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“Is that hot enough for you?” Aizawa asks, kneeling on the rug beside the bathtub and trailing a lazy hand through the still-rising water, looking completely relaxed as if he hadn’t just—
Shinsou’s heart races as he watches the hand drift closer and closer, tongue sticking to the roof of his dry mouth when he goes to swallow. He thinks about making a break for it—seriously considers just shoving Aizawa aside to fling himself out of the tub and running as fast and as far as he possibly can.
It's a stupid thought. Reckless.
He’d be lucky to even make it to the bathroom door and he knows it.
The tips of Aizawa’s fingers brush against his calf in a touch so light that Shinsou almost doesn’t feel it. So light that it could have been an accident...
Except every part of Shinsou feels horribly hyperaware of even the slightest of Aizawa's movements—so much so, that Shinsou can see the shadow of satisfaction curving the corner of the man’s mouth even as he turns away to shut off the faucet. Would have to be blind to not see how pleased Aizawa is with himself.
Settling back on his knees, Aizawa looks at Shinsou curled into the far corner of the tub with warm, dark eyes, and waves him closer—huffing low and faintly amused when Shinsou only stares warily back, unmoving.
“C’mon, Hitoshi,” Aizawa coaxes, like he’s trying to tempt a skittish stray from a filthy alleyway. “You’ll feel better after we get you cleaned up.”
The only noise in the bathroom for one long, drawn-out moment is the sound of the faucet dripping and their quiet breathing. Shinsou gawks back, wondering if his face is even capable of expressing how incredulous he feels at that moment.
How… how can Aizawa sit there and look him in the eye so casually and say that when he’s the reason Shinsou was in this state in the first place?
Aizawa's indulgent expression never changes, hand still hanging in the open air between them as if he actually believes Shinsou will take it even after he—
Shinsou doesn’t take the hand but he does reluctantly inch closer… then a little more when Aizawa’s arm doesn’t drop.
“Like a cat,” Aizawa murmurs, reaching out himself to close those final few inches and run a damp hand through Shinsou’s hair. He sounds so affectionate, so loving, that Shinsou kind of wants to scream.
Why is Sensei doing this to him? What could Shinsou have possibly done to deserve this?
“Get your hair wet,” Aizawa tells him, hand withdrawing in favor of soap instead, glancing back in question when Shinsou doesn’t move to follow directions. “Oh, did you want me to do it for you?”
The thought of Aizawa helping sends Shinsou lurching into action, splashing water on his hair in hurried, messy handfuls, and grabbing for the bottle of soap with fumbling wet hands.
Aizawa's approving hum is nearly drowned out by the loud click of the cap snapping open and Sensei sitting back on his heels as if he's planning on watching—
Shinsou forces himself to focus on moving as quickly as possible, determined not to give Aizawa a reason to touch him.
The faster this was over, Shinsou thinks desperately, frantic hands scrubbing soap into his hair—the faster this was over, the faster he could be away from the man.
Aizawa watches him, head tilting to the side and looking uncomfortably similar to a cat watching a bird in a birdbath. “That eager to get back to bed, huh?” He asks, an odd, lilting note to his voice—like maybe he’s holding back a laugh.
Like maybe Shinsou’s urgency is amusing to him.
And then the words register and Shinsou’s heart stops.
No. No no nonononono—
Aizawa cracks a little grin at whatever expression he finds on Shinsou’s face, and takes his time reaching past him to retrieve the soap from where it had been cast aside earlier. “Just a joke, kid. You’re not ready to go again yet.”
Feeling gradually begins creeping its way back into Shinsou’s trembling numb fingers, heart still hammering in his chest from the surge of adrenaline. He swallows hard and returns to washing his hair with slow, unsure hands, mind racing.
What if… what if he wasn’t joking, though? What if rushing through this bath meant that Shinsou was going to be dragged back to Sensei’s room that much quicker? And then what? Would he be forced back into—
Aizawa's voice breaks through Shinsou's rapid downward spiral with a soft, "here, let me," closing in to curl a hand around the nape of his neck.
Shinsou goes rigid, hands frozen in his hair.
After a moment of waiting, Aizawa gently pulls his arms down away from his head—leaving him feeling like a doll, limbs stiff and fixed and utterly useless when Sensei’s cool hand returns to settle over his chest with steady, inescapable pressure.
Shinsou knows what Aizawa is going to do even before the man begins tipping him down towards the water.
Panic swells in his chest like a balloon, expanding more and more with every inch downward until it’s taking up all the space in his chest and he can hardly breathe. He’s terrified that Aizawa will just keep going, will keep pushing him down until he's holding Shinsou’s face under the surface and his lungs are heavy and sloshing with water—
Aizawa finally stops lowering him when all but Shinsou’s face is submerged, neck straining and chin tilting up in an unconscious effort to keep his mouth and nose out of the water. The calloused thumb resting over his collarbone gives one last, lingering stroke and then the hand is pulling away to comb through soapy, purple hair.
Nails scratch lightly against his scalp, raking leisurely through the floating mass with gentle tugs. The fingers pause, lingering to toy with the soft, wet strands gathering and winding around the man’s scarred knuckles. Shinsou can only stare up at the man, muscles tense and shaking hard enough that the water shudders against the walls of the tub.
He doesn’t even want to blink—if Aizawa is going to drown him then Shinsou wants to see it coming. He wants to look his mentor in the face when he does it, the way he couldn’t when the man took his trust and broke it right in half. The way he couldn’t when Aizawa—
Aizawa untangles his fingers from Shinsou’s hair to trickle a few more handfuls of water over his hairline and then suddenly it's over, and Shinsou is being lifted up out of the water.
He tries to curl back into a ball the moment he's pulled upright but Aizawa catches one of his knees with a firm hand before it can reach his chest, gently chiding, "not yet, Hitoshi. Almost done."
Aizawa watches him patiently, waiting until Shinsou eventually relents and allows the man to ease his knees apart, dragging his palm slowly up the inside of Shinsou’s thigh. His lips quirk into a soft, fond grin when Shinsou’s legs try to flinch closed. “Ticklish?”
Shinsou doesn't answer because Aizawa doesn't stop, hand moving further and further until he's petting over his pubic mound and trailing fingers down between the swollen lips of Shinsou's sore, broken pussy.
He prods with careful, testing fingers at Shinsou's hole like he's trying to determine how badly he might have torn Shinsou earlier when he—
There's no way he didn't, Shinsou thinks, breath hitching in his chest and eyes beginning to burn. Aizawa shushes him and starts up humming a low, soothing tune, and Shinsou is petrified to make another noise but too frightened to stay silent.
This is how the night began, after all—Aizawa's fingers playing between the folds of his pussy and he got what he wanted, why won't he just go away—
(“Yet,” Aizawa had said.)
Shinsou’s breathing speeds up, air squeezing in and out through a painfully tight throat. He doesn't even realize he's making low, wounded noises until Aizawa is hushing him again and dropping tender, chaste kisses on his wet hair, to his temples, and suddenly, it's like Shinsou isn't in the tub anymore.
Instead, he's back in the man's room, in his bed, and he’s feeling the kiss Aizawa adorned him with on that first painful slide in, lips pressed to the corner of his eye where the tears had welled up before spilling over into the man’s waiting mouth.
"Kissing the pain away," Aizawa told him—
And then Shinsou is surrounded by porcelain again, water lapping against his chest, and hot breath washing over his face. Aizawa's voice rumbles low and almost soothing in his ear... gently slipping a thick finger up inside him—
A fat cock stretching him painfully wide and it isn’t going to fit but Aizawa isn't stopping—doesn't stop, not when Shinsou starts to beg, not even when Shinsou starts to scream.
Instead, he just holds Shinsou’s face down on the mattress with a heavy hand on the back of his neck, groaning loud and long as if he’s getting off on this—on Shinsou crying and fighting, blindly trying to push back against the man's hips with his hands.
Fucks into him faster, harder at every sobbing, "stop! it hurts, it hurts—"
The room is flipping back and forth around Shinsou, between Aizawa's bedroom and the bathroom, a cock splitting him open and Aizawa's hand moving inside him, petting gently at his walls and—and he's going to be sick.
Shinsou doesn't move. Swallows down the bile and watches the water ripple (doesn't want to think about why it's rippling—)
There’s blood, Shinsou realizes. There’s blood in the water and it’s coming from him.
Abruptly, Shinsou’s entire world narrows down to the stinging pain between his legs and that single thin stream of red swirling up and around Aizawa’s wrist, mixing and diluting with the bathwater until it’s fully dissipated.
It’s still there, Shinsou knows, even if he can’t see it.
Like the blood, Aizawa’s fingers leave him but the phantom sensations remain, and Shinsou has to force himself to look up and straight ahead, skin crawling and stomach still churning.
Aizawa’s hands return with a rag, dragging the cloth down between his legs in smooth, unhurried motions. Gentle and thorough. Caring.
(“Yet,” Aizawa had said. “You’re not ready to go again yet.”)
Shinsou keeps his eyes fixed on the wall, eyes tracing along the gleaming edges of each ceramic square all the way up to the topmost corner of the room.
He takes a reluctant sort of comfort in Aizawa's humming and tries to count the tiles until it's over.