BNHA | Oɴᴇsʜᴏᴛs

Aizawa Shota x Reader

Author's note: Post-war Aizawa Shota series.

The apartment was quiet. Papers were scattered across the kotatsu, essays from 3-A, half-graded, red pens abandoned. The wind howled outside the window, but inside the world felt still.

Aizawa Shota barely blinked as he sat there, a worn blanket tossed loosely over his lap, his long hair half-tied and messy from running his fingers through it. [Y/N] slept in his arms, pressed against his side. Her breathing was soft and steady against his shoulder, as her body curled instinctively into his.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep. She'd been grading papers too, legs tangled with his on the couch, muttering criticisms under her breath about terrible handwriting and run-on sentences.
But exhaustion had caught up with her. With both of them.

Aizawa could have moved. He could have nudged her awake, eased her onto the bed, done the practical thing. He didn't. Instead, he stayed still and let himself just have this.

He turned his head slightly, taking in the way her hair spilled over her face, the way her fingers loosely gripped the fabric of his sweatshirt. The light danced across her skin, painting her in gold and shadow.

The edge of her sweater had ridden up, revealing a slice of soft skin just above the waistband of her leggings. He swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.

He told himself to behave. She was tired. He was tired. There were still a dozen essays waiting for him.

The ache was there, humming low and bone-deep.

Carefully, as if afraid to wake her too soon, he let his hand drift to the exposed skin, thumb brushing slow circles against her side.

Her breath hitched, almost immediately. She shifted in her sleep, pressing even closer, a soft sound escaping her lips, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

It shattered something inside him.

"[Y/N]," he rasped, voice rough from disuse.

She stirred, blinking up at him, dazed and unfocused.

"Mmh... Shota?"

Aizawa's hand moved higher, slipping beneath her sweater now, trailing fingertips along her spine.

"You are beautiful," he murmured, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.

[Y/N] gave him a sleepy, lopsided smile, her hand sliding up into his hair, threading through the tangled black strands.

"Missed you today," she whispered against his lips.

Aizawa exhaled shakily. She had no idea what she did to him. How easily she undid all the walls he tried to keep up. He shifted, wrapping both arms around her and pulling her gently into his lap.

The movement was a little clumsy; his right knee didn't bend the way it used to, but she moved with him naturally, straddling him, her thighs bracketing his hips.

Her hands cupped his face, thumbs stroking the scars along his jawline as she leaned in to kiss him. Aizawa groaned low in his throat, his hands finding the hem of her sweater and tugging it upward.
She lifted her arms without question, letting him pull it off and toss it somewhere into the shadows.

She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

His breath caught in his chest.

Perfect. She was so perfect.

He traced his hands reverently along her sides, over the curve of her breasts, the strong lines of her shoulders.

"Shota..." she whispered, squirming slightly against the growing proof of his arousal.

He gritted his teeth, willing himself to go slow.

He needed to savour this. Savor her.

Leaning forward, he pressed kisses to her chest, her sternum, her collarbone, each kiss a silent promise. Her fingers slid under his sweatshirt, pushing it up his torso. She was gentle as she traced the scars marring his body...the twisted skin at his side, the angry mark across his ribs.

He pulled his sweatshirt over his head, tossing it aside, leaving them both bare to each other.

Aizawa ran his hands down her back, gripping her hips tight enough to bruise, grinding her down against him with a low, shuddering gasp.

"You feel so good," he muttered into her neck.

[Y/N] whimpered, shifting her hips, rubbing against him with delicious friction. "Please," she gasped.

He growled softly, the sound reverberating deep in his chest.

Working one hand between them, he pushed her leggings and panties aside just enough, just enough to bare her to him.

She was already wet, already trembling in his hands.

Aizawa hooked his other arm around her waist, bracing her as he shifted slightly, freeing himself from his sweatpants. He hissed through his teeth as he stroked himself once, twice, lining up with her entrance.

"Look at me," he rasped.

She did. Eyes wide, glassy with need, full of nothing but him.

Slowly, he guided her down, sliding into her inch by torturous inch. They both moaned. Broken, desperate sounds that filled the room. Aizawa dropped his forehead to her shoulder, his breath ragged.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You're perfect. So tight... so good for me."

[Y/N] clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as she rocked her hips, finding a slow, steady rhythm. Every roll of her hips, every press of his hand guiding her, every kiss and whisper...it was everything. It was love.

"Shota," she gasped, tilting her head back, offering her throat to him.

He kissed her there, sucking gently at the delicate skin, leaving marks he'd be proud to see in the morning.

"Mine," he growled. "You are mine. Always."

She moaned, the sound wrecked and beautiful.

The pleasure built slow and heavy between them, just a tidal wave pulling them under together. When she came, it was with a shuddering cry, clenching around him so tight he almost lost it right there.

He buried himself deep inside her, thrusting once, twice, before falling over the edge with a low, broken groan, his body seizing against hers.

They stayed like that, trembling, clinging, breathing each other in.

Minutes passed.

Finally, Aizawa lifted his head, brushing sweaty hair out of her eyes.

"You okay?" he whispered, voice raw.

She smiled at him. Tired, blissful, and kissed the tip of his nose. "Never better."

He shifted slightly, grimacing as his knee twinged. She immediately moved to help him, easing him down so they sprawled across the couch, limbs tangled together.

He held her close, pressing lazy kisses into her hairline, along her temple, anywhere he could reach.

In this broken, battered, post-war world, she was his anchor. His reason. His home.

Always had been. Always would be.