Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a man passed out in the alley behind your apartment. 

You stand beside an overflowing garbage can, staring at the scruffy man who is, without a doubt, unconscious. He looks peaceful, which is confusing, because he’s on hard and dirty concrete in roughly forty degree weather. Homeless, maybe? You scratch at your chin once, twice, and turn on your heel.

Five minutes later, you’re back with a large blanket that has Hello Kitty printed on it. Carefully, you lean over and begin to lower it over the homeless man.

And then he grabs your wrist.

You scream, rearing back but finding yourself unable to as the man holds you in place with an iron grip. When you look down, his eyes aren’t even open. The dude’s still asleep! Resolutely, you accept that this homeless man is going to wake up any second and you may be kidnapped or killed or-

“ What are you doing?” drawls a sleepy, husky voice. 

Your eyes, which had been trained on the cloudless sky as you muttered a prayer, flick down to the man and find him watching you. He looks… well, grumpy, which is fair considering he’s laying in a musty ass alleyway in not the best part of town. Long black hair drapes over his unshaven face, and there’s a small scar under one of his eyes. You’d consider him handsome you weren’t sure he’s gonna fucking murder you.

Briefly, you consider making weird animal noises to scare him away. It works on other men. They see a girl running in circles while barking and decide eh, she’s not worth it. “Erm, I was… you’re passed out… in an alleyway…” You look around, and so does the man. After seeing the utter disarray the area is in, he lets out a heaving sigh and lets go of your wrist. You stumble backwards, clutching your Hello Kitty blanket to your chest.

“Shit, what time is it?” he groans, rubbing at his temples before standing. You notice, then, the odd scarf around his neck and the baggy jumpsuit that hangs off of him. It’s not flattering, but something tells you he doesn’t really care. 

“Um, about noon,” you tell him, pursing your lips. “Did you… get hurt?” 

The man scratches at the back of his head as he glances around. “I’m a hero,” he says, as if that explains why the hell he was just unconscious in some random alley. 

You nod, pursing your lips as you kick the nearby trash can gently. “Ah, so is it a hero thing to sleep in random alleys?” At that moment, one of the resident giant rats scampers by with a large piece of pizza in its hands. Both of you watch it disappear into the shadows. “With pizza rats?” 

The man-hero sighs. “I… fell.”

You glance upward toward the roofs of the nearby buildings. They’re rather high up… Your eyes flit to his legs. He’s standing. Nothing’s broken. “I’m not very good at math,” you say. “But I think that’s like…at least five feet.”

“Thirty,” the man corrects. 

“Okay, thirty feet, thank you.” You arch a brow his way and he looks… bored. Sure, you can see him being a hero. He has that vibe. But you’re a bit put off at finding a hero passed out behind your apartment. That just… doesn’t line up. “So, what’s your hero name?” 

He blinks once, lazily, then looks to the blanket you still clutch. “Hello Kitty,” he simply says, and with that, he turns and promptly walks away. 

Huh, you think. That was weird. 

And with that, you continue on with your day, eventually forgetting about the hero, Hello Kitty. 

One week later, you’re scrolling through Twitter when there’s a loud, loud crash behind your apartment. You look up from your phone, wondering if this is another insomnia-induced hallucination when there’s another clank and a soft, “Shit.”

Yeah, probably not a hallucination. 

You get up, approaching the window that faces the alleyway. It’s probably just another pizza rat, but they can’t talk, so you squint out the glass, trying to see in the dark. The only light is the soft moonlight and stars given that it’s roughly two in the morning. 

Peering out the window, you catch sight of someone collapsed in an assortment of trash bags and garbage cans. Maybe it makes you a horrible person, but you just roll your eyes and back away, assuming it’s someone who’s had too many drinks. But then you spy a pool of blood and you’re scrambling. 

You grab the meager first aid kit you keep above the sink, and run out of your apartment, around the corner, and into the alleyway. It’s only when you begin to wander down the alley that you realize huh, this could end very poorly. 

There’s more muttered cursing, and you timidly approach. As you get closer, though, the voice becomes more… familiar. You pause, accidentally stepping on a random pop can that loudly crunches beneath your feet. 

The hands that clutch the first aid kit to your chest suddenly get wrapped in… cloth? You hiss and tug, but then you’re jerked forward. Falling, you come to terms with the fact this was probably the worst idea you’ve had in two weeks and now, you will die. 

But before you can hit the floor, you’re stopped. A hand tangles itself in the back of your sweatshirt and yanks you up. You hover in the air for a moment before you meet red eyes. Fuck, had you taken your anti-psychotics tonight? “Babadook?” you inquire.

The red glint fades into something much less-demonic, and you decide you can entertain the idea of living after all. “What are you doing out here?” asks a man, and you squint at what you assume is his face, trying to make out any distinguishable features. 

It clicks, and- “Hello Kitty?” you ask, cocking your head.

There’s a long, insufferable sigh and the restraints around your hands loosen before dropping completely. The grip keeping you a few inches in the air sets you down too, and as you step back, rubbing at your skin, you realize, yep. It’s the hero that had passed out in the alleyway a week prior. 

“That’s not my name,” the hero grumbles, but he doesn’t sound mad. No, he just sounds like shit. You frown as you look over his shadowed form. “Answer my question.” 

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I heard a commotion and decided to investigate.” You spy the pool of blood accumulating at his feet, and gesture towards it. “What are you doing out here? You should probably go to the hospital.” A pause, and a pizza rat scurries between the two of you. “This is not the hospital.”

The man winces as he straightens a bit, evidently trying to play off the injury. He does a pretty shit job. Even in the moonlight, you can see he’s pale and shaky. Faintly, in the soft night light, you catch red on his ribs. “Shit luck,” he offers in explanation. 

You chew your lip. Honestly, you want to press him a bit. There must be something going on in the area if a hero is frequently in the area, and keeps getting hurt. But you’re no fool. He hasn’t been forthcoming so far, so why would Mr. Hello Kitty tell you why he’s here now ?

Huffing a soft curse, you take a tentative step forward. The man stiffens, eyes narrowing from under his dark bangs. You raise your hands placatingly. “I’m not gonna hurt you, bro. Just… I have a first aid kit.” You wave it in the air and it makes a loud clanking noise. “I can help.” 

“I don’t need your help,” Mr. Hello Kitty snaps.

You don’t flinch at his harsh tone. It’s obvious he’s not angry, just in pain. “Fine. Just… here.” You set the first aid kit down onto the grimy alley floor, and step away, hands coming to rise once more. “If you need anything, just steal a piece of pizza from whatever rat is around. They’re loud as hell when threatened.” 

With that, you turn on your heel and promptly leave. There’s a twinge of worry and guilt in your chest as you unlock your apartment and remember to take your meds. 

When you wake up a few hours later and scramble towards the window, the daylight doesn’t reveal the body of Mr. Hello Kitty. It does reveal, however, your first aid kit. 

Huh, you think. Weird.

You’re about to guzzle approximately six shots of espresso when the door rings, signaling the arrival of a customer. It’s nothing unusual, even though it’s the evening at this point. You work at a coffee shop somewhat near a hospital, so you often get nurses at odd hours as they prepare for their shifts. So you don’t immediately turn to see the customer, instead eyeing the espresso machine and wondering if you can get away with it.

“And then I told Yori-chan that if he fucks with the K-Pop stans on Twitter again, he will be doxxed and possibly even assassinated,” you coworker, and somehow friend, Hata rambles on while wiping down the countertops. “You saw what happened when that one hero said he didn’t like that one boy group. Within five minutes, his address was leaked. A hero’s!” 

“Uh huh,” you say, still staring at the espresso machine. “And what did Yori-chan say?”

“He told me he only fears God,” Hata sighs. “He’s gonna end up on national television in a memorial…” 

There’s the subtle but efficient sound of someone politely clearing the throat, and you hear Hata, ever jumpy, yelp as she throws her rag down “A-ah! So sorry. What can I get you, sir?” 

You smirk at Hata’s airheadedness, reaching over to grab a glass for your espresso monstrosity. Your hand is on the lever when the customer speaks. “Just a black coffee, please,” says a familiar voice.

You stiffen, and purse your lips as you slowly, slowly look over your shoulder. There’s a man hunched over at the register. Long black hair hides his scruffy face, but you can make out the very faint mark of a scar below his eye. Honestly, though, if his scar and scruffiness aren’t dead giveaways, his ugly ass jumpsuit is. 

Mr. Hello Kitty. 

You’re pleasantly surprised to see him alive and well. You haven’t found him in the alleyway in about four days. Obviously, he survived whatever scuffle he got into the other night. You’re about to give him shit about something - it’s what you do after all - when Hata asks, “Name?”

Your head jerks forward at that, heart thumping erratically. He wouldn’t give you any information in the alley, not even his name. And now? Well, of course you needed a name for a coffee order. What Starbucks didn’t do that shit? 

Does it make you feel kinda bad you’re taking advantage of his inherent trust of baristas - an awful thing to do anyways - to obtain his name? Eh, kind of. Are you more ambitious about getting the upper hand on the hero? 

Yeah. You’re not getting a promotion here any time soon, so might as well strive to do something else. Even if that something else is being a massive pain in someone’s ass. 

“Aizawa,” says the man and you bite your lip to keep from letting a soft laugh out. Ha. You did it. You got the upperhand. You’re so smart. Despite the moment of gloating, you still reach for a coffee cup and begin to fill it up with, blegh, black coffee.

Fuck, how do people drink this shit? 

Then again, you were about to just down six shots of espresso. Let him who is without sin be an opp, as God said. 

“Thank you sir, it’ll just be a moment.” Hata turns, and you feel her gaze on your back as you perform your task. “Can you please convince Yori-chan to not troll the K-Pop Stans? What if they kidnap him? Hold him hostage?” A dramatic gasp, and a worried whisper of, “What if they waterboard him?”

You can’t help the snort that escapes you at Hata’s worrying. Yori-chan is the oldest of your friend group, and, yes, is a massive fucking idiot. But you know for a fact he uses a VPN when posting on his hero fan account. He’s not famous, but he’s definitely popular on Twitter, for some unknown reason.

Might be the fact he’s pretty smart, oh, and hot. When he posts selfies, the girls and gays thirst over him alike. 

“Hata-chan,” you sigh, knowing your voice will give you away but not caring. Immediately, you feel a new gaze hone in on your back. Goosebumps prick your neck in warning.  “I don’t think stans know how to waterboard.”

“It’s not hard. You just grab a piece of fabric and-”

You turn as Hata begins to spill a concerning amount of details on how to waterboard someone. Immediately, you see him hunched over on the other side of the counter, hands in his pockets. You can practically taste his displeasure at seeing you, even if his body language is relaxed. His eyes are narrowed in on you as you offer a smug grin and hand him his coffee. “Here you go, Aizawa-san,” you hum. “I’ve got ya.” You wink

Aizawa is completely, utterly silent as he grabs the coffee and turns. When the door rings, Hata pauses in her rambling. “Do you think the K-Pop stans will track us down too?

You turn and promptly pour yourself seven espresso shots. 

“Hey, uh, I think that much espresso will kill you.”

“Here"s hoping!” 

You’re walking home late one night after working a twelve hour shift. The streets aren’t as busy as they are when you usually go to your opening shift. The lack of people provides enough space for you to walk while scrolling through your phone without risk of bumping into someone. 

Music blares through your headphones, some K-Pop song Yori had texted you about earlier that day.

yori :( 

some stan sent me a fancam with this song in it … i think i have a hit on me? good song tho tbh

Briefly, you worried for your friend’s safety. But you refused to end up like Hata, obsessing over whether or not he’d get fucking tortured. No, you had bigger things to worry about. Like the alleyway’s pizza rats you were positive were forming a mob, ready to rise up and fight for pizza rat rights. When you’d mentioned that to your therapist, she reminded you to take your meds consistently.

Yeah, yeah, whatever. 

One of Yori’s posts come up on your feed and you click on it, curious. It’s some pictures of who you recognize to be Hawks in the air, fighting some dude. And in the middle of the frame is Yori flashing a grin with a peace sign. You arch a brow, going to read the replies when a black shoe comes into your peripheral vision. 

Oh. Someone’s walking beside you. 

Pausing your music in case they’re gonna try and mug you, you look up and-

“You really have no sense of self-preservation, do you?” drawls a familiar voice and you roll your eyes, finally laying your eyes on Aizawa’s tired face.

“Well if this area is as safe as the heroes make it out to be, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you reply, voice sickeningly sweet. 

You think his jaw clenches as he looks straight ahead, away from you. You can’t help but smirk. “It doesn’t matter where you are,” he says after a moment. “A bad person will jump at any opportunity.”

“So, is that why you’re walking me home?” you ask, voice teasing. His expression doesn’t shift - not even a bit. Damn, talk about stoic. Rolling your eyes, you let out a loud sigh and return to your phone. “I know how to handle myself.”

“You’ve run into a dark alley in the middle of the night,” he points out, before adding, “Twice.” 

“I thought the pizza rats were gonna start a riot again,” you say. “I think they’re unionizing, did you know that?” 

Something akin to exasperation radiates off of Aizawa, and you see him reach up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Honestly, it’s a little manic-sounding, but you can’t help but giggle. “Get off your phone,” he simply says, and you shrug, looking at the replies to Yori"s tweet. Unsurprisingly, there’s an array of fancams with random IP addresses in the comments. 

“Can’t,” you hum. “I gotta make sure Yori doesn’t get a hit placed on him.”

“You’re going to trip.”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you say, “No, I wo-”

You trip. 

It’s not a hard fall but you do scrape up your palms. You hiss and curse as you rub at them, glancing up to see Aizawa has stopped a few feet in front of you. He watches with a look that deftly says I told you so. You just flip him the bird and stalk past him. “I’m letting the pizza rats gather an army and eat you next time you fall.”

He walks you to the alleyway, and then stops. You don’t, but you do glance back before you turn the corner to get to your apartment building. 

There’s no one there, and you unlock your door trying to figure out why he made sure you got home safe. 

Eh, you think. Must be a hero thing.

That’s the only thing that makes sense… right?

A few days later, you’re cleaning the counter at work when the door rings open. You don’t look up, instead focusing on a particularly stubborn spot of cream on the black countertop. Hata stands up from where she was crouching behind the register, her phone still in hand. No doubt she was texting Yori about something stupid he’d done now. 

Last you checked, he had Hawks fangirls and fanboys after him. Something about how he said Hawks smiled at him and they had talked . Honestly, their conversation had probably been short. Probably something like, “ Hey, you’re that one idiot on Twitter!”

Which was then probably met with, “ Hey, you’re that OTHER idiot on Twitter!”

Idiots, you decide. The whole lot of them.

“Ah, hello! How can I help you today, young sir?” Hata greets. 

It’s not uncommon to get college students and the lot, but as you turn and see some green-haired kid who is definitely a high schooler, you feel a bit of confusion. You glance at the clock. It’s still school hours? 

“Oi,” you say before the kid can place his order. His wide eyes flick to you in surprise and you situate him with a pointed look. “Are you playing hooky?”

The kid blinks once, twice, and then smiles sheepishly, shaking his head. “A-ah no! My teacher sent me ahead to get him coffee.”

Odd, but honestly? You’ve seen crazier shit. The things people look up using the cafe’s internet makes you shudder, sometimes. The crazy fanfictions you’ve had the misfortune of spying… You could probably write a APA-formatted, double-spaced essay on the rise of A/B/O dynamics in the Hero fandom and their deft exploration of gender roles. 

“Alright, what would you like to order?” Hata asks smoothly.

The kid inspects the menu for a long moment, gently tapping his chin as he thinks. You just gravitate towards the cups. “Ah, an iced coffee and black coffee please!” 

Hata tells him the total and he fishes out a card that is littered with…cats? Huh, weird. You dismiss it, and busy yourself with making the drinks. You’re just finishing with the black coffee when the door rings again. You don’t look back, watching the coffee fill the cup. 

“Did you order, Problem Child?” asks a familiar voice and you do look back now. 

The kid is looking up at none other than Aizawa as he approaches the countertop. A frown busies itself on your face. Is Aizawa… a teacher? 

Huh.

Well, now you have more dirt on him. More stuff to tease him over. Fuck yeah. 

“Yep! I got an iced coffee for me and a black coffee for you,” the ‘Problem Child’ says cheerfully. His eyes glimmer as he looks up at his teacher, and the adoration is evident. It’s oddly warming… The idea of this grumpy hero looking after kids.

Huh.

Well, that makes you feel… weird. 

You finish preparing the drinks and slide them across the countertop. The kid and Aizawa look at you now, the former with a large smile on his face and the latter looking… bored. “I didn’t know you were a teacher, Aizawa- sensei,” you say, voice sickeningly sweet. 

The kid’s expression shifts into one of confusion as he looks from his teacher then back to you. “A-ah, you two know each other?” he innocently asks.

“Do we?” You grin at Aizawa, who just slurps his coffee. 

“He’s been here before!” Hata chimes in, saving Aizawa from having to answer your awkward question. You shoot your friend a glare but she’s as airheaded as ever. “A few times a week, actually.” 

You’ve only seen him one other time, you note. Though, you haven’t been working at this location as often. Your boss likes you to hop over to other cafes and help out. With recent villain attacks, some staff are too scared to come in. One girl even got mugged on the way to work last week.

Aizawa just slurps his coffee.

“He’s a good tipper!” Hata croons, positively swooning. 

Huh.

Aizawa slurps his-

The door opens and a loud, “The fuckers got it!” make you all look over. You notice how Aizawa’s hair begins to elevate, eyes glinting that demonic red you remember from that one night you found him hurt. And the kid’s skin crackles with pure energy. But once they all see a blonde man collapse with his phone out, the vibes turn… confused. “My IP address…” 

“Yori, what the fuck are you doing?” you say, voice betraying just how baffled you are. 

He looks up, eyes watering. “They even know my fucking blood type. ”

You groan. Hata sighs. “Yori-chan, that’s why you don’t fuck with K-Pop stans.”

He whines, and you eye the espresso machine once more.

Two days later, you work a shift at the other location a few blocks away. The distance isn’t terrible, but it does require you to walk for a lot longer than you would otherwise. You don’t really mind. Usually, you just plop your headphones on and listen to music as you navigate the dark, bustling streets. 

Sure, crime is rising.

Sure, Aizawa warned you.

But, eh, no one really thinks it’s gonna happen to them until it does.

The worst part honestly isn’t when you’re dragged into a dark alleyway, a hand covering your mouth as something cool and sharp presses to your throat. It isn’t the hot, rank-ass breath puffing on your exposed neck as they nuzzle the bun your hair is in. It isn’t the quiet, oh so quiet, “Make a move, make a noise, and you’re fucking dead, princess.” 

No, it’s that you’re only five minutes away from home.

So close, but as you frantically glance around, trying to look for something to fight back with, you know you are so, so far. You tremble, recognizing the familiar and awful sensation of adrenaline beginning to course through your veins. It’s hot, and so cold at the same time. It burns as it prepares your body to do whatever it needs to in order to survive.

God, your therapist is gonna love hearing about this in the next session.

“We’ve seen you, you know?” that masculine voice whispers, dragging the knife down to your sternum. It digs in through the fabric of your uniform, a vague sort of threat and promise. That hand is still wrapped tightly around your mouth. “Talking with that fucking kid, ” he spat. “And his lovely sensei. We see everything that happens around here, you dumb bitch.” 

Had they been spying on you? 

It seems unlikely. You feel like you would’ve noticed by now, and besides, it’s not like you’re a big target. You’re a mentally ill, sleep-deprived barista. It seems more likely that they’ve been watching Aizawa and his student. 

Is that why Aizawa keeps hovering in the area?

These guys?

Honestly, admitting that Aizawa was right about you needing to be careful out here is more painful than the tip of the knife digging into a rib. You squirm a bit, and the knife cuts your shirt open ever so slightly. You pause as the man holding you chuckles. “You’re going to tell us everything you know,” he murmurs, and then, to your utter disgust, he runs his tongue along your neck.

It feels pathetic, and maybe it is, but fuck it - you start crying out. The man’s hand keeps it muffled as he just laughs at you kicking your legs out, desperately trying to get away. He digs the knife in just below your breast, however, and you shudder, stilling. “What are you, anyways? A friend? A previous student?” He sucks in a sharp breath, and adds, “A whore?”

You’re into demeaning, but not in this subtext. Not whatsoever. You grit your teeth, spy a pipe on the ground beside you, and decide, eh.

Fuck it.

Without warning, you bite down on the man’s fingers. Hard. Blood spurts in your mouth as he howls. The knife begins to dig in dangerously, and you use his shock to your advantage. With a hiss, you jerk your head back and feel it collide with, what you assume is, his nose. There’s A sickening crunch and the sharp tang of copper in the air and you don’t risk a look back as you scramble for the pipe on the ground.

You hadn’t taken the man’s speed into account, however. To be fair, you were freaking the fuck out and just acting on adrenaline. So you didn’t consider the fact he might be fast as fuck. Which is why you yelp as a hand wraps around your calf, yanking you back with a startling amount of force. 

You collapse onto the ground, smacking your head on the gross alley pavement so hard that stars flicker in your vision. Briefly, there’s a ringing in your ears as you think you groan. Everything feels… weird, though. Muffled. Underwater. You blink away the blurriness in your vision, remembering to reach for the pipe.

“You’re pretty,” says the man, sounding far away. A foot firmly presses down on your hand. Your breath catches in your throat. “But you’re not worth the trouble. Sorry, sweetheart.”

He rears his foot back and you realize what he’s going to do.

So, with a curse, you decide you should probably use your quirk, even with the risks. You hone in on the sight of the man’s foot. It’s enough to lock your powers onto. As long as some aspect of a person is in view, then you can control them. Well… You smirk. What they see.

A thousand pinpricks travel up your spine, your breaths suddenly placid. The wind brushes over you both and it jostles your sweaty hair. Whispers wrap around your neck. 

One moment, the man sees your body splayed on the ground. The next, dozens of floating red eyes surround him, bearing down on him. You can’t see his expression, but you hear him let out a fearful gasp. His foot retreats from your hand, and you reach for the pipe once more. 

“What the fuck?” hisses the man, stumbling back a few steps. It gives you enough opportunity to firmly grasp the metal weapon. It doesn’t take long for most people to realize what they’re seeing isn’t real, but is instead the product of your abilities. “What is this shit?”

Nightmare.

The cool metal of the pipe touches your fingers, and you wrap your hand around it, pushing yourself onto your back to see the man. He’s, well, ugly, but maybe some niche community on Twitter would find him handsome. It doesn’t really matter as you sneer up at him. “Eat shit,” you bite and then you swing the pipe into his leg. 

There’s a sickening - like really gross - crunch as the man’s leg suddenly bends awkwardly. The man screams and drops, grabbing his leg. You take that as your cue to leave, and go to get up when he’s rearing his own hand back and jutting the knife into your own calf. 

A hot burn sparks up your leg as you yell out, baring your teeth in a snarl as you swing at his arm this time. He pulls back just in time, an angry, “You’re gonna die!” shouted your way. You thank God for adrenaline and stand up, hobbling away from this godforsaken alley as blood dribbles behind you. 

“Fuck fuck fuck,” you hiss as the man screams and swears. “Fuck fuck fuck-”

You glance behind you and oh, great, he has a regenerative quirk! His bone is back in place and oh, great, he’s stalking towards you with the knife in hand. You can’t help but laugh maniacally because of course this is how you die and of course it’ll hurt and of course-

Someone steps into the alleyway in front of you, and you catch a glint of red. You pause. Great, another person here to kill you, probably. You hold up the metal pipe and get into what you’re pretty sure is a fighting stance. You’ve never done this before, so honestly? You’re not entirely sure how to position yourself. Regardless, you’re going down swinging. 

“Duck,” says a familiar voice, and, well, who are you to argue? Within a breath, you’re dropping down and wincing at the pressure it puts on your bloody leg. There’s a blur of motion above you, and something whizzes as it passes your head. Faintly, there’s the smell of patchouli and coffee as you glance back towards killer-dude. 

He’s… wrapped up. In a cloth? You frown, because that doesn’t really make much sense. Just like he’d done to you, he’s gagged, but by the fabric stuff binding him. Huh. You follow the fabric towards the front of the alleyway and realize- 

“Oh shit,” you mutter as you sit up now, hissing when it jostles your calf. “Aizawa.”

Said man approaches, and as the adrenaline tempers down, you can see him better. His hair floats menacingly, eyes glinting in that demonic way they sometimes do. And, when you squint, you think you see… fury? Yeah, dude’s pissed. “What did I tell you about walking alone at night?” he bites out.

You roll your eyes and stand, carefully avoiding the scarf-fabric-thingy. “Something about getting jumped. I dunno, I was reading about Yori getting doxxed.” 

His jaw clenches, and you think a vein pops in his forehead. “You and that damn phone,” he mutters as he stops a few steps away from you. He first eyes the villain, who’s still struggling and trying to talk, and then looks at you. His gaze starts at your face but quickly lowers until it settles on the stab wound. It’s not horrible, but it hurts to walk on it. “You’re hurt.”

You shrug. “Eh, I got a first aid kit at home. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he sighed. “You were jumped and attacked.”

“At least I didn’t fall 30 feet and pass out in some random alley,” you chirped, and you bite back a shit-eating grin at Aizawa’s exasperated expression. 

“I’m a hero,” he simply says, rubbing at his temples. “Why were you even out this late?”

“Work,” you say, shrugging. “Anyways, I’m gonna go now. Thanks for saving me, Aizawa-san. See ya later.”

You offer a small, curt wave and turn to leave when there’s a firm, “Wait.” Pausing, you glance back at Aizawa to see him fishing something out of his pocket. To your utmost surprise, he offers a large bandage. “It doesn’t look deep, so I don’t think you need stitches. Just make sure to keep it clean.” 

Pursing your lips, you take the bandaid and ignore how your fingers almost touch. For a long second, you debate giving him shit for seemingly caring about your health. But he looks exhausted. No doubt being a teacher and a hero is tiring work.

So, deciding maybe this was a sign from God to be nicer, you pocket the band aid and leave. “Thanks.” You offer a small wave, trying to appear as light as possible, all things considering. But honestly? Your mind races in the final five minute walk to your apartment.

What’s going on in the area? Why is a gang keeping tabs on Aizawa and the kid? And why did they target you, some random barista?

You don’t get much sleep that night. 

The next day at work, you unlock the door, clock in, and begin to open. There’s an insistent throb in your leg as you hobble around, cleaning machines and turning them on. Exhaustion weighs you down heavily. Nightmares plagued the little sleep you got, a byproduct of using your quirk. Thankfully, you’re usually the opener so you drift throughout the empty cafe with practiced ease. 

An hour passes, and the door rings just as a loud yawn echoes off the walls. You don’t have to glance over to know it’s Hata, no doubt still half-asleep. “Mornin’,” she hums, and you hear her set her small bag down on the counter. “Did you see that Yori-chan was retweeted by Endeavor? He called me at one in the morning to scream about how he was gonna get that fiery dick.” 

“Hmm,” you say in response, not really put off by Yori’s antics. Honestly, the man has said far, far worse. You’re surprised he hasn’t gotten a cease and desist in the mail… yet. You finish scrubbing some blenders and hobble towards the cupboards. Now that Hata’s here, you do try to be a bit more inconspicuous about the wound. She won’t-

“Why are you limping?” Hata asks, and you freeze, caught. Slowly, you meet her eyes. Her gaze is narrowed at you. “Did you get hurt?” 

“Tripped,” you say, leaving it at that. It isn’t necessarily a lie. You did fall… because some random gang has a vendetta against Aizawa and targeted you. But you leave that part out for obvious reasons. “I’m fine, just a bit banged up.”

Hata purses her lips, inspecting you carefully as you turn and continue opening duties. “Alright,” she says, not sounding very convinced. “I’ll sic Yori-chan on you if you’re lying to me.” 

You fake a shudder. “Ooh, so scary.”

Thankfully, Hata drops the topic and the two of you open the store. It takes a bit to get busy, but as it approaches class time, the pace picks up a bit. Soon, you’re in a flurry of making drinks and sliding them to the customer. Maybe that’s why you don’t notice Hata being called over to the side of the counter, or maybe it’s lack of sleep. Honestly, probably both.

Either way, when you hear Hata screech your name, you know you’re fucked. 

Sighing, you reluctantly look over at the end of the counter to see Hata and- “Oh fuck,” you bite. Aizawa’s slouched over beside her, watching with his usual blank expression. For a moment - just a moment, you’ll tell your therapist - you consider using your quirk on him just to get revenge. But you’re nice. You’re a good person.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyways.

Hata makes a come hither motion, and you glance around. There’s no customers in line, so you quickly clean off the blender in your hand before approaching the two pains in your asses. Hata crosses her arms, tapping her foot as you draw near. “Yes?” you ask.

“You said you tripped.” she brusquely states. 

Your eyes flick to Aizawa, and then back to your friend. “Yeah.” 

“You lied.”

You look at Aizawa. He just stares back. Disinterested. Ugh. “Okay.”

“You didn’t fucking tell me you got jumped and attacked! ” Hata hisses, growing hysterical. 

You shrug. “I didn’t think it was relevant information.”

“Relevant- Are you out of your mind?” Hata nervously glances around before leaning in, whispering, “Is this because of the incident ?”

Now that makes you bristle. “No,” you snap, fuse blown. “I’m fine, okay? I got cut but it’s not a big deal. I’ve handled worse.”

Hata’s eyes melt into something sympathetic. It makes you want to bare your teeth like a cornered animal. “Just because you survived one villain attack doesn’t mean-”

“What do you want?” you bite out, turning to Aizawa.

He blinks owlishly, surprised to be so suddenly addressed. “You didn’t tell anyone,” he says.

You quirk a brow. “It happened at midnight. I was getting to it.”

“Did you sleep?”

Oh, yeah, you don’t like where this is going at all. You roll your eyes with a huff and cross your arms, leaning back on your heels. Embarrassingly, you can’t suppress a wince when the movement jostles the wound on your leg. They definitely notice. “I’ll order pepper spray or a fucking pocket knife for when I walk home,” you say, just trying to get them off your ass. 

Hata shakes her head. “Yeah, no. Aizawa-san and I discussed it, and he’s gonna walk you home at night from now on.”

You glare at the man. No doubt used to the gesture, he just shrugs. You sigh, reaching up to rub at your now aching head. “I’m not in the mood for this. Whatever. If that’s how Aizawa-san wants to spend his precious time, then so be it.” The door rings, and you glance over to see a customer enter. “Now if we’re done, I have to do my job.”

You turn and limp over to the register, going to take a woman’s order. Hata and Aizawa talk for a few more moments before the man leaves. “He’s just doing his job,” she tells you softly.

“Whatever,” you mumble. 

For some reason, Hata’s words bother you for the rest of the day.

Thankfully, you don’t have a double or a closing shift for the next few days, which means you tactfully avoid having to be escorted to your apartment by Aizawa. The wound on your leg slowly heals. Hata frequently texts to check in, even roping Yori into it. 

yori :( 

hey bitchass, when do you work at the main shop again?

hata-chan~! 

Yori-chan, that’s not her name! 

yori :( 

okay. hey dumbass, when do you work at the main shop again?

hata-chan~!

she’s on the schedule for tomorrow at 6, i think : O 

bitchass-dumbass

i’m not walking with mr. hero. 

hata-chan~!

I don’t think he’s gonna let you walk alone, tbh. He was pretty concerned the other day.

bitchass-assbitch

he’ll have to catch me first lol 

You pocket your phone and water your plants. All is well. You have a plan.

He catches you.

You really tried, too. You spent your whole shift planning how you’d sneak out the back and climb that one fire-escape and scaffold that one roof and-

Yeah, he’s waiting for you in the back as you step out.

A long, pained groan heaves out of you when you see him leaning against the wall of the small alley behind the shop. His arms are crossed, face burrowed in his weird scarf thingy as he regards you coolly. “I really don’t need a bodyguard,” you insist. 

His eyes flick to your leg, and then back up. He says nothing and you grumble to yourself, something about insufferable heroes and gonna kill Hata and why does God hate me. Honestly, as you lock the door and turn to begin the walk home, you wonder why he’s even doing this. A cursory once-over of the man reveals he looks utterly exhausted. Besides, don’t heroes have better shit to do?

Like stopping crime?

He’s just doing his job.

What, like his job as a hero involves walking girls home?

Whatever. 

The two of you walk in silence for a few moments, Aizawa easily keeping pace with his long legs. With your wounded calf, you know you’re not moving as fast as usual, but he adjusts accordingly. You try to keep your eyes straight ahead and ignore him, but in the end, you’re just a girl. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, you watch him out of the corner of your eye. 

Really, you’re not surprised he’s not talking. You doubt he wants to be doing this as much as you want him to be your escort. Which is not at all. Still, it’s kind of awkward. 

You go to reach for your phone when he hisses, “Pay attention.” 

You shoot him a dirty look and his attention isn’t even on you. The dude is scoping out the area. “Bruh,” you huff. “I’m not gonna get jumped by some serial killer.” 

Now he looks at you, and offers a very pointed expression that says ‘deadass?’ 

You grit your jaw as you open Twitter. “Besides, I have the Secret Service with me now. I’m fine.” 

You think he says something like why must I always get the self-sacrificial ones but you don’t really know what he’s going on about, so you ignore him. You scroll through Twitter for a few moments. There’s some tweet from Hawks about his new plushies coming out, Hata sharing some coffee meme, and Yori posting a selfie with- You snort. He got another selfie with Endeavor. Fucking fanboy. How has he not gotten arrested for pestering the man yet?

“How’s your leg?” Aizawa asks, interrupting your perusal of your feed. 

You glance over at him, but he’s still dutifully watching nearby alleys. You shrug. “Eh, fine.” 

“Have you been cleaning it?”

“Yeah.”

He looks at you now. Ah, shit. Your tone wasn’t very convincing, was it? “A few times a day?”

You purse your lips. “Mhm.”

He says your name, harsh and jagged, and you finally meet his gaze. He’s stopped walking, facing you now and you realize you’ve reached the alleyway. But, it’s obvious there’s something unfinished here. Something unspoken.

His hand gestures loosely to your leg. He seems to hesitate before mumbling, barely audible, “Let me see.” 

“Um, what?”

“Your leg,” he snaps with more edge. Still, there’s no real malice there. He sounds… flustered? That’s weird. “Let me see your leg.”

You inspect him for a long moment, but remind yourself he’s just doing his job as a hero. So you pull up your pant leg and Aizawa comes closer, only a few steps away as he crouches down. It feels weird to have a hero crouching down in front of you, running his fingers along the sensitive skin of your bare leg. For a moment, you feel like a Victorian-era woman showing a man her ankles for the first time.

You really want to give Aizawa shit for this. It’s absolutely festering in your chest, but you bite back all snarky remarks because his hands are really warm and calloused and- You hiss as they ghost over the stab wound. “It’s infected,” he says with an exasperated huff. “Need to disinfect it. Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Inside,” you say, trying to ignore the subtle way your heart rate increases as he pulls back and stands. He’s still close; the faint smell of patchouli wafting over you. Clearing your throat, you internally scream a little bit when his eyes linger on your face. “I can handle it.”

Aizawa does not seem convinced. “Can you?”

“Ya know, I survived,” you bite, deciding to risk meeting his gaze. It’s a mistake; sending your blood rushing to your head and mouth running dry. He’s so close. And, yes, dammit, he’s handsome. In a weird scruffy way that you’ve never really experienced before. But he’s a hero. He’s just doing his job. He - “When that idiot jumped me, I survived. Got a few good hits in too, thank you very much.”

Aizawa arches a brow. “I know,” he hums. You don’t need to convince me, his tone implies. 

“I can take care of myself,” you roll your eyes, jutting your hands into your pockets. “Goodnight.” 

With that, you brush past him and all but sprint-hobble towards your apartment. You try to ignore the scalding heat of him watching you go, but it’s hard. You unlock your apartment, throw your shit on the couch, and promptly collapse into your bed. 

Ugh.

(If you’d looked in the alleyway before passing out, you would’ve found him still lingering) 

Two days later, you’re fucking up every drink you make. People are getting pissed, and the amount of times you’ve had to remake their orders is absolutely bonkers. Only three hours into your shift and you’re utterly exhausted, feeling it to your bones. 

Pressed against the counter, you shakingly sip on a cup of water. Hata hovers near the register, nervously glancing at you from time-to-time. Sweat drips down your skin. Fuck, are you sick? You really can’t afford to miss any work. Rent is expensive, even in this shitty part of town.

“Do you wanna go home?” Hata eventually asks, and you shake your head with a shaky breath. You reach up and wipe away the sweat beading on your forehead. 

“No,” you manage to say, throat burning. “I need the money.” 

Hata’s lips thin, and you see her pull out her phone to no doubt text your boss and Yori. But you don’t pay attention as you close your eyes, so… fucking… exhausted…

The door chimes but it barely registers. Still, it’s hard to miss Hata’s, “Hi, Midoriya-san! Your usual?” 

Slowly, you crack open your eyes to see the green-haired kid from the other day at the register. He grins brightly at Hata as she types in his order. Right, Aizawa’s student. “Yes, please!” he says, ever so polite. Hazily, you think, where’s Aizawa? But the thought is gone as you grab a coffee cup and begin to make their drinks. 

“Where’s your sensei, Midoriya-san? Is he running late?” Hata teases and Midoriya makes a humming noise just as the card reader dings. 

“He saw a cat, I think. He said he’d catch up,” the kid explains. “Hi, Barista-san!” It takes a moment of you staring blankly into the suddenly overflowing cup of iced coffee, but you realize he’s talking to you. You turn to look at the kid, trying to hide the fucked up coffee. 

“Hey, kid,” you greet, trying to muster enough energy to not sound how you feel. Clearly, you don’t do a very good job cuz the kid’s brows knit together. “Are you studying?”

“A-ah, yes! Always.” He frowns. “Are you feeling alright? You look-”

“Like shit,” says a familiar voice and you lazily, tiredly drag your eyes towards the door. Aizawa enters, shaking his wet hair as you look away. 

“Gee, thanks, Aizawa-san,” you drawl. “You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.” With that, you turn and get back to preparing their drinks. 

Hata makes idle chit-chat, asking Midoriya what he’s currently studying in school, what  cat Aizawa saw, and so forth. It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to make a simple black and iced coffee, hands shaking so hard the drinks spill over the edges. You curse under your breath as you slam a fucking lid down. 

Sweat drips down your back as you give an involuntary shiver, passing the drinks over the counter. The world spins and dips around you and you grip the ledge of the countertop, trying to keep yourself up. Hata’s still talking to Midoriya. Something about Endeavor. But you don’t-no, can’t focus. You feel… sick.

Really sick.

“You should go home,” Aizawa says in front of you, and you see his calloused hands take hold of his drinks. The world feels…off, though, and you don’t look up in fear of vomiting all over a fucking hero. He may annoy you, but you don’t wanna do that.

You’ll get fired.

“I’m fine,” you huff, gesturing to the outdoors. Rain drizzles down at a steady pace. “Just a cold. Forgot my coat.”

Not entirely a lie. You did forget your coat, but it wasn’t raining on the way into work. 

Aizawa doesn’t say anything, but suddenly, a cold - blissfully cold - hand pressed to your forehead. You jerk a bit at that, taken aback to look up and find the man pressing the back of his hand to your face. His eyes are narrow as he finally sees what you pray aren’t glassy eyes, flushed cheeks… 

“Where’s your breakroom?” he asks. 

Hata, ever so nosey, points towards a door in the back. “Back there!” You know she wants to make a sex joke, and a peek reveals her biting her tongue. God, she’s as much a teenager as Midoriya. “I tried to tell her to go home but she refused.”

“C’mon,” Aizawa sighs, moving a hand to your shoulder as you walk over towards the small swinging door attached to the counter. He reaches down and opens it for you even though, ya know, it’s just a swinging door, but whatever. You tell yourself he’s just doing his job. He pushes the back door open and reveals a small room with a table, a few chairs, and an assortment of random shit. “Sit,” he murmurs as he gently lowers you to a chair.

“I don’t need you to baby me,” you grunt out, but he’s already opening the mini-fridge that’s stacked on some boxes and handing you a water bottle. Your hand trembles as you reach for it, and you hope he doesn’t notice, but it’d be foolish to think that he wouldn’t. 

“Let me see your leg,” he says. Evidently, he’s not in an arguing mood.

You sigh and slowly reach down to tug your pant leg up. Aizawa crouches in front of you, a sight that still makes your breath catch, and he helps pull the denim up. He’s careful for it to not scrape along where the wound is. But, still, you wince when it hits the cool air.

Aizawa curses, fingertips gingerly pressing against your flesh. “Shit,” he hisses. He looks up at you now, and his eyes faintly glint red. “Have you been cleaning this like I told you to?”

You manage a faint shrug. “Ah, when I have the time. I’ve been working a lot.” 

Aizawa clenches his jaw, and you think he’s mad. He mutters curses as he leans back on his heels and stands. Yeah, he’s mad. But his words feel distant and cloudy as you lean back against the wall, so tired. “It’s severely infected,” he tells you, and you hum. “Did you hear me? It’s infected. You need to go to the hospital.”

You offer a slight wave of your hand. “Yeah, no. Not happening.” 

Aizawa visibly bristles. You smile to yourself. That was cat behavior. Is Aizawa-san secretly a cat? It’d explain why he lurks in alleyways. You’re not sure. “If you don’t, the infection will spread and you could die. You’re already burning up.”

Cat… Cat… Aizawa is a cat… You sigh. “Hate hospitals,” you offer in explanation. And then when his eyes narrow to slits, you giggle. “Meow.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call 9-1-1.”

“Not paying that bill,” you tell him.

He taps on his phone for a few moments before growling, pocketing it. “There was a large-scale villain attack a few blocks away. All the EMTS are busy. Closest ones are thirty minutes away.” 

“Not paying that bill,” you remind him.

Aizawa runs his hands through his hair, pacing for a moment before stopping in front of you. His expression is something soft, something you’re not familiar with as he presses his hand to your forehead. “Can’t wait that long,” he murmurs. “I’ll bring you.”

“No walking,” you decline. “I’ll… throw up.”

Aizawa chews his lip before fucking picking you up. You yelp at his hands bringing you to his chest, bridal style. You’re not sick enough to miss the stutter in your chest, the warmth spreading to your fingertips, all of it. “I’m bringing you to the hospital,” he states. 

“You… better shit… do,” you trail off as the world flickers. Everything is so hot. So sweaty. Patchouli. Cats. Hata. 

“I’ll make time,” Aizawa says, voice suddenly in double, triple, quadruples. You realize oh shit, I’m gonna faint . “...my job.”

Right , you blearily think as the infection drags you under. Just a job

The last thing you feel is how tight his fingers are where they wrap around you. 

When you wake up, Yori is in your face.

You reach up to smack him, but can’t. You groan. Yori leans back. “You’re such a dumbass, you know that?” 

“I’m not the one that said some stan’s bias was musty,” you choke out, throat abhorrently dry. Thankfully, someone at your side offers a glass of water that you greedily suck down. When you peek up, you find Hata sitting a few feet away. Her expression is one of worry. “Ugh, what now?”

“You were septic,” Hata tells you, eyes already watering. “The doctors said if you’d waited even a few more hours it could’ve been really bad.” Death, she’s saying. Eh. Not the first time you’ve dodged the Reaper. You guys were due for your annual bottomless brunch. 

“So, what’d they do?” you ask, surveying the small room you’re in. It’s all white tile and smells of cleaning solution, something you try to ignore lest the past come rushing back. A small TV hangs in the corner, playing the news, and Yori sits on the edge of your bed. 

He points to your arm, and you glance down to see an I.V. poking you. “Fluids and antibiotics,” he tells you. “Christ, why didn’t you go to the doctor sooner? If that hero dude, Eraserhead, hadn’t brought you here when he did…

Ah, Aizawa. So that’s his hero name. 

You shrug as much as your sore body will let you. “You know I hate hospitals and doctors.”

Hata’s lips pull taut. “I thought you worked through that,” she says, softly now. 

Picking at the shitty blankets piled atop you, you roll your eyes. “Yes, I’m in therapy. Yes, I’m on meds. But that doesn’t mean it’s all better.”

“Yume-chan,” Hata whispers, and you flinch at your nickname. They never use it. “Just because you had to go through the last attack alone doesn’t mean you need to now. No one will punish you.”

Everything burns, especially your eyes. Blinking rapidly, you try to dispel the tears welling up. Something akin to panic grips your chest tight and does not let go, even when your breaths become labored. You reach up and rub at the deep bags below your eyes. “Don’t call me that,” you finally murmur in response. “You know that nickname isn’t right.”

“It’s your quirk-”

“I cause nightmares,” you snap, shooting Hata a glare. Your friend looks so sad. So sad, it makes something threaten to break deep inside you. “I’m a nightmare.”

Turning your attention to the TV, you blankly pay attention to some report on villain activity in the area. Still, you manage to spy Hata shooting Yori a concerned look before they get up and leave. You hear them talking in the hallway, but you just let sleep take you again.

With your quirk, it’s hard to get sleep. Inflicting nightmares on another soul frequently haunts you for a few weeks. Sleep gets disrupted, and ghosts and demons nip at your heels in the comfort of rest. 

Then, well, there’s trauma. Obviously, that impacts the quality of sleep too. When something triggers your memories of the incident during the day, it’s not uncommon to spend the night tossing and turning and screaming yourself awake. Fuck, you’ve even woke up scratching at your face before to get away, get away, get away-

You’re on meds for nightmares and hypervigilance. Prazosin, or something like that. Among meds for depression, anxiety, and mood stabilization. Still, the nightmares usually override any of the medication you take.

Especially when you’re in an unfamiliar, stressful environment.

Like hospitals.

Really, it’s no surprise when you jerk awake one evening with a scream in your throat. There’s a desperate plea, too, on the tip of your tongue as the villain goes to trace a knife down your inner thigh. Sensitive, prattles the man. Sensitive, and so sweet. All for me. All for-

Something grabs your hand, something real you realize and you jerk awake, sitting up and punching, hissing, kicking and- 

Hands press your own down, firmly if not carefully, and you see red eyes. Demonic, you hazily think. No, some voice croons. Safe. 

“You’re safe,” says a familiar voice. With your heart still beating so loudly, you can’t really register the black hair, red eyes, and gruff voice. But when he says, “You’re okay” you finally register who’s here.

“Aizawa,” you murmur, voice a bit broken at the edges. Your vision clears from where it was tinted in black, and you find yourself in your hospital room, sitting up, and Aizawa leaning over you with his hands holding your own down. He doesn’t speak as you suck in a deep breath, trying to get oxygen to your brain. As reality becomes a bit more clear, embarrassment flushes hot and burning in your veins. “I- I’m sorry.”

Aizawa cocks his head, inspecting you before letting go and taking a seat in a chair beside your bed. He lounges, legs spread and arms crossed with obvious exhaustion. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Kinda screamed,” you say, shrugging as you lean back into some shitty hospital pillows. They crunch unsatisfactorily behind you.  

The TV is still on, and you watch the subtitles crawl across the screen instead of facing Aizawa. The nightmare still nips at your heels, lingering adrenaline making you want to pick at your nails. Why is he here? What time is it? Doesn’t he have patrol, or teaching, or-

“Were you having a nightmare?” he asks, interrupting your spiraling thoughts. 

You eye him out of your peripheral vision. He’s watching the news too, but you notice him sneaking looks at you every few seconds. He’s on edge. Weird. “I guess I was,” you reply, trying to be as vague as possible. 

He shifts in his chair. “Does that happen a lot?” 

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The nightmares and…” He gestures to your hands, and you clench them in the sheets. “The fighting.” 

You make a dismissive noise. “It’s my quirk,” you explain, hoping he’ll let it go if he gets at least a little info. You really don’t feel like telling the handsome hero who dragged you here your tragic backstory. That’s some shit that happens in those weird American shows Hata likes to make you and Yori watch. “Side effect, I guess.”

Aizawa crosses his legs, cocking his head at you. “What is your quirk?” he asks. Innocent enough question. It shouldn’t make shame swelter in your chest but, eh, it does. 

“I can create living nightmares for anyone I have in view,” you tell him. “I don’t do it often, though. Not as much as I used to.” 

Yume-chan. 

That stupid name makes you feel sick. Just because you could create dreams at one point doesn’t mean you still can, not after… Well, everything. 

“And the side effect is you have nightmares?” Aizawa asks and you nod. 

“Yeah. I think my quirk activates when I’m entering REM and, since I can’t see anyone, it targets me.”

Honestly, you’re sure he’s seen plenty of quirks being both a hero and a teacher. It’s not useful like his, or, surely, Midoriya’s. “Is that how you got away from that villain the other night?” 

There’s a sickening crunch, and he screams above you. You need to get away. You need to-

You bite your tongue and simply nod. “Yep,” you sigh. “And as a result, I’m gonna suffer from intense nightmares for a few weeks until it dies down. Useless quirk if you ask me.”

“It saved your life,” he reminds you pointedly. “You just can’t rely on it entirely. No one can. It’s dangerous.” 

“Are you my sensei now?” you tease, hoping to change the topic. 

He rolls his eyes and leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees as he regards you under messy black hair. You make the mistake of holding his gaze, intense and all-seeing. Fuck. “Is that why you don’t get much sleep?” he asks. “Night terrors?” 

“That and this one dude keeps passing out in the alley behind my house, pissing off the pizza rats.” 

Your pathetic attempt at humor does not derail him. Aizawa presses on. “Erasure allows me to erase anyone’s quirk while I have them in my sights,” he tells you matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah, and you got your bondage weapon,” you say, pointing to his scarf-thingy.

Aizawa’s eyes flit to his scarf, then back to you, and he sighs, beginning to rub at his temples. “It’s a capture weapon,” he mutters. “Anyways, I can…erase your quirk when it activates while you sleep.” A pause, and a trepid, “If you’d like.”

It takes embarrassingly long for you to understand his words. It honestly feels a bit like doing calculus, which you failed in college. Twice. Even after cheating. When it clicks, you can’t help but exclaim, “You want to watch me sleep!?” 

Aizawa looks utterly miserable as he drops his head in his hands. “I’m not- No, that’s not what I’m saying and you know it.”

“Aizawa, you perv!” You giggle uncontrollably as the man seems to contemplate all his life decisions. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I’m just confused. Don’t you have patrol and stuff?” 

“I have tonight off,” he says, leaning back in his chair as he burrows into his capture weapon. Honestly, you should feel a bit bad at giving the man shit when he’s been nothing but helpful. But the feelings that rise with his presence are… uncomfortable. “And you need rest now more than ever.” Both of you glance to the vitals machine beside you, and the I.V. in your arm. 

Honestly, Aizawa’s level of care is a bit… overwhelming. But not in a bad way. It feels very, very foreign and new. To say you’re not used to someone helping you during times of need is an understatement. After the… incident, your parents hadn’t even listened to you when you tried to tell them what happened. You’d walked three miles to the nearest hospital. Fuck, even the police didn’t believe you. 

But Aizawa? 

You suck in a deep breath. 

He’s just doing his job, you tell yourself. So, after a moment, you nod. “Fine,” you huff. “Just doing your job, right?” 

You return to focusing on the TV as Aizawa seems to doze in and out. Sometimes, his phone buzzes and he softly jerks awake, pulling it out to tap away. At one point, his phone begins to ring and he steps out into the hallway.

By the time he comes back in, you’re asleep. 

His fingers scrape down your inner thighs, nails digging into the sensitive flesh there. “You were so easy,” he whispers in your ear, nibbling on it. His hands slowly trail back up as you tremble. “I wonder how you feel knowing this is your own fault. That I used you.” 

There’s a loud noise, and you glance down to see a knife glinting in the night sky’s moonlight. You bite your lip to keep from screaming. He said he’d kill you if you made noise… “I wonder if anyone would even care… if you told them.”

His free hand toys with the hem of your shirt. “I wonder-

The familiar scent of patchouli washes over you, a familiar pull beckoning you forward. It’s okay, whispers a soothing voice. I’ve got you. You follow the voice toward the end of the alleyway you’re in, carefully stepping over trash.

Breathe, says that voice. And you do. You suck in a deep breath just as the moon shifts into the sun, casting its warmth upon your shivering soul. You’re safe. 

You lapse into the sun, letting it swallow you whole as the voice murmurs, I won’t let anything happen. 

When you wake up, it’s to Hata and Yori sitting beside your bed. You frown as you blink away the odd sensation of sleep, and yawn. Your friends, who had been muttering as they scrolled through their phones, jerk up and grin at you. “Hey sleeping beauty,” Yori coos, leaning closer. “Sweet dreams?”

“What time is it?” you ask, awfully confused. Everything feels weird. Like you’ve been out for a long time. 

“It’s the afternoon,” Hata tells you, a small smile on her face. “You slept through the night and the morning, silly.”

“Oh.” You frown. That… doesn’t make sense. What about the nightmares? You’ve been having them every night since that asshole jumped you in the alleyway. 

“By the way,” Yori hums, getting up and walking over towards the sinks in the corner. “Someone left this for you.” He grabs something, and gently hands it to you. 

The frown on your face deepens as you hold up a- “Hello Kitty journal?” you ask, flipping it around. It’s a cute journal, honestly, but what the hell? 

Hata shrugs. “I dunno, there wasn’t a note or card or anything. Still, super cute if you ask me!” With that, she goes back scrolling through her phone as Yori sits beside her. You pay them no mind as they rant about some new Fortnite skin that’s coming out - I want All Might! - Stop thirsting over the old man - you know Endeavor’s the best, Hata-chan - and prop the journal open.

There, on the front page, is a number.

You frown, and glance up to your friends. They’re still bitching about the skins - You’re one to talk about thirsting over old men! Endeavor’s like forty, bro! - You know I have a daddy kink, Hata-chan - so you grab your phone and type in the number. Honestly, texting some random number probably isn’t super smart, but eh. Not the stupidest thing you’ve done. 

#######

                            ╱|、  ?

                          (˚ˎ 。7  

                           |、˜〵          

                          じしˍ,)ノ

Honestly, not the weirdest first text message you’ve sent. Shrugging, you put your phone down just as the nurses bring in lunch.

Once you’re down chowing on some delectable hospital food, you check your phone again.

#######

Most people say hello. 

You arch a brow. 

######

most ppl also write down their name and something nice when giving a gift >:O!!!

######

It’s Aizawa. 

What the fuck? You think you wheeze because suddenly Hata is hitting your back and Yori is debating calling a nurse. “Yume-chan? What’s wrong?” Hata cries. 

You’re still gasping and choking so you show her the phone screen. She narrows her eyes down at it, re-reads it once, twice, and then fucking laughs. “Yori-chan,” she laughs, beckoning their friend over. Yori scowls as he approaches. 

“Is she not dying?” he asks. 

Hata hands him your phone. “Dude.”

Yori reads it once, twice, and then fucking laughs. “Dude.”

They look at your heaving, blushing form.

“Dude,” they both say. 

“Did not put this on my yearly bingo card,” you say to your nurse as she wheels you down the hallway. 

The woman, named Akemi, just giggles good-naturedly. The light from the large windows of the first floor pour in, warming whatever skin isn’t covered by your gown. An assortment of people mill about but politely get out of your way as you make your daily laps. It’s nice to be moving around, even if someone else is rolling your wheelchair. Besides, the doctors estimate you can go home in two more days. “What? Getting a hero’s phone number?” You can practically hear her waggle her eyebrows.

You huff a dramatic sigh, chewing your lip. “I don’t think it means anything,” you glumly say, picking at the blanket on your lap. “I think he’s just making sure I’m okay cuz… ya know, hero stuff. It’s his job.”

Akemi scoffs as you two turn the corner. “I doubt it. Heroes don’t just give out their numbers to people. I’m pretty sure there’s rules about that.”

“Then why did he give me his number?” you muse. “Especially if he could get in trouble.”

Akemi leans down to whisper, “Because he’s not just a hero. He’s a man. And all men love.”

Love.

Men.

Your hands ball up in your blanket, suddenly tasting iron. “No,” you tell Akemi as you enter the elevator. “They can’t love me.”

You’re scrolling through Twitter on your last night in the hospital when there’s a gentle knock at the door. Tiredly, you look up and feel a twinge of surprise to see - “Aizawa-san?” you ask as he hovers in the doorway, arms crossed and face burrowed in his capture weapon. “What brings you here?” 

“Your friend texted me,” he says in greeting, eyeing one of the chairs at your bedside. It’s only when you make an inviting gesture does he take a seat, stretching his legs out. Briefly, you wonder if it’s nice to have long legs. You’ve always been a bit stubby, like a corgi. Corgis are cool, right? “Told me you’re being discharged tomorrow.” 

His words catch up to you and you blink from where you’d been staring at his legs. “Wait, Hata-chan texted you?” You frown and then groan, raking your fingers over your face. “Fuck, please tell me she behaved. She forgets social norms sometimes and sends crazy shit to even our boss.” 

Aizawa quirks a brow. You explain. “She sent him a video she filmed of her and Yori holding a ritual in the break room trying to summon Endeavor.” A pause, and then, “I think they were high.” 

Aizawa snorts and shakes his head. “No, she didn’t act strange. All she said was that the doctors cleared you to head out.” A pause, and then, “And…a threat?” 

You jut your hand out, making grabby motions at Aizawa “Show,” you demand. “Please.” 

Aizawa looks borderline amused as he fishes out his phone and unlocks it. You scoot to the end of the bed and peer over his shoulder - trying to ignore the comforting scent of patchouli - as he navigates around the home screen. You bite your lip at the sight of a fucking cat being his lockscreen. Finally, he opens his text messages and pulls up Hata’s number 

You squint and feel your face heat up a million degrees. Fuck, Endeavor doesn’t have shit on you for how warm your face is as you read Hata’s text.

######

Hi, Aizawa-san! Thanks for keeping Yume-chan alive! She’s being discharged tomorrow if you wanna visit her UwU I know she’d like that! BTW - oomf on Twitter is a hacker alongside Anonymous, so if you hurt Yume-chan I’ll leak all your private information OWO

Leaning back, you silently scream at her level of immaturity. Why did she have to say something? Why does God hate you? And why- 

“What’s oomf?” Aizawa asks.

You peer at him through the fingers covering your eyes. He peers back. “ That’s what you’re worried about?” you ask. 

He shrugs. “My friends have said worse.”

It’s oddly comforting to know maybe Aizawa has friends who get up to crazy shit too. Feeling a little less embarrassed, you lean back against your shitty pillows. “Ignore her.  I don’t know why I’m friends with her and Yori-chan.” 

Aizawa pockets his phone as he gets comfortable once again. “Are you sleeping better?”

A soft wince escapes you. “Not the past few nights,” you say. 

“Nightmares?” You nod. Aizawa doesn’t speak but you feel his attention linger. He’s hesitating, you realize. “The other night, you began to have one. You were talking.” Fuck. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to control your breathing. What did you say? “You were... telling someone to not touch you.” 

Fuck, are you really gonna do this? Is Aizawa of all people really asking about this?

Only a handful of people know about the incident. Your parents (blegh), the police (double blegh), your therapist (triple blegh), and your closest friends (they’re fine.) It’s not something you like to discuss, especially considering how your family and the hospital reacted to the incident when it happened. 

But hasn’t your therapist told you multiple times to open up? To trust?

The last time I trusted, you told her after she said that. I was assaulted. The last time I trusted, no one believed me, and I sat through a rape kit alone. The last time I trusted-

You chew your lip so hard you taste blood. Aizawa notices your hesitation. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” he tells you, voice suddenly gentle. “I won’t force you to.”

“It’s fine,” you say, waving away his concerns. “I just… don’t talk about it. Like ever.” 

Silence dangles between you two, hanging comfortable even in the midst of your swirling, dangerous thoughts. Briefly, you wonder if he sees this a lot with his students. You’ve heard about some of the crazy shit the U.A. kids get up to. Regardless, even if he’s accustomed to handling…trauma, you’re hesitant to speak on your own.

What if he doesn’t believe you? What if he chastises you? What if-

“A few years ago,” you murmur. “I trusted a man that I met at University. I gave him everything. I fell for him, ya know? First love and all that..”

“And then… one night, he told me there was a sick cat in the alley..” A bitter laugh rips from your throat at the memory of how alarmed you’d been. “I didn’t want the poor thing to be scared or to die, so I went with him. When he got me out there, there was no cat. He cut me up and…” You can’t say it, so you clear your throat. 

“Long story short, he’d been manipulating me and lying to me as he formed some gang of local troublemakers. Said he just wanted to ‘have some fun.’ He saw me at college and figured I’d be an easy target.” A dry laugh escapes you as you purse your lips. “I think he wanted me to join his stupid crew, too. Scare me enough so I just did what he wanted. He saw my quirk and… figured…”

Aizawa is silent for a long, long time as the two of you sit there. Your heart hammers erratically in your chest as you wait for him to say something. Something like “you shouldn’t be so trusting” or “you should’ve fought more” - just like the police had said when you’d gone to the hospital all those years ago. Shame festers inside you, because you know Aizawa is a good man. So why are you assuming the worst of him?

Well, you know why. 

Trauma, your therapist has said many, many times whilst peering over the rims of her glasses. You have significant trauma. 

“Your quirk,” Aizawa finally says, breaking you from your thoughts. You risk a glance his way and see a thoughtful expression on his face. There’s no disgust - something you find… odd, if not welcome. “It’s not really about creating nightmares is it?” 

He’s smart. Too smart. You bite down a wry smile. “No,” you admit. “I can create illusions of all kinds. I used to call it Yumemiru. That’s why Hata-chan calls me Yume-chan. Because I could bring dreams to life.” A noncommittal shrug and you add, “After him, I could only create nightmares. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make people see good things.”

When you’d been in the hospital after the incident, you’d come across some kids in their rooms. Some were sick, while others were wounded.  You’d attempt to weave happy images of floating bubbles and puppies and rainbows only to summon spiders and blood and shadows. The kids had screamed and cried profusely, and your heart…

Well, whatever remained of your heart promptly chipped away into something jagged and dangerous. Ruined , you’d realized. I’m ruined. 

You’d slept in the hospital bed that night, as they wanted to keep you for observation. And that’s when your first quirk-induced nightmare hit.

Yeah, overall that was a pretty shitty time.

Aizawa drums his fingers on the railing of your bed, looking to be in thought. “Are you in therapy?” he asks.

“Mhm. Once every other week.”

“Medication?”

“Mhm. Mini pharmacy.”

“Support?”

“Like, friends?”

“Family.” 

That makes you visibly pause. Aizawa’s fingers stop drumming on the railing and you can feel the iciness of his eyes settle on you. Tactfully, you avoid looking up from your lap. “Ah, mhm. Yeah. Mhm.” 

Yeah, very convincing. 

It doesn’t really matter how well you lie anyways. Aizawa is a hero and a teacher. No doubt he’s been told all kinds of lies, by villains and students. Something tells you the whole ‘ my dog ate my homework’ excuse won’t work on him.

“Are they not supportive?” 

“You really are nosey, huh?” you snap, almost entirely off instinct. There’s an uncomfortable itching at the back of your neck that started alongside this conversation. It’s the same feeling you get whenever you wake up and realize fuck you’re in a hospital fuck hospital fuck where’s the police fuck- You suck in a deep breath and press your shaky hands to your cheeks. “Sorry, I just…”

“Don’t be,” Aizawa sighs, and you risk looking up at where he sits. His head is cocked to the side, black hair cupping his sharp cheekbones and dark eyes lidded as they stare at you. There’s no anger or disgust or… anything, really. Like almost every other time you’ve come across him, he’s just… blank. “Are you tired?” 

Shrugging, you settle a bit in your blankets at the topic change. “I guess,” you say and that’s a fucking lie. You’re exhausted. From days of shit sleep and also discussing the incident. 

Aizawa makes an affirming noise. “Try to sleep.” 

You arch a brow in his direction. “I… I can’t. Nightmares.”

He arches his own brow in response. “I’ll stay.” I’ll erase your quirk, goes unspoken. 

You nervously wet your lips. “Aren’t you busy? Patrol and grading and shit?”

He fixes you with a long, hard look. Is it bad that it makes something in your chest flutter? “I’ll stay.”

Ohh okay. No room for arguments there. You flash a thumbs-up and get comfortable in bed, turning the volume up on the TV for some background noise. At first it’s the news, but when you keep jerking from the beginning of sleep to reports of assaults, you feel Aizawa approach your bedside. You don’t move as he reaches over you and grabs the remote, changing it to some reality show rerun. 

The smell of patchouli washes over you, and you’re barely awake enough to notice he sits in the chair closest to you. Quirk erasure, you sleepily think. Just his job. 

It doesn’t take much longer for you to fall asleep after that.

When grimey fingers begin to dig into your hip bones that night, you instead suddenly dream of someone reaching for a steaming cup of coffee. 

When you taste alcohol and cigarettes on your tongue, you instead suddenly taste black coffee with approximately three sugars, added in near the door so no one can see. 

When you smell the coppery tang of blood, you instead suddenly get a hint of patchouli and bergamot - familiar and comforting. 

When you wake the next morning, it’s to see Hata and Yori talking to the nurses as they get you ready for discharge. They’re off their phones, paying full attention to the nurse’s instructions. Yori’s even scribbling down notes on some napkin he no doubt randomly picked up.

Swallowing down the dryness in your throat, you scrabble for water but instead land on your phone. What time is it, anyways? They said they’d be getting you outta here around eleven.

Your lock screen lights up with the time and random notifications, but only one catches your attention. Frowning, you swipe and open it.

Hello Kitty Hero

Let me know when you wake up.

Oh. Right. He’d helped you sleep.

Chewing your lip, you try to snuff the rampage of emotions swelling in your chest. It’s all light and soft and so fucking scary. You haven’t felt them in years. Do you reply? Do you leave him on read? It’s rude, but you can probably get away with it. Cut this shit out here.

He’s just doing his job, you tell yourself. 

So, you reply.

Barista-san 

awaake and getting discharged i think. did you know yori-chan can write w/ paper n pen? i thought he could only type on a phone

Honestly, you don’t expect a reply. Especially considering it’s the morning on a weekday and he’s no doubt teaching. But your phone unexpectedly buzzes a few moments later, and you look at the screen from where Yori is asking the nurse questions about diet and nutrition. Apparently, you were a bit malnourished when you got here.

Hello Kitty Hero

Did you sleep well? I assume Yori-san is there to help with discharge?

Barista-san

yeah i had weird dreams… not bad, just weird. and yeah hata-chan is here too. i think theyre going over some medical shit and then im a free woman again (=｀ω´=)

Hello Kitty Hero

You should really get a sleep study done. When do you return to work?

Barista-San

quirk might affect ppl around me n the last thing i want is for some doctor to be near me when my quirk pops on. bro might be chillin and my quirk will manifest endeavor crawling on the ceiling lol. and idk might be back tomorrow? 

“Yume-chan!” You look up to see Hata grinning at you, behind her. “Stop texting your boyfriend. Let’s go!”
“He’s not-” You don’t even finish the sentence, just huffing and letting the nurse take out your I.V. “You guys suck.”

You have a nightmare that night, unsurprisingly, and curl up on your couch, turning the TV on. Some All Might movie marathon night is going on so you make some tea and curl up under a blanket, sleepily watching the action play out. 

There’s a clatter out in the alleyway, and you eye your window while taking a sip of your drink. It’s probably a pizza rat. Then there’s a loud BANG and dammit, the rats might’ve gotten the nuclear launch codes again. With a sigh, you put your tea down, grab your phone, and go out to the alleyway.

Honestly, it’s not smart. But again, not the dumbest thing you’ve done. You just won’t tell Aizawa or Hata or Yori or-

You turn the corner and pause. Someone’s…cleaning the alleyway? You check your lock screen. At like…three-thirty in the morning? All the trash bags are piled up against the grimy walls, and the trash cans are shoved aside too. It’s not nearly as shadowy and gross as it had been. And, you notice, it’s less easy to hide in here. The pizza rats will be pissed. How else will they unionize against the broken corporate system without being watched? 

“You shouldn’t be out here,” says a familiar voice and you roll your eyes as you lean against the wall, crossing your arms. A few feet away, Aizawa steps out from the darkness and a shitton of trash bags. Like, there’s a lot. A lot lot. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m an adrenaline junkie,” you say in explanation. Then, you eye the gloves on his hands. “Are you cleaning?” You pause, then add, “An alleyway?” Another pause, and, “That’s home to a dozen mutated rats? Like, no joke, it’s some Fallout shit in here.” 

Aizawa sighs and uses his sleeve to wipe away what you assume is sweat. You try not to think about how good he looks, a bit sweaty. It’s not a very successful effort. “There’s been reports of alleyway jumpings in the area. They hide behind dumpsters and trash.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly, still eyeing the trash bag he’s holding. Realizing you’re just going to watch, he moves to put it down. “And you’re cleaning my alleyway, why?” 

He shoots you a glare. You can’t help but smirk at the irritated expression. Somehow, you’ve caught him off-balance. It shouldn’t make you feel as giddy as it does but, eh. Emotion regulation has never been your strong suit. “Because you were jumped around here a few weeks ago, and others might use this alley to their advantage.” He hisses. “It’s a shithole.”

There’s the ticking of your heartbeat, thumping erratically in your chest until it clicks. “Aizawa-san,” you say, leveling him with a curious look. He doesn’t meet your gaze, and instead crouches down to tie the bag in hand. “Are you… worried? About me?”

Unsurprisingly, he bristles like a cat. “Are you the only one that uses the alley?” he snarks. 

“No, you do too when you get your ass beat and collapse out here.” You point towards where you’d found him all those weeks ago. “Right there, actually. A pretty nice spot if you ask me. Not my favorite but…”

You think you hear him groan. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asks, changing the subject expertly. 

Whatever, you’ll let him have this one. You simply shrug and say, “Bad dreams.” 

Those dark eyes inspect you carefully now, always so neutral but always so… seeing. It makes you kick your feet against the pavement nervously. “Is it the same?” he asks. “The nightmares?”

You nod curtly. “Usually, yeah.”

“The incident?” He says it slowly, carefully. As if he’s measuring just how much you can handle. 

“Yes, Aizawa-san, the incident.” You roll your eyes. “I won’t break if you mention it. I relive it every night.” 

His jaw tightens as he looks away, back to the trash on the ground. There’s at least like two dozen trash bags. Christ, this place is a shithole. Sighing, you push up your sleeves and hobble over. You can feel him watching you. Thank god you didn’t wear your Endeavor booty shorts to bed tonight. Although Yori, who got them for you, would find it hilarious. 

“There’s some trash containers around the corner,” you tell Aizawa as you grab a few bags. “We can throw them away over there.” 

He watches you for a moment longer before nodding, grabbing some bags too. The two of you spend the next fifteen minutes lugging trash back and forth. Aizawa even gives you one of his rubber gloves, stating, “Don’t need you getting sepsis again.”

It really doesn’t work that way, but you know he’s trying to play off his very apparent caretaking nature. Must come with being a hero and teacher, you think. It’s just his job.

The thought bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

Eventually, all the trash is in the rubbage bins your apartment keeps out. You hand Aizawa his glove, and then check the time. It’s four in the morning. You wince, and scratch at your chin. “What?” he asks, taking notice.

“There’s no way I’m getting any rest tonight,” you sigh. “I open the cafe in a few hours.”  Then, you peer up at Aizawa who’s watching with subdued interest. “Don’t you have school to teach? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Patrol doesn’t end for another few hours,” Aizawa explains, shrugging. He jams his hands in his pockets as he returns to his normal slouching behavior. Amusedly, you wonder if he does this to make himself appear less intimidating. Maybe it’s a hero thing? To make people underestimate him? 

You blanch. “You’re on the clock and you stopped to clean up an alleyway?” 

He burrows his head into his scarf, but you think you see a hint of a flush. That confuses you, but hell, tonight’s been really confusing so eh, fuck it. You write it off. “Thought I saw something,” he dismisses

You purse your lips but don’t press the issue. You turn and glance up to the front window of your apartment. Honestly, you feel a bit bad that he stopped here just to clean trash. Even if it was to ensure civilian safety. And maybe, perhaps, your own? 

Maybe that train of thought or the lack of sleep or the thumping of your heart is what possesses you to say, “Do you want some coffee?” Out of the corner of your eye, you spy Aizawa stiffening and, silently, you scramble to explain. “Well, you have a long day ahead of you, Mr. Hero. Besides, it’s the least I can do for, ya know, scaring the pizza rats away and saving my life that one night and-”

“Okay,” Aizawa interrupts. His expression says he deals with rambling a lot. “That’s fine.” 

Surprised, you can’t help but beam at him before turning and walking towards your building’s entrance. You can feel the heat of Aizawa’s gaze on your back as you unlock the door and climb that stairs. It feels awkward, but you know it really isn’t as you get to your floor and unlock your apartment door. Holding it open for Aizawa, you flick on the light.

“It’s not much,” you say, shrugging as Aizawa enters and glances around. “Barista pay and all that.”

Your apartment really isn’t anything crazy. It’s a decent size, and you thrifted all the furniture from various resale shops. The TV is old and playing that All Might movie still, with mugs of tea and coffee littered about. The walls are a soft yellow that make Aizawa stand in stark contrast. He takes it all in, and hums as you enter the kitchenette. 

“How long have you lived here?” he asks and it kinda then strikes you that he’s in your apartment. Like, where you live. The two of you are alone. And your heart thumps really fucking fast around him. And, shit, maybe you like him but he’s a hero! He’s just doing his job and-

You suck in a deep breath to disrupt the spiraling thoughts. “Ah, a few years. It’s an okay place to live. I wasn’t really picky when looking for a place to live. Just… needed out.” You shrug, and reach up high in the cupboard to grab a K-Cup. Even on the tips of your toes, it’s hard to reach the specific one you want, the shit that you know is good and-

Heat envelopes you - just barely - and a hand is suddenly covering your own. You pause, breath caught in your throat as Aizawa easily reaches over you and grabs the coffee cup. He steps back, handing it to you with an amused glint in his eyes. You can feel yourself blushing and you kinda hate him for how unaffected he looks. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you say softly, “Thanks.” 

His lips twitch and you clear your throat. Hastily, you change the subject. “Do you live in the area? You’re around here a lot.” 

Aizawa shrugs as he leans back against one of the counters, lounging against it with his hands in his pockets. It’s upsettingly casual, and it makes you feel too many things all at once. Hurriedly, you turn to the cupboards to grab some mugs. “I have an apartment a few blocks away, and am often assigned to the dormitories at U.A.” 

You snicker. “Oh God, living with teenagers must be something.” 

He lets out a soft sound, and you realize it’s the beginning of a laugh. Fuck, maybe you shouldn’t have invited him in. This is hard. Like, really hard - “They’re all a pain in my ass, but they’re good kids.” He pauses, and then adds, “Being a hero is hard work… I do my best to prepare them.”

Silently, you nod as you grab a Hello Kitty mug and an Endeavor cup Yori gifted you one year. “I have no doubt you do great, Aizawa-san,” you tell him, and you mean it. Goosebumps prick the back of your neck, and you know his eyes are on you. You have to suppress a shudder. “I can tell you really care for others.” 

It’s his job, that voice whispers. 

The “Ready” light turns blue, and you turn the coffee machine on. It pours out delectable, premium-roasted coffee you’d been saving for a special occasion. Aizawa is silent as you turn to hand him the Hello Kitty mug, and you try to ignore how your fingers just barely touch. Still, it makes you jolt back with a cough as you bury your face in your mug. “Should be good shit,” you tell him, trying to control your breathing. “Colombian, I think. Lots of caffeine.” 

Aizawa hums appraisingly as he sips at his drink. His expression betrays some semblance of pleasure at the taste, and you can’t help but smile as you take your own sip. “Did you get this from the cafe?” he asks. 

You bark a laugh. He arches a brow. “Hell no,” you giggle, shaking your head. “Those cheap-asses don’t give us shit. A few years ago, Hata-chan and I got teeth whitening strips as our ‘Christmas Gift’.” You frown. “They didn’t even work. ”

Aizawa snickers from where he leans a few feet away. He looks so languid it kinda pisses you off. You feel stiffer than a board. “No surprise,” he says. “Coffee places that charge $7 for a drink are usually rip-offs.” 

Now you risk looking at him. He’s staring at his drink. Huh. “But Hata-chan said you come to our rip-off coffee place like… every day,” you say. Aizawa doesn’t look up as he takes a looong sip of his coffee. You tap your fingers on your Endeavor mug. “Shit, maybe I should’ve become a hero if the pay is that good.”

“It’s not,” Aizawa dryly says. He looks so… normal here, in your small kitchen. You realize you’ve only seen him in public, armed and ready to go. And, yeah, he’s armed and ready to go now, but his body language is relaxed. At peace. 

His words hit you after a moment, and you scowl. “Wait, so if you’re broke as fuck - me too, by the way - then why do you come to my coffee- Oh.”

It clicks. 

At least, you think it does. 

You take a looong sip of your own coffee as Aizawa is silent. Briefly, you gather the evidence at hand and decide to assess it. 

Aizawa has walked you home to ensure you get back safe. 

Aizawa saved your life from that one guy who jumped you. 

Aizawa carried you to the hospital after finding you feverish and septic. 

Aizawa visited you at the hospital multiple times, even leaving his number for you to have.

Aizawa has watched over you whilst sleeping to ensure your quirk doesn’t give you nightmares.

Aizawa cleaned out the alleyway because he heard rumors of people hiding in alleys to jump people, which aren’t entirely unfounded rumors but…

And, apparently, he only goes to this coffee shop because… you’re…there?

He’s just doing his job.

The coffee burns your tongue, and you ask, “Wanna watch the All Might movie with me?” 

“Is that all that’s on?” he sighs, but you’re both already moving towards the couch. 

“Hey, they’re decent movies! Besides, don’t you have patrol? You don’t gotta watch the whole thing.” 

“Hmm.” 

You both sit on either end of the couch, Aizawa stretching his legs in front of him (per usual) as you curl up against the armrest. Faintly, you think this should feel awkward - having Aizawa in your home. You’ve barely talked to anyone outside of Hata and Yori since the incident, nonetheless a man. And, sure, you don’t get as jumpy around every guy you come across like you used to. But a few have asked for your numbers. A few have asked to walk you home. 

Every time, you said no. And you checked the alleyway, the corners, and locked your door - deadbolt and all. 

Now? There’s a man in your apartment, drinking your coffee, watching a stupid movie with you at four in the morning and you feel… happy. Yes, you realize. You feel happy 

It’s not long before sleep tugs at your consciousness, lulled unconscious by All Might’s boisterous voice and the comfort of being safe. From villains. From your quirk. From yourself. 

You dream of hands on your hips, but they’re gentle as they slowly trace up… up… up… Fingers rub at your ribs, and breath ghosts your ear.

“You’re safe,” whispers a man. “No one will hurt you again.”

Gingerly, you turn and the hands stay locked around you, reaffirming in their grasp. You catch black hair, dark eyes and-

“Yume-san.”

There’s a hand on your shoulder, gently shaking you. The smell of patchouli rushes over you, and you frown before opening your eyes. Everything is blurry for a moment, no doubt the product of deep sleep. Still, it takes an embarrassingly long time to realize Aizawa is leaning over you, hand on your shoulder, and-

“What the fuck?” you grunt. “Aizawa?” 

Said man rolls his eyes, leaning back. “You fell asleep,” he says, sounding as disinterested as ever. You sit up and glance around, seeing your phone on the coffee table. Grabbing it, you power it on and- “You have work in forty-five minutes.” 

The Windows error noise sounds in your head incessantly as you just… stare at the time. There are a few notifications begging for your attention, mainly a text from Hata in your guys’ group chat with Yori. But honestly, they can wait. Because… “Didn’t you have patrol?” you ask, groggily looking up.

Aizawa shrugs, walking over to the kitchenette. “I listened to police scanners. Uneventful night.” He grabs something, and walks back over with your Endeavor mug. He hands it to you, and you - again - try to ignore where your fingers touch as you take it from him. You peer inside the cup. Fresh coffee. “You had some more of that coffee left over so… here.” 

Windows error noise.

Your eyes flit up to Aizawa, then down to the coffee, then back up. “You made me coffee?” you ask, feeling like you’re experiencing shell-shock or some psychological reaction.

“I had some too,” he says, shrugging. It’s too early to deal with this information and the accompanying emotions, so you just sip your coffee before standing.

“I gotta get ready for work.”

“I’ll walk you.” 

You pause just as you’re about to turn to head to your room. What?

Aizawa taps his foot on the ground, once, twice. “It’s still dark out.” 

He’s just doing his job. 

He walks you to the cafe, only a few steps away the entire time.

He’s just doing his job.

He waits to leave until the lights turn on.

He’s just doing his-

Fuck.

You’re so screwed. 

You’re swimming in the awful sensation of feelings and thoughts for the entire day. Thankfully, your boss, who decided to pester you and Hata today, brushes off your inattention as just getting back in the swing of things. Hata, of course, knows better but gives you some space.

Until, of course, the morning rush ends.

Then the fucker swoops in like a damn vulture.

You’re rinsing some mixing cups, contemplating how accurate Freud was with id vs ego when suddenly you’re grasped by the shoulders and spun around to face - “Yes, Hata-chan?” you sigh tiredly. Even though you fell asleep on the couch with Aizawa for an hour - something you really cannot address otherwise you’ll scream - you’re still exhausted. 

Hata eyes you over, arching a brow. “What’s wrong?” she asks bluntly. 

Emotions, you think. I’m experiencing emotions.

But you’d rather steal a slice of pizza from the pizza rats in your alleyway than tell that to Hata. So you simply respond with, “Tired.” 

Hata narrows her eyes. Fuck. She smells bullshit. “You’re always tired. This is different. What’s going on?”

You let out a groan and pull away from Hata, heading over to the cupboards to take inventory. Based on the glare you feel penetrating your back, she follows. “Nothing, Hata-chan. Just haven’t been getting good sleep.” 

“Were you attacked again? This morning?” she asks, and the level of concern and worry in her voice makes guilt swell up in your chest.  “Yume-”

You stand up straight, head swimming. “ No, I was not attacked. Aizawa-san walked me here so I was fine.”

You think you hear the gears turning in Hata’s head as she calculates what you just (accidentally) admitted. With a soft curse, you pinch the bridge of your nose and lean back against the countertop, preparing yourself. It only takes Hata a few moments to piece it together, and when she does, a shit-eating grin curls across her usually innocent face. “Oh?” she asks, moving closer. 

“Don’t,” you whisper. 

“This morning?” she giggles.

“Don’t,” you whisper once more.

“He walked you? Even though he was probably on patrol all night?”

“Hata-”

“I have text Yori-chan this. He and his Twitter followers are gonna lose their minds!” she laughs, lunging for her phone. Now it’s time for the gears to turn in your head as you process what Hata just admitted.

“Wait- His Twitter followers? Are you fuckers livetweeting about this?!” You lunge too, now, and go to grab Hata’s phone. But she’s slick, and has been your friend for years. She expertly dodges while tapping on her phone. So, you take measures into your own hands.

You grab a blending cup, and chuck it at her hand. 

Her phone goes flying just as the door rings open, and there’s a loud- “Hey hey-ow!” 

Hata and you stare at each for a moment before slowly risking a glance over to the door. There’s customers. Familiar customers. Something itches the back of your mind as you try to piece together names, but you don’t think you’ve seen them here before. Besides, you’re too horrified by the fact you just played a role in assaulting a customer to really dwell on who these people are. All you really register is a pretty girl with long black hair and a pretty guy with tall blonde hair and sunglasses.

Fuck, is this how you lose your job?

Hata just covers her mouth as the blonde man holds her phone and the woman holds the dripping blending cup. And, to her credit, it takes a few seconds to burst into laughter. “Oh my God,” Hata laughs. “Yume-chan, you sniped Present Mic and Midnight.”

Present Mic and Midnight?

Why is that familiar-

Oh.

Fuck.

You’re so screwed. 

A hiss escapes you as you push through the small swinging door and rush towards who you realize are heroes. Big heroes. Ugh. You pull the towel off of your apron and dab down the weird liquid mixture on the blonde’s leather jacket and the woman’s ensemble. You don’t risk a look at their expressions, and take the blending cup from Midnight and Hata’s phone from Present Mic. A glance to the phone screen reveals Hata was successful in texting Yori.

Double fuck.

You’ve turned into a fucking thread on Twitter.

“I’m so sorry,” you say as you pocket Hata’s phone, shooting her a dirty look. The little twerp just hides behind her hand as she giggles. “I, uh, was testing my aim in case we were ever robbed.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll need any of us if that happens!” Present Mic says, and thank God, he sounds amused. 

“Good aim,” Midnight hums as they approach the counter. “Softball? Baseball?”

“Annoying friends,” you reply, and Hata rolls her eyes as she approaches the register. 

“Hey, I don’t think I’ve seen you two in here before. What brings you in?” Hata greets, making easy conversation. You take that as your cue to busy yourself with cleaning the blending cup again. 

“We heard about this place from a friend! Well, more like we forced him to tell us about it,” Present Mic chuckles. “He’s not very… open. ” 

Hata hums and shoots you a look. You chew the inside of your cheek. God, why are you friends with her? And Yori? “I totally get that. Well I’m glad you stopped by! What’s your friend"s name so I can offer a complimentary drink?” 

You reach over and grab your cup of water, taking a sip. Fuck, the coffee from earlier dehydrated you. Still, Aizawa had added a little bit of cream and sugar - just the way you like it. And he’d used the good stuff too, not the cheap shit you usually rely on. It makes you feel warm even hours later.

“Ah, Aizawa-san! Or, well, Eraserhead, if you want his hero name.”

You choke. On water. It goes down the wrong tube and suddenly you’re kneeling over and coughing. Eyes welling up with tears, you smack you hand on your chest as you try to get the stupid fucking water out goddammit why does God hate-

“Whoa, you alright over there?” asks Present Mic and you offer a simple thumbs up, not trusting your voice right now.

“Aw, does she know him?” Midnight coos. “I heard he comes here frequently, according to his students.”

Hata is no doubt wearing a stupid, smug smirk. You don’t look over. You know yourself well enough to know your face is fucking beet red. “Yeah! She makes his coffee whenever she’s working at this location. Plus, he walks her here and back home sometimes.”

Shit. 

“Oh?” asks Midnight. 

On cue, who you recognize to be his two friends hone in on you with cunning eyes. Realizing you’ve become the center of attention, you manage to clear your throat finally and turn with a bemused smile on your face. 

“Ah, he’s just doing his job as a hero,” you say, brushing them off. “Very admirable.”

Midnight and Present Mic cast each side-long glances, arching their brows in a questionable expression. It makes your heart thump erratically in your chest. 

“ Right, ” Present Mic drawls, not sounding very convinced. “Just doing his job.” 

Thank God the door rings, signaling the entrance of another customer. This prompts Hata to stop plotting and ask the two heroes what they’d like. Thankfully, they’re simple drinks and you whip them up rather quickly.

When you turn to hand the drinks over, you try to ignore how Midnight and Present Mic linger near the countertop with saccharine smiles. “Hey, little tip,” Present Mic whispers, leaning in as he peers over his glasses. You furrow your brow in confusion. “Aizawa loves his job, but he doesn’t go out of his way unless he cares.” 

He offers a wink, and when you glance to Midnight as if to ask is this really happening? she just winks too. Ugh. It’s like Hata and Yori all over again. You just offer a curt nod and turn to make more drinks. 

You need more coffee. 

Preferably Colombian blend with some cream and sugar.

Hello Kitty Hero

Did some man and woman bother you today, claiming they’re my “friends”? 

Barista-san

present mic and midnight? yeah they stopped by. theyre nice! ヽ(•‿•)ノ

Hello Kitty Hero

Did they do or say anything weird?

Barista-san

no i was the weird one. i maybe threw Hata-chan’s phone at Present Mic and a blender at Midnight…wasn"t aiming for them i swear

Hello Kitty Hero

They probably deserved it. Why Hata-san? 

Barista-san

she’s a fucking snitch

You don’t see Aizawa very much the next few days, which you try not to let bother you. He does stop in one morning for coffee, alone, but it’s during a rush so you don’t get much time to make chit-chat. Still, he lingers for a little bit and lounges at a table by the large window that makes the front wall of the building. You think you catch his eye a few times as you’re pushing forward latte after latte for random college students. 

“Your boyfriend is here,” Hata whispers to you that morning, a sly expression on her face.

“Don’t think I won’t throw another blender at you,” you hiss quietly, hating how Hata keeps glancing over at the hero. “I have a hero on my side. I think I can get away with a murder charge.”

“Because I tried to get you dicked dow-” You smack her upside the head with the towel on your apron. She squeals and ducks, damn near crawling to the register. “I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t try!” she cries as she stands, rubbing at the red mark on her temple.

“If you were a good friend you wouldn’t be encouraging Yori-chan’s live tweeting habits!”

“Listen,” Hata says, holding her hands up placatingly. “You got quite an audience. By the way, when’s the next update? They’re getting antsy.”

You take a shot of espresso, and try to ignore what you feel is an amused glance from the man against the window. “Does boss still have that sake in the back? Working with you has driven me to drink, Hata-chan.”

Over the next week, Present Mic and Midnight stop in a few more times. You try to awkwardly shuffle to the back but Hata, who your boss insists on scheduling you with, keeps you behind the counter. They ask your zodiac sign, and favorite music, and quirk, and your ‘type’ and-

“She likes the grumpy but secretly a softie type!” Hata answers gleefully.

The blender in your hand becomes a noticeable weight. 

Still, you’re so busy working to make up for lost time that you don’t really see Aizawa besides when he orders coffee. And that’s always brief. Which is why you’re pleasantly surprised to get a text from him near closing saying he can walk you home. Just doing his job, you remind yourself as you text him back an emoticon. When you step out the back and lock the door, you smile at the familiar sight of him lingering nearby. 

“Ever the gentleman,” you tease, trying to drown out the erratic beat of your heart. 

Aizawa rolls his eyes, burrowing into his scarf as the two of you begin the walk to your apartment. “Knowing you, you’ll hear a bang and run into a dark alley to help,” he huffs. “Even if it’s a rat.”

“Hey, the pizza rats are fierce allies! Besides, they’re unionizing and I support their cause.” You shrug as you fall into step beside Aizawa, clutching your bag as you keep your eyes ahead, ahead, only ahead and not at his hair that seems so soft and cool scarf and-

“How’s work been?” he asks, and you clear your throat softly, jerking yourself from your thoughts.

“Ah, busy. Trying to make enough for rent. Hata-chan’s been a pain. Yori-chan is stopping by tomorrow so it looks like I’m gonna be sick from espresso,” you chuckle. “They’re exhausting.”

“I know what that’s like,” Aizawa dryly states and you smile to yourself, adjusting the strap of your bag. 

“So, you’re friends with Present Mic and Midnight? That’s really cool. I see their merch everywhere,” you hum. It’s true. Just the other day you saw a vendor selling a t-shirt with a tweet from Present Mic on it that said, “dont bully me just bc im a twink.” You almost bought it for Yori. And it’s well known Midnight has an… adult line that’s wildly popular in the BDSM community. 

“They’re obnoxious. But… they’re good friends. Sometimes.” 

Nodding, you glance up to the night sky. It’s dark enough where you can almost make out the stars. “That’s good. Wait, I never see merch for you! And you work at U.A. and do tons of hero work. So I know you’re good. What’s up with that?” 

Aizawa rolls his eyes, jutting his hands into his pockets. “Underground heroes don’t typically do merch. It requires a sense of anonymity.” 

Pouting, you tap your chin in thought. “That’s a shame. I would’ve loved some Eraserhead t-shirts or-” You gasp and clap your hands together, making him bemusedly glance your way. “I want an Eraserhead neko plushy.”

Aizawa lets out a long, deep sigh and shakes his head. You giggle as you continue to walk next to him. “Does coffee work?” he eventually mumbles. 

“Hmm?”

He pulls a handful of something out of his pocket, outstretching his hand for you to see. You frown and peer down. “That Colombian coffee. You didn’t have any left.” 

He… got you… coffee?

You blink once, twice, and then he mumbles - “You don’t have to-”

“No, no, I love that stuff. Thank you, Aizawa-san.” You take the coffee pods and put them in your bag, smiling brightly. “You didn’t have to.” 

“Shouta.”

“Huh?” You regard him curiously now. He’s still looking straight ahead, slouched over and hiding in his capture weapon. Did you… Did you hear him correctly?

“Call me Shouta.”

Oh.

Oh.

Something you know isn’t panic but feels like it is threatens to overwhelm you, and you damn near trip and fall like you did all those weeks ago. You manage to right yourself as you stumble a bit, and you don’t miss how Aiza-Shouta’s hand jerks out, ready to catch you. Fuck. Fuck. 

This is… intimate. Like, personal and intimate. Maybe this isn’t just about him doing his job as a hero. What did his friends say? He doesn’t go out of his way unless he cares? Cleaning the alleyway, keeping watch on you while you sleep to prevent nightmares, getting you coffee, walking you to and from work… No, this is more than just a job at this point.

The idea of trusting someone again is absolutely terrifying, especially that person being a man. And a man you’re fully aware could easily overpower you. But you don’t get the same vibes from Shouta that you did from the man all those years ago. He had been grimy, secretive, and pushed you to be okay with more than you were ready for. He even tried to force drugs into your hands. But Aizawa… The only thing he’s put in your hands are bandages and coffee. 

So, you tell him your name. It’s a quiet admission, a gentle welcome into you. Sure, he already knows plenty. He’s already seen plenty. He’s saved your life, he’s found you septic, he erased your nightmares… But you recognize this is you allowing it to grow. You’re letting him reach out, and you’re meeting him half-way. It’s all you can do for now, you think. And, honestly, based on the small smile you see under his capture weapon, you think that’s okay.

You both stop at your door. “Thanks for the coffee,” you say, awkwardly shuffling your feet. “I usually just drink whatever’s cheapest.” 

Shouta hums in understanding, hands in his pockets as he watches you carefully. “Will you sleep alright tonight?” he asks.

You shrug. “Can’t really tell. It’s been some time since I used my quirk, so… here’s hoping,” you say, shrugging. 

Shouta hovers for a moment, looking as though he wants to say something, but you’re so overwhelmed by his first name and hey, emotions that you turn and offer a wave over your shoulder. “Don’t pass out in the alley tonight. The pizza rat’s seem hungry for flesh.”

You smirk at him, and don’t miss the amused if not worried expression on his face. When the door shuts behind you, you immediately drop your head into your hands.

Fuck.

Fine. It’s time you do it.

Contrary to Aizawa giving you shit about “your damn phone” - some Boomer shit right there, mind you - you rarely use it except to text or add to your photo album titled ‘ PRU - PIZZA RAT UNION’ . The only time you actively engage with apps like Twitter are during break, when walking home, or when Yori or Hata send you something. So, it isn’t super surprising you haven’t seen Yori’s recent posts. Besides, Twitter feeds are weird. Thanks, Elon’s great-grandson.

So, once you set all your shit down and get some coffee made, you collapse on your couch with some shitty movie playing in the background. Opening the app, you try to ignore Hata’s recent posts about her and Yori getting drunk, featuring a picture of the man collapsed against a fire hydrant. 

Then there’s some posts from Hawks and his new merch - he made actual wings so you’re sure the cons are gonna need more aisle space - and Endeavor responding to some fan linking him to an Amazon book called How To Actually Be A Good Parent - Endeavor is not happy. You tap the search button, and type in Yori’s username. Immediately, it pops up.

Honestly, you’re a little apprehensive to even look for this shit. You’re not sure you want to see what people are saying about your private life, even though you’re sure Yori has kept it respectful. And you’re not super mad at him for this shit but… It’s kinda scary to open up and trust someone, and then to have people have an opinion on you working through your trauma?

People fucking suck. So, yeah, you tell yourself it makes sense you’re so anxious. 

It takes a bit of scrolling - somehow Yori is beefing with a new K-Pop boy group’s stans - but you come across a thread. You click, and scroll far, far, far up. “Fucking hell, Yori,” you hiss as you see a shitton of tweets load. “What the fuck ?” You should honestly get royalties for this shit or something.

Finally, you find the first post. To your absolute horror, it started before the Sepsis Scare. 

Of fucking course he uses his name for his followers. Ugh.

There’s so many Tweets, and it takes you a decent chunk of time to read them all. Yori goes into horrific detail about fucking every so-called “development” between you and Shouta. And, according to Yori and his followers, there are a lot of developments. There are, according to Yori and his followers, a lot of indications that this might be something.

You hang your head and groan. 

Fuck.

How could you be so blind? So stupid? 

Honestly, you feel nothing short of foolish. Still, what the hell do you do about this? If Shouta genuinely has feelings for you, what do you say? Do you acknowledge them? Hell, you don’t even really know where to start.

Your only serious relationship was with that bastard years ago, and look how that turned out. He’d manipulated you, used you. To say you’re inexperienced in the relationship department is an understatement. You haven’t felt an inkling of anything romantic for anyone ever since the incident. 

And then, of course, Shouta has to pass out in your alleyway. 

Ugh.

Maybe it’s just a stupid crush, or infatuation, or maybe they’re all wrong. Twitter isn’t very reliable, right? Just the other day you saw the community notes giving Elon Musk snark when the man made some stupid Tweet about NFTs being the future. (The community note had reminded the audience that no, NFTs are not the future.) The last person you’d ever trust was oomf. Pretty sure one tweeted that they’d updated their explicit All Might reader insert from jail one time.

Maybe if you ignore it, it’ll go away. Avoidance works… right?

Pushing your hair back, you mutter under your breath and stand. You trudge towards the bathroom and turn the shower to scalding, waiting for the water to heat. Gingerly, you undress and carefully avoid your reflection before stepping into the tub. 

It’s the wise thing to do, after all. Sure, Aizawa’s been there for you through a lot. He’s saved your life (twice) and stuck around, visiting you frequently. He even cleaned your alley, stayed late to ensure you sleep well, got you nice ass coffee and… 

You bite your lip, pausing as you scrub shampoo into your scalp. He knows about the incident. He knows about your quirk, and the subsequent nightmares. But there’s still some nasty, lingering voice that begs the question; why would he ever bother with you ? And could you really trust him like that? 

You’re nothing special, you know. Just a barista that had to drop out of college. Just a girl who has the tendency to trust the wrong people and get herself into trouble. Just an individual that can’t even sleep some nights due to gnashing, greedy nightmares. 

Who would want that?

You rinse the shampoo, and stare at the ceiling.

Who would want you ?

Nightmares keep you awake. 

Sometimes, you drift off only to dream of falling through the sky. The sun hovers above you, melting off wings you don’t remember growing. You tried to fly to freedom, to experience this world, but, emboldened by the rush, you strayed too far to the sun. Each wing slowly burns off from your back as you plummet. 

No one can save you.

You doomed yourself-

You jerk awake, and linger under the blankets. 

Despite your warmth and exhaustion, your head spins and stumbles. Compared to everyone your age, you’ve done so fucking little. You barely make ends meet. You work at a coffee shop full-time. You dropped out of college. You’ve had maybe one long-term relationship, only for said boyfriend to take advantage of you and try to convert you into a villain. 

Everyone else around your age? They have it together. They have impressive, well-paying jobs with a nice house or apartment. Usually, they’re married and maybe even have a kid or two. Their bank accounts are stable. And they don’t have to take half as many meds as you do.

Why can’t you be normal? Doesn’t Aizawa want that ? 

Your phone eventually goes off, alerting you to get ready. You brush your hair and teeth then get dressed in your uniform. While some coffee brews, you notice a notification on the messages app. You open it.

Hello Kitty Hero

Patrol may run late - did you buy pepper spray to keep yourself safe? 

You do two quick things. 

First, you change his contact name. 

Second, you take a photo and send it.

Barista-Chan

here!

< 103945.jpeg > 

The picture slowly loads, but when it does, it’s a quick shot of your middle finger in front of a bright blue canister of pepper spray. You giggle to yourself as you gather the rest of your things, and when you grab your phone on your way out, you pause to read his response.

Shouta <(=🝦 ༝ 🝦=)>

Was the middle finger necessary? 

Barista-Chan

◝(^⌣^)◜ ofc~! 

Barista-Chan

btw shouldnt u be working? r u slacking again? 

Shouta <(=🝦 ༝ 🝦=)>

I’m handling a police report.

Shouta <(=🝦 ༝ 🝦=)>

Text me when you get to work - there’s been a spike in villain activity. 

Ever the worry wart. You fire off some snarky remark, and step out your door, locking it behind you. Thus, you begin your trek to the coffee shop to start your day. The sun slowly peeks over the horizon, and you can’t help but wonder what life could be.

There’s so much you’ve lust after, and so little you’ve allowed yourself to truly hold. The future has always felt as if it were a far-away dream, teetering on the thin edge of a telephone line. Any brief gust of wind could send it spiraling, shattering it into a million tiny pieces with no hope to ever piece it back together again.

The idea of making and maintaining friends? 

The idea of succeeding in college, getting a degree?

The idea of rising in the ranks at work, to make a decent wage?

The idea of being sought after, body touched not out of greed, but yearning need ? 

It seems just as far away as the sun you gaze after. It seems just as beautiful as the hues it paints the sky and its clouds with.

The future, you decide, is an art. 

As you unlock the coffee shop, you deliberate.

Do you take the brush and become its artist? Or do you linger and wait as you have? 

It’s all too complicated. You shake your head, brush off the thoughts, and dip into the back hallway. You slip off your coat, feeling the weight and jangle of the pepper spray in your pocket. Briefly, you shoot a text to Shouta to let him know you’ve made it to work safely. 

Shrugging on your apron, you set off to work on opening duties.

You don’t realize you left your phone in the back until much later.

Hata’s eyeing you.

You can feel her beady fucking eyes following every move you make from the moment she gets to work. No doubt she’s conspiring, or senses something is off. The woman has been your friend for a long time, and knows your tells better than you admittedly do.

Still, the two of you work the first hour in relative peace and quiet. There’s a handful of customers, mainly students and nurses, grabbing coffee to kick start their mornings. The only real exchanges you have with Hata are shouting orders, asking to grab something from the back, and so forth. 

After a while, the rush slows down and you’re back to your usual hobby of cleaning the countertops and wiping down the blenders. Hata slowly slides up, her shoulder knocking against yours. A sidelong glance reveals the girl hiding a smile.

“Something on your mind?” she asks, voice cloyingly sweet.

You’re no fool. It’s obvious where this conversation is going to go. Still, you don’t want to give anything away. Talking about emotions feels… gross. Even to your best friend. To anyone except your therapist, really, and even that took years to grow accustomed to.

“What is it, Hata-chan?” you ask, voice betraying your exhaustion.

She cocks her head curiously. “Did you sleep at all?” she asks. A hint of worry bleeds through her words. 

You almost reach up to rub at the deep, purple bags under your eyes. Scrubbing a blender, you opt for a shrug. “I slept enough,” you say dismissively. 

Hata chews her bottom lip. She glances around the store, but no one’s inside besides you two. Still, she speaks quietly. “Are you having nightmares?”

You snort. “Hata-chan, when do I not have nightmares?” The blender clatters to the bottom of the sink as you turn your back towards Hata, beginning to wipe down the counter. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s been a few weeks since you used your quirk though.” You can almost hear the creak of the wheels in her head turning. “So your quirk shouldn’t still be giving you trouble…”

“No,” you grunt. “It shouldn’t.”

And Hata’s right. Usually, your quirk-induced nightmares end a few weeks after you initially use it. The alley incident happened a while ago now. 

So what about the nightmares that linger? Your lips pull tight and taut as you settle on an answer. 

“Is something stressing you out?” Hata asks. “Work, bills…?” She trails off as the door rings. A pout worries itself onto her face as she begins to drift back towards the register. “Boys?”

“Ooh boys?” chimes a familiar voice, and you grab the espresso machine without pause. You glance back, though, and see a cheerful Yori waving his debit card. “Ice coffee please, Yume-chan!” 

“That’s not my name,” you grumble as you turn to start his drink. At least Yori didn’t order from the ‘secret menu’ today. The concoction he ordered last time was fucking revolting. “Yori-chan, why are you here?”

The boy shrugs as he pays for his drink. “Gotta do some networking,” he says.

“Ooh, did you hear about the new Hawks figurines releasing in a few days?” Hata squeals, jumping up and down as she closes the register. She hands Yori his receipt, and leans against the counter. The two slip into easy conversation. “Maybe if you tweet at him you can get one signed!” 

Yori taps his chin in thought. You pop the lid on the drink and meander over, not really wanting to engage in their plans. No doubt they’ll get put on a government watch list… again. “I could probably just DM him,” Yori hums. “We’ve had a few conversations, but I don’t wanna come across as desperate.”

“Yori,” you say as he takes the drink. “You are desperate.”

He frowns at her. “At least I go after what I want,” he snidely comments, sipping his coffee. You roll your eyes and Hata hisses, smacking his arm.

“Don’t rush the girl!” she hisses, and then she looks back at you. “But, really, any updates? The fans are foaming at the mouth for content.”

“I saw that thread, by the way,” you say. Normal friends would stiffen and apologize for posting such awful things. Yori and Hata, however, are fucking freaks and jump up and down in excitement.

“Oh my God! Did you see how many likes I got? I’m famous. ” His eyes sparkle. “Do you think I can get an interview with All Might now? I wanna ask if it’s proportionate-”

“I think even a few heroes follow the post!” Hata giggles, clapping her hands. “I think Present Mic and Midnight-”

“Wait, what? ”

“Yeah! They’ve liked a few posts,” Yori offers nonchalantly. As if this doesn’t mean Aizawa’s friends are in on this shit too. “I think Mic even dm’ed me once…”

You huff, raising your hands in a placating manner. “Okay, listen… I know you think there’s something going on between Aizawa and I, but there’s not. And there won’t be.” Your friends look skeptical, and your hands ball into fists at your side. “He’s an accomplished hero and teacher. I’m a college drop-out and barista-”

“I mean, I am too,” Hata murmurs

“-and I can’t even change my bandages to prevent sepsis. I don’t think a hero like that would want someone like me. ”

Hata’s expression softens into sad understanding, immediately picking up on your insecurities. Your eyes burn as you reach up and rub at them. “I can’t even be touched by a man without freaking out,” you murmur. 

“Men are gross,” Hata offers suggestively. “Besides, Yume-chan, I’m sure if you talk you guys can figure something out.”

“Yeah, there’s def something there,” Yori says, still sipping his coffee. “Like a random dude wouldn’t check up on you all the time.” 

“Yeah!” Hata adds. “He walks you to and from work sometimes, and texts you! Even after getting to know you.”

“Yeah!” Yori yells, getting hype now. “Remember when he saved you from that villain? Dude was super worried.”

“Yeah!” Hata shouts. “He’s seen you at your worst, and has stuck by you through it all! Hell, he keeps coming back! ” 

“Yeah!” Yori exclaims back, hyped even more.

“Ye-”

Something crashes through the windows, and you instantly blame Yori. 

One minute, you’re all gawking at the shattered glass windows. 

Hata yells, “Yori, who the fuck did you piss off now?!”

“Huh,” Yori says dumbly. “Honestly, I don"t know this time.”

The next minute, a grenade seeps smoke that billows to camouflage the shop in black. 

You, Yori, and Hata all rush to sit behind the counter as a handful of men stalk around the store. They bind Hata and Yori’s wrists behind their backs before upturning all the tables and barricade the building with a wall of random furniture. 

Yori mutters, “Bro that’s a shitty wall” and you hit him, thankful they haven’t bound your hands. Clearly, the villains don’t expect you to fight back.

And sure, Yori and Hata won’t. But you purse your lips, hands heavy at your sides. Your pepper spray and phone are in the back. If you can just get back there…

Well, honestly, you’re not sure what you would do, even if you got the spray. You’re not well-equipped to take on a bunch of criminals. And there’s a lot. Like, half a dozen. No way you can take on half a dozen villains.

Maybe if you use Nightmare?

Sludge trudges up your throat at the thought. Using Nightmare feels… wrong. Like sucking in the memories of him and allowing them to fester, to rot. He turned you into this, after all. 

The villains group up near the entrance, muttering to one another. Hata takes that chance to lean in. “Yori,” she whispers, dropping formalities. The idiot blinks at her. “Do you have your phone?” 

Yori gives her a dumbfounded look only he could pull off in a time like this. “Duh,” he huffs. “I was gonna thirst tweet when these dipshits came in.” He kicks out at them, hands bound behind his back. “I was thinking Endeavor today. Do you think he’s into the whole sugar daddy thing?”

“Yori,” you hiss. He and Hata look at you. “This is not the time to discuss if Endeavor is a fucking sugar daddy.”

Yori shrugs noncommittally. “Fine.” They fall silent for a moment, assessing the villains before Yori mutters, “Just a daddy thing then.”

You go to strangle your friend when Hata bats your hands away, shushing you. “Yori has thousands of followers-”

“Fuck yeah I do.” 

“-so if Yori can tweet for help, maybe the police will come faster,” Hata whispers, and honestly, it’s a decent idea. A good enough idea all things considered. But even if Yori has a good following…

“People may just think he’s joking,” you point out. “With all the crazy shit he posts.” You flick his forehead and he snaps his teeth at your finger. The two of you glare at one another.

Hata ponders. “So, we just need to tweet something that’ll get people’s attention.”

“Endeavor’s kinks won’t do it?” Yori asks.

“No, Yori,” you bite. “Endeavor’s kinks alongside an SOS message will not get the police to hurry the fuck up.” 

“All Might’s ass?” he asks. 

“Everyone talks about his ass, dude. That won’t do.”

All of you fall silent as the villains begin to argue. You hear, “This bitch? Really? He likes her? ” and you realize they’re talking about you. Fuck. That’s not good. Memories of the asshole in the alleyway flicker back to life, and you remember him going on about how his people had seen you with Aizawa. He’d suggested they had taken notice of you for being a presence in the hero’s life. 

And if you’d been right about Aizawa being in the area - specifically, your alleyway - due to local villainous activity… Fuck. You’d honestly forgotten all about the gangs in the area. You’d grown so accustomed to Aizawa’s presence and subsequent protection. Was this them? Was this the gang he’d been running into when he fell (30 feet) into your life? 

“Yori,” you say, stomach churning in anticipation. If these villains want to get back at Aizawa for interfering with their activities, then who knows what they may do to you? Your friends? “I know what we can Tweet.”

Yori nods, shifting his hip towards you. “Cool, I trust you with my livelihood.” You reach in and grab his phone, typing in the passcode he whispers to you. Unsurprisingly, it’s his birthday. Go fucking figure. 

You open Twitter, and are greeted with an abundance of NSFW hero fanart on his timeline. Your nose scrunches, though. “Christ, what the fuck , Yori?” you hiss. 

“Don’t kinkshame me.”

You make a noise of disgust as you plaster yourself against the counter across from Yori and Hata. This way, it’s harder to see you’re on a phone. You tap-tap away as Yori shifts, Hata keeping an eye on the villains.

After a moment, you send the Tweet and realize, in abject horror, Yori’s ringer is on.

The sound of the Tweet being sent echoes in the coffee shop.

The villains fall silent.

Yori looks at the villains, then you, then the villains and says, “Uh oh.”

Honestly, Shouta doesn’t know why he follows Yori. 

He tells himself it’s to keep tabs on you and make sure you’re not roped into doing something reckless or dangerous. Shouta took one look at Yori and could imagine a million different scenarios where you’d be dragged into something utterly stupid.

Based on Yori’s Tweets, it’s a fair assumption to make. The man posts about hero fights like he’s at an amusement park, posting selfies with heroes like Endeavor. Why Yori wants to be close to that man Shouta will never know. But just as he does with his students, he stops asking why and simply tries to keep them alive and (relatively) unharmed.
Yet Shouta won’t lie. He and his own idiotic friends have been keeping tabs on Yori’s thread about none other than you and the ‘Hello Kitty Hero’ (they haven’t stopped calling him that since reading it). Names aren’t used, so Aizawa doesn’t call in an old hacker friend to delete Yori’s account. 

In his defense, Aizawa doesn’t even find the thread himself. It’s Yamada who practically busted down his apartment door one night gasping and wheezing. “Bro!” he’d heaved, bent over. “You didn’t tell me you have a girlfriend! And she’s friends with Yori-chan! ”

Aizawa had briefly considered locking the door on Yamada, but had taken pity on the gasping man. Yamada had apparently run to his apartment to share the news. The news being that Aizawa is now, anonymously, famous for a Twitter thread documenting his growing relationship with none other than the girl who likes to wander into dark alleyways at night .

People had flocked to the thread, and when Yamada had shoved it in Aizawa’s face - the man shouting LOOK! LOOK! LOOK! - there were over half a dozen posts in the thread. His followers ate it up, offering their tips and predictions. Some even bet on what would come next, and Yori ran polls. Aizawa, a private person, should’ve felt horrified. 

Instead, he just sighed, pulled out his own phone, and followed Yori. 

At least this way he can ensure nothing incriminating is posted. Then he would call his hacker friend. 

Yori’s harmless. Honestly, he reminds Shouta of his students. He just posts stupid selfies with Hawks when the two meet up for chicken. Sometimes, he’s an idiot and tags various heroes (mainly Endeavor, for some reason) to ask them crazy shit (he once asked Endeavor if he’s ever bottomed, and really, it’s a miracle he wasn’t suspended.) One time he posted a screenshot of Endeavor dming him with threats of legal action, claiming their marriage would be in six months and would be on a beach. 

Occasionally, Yori even tries to antagonize and piss off K-Pop stans. Shouta doesn’t really bother with social media, especially Twitter, but Yamada and Nemuri once warned him to not “fuck with the K-Pop stans.” They were deathly serious, and he’d seen what happened to Yori a few weeks back, so he heeded their warning.

Which is why it’s weird when he opens a notification to reveal a tweet from Yori targeting the K-Pop stans again. Especially this particular group, which Yamada has told him about over and over again. They’re pretty popular, and their fans are defensive. Some could also possibly work for the FBI with their skills in uncovering personal information.

Is Yori looking to get his address leaked… again ?

Aizawa frowns into his scarf, leaning back in his chair. Around him, his coworkers flutter about as they discuss lesson plans, life updates, and so forth. Yagi is teaching right now, allowing Shouta some respite from the students. He’d rather be curled up in his sleeping bag right now, but a stack of essays sit in front of him, needing to be graded.

Patrol had gone long, and he hadn’t been able to check on you or even sleep himself. Though, sleep has been rare. 

In the past two weeks, villain and gang activity in the area had dramatically spiked. Shouta was assigned the area a month or two back when there were reports of a gang proving to be troublesome for local law enforcement. Normally, that wouldn’t be too concerning, but there were rumors of Trigger distribution.

So, Shouta had gotten involved. Not many heroes patrolled that specific area, but it was close enough to his patrol route it wouldn’t be too cumbersome to investigate.

He laid low for the first few weeks of the case, trying to find the members and their hideout. The members worked in ranks, with the lower-ranking ones often proving to not be very smart. Still, some were fast enough to provide trouble. They weren’t worth the effort, though, as their knowledge was limited and didn’t help much. 

One night, he’d finally found a higher-ranking member and the two leapt across the rooftops in chase. They’d fought hand-to-hand but he hadn’t expected a flashbang from the villain’s hand. The blinding blast was quickly followed by a kick to his head. When he’d come to, it’d been in an alleyway. To a random girl offering a Hello Kitty blanket.

Stupid. Utterly stupid to approach a stranger, nonetheless one in an alleyway. Didn’t you know how dangerous the streets had become? With the increase of drug deals and gang activity?

The fact he hadn’t been able to walk you to work today makes something tighten in his chest. Faintly, he recognizes it as anxiety and dread. It’s the same feeling he gets when he sees Midoriya about to fire a blast with his quirk. 

Logically, he knows the heightened vigilance is due to how bad patrol had been that night. He’d come across some men harassing a girl, closing in on her and even going to strike. All he could see was you - alone, cornered, hurting. It left him on-edge.

Aizawa sighs, rubbing at the bags under his eyes as he goes to click off the tweet. Something makes him pause, though, and glance back to the screen. He rereads it, and this time reads the hashtags he typically ignores. Usually, Yori says something unhinged in his hashtags that Shouta is fine with not seeing. Today, though, he frowns deeply.

#helpmeimbeingheldhostageatthecoffeeshop… 

Standing, Shouta moves to the door as he presses on a familiar contact. Faintly, he hears a few people call his name but he ignores them. The line rings as he begins to move down the hallway, faster and faster. The line rings. And rings. And Shouta bounds down the stairs, heart suddenly in his throat.

It reminds him of Shigaraki reaching for Midoriya’s face, watching as he’s held down, bloodied and broken. It reminds him of Eri dipping behind him, hiding from any perceived threat. There’s nothing he can do, he thinks. He can’t protect them. 

“Pick up,” he hisses, pushing open the front doors of the school.

The line rings. 

What if you’re hurt?

“Pick up, ” he bites, already unwinding his capture weapon.

What if someone hurts you?

The call goes to voicemail.

“Hi, if you’re calling to be weird, don’t. If you’re Yori, don’t. Hata, please. If you’re none of the above, leave a message and-”

Aizawa pockets his phone just as he takes to the rooftops.

What if he’s too late?

The man in front of you is… big, for lack of a better word. 

Hulking, massive, with crazy-ass muscles you’re certain couldn’t have been formed without steroids. He looks like he’s one of those guys that screams every time he drops his weights, promptly scaring the shit out of the entire gym. He looks like a college frat boy that would try to hold your drink for you at the bar, insisting it’s “safe with him.”

He looks like he’s about to rock your shit. 

“You’re the girl, aren’t you?” he asks, voice deep and rumbling. 

You look to Hata, then Yori, and then to the man. “I… maybe?”

His grins, big and toothy. Slowly, he lowers down to where you’re crouched against the counter. You shrink back. “The girl,” he repeats, as if that helps. “The one with the bastard.”

You arch a brow, and glance at Yori. Inquisitively, you point at yourself and then him. He blanches. “Him?”

“No,” the man snarls, growing frustrated. “The hero.” He hisses and grabs the phone from your hand, waving it dangerously. “The man from Twitter. The asshole.”

Oh. Oh my- 

“Aizawa?” you ask in disbelief. From Twitter ?! Only out of pure spite do you remember to toss a glare Yori’s way. You did this, you mentally hiss. Yori merely shrugs but does look a bit sheepish. “Um, what about him?” 

“He likes you,” the man practically purrs, and you feel your face heat, throat closing. “And he’s been giving my boys some trouble.”

Oh, this isn’t good. It quickly dawns on you that these are definitely the villains Aizawa has been working against. And these are definitely villains who think you and Aizawa are a thing. And if they hate Aizawa…? 

You swallow a laugh, but it still escapes you, shaky. “Ah, you have the wrong idea,” you try to explain, voice trembling. The man’s eyes rove over you and you suddenly feel sick. Goosebumps prickle across your skin. “He- We’re not dating. He doesn’t even like me like that.”

The man’s eyebrows knit together as he leans in. He’s getting close. Fuck. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot, girl ?” he snarls, spit flying. Some of it coats your cheeks. You swallow harshly. “My men have seen things. Heard things. And it all points to you and him .” 

“I’m not!” you yelp as his hand hits the counter beside your head. Your breath is coming in rapid pants now. Fuck. Fuck. Your pepper spray. You need your- 

“Don’t lie!” the man roars. “I’ll gut you so your precious boyfriend sees your insides-”

It may be the stupidest thing you’ve done, which is saying something, but you rear your head back and snap it down against the man’s nose. He yells out, hand flying to his now gushing bloody nose, and you dart to the side. Your sneakers skid across the tile and fuck, you should’ve listened to corporate and worn non-skid shoes. 

The other men in the gang seem a bit taken aback as you catapult for the backroom. Their eyes are wide and mouths gape as they look from the cursing, angry man to you. It gives you enough time to yank open the door, close it, and lock that bitch.

“You bitch!” yells the man, and then the door is being yanked at. You frantically glance around, and kick some old boxes towards the door as you back up. The knob shakes dramatically. There’s no way he won’t bust it open. There’s no way- “I’m gonna ruin you for that bastard hero! Teach him what happens when he messes with our territory!” 

You stumble over a fallen mop - fuck - and land flat on your ass. Your pepper spray. Where is it? Glancing back, you spy your coat hanging off a chair in the break room. Run. You just need to run there and-

The door makes an awful, screeching noise as it breaks open. It hangs at the side oddly, definitely off its hinges. Your breath catches in your throat as you regard the huffing, panting man stepping inside. His eyes are predatory as he licks his lips, easily kicking aside the cardboard boxes in his way. 

“We’ll mess with his territory.” 

Oh. Oh no.

There’s a desperate cry on your throat as you clamber to your feet, not wasting any time to dash towards the back. The man is on you in a moment, though, hand wrapping in the neck of your shirt. He wads it up and pulls you off the ground, turning you so you face him.

His face is ugly, contorted in sheer pleasure at your terror. This is what Aizawa had warned you about. This is what he faces on a daily basis. Your entire body shakes uncontrollably as he grins at you. “How does it feel knowing your precious hero isn’t here to save you?” he drawls.

You were so easy.

“You gonna cry? Beg?” He laughs and it’s so cold. There’s the glint of something metallic in your side-view. The man holds a knife. 

He said he’d kill you if you made any noise.

“I’m gonna make you wish you begged, girl. Make you finally beg for that hero bastard in your final moments.”

I wonder how you feel knowing this is your own fault.

“He’ll forever live with the fact he was too late-”

Fuck. This. 

You spit on his face.

The man stops in his rambling, utterly taken aback. He looks down to his cheek where a glob of your spit now dribbles down. Shocked, he reaches up with the hand holding the knife and wipes the spit away with his knuckles. His eyes flit back to you.

Like an animal, you bear your teeth. You will not go down without a fight. “Eat shit,” you spat, and you activate your quirk.

Since you don’t use your quirk often, it can feel weird to activate it. It feels like skin peeling from your bones, hair raising on your neck as your power creeps up your spine. Honestly, you hate your quirk. Once, you loved it. You could make people see dreamlike illusions, and even control the intensity. For your dying grandmother, you made the illusions so vivid she thought she was living them. 

You’ve never tried testing if the nightmares could be just as intense. You always held back, out of fear for yourself and others. But now?

You summon illusions so horrid, so putrid that it will seem as though the man has entered hell. Every horrible thing you’ve seen and felt compiled into one, messy nightmare that will cripple this man. And it does. His eyes widen at what he sees behind you, dropping you as he steps back.

“What the-” he gasps, and you clammer backward, reaching for your coat. You don’t see his reaction, but soon, he’s gasping and screaming. Soon, he’s begging for it all to stop. Soon, he’s begging for mercy.

You grab the pepper spray in your pocket, and crawl into the bathroom. You lock it, and burrow under the sink as the man screams, screams, screams.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

He screams.

The faucet is dripping.

It’s a slow, rhythmic beat. A droplet of water splashes against the sink’s basin every few seconds. You count it approximately twenty-seven times, knees pressed to your chest and head burrowed between them. It’s cold, you think. You should’ve worn a sweater today. 

Eventually, the door knob jiggles. You jerk, pushing back against the wall. You barely fit under the sink, but you crowd in on yourself. Hide. You need to hide.

But the door opens, and Hata peers in. Her eyes flit down to you, grim understanding passing over her features. “Hey,” she softly says. There’s murmuring and movement behind her, but she stays focused on you. “It’s safe now.”

Is it? You want to ask but the words don’t appear in your throat. No. It’s tight, and dry. It bobs as you swallow roughly.

Hata’s eyes dart around you, searching for injury. After a moment, she clears her throat. “I- The police are here, along with someone else. I think you’d like to see them.”

Would you? You don’t really know what you’d like right now, other than a glass of water and a blanket. Maybe your couch. You want your couch. 

Hata nods, leaning back. There’s more murmurs and whispers, and soon, a scuffle approaches. Your eyes are still trained on the spot on the wall across from you. It’s grimy; messy and old. Dilapidated, you think, which makes sense because the faucet is dripping and there’s surely a leak and-

“Hey,” says a familiar voice, and you drag your vision to the doorway. There, crouching down to be level with you, is Aizawa. Shouta. He regards you with a neutral expression, but his body language is open. He’s trying not to scare you, you realize. “Do you want to go home?” 

You wet your lips, and glance towards the doorway again. Towards where the man had been before you incapacitated him. Aizawa notices, and he hums reassuringly. “He’s gone. It’s safe.” A pause, and then, “I checked.” 

Slowly, carefully, he reaches out for you. He offers his hand, palm up and just waits. You eye the calloused skin. You have no reason to distrust him. He’s here, after all. Somehow, despite everything, he’s here. So, you suck in a sharp breath and take his hand. 

Shouta’s fingers gently wrap around yours as he helps you out from under the sink. As you stand, your legs ache and you briefly stumble. Shouta wraps an arm around your lower back, righting you. You flinch from his sudden touch and immediately, he backs off. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

You let loose a breath. “You can… it’s fine. I just… surprised.” 

“Are you sure?” he asks, and you nod. 

“If it’s you,” you try to explain, but dammit, words are so hard. Your voice is scratchy, hoarse. Every sentence seems to falter. Aizawa, however, doesn’t seem to mind.

The man simply returns his hand to your lower back, steadying you as he leads you out of the coffee shop. There are a shitton of cops scattered about, some taking photos of the crime scene (your work is a crime scene, you coldly realize) while others tap away on tablets. Outside, a small crowd has gathered behind yellow CAUTION tape. A litany of police cruisers surround the street with their lights on.

“Yume-chan!” calls a voice, and you stiffen. Aizawa’s grip tightens, pressing more reassuringly against you. You glance over and see Hata and Yori rushing over, both hugging blankets around their frames. They look relieved as they come to a stop a ways away. “You’re okay!”

You shift, glancing to the side before nodding. “I’m fine,” you tell them. 

Their attention turns to Aizawa’s arm wrapped protectively around you, but neither of them say anything. Yori does, however, arch a brow, and you wonder if you should check Twitter later. Well, whenever you don’t want to throw up and cry all at the same time.

“The police will take her statement in the following days,” Aizawa tells them. “I can bring her back to her apartment. They still might have questions for you.” 

I don’t trust her alone, goes unsaid. Still, it hangs heavy in the air. 

Hata and Yori nod. “Eraserhead,” Hata says just as you two begin to pull away. The hero pauses, glancing at Hata. Her face is worried, pulled tight. Her eyes glisten under the red and blue lights of tonight. “Take care of her. Please.”

It’s his job.

But it’s not. Heroes don’t personally escort civilians out of the crime scene. Heroes don’t walk civilians to their apartment. Heroes don’t gently take house keys from the civilians and unlock their door. Heroes don’t herd civilians onto the couch and start brewing tea, knowing where they keep it. Heroes don’t turn on the TV to a cheesy All Might movie marathon, and pull a blanket up and over you.

But Aizawa does. 

He does it all, and he sits beside you. Close - closer than ever before, but still allowing space for you to breathe. Touch is scary. Touch has always been scary. And right now, you’re really fucking scared.

But you lived.

You lived.

So, halfway through the movie, you set down your cup of hot tea. And slowly, timidly, you lean against his shoulder. He’s warm. Sinfully warm. And the soft smell of patchouli washes over you, reminding you of nightmares turned dreams. Dread turned hopeful. Resignation turned to lust, haughty need. 

He stiffens for a split second, and you begin to pull away, fearing you’ve made a mistake. But he relaxes, and reaches over to grab the blanket slipping from your lap. “Get some rest,” he tells you softly, voice taking on a tone you don’t quite recognize. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

“Promise?” you murmur against his jumpsuit. 

He hums, pulling the blanket so it covers you both. “Promise.” 

Deciding to trust him, you close your eyes.

The soft lull of his breathing slowly tempers your lingering fear, and soon, you slumber. 

It hurts.

No - not the knife dipping into your inner thighs. Or the forced touch trailing down your waist. His hands feel grimy where they dig into your flesh and you want to scream. You feel tears dripping down your face.

You know what he’ll do.

What hurts is that you loved him. You let yourself love unequivocally and wholly, without abandon and with your entire body’s worth of passion. You trusted him with little secrets, like how you use expired makeup and sometimes steal cheap shit from bigger corporations, such as Target. 

You trusted him with the big secrets, like how you’re pretty sure your parents are considering a divorce and you used to have imaginary friends to escape their yelling. Like how you sometimes skip meals to desperately mold your body into something infinitely smaller, even just a little bit more desirable. 

You trusted him with the whispers of, “I’ve never even been kissed.” 

The confession of, “Sometimes I wonder what your touch would feel like.”

The admonishment of, “I want it to be with you.”

Because he listened. He stayed and he listened. Sure, he didn’t have the most helpful advice. But he didn’t raise his voice like your parents did. He didn’t argue with you about how you felt. There were missteps, but he kept coming back. 

You felt…wanted. Sought after. Seen and heard.

What hurts is you finally thought you were safe, and here you are: shoved against a brick wall as he threatens to hurt, hurt, hurt you. “Team up, Yume-chan,” he whispers into the shell of your ear. Your fingers flex at your sides. “I can make you happy, like last night. Wouldn’t you like that? To be someone’s? To finally belong ?”

No one will believe you. No one will believe the girl that loves so much it consumes her entirely. No one will believe the girl that can bend the mind and create illusions, a living dream to clutch tight. No one will believe a girl. 

That’s the harshest reality, you realize as he laughs against the column of your throat.

No one will believe that this man hurt you simply because he is a man, and you are a woman. 

He touches you and you decide if your dreams of being more are to be ruined in this grimy place, then you will make the world a grimy place.

The most beautiful dream turned into the world’s most gruesome nightmare.

(You swear you will never love again.) 

You jerk awake, breath catching in your throat. You see a TV with a familiar man, but your brain can’t process it. No, your brain can’t process anything as you jerk around. Where are you? Yellow walls. Old, sunken couch. Pictures of people on the wall. Where are you-

“Hey,” says a man, and you jolt. Is it- You scurry to the other side of the couch, hands coming to cover your face. Shit. Shit. “You’re safe. No one can hurt you.”

Your breaths come out in rapid pants. Where are you? 

“You’re in your apartment. It’s five-thirty in the evening. It’s rainy out and a bit cold. There’s light wind. No one else is here and the door is locked. You’re safe.” Brown eyes stare at you, intense and all-seeing. Normally, they seem detached. Tired and lazy.

Wait.

You know him.

His hands are raised, palms facing you as he shifts on the other end of the couch. He’s in your apartment. You know him. Faintly, there’s the reassuring scent of patchouli.

He says your name, making you hone in on his face. There’s a scar beneath his eye, and scruff borders what you think may be a sharp jawline. “Breathe in through your nose,” he instructs, and you furrow your brows. The man stares, waiting, so you do as he says. Once a few seconds have passed, he says, “Hold your breath.” You do, and after several seconds, he speaks, “Now, breathe out through your mouth.”

This repeats a few more times until the goosebumps coating your skin die down, the cool sweat dripping along your back slowing to a halt. Your breath doesn’t sting and come in rapid pants, and slowly, you begin to recall where you are.

You’re in your apartment. It’s five-thirty in the evening. It’s rainy out and a bit cold. There’s light wind. No one else is here and the door is locked. You’re safe.

The man sitting before you is Shouta, you realize. And he was telling the truth.

Swallowing roughly, you run your sweaty palms across your leggings. Embarrassed, you keep your eyes cast downward. Great, the man you think you like just witnessed a meltdown And, you recall with a horrified feeling, he saw you at work. He found you at work.

God, Aizawa really does have a talent at catching you at your worst, huh?

“Sorry,” you bite out, still running your palms across your thighs. “That, ah, you had to see that.”

There’s a distinct sigh from the man as he goes to stand. He’s still in his uniform, but his capture weapon appears to be absent. 

For a moment, you fear he’s going to leave, and it’s such a stupid fear. It’s not like he owes it to you to stay. “There’s no reason to apologize,” he huffs. You watch as he maneuvers through your kitchen with ease. It feels oddly domestic, and your face heats. “Flashbacks are common for civilians and heroes alike.” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t… Augh. It’s just-” Embarrassing. 

Aizawa grabs a mug from the cupboards, pouring some tea into it. “I get them too,” he tells you, and you stiffen. Languidly, he returns to the couch with two mugs in hand. “Everyone who experiences trauma does.” 

He offers you some tea, and you shakingly take it. Your fingers brush against his and you jolt back, damn near spilling your drink. If Aizawa notices, he spares you and says nothing. “Thanks,” you murmur. “For…” E verything. “...yeah.”

Aizawa makes an affirming noise, and you sink into the cushions, drinking your tea. The two of you are silent for a long time as the next installment in the All Might movie marathon plays. Still, something lingers. It’s somewhere beneath your ribcage, a gnawing confusion and hunger that drives you to ask, “How did you- Did someone call you?” 

His eyes flicker to you then the TV, head dipping as he holds his tea tightly. If you’re honest, he looks…bashful? Odd. “No,” he says simply. “I saw the tweet.”

Tweet.

Tweet.

Twe- oh. 

You choke on your tea and bend over, hitting your chest. Faintly, you feel Aizawa’s hand come to hover over your back. You whirl on him, and he regards you, mildly concerned. “ The tweet?” you ask, voice damn near squeaking. “As in, the one I sent from Yori’s account?”

“That was you?” he asks, frowning. “Why didn’t you call-”

“It doesn’t matter,” you interrupt, setting your tea down. You adjust on the couch, legs curled up around you (criss-cross applesauce) as you place your hands out. The way Aizawa looks at you suggests you appear utterly intense. “Did you- Do you-” Fuck how do you fucking use fucking words… You suck in a breath and ask, quietly, “Do you follow Yori?”

Aizawa has the nerve to look only mildly intrigued. Otherwise, he appears perfectly calm and not like this is the huge problem it is. He hums, setting his tea down. You feel your soul begin to leave your body. “Yamada suggested his account to me one night,” he says, voice neutral. 

“So you followed the idiot?” you hiss. You throw your head back, fingers curling into your hair. “Oh my God, Aizawa! Did you look at all his tweets?!”

“No.” A sigh of relief escapes you, and then he adds, “Just his popular ones.” 

Fuck.

Fuck.

God really does hate you, doesn’t he? After everything today, and now you’re confronted with the fact Aizawa’s seen Yori’s stupid fucking thread?! This has to be a cruel joke. This has to be-

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, chest in tangles. Aizawa is a very private person. He must be horrified at your friend speculating and publicly documenting his interactions with you. And, at that, suggesting that there is something between you two.

And while part of you lusts and longs for something with this stupid, Hello Kitty hero you found passed out in your alleyway, you know, realistically, it’ll never happen. He deserves better. Someone who can fight back, and isn’t so gullible and- 

“Stop apologizing for so much,” Aizawa sighs, angling his body towards you. Carefully, one of his hands comes to rest on your knee. Your brain short-circuits. “Especially for things you didn’t even do.”

“I-” You’re hallucinating. You have to be. His thumb is rubbing circles in your kneecap, and even through the fabric of your leggings, he’s warm. And real. No. This is real. “Aren’t you angry?” Your voice is so small. You hate it.

Aizawa arches a brow. “Angry?” he echoes. “With you?” 

You nod. “I… I know you don’t like to share much about your personal life and Yori made that thread where he basically aired out everything for the world to see and made everyone think we have a thing and then the villain today thought I was your girlfriend and I-” 

Aizawa sighs loudly, and his whole hand slots against your knee. Pausing, you feel your face heat and turn wildly red. His hand is big. His fingers are broad and- “Stop,” he instructs simply, and you comply. Your mouth snaps shut, watching as he reaches up, pushing his hair back. “I’m not angry.”

Stunned and utterly lost, you just watch. He doesn’t… look mad. Yes, his brows are furrowed ever so slightly, and the corners of his lips are turned downward. But as he glances to the side and then back to you, you don’t pick up anything angry. You purse your lips. “Ah, you’re…not?”

This isn’t lining up. You’re trying to do the math but man, you’re bad at math. Aizawa should be mad. But he’s just… looking at you weirdly. His hand comes to grip the side of your thigh. No, not mad, but then… what?

Aizawa looks a little exasperated as he tucks a piece of his hair back behind his ear. “This isn’t how I wanted to tell you,” he sighs.

Um.

“Tell me what?” 

Are his cheeks red? Not much but… Yes, he’s flushed. His eyes flit down then to your face, and he wets his lips and… Is the world ending? 

“They’re not wrong,” he finally settles for saying. “Yori’s followers.”

The hand on your thighs slowly drifts upward, settling against your hip. He shifts across from you, and your stomach does a series of silly flips as he angles a bit closer. “They said you had feelings for me,” you murmur.

Aizawa nods. “They did.”

His hand trails up your side. It’s always so featherlight, so barely there. He’s careful with touching you, you realize, in case you want to turn away. There’s always room to leave. There’s always the option to say no.

But you don’t want to say no.

“I thought they were wrong,” you admit, lips twitching. 

His hand drifts to your shoulder, trailing along the skin peeking out of your uniform. Slowly, so fucking slowly, his thumb comes to rub beneath your eye. A spot that mirrors where the scar is below his own eye. 

“They’re not,” he tells you.

… oh .

That scared, timid part of you reminds you of him. The boy from before. Of how you were reassured by the way his lips fit against yours. Of how you made a house key for him and he lost it every damn time. Of how you begged him to come visit you at work and he never did-

It whispers that before you is a man. And just as the men often don"t believe the women and their tragedies, the women must disbelieve the men and his promises. Promises of the future. Of commitment and safety. Of unconditional love. Of staying during sickness and health.

But… Aizawa? Shouta ?

He is a hero, the same one who’s saved you twice now. At the end of the day, however, he is but a man. A man who has believed your tragedies. Who has saved you from said tragedies. Who has stayed despite all tragedies. 

Yes, you realize, he’s not just a hero. He’s a man. 

And all men love. 

He says your name. Your heart is in your throat. Everything should fall apart, you think. This feels like a dream. But you make nightmares. 

“I’ll stay,” he tells you.

Ah.

“Can you kiss me?” you ask, gingerly. Aizawa briefly appears surprised, even pulling back just an inch. Your heart hammers in your chest. “If you want, can you kiss me?”

His eyes search your face, searching for something. After a moment, he asks, “Are you sure? You don’t have to do anything-”

“Shouta,” you bite out. His mouth clamps shut. How many people have rendered him silent? “I want you to. So…” You dig your fingers into your lap. “Please.”

For a moment, you both stare. But then he leans forward and presses his lips to your own.

It’s been years since you kissed anyone. And even when you did it with him, it was clanky. Messy and unpleasant. There was a spark, for a time, but it slowly disappeared. 

Aizawa? Your heart soars, and you can’t help the soft noise that escapes when he’s pressed firmly against you. His hand cups your cheek as the other one comes to hold you at your waist. Faintly, you taste the tea (chamomile, you realize) he’d made you both. 

It’s a chaste kiss. Passionate in the way he presses closer, eagerly drinking in the feel of you against him. The scent of patchouli washes over you, eyelashes fluttering against your cheek as you kiss back, languidly rolling your lips against one another. You can’t help but giggle and break the kiss when you feel the coarse drag of his scruff. 

“You’re scruffy,” you laugh and Aizawa doesn’t even seem to register your mild jab. He hovers but a breath away, eyes trained on your giggling form. Slowly, you calm down and realize he’s just… watching you. You cock your head. “Is something wrong?” you ask.

“It won’t happen,” he tells you, and you frown. “What happened before. It won’t.”

Oh. With your ex. Him. You nod. “I know,” you reassure him. And then, almost as if sounding out the words, you say, “I trust you.”

Warmth blossoms in those brown eyes as he regards you, expression softening immensely. The corners of his lips twitch, almost in a smile, but he’s leaning in before you can tease him. “C’mere,” he mutters, hands coming to either side of your face. 

“Oh God, are you touch-starved?” you giggle as he captures you in another kiss. You can’t help but laugh breathlessly against his lips. He scoots somehow even closer, pulling you essentially onto his lap. Aizawa angles his head, deepening the kiss. It’s quickly growing more and more desperate. His hand skirts along your spine as he pulls away only an inch, and when you open your eyes to see why he’s stopped, he’s staring down at you.

“Shouta?” you ask. 

“Are you sure?” he asks and you scoff.

“Jesus fucking-” You reach up, tangle your fingers in his (soft) hair and tug him back down. He lets out a soft hiss before you interrupt with a kiss, and this time, it’s messy. There’s a nip at your lower lip, and you gasp at the slight twinge of pain. Ever the opportunist, Shouta runs his tongue along your own and you shudder. A soft moan escapes you. 

Everything feels fuzzy. It’s like a haze has settled over you. There’s a need, a drive to touch and feel. You want to feel good, but you want him to feel just as good, if not better. God, you haven’t been touched in years and his hands, one gripping the back of your neck while the other traces the ridge of your hip bone, are overwhelming.

His skin is coarse and rough from years of hero work and survival. But with you, he’s so gentle. Firm, yes, in all things he does, but soothing. Reaffirming. It keeps you grounded even as you grow desperate and needy.

Shakingly, your hands raise from where they hover near his shoulders. Even now, despite making out with the man, you’re nervous to touch. There’s the constant terror you’ll mess things up.

The hand on your hip bone moves suddenly, gripping one of your own. His touch on your neck drops to your waist and he grips you tightly, almost as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Shouta brings your hand to the junction of his neck and shoulders, depositing you there. You laugh against his insistent kissing. 

Definitely touch-starved. 

You remember his reaction to his hair, though, and opt to slowly reach around his head. Tangling your fingers in Aizawa’s dark strands, you gather a mess of his hair in your grasp and tug back. It shouldn’t hurt, and your theory is confirmed when a small, hoarse moan escapes him. He tilts his head back, revealing the long column of his pale neck. 

Inexperienced as you may be, that doesn’t mean you’re inherently timid. You’re on Twitter, and you’re friends with Yori. You’ve seen the crazy NSFW art, and been subject to Yori’s kinky meltdowns. While masturbation wasn’t common, you were curious. Still, Aizawa doesn’t know that.

Which makes it all more pleasing when you surge forward and nip at his jugular. It’s not hard enough to draw blood, but it’s surely still a sting. Aizawa, however, does not seem to complain. No, the man’s breath hitches on a barely held back moan. You smile as you kiss down to the side of his throat, feeling his pulse flutter.

You suck a hickey into his skin, and he’s panting. Not much, but it’s there; soft and repressed. It’s fun to earn these noises, to catch him off guard. It makes you feel alive. There’s a heat in you, pulsating and thrumming as you lean up, going to nip at his jaw and-

There’s your name. It’s murmured hoarsely, the syllables almost cracking. Still, it’s strong enough to make you still and pull back. You let go of Shouta’s hair. Momentarily, you’re afraid you’ve gone too far as you blink up at the man.

His face is flushed, eyes hooded more than usual, as he peers down at you. “Shouta?” you ask, voice small. “Are you okay?” 

He sucks in a breath, clenching his jaw, and he says, strained, “I…I don’t want to rush you into anything.” You cock your head. Is he…? Your eyes flick down and- Oh. He’s hard. Fuck. Oh fuck. An electric heat zaps through you, heart stuttering from the mere force of it. 

Aizawa watches you carefully as you process everything.

He knows about your past. He knows, and he’s taking it into account. Here, he reminds you that you have a choice. 

“I think I want more,” you tell him.

His eyes narrow. The heat still doesn’t diminish. “You can say no,” he tells you, voice low. It has a new roughness to it that betrays just how affected he is. If, ya know, the hard-on didn’t give it away. “At any time.”

“Shouta,” you sigh. “I can take care of myself. I want this.” 

You’d said it to him shortly after your recent alleyway jumping. He’d been walking you home. God, did he feel anything then? Hell, did you feel anything? You think you know the answer to at least one question. 

He wets his bottom lip, desire evident as his hands come to cup your face. “You can say stop-”

“I’m not gonna break, Mr. Hero,” you laugh, cutting him off. “Just...” Let me have you. “Please.”

Aizawa hovers for a moment before capturing you in another kiss. It’s a slow study of the other, trying to commit each other to memory. The feel, the taste, the soft noises that escape either of you. Briefly, you wonder if he’s even more vocal in bed. That train of thought comes to a halt, however, when Aizawa grips your hips and pulls you up to your feet. He moves, too, whilst you both lazily kiss one another. 

You barely notice as he begins to herd you back towards your bedroom, directing you with his hands. His hips press against yours, and you can’t help the soft noises escaping you as you feel how worked up he is. Though, to be fair, you’re probably not much better. Your clit is throbbing and as Aizawa maneuvers you backwards, your thighs rub in an attempt to ease some friction.

Aizawa pulls back to press a kiss below your ear, hot breath fanning across the sensitive skin there. You shudder involuntarily and find yourself grabbing the front of his uniform. He chuckles and it’s deep and breathy and- “Need a hand?” he asks, one of his hands ghosting from your hip. It trails closer to the hem of your leggings. You’re swimming in haughty desire. He hums, dragging his teeth down the side of your neck. “I need you to tell me what you want.” He murmurs your name and you whimper when his fingers slide below the waistband, just barely. 

“Touch,” you manage to get out, eyes fluttering shut when he sucks at your collarbone. There’s the gentle nip of teeth and your fingers tighten around his jumpsuit. “Touch me.”

He laves his tongue along your jugular before nibbling at your pulse point. “Where?” he asks.

Dammit all to hell, is he really being a tease right now? You whimper when he tugs your leggings down, revealing an inch or so of more skin. “Aizawa,” you whine.

He bites. Hard enough to make you cry out, and definitely hard enough to leave a mark. “I told you my name,” he reminds you sternly. “Now, where ?”

You hiss and wiggle, but he effortlessly holds you still. Fucking- Is he really gonna make you say it? Realistically, you know you could tell him to stop and he would. But you don’t want to stop. The energy dancing in your veins leaves you needy and high. 

“Anywhere,” you finally say, desperate. “Shouta, shit-! Anywhere, please-”

He shushes you, leaning up to press a few kisses to your cheeks. “I got you,” he reassures you, gently. You relax against the wall. “You’re so good. So perfect.” 

The praise makes you squirm, face heating to an embarrassing degree. Aizawa notices. You see him pulling back to peer down at your face, eyes swimming with lust. He must like your expression because he goes back to ravishing your neck. Christ, you’re going to need so much concealer. 

His fingers dip into your leggings a bit deeper, finding the soft patch of hair there. There’s a moment you fear he’ll stop and turn away, but he keeps going. Those fingers dip down, down, down until they drift over skin you know is embarrassingly wet. Aizawa lets out a noise of approval when he spreads you and finds the slick evidence of your desire.

He leans up, pressing a kiss to the outer corner of your eye. Your lashes dance across your skin as you desperately hold onto him. “Good?” he asks, voice husky. Faintly, you feel him shift again, the evidence of his own desire hard against your thigh. 

Is this how it’s supposed to be? Flitting but desperate touches, the swell of something breathless in your chest, a primal need to satisfy the other? You want him, yes, but you’ve always wanted. You’ve always sought after others, dipping into dark alleyways to ensure someone or something else is okay. To be wanted? To be measured and held in the palm of a man-no, Shouta’s hand?

“‘Zawa,” you whine, and you feel him smile against your neck. It’s answer enough, you think. He must agree because the pad of his thumb brushes against your clit, making you shiver. A spark of pleasure threatens to upend you, and Shouta continues to press his lips along your throat, lazy in his ministrations. Taking his time, you realize. He’s going to take his sweet time with you.

It’s both aggravating and exciting. 

His fingers skirt along your entrance, gathering the wetness that’s gathered there. Methodically, he drags it up to make the slide against your clit much easier. There’s only a moment to suck in a breath before he presses down on the hood of your clit, harder than before. It provides the friction you need, toes curling as he begins to rub circles across the sensitive area.

You don’t notice the little breathless sounds escaping you until Aizawa nuzzles under your jaw, pressing a kiss to the underside. “You drive me mad,” he tells you, and you can’t help but raise your leg to wrap around him. The angle becomes much better and he hums, pace against your clit becoming more intense. “Make me feel things I thought I forgot.” 

You know how that feels. 

“Shouta,” you whine as a familiar heat begins to build low in your belly. You grind against his fingers, and feel them dip down. His index finger prods at your entrance, gathering the embarrassing amount of slick that’s accumulated. There’s a wet noise that makes him groan as he presses a finger inside you.

“Can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses. His finger pumps in and out unhurriedly. Curiously, he presses against your inner walls. It seems like he’s searching for something. “Keeps me up at night.”You whimper. “ Shit, all the things I want to do to you, make you feel.”

Another finger slips in, and your hips buck, throwing your head back. The hand not fucking you comes up just in time to keep you from hitting the wall. You feel his breath ghost across your cheek, and he presses another kiss just below your eye. 

“You deserve good,” he murmurs. His fingers curl, and they’re so much longer and thicker than your own. You can never quite get it to feel as mind-blowing as Hata’s described. Which is why you yelp out a loud moan when Aizawa presses against some place that you’ve only heard about. It feels…weird, but good. You feel yourself clench and spasm as he hums.

“There you go,” he hums. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen.” 

There are tears pricking at your eyes as you grit out, “Shouta… please, harder .” 

The man’s lips find yours, an answer of its own. Gently, carefully, there’s a subtle stretch as he adds one more finger. You groan, head lolling to the side. Faintly, you know you’re panting his name. It no doubt sounds as you feel; a reverent prayer for some form of release. 

One of your hands unfurls from his jumpsuit, coming to rest on the back of his neck. Accidentally, you tug the roots of his hair and there’s a soft “ah” that escapes him. You do it again, and again, barely able to focus beyond the noises he makes against you. Aizawa pants, and you can’t miss him rutting against your thigh. Sometimes words slip through, like, “Want you- … fuck- … what you deserve-... need to feel you- …”  and if it isn’t the best thing you’ve ever heard. 

He fucks three fingers in and out of you at a brutal pace, the heel of his hand rubbing against your clit. Distantly, there’s the lewd sounds of how wet you are around him. It should be embarrassing, but you can only focus on the man lavishing you with open-mouthed kisses. Aizawa peppers them up your jaw, then down your throat, before biting at the junction of your neck. You arch, damn near on the tips of your toes as the pressure in your gut pulls taut. Every thrust of his fingers inside you brushes against that sensitive, pulsating spot. 

“‘m gonna-” you gasp. Your nerves are on fire. The tangle of heat in your belly is impossibly tight. “Shouta-”

“You can cum,” he tells you. “I’ve got you.”

And he does. He’s had you this entire time. So, you cum. Liquid, golden heat washes over you. There’s a faraway sound of moaning, no doubt yours, as you grind down on his hand. The wet noises of his fingers in you grow a bit louder as he fucks you through your orgasm. It’s honestly overwhelming, the fluttery heat consuming you as your body ripples and bends. 

Aizawa’s free hand drops to your waist and you blink away stars, realizing he’s caught you. He regards you with lust-filled eyes, long hair blanketing you both in your own little world. Slowly, he withdraws his fingers. 

And, like an absolute tease, he brings them to his mouth and cleans them. 

Your face has to be bright red as you squeal, covering your cheeks with your hands. The asshole just laughs and pulls your hands away, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “‘S good,” he tells you. 

“No one’s ever…” you trail off, and watch Aizawa’s expression shift into understanding. Displeased understanding.

Maintaining eye contact, he thoroughly ensures his fingers are entirely clean. “Good,” he restates.  You’re too busy blushing and coming down to argue. 

Gingerly, he straightens you out and you’re reminded that he’s still hard. You bite your lip, puffy and raw. “Shouta?” you hum, and he looks to you, listening. “I want you to feel good too.” 

“You don’t have to,” he huffs.

You blink. Yeah, you don’t have to. You want to. Still, it makes you wonder how often he’s put off his own wants and needs in favor of helping others. That’s the life of a hero, after all, right? Sacrificing oneself to ensure the sanctity of the public? 

“I know,” you say. And then you purse your lips, frowning. “You deserve to feel good too. I want to.” To accentuate your point, you grip him through his uniform. He’s hot and heavy against your hand, and you have an inkling he’s above average. Aizawa seizes, hissing through his grit teeth. You smile. “Let me? Please?”

He pants once, twice, and then curses. He pulls you close and meets you with an openmouthed kiss, dragging his tongue along yours. It’s messy, spit coating your lips and chins as you eagerly kiss back. Your grip around him tightens and he lets out a stuttered moan. Fuck. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Let’s- I- Fuck.”

He pulls back from kissing you and herds you back towards your bedroom. His fingers dip below the waistband of your leggings, again, but don’t travel further. Little reassuring circles are rubbed into sensitive skin as he opens the bedroom door and urges you towards your messy, unmade bed. 

There’s a moment where you consider if you should be embarrassed by the messiness of your room. But after that small blip of time, you don’t think of much beyond Aizawa planting both of his hands on either side of your head. The scent of him - patchouli, musk, his body wash and sweat - wafts over you, clinging to your senses. 

You’re kissed, once then twice, and then you’re pushing at his chest. “Shouta,” you hiss. 

He immediately backs off, an alarmed, “What’s wrong?” coming from him. 

“Clothes,” you insist, seemingly reduced to monosyllabic words “Off.”

Aizawa chuffs. His fingers trail down your torso, gathering at the hem of your shirt. Leisurely, he pulls your clothing off. First comes your shirt, and you shiver when exposed to both the air and his attention. Next he methodically unclasps your bra, slipping it from your shoulders. He subtly wets his lip as your nipples peak and harden in the cool air. 

Despite his cock insistently pressing against your thigh, he still finds the time to run his fingers over your breasts. He rubs one nipple and you hiss at him. “Clothes-”

“Off. I know.” He smirks. “Impatient?” 

You pout. “I’ll get the pizza rats and have them kick your ass,” you threaten. “Listen, they’re unionizing. They could-”

“Please do not bring up the pizza rats in the bedroom,” Aizawa sighs dejectedly. 

“Why? They’re fierce allies in the face of a changing society-”

He groans, and then kisses you. It’s probably your new favorite way of being told to shut up, so you don’t cause more trouble. Especially when he pulls down both your leggings and underwear down in one go. The intimate area being suddenly bare and visible makes you shudder, but Shouta keeps pressing reassuring kisses on your lips, then your jaw and neck. 

Aizawa leans back after a moment, stepping off the edge of the bed to shrug off his jumpsuit. His eyes don’t leave your form the entire time, watching intensely as you sit up. 

The more his body is revealed the more the heat in your gut swelters and grows. Fuzzy patches of dark hair scatter across pale, marred skin. There are burns and scars littered across his flesh, and you reach up, running your hand down a particularly bad mark on his ribs. He stiffens at your touch, as you soothe over the wound with your thumb like it was still open.

“When did it become more than a job for you?” you ask, voice small. His chest slightly rises then dips with his breath. Here, at the foot of your bed, trusting and vulnerable, you realize just how human you both are. It’s a fragile and delicate feeling - to understand the confines of your humanity. But mostly, it’s empowering.

So breakable, and here you are: trusting. 

“It’s always been more than a job,” he tells you, and oh. 

Maybe, you realize, you will love again.

Not now. There’s still trust to be built, and time to spend. But eventually. Soon, you think. Soon you will love someone again. You will crave their touch, a hunger so intricate it replaces the fear tangled in your chest. You will dream of their presence, comforting with the soft hint of patchouli as it drifts close. 

You will love someone.

Maybe him. 

As Shouta undresses the rest of the way and slots himself between your legs - pressing open-mouthed kisses across your exposed chest whilst his fingers languidly stretch you - you think it’ll be him that you can love. 

Huh, you think. That’s weird. 

(But it’s not.)

Carefully - so fucking careful - he works into you, pressing his cock deeper inch by glorious inch. You whine, scrabbling at his back when his hand grazes your clit before rubbing distracting circles against the sensitive bud. There’s hushed whispers of praise into your ear, interrupted only by his own soft moans and grunts. 

“-look so good,” he tells you as he slightly thrusts upward, fervent and needy. He’s bottomed out, you realize with a hitched, cut-off moan. “Want you- ah - so bad,” he breathes, beginning to fuck you in earnest. The friction of his cock hitting every sensitive place inside you has you choking on air. His hand still palms at your clit, nerve endings lighting up gloriously. Sparks shoot throughout you as you wrap your leg around his hips, letting him hit deeper.

“Need to - fuck- protect you ,” Aizawa pants, and when he adjusts his angle, you realize he’s been holding back. Now, he hits that spot he found earlier with his fingers. The spot that absolutely undid you. And it’s more sensitive than before as his cock passes over it, the pressure making you yelp out a moan. Faintly, you think it’s his name you’re saying, but you’re not sure. 

Sweat drips down your back, Aizawa’s back. Your nails are raking across his spine, no doubt tearing the skin up there. You’d stop, but after a particularly deep drag of your nails, he moans deep. Deeper than before. So you keep marking him, latching onto his neck as he fucks you. 

Honestly, it must only be a few minutes before you feel it. Your orgasm creeps up on you, starting warm and fuzzy in your toes as it spreads up, up… “‘m gonna cum,” you hoarsely mutter. 

“Good,” Shouta hums, and shuddering, he adds, “Deserve it. Perfect.”

His hips stutter and his hands tighten in their grip on you. One lowers to your hip, holding you still as he loses all semblance of rhythm. It’s desperate, now, utterly out of control. The rapid pace, the angle, and his hand still on your clit urges you closer and closer to orgasm. And it’s close. No, you’re on the brink. 

Shouta’s lips graze your own. “It’s okay,” he tells you. “I’ve got you.” 

That’s what does you in. You throw your head back with a deep, guttural moan as you feel yourself pulse and tremble. The sound of his cock inside you gets louder, wetter as he fucks without abandon. Your body feels warm. And light, floaty even. 

Aizawa moans as he feels you clench around him. “That’s it,” he urges. “Wanna hear you. Good.”

But his hips buck and he hisses, biting down just below your ear. The prick of his teeth makes you whimper, hands coming up to dig in his hair. When you tug on the strands, you feel him twitch inside you as he cums. You can feel him cum in you, absentmindedly thankful for birth control, and it should gross you out. But you’re too blissed the fuck out to really care as you card your fingers through his hair. 

Slowly, he comes down. Aizawa returns to a more coherent mind as he pulls back, looking down at you. No doubt you’re a fucking mess, but he’s not much better. Flushed and sweaty, his eyes are glazed over with lust and something else. Something no one has expressed your way before.

“Are you okay?” he asks, quiet. He speaks as if you two are lovers sharing an intimate moment in a hidden corner, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world.

Startlingly, you realize - you are. 

You snicker, poking his cheek. He manages a tempered glare. “I’m not gonna break, ya know,” you remind him. “Especially with you.”

He eyes you. “I meant it,” he gruffly tells you. You arch a brow, reaching up to brush back a strand of hair that’s escaped. You tuck it behind his ear, and you don’t miss how he nuzzles into your touch. “I’ll stay.”

A smile curls its way onto your face, and you lean up, pressing a kiss to his scar, then nose, then brow, and he hisses, trying to lean away. You giggle and sit up, chasing after him with grabby hands. “C’mere,” you whine. “Wanna kiss Mr. Handsome Hero.”

He glares, but it’s really not menacing considering his dick is out, and you laugh. “You’re a menace,” he grumbles.

Still, he leans back down and takes you into his arms, laying down. You press against his side, head on his chest. It’s peaceful, and something you can get used to, you think.

A sudden bang outside makes him sit straight up, however. Immediately, Aizawa is pulling on his briefs and bolting to the living room. You sigh and follow, trying to ignore the bodily fluids slowly dripping down your thighs. 

You find him peering through the windows, down towards the alleyway. Slowly, you come up and look out too. 

Outside, roughly two-dozen beefy rats have gathered around an empty pizza box. Some appear to be fighting to the death for a slice, while others methodically share and distribute. They’re huge. Utterly huge. Aizawa looks…taken aback.

“Yeah,” you tell him, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair. “They’re still working on the union thing.”

You return to work a week later, fully rested and smiling. Hata watches with scrupulous eyes as you make each order and hand them off with a soft, “Safe travels.” Eventually, Yori walks in, whispering with Hata.

You’re not surprised when they corner you early in the morning. 

Hata boxes you (not really, but she tries) into a corner, hands on her hips. “What happened?” she demands.

You arch a brow, glancing between stern Hata and mischievous Yori. He tries to hide it but you can see his phone in hand. Ah, right. Twitter. 

His K-Pop tweet had trended for a few hours after it was revealed to be a secret SOS message. His follower count has, somehow and for some unknown reason, doubled. He won’t stop tweeting Endeavor asking to “link up” and posting selfies with Hawks. The two have adopted the name “The Twinky Two” and it, too, trends. 

“What do you mean?” you ask innocently, turning to wipe down the counters. Thinking of it, you should wash the blenders. You grab one. 

“That day. You left with Aizawa-san which I’m very thankful for. And then you come back like… this.” She makes a vague gesture to your entire body. 

You frown. “Um… not overworked?” 

“You’re happy,” Yori adds. And then, in typical Yori fashion, he quips, “Possibly well-fucked?” 

Hata hisses, hitting Yori’s shoulder as the door rings. She turns to head back to the register, but says, “It’s good, Yume-chan. I’m glad.” She turns to face the customers and you roll your eyes. “Hello, students! How can I help you?”

Wait… students ? 

“Oi,” you bark, shifting so you face the register. “Are you skipping-” Yep, over a dozen teenagers in school uniforms gather around the register. They regard you with wide, awe-struck eyes. A curly mess of green hair pops up among the masses and you realize-

“Aizawa-sensei!” yells a girl. “Is this your girlfriend ?”

“Quiet,” snaps a familiar, gruff voice as the door rings. “You’ll scare Eri.”

The students part to let their teacher cut through, and you have to bite back a small smile when Aizawa steps through. With him, however, is a young girl. She regards you curiously, eyes wide with evident nerves. 

You purse your lips as Hata waves to her. “Hi, young Miss!” 

You glance at Aizawa, who stares back impassively. Frowning slightly, you look back at the girl. She reminds you of the kids in the hospital all those years ago, curled up and timid. So afraid. They’d been so afraid. 

Cautiously, you clean your hand and exit from behind the counter. The students murmur but back up and offer space as you crouch in front of the girl. She fidgets with her fingers, intricately aware of every move you make. “Hi,” you say softly. “Are you Eri?”

The girl nods, looks to Aizawa who urges her on, and says, “Are you Yume-san?” 

Once, you would’ve flinched at the nickname. But now? “Yes,” you tell her. “I’ve heard you’ve been through some scary stuff lately.” Aizawa had spoken to you about her story. Not much due to confidentiality, but enough to grasp the gravity of the situation. He was protective of her. Now, you completely understand why. 

Eri’s eyes waver. “Yeah,” she confirms. “A bad man hurt me and my friends.” 

“I’m sorry. You and your friends didn’t deserve that.”

“Does it get better?” Eri asks, voice small. “Will scary stuff always happen?” 

You think. Long and hard. You search for a fitting answer. 

After a pause, you settle for a hushed, “Life can be scary, yes. And sometimes bad things happen. But there are always good people there to help you. You just have to let them, and also let yourself help you too.” 

Carefully, she nods. Then, she mutters, “Your name means dream. Yume. ”

“Yes.”

“Is that your quirk?” She deliberates, then adds, “Do you create dreams?” 

You hesitate, then glance at Aizawa. He watches, letting you choose. Then, you look at Hata and Yori. They watch, smiling brightly. Finally, you look at Eri and nod, opening your palm. 

A thousand pinpricks travel up your spine, your breath steady and even. The skin doesn’t peel from your bones, nor do shadows creep up your spine. The soft, comforting scent of patchouli and bergamot washes over you both. Whispers wrap around your neck, kissing along your wrist.

  “Yes,” you tell Eri as you summon her greatest dream. You watch it stretch around her, revealing open fields and quaint illusions of the students behind her. A familiar monochrome man stands in her dream too, a cat dancing around his feet, You recognize Present Mic as he sings and Midoriya laughs, sprinting with Eri. 

You smile. 

“Not for a while,” you admit. “But now?”

You breathe in, hold it just for a moment, and let it go.

“Now, I can.”