Warning: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content, Self-Pleasure , Mild Degradation
Summary: Aizawa comes home exhausted and picks a fight he doesn't mean, leading to three days of agonizing silence until he finds out exactly how you've been spending your lonely afternoons.
The front door clicked shut a little harder than usual. Shota Aizawa stepped inside, his shoulders tense and his capture weapon hanging loosely around his neck. His eyes looked heavier than normal, appearing more tired and irritated. This was the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone couldn’t fix. You noticed it immediately.
“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. “Rough day?”
He didn’t answer right away. He kicked off his shoes and walked past you, dropping his bag with a dull thud.
“…You could say that.”
That tone was flat and distant. You hesitated, feeling your good mood from earlier start to fade. “You wanna talk about it?”
Aizawa rubbed his face as he headed toward the kitchen. “Not really.”
His short response stung more than it should have.
You followed anyway. “You sure? You look like you’ve been through it.”
“I said I’m fine.”
That did it. The edge in his voice snapped something in you.
“Okay, but you don’t have to bite my head off about it.”
He turned, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m not.”
“You kind of are.”
Aizawa exhaled sharply, clearly losing patience. “I just got off a long day dealing with reckless students and endless paperwork. I don’t need this right now.”
“This?” you echoed, hurt creeping into your voice. “I’m just asking how you are.”
“And I said I’m fine.”
“No, you shut me down.”
Silence filled the space between you for a moment, but it wasn’t calm. It felt tight and pressurized.
“You’re making this bigger than it is,” he muttered.
“And you’re acting like I’m a problem for caring!”
That was the breaking point.
“Not everything has to turn into a conversation,” Aizawa snapped, his voice raising just enough to cut deep. “Sometimes I just want quiet when I get home.”
Your chest tightened. “So I’m… what? Noise now?”
He didn’t answer right away, and that hesitation spoke volumes.
You stepped back as if you’d been pushed.
“Wow.”
The argument spiraled from there. Words flew too fast, emotions became too loud, and neither of you really listened anymore. By the time it ended, the apartment felt colder than it ever had. Aizawa retreated to the bedroom without another word, and you ended up on the couch.
The lights were off, but sleep wouldn’t come. The couch felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable—not because of the cushions, but because you weren’t where you were supposed to be. You stared at the ceiling, replaying everything. The way his voice sounded. The way yours did too.
It wasn’t just the argument. It was what lay beneath it—stress, distance, and things neither of you had said out loud in a while. From down the hall, the apartment remained quiet. Too quiet. You turned onto your side, pulling the blanket tighter, trying to ignore the small, aching thought in your chest: This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
In the bedroom, Aizawa wasn’t asleep either. He stared at the ceiling, one arm draped over his eyes. He knew he had snapped. He knew you didn’t deserve that. But the weight of the day—students getting hurt, the pressure of being responsible for them, the constant exhaustion—all piled up and somehow spilled onto you. That made it worse. He let out a slow breath, frustrated with himself now.
“…Tch.”
The apartment stayed divided that night—two people who cared about each other, stuck on opposite sides of one argument neither of them handled well.
•••
The first day, you told yourself it was just space.
By the second, it started to hurt.
By the third, it was unbearable.
The apartment didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like a place where you were just existing.
You would hear him moving around in the mornings. You heard the soft shuffle of Shota Aizawa getting ready for work. You recognized the low clink of a mug and the gentle rustle of his capture weapon as he adjusted it.
These sounds used to comfort you.
Now they only reminded you of what you couldn’t have.
You stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the door, hoping he would open it. You hoped he would say something. Anything.
But he never did.
At night, it was worse.
You sat on the couch, pretending to watch something, but your eyes weren’t on the screen. Every little sound down the hall grabbed your attention.
You missed him in ways that felt almost physical.
You missed his messy hair falling into his eyes. You missed the faint scent of his clothes when he passed by. You missed the way his hand would absentmindedly find yours, like it belonged there.
Now there was nothing.
No touches.
No lingering glances.
Not even a quiet “goodnight.”
Just silence.
You tried.
You started with small things.
“Hey…” one evening, you whispered as he walked past.
He paused for just a moment.
Your heart jumped.
“…Did you eat?”
A simple question. Safe. Careful.
“…Yeah,” he answered without looking at you, continuing down the hall.
And that was it.
The moment closed before it even had a chance to begin.
You started to feel invisible.
It felt like your presence didn’t reach him anymore.
What hurt the most wasn't just that he ignored you.
It was that you could feel he wanted to say something too.
You caught it in the way he lingered for just a half-second too long in the doorway. Or how his shoulders tensed like he was about to turn back, but he forced himself not to.
He was holding back.
Just like you.
Neither of you wanted to be the first to break.
Not out of pride, but fear.
Fear that if you spoke, it would come out wrong again.
Fear that the other wouldn’t meet you halfway.
Fear that maybe things weren’t as easy to fix as they used to be.
One night, it finally became too much.
You sat on the couch again, hugging your knees, the silence pressing in on you.
“…I miss you,” you whispered into the empty room.
You didn’t expect him to hear it.
But down the hall, there was a shift.
A pause.
Aizawa stood just out of sight, your words hitting harder than anything else had in the past few days.
His hand tightened slightly at his side.
Because the truth was he missed you too.
More than he was willing to admit out loud.
•••
You feel the ache building inside you, a restless heat that coils tighter with every passing minute. It's been too long since you and he tangled together in the sheets, his body pressed against yours, and the deprivation gnaws at your core.
Your skin prickles with unmet desire, your pussy throbbing faintly as you imagine his touch—rough fingers sliding between your thighs, parting your slick folds, dipping inside to stroke that spot that makes you gasp.
You crave his mouth on you, his tongue lapping at your clit, swirling slow and deliberate until you're writhing, begging for more.
You want him to wrap his arms around you, pull you flush against his chest, his breath hot on your neck as he murmurs filthy promises, guiding you through the waves of pleasure with that deep, commanding voice.
But he's not here. Won't be for another hour, at least. The emptiness of the house amplifies your longing, so you slip into your shared bedroom, the familiar scent of him lingering in the air like a tease.
Your eyes land on his pillow, still indented from where his head rested last night. Heart pounding, you climb onto the bed, grabbing it and pressing it between your legs.
The soft fabric rubs against your aching core as you grind down, hips rolling in desperate circles.
A soft moan escapes your lips, your hands clutching the pillow like it's his body, imagining his cock filling you instead—thick and hard, thrusting deep while he holds you tight, whispering how good you feel clenching around him.
The friction builds the pressure, your breaths coming faster, but it's not enough. Not without him. You rock harder, chasing the release that hovers just out of reach.
•••
You glanced at the clock and felt a surge of panic. He’d be home any second. Shivering and soaked, you scrambled off the bed. You flipped the pillow to its dry side with shaky hands and practically fled the room. By the time the front door clicked shut, you were curled up on the sofa, the picture of innocence, hoping he wouldn’t notice the damp evidence you’d left behind.
He entered with the heavy step of a long day, heading straight for the bedroom and ignoring the living room. You held your breath, hearing the bed creak as he sat down. He peeled off his heavy jumpsuit, the fabric rustling in the quiet room.
Then the silence sharpened. He froze, tilting his head as he detected an unfamiliar scent in the air—a smell that didn’t come from the laundry detergent.
His gaze landed on the pillow. He pulled it close, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of you filled his lungs. Anger flared briefly at the intrusion, but it quickly shifted to something more complicated. He wondered just how frantic you’d look when he finally walked out to confront you.
The bedroom door creaked open, but he remained silent. He leaned against the frame, his jumpsuit discarded, looking at you with an unreadable expression. He held the pillow in one hand. You tried to focus on the TV, but the silence felt overwhelming.
Slowly, he walked over and dropped the pillow into your lap. The damp side was facing up. He leaned down so his face was inches from yours and whispered, "Care to explain why my bed smells exactly like you—and why it’s soaking wet?"
The air in the living room felt charged; the hum of the television faded into white noise against the roar in your ears. You stared down at the damp fabric in your lap, the cool moisture seeping through your clothes, grounding you in a reality you weren’t ready to face.
You couldn’t look up. You knew if you did, you’d see that piercing gaze that could dismantle any defense.
"I..." Your voice broke on the first syllable.
Aizawa didn’t pull away. He stayed close, his shadow stretching over you. The exhaustion he’d carried for the last three days was still there, but it was edged out by a sharp intensity. He reached out, his thumb hooking under your chin to lift your gaze.
His eyes weren’t glowing red, but they were dark—darker than usual—and searching. "Three days of silence," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "Three days of acting like we’re strangers. And this is what you've been doing while I’m gone?"
"I missed you," you whispered, the truth breaking through your embarrassment. "It was the only way I could... I just wanted to feel close to you."
The hardness in his expression softened. The hand under your chin relaxed, his thumb tracing your jawline. He let out a long, ragged breath—the kind he only released when he was finally dropping his guard.
"You’re a brat," he muttered, though the sting was gone, replaced by raw honesty. He sank onto the edge of the sofa next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. "I’ve been sitting in that faculty room for ten hours a day thinking about how much I hated coming home to a quiet house. Hating that I made it that way."
He took the damp pillow from your lap and tossed it on the floor, then pulled you firmly against his side. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you into his warmth.
"If you’re that desperate," he growled softly, his lips brushing your temple, "don’t waste it on a pillow. If you want me, you tell me. No more silence."
He turned his head, his nose grazing yours, his dark eyes fixed on your mouth with a hunger that proved he’d been starving just as much as you had.
"Now," he breathed, his hand sliding down to grip your waist, "show me exactly how much you missed me. Properly this time."