval as her other caretaker would likely cause a lot of hurt and confusion. So Shouta asked that you patiently wait for your first date until after he has talked to his daughter.

You watch her with a smile as she warmly greets Sourpuss at the foot of the stairs — whom you still cannot make eye contact with — and skips into the living room. In your mind, you count backwards from three until you hear the expected gasp.

She must’ve found the fort.

Less of a fort, more of a… linen cave. It’s an old king-sized bed sheet you’d found in the closet, held in place by a book at each corner, and gaping open with the assistance of a fan at the entrance.

“Can I…?”

“Yes, yes,” you beckon her to climb in, already relieved by the cool gust of air rotating into the sheet. “Go on in. It’s for you!”

You’d tried to make it as comfortable as possible, filled with cushions and soft toys from her bed. At the very least it has a seal of approval from Bastard, who has curled up into himself atop one of the pillows, his long coat moving in the current. Eri crawls in on her hands and knees, settling beside him with a happy giggle.

“You too!” She cheers. You clamber in, tucked between her and one of her favourite plushies.

“Come on,” you say, grinning as you excitedly encourage her to join you, “watch this”. With curious eyes watching, you lean towards the spinning fan and speak into it. “Isn’t this cool?” your voice is given a jarring staccato effect as the sound waves bounce back. “I. Am. A. Robot”.

You didn’t think your smile could get any bigger until she began to laugh delightedly. She slumps her weight against you, cheek to cheek and pressed close to your side as she rushes to try it herself. Silver hair billowing in the current, she declares with a distorted voice, “My. Name. Is. Eri!“

You hold her steady as she continues to giggle. The cool air is beginning to dry out your lips, and your eyes are growing sore with every blink, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. “I like this. I’m happy,” she says, the confession sincere even as it warps.

“Good,” you murmur, stroking your hand over her crown. “When you’re happy, I’m happy”.

For reasons unknown to you, this gives Eri pause. Her lips pursed, expression adorably pinched in contemplation. Whatever it is, you let her think, and you wait.

“Amano-sensei talked about families in class today,” she tells you, turning on her knees with hands folded formally in her lap. Despite her resolve, she is anxiously picking at her fingers. “Sensei told us that everyone's family looks different. Some... some people have one mama or one dad, or both. Or none. Or two dads or— even two mamas”.

A nod, “That’s right sweetheart”.

An irrational bout of nerves settle in your stomach as she gauges you. “Some kids' parents picked them, like my dad did… others have two but they aren’t married…”

“That is true,” you concede gently. “Not all families are related by blood. Like you and your dad, or you and Hitoshi. But you’re still family”.

Eri hums, glancing down to her lap with cheeks puffed. You smile fondly when she exhales the air with an exaggerated noise. “Then!” she starts, shuffling closer on her knees, “if we’re family, but you and dad are not married… What should I call you?”

For a startling moment, you’re sure your heart is in your throat. She continues, “Do I have two dads? Or two mamas? Or one dad and a…?”

“Eri,” your words falter, reaching to still her restless hands. “You think we’re family?”

Her head tilts. “Aren’t we?”

The breath is forced from your lungs. Even seated, you feel as if the floor has been stolen from beneath you. Willing away the prickling behind your eyes, you assuage her with a firm squeeze.

“We are,” you warmly avow, “and you can call me whatever you’d like”. She beams, any and all uncertainty dwindling, in your mind and her own.

Satisfied with the answer, she drops the topic. You think it must’ve been plaguing her the entire walk home, given how quiet she’d been. More than that, you wonder whether Shouta had laid kindling for those thoughts or if she’d come to that conclusion herself.

After an hour of reciting her favourite book into the rotating blades of the fan, complete only with your expert cartoonish voices, it is time for a cat nap. It isn’t hard to fall asleep when splayed across such comfortable bedding, accompanied by white noise and a cool breeze. But you wake not long after to an obtrusive ray of light piercing through the duvet fabric. The makeshift cave is now sun drenched and warm, and laid on the far edge is a new guest.

Shouta is still in his work clothes, laid on his side with Eri turned towards him in her sleep, small hand fisted around his tie. His lips are parted, inhaling shallow breaths. He’s asleep, too, with an arm extended to rest his hand over your hip.

You carefully thread into the spaces between his fingers and watch them both in quiet appreciation until your eyes, too, are heavy. Your chest has never been so full. And as consciousness slips, your heart tips over the cliff's edge and is pulled, inexorably, towards home.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader

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