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azelmawrites · 1 month ago

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Me & The Devil // Ch.1

Summary: Your life couldn't get any worse. You tried to convince yourself that you had hit rock bottom, but that was before you ran into trouble on your first day at the abbey, where you were meant to train and become a devout nun. Instead, you find yourself making a deal with the Devil on your very first day.

Warnings: demon!yelena, fem!reader, reader is black coded, religious themes, lesbian sex, religious trauma, period-typical homophobia. Please note that I am neither a fluent English speaker nor a Catholic. I do not intend to offend any religion or its followers. Any portrayal of religious themes is purely fictional and not meant to disrespect anyone's beliefs

For as long as you gained consciousness you believed you were rotten. Sure, your father was a simple religious man and he sent you off to an abbey to become god’s most dedicated nun, but you never felt pure. For as long as you can remember, you felt like there was a layer of grime on your soul and skin that you can’t get rid of by simply scrubbing.

It’s possibly why you felt so envious of Sister Catherine.

You’d only been at the abbey for three hours, and already, you envied her and wished to be like her. From the strands visible beneath her veil, her hair appeared blonde, straight, and perfectly neat. Ontop of her beauty, she was very sociable and kind.

“After morning prayer we take turns to prepare meals. The more senior nuns do not participate in chores like the rest of us, since you’re new you will possibly be given the task of fetching water, sweeping, laundry as well,” She says, her gentle voice echoing slightly against the stone walls of the long corridor.

People at this age and time don’t show kindness, and as much as the church tried to preach otherwise—the class system still exists everywhere, even in this abbey. If you came from a good family, then you were welcome and popular. You clearly weren’t, the frayed threads in your sleeves, and the patch on your leather bag told everyone what they needed to know before you uttered a single word.

Sister Catherine continues, finally reaching the end of the hallway. “Thankfully, we each get our own rooms. This is yours.” She tells you, then opens the door and you smell the dust before you see it.

The room was small, and you knew it could be considered a broom closet if it were a few centimeters smaller.

She allows you to enter it first, so you do, and set your leather bag on the small wooden desk.

“I and the other junior nuns tried to clean it, but for some reason we couldn’t get the smell of the dust away,” she said, entering after you inside the tight room. You can tell that the room was hastily cleaned, it still needed another sweep and clean and you decided you would do it later.

“I can lend you my scented candle, if you would like so you can sleep peacefully tonight. The smell of the dust is truly prominent.” Sister Catherine tells you as you sit on the tight bed.

“Thank you, Sister Catherine. I will take you up on your offer, if you don’t mind.” You say, and turn to look at her with a smile. She grins back, “I would be happy to, I will give it to you right after we finish evening prayers.”

She then takes three steps back, and is out of your room. “I’ll let you get changed now, after you’re done make sure you go to the kitchens so Sister Margret tells you what’s your chore for today,” she stops to smile and wave her hand as if to reassure you of any worries you might have, “Don’t worry, your first task will possibly be peeling potatoes for supper, or maybe gathering firewood.”

You nod once only, already feeling a little tired from the constant returning of her smiles. “Alright. Thank you for everything Sister Catherine, I’ll see you around.”

She grins and then walks away just seconds before you shut the door.

You look around the tight room. It’s void from any personality, and you knew that if the sun wasn’t coming from the small window this room would’ve looked even tighter, and more ominous. You sigh before you open the window and allow fresh air to come inside.

The room faces the forest behind the abbey. The thick trees are so tall, and so terrifying even in the morning. Although the metal bars on the small window should’ve made you feel like a prisoner, you were glad that they were there, at least to offer you some kind of faux comfort at night as you knew your imagination would run wild at the thoughts of what sort of creatures would enter your tight cuboid-shaped room.

There’s no key in the door for you to lock your room, and that fact alone makes you quickly change out of your tattered dress and into the neat and ironed habit. You then work in taking out of your things and setting them on their respective places in the already too-minimalist room.

A comb and brush, a bottle of hair oil, a needle kit, undergarments, a bar of soap and a washcloth, two equally ugly dresses. You set your bible and rosary beads on your night stand. Then your most prized possessions, a journal and a pencil that you stole from your father before being banished to this abbey.

You realize fifteen minutes pass, and so you quickly exit your room and try to remember the corridors Sister Catherine took to reach the kitchens.

It was clear that you were late, and were made to be even later with you getting lost several times; as when you stumble into the kitchen, you’re greeted with a frowny woman. Her full face and constant frown almost reminding you of a frog.

This had to be Sister Margret.

“You are late,” she says when you finally reach her, then she turns around and walks towards a counter with piles of potatoes. Sister Catherine was correct, your first task was to peel insane amounts of potatoes. There is another nun, with her sleeves pushed to her elbows and working on peeling carrots, she acknowledges you with one short look, but quickly looks away before Sister Margret catches her.

“This is Sister Andrea,” she introduces, a pale dark-haired woman. Sister Andrea formally acknowledges you with a slight bow of her head. “The task is easy enough, but if you manage to mess it up, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to ‘help’ you.”

Without any further notice, Sister Margret walks away. Possibly to the front of the kitchen as if she’s surveying the nuns like a watchdog.

“Peace of the lord be with you, Sister Andrea.” You greet with a slight polite bow of your head.

“And with your spirit, Sister (Y/N).” She returns.

Then you fold your sleeves and take the potatoes and a knife and begin peeling. It’s very quiet between you and Sister Andrea, until another younger nun walks inside looking quite frazzled.

“You’re severely late, Sister Annabeth. You’re begging for more chores at this point.” Margret says with a glare.

Though Annabeth looks frazzled, her stare gains confidence as she stares at Margret with a belittling stare while fixing the buttons of her sleeves. “I was at Afternoon prayer with Father Peter.”

Margret doesn’t respond for a few long moments. The two simply seem to be in a staring contest. It’s Margret who looks away first, she exhales and says. “Go do your task, I need to speak with Sister Jocelyn.”

Then the two finally part ways.

“Where were you before coming here?” Sister Andrea asks.

You glance at her, to find her staring at you while her fingers are expertly peeling the carrots. “Um. I used to work at my father’s bakery.”

“What about siblings?” She asks, still watching you with her analytical grey eyes.

“None, I had a younger sister who died during birth, along with my mother.” You say, rinsing the peeled potato and throwing it in the pot.

“I’m sorry.” Andrea tells you. “I am an older sister myself, so I shall consider you my younger sister.” she says with a smile that looks slightly fake.

You return it. “I’m thankful for that.” you tell her.

“Since I am your older sister now, I shall offer you some of my wise advice.” She says, and for the first time since you entered the kitchen she stops peeling the carrots. She glances at Annabeth and whispers, “you shall never cross Sister Annabeth and Sister Catherine if you want to live your days here in peace.”

You open your mouth to speak, but she continues. “You shall never leave your room after the candles are blown out.”

Her stare is sharp and her tone is so serious, your heart drums and your stomach freezes with fear that you knew all too well. She was serious, and her tone allowed for no room for humor. So, you nodded.

By evening prayer, you find yourself forgetting Andrea’s words. That, or Sister’s Catherine bubbly personality allows you to toss Andrea’s words into the backburner. She walks you to your room with her cedar-scented candle between your palms.

When you enter your room, she follows you and lights up the candle for you with a match borrowed from the kitchen.

“I’ll make sure not to use even a quarter of it. Thank you, again, Sister Catherine.” You tell her, then lean in to take a whiff of the fragrance of the candle.

The girl grins and says, “Don’t you worry, it’s a welcome gift from me to you. I have much of it.”

You almost want to ask her how she has an abundance of scented candles. They were quite expensive, especially the kind that were made by beeswax like the one she lent you. But you don’t ask, and blame it on her coming from a good family, unlike you.

“That’s a beautiful journal.” Catherine says, her fingers running the black leather of your journal. You want to be as kind as she was to you, and tell her that she may have your journal. It would make her very happy, and would certainly make you closer to the sociable girl.

But unlike her, you couldn’t afford to give away things. Your journal was your most treasured possession, so treasured you didn’t even write one letter in it. With that, you only offer her a tight smile.

Catherine leaves after bidding you goodnight. You immediately remove your habit, and hastily untie your corset, and only remain in your shift. You pour a little bit of water in the basin and lather your hands with soap, desperate to rid yourself from the constant grime on your hands and hoping that it would somehow remove the grime on your soul. When you’re done, you wash your face with fresh water. You make do off wetting the washcloth with water, and wipe your most worrisome places.

After rinsing your washcloth, you toss the used water outside the window and set your basin back on its place.

You pick up your Bible from the small wooden table next to your bed, fingers brushing over the worn leather cover. You don’t necessarily feel the pull to read, but it’s the best way to pass the time as you wait for the cedar-scented candle to fill the room with its calming fragrance. The soft flicker of the flame catches your attention, and you settle into the small chair beside the window, opening the pages to a random spot.

As the candle burns softly beside you, the stillness of the room feels comforting as it is suffocating. You find yourself praying that the days will pass quickly, that you’ll adjust, and that the sense of unfamiliarity will fade.

When you’re happy with the wax that had melted around the candle, and the scent in your room, you finally shut your bible, and close your window halfway—just open enough to allow fresh air to enter your room, but not too big to allow squirrels or birds to enter.

Finally, you blow on the candle, and quickly jump into your new bed.

But despite your efforts to settle in, sleep refuses to come. The bed feels unfamiliar, the thin sheets not quite warm enough against the chill that lingers in the air. You toss and turn for what feels like hours, the sound of the forest too loud and too scary for your liking.

If your body refuses to sleep, then so does your mind as it is running with recollections of today. Your commute was long and excruciating, and your last goodbye—if you could even call it that, as he refused to look you in your face as you left. Then to how Sister Margret was horrible, and her even wrose actual sister, Sister Magdalene.

You liked Catherine, despite you both being the same age, you couldn’t feel more different than her. She was better than you in many aspects. Not only in her desired wasted beauty in this abbey, you knew that if she was in the city that men would be at her peck and call if she batted her pretty long eyelashes. She was more sociable, more bubbly, more smiley, more helpful, even more pious than anyone you’ve known in your whole entire life.

Sister Annabeth was as pretty, only she was brunette, her eyes sharp and dark. But her personality was nasty, she had an air of nasty untouchable arrogance. To your surprise, Annabeth and Catherine could not stand each other. But whatever it was, you were on Catherine’s side.

You didn’t particularly enjoy Father Peter’s scripture reading. His voice was too gruff and too loud, and it echoed all over the chapel, it was ticking and irritating your ear the whole time. You couldn’t even be more grateful that he finished reading.

Finally, you give up. The idea of sleep seems futile for now. Maybe a walk would help clear your head, tire your body. The thought of fresh air, the cool night breeze, and the quiet of the abbey grounds seem like just the remedy you need. And besides, you never really got a chance to appreciate the beauty of the abbey in the sunlight, not with Sister Margret looming over you.

You leave your room as quietly as possible, the hallway dimly illuminated by the moonlight shining from the windows. Like you got lost many times today, you also kept getting lost in this night. This property by itself was very large, it’s why it even managed to give every nun their own private room.

You walk without a purpose, having no real sense of where you're going, the vastness of the abbey's halls confusing you at every turn.

Your feet bring you to a small alcove where the door to a broom closet is slightly ajar. Through the crack in the door, you catch a flicker of soft light—candlelight, flickering in the dimness of the closet.

Curious, you inch closer, your footsteps almost silent as you press your ear to the door. You can hear the faintest whisper of voices, soft but charged with something you can't quite make out. The air feels thick, as if something is amiss, the light from the candle casting shadows that make the space feel even more cramped and secretive.

Then, the faint sounds reach your ears—something too inappropriate for the setting, too intimate, too raw.

“Father please…” a familiar voice moans, and your eyes widen at that.

“Shut your loud mouth, or I will shut it for you.” Father Peter voice comes back in a gruff hiss.

You’re shocked, and you try your best to have faith in Sister Catherine. You want to continue having this pure image of her, you wanted to continue to envy her, to be her friend too. But you can’t help it when your greedy eyes come to stare at the small part between the door and it’s hinges.

Like you suspected, and much to your dismay.

There was Catherine, her shift hitched up to expose her thighs and her arms wrapped around Father Peter’s neck. She was humping onto his crotch. Your eyes widen even more, and you can’t help but let out a small shocked yelp, and in your movement at hiding your mouth and breath, the door hinges let out a scream.

Catherine and Father Peter stop, you don’t even wait to see what happens next as you immediately turn around and take off as fast as you could. Uncaring if your shift was flying and exposing your thighs, uncaring if your running footfalls were loud, you didn’t even turn once to see if they were following you.

Though as you take on a sharp corner, from your side view you see a bright light lighting the whole corridor. You run, and run. You don’t even stop as you find the exit door. Your breath comes in sharp, ragged bursts as you burst out into the garden, not giving a single care that you were barefoot and your feet were touching the outside mud and dirt.

The only thing that matters is escape.

Who knew what could someone as powerful as Father Peter could do to you? He wouldn’t want you to tattletale for the entire abbey, and allowing the news to reach all of the country.

Your running takes you into the forest behind the Abbey. You don’t even stop for a second.

You reach an abandoned house in the middle of the forest, looking like it must’ve been a lord’s country home, its crumbling facade barely standing against the weight of time. The door creaks open with a loud groan as you push it aside. You only needed it to offer you a place to hide, in case you were being followed.

Your heart still pounds in your chest as you run up the creaky stairs, the wooden steps groaning beneath your feet with every hurried step.

Bursting inside a room, with a fire place on it’s east wall, and a window adjacent to it. You quickly hide against the fire place and holding onto the windowsill with your shaky fingers.

Your chest heaves as you press your back against the wall and collapse to the floor, trying to calm your breath. The tears that have been threatening to spill finally do, and they blur your vision. You rise unsteadily and peer through the grime-covered glass.

Fortunately, there’s no movement in the forest. No light belonging to a cedar-scented candle ricocheting between the thick trees. You sigh in relief, then sit back against the wall and scoot closer to the fire place and away from the window—as if staying next to it would offer you a chance to hide yourself even better.

When your eyes shift onto the soot covered floor, it’s then when you notice the strange symbols on the floor beneath the fireplace. The eerie summoning circle, its lines worn and faint, stretches around you. Above the mantle, there are ominous offerings—It’s when you see a singular decaying human finger do your tears fall. Next to it is a jar filled of some unknown powder, and crystals so black and dark that nothing reflects from them, and a skull, that looked like it belonged to a human. A cold shiver runs down your spine.

When your tears drop onto the middle of the circle, its etched lines light up in an angry crimson that makes you sob in fear. Then the air grows so cold with sharp wind that’s slapping your face and body.

Your breath comes out in sharp, visible bursts, but it doesn’t warm you. The wind that has appeared from nowhere howls through the room, fierce and violent, ripping at your hair and clothes. It seems to be coming from all directions, swirling around you, pulling at your very core and immobilizing you from moving a single inch.

Eyes shut sharp, and lips open as you yell as loud as you can. Now, instead of wanting to hide from Father Peter and Catherine, you want to be found. Just so you can escape the prominent dark magic surrounding you.

All of a sudden, everything stops. The air is still, and you can’t hear a single sound at all. Not even the rustle of the leaves, or the hooting of the owls, or even the noise of the forest insects. Nothing. As if everything disappeared.

Yet, even with your eyes closed you can feel the wooden flooring beneath your legs and knees, and pinching into your palms. You’re too scared to open your eyes, the weight of silence is suffocating, pressing down on your body like the walls are closing on you.

You open one eye slowly to inspect first, and when you’re met with the sight of the ground, still covered with dust and soot, debris, and the summoning circle no longer pulsing with energy, it looks as lifeless as it was earlier, you open both of your eyes.

But you make the mistake of lifting your head. You’re met with glowing red eyes, you can’t distinguish the white from the colored part as the whole eye is red. They’re so captivating that you’re unable to look away.

Then, the mysterious figure comes out from the dark and their figure is illuminated by the fullmoon.

Large, imposing, and unafraid to take up space like you are. Skin as white as paper, hair so blonde its platinum, with large bat wings. It’s a woman, is what you settle on after analyzing everything about this demon.

She is the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.

Her presence is overwhelming, like the very air around you has thickened, pressing against your chest with the weight of her gaze. Her eyes remain locked on you, unblinking, unyielding.

Her lips part and her smooth deep voice comes out, it vibrates within your chest and you even hear it in the deepest parts of your head. “You should not be here.”

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, swallowed by your fear of what she might do to you. The demon’s lips curl into a slight smirk, as though she can sense your terror, and deeply enjoying it.

“Speak, mortal. Or I shall eat your soul and torture your body for centuries and make you wish you were dead.”

Your lips shake, and your vocal cords betray you as your tears roll down your cheeks.

“You don’t look like you’ve been sent by that imbecile Peter…” she says, tilting her head slightly and coming closer to you to claw your jaw. “I demand you to speak.”

“N-no, Father Peter didn’t send me here…” you say, gulping your throat and feeling how hot her skin is against your face.

“Then why are you here?” Her hold on your jaw tightens, and it hurts so much.

“I saw something I shouldn’t have at the abbey, so I ran away so I don’t get caught and get kicked out. Or I get sent back to my father.” You answer, then wipe your tears as she stares at you.

“You are a creature filled with fear, aren’t you?” she says, you expected her to smirk after that. But she only watches you with curiosity. As if you’re the enigma in this situation.

The demon releases your jaw, and you instinctively shrink, holding the sore spot where her sharp claws had gripped you. Her glowing red eyes narrow as she observes you.

“Fear… and something else,” she murmurs, her voice lower, almost contemplative. “You reek of desperation, mortal. A coward’s stench, yes, but also something more... raw.”

You swallow hard, unsure whether to respond or stay silent. Her words sting, but there’s no denying the truth in them.

“Tell me,” she continues, circling you now, her wings casting ominous shadows on the wall, it’s then that you realize she has thirty shadows and none of them walk in the same direction as she does, it’s like they’re coming from everywhere. “What is it you fear more—being cast out by those simpering fools you call sisters, or returning to the man who made you this weak?”

Your heart pounds as her words cut deep, exposing the very thoughts you’ve been trying to bury since your arrival at the abbey.

“Both,” you manage to croak, surprising even yourself. Her gaze snaps to yours, her glowing eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Lies,” she hisses, her voice a sharp whip against your ears. “Do not insult me, mortal. I can see into the marrow of your being.” She leans in, her hot breath brushing against your face. “So, I’ll ask you once more—what do you fear the most?”

You tremble, your knees threatening to give way beneath you. The truth claws its way up your throat, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“Being sent to my father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Why is that?” she asks, once again circling you.

“Because he said if he sees me again, he will strip me naked and burn me at the stake.” You say as your tears spill and a gasp is plucked from your chest as the telltale of a crying fit comes out.

“So, you are a witch?” she asks with slight amusement.

“No.” You say, your tears blur your vision as you try to meet her gaze.

She stops, and crouches to your level but you still find yourself looking up at her. “So, what are you?”

You look down at the floor in shame. Your tears now coming out in millions and thousands, and wetting the floor beneath you that you can’t even decipher if it’s your urine or simply your tears. Before you can begin sobbing loudly, she claws at your jaw again and bellows so loud, “Speak!”

Flinching at her thunderous command, the sheer force of it rattling your very core, you mutter. “He caught me kissing my friend from school…she was a girl.”

“Oh.” she lets out a mocking sound. Her eyes were so condescending, it was clear that she thought mortals were below here and humans were the vermin of the earth. But your words must’ve made her feel even more disgusted at humans.

“So you are a sapphic.” she concludes, and your face heats up from shame and your hatred at yourself even more intense.

Why couldn’t you be like Sister Catherine? Even if she wasn’t as pure as you thought, at least she was normal. She wasn’t broken like you.

You want to be able to wallow away in your shame and humiliation by yourself, without having a demon making you feel even worse than you feel. Or at least be allowed to stare at anything but her fierce crimson eyes.

“When I think humans can’t even be more backward and primitive, you find ways to prove me wrong.” She says with a laugh that invites nothing good. Your crying grows even more intense, with your chest convulsing as you sob.

She narrows her eyes, “is that all that worries you, little mortal?” she says it as if the matter of you being burned alive and humiliated is nothing. Like it’s a children’s concern.

Your tears slip into her hand that is gripping your jaw, and she must hate it as her large yet slender fingers come to wipe your tears. “There…there… little cowardly mortal.”

Sniffing as you stare at her with wide eyes. “Luckily for you, I am not like those primitive humans,” whispers, and her grip on your jaw turns gentle. Her other hand comes to hold your hand and help you stand up to your full height—which is still much smaller than her.

You find yourself lost in her mesmerizing gaze, an inexplicable sense of solace washing over your heart and soul at her words.

“Shall I take it upon myself to rid you of all your little troubles?” Her offer is gentle, inviting, and warm.

This time, you feel her voice in your heart. As if it’s embracing your fragile heart. You open your lips to respond.

“But of course, I’ll need something in return.” she whispers, her thumb rubbing your cheek. You find yourself wanting to agree without even wanting to know what is it she wants. You just want to please her, and do anything she says.

“You see…that ungrateful Peter summoned me centuries ago. He wanted to remain youthful, and a mortal for three centuries, I would grant him all the money he wants, and give him all the women he desires, in exchange for his soul after that period…that was four centuries ago.” she explains, yet you find yourself captivated by the way her lips move, and the way her pearly white fangs appear. Though, you find yourself wanting to feel those fangs against your skin.

She smirks as you nod attentively at her words. “He is hiding behind that abbey, the stones are infused with salt so I cannot enter inside. He also wears a silver cross necklace,” she stops to tuck in a curly hair strand behind your ear, and it’s then that you remember you basically left your room half naked, with simply a shift covering your body.

“I want you to make him take off the necklace, and lure him outside of the abbey. When you do, think my name three times and I will come and finish him off.” She finishes, now both of her hands cupping your face. She’s so close that your bare breasts are flat against the hardness of her clothes.

“What’s your name?” you ask, your voice only a layer above a whisper.

She smirks, leaning down and pulling you even closer so she can whisper in your ear. So no one else can hear besides you—not like there was anyone, but it still made the prominent wetness between your legs run down your thighs.

“Yelena, my name is Yelena. Sweet cowardly little mortal.”

When you think of your agreement to her deal with constant nodding, that sharp icy cold breeze returns once again, this time it’s gentle, like soft kisses filling your body.

#y’all I’m actually so fucking nervous posting this but I love this concept honestly #azelmawrites #yelena x fem!reader #yelena x reader #yelena aot x reader #yelena aot imagine #aot yelena x reader #snk yelene x reader #yelena snk x reader #yelena aot x fem!reader #aot yelena x fem!reader #tw religious trauma #tw religious themes #tw religious imagery

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alienaiver · 11 months ago

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Rugged

Aizawa Shouta x GN!reader

warnings: quirk-induced amnesia, canon minor character death (major in my heart tho), spoilers for... season 5 and forth? to be safe wordcount: 4.9k content: confessions, first kiss, fluff, sfw, no use of y/n, pro hero reader but quirk is unspecified, canon compliant, genderneutral reader, poc!friendly reader, body positive reader, hurt/comfort in like the mildest sense, soft love, amnesia situation, friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, started as a meme turned into something serious, something about cats, unbeta'd, flashbacks to high school days

notes: this is so embarassing to admit but i only came up with this story bcos of that tiktok/insta reel (link is a tiktok as thats where i could find the source material) about having a type that's 'rugged'. it was supposed to just turn into a little joke on that and... uh, ykno suddenly i was almost 5k deep into a childhood friends to lovers, ..ya my brain had a VISION alrighty!!!!! please enjoy a one-eyed kitty, one-eyed aizawa and interrupted confessions!

Aizawa’s leaning forward on the desk, meticulously writing down an exact copy of your notes from English Literature that he missed yesterday due to being in the infirmary… again. He’s always known that becoming a Pro Hero with a non-physical quirk would be tough, but he didn’t imagine landing himself in a hospital bed as often as he does. He’s bulking up nicely, but he feels beaten black and blue every other day and it’s… exhausting.

Rewarding, but exhausting nonetheless. He’s momentarily disturbed as a chair is being dragged across the floor, screeching away before haphazardly thrown next to the desk, wrong side facing it, and Yamada throwing himself onto it, arms leaning on the backrest. He says your name in a sing-song voice – your given name, has he no shame? - and steals a peek of you from over the rim of his glasses. You rest your head in your palm and smile at him, “what’s up?” you ask, and he hums as if he’s thinking deeply about something. Aizawa’s got a bad feeling about whatever subject he’s about to bring up; ever since he appointed himself Aizawa’s wing man, the pestering’s both been non-stop and non-discreet.

Aizawa keeps his face buried in the notes, purposefully removing himself from the conversation.

“What’s your type?” Yamada asks and Aizawa has to hold back a facepalm. You simply giggle and play with the zipper from your pencil case before you answer, “hmm, I’m not sure. But with all due respect, I know it’s not you,” you tease him and he straightens his back in mock-surprise, the conversation’s one you’ve had before. He takes a hand to his chest, “what? Not me? Well you’re not my type either!” the shriek in which he yells is a little too loud, his quirk still a little too unmanageable when he gets excited – he winces as the rest of the class turn their heads. You simply laugh and bite your lower lip. Aizawa steals a look at you through his bangs, admiring the glimmer in your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sorry ‘Zashi, I truly am, but… you’re just not… rugged enough.”

“What? I’m so rugged. I can be rugged!”

“Look at you, you’re not rugged,” you laugh as you gesture vaguely to… all of him. He takes offense as he puffs up his chest, “how am I not rugged? Because I’m not wearing a flannel in 80 degree weather?”

You hide your face in your hand as you try to contain your laughter, “yeah, sure, whatever… but look at you now. You fly off the handle like that, you’re too angry.”

“That’s a very rugged thing to do!”

“No, it’s really not.”

Aizawa has been saddled with the two of you for almost two semesters now, and he’s still not entirely used to the way you joke around. In the beginning he was always worried about you fighting and not getting along and he’d stare at you both with wide eyes like a startled cat and hope you’d settle down soon. You always did, laughing like the greatest joke was just told.

You lean forward on the table to bark out a laughter deep from your stomach, momentarily blocking the view of your notes that Aizawa’s copying. He lets out a soundless grunt at you being so close and pulls away in surprise when he accidentally smell your shampoo. He wants to lean forward again, to commit the scent to memory, but you’re already straightened back up, wiping an imaginary tear from your eye, “you don’t even want me, Hizashi, why is this always so important to you?”

This makes Aizawa freeze, terrified that Yamada will accidentally tell his secret to you. But Yamada simply crosses his arms, puffs up his cheeks and nods, “you’re right, I don’t. But I want you to want me. I’m the entire package.”

You laugh and shake your head, letting your arm fall onto the desk in defeat. “Sure then, ‘Zashi. I want you. Badly. More than anything. Please go out with me.” your face is as flat as Aizawa’s can be, and Yamada smiles proudly, “no thank you.”

Aizawa’s startled out of grading papers when his personal phone starts ringing next to him on the desk, the screen much too bright for the darkened room he’s situated in. It’s an unknown caller, which makes him hesitant at first but since it’s well past office hours, he knows it won’t be a salesman of any sort.

He bites his lower lip before he picks up.

“Aizawa speaking.”

“Ah, good evening. I apologize for contacting you at this hour, however, you are written down as the emergency contact for…” he apologetically butchers the pronunciation of your name, but gets your hero name correctly, “this is Aizawa Shouta, right?” the person on the other end confirms, and Aizawa nods before he verbally comes up with an answer.

“Well, it’s just that…” he explains your situation precariously, advising Aizawa to just come down to the station if he’s able, since someone will need to escort you home. He makes sure to remind Aizawa that you have two more emergency contacts on file in case he’s not available, but after getting the location, he’s already up from the chair before he’s hung up with the poor officer dealing with you.

From the call he knows you’re neither mortally wounded or in any kind of distress. You were on patrol when you encountered two villains. One of them turned out to have an amnesia quirk, and now you were stuck at the precinct, not entirely sure where your apartment is located. The officer informed Aizawa that you seemed calm and collected but that the last date you remember was well over 10 years ago even if you haven’t age-regressed in any way.

When he arrives, the officer leads him to one of the offices, profusely apologizing and thanking him at the same time. He’ll never really get used to the way newly appointed officers act around Pro Heroes.

Even if all facts and rationale tells Aizawa that you’re fine, he still grips the door handle way too tight, throwing open the door and evidently scaring the shit out of you, sprawled out on the couch with an ice bag on your knee. You spew out some profanities as you sit up. Aizawa immediately calms down as he sees you alive and well. He thanks the officer and agrees with the officer to sit down and talk with you before taking you home. He bows before he closes the door and looks back at you.

“I already gave a statement – was anything missing?” you ask, resting your hands neatly on your thighs. Aizawa shakes his head, “I came to pick you up – they informed you about which of the emergency contacts to call, right?”

Realization seems to travel across your features as Aizawa masks the sting he feels. Instinctively you reach out, but ultimately pull your hands back, “Aizawa?”

For a split second he lets his emotion show on his face – the way you say his last name instead of his given name, but he’s quick to hide it again. He nods and sits down on one of the chairs on the other side of the coffee table, “I was informed that your memory’s been wiped.”

You nod and look at the floor, “yeah. They took in the villains and interrogated them. It seems it’ll wear off in five to seven hours, but until then I’m stuck with my first work study as my most recent memory. I don’t feel like high school me, though, it’s just like there’s an empty gap in my timeline and not an age-related kind of thing. I can’t remember what has happened since then, but cognitively speaking, I’m still myself.”

Aizawa breathes in sharply, “well, that’s a relief. I have enough students to take care of,” he dryly jokes and the way your eyes widen make him self-conscious. He shouldn’t have made the joke he thinks as he shrinks in on himself.

“You’re a teacher?”

The way you ask betrays your emotions all too clearly and Aizawa holds back a snort. If the last of his personality you remember is high school, he gets why you struggle with the image of him taking care of the budding youth.

“A homeroom teacher, actually.”

Whatever preconceptions you had initially seems to dissipate and you smile proudly, “that’s amazing.”

You haven’t commented on his appearance; besides the moment where you didn’t recognize him, you don’t seem all too taken aback by his lack of eye and prosthetic leg. He’s relieved.

“You ready to go?” he asks, patting his lap with his palms before bracing himself to get up. You get up too and stretch your arms over your head, waiting for that satisfying pop, but it never comes. Annoyed, you let your arms falls and Aizawa smiles at you.

He leads you out of the room and as you put on the jacket he came with, he thanks the officers for their work with some polite back and forth and a bow.

The trip back is quiet as you seem to just take in your surroundings. You stop by your Agency to grab your personal items and civilian clothes that you left behind before your patrol. Luckily the offices are mostly cleared out, so you don’t have to ‘meet’ everyone and Aizawa gets out of explaining everything to everyone.

“Do you want me to escort you to your place? Or do you want to come to mine?”

The question is straight-forward and innocent; you sleep over so often that Aizawa’s spare futon has simply been dubbed your futon, but you seem taken aback, eyes wide and mouth agape. For a moment Aizawa’s blind to the confusion before he remembers.

“Sorry, you sleep over at my place a lot since it’s close to your work. I thought you might also like to see Benben.”

Your eyes that had seemed so tired ever since he arrived, lights up in recollection and excitement, “Benben’s alive and well?” you ask, absentmindedly leaning into Aizawa’s space in your joy. He struggles not to lean back reflectively.

“Yeah, she’s living with me now. She’s becoming old, though. But you’re still her favorite human, so she’d be happy to see you too.”

You giggle into your palm, clearly trying to picture Benben. She was a stray that you and Aizawa started to feed your leftover lunches to back during your first year at U.A. She was also one of the reasons you even started bonding with the stoic classmate. When you talk about the name Benben, a very bad nickname based off of bento, you always laugh and tease Aizawa about his cat-naming skills. While he defends himself in front of Yamada – the man with a habit of getting out his childish side – he never once argues against you on that subject.

Next to Aizawa, you clear your throat right as he’s about to unlock his front door. He’s been polite enough to not comment on the level of staring you’ve done ever since he picked you up, but it seems to be getting too much for yourself. He smiles at you gently, like he’s communicating with a lost child, and the smile makes you act before you can think too long about the action. Aizawa’s breath hitches and whole body freezes when your cold fingertips reach the skin of his cheeks. Your eyes look at him like they’re searching for something, and shortly after your palms make contact, your thumbs start traveling around his face, from his eyebrows to the slope of his nose and then a finger is being traced over the scar under his right eye. He can see all the questions fly through your head, the way you hold back from tracing the eye patch but stare at it like it’s not supposed to be there. He’s about to clear his throat when a thumb starts tracing his chapped lips before continuing down to his jawline, tickling his 5 o’clock shadow. As he tries to smile patiently at you, you mumble something under your breath that makes Aizawa’s heart stop for just a moment too long before racing at the same speeds as Yamada’s car when he’s late.

“It really is you… you’re just so…” you pause for a moment to swallow thickly and lick your lips, “…rugged.”

Not until you’ve had your (in Aizawa’s terms) grabby little fingers on every part of his face and given his heart an aneurysm with your words, does realization hit you. You seem to shrink and pull away to bow half-way a few times at him. Aizawa grumbles out a weak complaint about personal space and jingle the keys again to find the right one. No matter how advanced his work place is in terms of security and technology, he finds it unbelievable how many different types of keys he is expected carry for the school grounds alone. Logically, he’s aware that he’s fumbling due to your innocent advances but his brain’s not exactly acting calm and rational, so he furrows his brows and as he puts in the correct key, takes in a deep, calming breath.

When he motions for you to enter the apartment, he can’t help but observe you as you curiously peek around while you enter. You don’t toe off your shoes or step up from the genkan until the door behind him is locked and he gestures to the left pair of slippers in front of you. You let out a breath as you mumble, “sorry for intruding…” as if this isn’t your home away from home.

As Aizawa toes off his own shoes, he takes notice of your searching eyes. He jerks his head towards the living room, “she’s probably sleeping on the couch. She can’t hear very well anymore, so she doesn’t greet by the door.”

There’s a clear sort of heartbreak in your eyes that Aizawa recognizes, before you nod and walk in the direction of the living room. While your memory might be gone for the moment, it seems there’s muscle memory still intact as you purposefully step over the loose floorboard he always warns guests about. He smiles at that. Benben seems to spot you from her pillow on the couch because no sooner than you enter the room, he starts hearing the hoarse bleating of the senior kitty in there. She must’ve stayed up when Aizawa suddenly left, since it’s out of routine. She’s never been able to meow properly, which enchanted you since she first bleated at you for a bite of your convenience store-bought onigiri back when the two of you met her for the first time.

He hears you coo at her and can only imagine you both before he turns the other corner for his office to shut down the computer for the night. He quickly rejoins you and finds you with Benben on your lap, purring and headbutting your hands to her heart’s contents. When his eye travel higher to meet yours, he’s taken aback momentarily at the strained smile and wet eyes.

“She looks so loved.” you try to explain, and Aizawa can’t hold back the blush from the compliment. She does look loved now, a little on the fuller side (not by a lot, as her physical health is very important to Aizawa), her coat is shiny despite the coarseness that age brings, and she no longer has that stubborn eye infection it took Aizawa several years to treat out of her; she’s missing an eye now as a result, but she’s healthy.

You look around his living room, smiling and heaving in breaths at all the external proofs for her love; she has a pet staircase to both the windowsill, couch and the dining chair next to his; there are three different cat towers and several cat shelves for her to perch on although they’ve rarely been used for several years now. Aizawa can’t bear to take them down – what if she wants to go on one last adventure to the shelf highway he built for her close to the ceiling? It obviously wouldn’t be safe for her to do so, but robbing her of the options feels cruel to his heart.

When you pet her behind her ear and Aizawa situates himself on the floor pillow, you giggle, “you match.”

You’re referring to the missing eyes and while Aizawa takes no offense from the comment, he can’t help but snort at the straightforward observation. It’s very like you.

“How did you lose it?”

You don’t remove your eyes from Benben as you ask and from the shaky lilt to your voice, he knows you’re afraid of the answer. He’s afraid of telling you, too.

So much bad has happened during those years – you were there during his low points after, and asking that question is like removing the experiences you’ve shared. The grief you’ve suffered.

But he knows you want to know. Before he can answer, you continue, “can you tell me everything? About you… Oboro and Hizashi, too. I was informed it was only you, Hizashi and my mom on my emergency contact list. I know it’s not supposed to be miles long but… yeah…” you trail off and Aizawa’s grateful that you’re not looking at him. He’s not sure he’s able to control his face right now; and the emotion he’s showing wouldn’t be remotely close to soothing for you.

“Uh,” he jerks and clears his throat several times to stall, “when did you say your memory would be back?” he asks instead even if he’s aware of the answer.

You look up and hum thoughtfully, “they said five to seven hours around … two hours ago? So…” you count on your fingers and despite everything, Aizawa huffs out a soundless laugh, “three to five hours? Give or take.”

He inhales sharply. He can’t drive you off for that long, even if he used going to bed as an excuse. You’d just toss and turn in fear of what you’d come to remember.

So he tells you. He retells every painful memory with clear objectivity, pausing to let you process each one, seeing the light slowly dissipate in your eyes for every terrible incident. When he reaches present day, he inhales slowly and holds his breath for a moment to control his own emotions.

You’ve stopped petting Benben who’s sound asleep on your lap now, your hands hanging like lifeless limbs by your side. Aizawa then clears his throat, “you were scouted. In third year. ‘Zashi opened a radio station shortly after graduation. Oboro’s mom still invites us for hotpot for his birthday every year despite the mismatch in dish and weather,” you both laugh at that one – of course she insists on his favorite dish on such an important day. An image of the four of you huddled around, sweating over a pot of delicious food has you throwing your head back in sincere laughter, “you have a prodigy; you inspired me to take a pupil on as well, and he’s graduating this spring… I, uh… I use eye drops now.”

The last tidbit of information makes you turn your head so fast you almost get whiplash. Then, your expression turns stern, “didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you to be careful!” you reprimand and he almost rolls his eye at you. Almost.

You shake your head at him and focus back on Benben, a little more color on you again as the mood has successfully shifted. He’s unsure if you’re pretending to be fine for his sake or if he actually succeeded in making you feel better, but he can’t stifle the yawn that comes out of him as soon as he feels relief.

You look up apologetically, “oh my God I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you up haven’t I? Please, you can just go to bed, I’ll be okay!”

Aizawa wants to argue but he also can’t fight the creaky ache he feels in his bones. He went straight from a night shift to school, napped in the teacher’s lounge and then home to grade papers. He’s dead-tired.

He gets up to carry his futon into the living room and set yours up in his bedroom. Usually, you sleep in the same, bare room as him and Benben, but he feels it might be too much for you without your memories, even if you sleep on separate futons with space in between. You make a joke about the futons but then, in a soft voice admit, “I think it’s nice you sleep on something accessible for Benben…” there’s a warm tone to your voice that makes him blush heavily before he pushes you out of his living room.

“I’ll sleep out here, you take the bedroom.”

You meekly argue about taking his bedroom, but he shuts you down in the same way he’s always done, and urges you to carry Benben in with you. You agree to have the door ajar in case Benben wants to walk around, and you bow your head when you bid him goodnight. Aizawa lets the light in the hallway stay on.

////

You wake up with a hitched breath and sweat on your brow, unsure when you managed to fall asleep. Disoriented, you take in Aizawa’s bedroom; you were supposed to sleep home tonight after your shift though, not to mention that Aizawa’s futon isn’t laid out next to yours. It takes you a moment to gather your bearings until it all comes back to you. You’d lost your memory.

You’d lost yourself. You hug your arms around you as the feeling of being lost still sits heavy in your body and makes you shiver. Seeing Aizawa was terrifying; you’d no idea of the obvious horrors he’d had to endure. You didn’t remember your best friend’s death.

For a moment you control your breathing, making yourself calm down as best as you’re able. It makes sense why Aizawa decided to sleep in the living room, if the last memory of him was a pimple-y teenager and not the gruff man he is today. You close your eyes and think back to right before you entered the apartment.

You roll onto your stomach and hide your face in your hands, letting out a drawn-out flustered groan. Without thinking, you kick your legs on the bedding to alleviate the embarrassment that’s coursing through you at your own actions. You’d just went all up in his face! The sensation of his stubble underneath your fingertips, his warm breath and his chapped but so, so kissable lips.

No!

You groan again, drowning in your one-sided misery of a crush. Your honed Pro Hero senses are completely dulled by your pining, so when Aizawa suddenly throws open the door and asks if you are alright, you screech as you lift your head from the pillow, “Shouta!”

“Shit, sorry, I heard you moving around so I thought you might have a nightmare,” he hurries to explain, secretly relieved to hear you say his given name again. He frowns when he can’t see your face with your back turned to him. Still frozen, you barely breathe before he continues, “...you are alright, right?”

Making a grimace and with no interest in facing him right now, you choke out “mhmyepdefinitelyeverythingsperfect!” in one single breath before you’re forced to inhale deeply. You hear Aizawa’s metallic foot as he walks towards your futon and hear the rustling of his clothes as he bends down in a squat next to you, “you don’t sound perfectly fine to me, though. Do you have a fever? Is it an aftershock from getting your memories back?”

Being the perfectly rational man that he is, he oversteps any boundaries to quickly check your temperature with his palm. Embarrassment can come after he’s made sure you’re okay.

You push his hand away weakly, still looking pointedly at the wall in front of you, letting out a strained laugh, “heehee, I’m just… you’re right, it must be an aftershock, right? Nothing else!”

He lets you swat his hand away without much resistance but stays where he is, letting the silence hang over you both for a minute. Suddenly, he croaks out all hoarse and desperate, “Just tell me if there’s anything, please.”

Your shoulders fall at the voice. Aizawa’s the opposite of having a heart on a sleeve, but you’ve been with him through enough tragedies to know he must be scared shitless right now. Whenever you or Yamada is even remotely bruised, he fusses over you in his own, annoyed way, until he finds you sufficiently healed. You sigh before you let your head fall back onto your pillow, a short moment to gather your thoughts and feelings before having to face him.

It must’ve been a lot for him, when you asked him to recount the years you’d momentarily lost. It would’ve been better to let it be, but he knew you so well and knew you wouldn’t let it go. Curiosity kills the cat, right?

With heavy and slow movement, you turn around so that you’re facing him, hoping your expression won’t betray your real emotions. You sigh and reach out for his hand. It’s shaking but as soon as your warm fingers make contact, he flinches before he relaxes.

Then, he grunts like he’s annoyed and chastises you for worrying him. You giggle, “I’m sorry, you’re tired, right?” you ask, knowing his schedule this week is packed. He usually leaves little wiggle room for emergencies, however many he encounters.

Before he can reply, you pull at his hand and he topples over, half on the futon and half on the floor, on his knees. You laugh and pull him even closer to you, hoping your beating heart isn’t as loud as it feels.

You and Aizawa have cuddled before; loneliness and grief has made you carve out comfort in each other, but nothing else have ever been spoken aloud. No kissing, no romantic notions to trace back to. Having a one-sided crush since high school feels deafening right now, when all the years travel back to you after what only amounts to a moment without them.

You want to tell him how you feel; losing your memories made you realize how much you’d like for him to comfort you with kisses if anything should ever happen; how you’d like for him to hold you without holding back.

He grumbles where his head is rested in your neck after he’s settled, but he makes no effort to move. You nuzzle into the mane of hair and breathe in his scent; it’s a lavender-scented shampoo that Yamada insists on buying for him. He never accepts it without complaining, but he also never showers without using it. There’s a spare in your bathroom, at the Agency’s bathroom and at his teacher’s dorm at U.A.

“Y’know, I was really surprised for a moment that you became a teacher.”

He makes no movement, but you know he’s listening.

“But as soon as I thought about it, it made perfect sense. You care so much it sometimes hurts to watch…”

You feel his fist tighten around your bedding, but he stays otherwise quiet still.

“You hurt watching me, too, right? How we both have a habit of bending over backwards for what we perceive is right.”

You start dragging your hands through his hair, letting out a sigh.

“I like that we know each other so well. I like how after so many years, you’re still right here in my arms…”

You pause as his upper arm snakes around you, a sharp exhale against your neck.

“You’ve never dated anyone. At least, not anyone you’d tell me about, so I have no idea where this will lead me to but,”

You take a moment to gather your nerves. There’s really no backing down now. Even if you regret it, your words have already given your feelings away; there’s nothing you can take back.

There’s nothing you want to take back.

You’re about to continue your confession when Aizawa pushes against your neck, his warm lips, soft despite the dryness, presses against your pulse point. You can hear your heartbeat so loud in your ear that the rustling of the sheets from Benben is indistinguishable to you, the only sensation you’re able to take in being Aizawa’s lips as they briefly pull away from your neck, only to push back higher up, closer to your jaw.

You whine and pout, but it’s shaky and without much force. You want to protest, scold him for interrupting you but suddenly he lifts his head to face you, and you’re faced with wide eyes and blown pupils. He steals a glance at your lips before he licks his own, pink tongue peeking out. You feel like a cornered prey, one that’s about to be devoured by a beast. When he hovers mere millimeters above your lips he pauses as if to ask for permission and the sigh you let out makes him know that everything’s okay. That everything he’s ever wanted, wished for, dreamed of, is real.

That losing your memory for a second made you desperate to make more meaningful ones.

And you kiss.

While curiosity did kill the cat, satisfaction definitely brought it back.

#its been a while since i wrote and posted a full blown fic so im suddenly nervous........ in like the way i used to be when i started! its #little fun to feel that way again after 30+ works!!!#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shouta x you #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha x you #bnha fluff #aizawa shouta fluff #reader insert #nohr.writing #nohr.bnha #i honestly MOSTLY hope that this is coherent. i really did shift my perspective half way in bcos i like to flesh out pain apparently KJDASK #ilysm yall<3333 hope u enjoy this smooching offering

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