rage

“Fuck you,” you sniffle, pushing past him irritably, as if you hadn’t come of your own free will. Shoto doesn’t love you, but he has things about you he loves. He thinks. This is one of the things that make you so fascinating to him: you are so stubbornly persistent in denying yourself what you crave. It’s almost admirable.

Shoto trails you to the kitchen, admiring the lines of your body. He’s not shy about the way he watches you when the two of you are alone. He likens it to an artist and their preferred medium, but you hate it when he “says it like that”, so he follows the sway of your hips silently. Besides, he wants you to do the talking tonight.

“Did you break up with him?” Shoto asks tepidly as you round the corner into his kitchen, already making a move to dig through his fridge. You emerge with a bottled water, and something with claws stirs behind his ribcage.

“Fuck you,” you say again, but it’s a little sadder this time. His cock twitches. You have a rather nasty habit of this, keeping around the little boyfriends that Shoto lets you entertain even if you’re coming to him to get your fix. He tilts his head, studying you.

“You’re very toxic,” Shoto says mildly, holding his hand out expectantly. Your jaw drops by a fraction, but you bite back whatever snarky comment you were about to make, handing him the bottle anyway. Shoto notes this– you don’t seem in the mood to antagonize him too much. You’re learning. It thrills him.

“We got in a fight.” You don’t meet his eye when you tell him this. Shoto cocks an eyebrow; you don’t often give him any details about the pests you waste your time with when you aren’t staining his sheets.

“Do you…” he thinks for a beat, “want to tell me what it was about?”

You look up at him, surprise plain on your face. “You care?”

No. Shoto doesn’t want you to think he doesn’t care about you– well, he does sometimes. He will admit that he wouldn’t want your feelings hurt by someone so beneath you. You’re too good for anyone to hurt. Anyone else, anyway.

You smile lightly at him, but it’s a mean thing. “Didn’t think so.”

“You usually don’t like to tell me these things,” Shoto says. He’s feeling generous today, elated that you’ve come to your senses at least partially, and he grabs you by the waist, pulls you up to sit on his counter. He thinks while he comes to stand between your spread legs. This is unfamiliar territory for the both of you– you, hurt…emotionally. Coming to him. The realization is unexpectedly pleasant, gluttonously so. Shoto rubs a thumb absentmindedly over the warm skin of your thigh. See? I can be kind.

You eye the slow drag of his finger over your thigh, suspicious, but you sigh.

“We got in a fight about you,” you tell him, the bite returning to your voice when you shoot him a mean little look.

“Me?” Shoto fights the smile that threatens the corner of his mouth. It won’t be a kind one. “Why is that?”

“Because you, you fucking– ugh.” You dig your hands into your eyes, fingers balled into fists. When you look up at him again, it’s accusatory. “You paid for our dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

You look like you want to slap him, and Shoto so hopes for your own good that you can control yourself.

“That’s fucked up, Sho.” You’re glaring at him. “You can’t do that. We were on a date, that’s like– like cucking him, or something.”

“You were taken care of like you like to be,” Shoto says, feeling dangerous annoyance rising in his chest. “I don’t see why you care who footed the bill.”

You furrow your brow. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a fucking lapdog.”

Oh, aren’t you though? What a picture you’ve painted in his head: you, coddled and complacent, locked away in his apartment just waiting for him to come home and play with you. Shoto smirks, and you scowl outright at him.

“You’re sick,” you tell him, and he can hear the very real malice behind it. You get so testy with him when the mask slips. Shoto just scoffs.

“Then leave,” he says, tilting his head toward the door that he made sure to lock. Something flashes in your eyes, like panic. His blood sings. “Or, you can thank me for dinner.”

Shoto knows your decision was made the second you left your apartment, but he’s feeling merciful, watching interestedly while you pretend to fight yourself on it. He doesn’t often have patience for you in this way, but he’s missed you. You’ve spent weeks apart now, letting that asshole you’re playing house with drape his arm over you like a cheap coat in front of all of your friends. It had taken every modicum of Shoto’s self-control not to drag you into the bathroom and remind you exactly who you really belong to. He was rather impressed with the restraint he’d displayed.

“What do you want?” He sees the shift in your eyes, probably before you even feel it. That gorgeous, submissive thing that you become for him when you finally stop pretending. The gratification Shoto feels at watching you crumble, bit by bit, makes him lightheaded.

“What do you want?” He lobbies the question back at you, not because you have any control here, but because he likes making you say it.

You waver, eyes flicking toward the door. Shoto’s throat grows thick with the sticky rush of dark arousal that floods him because he’s just remembered that you still don’t know about the new lock he’d installed. The key weighs heavy in his pocket, as his pretty bird eyes the door of her cage. You just don’t know that it doesn’t open anymore.

“I…” you trail off, a fresh wave of tears welling in your eyes. Shoto sighs, thumbs at the wetness and sucks it off his finger while he waits. He knows this part is difficult for you.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whimper, shoulders shaking with a small sob. Shoto almost rolls his eyes; you’re always so dramatic.

“And?” Your bottom lip wobbles, threatening more tears. Shoto tsks down at you disapprovingly. This is why he won’t let you go for so long next time; you forget so much of yourself when he loosens the leash. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“I want you to hurt me,” you say, watery and defeated but so hungry all the same. Shoto nearly hisses when the lovely admission reaches him. Your lips to god’s ears.

The shower doesn't help clear Hitoshi's mind.

If anything, the steady onslaught of water pattering against his back serves only to monotonise the entire experience until he's been standing long enough for his fingers to have pruned, absently staring at the tiles and reliving the past hour of his life in painful clarity. Mind rewinding and replaying the events—the flutter of your pussy cumming around Aizawa's thick cock, the easy dominance which laced his voice, how his Sensei had eyed the cumstain on Hitoshi's pants in shameless amusement—over and over and over.

A film reel of every moment Hitoshi succumbed to his arousal, every fortified defence that fell under his watch.

Hitoshi rubs the wrinkly pads of his fingers together and shuts his eyes for a deep, measured breath before turning off the shower and stepping out. He avoids looking in the mirror, no matter how fogged up it may be. The last thing he needs to see is a post-orgasm flush to his face when he already feels as though he's being held together by nothing more than sheer willpower alone. Drying himself off with brutal efficiency, he leans into the darkness that the towel provides while he tries to gather himself into a human being again. He scoops the leaking desire up. Brushes away the mist insistently clinging to the corners of his mind. Steadies the gentle tremor of his hands—present since Aizawa guided him towards the corner-chair where two large hands eclipsed his shoulders, pushing him down, down, down—and pretends it all works.

In the end, he figures the best way to dispel the uneasiness swirling in his gut will be to seeyou. To make sure you're okay and settle whatever dom-part of his brain has been knocked loose during the scene. He wraps the towel around his waist and pads back into the bedroom, content with his newfound plan and the sense of control it provides his skittish mind.

However, that loose part of his brain? Yeah, it must be hanging on by a scant thread, because he didn't account for Aizawa's presence. And thus, Hitoshi's steps falter right at the threshold to his bedroom like he's seeing his Sensei for the very first time.

For a second, he can't breathe.

Some vital part of him feels left behind in the humid air of Aizawa's bathroom. Another is still sitting in the chair. He thinks he might be losing the final part right now as crimson eyes flicker up, assessing. Aizawa remains silent, sitting by your side, yet Hitoshi is rooted to the spot. Toes curl into the carpet, fingers clutch the edge of his damp towel with knuckles bled of colour. He isn't sure what his expression is at this moment, but it can't be anything good. Not with the way his heart is thundering so fiercely in his chest, he half expects it to break free from its bony cage and hit the ground between them.

"Shinsou," Aizawa finally murmurs in greeting, and his name slices clean through the tethers binding Hitoshi in place.

Hitoshi inhales before forcing a languid smile. Like someone who's just cum and is happy about it. Not whatever pointless conflict is currently waging in his brain. Not the way in which his disquiet only seems to worsen as he observes Aizawa—shirtless, midnight hair cascading over his broad shoulders like the boughs of a willow tree, grey sweats hung sinfully low on his hips. His phone rests in one limp hand, open on a social media app that Hitoshi doesn't currently have the mental capacity to place, and his other hand strokes along your spine. Though it slowly draws to a stop when Hitoshi utters a small, "Sensei," in reply.

Crossing the space with a measured steadiness, Hitoshi pauses by your side, knees knocking into the mattress's edge, and casts his eyes over your blanket-covered body. Aizawa's hand is splayed wide in the dip of your back, right above the swell of your ass. For some reason, Hitoshi lingers on the sight. There's a strangely possessive air to the action. A hand in Hitoshi's home; the spot he brushes when he passes you in the kitchen; or presses to coax you through a crowd, into his body after a long day, along the muscles of his thigh when you're too desperate to do anything but rut against him like an animal in heat.

Hitoshi nibbles at his bottom lip. Aizawa's eyes are on him, burning like a brand and impossibly tangible in every sense of the word. Yet he feels removed from it. As though the knowledge of his weirdness—because he knows he's not acting normal; after all, who lingers on their scene partner caring for another like this?—is secondary to the tacky, syrupy slowness of his thoughts. As though he no longer cares if Aizawa believes him to be wrong. Or bad. Or silly. As though the only thing that matters to him now is seeing to it that you're alright—you are—and the unfailing presence of Aizawa's hand on your body, like he's trying to keep you tethered to him and the world, even in your sleep. Meanwhile, Hitoshi feels a heartbeat away from floating up into the aether.

Distantly, he realises something isn't quite right about the feeling. That it's eerily similar to how you've described your existence during scenes with him, after them sometimes, too. The recognition crawls through his honeyed mind, sinking deeper with each step until it submerges entirely, disappearing from Hitoshi's consciousness. Because Hitoshi is a dom, through and through. So realistically, he knows his brain must be protesting his lack of control, his lack of aftercare, his lack of a hand in the divot of your spine. All normal, dom-concerns and nothing that won't wear off once his hindbrain chills the fuck out.

This panic is merely transitory. As all things are.

"Shinsou," Aizawa repeats, drawing up from his relaxed slouch.

Hitoshi lifts his head in muted acknowledgement but doesn't turn to his Sensei.

You're clean. Aizawa's doing. You're warm and buried under a soft, thick blanket. Aizawa's doing. You're safe, watched over like a baby. Aizawa's doing.

Fingers itching to also do something, anything—to be a useful dom, to fulfil his obligations and wrap up the scene properly, to move through the motions until his brain finally realises that it's over—he gently combs through your hair. Then, Hitoshi's hand drifts down your spine, feeling each bump through the blanket. Venturing as close as he dares to where Aizawa's long fingers stake their claim, and ignoring whatever voice tells him to touch.

"Sensei," Hitoshi echoes. The word, intended to be a comfort, a one-word I'm fine, leaves his mouth in a whisper.

Aizawa's still staring at him, but he can't bring himself to bristle—to feel anything but wrong and weird and off-balance. Like he's drifting out to sea with each passing breath.

His fingers trace back up your spine, across your shoulder, up the one arm you've splayed out on the bed in your sleep. He notes the softness of your skin under the pads of his fingers. The smattering of fine hair. The bones of your wrist, your knuckles. He quietly eases his fingers beneath yours and holds your hand, loose and barely-there—he doesn't want to wake you, but he needs to hold you so bad the desire feels like it may split him clean in half, cracking his ribcage like a geode. There will be no shimmering crystals inside him. In fact, he fears there may be nothing at all. His thoughts feel so far from his brain it's a wonder he's still… him.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Aizawa asks lowly, voice sliding over Hitoshi's skin like a satin-soft ribbon. Like the smooth, unforgiving grip of his capture weapon. He has a sudden urge to laugh at the question, but can't quite remember what's so funny about it. All he manages is a shaky exhale. "You're not usually this quiet with me."

"I…" Hitoshi's tongue is heavy and uncooperative in his mouth. In the end, all he manages is a subdued, "It's not you.

Aizawa doesn't reply, and when Hitoshi finally glances away from you, his Sensei's penetrating gaze is enough to make him cower.

"I'll be okay in a minute," he adds after clearing his throat, trying to dispel the airy quality it's taken on without his permission as he glances away again.

So much for impressing his Sensei. Showing him how well he handles his scenes and how carefully he looks after you. All he's doing instead is demonstrating his idiocy, clutching onto your hand like a lifeline and skating around whatever prying Aizawa is attempting, despite the endless well of good faith Hitoshi knows it's coming from.

"Alright," Aizawa acquiesces easily, letting the topic drop.

What could be seconds or hours later, Hitoshi's stare, anchored on your peaceful expression, is disrupted by a fond exhale. What there is to be amused about right now, though, Hitoshi has no idea. A phone drops with a soft thud onto the mattress behind Aizawa, and he leans back onto his hands casually, a big palm withdrawing from your body.

"Come here."

Hitoshi's body jerks, familiar with acting upon his Sensei's words before he even registers doing so—the heat of a battle is no place he questions Aizawa's command—before he remembers he's still holding your hand. For a split second, he's torn between the pain of letting you go and the wrongness of disobeying a direct order. A request? A question? Thinking back, Hitoshi can't actually recall what tone his Sensei used, though it doesn't seem to matter to his body, every muscle drawn tight in anticipation of following through.

"She's fine, Shinsou."

Hitoshi glances down to confirm his words.

You are fine.

Clean. Warm. Safe.

Hitoshi loops the words like a mantra, clinging to the little comfort they provide.

Aizawa pitches his voice down like he's soothing a spooked animal. "I'll look after her."

Is that meant for him?

Turbulent waters peter out into calm.

When has his Sensei ever lied to him?

(Never, the traitorous voice in his head whispers.)

Hitoshi brushes a thumb over your knuckles before drawing back his hand. There's a hesitation as he turns to Aizawa. But then the corner of his Sensei's mouth is twitching up, and Hitoshi is moving, taking a step, two, halting awkwardly in the space between Aizawa's feet. There's no hand in his own to ground him anymore, nor the mattress bumping his knees. He feels himself float higher, all the while Aizawa doesn't move an inch.

"You feelin' okay?"

Hitoshi nods, tightens his fingers in his towel, tries to quell the urge to curve his shoulders inwards and cover his bare chest. His bare-everything, really. The towel feels like a meagre cover, and even though Aizawa is only wearing sweats himself, the air of confidence his Sensei exudes is making Hitoshi feel small in a way he never does. Hitoshi's damp skin breaks out into gooseflesh.

Aizawa's gaze flickers down to his towel, back up to his face. "You enjoyed the scene?"

Another nod.

Because he did. He came in his pants like a goddamn teenager; of course, he enjoyed the scene. Got off on seeing his girlfriend fucked by another man, doubly so because it was Aizawa. Which he didn't particularly want to unpack right now, but now the aforementioned man is tilting his head slightly and staring up at Hitoshi, dark hair slipping off his shoulders and into the air behind him, and he can't help but notice just how much he did love it. His dick twitches at the memory of Aizawa's crimson eyes flashing to his as he came, how he reduced you to a crying, sobbing mess with a speed frankly terrifying to Hitoshi.

"Are we…" Aizawa visibly cycles through different dialogue options before settling on, "…okay?"

Hitoshi startles at the notion that Aizawa would even ask that. Unfortunately, this only deepens the frown forming on his Sensei's face.

"Are we okay, Shinsou?"

"Yes!" Hitoshi blurts, a hand reaching out to… he doesn't even know what, really. The smidgen of panic creeping into the edges of his brain helps clear the fog a little. Hand lingering in the air between them, faint tremors wrack his fingers before dropping uselessly to his side. "Yes, we're— we're okay, Sensei. More than okay." He swallows back another admission. "I promise."

Aizawa nods to himself now, and Hitoshi notices the relieved way he relaxes his shoulders, face smoothing out into his familiarly neutral expression. There's a tiny smirk on his lips, though, like his Sensei's thoughts are meandering from worry into something Hitoshi can't quite place.

Hitoshi shivers. Flicks his eyes between Aizawa's. Tries to match his shallow breaths to his Sensei's slow, even ones.

"Do you want to kneel for me, Shinsou?"

Instead, Aizawa decides to derail it all.

Hitoshi's mouth opens and closes around words he can't find. The tremors in his hands worsen, and he takes a halted step backwards. Just one. Like he can't decide if running would even be worth it. Who then has to ignore the traitorous arousal pooling in his gut at the thought of being caught by his Sensei—at the capture weapon wound tight around his torso, arms pinned to his side, at hearing the exerted puffs of Aizawa's breath as his Sensei leers over him in victory.

"No, I…"

Leaning forward, Aizawa braces his elbows on his thighs, staring up at Hitoshi in a way that shouldn't be intimidating, yet it is.

"Doesn't have to mean anything." Aizawa shrugs carefully, as though toeing a thin line Hitoshi can't see. His head dips meaningfully as he studies Hitoshi's petrified expression. "And it doesn't make you less of a dom."

"I don't need to kneel," Hitoshi stresses, taking another step back.

"I know that," Aizawa replies easily. "I know that, Shinsou. You don't need anything. Anyone. You don't need me, and I've had to force myself into your life and fight to keep my place." A humourless laugh that only serves to confuse Hitoshi more. Hitoshi's eyes flicker to you. "I see you because I'm the same… That doesn't mean you can't want, though."

The ground feels liquid beneath his feet, and Hitoshi's stomach swoops—insides lurching up into his throat in place of all the words he wants to yell, all the denials fighting their way out.

Hitoshi flashes Aizawa a warning glance. Takes another step back. "I don't want to kneel, either."

Clearly contemplating his words, Aizawa stares up at him. Hitoshi shifts, uncomfortable as some of the fog bleeds away to awkwardness, to memories of exactly how he reacted to his Sensei fucking his girlfriend in a way he'll never be able to take back. Never be able to hide or deny. It's all out there—every mistake he's made this evening. And you're fast asleep, satiated, exhausted, drifting through dreamland and unable to help.

Hitoshi has ruined everything.

Both his relationships. The respect he's spent a decade cultivating with his Sensei, with the only man who's seen through to his core and decided to stay, who's raised him, cared for him, loved him. You—who's been by his side through his highest of highs and his lowest of lows, who's endlessly forgiving, patient, and all manner of beautiful qualities Hitoshi could never hope to deserve, even given a millennium to try.

Fog creeps back into his brain, pervasive, leaving no crack, corner, or crevice untouched by its wispy fingers.

Breaths come quicker, come shallow. Barely reaching his lungs before another takes its place.

Prickling numbness coats his fingers and creeps up his arms.

Then, voice cracking over the words, "Why do I want to kneel, Sensei?"

Aizawa's expression turns kind.

"Shinsou…"

"I don't…" His mouth flaps like a fish out of water. A hand squeezes his towel until it hurts. "I don't understand… What is wrong with me? Why did I have to… to," purple hair twisted between fingers, "to be like this."

At once, the air is suffocating his lungs.

"I'm sorry," Hitoshi gasps helplessly, the stirrings of a sob marring his words. Panic sweeps him under, and his eyes dance everywhere but Aizawa. "God, I'm so sorry, Sensei."

Say something, Hitoshi thinks. Say something, say something, say something!

Yell at me. Snap out of it.

Leave.

Don't go.

Aizawa rises from the bed.

Flinching like he's been struck, Hitoshi feels the big hands on his shoulders long before they make contact; as though the few deafening heartbeats it takes for Aizawa to cross the space contain a thousand lifetimes. Aizawa cradles his trembling form like he's trying to hold him together. Better Aizawa attempt such a feat than Hitoshi, who couldn't hold anyone together right now, last of all his splintering mind. A mind that prides itself on breaking you down and putting you back together; a mind recognising it is falling apart, yet able to do nothing but helplessly watch.

Steering him like a tugboat, Aizawa drags Hitoshi backwards step by step. Hitoshi follows dazedly, putting up no fight against his Sensei.

"Back to her."

The first words to leave Aizawa's mouth. His familiar smooth drawl is an immediate balm on Hitoshi's panic. The side of his knee bumps the mattress's edge as he obeys, turning his back to you. A brief jolt of uncertainty strikes through him. But it has no time to settle.

Pressure on his shoulders.

Deeper this time, as though Aizawa is trying to burn the shape of his fingers into the muscle Hitoshi has built there. Hitoshi stares at his Sensei uncomprehendingly.

What does his Sensei want?

There's a suspended moment of silence—anticipation hanging heavy in the air. Aizawa fits his palms to Hitoshi's shoulders and depresses them with force anew. Hitoshi feels their comforting weight and considers asking if he can stay beneath it forever.

"Shinsou," Aizawa repeats pointedly, drawing him back to the present.

"Sensei," he replies, voice small against his will. A call to a summons. An echo to a shout.

Exhaling a short breath, the corner of Aizawa's lip twitches up. Before Hitoshi can process what's happening, a foot catches the back of his knee, and he meets the ground with a harsh thump, knees knocking into carpet with surprising force. The impact reverberates up his thighs and straight through his core.

Against his will, Hitoshi moans.

Aizawa's eyebrows rise into his hairline. Hitoshi hears the incriminating noise bounce off every wall in the room and slap him across the face some long, viscid seconds later. Wincing, he quickly ducks his head in shame. Blood burns in his cheeks. What the hell is wrong with him? First, he's arguing his insistence against kneeling and the next moment he's moaning when his Sensei forces the choice upon him. Some fucking hero he is…

Some fucking Sensei Aizawa is, too.

"Oh?"

Let the ground swallow me, Hitoshi begs. Let it swallow me and be done with it.

"Shut up," he grits out, forcing the lingering remnants of the moan from his voice until it hardens like cooling sugar, one wrong move away from its brittle exterior shattering into innumerable pieces.

Aizawa hums. "I don't think you should be telling me to shut up right now."

Hitoshi hates how his skin breaks out into gooseflesh at his Sensei's degrading croon. Hates even more how he can feel arousal stirring in his gut at the sight of Aizawa's bare feet in his vision, the soft sweat sitting on the bone of his ankle, the knowledge that if he looks up now, he'd have to drag his eyes up every godforsaken inch of the man before he could meet his eyes. How he's kneeling at his feet—like a defeated villain, like a sweet pet… like a fucking sub.

Embarrassment swirls around him.

"Fuck off," he bites cruelly, trying to regain some of the ground he's lost.

Hitoshi should turn tail and run, but he can't seem to get his body to cooperate. Legs leaden and heavy, glued to the ground by no more than Aizawa's presence. A hand lands on the crown of his head, and the immediate relief the touch brings, paired with his brain's comparison to an owner petting their dog, brings nothing but misery and strife.

"All bark and no bite."

Aizawa punctuates his words with a gentle ruffle of Hitoshi's damp hair.

Hitoshi wants to bristle. Truly, he does. Instead, he leans into the touch with about as much shame as you had on his Sensei's cock earlier—drinking in the feeling of big fingers engulfing his skull, the pads of fingers brushing his scalp with a gentleness belying the strength of the man above him. Each reply that Hitoshi tries to summon peers out of his mouth before deciding to hide in his throat. Hitoshi wishes he could hide, too. But that would mean leaving Aizawa, separating himself from the soft touch of his mentor and crawling back to the thrum of panic he can feel lying in wait for his walls to fall again—for Aizawa to slip up in his careful defence of Hitoshi's mind.

A decision has never been made so simple.

"You look good like this," Aizawa says colloquially, as though commenting on a particularly sunny day when the forecast had predicted rain. A dash of surprise. An overwhelming sweep of pleasure. The confirmed knowledge that every day can bring the unexpected.

Exhaling a shaky breath, Hitoshi bows his head deeper, refusing to acknowledge his words.

"Always knew you would."

At that, Hitoshi freezes—his muscles drawing taut and still, the breath he was inhaling lodging in the base of his trachea. Yet he doesn't look up. Can't, really. Because seeing whatever expression Aizawa is wearing would surely be his undoing, the gust of wind to topple his wobbling house of cards. Hitoshi immediately braces, prepared for his mind to be unsettled by the statement, for his dominance to feel challenged.

"Sensei," he ends up gasping, voice strangled like someone has a fist around his larynx.

Why does he only feel relief?

Fingers slide from his crown to his nape and settle there like ownership. Hitoshi shivers under them, his body visibly riding the wave of arousal that washes over him. He can feel his cock stirring under his towel, and he clutches it tighter, both fists tight around the waist. It's humiliating, really, the way he's reacting to such a simple touch. But there's a weight behind it that his body and mind aren't used to, a possessiveness potent enough to give him vertigo.

"What is it?"

"I don't…"

Hitoshi swallows.

Then, words tumble from his lips like a malfunctioning speaker, so rapid that each merges into the last until it's one messy string of distress.

"Sensei, Idon'tknowhowtodothis," a shuddering inhale, "I don't know how to—"

Submit.

I don't know how to submit. I'm afraid I'm going to embarrass myself. I'm afraid I'll be bad. I'm afraid I'm going to make you hate me. I'm afraid I'm going to mess everything up.

Most of all, I'm afraid I'll like it.

"You don't have to know, Shinsou," Aizawa sighs, like he always does when he thinks Hitoshi is caught up in the whirlwind raging inside his head. "Just listen to Sensei, hm?"

Hitoshi finds himself agreeing before he can think better of it, head bobbing along obediently. A hot flash emanates from the hand on his nape when Aizawa's thumb brushes behind his ear comfortingly in response, and all it ends up doing is making Hitoshi shudder. Aizawa laughs lowly, the sound curling around Hitoshi's brain and quieting it that much more.

Listen to Sensei.

Hitoshi can do that. Has been doing that since he was fifteen—looking up to Aizawa and hanging onto his every word, working day and night to become an underground hero worthy of the title of Eraser Head's protégé. The request is as familiar as breathing, as easy as Aizawa broke you down less than an hour ago. A day ago? Hitoshi feels like he may have been kneeling at Aizawa's feet forever. Does time always pass so strangely? Like it's stretching and compressing at will, leaving him no more certain of this moment than the last, no more cowed by the next moment than the one he's currently in.

A shuffle of fabric and the hand on his nape rotates, the feet in his vision moving as Aizawa takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Hitoshi sits perpendicular. There's an urge to lean forward, to knock his forehead onto the thigh before him and let his thoughts turn warm and soupy. He sways slightly, as though the indecision is a physical thing. Aizawa widens his fingers—sliding the heat of his palm down to the middle of Hitoshi's bared back, back up the notches of his spine and into his damp hair. Aizawa's fingertips splay across his scalp, and the sensation makes him shiver.

None of this helps the urge.

Hitoshi exhales under its insistence; face screwing up against it and jaw gritting against a low whine.

He can't remember how long he's been like this, how long it's been since he looked at Aizawa. All he can focus on is the thick thigh in front of him, calling his name like a siren's song, and the pleasant static between his ears; as though Aizawa is smoothing his thoughts out into quiet with only the big, warm breadth of his palm gliding from his hair down his spine, and back up again until Hitoshi isn't sure precisely what it was he panicked about earlier.

This is nice, he thinks quietly, right as he gives in—forehead dropping onto the side of Aizawa's thigh. Aizawa tenses under him, just once, and then Hitoshi is drifting. Nasty worries about the scene, about his standing as a dom, about his relationships fading to the recesses of his mind, like they're being leeched out from him by the steadiness of Aizawa, by the strong muscles under his face.

This is nice...

───

Eventually, the fog subsides.

"—sou."

A hand stills on his nape. Warm. Always so warm.

"—insou."

Hitoshi could melt, could sink back into the balmy waters like a stone.

"Shinsou…"

Sensei.

Hitoshi blinks tired eyes open to the sight of the carpet and almost closes them right away, the sweet call of darkness all too tempting.

Where is he again?

"You with me?"

Sensei's house. At his feet.

You're asleep on the bed.

Yes.

Some half-hearted, throaty hum makes itself known in place of his intended reply.

"Not quite then," Sensei chuckles, fingers tightening briefly, digging into Hitoshi's skin—who inhales, as sharply as he can manage, an undercurrent of pleasure snaking back into his veins.

Fingers, limp on his towel, wake up one by one.

"Y'feelin' better?"

Yes.

Another hum, steadier this time.

Another chuckle, louder this time.

Then, fingers smoothing through his hair, behind his ear, along the curve of his jaw. Knuckles settling under his chin, which press upwards lightly. There's little command behind the action, and even through Hitoshi's unweighted, untethered existence right now, he can hear the silent question lingering under Sensei's fingers.

A deep inhale, lungs expanding wide to accommodate. A rush of clarity. Not enough to startle, but enough for Hitoshi to obey, slowly tipping his head back while Sensei's fingers follow, settled in the dip of his submentum as though they belong there.

Maybe they do. Who is Hitoshi to say?

The first thing he notices is light—still low in Sensei's room, the golden spill of a lamp over the bed, a slice of dusk peering through the curtains he didn't close properly, the flash of Sensei's phone still lost in the covers. Then, the curve of warmth on Sensei's stubbled jaw, the molten magma swimming in his eyes and reflecting the lamp's glow, and their meeting with Hitoshi's.

"There you are."

Hitoshi almost buckles at the fondness in his Sensei's tone—at all that love being directed at him with no excuse otherwise to be found. No deflection, no joke afterwards to lessen the heat.

"Sensei," Hitoshi breathes, the sheer intimacy bowling him over. Too much for someone still grasping at the pieces of themselves. Except he finds nothing to grasp—they're already slotted where they belong. All the cracks meticulously filled, and with such care, Hitoshi feels distantly ill.

Fingers pet under his chin gently, and Hitoshi swallows to feel them shift with the movement. Sensei smiles. Hitoshi swallows again, for a different reason this time.

The air feels suspended in softness.

Hitoshi lets his eyes drift again, down the slope of Sensei's nose, across his broad shoulders, his bare stomach—soft and relaxed—the V of his hips, the cock tenting his sweats, the thickness of his thi—

Wait. The cock tenting his sweats?

Why is Sensei hard?

Hitoshi sits up straighter, gaze locked onto the sight in mild shock.

Arousal lances through his gut without remorse. Guilt follows closely behind.

"Shinsou, listen—"

Sensei's dick twitches under the weight of his stare. A weird urge makes itself known, Hitoshi's mouth filling with saliva as he imagines the weight of his Sensei's thick cock in his mouth. The way it might still be covered in you—your slick, Sensei's arousal, Sensei's spit. Hitoshi feels his own cock, softened in the haze of calm he's existed within under the supervision of his Sensei, start to stir in response. Distantly, he thinks about how he's never sucked a dick before. Knows nothing beyond what he's seen in porn back in U.A., and what he likes when it's you on your knees, you swallowing him, your wet warmth hugging his cock like a sin.

Would it be different with Aizawa?

"I…"

Hitoshi flicks his gaze up to see Aizawa wince around a word he never voices. Then, he glances back down. Is he even harder?

"It's… not you. It's just…" A lie kissing Aizawa's teeth, so obvious that Hitoshi would smile if he could find himself enough to do so. "Fuck… Fuck, Shinsou. I'm sorry."

"'s okay," Hitoshi mumbles lowly, distracted and still warming his voice, still remembering who he is and what happened earlier this evening. "I don't mind."

Then, spoken like an afterthought, "You didn't get off earlier."

Aizawa makes a startled sound, half-laugh, half-disbelief. "That wasn't what the scene was about."

Hitoshi lets out an unconvinced hum, eyes still glued to the clear outline of Aizawa's cock through the soft material of his sweats. "Do you want to?"

"Do I want to what?" Aizawa asks carefully.

There are fingers under his chin. Eyes intent on peeling back the layers to his misty expression. Yet all Hitoshi can focus on is the way Aizawa's cock twitches again.

"Do you want to get off?"

An amused smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "No."

"What if I want you to get off?"

"What are you saying, Shinsou?"

I don't know.

"What if I want to watch you?"

"Watch me?"

Hitoshi doesn't say anything.

Aizawa considers him for a moment. Hitoshi can see the cogs turning, whirring their metal paths in his head as he works out every option, every right and wrong path.

Then, with a deceivingly harmless head tilt, "Can you ask nicely for me?"

Hitoshi flushes immediately, right as his arousal begins a slow roil in his gut. Some part of his brain laughs—clearly more lucid than the rest—hysterical and depreciative, at the way it's Sensei's request to fluster him and not the shameless way he was asking to see Aizawa's cock just moments prior.

"Sensei…" he trails off uncertainly, voice wavering.

Raising an eyebrow, Aizawa lets his fingers drop from Hitoshi's chin and he places his palms on the bed behind him, leisurely leaning back and creating a beautiful curve to his body—muscles stretching with the movement, shoulders appearing dizzingly wider.

"C'mon, Shinsou," Aizawa laughs lightly, the sound just this side of demeaning. "I'm only asking you to be polite. I never said you had to behave."

With an embarrassingly telling jolt, Hitoshi turns his head to the side quickly, staring off at the dark dresser tucked in the corner of Aizawa's room and swathed in shadows.

"Unless you want to behave for me?" Aizawa croons lowly, tipping his head to the side again to follow the direction of Hitoshi's gaze. With the older man's movements only visible in Hitoshi's periphery, the sound of his velvety voice, like tumbled gravel, feels much more overwhelming. As though he's pouring his sin right into Hitoshi's ear. "Unless you want to sit still and watch while I touch myself. To be told that you can't touch."

An inferno sweeps over Hitoshi's body, gnawing at his sanity, and he bites his lip hard enough to hurt.

"My capture device is in the dresser," Aizawa tacks on casually.

Hitoshi shudders like the bow of a ship caught in a storm.

"Maybe I'll let you have a taste if you're good."

"Sensei," he gasps, unbidden, turning back to the man.

Feeling no different than a broken record, repeating Sensei over and over and over—in plea, in apology, in call for mercy and damnation both at once—Hitoshi can't help the way his own cock starts filling out. The way he's drawn closer to Aizawa, as though his Sensei has his own gravitational pull and Hitoshi is no more than passing space debris.

Aizawa laughs, the sound decidedly not uncruel. "What is it?"

"I want…"

He forces the words back down. Shoves them so deep they can't possibly surface. Then, Aizawa is moving his leg slightly, until his ankle touches Hitoshi's knee—and this singular point of contact, casual and so utterly innocent, completely undoes him.

"IwantatasteSenseiplease," he blurts in one heaving breath.

"'Please,' huh?" A particular emphasis on the incriminating word.

Hitoshi's mouth opens and closes around a shapeless excuse.

"Thought it would take you a bit more to start begging." One hand coming to play with the low waistband of his sweats, Aizawa's voice is particularly dry when he continues, "You ever sound like this for her?"

Aizawa nods his chin in your direction, and Hitoshi follows the subtle direction—he observes how sleep has smoothed its fingers over your face, has caressed your body until it's all but melted into the mattress.

Hitoshi has, occasionally.

When you feel like being a bit meaner, the bite of your words and the roll of your hips can be enough to make Hitoshi's head feel fuzzy. Once, you edged him. Restraint is unfamiliar to you, but you learned, and quickly. By the time the moon was arching above you both, Hitoshi was a mess. Worse than he's ever been with you. Tears beading his lashline. Sweat sheening across his body. Nothing like the dom you were both used to, yet nothing like a sub either.

Hitoshi shrugs, words evading him. Even if he could find them, he isn't quite sure how he'd explain the intricacies of your relationship to the older man. The gentle push and pull within your roles. How Hitoshi has never been anything but a dom with you, despite what may happen in the bedroom.

Seeing this, Aizawa steels his shoulders.

"Go on, then," Aizawa utters, leaning back on his hands. "Have your taste."

Hitoshi glances between the growing curve of Aizawa's sweats and the knowing glint in his eyes. Shifting awkwardly on his knees, he debates if he should be moving—debates it doubly so when Aizawa's thighs spread wider, as though inviting him to the space between them. Aizawa flicks his eyes down pointedly, and then Hitoshi is shuffling between his thighs before he can process the action. Once he's there, a new heat dances over his body. Anticipatory. Scared. The lump in his throat wars with the blood rushing to his cock. With trembling hands, Hitoshi moves to tug down the waistband of Aizawa's sweats. He's a hair's breadth from the soft fabric before Aizawa is there—one wide hand wrapped around both of Hitoshi's wrists.

"No hands."

Hitoshi makes a weird, embarrassing, strangled noise, his face colouring a beat later. "Sensei, what—"

Aizawa squeezes his hand once, fingers tight on Hitoshi's thundering pulse. "You heard me."

No hands?

The trembling wracking his hands worsens, and there's no way Aizawa doesn't notice a dying animal caught in a trap. Stomach swooping like he just missed a step on a staircase, Hitoshi forces shallow, stuttered breaths, half-convinced they may be his last. Aizawa stares at him with all the calculating air of a predator. Unable to hold his gaze, Hitoshi tears his eyes away with a sharp exhale. This isn't what he wants. To degrade himself in front of his Sensei. To undercut all the work he's put into being a dom. A good dom.

But then Aizawa's cock twitches once more, and Hitoshi is leaning forward anyway. Closer, closer, closer. Until he can feel his warm breath bouncing back off the jersey fabric. Until all that's holding the fragile seams of their relationship together is the scant coin's width of air between Hitoshi's lips and Aizawa's cock. So he stops there. Unable to quite breach that distance, not with all it might spell; a relationship changed forever. A boundary never to be uncrossed. One more reason he won't be able to act normally around his Sensei ever again.

Yet still, the urge breathes.

Simmering beneath his skin like a pot about to boil over. A lid begging to be cracked. Steam desperate to escape.

Hitoshi feels it all, and still, he cannot move.

There's a brief moment of insecurity—how must he look, frozen before his Sensei's crotch—but it is largely outweighed by the trepidation lining every terrified heartbeat. By the familiar voice, loud in his head, calling for his Sensei to help him.

"We don't have to do this, Shinsou."

A measured pause suspends Hitoshi above a pitch-black chasm.

"You have nothing to prove." A warm voice melting down into reverence. "Not to me."

The words sink into Hitoshi's core like the first rain after a dry season, penetrating the parched soil. And he falls.

Hitoshi's lips meet his crotch. A smooth kiss of cotton, followed by a staticky brush of tongue. Barely any pressure behind it, yet Aizawa moans like he's been slapped. His hips are remarkably still, like he's making a conscious effort not to move and scare Hitoshi away. Hitoshi brushes the tip of his nose up Aizawa's length, before tilting his head and opening his mouth wider, caution flying out the window. He licks once, harder, before closing his lips around the middle of Aizawa's cock and wetting the fabric there. Sucking it into his mouth. Absorbing the hitch in his Sensei's breath like that alone could sustain him for weeks.

Quietness seeps back into his brain—arousal right behind it, though the pang of heat is strangely distant as his awareness narrows down to Aizawa. To the hand still clutching Hitoshi's wrists, trapped between the mattress edge and Hitoshi's chest, and the way it flexes rhythmically. Head canted sideways, he shoots a glance up at his Sensei, only to find him already watching. The barest glimpse of his gentle Sensei is visible under his dark expression.

Aizawa grits his jaw. "Just like that."

Licking his way up Aizawa's cock, Hitoshi's hands twitch with the need to touch as they twitch from the strength of his Sensei's grasp. He laps, sucks, kisses along his cock until the fabric is dark with spit. Suckles at the tip, pressing his tongue into where he thinks the slit would be and watches victoriously as Aizawa exhales a sharp breath. Hitoshi can feel his mouth, covered in saliva, and can feel the drool leaking from the corners.

Beneath it, a weirdness settles in his gut. Like he hasn't quite recognised yet how he's slobbering all over his Sensei—on the man who practically raised him—like a dog who hasn't learnt control. He can feel it brewing like a hangover. A tomorrow he knows he might regret—a today he can't bear to let end.

Hitoshi lets his eyes flutter closed instead, sucking at Aizawa's tip through the fabric like he can taste the bitter tang of precum if he tries hard enough. Aizawa's hand tightens around his wrists before dropping away entirely.

"Hands behind your back," Aizawa rasps, a hint of panic in his voice.

Without hesitating, Hitoshi obeys. One hand coming to clutch the wrist of his other at the small of his back.

"Good."

A pleasant shiver rushes down Hitoshi's spine at the roughness of his voice.

"Keep them there."

Hitoshi mouths back down his cock, drawing wet patterns with his tongue, dampening the grey fabric. Aizawa pants above him. There's something oddly soothing about having his mouth occupied—about not being expected to speak because he's busy pleasing his Sensei. About being able to switch his brain off until all that's bouncing around the quiet is Aizawa, Aizawa, Aizawa.

Inhaling deeply, Hitoshi can smell the heady musk of Aizawa's crotch and the cologne clinging to Aizawa's wrist, clutching the comforter near his hips. He inhales again. And again. Committing the scent to memory, engraving the satisfaction of knowing Aizawa intimately on this new level onto his heart. Hitoshi shuffles on his knees again. Stiffness brightens his awareness a touch.

Making sure his head is ducked down, Hitoshi fixes his eyes on Aizawa's crotch and whispers a small "Sensei…" that goes unheard, lips brushing against him over the word.

Under him, Aizawa's hips strain for stillness. Hitoshi's fingers twitch behind his back in response, and he squeezes them into fists so tightly it hurts, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. Breathing through the dull bite of pain, he reminds himself that it's only Aizawa.

Unsurprisingly, this isn't helpful.

Only Aizawa?

As though this isn't the only person next to you who knows Hitoshi inside and out. Someone shy of a father but much more than a mentor. A relationship like muddy water—like fog concealing a winter morning. There isn't one word, nor one label for them. No box he can shove himself and Aizawa into will be a perfect fit.

And maybe that's why he's here on his knees—mouthing at Aizawa's clothed cock like a dog.

Because life isn't simple. Hitoshi and Aizawa aren't simple—never have been. And while Hitoshi's stomach is flipping every two seconds, brain melting under the pressure of his humiliation, there's no denying this is right. Beyond all the wrongness. Beyond the weirdness, the awkwardness, the tense line of Aizawa's body and the halted way Hitoshi touches…

This is right.

If only his body would get the memo, though, faintly tremoring as though caught in an earthquake. Jaw sore already, and expression drawn tight.

"Fuck," Aizawa groans finally, the sound like a bird's first flight. "That feels good."

Hitoshi exhales something shaky as he kisses back up his shaft.

"Where'd ya learn how to do this, hm?"

Hitoshi tenses for a brief moment, trying to parse whether Aizawa is being flattering or sarcastic. Does Aizawa know? No… Why would his Sensei have any reason to know such intimate details about his sex life? Before today, it was a topic he'd rather die than bring up around Aizawa. A beat later, he realises that he's still frozen, but it's too late. He relaxes his body and licks over his tip again, but Aizawa taps a knee into his shoulder gently, immediately checking in.

Hitoshi winces.

"You okay?"

Hitoshi nods stiltedly, unwilling to remove his mouth from Aizawa's cock. Not if it means speaking. Hitoshi doesn't want to speak right now. Doesn't want anything more than to lap at the damp fabric of Aizawa's sweat, to smell the tangle of delicious scents invading Hitoshi's brain, and to maybe, just maybe, get a proper taste.

If Aizawa lets him.

"You have… You have done this before, haven't you, Shin?"

Hitoshi watches the tan, scarred hand tangled in the comforter tighten in his periphery.

At the nickname, Hitoshi fights back a moan, throwing himself back into his task—suckling at the head of Aizawa's cock, licking the underside, following where it curves slightly to the right near his hipbone. His mouth drifts up to Aizawa's waistband, and right as teeth bite the fabric—yanking it down, determined to get Aizawa in his mouth before he can question Hitoshi anymore—does his Sensei speak.

"Shinsou."

Hitoshi can't even bring himself to hum. On some level, he hears the words. But answering seems so unimportant right now in the face of Aizawa's cock, and Aizawa's laboured breaths. Sensei won't mind, right? No. Surely not. Hitoshi is making him feel good.

With barely a second to brace himself, Hitoshi feels a big hand thread into his damp hair at the back of his head and tug. Not meanly, just firm. Pulling Hitoshi away from his crotch and baring him in one smooth motion, his neck a long, pale line. He swallows and feels the sensation with uncomfortable tautness. Panic pulls at his chest at the suddenness, at being dragged from a nice thing so quickly, at having Aizawa's cock almost in his mouth one moment and then being humiliatedly exposed the next. Saliva coating his mouth, his chin, his cheeks. He must look awful. A mess. Like a child.

Hitoshi pulls against the hold immediately, drawing up tall. The hands behind his back fly up to clutch Aizawa's. Aizawa told him to hold them there, but that was before—before he was forced from the peaceful place he'd been existing within. Before he felt like a lamb before the slaughter, forced to meet the deep red of his Sensei's hard stare.

"I asked you a question," Aizawa utters lowly.

Hitoshi swallows a gasping moan when Aizawa's fingers press against his skull. "Sensei."

No other word encapsulates all that Sensei does. No word contains such multitudes as this title—the love, the fear, the honeyed plea that is a flashing neon sign for all its subtlety.

Sensei, Sensei, Sensei.

Hitoshi could repeat it ad nauseam.

"You're not going to get what you want until I hear your answer, Shinsou." Aizawa tilts his head back an inch further. Hitoshi can feel Aizawa's pulse beneath his fingers—smooth, steady, calm. It only makes him panic more. "Have you given a blowjob before?"

There's something strangely formal about the question. Hitoshi would laugh in any other circumstance, but hot and flustered under the spotlight, he's not finding this particularly funny. Not with his pride on the line, too. Because what the hell is his Sensei going to think of him if he says no? That he's some bumbling blowjob virgin? That he's been begging all this time to suck him off when in reality he has zero clue how to make it good? Hitoshi is quite convinced that it would be more humiliating than remaining silent and accepting whatever punishment Aizawa deems necessary. Even if that means stopping whatever… this is—a scene, sex, a new brand of bonding between them.

Hitoshi's gaze flickers askance, guilty. Lips still parted around his panting breaths. He never noticed that Aizawa had a vintage All Might frame on his dresser.

"And to think you were being so sweet earlier."

Hitoshi couldn't find any words even if he wanted to. Nausea brews low in his gut.

"What happened to him, hm? How do I bring him back?"

Being referred to like that only seems to worsen Hitoshi's stonewall, but he doesn't know how to explain as such to Aizawa. That he doesn't know how to give a blowjob, that he's as much out of his depth as Aizawa is in his. Being forced to answer doesn't feel good either. Hitoshi can feel his pleasant buzz quickly fading under Aizawa's hard stare, and he keeps his gaze fixed on the uncharacteristic mess littering Aizawa's dresser.

Aizawa sighs heavily.

Hitoshi jolts like he's being reprimanded. Like he's a child back in U.A., getting caught under Aizawa's feet, getting in his way on the field. He hasn't cried for years—not since he scrolled past a particularly heartbreaking video of a stray cat being recused, fed, and given a new, loving home—so why the hell are his traitorous eyes beginning to water?

Gritting his jaw, he tries to force the swirling mess of emotions Aizawa is drawing forth back down. He pulls on a thread of anger he can feel singing through his veins, because it's easier. Simpler. Weirdly familiar, even though everyone in his life knows him for his level-headedness, for his similarly calm nature to Aizawa. They don't know, though. Not like you do. How Hitoshi carries such anger, it threatens to swallow him whole. Rage at the hand he was dealt, at the divisive nature of his quirk, at the way he was treated so early into his underground career while barely breaking adulthood.

At being humiliated again and again and again. At being disregarded. Mistreated.

At being feared.

And fuck, he knows Aizawa doesn't fear him. Has never feared him.

But the disappointment? It's almost worse.

Hitoshi spares the briefest of glances at Aizawa, just enough to see the way his mentor's eyes have widened slightly, before using his hold on Aizawa's wrist to wrench his hand out of his hair. It goes easily, almost as if Aizawa had been barely holding on in the first place.

"Stop," Hitoshi says quietly. The one syllable lined with years of hurt so heavy the request drops between them like the swinging anvil of a battle-hardened command.

Aizawa is uncharacteristically frozen. One hand caught in Hitoshi's grip, the other still tangled in the sheets. It takes him a moment, but then that hand is raised too in a poor imitation of surrender. "Okay."

Hitoshi sucks in a deep breath, trying to level his panic back into calm. Trying to suppress his anger back into that little box he keeps tucked away in the dusty corners of his heart.

"I'm sorry," Hitoshi says after a moment.

The air between them loosens.

Aizawa shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Shinsou." Regret lines his tone. "I shouldn't have pushed you. Not today."

Hitoshi's mind latches onto not today. Is Aizawa expecting a repeat of… this? Hitoshi, on his knees. You, asleep on the bed. Something in his chest loosens. Hitoshi hasn't ruined anything, not yet. So he cradles Aizawa's apology, lets it smooth his anger into a tiny ball, then locks his outburst back in the box.

"C'mere," Aizawa murmurs quietly, the hand raised in surrender slowly lowering to the side of Hitoshi's shoulder.

Hitoshi lets his Sensei pull him up onto his knees. Aizawa leans forward and maintains eye contact until he's carefully knocking their foreheads together, eyes shutting.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, low and reverent.

Hitoshi studies the blurry sight in front of him, Aizawa too close to truly drink in. After a beat, Hitoshi lets his eyes flutter closed, too.

"'s okay," he murmurs back.

Aizawa makes a half-hearted noise in the back of his throat, a wordless complaint at Hitoshi brushing away his apology so quickly, but says no more on the topic. Seemingly content to bask in the silence for a moment. Hitoshi's nose brushes against Aizawa's. Straightening, Hitoshi feels heat crawl up his spine as the hot puff of Aizawa's breath hits his mouth.

A line.

There is a line.

A big, bold line.

Hitoshi scrambles away from it with all the composure of a deflating balloon.

Aizawa feels his hesitation; of course, he does.

He pulls back to look at Hitoshi with a small frown. "What's wrong?"

Hitoshi shakes his head quickly, physically trying to dislodge such thoughts from his mind. "Nothing." Topic change. Now. "Can I… Can I carry on?"

Eyebrows raised, Aizawa flicks between Hitoshi's eyes.

"You don't have to do that," he says carefully.

Hitoshi almost laughs. "I know."

Releasing Aizawa's wrist, Hitoshi drops both his hands—slowly, giving time for protest—to his Sensei's hips. The touch is unfamiliar, more intimate than is usual between them, and he fights to keep his palms firm against the warmth of him.

"That's why you're going to sit back," Hitoshi takes a breath, "and take what I give you."

Aizawa's pupils widen, swallowing the darkness of his irises with black. "Shinsou—"

Hitoshi feels the sharp vacuum of Aizawa's inhale—his mouth flattening into a line Hitoshi has seen many times before.

Aizawa never finishes his sentence.

Hitoshi bites back a smile.

"Does that sound okay?" An undercurrent of caution is injected into his tone. He'll back off if Aizawa tells him to. Won't hesitate for even a breath.

But slowly, ever so slowly, Aizawa's head dips into a nod—just the one, like it's all he can manage on such tenuous footing.

Accepting the permission, Hitoshi sits back on his haunches and squeezes Aizawa's hips to ground himself. Fingers spread across heated skin and brushed cotton, their tips sinking into soft flesh. They drift down to his waistband and pause. Hitoshi glances up at Aizawa, whose expression is unreadable, but a faint blush dusts high on his cheeks, and a stern set to his mouth belies his nerves. No words are exchanged, but his hips lift slightly, and Hitoshi understands, tugging his sweats down just enough to free Aizawa's cock.

Fuck.

Hitoshi thought he was prepared for the sight—angry and red and weeping onto Aizawa's navel—but that couldn't be any further from the truth. Hungry eyes linger. Thoughts stall into nothingness. Before he can stop himself, he's drawing comparisons.

Aizawa is slightly bigger—thicker, really. Not quite as long as Hitoshi, but it's a near thing, and the knowledge that this is what split you open earlier gives him a newfound appreciation for how long you managed to hold yourself together before you fell apart. How could you not? It must've been almost inevitable, considering his size. Even Hitoshi is curious if he could take it.

Leaning forward tentatively, Hitoshi licks the tip, tasting the bitter bite of precum on his tongue. Aizawa's breath lodges in his throat, and Hitoshi, distracted by the reaction, tucks the waistband below his balls impatiently and kisses the tip this time. He almost moans when Aizawa's cock twitches under his lips. Instead, drooling a line of spit down his shaft, pointless really, because his Sensei is leaking like a faucet, but worth it if only for how Aizawa's stomach jumps at the action.

Hitoshi's hands find their home on his Sensei's hips once more. Palm and fingers against the wide breadth of skin bared, thumb stroking over the bone.

There's no denying the size of him is intimidating, but Hitoshi doesn't let himself overthink it. Simply closes his eyes, opens his lips around the head, sinks a hot, wet inch and brushes his tongue on the underside of the tip. Draws it back and forth. He doesn't know how to suck a dick, but he knows what he likes. Knows he likes it when you focus on the head, when you make it messy and wet and noisy, when you manage to swallow him whole.

Though Hitoshi isn't sold on the last idea.

Will Aizawa's entire cock even fit in his mouth?

Could you take him?

"Shit," Aizawa pants already, both hands landing on the mattress behind him, stomach stretching deliciously.

Clearly an accident, his hips jump, and Hitoshi exhales in surprise when another inch slips into his mouth. Broad hands press down on Aizawa's hips: Stay still.

Aizawa huffs a laugh. "Shinsou, ah— can you take more?"

Bossy, Hitoshi chides in his head. But he sinks further all the same, feels much like he's a snake unhinging to swallow their catch, a pleasant ache forming on the corner of his jaw, his mouth getting fuller and fuller and fuller.

Then, Aizawa's cock hits the back of his throat sooner than he expected. Hitoshi pulls back with a filthy popping noise that echoes in his ears and makes the tips burn. He coughs, a trail of saliva dripping from his chin.

Aizawa groans loudly when his cock slaps back onto his stomach. "Breathe through your nose, Shinsou," Aizawa reminds him, voice drawn taut. "Go slower."

Hitoshi wants to bristle at the command, but it falls from Aizawa's lips so readily—no ill intent, just his nature raising its face once more; a mentor teaching his student. And while Hitoshi never admitted he hadn't done this before, he doesn't even know why Aizawa pushed in the first place when it has become abundantly clear the older man already knew the answer. So Hitoshi slides one hand from his hip to grab the base of his cock. Catches his breath and brings Aizawa's cock to his lips, sinking down faster than he perhaps should, but eager to hear another punched-out moan.

"Slower—fuckkk—slower, or you'll choke again."

Success.

Hitoshi reins in his enthusiasm. Taking a moment to drag his tongue along a vein, to swallow around him, and listen to Aizawa inhale.

Then, he drops lower again. The tip pokes the back of his throat, and he jolts, choking instinctively but recalling Aizawa's command and taking a deep, shuddering breath. Two. Three. His throat quivers around the intrusion. Meanwhile, Aizawa is half-heartedly groaning above him, the noise noncommittal and airy like he can't decide whether to lean into the pleasure or hold himself back in case it gets abruptly ripped away whenever Hitoshi chokes again.

Hitoshi stays there for a second, letting his mouth adjust to the size of Aizawa.

Surprisingly, this isn't as humiliating as he expected—choking on his Sensei's cock.

Perhaps it's thanks to Aizawa, folding to Hitoshi's command. Or how he can feel how much this is affecting the older man. Hitoshi can hear his shaky breaths and even shakier moans. Can feel both his hips and stomach jumping under his touch. Can feel his dick twitching in the warmth of his mouth every time Hitoshi swallows around him.

I wonder if I can take more?

Hitoshi steels himself, breaths out slowly through his nose, and drops down another inch—the slide of Aizawa's dick down his throat is strange but not unpleasant. Quivering with the urge to gag, Hitoshi focuses on breathing, on accepting the incursion until he's still for long enough to wonder if this counts as cockwarming. Not that Aizawa's complaining—panting like he's run a marathon, despite being held warm and wet and decidedly still inside Hitoshi's mouth.

Surprised at how vocal Aizawa is, Hitoshi tries not to let it go to his head. His Sensei usually keeps his reactions under lock and key. But it doesn't seem that way now, like each new noise is slipping free from his lips against his will.

Hitoshi swallows around him again, and Aizawa swears before pleading, "Shinsou."

Figuring he's adjusted enough, he lifts his head slightly before bobbing back down—not entirely confident in his abilities to take any more of Aizawa in his mouth. Saliva pools in his mouth and slips from the corners, wetting Aizawa's cock until each pass of Hitoshi's head is slippery and easy. Is this how you do it? When you suck Hitoshi off, he genuinely feels like his brain will melt out of his ears, but he's never thought to ask about your technique.

On one pass of his head, he skims Aizawa's cock with his teeth unthinkingly.

Aizawa hisses, a hand spasming on the comforter. "Ow— no teeth, please."

Hitoshi hums in apology. Sets his focus to stroking the length he can't fit in his mouth in his fist, twisting it the way he likes when he gets himself off. Bringing his fist up to meet his mouth when he sinks down, until every inch of Aizawa is covered in him—slick as can be.

"Haah—" A strangled pant, torn from behind his teeth and settling in the air around them with a renewed, balmy heat serving only to make Hitoshi dizzier. As though he can't get enough air in his lungs around Aizawa's cock.

Hitoshi hums again.

I hear you.

Aizawa groans fully this time, his hips jumping. Hitoshi pushes down harder, pinning him to the bed with astonishing ease, considering how strong he knows his mentor to be. A beat later, he realises why—recalls how good it feels when you hum around his cock, the vibrations which shoot straight through his core.

Hitoshi purrs, long and drawn out, lifting to pout his lips around the head of Aizawa's cock, flicking his tongue in his slit, and hoping that this is doing what he thinks it is.

"Fuck, fuck, Shinsou—" Aizawa gasps, chest bowing, knees tightening around Hitoshi's shoulders, voice climbing higher, raspier, into heights Hitoshi rarely hears outside of the heat of a battle. "Ohhh-jesus-haah—"

Out of nowhere, Hitoshi feels the weight of another gaze on him—a sixth sense trained through a decade of underground work. He doesn't remove his mouth, doesn't give away that he's noticed, but he feels it.

You.

Your eyes are intent on the side of his face. On the cock in his mouth.

Oh god.

Now, Hitoshi doesn't hesitate. Not exactly. But his movements loiter, mouth occupied and gaze sheepish when it finally slides over to you.

You're curled up beneath your blanket, eyes wide as saucers. Redness stains your cheeks. Your eyes track up from Hitoshi's face—no doubt a similar shade of embarrassment and slick with spit—past Aizawa's quivering stomach, up to his twisted expression. Hitoshi doesn't know how long you've been watching. Did his sixth sense alert him when you woke up, or have you been awake in his distraction for longer than he wants to ruminate on?

In fact, Hitoshi can't even blame Aizawa for not noticing. His Sensei is usually even more perceptive than he is, but apparently, getting his dick sucked is a weakness.

Who would've thought?

Hitoshi feels a spike of guilt cut for doing this without waking you up to ask for permission first. For all of a prolonged heartbeat, he fears he's messed up… everything.

Then, it dissipates like smoke in a breeze.

You're into it. A bottom lip caught between your teeth as you take in how Aizawa is fracturing. A tiny smirk in Hitoshi's direction when you finally meet his eyes again.

At once, Hitoshi feels bowled over by his love for you.

You're his other half, without a doubt; the key to his lock; the sweet sunshine breaking through his rain. An equal partner in every measure—in his kink and his desires, even the most depraved, filthy ones. The ones most people would shake their heads at. The one where Hitoshi is on his knees and sucking his Sensei's cock.

Seeing your clear interest and emboldened by it, Hitoshi purses his lips on the head and drags them down Aizawa's shaft, kitten licking the heat he can feel pulsing against him.

The bed shifts.

Aizawa jolts, cock slipping through Hitoshi's mouth, and moans before abruptly tensing. There's a split second where Hitoshi thinks his Sensei really will launch himself at you on muscle memory alone, but then he stills, unnaturally so, and those piercing red eyes of his slide over to you.

Better late than never, Hitoshi supposes.

"Hi, Daddy," you murmur, cheek smushed against the comforter.

Aizawa softens instantly, all hard lines and drawn muscles melting from an off-duty hero to yours again.

"Hi, baby," Aizawa murmurs back. "How are you feeling?"

You grin, a small, cheesy thing. "Good. Really good."

Aizawa nods, silent and waiting for a full debrief. Hitoshi watches you bite back a laugh before you actually put some thought into your next words.

"Tired. Sore," you continue, eyes flicking up once like you're categorising your body. "Happy."

"I'm glad," Aizawa returns kindly. "Do you need anything? There's water on the nightstand and painkillers, too. But I can make some food for you now, if you want. I've got clean clothes as well. They might be a bit big on you, but they'll be okay for tonight. I thought you and Shinsou could stay since it's so late and—"

Your grin widens as you cut him off. "Taking care of us still?"

Aizawa doesn't fluster in the face of your teasing. Merely tilts the corner of his lips up and nods. "Of course."

Instead, you blush, expression turning sweet and surprised.

"What would you like, angel?" Aizawa reiterates.

Hitoshi mourns the moment to have been cut short—finds himself desperately hung up on the need to make Aizawa cum—but recognises it's more important to ensure you're okay. He leans back from Aizawa, hand leaving his cock, brushes his dry hand back through his hair, and wipes a forearm across his mouth to clear the drool smothered over his chin.

A beat of silence. Hitoshi watches you without much of a clue where your mind is heading.

Stretching out your arms in front of you, you let your gaze drag purposefully down the front of Aizawa's chest to his cock, bobbing in front of Hitoshi's chin.

"I'd like to see you cum," you state airily, body relaxing back into the mattress after your stretch.

Credit to Aizawa, he takes it in stride.

"Is that so?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, voice dipped in honey.

"Mhm."

"Well…" Aizawa draws his gaze down to Hitoshi, who straightens at being acknowledged. "I think that can be arranged. Right, Shinsou?"

"Yes! Uh… yep. Definitely. Right now… even."

Aizawa turns back to you. "Drink your water first, though."

You laugh, the sound no different from the sunlight beaming through that gap in Aizawa's curtains and pooling across the bed. "Alright, alright. Such a dad!"

Aizawa tongues his cheek, eyes sharp.

Both men watch you reach for the glass on the nightstand, unfaltering under the weight of their stares, and drain the entire thing in barely a few seconds. Hitoshi grins, despite himself. That's one thing he's never been able to beat you in, unfortunately: you have an uncanny ability to chug drinks, and you've won many bets thanks to it.

"There!" You place the glass back on the nightstand with a victorious thump and flop back onto your side. Laughter paints your next words: "Don't mind me then, 'tosh."

Hitoshi shoots you a mild glare, more playful than anything, though edged in embarrassment, and your laughter melts down into a fond smile. You raise an eyebrow expectantly. Hitoshi rolls his eyes, but turns back to Aizawa's cock all the same. Some part of him feels like it should be insecure about you watching his shit dick-sucking abilities. You know he's never sucked dick before. But you gaze at him so warmly, seem so turned on by the sight of him on his knees for his mentor, that any fear sinks to the recesses of his mind.

So, wrapping a hand gingerly around Aizawa's cock, Hitoshi stares at it with renewed confidence while he figures out if he should continue what he was doing before or if he should try a new tactic.

Aizawa leans back on his hands and peers over at you. "I think you're making him nervous."

Hitoshi bristles, tightening his fist and sliding up Aizawa's cock in retaliation. Aizawa sucks in a startled breath, humour draining from his face in an instant, and Hitoshi hears your twin gasp. You hadn't been privy to any of Aizawa's facial expressions earlier; you had been too busy burying your face in the comforter while he fucked and ate you. Hitoshi finds it sweet how clearly enamoured you are with the sight. He repeats the action just to watch you—strokes his thumb over his cockhead, jerks him off a few times, fast, slightly mean. Aizawa's knees tighten around Hitoshi's shoulders again, and Hitoshi catches his stomach jumping in his periphery. But he can only see you. Propping your body up on an elbow so you can see better, lazy eyes widening into something akin to reverence.

Hitoshi wonders what Aizawa thinks about this all.

About being so vulnerable for them.

Does he have qualms about the credibility of his dom image being diminished as Hitoshi does? Or is he so secure in his standing that even this is power to him—Hitoshi on his knees, stroking him, you in post-fuck bliss, staring on with rapt attention.

What does he think of you both?

Is Hitoshi still a student to him?

Are you just Hitoshi's pretty girlfriend?

But then he recalls the stickiness to Aizawa's expression when Hitoshi first walked in the room—sweet enough to trap flies— a big hand stroking your back, how obvious it was that he hadn't left your side once. Aizawa's insistence on giving Hitoshi what he didn't even know he needed.

What are you all now?

Hitoshi traces a vein, brushes his thumb on the underside of his cock, thinks about how important it is that he acts normal tomorrow when all the coital bliss has long worn off. He plays it out: waking up with you splayed atop him in the guest bed and pretending it's normal, padding into the kitchen and shooting Aizawa a normal smile, accepting Aizawa's offer to cook breakfast for you both and eating it all despite the churning in his gut. Saying goodbye after it all, normal, normal, normal.

And maybe, when he passes the threshold to your flat, he will finally fall apart.

But right now, there is no time.

Not when he can feel Aizawa pulsing in his hand and hear him strangling the moans threatening his throat. Not when you're kicking back your blanket and crawling across the bed, sidling up behind Aizawa and shuffling forward on your knees until you sit back on your haunches, thighs spread wide around his hips. Aizawa's stomach jumps when you slip your hands around his waist to brush the quivering muscle there. But he settles back into your body easily and lifts one hand from the bed to tangle it with yours.

Hitoshi experiences déjà vu at the action. And isn't that strange—your hand in Aizawa's being enough to warrant the feeling.

Then, your chin hooks on Aizawa's chin, and the combined sight of you and Aizawa staring down at him, expressions painted with arousal, is enough for the fog to creep in.

"I wanna see you suck him off, 'toshi," you pout.

Aizawa groans, the sound pleasured and tortured all at once.

"Don't want to blow him yourself, angel?" Hitoshi teases.

You shake your head. "Not tonight."

Your words make Hitoshi tense, hand slowing on Aizawa's cock as he works over exactly what you mean. Why do you both keep saying shit like you're expecting a repeat? He knows he's acting blatantly weird again. Hell, he's been weird all night. Can't quite seem to work out how to not act this way. But you're being serious, he realises. Both of you.

This is going to happen again.

Hitoshi's heart lurches up into his throat.

You laugh, fingers flexing on Aizawa's tanned stomach.

Aizawa laughs too, his voice stronger without Hitoshi's touch.

"Hitoshiiii," you whine playfully. "Please? You looked so pretty with him in your mouth."

At that, Hitoshi can feel more than see the blush spreading over his cheeks. Face heating fast at your honeyed tone. Hitoshi wants to speak, but his tongue feels heavy and uncooperative in his mouth.

"You heard our girl," Aizawa murmurs, a lopsided smirk playing on his lips. Heat flashes through Hitoshi's body at the possessiveness of his words. Our girl… Ourgirlourgirlourgirl. They spin around Hitoshi's mind until every other thought is dislodged, floating freely up into the overheated air. "Pretty as a picture."

Hitoshi's free hand clenches into a fist on his thigh, before he remembers he can touch, is touching, and he brings it up to rest it over where Aizawa's hand is tangled in yours—cautiously, like sliding the final glass puzzle piece into a beautiful stained window. Flexing his fingers around you both, he swallows. At your combined heat. At both your expressions, softening. At his own heart, stuttering over a beat. The two most important people in Hitoshi's life, staring down at him as though his being holds the secrets of the universe.

Hitoshi's hand slides down to grab the base of Aizawa's cock, and he lowers his head, finally taking Aizawa into his mouth. He sinks wetly, like a stone dropping to the floor of a tranquil lake.

"Fuuuuuck," Aizawa grits out, the sound protracted like a passing breeze.

Aizawa's cock bumps the back of Hitoshi's throat, and he relaxes the muscles there to take him deeper, until he feels like he's one wrong heartbeat away from choking on the thickness of his Sensei. He forces slow, steady breaths through his nose. Focuses on the way Aizawa's hand tenses under his touch, on the tiny moan you let out as though you're feeling the sensation by proxy.

Hitoshi swallows around him and fights back a smile.

"Shit, Shin-mmmph!"

Hitoshi flicks his eyes up to see you, half-leaning around Aizawa's body to kiss him. It's an awkward angle, but you don't seem to care. In fact, your pretty hand is wrapped around Aizawa's jaw with some force, as though you've decided to take charge. When Hitoshi flicks his tongue over the tip, Aizawa pants into your mouth. You swallow a noise. Let Aizawa swallow one of your own—a tiny, pleased echo.

More slick sounds swamp the heavy air. You suck Aizawa's tongue into your mouth, teeth clacking. Hitoshi dips his head down, Aizawa sliding down the back of his throat with only one suppressed gag on Hitoshi's part this time. Another muffled moan, so low and deep it feels like it's reverberating through Aizawa's cock and straight through Hitoshi's spine.

Then, he sees your hand creep into his periphery, past it, until your nails are scratching up Aizawa's thigh. Loud enough for Hitoshi to know from experience that it hurts. Aizawa lights up, his heavy moan morphing into something downright pathetic and raspy as he bucks up into Hitoshi's mouth, thighs shaking.

Predictably, Hitoshi chokes.

His ears fill with the sound of his rushing heartbeat as he quickly lifts himself off Aizawa's dick, choking.

Hitoshi thinks he hears the first syllable of "sorry" from his Sensei, but then you're licking into Aizawa's mouth, and instead he's groaning like he's never tasted anything better. A small, devlish hand slips into Hitoshi's hair and starts guiding him back down before he's even caught his breath. He can feel your nails scratch at his scalp lightly, and Hitoshi shivers, doing as he's told and taking Aizawa back into his mouth in one smooth motion, giving his lungs no time to protest.

His jaw aches. His entire face is somehow wet. And his pulse is thundering like he hasn't taken a full breath since yesterday. But Aizawa is close; he can tell. Has little experience to base it on, yet can read the signs: Aizawa starting to shallowly fuck his mouth, his noises growing louder and gravelly. Not to mention the way Aizawa's cock is literally pulsing in his mouth, matching the erraticness of Hitoshi's own heartbeat.

"Mmmn—"

Hitoshi doubles down, not knowing what he's going to do when Aizawa cums but figuring he'll work it out when he gets there. He leans into the way Aizawa has started to rock up—clearly cautious of fucking Hitoshi's mouth even through his haze of pleasure—bobbing down to meet each haphazard thrust. The hand holding the base of his cock slips down to stroke his balls, slick with saliva.

Another moan, punched out from Aizawa as though it's painful.

He rolls his balls in his hand before sliding a thumb up between them and up to the base of his cock, rubbing small, tight circles.

"Mmmn-mph!"

The hand in his hair vacates, and soft fingers brush his mouth moments later. As though you're desperate to feel the connection, to feel how Aizawa's cock is practically fucking Hitoshi's mouth now.

"Oh my god." Your voice.

Turning his head slightly, Hitoshi glances up to see you staring down at him, lips bright and swollen. Aizawa's head tips back onto your shoulder, and he pants, open-mouthed into the air now that he's free.

"Close, Shinsou, close," he warns, voice worn thin.

Hitoshi hums around him.

He gasps. "Reallyclosefuck."

The deep-seated urge to impress rises in him, as familiar as breathing when it comes to his Sensei. After all, why wouldn't he want Aizawa to be pleased with him? To feel like all his years of teaching have paid off. Hitoshi sinks deeper, pressing his saliva-slick palm to Aizawa's hip in an attempt to hold him down. It's harder this time, with Aizawa bucking like a bull. But he manages—he'd be disappointed if his hero regime couldn't at least let him pin down his mentor.

"Shinsou-ngh! Pull off—" he blurts, panic making itself known.

"Mmm…"

"Shinsou!"

Aizawa inhales a big breath, and like the moment a vacuum sucks in all sound with it, cums silently—mouth dropping open, hips stuttering in place under Hitoshi's hand, cock spurting cum down Hitoshi's throat, thick and hot.

Hitoshi's body jolts in surprise, quickly swallowing. Aizawa's cock pulses in his mouth through each wave of his orgasm.

Hitoshi swallows again.

A third time.

Chokes on the fourth—because of course he does. Throat convulsing around Aizawa's thick cock, entirely unprepared to swallow it all.

Hitoshi tries to stay down, but cum lodges in his throat, and suddenly, he can't even breathe. Panic is one potent drug—shooting through his veins in an instant. Pulling off quickly, his spine rounds as he coughs into the space between Aizawa's thighs, fingers twitching over your tangled ones. Vision blurred as tears sprang to his eyes on reflex. Hitoshi chokes in a heaving breath, thick globs of cum dripping from his lips and hitting the mattress. Hitoshi can barely taste any of it, though, despite the stickiness he can feel on his tongue—the tag of cum, the salt of his tears. Blood roars in his ears.

Luckily, you pick up his slack. Those fingers that had been petting around his mouth, wrapping around Aizawa's cock. Twisting your wrist just the way Hitoshi likes, wringing out the final dregs of Aizawa's pleasure. Hitoshi feels a stripe of cum land across his nose, but he barely flinches, too busy alternating between throaty coughs and swallowing whatever's left in his mouth.

Only when Aizawa hisses do you slow your hand, fingers petting over his cock gently.

Hitoshi finally starts to catch his breath.

"Jesus," Aizawa breaths, head lifting from your shoulder to look down at Hitoshi.

You lean into Aizawa and bite at his jaw, grinning against his stubble when you brush your thumb over his cockhead and hear him hiss again. Hitoshi looks up at him sheepishly, aware he probably looks a fucking sight. And decidedly not one for sore eyes. God, he'd fucking choked on Aizawa's cock and not in a sexy way, not when it didn't really matter, but when he was cumming.

Did I ruin his orgasm? Hitoshi wonders, worrying his bottom lip.

Aizawa lifts his hand from the comforter and brushes his middle finger over Hitoshi's nose. "Are you okay?"

Oh, Hitoshi thinks. Sensei is wiping his cum up. That's humiliating.

"Yeah, I'm—" Hitoshi jolts, surprised at the grittiness to his voice, like stones at the early stages of tumbling. He clears his throat in an attempt to dislodge some of the evidence. "I'm okay, Sensei."

"More than okay," you pipe up cheerfully, finally dragging your hand from Aizawa's softening cock to his thigh, leaving a sticky trail of cum and saliva. "'tosh looked like he had a religious experience choking on your dick."

Aizawa cuts you a reprimanding look. If anything, you preen under the attention.

"Oi," Hitoshi protests, too tired to follow it up with anything else.

"That was pretty good for your first time," Aizawa offers, only a hint of cheekiness in his voice.

Then, his cum-covered finger is stroking at Hitoshi's bottom lip, coaxing it out from between his teeth—Hitoshi didn't even realise he was biting it. And he isn't sure what muscle memory is in operation when his lips fall open, but perhaps it's the assumption that he won't have to speak anymore, that he'll be allowed to just exist in the quiet of this moment.

Aizawa slips a finger into his mouth, and Hitoshi tastes the tang of cum before anything else, yet can't be bothered to do anything but let Aizawa feel.

Aizawa exhales a measured, slow breath at the sight. He pets over Hitoshi's tongue, and the sensation isn't entirely unfamiliar—you've had your fingers in Hitoshi's mouth before, he'd be an idiot if he ever turned that down—but Aizawa's one finger alone is so much bigger. In every way. Caressing his tongue in arching swipes. Intrusive where it begins to feel along his teeth, the cum from his finger melting into the saliva pooled in Hitoshi's mouth.

"And I saw it, too," Aizawa murmurs.

Hitoshi makes a questioning noise, too exhausted to be bothered speaking around the finger in his mouth.

Aizawa laughs. "I saw the type of dom you are."

"Safe…" A finger hooked behind his teeth, a tug that coaxes Hitoshi closer. "Clever."

Hitoshi feels the praise wash over him, warm and sweet. For the first time since he took Aizawa's cock into his mouth, Hitoshi realises he's hard as his dick twitches in time with Aizawa's words.

Aizawa swallows audibly. "Confident."

Hitoshi bites lightly at his finger to lift the air, and it works, Aizawa breathing out a chuckle.

"Well done, baby." Your sweet voice, your bright eyes, your head tilted as you stare down at the way he's sucking on Aizawa's finger fondly.

"Th'nk'yu'," Hitoshi manages this time, a pleasant static settling over his worries.

You're both here—in front of him, smiling down at him—and pressed so tightly together it's as though you fear someone might rip Aizawa away from you. You're both okay. You both enjoyed it. Hitoshi shudders in relief, eyes slipping closed, body tipping forward slightly. Aizawa's finger slides deeper into the warmth of his mouth.

"Whoa there," Aizawa murmurs, a hand coming up to brace Hitoshi's shoulder. "You sure you're feeling alright?"

Hitoshi nods dumbly, content in the dark. "Mhm."

"You think too much, 'toshi," you say quietly.

Hitoshi hears a quiet kiss, there and gone, and Aizawa's rumbling hum.

"Thank you, Shouta. For tonight…" A meaningful pause. "All of it."

"I can't take all the credit," Aizawa huffs in amusement. Then, his voice softens. "But you're welcome, sweetheart. We had fun, huh?"

You laugh. "I definitely did."

Hitoshi blinks his eyes back open. Can't quite find his voice yet, but his gaze slides to Aizawa, and he hopes the older man can read his answer there.

I did, too. Thank you.

Aizawa smiles.

Cheek smushed against Aizawa's shoulder, you peer up at him. "Can we have curry for dinner?"

Aizawa laughs. Soft. Warm. Surprised. Hitoshi's lips curl into a smile of his own, and you look so at home in the divot of Aizawa's body—the sight settling deep in Hitoshi, sealing a gap he didn't know existed—that he barely fights the wave of fondness washing over him.

Then, "Yeah, sweetheart," and a kiss on your cheek.

Hitoshi watches your eyes well up at the gentleness of the action, a tiny pout crossing your mouth.

"I'll make you curry."

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