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Stalker.
Shouta didn’t like that word. You’d used it in passing, half-joking with a friend about how you felt like you were being watched - that you had a stalker. Just thinking about the word left a bad taste in the man’s mouth. He wasn’t stalking you. He was protecting you. He was yours just as much as you were his, even if you didn’t know it yet.
He’d been getting sloppy lately, too careless. Leaving your dresser drawer slightly open, not refolding your shirts after running his hands over the soft fabric, leaving windows unlocked that you swore you double-checked. Nothing like the precise break-ins he’d been completing for months. Quiet, brief moments in your apartment - whether you were there or not - where he’d update himself on your life. What new clothes you bought (he'd taken more than a few pairs of panties), or who you’d been texting recently (your phone password is very easy to guess, silly girl).
You were starting to notice his presence, he could tell - he wasn’t a passing feeling anymore, wasn’t just hairs on the back of your neck, or a strange notion you were being watched. Over time, he became a muddy footprint on your balcony after a particularly rainy week, a blanket tucked under your chin that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.
He could see you starting to crack over the weeks. More nights full of restless sleep, checking your six every few steps, installing a security system inside your apartment. Sometimes you swore you heard breathing outside your windows, or a creak of the floorboard when you took a shower. You’d chalked it all up to villain-induced paranoia - up until you found the broken security camera.
He had made quick work of it on his latest visit, dismantling it in silence as you slept. Left the discarded pieces on your kitchen table for you to wake up to, as a reminder - of what, you didn’t know. The police had told you without fingerprint evidence there was little they could do besides upping patrols in your neighborhood.
Regardless, you’d stopped sleeping entirely after that. Staying up all night, knife in your hand (cute, like that would stop him), pumping yourself full of caffeine and stress for almost two days. You weren’t being very good to yourself anymore. That was Shouta’s cue to step in fully.
He watched you - perched on a light pole in the dead of night - as you walked home. It was the third day of no sleep. You were starting to fray the edges; seeing shadows in your peripherals, drifting off as you stood in line for coffee, stumbling into work that afternoon like you’d been walking for days.
You had a late shift - he knew that, like he knew all your shifts - and hadn’t been able to head home until the clock on the wall read 11:37. Perfect for Aizawa; who thrived under the cover of night, who followed after you from the rooftops - just a quick flash of darkness cutting through the moonlight above your head.
You were almost home now. That was good. He could slip in through your window while you unlocked the door, be there to greet you when you walked into your bedroom. You would be scared of him at first, of course, but you’d realize in time that he was meant for you. You were meant for him.
Shouta Aizawa was a patient man. He could wait for you to realize your love for him. He knew all you needed was a little push.
~
You could feel eyes on you - you always could these days. The feeling made your skin crawl as you curled in on yourself, speed-walking home through the quiet, foggy night. The moon was full, lighting up the ground in front of you between street lights.
You felt exposed - too vulnerable with nothing but your work clothes and the items in your purse to keep you safe. What if, whoever was following you was here now? Watching you from behind an alleyway or a parked car, or right behind you-
You spun around, breathing heavily. Predictably, no one was behind you. You couldn’t even find another living thing in your line of sight. You shuddered anyways, turning back around to continue your trek home. Every step echoed off the ground, practically an invitation for evil.
By the time you reached your doorstep, you were sweating, tears brimming in your eyes. You fumbled with the key, missing the hole multiple times as you shook. Slamming the door behind you, the first thing you noticed was your lights. You always, always left the kitchen light on, ever since that aching feeling of being watched crept into your bones. It was not on. Instead, your apartment was completely dark, an eerie quiet settling in.
You moved slowly, cautiously to the kitchen - flipping on lights as you went - willing your now-socked feet to be silent on the creaking hardwood. By the grace of God, they obeyed, and you found yourself standing in front of your ajar bedroom door next - steak knife in hand.
Your breath caught in your throat as you stared into the small window of darkness. What the hell could you do? If there really was someone in your apartment, they certainly knew you were home by now - they had to have heard the door slam. The lack of movement in the air made you nauseous.
You stood there for what felt like an eternity, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to call the police, to do anything but stand frozen in your own hallway. It didn’t matter - your legs wouldn’t move. The knife in your grip felt pathetic, useless. Slowly, with a trembling hand, you reached forward and pushed the bedroom door open just a little further, the hinges giving a soft, betraying creak.
Moonlight spilled across the floor from the window, cutting through the shadows. And there, sitting calmly on the edge of your bed like he belonged there, was a familiar figure - long dark hair, long scarf draped loosely around his neck, tired eyes already fixed on you.
…
“E-Eraserhead?” Somehow, you felt even more exposed in front of him than you did on the street.
His voice was rough and flat, a low pitch that you felt in your bones, “Hi, darling. You can call me Shouta.”
Darling? Something sharp in your gut twisted at his words, “Sh- W- What are you- …Why are you in my apartment?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, knife clutched in your hand like a lifeline.
“I’ve been watching you,” he spoke matter-of-factly, rising slowly from his spot on your bed. He didn’t move towards your way, just raised his palms in a gesture of peace, “I worry about you, dear.”
“I’m not- Don’t call me that,” you forced the words out, pointing the knife his way. “Please, just leave. I won’t- Nobody will know you were here. Please.” Your voice dropped to a whisper again at the end, the tip of the knife shaking.
You could see the corner of his mouth twitch in the low light, “I can’t do that… I got reckless, too eager,” he growled, “And let you know I was around.”
He stalked towards you, hands still raised. You backed away as he spoke, “You were doing so good without me. I almost thought I’d never have to step in. Then you stopped sleeping… all because of a broken camera?”
He slowly forced you out into the hall, the cool press of the wall against your back stopping you in your tracks. The knife stayed clutched in your fingers, more of a comfort for yourself than a threat to him.
Eraserhead continued, just a few feet away from you, “That was a reminder that all you need is me.”
“And you… called the cops.”
His words landed heavy between you. His jaw clenched - tired eyes narrowed.
“Eraserhead, please. I don’t- I don’t understand,” there were tears in your eyes threatening to fall, “...a reminder?”
The tension in his body wired itself deeper as he corrected you, one finger twitching, “Shouta.” He took a measured step towards you. “I left those pieces there to make you feel better.” One more move into your space. You tightened your grip on the knife. “You don’t need flimsy electronics to keep you safe, you have me.” Another, and he was close enough to touch. He kept his hands raised even still, eyeing the shake in your outstretched arm with disdain, “You’re afraid of me.”
“Of course I am!” He raised an eyebrow at your outburst, but said nothing. “You- You broke into my apartment! My stuff- you’re-”
You cut yourself off with a choked inhale, whimpering softly when you spoke again. He stayed stone-still and silent, eyeing you through fallen strands of hair.
“What do you even want with me?”
He sighed at your words, a weary sound - like you should’ve already known the answer, “I want nothing with you. I just want you, dear. The same way I know you want me.” His eyes flicked from yours to the window - where the sound of a siren passed.
You took the moment of his distraction to try and cut at him with your knife. One practiced hand shot out to grip your wrist, twisting in a way that forced you to drop the weapon. He kicked it away without looking, turning you around to press your face in the wall. He was rock-solid, warm and terrifying against your back.
You thrashed wildly, panic flooding every nerve as you tried to twist free, elbows jabbing back at him, legs kicking uselessly against the floor. A desperate, animal sound tore from your throat - half-scream, half-sob. “Eraser- Get off me! Let go-!”
Aizawa's grip only tightened, one arm banding across your chest like iron while the other fished something from the pocket of his belt. “Shouta,” he corrected calmly, voice low and steady against your ear, as if you were simply forgetting an important detail rather than fighting for your life. “You keep forgetting, darling. That’s alright. I’ll remind you as many times as it takes.”
You felt the sharp prick of a needle in your neck before you could even register his hand moving up from his belt. Cold liquid flooded your veins, spreading fast and heavy through your limbs. Your struggles slowed almost immediately - muscles turning to lead, vision blurring at the edges, “N-no… please… Sho- don’t-”
The attempt at his name on your lips drew a soft, approving hum from him, “There we go. Good girl.” He caught your collapsing body easily, scooping you up against his chest as the world tilted and faded. The last thing you registered was the brush of his scarf wrapping around you like a cocoon, the faint scent of him - black coffee, something minty, the night air - before everything went black.
~
When awareness trickled back in, it was slow and disorienting. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry. The surface beneath you was soft - a bed, but not yours, though it did have your sheets. The air smelled different - colder, quieter. You tried to sit up, blinking away your headache, only to find your wrists loosely bound to the bedposts.
Panic clawed up your throat, but your body still felt heavy, sluggish from whatever he’d pumped into you. You tugged at the soft ropes binding your wrists to the bedposts, testing them. They held firm, but didn’t bite into your skin. Almost… considerate. Almost.
The room was sparse but familiar in the worst ways - your pillow under your head, a few of your clothes folded neatly on a chair in the corner. There was a nightstand next to you, a connecting bathroom, a small kitchenette in the corner. A chair at the foot of the bed.
But the walls were different - concrete, reinforced, no windows except a small skylight high above. A safehouse? Underground? The quiet pressed in like a weight.
Footsteps approached from beyond the half-open door. You froze.
Aizawa stepped inside carrying a glass of water and a small plate with what looked like rice and vegetables. He had changed into a plain shirt and sweatpants, hair tied back, eyes as tired as ever. He looked… domestic. Like this was normal.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly, setting the items on the nightstand. His voice carried that same low, steady tone that had haunted your nights for months. “The sedative should be wearing off.” He held the glass to your lips, “Drink this slowly.”
You turned your face away, heart hammering. “Don’t touch me.”
He sighed, but didn’t force the water on you. Instead, he set it aside, placing himself on the edge of the bed, close enough that you could smell the faint coffee on him again. His hand rested on the blanket near your ankle.
“I know this is frightening,” he murmured. “But, you weren’t taking care of yourself. Three days without sleep. You were going to collapse on the street if I waited any longer. This was necessary.”
“Necessary?” Your voice cracked. You yanked harder at the ropes, the bed creaking. “You broke into my home. You drugged me. Let me go, Eraserhead, please. I won’t tell anyone, I swear-”
“Shouta,” he corrected gently, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your damp forehead. You flinched, but there was nowhere to go. “And I told you. I can’t do that.”
The words hung between you. He watched you with that piercing, exhausted gaze - like he was cataloging every micro-expression, every tremor. Like he’d been doing it for months already.
“You can’t do this! What- What about your reputation? You’re a pro hero, if someone finds out-”
“Nobody will find out. Because, you won’t be getting out,” he spoke plainly, like he was telling you about the weather outside. “The sooner you understand that, the easier this will be.”
The finality of it stole the air from your lungs. You stared at him, tears spilling over now, hot and angry, “You’re insane. They’ll look for me. My job, my friends-”
“They’ll find nothing,” he said, voice unchanging. “A tragic disappearance. Villain attack, maybe. I’ve already handled the loose ends. Your security system logs, the camera pieces, the police reports… they lead nowhere useful.” He leaned in slightly, dark eyes softening in a way that made your stomach twist. “You’re safe here - with me. No more paranoia. No more nights wondering if someone’s watching. I am watching. And I’ll keep you safe the way no one else can.”
You sobbed, twisting against the bindings. Part of you still expected the hero - the Eraserhead from the news, the tired, principled man - to snap out of it. But the way he looked at you now was different than the TV. It was possessive. Like he’d been waiting years for this moment.
He let you cry for a while, simply sitting there, one hand eventually resting on your knee through the blanket. Not restraining. Just… there. When your sobs quieted into shaky breaths, he spoke again.
“I know you’re angry. Scared. You’ll fight me for a while. That’s alright,” His thumb brushed a slow circle against your leg. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait for you to see it too - that you belong here.”
He stood slowly, taking the time to release your dominant hand from its restraints, “Eat when you’re ready. I’ll be back to check on you soon. The ropes are only until you stop trying to hurt me. We’ll move to something gentler once you settle.”
Before he reached the door, he paused and glanced back. The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips - tired, but genuine.
“You’re home now. Rest, darling. I’ve got you.”
The door clicked shut behind him, the lock engaging with a soft, final sound. You were left in the quiet, wrist bound to your own familiar sheets, the weight of his words settling over you like his scarf had in the dark.
Outside, in the hallway, the hero leaned against the wall for a moment, eyes closing. He could still hear your muffled cries. It stung more than he expected. But, this was right. You needed him. And in time - weeks, months, however long - he would make sure you understood that you wanted him, too.
Shouta Aizawa was a patient man, after all.