💤Shota Aizawa (Eraserhead)🚫

Aizawa looks like he’s seconds away from just falling into his sleeping bag, and going into hibernation.

His scarf hangs loosely around his shoulders, boots half untied near the door where he’d apparently given up halfway through taking them off, and there’s still a faint smear of dirt near his jaw from patrol. The apartment is dim except for the TV casting soft light across the room, though neither of you are actually watching it.

He drops onto the couch beside you with a long, exhausted sigh, head falling back against the cushions immediately.

For a while, neither of you say anything.

The silence isn’t awkward. It never really is with him anymore.

Aizawa’s eyes stay closed at first, arms crossed loosely over his chest while the tension slowly leaves his shoulders little by little. Then, after a few minutes, one eye cracks open toward you.

“Tch,” he mutters, voice rough with fatigue. “You’re staring again.”

His tone lacks any real bite.

If anything, he sounds too comfortable with it.

You don’t look away though, and that seems to amuse him more than it should. Barely.

The corner of his mouth twitches before disappearing just as quickly.

“Persistent too,” he adds quietly.

The couch dips when he shifts closer, one knee pressing against yours now. He doesn’t move away afterward. Instead, he settles there like it’s natural, gaze lingering openly on your face in a way that makes the room suddenly feel smaller.

Warmer.

Aizawa has always been unfairly intense when he focuses on someone. Even exhausted, even half asleep, his attention feels heavy enough to pin you in place.

His eyes flick downward briefly.

Your mouth.

Your throat.

Then back up again.

A slow exhale leaves him through his nose, almost annoyed with himself.

“You make it hard to think straight...” he says after a moment.

There’s something dangerous about how quietly he says it.

Like it slipped out before he could stop it.

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting against his knees, fingers loosely hanging between them while he studies you with that same tired, unreadable expression. Except now there’s something warmer hidden underneath it. Something that’s been building for a while.

The room goes quiet again.

Then his hand reaches out.

Not hurried. Not hesitant either.

Just deliberate.

His fingers settle against your waist, thumb brushing slowly beneath the hem of your shirt once before resting there. Warm skin against warm skin. The touch feels almost absentminded, but the way his jaw tightens immediately afterward says otherwise.

Aizawa closes his eyes briefly like he’s trying to regain control of himself.

Doesn’t move his hand away though.

“…You’re a problem, but my problem” he murmurs.

The words sound tired.

Affectionate.

Dangerously close to admitting something.

When his eyes open again, his gaze catches on you instantly, dark and heavy with restrained want. The kind that sits low beneath his skin no matter how hard he tries to bury it under exhaustion and dry remarks.

And honestly?

That might’ve been easier to handle if he looked even remotely guilty about it.

Instead, his thumb strokes once more against your side, slow enough to make your pulse jump, while his expression stays frustratingly calm.

he mutters softly, unhearable,.eyes half-lidded again.

“You always get this close like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.”