#aizawa

[smashley351]

Seeing him in action is such a treat.

It’s so kinetic, so satisfying.

In the old days I’d have worn out the tape the way I’m rewatching this segment. (Vigilantes, season one episode 11)

[xdrakesboyfriend]

theres also this :)

best trope and you can fight me over it (i abuse this so hard with my ocs)

[yuunyaa66]

Pspspspspsps

[myrleius]

unscheduled — aizawa s.

aizawa s. x detective fem!reader│wc: 4k

synopsis: It's late. You're working. And Shota brings fast food.

cw/tags: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, suggestive themes

The office is quiet, save for the low hum of your laptop, the occasional creak of old plumbing, and the steady scratch of your pen across paper.

The overhead lights are off, replaced by the soft glow of your desk lamp and the blue light of open tabs—city surveillance footage, license plate databases, a paused video from a bodega robbery.

You’d been reorganizing your notes for the last hour, half out of necessity, half to keep your mind from spiraling after thirty-two hours with little sleep.

You’re mid-sentence, scribbling something about time discrepancy, when you felt it. A warmth at your back, a slow exhale ghosting over your neck.

Arms eased around your waist. Familiar. Strong. And oh-so gentle.

You stiffened for a breath, instinct prickling—but then you melted.

“Detective,” Shota murmured, voice low against your ear. “A word?”

You sighed, letting your eyes flutter shut as the pen slipped from your fingers. “Mmm… you’re going to say two,” you murmured back, your lips quirking into a smile. “Probably ‘go’ and ‘home.’”

“Funny,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nape. “I was going to say ‘come’ and ‘here.’”

A quiet laugh bubbled from your throat. You slowly turned in his arms and there he was—tired eyes, dark circles, hair tied back loosely. Stupidly handsome, as always.

You leaned up to kiss him, soft and quick, before wrapping your arms around his waist. Tucking your face in his shoulder, you breathed him in. He smelled like clean soap and night air.

It had been two months since you last saw him.

Your gaze caught on a plastic bag resting on one of the tables behind him. That hadn’t been there before, and the red logo was unmistakable.

“You brought dinner?” you asked, knowing full well it’s past 2 A.M.

He shrugged, the barest of smiles tugging at his mouth. “I figured you hadn’t eaten. Or slept. Am I wrong?”

You pinched his cheek, shifting slightly to at least pretend to hide the chaos on your desk. “You haven’t either,” you muttered, gaze flicking to the shadows under his eyes.

He chuckled, then nodded toward the couch in the corner. “Come on. Before it gets cold.”

The couch creaked beneath your combined weight as the two of you settled in. Shota set the takeout bag on the coffee table, unwrapping its contents. He handed you your portion without a word.

You accepted it with a small smile, the wrinkle of wax paper loud in the quiet room. “So,” you started, peeling back the wrapper of your burger, “what’s the occasion?”

You took a bite before he could answer, humming in content. It was only then that you realized how hungry you were.

“Your cholesterol wasn’t high enough,” he replied dryly, popping a nugget into his mouth.

You laughed, stealing one for yourself. “How romantic.”

“I try.” He smirked, nudging the nugget container closer to your side.

“But seriously, didn’t you have patrol tonight?” you said around a mouthful. “And it’s a school day tomorrow too.”

“I switched shifts,” he said. “And I’m not staying long. Just for a few hours.”

Your heart warmed at that. Of course he’d trade rest for this. For you.

You ate in silence for a few minutes, but you didn’t mind. It felt nice to share a meal like this again, a sliver of normalcy in your sleepless world. You didn’t realize how much you’d miss this. How grounding it was to just be next to him.

You glanced at him.

As you chewed, a few strands of your hair slipped loose, falling over your eyes. You tried blowing them away with a breath, though unsuccessfully.

Then, without a word, Shota leaned forward. Fingers brushed your hair back behind your ear, the backs of them lingering against your cheek for a beat too long. You felt the warmth trail after them like a tide pulling back, slow and reluctant.

“What?” he said, but his mouth curved into that lazy, knowing smile.

“Nothing,” you murmured, and turned away.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth and found a smudge of ketchup near the corner, barely noticeable.

Without thinking, you reached over, wiped it away with your thumb, and licked it clean like it was second nature.

And it was. You’d done it before, countless times.

But the way he looked at you, you’d think it was the first time.

“That was kinda hot,” he murmured, voice amused but soft.

You huffed a laugh, gently nudging his shoulder. “That’s all it takes to get you going? You’re more sleep-deprived than I thought.”

His chuckle vibrated against your palm, but that look—that wasn’t him getting turned on. Not even close.

Then, without warning, he said, “I missed you.”

You paused, the words landing somewhere deep.

Shota never said things like that first. 

You usually had to tease it out of him, pull it loose behind a wall of dumb jokes and half-hearted grumbling. And even then, he’d deflect, tossing some excuse like, “The cats keep looking for you,” or “The bed’s too cold.”

Yet, here he was, handing it over without a fight.

You put your food down slowly, more carefully than needed, as if sudden movement might startle the moment away. After a pause, you wiped your fingers with a napkin and shifted closer to him.

Then, you leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was warm, soft from too many washes.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you exhaled, long and quiet, letting go of something you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I missed you too,” you murmured, cheeks warm. “Even when you’re here right now.”

There was a brief silence. Then came the low rumble of his voice, deadpan and almost fond.

“You always get like this when I say nice things.”

But he didn’t pull away. If anything, his shoulder stayed steady beneath your cheek. He tilted his head, just enough to rest his cheek against yours. The bristle of his stubble scraped your skin, and something fluttered low in your stomach.

You snorted. “Wow. Groundbreaking observation. What’s next? ‘Water’s wet’? ‘Sky’s blue’?” 

You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes, already rolling yours. “Yes, Shota, when you’re nice, I like it. I know. Shocking.”

His lips twitched, trying to hold back a grin. “Damn. With this level of skill, I think I deserve a promotion.” 

His hand slid up your shoulder and gently pushed, guiding you back into the cushions as he shifted to hover above you. His weight didn’t press—but the suggestion of it was there.

“What’s above a detective again…?”

You burst out laughing, half at awful innuendo, half at the ridiculous way his eyebrows wiggled. “Oh my god. That was so bad.”

He didn’t budged, still caging you in, but his smirk softened. “Worked on you, though, didn’t it?”

“Barely.” You shoved at his chest—half-hearted and not really trying. His presence was solid, familiar. And oddly comforting. “And the answer is nothing, because you’d be a terrible boss.”

“Oh, really?” he murmured, dipping his headcloser. “You weren’t complaining when I bossed you around in bed last time.”

You squinted. “Perv.”

But you didn’t move. And neither did he. Until his mouth found yours.

The kiss started slow, gentle. His lips moved with unhurried certainty, like he had nowhere else to be, like this was the only thing on his list tonight. You curled your fingers into the front of his shirt, already halfway to dragging him closer when—

Your stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl. It sounded halfway between a snarl and a dying cat.

Shota froze, lips still hovering close. “... Wow.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “I’m hungry, okay?”

“Clearly.”

He stayed where he was for another second, intentionally putting his weight on you just to be difficult. And your stomach made another dramatic complaint.

He chuckled, finally easing off you and helping you sit up. “Alright, alright.”

He reached for the abandoned takeout, pressing it back into your hands like it was a peace offering.

“Here,” he said. “Eat. Before you start chewing on me.”

As you both settled back into the food, the conversation drifted easily into life updates. You told him bits about the case, nothing sensitive, just the parts that frustrated you most. He listened the way he always did, never offering solutions unless you asked for them. Just letting you talk, until you didn’t need to anymore.

You rolled your eyes but took the burger anyway, biting into it with a vengeance.

Then, as if on instinct, you kicked him lightly in the shin.

He didn’t even flinch.

In return, he gave you updates from U.A.—small things, subtle milestones, the kind of stories that made you realize just how far you’d slipped from the normal rhythm of life. And how much you’d missed it.

“Oh, right,” you said as the last of the wrappers were balled up and tossed into the bin.

You crossed the room to your desk, rummaging through one of the drawers until your fingers closed around a white envelope. It was pristine, elegant, embossed with delicate swirls that shimmered faintly in the light.

“Kaede and Ren got engaged,” you said, offering the envelope as you returned to the couch.

The words came out too carefully, like you were reciting a report rather than sharing news.

Shota raised an eyebrow, fingers brushing over the embossed edge. “Really?”

“Yeah. Sent us an invite. It’s next spring,” you said, watching him too closely as he opened it. “She says she’s thinking of quitting the field too. Maybe start a consultancy firm instead.”

He nodded slowly, skimming the invitation before sliding it back into the envelope and leaving it on the coffee table.

You bit your lip. Why was this so hard? You weren’t asking for a promise. Not even a plan. Just a thought. A possibility.

But the fear was there, coiled tight in your stomach.

What if he hadn’t considered it at all? 

What if you were the only one letting your mind wander there?

You didn’t talk about these things. Not unless they were buried under sarcasm or deflection. And even then, only when you were brave enough to pretend you weren’t serious.

But tonight, with that envelope glowing white against the dark wood, and with his warmth pressed beside you after too many nights apart, the words just hung on the tip of your tongue, desperately wanting to be said.

You glanced at him sideways, heart hammering. “Does that… ever cross your mind? Stuff like that?”

He didn’t answer right away. 

But he didn’t look away either.

“Sometimes,” he said at last. “Lately, more often.”

You nodded, your fingers toying with a napkin, twisting it slowly. 

“I never used to think about it,” you said. “I was always focused on work. And I thought… what we have, it’s enough.”

And then, with a rush of panic, you waved your hands in front of him.

“And it is,” you rushed to say. “It still is. I just—”

You exhaled shakily. “I’m starting to realize how temporary everything is. How one day you’re this invincible twenty-something and the next you’re watching everyone move forward while you’re still…” 

The sentence crumbled under its own weight, the rest of the thought too vulnerable to voice.

Your gaze dropped, voice softer. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if wanting more than what we already have—on what we agreed on—makes me… selfish.”

The word tasted bitter in your mouth.

You hadn’t meant to say any of it. These were just silly thoughts, the kind that came in waves after too many hours at your desk, when you passed a bridal shop and your reflection lingered in the glass, or when you found yourself staring at high chairs in restaurants, imagining a tiny hand reaching for yours.

Just stupid yearnings you tucked away before it could take root.

You shook your head, trying to laugh. “No, forget it. That was dumb,” you muttered. “I’m probably just missing you too much.”

The attempt at humor didn’t land, not even with yourself.

Shota shifted closer. His hand found yours, threading your fingers together.

“I don’t think wanting more is selfish,” he said, his voice low but certain. “And it’s not dumb.”

You stared at your hands, at the way his thumb moved in circles against your skin. “But we agreed—”

“We agreed on what made sense then,” he cut in. “That doesn’t mean we can’t want something different now.”

You fell quiet. And then, softly, almost as if he wasn’t sure you’d believe it—

“You’ve never asked for more than I could give. Not once. Even when you should have. So… be selfish. It’s okay.”

Your chest tightened. 

Of course he knew. 

Of course he’d noticed all the ways you held back. The weekends you gave up without complaint. The way you buried your feelings when his schedule didn’t align. The way you told yourself—and him—that you didn’t need anything else.

You thought you were being understanding. Strong. Low-maintenance. 

But he’d seen you. All of you.

And now, hearing it out loud, hearing him say it, had you remembering all the words you’d swallowed. But for once, they didn’t taste so bitter.

He exhaled. “I know I’m not easy. My job, the hours, the unpredictability… And yours is just as bad.” His eyes searched yours, steady and dark. “That’s why we told ourselves this was enough. Because we used to think people like us weren’t meant for that kind of thing.”

His fingers curled tighter around yours, guiding you gently into his arms. He pulled you in, tucking you beneath his chin.

“But right now,” he murmured, “it doesn’t sound so far away anymore. Doesn’t sound so foolish. Even if it’s messy. Even if we’re scared sometimes. If it’s with you… it’s something I’d want. And—”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat.

You felt it in the way his fingers stilled, in the subtle shift of his breath. For all the steadiness in his voice earlier, this part had been harder for him to say.

Your heart softened. 

Shota never fumbled his words, not even under pressure. Apparently even he had his limits.

So you tilted your head toward him, voice no louder than the hush between heartbeats. “And?”

He looked down at you, gaze steady. Open. “And I wonder,” he said quietly, “if it’s something you’d want… with me.”

You almost laughed, but it came out as a shaky breath instead.

Not because it was funny, but because the weight you’d been carrying—years of quiet yearning, careful restraint—suddenly felt so light.

All that time spent tiptoeing, stuffing those dreams into the corners of your mind, convincing yourself not to need too much… and he’d been thinking the same things all along.

You’d both been afraid. Overthinking the same silences.

But here you were.

Asking the same question.

And finally wanting the same answer.

“Of course I do,” you whispered, words thick with emotion as you hugged him tighter. “I always have.”

Something in you finally let go.

It hadn’t broken anything. Saying it out loud hadn’t made it fragile. If anything, it had stitched the two of you closer—tightened something that had already been strong for years, but now felt even more solid. More real.

“I mean,” you added, blinking quickly to fight the sting behind your eyes, “I wouldn’t stick around for eight years with your grumpy ass if I didn’t want to.”

That earned a small huff against your temple. The tension in his shoulders eased all at once, and you felt the exact moment his smirk formed.

“Grumpy, huh?” he murmured, mock-offended.

“You scowl, like, constantly.”

“I’ve saved cities with this face.”

You pulled back, snorting. “Yeah, by making villains think you’re one of them.”

His hand dragged lazily up your arm, warm and familiar. “You’re not exactly sunshine yourself, detective. Didn’t you threaten to arrest me the first time we met?”

You scoffed, indignant. “You were covered in blood and refused to answer any questions.”

“I did answer,” he said. “I told you it was mine.”

“After fifteen minutes of silence,” you shot back. “And only when I blocked the exit.”

You could still remember that moment with startling clarity—the way his capture weapon had twitched when you stepped into his path, the way your quirk had hummed under your skin, ready to activate. A standoff between two overworked, underslept people with too much pride and no patience.

“I was trying to avoid paperwork,” he muttered, but there was no edge to it now. Only warmth and a hint of amusement.

“And I was doing my job,” you said. “Some scruffy stranger ducking out before forensics arrived? Covered in blood? Yeah, forgive me for finding that suspicious.”

A beat. 

Then you both cracked.

Soft laughter spilled out between you, warm and unguarded.

He shook his head, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners. “We’re so stupid.”

“Mmm. Speak for yourself,” you said, smirking. “I’m delightful.”

Shota rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away. “Sure. That’s why I keep coming back. For the delight.”

“Damn right.”

Your smirk barely had time to settle before he leaned in. His lips ghosted over yours, not kissing, just letting you feel the possibility of it. It was enough to steal the smugness right off your face.

“Oh, screw you,” you muttered, and kissed him first.

He chuckled against your mouth, the sound low and warm, vibrating between your lips as you tugged him in by the collar. It started off soft, familiar, but the way he gripped your waist told you exactly where this was headed. There was no rush, but no hesitation either.

“I love you,” he murmured in between kisses, just barely.

Your breath hitched. Fingers stilled against his shirt.

But before you could say anything back, he took advantage of the pause—your lips parted and your guard down. He kissed you deeper, rougher. Tongue sliding in, stealing the words right out of your mouth.

By the time you pulled back, flushed and breathless, his hands had already started roaming. One arm circled your waist, pulling you flush against him; the other palmed your chest through your blouse. He gave a squeeze, and you let out a startled snort, half scandalized, half amused at the sheer nerve.

“Are we really doing this on my couch?” you breathed, not quite stopping him.

He glanced around, casual. “There’s a desk right there.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumbled, swatting at his arm.

“What?” he said, unbothered. “You were complaining.”

“Shota—”

“So the desk thing’s a no?”

You narrowed your eyes, already fighting a grin. “I thought you already knew I like it when you take charge.”

He laughed hard, his hand sliding beneath your thighs. 

You barely had time to react before he lifted you, strong and steady, his breath brushing your cheek as he carried you the short distance across the room. Mischief burned in his eyes. You could’ve walked, but that wasn’t the point.

He set you down on your desk with a soft thud, knocking over a pen holder in the process. Neither of you cared. Not when his fingers were already working open the buttons of your blouse, slow but practiced, like he knew the exact rhythm that would drive you just a little crazy.

The fabric slid open and his mouth followed—shoulder, collarbone, a scrape of teeth that pulled a quiet sound from your throat.

You arched into him, gasping, and tugged at the hem of his shirt in return. Your hands slipped underneath, dragging your nails lightly up his back.

He shivered. And you smiled.

You loved that. How easy it was to unravel him. How willingly he let you.

You tipped forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I love you too,” you whispered.

And just before things went further—before more clothes hit the floor, before the night dissolved into heat and motion—you cradled his face in your hands. 

You kissed him one more time. Gentle. Devoted. 

A seal on all the things left unspoken yet deeply and undeniably present.

Whatever the future held, you’d figure it out.

Together.

The lights were off, save for the faint glow of a desk lamp behind them—left on, probably, as an afterthought in the mess they’d made of the office.

The couch cushions shifted beneath his weight. 

Yn lay draped over him, her bare skin warm against his, cheek pressed to his chest, her breath slow. One leg curled between his. A hand rested lazily over his ribs. She was heavier now than she’d been an hour ago.

He wasn’t tired. Not yet.

His fingers moved through her hair, slow and steady. She liked that, or at least, she didn’t ask him to stop. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe not. He didn’t move to check, not wanting to disturb her. 

The silence was soft here, and they didn't get much of it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing with her. Letting the heat between them fade. Letting his body cool and settle.

She smelled like him now. Like night air and sweat and something sweet beneath it all.

He liked that more than he probably should.

They’d done this before, more than a few times. On couches, in beds, cheap hotel rooms. Hell, once on the floor of the dorms, curled up in his sleeping bag after she’d shown up past midnight with exhaustion in her voice and dirt on her boots. They were good at this—at catching up, making space, carving time out of whatever cracked hours they had left.

It always meant something.

But tonight felt different.

Not because of what they did.

Because of what they said.

His eyes opened again and he looked down at her.

Her lashes cast faint shadows across her cheekbones. Her lips were slightly parted, breath brushing warm against his chest. She looked… relaxed. Completely.

That was new.

Even asleep, yn was usually tense—wired from caffeine and adrenaline, her body half-braced for whatever new emergency might pull her from rest. But now… now, she was still. And Shota wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her this peaceful before.

His hand slipped from her hair, tracing slowly down the line of her spine. Not sexual, he’d done that plenty earlier. This was just… feeling her. Like he was mapping something fragile and didn’t want to leave a mark.

She shifted slightly, murmuring something in her sleep he couldn’t quite hear. Her face nuzzled further into his chest.

And that’s when he saw her hand again, splayed over his ribs. Unguarded and vulnerable.

He reached for it gently, cradling it on his own.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, then down toward her ring finger.

And paused there.

Shota had never been a romantic. He wasn’t built for that kind of thing. Marriage had always sounded like too much noise, too many expectations. He didn’t think he had space for it in his life, and he didn't want to be someone else’s obligation.

He knew what it meant to be loved with conditions.

And worse, what it meant to love in spite of them.

But yn… she never asked him for more than he could give.

Never once made him choose.

And now, with her asleep on his chest, her hand in his, her ring finger bare beneath his thumb—he wondered, not for the first time, if maybe he could give her more.

Not because she asked.

Because he wanted to.

Not now. Not tomorrow. But someday.

When the world was a little quieter. When the nights weren’t quite so short.

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to that ring finger. A soft, fleeting brush. Nothing she’d feel. But maybe something he’d remember.

She stirred faintly, but didn’t wake.

He exhaled through his nose, then tucked her hand to his chest. His other arm came around her, drawing her in closer, as if to shield her from the weight of everything outside this room.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep came easily now.

[decarbry]

focus

[rueclfer]

professor!aizawa x TA reader? 👀👀👀 for the job fair event hehehehehehe >:)

i love u guys u guys gets my brain sosososo good -> another thing i will have to elaborate More On after all the submissions hehhehehehe

professor!aizawa // job fair

event m.list

[javowess]

Ya’ll look thirsty..

May I offer you a tall, dark, and hot.. coffee? ☕️

Manga reference below:

Procreate ✍🏻

4H 50M 🕣

#2 of SO MANY 🤷🏻‍♀️

[dee-writes-anime]

(TW for ED in case you want ignore this)

Can you do another dadzawa one where he finds out that his daughter hasn't been eating properly in weeks? She's like him who only ever eats when absolutely necessary but usually forgets and is stumbling out of training wondering "why do I feel so dizzy?" And maybe he finds out when she finally passes out during one of those team exercises/training (he sees her pass out through the screen so he can't do anything ohh👻).

Please and thank you! 🧡

Running On Empty

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY Your dad watches you pass out during training, an emotional heart to heart ensues.

CONTENT WARNINGS MENTIONS/DESCRIPTIONS OF PAST AND CURRENT EATING DISORDERS (guys, please please please make sure that you are in a good head space to read this. It is mostly fluff, but I don't want to trigger anyone, your mental health is more important!), minor character death, greif, loss

AUTHORS NOTE I hope this is what you were looking for anon! Please read at your own discretion and make sure you are also eating well and staying healthy <3

Your legs were shaking again.

Not from nerves—those had burned out after the first week of combat training—but from something deeper, buried under the surface. Your vision danced at the edges. A soft, pulsing blur. Like heatwaves rising from pavement.

Stupid, you thought. You’re stronger than this.

The drill was almost over. Just a few more seconds. One more move.

You blinked the sweat out of your eyes and hurled yourself toward the final marker, body sluggish but obedient. Your quirk sparked at your fingertips—your aim true, your strike clean.

But something was off.

The moment your feet hit the ground, they didn’t stop moving. The earth spun beneath them. Your knees bent without permission. You pitched sideways, arms reaching for nothing as your chest clamped tight like it had forgotten how to breathe.

Why do I feel so—

Your thought never finished.

The world tilted, then blackened.

And your body hit the mat with a soft, sickening thud.

Aizawa didn’t move at first.

In the observation booth, he stared at the feed like he’d forgotten how to blink. You were on your side, unmoving. The simulation paused itself automatically, but none of the other students dared approach. It was as if the whole training ground knew something had shifted, deeply and dangerously.

Then he moved.

“Training’s over,” he snapped into the comms. “Everyone out. Now.”

Panic had no place in his voice, but it stormed behind his eyes. He was through the booth door and halfway down the corridor before the last camera feed cut.

You woke to the sound of beeping.

Steady. Calm. Rhythmic.

The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, but the blanket tucked under your arms was soft, and the air was sterile in a way that could only mean infirmary. You blinked once, the light stabbing into your skull like a hot needle. A groan slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

And then, there he was.

Your father. Eraserhead. Aizawa Shouta.

Sitting beside your bed like a shadow, arms crossed, one leg bouncing in that slow, agitated way that only happened when he was holding too much inside.

His hair was tied back. His scarf was draped over his shoulders like a loose bandage. He looked… wrecked. But not surprised.

You swallowed.

“Dad…?”

His eyes flicked to yours. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah.”

A long silence settled between you.

“I’m fine,” you added lamely.

“No, you’re not,” he said. Calm. Absolute. “You collapsed. In front of your entire class. You didn’t trip. You fainted. You hit the mat so hard I thought—”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish the sentence.

You stared at your hands. They felt like someone else’s. Heavy. Numb.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t just scare me.”

His voice cracked.

You looked up. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper now. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You could’ve hit your head. You could’ve had a seizure. If your quirk had fired while you were unconscious—” He cut himself off again. “You weren’t just dehydrated. You were starving. Recovery Girl said your blood sugar was so low she’s surprised you were standing at all.”

He stood abruptly and turned away. Pacing. That was worse than yelling.

“You’ve been skipping meals.” It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer.

“How long?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Try.”

You stared at the blanket. “A few weeks. I think.”

Another silence.

You dared to look up again. His back was to you now, shoulders tense. One hand running through his hair.

“Why?”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

You blinked hard. Your chest ached. Not just from the fall—but from everything. The shame, the exhaustion, the way your body felt like an old house ready to collapse.

“I just… forget sometimes,” you whispered. “And then it’s easier to keep forgetting.”

He turned slowly.

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well,” he said, deadpan, “that worked out great.”

His tone wasn’t cruel, but it landed. Sharp enough that your lip trembled.

“I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, softer this time. “Be honest.”

You broke then.

The tears came hot and fast. “I just—didn’t want to be in my body,” you choked out. “It feels like everything is too loud all the time. Like I’m either invisible or in the way. And eating felt like admitting I existed. And I didn’t want to.”

Aizawa didn’t move for a long time.

Then he crossed the room and sat back on the edge of your bed.

And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—you let him reach for you.

His arm slid gently behind your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You leaned into him, sobbing quietly, and he let you. No lectures. No scolding. Just a firm, protective presence that held the shape of you like he’d memorized it.

His chin rested atop your head.

“You know I used to do the same thing,” he said quietly.

You froze.

“After Oboro died. I didn’t eat for almost two months. Not properly. Not enough. I told myself I was just busy. That it wasn’t important. But I didn’t want to exist either. Not in a world without him.”

You looked up at him, shocked.

“Yamada noticed,” he said. “Started packing me meals. Dragged me out of the house. Sat with me while I stared at my food for an hour. I told him to stop. He didn’t.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’m glad he didn’t.”

A small, dry smile. “Me too.”

Silence. Then:

“I never thought I’d have a kid who inherited that part of me,” he murmured. “But I did. And that means I have to do for you what he did for me.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“We’re eating together from now on. No arguments. You don’t have to eat a lot. Just enough. Just something. You sit at the table with me. We do it together.”

You nodded, eyes blurry.

“And if you’re too tired,” he added, “I’ll bring it to your room. I’ll sit on the floor if I have to. I’ll wait until you’re ready. But you’re not doing this alone. I won’t let you.”

“…Okay,” you whispered.

His hand brushed your hair back. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to do that again.”

You managed a small smile through your tears. “You gonna put me on food patrol?”

“Damn right I am.”

You both laughed, quiet and shaken, but real.

That night, he made you miso soup from scratch in the teachers’ lounge.

It wasn’t perfect—it was a little salty, and the tofu had fallen apart—but he brought it to you in a thermos with a thermos cap as the bowl, sitting cross-legged beside your cot while you drank slowly.

When you finished, he handed you a warm rice ball with a tiny, crooked smiley face drawn on the seaweed.

“Mic’s idea,” he muttered, looking away.

You laughed softly.

[krystalmelodie]

Instructions unclear, they’re boyfriends now 🤷🏻‍♀️

[blasphemyandbackshots]

tw: please note that some of the stories are very dark, taboo & have dubious consent.

addiction

it started slow. a late-night patrol. a shared drink. a sleepover in his shitty apartment when the rain got too heavy. he let you sleep in his bed. he took the couch. the next time, he stayed beside you.

now, you’re clawing at his shirt, thighs spread, moaning into his mouth while he grinds his cock against your soaked panties. you don’t even remember how you got here. all you know is that when aizawa touches you, everything else stops.

“you need this,” he mutters, pulling your panties aside with one finger and dragging the head of his cock through your folds. you nod, already panting. “of course you do. addicts always crawl back.”

he slams into you and your body shatters. you’ll always crawl back.

backshots

you’re on your knees, ass in the air, forehead pressed to the sheets while aizawa drills into you from behind. slow at first, then brutally fast, his hips snapping forward with practiced aggression. you sob his name, voice muffled by the pillow.

“too much?” he rasps, yanking your hips back onto his cock. “then why are you creaming all over me?”

his hand snakes around to rub your clit, two fingers harsh and relentless. “you wanted this. you begged for it. said i didn’t fuck you hard enough.”

another slap to your ass. you jolt, eyes rolling.

he growls. “you get backshots when you act like a bitch in heat. don’t pout now.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, and he fucks you through it. no mercy, no pause.

“gonna fill you,” he pants, raw, as he does. so deep it leaks out when he pulls away.

control

you think you’re strong. you wear thigh-high boots and a miniskirt, bat your lashes at the other heroes, tease aizawa with too much perfume and too much leg. you think he won’t do anything about it. but he watches, and waits. and when you least expect it, he acts.

his capture tape snakes around your wrists and drags you into the supply closet like prey. you barely have time to squeak before he’s pressing you against the wall, one hand between your thighs, the other covering your mouth.

“you think i don’t see what you’re doing?” he breathes, rubbing slow circles over your clit. “flirting. tempting. disobeying.” you moan into his palm, he chuckles darkly. “you’re not in control, sweetheart. you never were.”

he fucks you with his fingers until your legs give out, then he lets go. and walks away, like you’re nothing but a toy he’ll pick back up later.

desperation

it’s been days. he’s on a long mission, and you haven’t seen him, or haven’t felt him. your fingers don’t work. your toys don’t help. you’re aching, throbbing, needy in a way that makes you sweat and shake.

so when aizawa finally walks through your door, tired and quiet and sharp-eyed, you don’t even wait. you crawl to him.

“please,” you whisper, tugging at his pants. “i need it. i need you.”

he raises an eyebrow. “this desperate?”

you nod, face burning, and he unzips slowly. “then use your mouth like a good little pet.”

you suck him off on your knees, tears in your lashes and drool on your chin.

he pulls your hair, growling, “you better swallow every drop. you’re the one who asked for it.”

and you do, willingly. because right after he’d mount you like a beast, only you can unleash.

exhibition

you’re pinned against the window of the faculty lounge. it was late and quiet, but not empty.

aizawa’s hand is shoved between your thighs, fingers fucking into you with slow, wicked pressure while he mouths against your throat. anyone could walk in—mic, midnight, the damn principal—and you can barely stay upright.

“keep your eyes open,” he murmurs, sliding a third finger inside. “let them see what a needy little slut you are.”

you whimper, legs shaking. “someone could—”

“exactly.”

he fucks you harder, his palm slapping against your soaked cunt with every thrust. your moans are breathless, barely held in. when your orgasm crashes, you cry out his name, but he slaps a hand over your mouth, pinning you still.

“shh. you’ll ruin the show.”

you come against the glass while the city lights dance over your trembling skin.

fear

his capture tape hisses through the dark, slamming your wrists above your head. you scream half in fear, half in pleasure, but aizawa only stalks closer, his hair wild, his eyes glowing red in the shadows.

“did you forget what i am?” he growls. “i’m not soft. i’m not gentle. i erase.”

he disables your quirk with a glance and rips your shirt down the middle. you’re panting, trapped, helpless.

“scared?” he asks, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your soaked folds. your nod makes him smirk. “good.”

then he shoves his entire cock into you, stretching your cunt wide open. your scream echoes in the dark. he fucks you relentlessly like a monster, making sure you remember exactly who you belong to. fear never felt so good.

gag

“too loud,” he mutters, eyes narrowing as you whine.

you can’t help it. his cock is in your ass, hitting so deep your eyes are brimming, your makeup smeared, your hole is stretched wide. you love getting your ass pounded. but aizawa is done with your noise.

he grabs your panties from the floor and shoves them in your mouth, tying them tight behind your head with his capture tape. “there. better.”

you’re drooling now, wide-eyed and messy as he resumes thrusting into your back. he’s rougher now. hand fisted in your hair, hips jerking hard. you gag, you drool, you whimper. you’re a fucking mess.

he grunts, deep and low. “look at you. perfect fuckdoll.”

when he comes, he holds your ass still, watching the way your ass swallows his cum greedily. “might keep you gagged all day.” you moan around the fabric, and he grins.

hatefuck

“you think flirting with hawks was cute?”

you don’t get a chance to answer. aizawa’s already ripped your tights down, bent you over the desk, and shoved inside—dry. you scream, nails clawing at the wood, but he doesn’t slow down. he grips your hips like a vice, pounding into you with furious, brutal force.

“you’re mine,” he growls. “not some feathered little punk’s. mine.”

you sob as he fucks you raw, every thrust filled with rage and jealousy and possession.

“go ahead, girl,” he sneers. “moan for me. let the whole building hear who you really belong to.”

you come violently, overwhelmed, dizzy from the pain and pleasure. he bites your shoulder hard enough to bruise. “you’ll think twice before you smile at anyone else again.”

innocence

he stares down at you, jaw tight, watching you fumble with the button on his pants. “you ever done this before?”

you shake your head. “n-no. but i want to. i want you.”

that should’ve made him stop. should’ve sent you running. but instead, he grabs your chin, thumb pressing against your lips.

“you’re too soft,” he mutters. “too sweet. not ready.”

you open your mouth, sucking his thumb in slow, nervous motions. your eyes beg him, and he breaks. he can’t resist something as sweet as you.

the next moment, you’re on your back—panties torn, thighs spread—and aizawa’s pushing his cock inside your virgin cunt with ruthless precision. you cry out, tears beading in the corners of your eyes.

he hushes you, mouth hot on your throat. “i told you it would hurt.”

he doesn’t stop. he fucks you cruel. he fucks exactly against the spot that had you gasping. it hurt. it feels good. and when you come, it’s messy and trembling, your first ever orgasm with someone else.

“not so innocent now,” he growls, hips slamming against you.

jail cell

you shouldn’t be here. a hero. a student. cuffed to a chair inside a holding cell. but aizawa wanted a punishment that wouldn’t be forgotten.

he walks in slow, shutting the door behind him, silence heavy as chains. “you broke rules. rules that could’ve gotten people killed.”

you nod, breath caught. “i’m sorry—”

“not sorry enough.” he grabs your throat, slams you against the bars, and kisses you hard. his free hand undoes his pants, pulling his already hard cock out.

he tears your tights open, fucks into you while you’re still half-standing, half-crying, mouth open in stunned silence. you whimper his name.

“no one’s coming,” he growls. “no cameras. no mercy.”

when you come, when you break, he doesn’t stop. instead he pulls out, flips you over, and starts again. “i’ll teach you consequences.”

knife play

aizawa’s blade is cold. it traces down your thigh, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in its wake. he doesn’t cut, he only teases.

“breathe,” he says softly. “i won’t slice unless you want me to.”

you nod, wide-eyed. the blade drifts up, slipping under your shirt, between your breasts, grazing the lace of your bra. he presses the flat of it to your throat, and you gasp.

“perfect,” he murmurs. “scared. wet. and still letting me do it.”

your panties are soaked and he cuts them off in one clean motion, the sound sharp in the air. then he kneels, licking a long stripe up your slit while the knife rests lightly on your collarbone.

“stay still,” he purrs. “if you flinch, i will draw blood.”

you come and shake, just a little. enough to nick your skin and draw a little blood. instantly aizawa is there and mouthes at the cut.

licking

he’s insatiable. you thought he’d go down on you once, maybe twice. let you ride his face and move on.

but no. aizawa eats you like a man possessed, dragging his tongue over your folds, fingers spreading you wide while his mouth works slow, deep, and filthy.

“again,” he mutters, voice muffled by your cunt. “you’re not done.”

“i—i can’t,” you whimper.

he slaps your thigh. “yes, you can.”

he sucks your clit, fingers curling inside you, and you scream as another orgasm crashes over you. he doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop.

“you taste like fucking sin,” he growls, licking up everything that drips from you.

you lose count of how many times you come. by the time he finally crawls up your body, his face is soaked, and your thighs are twitching.

he grins lazily. “now i’ll fuck you.”

…you black out from pleasure.

manipulation

“you said you didn’t want to,” he murmurs, tracing circles on your inner thigh. you nod weakly, thighs already spreading.

“and now you’re soaked through your panties.” his voice is soft, crooning. deceptively gentle. “you really don’t know what you want, do you?”

you want to argue, but his fingers slip under the fabric and stroke you with such slow, precise skill that your hips betray you.

“just like that,” he hums. “don’t think. let me decide for you.”

he kisses your neck while he fingers you open. three deep, curling inside while you whimper, too dazed to stop him.

“this is for your own good,” he lies. “i’m just helping you feel better.”

and when he finally thrusts into you, you cry out. but you don’t say no. not anymore.

noncon

your protests are muffled by his hand.

“no one will believe you,” aizawa whispers against your ear. “you’re always clinging to me. acting like you wanted this. now you’re saying no?”

you struggle, and he holds you down, one knee between your thighs, cock pressing against your untouched cunt.

“you said you were innocent,” he mutters. “but you wore that skirt. you came into my office. you wanted this. admit it.”

he slides in. you cry out in pain, fear, shame, and that only turns him on more. he fucks you with cruel precision, hand over your mouth, eyes sharp and unfeeling. when he finishes inside, he holds you still.

“you were mine the second you walked in.” he whispers and you nod weakly.

obsession

he watches you sleep every night. you don’t know it, but he has keys. cameras. tracked your phone. you belong to him now, he just hasn’t told you yet. every breath you take, every outfit you wear, every smile you give to someone else, it drives him fucking insane.

so tonight, he doesn’t just watch. he crawls into bed with you.

you stir, eyes fluttering open. “shouta?”

he kisses you hard and possessive and wild. “you dream about me, don’t you?”

you nod, dazed, confused. “sometimes…”

“every night now.” his hand slides down your body, gripping your waist as he slots his cock against your folds. “from now on, you’ll only dream about me.”

he fucks you before you’re fully awake. it’s desperate, fevered. and you don’t even realize he’s been inside you a hundred times before this.

punishment

your hands are tied behind your back. knees on the mattress. mouth open, drool running down your chin.

“you think i didn’t notice you touching yourself during my class?”

aizawa slaps your ass hard. you jolt, thighs shaking, your cunt dripping down your legs.

“thought i wouldn’t see? thought i wouldn’t punish you?”

he fucks your throat like he’s angry. deep, fast, no breaks. your eyes are watering. you can barely breathe. he pulls out before you can gag and slaps your face with his cock.

“ungrateful brat,” he mutters. “i should leave you like this. naked. tied up. just to remind you who owns you.”

but he doesn’t. he fucks you hard, mean, relentless. and when he finishes, he doesn’t untie you. “you’ll sleep like this tonight.”

quiet control

you’re in the common room. your class sits around you—talking, laughing. so normal, just being teenagers.

and aizawa’s fingers are buried inside your cunt under the table.you’re biting your lip so hard it’s almost bleeding. you can’t moan, can’t move, can’t even breathe right.

“that’s it,” he murmurs low in your ear. “stay quiet or i’ll stop.”

you want to scream. his fingers curl perfectly to rub that aching spot inside you with ruthless accuracy. you grip the chair. you twitch. someone glances over and aizawa shows a lazy smirks.

“still quiet?” he whispers, thumb pressing to your clit. “good girl.”

you come with a silent cry, body shaking. he never lets up, fucking you through it until you’re dizzy. you didn’t even notice he came too. his release soaking the inside of his pants. no one saw. you both sit there, ruined in silence.

restraints

his capture tape coils around your body like a snake. your wrists? bound to the bedposts. ankles? tied wide open. gag in your mouth. blindfold on. you can’t see him, but you feel him. every breath, every drag of his fingers up your trembling thighs.

“you’re helpless now,” he murmurs.

he spanks your cunt with the flat of his palm. you flinch, but can’t even cry out.

“i could keep you like this for days.” he spreads your folds with two fingers and you squirm desperately.

then something vibrates and he presses it to your clit. the toy hums violently, while you arch.

“sensitive already?” he asks.

you scream into the gag. he doesn’t stop. he edges you for hours and never letting you come once . just a whisper from release— torture, sweet, wet torture.

“i haven’t even fucked you yet,” he says, and you sob.

stalker

there are photos of you sleeping under your pillow. your panties. your toothbrush. things you thought you lost, but they’ve just moved.

because aizawa’s always watching. you come home and find him there, sitting on your bed like it’s his. he’s holding your diary and reads every dirty thought you ever wrote.

“i know everything,” he says. “every time you touch yourself. every time you think of me. i see you.”

you should run, but you don’t. when he kisses you, it’s with years of obsession. he’s starved for you. and when he fucks you? it’s like he’s claiming something he’s owned for years.

you never stood a chance against the force that is aizawa shouta. he had owned you the moment he had decided you’d be his, and he’d never let you go.

tears

he has you bent over the desk, arms pinned behind your back. the desk shakes with every thrust. you’re crying. not because it hurts—though it does—but because you can’t keep up. he’s been fucking you for hours.

“too much,” you whimper.

“no,” he growls. “not enough.”

he slaps your ass, your thighs, your cunt. then grabs your hair and yanks your head back so he can see your ruined face.

“tears look good on you.”

you sob, broken. his cock is still hard. still thrusting.

“don’t stop crying now, baby,” he murmurs. “you’re just getting started.”

and you do. you cry harder when you come again, and again.

unholy

he finds you praying on your knees. eyes closed and hands folded, lips whispering for forgiveness. aizawa watches from the doorway, silent.

“you praying for your sins, baby?” he finally murmurs.

you jump, guilty. “shouta—”

he crosses the room in two steps and grabs you by the hair to yank your head back. “you prayed,” he growls, dragging his cock out. “now be a good little worshipper.”

you gasp, but open your mouth. he fucks your throat while you’re still wearing your cross necklace. while your bible lies open next to you. while you choke and drool and gag around him.

“you’re holy now?” he taunts. “on your knees for god and your sensei?”

he finishes on your tongue and rubs the mess across your lips.

“now go back to praying,” he says.

and you do, like nothing happened.

violence

you’re fighting again. screaming. shoving. you slap him. he grabs you by the throat.

“you want to act like a brat?” he growls. “then i’ll fuck you like one.”

you’re thrown hard against the wall. he unbuckles his belt before he tears your clothes from your body. the violence doesn’t stop at the fight. he fucks you angry—biting, slapping, gripping hard enough to bruise.

you cry. he doesn’t slow down, instead he grabs your throat tighter. “you feel that? that’s your punishment.”

you come shaking, raw, furious. he kisses you like he hates you and bites your lip bloody.

but after, he cradles you in his arms, and his eyes grow soft again. “you drive me crazy and i love it.”

wallfuck

you didn’t make it two feet inside the apartment, when he had you pinned to the wall in seconds. your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping your ass, cock already thrusting into your dripping cunt.

“you missed me that bad?” he hisses into your neck. “couldn’t wait?”

you moan—too full, too high, too loud—and he slaps his hand over your mouth.

“shut up. or the neighbors’ll hear how good i fuck you.”

he pounds into you harder. the drywall cracks behind your back. your body jerks with every brutal thrust. you come with his name on your lips, screamed into his hand. he fucks you through it. he doesn’t stop until he’s buried so deep inside you it aches, and fills you up. you collapse. the wall’s broken, and so are you.

xenophilia

you didn’t know what he was, not fully.

but the red glow in his eyes when he came? the way he bit you when he fucked you? how your orgasm left you dizzy for hours?

not human. you should’ve run, but you let him inside again.

tonight, he comes to you changed—eyes black, teeth longer, his voice inhuman. “scared?”

you shake your head, drop to your knees. “no. i want you. all of you.”

he purrs, low and deep. his cock is thick, glowing faintly with energy that makes your skin spark. he thrusts into you, and the shock of it makes you scream. he fucks you like a creature who’s waited centuries, who’s chosen you.

you come so hard it feels like dying. and when he finishes, he bites your neck hard enough to mark you as his. forever.

yandere

you’re laughing with someone else. it’s an innocent conversation with a smile, a touch on their arm. but aizawa sees red.

he waits until they leave, then corners you in the hallway, hand flat against the wall beside your head. “you like him?”

“what? no, i—”

his other hand’s around your throat. “you smile at me like that?”

you try to shake your head. he squeezes harder. “you’re mine. do you understand me? mine. no one else gets to look at you.”

he drags you into his office and locks the door. you gasp as he throws you over the desk. he fucks you furious, not to make you come, but to mark you.

“mine,” he growls with every thrust.

when you’re sobbing and shaking, he pulls out. he drags you down to the floor and shoves himself into your throat.

“swallow it,” he commands. “so no one else ever gets a taste.”

you obey, because you know now that there’s no escape.

zero mercy

you tried to run, but you didn’t even make it to the train station.

now you’re naked, shackled, on your knees in the basement of his home. a collar around your throat, and the leash in his hand.

“you thought i’d let you go?” he says, deathly calm.

you shake, whispering, “i-i’m sorry—”

he grabs your jaw and makes you look up to him. “you don’t get to be sorry. you get to be punished.”

he fucks your throat until your voice is gone. fucks your cunt until you go silent from overstimulation. fucks your ass with a toy so big you sob around the gag.

there’s no aftercare. no gentleness. just him, claiming what’s his. when he’s finally done—when you’re ruined, whimpering, limp—he kneels beside you.

“you’re never leaving again,” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your damp face.

and then he chains you to the bed to keep you forever.

[junebug-draws]

have i taught you nothing??

[nerdypza]

𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐘, 𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄 ⋆ s.aizawa x f.reader chapter one: decisions, decisions. wc: .9k

you decide a few things; you’re never getting this article done on time, and the man across the hall is a mysterious piece of ass that you need to know.

content warnings ❤︎ journalist!reader. reader wears glasses - could be read as blue light, or prescription. first meeting. best friend!mina. mention of old flings / failed love. thai food.

main masterlist | series masterlist

Good morning, true romantics!

Valentines day. The one day a year when love is supposed to blossom like roses, but sometimes feels more like a high-pressure quiz in romance. Do I get chocolate, or flowers? Does my partner want a romantic date, or have a night-in? Whether you’re happily married, navigating a situationship, or single with a capital S, February 14th has a way of stirring up all kinds of feelings—good and bad.

The words on your screen stare up at you menacingly—laughing at you, antagonizing you to no end. Titled “LOVE IN REAL LIFE: Valentine’s Day Advice That Actually Matters,” the piece you’re writing is absolutely, positively killing you. You’ve been at it for over two hours; the alarm clock that sits on your desk blinks the number 11:34 PM, over and over and over again.

You let out a frustrated groan and let your finger rest on the delete button, watching the words disappear quickly. The burden of needing this done by Friday sits heavy in your chest, weighing you down in your seat. Even if you wanted to get up from your seat—maybe eat something, go to sleep—you wouldn’t be able to. Your bed is less than three feet away from you, cozy and inviting, yet you don’t move.

It’s not the first time your piece would be late, but it is the first time you’re writing for such a prominent holiday. When your boss gave news of what you’d be writing, you almost laughed. You, writing a piece on love? How ironic. When you told Mina, she actually laughed. Out loud, tear-drawing laughter.

While you’ve had your fair share of dates, you’ve never been lucky enough to claim the “in love” status. There was the guy who “forgot” to inform you that he still lived with his mother, and the guy who had a creepy collection of dolls tucked away inside his room. Hundreds of dates in your early twenties, hundreds of weird guys who never worked out. It was tiring, of course, but your mother and father met in high school—and had only mentioned it about a million times by the time you were in high school. It almost feels . . . disappointing, not having met the love of your life yet.

Your chair creaks as you lean back, pulling your knees up to your chest, pushing your glasses to the top of your head and pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes. They burn, dry from staring at a screen for so long, but you ignore it.

This sucks, you decide eventually, melting into your chair. The soles of your feet hit the hardwood floor and you shiver. Maybe you should go get something to eat? No, the thought of cooking makes you want to cry.

Within the next minute, you’re pulling out your phone to order something from UberEats. While you wait for Jeremy to arrive with your Thai, you put your glasses back on your nose and blink at the blank document in front of you. Nothing comes to your mind.

Valentines day. The one day a year when . . .

You roll your eyes at yourself and delete the sentence. How are you supposed to write about Valentine’s Day when you have no idea what a proper Valentine’s Day looks like? Your February 14th’s are spent on the couch, eating some form of takeout, ugly-crying over sappy rom-coms. Sometimes your friends are sitting next to you; in more recent years, they have not been.

Before you know it, twenty minutes have passed by and two things become apparent; one, you are definitely not getting this paper done by tonight, and two, you are a lot hungrier than you thought you were—that much is obvious by the growl your stomach lets out as a knock sounds at your front door. You practically run to open it.

Jeremy isn’t there when you open the door, but a man is standing across the hall, inserting a key into the lock. From the back, he almost looks . . . well, homeless. His hair is unruly and unkempt, his clothes are wrinkled. The only thing that indicates different are the very expensive-looking shoes he’s wearing. He must hear you open the door because he turns to look at you.

Woah. The first thing you notice is the stubble on his face. Then his sharp jawline. Then the intense look in his eyes.

“Oh,” you squeak out. “Hello. Um, I was just . . .” you hold up the plastic bag and press your mouth into a thin-lipped smile.

His eyes dart to the bag, then back to yours. He doesn’t say anything, but he does give you a small nod before ducking into his apartment. You do the same, internally mortified from the interaction.

God, he was hot, you think yourself, setting the bag on the counter. You then briefly wonder how you’ve never seen him before. In your time here—a little over two years—no one has moved onto your floor. The old woman down the hall has lived there for ten years, the single mother to your left has lived there for six—you’ve babysat her son a couple of times; he’s the sweetest thing ever—there’s a couple of college kids living to your right that moved in at the same time as you. But you’ve never seen anyone move into the apartment across from you, which means he was there before you.

You stuff a forkful of noodles into your mouth and hum thoughtfully. You decide halfway through the bite that you need to learn more about the man.

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© NERDYPZA 2025. ALRIGHTY, APHRODITE. do not repost to other sites, alter, or feed to ai.

[artbymeow]

full aizawa and gang doodle page

[micaartiste]

The accursed sleeping bag…

And everyone’s favorite demon sensei of course

[screampied]

can we talk about them 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️