#aizawa x reader

[kitkat13001]

shota looks up from his papers when you heave what’s probably the most dramatic sigh he’s ever heard. he casts you an exasperated glance before asking a reluctant, “what?”

you look up at him through your lashes from where you’re sat on the other side of the couch, prodding him with your foot. “do you even like me?”

he holds his deadpan gaze for a second longer before returning to his work. “i’m not going to answer that.”

“what?!” you sit up, appalled and scowling. you crawl over to lean heavy on his shoulder, determined to interrupt his peace. “what the hell does that mean?!”

“there’s no good answer for that,” he replies, (mostly) unbothered to your pervasion of his personal space. “if i say yes, you’ll say something like ‘so you don’t love me’ and if i say no, you’ll have a fit. if i say ‘i love you’ you’ll say i didn’t answer your question. there’s no winning.”

you sit, dumbfounded. he’s got you there... 

“but—”

“yes, i like you. love you, even. no, i don’t want to break up. yes, i think about you every day and yes, i miss you when i’m away on missions. and no, i do not want anyone else. just you.”

he looks up and holds your gaze steady, the hint of a self-satisfied smirk tugging his lips at your wide eyes and flushed cheeks. you huff a little, bashful as you settle back onto him, placated by his answer (…for now).

several moments pass in soft silence until you open your mouth to say something else and shota drops his pen, heaving out a long-suffering sigh. 

“and yes, i would still love you if you were a worm.”

[confessionsandcreampies]

sex ban for the mha boys 🙂‍↕️

— midoriya izuku - “the ban is for your protection too”

you’re sobbing. legs trembling. sheets soaked. it’s 2am izuku wipes your tears like a sweet little boyfriend… while still thrusting into you.

“you said one more,” you cry.

“i said i’m close, baby,” he coos, kissing your damp cheeks. “almost done—be good, you’re doing so good—”

you go limp. soul gone. the next morning, you can’t get out of bed. your legs scream in protest. your clit throbs in fear.

izuku peeks in, beaming. “want some breakfast?”

you throw a pillow. “i want a mobility aid, you sex-obsessed beast.”

he freezes, startled. “wha—i thought you liked it—?”

“sex. ban. five days.”

his eyes go wide, like you ripped his heart out. “five—five days? but what if i just eat you out?”

“no.”

“what if i cry a little?”

“…still no.”

now he’s pouting, flexing shirtless, doing squats next to you on the couch and muttering things like, “i’d treat that pussy with respect if she’d just let me see it again”.

— bakugo katsuki - “you treated me like a fucking pocket pussy”

you wake up in bed, bruised, dazed, and possibly concussed. bakugo walks in with zero shame, biting into an apple. “you good?”

you sit up with a grimace. “you choked me out on the headboard.”

he grins. “you told me to.”

“you said, and i quote, ‘i’m gonna split you open like a wishbone.’”

he shrugs. “and you came like a bitch in heat.”

“i had a vision. i saw my ancestors. sex ban. one week. non-negotiable.”

his jaw drops. “you got me fucked up—i should ban you, you’re the one who gripped my cock like you were tryna keep it.”

“you folded me like lawn chair mid-thrust.”

he scoffs, already adjusting his boxers. “you’re gonna break before i do.”

now he’s stomping around half-naked, fisting the couch cushions, moaning dramatically every time you bend over just a little too far. you’re not gonna make it to day 3.

— aizawa shouta - “you don’t get to break me and then nap”

he’s still asleep. you’re staring at the ceiling, completely naked and so overstimulated you’re vibrating. you limp to the bathroom, looking like you got hit by a train, and find hickeys down to your knees. you confront him in the hallway, wearing a robe and rage. “you fucked me like a criminal, and then had the nerve to fall asleep while i was twitching on the mattress.”

aizawa opens one eye. “you came four times.”

“you edged me for an hour then ruined me.”

he yawns. “you said you wanted something intense.”

“i wanted foreplay. not carnage.” you fold your arms. “you’re banned from my pussy. three days.”

he raises a brow. “is that so?”

“and no lazy finger-fucking while you grade papers either.”

now he’s dangerously silent. letting you sit in his lap during staff meetings, letting his hand hover just above your thigh… brushing your hair off your shoulder and whispering, “ban’s almost over, right?” you’re the one that caves hard.

— shigaraki tomura - “you said you’d be gentle”

you’re clinging to the headboard, shell-shocked. legs trembling. back scratched to hell. your voice is gone.

shigaraki stands at the edge of the bed, breathing heavy, sweat dripping down his neck. “you’re alive,” he mutters. “that’s what counts.”

you rasp, “you called me your little pet and choked me with your shirt sleeve.”

his lips twitch. “and you came so hard you squirted.”

“on the wall, tomura. the wall.”

he shrugs. “didn’t know you could do that. neat.”

you grab your robe like it’s armor. “sex ban. a week. you’re unstable.”

he scoffs. “you think i’m the problem?”

“you growled ‘mine’ and bit my inner thigh like a feral stray.”

now he’s pacing, jerking off with one hand while glaring at you. “if i don’t get to fuck you by friday, i’m decaying the bed.” he keeps leaving your vibrator on your pillow like a threat. you’re scared. and turned on.

— dabi - “you lit my soul on fire and then asked if i was good”

you’re curled up on the couch with an ice pack on your pelvis. dabi’s walking around shirtless, covered in hickeys he made you give him. “you okay, babe?” he says, lighting a cigarette.

you groan. “you called me your ‘favorite cum dumpster’ and then came in me four times without blinking.”

he blows smoke. “you said you wanted to feel used.”

“i said slightly.”

he smirks. “you were crying and saying ‘don’t stop.’ what was i supposed to do?”

you hiss. “sex ban. three days. minimum. i need to regenerate my spine.”

he leans down, whispers in your ear. “so i shouldn’t bend you over the couch right now?”

you kick him weakly. “i will die.”

now he’s tormenting you. letting you see his hard-on every time he changes, jerking off loudly in the shower while moaning your name, licking his fingers in front of you like he’s tasting you again. you’re gonna fold on your knees.

[etherealangell1]

. ♡ MY LITTLE DOVE

Shota Aizawa x Fem!reader

sypnosis: Bereaved mother reader who after losing her own daughter, starts developing a bond with little Eri. And newly formed dad Zawa who starts to notice this and follows his heart and goes for it.

notes: Most likely a oneshot! Wc: 3k. some pre.written past lore but it backs up the story's plotting. Kiss scene yay. Tension, deep tension.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

Eri's eyelids grew heavy, her small head beginning to droop as you gently combed your fingers through her damp hair. The strands, soft and pale blue, clung together in loose waves, curling slightly at the ends. Curious, you gave them a light scrunch, wondering if the curl would hold once dry. You doubted anyone had ever taken much notice of her hair before—but you were happy that you could. That, for her, you would.

"Almost done," you murmured, sweeping a few stray strands into place and draping her hair delicately over her shoulder.

"Are you sure I can sleep like this?" she asked, her voice laced with innocent curiosity as she turned her head slightly to look back at you. You sat cross-legged on the carpet behind her, at eye level, your presence calm and steady.

"Mhm," you hummed, gently guiding her to face forward again. "I do it all the time when I don't have the patience to wait for it to dry. You'll be just fine." You ran your hands lightly over the crown of her head, smoothing the hair into place. A soft smile tugged at your lips as you caught sight of the exhaustion swimming in her wide crimson eyes. Such a pretty girl, you thought.

"Need anything before bed?" you asked, rising to your feet and offering her your hand. She clasped it with her tiny fingers, peering up at you and shaking her head, too sleepy to speak.

"Did you go potty?" you asked gently. She nodded again, her bare feet padding softly across the room toward her bed.

"Will you tuck me in?" she mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled and nodded, lowering yourself beside her bed. You lifted the blanket, tucking it securely around her small frame, snug just at her shoulders. “If you wake up and need anything, you remember which door is mine?” You whispered, tilting your head as you admired her calm exterior. She hummed, already giving into sleep.

She did in fact have a long day of training with Aizawa, which you were proud of her for. You know how scared she was of her quirk.

"Goodnight, dove," you whispered, but only after her breathing had deepened and your fingers brushed slowly over her forehead, lulling her into peaceful sleep.

You hadn’t called anyone that name in so long. Not since your dove had left. It had only ever belonged to Dory. Just a nickname, but one heavy with memory and pain. And yet, somehow, saying it again—saying it to little Eri—mended something deep inside you.

Something that had been broken ever since you lost Dory.

An empty space, now not quite so hollow.

There he stood—Aizawa—leaning silently in the doorway, unseen until you flicked the light off. Stealth had always been second nature to him, a skill honed over years of experience, and tonight it served him well.

He watched quietly, eyes steady as you sat beside Eri’s small bed—the same one you had practically dragged him out to buy. You'd spent nearly an hour at the store, carefully scanning each mattress, frame, and sheet set, trying to imagine what Eri might love most. Something soft. Something safe. Something hers.

Now, he stood back in quiet observation as you gently stroked the child’s damp hair, your fingers making slow, soothing motions across her forehead and into her scalp. She'd begun insisting that you give her baths lately, choosing your presence over anyone else's. Aizawa had initially assumed it was because you were a woman—a maternal figure she trusted to give her baths. But watching you now, with how seamlessly you’d grown close to her, he knew there was more to it than that. He was grateful. Somehow, this—all of this—came naturally to you.

You instinctively knew the things he never did. What to do when she spiked a fever. What remedies to prepare. How to distinguish one type of illness from another with nothing more than a glance and a palm to the forehead.

You handled her school registration like you’d done it a dozen times—paperwork, checklists, supplies, and outlining the routine she would need to feel secure in a world that once terrified her.

You held her when she sobbed until she couldn’t breathe. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t panic. You simply knew—knew how to carry her trembling body, how to whisper through the storm until it passed. How your fingers instinctively knew all the different types of patterns you could rub on her skin in order to smooth her.

You connected with her in a way he hadn't managed yet. In a way that made him realize he had a lot to learn. He had never envisioned himself as a father. But now, he found himself hoping he could pick up a few things from you along the way.

After several quiet minutes spent watching her chest rise and fall in slumber, you finally stood, casting one last fond glance down at her sleeping form. As you turned, you jumped slightly—startled to find him in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with an unreadable expression.

He was dressed in his usual late-night attire: a grey V-neck and black sweatpants, relaxed and simple. You weren’t much different—an oversized, deep-purple long sleeve paired with slightly mismatched blue shorts. Not the most stylish pairing, but undeniably comfortable.

You offered him a small, knowing smile as you stepped toward him. “Hey, stranger,” you whispered, your voice soft so as not to disturb Eri.

A quiet hum left his throat in response, low and tired. You could hear sleep pulling at him too.

“Why aren’t you asleep by now?” you asked softly, crossing your arms and tugging your sleeves over your hands to fend off the hallway’s chill. The dorms were quiet, bathed in a hazy silver light spilling in from the moonlit windows. You and Aizawa walked in step, your footfalls soft against the floor as the shadows followed at your heels.

“When have you ever known me to sleep like a normal person?” he murmured dryly, voice low and rough around the edges.

You let out a soft chuckle. “Never.”

He glanced sideways at you, subtle but watchful. Your eyes were forward, heavy with sleep but still alert. You were clearly tired—your eyes carried that heavy kind of fatigue—but still present, still functioning

Your hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail—half-slipping out, strands sticking out everywhere. It should’ve looked careless. Yet somehow, he thought it suited you. There was something about this version of you—unpolished, relaxed, a little sleepy—that felt... genuine. Endearing. He liked this version of you. He realized he liked a lot about you.

This version of you—calm, unguarded, moving gently through the quiet of the night—was one he was starting to treasure. There was a domesticity to you like this. A warmth. And whether or not you meant to, you had settled into this role of caretaker so seamlessly, like you had always belonged in it.

“I’d ask why you’re still awake,” he said after a beat, his voice steady but laced with something else, “but I think I already know.”

You turned to him, brows knitting with mild curiosity. “Elaborate.”

He nodded slightly, hands tucked into his pockets.

“You’ve been spending most of your free time with Eri,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You paused. Had you really? You hadn’t noticed—caring for her had simply become part of your routine. Part of you. Life felt normal again. It hadn’t felt like effort—it had just felt… natural.

“Aww,” you teased, giving him a sidelong look. “You jealous, Eraser?” you teased, a quiet laugh escaping you, your voice cracking slightly from weariness, but your smile was genuine. You reached the common room together without consciously deciding to go there. It just made sense—like everything else tonight.

He scoffed under his breath. “No. I’m saying I appreciate everything you’re doing for her. She needs that kind of consistency. That kind of care.”

He turned toward you now, slowing to a stop. The moonlight cut across his face just enough for you to see the sincerity in his expression—quiet, measured, but there. You had to squint to make him out fully, while he saw you clearly: your tired posture, your slightly cracked lips, the way you hugged your arms to your chest as if to hold something inside. He liked how the moonlight highlighted your face.

You looked away and shrugged, your voice lowering. “Yeah… maybe I need it too.”

Aizawa studied you more closely. You weren’t just tired—you were carrying something. Something deep and quiet and fragile.

“You should get some real sleep,” you said, trying to shift the mood, meeting his gaze again. Your expression was soft, almost apologetic.

He tilted his head, dark eyes steady. “But not you?”

You shook your head gently, the corners of your lips twitching into a small smile. “Nah. I feel like being awake right now.”

“So do I,” he murmured.

And there was something about the way he said it—quiet and gravelly, with just the slightest rasp—that made something stir inside you. You didn’t respond right away. Just turned your face, a bit flustered, your cheeks warming from unfamiliar thoughts.

He noticed. But he didn’t comment.

“I meant what I said,” he added after a moment.

You blinked. “Meant what?” Your voice soft and slightly curious, your sweet voice was adorable.

“When I said I appreciate you.” He shifted his weight, rubbed the back of his neck—like a teenager speaking words that had sat heavy on his chest. “You’re not required to do any of this. You don't owe Eri anything at all.—but instead you just… gave all of yourself. Why?”

Your breath caught a little. The way he said it, the way he meant it—it felt like more than gratitude. It also meant he'd been observing you, noticing these things. But the question itself? That was the part that stopped you cold.

Because how could you tell him the truth?

How could you say ‘my daughter died and Eri fills that space’ without sounding like you were using the little girl to mend your own broken pieces?

The words stayed trapped in your throat. You dropped your gaze.

You had needed someone to protect again. Someone small who could lean into you when the world was too big. You missed brushing damp hair behind little ears. You missed lullabies and bandaids and warm blankets tucked beneath tiny chins.

You missed being needed.

And Eri… she had needed you. Just as much.

You lifted your eyes slowly. Aizawa was watching you patiently—not pushing, just waiting the way he did with students who needed time. You exhaled a shaky breath.

“I dunno,” you said. “I just… need her. In the same way she needs someone. I know that probably sounds selfish.”

You let out a quiet, nervous laugh, rubbing your thumb over your knuckles to ground yourself.

"You need her?" he echoed, his tone softer now, more contemplative than questioning. The weight of your words hung in the air, and he suddenly regretted asking. He could tell this was something deeper. Something he had no right to pry into.

You nodded faintly, twisting your fingers together, unsure how much more you should share.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, no matter your reasons… I’m beyond grateful. For you. For everything you’ve given her.” He rubbed the back of his neck again, as though he were unsure whether the words should’ve been said aloud.

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, like he’d just said too much—but you didn’t stop him.

You leaned against the frame of the common room window, arms still folded loosely across your chest, the moonlight painting silver lines across your face. You were quiet for a moment, absorbing his words—“I’m beyond grateful. For you.” They echoed in your chest longer than you expected them to.

“Thank you,” you finally said, your voice a bit gentler now. “I love Eri, really. It’s not just… obligation or some need to fill a space. I genuinely love her. She’s easy to love.”

Your eyes softened as you spoke, as if even the mention of Eri warmed something inside you. Aizawa noticed. You weren’t faking this closeness with her—none of it was performative. And he’d known that. But hearing it in your voice, watching the way your body subtly relaxed at the thought of her, confirmed what he already suspected:

You belonged here.

Not just in the dorms. Not just at U.A.

But here. In his life. In Eri’s life. Somehow woven into the parts of him that were once so carefully guarded.

He looked at you now—not just with gratitude, but with something heavier. Something deeper.

Because this wasn’t just about Eri anymore.

You made things softer, warmer, easier. You had slowly become the kind of person he found himself unconsciously gravitating toward, the way plants leaned into the sun. He appreciated the help, sure—but what he appreciated more was you. The way you carried yourself through life, the way you made others feel seen, the way your laugh cracked in the middle and your voice quieted when you were unsure.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud.

But it lingered.

He studied the way your hair caught the light, that messy ponytail barely holding together. He liked that about you too—how little you seemed to care about appearances when it came to comfort. You were yourself. Unfiltered, unarmored. And he was fond of that. Fond of you.

He wasn’t sure when it had started. Maybe it was the first time he saw you brushing Eri’s hair like it was the most sacred act in the world. Or the time you stormed into the teacher’s lounge, covered in pancake batter and furious that someone had let the stove burn. Or maybe it was quieter than that. Maybe it had happened gradually, as all the important things tend to.

“You’re easy to love too,” he wanted to say.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he just watched you in silence for a few seconds longer, his hands resting in his pockets, his mind already turning over the thought: Should I tell her?

He wasn’t a man given to impulsive emotion. But you weren’t just anyone.

“Eri’s lucky to have you,” he said instead, his voice low, deliberate. “We both are.”

The way he said we made something in your chest stir.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze again. His eyes were darker in the moonlight, unreadable, but focused—on you. Not on the room. Not on the floor. Just you.

You swallowed, your breath catching subtly at the weight of it all. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” you said, your tone lighter than your meaning. “Even if you never say it out loud, I know you trust me with her. That matters. I’ll stay as long as she needs me.”

There was a pause, thick with unsaid things.

His next words came slower. Like he was choosing them with more care than usual.

“And if I needed you?” he asked.

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t heavy. Just honest.

You blinked. Your heart tripped over itself for a beat. “Then I’d stay even longer,” you said, smiling just a little.

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full. Weighted with everything that hadn’t been said—yet.

Aizawa hadn’t looked away from you. Not once. His expression hadn’t shifted, but there was something in his eyes now—an intensity that wasn’t there moments ago. It was quiet, controlled, but unmistakable.

You felt it too.

The way his words lingered—“And if I needed you?”—the way they hung in the air, making your pulse flutter just beneath your skin. Your back was barely grazing the edge of the window frame now, the moonlight pouring over your shoulder, painting you in soft, silver-blue.

His footsteps were nearly silent as he took one slow step closer. And then another.

You didn’t move away.

His hand lifted—hesitant, deliberate—and he brought it to the side of your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your jaw. You leaned into his touch without realizing it, eyes rising to meet his. His thumb swept gently across your cheek, and for a long, suspended moment, the world narrowed to just that point of contact.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips.

You felt your breath catch.

Your own eyes dropped—just for a second—from his to his mouth. And that was all it took.

Your mouths hovered as he closed in on you—a breath apart. Close enough to feel the heat. Close enough to count heartbeats. There was still a choice to be made, still time to pull away.

But you didn’t.

And neither did he.

He leaned in, finally closing that final sliver of distance, his lips brushing against yours—light, tentative, testing. The kiss tasted like the cherry chapstick you liked. Rising onto your toes slightly, pressing back just enough to tell him yes. Yes to this. Yes to him.

And then it deepened once the hesitance disappeared and you'd both tested the waters.

His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck as he gently backed you into the wall near the window, careful but unyielding. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like you needed something to hold onto.

He kissed you like he was memorizing it. Like he hadn’t meant for it to happen but had been thinking about it for longer than he would ever admit.

When he finally pulled back, just slightly, his forehead rested against yours. Eyes half-lidded and dead set on yours. His breath was warm, his voice low and rough. It made you feel hot, especially in this moment.

“This isn’t just about Eri, y’know.”

You blinked slowly, still catching your breath, lips tingling, eyes half-lidded with the softness of what had just bloomed between you. A little giggle bubbled up unprompted, breathless and delighted.

“I was hoping so,” you whispered, grinning like a secret had just been made real between you both.

He huffed a quiet laugh, barely audible, but you could feel it against your skin. His thumb brushed your cheek again, slower this time. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were really here, letting him hold you like this.

Neither of you had to speak.

You’d already said everything that mattered.

---

[qtvi0let]

Older men do it better ~ ! MDNI

a/n; good lord i NEED HIM. Another erasermic smut coming soon chat<3 thank you for all the love!!

— Older Man/Younger Woman (reader is in her 20‘s), Age Gap, Praise, First Squirt, Fingering, Oral (F Receiving), Gentle Dom, Creampie, // F!Reader

I couldnt the artists @, if you do please tag them for credits.

— First Time, For You —

It started with a cat café — of all places. You’d gone in because you were lonely, wanting warmth and soft fur and maybe the quiet hum of other people’s lives nearby. You hadn’t expected him.

A tired man in black, hair half-tied, dark eyes following a stray kitten batting at his zipper. He looked… exhausted. But when he’d glanced at you, something warm settled in your stomach. He’d given you a polite nod — nothing more — but when you’d both reached for the same rescue cat, your fingers brushed.

A conversation. A cup of tea. A few more nights — then one late evening, back at your tiny apartment, your knees tucked under you on the couch as he traced lazy circles on your thigh.

You’d never dated someone older — not really. Boys your age had fumbled with you, gotten themselves off quick, and left you unsatisfied, half-numb, wondering if maybe it was your fault. But Aizawa — Shouta — was older. Experienced. And when you’d confessed, shyly, that you’d never really… finished — his eyes had darkened, thumb brushing your lips like he could pull the truth from your mouth.

Tonight, he’s proving you wrong — with patience you didn’t know you craved so badly.

⸻

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, voice low, gravel thick in the hush of your bedroom. He’s lying beside you, propped on one elbow, hair spilling around his shoulders as his hand slips beneath the waistband of your soft shorts.

You squirm at the first drag of his fingers over your panties — so wet they stick to you, heat pooling in your belly at just the light pressure. He chuckles when you gasp.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Let me see what you look like when someone really takes their time.”

You whimper — he peels your shorts off, panties following with a slow tug. He spreads your thighs with firm, unhurried hands, the scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh making you shiver.

“Have you ever squirted before?” he murmurs suddenly, mouth ghosting over your hipbone.

You freeze — flush hot. “N-no. I don’t think I can—”

He lifts his head — that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Oh, doll. You can. You just need someone who knows how to pull it out of you.”

Your protest melts to a broken sound when his lips wrap around your clit — warm and wet and focused. His fingers ease inside you, thick and slow, crooking just right until you’re gasping, thighs trembling around his head.

He works you open until your belly tightens, the tension sharp and hot — but when you come the first time, it’s not quite enough. Not yet.

When he finally slides his thick, meaty cock inside you, you’re already dripping, stretched and ready for him. He presses close, one big hand under your thigh, pushing your knees to your chest — folding you into the bed.

His pace is slow at first — teasing, deep, each roll of his hips dragging you closer to that dizzy edge again. He leans over you, voice rough against your ear.

“You’re gonna come for me like this too,” he groans, hips snapping harder. “Gonna squirt all over my cock. Ever done that for anyone?”

You shake your head — babbling his name as his thrusts get sharper, rougher, hitting something deep inside that makes your eyes roll back.

“That’s right. Only for me,” he snarls, sweat dripping from his hair onto your chest. “Good girl — let go for me. Give it to me.”

The wet slap of skin fills the room — your gasps mix with the rough, low curses he presses to your neck. His thumb finds your clit, circles it tight and fast, and the world shatters behind your eyelids.

You cry out — voice cracking when the orgasm rips through you. Heat rushes out in a gush you’ve never felt before — soaking his stomach, his thighs. He groans low and filthy, hips stuttering as you squirt around him, dripping down to the sheets.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, pressing you open wider as he fucks you through it, hips pounding harder. “So beautiful — so fucking messy for me.”

He stays buried deep when he spills inside you, thick and warm, growling your name like a promise against your throat. He doesn’t pull out right away — just holds you pinned, shivering under him, the mess of slick and sweat sticking you together.

When you finally catch your breath, trembling, he kisses your temple — soft and possessive.

“First time for everything, doll,” he murmurs, voice raw but warm. “Next time, you’ll show me how much more you can give me.”

[yamsfrecklvs]

tbh although it’s obvious that aizawa is not the kind of man who likes any kind of pda (except for maybe some subtle touches that only you two notice) i am a firm believer of this man being the touchiest mfer ever when you two are alone.

sure, it does take him a little to warm up. a bit more than a little.

BUT! once you crack that tough-guy exterior of his?

oh, he’s all over you. constantly.

if you two are sitting together that big, strong hand of his is always on your thigh.

yes, even when he’s driving. (especially then)

hands under your shirt if he’s hugging you from behind. he loves to feel how warm you are under his calloused fingertips, how soft you feel.

plops you onto his lap when he’s grading. and also, definitely the kind of man who pats his lap once. and you know what it means. get on there immediately.

temple kisses! always! his favorite place to kiss dare i add!

hands threading through your hair when you’re speaking, or maybe caressing your head, or softly grazing your face with the back of his hand. that’s his way of telling you to keep going and that yes, he’s listening.

he’s not a big hugger, but! when you do hug him after a long day? oh, he absolutely melts into your arms. there he is, your big, strong boyfriend is suddenly putty in your hands. he’s also a secret fan of head scratches (who said that)

there it was thanks for coming to my ted talk!

[m1sa22aman3]

When there isn’t 20 new fics for me to read after refreshing the tag (I just finished reading everything and have absolutely no patience)

[dee-writes-anime]

I LUV YOUR AIZAWA STORIES SO MUCHHHH!

Could you do a Dadzawa x reader where the reader was S@‘d from the neighbor and when he arrived home at midnight he saw her getting comforted by Hizashi since she was too scared to tell Aizawa? LOTS OF COMFORT PLS.

(I UNDERSTAND IF THIS REQUEST MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. IM JUST REQUESTING CUZ I DIDNT GET COMFORT WHEN THIS HAPPENED TO ME.)

Erasure Lines

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC), Hizashi Yamada x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY you thought it was fine. That if you just got home and locked the door, you could sleep it off. Oh how wrong you were.

CONTENT WARNINGS implied sexual assault (non-graphic), aftermath of assault, trauma response, dissociation, panic, crying, reader feels unsafe in their own body, protective Hizashi Yamada, protective Aizawa Shouta, heavy emotional themes

AUTHORS NOTE this story touches on sexual assault and emotional trauma. I know this stuff can be really hard to read, so please look out for yourself first—take breaks, skip parts, or close the tab if you need to. Your safety and mental health matter way more than anything else. Be gentle with yourself, okay?

It was just a knock. A quick, rhythmic thunk thunk thunk on the other side of the wall that separated you from your neighbor—the one who always smiled too wide, stood too close, stared too long. You never liked him. But you'd been trying to be polite. You were raised to be polite.

He said he just needed to borrow a charger. Five minutes, tops. He already knew you were home. You didn't want to seem rude.

You shouldn’t have opened the door.

By the time you got him out of your apartment, your hands were shaking. You locked the deadbolt, shut all the windows, turned off the lights. You scrubbed your hands twice. Then again. You changed your clothes. But your skin still itched. Like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

You sat on the floor of your bedroom for maybe ten minutes. Maybe thirty. Time stopped working.

You texted Hizashi. “Can you come over? Please.”

He didn’t ask questions. He was there in ten.

You didn’t realize you were crying until the door opened and his voice rang out.

“Hey, hey, I’m here—what’s—oh my god.”

You were on the floor. Back against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees, hoodie sleeves pulled down so far they covered your hands. The same hoodie Aizawa gave you when he noticed you’d been cold last winter.

Hizashi dropped to the floor beside you instantly.

“What happened?” he asked, voice soft at first—too soft. Like he already knew something was really wrong.

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “Don’t—don’t make me say it.”

He didn’t. He wrapped his arms around you without a second thought and pulled you close. “You’re okay now. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And you broke.

The sobs that came out of you didn’t feel like yours. They felt too loud, too guttural, like they belonged to someone else in a different body.

Because you couldn’t feel your own.

Your arms felt too long. Your hands didn’t belong to you. Your skin was tight and itchy, like it was still holding his fingerprints.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Hizashi whispered again, one hand on your back, the other combing gently through your hair. “You’re not alone.”

You clung to him like a child, shaking uncontrollably. “I didn’t—I didn’t let him in like that, I just—he said it was just a charger—I didn’t think—”

“He touched you without your permission,” Hizashi growled. His voice was still low, but there was no mistaking the fury behind it now. “That’s all that matters. That was his choice. Not yours.”

You nodded shakily, trying to believe it. Trying to stop feeling so wrong in your own skin.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face.

“Do you want me to call the police?”

You froze. Your breath hitched.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay. Not right now. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

You leaned forward again, and he let you. You felt small. Dirty. Hollow.

“He’s not gonna get away with this,” Hizashi muttered, one hand still on your back. “I swear to god, if I see that creep—”

“Hizashi,” you choked, your voice hoarse. “don’t be mad, it’s not—it wasn’t that bad.”

Hizashi pulled back just far enough to look you in the eyes.

“Don't say that.” His voice cracked like something barely held together. “Don’t downplay what he did to you. You don’t have to do that with me.”

You blinked fast. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts.

“I just didn’t want to make it worse—if I said no, I thought he’d get angry—I didn’t know if he would hurt me—so I just…” Your voice trailed off into nothing. A whisper swallowed by your own shame.

“You froze,” Hizashi said firmly, finishing the thought. “Because your body was protecting you. That doesn’t make it consent. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

Your lips trembled, and you finally let your head drop to his shoulder again.

“I want to take a shower but I don’t want to be alone,” you mumbled.

“You don’t have to do anything right now. You don’t have to be alone for a second.”

His arms tightened slightly, grounding you, his tone gentling again. “I’m staying right here, okay? Right here. You’re safe.”

You sat like that for a while. The tears came and went in waves—some sharp and gasping, others quiet and slow. Hizashi stayed solid next to you, talking only when you needed him to, keeping a steady presence.

Then— The front door clicked. Your whole body went still.

It wasn’t the neighbor. You knew that. The neighbor wouldn’t use a key. But your gut still flipped, and you shrank into Hizashi’s side on instinct.

Then came the sound of boots. The keys hitting the hallway table. A long pause.

“…Yamada?”

You heard the voice before you saw him.

Aizawa.

You closed your eyes, heart climbing up your throat.

A few seconds passed. “Hey, man,” Hizashi called out, calm but not casual. Protective. “We’re in the living room.”

You heard his footsteps approach slowly. Hesitant. A little sharper than usual.

Then he stepped into view.

And stopped cold.

You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see his face. You just pressed yourself tighter against Hizashi and tried to disappear into your own skin.

A beat passed. Then: “What happened?” Aizawa asked, low and level—but not cold. Careful.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it yet,” Hizashi said, his hand still running slowly along your back. “But something happened. With her neighbor.”

You felt Aizawa’s presence move closer—like a shift in the air. His silence stretched for a beat too long.

“Can I sit down?” he asked gently.

You gave the smallest nod.

He crouched beside you slowly, like you were a hurt animal.

When you finally looked at him, he was already looking at you. And he looked—soft. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just tired and worried and here.

“I should’ve told you,” you said hoarsely, not even sure why those were the first words out of your mouth.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” he said. “Not right now. Not unless you want to.”

You stared down at your sleeves. “I thought if I told you, you’d be mad. Or think I was stupid.”

His jaw clenched—subtle, but enough to see—but his voice stayed calm. “I’m mad at him. Not you. Never you. You did nothing wrong.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. You felt your mouth tremble again.

“I just—he didn’t look dangerous. He just smiled. And I didn’t think he’d—”

“You don’t have to justify anything.” Aizawa moved in a little closer. “He used your trust against you. That’s on him. You didn’t fail. He did.”

“I feel like my whole body’s… off,” you whispered. “Like it’s not even mine anymore.”

At that, Aizawa’s hand moved—slow, deliberate—and hovered just above your shoulder. “Can I…?”

You nodded.

He rested his hand there. Light. Warm. Steady.

“You don’t have to stay in that feeling,” he said quietly. “We’re gonna help you out of it. One step at a time. You’ll feel safe in your skin again. I promise.”

You reached out blindly and grabbed the front of his shirt like a lifeline. And without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms and held you tight.

Not suffocating. Not overwhelming. Just safe.

Hizashi rubbed your back, his voice softer now. “We’re not going anywhere. Okay? You’re not alone in this.”

You cried into Aizawa’s chest until your throat went raw. And both of them—neither let go.

You stayed in that cocoon of quiet, steady care for what felt like hours. And when you finally whispered “Can we just sit here for a while?”—

They both answered at the same time, “Yeah.” “As long as you need.”

[lemonmoonmochi]

[rueclfer]

CONGRATS ON 6K WOOOOOO

hi im the meow annon can u tell i like cats

anyways can we have cat wrangler aizawa x reader with a cat quirk and if i may request a personality thats a lil freaky like "you could wrangle me anytime wink wink" type shit

and i prefer s oneshot but whatever u want!!!

type shitttttttttttteow meow hiiiiiii meownon thank youuuuuu for the submission HEHE this is so sillyYY

cat wrangler!aizawa // job fair

event m.list

“picking up volunteer hours at the shelter are ya?” you tease from the ledge of a fire escape, “teaching isn’t keeping you entertained anymore?”

you lean your cheek against the cold metal railing, kicking your feet back and forth as shouta releases a deep audible sigh. his foot kicks up a bit of gravel as he stops and looks up at you in unamusement. 

“well, we both know i’d never willingly go up against you.” he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants.

shouta almost rolls his eyes at the sound of the low pur coming from above, but can’t help but feel a bit pleased at himself.

“is the flattery at least going to get you to play nice?”

“all i’m hearing is that you want to play,” you pur, “but i promise it’s a lot more fun when i’m not nice.”

you already knew what drew him to you. an hour prior, you managed to gather every feline in the city’s shelter to a nearby alley- nothing too serious, but it was just a matter of time until tenants of the apartment building started to call in noise complaints from all the meowing.

“hm,” was all he responded with.

he ignores you and begins grabbing cats- swaddling them in his scarf and back into the arms of policemen surrounding the entrance of the alley.

you clutch the last kitten closer to your chest as he pulls himself up the fire escape. he doesn’t have time to wait for your next trick. you may be mischievous, but the “fight” you put up is just a game of cat and mouse that he doesn’t have the patience for tonight.

“you can’t be that bored to terrorize this entire apartment building at this hour?" he crosses his arms over his chest.

“what? i just wanted to hang out with some friends,” you shrug, a smirk growing on your lips, “and it got you out to play didn’t it?”

“you know, there are other ways to approach me. you don't have to try so hard.”

“and why’s that?”

“because i love cats.”

shouta crouches down and clicks his tongue, drawing the kitten out of your lap and into his arms. a primal instinct inside wants to tug you towards him too, into his lap, into his arms, and press yourself against the warmth of his body, but you remain still.

“guess that’s why they call you the cat wrangler,” you mutter, releasing a deep sigh in defeat.

“i suppose that is one of the reasons,” he shrugs, cradling the small animal in his arms.

he doesn’t notice your paused expression until the snort leaves your mouth. his head whips up to see you failing to cover up your snickers.

“what?”

“so cat wrangler,” you begin, unable to suppress a cheeky grin, “what are the other reasons? couldn’t have just been a college nickname right?”

“you’re a smart kitty, i’m sure you can figure it out.”

“why don’t you show me instead?”

[chaeuvy]

HEY can i request.. literally anything with aizawa (i am starved for aizawa content like literally)

like literally just write whatever you feel like as long as its him😛😛😛

- 😼

⸝⸝ ＃┆ 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! ⎯ 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐀 𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀

summary: While getting ready for another early-morning class, Aizawa Shouta is pulled back into bed by the one person he can never say no to — his loving, dangerously persuasive wife.

warnings: soft seduction, morning sex, explicit content, wife!reader, whipped husband Aizawa, domestic fluff, lazy pacing, lots of kissing & touching, slow & sweet smut, playful dialogue, mild swearing, suggestive teasing, reader gets what she wants, pro hero neglecting duty (for good reason)

wc: 0.6k words.

😼: hi sweets, you’re lucky i just finished my aizawa Drabble <3

The sun barely peeked through the curtains when Aizawa stirred. You felt it — the way his body shifted under the sheets, muscles tensing, that signature sigh he always gave when he knew it was time to get up.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, hair a wild mess around his face. His voice was low and gravelly when he muttered, “I have class in an hour.”

You reached out lazily, arm wrapping around his waist. “Mmm… no you don’t.”

He glanced down, already skeptical. “Don’t start.”

“Too late,” you whispered, pressing soft kisses to the base of his spine, your fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt. “You work too much. Stay. Just… this morning.”

“You said that yesterday.” His tone was dry, but his body wasn’t pulling away. “And the day before. And the—”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupted with a giggle, now pressing your body against his back, “But I’m persuasive. And you’re weak.”

“Not weak,” he mumbled as your hand trailed lower, teasing over the waistband of his boxers. “Just… married to a menace.”

“A menace who loves you,” you purred, nibbling on the shell of his ear. “And really wants to make slow, sweet love to you before you go pretend to hate people for eight hours.”

He turned toward you then, hair falling into his face as he looked at you with that half-lidded, utterly whipped expression.

“You know what happens if I stay.” His voice had dropped, deeper now, heavier with want.

“Exactly,” you murmured against his lips.

And he gave in — again — like he always did. He let you pull him back down into the covers, bodies tangling together, kisses lazy and full of heat. The kind of sex that wasn’t rushed or rough — just warm, slow, and intimate. Like you were the only thing on his to-do list that day.

Somewhere in the distance, his phone buzzed with a reminder. He ignored it, choosing instead to bury his face in your neck, groaning as you smiled smugly beneath him.

“You’re going to make me lose my job,” he said into your skin.

“You’re a teacher. You’ll just save someone and they’ll forgive you.”

“Tch. I really should punish you for this.”

You arched into him with a grin. “Then don’t go. Stay. Make me pay for it properly.”

And so he did.

Again.

← MHA ┆ NAVI →

a/n : thanks for reading..

© 2025 chaeuvy ; ━━ do not copy or translate my work !

[kitkat13001]

you have no idea how aizawa has put up with you for this long. 

“shota, baby, i need your help.”

you’ve practically got a master’s degree in bullshit, but even you’re struggling to keep it together with this one. 

you’d just called him up on the phone with what’s probably one of the stupidest ideas you’ve ever had, and now you’re trying to keep your voice even. 

“what is it, doll?”

you cover your mouth to keep from giggling and take a breath. “i’m in the kitchen right now and i can’t find the matterdaddy.”

“what?”

you cover the receiver and muffle a snort into the couch cushions. “i can’t find the matterdaddy, do you know where it is?”

“what the hell is the matterdaddy?”

he realizes as soon as it leaves his mouth and he heaves a great, disappointed sigh as you burst into raucous laughter. 

“i don’t know, daddy, what’s the matter with you?”

he makes a noise of distaste. “you’re depraved.”

“and you’ve got ‘gullible’ written all over your forehead,” you giggle. 

“i’m hanging up the phone now.”

“m’kay,” you hum, catching your breath. “have a good rest of your patrol. love you, mwah.”

he makes a low hum back. “i’ll try. love you too.”

“no kiss back?” you tease before he can hang up. he sighs loudly again, but you hear the soft smack of his lips on the other end as he pecks the receiver before the line goes silent. 

masterlist — dividers by @/saradika graphics — saw this reel n couldn’t stop giggling. may or may not be down bad 🤭

[etherealangell1]

. ♡ NOTHING NOW

Shota Aizawa x fem!reader

Notes: I decided to try using a different word for the reader instead of y/n. But idk. Wc: 10.1k. Not proofread. Friends to lovers. Slight slow burn. First kiss between these two. Mainly fluff. Also a oneshot.

Synopsis: Reader who gets a permanent injury, and Aizawa who seems like he can't take enough care of you afterwards.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

You remembered nothing. The only image lingering in your mind was a blurred flash of you fighting off a few enemy grunts — and then, a void. The next sound that filled the air was your own scream, raw and involuntary, as you collapsed onto the battlefield clutching your lower back.

The chaos around you was unrelenting. There were simply too many villains, and not enough allies free to break formation and assist you. The rescue team hadn't been deployed yet — the mission was still active, still too dangerous. You knew that. And yet, as you dragged yourself across the torn ground, you couldn’t stop the sharp, burning breaths escaping your lungs, growing shorter and more frantic with every movement. Pain pulsed through your spine — more than a bullet wound. Something about it felt... deeper. Wrong.

You gritted your teeth, trying to apply pressure to the injury, but your strength was fading fast. Blood slipped between your fingers. Your arms trembled. Your muscles betrayed you. Your thoughts became cloudy, scattered — like fog rolling in from all sides. You could no longer tell how far you'd crawled before your body slumped against a wall, limp and breathless. Your eyelids fluttered, fighting the creeping pull of unconsciousness that clawed at your mind.

Your vision blurred, colors melting into shadows. The last thing you saw was a figure — tall, dark, and shapeless — moving toward you. A silhouette. Maybe an ally... maybe not. You couldn't tell anymore. You couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You were just... so tired.

And then, nothing.

---

The world returned in fragments.

Your eyes peeled open slowly, reluctant to accept the light. Your vision was grainy, flickering. It took several blinks before you could begin making out the shapes around you.

You felt heavy — weighed down from the inside. Your thoughts were dull, like someone had wrapped your mind in cotton. But you remembered. You'd been hit. You were injured. That much was certain.

What wasn’t certain… was where you were.

This wasn't a hospital. No sterile scent. No beeping machines. No blinding lights. Was the battle still going on? Had you failed? Had you... died?

You turned your head with effort.

Then you saw him.

Aizawa.

Your heart thudded — weakly, but undeniably — as your lips parted.

“Eraserhead…” you croaked, your voice hoarse, splintered from pain and dehydration. You reached a trembling hand toward him. Your upper body stirred with a flicker of regained strength — but the lower half of your body was another story entirely. Numb. Throbbing. Absent, almost.

Aizawa turned at the sound of your voice, his tired eyes landing on you in an instant. Relief flooded his expression, but it didn’t erase the exhaustion and anxiety etched into his features.

“You’re okay,” he said softly, kneeling beside you. His voice was rough — strained — the way only someone who hadn’t stopped moving in hours would sound.

They had won. The villains had been defeated. But the location was isolated — far from the nearest city, even farther from a proper hospital. Hero reinforcements and medical teams were still en route, delayed by terrain and distance.

It had been two hours since victory.

And two long, torturous hours since you had slipped into that fragile, flickering state between consciousness and the dark.

“Am I really?” you whispered, voice fragile as glass. Your gaze dropped to your legs — legs that wouldn’t move. Legs you couldn’t feel.

Your breath hitched. “Aizawa… I can’t feel my legs.”

You turned to look at him, and if he hadn’t been worried before, he was now. His eyes widened, sharp with alarm, and the tension in his shoulders stiffened like coiled wire.

“What?” he breathed, his voice barely louder than yours, but laced with dread. His expression shifted from concern to disbelief, then to quiet horror as he knelt beside you again.

You stared back at him, unable to speak. There was no answer you could give, no explanation that would ease the weight crashing down on both of you. Your thoughts raced, spiraling into the worst-case scenarios. When you couldn’t feel your legs… it never meant something good.

“I’ll be right back. Stay here,” he said urgently, already rising to his feet.

You rolled your eyes faintly, though your heart thudded with fear. “Where else would I go?” you muttered, voice dry, half-broken — not from sarcasm, but from grief that hadn’t fully set in yet.

Your gaze drifted back to your lower half — dirt-caked fabric, blood-soaked boots, and skin you could no longer feel. They looked like they belonged to someone else. Detached, lifeless. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The bullet hit your back… then why did this feel so final?

You were terrified. So was he. So were the heroes who had found you collapsed in that dark corner of the battlefield.

The blood loss alone was staggering.

No one expected you to wake up — let alone survive.

Aizawa had been the one to find you. He’d turned a corner in search of stragglers and froze in place. The sight stopped him cold: a slumped figure against the wall, a pool of blood reflecting the faint battlefield lights. Your head lolled to the side, skin pale and lips parted — motionless.

He was at your side in seconds, panic clawing at his chest.

But instincts took over.

He buried the fear, locked it away, and did what he always did — what he had to do. You didn’t need panic. You needed Eraserhead.

There were no medics nearby. No stretchers. No operating tables. But there were heroes — veterans of battle, hardened by injury — who knew how to react when lives were on the line. They did what they could: staunch the bleeding, apply pressure, keep you stable.

But they weren’t doctors.

They could slow the damage… not reverse it.

And now, you were awake — breathing, alert — but something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

Something they couldn’t fix with gauze and grit.

He returned quickly — faster than you expected — and for once, he came bearing good news. Recovery Girl and her medical team were with the incoming reinforcements. They’d be there within the next thirty minutes.

“That’s… good,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyelids fluttered closed, heavy with exhaustion. You sounded so small. So distant.

Aizawa stood beside you, silent. He didn’t know what to say — didn’t know if there was anything to say. Everything had unfolded at breakneck speed, like a dam that broke all at once. And part of him… part of him blamed himself. For not being there. For not having your back the moment it counted. For not reaching you in time when you needed help the most.

When you’d still been unconscious, they tried to locate the bullet. The wound was clean — too clean. The entry point in your back was visible, but the bullet itself was nowhere to be found. It had lodged itself too deep. There was nothing they could do but stop the bleeding and pray it hadn’t damaged something vital. Maybe… maybe it was better they hadn’t pulled it out. Maybe.

“You're going to be okay, Nonnie,” he said at last. And he made it sound like he believed it. Like he had to believe it — for your sake, if not for his own.

But you didn’t respond. You didn’t nod. You didn’t even look at him.

Because you didn’t believe it.

And he could see that plainly in your face.

Your eyes were fixed on your legs — lifeless, unmoving, caked with blood and battlefield grime. You just stared, unblinking. Your silence was deafening. You never went silent in the face of stress. But this... this was different. Your expression was flat, unreadable, carved from stone. He could tell you were still processing, still grasping for meaning in the middle of all this uncertainty.

He hesitated. Should he say something? Offer comfort? Or would silence speak louder now? His leg bounced nervously — a rare crack in his normally composed presence.

“You don’t actually believe that,” you said suddenly, your voice flat. “I can’t feel my legs, Aizawa.”

The words sat between you like a weight. Your gaze never left your legs. Your voice didn’t tremble. But that stillness — that eerie calm — was worse than if you’d screamed.

This wasn’t the version of you he knew. You were warmth. You were willpower, stubbornness, and fire — never still, never silent. But now… you looked like a shadow of yourself. And the sight of you like this twisted something deep inside him.

“Nonnie, I wasn’t there for you. I—”

“Stop it,” you interrupted, your tone sharp, eyes flicking toward him with sudden intensity. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t blame yourself. I agreed to this mission knowing exactly what could happen. We all did. It’s not your fault.”

You brushed hair from your face, then winced — a sharp breath escaping your lips — as you tried to push yourself upright. Your arms trembled from the effort.

“Nonnie, stop. You’re too weak.” He reached out, his hand firm on your shoulder, urging you back down onto the makeshift bedding.

But then you glared at him — a piercing, deadly look. Not one of anger at him, not truly. He understood that. You weren’t mad at him — you were mad at everything. The pain. The fear. The helplessness. The glare was just the only weapon you had left in that moment.

He saw it in your eyes — the war inside you. Anger for allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Sorrow for what you might never get back. The cold uncertainty of what waited in the next hour.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To lash out. But the moment you moved, dizziness came crashing down like a wave. So instead, you just glared. That was all you could offer.

Without a word, Aizawa slipped an arm beneath your shoulders, lifting you with practiced care. You didn’t fight him — not this time. Just exhaled sharply, pain flashing through you as your back screamed in protest. It was getting worse. Every shift sent fresh stabs of agony down your spine. You bit your lip and tried not to let it show.

Your eyes met his — for a long, quiet moment. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were heavy with something close to guilt. You broke the gaze first, turning back toward your legs.

You felt hollow.

So hollow.

The weight of reality was beginning to settle in your bones, and you didn’t know what to do with it. Your mind was numb, the fear too vast to grasp fully. You didn’t want to cry, not anymore. You just wanted to sleep. Or rewind time. Undo it all. Just one second earlier — before the shot rang out.

But that wasn’t how it worked. As Aizawa always told you: Be rational.

So you tried.

Tried to imagine what it meant to accept this. To accept what the medics might say when they arrived.

What if they couldn’t fix this?

What if… this was it?

You breathed out slowly, pressing your lips together.

Thirty minutes.

Just thirty more minutes.

And everything might change.

Or… nothing would.

“Eraser—Nonnika! They’re here!” a voice called from the doorway — breathless and urgent. Aizawa’s head snapped toward the sound, his heart lurching in relief. Finally.

He stood instantly as the man stepped inside, and before Aizawa could ask, the voice shouted again: “She’s over here!”

From the hall came the echo of rushing footsteps and the unmistakable screech of wheels. A stretcher, flanked by three paramedics, came into view. Their faces were lined with urgency, bags slung over their shoulders, gloves already snapped on.

You didn’t react.

You sat still, hunched forward slightly, eyes cast low like shadows beneath your lashes. You didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, didn’t look at the medics. Your breath trembled in and out of your chest, shallow and uneven. But Aizawa noticed what no one else did — that when you finally did lift your eyes, they found him.

Only him.

You didn’t speak, but the way you looked at him — glossy-eyed and tight-lipped — was a quiet, aching plea. You were trying to tell him something in that gaze. Fear, maybe. Or resignation. Or just don’t leave me.

He stepped closer without hesitation.

The paramedics approached cautiously and began examining you, their movements brisk but delicate. As they pulled back the torn fabric from your lower back, their expressions shifted. Concern crept across each face in silence — an unspoken alarm.

You squinted at them, confused. “What’s wrong?” you asked faintly.

But before they could answer, Aizawa snapped.

“What are you just standing there for?” His voice was sharp, cracked with frustration.

One of the paramedics finally spoke. “There’s severe bruising along your lower back. It’s spreading. That suggests the bullet may have pierced your spinal column. We need to move you carefully — the injury’s likely caused internal trauma. We’re running out of time, but speed could make it worse.”

The words struck like thunder.

You didn’t speak. Aizawa’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear — not what anyone wanted to hear — but it was reality, grim and cold.

The medics worked with quiet efficiency, carefully lifting your limp body and easing you onto the stretcher. Each movement made you wince, your fists tightening weakly by your sides. Aizawa walked alongside them as they moved, his footsteps heavy with dread.

The ride to the makeshift transport was short, but it felt endless.

Inside the cramped vehicle, they rolled you gently onto your stomach. One medic tore open your shirt with clinical ease, exposing the brutal bruising along your spine — a horrific bloom of dark purple, red, and angry blackness.

Aizawa sat near your head, close enough to hear your strained breathing. You didn’t speak. Neither did the medics. They barely looked at you. They were too focused, too detached.

So he leaned in, trying to offer something — comfort, maybe. Connection.

“We’re almost there,” he murmured, placing a hand on your upper arm, where your chin now rested. “You’re going to be okay.”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him — not with words, just weary eyes — and then let your cheek fall gently against his hand. It startled him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d touched you outside of battle, if ever. But there was something grounding about it. Something human.

He rubbed his thumb slowly across your arm, hesitating. You were resting your face against his knuckles — rough, scarred from years of combat. He debated turning his palm up to make it more comfortable, but you looked content. Almost at peace, in a tragic, exhausted way.

Your breathing started to even out. His own tension, too, began to release — just a little.

Then you whimpered.

It was small, but it tore into him. A sharp, soft cry. You buried your face in the crook of your elbow, hiding from them all, your shoulders quivering as more whimpers escaped, one after another.

“What are you doing?” Aizawa growled, his patience shredded by helplessness as he looked toward the paramedics.

One of them replied without looking up. “We’re trying to extract the bullet — but we don’t have anesthetics or pain suppressants. If we wait, the bruising could reach the bone. We don’t have the luxury of stopping.”

Aizawa’s stomach turned. All this… from one bullet.

He looked down at you again — your face hidden beneath a curtain of messy hair, arms shielding your expression. But he knew. He knew. You wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but your body was shutting down, surrendering.

He brushed a hand gently over your head, fingers threading slowly through strands of your tangled hair.

“Almost there,” he whispered, voice raw. “You’re gonna be okay.”

But even he wasn’t sure anymore.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t lift your head.

Instead, your breathing slowed again, and your body slackened. Your hands slipped from where they’d been clutching your sleeves. Your hair fell across your face like a veil.

And without even realizing it, you passed out — the weight of pain, exhaustion, and fear finally dragging you under.

Aizawa stared at you for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of your back, the spreading bruise, the stillness of your legs.

He sat there, hand still on your arm, and whispered again — more to himself this time than to you:

“Just hold on, Nonnie.”

...

The doctor’s words still echoed in your head, even though you had heard them hours ago.

You were awake when he told you. Awake, but not truly present — as if your body had returned to you, but your spirit hadn’t caught up yet.

They had removed the bullet while you were unconscious. The surgery was successful… in the most technical sense. But success didn’t mean salvation.

You could feel the muscles in both thighs now — a strange comfort. Your right leg responded normally. You could feel the bed beneath it, the tension in your quads when you flexed. But the left… beneath the thigh, there was nothing. No warmth. No weight. No signal from your brain to your toes. Just a silent void where sensation used to live.

“The bruising is deep. It’ll take time to fade,” the doctor had said, his voice gentle, clinical. “But the nerve damage to your spine is permanent. You’ll never fully regain function in your left leg. A prosthetic isn’t viable due to the position of the injury. You’ll need crutches for now. Rehab, too. Light activity. I advise you to avoid combat for the foreseeable future… possibly forever.”

Forever.

You sat there in silence, fists clenching the thin fabric of your hospital gown, trying not to shake. Your heart didn’t beat with panic anymore. You didn’t have the energy for fear, or anger, or grief. Just a hollow space in your chest where those things used to live.

Your identity was tied to your body — every muscle sharpened through years of training, every skill fine-tuned to perfection. You weren’t just a fighter. You were the fighter. A combat specialist. Precision. Speed. Grace. Fluid violence, honed like art.

And now… what were you?

The door creaked open.

“Nonnie…” came a voice. Gentle. Worried.

Aizawa.

He stood there in the doorway, eyes weary, shoulders stiff with exhaustion and something heavier — something close to guilt. His usual blank composure was gone, replaced by open concern that clung to his features like sweat. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t physical.

He’d been at the hospital for hours, refusing treatment for his own wounds until Recovery Girl all but forced him to sit down. Hizashi had noticed it too — the uncharacteristic way Aizawa hovered, pacing, waiting. He hadn’t been this tense in years. And even if Aizawa refused to say it aloud, everyone could see it.

You were different to him.

“Hi,” you croaked, voice raw, cracking like dry paper. You were perched on the edge of the bed, one leg swinging stiffly over the side while you’d had to lift the other with both hands. You hadn’t even tried to walk yet — not really. The first attempt ended in a short scream, a burst of pain, and a cruel reminder.

Aizawa stepped forward quickly, gently urging you back onto the bed. “Sit. Please.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine.”

He knelt in front of you, leveling his gaze with yours. “Stop lying,” he said softly. “The doctor already told me. I know about your leg.”

You flinched — barely — but your eyes didn’t meet his. They remained fixed on the floor, on your hands, on anywhere that wasn’t your legs.

“I don’t know how to feel,” you admitted in a whisper. “I don’t think I’ll ever work again. I can’t fight the way I used to… maybe not at all.”

Your voice broke around the words like they hurt to form.

“I spent years building myself into this weapon. This person. Every kid here knows me as their teacher because of that. Because I could protect them. I could fight beside them. I can’t even run anymore. Can’t even stand on my own without pain.”

You stopped, fingers curling tightly in your lap.

“I lost everything.”

Aizawa didn’t interrupt. Not right away. He watched you — watched the way your mouth trembled, the shine in your eyes as you fought tears you refused to let fall. You tried so hard to keep your face still, but he could see the cracks. Your motionless stare. Your silence.

You weren’t angry.

You were unraveling.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady.

“You’re right.”

You blinked, slowly lifting your eyes to his face, startled. You hadn’t expected that.

He nodded, gently.

“You’re right. It won’t be the same. You may not fight like before. And no one can promise it’ll ever feel fair. But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost who you are.”

He leaned forward, resting a hand on your knee. His touch was warm. Grounding.

“You’re still you. And you still have a place here. Your worth isn’t bound to your legs or your combat. You’re not disposable. No one’s going to forget you. Not me. Not the students. Not this school.”

His tone softened even more.

“You’re still needed.”

There was something in the way he said we — a deliberate emphasis that lingered in the air. It hit you harder than you expected.

You tried to look away, but couldn’t.

“Who needs me now?” you whispered. “I’m defeated.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re wounded. But you’re not broken. You think those kids only looked up to you because of your fighting? They admired you because you were fearless. Because you stood with them. You believed in them.”

He looked at you then — really looked at you — eyes holding steady even as yours glistened.

“They still need you. I still need you.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Just a shaky breath. The tears threatened again — no longer from despair, but something quieter. Something closer to being seen.

You didn’t know what to feel. Anger? Relief? Pain? Maybe all of it at once.

Maybe that was okay.

You glanced down at his hand on your knee. Still there. Still steady.

“Wrong knee,” you mumbled, a slight smile playing at your lips when he quickly switched his hand to your right knee.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

You didn’t know what to say.

What to think. What to feel.

Your thoughts churned with conflict, raw and tangled. Were you supposed to be angry at him for softening the truth? For offering you hope when all you could see was loss? Or should you cling to his words, even if they pressed against wounds that hadn’t even begun to close.

“I... I don’t know, Aizawa,” you whispered, barely audible. Your voice cracked, shaky and defeated.

You folded forward, burying your face into your hands like a child trying to disappear. To hide.

You didn’t want to be seen like this — not by him, not by anyone. Not now. Maybe not ever.

You felt weak. Helpless.

No matter what comforting words he said, how gently he looked at you, you knew the truth: you weren’t the person you had been. Not anymore. You needed both legs to be who you were — to move the way you did, to fight the way you’d trained your whole life to fight. Without that, how could you protect anyone? How could you be of any use?

A broken protector was no protector at all.

You were a liability now. A walking vulnerability — or worse, a standing reminder of what you used to be. And as much as Aizawa tried to make this feel smaller than it was, like he so often did to steady his students, it couldn’t work here. Not for you.

But what you couldn’t see — blinded by the weight of your grief — was that he meant every word.

He wasn’t trying to downplay your pain.

He was trying to hold it with you.

He knew how strong you truly were — not because of how fast you could move or how precisely you could strike, but because of the fire inside you. The one still flickering, however faint. Your life wasn’t over. Not to him. And he refused to let you believe otherwise.

“Things are going to be okay,” he said gently, his voice low but certain. “You’re not alone. And no one — no one — is going to abandon you just because things are different now. Okay?”

You didn’t respond.

So, he leaned forward.

His fingers reached under your chin, cool and calloused, coaxing your face up. And when you finally let him lift your gaze, he wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb — so softly it almost didn’t register at first. A moment of quiet, sincere tenderness.

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching in your throat.

“…Okay,” you mumbled, the word barely formed. Fragile. Cracked. But it was something.

Maybe his presence was what you needed, even if you didn’t know how to ask for it.

You couldn’t bring yourself to believe him — not fully — but you felt his words settle into the space between the ache and the silence, and for now, that was enough.

You held his gaze in a long, wordless pause.

You were too tired to speak. Too drained to move. So you simply stared at him, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, hoping — begging — that he could somehow read your mind, understand the whirlwind of emotion that words couldn’t reach.

And he did.

He didn’t say anything.

But he felt it all.

What he didn’t want to admit — not out loud, not even to himself — was how terrified he’d been. Still was. The mere idea that you could’ve died out there... it shook him in a way that battles and bloodshed never had. He’d seen death. Faced it. Lost comrades. Buried friends.

But the thought of losing you? Of walking into that room and finding you gone?

That fear haunted him.

You didn’t know it, but he’d replayed the moment they found you over and over in his head. Your body slumped in a pool of blood. Your eyes closed. Barely breathing.

He could barely breathe now just thinking about it.

He couldn’t bear the idea of a world without you in it.

He wouldn’t survive that.

He wouldn’t forgive himself for that.

So he sat beside you now — and he wasn’t going anywhere. Not this time. Not again. If you tried to push him away, he’d hold on tighter. Because you needed someone to fight for you now.

And he would.

Because as much as you needed him… he needed you, too.

More than you would ever realize.

You wrapped your cold hand around his neck, sending shivers down his spine at the contact, but he relaxed when you pulled him close and let your head lean forward — resting your forehead against his shoulder.

No words.

Just this moment. It was all you needed right now — him as well.

Your eyes lifted slowly, heavy with exhaustion and fragile resolve. For a moment, you just stared at him — into him — as though trying to draw strength from the stillness in his gaze. His expression didn’t waver, quiet and patient, waiting for whatever you needed to say.

Then, barely above a whisper, your lips parted:

“...Take me home?”

The question lingered between you, raw and soft, not quite a plea, not quite a command — but a quiet surrender.

Aizawa nodded without a word.

The students had left hours ago. You hadn’t seen them — you'd still been unconscious. But they had school, after all, and as much as they wanted to stay, the staff insisted they return to their dorms to rest. Still, you'd sensed their presence earlier, through the warmth in the room, the faint scent of fresh flowers someone had left at your bedside, and the gentle clutter of folded notes left on the nightstand.

Now, the hospital hallways had fallen still. It was just you and Aizawa.

Discharge had come faster than you anticipated. Too fast, maybe. But you didn’t argue. You couldn’t lie in that sterile bed for another second, surrounded by wires and white walls that felt like a prison.

Aizawa drove you in silence.

The car hummed quietly as it moved down the mostly empty streets of Musutafu. The late hour cast the city in soft shadows, headlights cutting through the dark like thin blades of light. You sat in the passenger seat, posture stiff, eyes unfocused as you stared out the window.

Streetlamps flickered past like ghostly sentinels.

Your hospital clothes had been exchanged for a pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized U.A. hoodie that hung off your shoulders, clearly provided by someone from the dorms. Probably Hizashi. Your hair was messy, your body aching with every bump in the road. But you said nothing. Just watched the world pass you by — familiar but now distant, changed.

Aizawa glanced at you now and then from the corner of his eye, careful not to intrude. He could feel you retreating inward, and he gave you that space. If you needed to speak, he’d be ready. But for now, he simply let you be.

When you finally pulled into the U.A. campus, the silence remained unbroken.

He parked outside the dormitory wing — the one where the teachers had their own rooms, a floor above the students. Before he could even reach for the door handle, you were already moving.

He opened his door quickly, circling to your side just as you swung yours open. But the moment your feet touched the ground, you winced — a harsh, guttural sound slipping from your lips as you clutched the edge of the car for balance. One leg bore the weight. The other, limp and sluggish, dragged with each painful step forward.

“Nonnie—wait—” Aizawa rushed to the backseat and pulled out your crutches, their metal clinking faintly in the still night air.

But you were already trying to hobble forward, gritting your teeth, determined — or maybe just stubborn.

He caught up to you quickly and blocked your path gently, offering the crutches out to you without a word. You stared at them, then at him, a frustrated breath escaping your lungs as you snatched them from his hands.

“…Thanks,” you muttered, but it didn’t sound like gratitude. More like defeat.

He didn’t comment on it.

The entrance to the dormitory was quiet — warm lights glowing through the tall windows, illuminating the tiled floors and wood-paneled walls inside. The students were all asleep by now. The common room, usually loud with chatter and scattered homework and laughter, was still. Empty mugs from earlier hot chocolate gatherings rested on a tray near the sink. A blanket was draped across the couch. The usual life of the dorms had settled into calm.

The elevator was out of order.

A flickering red light on the panel blinked in stubborn refusal, casting a dull glow on the metallic doors. Aizawa pressed the button once more, as if hoping it was just a delay — but it stayed frozen. The gentle hum of the building, the quiet tick of nighttime silence, and your soft breathing were the only sounds between you.

You stared down at the tiled floor for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Your knuckles tightened around the crutch handles. The idea of climbing stairs — like this — made you feel humiliated. Powerless. Like a shell of who you used to be.

Aizawa turned his head toward you. “Come on,” he said quietly. “I’ll carry you.”

Your eyes snapped up.

“What? No—No, I can do it,” you insisted quickly, the edge in your voice sharp but brittle.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t need to.

Instead, he simply stepped forward and took the crutches from beneath your arms, setting them gently aside by the kitchen counter. You caught yourself on the countertop, wincing as your weight shifted awkwardly to your good leg. He stood still beside you, waiting — not pushing, but not backing down either. His silence spoke louder than anything else. He wasn’t asking for permission. He was waiting for you to stop pretending you didn’t need help.

You gave no reply — but you didn’t stop him.

And that was enough.

With the softest motion, he bent down and slipped his arms beneath you — one behind your knees, the other around your back. You tensed immediately, your breath hitching through clenched teeth as pain flared beneath your skin like lightning. He moved slowly, steadily, his grip firm but gentle.

“Switch,” he murmured, adjusting your weight as he lowered you onto one of the stools at the counter.

Before you could question it, his hands slid beneath both your thighs, lifting you again — this time deliberately avoiding your back altogether. You remained upright, rigid in posture, your arms lightly around his neck for balance. Your eyes, however, were fixed on his face.

He didn’t meet your gaze. His focus was ahead — locked on the staircase. His jaw was set, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. You didn’t want to distract him, but there was something oddly comforting in his silence. His presence grounded you in a way nothing else had since you woke up in that hospital bed.

You rested your head gently against his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath your cheek. Your nose brushed the side of his neck, the heat of his skin radiating against your face. You could feel the rhythmic thrum of his pulse just below his jaw, steady and strong, and it anchored you. You didn’t realize how tightly you had been holding onto him until your hands slowly found their way to his hair — fingers brushing gently against the strands near the nape of his neck.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Just kept walking.

The climb was slow but careful. Each step up the stairs was a minor strain, but he never once faltered. His breathing remained calm and even. You wanted to say something, anything — to fill the air with words so it wouldn’t feel so intimate. But instead, you let the silence hold you together, tucked beneath the quiet hum of the dormitory’s nighttime stillness.

By the time you reached the top of the staircase and neared his dorm room, you lifted your head slightly. Your expression was soft but puzzled, your eyes searching his.

“Really?” you whispered.

He finally glanced at you, his eyes unreadable but steady.

He nodded once.

“Unless—”

“No!” you interrupted, the word shooting out of your mouth before you could stop it. “I... I might need you.”

The vulnerability in your voice hung in the air for a moment, as if it surprised even you.

He smiled — just barely — the curve of his lips faint and fleeting, almost swallowed by shadow. But it was there. Real. Unmistakable.

And he didn’t let you see it. Not fully. He kept his face turned away, eyes focused on the hallway ahead as he carried you the rest of the way in silence.

Still, in the dark, your heart felt something warm beginning to stir.

You reached out with trembling fingers, wrapping them around the door handle. The brass was cool against your skin as you slowly twisted the knob and eased the door open. It creaked softly, the kind of sound that always seemed louder at night. You tilted your head back slightly to glance at him — still cradled in his arms, the close press of his chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm against your own chest pressed up against him. Crazy how he hadn't once noticed.

He stepped through the threshold without hesitation, your weight still nestled against him. You twisted awkwardly to grab the door, shutting it behind you with a muted click. The world beyond it felt miles away now.

“Alright,” Aizawa said with a steady breath, his voice low and calm, “made it this far. Now what do you need?”

He gently lowered you down — not onto the cushions of the couch, but perched delicately on the thick, flat top of its frame. His hands lingered, palms braced on either side of your hips, in case you faltered or slid. His body framed yours — close, grounded, attentive. It wasn’t rushed or hesitant, but deliberate and secure. It made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with injury. Your eyes flicked up, briefly meeting his, and then darted away just as quickly. The closeness unnerved you in the strangest of ways.

You furrowed your brow and scoffed, falling back into old habits. “What are you talking about?” you muttered, your voice dipping with just the faintest curl of sarcasm as you caught the unimpressed look on his face.

He blinked once, unimpressed. “Oh, you said a bath? Alright. I’ll draw it for you.” He pivoted immediately, walking away as if you had earnestly requested it. The air rushed to fill the space he left behind.

“Hey—!” you called after him, but your words caught on a sigh. You were stuck. Helpless on the edge of the couch frame, legs aching, pride stinging. “No!”

But he was already gone around the corner, his footsteps soft against the floors.

Truthfully, he wasn’t trying to push you. He’d never do that. But he also wasn’t going to ignore what you needed just because you were too stubborn to ask for it.

The nurses hadn’t cleaned you properly — only around your wound, quick and clinical. No warm water. No steam. No peace. You still felt the grime of dried sweat, of bandage adhesive and discomfort clinging to you like a film. You wouldn’t say it aloud, but he could tell. You needed this more than you’d admit.

In the bathroom, you heard the old pipes groan faintly as the faucets turned. The sound of rushing water echoed softly down the hall — clear, steady, soothing. It filled the silence in your chest where shame and helplessness had sat for hours.

You stared at the empty space in front of you, arms wrapped around your middle. Your bare foot tapped lightly against the side of the couch, as if testing its own strength. Finally, you called out toward the bathroom.

“Not too hot, please,” you said, voice low—half reluctant, half resigned.

Silence answered you. But somehow, in that silence, you heard him acknowledge you.

He didn’t say a word.

But he was listening.

And that was enough.

The steam drifted faintly through the air, curling against the frosted mirror and warming the tiled walls. The gentle sound of running water was replaced now with the tranquil hum of stillness, the bath drawn to just the right temperature. Aizawa stepped back into the room, his hair slightly disheveled, sleeves rolled up as if he were bracing himself—for your discomfort, or maybe his own.

“It’s ready,” he said, his voice soft but steady. His dark eyes found yours, gauging your state before moving closer. “Once you’re in, I’ll run and grab your crutches so you won’t need to be carried again…” His voice faltered for just a moment, gaze drifting somewhere behind you, remembering the feeling of you resting so fully in his arms—how your thighs had sunk into the bend of his palms, how the gentle weight of your head had pressed against his neck, your breath soft and warm against his skin.

He cleared his throat, snapping back to the present. “Not that I minded,” he added quickly, voice lower now, almost under his breath.

He moved toward you again, arms curling beneath your knees and back, lifting you with the same ease as before. You didn’t resist. Your eyes lingered on his collarbone, exposed slightly where the fabric of his shirt had shifted, and he could feel the faint puff of your breath near his neck. His hands were careful—never lingering, never clutching too tight. There was a tension in the air, unspoken, stretched thin like a wire humming between you.

As he stepped into the bathroom, his steps slowed, gaze flicking toward the tub—then toward you. It hit him then: you wouldn’t be able to get undressed easily. And he was standing here, holding you, knowing it.

He stopped short of the bath, setting you gently down on the cushioned stool just beside it. You winced slightly as you adjusted your position, and he hesitated.

“…Do you—” He exhaled quietly, looking away for a second before forcing his gaze to return to yours. “Do you need help?”

His voice was soft, uncertain. Not weak, but careful. He wasn’t shy, but he was respectful—always had been. If you needed help, he’d give it. But if you didn’t, he wouldn’t press. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel exposed in a way that hurt more than your injuries.

You met his eyes, cheeks tinged with a heat that had nothing to do with the bath. “No,” you mumbled, your voice small. “I think I got it.”

Aizawa gave a small nod and turned around immediately, folding his arms loosely across his chest as he stood facing the door. He stayed close enough to hear you if you faltered, but far enough that your privacy was intact. Behind him, the quiet was filled with the rustling of fabric, the occasional pained grunt as you struggled with stubborn folds of clothing and stiff joints. He heard your breath hitch more than once, and it took everything in him not to turn around and offer his hands.

Ten minutes passed. Then your voice, tired but composed: “Okay."

“I’m gonna grab your crutches,” he said quickly. “Yell if you need me. I’ll be fast.”

With that, he exited, jogging down the hallway. The tension in his chest hadn’t fully left. He didn’t like the thought of you hurting alone, but you deserved dignity—and space.

Back in the bathroom, you finally slipped into the tub with a long, shuddering breath. Your body submerged slowly beneath the surface, the warm water wrapping around you like a balm. It was the first moment in hours—maybe days—that you felt the slightest relief. The warmth hugged your aching muscles and settled against the bruises like a whispered apology.

But your heart felt heavier than your body.

You were being watched after like a child. ‘Holler if you need help,’ he said. Like you couldn’t be trusted to manage on your own. Like you were fragile. Breakable. Needy. The thought coiled around your ribs and made your stomach twist.

Yet—he was attentive. Gentle. Present. The way he hadn’t left your side even once. The way he carried you like you weren’t a burden. You replayed the feeling of his arms beneath your legs, the firm cradle of his chest. How his scent lingered faintly in your hair even now—clean linen, a hint of warmth, something undeniably him.

The bath was just warm—not too hot, just like you asked.

Just like his body had been.

You sank further into the water, letting your hair float and fan around your shoulders. Your fingers trailed absentmindedly along the surface, but your mind wandered elsewhere. Back to the feel of his shirt against your skin. Back to the sound of his voice, quiet and full of concern. You hated feeling this vulnerable.

But somehow, the thought of him being the one to see you like this… didn’t make you feel smaller.

It made you feel safe.

You let yourself slip lower into the water, until it reached your collarbone, your chin barely grazing the surface. Your eyelids drifted shut, lashes damp and heavy. The bathwater cradled you like a second skin—warm, quiet, unjudging. It softened the soreness in your muscles, dulling the ache in your joints. A breath left your lungs, long and unsteady, as if you had been holding it since the hospital.

You didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel. Not the resentment toward your own body, not the helplessness that clung to you like a second wound. You wanted silence. Oblivion. Just the warmth of water and the gentle weightlessness that let you forget—just for a little while—that everything had changed.

You tilted your head back, resting it against the porcelain edge. The soft ripple of water brushing your ears muffled the outside world. The dull sting of your healing wounds pulsed faintly beneath the surface, but for once, it wasn’t overwhelming. You inhaled deeply, catching a trace of the bath salts—eucalyptus and lavender. He’d picked those. Of course he had.

Your brows pinched slightly. Despite everything, despite how much you hated needing help… his presence had made it easier. Made you feel… seen, maybe. Cared for, not just watched.

The door creaked slightly. Your eyes opened halfway as you heard the cautious shuffle of someone at the edge.

Aizawa.

He cracked the bathroom door open just enough to slide the crutches through, resting them carefully against the wall nearest the tub. You watched the movement from beneath the curtain of your damp lashes, the silhouette of his tall frame briefly outlined by the hallway light.

“Thank you, Aizawa,” you mumbled, voice nearly drowned out by the water. It was quiet, but genuine.

A soft grunt was his only reply—acknowledgment without drawing attention to your vulnerability. The door clicked shut again with care, and you were alone once more.

He didn’t return to the couch immediately. Instead, he padded back toward his room with quiet, deliberate steps. He scanned the space, mentally checking off a list of everything you might need. Water bottle—filled. Painkillers—on standby on the bedside table. Your phone was gone, so he placed his own there in case you needed to call anyone. The room was dim, lamplight glowing warm and low. He moved his remote closer within reach, tucked the extra blanket at the foot of the bed, and straightened the sheets without much thought.

It didn’t even cross his mind to share the bed. He’d already decided—he would sleep on the couch just outside, close enough to hear you if you called out in the night.

But back in the bath, you weren’t settling for that.

Minutes passed. You finally gathered the strength to rise from the water, limbs shaky but clean, your skin flushed from the heat. Wrapping yourself in one of the thick towels he’d set out earlier, you dried off as best you could before slowly reaching for the crutches. Your arms trembled, but you moved on instinct, driven not by strength but by the desire to reclaim some part of yourself.

With small, controlled movements, you made your way into his room.

He looked up when he saw you at the doorway—slightly damp hair tucked behind your ears, oversized towel snug around your chest, cheeks a little pink from the bath and effort. You looked exhausted. But you were standing, leaning against the crutches with quiet defiance.

His brows furrowed with concern, but he didn’t move just yet. “You alright?”

You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you slowly made your way into the room, eyes flicking to the couch he’d been preparing as his makeshift bed. Your lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re not sleeping out there,” you said softly, your voice firmer than he expected.

He blinked once, unsure if he’d heard you right. “I figured you’d want space—”

“I don’t,” you interrupted. Your gaze met his now, unflinching. “You’ve done everything else. I don’t want you in another room like I’m contagious or something.”

His shoulders relaxed just slightly, but the tension in his jaw lingered. He looked at you—really looked—and saw not just exhaustion, but the remnants of loneliness shadowing your expression. You weren’t asking because you needed company.

You were asking because you needed him.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “You take the bed. I’ll stay on top of the blankets.”

You shook your head, hobbling slightly closer, standing beside the mattress. “No. Just… lay down with me. Please.”

His lips parted, but the words caught in his throat. Your eyes were open—vulnerable, unguarded in a way they rarely were. There was no teasing in your tone, no pride or stubbornness. Just quiet honesty. Trust.

He nodded once. “Alright.”

You stood in the dim lamplight of his room, fingers tightening around the towel still wrapped around your body, the cotton damp and clinging to your skin. Your hair fell loosely around your face, slightly tangled from the bath. You looked small standing there, fragile in a way you hated—but couldn’t hide.

Aizawa’s eyes flicked over you briefly—just enough to assess. He noticed the oversized U.A. hoodie draped over the back of his chair, the one you had thrown on before leaving the bathroom, and how it had swallowed your frame at the hospital because it wasn’t yours. It would work for sleep, but…

He cleared his throat. “Your clothes are fine for now, but—” he gestured vaguely, hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, unsure of how to phrase what you were both thinking. “You probably want something a little more comfortable. I can grab some shorts. I’ve got a spare pair that should reach your knees.”

You nodded silently. But then there was the other issue—undergarments.

You both realized it at the same time.

Aizawa shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right.” His voice was low, strained—not out of embarrassment, but consideration. He didn’t want to make you feel exposed, or worse, infantilized.

You avoided his eyes, looking instead at the hem of the towel twisting between your fingers. Your brows pinched slightly. “It’s okay, I’ll manage,” you said, though the words sounded like a lie even to yourself.

He stepped forward just a bit, not too close. “Your dorm’s not far. I’ll go,” he offered plainly.

Your eyes lifted to his at last, wide and tired. “You’d do that?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Yeah. Just tell me where to look.”

You gave him rough directions—bottom drawer, second to the left. You even mentioned the pair of shorts you liked best, half-sarcastically. The ones with the little rip near the waistband. He smirked lightly at your description, then turned to leave without another word.

You didn’t stop him.

Truthfully, you were too drained to argue. Every muscle in your body begged for rest. The idea of peeling off the towel and forcing yourself into makeshift clothes just to collapse felt too much. Your mind felt like it was floating, like it hadn’t fully returned from the hospital.

So you waited.

The room was quiet in his absence, lit only by the bedside lamp casting warm shadows against the walls. The soft thud of his door closing had left an echo of stillness behind. You sat carefully on the edge of the bed, exhaling a shallow breath, clutching the towel tighter around you. Your eyes fluttered shut briefly, just to shut everything out.

Five minutes later, the door creaked open.

You blinked awake again, and there he was—Aizawa, slightly disheveled, a small bundle of clothes tucked beneath one arm. He’d moved quietly, respectfully, but you still caught a flash of something on his face. Guilt, maybe. Or restraint. He handed you the clothes wordlessly, holding them out with both hands.

Tank top. Soft cotton, cropped just above the waist. The built-in support was a lucky guess. Your favorite black sleep shorts—worn, familiar. And a fresh pair of underwear, folded carefully between the fabrics.

You stared at the items for a moment, then up at him. “You did good.”

He looked relieved. “Wasn’t sure if I was invading your privacy or saving your night.”

“Little of both,” you admitted with a tired smirk, and for a moment—just a flicker—he smiled back.

“I’ll give you some space.” He turned and exited the room again, this time with slower steps, leaving the door cracked in case you needed anything.

Changing took effort.

Every movement was stiff, calculated, interrupted by winces and muttered curses. Your back ached sharply with each reach, your legs protesting as you lifted them into the soft shorts. But eventually, with slow and stubborn persistence, you managed it.

The tank top hugged your frame comfortably. The shorts sat securely on your hips, the waistband folding just slightly. It all felt right—like yourself. You didn’t feel pretty. But you felt human again. That was something.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror as you passed the dresser. Your hair was still damp and unbrushed. There were shadows beneath your eyes. But there was a small glint of warmth returning back to your face.

Normal.

You reached for the bed, lowering yourself carefully into it, sighing as your back met the mattress. Your limbs sank into the bedding like it had been waiting for you all day. The sheets were warm. The pillow, soft. You nestled in deeper, letting the comfort wrap around you like a second bath—this one dry, but no less healing.

And when he knocked softly and stepped back inside, eyes flicking to your now-settled form, your lips curved slightly.

“Thank you,” you murmured again.

He sat down on the far side of the bed this time, on top of the covers just like he’d promised earlier. But his eyes stayed on you a moment longer, watching you settle in, safe, warm, clean.

“Get some sleep,” he said gently.

You were already halfway there.

“Don’t be a stranger to your own bed just because I’m here,” you murmured, your voice low and muffled by the pillow beneath your folded arms. The soft cotton of the pillowcase cooled your cheek while your body stretched out across the mattress, angled slightly to avoid any pressure on the tender injury along your back. Your bare legs shifted slightly beneath the thin blanket, your eyes barely open as you peered up at him through the strands of your damp hair that clung to your temple.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you anymore,” you added, your voice lined with quiet guilt, barely audible over the faint hum of the TV still flickering across the dim room.

Aizawa stood nearby, his silhouette tall and still in the soft ambient light. His dark eyes lingered on you longer than they should have—studying the curve of your back, the way your shoulder shifted with each breath, the fatigue buried in your words. His hands flexed at his sides before he finally exhaled, almost as if grounding himself.

“You’re not,” he said after a pause, his tone low, the edges worn like sanded wood. “Trust me. I’m happy to do this.”

Then, slowly, he moved.

He stepped out of his shoes with a lazy grace, then approached the bed and eased himself onto the edge beside you. He remained above the blanket, keeping a cautious distance at first—his body angled so you could see him if you turned your head, but far enough not to impose. His presence was heavy in the air, but not overbearing. Warm. Reassuring. Grounding.

You turned slightly, cheek pressing deeper into the pillow as your lashes lifted to meet his gaze. Your eyes locked.

And lingered.

It was a quiet moment, but not empty. The air between you vibrated with unspoken things—gratitude, exhaustion, a fragile tenderness neither of you acknowledged out loud.

You felt your chest tighten, unsure how to express what sat on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you gave him a small hum of acknowledgment, letting your gaze trail over the soft shape of his mouth, the dark strands of hair that fell across his cheek, the stillness in his posture that somehow made you feel… safe.

Then your lips curled into the faintest smile. Mischievous. Shy.

“Psst,” you whispered.

A brow lifted at your invitation. He leaned slightly forward, head tilting, the curiosity flickering in his gaze.

“Come here.”

Before he could ask why, or even think to question it, you pushed yourself upward with a slight wince and pressed a fleeting kiss against his cheek.

It was soft—barely there—but the effect was immediate.

He blinked, his body pausing mid-breath. The skin beneath your lips was warm. When you pulled away, you could feel your own pulse stuttering against your ribs. Your eyes flicked up toward his, searching, unsure.

But the way he looked at you then…

Like a storm had passed through him.

His expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes ignited—a flicker of something restrained yet electric, like a lit match held too close to dry leaves.

Without thinking, his hand lifted, fingers brushing along your jaw, then cupping your cheek with surprising gentleness. You leaned into it instinctively, your breath catching.

And then—he kissed you.

Deliberate. Careful. Devastating.

His lips found yours in a soft, unhurried motion, your mouths moving together in a slow rhythm that neither of you pushed nor rushed. His thumb grazed the side of your face as his body leaned just slightly closer, anchoring himself beside you. It wasn’t intense. Not yet. But it was intimate in the kind of way that made your stomach twist and your heart flutter.

When you finally parted, your breath trembled in your chest. A giddy smile danced at the corners of your mouth—small, genuine, impossible to hide.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice lighter now. Less burdened.

Aizawa, who had at some point leaned in closer, propped himself on one elbow beside you, hovered just inches away. His eyes—half-lidded, dark, and unreadable—studied you with a newfound focus. His lips parted as if to speak.

“For what?” he asked, voice just above a whisper.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, your fingers rose to trace the back of his neck, pulling him gently back down. And this time, you kissed him again.

But not sweetly.

Hungrily.

Your lips moved faster, more eager. Your mouth opened against his, pulling him into a deeper kiss. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, biting gently before releasing it with a quiet pop that echoed like a promise in the air between you.

You pulled back, breathing shallow.

“For that,” you said, eyes flicking over his expression, flushed and unreadable. “For this. For everything.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. But then—his lips curved into something new. Not a smirk. Not polite amusement.

A smile.

It was subtle, but real. And the look in his eyes now was undeniable—dark, intense, focused entirely on you. A kind of reverence, worn like armor. Like you were something precious he’d been keeping at a distance for far too long.

“Don’t be,” he began, but didn’t finish.

Instead, he leaned forward, settling his weight over you carefully, never pressing too hard. He shifted until his body hovered protectively above yours, then dipped down to press a lingering, tender kiss to your temple. His hand slipped down your arm, anchoring you beneath his warmth.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmured against your hair, his voice hoarse with fatigue and restraint. “We’re not continuing this.”

“Mm. Fine,” you replied, lips curling into a small pout that barely masked the relief you felt as your head sank deeper into the pillow.

He reached past you, body stretching above yours as he flipped off the bedside lamp. The room dimmed, leaving only the glow of the TV painting shadows across the walls. And then he returned to your side, wrapping his arms around you carefully.

His chest pressed to your back, legs tangling lightly with yours. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin.

“Can we leave the TV on?” you whispered, shy now, barely daring to ask after everything he’d already done.

He let out a faint groan—not one of frustration, but amused reluctance—and shifted to obey without question. Then, without ceremony, he returned to your side, wrapping his arms around you with surprising gentleness. One slid beneath your chest, the other curved protectively around your waist.

His face pressed into the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your throat.

He was close enough that you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back.

Close enough that you didn’t want to disappear into sleep alone.

[paulidiary]

!! ˙🍓 ̟★── reconciling, dadzawa smau part 2!

containing: reader is aizawa's daughter, implied that reader is a hero in training, reader is easily emotional, aizawa cares for his daughter, heartfelt apologies, they have only eachother, fake friends, dementia joke ᥫ᭡.

part 1! back to other masterlist. ──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

a/n: dadzawa you are so dear to me☹️

[destinyintomadness]

I am so close to finishing Part 2 and I’m really excited about it. Ngl I’ve rewritten it now about 4 times but I’m happy with how it’s ended up. I just need to finish it up (which is always the hardest part) and get it proof read 🫶

Dark Eyes & Second Chances Pt 1

Pairing: Aizawa x Villain!Reader

Summary: After a mission gone wrong you have been caught. What you thought was going to be an integration might have become a second chance.

Tags: angst, villain/criminal reader, no use of y/n, non gender specific reader, adult reader

Warnings: mentions of violence, strong language, anxiety/panic, rough childhood, abandonment, gambling (if I missed anything let me know)

Authors note: I really enjoyed writing this one. I've played around with this idea for a while and I have a plan on how I want this to play out. I decided to make a part 2 because I didn't want this to drag out too much. I wanted to get the tone and then in part 2 explore your relationship with Aizawa a lot more. So in a way this is mostly getting the context without it dragging into a massiive fic.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to MHA or the characters. This writing is for self entertainment and not profit

Masterlist

————————————————-

The situation was well and truly fucked.

The metal hand cuffs that bound you to the wooden chair wasn't the most uncomfortable, nor was it the white jumpsuit that felt like it had been washed one too many times with how stiff the fabric was. The room was bare, the only decoration being the dim lightbulb that hummed above you and the table that separated you from the man who had been intently staring at you since he'd joined.

This was not the first time you had met him. This guy had been a thorn in your side ever since you started working for The League. Eraserhead was the biggest pain in your ass. This was especially considering how much you relied on your quick during situations in the field. You weren't much of a fighter, close combat wasn't your thing. Your quirk gave you the ability to warp materials in your general surroundings, causing anyone within range to become confused and disorientated which allowed you to either rob them or flee. You had been told people by people you had effected that it wasn't too dissimilar to being under the influence of alcohol or very strong pain killers. During one instances Toga had told you it was "trippy".

When you were given your first contract by The League one of the first pro heros they warned you about was Eraserhead. As long as he could see your physical body, he could stop your quirk from working. Over the months this became a game of cat and mouse. Every run in you had with the pros it was your first priority to find him before he found you and hide before he could stop your quirk from triggering. He got you the first couple of times but practice does make you perfect.

Things got out of control in the last mission. It wasn't even a hard mission, something you had done countless of times even before The League. It was a robbery. You were suppose to enter a small bank on the outskirts of the city, get the money and flee. You and Mr Compress had done this several times together with no issues. But of course this time there was issues. Some pro heros who were off the clock unfortunately recognised you which had caused things to break out into a fight. If that wasn't bad enough, fate decided your time was up and the building had collapsed. Under custody you were taked to the local hospital and treated for your injuries. Couple of fracturs and nasty bruises. You had sustained much worse in the past but that didn't reinsure you. You knew you were caught. Discharged meant prison and you knew it.

You had accepted that long before you put the jumpsuit on. They were going to make an example out of you. You were the first member of The League they ever had in custody, the guards who collected you from the hospital mentioned that. It was how you found out Compress manage to give them the slip. You were on your own. They weren't your friends, more like your employers. They weren't going to risk losing more members to get you out this, you had to stick this one out on your own. Although you weren't directly responsible for anyone's deaths, you believed that didn't matter. You were going to be an example of what the Commission will do to anyone who had a relationship with The League.

So you sat there and faced the pro who had given you mutual grief. You weren't sure what to make of him. Eraserhead didn't have the same demeanour as other heros. You ran into the cocky ones, the arrogant ones and ones that seemed to have far worse anger management than you. Eraser was none of those. You didn't expect him to be warm and welcoming but you weren't expecting the calm either. He wasn't tense, he had slumped to the back of the chair and crossed his hands over his chest. He even let out a small sign as he sank down. His dark eyes just stared at you like you were already in deep conversation. You didn't break the stare, you were transfixed on the colour of his eyes. You had only ever seen them whilst he used his quirk, never crossed your mind they could be any other colour than the glowing red. He almost looked wrong and unfamiliar.

"I'm not going to lie you to," His voice wasn't you expected, it was low and gruff yet smoothing, "They're looking at putting you away for a long time,"

You didn't grace him with a reply. What could you say? It was no mystery to you how the world saw you. It did not matter how small or big your role was working with Shigaraki, guilty by association was still guilty. Regardless you had no intention of begging for mercy, pleading with them of your innocents. You would not subject yourself to that humiliation. You would rot long before you submitted to the likes of hero's.

Eraser leaned over his seat and picked up a yellow file from under it before placing it on the table. As he did so he brought his chair closer making a scraping sound that went through you. He opened it presenting a copy of your out of date mug shot with lines of script. You remembered getting that photo taken, it was your mid teens after you had been caught shop lifting one too many times and you'd been labelled a nuisance. You fought back a smile. Not because you found this amusing, it was a difficult time in your life. Your father, you're only present parent, ran off in the night with no warning and left you to fend for yourself. It was actually an act of kindness in it's own twisted way. At least your messes were your own after that. Here you sat ten years after that photo was taken potentially facing a life behind bars.

The man before you half heartedly flipped the few pages within the file, skimming over the words. He seemed disinterested. You imagined he was already aware of what was written inside. He let out a sign before propping his elbows onto the table and clasping his hands together, bringing his eyes back to yours. You didn't move.

"These records show you have an extensive history with the police. Even though they were petty crimes, they were still crimes none the less," He spoke clearly, matter-of-fact, taking his time with each word, "That being said, how does a petty thief find themselves working for The League?"

"You didn't bring me here to get my life story," You retorted. Maybe it was the uncomfortable cell beds or the long stay at the hospital, you did not have the patients.

"No," He slumped back into his original position, "The hope was to understand how someone like you ended up working with such a dangerous group of people," You clicked your tongue. It wasn't rocket science. You did what you needed to do to survive, money was money and Shigaraki paid. If you had to be honest you would likely admit you never intended to get deeply involved. They promised you a cut of each successful job and you were good at what you did.

You shifted your gaze to the locked door, the closest thing you had to freedom. You had no chance. Eraser knew you well enough to recognise your patterns before your quirk would trigger. Even if you got that far you weren't convinced you could outrun everybody.

"Maybe I'm just as dangerous," You lacked any confidence in your words but it was an amusing thought, "I gave you self-proclaimed heros a run for your money," Your turned your attention back to him, smirking at the memories of the many times you escaped him.

"Brave statement from someone currently handcuffed,"

The laugh came out before you could stop it. He got you there. His sharpness shouldn't have come as a surprise but you welcomed it. You finished your outburst with a sign but something caught in your throat. Something in his gaze that shifted, it was softer. Any tension in his features appeared to have smoothed out. You swear the corner of his lips were slightly turned upwards but maybe it was the trick of the light. Between the hospital and this meeting you had spent days staring at the same walls, maybe you were just craving some human interaction. Perhaps you had gone a little stir-crazy. You could justify it as much as you wanted until he spoke his next words.

"You're not a bad person," All the air left you. The rush that shot through you made you aware of everything. All of a sudden the underwhelming room was too much. You could feel everything. Your pulse was at your finger tips, your palms warm, your shoulders felt like a great weight was placed on them. Your tongue and gums became uncomfortable with how dry your mouth had become. You were uncomfortable in your own skin and you hated it. What you hated more than losing control was that there was nothing you could do about it. Eraser must have picked up on the newest tension, how your body language had shifted. "I don't believe you belong in here,"

"What would you know?" You snapped through gritted teeth. You could feel the burn in your cheeks as you tensed your jaw. You contemplated breaking out of your restraints and taking a swing at him. It wouldn't help your situation but it might make you feel better. He may be able to stop your quirk but he might not be able to stop your fist. You new harshness didn't seem to phase him. You can't imagine you were that intimidating or maybe he understood where it was coming from.

"I know enough," He sounded apologetic, "I know the difference between a bad person and a person who does bad things. You're the latter. You have been backed into a corner and did what you believed you needed to do,"

"Fuck you,"

He was unfazed by your interruption which only fueled your annoyance, "I am here to offer you an out,"

"Bullshit," You scoffed. There was no way there was an 'out'. It was a trap and you knew it. Your worlds may be very different but you weren't stupid. As much as villains had their fault, so did The Hero's Commission. They were just as secretive and double-crossing. They rug swept more problems than they solved. They didn't uphold the values they claimed. There was a catch and you could come off worse.

He ran a hand down his face and covered his mouth before letting out a long breathe. "Look," He placed both hands faced down on the table, locked his eyes with yours. You looked for anything, a sign he was lying but you found just him, "You go to a treatment program. It's six months long. If you were to successfully completely the program in the time given to you, you will be released under the supervision of a pro hero. There will be another agreed upon timeline of what will be expected of you,"

You pursed your lips together, rolling your tongue over your teeth, "That doesn't sound like an out to me,"

"They're never going to agree to let you wonder the streets tomorrow. You are too much of a risk," He flicked through your file again, "However, I don't believe you belong in a cell for something we could have prevented,"

You frowned at that statement. For a very long time, mostly when you were younger, you were angry that heros who never came to your rescue. Everyone talked about how amazing they were, as long as heros were around nothing bad would ever happen, they were there to save the day. Those statemnets played in your head as you wondered the streets looking for your next meal. You should have been in school like any other child your age. You should have been learning to read but instead you were learning to survive. It wasn't the heros fault you were in that situation, that blame was on your father and his nasty gambling habit, but you did resent the heros for never rescuing you. You would ask yourself why you weren't worthy of it, why had you been left behind. As time went on you learnt it wasn't you who was the problem, the heros had just been painted in a false light and only the privileged saw them that way.

So it had stumped you that Eraser saw this. Granted hind sight was a beautiful thing when it was written in front of him. He had read your file, the dates going back over a decade. He had seen the pattern. You had been missed by the system designed to protect people like you. He couldn't say you have fallen between the cracks because there was too many. You didn't stand much of a chance on your own. He could see the choices you had and the decisions you had to make. It wasn't fair you group you in with other criminals. He had encountered those who did what they did because they got a kick out of it, they enjoyed the chaos they brought. It was obvious to him you got no nothing out of it, it was the only survival you knew. He was determined to show you a new way to live and to show everyone else it was possible to save someone even when it felt like it was too late.

"If I refuse?" You're voice came out small, unsure why you asked as you already knew the answer but you needed to hear it. You needed to know that you hadn't just folded as the first chance, that you didn't just give in. You thought back to that teenager again coming home to that deserted apartment. You remembered the desperation, the thoughts of becoming homeless and fading into the city. You wanted to live a life. This all couldn't be for nothing.

It was like he could read your thoughts. They must have been written all over your face, in your eyes. You felt exposed under his gaze, your confidant and defiant front fracturing. You weren't sure if this opportunity could come back, if this was the chance you had spent late nights praying for. The stubbornness inside of you wanted to turn your nose up at it, tell this pro exactly where he could shove his offer. Yet you could feel it. The clammy hand itching to reach for him. It wouldn't exactly been the open door you imaged but maybe it wouldn't be locked anymore. Before you could back out, you gave your answer

"Deal."

[kurokawaia]

BABY, YOU UP? 彡 Bakugou, Shoto, Dabi, Aizawa

| MDNI - 18+ | WARNINGS :: bakugou x fem!reader, hawks x fem!reader, dabi x fem!reader, x fem!reader, shoto x fem!reader, slight somnophilia!, pet names 'doll' 'baby' 'good girl' 'slut', voice kink, hair tugging, implied d/s in aizawas, praise, oral -> male recieving, possession + more? MINI ONESHOTS. total wc :: 2.7k

⋆·˚ ༘ *REQUEST :: Could you please write a headcannon about you wake the mha boys in the middle of the night because u are horny and wanna fuck but they have a mission in the morning. But reader is being a needy slut and they cant resist her. (pls with dabi,katsuki,Aizawa and maybe shoto or anyone you like). Could u please write is very nsfw/suggestive👉👈🙂‍↔️Thaaank u so muuch! - @carokitten

DABI

This man is knocked out, when he says he is going to sleep, he is going to sleep and not waking up unless it's important. What's important right now for him? Waking up for his mission tomorrow which (to him) is an ungodly time in the morning (7am). What's important to you? Quenching that heat that's blooming in your lower abdomen as you had just woken up from a particularly nasty dream with Dabi. He's dead asleep, sprawled shirtless, half the blanket kicked off, scarred chest rising and falling steadily.

You couldn't help yourself crawl over him, straddling his waist, kissing his neck and tugging at his pants, whispering, "Please, Dabi... I need you."

He groans, cracking one eye open with a lazy smirk. "You’re fuckin’ serious right now, doll? Got a raid at 7 AM."

Your hips grind against him and your voice turns breathy, whispering, "Can’t help it… you’re so warm and I just wanna be full of you…"

His hand grabs your throat gently, lips curling up. "Tch. You’re lucky I like when you beg."

He flips you over, mouth hot on your skin. "Guess they can wait a little longer for me, huh?" And his didn't waste a second longer pulling up your black silk night gown and pulling your thong to the side, arousal connecting to the cotton. The smirk on Dabi's face deepens, "Needy slut, you are," he murmurs against your neck. "Good thing you're all mine."

All you could do was helplessly nod as a whimper spills past your lips when you feel scared hands tightly hold the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs up beside your head, folding your body into a tight mating press. It didn't take him a second longer to take his semi hard cock out. and to push it into your sopping cunt. 

A loud moan emits from your throat from the sudden contact, and feeling his cock grow hard inside you, pressing immediately against that soft spot inside your cunt, making your silky walls clench tight around his length. "Fuck," you whimper, trying to squirm away but you couldn't, you were to tight under him.

Your poor body being folded in such a position this early in the morning was not ideal.. but you did ask for it, so you can't do too much complaining. "Ah ah ah," he tuts, slowly thrusting into your pussy, a lewd squelching noise sounding through your shared room. Your knees were already beginning to ache but you can't move, not until he gets off you. "You're going to take all of it, doll. Every single inch of me."

"M'kay," you mumble, whines spilling in with your words, your hair sprawled out on the bed as you could feel a coil tighten in your stomach as he continued to make an absolute mess of you.

Dabi lowers down to your trembling body, tingles were getting sent all throughout your body from the kiss, he was being so rough yet deep. The breath was stolen from your lungs every time he moaned into your own, and you had the same effect on him.

"Such a good slut," he hums against your skin, inhaling your naturally sweet scent.

"Feels s' full though, Touya," you sob. "Don't think I can anymore."

"You asked for this, so you're going to take it all."

BAKUGOU

Bakugou is out cold, his face buried in the pillow and his hair is a mess as he snores very softly, only just a little bit. While you have tried to get yourself to finish, twice, but you haven't even gotten close to how your man does it to you, your fingers don't compare to his own and you weren't going to come down from your pleasure. You weren't, not until you had your release. Katsuki has ruined that pleasure for you because now you can't even do anything yourself anymore, you need to have him help you.

You couldn't take it anymore as a frustrated whimper softly escapes your lips, pressing your bare chest against his back, hand slipping under the covers to palm him.

He jolts awake, confused as he rolls onto his back. "The fuck you doin’? It’s-" Katsuki checks the digital clock on his bedside table and he lets out a sigh. "-3 in the fuckin’ morning, baby."

Two of your fingers hook around his boxers, a pout rising on your lips as you tug gently on the cotton. "I’m sorry... I just... need you... so bad, Kats'."

His breath stutters when your fingers move from the hem, going lower, and trace his semi hard cock causing sparks to flow through his veins at your gentle touch. "You tryna kill me before this goddamn mission?" he says before letting out a deep breathy sigh, his dick fully hardened under your hand.

You were about to say something in reply before you were quickly grabbed by the hips, throws you under him, your breasts squished up against the bed and your legs spread my Katsuki's knees, leaving you completely immobile as you couldn't even attempt to squirm out the position. "Hope you’re ready to take responsibility then, baby."

If there was one thing you knew, it was that Bakugou is rougher when he's tired, less patient with you and he will not stop until you're crying out his name. And that's exactly what he was doing.

Fat, hot, tears stream from your eyes and all Bakugou could do was smirk at the sight. If you wanted to be needy and get fucked, that is exactly what he was going to give you. The only gracious thing he had done so far was putting a pillow under your hips before letting your body rest fully down on the bed. This was more so for him rather than you... he needed a good angle to fuck you good. 

Bakugou's mass pressing down against your back. His abs were flush against your back, hands gripping the backs of your own, pressing them into the bed. Bakugou's breath tickled your ear and you wiggled your head at the warm sensation, your core getting wetter, your body trying to squirm away from the imposing hold that he had on you.

Bakugou's hands moved slowly, changing his grip so that one of his hands held both of you over your head, being cautious not to get your hair entangled within the movement. A content sigh leaves your mouth when Bakugou raises his body ever so slightly, trailing his free hand down the expanse of your smooth back before his fingers meet your slick entrance, filled with his cum from previous rounds.

"I'll make sure you're filled up real nice," he mutters against your ear before taking a nibble at the collagen, you let out a gasp at the sudden action.

Then you felt a heavy, throbbing tip press against your clit once more and you moaned from the small touch. You tried to squirm away from the pleasurable cause but couldn't as Bakugou knew your body more than you did yourself, he knew you were gonna try to run from his body due to the pleasure. So, he pressed his weight against you once more.

You held your breath when Bakugou sank his throbbing cock into your spongey walls, his length getting squeezed by every ridge within your soaked cunt. A moan left both of your mouths as Bakugou's length nudged the deepest spot within you.

"That's it, your cunt knows me so well," Bakugou moans, relishing in the way your walls clench him, how could he not want to cum inside, you feel so good. "Still taking me so good, baby." The praise makes your brain go fuzzy, numb from the pleasure. Yes, this is exactly what you needed. 

SHOTO

If Shoto is anything, he is 100% a light sleeper, so you can't even get out some enjoyment, so the second you shift from his hold and place your hands onto his chest, he doesn't miss it, slowly he blinks open his eyes. The first thing he can register, is the lusted gaze that has coated your face and the arousal soaking his body, yours and his own.

"Is something wrong?" he asks groggily. You look up at him with flushed cheeks and teary eyes.

"No, I just… I can’t sleep. I need you so bad, Sho'…"

His breath hitches, and his hand instinctively cups your cheek. "You… want to do that right now?" You lean down closer to him, lips barely grazing his own as you nod, grinding hard against him through your panties. Moans string from your moan when you feel him grow beneath you and Shoto closes his eyes, strewn in pleasure an his thoughts about the mission he has tomorrow.

His cheeks tint a soft red as he pauses his thoughts- mission? what mission?-he thinks sarcastically as he pulls your hips down harder. Number 2 heroing can come later...

"Okay. I’ll take care of you. Just try not to scream too loud… we still have to wake up early."

Shoto flips you around, pinning you to the bed with your arms and spreading your legs with his knees before capturing your lips into a deep and heavy kiss. He can feel your chest stuttering against his own with every breath he steals from you, along with the whimpers that escape your lips. Whimpers not only from the kiss but how his clothed cock perfectly slots against your bare cunt.

You didn't know how long you were going to hold out for...

But lets just say he definitely didn't disappoint you. 

AIZAWA

With Aizawa, you have to be careful around him, or else it wouldn't be a surprise, you have to be sneaking around to catch him off guard. So here you are, carefully straddling him, pressing slow kisses to his chest while he breaths deeply, still taken over by sleep, completely unaware of your advances.

You suck gently over his abs, then go lower, peppering kisses around and on the tuffs of his happy trail. A sigh of satisfaction leaves your mouth, if you had to do anything for the last time, this would be it because lord, you love his cock (and him).

A shift is felt beneath you and Aizawa's cock jumps beneath your throat before you felt fingers lacing through your hair. Aizawa tugs your hair, lifting your head up from his lower abdomen to meet his eyes, a moan falls past your lips at the gesture, your panties getting further soaked with arousal.

"And what are you doing?" he asks slowly, his voice rough and slightly scratchy from sleep which just made the heat grow bigger. Gods, you love his voice.

A sweet, sinful smile coats your lips and your hand trails down to his sweats, palming his semi-hard bulge through the fabric, "Just want you. Just for a bit. I’ll be good, I promise."

He sighs, already getting hard at the sight of you kneeling between his legs, eyes wide and needy. He desperately wanted to say he had a mission in five hours but he couldn't because he can't resist you, not at all. Aizawa lets out a sigh, mumbling, "What am I going to do with you?" before sitting up, back resting against the headboard. 

A sharp tug of your hair from Aizawa caused you to let out a pained moan, sending a pleasured shock to your heated core. Your face only a few mere inches away from his clothed, hard cock.  "Fine. But I'm using you. You started this- so you better not cry when I ruin that pretty throat of yours."

"I won't," you say, thighs clenching together, trying to relief the ache in your pussy, arousal slicking your thighs. As your doe eyes stare up into Aizawa's deep slate iris' you couldn't help but a pout befall your lips. "I promise," your fingers playing mindlessly with the hem of his sweats. 

Aizawa lets a gentle smirk rise before his free hand cups your jaw, thumb rubbing your bottom lips sensually before slipping his digit inside your mouth. Your tongue immediately wraps around his thumb, sucking slowly. "Such a good girl."

"Now get to work, sweetheart," Aizawa huffs, removing his thumb from your mouth.

Lowering your head, per your control and Aizawa's as his grip tightened around your hair, you pepper slow kisses over his hard cock, feeling the twitch come from his length after every kiss. "Don't tease," he grunts.

The roots of your head began to sting softly but it made you feel so good, and pleasuring Aizawa was more than you could ask for. Taking one last glance up, you watched him swallow the lump in his throat, eyes shut, waiting. You knew that if you pushed his too far, he'd use you in a way that have your neighbours worried from your screams.

The position you were in now, though, is perfect to suck him dry. You tug down the hem of his pants just enough to let his cock loose, long and thick, hitting just at his belly button. Gently, you grip his base, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, squeezing softly causing a a deep groan resonate from him. 

Angling his throbbing length towards you, you place a wet kiss on his tip, making sure your saliva drips down, wetting his cock. "That's it, good girl," Aizawa praises, and it only fuels your desire, your lower abdomen fluttering in response, pleasuring him makes you feel pleasured as well, because your oral fixation goes crazy. 

Dragging the flat of your tongue up the underside of his shaft, feeling the veins that sprung up to the head of his cock, deep groans are the only noises you hear, along with the wet slicking noises from the contact between your mouth and him. You spread the pre cum spilling from his slit before taking his throbbing length into your mouth. Your tongue swirled around his swollen pink tip before you took his cock further into your mouth.

"Deeper, sweetheart," he says, his hips trying not to thrust into your face. Aizawa was trying desperately not to fuck your mouth, wanting to see your lashes well with tears. A hum is muffled by his dick, the vibrations causing him to let out a deep moan. "Shit," he sighs, fuck.

Aizawa couldn't handle it anymore. If you're going to wake him up in the middle of the night, then you're getting what he gives. You gag on his length when he pushes your head down all the way to his base, your nose tickling his hair around his cock, your hand quickly makes contact with his thigh.

"That's it," he praises, moving your head at a pace he enjoyed, letting him take control. Aizawa started moving more quickly, which made you start crying even more. When you hollowed out your cheeks, he let out a stifled sigh that made him hesitate to approach further. He pulls away from you, his load spilling into your mouth. "Let me see."

You lift yourself up from his cock and stick out your tongue just for him, he lets two of his own fingers massage his cum on your tongue. "Good girl," he praises. "Swallow."

You nod, doing what he says.

"Are you feeling better?" Aizawa asks and you nod.

"Yeah!"

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

honey's a/note:: i hope this was okay lmao, there def is grammar and punc mistakes in this but oh well, 3am is peak writing time for me, i should be working on my presentation thats due in a fornight but oh well. if anyone has any other characters for this idea lmk :) or maybe the reverse role 👀 i know that some of these were half asses but ill get back to them i swear

[rumisgf]

“ YOUR BEST EATER ! ” (MHA EDITION)

ꕥ summary: rating how well mha men would eat you out ! (this is canon cause i said so)

ꕥ includes: keigo takami, mirio togata, touya todoroki, shota aizawa, katsuki bakugou, denki kaminari, enji todoroki

ꕥ warnings: dom/sub implications, oral f!recieving, dirty talk, crack ofc this is for fun, slander (sorry lol), black!reader as always, timeskip chargebolt and dynamight

KEIGO TAKAMI - ♾️/10

⊗ he’s a REAL eater.

⊗ you have to cry and beg for him to pop his mouth off you because he has an addiction

⊗ he thinks you taste so good

⊗ there’s not one morning his head doesn’t end up between your thighs

⊗ and at events, he’ll find a way to pull you to the nearest bathroom and get a quick one out because you just looked too good

⊗ he loves having you sit on his face

⊗ “imma eat it. AHHHHH”

⊗ he doesn’t care if you just got off of work or if you’re tired he needs your pussy on his tongue stat.

⊗ he’s such a slut.

“please- ‘s too much~!”

“c‘mon i know you got one more, i got you~”

TOUYA TODOROKI - 3/10

⊗ you thought he was an eater…?

⊗ you’re funny.

⊗ yeah unfortunately mr. long dick over here doesn’t like eating pussy

⊗ his ego is bigger than his dick

⊗ however,

⊗ on the rare occasion that he’s feeling extra nice, he’ll do more than plunge his fingers into you before he makes you take him from the back

“o-oh~..!”

“couldn’t help myself…too fuckin’ wet…”

ENJI TODORKI - 0/10

⊗ like father like son (he’s much worse)

⊗ he’s not particularly a…. giver

⊗ he’s a meanie he’d rather manhandle you instead

⊗ he don’t even like his wife and kids so what makes you think he likes you enough to eat you out

⊗ besides….even if he tried…it wouldn’t be…well…good.

⊗ he’s too rough he might bite your shit i don’t know pookie

⊗ if you beg him enough he’ll do it for like a split second

⊗ you immediately regret your decision

⊗ help him.

“wait- it’s ok it’s o-ok. nevermind…”

“what’s wrong?”

SHOTA AIZAWA - 7/10

⊗ he likes to pretend he doesn’t like giving head

⊗ but you catch him on one of those days….

⊗ he becomes a different man

⊗ and he’s mean with it, too

⊗ your thighs will have bruises from the way he forces your legs open

⊗ he likes eating you out before just because he feels satisfied having you weak before he even fucks you

⊗ he’ll edge you and tease you just to have you begging him to cum

“stay fuckin’ still, or you’re not cummin’. understand?”

MIRIO TOGATA - 10/10

⊗ yes i’m sneaking my man in here. i do not care.

⊗ he’s a certified munch y’all hate to say it

⊗ he gets it from fatgum.

⊗ (i would put him in here but then imma get nasty)

⊗ please just sit on his face and give him three minutes you will be dripping before he even puts it in

⊗ he massages your thighs and kisses your clit ‘cause he really is just so in love with you

⊗ not only will he shove his head between your thighs before he fucks you just to get a quick taste

⊗ he’ll clean you up after he fucks you, tastes himself and you

⊗ he’s a huge giver

⊗ please marry him

“such a pretty pussy, baby…’m gonna clean you right up~”

BAKUGOU KATSUKI - 9/10

⊗ oh give him five minutes

⊗ put him between your legs and he’s done for

⊗ he’s a nasty FREAK and he cannot hide it in this predicament.

⊗ he swears up and down ‘he doesn’t eat pussy’ to all his friends and every girl who brings it up

⊗ but if it’s his baby? someone he’s really into?

⊗ you see a completely different side of him

⊗ and he makes everything so messy

⊗ he’s so focused when he does it and when he looks up at you… you are done for

⊗ he can make you cum quick to get you wet enough to just slip in– then he gets right to business

“kats~…”

“taste so good…so fucking good..”

DENKI KAMINARI - 11/10

⊗ y’all thought i wasn’t gonna put him here?

⊗ he refers to himself as an eater

⊗ he has no shame

⊗ he’ll eat it in the morning, for lunch, after dinner, for dessert- he really doesn’t care

⊗ he definitely can get off just from giving you head

⊗ the feeling of you dripping down his chin and the sound of your moans is enough to get him up

⊗ you will be orgasming more than once

⊗ and he can go on for hours if he really wanted to

“my messy baby…you sound so pretty~

©𝑹𝑼𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑮𝑭