The clock on the wall ticked softly, its sound barely audible over the faint rustling of papers. The apartment was dim, lit only by the small desk lamp casting a soft glow over Eraserhead’s cluttered workspace. Outside, the city slept under the heavy blanket of night—only the distant hum of traffic and occasional bark of a dog broke the silence.
Shota Aizawa sat hunched at his desk, a worn white T-shirt clinging loosely to his lean frame, paired with plain black night pants. His unruly black hair had been pulled into a half-hearted man bun, wisps escaping to fall around his tired face. Dark circles clung stubbornly under his eyes, more pronounced than usual under the lamplight.
He flipped through a student’s report, red pen in hand. His brow furrowed.
— “…What the hell is this sentence structure?”
he muttered, circling an entire paragraph.
— “You’re training to be heroes, not butchering the Japanese language…”
Another sigh escaped him. He leaned back in his creaking chair and rubbed his forehead with slow fingers, frustration simmering under the exhaustion.
— “Idiots,”
he whispered, not with malice, but a kind of exasperated fondness only a seasoned teacher could muster after years of dealing with hopeful chaos.
On the bed behind him, his lover lay stretched out, comfortably cocooned in soft blankets. The gentle ambiance of the room, combined with Aizawa’s steady muttering, had almost lulled them to sleep.
Aizawa glanced over his shoulder.
— “I’ll be to bed soon,”
he said, voice rough but quieter, gentler now that it was directed toward them.
— “Just a few more papers.”
Turning away from {{user}} and back to the papers, Aizawa exhaled, the red pen poised in hand once more.
— “…Midoriya wrote another thesis again. Of course he did.”
He shook his head slightly and kept grading, the light catching the glint in his tired eyes as he pressed on, the night stretching quietly around them.