nowhere to be found

"Fuck, that's it, take it."

Aizawa wasn't one to get too crazy with you. He was a simple man who was satisfied just being inside of you and getting to feel your warm cunt squeezing him. Of course he loved fucking you in a number of different ways, but he would still be happy with missionary once a week.

But he couldn't deny that he loved when you asked him to be rough with you.

One of you usually had a hard day. Either he was worked to the bone or you were frustrated with your own job and just needed a break. Regardless, it left the two of you aching for something more, something heated and passionate and dirty.

The minute the two of you were home, it was off to the bedroom, your clothes discarded in the hall.

"Fuck, Shou! Oh my God, oh my fucking God!"

You weren't one to be too loud. It was a treat having you like this, folded in half, your legs on his shoulders, your disgustingly loud moans making him throb. He savored these moments; it was like you were like his own personal pornstar. Maybe he could suggest filming each other next time just so he could hear your pretty moans later on.

"Yeah, you like that? You like when I fuck you hard?" You whined, nodding quickly, nails scratching along his biceps. He huffed, leaning down, cupping your cheek. "Of course you do. You're such a needy little slut."

God, the way you clenched around him made him see stars, a low groan escaping his throat before he captured your mouth, pushing in his tongue without warning. You moaned into him, letting his tongue explore your mouth, running over your teeth and flesh. You could feel your slick gushing out of you, loud squelching noises coming from between you two.

Aizawa released your lips, gasping as he moved to your neck, leaving sloppy open-mouthed kisses. Your skin was so soft there, so sensitive and tender that he couldn't help but leave a bite. You whimpered, throwing your head back into the sheets, causing his hand to move down to your throat.

He really didn't mean to do it. He was so focused on fucking you silly that he didn't realize his hand was on your neck, thumb pressed against your jugular.

He didn't realize what he was doing until he added more pressure than he realized, squeezing your neck just a bit.

The moan you let out was positively sinful, loud and decadent. Your cunt squeezed around him as well, suffocating his cock and almost pushing him over the edge. He moaned, hissing as he propped himself up to look down at you. Your eyes were glazed over, mouth hung open, drool and tears threatening to spill. He slowed his pace, eyes searching you.

"Kitten... did you..."

The flustered expression on your face made him melt, your eyes darting away, too embarrassed to look at him.

"Sorry, I... I didn't mean to—"

His hand enveloped your throat properly, fingers digging into your pulse points, making you gasp. He groaned when he felt you clench again, confirming his suspicions.

"Kitten. Do you like being choked?" You didn't answer, eyes squeezing shut as you bit dangerously hard on your bottom lip. He huffed, leaning down and pressing harder against your neck. "Answer me, kitten. Do you like when daddy chokes you?"

"Yeeeesssss," you whined pitifully, bucking your hips up into his, silently begging him to keep fucking you. He chuckled, pressing his forehead to yours, hot breath fanning over you.

"Good girl."

He pulled out, thrusting back into you harshly. You gasped, eyes widening, mouth falling open into a delicious moan as he started fucking you harder than before.

"Fuck, you're good, you're so fucking good to me, Jesus Christ—"

"Sh-Shou! Fuck, Shou, fuck—fuck—fuck!" Each curse was accentuated with his thrusts, his own grunts and growls mixing in with your wanton cries. You were squeezing him rhythmically, nearing your peak, and he could feel it.

"You wanna cum?" he breathed, pressing his nose into your cheek, teeth grazing over your skin. "You wanna cum on my cock?"

"F-Fuck, yes, yes!" He growled lowly, curling his hips, his pelvic bone brushing against your clit with each thrust.

"Then do it. Cum for me. Cum for daddy."

You moaned so loud that he was certain the neighbors would complain tomorrow, but he didn't care. How could he when you climaxed hard, spasming on his dick as he kept thrusting wildly into you. He fell over his peak soon after, burying his face in your neck and groaning deeply. His cum spilled inside you, coating your velvet walls.

He released your neck, letting your legs fall around his waist so he could wrap his arms around you. You panted against each other, endorphins wearing off as you came down from your highs. You could feel him leave gentle kisses along your neck, moving to your cheek and finally your lips, sighing softly. You weren't sure how long you stayed like that, but eventually Aizawa released you, pulling himself out with a soft grunt and falling on the bed beside you. He pulled you to his chest, tucking his head on top of your chin, sighing.

Diluc:

I would say that making Diluc flustered when you're his s/o is pretty easy 😼

I mean if you compare to his brother, he's easy to make flustered

You just need to compliment him and he'll be as red as his hair

So one night at the tavern

Kaeya joined you for a discussion

Diluc hates it when Kaeya tries to flirt with you

Kaeya doesn't really flirt tho. He just wants to see Diluc's reaction because he finds it amusing

So here's the scenario *sprinkle*

Kaeya was complimenting you about how you were so pretty/handsome today

I mean, the typical playful kaeya when it comes to his brother's lover ✋🙄

Kaeya proceeded, "So who do you dressed up for? Is it for a certain red-haired barista over there?"

Please tell me you can hear Kaeya's voice or is it just me who had Kaeya for too long in my party

You played along by saying "Of course. That barista over there is so cute I can't wait to win his heart."

"Oh, you find him cute? Endearing I would say?"

"Yes. He is endearing, yes. And charming. Makes me want to pepper his face with lots of kisses. "

You can't see because his back was facing you but the tip of his ears were red

"I heard that you have a boyfriend, Y/N? Why are you taking interest in that barista?" Kaeya provoked.

This is where the prank comes in

"I don't know... He's very distant."

"So are you going to break up with him and date that barista over there?"

Kaeya pls😂

"Yes 😌, I think I would."

At that instance you could feel the air surrounding Diluc changed

He froze and quietly put down the glass he was wiping and he didn't dare to face you

His face was looking rather... Distorted

I don't want to hurt this man damn

"Diluc, are you alright?" you asked.

"Yes. I'm alright."

Nah, you know him way better than that

"Diluc, it was just a prank. Besides my boyfriend IS the cute red-haired barista. So technically I would date you 2 times."

Diluc is quiet...

"I would never break up with you. In fact I want to put a ring on your finger but perhaps one day when you're ready."

Kaeya is gasping, Diluc is blushing furiously

Diluc:

I would say that making Diluc flustered when you're his s/o is pretty easy 😼

I mean if you compare to his brother, he's easy to make flustered

You just need to compliment him and he'll be as red as his hair

So one night at the tavern

Kaeya joined you for a discussion

Diluc hates it when Kaeya tries to flirt with you

Kaeya doesn't really flirt tho. He just wants to see Diluc's reaction because he finds it amusing

So here's the scenario *sprinkle*

Kaeya was complimenting you about how you were so pretty/handsome today

I mean, the typical playful kaeya when it comes to his brother's lover ✋🙄

Kaeya proceeded, "So who do you dressed up for? Is it for a certain red-haired barista over there?"

Please tell me you can hear Kaeya's voice or is it just me who had Kaeya for too long in my party

You played along by saying "Of course. That barista over there is so cute I can't wait to win his heart."

"Oh, you find him cute? Endearing I would say?"

"Yes. He is endearing, yes. And charming. Makes me want to pepper his face with lots of kisses. "

You can't see because his back was facing you but the tip of his ears were red

"I heard that you have a boyfriend, Y/N? Why are you taking interest in that barista?" Kaeya provoked.

This is where the prank comes in

"I don't know... He's very distant."

"So are you going to break up with him and date that barista over there?"

Kaeya pls😂

"Yes 😌, I think I would."

At that instance you could feel the air surrounding Diluc changed

He froze and quietly put down the glass he was wiping and he didn't dare to face you

His face was looking rather... Distorted

I don't want to hurt this man damn

"Diluc, are you alright?" you asked.

"Yes. I'm alright."

Nah, you know him way better than that

"Diluc, it was just a prank. Besides my boyfriend IS the cute red-haired barista. So technically I would date you 2 times."

Diluc is quiet...

"I would never break up with you. In fact I want to put a ring on your finger but perhaps one day when you're ready."

Kaeya is gasping, Diluc is blushing furiously

it might be a little weird but he likes feeling you laugh. with your chest rising up and down with gentle vibrations and your laughter permeating the air, childe thinks that is heaven, almost.

so expect a lot of jokes and random pokes on your body.

slap his head affectionately and he'll huff out a laugh back, hand automatically holding yours in place as he silently demanded you to play with his hair.

childe prefers it when you're a tinsy bit rough. it's almost grounding to feel your fingers tugging at his hair. it reminds him that you're there with him, so close and easily reachable with a slight movement of his hands.

during moments like this, childe loves to talk and you love to listen because the things he talks about during these moments are equally as soft.

like the games he used to play when he was a child or anthon's extensive book collection or that little quilted blanket his mother made ages ago that he still has.

but he'll always fall back into a gentle hum of an old snezhnayan song that his father loves.

eventually, even that would stop and that's your cue to talk.

tell him you hate it when he wakes you up so early in the morning but all that hate turns into amused giggles when you spot the breakfast tray in his hands, its contents all shaped in small, clumsy hearts.

call him endearing when his eyes automatically find you after every joke he makes, grinning boyishly when he spots you trying your best to hide your smile.

talk to him about all the times he would playfully kick your ankles under the dinner table and how it always ends up with you two laughing wildly as you played footsie like a bunch of five-year-olds.

or how he'll never fail to kiss you goodbye every morning even if you aren't awake yet.

tell him you appreciate him silently taking the dishes when it's your turn to wash up and childishly pouting when you try to take his 'hoard' away.

say that you notice him never letting go of the hug first and how his hands would drop from your waist to your hands when he does end up letting go.

call him cheesy (affectionate) as you talk to him about the relationship bucket list that you found hidden under the bed.

but don't forget to squeeze his cheeks together as he whines about you 'not supposed to see that side of him.'

promise him that you'll cross off all the things on that list with him and he'll reward you with an uncharacteristic sweet smile and a chaste kiss.

talk to him about the few times you saw him doing happy dances while doing the chores.

and all the times you saw him curiously sniffing all sorts of things while out shopping.

but don't forget to call him cute when he scrunches his nose when he smells something he doesn't like, placing it down and tugging you away from whatever it was with just a little bit of urgency.

or maybe tell him it makes your day whenever you spot the eggs and bananas with randomly doodled faces.

just keep talking.

he rarely gets the opportunity to be wholesomely domestic with you but he's thankful every time.

he's thankful that you're there and that you chose him.

and he's thankful that you give him the opportunity to pretend as if he's just a normal young man in love — like he's ajax from morepesok and not tartaglia, the eleventh of the fatui harbingers because sometimes... sometimes it gets tiring to be that man.

— zhongli;

i doubt you'd be able to pull zhongli into you. it's almost like his feet are stuck on the ground.

so save yourself the trouble and hold his hand gently as he passes by you. he'll turn around to meet your gaze so send him your best puppy eyes.

there's a twenty-five percent chance that it would work and that's when he's not doing anything.

for the other seventy-five percent, zhongli would chuckle and lean down to press a kiss on your head.

"be patient, my love. i'll be finishing up soon."

it's not like he doesn't want to cuddle you, it's just that he has more self-restraint than anyone else.

but 'soon' in zhongli's book is 'ages' in yours so it's not rare for you to start dozing off.

eventually, he'll trudge back to you and carefully place himself over you seeing as you couldn't be bothered to move to your usual position.

he'll shift his weight around so he wouldn't crush you and instinctively, you'd lift a hand to trail from his hair to his back, tracing over his spine which elicits a soft hum of appreciation.

during moments like this, neither you nor zhongli wishes to speak. there is beauty in silence and peace in each other's arms.

so enjoy the comforting rumbles of his chest against your skin, the soft circles drawn on your hips, and his velvety locks wrapped around your fingers.

he likes it when you twirl it around gently.

ever the true gentleman, he'd offer to make some tea despite his desire to never part from you but when you pull him impossibly closer with a grunt, he softly laughs the idea off.

in your contented daze, you wouldn't realize that you're humming one of the many forgotten songs zhongli often sings to you when you're about to sleep.

but you do recognize the firmer grip he has on you and the small quirk of his lips that you feel on your neck.

slowly, your songs from him would morph into songs for him — lips moving on their own accord as you mumbled about the little things he does that never fails to make you swoon.

like how he'd tug his glove off when you're on walks outside the city so he could feel your hand in his.

or when he would never think twice before offering his seat to you during nights your go-to restaurant is bustling with people.

talk to him about the tiny little gifts you find on your bedside table, ranging from precious stones to handcrafted bracelets to little figurines.

and all the times he would subconsciously let his hand linger on the small of your back, pulling you closer during your walks in the busy streets.

call him sweet when he would ask about your day and your work, eyes lighting up as he hears your stories — the same way yours do when you're listening to him.

tell him you appreciate how he never tells you 'i've heard that story before' even if he had. he just loves to hear them from your lips and seeing the way you move your hands excitedly makes his heart race just a little bit faster.

talk about the way he'd rub your back when it aches.

and the way you'd come home to homemade dinner and lit up scented tealights more often than not.

swoon over how he offers to go grocery shopping for you, keeping a list of things to buy that's meticulously organized in categories and sticking to it.

tell him he voices out his thoughts when he's thinking, trailing off right at the end only to start again with a different topic.

compliment the way his eyes grow brighter despite the composed face he makes whenever you take him to museums of sorts and how he'd read through the plaques diligently, telling you corrections and expanding the ideas already in there.

and how he always says 'thank you' to waiters and merchants before leaving, even learning non-verbal cues just in case.

all this time, zhongli listens with a smile, heart light and blissed out as he relishes the moment. he knows how good the feeling of being appreciated could be after having so many devotees as rex lapis but somehow, being appreciated for being him and being appreciated by you, is greater than all the gifts that used to be bestowed by his people.

— xiao;

good luck getting xiao to lay on your chest.

pulling him out of nowhere would startle him and would most likely land you a spot in baizhu's care.

coaxing him into your arms would startle him and cause him to erupt in a furious blush with comments of 'you have no respect for the adepti.'

either way, xiao would end up running away because of a.) guilt or b.) embarrassment.

so it's not happening.

however.

there are some days that xiao just... couldn't deal with everything going inside his head.

so he would reluctantly come to you, expecting nothing but your hand resting on top of him.

but of course, you would never leave him with just that.

because he's too deep inside his head, he couldn't even find it in himself to care when you asked if you could hold him.

he only realized what he agreed upon when he hears the stable but slightly elevated beat of your heart.

he could smell your perfume off your skin, it's almost intoxicating.

and your skin, so warm and soft to touch, it's almost a guilty pleasure.

xiao was drowning but this time, he's drowning in you and he finds that he doesn't mind that. in fact, it's almost too nice.

with one hand tenderly massaging his scalp and the other lightly drumming a song against his back, you enjoyed the feeling of his weight in your arms. it's a rare occurrence, after all.

he wants to say something — anything to cut the foreign silence between you two but he's scared.

he's scared you'll hear the small tremble in his voice.

he's scared you'll notice the firm grip he has on your clothes.

and he's scared he'll say something that'll end this moment prematurely.

so instead, he closes his eyes as he lays on you awkwardly, ears straining to hear the rustling of trees outside.

after a while, you see that he's calmed down enough and you begin the next course of action which is to distract him enough that everything else would be the least of his worries.

talk to him about how he would purposely lag behind when you're hiking up mountains, ready to catch you if something were to happen.

or all the times he would walk you to and fro your destination in the pretense of guarding you when everyone knows it's because he can't bring himself to part yet.

tell him all about the mysterious qingxin flowers that greet you when you wake up.

and the blanket that covered your frame perfectly despite knowing that you had shrugged it off in your sleep.

recount all the times you forgot about your umbrella only to look into your bag and see that it was miraculously there.

and call him sweet for getting you the missing ingredients you need to make your favorite dishes or drinks.

thank him for approaching verr goldet to learn human traditions that he doesn't really care about but knows that you do.

say that you appreciate him remembering the most useless things you end up telling him like that one time you told him you've never been to guyun stone forest and a week later, he poked you awake, blankly telling you to dress up because he's bringing you somewhere.

talk about the way he would sometimes draw incoherent patterns on the sand while waiting for you.

or how he'd summon his polearm when he's idle just because the weight of it is strangely comforting.

or all the times you found him perched on the highest place possible because he has a penchant for staring at the horizon and just enjoying the peace in solitude and nature.

say his name and tell him that he's so strong for letting you carve your name in his heart. remind him that you're so lucky to have him and that he's more than enough. affirm him and say 'i love you' back because xiao never fails to say it in his own silent ways.

hiding his face in your chest, he hoped that you don't notice the relieved look that flashed on his reddened face.

━━ ☆ NOTES: thank you for requesting! i hope you liked it :)

It was the same as the past three years, it was the same yesterday, and it was the same today. Walking into your noon Young Adult Literature course yesterday where the rare freshman was already there and ready far too early, and then in your two-thirty Advanced Creative Writing course where all the students strolled in five minutes before the class was slated to start. And, wonderfully, both classes only lasted about twenty to thirty minutes as both professors went over their syllabus, mentioned that they wouldn’t question where you got the necessary material for the course so long as you had it, and then said they’d see you on Monday.

Oh, the beauty of the University starting on a Wednesday.

It was beautiful. Magnificent.

On the positive end of things, graduating a semester late meant that you only had to take the last few classes you needed. And with how Advanced Creative Writing and YA Lit had handled the first day, it meant very little stress for the first week. Or, at least that’s what you’d thought until you walked into your Film Criticism course at nine the next morning. Well, technically, you’d walked in at eight fifty-five, but that was neither here nor there. The lecture hall was mostly full of underclassmen, a gift and a curse of saving a general education course for your last semester. The professor would be expecting fresh-faced, college newbies, but he also would be expecting a lot more from you. Hopefully, you--and the few other upperclassmen that you recognized from random shared courses over the years--would be a breath of fresh air.

You sat back and pulled out your tablet and stylus, opening up a blank document for notes and the course’s syllabus.

You glanced at the clock: 8:58.

Classmates sat in silence around you, the only sound coming from anxious legs bouncing and the tapping of pencils against desks echoed in the vast room. More than forty students surrounded you, and you were regretting your decision to show up five minutes before class started as you shifted in your second-row seat, three spaces away from the podium. You were always a fan of blending in, never sitting right under the professor’s spotlight. No, no, you were used to going in and out of classes without much notice. Years of lecture courses accustomed you to that.

When the door creaked open at nine o’clock on the do, your regret battled with another deep-seated emotion you refused to label.

Because that’s when your professor walked in.

Your professor who looked like he belonged in one of the seats beside you, albeit a tad more rugged than the typical student as a shadow of stubble littered his jaw and the way the overhead lights caught his sharp features and the faint bags he had under his eyes. His long black hair was pulled into a low bun, a few strands sneaking out of the band and framing his face. He wore a white button-down that hugged his lean torso, black slacks, and--despite the August heat--a grey scarf. And your breath caught in your throat as his impossible dark eyes scanned the classroom and met yours for half a second and not half a second more.

“Welcome,” his low voice reverberated. “I’m Professor Aizawa, and welcome to Film Criticism 2101.”

The stylus you held nearly snapped in half. You stole a few glances around you and saw that, thankfully, you weren’t the only one with burning cheeks or cocked brows. But you couldn’t keep your attention on your classmates as Professor Aizawa walked around to the desk next to the podium, sat down his dark messenger bag, and logged into the computer. A small remote turned on the ceiling projector, and a button on the table dropped the screen, but you didn’t care about any of that. You just watched his slender fingers work, type, drum against the desk. Until your gaze traveled up his torso--his undershirt ever-so-slightly visible underneath his tight shirt--and met his eyes.

Oh, fuck.

You frantically dropped your gaze to your tablet and shifted in your seat, making a pointed effort not to look back up until you heard him speak again. Finally, it was time to go over his syllabus. But, fuck, that meant he had to speak. And you hung onto every word he said without even hearing them. It didn’t matter if he was talking about academic integrity, the occasional quiz and test, or the final paper you had to do; you heard none of it.

“Any questions about the syllabus?” He asked fifteen minutes later as he leaned forward on the podium, fingers lacing together as his hands rested on the edge.

Not a single person raised their hand.

“Perfect. Now, I know we’re still in Add/Drop, but given that ninety-nine percent of you are in here for a general education credit or Film Major requirement, I figured we’d get a head start and go over chapter one.”

The usual groans or sighs weren’t uttered as Professor Aizawa pulled up a twenty-slide PowerPoint and thumbed through a packet of notes.

“And make sure you pay attention because we’ll be having a quiz on this material next Thursday.”

Now, there were a few moans and groans.

“It’s mostly about vocabulary that you need to know. Nothing difficult. Just take good notes and study, and you’ll pass it easily. Now, let’s start with mise-en-scène.”

Except you didn’t hear what that was. Yeah, sure, the definition was written up on the screen, and you had copied it down onto your tablet, but you didn’t process it. It was just words on a screen transferred to words on another screen. But could you really be blamed? Your professor looked like the poster guy for a rough and sexy librarian who constantly sounded like he had just woken up.

Shit.

What the hell did he sound like when he just woke up?

Wait. It was a 9 A.M. course. Did he just wake up?

You crossed and uncrossed your legs and glanced up at the screen. Except your eyes lasted about fifteen seconds there before they shifted over to your professor, who was scanning the audience like a good professor does as he talked about the importance of every little detail evident in scenes. And you watched as his eyes came to yours, and he cocked a brow before continuing the scan. You could only react by digging your nails into your palm and squeezing your stylus.

“Alright,” Professor Aizawa said after another ten minutes that you had barely registered having passed. A black slide was projected on the screen, and you glanced down at your very sparse notes. “I’ll see you all on Thursday.”

Zippers unzipping and bags being pulled onto laps filled the room as you sat there, unable to move as you snuck a few glances at the educator as he logged off the computer, slightly bent over as he stared at the monitor. He was packing up his notes when you finally willed your legs to move, and you practically sprinted from the room, purposefully avoiding eye contact with him as you left.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You clutched the strap of your bag and stared at the ground as you headed home. The warm air whipped around you, the branches and leaves on the trees waved good morning, and tired students yawned. But all you could focus on were those dark irises and gruff voice that did things to you that they really shouldn’t.

Your thoughts drifted to his slender fingers as he would point at the screen, brush strands out of his face, and type on the computer’s keyboard. You stopped at an intersection, waiting for the green indicator to tell you to walk, and took a long, slow breath. Fresh air was supposed to help get your mind out of the gutter. Hot, humid air that made you feel sticky in your clothes. It wasn’t supposed to urge on the onslaught of inappropriate thoughts you were having about your new professor.

“C’mon, (Y/N),” you murmured. “Get it the fuck together.”

You had actual things to do between now and Sunday, things you had to get done before classes on Monday. Like studying and shopping for a couch. You unlocked the door to your apartment, thankfully a first-floor unit, and sighed at the severe lack of furniture. You’d moved in three days ago and hadn’t had any time to do any shopping. Being in the dorm the past three years, who needed furniture when it was provided for you? And it’d already been a struggle to convince your parents to let you take your bed and dresser. Asking them for help in procuring a couch was out of the question.

You leaned back against your door and let your eyes scan over the near-empty living room--you had a lamp to light the place, at least. Your kitchen was fine, your bathroom was fine, and you weren’t one to eat at a table. So, couch, desk, and whatever little knickknacks you stumbled upon--and could afford--made your list. But those still weren’t cheap. And then you had to factor in the textbooks and other necessities you had to rent for classes.

Your head fell back with a quiet thud. Your wallet already ached.

Maybe you’d study first. Yeah. Study, and then you’d call Nemuri and see if she wanted to go shopping. She was practically going to live here with you, she may as well have a bit of a say in the couch she was going to spend the nights on and the desk she’d pretend to do work at but never would.

You flopped onto your bed and pulled your tablet out, opening up to look over your notes for the chapter Professor Aizawa had covered. Your heart dropped. They were the worst notes you’d ever taken. Well, they weren’t that bad. You’d written down some information, but after about four years, you knew how to take perfect notes for yourself. And these weren’t it.

And it was entirely your fault because your thirsty ass couldn’t even muster up a smidge of focus to lend to the lecture. No, it’d all been dedicated to the man directing it.

Fuck.

This was going to be a long, long semester.

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday passed in a blur as soon as Nemuri came over. You hadn’t seen her in about a month, a blip in what felt like the four years you’d known her, but the only thing that had changed was her midnight hair had been chopped down just past her shoulders. Her pointed red glasses were the same; her burgundy nails were, too. And that sly smile that could get anyone in her bed was exactly as you remembered it. Because of that, you purposefully avoided mentioning the fact that one of your professors was increasingly attractive. That your heart pounded when you thought about going to his class on Tuesday and for more than the fear that you’d take more poor notes and fuck up your chances on the quiz on Thursday.

Because if you mentioned anything about finding someone attractive, Nemuri would jump on it, sink her claws into it, and then you’d have to listen to her try and convince you to pursue it. She probably wouldn’t even hear the “professor” before his name, or, if she did, she’d probably say something along the lines, “That’s hot, like really fuckin hot. You should go for it.” And then you’d have to remind her that he was your professor and that wasn’t viable in any sense, and then she’d remind you, “How long has it been since you’ve gotten laid?” Then you’d flip her off and shove down the big number two that popped up in your head.

You laid on your new grey couch and stared up at your popcorn ceiling. Two years was a long time to go without any action. Romantic or beyond. A groan pushed past your lips, and you glanced at your watch. You had YA Lit in forty minutes which meant you had to leave soon to head to class. Then you’d get lunch, stress about class tomorrow, and then go to Advanced Creative Writing.

So you peeled yourself off your couch, grabbed your bag, and trudged out your front door. You walked the sidewalk, crossed the road, and plopped down in your seat in YA Lit. You scribbled down notes about the differences between Young Adult and Middle Grade literature, listened to your professor’s soothing (and very much not deep or grumbly) voice as she lectured, and after an hour and fifteen minutes, wished you all a good day and that she’d seen you on Wednesday.

A wrap and a coffee from the small cafe near your next class--bless whoever decided to put a coffee shop on the first floor--some scrolling through social media, a few texts exchanged with Nemuri about her trying to convince you to do something Friday, and a bathroom break later, you were sitting in your Advanced Creative Writing course, listening to your professor talk about your first assignment: a flash fiction piece about sunflowers.

Cool. You could work with that.

So you threw yourself into your work.

You sat at your new desk--already chipped around the edges because you and Nemuri had accidentally bumped the door a few times when trying to finagle it through--and wrote. You wrote and wrote and wrote until the hours ticked by, and you had a pot of instant ramen for dinner. Then, you edited, showered, ignored Nemuri’s “maybe we can go out and meet people this weekend” text, and climbed in bed.

That night, you dreamt of blooming sunflowers in a vast field and sunlight that gently warmed your skin.

Then your alarm went off the next morning, and you were faced with the nerves of going back to Professor Aizawa’s class. A class that you told yourself you were going to focus during, one you needed to focus during; your quiz grade on Thursday depended on it. So when you sat down in your seat, tablet and stylus pulled out, you were ready for the professor to come in and lecture his heart out. You’d be damned if you let yourself get distracted again. No. You were going to focus, and you were going to take the best notes you’d fucking taken.

And then he walked through the door in a black button-down that struggled to fit over muscles you hadn’t noticed he had. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, giving you a peek at his chest, he donned the same scarf he wore last week, and his slacks had been changed for dark jeans. Your jaw would’ve dropped open had you not clenched it shut, just as tight as your thighs had clenched together. His hair was half-up, half-down today parted down the middle, and his eyes looked less tired. He lazily waved a hand before pushing his hair out of his face, and you shamefully watched how his fingers combed the strands.

The freezing air pumping through the vents was a godsend as he scanned the room and his eyes briefly met yours because you were about to combust.

“Good morning,” he muttered as he logged into the computer. And just like last time, you tortured yourself by watching his fingers. They were more gentle with the keyboard today, light taps as he entered his password. Light, gentle, careful; they didn’t match the slight annoyance he seemed to consistently hold in his gaze. And, fuck, you couldn’t help but wonder what those fingers were like behind closed doors, when night fell, when it was just him and another person--or even just himself--filling the silence with sounds meant only for his ears.

Someone accidentally knocked a book off their table, and the slam of it hitting the floor nearly made you jump out of your seat. Thank god for it because it knocked you out of your thoughts, and you made a mental note to text Nemuri later. Maybe you should go out and meet someone. Because you shouldn’t be thinking about what your professor looked like in any situation except him behind the podium, talking about camera angles and lighting.

“Make sure you’re taking good notes and studying because this content isn’t just going to disappear after the quiz next class.”

He wasn’t talking to you. He wasn’t looking at you. But you felt like the words were directed solely at you. And maybe the few other students who, when you looked around, seemed utterly entranced by him. But at least it kicked you into gear, and you started taking notes again, and you managed to nearly drop your stylus when you realized you hadn’t written anything down the past few slides. You brought your hand to your forehead and rested the weight on your elbow. A quiet, careful exhale left you as you started to scribble down chicken scratch as Professor Aizawa’s words injected information after information into your brain.

Long shot, medium shot, rack focus, shallow focus, loose and tight framing, eye level, high angle, low angle; term after term flooded into you, and by the end of the class, you felt overstimulated and fried. You slumped back in your seat, stared at the scribbles on your tablet, and slowly packed up. Most students rushed out of the classroom because they either wanted to get back home ASAP or they had another class to get to. You had nowhere to be, and despite how badly you wanted to get out of there to avoid interacting with your professor, you needed just a second to process all the information. Which proved futile because when you did get up, and your eyes accidentally met Professor Aizawa’s as you left, all the information vanished when he spoke.

“Have a good day.”

You blinked at him for a second before realizing that you should probably respond.

“Thanks, you too,” you squeaked out, voice higher than you’d ever heard it, and embarrassment surged through you.

You could practically hear him telling his friends later about this super awkward student he had in his class, and it made you mortified. Hell, you wanted to go back and apologize because why had you squeaked it out? You talked to people all the time! You’ve talked to professors before! Why did he turn you into an embarrassing mess?

You knew the answer, and you wanted to stick your head in the sand.

Why were you such an embarrassment?

You trudged home, replaying how squeaky your voice sounded, especially compared to his. Why couldn’t you have just said, “you too,” in your normal voice like a normal person? Studying should’ve been a priority. It should’ve been what you focused on. But you didn’t want to look at your notes or think about your professor or think about how you wanted to crawl under your covers and pretend you hadn’t left them today. So, instead of looking at your notes--you’d do that tomorrow, you told yourself--you opted for cleaning your apartment, ordering some food in, and then revising your sunflower assignment that was due tomorrow.

Tomorrow, which you were going to try and drag out as much as you possibly could. Tomorrow, which ended up being full of talking about Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. by Judy Blume and having it read for next week and then discussing another assignment for Advanced Creative Writing. A hundred-word piece about something that happened your freshman year where you could only use one-syllable words.

You had lunch at the cafe again, a muffin and an iced coffee, and when you got home, you dodged phone calls from your parents and instead decided to study for the quiz you knew you needed to study for. And, fuck, your notes were shit. Utter shit. You could only read half of them, and you hoped to god the textbook was going to help.

“(Y/N)!” Nemuri’s text message notification popped up in the top right of your screen. “We’re going out Friday night, okay?”

“I’m trying to study,” you quickly typed back, ignoring the other message notifications you had.

“Cool. But we’re going. There’s a bar uptown that I want to go to. Friend of a friend recommended it.”

“Fine.” With how you were thinking about your professor, you needed to at least give finding someone a shot.

“Fuck yeah.”

You laughed and reluctantly went back to trying to decipher your notes. The hours ticked by, the sun dipped below the horizon, and eventually, you fell asleep without eating dinner or showering with your tablet plugged in to charge, and your textbook splayed open. Thank god you woke up panicking at seven-thirty thinking you’d forgotten to turn your alarm on and thought you’d overslept, cause you had forgotten to turn it on, and you had overslept. And you lept from your bed to take a shower, scarf down an energy bar, and cram the textbook and notes in what little time you had before you had to leave. Which was going well because you left five minutes later than you’d meant to and had to speed walk to class.

Your head throbbed when you walked into the classroom one minute before it was supposed to start. Professor Aizawa was already there, behind the podium, the stack of quizzes in his hand. No eye contact today, you told yourself, yet you still stole a glance his way, and he cocked a brow at you. Two classes weren’t enough for him to gauge you coming in a minute before class started as a bad thing. No, there was no way he could get that from such little information. Especially since the class was big enough for him to have not learned everyone’s face, not yet at least. You took the only seat available, one at the end of a row, grabbed out a pencil, and passed one to the obligatory classmate that never had one on quiz days.

“Alright,” Professor Aizawa said and walked around the podium, and you just wanted to shake your head. Of course he was wearing a red henley and casual blue jeans that made your mouth water. “Put everything away except a pen or a pencil, whatever utensil you choose to use. Feel free to leave after you finish. This is all we have planned for today.”

Some heads nodded, and timid expressions turned into grins. Even you were relieved. Less time to spend in a room with Professor Aizawa. Significantly less time. And you thought you were in the clear--until you had to turn your quiz in after--but then he passed out the quizzes.

“Take one and pass them down,” he said as he counted out enough for the first row, which, with you in the second, he was a mere foot and a half away from you. “Feel free to start as soon as you get your copy.”

He stepped up a step and stood next to you, eyes scanning the row as he silently counted out the necessary number. You held your breath as he passed the stack of papers to you and, as if the universe wanted you to die, your hands brushed, and you nearly dropped the quizzes. His hand was so soft and warm, and you crinkled your quiz as you pulled it from the stack and passed the rest down to the person next to you. Professor Aizawa lingered for a moment next to you as he counted the row behind you, and you stared at the spot for your name for a second longer than you wanted to.

Whatever cologne he was wearing--maybe a sandalwood or pine concoction--was intoxicating. Yeah, your head throbbed, but you’d be damned if you didn’t want to memorize the scent.

You didn’t start answering any of the questions until he walked away. The questions that were very much fill-in-the-blank and long answer questions--that asshole--and you wanted to cry. You had to bullshit; you had no choice. You were great at it; if college had taught you anything, it had taught you how to accurately bullshit something when you only knew half of the answer. And here, you could use context clues for most of them, but when it came to the analysis of stills from movies printed on the back, you really had to reach. But bullshitting would only help so much.

While you could never gauge whether a quiz was easy or hard based on how quickly people left the room, you still felt self-conscious as you finished up with only about ten other people left. You’d read over your answers once, made sure you answered all the questions, had your name and date at the top, and then very painfully climbed out of your seat, ignoring how loud every movement sounded in the silent classroom.

Professor Aizawa was at the front, leaning against the podium, book in hand. You couldn’t see the cover or the spine, and your curiosity ached to know what he was reading. But it wasn’t aching enough to ask. No, no, you were rendered speechless as his eyes met yours, and you prayed to all the gods above that your hand wouldn’t shake when you handed him your quiz. You felt self-conscious as he scanned the paper, and you felt like every answer you had on there was wrong. You knew they weren’t; that was a solid B at worst. But still.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and, oh god, your knees nearly buckled.

All you could do was nod. And even then, it was stiff. And awkward.

Oh, how you wanted to not exist.

You had to force your feet to move cause you couldn’t stand there and look at how his stubble had slightly grown out or how he’d worn his hair down today. No, no, you couldn’t. So you picked up your feet that felt like bricks and left the classroom. Not thinking about how good he smelled or how shiny his hair looked. Or if his face lit up when he smiled or what his dark eyes looked like when he wasn’t in teacher-mode.

No. You weren’t thinking about that. Not at all.

Outside, you stopped and dropped your head back, eyes closed, and let the sun wash over you. You didn’t have to have Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. read until Wednesday, and you had already read it back in high school, so that was pushed to the back burner. And your one-syllable assignment wasn’t due until then, either. So you had a free Thursday. While tomorrow was going to be dedicated to Nemuri, at least the evening was, you ran through things you could do alone. Bookstore trip? Thrifting? Writing? Reading?

Turned out, and you weren’t as surprised as you thought you should’ve been, when you got home, you found Nemuri sitting on your couch waiting for you. And what was going to be an indecisive day where you tried to figure out what to do and inevitably did nothing, ended up turning into window shopping with Nemuri, getting a late lunch at the mall’s food court, and then sharing a milkshake at an ice cream shop down the road from your apartment.

“You still avoiding them?” Nemuri nodded down at your phone as you shoved it into your pocket.

“They’ve only called twice and texted a handful of times.” You cleared your throat before popping one of the two cherries in your mouth. “It’s not avoiding if they’re not consistently reaching out.”

“You’re lucky they’re still letting you use that college thing they set up for you for housing.” Nemuri ran a hand through her hair. “Otherwise, we’d both be homeless.”

“Your parents would never kick you out.” You smiled. “And college is too important. They know I need my space.”

“I know, but you know I need my space from them.” You and Nemuri chuckled in unison; her high-pitched, almost flirtatious laugh drew eyes to her. “Off topic, but when do you start back at Bergi’s?”

You sat back in your chair and pursed your lips. Bergi’s Used Bookstore, half a mile away from your apartment and the same bookstore you’d been working at for the last three years. It paid well enough, you loved working with books, and Bergi was an older Italian man with salt and pepper hair who loved to send you home with leftovers that he had in his apartment above the store. Bergi and Bergi’s were the fucking best.

“Three weeks, I think.” You furrowed your brows. “Let me check.”

You made the mistake of checking your phone. Usually, that typically meant that your parents had sent you a message. And they had. You had a text from your mom, a text from someone whose number you should’ve blocked, but you had long since tuned out the anger he made you feel, and a notification from Canvas about your Film Criticism quiz being graded. It was the last one that made you sit upright in your chair because a C? You’d gotten a C on that quiz?

“Bullshit,” you exclaimed a little too loudly as kids passed.

“Hm?” Nemuri drummed her long nails on the metal table, licking the whipped cream off the end of the straw and eyeing a cute girl across the room.

“I got a C on a quiz I know didn’t get a C on.”

“Better or worse?” Nemuri turned her blue eyes to you, her bangs falling in her face as she cocked her head to the side.

“I should’ve done better. I know I did better than a C.”

“Go talk to the professor during office hours next time they have them.” Nemuri took a sip of the chocolate milkshake. “See where you went wrong.”

You scoffed and pulled up the syllabus. Yeah, of course, right. Professor Aizawa had office hours. He took walk-ins on Fridays between noon and two-fifteen. Perfect. It couldn’t have been set up better. Except then you had to face him, alone, in a tiny office.

Sitting back, you puffed out a breath.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you grumbled.

“No.” Nemuri leaned forward and had the widest grin plastered on her face. Fuck. You knew that look. “No, what is it? You look nervous. You’ve done office hours with professors before; why is this one making you nervous?”

Nemuri was the last person you were going to talk to about this. Although it didn’t count if she got there herself and did all the talking. She narrowed her eyes, and you turned your shy gaze away from her. A lightbulb went off over her head as she read you like the damn open book you were.

“Oh, he’s hot, isn’t he? Wait, who’s the professor?” She grabbed your phone, which still had the syllabus pulled up. “Aizawa? You have Aizawa? Shit, (Y/N), I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard he’s the hottest professor in the film department.”

Nemuri giggled and placed both palms on the table, rising up out of her chair and grinning a wicked grin at you.

“You think he’s attractive, don’t you?” Nemuri gasped when you squirmed and avoided eye contact. “Oh my god, you do!”

“I haven’t been with someone in like two years; cut me some slack.” You groaned and ran your hands over your face. “He’s so pretty, Nemuri, you don’t get it. I can barely function around him. I embarrass myself in front of him every class.”

“Well,” Nemuri snickered. “Better get over those nerves cause you have to go see him about a quiz tomorrow.”

“Fuck you,” you ground out and groaned once more. “Now, are you going to ask the girl out, or can we go?”

Nemuri winked at the girl she’d been eye-fucking the whole evening before licking her lips. You stole a glance back at her, her cheeks were bright red, and her thighs were crossed almost as tightly as yours were during your film class. Nemuri always had that effect on people. That “I know how to make you feel good in the most passionate, vulnerable, intimate way” aura. It was how you two had met, and it was how Nemuri could bring home nearly every person they were interested in.

“Let’s go,” Nemuri said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Poor girl,” you murmured. “You love leaving people wanting.”

“You know better than the rest.”

You smacked Nemuri’s arm and rolled your eyes.

Now wasn’t a time to reminisce on meeting Nemuri during orientation the summer before freshman year, but you couldn’t stop the memory. You were with your parents, she was with hers, and you’d spent a majority of the day dancing around each other as your group walked the campus, ate in the dining hall, and heard from different professors. Except when you ate in the dining hall, the two of you ended up paired next to each other at the booth, your parents' bonding and talking about some work thing or another, and Nemuri had let her hand drop from the table and brush against yours on your lap. When you didn’t pull away and instead met her gaze with a shy but encouraging expression, her mouth tipped into that sensual smile you’d seen dozen upon dozens of times and her fingers laced with yours.

That night, when dorm announcements were made, and you and Nemuri had been paired up to share a room, well...you’d spent a majority of the night not sleeping. You weren’t entirely sure how it had happened, just that after you had said bye to your parents, awkwardly put your things into the room, and showered, your clothes were never put back on, and Nemuri had you stifling moans into the thin cheap dorm pillow. Moans, begs, and pleas that the pillow barely muffled as her mouth worked you to the edge over and over and over again, her fingers curling inside you, her bright eyes watching your body writhe beneath her.

She didn’t let you cum until you were in tears, and you’d lost the resolve to hold it back as her tongue licked your puffy, overstimulated clit. She had to use her free hand to keep your thighs from locking around her head as you came around her fingers, crying out her name and letting the whole floor know you were getting absolutely destroyed by your orientation roommate.

“I need to...I...you,” you huffed and reached out a hand, but Nemuri smacked it away.

“Kitten,” she pulled her fingers from your cunt and licked them clean. “Just open that mouth for me because after watching that, I’m on the brink of cumming myself.”

Ten minutes later, your face caged in by Nemuri’s knees as she rolled her hips against your tongue, the dorm also knew she was getting fucked by her orientation roommate. And you couldn’t deny how satisfying it was to see her eyes roll back before they closed, and she grabbed a fistful of your hair, holding you against her cunt as she came. The little whimpers she made as you kept licking after she hunched were burned into your memory.

You slept in the same bed that night, a sweaty, naked mess, before you exchanged numbers and went to breakfast together in the morning.

It was sometime between then and the beginning of freshman year, your dirty texts about getting each other off in the middle of the night, miles apart, turned into conversations about your families, about your parents, about life. And then that night in the dorm became a distant memory as your friendship blossomed.

And you blamed her for your dream that night. Because if she hadn’t said anything, you wouldn’t have been reminiscing about how the two of you met. And if you hadn’t been thinking about that, you definitely wouldn’t have dreamt about your professor the way you had.

You were bent over the desk in his classroom, the skirt you’d donned flipped up to expose your ass, and your underwear was pulled halfway down your thighs. Sandalwood wafted into your senses as you writhed around on the cool desk, and you could feel your wetness dripping down your thighs.

“Look at you,” Professor Aizawa’s voice reverberated in your ear, and your thighs pressed together. “Do you get this wet just sitting in my class?”

His nails grazed your thighs as he trailed his hand upwards, and you dug your own into the edge of the desk. He pulled the waistband of your underwear back and let it snap against your thighs before letting his fingers lightly graze your cunt. The pad of his middle finger ran between your folds, and you moaned at the same time he sighed.

“You’re gonna make a mess,” he murmured as he gathered up the slick that had dripped down your legs. “Guess I’ll have to make this quick.”

He brushed your clit with his fingers before two tested your entrance and pushed in. Your hips arched back as he curled them, pumped them, pushed them until they were knuckle deep. And then your feet suddenly started to lose traction on the carpeted floor. You couldn’t lay still as he moved his fingers so perfectly inside of you, using his free hand to brace himself as he bent over, body pressing against yours, and whispered in your ear.

“Is this why you’re always squirming in your seat? Why you’re always watching my hands?” He dragged his teeth along the shell of your ear. “Are you this needy every class?”

“I’m…” You tried to speak as your orgasm grew near.

“Shh, don’t want anyone to hear, do we?” Professor Aizawa murmured as if the sounds of his fingers fucking you weren’t echoing in the classroom. “Now, let me feel that cunt squeeze my fingers.”

It did. Oh, it did. And you had to bite down on your arm to keep yourself from making any sounds as your orgasm tore through you.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised. “Maybe I’ll throw you a few extra credit points for doing so well. Let’s see how it goes today, first, don’t we?”

You shot awake, only then registering that you’d been dreaming.

You had to meet with Professor Aizawa today.

You glanced down at your lap, and you didn’t have to move to know you were soaked.

How the hell was this meeting going to go?

You took a cold shower before gathering courage and walking to campus. It took even more courage to walk into the building, to ask the front desk worker if Professor Aizawa was available, and then to walk down and knock on his cracked door. Your blush crept along your cheeks, all the way up to the tips of your ears and down your neck as you heard him call, “Come in.”

You sucked in a harsh breath as you slipped in and saw him with his hair up, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and eyes glimmering in the sunlight sneaking through his curtains. The faintest glimpse at his blue jeans told you his thighs were thicker than you’d imagined, and you were practically drooling. You nearly forgot to introduce yourself as you struggled to process him sitting behind his desk, one that looked very similar to the one from the classroom. The one from-

“Hi,” you croaked out and winced. “I’m from your Tuesday/Thursday Film Criticism, I’m-”

“(Y/N),” he finished, and well, shit, you were just done. Hearing him say your name was enough to make you clutch the strap of your bag because it was the only thing you could grab on to.

“Yeah.” You chuckled and smiled an awkward smile. “I wanted to talk to you about my quiz grade.”

He nodded at the seat across from his desk, and with stiff legs, you moved over to it, carefully lowering yourself down and sitting with your hands folded on your lap. Professor Aizawa, in the meantime, reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a folder, and thumbed through paper after paper until he got to yours. He skimmed your quiz before handing it to you and leaning forward on his forearms. Those damn muscular and veiny forearms.

Nerves aside, you couldn’t help but glare at the red C drawn at the top.

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Yes, sir,” you responded as you glanced over the lack of notes written in the columns.

Your brows furrowed.

“Not to say what you wrote is inherently wrong.” He picked up a pen and pointed at one of the questions on the back when you flipped the quiz. “But I know bullshit when I read it. I expect that from freshmen whose nerves get the better of them on their first college quiz. Not seniors.”

“I, uh…” You couldn’t exactly argue with that as you skimmed your bullshit answer. “You’re right; I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Because like I said, you didn’t write anything explicitly wrong. But it was half-assed, and I don’t like half-assed work from students who I know can do better.” He peered up at you from the top of the quiz. “So, just study some more, take better notes, and show me the work I know you can make.”

Your voice was lodged in your throat as you met his gaze. The already tiny room felt two sizes smaller, and you couldn’t breathe even if you were to gasp for air.

And even though he was your professor, and you should’ve held the utmost respect for him, you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting out:

“I take great notes.”

Aizawa’s mouth tipped into the faintest smile, and you were thankful you were sitting down because you were sure you would’ve fallen if you hadn’t.

“Do you?” He lifted the pen he was holding and pressed the end to his temple. “Because I’ve been a teacher for a few years now, and I’ve seen many people take notes and-”

“I. Take. Great. Notes,” you repeated, enunciating each word.

His smile grew wider, and he just nodded. He had something else loaded, you could tell by the way his eyes sparkled, but you didn’t want to give him the chance.

“I just…” You cleared your throat and watched his fingers curl around his pen as he lowered it. “I’ll do better next time.”

You handed the quiz back to him, and your hands brushed. Just like last time, you couldn’t ignore how soft his hand was.

“Tell you what,” he said as he put your quiz back in its spot and closed the folder. “Do better on the next quiz, and I’ll match that grade.”

“You don’t…” You started to say but starting the semester off with a C wasn’t good.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he whispered, his voice accidentally dropping to a shivering volume.

“Okay.” You nodded. “I’ll do better on the next quiz.”

“Good.” He nodded too, but all you could hear was what he whispered in your ear in your dream, and you felt warmth pool between your legs.

The way his eyes studied your face kept you pinned in the seat. It was almost like he could read the dream on your face. Like “I had a sex dream about you last night” was written in bright red ink on your forehead. And, oh, how that sex dream was playing on repeat as you looked at your professor.

“Well, thank you.” You abruptly stood up. “I’m, er, I’ll…”

You backed up, hit the chair, and laughed nervously, very clearly not playing it off.

“I’m sorry.” You adjusted the strap of your bag and tried not to let your professor’s faint, almost amused smile make your heart skip a beat. But, oh, it did. “I, uh, yeah, um. I’ll see you in class on Tuesday. Uh, h-have a great weekend.”

Aizawa cocked a brow, and if he said anything, you didn’t hear it. You were out the door as fast as you could manage, speeding down the hallway and out of the building until you could lean against a tree and catch your breath. It’d almost been painful, sitting in his office with him. And the fucker wasn’t even doing anything. Damn it.

You pulled your phone out of your bag and texted Nemuri.

“Are we still on for tonight?” You tapped the side of your phone anxiously. “Cause I really need to get laid.”

“YES!” Nemuri texted back immediately. “YES I’LL BE AT YOUR PLACE AT SIX AND THEN WE’LL FUCKIN’ GO!”

Great. Now you just had a few hours to kill before Nemuri showed up, and you did so by throwing yourself into literally anything that would take your mind off of “That’s my good girl” and how you nearly tumbled over in his office when you tried to leave. But nothing seemed to alleviate the endless sea of thoughts.

As six pm ticked closer, you screamed into your pillow, and you rolled around on your bed. You were so worked up because your professor was mildly--very--attractive. Your professor. For fuck’s sake, you were professional. This shouldn’t get to you. You shouldn’t be reacting this way to him.

“On my way, you better be ready when I get there,” Nemuri texted at five-fifty, and you glanced at your closet.

“Fine,” you muttered to yourself and rolled off your bed.

You slipped into a black sundress that was a size too small; the thin fabric hugged your curves and rested just a tad too high on your thighs. You peered over your shoulder as you bent down in front of your bathroom mirror, testing the limit of how far you could bend over. Not far, you realized, and your cheeks burned. But you weren’t going to chicken out. You looked hot in the dress, and you were going to wear the shit out of it.

Nemuri didn’t even bother to knock when she showed up; just opened the front door.

“Let’s go, love!” She yelled despite you being just a few feet away in your living room, slipping into your heels.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

Given the consumption of alcohol that you knew was going to happen, you decided to catch a car to the bar. Nemuri adjusted her skin-tight dress, pulling the skirt down as she eyed you. You were waiting for the car outside of your apartment, and you could already see the questions forming in her head.

“First,” she said, “obligatory: are you still avoiding their texts?”

“Yes,” you grumbled. “For now. I’ll get back to them eventually.”

Nemuri nodded and exchanged the code with the driver as a small four-door pulled up.

“Second: you look different. What happened?”

“What are you talking about?” There was no point in feigning innocence. And all Nemuri responded with was a pointed glare after she gave the driver the address. “I think I have a crush on my professor.”

“No shit. A hot guy is a hot guy. What’s the big deal?”

“I tripped over myself so hard in his office today. I can’t even be close to him without thinking about...you know…” You glanced at the driver and then Nemuri. “It’s insane, Nemuri, I...he makes me want to melt into a puddle.”

“Ah, hence the ‘are we still on for tonight’ text. Got it. Well, don’t worry, I’ll make sure you go home with someone tonight.”

“Good.” You gulped and watched the passing stores and restaurants. “Cool.”

Nemuri laughed and threw an arm around you.

“I promise you’ll get some action tonight. Even if it means I have to sacrifice myself and be the one who takes you to pound town.”

You just glared at her, and she beamed back at you.

After the car pulled into the bar’s parking lot, you and Nemuri tipped him before climbing out onto the uneven pavement. It wasn’t as busy as you were expecting for a Friday evening, but still, your nerves were on fire. Nemuri threw her arm back around your shoulders and had to drag you inside. Inside where it smelled like spilled beer, peanuts and fries, and leather.

Quiet rock music played as you scanned the crowd. It was a solid mix of college students and other young adults, and you already spotted a few attractive faces. But none of them made you feel the same way your professor did. Which was both concerning and disappointing. Until you scanned the section of pool tables, and those dark eyes that you’d been looking at just a few hours earlier were looking at a tall blond mysterious man whose loud laugh put Nemuri’s to shame.

“We have to leave, right now.” You stopped walking and grabbed Nemuri by the arm.

“Why?” She asked as she followed your gaze. “Who is that dark and brooding hotty?”

Her eyes widened when she peered back at you, and the pieces of the puzzle connected.

“Oh my god,” she said too loudly, and Aizawa turned his head, and that was it. You wanted to die. You thought about just turning on your heels and running out the door, never to show your face in his class again. You’d just drop the class and not graduate in the winter, and it’d be fine.

But Nemuri was quick thinking and smooth as much as she was, well, her. And before your thoughts had even finished forming, she was leading you to the bar, away from where your professor was. Your professor, who was still dressed in the tight white button-down and jeans that he’d been wearing earlier, sleeves still rolled up and everything. You didn’t look at him; you let Nemuri block you cause you knew if you looked, you’d see him looking at you, and you wouldn’t be able to handle that.

Nemuri ordered two somethings, but you didn’t even hear what she’d said. You were trying to put a pin in the barrage of thoughts because, oh my god, Aizawa was here. As soon as the glass was put in front of you and you showed them your ID, you took a massive gulp.

“Wow,” Nemuri mused. “You have it really bad.”

“Nemuri,” you snapped as she stole a glance at Aizawa, but you kept your eyes fixed on your drink. “Stop. Let’s leave. I can’t be here. I can’t be here when he’s here; I can’t.”

“But his friend is cute.” Nemuri ran her finger over the rim of her glass. “And I’m trying to go home with someone tonight, too.”

“Nemuri!” You grabbed her shoulder and made her face you. Her laugh echoed out in the bar. “You’re not sleeping with my professor’s friend. Besides, they’re probably in their thirties.”

“Hot.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Also says the person who has a crush on said thirty-year-old.”

“I’m not trying to sleep with him!”

“Yeah, but you want to.” Nemuri leaned forward. “I know what you look like when you’re interested, (Y/N), and you’re interested.”

You ignored your friend and took another big sip of your drink. Nemuri kept you there. She wasn’t going to leave, and you weren’t going to leave her. You wouldn’t do her dirty like that. But, fuck, the urge to peer over at where Aizawa was standing was growing. And, damn it, your resolve broke quickly. So you glanced over, starting with his friend, who was bent over the pool table, long blond hair half-up, half-down, dark sunglasses resting on the tip of his nose, and a black leather jacket that clung to his frame, even taller and just as slender as Aizawa’s. His green eyes focused on the red striped ball that bounced, bounced, and bounced, but didn’t sink, and he frowned.

And your sanity went out the window when your eyes shifted over to the right to Aizawa, who was partially sitting on a stool, legs spread open, pool cue between them as his hands held it upright. Your gaze traveled up and lingered on his forearms, specifically the way some of his veins protruded, and your mouth went dry. And then your eyes continued north and met his, and your breath hitched. His mouth curved into a smile, and he reached over to his half-empty glass and raised it, nodding his head, and you could barely nod back.

“I want to meet him,” Nemuri stated. “Cause I want to meet his friend.”

“Nemuri, no.”

“Nemuri, yes.”

“I’ll leave.” You grabbed her arm as she picked up her drink and tried to step away from the bar.

There was a challenge in Nemuri’s eyes.

“Then leave. But then you leave me alone with Aizawa, and he’s pretty sexy. I mean, have you seen those forearms?”

Your grip tightened, and the two of you locked eyes and spoke without speaking.

After a few beats, Nemuri finally broke the silence.

“That’s what I thought,” she teased, but she didn’t budge, even though your grip loosened. “But if you don’t want me to go over there, I-”

“We need a favor,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in, and you and Nemuri turned to see the blond that had, just a moment ago, been at the pool table. “If Sho and I might borrow you two for a few minutes.”

“Hizashi,” Aizawa groaned from across the room, and you peered over, and he had his head hung as he shook it.

I just keep thinking about Aizawa--the quiet, reserved hero--having a mountain of dirty secrets.

For example, what if he has an addiction to smelling your panties? It started off innocently enough: maybe your laundry got mixed up or he was visiting your apartment one day, but then his eyes would lock onto a pair of adorable panties that he knew would hug your body deliciously.

He took them without thinking. He didn't have a plan for them, but he liked feeling the fabric on his fingers. Sometimes he'd carry them around like a security blanket, keeping them in his pocket and rubbing the material whenever he could. He couldn't help it: he just adored you so much and wanted a piece of you with him at all times.

He's not normally a guilty man, but he did feel a bit of shame when he started shoving his nose into the fabric, inhaling deeply and audibly moaning at the scent of you. God, you smelled so good, and he just wanted more.

He developed a habit of sniffing your panties whenever he jerked off. He didn't start the practice on purpose: he just couldn't get off one night and was desperate so he took a quick sniff and then climaxed harder than he ever had in his life.

Now, he had a routine. He'd race home after spending time around you (maybe it was through work or just a casual meeting), and rush to his room. He'd tear his clothing off, hissing when his leaking cock sprung free from his hero suit. He'd flop back onto the bed, sighing as he finally took his dick in his hand and stroked himself, rubbing his thumb over the tip, moaning as he squeezed his cock.

He'd stroke himself slowly for a minute before he became restless, shoving his hand under his pillow and pulling your panties out from underneath. He'd bury his nose into the crotch of the fabric, breathing in your scent, his cock twitching at the thought of actually fucking you instead of his hand. He'd dart his tongue out in the heat of the moment, praying that he could possibly get just a little taste of any precum you might have left behind on the fabric.

Sometimes it's just not enough and he has to roll onto his stomach, situating a pillow and fucking against it. He'd put your panties down on it too, rutting his cock against the soft fabric, wishing he was pound into you instead, drinking in all the whines and moans you would let out. Shit, you probably made the prettiest moans--

He'd cum with your name on his lips, fingers curled into his sheets, cum spilling onto your panties. He'd bask in the afterglow for a moment, pulling away, sighing unhappily when he realized that he ruined yet another pair of your panties.