Shota Aizawa
Aizawa woke the way he always did—before the sun had fully committed to rising, before the exhaustion of the previous night had any chance of convincing him otherwise. His body moved on instinct: quiet, efficient, careful.
He shifted slowly, making sure not to disturb the warmth pressed against his side. His eyes flicked down, confirming the steady rise and fall of breath. Satisfied, he eased out of the bed with practiced precision. The floor was cool beneath his feet as he bent to gather his underwear, then his sweatpants, pulling them on with a muted sigh.
The room was dim, morning light only beginning to creep between the blinds. Aizawa scrubbed a hand through his hair as he padded silently down the hall toward the kitchen.
First priority: coffee.
He moved through the familiar motions with meticulous calm—filters, grounds, water. The click of the machine engaging was soft, but in the early quiet it felt loud enough to measure time by. As the water began to heat, he reached into the pantry, collecting what he needed for breakfast.
He'd just wrapped his fingers around the first egg when he heard it:
A soft step behind him. A breath that wasn't his.
He didn't turn. Let the awareness settle across his bare shoulders. Let the silence stretch just long enough.
“You’re awake already.”
His voice was a low scrape—spent, confident, the kind of gravel that hinted at how many times he’d pulled sounds out of you the night before. He didn't clear his throat. Didn't soften it. Just let it hang openly in the morning air.
Then he looked over his shoulder.
His gaze slowly dragged over you like he was mentally replaying every place his hands had been. But also searching for signs—discomfort, hesitation, regret.
“I was going to let you sleep a little longer,” he said, turning fully, the egg rolling lazily between his fingers. “Last night was… strenuous.”
He didn't smile. His voice didn't lift. The way he said it carried the weight of everything he remembered doing to you—and the quiet, dangerous promise that he wasn’t finished.
The coffee maker began its steady drip, filling the carafe with a soft, rhythmic sound. Aizawa didn’t break eye contact as he rolled the egg between his fingers. The silence between you was calm—intentional.
His gaze swept down your body in a slow, deliberate pass—a full inventory, like he was checking for soreness, satisfaction, and every little mark he might’ve left. His jaw tightened, barely. His breath deepened once. Assessing. Appreciating. Confirming.
He lifted the egg slightly, letting the question settle between you like a small, contained spark.
“So…”
His eyes held yours, steady, a shade darker than before. His thumb traced the curve of the shell with a slow, rhythmic drag that very intentionally echoed his touch on your skin hours ago.
“…how do you like your eggs?”
He shifted slowly, making sure not to disturb the warmth pressed against his side. His eyes flicked down, confirming the steady rise and fall of breath. Satisfied, he eased out of the bed with practiced precision. The floor was cool beneath his feet as he bent to gather his underwear, then his sweatpants, pulling them on with a muted sigh.
The room was dim, morning light only beginning to creep between the blinds. Aizawa scrubbed a hand through his hair as he padded silently down the hall toward the kitchen.
First priority: coffee.
He moved through the familiar motions with meticulous calm—filters, grounds, water. The click of the machine engaging was soft, but in the early quiet it felt loud enough to measure time by. As the water began to heat, he reached into the pantry, collecting what he needed for breakfast.
He'd just wrapped his fingers around the first egg when he heard it:
A soft step behind him. A breath that wasn't his.
He didn't turn. Let the awareness settle across his bare shoulders. Let the silence stretch just long enough.
“You’re awake already.”
His voice was a low scrape—spent, confident, the kind of gravel that hinted at how many times he’d pulled sounds out of you the night before. He didn't clear his throat. Didn't soften it. Just let it hang openly in the morning air.
Then he looked over his shoulder.
His gaze slowly dragged over you like he was mentally replaying every place his hands had been. But also searching for signs—discomfort, hesitation, regret.
“I was going to let you sleep a little longer,” he said, turning fully, the egg rolling lazily between his fingers. “Last night was… strenuous.”
He didn't smile. His voice didn't lift. The way he said it carried the weight of everything he remembered doing to you—and the quiet, dangerous promise that he wasn’t finished.
The coffee maker began its steady drip, filling the carafe with a soft, rhythmic sound. Aizawa didn’t break eye contact as he rolled the egg between his fingers. The silence between you was calm—intentional.
His gaze swept down your body in a slow, deliberate pass—a full inventory, like he was checking for soreness, satisfaction, and every little mark he might’ve left. His jaw tightened, barely. His breath deepened once. Assessing. Appreciating. Confirming.
He lifted the egg slightly, letting the question settle between you like a small, contained spark.
“So…”
His eyes held yours, steady, a shade darker than before. His thumb traced the curve of the shell with a slow, rhythmic drag that very intentionally echoed his touch on your skin hours ago.
“…how do you like your eggs?”
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