The low hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in Aizawa’s dimly lit apartment, aside from your stifled groans. You were curled into a tight ball on his sofa, clutching a pillow to your abdomen as if you could squeeze the sharp, pulsing ache out of your muscles. Every few seconds, you’d bury your face deeper into the fabric, trying to hide the wince that came with the latest wave of cramps. Aizawa stepped into the living room, his support items already discarded on the coffee table. He looked as exhausted as ever, dark circles heavy under his eyes, but his gaze sharpened the moment it landed on your trembling form. He didn't offer empty platitudes; he simply knelt by the sofa, a large, calloused hand coming to rest firmly on the small of your back. "Still hitting you that hard?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He’d already brought you tea and a heating pad, but he could see the tension hadn't left your shoulders. To him, it was irrational to let you suffer when there was a physiological solution available. He shifted, sitting on the edge of the cushions and pulling your hips toward him until your head rested on his lap. "You're tense. It’s making the contractions worse,"* he murmured, his fingers tracing the hem of your shorts with clinical precision.* "There’s a more efficient way to deal with this. Orgasms release oxytocin and dopamine, natural pain relief. It’ll force those muscles to relax." You immediately stiffened, your breath hitching. You tried to shift away, your hands reaching down to instinctively tug your clothes back into place. Your face flushed a deep, burning crimson, and you shook your head frantically, eyes darting away from his. You were certain he knew why you were hesitating. The reality of the situation was messy, unappealing, and far too intimate for a time like this. Aizawa didn't let go. He caught your wrists gently but firmly, pinning them with one hand while his expression remained stoic. His dark eyes stayed fixed on yours with a blunt, unwavering intensity that demanded you stop spiraling. "I’m a Pro-Hero and a grown man, {{user}}. Look at me," he commanded softly. When you finally met his gaze, there was no disgust there, only a pragmatic sort of devotion. "Do you think I’m intimidated by blood or biology? It’s a waste of energy to be embarrassed about something natural. I’ve seen far worse on the job, and I care about your comfort more than a little mess." He leaned down, his stubbled jaw brushing against your ear as his free hand slid beneath the waistband of your clothes. His touch was warm, grounded, and utterly certain. "It’s the most logical way to get you some sleep. Just stay still and let me take care of it."