etherealangell1

[etherealangell1]

Pretty woman w pretty bod + small tits x Aizawa?

. ♡ ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ

Shota Aizawa x Fem!reader

Notes: WC: 6.8k. I'm not sure where Anon wanted me to go with this, but here. Im planning on making a part two of this, i can't fit the rest in here. { Explicit content -- Small Age Gap, reassurance, Oral (F receiving), overstim, fluff to smut, cute romance. F! Breast insecurity)

Synopsis: Aizawa and reader have some underlying tension with unspoken feelings finally being explored. Reader who also has an insecurity of her breasts gets reassured by him when they finally do it after realizing their feelings.

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The moment he mer you, he was cautious. Observing every detail about you because your persona just didnt seem real. Like a mask. It wasn’t unusual for you to be all smiles and quiet laughter, a soft confidence radiating from you in measured doses. Never overwhelming, never self-indulgent. Sometimes, that brightness of yours slipped into embarrassment but never into self-pity.

And later as time passed. He didnt watch you with slim and watchful eyes like a hawk. Instead, it was respect as he began to know you. Then maybe you caused him to smile once or twice. Then he found himself admiring how you were actually just a kind person who could bring light to a room. Even if you are constantly giggling or your voice sometimes seems too much.

You liked sitting with him. And though he never once admitted it aloud, he anticipated those moments more than he cared to admit. Your kindness was unlike anything else, a gentle, rare sort of kindness that belonged entirely to you. Something people could identify you by because it marked you as a person. Fortunate, then, that he had been allowed to witness it closer than others.

Everyone who knew you loved you. Cherished you. To most, you were a friend, a teacher, a bright presence in their lives.

And he was no different, except for one truth he kept buried. He wanted to actually love you. The way he couldnt force himself to hide, a way he dreamed about.

He had held your hand once, and though it seemed a simple, fleeting gesture, the memory of it burned quietly inside him. That small contact had given him more than anyone else had been offered. In his mind and spirit, you were not just any colleague or friend.

You were... you. He didnt know how to describe your special place in his life or how on earth you managed to clam that spot. But nobody else could, because they werent you.

Singular. Irreplaceable. And somehow, though neither of them had said the words, you felt like his. Not officially, not openly, but in the spaces between glances and gestures, you both knew.

He never stopped you when your fingers slipped into his, when excitement made you tug his hand as though pulling him closer to your world. He let you do it, greedy for your soft touch in ways he would never confess.

Your hands were always so soft snd gentle. He was almost jealous when you would touch others. Only because, to his surprise, liked your physical affection unlike any other.

He wanted to lock you into his grasp, shield you from others, from anyone who might steal your attention away. But only while he had you. He wasn't possessive over something that wasn't his. He wanted to shield the part that was his even if unspoken that it was. But he'd never possess or hid you.

But you were not doing it by accident either. You laced your hand with his on purpose, your heartbeat quickening as you prayed he would not pull away. And he never did. He let you hold on because neither of you wanted to let go. And in some way, you could almost sense it, hoping your senses were right.

You sat beside him whenever you could, seeking him out during lunch breaks when he retreated into his office to escape the noise of the day.

You would come bouncing in, light as air, drag a chair to his side, and doze off there while he graded papers. Sometimes, your head would droop forward until your hair spilled across his desk, tangling with his notes. And he, silent and steady, would place his hand gently on your thigh or brush through the strands of your hair with slow, unhurried movements. He never moved away. He never wanted to.

It all seemed perfect in its quiet secrecy. Yet beneath it lingered a restless ache.

How could he tell her he wanted more?

Not in the hollow way people sometimes used the word, not as a selfish demand, but more of her, in every sense. More than stolen hand-holds passed off as platonic. More than lingering touches disguised as absentminded.

And you thought the same. Except your fears pressed in at the edges, fears that you would not be enough, would not meet his expectations, would not match whatever standards you imagined he held. You almost convinced yourself he could not want you in those ways. But oh, how you wanted to be loved, even if your flaws had to be ignored just to be loved.

But you couldn't ask that of him. It'd be selfish.

But you were wrong. So very wrong.

You sat across from him in the conference room, slipping into your seat as the rest of the staff settled. He didn’t look at you right away, but when your eyes caught his, you gave him a small wave paired with a smile that lingered. He didn’t return it, but you saw the faintest flicker of something in his face before he looked away.

He somehow had this special fleeting look that was warm but quickly retreated. Gotta maintain his image you guessed.

When Nezu climbed into the scarf around his shoulders, you couldn’t stop staring. At first you told yourself it was the sight of the principal perched so casually on him that kept your attention. But the longer you sat there, the clearer it was. it wasn’t Nezu that held your eyes, it was him.

He shifted in his chair like the fabric of his scarf had suddenly become a restraint. His gaze wandered toward the clock, to the corner of the room, anywhere but you. Still, you didn’t look away.

Your eyes stayed on him, steady and unashamed. Sometimes, your focus was sharp, almost serious, and then it softened without warning into something gentler, almost playful.

He was supposed to be listening to Nezu. So were you. But all you could do was watch the man who couldn’t seem to hide how much your stare unsettled him. His usual scowl, the one that kept everyone at a distance, faltered every time he felt your gaze on him.

And you loved that you were the only one who could do that.

After the meeting ended, you let your smile linger on him as Nezu finally untangled himself from the scarf and hopped down from Aizawa’s shoulders. He shifted slightly, rolling his neck as if the weight of the principal had been more than just physical. You held his eyes for a second longer, waiting for him to glance back, but he never did.

Not until you turned away.

With a soft laugh, you gathered your things and stepped out beside Kayama, her perfume trailing in the air as she wrapped an arm casually around your shoulders. She was already talking about where the two of you should go for dinner, but your mind stayed behind in that room. You didn’t see it, but the moment your back turned, his tired eyes followed.

Aizawa leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, gaze fixed on the door you had just walked through. His expression stayed unreadable to everyone else in the room, but the faint crease in his brow softened. He kept watching until the voices of the staff around him blurred, as though he needed that last glimpse of you before you disappeared down the hallway.

Meanwhile, you laughed at something Kayama said, though your thoughts kept tugging toward him. You could still picture the way he had sat there, pretending to ignore you, pretending that your stare hadn’t unraveled his focus. It made your heart twist in a way you didn’t want to name.

By the time the two of you reached the corridor, you slowed, stealing a glance over your shoulder. The door to the conference room was still open. For a fleeting second, you caught him there, still at the table, head propped in his hand, his eyes right on you.

It was only a heartbeat of recognition before he looked away again, but it was enough to send a warmth crawling up your throat and into your cheeks. You turned back quickly before Kayama noticed.

And all you could think was how much you wanted him to look again.

That night, the quiet of the corridors pressed heavily against the walls of U.A. dorms. The dorms always seemed smaller after hours, the echo of your footsteps softer, swallowed by the silence. You had not expected anyone else to be around when you slipped through the dimly lit hall, carrying the lingering warmth of your earlier laughter with Kayama and your little hangout with Toshinori, Kristen your training sesh with Ochako.

But he was there.

Aizawa leaned against the doorway of your dorm, arms loosely folded, hair falling forward like a curtain. At first glance he looked casual, composed as ever, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders that betrayed him. He had been waiting. For you.

He, for some reason, remembered you like to offer your expertise to any student willing. A few sparring matches or a full-blown training session. You liked being a teacher. Eve this goddamn late at night when his students should be sleeping.

All day he had carried it with him, a restless weight under his skin. He told himself he could wait, that the feeling would pass, but it only grew sharper, coiled tighter, until it seemed he might break apart if he did not say something to you.

He felt like he was going to explode if he couldn't speak his mind to you any longer.

Because tomorrow is never promised. Neither were you.

He hated the impatience in himself and hated how unsteady it made him feel, yet here he was anyway.

You slowed, smiling instinctively as your eyes met his, though his expression did not mirror yours. It struck you how different he seemed, as if he were standing at a distance from you rather than in front of you. Usually he spoke to you with a quiet ease, short words softened by the familiarity between you. But tonight, he looked like a man who had forgotten how to begin.

When you stopped before him, his gaze flickered away, briefly toward the floor, then back to your face with a heaviness that made your stomach tighten. You tilted your head, curious, unaware of the storm you were standing in the center of.

“What is it?” you asked softly.

For a moment, he did not answer. His jaw worked as if testing the shape of words before they could leave him. One hand lifted, fingers brushing through his hair, a restless motion that betrayed the impatience coiled inside him. To you, it only looked like hesitation. To him, it felt like a dam straining against a flood.

His eyes locked on yours, sharp and unwavering, yet shadowed with something you had never seen in him before. His throat bobbed with a swallow. He seemed to fight for control, as if the words pressed at the back of his teeth, demanding release.

And you, oblivious, only saw a man who suddenly looked uncertain with you. A man who, for the first time since you had known him, seemed like he did not know how to speak at all.

He cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence between you. “Long day,” he muttered, voice low and even, the same as always. Except it wasn’t. The way the words left him felt stilted, rehearsed. His tone carried none of the natural ease you were used to, and you caught the slight hitch in his breath when your eyes lingered on him.

You tilted your head, studying him with faint suspicion. He was trying to act normal, as if the two of you were just falling into your usual rhythm, but there was something in his posture that betrayed him. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set too tightly. To anyone else, he might have seemed calm. To you, it sounded strange, like a man speaking through clenched teeth.

“Spit it out,” you said quietly, walking into your dorm past him. Placing your things down on your desk and slipping your shoes off. Your voice lacked sharpness, but your eyes did not. They held him steady, unrelenting, until the sigh that left his chest seemed to collapse his defenses.

He raked a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging slightly at the strands as though scolding himself for being so reluctant. “I’m… not great at this,” he admitted finally, his voice harsher than he intended. The crease in his brow deepened as his gaze fell to the floor, then dragged back to you, restless and heavy. “You matter more to me than I thought you would. More than I wanted you to.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs at the weight of his words, though he still skirted around them, refusing to give them shape. He looked like he was fighting himself, a man usually so blunt now unraveling in the effort to hold something back.

Your hopes rose anyway. You stepped closer, closing the distance until you could feel the warmth radiating off him. Lifting your chin, you searched his face, eyes fierce yet alight with curiosity, demanding more than the scraps of explanation he was offering. “Say it straight,” you pressed, your voice soft and raspy this late at night. But demanding and wanting.

The steady control he prided himself on suddenly slipping as his dark eyes locked onto yours. They flicked down briefly to your mouth, then back to the determined gleam in your gaze, and you felt the tension coil tighter between you.

He swallowed hard, his fingers flexing at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach for you. He had waited all day, maybe longer, and it had gnawed at him until now. The sight of you so close, urging him on with those eyes, stripped away the last of his restraint.

“I like you,” he said, the words rough, scraped from somewhere deep and raw. There was no way to mask it now, no way to bury it under half-truths. “I want you.”

He was steady now, his gaze locked onto you, afraid yet hopeful. He studied every flicker of your expression, searching for any sign that his words had landed softly instead of tearing at the bond between you. He waited, his chest tight, yearning for reassurance that he had not just ruined everything.

But you gave him no time. Laughter slipped out of you, light and nervous, followed by the uncertain wrinkle of your brow. “Haha, what?” you breathed, your voice carrying disbelief more than cruelty. It sounded almost like a defense. You had never let yourself imagine anyone, much less him, could mean those words for you. Especially not a man like Aizawa, who never spoke without intention. It felt too impossible, too good to belong to reality.

His heart sank. For a split second he thought you were laughing at him, mocking the rawness of his confession. Shame cut through him, heavy and sharp. But when he looked again, your eyes were not cruel. They were wide, confused, almost dazed, as if the ground beneath you had shifted without warning.

“You like me? Like actually?” The laughter faded from your tone. Your voice fell to a whisper, fragile and serious, as though the question itself might shatter in the air.

His shoulders lifted and dropped in a long sigh. His eyes, still fixed on you, carried an intensity that left no space for doubt. He gave a small nod. “That’s what I just said.” The words came out rough, clipped, but there was nothing uncertain in them.

You froze, your lips parting as if to speak but no sound came. Then a smile broke through, uncontainable, lighting up your entire face. You bit your bottom lip, trying and failing to smother the rush of giddy energy that made you bounce slightly on your feet. Your pulse raced, your body trembling with excitement that you could not fully hide.

He watched you, caught between suspicion and wonder, as if still bracing for rejection even as joy spilled from you.

You steadied yourself with a slow breath, pushing the childish reaction down, smoothing your features with deliberate control. But your smile remained, tugging at the corners of your mouth even as you tried to force it into something more alluring. Your eyes softened, darkened, the laughter in them folding into something heavier, more deliberate.

You let your gaze fall to his mouth, lingering there as warmth pooled at the back of your throat. When you finally spoke, your voice was lower, coaxing, charged with both mischief and invitation. “Then prove it.”

Your words hovered in the space between you, your smile betraying the playful giddiness you could not completely bury, even as you looked at him with every ounce of seriousness you could summon.

That was his final straw. The sight of your eyes fixed so intently on him, soft yet daring, left no room for doubt. They invited him in, told him without a single word that you wanted him just as much. Every barrier he had built crumbled. Everything he had been yearning for stood right in front of him, close enough to reach.

He wanted to hold this moment in his hands, trap it in place so it would never fade. The need to cherish you pressed against the need to finally claim what had been gnawing at him for so long. His mouth pulled into a grin, sharp and devilish, the kind of grin he usually reserved for tormenting his students. But this one was different. This one belonged only to you.

His dark eyes burned, flickering between the curve of your lips and the hunger glimmering in your gaze. Slowly, deliberately, his hand lifted, his fingers brushing along your jaw before guiding your chin upward. He leaned in, closing the space with a suddenness that stole your breath, his lips crushing against yours with a force that revealed just how long he had been holding himself back.

It was not gentle. It was raw, impatient, full of aching need. His mouth moved against yours like he had been starved for too long, finally tasting what he had only imagined. He could not think, not with the rush of heat tearing through his chest. His body took over, fueled only by the hunger to have you closer, deeper, yours as much as you were his.

You froze for a heartbeat, nerves rushing in waves, your mind scrambling to catch up with what was happening. But then the truth of it hit you. This was real. He wanted you, and he was kissing you like there was no tomorrow. Your palms lifted to cup the sides of his face, the warmth of his skin grounding you as you stood taller, pressing harder into him, desperate to give back everything he poured into you.

He tilted his head, mouth angling more firmly over yours, his lips moving with a rhythm that grew rougher, more consuming. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers curling firmly, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his. His head angled downward, his hair brushing your forehead as he kissed you deeper, swallowing your breath as though he could not get enough.

You melted into him, the world around you dissolving into shadows and silence. There was nothing left but the press of his mouth, the heat of his hand against your neck, and the realization that you had both been waiting for this far too long.

He broke from your lips for only a breath, his forehead pressing against yours, strands of his hair brushing your cheeks as he fought to steady himself. His chest rose and fell with a heaviness that betrayed how much he still wanted more. His mouth parted as if to speak, but no words came. Words had always failed him in moments like this. Acting was easier, letting his body tell you what he could never fully explain.

Yet in that pause, in the faint tremor of restraint, he thought of how badly he wanted to slow down. To savor you. To show you a kind of tenderness he had never given anyone else. He wanted to love you in a way that told you more than language ever could.

But you were not finished.

Your hand slid from his cheek down to his chest, fingers spreading against the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt. The soft press of your palm lingered there, close to the thrum of his heart, and when you tilted your face up to meet his eyes, the look you gave him unraveled whatever fragile control he was clinging to.

Your gaze was relentless, wide and gleaming with mischief, yet undeniably sweet. There was innocence in it, and yet the flirtation was impossible to miss. It was adorable and dangerous all at once, a silent plea wrapped in unshakable trust. The way your lips curved in a subtle smile, the way your eyes refused to look anywhere but his, it was as though you were asking for something both intimate and unrestrained, daring him to take you further.

And he could not deny you. He could never deny you.

Aizawa’s hand tightened at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the delicate line of your skin. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you and his sudden bulge. His gaze darkened, flicking once more to your mouth before meeting your eyes, holding you in a stare so intense it made the air between you feel heavy.

The hunger in him was clawing its way to the surface, demanding release after all the months of wanting, waiting, and watching you with quiet desperation. You had undone him with a single look, and now every ounce of restraint felt like it was burning away.

When he kissed you again, it was deeper, slower, his lips molding over yours as if to savor every second, every spark. He poured himself into it, letting his mouth speak the words he could not. The kiss was tender, but the heat beneath it was unmistakable, carrying the weight of all the nights he had held back.

And with every movement, every press of his lips against yours, he told you without speaking that he could never get enough of you.

His mouth deepened against yours, no longer holding back, his lips moving with a hunger that left you breathless. The hand at your waist slid lower, anchoring you firmly against him, while the other cradled the back of your neck with a grip that was both protective and possessive. Every tilt of his head, every shift of his mouth against yours, was deliberate, almost desperate, as though he had been starved of this for far too long.

You responded in kind, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer as if even the press of your bodies wasn’t enough. Your lips parted under the insistence of his, and the moment his tongue brushed yours, a quiet sound escaped you, a soft, startled gasp that only spurred him on.

The tension that had been simmering between you for so long finally ignited. He pressed you back until your shoulder blades met the wall, his body caging yours without a word. The closeness stole your breath, his heat seeping into you, his scent, coffee, and something like the smell of new paper flooding your senses.

His lips trailed from yours to your jaw, slow and consuming, lingering at the edge of your throat. You tilted your head instinctively, offering him more, your pulse racing beneath his mouth. The rough scrape of his stubble against your skin sent shivers down your spine, and when his teeth grazed the curve of your neck, you couldn’t hold back the soft whimper that followed.

Aizawa groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin. That single reaction of yours had unraveled his undeniable desire for you. His hands roamed now, one gripping your hip firmly, the other sliding beneath the hem of your shirt to rest against the warmth of your skin. His touch was hot, deliberate, calloused fingertips brushing upward as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you.

Your own boldness grew in return. Both of your hands framed his face for a moment, pulling him back to kiss you again, harder, needier. Your lips clashed, breaths mingling, and then your palms flattened against his chest, trailing down over the solid muscle beneath. You could feel the steady hammer of his heart, faster now, just like yours.

When he broke the kiss again, his forehead dropped against yours, his breath ragged, his eyes dark and unwavering as they searched yours. The raw intensity there made your knees weaken. His lips hovered close, his voice barely more than a gravelly whisper.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

And then his mouth was on yours again, deeper, fiercer, while his hand slid further around your waist to pull you flush against him, leaving no question about just how much he meant it.

He paused only long enough to drink you in, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His dark eyes roamed over you like he was memorizing every curve, every subtle twitch that betrayed your need. He wanted to take it slow, to savor you, but the hunger building in him was impossible to restrain. You were right there, soft and eager beneath his touch, staring up at him with wide, shining eyes that said everything without needing words.

Your palm slid from his cheek to his chest, fingers pressing into him, tugging subtly as you waited, daring him to act. He bent down, capturing your mouth in a kiss deeper and harder, the force of it making you gasp. His hand threaded into your hair, holding you tight, while the other pressed against your waist, anchoring you to him. Every brush of his hips against yours, every friction through the fabric, made your heart hammer faster.

Your lips responded with equal fervor, tilting, teasing, and chasing his as your fingers curled into his hair, tugging with playful insistence. When he broke the kiss for air, strands of his hair fell loose across his face, and his chest heaved with ragged breaths. He leaned close, forehead against yours, voice low and rough.

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” he murmured, thumb brushing over your lower lip, tracing its curve.

You leaned in slightly, teeth grazing the pad of his thumb as your gaze flicked down to his mouth, then back up to his eyes, full of mischief. “i dont. You should show me,” you said, voice soft but daring, a smile tugging at your lips.

The words were enough. His want to go slow crumbled entirely. He scooped you closer, one hand sliding along your thigh as he guided you backward until your hips met the edge of the desk. Papers scattered beneath you as he lifted you, pressing you flush against him.

Your thighs instinctively wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer. The heat of him pressed into you, straining against his pants, proof of his desire. His hands roamed with bold intent, one gripping your hip, the other sliding beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the warmth of your skin.

A shiver ran through you as your back arched, letting out a low moan when his lips drifted down your jaw, along your neck, nibbling softly at the tender skin there. Each kiss, each tug of his teeth sent sparks through you.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your skin, voice low and rough. “I’ve wanted you more than I should admit.”

You pressed into him, thighs tightening, fingers threading through his hair as you whispered, “Then show me.”

The smirk on his lips against your neck was dangerous, promising everything your gaze had already begged for.

He held you against him, hips pressing flush as his hands explored every inch of your body that was exposed. One hand traced over your stomach, brushing the warmth of your skin and lingering over the curve of your ribs. The heat from his touch made your back arch, pressing harder into him as your breath hitched.

Your hands roamed over him, gripping his shoulders, tracing the lines of his chest, feeling the tension in the muscles that flexed beneath your fingertips. The sound of your low gasps and small moans only spurred him further, his lips leaving a trail along your jaw, down your neck, and back to yours. When his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear, a shiver ran through you, and your fingers dug into the back of his shirt.

He groaned against you, a deep, hungry sound vibrating through his chest, and tugged at your shirt until it slipped over your head. You helped, pulling it the rest of the way off, letting him see you fully, and his eyes darkened, drinking you in.

He paused for a moment, hovering over you, dark eyes flicking to your chest with a softness that made your heart both race and ache. His hand rested just above your breasts, fingertips grazing your skin lightly, as if waiting for permission. The hesitation in his gaze, the quiet question in the set of his jaw, made a heat rise in your chest, part embarrassment, part longing.

“I…” you began, voice low and nervous, swallowing hard. Your hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him slightly closer as your mind raced. “I don’t know if…”

He shushed you gently, his lips brushing your temple. “We can stop. Its alright.” His voice was soft, grounding, but every word carried a weight that made your stomach flutter.

Panic and desire tangled in your mind. You wanted to give yourself to him fully, but the insecurity of your body made your pulse spike. In a sudden, impulsive move, you tried to distract him, moving downwards and starting to tease him, hoping to redirect his attention to the giant bulge in his pants.

He froze, dark eyes locking onto yours, reading every flicker of doubt and mischief. Then he shook his head slowly, lips pressing a quiet line. “No. Not tonight. I want you. Only you.”

Your cheeks flushed as your attempt at distraction failed, but the intensity in his gaze, the way he held your hands lightly but firmly, made something shift in you. His desire wasn’t for anything but you. Every look, every motion of his body, told you that tonight he wanted to worship you, not rush you or skip over any part of you.

You swallowed, heart hammering, as he leaned down again, lips ghosting over yours, and whispered, "You’re perfect to me. I want to take my time with you.”

The words, paired with the firmness of his hands on your waist and the warmth of his chest pressed against yours, made your insecurity melt into something hotter and more urgent. You melted into his arms, trembling slightly, letting yourself trust him fully, knowing that whatever you were afraid of, he only wanted to focus on you and your pleasure tonight.

He paused, eyes flicking to your chest again, noticing the way you instinctively tried to cover yourself even if you still had your bra on...

A faint flush colored your cheeks, but the gesture only made him want to press even closer, to reassure you without words. He could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands fluttered over yourself as if unsure what to do, and it made his chest tighten.

He shifted slightly, letting go of the temptation to push, resting his hands lightly on your waist instead. He leaned down, brushing a soft kiss across your temple, letting his forehead rest against yours. His voice was low, steady, and gentle. “You don’t have to hide from me, Nonnie.”

The warmth in his words, the unspoken promise behind his touch, made your breath catch. You trembled, a mix of nerves and desire coursing through you, but the subtle way he admired you without forcing anything made it easier to relax.

He studied you for a moment longer, letting his gaze linger, memorizing every line, every curve, every little reaction. His lips curved into a small, private smile, and his hand found the small of your back, holding you lightly but firmly. He didn’t push, didn’t demand anything. He only wanted you to feel safe, to feel cherished.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the nervous tension hit you. You wanted more, needed more, but suddenly the intensity of the moment, the closeness, the heat, and the vulnerability made your stomach flutter. Your body trembled slightly, heart hammering.

He noticed immediately. His eyes softened as he scanned your face, reading every flicker of doubt and hesitation. He cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing over your cheek, leaning down so close that his warm breath ghosted over you. “You don’t have to be nervous,” he murmured. “Just let me take care of you.”

You parted your lips, letting your hands rest lightly on his shoulders. You nodded, trusting him, and he responded with a small, knowing smile.

Luckily. Whenever you trained with female students, you wore the skimpiest clothes you could muster. So he assumed it was a girl tonight. Tiny shorts that barely covered an inch of your thigh.

He lowered himself, his lips brushing against your inner thighs first, teasing the sensitive skin along the edges. You shivered, fingers clutching the edge of the desk as your nervousness collided with rising desire. Slowly, deliberately, he parted your thighs further, his mouth finding the heat between them as he slid your shorts down and parted your underwear to the side with his finger.

Your breath hitched immediately. His tongue flicked against you, gentle at first, exploring and teasing, coaxing you to relax. The soft, wet pressure, combined with the warmth of his lips and the attention in his dark eyes, made your body melt. You dug your fingers into his hair instinctively, hips pressing down into him, shivering with every careful movement.

He didn’t rush. He alternated between light flicks of his tongue and slow, teasing laps, paying attention to every shiver, every gasp, every tiny movement you made. His hands stayed steady on your hips, holding you firmly but gently, keeping you grounded while he brought you closer and closer to a tension you had never felt so fully.

A soft moan escaped you, shaky at first, then louder, more insistent, as your nervousness dissolved into heat and pleasure. Your body arched into him, knees pressing closer to pull him even nearer. He glanced up at you, dark eyes catching yours with a smile against your skin. “That’s it… just like that. I’ve got you,” he whispered.

The sensations overwhelmed you, and every careful movement of his mouth, every flick of his tongue, made it clear he was completely focused on you. The nervous knot in your stomach had vanished, replaced by a consuming, urgent desire to let yourself go completely.

Your knees trembled as his mouth moved with slow, deliberate precision, every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips against you sending sparks of heat racing through your body. The nervous flutter that had gripped you earlier had melted into raw need, leaving you trembling and gasping. Your hands clutched at his hair, tugging gently as you pressed your hips downward, silently urging him closer, deeper.

He groaned low in his throat, the vibration brushing against your thighs, and his hands slid arpind your thighs, holding you steady and gripping them harshly. Most likely to leave a mark or two. Grounding you while your body writhed under his attention. His eyes flicked up to yours intermittently, dark and hooded, full of hunger and fascination, catching every arch of your back, every shiver, every gasp. He watched you so intently that it made your stomach coil with a delicious mix of embarrassment and desire.

The sound of your soft moans and gasps filled the room, echoing faintly against the walls, a rhythm that fueled him further. His lips alternated between gentle, teasing flicks and firmer, more insistent pressure, mapping every curve of your body, tasting every part of you with care and intent. You arched into him instinctively, thighs tightening around his head as your breath hitched in short, desperate bursts.

You leaned back slightly, clutching the edge of the desk, and caught his gaze. His eyes met yours, dark and unwavering, and the heat in them made your core pulse even more urgently. You shivered as his tongue pressed against you in ways that stole your breath, and the slight tremor in your body made him smile against your skin, a slow, dark smile that promised he would not let up until you were undone.

Your breath came in ragged pants, chest rising and falling rapidly as your body coiled with tension. Every flick of his tongue, every careful movement, made you arch, writhe, and tremble. You leaned your head back against him, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted, completely surrendering to the sensations he was drawing out.

“You taste so good” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine. His lips left a trail along your inner thighs, brushing against your most sensitive spots with deliberate patience, teasing and coaxing until every nerve ending in your body screamed in need.

You gripped him tighter, pressing your hips instinctively into his mouth, letting out a soft, broken moan as your body began to quake under the delicious, overwhelming attention. His eyes flicked up again to yours, catching every flash of heat and want, drinking in your reactions like they were a secret treasure.

You were trembling, heat radiating from every inch of your body, still catching your breath after the repeated waves of pleasure. Your limbs felt heavy, soft, and slightly weak, and your skin was flushed in a way that left you self-conscious but giddy.

He lifted you effortlessly, cradling you in his arms with a gentleness that made your pulse flutter. Your head rested against his chest, ears brushing the steady thrum of his heartbeat, and you could feel the warmth of his body through every curve pressed against him.

His eyes scanned you, taking in every detail, the sheen of your skin, the delicate shivers of your body, the soft catch of your breath. and his lips curved into a grin that was completely unlike the mischievous or teasing expression he sometimes wore. This one was soft, proud, full of adoration and care, and it made your stomach flutter in response.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, fingers brushing lightly across your back as if memorizing your shape. “You’re perfect.”

You lifted your gaze to his, still panting, cheeks warm, and for a moment the intensity of everything you’d just shared seemed to melt into a quiet, almost sacred calm. Your fingers brushed against his chest, tracing the muscles beneath the fabric, feeling the steady pulse of him, and he held you tighter without saying another word.

The world outside the room no longer existed. There was only the two of you, wrapped up in the aftermath, your bodies pressed together, hearts still racing, and the silent communication in his gaze telling you that he saw every inch of you, cherished every reaction, and would never rush you.

You smiled softly, letting yourself melt into him, warmth spreading through your chest. His grin widened, not in mischief, not in hunger, but in full, quiet joy, admiring you in the way someone admires something rare and precious.

For the first time, you felt completely seen, completely safe, and completely desired.

He carried you to your bed, each step slow and unhurried, careful not to jostle your spent, trembling body. He felt proud knowing he could finally give you something, make you feel like this. Because you definitely deserved it.

His hand brushed a few damp strands of hair from your forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a delicate touch that made your chest tighten. Then, softly, almost lazily, he pressed a short, lingering kiss to your chin. You felt the warmth of his lips seep through, grounding you, comforting you.

Your head dropped against the pillow, your breath slow, and even as you finally surrendered to sleep. He stayed quiet for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against your chest where his head laid. The tension, the heat, and the exhilaration from earlier melted into something tender and safe.

The room was quiet, warm, and filled with the lingering echo of what had passed, but in that moment, it was enough to simply hold each other. Slowly, his eyelids grew heavy. "I love you" he mumbled into the skin of her collarbone. Before letting his first good sleep this week take over him.

MASTERLIST

[etherealangell1]

Quirk Name: Floraissance

Type: Emitter

Description:

The user can grow flowers anywhere on their body or from any solid surface they’re touching. Can grow all flowers to ever exist, even ones that have never been discovered by the human eye or went extinct from earth completely. While visually stunning, these flowers are ordinary in durability and have no inherent offensive capabilities unless the user chooses species with specific natural properties (e.g., strong scents, mild toxins, thorny stems).

When the user stands on or touches a solid surface, they can spread growth outwards from the contact point. With enough time and focus, they can create massive floral patterns across walls, streets, or even entire fields.

Core Abilities:

1. Body Bloom: Flowers can sprout directly from skin, hair, or nails. They can be decorative, camouflage-oriented, or functional (e.g., scented blooms to distract or calm).

2. Surface Growth: Touching a solid material (soil, concrete, metal, wood, etc.) allows flowers to grow from it, spreading outward in any direction. Growth stops if contact is broken.

3. Floral Creativity: User can produce flowers from imagination — combining colors, shapes, or scents in ways that don’t exist in nature. They can also recreate extinct species.

4. Natural Effects: Certain flowers may have mild practical uses —

Strong scents to mask other smells or distract opponents.

Thorny stems to create small barriers.

Flowers with edible petals or mild medicinal properties.

Drawbacks:

Flowers are still natural — fragile, easily destroyed, and flammable.

Extended creation drains stamina and hydration. Overuse can cause dizziness or fainting.

Visuals:

Petals may fall naturally from the user during quirk use, leaving colorful trails.

Contact growth often begins with a soft glow or pulse at the fingertips or feet before blooming.

Imaginary flowers often have surreal, fantastical designs and shifting colors.

[etherealangell1]

Quirk Name: Amaranthine

Type: Mutation / Emitter Hybrid

Description:

The user’s body naturally produces an undying life force that manifests in two ways — self-perpetuating immortality and contact-based vitality manipulation. Their cells regenerate endlessly, preventing aging, scarring, or permanent damage, while granting them an otherworldly, ageless beauty. However, the same life force that sustains them can be turned against others — by skin-to-skin contact, they can drain vitality from any living being while adding to their own.

Rather than killing instantly, the drain induces intense fatigue, disorientation, and rapid cellular breakdown. Long, continuous contact can stop a heart or leave the victim in a near-death state.

Core Abilities:

1. Eternal Regeneration:

Wounds close in seconds to minutes depending on severity.

Completely immune to disease, poison, and normal aging.

Organ failure is impossible unless the organ is destroyed entirely in one strike.

2. Vital Touch:

Requires bare skin-to-skin contact.

Can siphon life force at a controllable rate — from a mild weakening to full collapse.

Prolonged draining restores the user’s stamina and accelerates regeneration even further.

Victims feel a cold, sinking sensation spreading from the point of contact.

3. Perfect Preservation:

The user never physically changes past their prime.

Their skin remains unblemished and hair never dulls, giving them an uncanny, almost supernatural beauty.

Drawbacks:

Clothing, gloves, or barriers completely nullify offensive capability.

Extended regeneration, while injured, consumes huge amounts of calories; hunger can lead to sluggishness and fainting.

Draining too much too fast can cause temporary sensory overload — ringing in the ears, migraines, blurred vision.

Cannot resurrect from complete brain or heart destruction, or from total disintegration.

Visuals:

Veins faintly glow a deep garnet red when using Vital Touch.

Eyes develop a dark red corona around the iris during active draining.

When healing, small motes of dark red light ripple along their skin like embers in slow motion.

[etherealangell1]

ᴍʏ ʜᴇʀᴏ ᴀᴄᴀᴅᴇᴍɪᴀ

｡ₓ ू ₒ ु ˚ ू ₒ ु ₓ｡

ೃ⁀➷ ꜱʜᴏᴛᴀ ᴀɪᴢᴀᴡᴀ

: ̗̀➛ Drabbles ➼ d1 - d2 - d3 - d4 - d5 - d6

: ̗̀➛ Halloween silly ➸ (x fem!reader, oneshot, kissing, making out, explicit touching, little tiny bit of angst, didnt feel like continuing with smut, rushed sorry)

: ̗̀➛ Aizawa Headcannons ➸ lmk if there is anything I could add. (Also free for smut hc. I didn't focus on that when writing this)

: ̗̀➛ Nothing now ➸ (Aizawa x fem!reader, oneshot, tension slow build, mainly fluff. Friends to lovers)

: ̗̀➛ My Little Dove ➸ (one-shot, x fem!reader, kiss scene and slow tension building. Mainly just fluff and confessions. )

: ̗̀➛ Was it love? ➸ (x fem!reader. Angst, that's pretty much it) not what I originally had in mind. I wanted to to lead to a much sweeter route because of the title. But then I kinda rushed it and got lazy. Mb)

: ̗̀➛ While he has you ➸ ( The reader is mute, meaning she is not able to speak. Mentions of a past one night stand, some angst and distance, also a Lil kiss. Eventual fluff aswell. Yearning and longing. )

: ̗̀➛ Baby ➸ Notes: WC: 3K. From soft fluff to angst. Tiniest kiss scene and honestly my LAZIEST work ever. I mean it this is horrible. Picture credits to the artist. Also not proofread and written over a span of time so some parts may be a little wonky

ೃ⁀➷ ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏ

: ̗̀➛ Bakugo Headcannons ➸ lmk if there is anything I could add. (Also free for smut hc. I didn't focus on that when writing this)

: ̗̀➛ (555) 654-3210 ▪︎ pt 1 ➸ (x fem!reader, quirk using reader, aged up characters, short multi chapter --- in progress)

[etherealangell1]

ᴍʏ ʜᴇʀᴏ ᴀᴄᴀᴅᴇᴍɪᴀ

｡ₓ ू ₒ ु ˚ ू ₒ ु ₓ｡

ೃ⁀➷ ꜱʜᴏᴛᴀ ᴀɪᴢᴀᴡᴀ

: ̗̀➛ Drabbles ➼ d1 - d2 - d3 - d4 - d5 - d6

: ̗̀➛ Halloween silly ➸ (x fem!reader, oneshot, kissing, making out, explicit touching, little tiny bit of angst, didnt feel like continuing with smut, rushed sorry)

: ̗̀➛ Aizawa Headcannons ➸ lmk if there is anything I could add. (Also free for smut hc. I didn't focus on that when writing this)

: ̗̀➛ Nothing now ➸ (Aizawa x fem!reader, oneshot, tension slow build, mainly fluff. Friends to lovers)

: ̗̀➛ My Little Dove ➸ (one-shot, x fem!reader, kiss scene and slow tension building. Mainly just fluff and confessions. )

: ̗̀➛ Was it love? ➸ (x fem!reader. Angst, that's pretty much it) not what I originally had in mind. I wanted to to lead to a much sweeter route because of the title. But then I kinda rushed it and got lazy. Mb)

: ̗̀➛ While he has you ➸ ( The reader is mute, meaning she is not able to speak. Mentions of a past one night stand, some angst and distance, also a Lil kiss. Eventual fluff aswell. Yearning and longing. )

: ̗̀➛ Baby ➸ Notes: WC: 3K. From soft fluff to angst. Tiniest kiss scene and honestly my LAZIEST work ever. I mean it this is horrible. Picture credits to the artist. Also not proofread and written over a span of time so some parts may be a little wonky

: ̗̀➛ Apparently Perfect ➸ Aizawa and reader have some underlying tension with unspoken feelings finally being explored slowly. WC: 6.8k. { Explicit content -- Small Age Gap, reassurance, Oral (F receiving), overstim, fluff to smut, cute romance. F! Breast insecurity)

ೃ⁀➷ ᴋᴀᴛꜱᴜᴋɪ ʙᴀᴋᴜɢᴏ

: ̗̀➛ Bakugo Headcannons ➸ lmk if there is anything I could add. (Also free for smut hc. I didn't focus on that when writing this)

: ̗̀➛ (555) 654-3210 ▪︎ pt 1 ➸ (x fem!reader, quirk using reader, aged up characters, short multi chapter --- in progress)

[etherealangell1]

. ♡ ʙᴀʙʏ

Shota Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Notes: WC: 3K. From soft fluff to angst. Tiniest kiss scene and honestly my LAZIEST work ever. I mean it this is horrible. Picture credits to the artist. Also not proofread and written over a span of time so some parts may be a little wonky

Synopsis: You and Aizawa finally revealed your feelings and life actually started sounding pretty good for you both. Then a drastic turn and only a piece of you left in the end.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

The sound of cicadas filled the humid air, rising and falling like waves. Somewhere nearby, water flowed gently over smooth stones, but Aizawa wasn’t listening to that. He was watching you.

You moved ahead of him on the forest path, your sandals in one hand, the other stretched out to touch tall grass or hanging leaves like they were sacred. You were humming—some off-key, bubbly little melody that had no structure and no end, like you were making it up as you went along.

He should’ve found it annoying.

You turned around suddenly, walking backward now with that grin—sunlight catching in your hair, your eyes alive with mischief.

“You’re walking like someone who hasn’t taken a break in a decade,” you teased, wiggling your brows. “Loosen up, Eraserhead.”

He scoffed under his breath but didn’t argue. You called him that sometimes, even when he wasn’t in uniform. You liked teasing him with his own name, like it gave you some kind of claim on him.

“I am loose,” he muttered dryly.

You raised an eyebrow. “That your idea of flirting?”

He looked away. “No.”

You laughed like it was the funniest thing you’d heard all day. Your laugh was unguarded—real. Not the forced kind people use in bars or team meetings, not the polite chuckle strangers give to fill silences. Yours had no filter. When you were happy, the whole world knew.

He never realized how much he liked that sound until today.

You skipped ahead again, pausing near the stream that split the trail. The water only reached your ankles, but you let it soak the hem of your dress anyway.

He stayed on the edge, hands in his pockets, watching you like a man looking into the sun. You knelt to pick something from the water—a smooth stone, shiny and dark, and held it up like a prize.

“It’s got a scar on it,” you said, holding it toward him. “Like a little battle mark. It’s still pretty though.”

He stared at the stone, then at you.

“I think you do that on purpose,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make everything sound… softer. Lighter. Like you’re choosing to see the world better than it is.”

You looked at him for a moment, really looked at him, like you weren’t expecting something that honest. Then—softly, “Would that be such a bad thing?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took the stone from your hand. Your fingers were wet and cold from the stream, but he didn’t let go right away. And neither did you.

He glanced up. You were already watching him, eyes calm and bright.

He realized he liked you in pieces. Not all at once.

He liked how you talked too much when you were nervous. How you made tea for everyone, even if they didn’t ask. How you sat too close sometimes and laughed too loud and smiled like you hadn’t been hurt before.

He liked how you were entirely yourself, even when he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

You were joy. Not just light-heartedness—but real joy. The kind that made people want to stay.

And for the first time in a long time… he wanted to stay.

He went home that night later than he should have. His patrol had long since expired. He hadn’t even sent a text to excuse himself. Just let the time slip by while you made up stories about the clouds and called frogs in the stream your “admirers.”

He was annoyed with himself—or he told himself he was. He didn’t like when things veered off schedule. Didn’t like the way you always invited him to follow you into things that had nothing to do with duty—and he kept going anyway.

When he stepped into his dark apartment, the quiet hit harder than usual. No humming, no laughter, no sandals clacking on the porch. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the faint rustle of his scarf when he tossed it on the hook.

He stared at his boots for a long time after kicking them off. Then at the rock in his coat pocket—the little black one you handed him, with the pale scar across the middle.

He shouldn’t have kept it. But he did.

The next morning, you were still in his head.

Not in a loud way—just a nudge. A warmth in his chest when he passed the tea aisle at the corner store. You’d rambled once about how tea bags were an abomination. “Loose leaf or don’t bother,” you’d said, mock offended.

He didn’t buy any tea. But he lingered longer than he meant to.

By the third day, it was worse.

He caught himself scanning crowds, half-looking for you out of habit. Not that you were ever in one place. You were the type to be everywhere—helping with hero support students, patching up first-years with a bandaid and a sweet joke, showing up unannounced with paper bags of mochi and saying you “made too much again."

You were the kind of person who made yourself known without trying. And now that you weren’t around, the world felt a little too quiet.

Aizawa didn’t talk about it. He didn’t write about it. But the moment he laid down at night, your voice was louder than anything else. The sing-song way you said his name. The soft look you gave him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

He was in trouble.

It happened quietly. Not like some dramatic confession or heat-of-the-moment kiss. Just a normal evening.

You were on the roof of your apartment building. You’d invited him over because “the sky’s going to look good tonight,” and for some reason, that had been enough.

He wasn’t a sky-watcher. But you were.

He was sitting on an old lawn chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded as you danced around with a flashlight and a pack of lemon cookies.

“You’re not even looking,” you teased, dropping down next to him on a faded picnic blanket.

“I’m looking,” he muttered, though his gaze was mostly on you.

You smiled, tucking your legs beneath you. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Yeah, but lately it’s a weird quiet.” You leaned closer, your face turned toward him. “You’ve been thinking. About something. Or someone.”

He looked at you then, really looked.

There were strands of hair clinging to your cheek from the breeze. Your eyes were so open, so unguarded. You didn’t know. Or maybe you did.

He didn’t answer your question. Just stared.

You tilted your head. “Shota?”

And something cracked.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he said suddenly, the words thick, unfamiliar on his tongue. “I don’t want this to be one of those things that comes and goes. You know?”

Your expression softened immediately. You blinked slowly, like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. Then, like you realized what it meant.

“You mean… you want me to stay?”

He didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Just leaned in, hesitant at first, until your foreheads brushed and your smile faltered.

Then you kissed him.

It was soft, slower than either of you expected. And when it ended, you didn’t pull away. You just curled up beside him, your head on his shoulder, hand in his.

The stars didn’t look any different. But something in him had shifted.

And this time, when he smiled, it wasn’t faint. It was full.

But then. Things changed drastically.

It started small.

A text that went unanswered. A night you didn’t show up to the usual spot. He figured you were busy. Distracted. People got like that sometimes. And you’d never been one for sticking to a strict schedule anyway.

But by the third day, the silence started to feel intentional.

He called. Once. Then again. Left a voice message even though he hated the sound of his own voice. You didn’t call back. You didn’t even listen to the message.

He went to your apartment.

No one answered.

Lights off. Curtains drawn. Mail gathering in the box like it had been days. He knocked until his hand hurt, until an old woman across the hall cracked her door and whispered, “She left in the middle of the night, I think. I haven’t seen her since.”

He stood outside your door long after that, staring at the frame like it might open on its own. Like maybe this was a joke you’d laugh about next week.

It wasn’t.

He searched.

Hospitals. Reports. Asked around at the support course. No one knew anything. No one had seen you. The last anyone remembered, you were smiling. Tired, maybe, but still you. Still warm. Still there.

You were just gone.

No goodbye. No note. No sign of a fight or a reason. You had been everywhere in his life—his texts, his thoughts, his damn routine—and now there was just silence.

A silence so sharp it cut straight through him.

He didn’t tell anyone how badly it messed with him. Not Hizashi. Not Nemuri. He buried it under patrols, exhaustion, the kinds of jobs no one wanted. Anything to keep himself from thinking.

But he still checked his phone more than usual. Still looked for your face in crowds. Still paused when he walked past lemon cookies in the store.

He kept the stone in his pocket.

Every day.

It had been nearly a month when the ache stopped feeling fresh and just started becoming part of him.

He told himself if you came back, he wouldn’t ask questions. Wouldn’t get angry. He’d just sit down next to you like nothing had happened, like the days apart were just a dream he’d finally woken up from.

But you didn’t come back.

And eventually… he stopped expecting you to.

It was late. The apartment was dark except for the dim kitchen light—Aizawa hadn’t bothered turning it off. He sat at the table, arms folded on its surface, forehead resting against his sleeves like he could sleep there. But he wasn’t sleeping.

He was remembering.

Not the first kiss. Not the rooftop. Not the sound of your laugh echoing down the trail.

But the shower.

You’d teased him about it all week.

“C’mon, babe. What are you afraid of? I promise I won’t peek,” you’d said with a grin so wide he couldn’t tell if you were serious or not.

He hated the pet names. Or at least… pretended to. Every time you called him babe or baby, he’d scowl. Roll his eyes. But you never stopped. And eventually, he stopped correcting you.

You knew what you were doing. Pushing at the edges of his walls with soft hands and shameless affection. You didn’t try to break through it. You just… waited for them to lower.

And that night, he let it.

Steam curled from the corners of the mirror, fogging the glass and wrapping around the tile walls. You stood beneath the water, back to him, hair plastered to your skin. He watched the way you moved—completely unguarded, as if you trusted him with everything. As if this wasn’t terrifying for him.

When you turned, your eyes locked on his. No teasing then. No jokes. Just soft, focused stillness.

Water beaded on your eyelashes. Ran in trails down your collarbone, over the curves of your body. And still, your eyes never left his.

He knew what you were doing. You wanted closeness. Intimacy. Not just sex. Not tension. Just him. Just him there, in the vulnerable silence with you.

And he let you.

He’d never felt more bare in his life—not because of the water or being fully naked, but because you looked at him like you saw him. Really saw him.

No judgment. No pressure. Just you, standing there like you knew all his worst parts and loved him anyway.

And somehow… that was the part that undid him.

You smiled faintly, eyes soft and quiet as you reached for his hand. Your fingers laced into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re beautiful when you’re like this,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his.

He closed his eyes then, let the water fall over both of you, let the heat soak into his bones and into the ache in his chest. He didn’t speak. He just held on.

Now, alone in his apartment, that memory was a knife.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly through his nose, but it didn’t steady him. He could still feel the weight of your gaze. Still hear your voice echoing in his head like the ghost of something gentle.

“You’re beautiful when you’re like this.”

He didn’t feel beautiful.

He felt empty.

He missed you.

And God, it hurt to remember.

…

Nine months.

He hadn’t realized the weight of that number until he heard the truth. Until it meant something.

The pieces came slowly, out of order. A passing reference from a hospital clerk. A near-miss report on a clinic file. Then your name—tucked quietly into the corner of a record you never intended for him to see.

Pregnant.

Dead.

You’d disappeared not because you stopped loving him, but because you thought he might. Thought that carrying his child was a burden he’d never asked for. A mistake he’d walk away from.

But if you had told him…

God, if you had just told him—

He would’ve stayed. He always would’ve stayed.

Now he was gripping that too-late truth with both hands, digging his nails into his palms in the passenger seat of Yamada’s car.

The sky outside was gray. Neither stormy nor calm. Just overcast—clouds hanging low like the world was holding its breath.

Yamada didn’t say much. Just kept his hands on the wheel, eyes darting to Aizawa every few minutes. Checking on him like he was made of glass, like at any moment he might crack into pieces.

Aizawa hadn’t spoken since they left the house.

His hands were shaking, knuckles pressed hard against his thighs, jaw locked so tightly it hurt to breathe. Every minute felt like a countdown to something irreversible. Like the weight of your absence was finally about to collide with reality—and he didn’t know what would be left when it did.

The hospital was too clean. Too white.

Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a cold sheen across the linoleum. The walls smelled like antiseptic and muted sorrow. Nurses moved quietly in and out of rooms, their voices hushed, like even the air was mourning.

Aizawa walked slowly, each step heavier than the last. Yamada was at his side, one hand hovering behind his back, steadying but not pushing.

Down the hall. Around a corner. And then-

The door opened.

And she was there.

So small. Swaddled in soft linen, tucked into the arms of a nurse whose face blurred instantly from his vision. Everything else in the room faded.

Except her.

His daughter.

He didn’t move. Just stared.

The baby blinked slowly up at the ceiling, her lashes fluttering, lips parted with a faint little sound like a sigh. Her hair was dark and unruly—soft tufts sticking up as if in protest. But her skin had your warmth. Her cheeks carried your glow. And her eyes…

His throat clenched.

Her eyes were you. Wide. Clear. Innocent.

Still waiting for the world to explain itself.

He took a step forward. Then another. The nurse said something—gentle, reassuring—but he didn’t hear it. Only the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

“Would you like to hold her?” she asked softly.

He nodded once. Barely.

The moment she was placed into his arms, his body stilled. Like a clock that had been winding too fast for too long—and suddenly stopped.

She was warm. So light it startled him. Like holding the beginning of something he didn’t know he needed.

His arms cradled her instinctively, muscle memory kicking in from a life he never lived but somehow always carried in his chest. She shifted against him, tiny fingers curling slightly. Her head fit perfectly beneath his chin.

He closed his eyes.

And broke.

Tears slipped silently down his cheeks, dripping into her blanket, onto her hair. His shoulders shook once, then stilled again as he lowered into the nearest chair, careful not to jostle her.

“I didn’t know,” he rasped, voice wrecked and brittle.

Yamada stood near the wall, his own eyes red, hands clenched uselessly in the folds of his jacket.

“You couldn’t have,” he whispered.

Aizawa stared down at the baby, barely breathing.

“I should’ve.”

His thumb brushed gently across her cheek, trembling.

She blinked up at him.

And he saw you.

Not just in her features—but in the quiet strength of her gaze. In the softness. The stubbornness. The spark.

His chest tightened.

“I see you in her,” he whispered, voice splintering again. “I feel you in her.”

Her hand moved. Just a twitch. But it was enough. He held her closer, like he could protect her from every terrible thing this world had taken from him.

Like maybe, just maybe, holding her was the beginning of finding you again.

Yamada stepped out of the room, his chest rising with a quiet sigh as he shut the door.

And for the first time in nine months, Aizawa wasn’t alone.

The baby was asleep in his bed.

Wrapped in a blanket he hadn’t picked, lying on top of the only clean sheet he had—because he hadn’t planned this. Not this way. Not like this.

His apartment was too quiet. Even quieter than usual. No faint city noise, no rustling from the hallway. Just the soft breath of a newborn, tiny and steady, rising and falling like it hadn’t yet learned the world was unfair.

Aizawa stood at the doorframe, unmoving. Watching.

His hands still smelled faintly of the baby soap the nurse had given him. His fingers, still curled like he was afraid to touch too much. Like if he touched her wrong, he’d break something he could never fix.

He should’ve gone to sleep. Should’ve eaten. But all he could do was stand there, drowning in it.

The silence.

The fact that you were gone.

The fact that she was here.

His thoughts hit in waves.

The way you used to walk ahead of him even when he asked you not to—“You're broody and slow, I’m leading.”

The way you teased him about pet names, calling him baby with a smile so warm it made him roll his eyes every time.

The way you’d slipped your hands onto his chest in the shower, looking up at him like you saw right through the walls he thought he’d never lower.

Or simpler things. Like waking up next to you. Watching your chest rise and fall. Or eating a meal with you.

He remembered every stupid reason he hadn’t said it sooner. Every time he had the chance to tell you what you meant, and didn’t. Not in words, anyway.

He'd just assumed there’d be more time.

But there wasn’t.

You were gone, and he hadn’t even known. Hadn’t felt it when it happened. Hadn’t seen the signs. You had slipped out of this world like mist in the morning, while he was living his life thinking you'd be back.

He dragged a hand down his face, nails grazing his jaw, heart clenched too tightly behind his ribs to function.

Yamada had stayed the night on the couch.

After helping him carry in the car seat, the borrowed clothes, the donated diapers from the nurse who used to be your neighbor. He’d gone to the kitchen, opened cabinets that were half-empty, and started a list.

“Some of the staff want to help,” he said gently, eyes kind but unreadable. “A few of them already pitched in for formula, bottles. Recovery Girl offered to teach you how to swaddle. I will help set up a crib this weekend.”

Aizawa hadn’t answered.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know how to accept help for a life he wasn’t ready for—let alone a life born from someone he still loved more than he could comprehend.

Coworker, they said.

Friend.

Gone too soon.

But none of them knew.

None of them knew the way your fingers lingered on his wrist when you handed him tea.

None of them knew the sound of your voice when you were falling asleep on his chest.

None of them knew what it meant when you called him “Shouta” in that quiet, sure voice, like the name belonged to you.

He stepped closer to the bed.

The baby stirred slightly, one fist twitching against the side of her head. Her face was peaceful. Unburdened.

He knelt slowly beside her.

She didn’t know. She didn’t understand yet that she’d been born into grief.

But she was here. She was real.

And she was his.

He exhaled, barely audible.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes never leaving her face. “I should’ve been there. For you. For her. I should’ve known.”

The baby shifted, breathing softly, like she forgave him without needing to hear it.

He reached out—slow, deliberate—and let his fingers lightly touch her hand.

She curled her fingers around his pinky.

It was such a small thing. Such a fragile, unconscious act.

But it unraveled him completely.

His shoulders hunched as he leaned forward, forehead gently touching the edge of the blanket, chest caving in with silent, exhausted tears.

“I’ll take care of her,” he whispered, broken. “I promise.”

The baby was asleep in his bed.

Wrapped in a blanket he hadn’t picked, lying on top of the only clean sheet he had—because he hadn’t planned this. Not this way. Not like this.

His apartment was too quiet. Even quieter than usual. No faint city noise, no rustling from the hallway. Just the soft breath of a newborn, tiny and steady, rising and falling like it hadn’t yet learned the world was unfair.

Aizawa stood at the doorframe, unmoving. Watching.

His hands still smelled faintly of the baby soap the nurse had given him. His fingers, still curled like he was afraid to touch too much. Like if he touched her wrong, he’d break something he could never fix.

He should’ve gone to sleep. Should’ve eaten. But all he could do was stand there, drowning in it.

The silence.

The fact that you were gone.

The fact that she was here.

The baby stirred slightly, one fist twitching against the side of her head. Her face was peaceful. Unburdened.

He knelt slowly beside her.

She didn’t know. She didn’t understand yet that she’d been born into grief.

But she was here. She was real.

And she was his.

He exhaled, barely audible.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes never leaving her face. “I should’ve been there. For you. For her. I should’ve known.”

The baby shifted, breathing softly, like she forgave him without needing to hear it.

He reached out—slow, deliberate—and let his fingers lightly touch her hand.

She curled her fingers around his pinky.

It was such a small thing. Such a fragile, unconscious act.

But it unraveled him completely.

His shoulders hunched as he leaned forward, forehead gently touching the edge of the blanket, chest caving in with silent, exhausted tears.

“I’ll take care of her,” he whispered, broken. “I promise.”

[etherealangell1]

. ♡ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ

Shota Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Notes: WC: 6K. The reader is mute, meaning she is not able to speak. Mentions of a past one night stand, some angst and distance, also a Lil kiss. Eventual fluff aswell. Yearning and longing.

Synopsis: Mute reader who's voice was taken from her lead her to live her life alone, seeming it was easier. Until Aizawa accidently stole a place in her life as he began to observe her more often. Leading to a new and complicated relationship.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

You were always alone.

Not in the tragic, cast-aside way some people imagined, but in the quiet, intentional kind of way that made it clear — this was your choice.

You didn’t go out with coworkers. You didn’t sit in the teacher’s lounge unless you needed something. And you didn’t linger after meetings. You spoke to no one, because you couldn’t — your voice had been taken from you a long time ago, stolen in a way that never returned. Years had passed, and silence had simply become your way of life.

At U.A., you've worked there for three years now. Long enough that everyone knew of your existence, but not you.

You weren’t an outsider.

You taught some of the most advanced academic courses on campus — mathematics, engineering, applied theory — and handled the design and maintenance of U.A.'s security systems, training tech, dorm electrical layouts, underground support mechanisms, and more. Half the building had your fingerprints on it in some way. Nezu trusted you more than anyone when it came to tech. When he needed something done right, it went to you.

Your quirk wasn’t impressive — not by hero society’s standards. You were absurdly flexible, with a skeletal and muscular system that could twist and bend in ways that should’ve been impossible. But what made you invaluable wasn't your body. It was your mind. Calculations came to you like breathing. Patterns, physics, architecture, behavior — you were made for observing, adapting, designing.

Still, despite all that, you stayed quiet. Reserved. As you felt like that was your only option.

When people passed you in the halls, they smiled or waved. Teachers and pro heroes spoke to you with normal tones and didn’t pity you, not really. They knew you were sharp, and kind in your own subtle way. You often rolled your eyes playfully during meetings, or raised a brow in mock disapproval when someone said something stupid. You smiled more than most people expected, even if it didn’t always reach your eyes.

But still—you were alone. Not because people didn’t like you. Because it was easier that way.

You'd stopped trying to fit in a long time ago. Trying to connect without a voice was exhausting. Trying to laugh without sound, or share jokes you couldn’t tell, or stories you couldn’t describe. Every moment you spent around others reminded you of what you were missing — of everything you couldn’t be anymore. And that hurt more than isolation ever did.

Kayama and Yamada meant well, though.

They always tried. Too hard, sometimes. Inviting you out, asking you to tag along, planning little get-togethers you never attended. You knew they meant every bit of it with good intentions, but you could see the tiny flicker of disappointment each time you declined. You hated that. Hated the idea of them wasting time and energy trying to “include” you when you were perfectly fine fading into the background. The pity wasn’t always obvious — but it was always there.

Then there was Aizawa.

He was different.

He never tried too hard. Never made a show of trying to understand you. Never asked anything you couldn't answer. He simply... existed around you. Over time, you started to notice he lingered in the same rooms as you more often. Made quiet comments that didn’t need replies. Sat near you during briefings. Looked at you longer than most.

He didn’t pity you. If anything, he respected the silence. Understood it.

And that made you lower your guard more than you meant to.

Somehow — slowly — he’d gotten to know you. Not through long conversations, but through presence. Through shared glances. Through simple nods and sidelong expressions. He’d learned how to read your mood by the way your eyes moved. How your shoulders sat. How long it took you to respond.

He liked you. Just a bit. Enough to notice.

And one night, when things were blurry and a little too warm — an accidental one-night stand had happened between you both. It wasn’t planned. And it wasn’t discussed afterward. You went back to silence, and he didn’t push.

But he remembered. And more importantly… he saw you.

He noticed how no one sat with you at lunch until you were dragged to his group by Yamada. How you disappeared after meetings. How you walked the halls quietly, always on your way to something. Always alone. He noticed how rarely you looked surprised by anything — how hyper-aware you always were. He knew you well enough now to see when you were faking a smile. Or when you were truly somewhere else, far away in your thoughts.

He didn’t know if you ever thought of that night. Or of him.

But he knew he hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

He still watched you. Still wondered what went on behind those quiet eyes. Still felt a strange kind of guilt — not just because he’d once touched you, kissed you, held you — but because you were a good person. And no one as sweet and sharp as you deserved to be so isolated all the time.

Tonight, his phone was cracked. He could’ve gone to a store.

But instead, he found himself walking toward the staff dorms.

Just for a reason to see you.

The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the dorm kitchen, blending with the faint buzz of the overhead light. It was late—just past midnight—and the building had mostly gone still. The air smelled faintly of coffee and microwave leftovers, warm and quiet.

You sat alone at the kitchen counter, legs pulled up onto the stool, knees tucked close as you leaned slightly forward over your phone. The sleeves of your hoodie covered your hands, and your hair—untamed and loosely tied—curled near your cheek. The glow from your screen reflected in your eyes as your thumb lazily swiped through something, not really focused. You weren’t expecting company.

But you sensed him before you saw him.

The sound of approaching footsteps padded in from the hallway—slow, deliberate. And then Aizawa stepped into view, hands tucked into the deep pockets of his black hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched in that exhausted but alert posture he always carried. His gaze moved over the room in a practiced sweep before settling on you.

You didn’t jump, didn’t react much. Your head simply turned lazily toward him, acknowledging his presence with a glance and a soft arch of your brow. Your face was neutral but not cold. You again? it seemed to say.

He walked closer, stopping at the edge of the counter beside you. Without a word, he pulled something from his pocket and placed it in front of you—a phone, its screen shattered in a web of cracks that caught the overhead light like jagged glass.

“I dropped it,” he said flatly, his tone dry as ever.

You blinked at the device, then looked up at him with an expression just short of unimpressed. The look you gave him said more than words could: And what exactly do you want me to do with this at one in the morning?

“I figured…” he began, glancing sideways at you, “...if anyone could fix it, it’d be the person who practically rebuilt the U.A. security system with a soldering iron and some duct tape.”

That earned the smallest huff from you—your version of a laugh. You held out your hand without fanfare.

He gave you the phone.

You inspected the damage with nimble fingers, tilting it toward the light, testing a few taps along the screen. The response was spotty at best. You glanced back at him, then pointed loosely down the hallway toward your converted office.

Your eyes met his briefly.

“I’ll wait,” he said, leaning a little against the counter.

You held his gaze a second longer, watching him with a perceptiveness that always made him feel just slightly exposed. Then, without a word, you slid off the stool. The oversized hoodie draped low over your bare legs, the sleeves swallowing your hands as you turned, padding toward your tech lab in quiet, steady steps.

He followed.

Your office was cool and dim, softly lit by scattered desk lamps and the eerie glow of a dozen monitors left idling. Shelves were packed with labeled bins, coils of wire, blinking devices, and sketches pinned to the walls. Tons and tons of sketches. The faint scent of solder and lavender drifted through the air—sharp and soft at once.

You moved with practiced ease, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a small toolkit without needing to look. You sat in your chair, back straight but relaxed, pulling your legs underneath you as you worked. The cracked phone lay under the white circle of the desk lamp, its reflection catching in your focused eyes.

Aizawa lingered just inside the doorway, arms crossed loosely. He scanned the room—absorbing the details like he always did. He’d never been in your space before, not like this. It was messy, meticulous, quiet. It was you.

“You upgraded the South Wing’s systems recently,” he said after a moment.

You didn’t respond verbally, just offered a quick sideways glance and a slight nod.

“Didn’t lag once during patrol check-in.”

Your lips curved upward a fraction. Appreciation.

He took a few steps closer, the quiet padding of his socks the only sound in the room besides your tools.

“I haven't seen you lately” he said softly.

That made your fingers pause for a split second. You didn’t look up. Just shrugged. Not on purpose.

“You weren’t in the lounge today.”

Another shrug, smaller.

He watched you, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re not avoiding me again… are you?”

That made you look at him.

Direct. Flat.

You didn’t shake your head immediately—just stared for a beat, expression unreadable. Then a short, firm nod. No.

He exhaled through his nose and leaned against a shelf near your desk. His tone softened.

“Just making sure. I wasn’t sure if…” His voice dropped lower, just enough to make your ears strain. “...after that night, and everything after. Thought maybe you’d gone quiet again.”

You didn’t flinch, but you did stop working. Not visibly tense—just still. Your head dipped down slightly, your fingers gently adjusting the phone’s interior.

It was a silence filled with awareness.

He watched you carefully. He couldn’t always read your thoughts—not like you could read his—but he could feel the shift in the air.

“I still think about it,” he added, voice barely above a murmur.

Your hands stilled.

Then continued.

Delicate work resumed, quiet and mechanical.

You handed him the repaired phone less than ten minutes later, offering it with both hands like something freshly built.

He took it, but his attention stayed on your face.

You looked at him fully now. Your expression wasn’t smiling, but it wasn’t guarded either. Your eyes were calm. Watching.

Waiting.

“I’ll try not to drop it again,” he said, stepping back.

You tilted your head with a mild, amused expression.

He smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. At the doorway, he turned to look at you one last time.

“If I do… I’ll know where to find you.

This time, you didn’t look away.

You just raised your brows, eyes soft, faintly amused.

He always does.

The soft hum of the overhead light followed him as he stepped back into the hallway, freshly repaired phone resting in his palm.

Her office door clicked shut behind him — the faintest sound, yet still sharp in the silent corridor.

He stood there for a second, unmoving.

The light inside had cast her in a glow of dim blue and amber, monitors still flickering behind her. She’d stayed perched on her usual rolling chair, legs tucked under her, soldering tools and digital schematics scattered around like organized chaos. That faint smudge of carbon on her cheek. Her fingers quick and precise. Her expression unreadable, as always — except for that tiny glance she gave him when he thanked her, short and steady, with the ghost of a nod in return.

He hadn’t said much. He never needed to. Not with her.

But still… he wished he could say more.

A few minutes earlier, while she was focused on aligning the circuitry of his phone, he'd quietly slipped a few folded bills onto the edge of the cluttered table behind her — near a box of lens wipes and a cracked coffee mug she used for loose screws. He knew better than to try handing it to her directly. She’d have refused without blinking, maybe even shoved it back in his coat pocket before he left. She never charged the staff for tech repairs. Ever. Not once.

But he’d insisted on compensating her, at least this time.

It wasn’t just for the phone.

It was for the fact that she always helped, even when no one asked. For how she stayed late to update security logs, or repaired broken battle gear when students didn’t even realize it was damaged. For how she stayed up, night after night, designing new support tech the school probably wouldn’t even credit her for.

And maybe, if he was honest with himself, it was just to make her feel… remembered. Worth the effort. Worth something. He remembers her writing that down for him on a sticky note. He'd caught her tearing up a bit and convinced her to say what was wrong. But after that'd she pretended it never happened.

He wondered why she did that. Pretend nothing ever happened when it was her involved.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, exhaling quietly as he walked down the dim hallway.

The halls of the staff dorms were always this quiet at night — carpeted floors muting the sound of his steps, vending machine lights flickering in the distance, the faint hum of building systems designed by her running seamlessly in the walls.

She was already fading back into her routine. Into silence.

He knew she wouldn't find the money until after he was gone. And when she did, she'd probably roll her eyes — maybe even try to sneak it back to him next time she caught him dozing in the faculty lounge. But he hoped, just this once, she might let it go.

Might keep it.

Because she deserved more than just quiet gratitude and passing nods in the hallway.

She deserved to be seen. Even in silence.

And Aizawa had a feeling… he wasn’t done trying.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality, the quiet settling again like dust in the air. You didn’t move at first. You stayed seated on your stool, still bent slightly over the small workspace cluttered with circuit fragments and a cooling soldering iron. The faint scent of metal and ozone lingered, blending with the familiar hum of your lab equipment.

Your thumb hovered over your phone’s screen. You hadn’t been using it — not really. Just tapping through old blueprints, pretending not to notice the way he lingered after you handed the device back, eyes scanning your expression like he was trying to find something there.

He didn’t.

You hadn’t let him.

But he left something anyway.

Your eyes shifted, and your body moved only slightly — a quiet lean back in your chair, head tilting toward the side table cluttered with screws, an empty mug, a cracked display lens you hadn’t thrown out yet.

And there it was.

Folded bills. Neatly stacked. Tucked just far enough to be unnoticed at a glance.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled — the closest thing you gave to a scoff. A smile, crooked and tired, played faintly at your lips.

Of course he did.

Aizawa never said more than necessary. But his silences were never empty. You had learned that quickly after your first year here. He watched people — really watched — and when he did act, it was always intentional. Always meaningful. Like now.

You stared at the money a moment longer, then leaned forward and scooped it up gently, careful not to smear graphite or thermal paste on it. Your fingers lingered on the edges as you considered just slipping it back into his faculty mailbox tomorrow morning.

But something in you paused.

Maybe… not this time.

Maybe you’d let it go. Let him do something small, something quiet, and not fight it. Just this once.

Your gaze drifted toward the door he’d exited through, now closed and silent. Aizawa never overstayed his welcome, but he came when it mattered. Like tonight. You hadn’t seen much of him lately — and you hadn’t minded that. At least, not until he showed up again and reminded you what it was like to be… regarded. Genuinely.

You rose from your seat, the stool creaking slightly beneath you. Stiff legs, aching from hours hunched in the same position. You tucked the money into the top drawer of your work desk and ran your fingers through your hair, pushing the mess of it back from your face.

Then you turned off the light over your workspace, the room falling into the soft twilight glow of blinking monitors and indicator lights. Silent. Still.

But maybe, somehow… just a little warmer than before.

—

The morning crept in slowly, heavy and warm.

Golden sunlight spilled through the slats in your dorm room blinds, painting thin stripes across your tangled bedsheets and bare arms. You shifted beneath the blanket, forehead damp with sweat, a furrow in your brow as fragments of last night’s dream—no, memory—clung to your skin like steam.

His hands.

The faint pressure of fingers on your waist, the ghost of a thumb sweeping across your ribs. The press of him behind you—his breath at your neck.

His weight pressing down on you from on top. His hands gripping your thighs as he pulled you down, so he could plant his lips down your lower area. The tiny bruises he had left on your thighs and collarbone.

Him brushing your hair to the side, his fingers gently gliding across your cheek to your ear, all while kissing your neck.

It wasn’t vivid in a clear, cinematic way. It was worse. Fleeting. Fragmented. Moments so sharp they made your stomach twist before vanishing like mist the second you tried to focus.

You sat up too fast.

Your sheets fell away as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, planting your feet on the cold hardwood. You pressed your palms against your face and exhaled slowly. You hadn’t thought about that night in months—tried not to. It was a mistake. A messy, silent night in a quiet hotel room after a joint mission gone too long. Neither of you spoke about it the next morning. You didn’t have the voice for it. And he—he simply didn’t try.

You stood, quickly this time, letting the rush of movement force the images out of your head. Focus. You had systems to calibrate and students to supervise. You threw your hair up into a loose twist and threw on your usual work gear—a high-collared jacket and flexible, utility-lined pants—and headed out, trying not to check your phone for any messages. There were none. There never were.

U.A. buzzed with life, like it always did.

Students spilled out of classes like water from a broken pipe, filling the halls with the usual blend of laughter, grumbling, and clattering footsteps. You walked through the noise like a ghost—head high, expression serene, eyes sharp and always moving. A few students waved or offered you quiet nods as you passed, and you returned them with the small, polite smile you were known for.

But your pace shifted the moment you saw him.

He didn’t notice you at first—standing near the front of Class 1-A’s door, arms crossed, eyes shadowed by his usual heavy gaze. His hair was tied low, sloppily, and a black file folder was tucked under one arm. But he looked up when you turned the corner—like he sensed you—and your eyes met for a single, fleeting second.

Your smile vanished.

You dropped your gaze and pivoted smoothly, taking the longer hallway toward the tech wing. You didn’t rush. That would make it obvious. But your hands slipped into your pockets to hide the slight tremor in your fingers.

Aizawa watched you go.

He didn’t call out—of course he didn’t. But his head tilted just slightly to the side as you disappeared behind the turn. His eyes lingered on the hallway you’d taken, brows low, unreadable.

That was the third time you’d diverted your path today.

He wasn’t foolish enough to assume coincidence.

You hadn’t avoided him like this in months—not since the aftermath of that night. And just yesterday, things had felt... even. A little stiff, maybe, but functional. Comfortable, in that quiet, neutral space the two of you had always lived in.

Now this.

Now you wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

And you've done this before. You acted this way the following few days after your night together. And he just couldn't grasp why. By now he knew it wasn't exactly because of him, you made that clear. But what was he supposed to do if it was a personal matter? You never talked to anybody.

Even if you were mute, he'd still listen.

He didn’t pursue. Not yet. But he watched you for the rest of the day. Watched the way you disappeared from the teacher’s lounge before he stepped in. How you skipped lunch entirely. How even Kayama noticed you weren’t at your usual workbench near the west stairwell and muttered something about “pulling another all-nighter in that damn lab.”

And Aizawa, arms crossed in the shadow of the hallway, only narrowed his eyes.

Something was bothering you.

And he had a sinking feeling he already knew he wasn't going to be able to help. You wouldn't let him.

The hallway outside the staff dorms was silent in the early evening haze, sun low and golden through the windows. The students were tucked away in their own dorm wings, the staff halls peaceful in comparison—just the hum of overhead lights and the occasional shuffle of slippers on polished floors.

Aizawa didn’t usually stay here.

His dorm room was barely touched—more storage than living space. But tonight, something had pulled him here. Call it impulse. Call it guilt. Call it the undeniable ache in his chest when he saw the way you looked away from him all day without a word.

Not that you ever used words. But today your silence had weight.

He had just rounded the corner, keys in hand, when he saw you.

You’d just returned from wherever you’d vanished to after classes—backpack slung over one shoulder, your hair lazily pinned up, clothes loose and comfortable. A tank top, fitted and worn. Soft shorts that hit mid-thigh. You looked… real. Not the brilliant tech designer, not the mystery in the corner of staff meetings—just a tired woman at the end of a long day.

You hadn’t seen him all day.

Not really, anyway. Not beyond the unavoidable moments—a glance across the staff room, a flicker of him standing at the end of a hallway, the sound of his voice behind a classroom door. You avoided eye contact. Shifted paths in the hallway. Let conversations pass by without pause. It wasn’t about spite, or fear. It was self-preservation.

That morning, you’d woken up in a sheen of sweat, tangled in your sheets, breath uneven. You didn’t remember everything—just flashes. The brush of his hands at your waist. His mouth near your throat. The way his hair tickled your skin when he leaned close. You’d spent all day trying to erase it from your mind.

But Aizawa wasn’t easy to erase. And your body, traitorous as it was, remembered all the things you didn’t want it to.

Now, at last, you were back in your dorm. Safe. Solitary.

You let your bag fall by the entryway with a soft thud and tugged your hair down from its messy knot, fingers combing through the strands absently. Without thinking, you stripped off your work clothes and pulled on your usual end-of-day attire—an old, soft tank top and a pair of drawstring shorts. Comfortable, forgettable, yours.

You wandered toward your small kitchenette, grabbing your phone on the way, absentmindedly checking messages you wouldn’t respond to. Your back was to the door, shoulders loose, gaze on the countertop as you scrolled through your screen, eyes half-lidded and heavy with exhaustion.

He stood there in the hallway for a heartbeat too long.

And then, without thinking too hard about it—because overthinking would talk him out of it—he crossed the hall, footsteps slow, steady. He stopped in front of your door, hand poised. He could leave. He probably should leave.

But he didn’t.

He knocked. Three soft raps. Then silence.

He waited, fingers flexing once by his side. Already preparing what he’d say—or rather, how he’d say it. Gently. Carefully. Enough to give you room to respond however you wanted. With a shake of your head. A gesture. A glare. He’d take any of it. He just wanted something.

The door cracked open.

You stood there, barefoot on the wooden floor, the warm glow of your dorm lights behind you. Your expression was… blank. Calm, but unreadable. You looked up at him with those ever-sharp eyes, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other at your side.

He didn’t speak right away.

You couldn’t, he knew. And yet you managed to say so much with just the way you looked at him—like you were still deciding if you should shut the door, or let him in.

His voice was quiet, low as always. “Can I come in?”

You didn’t move for a moment. Then, a faint sigh through your nose, and you stepped back just enough for him to enter. You left the door open.

The room was clean but cluttered—books and tech parts and design schematics strewn in organized chaos across your desk and shelves. A dim yellow lamp lit the space in soft warmth, casting golden shadows across the floor. He stepped inside and stood awkwardly for a second, glancing around before settling his gaze back on you.

“I noticed you were avoiding me,” he said finally, voice rough but careful. “Did I do something? Or… is this about before?”

You looked down, jaw tightening slightly, and walked past him toward the kitchen nook to grab a glass of water. It gave you a moment to collect yourself, but Aizawa could read the way your shoulders stiffened. How your grip on the glass was a little too firm.

When you turned, you leaned against the counter. You didn't nod. Didn't shake your head. Just stared at him for a beat too long, eyes flickering across his face, as if searching for something you weren’t even sure you wanted to find.

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen,” he said, softer now. “I’m not here to make you explain anything. But I can’t help thinking I’ve made this harder for you. And that’s the last thing I want.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, then placed the glass down and finally moved—reaching into your desk drawer for the small whiteboard you kept nearby. It wasn’t often that you wrote anything. Most of your interactions didn’t require it.

But this time, you scrawled a few words.

“I just wanted to forget it.”

You looked at him. Vulnerable now, not unreadable. There was something raw in your eyes, like this admission cost you more than you wanted him to see.

Aizawa didn’t react at first. Just watched you, brow furrowed slightly.

Then, quietly: “Why?”

You hesitated.

Then another scribble.

“Because when I think about it, I can't help but want it to happen again”

The silence between you shifted.

Heavy. Charged.

And this time, when your eyes met his, you didn’t look away.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there across the kitchen island, gaze searching your face like he was trying to decode a language he hadn’t fully learned. It wasn’t the first time he’d looked at you like that — like he wanted to understand you, but wasn’t sure if he was even allowed to try.

Your fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the counter, posture still as your eyes quietly met his. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

But there was a pull — something unspoken threading the silence between you, heavy with uncertainty.

“Why is that all a bad thing?” he finally asked, voice low and even, but not cold. Not quite.

You blinked, eyes slightly widening, your expression faltering for a heartbeat. That question — simple as it was — caught you off guard. You weren’t expecting him to want more of that night. To even consider it again.

With you, of all people.

You?

Unbelievable.

He watched you scribble on the whiteboard — not your hands, but your face. Your expression. Your brows furrowing in thought, the way your lips pressed into a line. The subtle flick of your eyes as you wrote. He didn’t even glance at the board until you turned it toward him.

“Because I can’t offer you anything.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes after that. Your gaze fell to the floor, head tilted slightly away as if that alone could make the weight of what you’d written feel less suffocating. Your posture wilted under your own thoughts, the curve of your shoulders small. Quiet.

You felt ashamed. Like somehow you’d led him on, only to deliver disappointment.

You had no voice. No easy way to tell him what you felt. And deep down, maybe you believed he deserved someone who could give him things — words, affection, promises. Someone whose presence didn’t come wrapped in silence and absence.

You wanted to speak. Desperately.

But you hadn’t used your voice in so long, you weren’t sure there was anything left to reach for.

And still… he said nothing.

Not right away.

He moved slowly around the kitchen island, footsteps quiet but deliberate, coming to stand just beside you. Close, but not imposing. You didn’t turn to face him. Couldn’t. Not like this.

Your arms folded over your chest, not defensively, but like you were trying to hold yourself in place — to keep yourself from breaking open.

Then—

“Look at me.”

His voice was firm but gentle. Like he was giving you permission to stop hiding.

You hesitated… then turned your head, eyes lifting to meet his. And your heart stammered at the way he looked at you. Not with pity. Not with frustration.

But with raw, honest focus.

His gaze held yours, unwavering — dark eyes steady, his expression serious but softened with something more. Something quieter. His brows slightly furrowed, jaw relaxed. His presence grounding, anchoring you in place.

“Is this about your voice?” he asked, softer this time.

“Y/n… that was never a problem for me.”

The breath you didn’t realize you were holding caught in your throat.

No one had ever said that to you before. Not like that. Not while looking at you like that.

Like you were whole.

Even in your silence.

Even as you stood there, scared to face what it meant to be wanted — really wanted — without needing to be fixed.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t look away.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his palm grounding you more than you expected. It wasn’t just a touch — it was his way of reaching for you when words weren’t enough. When you couldn’t give him words in return.

He eased in closer, his movements deliberate, slow, like he was giving you time to pull away if you needed to. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. Your body stilled beneath his hand, breath catching in your throat.

His dark eyes swept over your face, scanning the subtle tremble of your lip, the way your brows knit together, how your shoulders rose slightly with the effort it took just to hold it together.

You tilted your head up at him, finally meeting his gaze. And he saw it — the shimmer in your eyes. The glint of forming tears that you blinked against so desperately. You didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not him. Not now.

But the tears didn’t care about pride. They clung stubbornly to your lashes, refusing to fall but refusing to vanish.

And when he saw them, his expression softened with something raw and steady. Not pity — never pity — but understanding. Quiet and deep.

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice low, barely audible in the silence of your small dorm kitchen.

“You don’t need to offer me anything. Believe me.”

His other hand reached up, careful and gentle, fingers cradling the back of your head. His palm was calloused, rough from years of battle and training — but the way he held you was anything but. His thumb lightly brushed near your ear, steadying you as though he were afraid you might shatter under the weight of your silence.

He looked down at you with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Not just concern — but care. Real care. The kind you hadn’t let yourself believe you could still receive.

Your eyes shut for a moment, throat tightening with the emotion you couldn’t voice, the words you longed to speak curling like smoke in your chest. Your hands slowly reached out — not to push him away, but to hold onto his sleeve, fingers curling loosely in the fabric.

And he stayed there.

Steady. Present.

Letting you say everything without a single word.

You stared up at him, unmoving — eyes wide, lips parted slightly, breath caught halfway in your throat. Your body didn’t retreat. Didn’t shift away. You simply stood there, waiting, bracing — not out of fear, but from the anticipation that tightened your chest and filled your stomach with nerves.

And Aizawa watched you just as closely, as though your every blink and breath could be a signal. His dark eyes flicked between yours, cautious but yearning, searching your expression for any sign that you might pull back. That you might disappear from him again.

But you didn’t.

So slowly, carefully, his thumb moved — calloused, warm — brushing against your cheek in soft circles. The gesture was so gentle it almost made you flinch. Not from discomfort, but because it had been so long since someone touched you like you were fragile in a precious way.

His hand still cradled the back of your head as he leaned in. And he kissed you.

Soft. Slow. Almost hesitant.

He forgot to close his eyes — too absorbed in the nearness of you. His gaze was fixed on your features, tracing the shape of your lashes, the faint tension in your brows, the curve of your lips beneath his. As if this might be the last time you let him get this close. As if he wanted to memorize the moment just in case you vanished from him again.

But you didn’t pull away.

His lips lingered just long enough to speak what his words hadn’t. A quiet promise.

And if you did push him away… he’d understand. He was prepared to step back.

But he was just as prepared to stay.

To show you that he could be the safe place you didn't believe you belonged in.

Just while he has you here at this moment. For as long as it lasts.

---

[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.

But they weren’t doctors.

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, and keep you stable.

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.

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

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.

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 and 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.

[etherealangell1]

༊*·˚ The rain poured down in relentless sheets, turning the side streets of Musutafu into shimmering rivers of reflected neon. Shota Aizawa walked with his head lowered, his capture scarf trailing just above the puddles. The night was quiet aside from the hiss of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder, perfect for clearing his head after a long patrol.

He turned the corner near an old, shuttered convenience store, and that’s when he saw her.

She was standing perfectly still under the sickly yellow glow of a flickering streetlight, soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her cheeks. She looked lost, shoulders hunched inward, eyes vacant as they stared at the rain hitting the pavement. Her clothes, casual but worn, clung to her form, and her breath came in shallow, misty puffs in the cold night air.

Even after all these years, he knew that face instantly. It was a face he’d tried to forget, buried under late-night hero work and mountains of reports. An old friend, someone from before U.A., before his days as Eraserhead. A girl who’d been quirkless in a world that never made space for the powerless. A girl he used to hold close to his heart.

Those he supposes she wasn't a girl anymore. It's been years since middle and high school.

His footsteps splashed softly as he stepped closer, but he kept a careful distance, three meters at least. She didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat, the sound barely audible over the rain. Her head snapped up, eyes wide, disbelief, and something like hurt flashing across her face.

“Shota…?” Her voice was ragged, unfamiliar from disuse and the cold, but it still carried that familiar lilt.

He felt something tighten in his chest. The years apart, the silence that had stretched between them, all came crashing down like the thunder rumbling overhead. But he kept his hands at his sides, fingers twitching slightly.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, voice low and edged with concern he couldn’t quite mask.

She wrapped her own arms around herself, hugging her elbows as she looked away, blinking rain from her lashes. “I… didn’t know where else to go. I lost my job. My apartment. I’ve been walking since noon.”

Aizawa felt a cold anger prickling under his skin, anger at the world, at the unfairness, at himself for not being there when she needed someone. But he stayed where he was, letting the silence hang heavy between them. Lightning illuminated her face, pale and hollow-eyed, and in that moment, all the old resentment he’d carried melted into a simple, aching worry.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said softly, almost swallowed by the rain. He shifted slightly, as if he wanted to step closer, but held himself back, eyes scanning the deserted street before settling back on her. “It’s not safe.”

She swallowed, eyes darting to him, then to the ground. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the chill. “That doesn’t matter now.” His voice was firm but quiet, carrying an unspoken offer, a lifeline, if she chose to take it.

They stood like that in the downpour, a careful distance between them, the rain hammering the pavement around their feet. The city felt muted, as if the world had narrowed to just the space between two people who had once known each other better than anyone else, yet were now strangers trying to bridge a chasm of years and unspoken words.

The rain eased from a pounding downpour to a steady drizzle as they began the walk back to Aizawa’s apartment. The world felt hushed, their footsteps muffled by wet pavement, only the occasional car passing in the distance, breaking the silence. They walked side by side but with a careful distance, far enough that neither brushed against the other, close enough that they stayed within each other’s fragile orbit.

“Where have you been staying?” Aizawa asked first, his voice calm but edged with worry as he glanced over at her beneath the rim of his dark hair.

She hesitated, eyes on the shimmering reflections of streetlights in puddles. “A friend let me sleep on her couch for a few days, but… I didn’t want to impose. I thought I’d figure something out.” She shrugged weakly, water dripping from her sleeves. “Guess I wasn’t very good at it.”

Aizawa let out a quiet breath that was almost a sigh. “You’ve always been stubborn,” he said, a note of dry fondness cutting through the exhaustion in his voice.

She almost smiled at that, almost. “What about you?” she asked softly. “I saw the news footage. The war… the League… U.A. itself. Are you… are you okay?”

He kept his gaze forward, his hair and scarf heavy with rain. “I’m alive,” he said, matter-of-fact, but his voice roughened just enough to betray the weight of everything behind those words. “U.A.’s standing. The kids are… resilient.”

She nodded, hugging herself a little tighter. She let her eyes drop to his legs for the briefest second, catching the subtle stiffness in his gait, the gleam of the prosthetic in the moments when lightning flashed, but she quickly looked away. It wasn’t her place to bring it up, and she knew it.

He caught her glance, though, and for a moment something flickered in his eyes, a vulnerable flash that vanished just as quickly behind his usual stoic calm.

They reached a crosswalk, waiting as the light changed, the red glow reflected in the sheen of rain on the road. The silence between them felt less strained now, filled with unspoken gratitude and old familiarity. When they stepped off the curb, their movements naturally fell in sync, like muscle memory from the days when they’d walked home together from late-night meetups he was coerced into.

“Do you have any family you can reach out to?” he asked, his tone careful but earnest.

She shook her head, strands of wet hair swaying. “No one left who’d take me in.”

He nodded once, eyes narrowing slightly as if making a decision. “Then you’ll stay at my place. For tonight, at least."

She looked at him sharply, surprise and hesitation warring on her face. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You won’t be,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

They lapsed into silence again. The only sounds were the soft splash of their footsteps and the rain pattering on rooftops. Every so often, one of them would steal a glance at the other, she traced the new lines of weariness on his face, the silver creeping into his hair, the fatigue etched deep into his posture; he noted the sadness in her eyes, the way she seemed smaller than he remembered, her shoulders weighed down by more than just the rain.

Neither spoke of it. Neither had to. The glances said enough.

As they turned onto a quieter road leading toward U.A., the massive campus walls loomed in the distance, lights shining softly through the misty rain. Even from here, the main dorm buildings were visible, their warm, steady glowing beacon in the storm. Seeing them made her falter for a moment, like stepping into a world she’d only seen in news broadcasts.

Aizawa slowed his pace just enough to keep her by his side. “You’ll stay at the staff dorms tonight,” he said, nodding toward the campus beyond the security gate. “I’ll clear it with security. It’s safe there. And dry.”

She swallowed, glancing up at the dark silhouette of U.A.’s fortified walls. “U.A… are you sure? I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“You won’t,” he said quietly but with a note of finality. “You need somewhere to stay, and I won’t leave you out here.”

They paused at the campus gate, the rain easing into a mist. Beyond it lay the main path leading through the grounds, lined with puddles reflecting the occasional campus spotlight. The dorms rose in the distance, tall and solid against the night.

She took a shaky breath, gaze flicking between him and the legendary academy she never imagined stepping foot in. He waited patiently, watching her with that same unreadable expression he’d always worn, but there was a gentleness there, too, an unspoken promise of safety.

As the security cameras above the gate rotated silently to track them, she finally nodded. “Okay,” she whispered, voice almost lost to the fading rain. “Thank you, Shota.”

The door clicked open with a low groan of hinges, revealing a small but comfortable apartment tucked into U.A.’s staff dorm wing. Aizawa stepped inside first, flicking on a light that cast a warm glow over the space. It was tidy but lived-in, a place clearly meant for someone who spent more nights here than anywhere else.

A modest kitchen lined one wall with dark cabinets and a compact stovetop, and clean dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack. The living room was sparsely furnished with a low table, a well-worn couch draped in a dark blanket, and a small TV pushed against the far wall. Books, mostly hero law, psychology, and quirk theory, were stacked in organized towers next to a battered recliner. A single hallway led to a bedroom with the door half-closed, and the faint scent of strong coffee lingered in the air.

She stepped inside hesitantly, her shoes squeaking on the entry mat. Droplets of rain still fell from her hair, pattering softly on the floor as she took in his space, so unmistakably him, practical yet unexpectedly warm. It felt oddly safe.

Aizawa moved quietly to a small linen closet and pulled out a towel, holding it out to her without looking directly at her face. “Dry off,” he said gruffly, his voice softening on the edges. “You’ll catch a cold.”

She accepted it with a quiet “Thank you,” gripping the towel like an anchor as she dabbed the rain from her hair and face. The simple kindness in the gesture made something twist in her chest.

He busied himself with the kettle, filling it with water at the sink. The hiss of running tap water filled the quiet, and he moved with the smooth, economical motions of someone who had lived alone a long time. “You hungry?” he asked, his back still to her. “I have instant noodles. Or I can make eggs.”

She blinked, the question catching her off guard. “No… I’m okay. Really. Just… tired.”

He gave a single nod, shutting off the water and setting the kettle on the stove. “The couch pulls out into a bed,” he said, gesturing to it without turning around. “You can take the shower first. Towels are in the bathroom cabinet.”

She looked at him, her eyes softening. “Thank you. For this. For… everything.”

He paused, one hand resting on the kettle handle, the other braced on the counter. He didn’t look back at her, but his voice was quiet, almost hoarse. “It’s nothing. You needed help.”

Silence settled over the room, punctuated by the gentle drip of rain still trailing from her coat onto the mat. The two of them stood in that silence, stealing quiet glances when the other wasn’t looking, she noted the dark circles under his eyes, the deeper set of his shoulders; he caught the new lines of worry etched into her face, the exhaustion in the way she hugged the towel to herself.

She shifted awkwardly on the entry mat, eyes flicking toward the bathroom door at the end of the short hallway. The towel felt heavy in her hands, but the thought of a hot shower was enough to draw a shaky breath of relief from her chest.

As she moved to step past him, Aizawa’s voice stopped her. “Wait.”

She turned back, startled to find him already crossing the living room to a small dresser tucked against the wall beside his bedroom door. He knelt stiffly, opening the lowest drawer, and rummaged through neatly folded stacks of dark clothes. After a moment, he stood, holding out a set of clean, oversized black sweats and a soft, faded t-shirt.

“Here,” he said, eyes meeting hers briefly before darting away. “They’ll be big, but… it’s better than staying in wet clothes.”

She stared at the bundle in his hands, warmth rising to her face despite the cold. Carefully, she stepped forward and took them from him, her fingers brushing his gloved knuckles for a fleeting instant before both of them quickly pulled back.

“Thank you,” she said, hugging the clothes to her chest. Her voice was small, raw with gratitude. “Really.”

He inclined his head once, face unreadable but eyes softer than before. “Shower’s through there,” he said, gesturing to the hallway. “Take your time.”

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as she started toward the bathroom. Their eyes met for a moment, both of them searching the other’s face for something familiar, something that proved the person they’d once known was still there beneath all the time and pain.

Then she slipped into the bathroom, the soft click of the door closing behind her leaving Aizawa standing alone in the quiet apartment, the kettle beginning to steam on the stove.

Steam curled around her as hot water poured over her shoulders, washing away the grime of the city and the icy weight of the rain. She let the towel slip from her hands and rested them on the cool tile walls, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut. The water’s warmth seeped into her bones, loosening muscles that had been clenched for days.

She couldn’t stop her mind from spinning.

Shota. Seeing him again after all these years felt like a dream, sharp and painful but laced with a strange relief. He looked so different: older, wearier, eyes deeper set from sleepless nights and burdens she couldn’t imagine. Yet in his quiet words and careful concern, she glimpsed the same boy who’d once stood by her side when the world felt impossible.

How much had he endured? How many of those wounds were because of his choice to protect others, students, colleagues, strangers, while she’d drifted from job to job, never finding a place to belong? She pressed her forehead to the tiles, trying to steady the ache in her chest.

She remembered the footage of the Paranormal Liberation War: images of chaos and fire, heroes falling, students fighting with terrified determination. She remembered the moment she’d seen him on the screen, bloodied, fierce, and then later, the news confirming what he’d lost. Her eyes flickered open, staring at the bathroom door as if she could see him through it.

She wanted to ask about his leg, the war, the students who called him their teacher. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Tonight, she told herself, it was enough to know he was still here.

---

Aizawa stood at the stove, but his hands rested idle on the counter as the kettle whined with gentle steam. He stared at the rippling surface of the kitchen sink, eyes unfocused. His mind was anywhere but on the room around him.

She looked different, too. Paler, more worn, like life had kept knocking her down without giving her a chance to stand. The stubborn fire he remembered in her eyes was still there, but it flickered like a candle in the rain. It angered him, how unfair it was, how the world chewed up those without quirks and spat them out with no safety net.

He tried not to remember how they’d drifted apart. How he’d thrown himself into U.A. while she disappeared from his life in a slow, silent unraveling. Part of him had resented her for leaving, for not fighting harder to stay in touch. But now, seeing her shivering in the rain, the resentment felt petty and hollow.

The quiet of the apartment pressed in on him, amplifying the faint sound of water running beyond the bathroom door. He glanced toward it more than once, his eyes catching on the towel she’d left by the entrance, a small puddle forming around it. The sight twisted something in his chest.

He was used to solitude, used to the calm emptiness of his space. But tonight, the apartment felt less heavy with her here, even if it also felt fragile, like the thin ice of a frozen pond waiting to crack.

She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in warm clouds of steam, her hair damp and clinging in dark strands around her face. The oversized black sweats and soft t-shirt swallowed her frame, the sleeves hanging past her wrists, the collar of the shirt sloping slightly off one shoulder. She looked small and a little lost in the clothes clearly too big for her, but there was a softness in her eyes, a relaxed slump to her shoulders that hadn’t been there when she’d arrived soaked and shivering.

Aizawa’s gaze lifted the instant he heard the bathroom door open. His eyes lingered on her in his clothes, something unsteady shifting behind his tired expression. There was a familiarity in the sight, like an echo of old nights spent dozing together on cheap futons in tiny apartments, sharing quiet conversations that stretched until dawn. But there was also something strange, something almost intimate in seeing her like this again after so many years apart.

He caught himself staring too long and looked away, setting the steaming kettle aside with a quiet clink.

“You should shower too,” she said softly, voice husky from warmth and sleepiness. She pulled at the sleeves of the sweatshirt, fidgeting a little. “The rain didn’t spare you much either.”

His eyes flicked back to hers. For a moment, he looked like he might argue, but then he just let out a low hum, barely more than a tired exhale of agreement, and nodded once. His capture weapon swayed slightly around his shoulders as he stepped past her, and she caught a faint scent of rain and his familiar, comforting soap as he moved.

She watched him go, her eyes drifting to the way his hair clung wetly to the sides of his face, the slight limp in his step that he carried with stoic grace. As the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the apartment again.

She sighed, the sound deep and unguarded, and padded over to the couch. She hesitated a moment, glancing at the hallway where he’d disappeared, then pulled the thick blanket from the back of the couch and curled up under it. The couch cushions dipped slightly beneath her weight, the old springs creaking softly. She tucked her knees close, the hem of the sweats brushing against her toes as she shifted to find a comfortable spot.

The warmth of the blanket and the soft, rhythmic patter of rain against the windows lulled her quickly. She fought to keep her eyes open, blinking at the ceiling light still glowing above, but exhaustion won out. Her breathing slowed, her hand slipping from under the blanket to rest limply over the edge of the couch.

Aizawa stepped out of the bathroom minutes later, hair freshly washed and clinging damply to his neck, a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants replacing his hero suit. He moved quietly, towel still draped over his shoulders, his dark eyes scanning the living room.

He found her fast asleep on the couch, bundled beneath the blanket, face soft and peaceful for the first time since he’d seen her that night. The sight made something in his chest loosen, a knot he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. He stood there a long moment, towel in hand, simply watching the rise and fall of her breathing.

Finally, he reached up and flicked the ceiling light off, leaving the apartment in the dim glow of a small lamp near the kitchen. The rain whispered softly outside, blending with her quiet breathing. He settled into the recliner across the room, leaning back with a soft sigh. His eyes stayed on her until his own lids grew heavy, and for the first time in a long while, the thought of sleep didn’t feel so heavy or alone.

[etherealangell1]

༊*·˚ You’re not sure when it began. That subtle anticipation creeping into your nights. When tiny noises suddenly made your heart race thinking it might have been him outside.

But now, as the realization settles, the weight of how much these quiet, late night meetups mean to you is undeniable. The thought lingers, leaving you uncertain, caught between the comfort they bring and the unsettling awareness of their growing importance.

How you would go about your day without a thought of that stranger you became acquainted with. Back when he wasn't merely a speck of importance in your life.

But now? You have no idea how it even got this deep. How all of a sudden he consumed all of your thoughts.

Tonight, you lounged in your usual spot, legs casually draped over the balcony railing. Your elbow rested against the small side table, fingers idly tapping the cigarette against the rim of the ashtray. The soft glow of the ember flickered with each subtle motion, a rhythmic habit that filled the quiet night air.

The night was unnervingly dark, the usual glow of the nearby streetlight absently shattered earlier by a rogue baseball from some kid’s game. At this hour, nearing midnight, your neighbors' homes sat in silence, their lights extinguished or too distant to cast even a faint glow over your secluded balcony. Shadows draped the space, leaving you in the hushed embrace of the night.

And yet, even in the stillness, you found yourself waiting. He would be here soon. He almost always was.

Your apartment was tucked away in solitude, surrounded by a stretch of other dimly lit complexes. There were no bustling cityscapes or lively streets within view. Just the quiet expanse of the sky and the stillness of your little corner. The world felt small from here, as if it existed solely for you.

He was a stranger, yet you knew him, a familiar presence woven into your life. But trying to label what you two felt impossible. You wouldn't call him a friend or anything beyond that. Yet somehow, you felt close with him.

You’d crossed boundaries that could justify the title, shared moments that blurred the lines. And still, you weren’t sure what he truly was to you, or what he even wanted to be.

But you didn't think too much of it. Because whatever you had right now, you were too scared to ruin.

No matter how long you waited, the flicker of hope that he might still show up slowly faded into the night. Each cigarette you lit, desperate for something to pass the time, burned quicker than the last, its ember curling to ash long before your patience wore thin. Eventually, the stillness and silence became unbearable, and you surrendered to it, turning on your heel and stepping back inside.

You wished you could pretend you didn’t ache for him, that same detached grace you wore so easily when you first met, when his absence didn’t leave you feeling hollow. But now, you were in too deep. Too tangled in thoughts of him. Expecting nothing seemed safer, it spared you the sting of disappointment.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you slid the glass doors shut behind you, deliberately leaving them unlocked, a quiet invitation hanging in the air. You didn’t even bother turning on the lights. Your body moved on autopilot, stripping off your sweatpants and collapsing into bed in nothing but the worn tank top you always slept in.

It was already late. It had gotten even later the longer you waited. You exhaled a sigh that felt like it had been building for hours, fingers absentmindedly stroking your cat’s tail as it curled beside you. The television still played in the background, some forgettable show from earlier, but you weren’t watching. Your mind had long drifted elsewhere. Sleep was starting to tug at you gently.

Before giving in, you cast one last glance at the balcony door. Still closed. Still empty. You turned over, pulling the covers halfway up and burying your face into the pillow, letting sleep claim you, silently hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’d wake up to his warmth instead of his absence.

The soft thud of feet landing just outside pulled you from the shallow edge of sleep. You hadn't even sunk into it fully, just a brief, four-minute drift, but the sound tugged you back to the surface instantly.

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

You knew it was him.

One knock.

Two knocks.

Three.

But bitterness lingered, thick on your tongue, after all those cigarettes and empty minutes of waiting, staring at nothing but the dark sky beyond the balcony. So you didn’t move. Didn’t lift your head. You stayed perfectly still, feigning sleep, jaw tight with defiance.

Fuck him.

Still, the breath you released when the balcony door slid open betrayed you. You’d left it unlocked. Just like always. Just like the needy girl you hated admitting you were when it came to him.

Aizawa stepped in quietly, slipping off his boots outside to keep from dragging in mud. You could feel his presence before he even crossed the room. His eyes landed on your sprawled-out form, bathed in the dim blue light of the still-playing television. You knew he liked seeing you like this, unguarded, soft, utterly at ease. He lingered, watching.

Your heart raced in your chest, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. Was he going to leave?

He didn’t.

The edge of the mattress dipped, and the warmth of him reached you before he even touched you. Then his hands, those large, calloused hands, found the bare skin of your back, and in one slow, aching motion, he pulled you flush against him. His entire body lay atop yours, his arms wrapping around you tightly, like he was trying to anchor himself in your warmth.

So much for pretending.

You were overjoyed.

“S-Shō… I can’t breathe,” you whispered, your voice muffled by the pillow as you finally turned your head to face him.

“Mm, you’re awake?” he murmured into your skin, his voice low and rough, sending a ripple of vibrations across your back. You figured he’d spent the entire day out there, saving lives, pushing limits. Being the hero he always was.

“Now I am,” you replied softly, shifting to your back within the prison of his arms. His eyes, half-lidded with exhaustion, met yours as his chin rested lightly against your ribs. He clung to you like a lifeline.

“Too tight,” you wheezed, smiling despite the breathlessness.

He loosened his grip slightly, but his hands never left you. The contrast of his cold fingers against your warm skin made you shudder, goosebumps blooming across your arms.

“Where the hell have you been? You’re ice,” you laughed quietly, and he blinked up at you, the corner of his mouth twitching with a restrained grin at the sound of your raspy, sleep-tinged voice.

“My bed’s cold. I like it better here,” he said simply, then shifted to bury his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling you like you were the one thing in this world that brought him peace.

His fingers moved again, soft, slow circles tracing your spine. You melted. Your skin tingled with every stroke, and your heart fluttered in response. He knew exactly how to touch you. Where to touch you. And he didn’t just tolerate your need for affection, he leaned into it. Relished it.

To him, your warmth wasn’t just comfort. It was home.

And right now, it was all he needed.

You absentmindedly twirled a strand of his hair between your fingers, letting it slip through before lightly rubbing the crown of his head. It didn’t make him melt the way it did you, but that was fine. You liked doing it. The small, quiet intimacy. It made you smile, and that alone stirred something in him.

He would never admit it out loud, but watching you happy, smiling like that, carefree and soft under his touch, hurt his heart in the gentlest way. It was a beautiful kind of ache, the kind that made him want to hold you tighter, like he could protect your light from the weight of the world.

So he did what he always did, pretended there was no danger, no threat, no future where you weren’t safe. Pretended you were untouchable. Because if he allowed himself to think otherwise, to feel the gnawing fear that anything could take this away… he wasn’t sure he could bear it.

Truthfully, he’d been looking forward to this moment all day.

Every class he taught, every word he spoke, was rushed, impatience lacing his tone like he had somewhere better to be. And he did. He’d pictured your messy bedhead and that smile you gave only when you were tired and vulnerable and full of love. He thought about your voice, too, how soft it was, how it never scraped at him like the world so often did. No one had ever spoken to him the way you did.

Honestly, he’d gone twice as hard on his students that day, for "wasting his time," when all he really wanted was for the clock to move faster. So he could get to you.

He knew he shouldn’t feel like this. Knew he shouldn’t be sneaking into your apartment late at night, seeking out your warmth like he couldn’t breathe without it. But you had carved out a place inside his chest so quietly, so thoroughly, that he couldn't remember what life felt like before you. You had changed him. Owned him.

And you knew it.

You loved Aizawa. That love wasn’t loud. It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and stubborn and real. And even now, lying tangled together in silence, he meant too much to you to let petty fights or weeks of distance get in the way.

What you had was complicated. Tangled. Unspoken.

But there was no going back.

He didn’t say much for a while, just kept holding you like he hadn’t seen you in years. His breathing had finally started to slow, syncing with yours, but you could feel his mind still running behind his half-lidded eyes.

Then, finally, in a low murmur against your neck, he asked,

“…Should I stay the night?”

You smiled before you even answered, fingertips brushing gently down his jaw.

“Yes,” you whispered. No hesitation. Just that. One word, soft, certain, grounding.

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath all this time waiting for your permission. It was funny, how someone so composed and stoic could still carry that tiny sliver of doubt when it came to you.

You leaned back a bit, eyeing him through sleepy lashes with a smirk playing on your lips.

“But if you’re staying, you have to take off that ridiculously long scarf.”

He chuckled under his breath, lifting his head slightly and giving you a mock look of offense. “It’s practical.”

“It’s a blanket that thinks it's a fashion choice,” you teased, already tugging at the end of it draped over his shoulder.

He let you unravel it, letting it fall off with a low sigh as he shifted to get comfortable again. Now that you could see more of him, his worn-down features, the heaviness in his eyes, the quiet ache in his posture, you realized just how tired he really was.

“Sho,” you whispered softly, brushing a few loose strands of his hair away from his face, “you look like hell.”

“Mm,” he grunted, eyes nearly closed now. “Feel worse.”

You didn’t say anything more. Instead, you leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth, then one more to his temple. A goodnight. A thank you. A you’re safe here.

He melted into it.

As you pulled back, his arms instinctively wrapped tighter around your waist, holding you in place as if afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

But you didn’t. You stayed, your head resting just above his, fingers lightly tracing circles against his spine now.

“I love you,” you murmured in your head.

But you didn’t say it aloud.

You didn’t have to.

With the weight of him against you and the warmth of his breath fanning over your chest, sleep returned easily. You slipped into it willingly, tucked into the arms of the man who never said much, but somehow, said everything.

And this time, you weren’t pretending.

You were at peace.

-

Morning came gently.

No sudden alarms. No blinding sun. Just a soft, golden glow filtering through the sheer curtains, casting a warm haze across the room. The TV had gone silent sometime during the night, leaving behind only the steady hum of the city beyond the balcony doors, still cracked open from when he arrived.

You woke first.

Still wrapped in his arms, still tucked beneath the weight of his body, but shifted just enough to breathe easy. Your tank top was twisted slightly from the night’s sleep, and your cheek was pressed into the side of his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed slow and steady.

Aizawa was still out cold.

You tilted your head, catching the rare sight of him at total rest, brow smooth, mouth parted just slightly, one arm flung over your waist while the other lay beneath you. His hair was messier than usual, a few strands stuck to his face from where he’d pressed into the pillow.

You smiled.

He looked younger like this. Softer. Like the burden of the world had finally let go of his shoulders, even if only for a few hours. You reached up slowly, fingers brushing back his hair again, this time just to see more of him.

“Mornin’,” he rasped suddenly, eyes still closed, voice gravelly and warm from sleep.

Your hand stilled, caught in the act.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up yet,” you whispered, smiling against his skin.

“Hard not to,” he murmured, eyes blinking open just slightly. “You were staring at me like a creep.”

You scoffed, lightly smacking his arm. “Rude.”

But he only hummed, squeezing you closer as he buried his face into your neck again. You felt him inhale slowly, as if drawing strength just from your scent.

“Don’t go anywhere yet,” he mumbled.

You relaxed completely, letting your legs tangle further with his under the blanket. “Wasn’t planning to.”

The apartment was still quiet. The cat hadn’t stirred. The city could wait.

You sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as he moved quietly around the room. No words were exchanged just yet, just the soft rustling of fabric, the hush of morning air slipping through the cracked balcony door.

Aizawa reached for his scarf, draping it around his neck with muscle memory, the way he always did. He bent to grab his boots near the door, slipping them on with practiced ease. Every movement was slow, reluctant, like the weight of leaving hadn’t quite settled right on his shoulders.

You stood without a word, bare feet padding across the floor to meet him at the glass doors. Your sleep-warm skin still smelled faintly of his scent, your tank top clinging loosely as you stopped just in front of him, eyes soft and tired.

He glanced down at you, his gaze unreadable for a moment, somewhere between guilt and longing.

You tilted your head slightly, and with a quiet smile, rose up onto your tiptoes.

Your hands stayed tucked behind your back as you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It lingered, unhurried. Just warmth and breath and the softness of goodbye. When you pulled away, you stayed close, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“Bye, Sho,” you whispered, voice barely above the hush of the breeze coming through the balcony.

He didn’t move for a moment. His eyes searched your face like he was memorizing it, committing every little sleepy detail to memory.

Then, with a soft sigh, he nodded.

“I’ll be back,” he murmured.

You stepped back as he slid open the door, and he stood there for a moment, his hand gripping the frame like he might change his mind. But eventually, he stepped out onto the balcony, into the light, and disappeared down the fire escape.

You didn’t close the door right away.

You stood there, the breeze brushing against your skin, your lips still tingling faintly from the kiss. The bed behind you still warm from where he laid.

And though the room was quiet again, empty even, it didn’t feel lonely.

Because he'd be back.

He always came back.

[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.

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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.

---

[etherealangell1]

༊*·˚ The shared hotel room was quiet, the air filled with the faint hum of the heater as it worked to ward off the winter chill. The dim glow from the clock on the nightstand was the only source of light, other than the yellow light that flickered occasionally from the streetlights outside the window. Other than that, the room was very dark. Though her prescense filled that space.

He had never really been this close to her before, it felt strange. He'd often watch her do something silly like trip over a chair near him. Or just watch her talk with someone or train with students. But that was all, he never really had any relationship with her other than mutual respect among heroes.

Aizawa lays on his back, one arm resting across his chest and the other draped over the edge of the bed. Sharing a bed hadn’t been his idea, but Hizashi and Nemuri had insisted, making up some excuse about budgeting and the hotel being short on rooms. What liars.

Y/n had laughed it off, her easygoing nature dissolving any awkwardness that might have lingered between them. She had teased him earlier, saying he took up less space than a sleeping bag, and he had grumbled something about her being a bed hog. But they’d both settled into their sides of the bed without issue, the years of camaraderie between them making the situation feel less strange than it might have otherwise.

You'd think years of knowing each other would have lead to at least a strong friendship. But no, they could never really figure each other out. In better words, they didnt click. Or didnt know how to click.

They didnt dislike each other. Aizawa didnt find her teaching methods stupid, and she liked how hard he went on his students all while hiding his love. He didnt mind her presence, or the sound of her existence in his life like most people. Neither did she. There was no actual problem that was preventing them from each other.

They just... didnt approch each other in those ways.

The room had fallen silent hours ago, save for the occasional rustle of sheets or the soft sighs of someone shifting in their sleep. He could smell her perfume, and her hair. He loved the smell of her hair surprisingly, he noticed it after the first couple times of meeting her. Though he never dove into it much. (Expect he found and bought that same shampoo)

Aizawa had dozed off quickly, his body trained to take rest where he could find it. Though sleeping tonight felt lucky since he took two naps earlier that day.

But a noise—a faint, distressed sound—pulled him from his light sleep. His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dark room illuminated only by moonlight, as he turned his head toward Y/n. She lay beside him, her back facing him and her body curled slightly under the thick duvet. At first, he thought she was simply shifting in her sleep, but then he noticed the way her breaths hitched unnaturally, the way her hands gripped the blanket loosely.

She let out another faint whimper, her brows furrowing as her body twitched. Her distress was unmistakable now—her breathing was shallow, her murmurs incoherent but tinged with panic.

Aizawa sat up slowly, his movements careful so as not to startle her. He turned toward her fully, his dark eyes narrowing as he watched her tense under the grip of whatever nightmare had taken hold. He recognized this kind of sleep, he'd only gone through it a couple dozen times. The blanket was covering half of her body, visible goosebumps from the cold. He knew she hates the cold. But how did he come to know that?

There were little traces of a soft yellow light from outside covering her skin and highlighting her messy hair. Which, not to mention, was sprawled all across her pillow and somehow on his side. But he didnt care to move it, anybody else's hair though would have bothered him. But of course, that realization always slipped his mind.

“Y/n,” he called softly, his voice barely above a whisper but firm enough to break through the haze of her dream. The room was so quiet that if Yamada were here, the room would collapse. It was just them, nothing or no one else interrupting tonight. He reached out, his hand hovering over her shoulder before gently resting on it. “Wake up. Y/n You’re dreaming." He said, shaking her a bit. Her shoulder was very warm. It felt nice to him.

The moment his hand touched her, she flinched violently, her body jerking as though she were trying to escape some unseen force. Her eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, darting around the room in a panic, brows furrowed and nose and bit scrunched.

“Hey, it’s me,” Aizawa said quickly, keeping his hand on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing small, calming circles. His voice was steady, grounded, the kind of tone he used with his students when they were overwhelmed. “You’re safe. It’s just me.”

Her breathing was still erratic, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she blinked, her gaze finally settling on him. Recognition dawned in her eyes, and she exhaled shakily, her body slumping slightly against the mattress.

“Aizawa...” she croaked, her voice raw and quiet.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he confirmed, his tone softening. “You were having a nightmare.”

She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as if seeking comfort from its warmth. Her hands trembled slightly as she brushed her hair away from her face, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and lingering unease.

“Sorry,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Don’t apologize,” he replied, shifting so he was sitting cross-legged on the bed beside her. His eyes searched hers, his expression unreadable but intent. “You okay?”

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to her lap where her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. “yeah, i will be,” she said, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "Just, to many bad memories keep popping up.”

Aizawa’s frown deepened slightly, but he didn’t press her for details. He knew her just enough to understand that she’d share more if and when she was ready. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his tone low and reassuring. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But if it helps, I’m here.”

She glanced at him then, her lips curving into a faint, tired smile. “Thanks, Aizawa,” she said quietly. “That... means a lot.”

He gave a small nod before reaching for the blanket she’d kicked off during her restless sleep. Without a word, he pulled it over her shoulders, his movements gentle but deliberate. His hand lingered for a moment, the warmth of his touch grounding her in the present.

“Try to get some rest, this is the first time ive seen you sleep in a while, let's not let a nightmare ruin that.” he said, settling back down onto his side of the bed. He stayed turned toward her, propping his head up with one hand as he kept watch for any lingering signs of distress. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

He'd also noticed times when his sleeping schedule was messed up, per usual, and he'd often see her up aswell. Whether sitting on the living room couch with a blanket wrapped all around her watching some TV. Or he'd just run into her and she'd pass a quick smile before scurrying away.

She laid back down, her breathing gradually evening out as the tension in her body began to fade. She let out a long deep breath and hummed, closing her eyes. Aizawa didn’t close his eyes.

He turned away, having lingering thoughts of Y/n’s nightmare. He knew she didn’t like physical touch—she had always been clear about her boundaries, and he respected them without question. That was why he hesitated now, second-guessing his earlier decision to grab her shoulder to wake her up. Had it made her uncomfortable? He frowned slightly, glancing toward her to see if she had managed to fall back asleep.

But she hadn’t.

She lay on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling. The faint glow from the streetlights illuminated her features just enough for him to notice the trail of tears glistening down her cheeks. She wasn’t sobbing, but the silent way her tears fell seemed to cut even deeper. His heart clenched at the sight, his usual stoic demeanor softening as concern overtook him. He'd cried this way before, he knew it all too well. Crying silently as the pain had hurt you to the point of defeat.

“Y/n,” he called out quietly, his voice steady but filled with a gentleness he rarely let show.

She hummed in response, her voice barely audible, and her gaze didn’t shift from the ceiling. Her composure was steady, but the tears kept falling, betraying the turmoil she was trying to keep locked inside. She felt embarrassed, he'd seen her embarrassed before. It wasnt his intention to make her feel awkward for this. For feeling.

Aizawa shifted, turning onto his side to face her fully. His dark eyes searched her face, noting the faint tremble in her lips and the exhaustion etched into her features. Without thinking, he moved closer, closing the small gap between them. Slowly, carefully, he reached out, brushing her hair back from her damp cheeks. His fingers lingered just long enough to clear the strands away without invading her space.

“Was it bad?” he asked softly, his voice low, like he was afraid to shatter the fragile silence that hung between them. He was also quick to retract his hand, no touching her. He knew this, but he was a man who preferred actions over words. This was all he could muster up for this rare moment.

He had seen her snap at people who just couldn't get it into their thick skulls: she didn't want to be touched. So he kept a minimal distance.

Y/n finally turned her head to look at him. Her tired eyes met his, red and glassy from crying, yet holding an unspoken vulnerability that made his chest tighten. She didn’t say anything at first, just reached out and grabbed his hand. Her grip was firm, almost desperate, as though she needed the physical connection to ground herself.

“Mhm,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

The simplicity of her answer, coupled with her willingness to touch him despite her usual boundaries, spoke volumes. Aizawa didn’t press her for more. He knew she didn’t want to talk about it, and her breaking her no-contact rule told him all he needed to know. He held her hand cautiously at first, unsure if she would pull away. But when she didn’t, he gently squeezed it back.

To his surprise, she let out a soft giggle, the sound light and airy despite the tears still falling. Her laugh right now though, it was so broken. More tears escaped her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and disappearing into her sprawled out hair. Her exhaustion wasn’t just physical—he could see the emotional weight she carried, etched into every line of her expression.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke again. “Just for tonight, this is okay. Please?” She held his hand tighter, their hands placed right in the middle of where both their pillows connect.

Her plea was so quiet, so vulnerable, that it made his chest ache. She squeezed his hand again, closing her eyes as though trying to block out the world. Aizawa stared at her for a moment, his thumb gently brushing against the back of her hand.

“Alright,” he murmured, his voice low but reassuring.

He stayed close, his presence solid and steady, a silent promise that she wasn’t alone. Her breathing began to slow, her grip on his hand loosening slightly as she drifted off to sleep. Aizawa watched her for a moment longer, his sharp eyes softening as he took in the sight of her peaceful, albeit tear-streaked face.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. It was brief, a gesture of comfort more than anything else, but it felt significant.

It was only now that he realized how long he'd wanted to do that. Just now reminiscing over all those times he'd stare just a bit longer when she'd laugh with someone, or smile at a stupid joke. When she'd just finished a spar session and she'd smile at him as she exited the room wiping sweat off her face. He'd watched how she'd become so deeply focused and how cute her eyes looked.

At those times, he'd wonder why even after all this time he couldnt get close to her. How he'd wish he were part of her life.

He pulled back slowly, settling back onto his pillow as his hand stayed linked with hers. Her hand was so soft, and her leg brushed against his as she moved in her sleep. She was so warm, it's a shame she didn't like to be touched. He didn't want to even think of the reason for that, because it probably wasn't good.

Sleep came to him not long after, his own exhaustion finally catching up. But even as his eyes closed, his thoughts lingered on her—on her vulnerability, her strength, and the trust she had shown by letting him in. This wasnt a usual occurance for him, sleeping in a bed holding hands with a woman. Definitely not, but for tonight, at least, he would stay close. Just for her.

-

[etherealangell1]

. ♡ WAS IT LOVE?

Shota Aizawa x fem!reader

notes: a rushed fic with Aizawa x fem!reader. Lots of angst and possible part two if requested.

synopsis: A long time of unspoken feelings between reader and Shota aizawa causes some misunderstandings that can't be undone (maybe?)

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There are multiple different ways to love people.

Romantic love is more than just attraction or infatuation—it’s a bond built on intimacy, vulnerability, longing, and emotional closeness. It can be fiery and overwhelming, or soft and slow-burning. It usually involves a blend of emotional intimacy, passion, and often physical connection, though the intensity or presence of these may vary by person or stage of the relationship.

You want to be with this person—physically, emotionally, and mentally. It’s not just comfort; it’s craving their presence, needing their attention, feeling safe in their arms, or lit up by their voice.

In early stages, you might put this person on a pedestal—seeing them as extraordinary, unique, or even “meant for you.”

Platonic love is pure, loyal, non-romantic emotional intimacy. It’s a deep, soul-level friendship where there is no sexual or romantic desire, but just as much closeness and devotion.

You can be your full self without fear of judgment. You might talk for hours or sit in silence comfortably.

Platonic love means standing by someone’s side even when life is hard or they’re struggling. It’s riding the highs and lows together.

Unlike romantic love, there’s no pressure to become more, and that’s part of the beauty—there’s no confusion, just connection.

Many platonic relationships last longer than romantic ones. They don’t always end from distance or time; they simply adapt.

And for Aizawa, that was what he wanted. What you wanted.

It seemed like both of you knew just how fast things could end. Loving somebody romantically was risky. Because for some reason they bring complications and negative parts in your relationship with somebody. When there was an official title of boyfriend and girlfriend. Or husband and wife. It brought scary expectations and it caused some to become unhappy due to the littlest things. Once somebody becomes yours, if they do one little thing that upsets you. It can cause a huge dent in your relationship.

But platonic love...

Loving somebody without expectations of what you needed or didn't need to do. Loving someone while also living your life the way you've been living it felt so much safer. Easier even.

Loving someone without romance didn't bring chaos. Both were allowed to live and still have that person that they loved be there, without complications.

That's what they both wanted. Or at least what they thought.

Aizawa was scared of losing people. He knew the people he loved and kept close to his heart could just be gone at any moment. Any regular day could lead to disaster and people would leave him. There presence from his life absent and never to return. He was afraid of feeling that again. He was afraid of living knowing somebody he knew would be gone at any moment. And that he couldn't always prevent it.

So when he started... feeling things for Y/n. He discarded it as regular platonic love. Because yes, Y/n has always been a very important presence in his life. She's just always been there by his side for the longest time. He cared deeply for her to measures he couldn't even describe. He cared for her like he cared for Oboro and Yamada.

But when he started to realize he'd been developing different type of feelings for her. He began to overthink and ignore anything his mind decided to conjur up whenever he thought of her. He wasn't stupid. He could tell he was starting to see her in a different light.

He noticed how well her facial features blended together. How they made her look cute, pretty, and unique all at the same time. How he felt a little too nervous when she came in close contact with him.

The way she'd smile and how well her dimples suited her. Her pretty lips and eyes that he couldn't help but stare at for a little longer than he used to.

Her hair that somehow always looked so touchable no matter the condition. Her hands, the way they would fidget with something or simply slide a paper to somebody. Her legs, her torso, her neck. Her wrists, her arms, her shoulders. Fuck, her shoulders were his favorite.

But it wasn't just her appearance. It was her. He noticed and remembered every single time her personality had caught his attention. How gentle and persistent she was. How comforting and wise she could be even during the hardest times. How she was able to sympathize with almost everything that deserved it. Her compassion and wit. Her undeniable strength in battle and in heart.

Her soothing tone as she held Eri until she slept. Her genuine words of encouragement with his students.

She was everything.

Was everything to him. Everything he knew he couldn't have, because he was already in too deep. He loved her. But he could only love her from a platonic standing despite what his heart said.

He would never ruin what they are now. He couldn't love her the way he wanted to.

And you. You were afraid of relationships in general. The idea of a relationship made your skin crawl and itch.

You blame your first relationship. It ruined your whole idea of what a relationship was and what it could be for someone like you.

Picturing yourself dating somebody, or married even made you want to die. You hoped it was because you hadn't found the right person yet.

God you hoped.

But thinking of having a man lusting over you just like always. Being used, ignored, manipulated, and repeat until your ruined all over again. Made it impossible for you to forget and forgive.

You knew the moment somebody gave you an once of romantic attention. Whether it be words or touches, you knew they would have you at their fingertips within a second.

That's why you were scared. Scared because you knew if somebody "loved" you. It wouldn't be real. You'd overthink, cry for no reason and every reason, feel used, always assume their words were fake. Only buttering you up to get to the prize. And then losing interest. You didn't want to be someone's official girlfriend. Someone's woman.

You'd go for friendship and nothing else. A flirty friendship? Sure, that way things wouldn't be official and since that person wouldn't be yours technically. They owed you nothing and you didn't have any reason to expect anything. Leading to no dispointment.

Somethings been intruding in on your mind lately though...

Somebody has.

Your best friend out of all people has been looking a little different lately.

Goddamm Aizawa.

Aizawa who you always known to just, be there...

He's always been here for the entirety of your life. And he was like your family. But now, it doesn't feel that way. You started reminiscing on past moments you've both had, and felt jittery. It gave you so much nostalgia it made you wanna see Aizawa more and more. You looked forward to seeing him during the classes you taught together. Or during lunch or in the lounge. Even in the dorms (which you usually never found him at)

But still. You couldn't ignore how much you secretly yearned to hold him. To be close to him. To hug or lay with. Aizawa out of all people. You started to think you loved him. More than holding him as an important person in your life. He was beginning to give you butterflies whenever you touched. Or whenever he'd look at your for a moment longer than he used to.

When you'd watch that stoic and grumpy man melt in front of Eri, slowly becoming her dad every day. How he actually started calling class 1-A his kids, how he'd shaped them so much in the span of a year and helped them achieve what they are today. And if you've seen those kids, you'd think Aizawa was a god.

Which made his appeal all the more fascinating to you. His secret soft side that made his serious and closed off facade look like a joke. And you couldn't help but adore how much he cared, how much he sacrificed for everyone. His natural hero instincts, his morals not every man could have.

He was everything. But could he be your everything?

Could he just call you his without wanting anything serious?

You really wanted that. But Aizawa didn't seem like the type to move for more in a relationship without officially clarifying what they were. But how could you know that about him? You knew a lot about Aizawa, but only he and Yamada knew about his personal affairs in that area.

You wanted to be just his friend. And maybe a little more than that. But you also didn't want to risk it. Not with someone as special as him.

But lately, your concerns have been faltering. You've been forgetting your fears related to love and being loved. But only when you consider him. When you picture him holding you.

Only Aizawa. No other man who knew nothing but lust for the women they saw. Aizawa wasn't like that.

And you wanted that. You wanted that so badly because you knew him. You knew he wouldn't make you feel like just a piece of woman he could do whatever he wanted with.

He didn't make you feel scared. He made you feel safe. Feel like you were worth something. Like you were important.

You remember sitting with him at lunch when you were teenagers. Smiling when you were finally able to see Aizawa laugh. It was a rare sight which made it even more special.

He remembers watching you persevere through a tough mission even with a broken leg and broken ribs. He wasn't deployed yet and could only stand in the surveillance room with Nezu. Watching you get to the spot that helped almost everybody in that building, even despite how injured you were.

Every late night patrol where you both talked (mostly you). Every battle from your 20s and during the U.A. wars with the league. Every single interaction that continued to build your history together.

It came crashing back on both of you everytime you and him tried to ignore how you really felt.

You were starting to let your fears go for him. And he was holding onto his even tighter.

And it all came down to Yamada and Kayama to fix this.

Those two knew everything.

Whenever you and Kayama were together alone, either on a girl's date or simply near each other at any other time, she would secretly shift to conversation to Aizawa and interrogate you. She started slow, asking simple questions. Then heavier questions thay continued until you finally cracked one day and told her everything. Pressure is really a scary thing.

And Yamada, well... pressure wasnt gonna work in his case. Because no matter what Hizashi said or did, Aizawa wouldn't budge. He'd only say small things about Y/n just bring his close friend and how he respected her. And it was driving Yamada crazy! So he gave up, and let Nemuri claim all the glory when she was able to get it out of Aizawa. Neither of them knew how fond he could be of anybody.

But Y/n was special. (Aizawa made that very clear when he told them not to meddle and let life take its course)

Which is not how he ended up waiting at a bar alone, apparently waiting for all three of his friends. And when only you ended up showing up, dressed all nice in date type clothes and makeup. He sighed and promised he'd kill those two.

"Hi, where's Yamada and Nem?" You said, sitting across the booth from him. The booth was kinda in a isolated area away from the loud and crowded area near the actual bar. (It was Friday. Of course every person alive was here)

"Not coming" he groaned, gripping his cocktail he decided not to drink the moment he realized it was just going to be you and him. He couldn't afford slipping up in front of you. No way.

"Oh... haha why?" You laughed out, giving him a confused glance that wasnt returned. You didn't think anything horrible had happened to them all of the sudden. But you couldnt think of an idea of why they blew yall off.

"They think their hilarious that's why" he mumbled, praying he could conjur up some excuses to leave. Any excuse that wouldn't make it sound like he didn't want to be here with you personally would work.

You sat there confused for a second, burrowing your brows in thought-

Then it hit you. Nemuri knows your feelings for him. So why wouldn't she tell Hizashi!

Ugh. You inwardly groaned at their scheme. What geniuses they must feel like. Well, you werent to worried about it. You just had to pretend like you always did. Act normal like you consider him just a friend. Act like his friend that you are. Easy right?

"Oh, well. Do you want to stay?" You said, resting one elbow on the table either your hand resting in your palm. You felt nervous as he just kinda stared at you. Then awkward. Maybe he did wanna leave and felt bad saying no.

"We can go home. I know it's late" you tried laughing away the tension. But he looked conflicted.

And he was. He did wanna stay. He wanted to stay and listen to you talk about anything you wanted to and he'd just listen and reply every now and then. But you'd be the only one drinking, and wouldn't that be weird? And he's never gone out with just you. Yamada and Kayama are always there making things feel normal.

But watching you laugh nervously, taking in every detail of your makeup and how you looked just as pretty as you always did. Remembering how intoxicated he felt seeing you in that skin tight dress. He noticed every curve of you. How nice your arm was shaped when it was on the table.

"Alright" he replied. Thought it was a late reply, you had already went to gather your purse. But before either of you could stand, a waiter came by and asked what drinks you'd like.

Neither you or Aizawa said anything. But you quickly blurted out a cocktail order as the waiter waited.

"Sorry I panicked" you said. But truthfully, you did wanna stay longer with him. But now you regretted it when you remembered him agreeing to leave.

"It's fine. We can stay" he said. But then questioned his choice of words. It's fine sounded like he was just settling for this even though it inconveniences him. It doesn't but she might think that.

"Okay, we'll leave after we finish our drinks. How about that?" You said. Trying to leave as fast you you could so you didn't have to think about him being forced to do this any longer.

But he thought that you did think he was annoyed. Crap.

The waiter left with your rushed cocktail order, disappearing into the crowd of murmuring voices and dim lights. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stared down at the table, fingertips tracing invisible shapes on the wood grain, heart racing faster than you wanted it to.

“Okay,” you said, offering a tight smile without looking up. “We’ll finish our drinks, then head out. Sound good?”

Your tone tried to sound casual, like this didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t just embarrassed yourself twice in under a minute.

Aizawa watched you carefully. You were trying to shrink the moment, make it smaller, easier to walk away from. He recognized that instinct. He’d done it a hundred times before himself.

“That’s fine,” he replied quietly, but the words felt wrong the second they left his mouth. Fine. Like he was humoring you. Like this was a chore.

You didn’t react, but he saw the flicker in your eyes—a quiet retreat behind them.

“I mean,” he added, correcting himself, “I don’t mind staying for a bit. I just… I don’t usually do this. Go out like this. Without the others.”

Your smile softened, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah,” you said, “me either.”

The drinks arrived then—yours with its sugary rim and bright color, his a glass of water he hadn’t actually asked for but accepted without a word. You thanked the waiter and took a sip quickly, more to give your hands something to do than anything else.

“This place feels different when it’s just the two of us,” you said after a moment, eyes flicking around the bar. “Quieter, somehow. Or maybe just more... obvious.”

Aizawa arched a brow. “Obvious?”

You hesitated, swirling the drink in your glass. “I don’t know. Just—how aware I am of everything. Of you. Of me.” You laughed under your breath, embarrassed. “Forget it.”

But he didn’t. He never did.

You finished the rest of your drink in a few quiet sips while he sat beside you, silent, thoughtful. Not cold. Just present. There was a strange kind of comfort in it—his stillness. Like he was letting the moment stretch, giving it the weight it deserved.

When your glass was empty, you placed it down gently and glanced up at him. “Alright,” you said. “Let’s go.”

He nodded, rising without protest, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.

Neither of you rushed. There was no grand gesture, no sudden change in the air. Just the subtle shift of two people standing up from something that felt almost like a turning point.

As the two of you approached the entrance, Aizawa glanced down at you. A pang of guilt tugged at him. He imagined you earlier that evening—carefully applying your makeup, adjusting the fabric of your dress in the mirror, expecting something a little more special than this. He couldn’t tell if you were disappointed. Your expression was unreadable—eyes forward, lips unsmiling, posture drawn inward like you were retreating into yourself.

The bar door shut behind you with a soft thud, and the night air greeted your skin—cool, crisp, unburdened. Aizawa stood beside you, hands buried in his pockets, a quiet presence as always.

He'd already agreed to leave after you both finished your drinks. You were the one who had suggested that, after all. Still, he appreciated the extra thirty minutes you gave him—lingering conversation that stretched just long enough to feel meaningful. Maybe another time, you thought, though a quiet ache settled in your chest. It would’ve been nice if this had been a real date. Not a polite meet-up out of obligation.

You didn’t feel particularly beautiful tonight. But that didn’t bother you much—not really. You doubted Aizawa ever considered your appearance in any way. He never had, in all the years you’d known him. Eleven years, and not once had you seen him flirt, mention a woman, or show even a flicker of romantic interest in anyone. Aizawa Shouta was private. Controlled. Almost untouchable.

Still, you wished—hoped—that if he ever were to admire someone, it could be you.

But you couldn't even bring yourself to look at him. The size difference between you two felt exaggerated now, as he stood quietly beside you. He'd insisted on driving you back after Yamada dropped you off earlier—and in heels, there was no way you'd argue. U.A. was far from walking distance.

Yet the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t heavy. It just... was. You leaned against the car door, head resting gently against the cool glass of the window. Your eyes drifted shut—not from exhaustion alone, but from a gentle kind of disappointment. The kind that doesn’t sting sharply, but lingers like fog in your chest.

You toyed absentmindedly with your fingers until your hands fell still in your lap. Aizawa didn’t glance your way once the whole ride—disciplined, focused on the road. But when the car rolled to a stop at a red light, something pulled his gaze toward you.

You hadn’t moved. Your head had dipped lower, shoulders slack.

“Y/n?” he asked quietly, placing a cautious hand on your shoulder.

You didn’t stir.

Asleep.

He knew the day had taken its toll—training had been relentless—but part of him wondered why you’d bothered to come if you were so clearly drained. He had noticed it earlier too—how your movements were slower, your energy dimmed.

Still, now, seeing you like this… he allowed himself a moment. Your expression was soft, peaceful. Vulnerable in a way he rarely got to see. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he caught himself.

He hesitated. Then, almost against his better judgment, he let his hand slide gently to your thigh. It was a bold, fleeting touch, one he’d only dared imagine in half-formed dreams. And now—here it was. Real. The warmth of your skin through the fabric. The softness of you. He hated how much he wanted it—wanted you.

And he hated how wrong it felt.

The light turned green. His hand slipped away as if burned. Even if he could drive one-handed, he reminded himself—you weren’t his to touch.

And you likely never would be.

You never gave any sign that you thought of him that way. So he needed to stop. He needed to let go.

But God, it was hard.

...

The car rolled to a quiet stop in the dimly lit parking lot of U.A., the engine’s hum fading into stillness. Outside, the world was dark and muted—an empty lot painted in shadows and the pale yellow of distant overhead lights. Aizawa didn’t move. He just sat there, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, eyes drawn to you.

You were still fast asleep, head turned slightly toward the window, your chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythm. In sleep, you looked at peace. Not awkward. Not disappointed. Just… calm. And beautiful in a way he couldn’t bring himself to admit aloud.

He wished you'd felt that way around him. At ease. Content.

But maybe that was wishful thinking.

Maybe he just wasn’t that guy for you.

He wasn’t charming like Kayama, who could make you laugh with a glance and always seemed to find time to pull you into casual outings. He didn’t join in on Mic’s late-night radio shows, even when Hizashi invited you along and hinted that Aizawa should show up too. You had friends—mutual friends—who spent time with you easily, naturally. It never turned into something heavy like tonight. Never felt... loaded.

Monday, he thought bitterly. That’s when this was supposed to be. Just a simple Monday catch-up. But somewhere between your arrival and now, everything had tilted.

So maybe it was his fault.

Things used to be easier between you. Before he started imagining what it would be like to have you in his arms, your fingers tangled in his hair, your voice soft and close in his ear. Before those late nights when he fell asleep thinking of you—some dreams tender, others shamefully explicit.

He hated both kinds equally, in different ways. Hated what they made him hope for. Hated how far away you still felt.

His hand moved slowly, carefully, to your shoulder. He brushed it lightly, enough to stir you.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low, almost a whisper.

You didn’t wake right away. Your lips parted slightly in your sleep, and for a moment, he allowed himself to memorize the sight of you like that—unguarded, gently breathing, still here beside him.

“Y/n,” he said again, just a bit firmer now, hand giving your shoulder a gentle shake.

Because no matter how much he wanted this moment to last, it wasn’t his to keep.

And you weren’t his to want.

Aizawa’s hand moved gently on your shoulder, his fingers brushing through the fabric of your dress as he gave a cautious shake.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low—almost hesitant.

You stirred slowly, the heaviness of sleep pulling at your limbs. Your head lifted from the car window, leaving behind a faint, cold patch on your skin. Your eyes blinked open into the soft dark of the car, the world outside cast in muted shadows and flickering yellow parking lot lights. It took a moment to register where you were.

U.A.’s lot. Empty. Quiet. The night fully settled.

You turned slightly, instinctively searching for him beside you.

Aizawa sat in the driver’s seat, barely lit by the dashboard’s dim glow, watching you with that same unreadable expression you’d grown too familiar with. Eyes steady. Hands resting on the wheel like he hadn’t moved since the car stopped.

“…Sorry,” you mumbled, voice groggy. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

You sat up straighter, smoothing the wrinkles out of your dress. The one you picked out with too much care for something that was never a date. Not really.

He shook his head faintly. “It’s alright. You needed it.”

You looked down at your lap, fingers fidgeting. You hated that you’d dozed off. Not because it was rude, but because it robbed you of time. Of time with him. Of the chance for one more glance, one more moment, one more something that might have shifted the space between you.

“How long was I out?” you asked quietly, more out of nerves than curiosity.

“Not long.”

His voice was soft, maybe even reluctant. You felt it more than heard it. And in the pause that followed, you swore the air between you grew heavier.

Had he been looking at you while you slept?

Your heart thudded at the thought, though you tried to bury it. There was nothing to prove it. He hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t moved closer. He was still just… Aizawa. Stoic. Composed. Far away, even while sitting beside you.

You wanted to believe there was something more.

You always wanted to believe there was something more.

But your mind betrayed you—flashing back to years of silence, of missed chances, of moments that always stopped short of anything meaningful. He wasn’t the kind of man who flirted, who made his intentions obvious, who chased. He never had been.

And maybe that meant he’d never want you the way you wanted him.

You shifted your weight, reached for the door handle.

“we should head in,” you said softly, not moving just yet.

You didn’t want to leave. Not really. Not like this. You hoped—silently, foolishly—that he’d say something. That he’d stop you. That he’d reach across the space between you and finally show his hand. Anything. Please, anything.

But he didn’t speak.

The parking lot stayed quiet.

The moment passed like mist on glass—there, then gone.

You opened the door quietly, the heavy click of it breaking the stillness inside the car. Cool air swept over your legs as you stepped out, heels clicking softly against the pavement. The parking lot was nearly silent. U.A. loomed ahead, its windows dark, the building asleep just like everyone inside it.

Aizawa followed suit, his door shutting behind him with a gentle thud. He didn't say much—he never did—but something about the way he stood there for a second too long, hands in his pockets, made it feel like maybe he wanted to.

But then he looked at you, gave a short nod.

"Goodnight, Y/n."

You nodded back, lips curved into a tired, faint smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. “Goodnight, Aizawa.”

And that was it.

No moment lingering at the front steps. No pause to pretend either of you had something more to say. Just two adults parting ways, quiet and tired, with the kind of stillness that settles when nothing you wanted to happen actually did.

You walked toward the dorm building, heels muted now against the pathway, your shadow stretched long behind you.

You didn’t look back.

He didn’t call after you.

And maybe that hurt more than you were willing to admit.

Inside, the hallways were dark, everyone already asleep. You slipped into your room with practiced silence, the door clicking shut behind you like the closing of a chapter that never got to turn into anything more.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t fall apart.

But as you undressed and washed your face, you stared at yourself in the mirror for a long time. Traced your own features as if trying to see what he saw—if he saw anything at all.

And when you finally crawled into bed, eyes open in the dark, you thought:

Maybe next time... if there ever is one...

But you weren’t sure if you even believed that anymore.

...

The air inside the U.A. training hall was thick with focus. Mats lined the floor, worn from years of drills, falls, and fights—but they held stories, and today would be no different.

Across from you stood a first-year student—eager, but too tense in the shoulders, stance a little too square. You could see the anticipation in his eyes. He wanted to prove something.

They always did.

You stood calmly, breathing slow, body loose, poised. You didn’t need to get worked up. This wasn’t a fight—it was a lesson. A quiet one.

Aizawa leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching. Always watching. His gaze never wavered from you, though he said nothing. He never needed to. When you moved, he studied it the way most people studied strategy manuals. You never knew exactly what he thought when he watched you, only that he always did.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you said to the student, voice steady but not unkind.

He launched forward with a burst of speed—good reaction time, decent footwork. You let him come. Let him think he had the advantage. Then, just before his fist could connect, you stepped aside. Fluid. Unshaken. Your hand brushed his wrist, redirected his momentum, and his body hit the mat with a sharp thud before he even realized how.

Silence.

You straightened, exhaling quietly as the student groaned and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Try again,” you said simply.

He did.

Again. And again. Each attempt stronger, sloppier, more frustrated. You never mocked him for it. You didn’t even speak much. You just moved—smooth, precise, controlled. Every time he attacked, you countered like water filling the cracks—effortless, overwhelming in its grace.

From the sidelines, Aizawa’s eyes didn’t leave you. Not even once. He didn’t offer the student any advice. Didn’t need to. This was your lesson to teach. His presence was quiet, solid—an anchor at your back you didn’t need to see to feel.

Eventually, the student lay on the mat, panting, drenched in sweat, pride bruised more than his body.

You crouched beside him, speaking low enough that only he could hear. “Your body’s fast. But your mind is too loud. Quiet it. Read me, don’t just react.”

The student nodded, humbled but thoughtful.

You stood and turned toward Aizawa, meeting his gaze briefly.

He gave a single nod. Approval. Respect. Something else buried beneath that unreadable stare.

He didn’t speak until the student had left the room.

“That was a brutal lesson,” he said.

You shrugged, wiping sweat from your brow. “He’ll remember it. Better that than learning it too late.”

He watched you for a beat longer, then uncrossed his arms. “You’re too good at this sometimes.”

You smirked faintly, already stepping off the mat. “Only sometimes?”

The student had left, dragging his pride behind him, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before. The training room was still, save for the low hum of ceiling lights and the soft thud of your footsteps as you toweled the sweat from your face.

You were halfway to the bench when his voice cut through the quiet, calm and deliberate.

“...Spar me.”

You turned, eyes narrowing slightly—not in irritation, but surprise. He wasn’t one to throw around challenges. Especially not lightly. When Aizawa offered to spar, it wasn’t for show. It meant something.

You tossed the towel onto the bench and walked back toward the mat with measured steps. “Didn’t think you were in the mood for bruises today.”

He raised a brow, just slightly. “I’ll manage.”

He stepped onto the mat with you, shedding his capture weapon, his stance relaxed but unmistakably grounded. Stillness radiated from him like an aura—no wasted energy, no tells. You’d fought beside him long enough to know how deceptive that calm was. He moved like shadow, quiet and sharp, and it always amazed you how much power he kept coiled beneath that worn exterior.

You took your stance opposite him, body loose, steady. There was a flicker of something in his eyes as you did—focus, yes, but maybe something else. Curiosity. Maybe anticipation.

Neither of you spoke.

Then he moved.

You met his advance with precision, sidestepping the first strike and countering with a fast elbow toward his ribs. He blocked it with a forearm, quick and efficient, then swept low. You leapt over it, pivoting midair and landing softly on the balls of your feet. A grin ghosted across your lips.

“Still fast,” you murmured.

“Still sharp,” he replied.

The pace picked up. Each movement tested the other. You weren’t holding back, and neither was he. He didn’t look at you like a student—didn’t treat you like a subordinate. Every strike, every parry, was equal. Honest. And it made your blood hum in a way nothing else could.

You ducked beneath his arm, landed a palm against his shoulder, and used his momentum to spin him off balance. He caught himself, foot skidding slightly across the mat before he steadied again, eyes narrowing.

He lunged again.

This time, you met him with a block that sent a dull shock down your arms. His strength was real—reminding you that while he wasn’t flashy, he was still one of the most dangerous men you knew.

But even then, there was control. Always control. He never pushed too far. Never struck with anything that could leave damage he didn’t mean.

At one point, your fingers brushed the inside of his wrist. Too soft to be a move, too deliberate to be accidental. His eyes flicked down to the contact, then back to yours. That unreadable expression cracked—only slightly.

He stepped back first.

Breath shallow. Controlled. But just barely.

Their spar dragged on longer than either of them had anticipated.

What started as a simple test of skill quickly escalated into something more—silent, tense, and precise. Neither of you spoke much after the first few exchanges. You didn’t need to. The rhythm between you said everything.

Strike. Counter. Sidestep. Redirect.

You were well-matched.

Every move you threw, he returned with equal force. Every shift in footwork, every feint, every opening you attempted to create was instantly answered—if not with a block, then with an effortless repositioning that reminded you exactly why he was still one of U.A.’s most respected pro heroes. You were fast. He was exact. You were fluid. He was razor-sharp. And neither of you let up.

The sound of your bodies moving against the mat filled the space—feet sliding, breaths huffing, forearms clashing in quick succession. Sweat slicked your skin, clung to the base of your neck. Your chest rose and fell harder now, but you didn’t dare slow down.

He didn’t either.

It became less of a spar and more of a silent duel—measured, relentless, intimate in its intensity. Each of you chased openings. Each of you shut them down just as quickly. Until—

There it was.

A slip in your stance. Brief. Barely a beat. But he caught it.

Aizawa shifted forward in a blink, his hand coming up fast, his fist arcing toward your side.

You saw it.

But it didn’t land.

His fist stopped—hesitated—inches from your ribs. Too long. Just long enough.

You didn’t think.

Your knee jerked up and your foot shot out instinctively, planting hard into his stomach.

He staggered back two steps, catching himself before he could fall. You stood there, breathing hard, blinking. The move had come from muscle memory. From instinct. But—

Why hadn’t he followed through?

Why had he stopped?

You saw it too. The pause. The change. That flicker of something in his eyes just before he pulled the hit. Something tight. Something complicated.

“Aizawa—” you started, unsure even what to ask.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t say anything.

He simply straightened, hand pressed once to his stomach where your kick had landed. Then he turned without a word, walked off the mat, and headed for his coat in complete silence.

You stood frozen.

He didn’t look at you.

He just grabbed his things and walked out of the training hall.

The door swung slowly behind him, the silence in his wake louder than any slam.

You stayed there for a moment longer, heart still racing—not from the fight, but from the why.

You hadn’t just noticed his hesitation. You felt it.

And you didn’t understand it.

And you quickly brushed it off when you heard a group of students enter the gym. Aizawa's students in fact. That's when you realized he'd been there because he had a class. But why would he just leave after your spar session if he was waiting for his class.

Then All Might appeared through the door. But instead of wondering why Aizawa was acting this way, you decided to forget about it and leave. It was your free period now.

-

Aizawa stood alone in the boys' gym, dim lights casting long shadows across the empty equipment. He rarely ever came in here—too often it reeked of teenage boy sweat, testosterone, and deodorant that failed to do its job. But tonight, it was the only place in the building that was guaranteed empty.

And he needed empty.

Silence settled around him like a blanket. Heavy. Stifling.

He stood still in the middle of the room, his fists clenched at his sides.

He’d hesitated.

He never hesitated. Not in combat. Not even with people he cared for. The ability to act—decisively, ruthlessly, when needed—was what kept people alive. What made him dependable. Unshakable.

But with you, he’d faltered.

He could still feel the moment—his fist frozen in midair, your eyes blinking up at him, the sharp kick to his stomach that followed. He hadn’t flinched from the pain. He’d flinched from the realization.

You were in his head.

Your sleeping face. Your smile when you were relaxed around him. Your laugh. The way you always shared something kind without even trying. The memories weren’t grand or dramatic—they were subtle, intimate, threaded into his life so gently that he hadn’t noticed until they’d formed roots.

Before the awkwardness, before the tension. Back when everything was... easier.

That was the problem.

He couldn’t afford to hesitate like that. Not for you. Not for anyone. The battlefield didn’t care about feelings. And if there came a day when his hesitation put someone—put you—in danger?

He wouldn’t forgive himself.

So, he made a decision.

It hurt, more than he expected. But for your safety, for his sanity, and for the job... he needed to let it go.

He would stay your friend. Nothing more. Just like it used to be.

The next time you saw him, the shift was immediate.

No soft greeting. No glance held a beat too long. No familiar nod from across the room. Just a flat “morning,” or sometimes not even that. Cold. Distant. Professional. And no matter how casual you tried to act, you felt it. In every ignored moment. Every silence where there used to be ease. Every time his eyes slid past you like you were just part of the room.

At first, you were confused.

Then you were hurt.

You spent nights lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, blinking back the sting in your eyes as you quietly relived every shared moment—the training, the conversations, the bar that night, your head against the window as he drove you home. Moments that used to feel important. Yours.

But he didn’t feel like your Aizawa anymore.

What had happened? The sparring session? That night at the bar? Did he figure it out—your feelings? Was it that obvious? Had Kayama said something? Did he pity you?

Or worse... was he disgusted?

Every question tightened in your chest until the ache turned to tears. And then, quietly, that sorrow gave way to frustration. Yes—he didn’t owe you anything. But neither did you.

So you stopped reaching. You stopped softening.

You didn’t confront him. You didn’t press. You just began to reflect his energy back at him—calm, respectful, distant.

You still thought of him. Still missed him. Still carried pieces of him with you when the night was quiet enough.

But if he wanted space, you’d give it.

Because you’d already given enough of yourself without being asked.

And now... you were done offering what wasn’t wanted.

It finally hit you one day—he didn’t care.

Not even a little. Not a glance, not a moment of hesitation. You could walk into a room and leave again without him noticing. You could stop speaking entirely and the silence would fall flat. You were a ghost in his world now. A non-issue.

And it hurt.

God, it hurt so much that it made you sick.

But what hurt more was how easily he moved on. As if you hadn’t ever shared anything. As if every memory that still clawed at your chest—every late-night talk, every training session, every breathless moment of unspoken tension—had meant nothing to him.

So you did the only thing you had left:

You let go.

No more looking for him in crowded rooms. No more pausing in hallways to see if he’d notice you. No more wondering what you did wrong.

You stopped caring.

At first, it felt like lying to yourself. But the more you forced yourself to walk past him without so much as a glance—the more you filled your time with other people, other tasks, your own damn peace—the less it stung.

You didn’t hate him.

But you started to dislike him.

You started to resent the version of him you used to love—the man who had smiled at you after a long day, who had spoken softly during late missions, who had touched your shoulder like it meant something. The man you thought maybe, just maybe, could have cared for you the way you did for him.

Because now, all you saw was cold distance. Silence.

Nothing.

And that silence?

It killed the last of your hope.

So, you moved on.

And strangely... it started to feel better. Lighter. You could breathe again, even if there was still a dull ache tucked deep in your chest where he used to live.

---

But Aizawa noticed.

He noticed everything.

At first, he told himself it was a good thing. That this was what he wanted. Needed. You no longer lingering near him, no more tension between you—no more risk of emotional hesitation in critical moments. You were acting like just another coworker now. Just another pro hero at U.A.

He had succeeded in pushing you away.

So why did it feel like he’d lost something vital?

It started with little things—how your smile never quite landed on him anymore. How you stopped responding in group conversations when he added something. How you didn’t laugh when Mic said something stupid and glanced at him like he used to see you do.

Then came the training sessions.

You stopped volunteering when he oversaw them. You avoided sparring under his observation. You passed him in the halls like you didn’t even know his name.

And the worst part?

You were so good at it.

You didn’t hesitate like he had. You didn’t falter, didn’t look back. You were slipping out of his orbit with ease.

And he hated it.

He hated how badly he wanted to call your name.

He hated how he almost did, more than once.

He hated that he still remembered the way you looked asleep in his passenger seat—soft, quiet, beautiful—and how that memory alone had cracked his entire sense of control.

This was his fault.

He knew it.

You had never asked him for anything. Never put pressure on him, never confessed, never crossed a line. All you ever did was exist—kindly, fiercely, quietly near him. And he ruined it by trying to outrun his own feelings. By letting fear win.

And now?

Now you were gone.

And he didn’t know if he deserved the chance to fix it.

...

Your friends noticed it before you did.

At first, it was the way your brows would pinch together whenever someone said his name—like you were bracing for impact. Your voice would go flat, your gaze would lower, and you'd redirect the conversation so fast it left them in silence.

Then, eventually, that tension faded. Your face no longer twisted into resentment. You no longer sighed or blinked away frustration. His name could come up in a meeting or a story or a casual passing comment and you… didn’t react.

You just nodded.

And that was worse.

Because at least when you were angry—hurt—there was something real between you. A thread, even if frayed. But now? Now it was like he'd become a stranger. Someone you used to know.

You didn’t bring him up.

Didn’t avoid him either.

You just lived. As if he had never existed beyond a distant chapter you didn’t reread anymore. Your smiles still bloomed—genuine, easy—but they weren’t meant for him. Your laughter came freely, but it never echoed near where he stood. Your light remained, but he no longer stood in its glow.

Yes, you still cared for him.

You always would.

You'd take a hit for him without question, stand in front of danger if it meant keeping him alive. You’d never wish him harm. Never speak ill of him.

But you no longer thought of him when something made you smile.

You no longer remembered what it felt like to hope he'd glance your way.

You no longer checked if he was watching when you spoke in meetings, or when you made your students laugh, or when you walked into a room with quiet confidence.

He was still there, yes. A ghost stitched into the corners of your memory. But no longer living in your heart.

And you were okay with that.

More than okay.

You were free.

You had learned to carry the weight of unspoken love and still stand tall. You had learned that someone’s silence does not define your worth, and that someone failing to love you the way you needed doesn’t mean you’re unlovable.

And for once, you had the power.

Not to hurt him, or win him back, or prove anything.

But to move forward.

Without him.

...

He still watched you.

Even if you never looked his way anymore. Even if your smile never reached him. Even if you spoke to him only when necessary, with a tone that was polite but hollow—like someone closing a door gently instead of slamming it.

From across the courtyard, he watched you laugh at something Kayama said, your hand lightly pushing her shoulder, your eyes crinkled with amusement. He didn’t know what the joke was. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that you laughed—and not the quiet, forced one he used to hear when you were trying to be polite.

This one was real. Loud. Alive. The kind of sound that made people feel welcome just hearing it.

Later, in the hallway, he overheard you speaking with Ochako about something mundane—maybe a show, maybe an article, maybe God knows what—but it was the way you listened that caught him. The way your head tilted, your brows slightly raised, fully present, like whoever spoke to you was the only one in the world that mattered.

He remembered when you used to listen to him like that.

When his words seemed to mean something to you.

He saw the way his students gravitated toward you. The quiet ones, the angry ones, the anxious ones. You had a way of making people feel safe. Like just saying your name—Y/n—was enough to settle something in their chest.

And you didn’t even realize it.

He admired your focus when you were deep in something—reading, organizing reports, guiding younger heroes through drills. The way your brow furrowed slightly, the way you pressed your lips together in thought. He’d seen that face so many times, memorized the quiet brilliance behind it.

And still—still—he found himself watching for that stupid, soft smile. The one you gave when someone said something ridiculous. The one with the dimples. The one he used to roll his eyes at but secretly waited for.

Now he only saw it from a distance.

And every time, it hurt.

It hit him one quiet afternoon in the teacher’s lounge, when you walked past without even glancing his way, your expression calm and focused on the papers in your hands.

That pain in his chest?

It wasn’t just guilt.

It was grief.

He had spent so long trying to protect you—from him, from the feelings that made him vulnerable, from the weakness he believed came with love.

But in doing so, he had let you slip through his fingers like smoke. Trying to stay strong for you had cost him you.

And it wasn’t your fault.

It was his.

You had done nothing wrong. You had been gentle. Patient. Loyal. Real.

And he had crushed all of it under the weight of his fear.

He never said anything. Not aloud.

But when he lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed tightly over his chest to keep himself from reaching for something that wasn’t there—

He thought of you a lot more often nowwadays, he didn’t just miss you.

He had lost you and he knew it.

[etherealangell1]

﹒♡ HALLOWEEN SILLY

Shota Aizawa x fem!reader

notes: a rushed Halloween fic I ended up posting late anyways. One-shot. Included a little makeout sesh since I decided to be lazy.

synopsis: unspoken relationship with Aizawa takes its official step forward after a long awaited confrontation.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires as night cloaked the city in soft shadows. Aizawa hadn’t seen her all day. The whirlwind of missions and paperwork had kept him buried in the school’s chaos.

But here, under the flickering glow of jack-o’-lanterns and tangled strings of orange lights, she appeared.

She was crouched down, adjusting Eri’s tiny witch hat with a careful hand, her eyes warm beneath the playful flicker of candlelight. The little girl’s excitement bubbled over, her small fingers clutching a candy-filled bucket, eyes wide and sparkling.

Aizawa’s gaze softened as he watched the quiet patience in her movements, the way she smiled gently at Eri’s tentative steps, the way her laughter caught on the breeze when Eri squealed in delight after a successful “Trick or treat!”

For a moment, the world outside faded away. The grueling days, the endless weight of responsibility, all gone.

Just them.

Just this night.

Just the soft glow of Halloween magic weaving between them.

Eri tugged eagerly at Aizawa’s sleeve, her small voice insistent. “Come on, Uncle Shouta! You gotta trick-or-treat with us and Mirio!”

He glanced down at her, expression tired but softening just a bit. “I’m not really in the mood, Eri.”

But before he could turn away, she grinned wide, undeterred. “It’s Halloween! You have to!”

Just then, Y/n stepped in, a playful smile curling her lips as she caught the exchange. She reached out, gently tugging at Aizawa’s arm. “He’s right, silly. It is Halloween. You need a costume.”

Before he could protest, she steered him toward the dorms, the night air filled with the crunch of leaves beneath their feet.

“We’ll find you something,” she promised, voice light but certain. “Maybe a wolf mask? Something to match your ‘lone wolf’ reputation.”

Aizawa grumbled under his breath but didn’t resist. There was something about the way she looked at him now, half amused, half challenging, that made him curious. And maybe, just maybe, a little less alone.

She found it quickly, a sleek wolf mask, black with silver accents that caught the dim dorm lights just right. Holding it out to him, her smile was bright and cheerful, almost effortless.

“Try it on,” she urged, voice light and teasing.

Aizawa took the mask, fingers brushing hers for a fleeting moment. He hesitated, the weight of last night pressing at the edges of his mind, the kiss, the way she had pulled away so fast afterward, like it never happened.

Her carefree attitude now caught him off guard. Was she pretending too? Acting like the moment didn’t exist?

He frowned slightly, masking his uncertainty with a dry comment. “You sure you’re not just trying to distract me?”

She laughed softly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe a little.”

But beneath the playful facade, Aizawa caught a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze.

He slid the mask over his eyes, the world narrowing to the curve of the wolf’s snout and the shimmer of silver under the lights.

He pulled the wolf mask just a little lower, his voice quieter than usual beneath its sleek edges.

“We need to talk about last night,” he said, steady but firm.

She paused, looking up at him with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We will,” she promised, voice soft but certain. “After Halloween’s over.”

He studied her for a long moment, caught somewhere between relief and frustration, but didn’t push. Not now.

Together, they stepped out of the dorms and into the crisp night, where Eri waited by the entrance, laughing alongside Mirio Togata.

Y/n practically bounced toward them, her excitement contagious. She smiled like the whole world was a secret only she and Eri shared, hopping from one spot to another, her laughter ringing clear under the streetlights.

Aizawa watched quietly, the wolf mask still hiding part of his face, but not his guarded eyes.

He assumed her joy came from Eri, the child’s pure delight infecting everyone around her.

Still, beneath it all, he wished the night would hurry and end.

Even though part of him found himself reluctant to look away.

The streets were alive with orange lights and laughter, children darting between stoops like excited fireflies. Paper ghosts danced in the breeze, and Eri, dressed like a tiny blue unicorn, clutched her pumpkin bucket with both hands, cheeks puffed out from candy and grinning wide as Mirio praised her for saying "thank you" so sweetly.

Aizawa walked slightly behind them, hands deep in his pockets. He wasn’t saying much, but he didn’t have to. His eyes stayed on her.

She was flitting from house to house beside Eri, crouching beside her as she picked her favorite sweets, the sheer enthusiasm in her voice as genuine as Eri’s joy. That same red skirt bounced a little with every step, wings fluttering on her back like she might actually take off at any second.

She didn’t act like she was just tagging along. She moved like this was her night, too, making Eri laugh, fixing her crooked unicorn horn, gently wiping sticky chocolate from the side of her mouth with a tissue from her sleeve.

Aizawa exhaled slowly, watching her lean down to whisper something in Eri’s ear that made the girl giggle and squeal.

He didn’t realize he was smiling.

It wasn’t just how beautiful she looked, though. She really did, with the faint blush from the cold on her cheeks and those expressive eyes that always gave her away. It was the warmth. The effortless care. The way she made even Mirio’s over-the-top jokes feel funnier just by joining in with her soft, full laugh.

At one point, Eri held both their hands, his on one side, hers on the other, and glanced up at the woman with stars in her eyes. “You’re really pretty, Miss Y/n. Like a real bug fairy.”

She laughed and squeezed Eri’s hand. “And you’re the prettiest unicorn I’ve ever seen.”

Aizawa's heart clenched. Just a little.

There was something in the way Eri looked at her, like she'd already decided this woman was safe, was magic, was hers. And maybe it wasn’t just Eri.

Aizawa looked at her again, at the crinkle of her eyes when she laughed, the way she spun to offer Eri a sip of warm cider they’d picked up along the way.

He thought, not for the first time, How did I end up wanting something like this?

But he didn’t say a word. Not yet.

The night finally wound down. Eri’s laughter faded into soft yawns, and soon she was tucked into bed, her tiny hands curled around a favorite plush toy.

Aizawa stepped outside his dorm, expecting quiet. Instead, he found her there, waiting.

Still in her ladybug costume: the short red skirt, the black-and-red polka-dot leggings hugging her legs just enough to trace their shape, the matching top fitting snug around her shoulders.

The little wings on her back fluttered gently as she shifted, and if he was being honest with himself, she looked completely adorable, almost impossibly so.

He found himself studying the way her legs were outlined by the tights, the curve of her shoulders exposed beneath the costume’s delicate fabric, the same shoulders he’d always noticed, the ones that somehow stayed etched in his mind.

She caught his gaze, cheeks flushed faintly from all that running around, or maybe from something else, and smiled softly.

For a moment, everything else fell away.

She shifted nervously, the tiny wings on her back fluttering almost imperceptibly as she met his steady gaze.

“I… I’m sorry for leaving right after our kiss,” she said quietly, voice soft but sincere. “I tend to overthink things. It overwhelms me sometimes. Fear creeps in, especially when it’s about someone as important as you.”

Her fingers fiddled with the edge of her skirt, betraying the calm tone she tried to keep.

Aizawa listened, his usual guarded expression softened. He didn’t hold a grudge, not for a second.

“I get it,” he admitted, voice low and steady. “I have my own fears, too. About making a move… about risking something I don’t want to lose.”

He paused, eyes tracing her delicate features framed by the costume’s bright colors.

“But that night, the way you looked at me, it shook something loose. Made me realize maybe it’s worth the risk.”

She gave a small, relieved smile.

She took a tentative step closer, the soft rustle of her costume the only sound between them for a moment. Her eyes searched his, hopeful but cautious, as if weighing the weight of what she was about to ask.

“Can I… come in? Just for a little while,” she whispered, voice barely louder than the breeze. “I don’t want the night to end yet.”

Aizawa’s breath hitched slightly, caught off guard by the vulnerability in her tone. His usual stoic mask softened, brows lifting just enough to invite her in without words.

He stepped aside, opening the door wider.

“Come in,” he said simply.

She smiled, a little brighter this time, and slipped past him, closing the door softly behind.

The room felt warmer, smaller, like the space between them had shrunk just enough to make everything else fade away.

The moment he turned around, she was right there, close enough that the warmth radiating from her seemed to fill the entire room. Her eyes were impossibly wide, sparkling with a sweetness that barely masked the mischief beneath. She stared up at him, patient but hungry, as if drinking in every inch of his face.

He met her gaze with those heavy-lidded eyes, dark and unreadable, a slow, dangerous smile curling at the corner of his mouth. Step by step, he closed the space between them, his presence pressing gently yet undeniably.

“Will you stay,” he murmured, voice low and rough, like a whispered promise, “here with me this time?”

There was something in the way he said it, an edge of longing sharpened by years of restraint, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

She didn’t hesitate. Instead, she reached up, fingers brushing the line of his jaw, anchoring herself to him.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I’m staying.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as they finally let the silence between them speak, full and heavy, and everything they’d been holding back.

He closed the last inch between them with a slow, deliberate step, his hand sliding up to cup the side of her face, fingers threading gently into the soft strands of her hair. The heat of his palm pressed against her skin, steadying and claiming.

She leaned into his touch, tilting her head slightly, lips parting just enough to invite him closer. Their breaths mingled, warm and shallow, before he lowered his mouth to hers.

The kiss was slow at first, exploratory, a soft brush of lips that spoke of longing and promises whispered in silence. Then it deepened, growing fiercer, as if years of restraint melted away in that single moment.

His free hand slid down to her waist, pulling her gently but firmly against him, feeling the curve of her body press into his. She responded instinctively, hands wrapping around his neck, fingers curling into the nape of his hair as she pulled him closer still.

Their bodies swayed subtly, a silent rhythm born from the closeness and the years of unspoken feelings finally breaking free.

His lips parted just enough to deepen the kiss, a slow, intoxicating pull that sent a shiver through her spine. His fingers tightened slightly in her hair, threading through the soft strands as if anchoring himself to her, unwilling to let go. The heat of his palm at her jaw radiated down to her neck, where she leaned into his touch, surrendering to the steady pressure.

Her hands slid down from his neck, tracing the broad lines of his shoulders, fingers pressing gently into the fabric of his shirt as if memorizing the strength beneath. She pressed closer, hips tilting forward, seeking more contact, the subtle shift sending a spark of electricity between them.

He responded instantly, hand moving lower to cup the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. The press of their bodies ignited a warmth that spread slowly, a magnetic pull drawing them tighter with every heartbeat.

Breath mingled, heavy and uneven, as the kiss deepened, soft lips giving way to hungry exploration, tongues tracing secret rhythms, discovering each other anew. The world beyond their closeness blurred and softened until nothing remained but the quiet chaos of desire, restrained for too long, now unleashed.

His forehead rested against hers as they finally broke apart, eyes dark and shining with a fierce tenderness, breath still ragged.

“Stay,” he murmured again, voice rough with emotion, “just stay.”

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. When she opened them again, her smile was soft but certain, a quiet promise.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, her fingers tightening gently around his neck as she pulled him back for a tender, lingering kiss.

Slowly, she eased her body even closer, molding herself against him like they fit perfectly together, a connection years in the making, finally breaking free from the edges of silence and doubt.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savoring the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. When she opened them again, her smile was soft but certain, a quiet promise.

He kissed her again, slower this time, less like a spark and more like a steady flame. Each movement was deliberate, meaningful, as if he were memorizing the way her lips moved with his, the little breathy sounds she made between kisses, the way her hands gripped the fabric at his shoulders.

Without a word, their bodies began to shift, moving together in sync, step by quiet step, as she backed up toward the bed. His hand slid from the small of her back to her waist, guiding her gently without breaking the kiss. She bumped against the edge of the mattress and let herself sink down, pulling him with her.

He followed, bracing one arm beside her to keep from pressing all his weight into her, though their legs tangled naturally, comfortably. The soft fabric of her costume brushed his skin in teasing ways, but the focus was only her, her lips, her warmth, her nearness.

His other hand cupped the back of her neck, his thumb brushing her skin there as he deepened the kiss just enough to make her breath catch. She let out the softest laugh between kisses, that familiar spark in her eyes even now.

Their kisses slowed again, turning gentle. Neither of them rushed to speak. They didn’t need to.

In this moment, making out under the low light, breath mingling and bodies wrapped close, it was enough.

He leaned in harder, lips crashing into hers with more urgency this time, no longer gentle, but hungry. The kind of kiss that felt like he’d been waiting forever and just couldn't hold back anymore.

She gasped softly against his mouth, and he took that chance to deepen it, his tongue brushing hers in a way that made her toes curl. Her hands gripped the front of his shirt tightly, tugging him down with her as she lay back, breathless. He followed without hesitation, one knee sinking into the mattress beside her, the other planted firmly on the floor as he leaned over her.

His hand roamed now, not rushed but eager, starting at her waist, tracing the dip of her side, fingers brushing the hem of her top where skin peeked out. Her costume shifted beneath his touch, that soft, stretchy fabric clinging to her in places that made his restraint waver.

Her hands found his hair, threading through the dark strands and giving a gentle tug that made him growl low in his throat, something animalistic and full of desire, deep in his chest.

Their kisses turned messy, desperate, lips parting only to draw in shaky breaths before colliding again. Every brush of his hand, every shift of her hips beneath him, added to the dizzying heat building between them.

His fingers pressed into her thigh, feeling the texture of her tights beneath his touch, the curve of her leg beneath that. She arched up into him just slightly, just enough to close the space.

She felt his breath on her cheek as his lips left hers for a moment, just long enough to trail soft, open-mouthed kisses down the line of her jaw, to the hollow of her neck. His stubble scratched her skin in the best way, grounding her in the moment as her fingers curled tighter into the back of his shirt.

“Shota…” she breathed, barely above a whisper, but it was enough.

He stilled for half a second at the sound of his name like that, soft, shaky, wanting, but then his lips found her throat again, and his hand slid up her side, grazing the dip of her waist through her costume. His thumb brushed just under the fabric, against bare skin, and her breath caught again.

She tugged him closer, legs parting to cradle his hips without thought, just instinct and heat and the thrill of finally being this close. His hand ran along her thigh again, fingers curling into the fabric of her tights, tracing the shape of her through the material like he couldn’t decide what he wanted more, to touch or to tease.

Their kisses grew rougher again, more urgent. Every brush of their bodies sparked more heat, more need. Her hands slipped under the hem of his shirt, fingertips skimming his skin, feeling the tension in his back and the way he shivered under her touch.

Still they didn’t speak. Words felt unnecessary, too fragile for the weight of what was happening between them. It was all told in their breath, their hands, the way their mouths found each other over and over again, like they couldn't get enough. Like maybe they wouldn’t ever.

He kissed her again, hard, then slowed just enough to savor the hitch in her breath. His thumb stroked along her jaw while his other hand slid beneath the edge of her costume top, palm flattening against the warm skin at her waist. She gasped, not in surprise but in relief, arching into his touch like she’d been waiting for him to really touch her.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured against her mouth.

“I won’t,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

He shrugged off his capture scarf and jacket in quick, impatient movements, never fully breaking contact. She helped, fingers fumbling at fabric, laughing breathlessly when one of her ladybug wings bent and flopped sideways. He grinned, actually grinned, before pressing kisses along her exposed shoulder, teeth grazing lightly where costume met skin.

Her hands slid under his shirt now, palms exploring the defined lines of his back, mapping muscle and scar like she was learning a language. Each slow pass of her fingers drew him closer until his weight caged her in, thigh sliding between hers, the fabric of her tights catching just enough to spark heat with every shift.

Their kisses turned ragged. He dragged his mouth from her lips to her throat, down the hollow there, then back up, tasting rainwater she must’ve caught in the walk over. She hooked a leg around his hip, pulling him flush; the answering sound he made was low and unguarded.

“Shota…” Breathless. Wanting.

He reached behind her, found the bedside lamp, and clicked it off. Moonlight washed the room silver as they shifted higher onto the mattress, tangled in blankets, laughter and soft curses threaded between hungry kisses. Both of their clothing were quickly discarded. And he leaned some his weight onto her, leaving trails.of kisses from her collarbone to right above one of her breasts.

She pulled back his hair by threading her fingers om top of head, tugging just slightly as she felt his warm mouth meet her boob, while his other large and calloused hand gripped and squeezed at the other one. She felt almost breathless as she let out tiny gasps and shallow breaths as he nipped and sucked on her tit. Unrelenting and persistent like he had much practice with it.

Which he didn't, but he was so hungry for her it didn't matter. He wanted her. All of her.

And that was exactly what he got.

...

His arms slid around her waist like he was meant to, pulling her in tight, pressing her back into his chest. Her body softened immediately, relaxing into him like she’d been waiting for the same thing. He exhaled against her shoulder, letting his hands rest on her lower back, rubbing slow, grounding circles with his thumb through the fabric of her costume.

No words were needed. She melted into his hold, her arms gently folding over his as his chin nestled into the curve of her neck. He breathed her in, something warm and faintly sweet clinging to her skin, and let himself just feel. His muscles, usually tense, relaxed. His eyes fluttered closed.

He was tired. Exhausted, actually.

But he’d never felt more warm. Not from the heat of her body against his, but from the quiet, undeniable peace that came with holding someone he didn’t have to hide anything from.

She turned her face toward him slightly, letting her cheek rest against his temple. Her fingers skimmed over his knuckles.

They didn’t say anything.

They didn’t need to.

By morning, light filtered lazily in through the window. Aizawa woke before she did. He always did. The room was still dim, quiet, and soft with the kind of calm that never stayed long in his world.

He turned slightly, one arm still draped over her waist.

She was curled on her side, breathing slow and even, one hand peeking out from beneath the blanket and tucked under her cheek. Her lashes kissed the top of her cheekbones, and a faint crease marked her brow, like even in sleep, her emotions lingered close to the surface.

She looked… peaceful. Completely unaware of how her presence was settling something inside him.

And for once, he didn’t feel the familiar pang of anxiety. No second guessing, no cold thoughts trying to talk him out of this.

Just her.

---

[etherealangell1]

༊*·˚ The infirmary was quiet this late. Just the steady ticking of the clock above the cabinets and the distant hum of rain tapping faintly against the tall windows. The harsh fluorescent lights had been dimmed to a warmer hue, casting the room in a soft, sleepy glow.

Aizawa sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, fabric rumpled around his waist. A shallow cut traced the line of his ribcage, freshly cleaned but still raw. He didn’t flinch, not at the cold antiseptic, not at the gauze. He rarely did.

The nurse moved carefully beside him, her hands practiced and gentle as she pressed a clean cloth to the wound. Her fingers were deft, but her touch was light, almost cautious, like she didn’t want to push his already tired body any more than necessary.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he muttered, eyes flicking to her briefly. “I’ve had worse.”

She didn’t look up. “I know."

But her voice was softer than her hands. Not dismissive. Not annoyed. Just… there. Present.

She dabbed at the last of the dried blood and reached for the bandage, the scent of clean cotton and something floral clinging faintly to her sleeve. He caught himself watching the way her hair had come a little undone near her ear, a loose strand tucked behind it, carelessly, sweetly.

He didn’t say anything else.

But he didn’t look away, either.

She peeled the backing from the bandage slowly, smoothing it out between her fingers before placing it over the cut. Her touch lingered longer than it needed to, not clinically, but carefully.

Then she paused.

Her hands stilled, just for a second, and without lifting her head, her eyes flicked up toward his.

“You’re staring,” she said softly, not accusing, just quietly amused. Curious.

Aizawa blinked, slow, unbothered. “You noticed.”

She finally looked at him fully then, meeting his gaze with that same calm steadiness she always had around patients. But he wasn’t just a patient right now, and they both knew it.

“You usually avoid eye contact when someone’s patching you up,” she added. “So… what changed?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, really watched her. The curve of her brows, the way the light caught in her lashes. How close she was. How warm she felt.

“Maybe I’m just appreciating good work,” he said evenly, but his tone had lost its usual dry edge.

She smiled at that. Small. Tired. Genuine.

But it stayed on her lips longer than it needed to.

She tilted her head, just slightly. The smile didn’t fade, but there was a glint in her eye now, sharp enough to cut through the usual distance he kept up like armor.

“Mm. I’ve been treating your injuries for almost two years now,” she said, voice low but clear. “You’ve never once looked at my hands like they were doing magic.”

Aizawa’s brow lifted. “I don’t look at anyone like that.”

She raised a single brow in return, clearly unconvinced.

“Except right now,” she said simply.

The air between them shifted, like a held breath. She wasn’t being flirtatious, wasn’t teasing him for sport. It was more grounded than that. Braver. She was giving him a door, quietly daring him to step through it.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

Maybe he’d misjudged her, he thought. Or maybe he hadn’t, and that’s what made this harder.

His voice, when it came, was softer than before. “I guess I’m just starting to see things I didn’t let myself notice before.”

She blinked, her expression faltering into something surprised, then softened.

“Is that so?” she murmured.

And suddenly, her hands weren’t just cleaning up a wound anymore. They were closer. Still. Waiting.

She held his gaze a second longer, just long enough for him to wonder if she might actually say something more.

But then, with a quiet little breath and a blink, she turned back to her tray, peeling another piece of tape like nothing had shifted at all.

“Hold still,” she said, the same calm professionalism returning to her voice as she pressed the last bandage in place. “You’ll want to keep that clean for at least the next two days. No shirt rubbing against it if you can help it.”

Like their eyes hadn’t just said more than either of them had in weeks.

Like she hadn’t seen right through him, and let it hang in the air between them without deciding what to do with it.

Aizawa didn’t move. He let her finish, the clinical routine falling back into place like armor. Like comfort.

But there was a flicker of something new behind her composed expression, something she didn’t let show, except for the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smirk. Not a smile.

A memory of one.

And that was enough to keep him exactly where he was.

Just a little longer.

He slid his shirt back on with practiced ease, careful not to jostle the fresh bandage. She stepped back, giving him space, already reaching for the tray to begin cleaning up.

He lingered at the threshold for a breath longer than necessary.

“...Thank you,” he said quietly.

It was simple. Too simple for what he actually felt, but it was all he gave her.

She glanced up with a gentle nod, already wiping down the table, her focus neatly returned to the rhythm of routine. He watched her for a second longer, watched the way the light brushed her cheekbone, the steady motion of her hands, and then turned and left.

The hallway outside felt colder than it should have. Echoed a little too much.

He regretted leaving almost immediately.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a slow, quiet ache. He’d wanted to stay, really stay. Maybe offer to walk her back to her quarters when she was done, even if it meant waiting around and making small talk, something he usually avoided like the plague.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew she always stayed late after Recovery Girl left. Tidying, checking inventory, updating reports no one else wanted to deal with. He didn’t even remember how he’d learned that.

He just knew.

And now, walking down the empty corridor, his thoughts kept pulling back to her, her doe eyes, the color of them, the softness in the way they’d looked up at him while her hands moved over his bare skin. Delicate, but sure.

Even if it had just been her doing her job.

He didn’t want it to only be that.

He let out a breath, slow and long, as he reached the stairwell.

Maybe next time… he’d stay longer.

Maybe next time, he’d let her know.

The next time he saw her, it wasn’t in the infirmary.

It was in the courtyard just after sunset, where the sky was still flushed with the last hints of gold and lavender. She was standing beneath one of the tall trees near the faculty building, sorting through a small box of medical supplies, likely on her way to restock the field kits.

Aizawa hadn’t meant to stop.

He’d only planned to walk by, heading toward the dorms after a long day of evaluations. But the moment he spotted her, hair gently swept back, her coat caught slightly in the breeze, his feet slowed. Paused.

She looked up and spotted him before he could pretend he hadn’t seen her.

Her expression didn’t shift much, but he caught it, the tiny lift of her brows, the softness in her gaze. The unspoken “hello” passed between them without a single word.

“Still working late,” he said, voice even, but quieter than usual as he stepped closer.

“Someone’s got to make sure Present Mic doesn’t accidentally poison the first, years with outdated allergy meds,” she replied with a dry smile.

A small breath of amusement left him. Barely a sound. But it counted.

He stood near the edge of the tree’s shade, looking down at the kit in her hands, then back up to her face. She was closer now than she had been in the hallway. The light made her eyes look even warmer, doe eyes, he remembered, with lashes that curled just right, delicate but not dainty.

“I meant to say something last time,” he muttered.

She blinked once. “About your bandage? I figured you’d say something if it got infected.”

“No.” He met her eyes fully now. “Not about the bandage.”

A quiet passed between them, gentle but charged.

“I didn’t want it to just be about the job,” he said simply. “That night.”

She didn’t answer right away. But she didn’t look away either.

She blinked again, slower this time, and tilted her head, a small crease forming between her brows.

“…What night?” she asked.

The question wasn’t defensive, or mocking, it was genuinely puzzled. Her hands paused mid-movement over the kit, fingers curled around a roll of gauze as she looked up at him, truly trying to follow.

Aizawa stared at her, momentarily thrown.

That night in the infirmary.

Her hands on his skin.

Her eyes on his.

The way something unspoken hung in the air, hadn’t it?

“I mean… when you patched me up,” he said, slower now, cautious. “After that mission. I stayed longer than I should’ve.”

She nodded slowly, still unsure. “Right. You had a cracked rib and didn’t tell anyone until after training. Not the first time, honestly.”

His jaw shifted. Not irritation, just restraint. This wasn’t going how he thought it would.

“I--” he started, then cut himself off. He wasn’t used to explaining things that only existed inside his head.

Her expression softened a little, but the confusion didn’t leave. “Did I… do something wrong?” she asked gently, trying to read between lines he hadn’t drawn clearly.

“No,” he said quickly. “You didn’t. You just…”

His eyes flicked away, toward the field beyond the trees, then back to her.

“You were kind. And I read too much into it.”

A long silence settled between them.

She held his gaze for a long, searching moment.

Yeah, she remembered the night.

The way he sat still and quiet, letting her tend to him without protest. The way his eyes lingered just a little longer than usual, unreadable and shadowed beneath those heavy lashes.

She remembered the warmth that had bloomed in her chest when his voice dropped, low, steady, and almost tender.

She had felt something.

But “it”…?

She didn’t know what his “it” was. Not for sure.

Because Aizawa Shota was not the type to leave things messy or uncertain. He was practical. Efficient. Stern to the bone. And whatever he was feeling… she couldn’t be sure it matched the butterflies she had tucked away the moment she turned back to her tray that night.

She shifted the medical kit in her hands and glanced up at him, a little softer now. “I just… don’t know what you mean by it.”

Aizawa’s expression didn’t change much. Maybe a flicker of hesitation. Maybe something behind his eyes pulled tight. But he didn’t look disappointed. He just looked… quietly unsure.

“It was nothing,” he said eventually, voice low again, but not cold. “Don’t worry about it.”

But as he turned like he might walk away, she reached out, gently, just her fingers brushing the sleeve of his coat.

“Wait.”

He paused.

She wasn’t letting him retreat that easily. Not if what he meant and what she felt were even remotely close.

“…Can you tell me what you thought it was?” she asked quietly, voice barely above the breeze moving through the courtyard.

Because if he said it out loud, and it matched what was fluttering in her chest.

Then maybe she could say her part, too.

Aizawa was still for a breath. Maybe two.

Then he shook his head, barely, just a small, resigned motion.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, tone even. “You were doing your job. I was tired. I misread it.”

He didn’t say it bitterly. Just practically. Like a man rebalancing the facts in his head, adjusting his footing before the ground could shift beneath him.

But she didn’t let go of his sleeve.

“You never misread anything,” she said quietly, brows drawn together.

“I did this time,” he replied, not harshly, but with finality. Not the kind that shuts a door forever, but the kind that steps away before one can open.

He stepped back gently, her fingers slipping from the fabric of his coat. And just like that, the space between them widened again.

He didn’t leave immediately. His eyes flicked to hers once more, unreadable beneath the shadows of dusk.

“Have a good night,” he said softly.

Then he turned and walked off, hair swaying faintly behind him, footsteps quiet on the stone.

She stood under the tree for a long time after, the medical kit clutched in her hands, heart still caught somewhere between what she thought she saw and what he wouldn’t say.

Night had settled deep over U.A., the campus quiet except for the soft hum of distant conversations and the occasional rustle of leaves in the cool breeze.

She stood outside Aizawa’s dorm door, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered just before the knock. The weight of months, the careful pretending, the silent hope tucked away since last year, weighed heavy on her chest.

Her heart pounded so loud she thought he might hear it before she even spoke.

With a breath, she knocked.

The door cracked open, and there he was, gruff and tired, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance at the late disturbance.

But the moment his eyes met hers, something softened. Surprise flickered through those lidded dark eyes, and his expression shifted to calm, wary curiosity.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words tangled up inside her.

So instead, she stepped forward, closing the small gap without hesitation.

Her lips met his, gentle, urgent, and unguarded.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling but steady.

“Was that it? Or did I just do something dumb?”

He blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t pull away.

Instead, his gaze held hers longer than usual, thoughtful and unreadable.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, just long enough for her to see the flicker of something fierce beneath the calm. Then without hesitation, he closed the small space between them, lips crashing into hers with a hunger that caught her breath.

His hands came up instantly, rough and steady, one slipping beneath her jaw while the other cupped the back of her head, fingers threading into the loose strands of her hair. His brow furrowed deeply, eyes squeezed shut as if trying to hold back a flood of feelings he’d kept locked away for too long.

The kiss was intense, raw and desperate, like he’d waited forever for this moment and still couldn’t get enough. Every second pressed into her with the weight of years, every movement filled with a fierce, quiet longing.

She could feel the heat radiating off him, the steady pulse of his heartbeat under her palm as his grip tightened just enough to anchor them both.

When they finally broke apart, his breath was ragged, lips parted, eyes still searching hers, unspoken words lingering between them, loud and clear.

He whispered, voice rough but certain, “Not dumb. Not at all.”

---

[etherealangell1]

༊*·˚ It was raining, hard enough to make the windows hum, soft enough that Aizawa didn’t bother closing the balcony door. The chill air smelled like wet stone and old clouds.

She stood just outside, leaning against the rail with her arms folded, a mug steaming gently in her hands. Her hair was damp from where the wind had caught it, sticking to the side of her neck. She didn’t flinch at the cold. Didn’t seem bothered by much at all.

Aizawa leaned in the doorway, watching her without a word.

He wasn’t sure what it was about her. Maybe it was the way she could stand still and quiet without it feeling like absence. Maybe it was the fact she didn’t fill silence with unnecessary noise, didn’t ask questions just to break the air.

Or maybe it was simpler than that.

Maybe he just liked looking at her.

Maybe he just liked admiring the woman in front of him.

There was a stillness to her that mirrored his own, but it wasn’t cold, it was intentional. Present. Like she chose to be here, with the storm at her back and the open sky in her lungs. And somehow, without saying a word, she made the silence feel like it belonged to them both.

She was definitely special.

Not in the way people threw the word around when they didn’t know what else to say. No, this was the kind of special that built itself slowly, almost invisibly. Through small moments. Through how she listened when others spoke. Through how she moved like she had nothing to prove, and still managed to outshine the ones who did.

He’d grown to respect her. That part had been easy. Inevitable.

But somewhere along the way, respect had turned into something softer. Something that caught him in quiet moments like this, just watching her, thinking more than he should.

Thinking about how close she felt, even with a few feet between them.

Thinking he wouldn’t mind closing that gap.

She looked peaceful, framed by the silver curtain of rain, her eyes distant as if caught in some quiet memory. He studied her silhouette, still, composed, backlit by the gray light, and hesitated to interrupt.

Aizawa didn’t do impulsive. He didn’t do uninvited.

But he let his mind wander, just for a moment. To all the things he’d never say out loud.

The way her dimples carved their way into his thoughts after her laugh echoed through a hallway. That laugh, full, open, completely unguarded. The kind that burst out of her when he deadpanned something sarcastic without meaning to be funny. It had a way of staying with him longer than it should’ve.

And it wasn’t just the lightness.

He remembered missions, chaotic, bloody, loud, and how she’d stood firm in the middle of it all. Shielding others. Always choosing the risk if it meant someone else got to walk away safe. He hated that about her, and he loved that about her.

Then there were the quiet moments, like now, when she’d speak with calm, gentle empathy. How just her voice could slow someone’s breathing. How kindness wasn’t something she performed; it was something she was.

And she was near him. All the time. Like this strange, beautiful reality he hadn’t quite come to terms with.

His fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to close the gap.

He wanted to stand beside her like he belonged there.

But he wasn’t sure.

So he stood still, quietly watching, and let himself want.

He wasn’t even supposed to still be here.

He’d brought Eri over hours ago for her sleepover with Miss L/n, something the girl had been counting down to all week. The plan was simple: walk her here, make sure she settled in, and leave once she was safe and happy.

Eri had fallen asleep hours ago, tucked under soft blankets with her favorite plush rabbit and a smile still ghosting her lips.

Aizawa should’ve left then.

But he didn’t.

Maybe it was the easy way she had welcomed him in, offering him tea without a second thought. Maybe it was the warmth of her presence, the way the lamp light softened her features as they sat and spoke for longer than either had meant to. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the quiet ache in his chest at the thought of returning to his empty dorm. Back to another silent night filled with nothing but papers and the hum of solitude.

This dorm, her dorm, wasn’t much larger than his. But it felt warmer. Lived in. Personal. It carried her scent, her energy. And now, standing here watching her as the rain whispered through the open balcony door, it held something else too.

A comfort he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until he found it.

Aizawa shifted slightly, guilt brushing against his ribs, but it was light, not biting. Staying here felt selfish. But staying here felt… right.

He let out a slow breath, barely audible.

He didn’t want to leave.

She must’ve felt his eyes on her, maybe it was the weight of his presence, or maybe she simply knew him better than he realized. Either way, she turned her head slowly, rain-blurred light catching the edge of her features as she finally looked at him.

A small, confused smile curved her lips. Soft. Familiar.

“Trying to stay the night too?” she asked, teasingly, a playful glint in her eyes as she stepped back inside.

He swallowed the urge to smile, the kind that tried to rise whenever she used that voice with him, half-joking, half-inviting, even if she didn’t mean it that way. His chest felt a little tighter as he leaned against the frame of the balcony door.

“If I said yes?” he asked, voice low, barely above the rain.

She raised a brow at him, tilting her head slightly as she set the mug down on the table. Her smile lingered, but something in her expression paused, just a second too long.

He wished she had meant it.

Wished the question wasn’t wrapped in lightheartedness. Because he wasn’t joking. Not really. He did want to stay. He wanted to be near her in a way that wasn’t accidental or temporary.

But instead of saying any of that, he just stood there, waiting for her to laugh it off. To shrug and change the subject.

Because she was still Miss L/n.

And he was still Aizawa.

Nothing else.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t brush it off like he expected.

Her eyes stayed on him, the smile fading just enough to make room for something quieter, something honest.

“If you said yes…” she began, slowly, thoughtfully, “I’d probably tell you there’s still room on the couch. Or-” Her gaze flicked briefly toward the half-empty blanket on the floor where they’d sat earlier, watching Eri color before bed. “—you could just stay right here.”

Aizawa didn’t answer at first. He didn’t need to. She’d taken him seriously. That alone sent a flicker of warmth through him, one he didn’t know how to react to. He wasn’t used to people understanding what he didn’t say.

She stepped a little closer, barefoot against the floor, arms folding loosely over her chest. “You know you don’t have to go, right?”

Her voice was softer now. No teasing, no distance.

Just her.

Just her offering him something that didn’t come with conditions.

He exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled, but not cold. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “I know.”

And just like that, the air shifted, closer, quieter, something delicate blooming between them that hadn’t been there before, or maybe had been for a while and just hadn’t been acknowledged.

He wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

---

[etherealangell1]

༊*·˚ The apartment was quiet, lit only by the golden glow of the lamp in the corner. Aizawa leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the usual tension in his shoulders softened by the quiet scene before him.

She sat on the edge of the couch, Eri curled up in her arms like a kitten tucked against warmth. One of her hands gently combed through the girl’s white hair, slow and rhythmic, while the other cradled Eri’s back. The little one’s breaths had grown slow and steady, her tiny fingers clutching a fold of the woman’s sweater as if afraid sleep might carry her too far away.

Aizawa didn’t say anything. He just watched. Listened to the faint hum of the heater. Watched the way her eyes softened every time she looked down at Eri, and how her lips curled into the faintest smile as the child exhaled a sigh of safety.

He wasn’t used to this kind of quiet. Not the silence that came from absence, but the kind that came from peace.

He finally stepped forward, each footfall deliberately soft on the hardwood floor. His voice was low when he spoke, barely more than a breath.

“I can take her, if your arms are getting tired.”

She looked up at him, eyes warm but heavy with the softness of the moment. She hesitated, glancing down at the sleeping girl in her arms. Eri had nestled even deeper into her chest, cheek pressed against her heartbeat like it was the safest place in the world.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, though her smile betrayed the ache in her arms. “But… yeah. Maybe it’s time.”

With practiced care, she rose from the couch, adjusting Eri’s weight gently. The child didn’t stir, just sighed and sank deeper into sleep. Her small arms remained loosely looped around the woman’s neck as she carried her down the short hallway, every step slow, as though the whole apartment might crack if rushed.

Aizawa followed, quiet as a shadow, his hand brushing the small of her back once, just a brief, grounding touch.

She pressed a soft kiss to Eri’s forehead, gentle, warm, maternal in a way that made Aizawa’s chest tighten with something tender. The little girl barely shifted as the door was slowly eased shut, the quiet click sealing her in her dreams.

The hallway was dim, and she leaned against the wall for a moment, brushing a hand through her hair. Her eyelids felt heavy now, the stillness and late hour weighing on her.

“You can stay here tonight,” Aizawa said, voice low as always but laced with a quiet kind of care. “It’s late. No sense in walking back.”

She glanced at him, a slow smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t the first time he’d offered, his tone always modest, never assuming, but it never failed to catch her off guard. Like she wasn’t expecting to be considered.

She nodded. “Thanks. There were still some students outside… I’m not really in the mood for happy birthday screaming in the hall.”

“Didn’t think you were,” he muttered, dryly amused.

He moved to set up a pillow on the couch, pulling the blanket from the armrest, but she gave him a look, tired but firm. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s room.”

He didn’t argue long. Maybe a second. Maybe two.

They ended up side by side, knees just barely touching beneath the shared blanket. The movie from earlier still flickered on screen, something with low dialogue and soft music neither of them paid much attention to. Her head eventually tilted against his shoulder, breath even, body warm and relaxed.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

He just let himself enjoy it, this quiet moment, this closeness. It wasn’t anything dramatic. Wasn’t anything loud. But it was something he quietly wanted more of.

And in his own quiet way, he liked it very much.

The room was nearly dark now, lit only by the bluish glow of the credits crawling slowly across the screen. Aizawa hadn’t moved, not even an inch, afraid to disturb the quiet balance resting against his shoulder.

His eyes drifted down to her.

There was something about the way sleep softened her features. The usual alertness, the little flickers of thought and awareness always dancing behind her eyes, gone. Replaced by a calm, unguarded kind of peace. Her breathing was slow and easy, lips parted just slightly, and her head rested so naturally against him it was like her body already knew it could trust him.

That trust hit somewhere he didn’t like to talk about. Somewhere too quiet, too personal.

He let his gaze trace the curve of her face, the gentle slope of her cheek, the way her hair messily framed her features. Strands had fallen across her forehead, one tucked along her jaw. Even like this, maybe especially like this, she looked… lovely. Effortlessly so.

He liked the way she looked when she wasn’t trying. When she was just here. With him.

He shifted his eyes back to the ceiling, jaw tight.

He wanted to get used to this. To her weight resting against him, to her scent lingering on the blanket, to the way his arm somehow always found its way behind her without needing to be asked.

But she was just a coworker.

That was all.

Much to his dismay.

---