Chapter 1: Therapist by Day, Enabler by Night
The late afternoon sun cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse apartment, painting long, lazy rectangles of gold across the deep charcoal carpet. It caught the dust motes dancing in the air, the lingering scent of dark roast coffee, and the sprawling, indented form of Shouta Aizawa melted into his favorite armchair. It was a massive thing, worn black leather sighing under his weight, positioned perfectly to command a view of both the city skyline and the large-screen television currently murmuring with the sounds of a foreign film.
On screen, a couple was engaged in a heated, graphic argument that was rapidly shedding clothing. Shouta watched with the detached interest of a professional, one thick, tattooed arm draped over the side of the chair, a half-empty mug of cold coffee balanced on his knee. His black eyes, usually sharp, were soft with the pleasant haze of a rare day off. The intricate lines of a serpentine tattoo peeked out from the sleeve of his simple grey t-shirt, coiling around powerful forearms.
From the hallway, a voice cut through the cinematic drama. “Daddy?”
It was a call sung out, half-question, half-announcement. Shouta didn’t move, his gaze still on the screen where the couple had now moved against a wall. “In here.”
The patter of bare feet on polished concrete followed, and then Izuku appeared in the arched doorway. He was a splash of deliberate color against the apartment’s muted tones, dressed in a tight, cropped black top that showed a sliver of his flat, pale stomach and soft, high-waisted jeans that hugged the pronounced curve of his hips. His long, curly black hair was a riotous cascade down his back, looking intentionally tousled. He leaned against the doorframe, one hand on his hip.
“Can I take some of your condoms?” Izuku asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking for a spare pen. “I’m empty.”
Shouta finally turned his head, his dark eyes sweeping over his son. He took in the outfit, the artfully applied kohl around those big, same-black eyes, the pout of his full lips. The boy was dressed for war. A specific, hormonal kind of war.
“Sure, baby,” Shouta grunted, turning back to the TV. The actors were now panting. He took a sip of his cold coffee. “Take some of the packet lube from the top drawer, too. The silicone-based. The water-based ones you got last time are garbage; they dry out too fast. You’ll get friction burns.”
Izuku pushed off the doorframe and padded into the room, his steps light. He didn’t head straight for the hallway that led to Shouta’s bedroom and home office. Instead, he drifted over to the plush, deep blue velvet sofa, where two large, fluffy black cats were curled together in a pool of sunlight. He scratched one behind the ear, eliciting a resonant purr.
“You’re watching porn,” Izuku stated, not looking at the screen.
“It’s a Danish drama about marital decay,” Shouta corrected, his voice a low rumble. “The sex is a narrative device. The director’s use of clinical lighting during the act is meant to underscore the emotional dissociation. It’s actually quite bleak.”
On screen, the woman moaned, her fingers scrabbling against painted drywall.
“Looks like porn,” Izuku sing-songed, now draping himself over the back of the sofa to peer at the television. His hair curtained down like a veil. “Is that guy’s tattoo real? It looks crooked.”
Shouta paused the film. The sudden silence was filled with the distant hum of city traffic fifteen floors below. He set his mug on the low, cluttered coffee table, next to a stack of dog-eared paperbacks with lurid covers and the perpetually sad, wilting orchids in their stark white vase. He’d told Izuku it was a lesson in impermanence. Izuku called it tragic plant murder.
“What’s his name?” Shouta asked, swiveling the chair slowly to face his son fully.
Izuku blinked, those long lashes fluttering. “Whose name?”
“The reason my condom supply is about to be raided. The reason you’re wearing jeans so tight I can practically see your heartbeat in your thigh. That name.”
A faint pink tint colored Izuku’s cheeks. He was shameless, but he was also eighteen, and his father’s unwavering, calm perception could still sometimes fluster him. “Kaito.”
Shouta processed this. He nodded once, slowly. “The business major from your cinema class. The one with the unfortunately trimmed sideburns.”
“They’re fashionable!”
“They look like a topographic map of despair.” Shouta leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His movement was deliberate, solid. The leather of the chair creaked. “You’ve been out with him twice. Coffee, then that gallery thing. Now you’re planning a third date that requires prophylactics and superior lubricant. That’s a rapid escalation, Izuku. You like him?”
Izuku shrugged, but it was a nervous, fluttering motion. He came around the sofa and threw himself into its depths, sending one of the cats leaping away with a disgruntled flick of its tail. He pulled a velvet cushion onto his lap, hugging it. “He’s hot. He’s got a nice car. He laughs at my jokes. He said my hair was like… what was it… ‘a waterfall of night.’” Izuku rolled his eyes, but a pleased little smile played on his lips.
“A waterfall of night,” Shouta repeated, deadpan. “That’s not a line. That’s a parole hearing.” He sighed, a long, slow exhale. “Is he respectful?”
“Dad.”
“I’m serious. Does he listen when you talk? Or does he just look at your mouth and plan his route to your zipper?”
“He listens!” Izuku protested, kicking a bare foot in the air. “We talked for like, an hour last time about that new quirk theory documentary. He’s smart.”
“Smart is good. Smart means he should understand clear boundaries.” Shouta’s gaze was steady, impossible to look away from. “You have the stuff. You know the drill. But remind him anyway. Before things get going, a simple ‘This is what I like, this is what I don’t.’ It’s not a mood-killer. It’s foreplay for adults.”
Izuku buried his face in the cushion. His voice was muffled. “I know, I know. God, you’re such a therapist.”
“I am a therapist. And I’m your father. It’s a potent, annoying combination.” Shouta stood up. He was a big man, tall and broad, and his shadow fell over the sofa where Izuku lay. “Come on. Let’s get you outfitted.”
Izuku unfurled himself and followed, trailing behind Shouta as he walked down the wide, minimalist hallway. They passed Izuku’s open bedroom door—a chaotic explosion of clothes, art supplies, and band posters—and stopped at the last door on the right.
Shouta’s home office was a study in organized contrast. One wall was a serious, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with clinical texts, psychological journals, and dense volumes on human sexuality and relationship dynamics. The other wall held a more eclectic collection: vintage skateboards, framed vinyl records from obscure punk bands, and a few pieces of provocative modern art. His desk was a sleek, black monolith, tidy except for a laptop and a sculptural lamp.
He didn’t go to the desk. He went to a tall, minimalist filing cabinet beside it. Unlocking the bottom drawer, he pulled it open. It wasn’t filled with files. It was a meticulously organized stash of sexual health supplies. Boxes of condoms in various sizes and materials, packs of lube, dental dams, a few unopened toy cleaners, and several sealed, travel-sized packs of pH-balanced wipes.
Izuku peered over his shoulder. “You have more stock than the pharmacy on the corner.”
“The pharmacy on the corner judges you,” Shouta said, pulling out a box of premium ultrathin condoms. He tossed it to Izuku, who caught it against his chest. Then he selected several single-use packets of high-end silicone lube. “And their selection is pedestrian. This brand has a higher tensile strength. Less chance of catastrophic failure during… enthusiastic activity.”
He dropped the lube packets into Izuku’s waiting hands. Then he paused, looking down at the open drawer. His brow, usually smooth, furrowed slightly. “You’re not going to his place, are you? You said he has roommates.”
Izuku shifted his weight. “No. We’re… um. We’re going to get dinner, then maybe back here? If that’s okay?”
Shouta’s head tilted. “Here.”
“Yeah. It’s quieter. More private. I told him my dad was cool about it.” Izuku’s confidence seemed to waver for a second, looking up at Shouta’s impassive face. “Is that… not okay?”
Shouta closed the drawer with a soft, metallic click. He locked it and slipped the small key into his jeans pocket. He leaned back against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. The tattoos on his arms shifted with the muscle. “It’s your home, too. You don’t need my permission to have a guest.”
“But?”
“But,” Shouta continued, his voice dropping into that calm, therapeutic register that was both comforting and unnervingly direct, “I will be here. I’ll probably be in this room, catching up on notes. These walls are thick, but they’re not soundproof. I don’t want to hear you, and you certainly don’t want to hear me. So, volume control is part of the courtesy. Second, the living room is a common area. Not a conquest. Your bedroom exists for a reason. Keep the festivities geographically contained. Third…” He pushed off the desk and took a single step forward, putting a large hand on Izuku’s head, mussing the carefully curated curls. “You text me if you need anything. A glass of water. An awkward interruption. A reason to end the night. Any reason at all. The code is still ‘I left the stove on.’ You say that, and I burst in like a fire marshal. Understood?”
Izuku’s eyes, wide and black, glistened for a moment. The brattiness melted away, revealing the younger, softer boy beneath. He nodded, his hair bouncing under Shouta’s hand. “Understood.”
“Good.” Shouta dropped his hand. “Now get out of my office. I need to finish that profoundly depressing Danish film before you usher your waterfall-of-night admirer into our domain.”
Izuku giggled, clutching the condoms and lube to his chest like treasure. He ducked out of the room, his bare feet slapping lightly down the hall.
Shouta stood there for a long moment, listening to the distant sounds of Izuku’s bedroom door closing. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He walked back to the living room, but didn’t restart the film. He went to the window, staring out at the gleaming towers of the city, the streets beginning to blur with evening light and traffic.
He thought of Izuku at five, all scraped knees and boundless questions. At twelve, awkward and beautiful,