Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Izuku was out of work.

Not in the fired sense—Nezu still wanted him at UA, still sent him reports and data to analyze—but the kind of out of work where everything was running smoothly, where optimizations had been implemented, and no new problems had cropped up yet.

It was an unnatural state.

For weeks, his world had been filled with structure, with calculations, with numbers and inefficiencies waiting to be stripped down to their barest form and rebuilt better. Every system in UA had been a puzzle to solve, a crack to fill. But now?

The cracks were gone.

And Izuku was left standing in the empty spaces, raw and uncertain.

His fingers twitched at his sides, the lack of his notebook like an itch under his skin. He had already reviewed the latest hero training curriculum twice. Had mapped out an updated traffic congestion pattern for potential city-wide emergency evacuations. Even compiled an optional restructuring proposal for the UA dormitories.

It was… enough.

It should be enough.

But that left him here.

Standing just outside the teacher’s lounge like a trapped animal.

He could go in. He should go in. It was lunch break. He had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, no excuse not to sit with the rest of the faculty like a normal person.

But—

The thought of it made his stomach curl in on itself.

The others tolerated him. That was fine. Acceptable. Aizawa had even given him a nod the other day—progress. Midnight liked to test him, Vlad had stopped bristling at his presence, Cementoss had openly approved of his work.

But that was in a professional setting. When he was working.

Izuku didn’t know how to be in that room without working.

He didn’t know how to exist around them when he wasn’t fixing something, when he wasn’t proving his worth, when he wasn’t—

"OI, LISTENER!"

Izuku yelped.

A very undignified yelp.

Something loud and fast and very excited barreled into his side.

"What the hell-"

Izuku barely had time to react before an arm looped around his shoulders, and suddenly, he was being dragged.

"YA KNOW," Hizashi Yamada’s voice rang directly in his brainstem, "IF YOU WANNA EAVESDROP, YA GOTTA AT LEAST COME INSIDE!"

"I wasnt-"

"Sure, sure," Hizashi waved him off, effortlessly hauling Izuku forward. "C’MON, NO NEED TO BE SHY—"

"Im not shy-"

"LIES AND SLANDER, YOU’RE ADORABLE, GET IN HERE—"

And then.

Then.

Izuku was in.

The teachers’ lounge was warm. Not in the literal sense—though the air carried the faint scent of coffee and miso soup—but in a way that settled heavily around the space. Comfortable. Lived-in.

Midnight was sprawled across the couch, propping herself up on her elbows, watching the scene unfold with very clear amusement.

Cementoss had been reading a book—he didn’t even look surprised.

Vlad, arms crossed, raised a brow at him. "You’ve been lurking out there for a full five minutes."

Izuku froze.

"I—"

Aizawa didn’t even lift his head from his coffee. "Ten."

Oh, god.

He wanted to die.

He tried to turn around, but Hizashi firmly kept him in place.

"Relax, dude!" The blonde grinned. "We don’t bite—"

"Lies," Aizawa muttered.

"Okay, most of us don’t bite," Hizashi corrected, flashing Midnight a look.

Nemuri pouted dramatically, resting her chin in her hands. "You say that like I wouldn’t be gentle."

Izuku choked on air.

Hizashi just cackled and forcibly guided him toward the nearest chair. "Sit, stay, good boy."

Izuku sat.

And—

Oh, god, they were all looking at him.

Not with the usual wariness. Not like the feared cryptid, the in-house strategist, the unrelenting force of efficiency that had stormed into their ranks and turned the entire school inside out.

No.

This was something worse.

Curiosity.

Interest.

Like he was something new.

Izuku curled in on himself, sinking deeper into his oversized sweater.

The cryptid was unmasked.

And, somehow, it was just a timid, anxious little analyst.

"Wow," Nemuri breathed, eyes glittering. "You’re precious."

Izuku whimpered.

"Izuku Midoriya," Vlad said slowly, tilting his head. "Are you… shy?"

"No," Izuku lied, curling tighter.

Hizashi, the traitor, beamed. "Yes! And he’s adorable about it—"

Izuku pressed his face into his hands.

Cementoss set his book down. "He did seem to function best when he had work to focus on," he mused.

"He needs an excuse," Aizawa muttered, voice still low and raspy from too little sleep.

And—oh.

That struck something too deep, too raw in Izuku’s ribs.

Because he did.

He needed an excuse. He needed a job, a task, something to justify being here, something to keep his mind occupied so he wouldn’t have to think.

Because if he stopped thinking, he might start panicking.

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Alright, alright," Hizashi said, giving his shoulder a light shake. "Don’t worry, Listener, we’ll get ya comfy!"

Izuku peeked out between his fingers.

Hizashi grinned. "You ever played poker?"

Izuku blinked.

"...What?"

Aizawa sighed into his coffee. "This is a mistake."

Nemuri perked up. "Ooooh, this is fantastic—"

Vlad scoffed. "You’re not going to hustle him again, are you?"

Hizashi gasped, hand on his chest. "Vlad, I am offended. I never hustle our dear, beloved coworkers!"

"You stole my entire paycheck last time."

"Well, yeah, but that’s because you’re bad at poker."

Izuku sat there, trying to process the absolute chaos unfolding around him.

The same people who had regarded him with skepticism, with caution, with wary approval… were suddenly treating him like one of them.

Like he belonged here.

And maybe-

Maybe that was okay.

Maybe he could belong.

A small, quiet warmth settled in his chest.

Izuku inhaled, then exhaled slowly.

"...I’ve never played poker before," he admitted.

The room went still.

And then-

Nemuri grinned like a wolf.

"Oh," she purred, "this is going to be fun."

Izuku had no idea what he had just unleashed.

Izuku kept his hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes flickering between the cards in his hand and the steadily growing pile of chips in front of him.

It was… a lot of chips.

More than everyone else’s combined.

A mistake, surely.

He glanced up.

Hizashi Yamada had slumped forward onto the table, forehead pressed against the wood in a dramatic display of defeat. Nemuri sat back in her chair, arms draped loosely over the armrests, her expression hovering somewhere between amused and delighted. Vlad had his face buried in his hands. Cementoss merely observed in quiet, neutral acceptance.

Aizawa was still drinking his coffee.

Izuku curled his fingers into the sleeves of his sweater, voice small.

"Did… I do something wrong?"

The response was immediate.

"THIS ISN’T HAPPENING," Hizashi groaned into the table.

"It is," Aizawa muttered.

"We've been had," Vlad mumbled, rubbing his temples.

Nemuri beamed. "Oh, no, honey. You’ve done everything right."

Izuku's hands clenched a little tighter.

Something about this felt off.

Not in the usual way—where he had missed a step, where he had miscalculated someone’s expectations, where he was one wrong move away from being reminded that he didn’t belong here—but something else.

Like they weren’t mad.

Like they weren’t even annoyed.

Like they were… enjoying this.

He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t… I don’t understand."

Hizashi shot upright, pointing at him with a dramatic flourish. "You’re counting cards."

Izuku stiffened. "I—I’m what?"

Nemuri tapped a manicured nail against her cheek, eyes glittering. "You’re tracking the deck, aren’t you, sweetheart?"

Izuku blinked at her. "Isn’t… isn’t everyone?"

Silence.

Then Vlad made a pained sound.

"You don’t do that in casual games!" he blurted.

Izuku flinched, shrinking back in his seat. "Oh—oh, I—I didn’t mean to—"

"HE DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HE WAS DOING IT!" Hizashi howled.

Izuku curled in on himself.

He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, the quiet, creeping panic that always accompanied the realization that he had done something wrong.

"Sorry," he said quickly, barely above a whisper. "I—I can stop, I can—"

A hand landed on his head.

Gentle. Light.

Hizashi ruffled his hair, grinning. "Nah, dude, you keep going."

Izuku froze.

"You’re adorable," Nemuri added, tilting her head. "And you’re ruining us. It’s wonderful."

Izuku wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

He stared down at his cards, fingers trembling slightly, his stomach twisting with the uncertain weight of something he didn’t understand.

He had messed up. He had won too much.

But no one was—

No one was mad.

They weren’t pushing him away.

They weren’t looking at him like they regretted letting him in.

They were just… laughing.

Like it was funny.

Like he was funny.

Izuku swallowed, voice barely above a whisper.

"I… I didn’t mean to cheat."

Nemuri laughed. "Oh, honey, it’s not cheating. It’s just dangerous."

Hizashi slumped back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. "I can’t believe we let a cryptid into our ranks—"

"Aizawa let him in," Vlad muttered.

"Nezu let him in," Aizawa corrected.

Hizashi pointed. "You didn’t fight it, though!"

Aizawa sipped his coffee. "Didn’t see a reason to."

Izuku hunched his shoulders.

They were teasing. He knew that.

But part of him still curled in on itself, waiting for the shift, waiting for the moment the air changed.

Waiting for the moment they realized.

That he was too much.

That he was too different.

That they had made a mistake letting him sit at their table.

But it didn’t happen.

Instead—

Aizawa set his mug down and looked at him.

Steady. Unreadable. Assessing.

And then—

"You should play with Nezu next."

The entire room froze.

Izuku's pulse skipped.

He did not move.

Nemuri gasped. "Oh."

Cementoss exhaled through his nose. "Interesting."

Vlad looked horrified.

Hizashi jerked so hard his chair nearly toppled over. "Dude, are you trying to kill him?!"

Aizawa barely blinked. "Might be funny."

Izuku’s throat felt tight.

His fingers trembled where they curled into his sleeves, mind running through every possible outcome, every wrong answer.

Play with Nezu.

Nezu.

The one who had found him. The one who had pulled him into this school. The one who had given him a job, a place, something he couldn’t afford to lose.

He couldn’t—

He couldn’t.

Aizawa’s gaze flickered over him.

Something in his expression shifted.

Then, in a voice quieter than before—

"You don’t have to."

Izuku exhaled.

Slowly.

He stared down at the table, at his cards, at the neat little stacks of chips that shouldn’t have been his.

His chest was tight.

But…

No one was pushing.

No one was forcing him.

Hizashi groaned dramatically. "Aw, but it would be so cool—"

Vlad kicked him under the table.

Nemuri smirked. "We’ll save that for later," she hummed, reaching out to tap the edge of Izuku’s cards. "For now? Play another round, sweetheart."

Izuku hesitated.

Swallowed.

Then, slowly—

He nodded.

"Okay."

And for the first time in a long time—

The weight in his chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Chapter Text

Izuku hadn't meant to make a habit of it.

It had just… happened.

The first few times, it was accidental.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

He would finish his work, review his notes twice, and then, without thinking, find himself drifting toward the teacher's lounge. Not because he had a reason. Not because there was something to fix.

Just because.

Because he knew it would be warm. Because he knew Hizashi would grin at him, Nemuri would find new ways to test his patience, Cementoss would nod approvingly, and Vlad would huff but make space at the table anyway.

Because they would talk to him, around him, like he was supposed to be there.

And that should have terrified him.

Should have made him back away, made him run.

Because it wasn’t permanent. Because they could still change their minds. Because one day, the moment would come where they realized he wasn’t really one of them.

But that day hadn’t come yet.

And somehow, somehow, it was getting easier to believe that it wouldn’t.

So now?

Now he went.

He lingered in the lounge before he could think too hard about it. He sat at the table, small and quiet and uncertain, but no one questioned it.

No one made him leave.

And Aizawa?

Aizawa tolerated it.

And that was strange.

Because Aizawa barely tolerated anyone.

Oh, he had his pack, Hizashi, Nemuri, Nezu. The people he had claimed, the ones he had curled his instincts around like a protective shield. But everyone else?

They were intrusions.

Tolerated at best. Endured at worst.

But Izuku?

Izuku could sit next to him, and Aizawa didn't look like he was waiting for an excuse to leave.

He just sat.

Quiet. Comfortable. As if it was normal.

And the other teachers noticed.

They noticed.

Cementoss was an observer.

He had always been that way, always watched dynamics shift and settle, taking note of the subtle balances in the way people interacted.

Aizawa was private.

Tolerant of his coworkers, yes, but never openly welcoming.

And yet there was something different about the way he sat now.

He didn’t stiffen when Midoriya took the chair beside him. Didn’t shift away like he always did when someone entered his space.

He just stayed.

And if Cementoss wasn’t mistaken…

He was relaxed.

Interesting.

It took Vlad longer than it should have.

But one afternoon, after training, when he sat down across from Aizawa—

Aizawa had that look.

The one he always got when he was being forced to socialize.

The one that said I would rather be doing literally anything else but I am here anyway and suffering for it.

Vlad barely had time to register it before Izuku sat down.

And Aizawa’s shoulders unlocked.

Vlad frowned.

That wasn’t normal.

But Izuku, completely oblivious to the absolute phenomenon happening in front of them, just adjusted his notes and murmured a quiet "Good afternoon."

And Aizawa just-

Huffed.

Not annoyed. Not irritated.

Just.

Acknowledging him.

Huh.

Nemuri had already noticed.

Had been watching since the beginning.

Had been waiting for the moment Aizawa's instincts finally snapped, the moment he stopped pretending he wasn’t circling Izuku like something to be claimed.

Because that’s what this was.

Aizawa didn’t do this.

Didn’t let people this close.

Didn’t let anyone in his space unless they were his.

So when Izuku sat beside him?

When Aizawa didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t look like he was one bad conversation away from escaping?

Nemuri nearly cackled.

"Oh," she purred, watching Aizawa not glare at Izuku. "Interesting."

Aizawa gave her a look.

Izuku just blinked up at her, confused.

Oblivious.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Hizashi had always been aware of how particular Aizawa was.

It was something that had never changed in all the years they had known each other.

Aizawa did not tolerate people in his space.

Except now he did.

Or, more specifically, now he tolerated Midoriya in his space.

And not in the begrudging, I guess you’re fine kind of way.

No, no, this was something different.

Hizashi wasn’t sure when it clicked, but the moment he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it.

The way Aizawa never moved when Midoriya sat beside him.

The way his eyes followed him, the way his body always angled slightly toward him, the way his instincts had stopped bristling entirely whenever he was nearby.

That wasn’t normal.

That was dangerous.

That was pack behavior.

And Midoriya?

Midoriya didn’t notice at all.

Hizashi hid his grin behind his drink.

Oh.

Oh, this was beautiful.

Izuku didn’t notice.

Or rather-

He didn’t let himself notice.

Because noticing meant accepting.

And accepting meant believing that this was real.

That this wasn’t just temporary.

That they wouldn’t wake up one day and decide he was too much, that he had pushed too far, that they had let him in by mistake.

So he sat.

And he existed.

And when Aizawa didn’t bristle at his presence, when no one told him to leave, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he belonged here.

Just a little bit longer.

Chapter Text

The world felt distant.

Muted. Soft around the edges.

Like everything was happening a few seconds too late, his thoughts trailing behind his movements in a sluggish, disconnected haze.

Izuku blinked slowly.

Then again.

His body ached in the vague, lingering way that meant he had pushed himself too far, but that wasn’t new. That was just… how it was.

He rubbed his eyes, suppressing a yawn, then reached for the handle of the teachers’ lounge door, stepping inside on autopilot.

The room was filled with the usual suspects. Aizawa, slouched in his chair. Hizashi, sprawled dramatically over the couch. Nemuri, perched on the armrest like a cat that had been disturbed from a nap. Vlad, Cementoss—everyone.

He barely processed their eyes snapping toward him.

Barely registered the immediate shift in the air.

Because his mind was set on one thing.

Coffee.

He needed it.

Badly.

So he shuffled past them, moving toward the coffee machine with single-minded purpose, shoulders hunched, sweater a little looser than usual around him.

The silence stretched.

He ignored it.

Because the thing was, this wasn’t weird.

This was just how it was.

Work needed to be done. The analysis had to be completed before the third-years’ exams, so they could use the data to properly prepare. There was no room for error, no time to delay.

So he had worked.

And when his body had reached its limit, he had slept.

Right there. On the floor.

Because that was how things worked.

You pushed until you couldn’t push anymore. You didn’t complain, you didn’t wait for someone to tell you it was okay to stop—you just did what you had to do.

That was the expectation.

That had always been the expectation.

So when he finally shuffled over to the counter, grabbing a mug with slightly unsteady fingers.

The weight of the silence finally registered.

Izuku blinked groggily.

Turned his head slightly.

And realized that every single teacher in the room was staring at him.

He frowned, rubbing his eye with the sleeve of his sweater.

"…What?"

A pause.

A long, long pause.

Then-

"You look like you died," Hizashi blurted, voice unusually flat.

Izuku frowned, still groggy. "I- what?"

"Midoriya," Cementoss said carefully, like he was approaching something fragile, "what did you do?"

Izuku hesitated.

Not because he was hiding anything.

But because the question didn’t make sense.

He stared at them, blinking slowly, fingers curling tighter around his coffee mug.

"I… finished the analysis."

More silence.

Aizawa’s eyes were sharp. Too sharp.

"How long did that take?" he asked.

Izuku squinted, brain moving sluggishly.

"…I don’t know," he admitted, voice quiet. "I didn’t keep track."

Hizashi groaned, rubbing his face.

Nemuri exhaled sharply through her nose, tilting her head in a way that made something cold curl in Izuku’s stomach.

"So you just… didn’t sleep?" she asked, voice deceptively calm.

Izuku frowned again, confused.

"I did sleep," he mumbled, still blinking slow and heavy. "After I finished."

Something shifted in the air.

Aizawa set his cup down too quietly.

"Where?"

Izuku yawned into his sleeve.

"On the floor."

Silence.

Vlad made a strangled sound.

"You what?"

Izuku frowned deeper. His brain felt too slow, dragging itself through sludge to process their reactions.

He didn’t understand.

What was- what was wrong?

This was normal.

This was how it worked.

Back when he had first started, when he had gotten his first analyst job, this was the expectation. You did whatever it took. You didn’t question it. You worked until the job was done. You took the workload they gave you and handled it.

Because if you didn’t-

If you hesitated, if you failed-

You were replaced.

And Izuku wasn’t useful if he was replaceable.

So he just… tilted his head slightly, gaze unfocused, shoulders curling inward.

"I-" His voice was slow, hesitant. "I had to finish before the deadline."

Nemuri exhaled sharply.

"What deadline?"

Izuku blinked again, confused by the question.

"The exams," he murmured. "The students need time to use the data before they take them."

A beat.

A long, long beat.

Then-

"We didn’t give you a deadline," Vlad said, voice strangely tight.

Izuku hesitated.

"I… I assumed-"

Aizawa’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood.

Izuku flinched.

Didn’t mean to.

Didn’t think about it.

But Aizawa’s gaze snapped toward him, and something- something shifted.

Too quick.

Too sharp.

Like a predator who had just caught the scent of blood.

Izuku immediately dropped his stare to the table, heart kicking up too fast in his chest.

Aizawa’s next words were soft.

Too soft.

"Midoriya."

Izuku swallowed.

Didn’t answer.

Because suddenly-

Suddenly he wasn’t sure what the right answer was anymore.

"How often did you do this?" Aizawa asked, voice still dangerously quiet.

Izuku bit the inside of his cheek.

Fingers tightening around his sleeves.

The silence stretched.

Hizashi breathed in sharply.

"Listener."

Izuku flinched again.

Pressed his lips together.

Then, barely above a whisper "…Always."

A heavier silence.

Something cold twisted in his chest.

He didn’t understand.

Didn’t know why the room felt like this.

Didn’t know why everyone was looking at him like that.

He had done what was expected.

What had always been expected.

Because UA was still a job.

And he was still quirkless.

He had to prove his worth.

He had to show that he belonged here.

Didn’t he?

A chair scraped back.

Izuku’s hands curled into the fabric of his sweater, breath catching in his throat.

Then a weight.

Soft and heavy, settling over his shoulders.

Izuku blinked.

Aizawa had draped his capture scarf over him.

Something in Izuku’s chest locked up.

Aizawa exhaled, slow and measured.

"That’s not how we do things here," he muttered, voice quiet but firm.

Izuku opened his mouth.

But closed it again.

Because he didn’t understand.

Didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to process what was happening.

Aizawa stepped back, expression unreadable.

Nemuri’s voice was softer this time.

"How long have you been working like this, sweetheart?"

Izuku swallowed.

Didn’t answer.

Because the real answer was forever.

And, for the first time-

For the first time, UA wasn’t reacting the way they were supposed to.

Chapter Text

Izuku sat curled on the floor, back pressed against the wall, fingers curled tight into the fabric of his sweater.

His apartment felt too small.

Too empty.

Too far away from them.

His breath shuddered.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not here. Not now. Not again.

He had spent years balancing on the edge, never stepping too far, never letting himself fall.

Because claiming something, someone, wasn’t a choice.

It was instinct.

It was something that took.

Something that never let go.

And now-

Now his instincts had curled sharp around UA, had settled too deep, had begun pulling tight.

Like his body had already decided.

Like his instincts had already chosen.

He clenched his jaw, stomach twisting, something raw and feral clawing at his ribs.

This was wrong.

It was dangerous.

Because the last time-

The last time he had let himself claim something, it had been ripped away.

Because the world did not belong to people like him.

Because he was quirkless.

Because he was replaceable.

And UA had felt safe.

Had let him breathe in a way he hadn’t in years.

But that wouldn’t last.

It never lasted.

So why-

Why was his body trying to anchor him there?

Why was his chest twisting wrong every time he thought about leaving?

Why was he panicking at the idea of being away from them?

Hizashi, who made him laugh before he even realized it.

Nemuri, who teased him but always knew when to stop.

Vlad, Cementoss, Hound Dog, the others- who treated him like he belonged there.

Aizawa, who let him sit beside him without bristling.

Aizawa, who had settled in a way Izuku had never seen before.

Aizawa-

Izuku choked on his breath, hands shaking, nails digging into fabric as his vision blurred.

He wasn’t supposed to have this.

He wasn’t supposed to want this.

Because if he claimed them-

If he let his instincts take over-

If he let himself believe-

Then when they left, it would ruin him.

And yet-

And yet.

His throat felt tight.

His instincts curled warm in his chest.

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut.

And broke.

Chapter Text

It started small.

Subtle. Barely noticeable.

At first, it was just the capture scarf.

Aizawa had draped it over him like it was normal, like it was something he did for people who weren’t his. Like it wasn’t a monumental event, like it wasn’t something that made every single teacher in that room witness history.

That alone had been enough to send shockwaves through the staff.

But this?

This was different.

This was worse.

This was horrifying.

Because Aizawa Shouta, the same Aizawa Shouta who hoarded his coffee like a dragon sitting on a pile of gold, the same Aizawa Shouta who once bit Hizashi’s hand for trying to steal a sip, the same Aizawa Shouta who did not share-

Had just handed Midoriya Izuku his own personal mug.

The one that had been custom made for him. The one filled with coffee that cost more than some people’s rent.

And Midoriya?

Midoriya didn’t even hesitate.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even register the absolute blasphemy that had just occurred.

Just took it with a quiet, "Oh, thanks, Aizawa-san," and took a sip.

The room froze.

Hizashi choked.

Nemuri inhaled so sharply she nearly cut herself on the air.

Cementoss stared in muted horror.

Vlad’s entire soul left his body.

Because that?

That was not normal.

That was not pack behavior.

That wasn’t even trust behavior.

That was courting.

That was Aizawa, a man who hoarded his comforts, a man who did not share what was his, handing something deeply personal to Midoriya Izuku, as if it was natural.

As if it was nothing at all.

And Izuku?

Izuku just sat there, sleepily sipping the liquid gold like it was normal.

Like he wasn’t drinking an absurdly expensive, personally imported blend, one that even Hizashi and Nemuri weren’t allowed to touch.

Like it wasn’t a declaration.

The teachers watched in silent horror.

Izuku didn’t notice at all.

Aizawa had come in looking like death warmed over.

Which, for him, was normal.

What wasn’t normal was the way he wordlessly handed his own mug to Midoriya, as if that was just something that happened now.

Izuku, half-asleep, barely registered it before accepting it, cradling the warm ceramic in his hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He took a sip.

And that was the moment everyone realized.

Vlad nearly had a stroke.

Hizashi stared.

Nemuri watched intently, gaze sharp, calculating.

Because this was not an accident.

This was deliberate.

Aizawa had claimed things before.

Hizashi. Nemuri. Nezu.

But this?

This was something else.

This was Aizawa giving him things.

And Aizawa didn’t give things away.

Not like this.

Not so easily.

Not without meaning.

And Izuku, bless his heart, had no idea.

He just kept sipping, completely oblivious, completely unaware of the ungodly amount of money he was drinking in casual little sips, completely clueless to the absolute earthquake-level event he had just set off in the staff room.

Hizashi looked at Aizawa.

Then back at Izuku.

Then back at Aizawa.

Then opened his mouth-

And shut it again.

Because oh.

Oh.

That wasn’t pack behavior he knew so well from Shouta.

That was mating behavior.

Hizashi barely stopped himself from slamming his hands on the table.

He turned to Nemuri.

Nemuri turned to him.

Their eyes met.

Silent conversation passed between them.

This was happening.

This was real.

Aizawa was courting Izuku.

And Izuku?

Izuku was so oblivious that he didn’t even realize he was being hunted.

Nemuri leaned back in her chair, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across her lips.

"Oh," she purred. "This is delicious."

Hizashi wheeze-laughed.

Vlad stared between them, looking increasingly concerned. "What- what the hell is happening?"

Cementoss nodded, face grave. "We are witnessing something historic."

Izuku blinked up at them sleepily.

"…Huh?"

Nemuri nearly cackled.

Hizashi died.

Vlad buried his face in his hands.

Cementoss just sighed.

And Aizawa?

Aizawa just sipped his second cup of coffee, completely unbothered.

Like he hadn’t just declared ownership of Izuku in front of everyone.

Like this wasn’t an irreversible event in UA history.

Like he hadn’t just sealed his fate.

Izuku took another sip, utterly unaware.

And Hizashi grinned.

Oh.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

The realization happened slowly.

Piece by piece.

At first, Izuku had been an enigma. A force of nature, something unshakable—a cryptid that Nezu had somehow dragged in from the depths of the unknown.

He had optimized UA. Had torn apart inefficiencies, had exposed flaws that no one had even realized existed.

He had done it without hesitation.

Without fear.

Like it was nothing at all.

Like it was just... what he did.

And that was terrifying.

Because people like that, people who could look at something and see everything wrong with it, were not soft.

They were not gentle.

They were not Izuku.

Because then, one day, he had run out of things to fix.

And the moment he wasn’t analyzing, wasn’t dissecting problems and constructing solutions.

They saw it.

They saw him.

And oh.

Oh, no.

Because Izuku Midoriya, the same terrifying analyst who had systematically dismantled every flaw in UA’s infrastructure-

Was an angel.

Not in the way Nezu was. Not in the way someone pretended to be kind, while sharpening their knives beneath the table.

But in the way that he was genuinely soft.

The way he tilted his head when he was confused, curls falling into his eyes.

The way he fidgeted with his sleeves when people looked at him too long.

The way he jumped when someone spoke too loudly, then smiled at them like it was his fault for being startled.

The way he lingered outside the lounge sometimes, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to enter.

The way he would whisper apologies even when he hadn’t done anything wrong.

The way he would brighten when someone told him he did well, like he hadn’t already saved them all.

It was unfair.

How had no one noticed?

How had they all missed this?

This adorable, anxious, painfully polite little menace, who had conquered UA like a tactician but couldn’t accept basic praise without looking like he was about to combust.

Nemuri had almost died on the spot.

Hizashi had been seconds away from throwing himself dramatically onto the floor.

Vlad had just stared, as if trying to reconcile the reality of Midoriya Izuku with the legend of the UA Cryptid.

Even Aizawa, even Aizawa, had paused.

Because there was no mistaking it.

This wasn’t just a misunderstanding.

This wasn’t something Izuku was hiding.

This was just... who he was.

A soft-spoken, anxious little angel, wrapped in the instincts of a feral strategist, somehow completely oblivious to the fact that he had terrified an entire faculty before they realized he was just like this.

They didn’t know whether to adopt him or fear him more.

Maybe both.

Probably both.

It was one thing to hear about the difference.

It was another thing entirely to witness it firsthand.

The staff had always known that there was a gap, an impossible divide, between Midoriya Izuku the tactician, and Midoriya Izuku the person.

But knowing it was not the same as seeing it happen in real time.

And today?

Today was the day they saw it.

It started with a standard faculty meeting.

Nothing unusual. Just the usual schedule planning, discussions about student progress, upcoming exams.

Izuku had been invited.

Which meant Izuku was there.

Which meant the unmasked Izuku was there.

Curled slightly in his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap, small despite his height, despite his presence.

He was quiet.

Polite.

Nodded when addressed, responded softly when necessary.

A sweet, unassuming angel, sipping his tea in small, careful sips.

And then-

Then the discussion turned to first-year hero field operations.

Specifically, the dangers they might face.

Specifically, potential combat scenarios.

Specifically, how to prepare for the worst possible outcome.

Which meant Izuku was being asked for input.

Which meant the shift began.

It was subtle at first.

A slow unraveling.

The soft, hesitant demeanor fading- not entirely, but noticeably.

His back straightened.

His fingers tensed, gripping his pen differently like it was a weapon, not a tool.

His voice didn’t change exactly. Didn’t grow louder.

But it became sharper.

More precise.

More measured.

And then the actual breakdown started.

It was terrifying.

Because Midoriya Izuku the person was a sweet, anxious, painfully polite little thing.

But Midoriya Izuku the tactician?

Was a machine.

His hands moved across the table, pulling out documents no one had given him and flipping through reports that hadn’t even been finalized yet.

He talked but not in the hesitant, careful way he usually did.

No, no, this was different.

This was data being presented.

This was a war strategist briefing his generals.

"Probability of villain interception within the first hour of deployment: 37%, increasing to 62% if current route patterns remain unchanged."

"Sector C’s terrain disadvantage renders it a critical weak point. Students with mobility quirks should be stationed here to prevent potential bottleneck scenarios."

"Kaminari’s electrical discharge radius is too broad for a narrow combat zone, he needs adjusted positioning or a secondary grounding target."

"Tokoyami’s quirk has a 4.3-second delayed reaction to sudden combat shifts. If he’s flanked, he will not recover in time."

"Iida’s acceleration output is consistent, but his reflex threshold is below required response time. He is at risk of forced collision if an enemy uses sudden redirection maneuvers."

And it was-

It was so much.

So fast.

So flawless.

Every calculation, every probability, every single vulnerability laid out instantly, like it had just been waiting in his brain for the moment someone asked for it.

Like he had already known all of it.

Like he had memorized every single possible outcome before the conversation had even started.

It wasn’t human.

It wasn’t normal.

It was a monster wearing the skin of a strategist.

And the staff?

The staff watched in stunned, absolute horror.

And then-

Then it stopped.

Just as abruptly as it had begun.

One moment, he was calculating future battle outcomes with pinpoint accuracy.

The next he was blinking down at his notes, looking genuinely concerned, before hesitantly raising a hand to his face, touching his cheek like he just realized how he had info dumped in epic proportions.

"...Um."

A pause.

A long, long pause.

"...Did I say too much?"

Hizashi physically recoiled.

Nemuri looked like she was about to ascend into another plane of existence.

Vlad was staring.

Cementoss was sitting very still.

Aizawa was watching him like something had just clicked into place.

Like he had just seen something no one else had noticed before.

Like he had already decided something.

And Izuku?

Izuku was just sitting there, blinking at them, curls slightly messy from how he had been tilting his head, sweater sleeves slightly oversized around his fingers.

Looking exactly like the sweet, anxious, nervous little angel they had all grown used to.

Like he hadn’t just systematically dismantled an entire battle plan in under five minutes.

Like he wasn’t a terrifying war strategist masquerading as an awkward late-twenty-something civilian.

The contrast was so massive that no one knew how to respond.

No one could respond.

Because what the hell.

What the hell.

And Izuku?

Izuku just tilted his head slightly, frowning.

"...Is something wrong?"

Hizashi whispered "Oh my god, we’re all going to die."

The teachers did not recover.

Because this was not a one-time event.

It was a pattern.

Izuku, as a person, was a timid little angel.

Izuku, as a tactician, was a walking nightmare.

And switching between the two was so instant, so seamless, that it was like watching a sweet little deer suddenly stand up on two legs and start reciting battle statistics like a seasoned general.

It was wrong.

It was terrifying.

It was Izuku.

And, somehow, that was the scariest part of all.

Chapter Text

It started with a bag.

A simple, unassuming bag of coffee, dropped casually onto the teachers' lounge counter, barely given a second thought by its owner.

No one questioned it at first.

Why would they?

Midoriya Izuku, the sweet little cryptid-turned-angel of UA, had simply brought his own coffee.

Because of course he had.

Because he felt bad for drinking from the communal stash all the time.

Because he was a soft-hearted, considerate menace who somehow optimized an entire hero institution but still thought he was an inconvenience for taking two cups of coffee a day.

So, naturally, nobody noticed at first.

Not until-

Not until he actually tried to brew it.

The scent hit them immediately.

Not in a pleasant way.

Not in the warm, rich, deep comforting way that coffee was supposed to smell.

No.

No, this was different.

This was wrong.

This was burnt cardboard and sadness, wrapped in the acrid sting of legal loopholes and FDA violations.

Hizashi was the first to react.

"Wait, what the hell-"

Izuku blinked up at him, stirring his cup, completely unaware of the horror he had just unleashed upon the world.

"Oh," he said, "I brought my own coffee today!"

A beat.

A long, long beat.

Then Vlad, hesitant, already looking concerned—

"Midoriya."

Izuku took a sip.

A sip.

With zero hesitation.

Like he hadn’t just poured battery acid into his cup and called it coffee.

Like he wasn’t drinking a liquid that actively hated him back.

Vlad swallowed thickly. "…What brand is that?"

Izuku blinked at him, then turned the bag over to show them.

And that was-

That was when they saw it.

That was when the room fell into absolute, unholy silence.

Because this wasn’t coffee.

It claimed to be coffee.

But legally?

Legally, it wasn’t allowed to be called coffee.

Because there wasn’t enough actual coffee in it.

It was the kind of nightmare fuel that gas stations stopped selling because even they had standards.

The kind of thing that people only drank if they were in prison or actively hated themselves.

The kind of thing that Hizashi could feel killing him just by looking at it too long.

Cementoss leaned forward slightly, eyes dark.

"Midoriya-kun," he said slowly, "…how much did this cost?"

Izuku smiled, pleased.

"Oh! It was on sale!"

Hizashi made a noise.

A sharp noise.

A pained noise.

A noise that was somewhere between a wheeze and a scream.

Because of course it was.

Because of course Midoriya Izuku, the human optimization machine, had somehow min-maxed himself into drinking the worst possible excuse for coffee known to mankind.

"Wait, wait, wait," Nemuri cut in, eyes wide, hands lifted like she was trying to physically push reality back into place. "You chose this? On purpose?"

Izuku blinked at them, completely unaware of the crime he had committed against their trust.

"…Yes?"

Cementoss exhaled, slow and heavy.

Vlad pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hizashi, meanwhile, had entered some kind of out-of-body experience.

And Aizawa-

Aizawa was staring at Izuku like he had personally betrayed him.

Like he had just watched the sun implode.

Like nothing in his life had ever hurt him this badly.

And then, voice quiet, measured, and somehow filled with absolute apocalyptic devastation "…You’ve been drinking this?"

Izuku hesitated.

Then, confused, "...Yes?"

Aizawa Shouta was a creature of habit.

A man of standards.

A feral, instinct-driven anomaly of a human being who only tolerated three people touching his belongings.

A beast who hoarded comfort like a dragon with its gold, unwilling to part with a single luxury item unless it was given with purpose.

And he-

He had given Midoriya Izuku his own personal coffee.

He had courted him.

With his own private reserve.

With coffee that even Hizashi and Nemuri weren’t allowed to touch.

And this was what Izuku had been drinking before that.

This was what he had been used to.

This was what he had been surviving on.

Aizawa’s vision went black at the edges.

His instincts screamed.

This was not acceptable.

This was not okay.

This was a direct fucking threat to the person he was trying to claim as his own.

And Izuku didn’t even know.

Didn’t even realize.

Didn’t even hesitate before drinking something that should have been classified as chemical warfare.

It was unforgivable.

Izuku took another sip.

Aizawa’s eye twitched.

It was instant.

One second, Izuku was holding his cup.

The next-

The cup was gone.

Just gone.

Ripped straight from his hands before he could even process what had happened.

Then, in one smooth, merciless motion, Aizawa-

Upended the entire bag of coffee into the trash.

Izuku gasped, eyes wide, startled.

"Aizawa-san?!"

The room was dead silent.

Hizashi’s hands were clamped over his mouth, shaking.

Nemuri’s eyes were huge.

Vlad looked seconds away from calling for emergency services.

Because this wasn’t just a casual disposal.

This was an execution.

Aizawa did not just throw it away.

No.

No, he took a full bottle of water, poured it into the trash over the coffee grounds, then dumped an entire stack of paper towels on top of it, pressing down to make sure there was no chance of retrieval.

Izuku made a distressed noise, stepping forward "Aizawa-san, I-"

Then Aizawa turned and looked at him.

And Izuku froze.

Because that was not a normal look.

That was not just mild irritation.

That was the look of a man who had just realized that the person he was trying to claim had been drinking something unholy for god knows how long.

A look that said: this will never happen again.

A look that was final.

Izuku opened his mouth, only to have a freshly brewed cup of Aizawa’s personal coffee pressed into his hands.

Warm.

Expensive.

Better than some people’s rent.

"Drink this," Aizawa ordered, voice flat. "You’re never drinking that other shit again."

Izuku blinked down at the mug, confused.

"But I-"

"Never again."

Izuku, small and confused and somehow still oblivious to the full magnitude of what had just happened, hesitantly took a sip.

A pause.

A slow blink.

Then, soft "Oh."

Aizawa grunted, as if that settled the matter, then turned back to his own coffee like nothing had happened.

And the rest of the staff?

The rest of the staff watched in absolute fucking awe.

Aizawa had not just stopped Midoriya from drinking bad coffee.

He had eradicated the threat entirely.

Had made it absolutely clear that Izuku was not allowed to degrade himself with liquid filth ever again.

Aizawa didn’t date.

He didn’t do romantic confessions, or dinner reservations, or any of the other flimsy human rituals that meant nothing in the grander scheme of things.

No.

He courted.

The real way.

The way that meant something.

The way his instincts demanded.

It wasn’t claiming. Not yet.

This wasn’t about possession.

This was about devotion.

And devotion wasn’t something you said.

It was something you proved.

The first step was observation.

Tracking movements. Tracking patterns.

Not because he needed to know where his mate was at all times.

But because he needed to understand him.

Aizawa already knew his mate’s work schedule. Knew when he came in, when he left. Knew how often he stayed late, curled over reports long after the halls had emptied.

But that wasn’t enough.

Knowing wasn’t the same as understanding.

And Aizawa needed to understand him completely.

So he watched.

Not in a way that was obvious.

Not in a way that his mate would notice.

But in a way that made patterns start to emerge.

The way he hesitated in the mornings outside the lounge, like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed inside.

The way he jumped whenever someone spoke too loudly near him, then smiled like it was his fault for being startled.

The way he lingered in the hallways after hours, restless, like he didn’t know where he belonged when there was nothing left to fix.

The way he worked himself into exhaustion, pushing past his limits, because he genuinely believed that was expected of him.

It was infuriating.

Because it meant no one had ever taken care of him before.

Not properly.

Not in a way that mattered.

Not in a way that said, you don’t have to do this alone anymore.

So Aizawa adjusted.

Made it so his mate never had to hesitate in the mornings, positioning himself in the lounge right when he usually hesitated at the door, so he had no choice but to walk inside.

Made it so he never had the opportunity to work himself past exhaustion, crossing his path at just the right times, escorting him to the exit before he could trap himself in another all-nighter.

Made it so his entire routine bent around his mate’s, not the other way around.

Made it so his mate would never feel like he was alone again.

Even if he hadn’t realized it yet.

The second step was presence.

Because his mate was never supposed to walk home alone.

Not that he knew that.

Because Aizawa wasn’t offering to walk him home.

He was doing it anyway.

From above.

From the rooftops.

Where his mate would never see him.

It wasn’t about safety.

His mate could handle himself.

It wasn’t about mistrust.

His mate was smart enough to be careful.

It was about presence.

About making sure that, even if his mate didn’t know it, he was never alone.

Because his mate had been alone for a very, very long time.

Aizawa could see it.

In the way he walked, in the way he held himself, in the way he never expected anyone to be waiting for him.

Aizawa hated it.

It made something deep inside him snarl.

Made his instincts curl their claws around him and demand action.

So he gave in.

Followed silently.

Watched.

Tracked.

Not because he had to.

Not because he thought his mate was weak.

But because this, this constant, unseen presence, was the only language he knew.

The only way he knew how to say, I will always be here.

The only way he knew how to prove it.

And one day-

One day, his mate would look up.

Would see him.

Would realize what had already happened.

And by then-

By then, it would be too late to escape.

By then, his mate would already belong to him.

Aizawa was not subtle.

Not in the way that mattered.

Oh, he was stealthy, silent, calculated, a shadow that bent around the edges of perception. His mate never noticed him. Never caught the way he tracked his schedule, the way he followed him home, the way he had begun to reshape the very rhythm of their days.

But that wasn’t subtlety.

That was patience.

And patience had a limit.

Because his mate was oblivious.

Painfully so.

So Aizawa started leaving things for him to find.

It started small.

Because Aizawa had learned something very quickly, his mate was not used to receiving things.

If a gift was too obvious, his mate would hesitate. Would try to give it back. Would convince himself it wasn’t meant for him.

Aizawa wasn’t going to let that happen.

So he made it easy.

Something simple.

Something unassuming.

Something like…

A notebook.

A new one.

Perfectly weighted, sturdy cover, high-quality paper, exactly like the ones his mate always carried, but better.

And Aizawa knew it was better.

Because he had researched.

Because he had spent hours making sure it was the exact right one.

Because if his mate was going to fill notebook after notebook with his endless analyses, he was going to do it in something that wouldn’t fall apart in his hands.

He left it on his mate’s desk.

Unmarked. No note. No indication of where it came from.

Just there.

Waiting.

His mate found it the next morning.

Aizawa watched from the doorway, gaze sharp, as his mate picked it up—blinking in confusion, flipping it open, fingertips running over the edges like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Then, softly, with no one else around to hear-

A smile.

Small. Private.

One of those rare, unguarded things that his mate never let anyone else see.

Aizawa’s instincts thrummed with satisfaction.

After that, Aizawa made it a habit.

Nothing too frequent. Nothing too obvious.

But consistent.

Every time his mate ran out of pages in a notebook, another one would appear.

Every time his mate misplaced his pens, better ones would show up in their place.

Every time his mate looked frustrated with his research setup, an external hard drive, preloaded with data, would find its way into his hands.

Always small things.

Always perfectly chosen.

Always exactly what his mate needed before he even realized he needed it.

And every time, his mate would react the same way.

A hesitant pause. A flicker of uncertainty.

And then, inevitably, that same small, secret smile.

It was working.

His mate was accepting it.

Without suspicion. Without overthinking it.

Without realizing that it was courtship.

That it was Aizawa’s way of proving his worth.

And that was exactly how Aizawa wanted it.

Aizawa had been careful.

Had ensured that none of the gifts could be traced back to him.

Had made sure that his mate would never hesitate to accept them.

But then he made a mistake.

A small one.

But a mistake nonetheless.

Because he had been watching.

Had seen the way his mate always carried tea with him, cheap, low-quality, bitter trash that he brewed himself.

And it had been unacceptable.

So Aizawa replaced it.

Left a box in his mate’s office.

Not expensive. Not obviously extravagant.

But good.

High-quality.

Something that actually tasted like tea, instead of whatever insult his mate had been forcing himself to drink before.

And his mate-

His mate had noticed immediately.

Had picked up the box, turned it over in his hands, brows furrowing.

Had sniffed at it, as if trying to track where it had come from.

Aizawa had gone still, watching from the doorway, instincts bristling.

But then his mate made a soft, thoughtful noise.

Shrugged.

And carefully tucked the box into his bag, taking it home with him.

Aizawa exhaled.

Crisis avoided.

But his mate was getting too close to realizing.

So he’d have to be more careful next time.

More subtle.

More precise.

Because this wasn’t just giving gifts.

This was laying a foundation.

This was proof.

This was devotion.

And one day, one inevitable day, his mate would realize.

Would look back and see it for what it was.

And by then-

By then, it would already be too late to escape.

Chapter Text

There were few things that set Izuku off.

He could endure a lot.

He had endured a lot.

Passive condescension. Assumptions. Dismissal. The slow, persistent erosion of respect that came with being quirkless in a society that defined power by what your body could do, not what your mind could build.

He’d learned how to keep his head down. How to breathe through it. How to wait it out.

But there were rules.

Rules even his instincts wouldn’t let him ignore.

And one of those rules, deep, unshakable, instinct-bound, was this:

You protect whats yours.

It started as an overheard conversation.

He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

He’d just been passing the hall outside the media conference room, notebook tucked under his arm, half-asleep and running purely on muscle memory and three hours of sleep.

“…We just need you to lean into the branding a little more. A tighter silhouette. That harness set we talked about-”

“No,” Nemuri said, voice clipped. “I told you-”

“It’s good for the ratings, Midnight. The fans expect it. You’re our most marketable face in the adult hero demographic.”

Izuku stopped walking.

“Besides,” the man continued, light, casual, condescending in the exact way that turned his blood cold, “I know you’ve got concerns about the whole mom thing, but come on. You don’t really think they’ll buy into that image, do you? You’ve built your whole career on being Japan’s sexy dominatrix. That’s who you are.”

“I said-” Nemuri tried again, sharper now.

But the man kept talking.

“Hero society needs people like you to stay in their lane. This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what sells.”

Izuku stopped thinking.

His body moved before his brain caught up.

The conference room door slammed open.

Hard.

So hard it rattled on its hinges.

The three people inside, Nemuri, her assistant, and the PR rep in a too-expensive suit and too-fake smile, turned.

And froze.

Because the person standing in the doorway-

The quiet little analyst.

The quirkless cryptid who'd spent the last few months fixing the school from the inside out like a silent ghost with a pen and a glare.

Looked feral.

Izuku’s eyes were burning.

His entire body was tense, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides.

Not like someone about to start a fight.

But like someone trying very, very hard not to.

“Midoriya?” Nemuri said, startled.

Izuku’s gaze didn’t leave the PR rep.

He walked forward.

Each step slow. Deliberate. Controlled in that terrifying way that suggested he wasn’t keeping himself from lunging, he was choosing not to, for now.

The PR rep blinked. “I- can I help y-”

“You will retract that proposal.”

His voice was calm.

But the weight behind it was undeniable.

“This isn’t your call,” the man said, half-laughing, standing up. “This is a PR matter. Why don’t you-”

“You will stop talking about her like she’s a commodity.”

That stopped him.

Dead.

Midoriya took another step forward.

“She is a hero. A teacher. A person. Not a product you get to repackage and slap a label on.”

The PR rep narrowed his eyes. “Midoriya, right? You’re the analyst. This isn’t your department-”

“No,” Izuku said, and his voice dropped.

Not in volume.

In temperature.

In tone.

In a way that made every hair on Nemuri’s arms stand on end.

“No, it’s not my department. But it is my territory.”

Silence.

The kind that pulled the air from the room.

Izuku didn’t yell. Didn’t posture.

He just looked at the man like he was already debris in his path.

“Do it again,” he said, voice quiet, controlled. “Say she doesn’t deserve control over her own image. Say she’s only valuable because of how much skin she shows. Say she can’t be more than what you decided she is.”

He stepped closer, barely a breath away.

“I dare you.”

The PR rep stepped back.

Izuku didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

“You will rewrite the proposal,” he said. “You will honor her boundaries. You will keep her out of the oversexualized demographic or I will make sure every single industry board that respects this institution knows exactly how you tried to override a hero’s consent.”

Silence.

“…You can’t do that,” the man said, finally.

And Izuku smiled.

A slow, sharp, razor-thin thing.

“You think someone who dismantled UA’s infrastructure in three weeks can’t tear down your PR record in two days?”

A pause.

Then, flatly

“Try me.”

The man left.

Quickly.

Nemuri was still seated, wide-eyed, fingers curled into the arms of her chair.

“…You okay?” Izuku asked, voice small again.

The shift was instantaneous.

The moment the door shut, his shoulders hunched, his eyes darted toward the floor, and his voice dropped into something much more familiar, something soft, something timid.

“I- sorry. I didn’t mean to step in. I know it’s your business, and it’s not really my place, but I just-”

Nemuri stood.

Crossed the room.

And hugged him.

Hard.

Izuku startled.

Then froze.

And then, very slowly, hugged her back.

“…Thank you,” she said.

He blinked.

And nodded.

“…He made you uncomfortable,” he said, like it explained everything. “That’s not allowed.”

And Nemuri, who had been fighting off that exhaustion for months, who had been told to just take it, to play along, to make herself more palatable, felt something in her chest ease for the first time in years.

“Not anymore,” she said. “Not while you’re here.”

Izuku didn’t understand the weight of that.

Not yet.

Not fully.

But he felt something settle in his chest.

And for once.

It didn’t feel like a burden.

It felt like home.

The teachers' lounge had been quiet.

Warm light. The gentle hum of conversation. Coffee brewing. Paper rustling.

It was late enough in the morning that most of them had settled into a rhythm: Grading, prepping, decompressing.

Aizawa was dozing, one eye cracked open beneath the curtain of his hair. Hizashi was scrolling through social media and snorting into his tea. Nemuri leaned back in her seat, calm for once, sipping from her mug with a rare moment of stillness.

Izuku sat near the window. Quiet. Small.

Tapping a pen against his notebook, lost in whatever numbers were swimming through his brain.

He didn’t speak unless spoken to.

He never interrupted.

He was sunshine. Nervous, jittery, earnest sunshine.

Which was why the tension was instant when the door opened.

Sharp suits. Polished shoes. Arrogant confidence.

Two men stepped inside like they owned the place.

And Izuku went very, very still.

“Midnight-san,” said the taller one, the older one. The one who looked like his entire personality came with a tie clip and a superiority complex. “We need to revisit the direction of your image strategy.”

Nemuri’s mug lowered an inch.

She didn’t say anything.

The shorter man behind him, the one Izuku had threatened last time, gave him a thin, smug little smile like he thought he’d won something.

The older man continued, tone smooth, full of practiced corporate condescension. “Our market data still shows strong performance from your original demographic. You’ve been successful, but your appeal is rooted in your unique, provocative presence-”

“I said no,” Nemuri replied, calm but cold.

The man smiled like she was a child interrupting grown-ups.

“Yes, well, heroes don’t always get what they want when the public’s involved. Surely you understand that, Miss Midnight. It’s simply business.”

He turned slightly, just enough to glance at Izuku.

A pause.

Then a smirk.

“And I doubt your in-house analyst is qualified to speak on branding, anyway.”

Izuku’s pen stopped tapping.

Slowly, he looked up.

Soft eyes.

Slouched posture.

A quiet blink.

He tilted his head.

Then, very softly

“Your data’s outdated.”

Silence.

The air in the lounge changed.

Aizawa sat up.

Nemuri straightened.

Vlad looked over.

Even Hizashi stopped laughing.

“Excuse me?” the man said.

Izuku set his notebook down.

Didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t change his tone.

Just tilted his head the other way and said,
“You're using market trends from five years ago. The fetishism angle was trending then because the industry didn’t know what to do with a female hero who was confident and self-possessed.”

He stood.

Not tall. Not imposing.

But suddenly, somehow, larger than the room.

“The Midnight branding didn’t succeed because of how much skin she showed. It succeeded because she made people uncomfortable in a way that made them think. Because she weaponized public perception and made it hers. Because she leaned into power that wasn’t sanitized and made herself unforgettable.”

The PR manager’s smile cracked slightly.

Izuku stepped closer.

His voice stayed gentle. Still warm. Still soft. But there was iron beneath it.

“If you rebrand her as an experienced combat instructor, an expert in quirk suppression and capture tactics, with an edge of mentorship and legacy building? You open her to every demographic you’ve ignored. She becomes a symbol of evolution, of growth, of someone who was never just one thing. You appeal to young women who want complexity, veterans who respect her battle record, and parents who want to show their kids what confidence looks like.”

He smiled then.

Sweet. Blunt. Ruthless.

“You could triple her engagement in three months. Double her media presence without a single ounce of latex.”

The taller man blinked. “You-”

Izuku tilted his head again. “I’ve already drafted the campaign. It’s in your inbox.”

A beat.

“Also,” he added, “if you try to override her boundaries again, I’ll personally walk your contract into the hero board’s ethics committee. Along with a complete breakdown of how your current PR model violates three internal policy standards and two harassment clauses.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The shorter manager’s face was pale.

The taller one adjusted his tie.

Slowly.

Uncomfortably.

“I… see.”

Izuku smiled again. Bright. Warm.

Terrifying.

“I’m glad.”

The men left.

Quickly.

No one said anything for a long moment.

Then Hizashi exhaled. “Holy shit.”

Vlad muttered, “He peeled that man like a potato.”

Nemuri was just staring at Izuku.

Who had sat back down.

And was back to scribbling in his notebook.

Like nothing had happened.

“…Sunshine?” she said slowly.

“Hm?” Izuku looked up, blinking innocently.

“You- you okay?”

Izuku tilted his head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hizashi leaned over to whisper to Nemuri. “That wasn’t sunshine. That was a whole forest fire in a teacup.”

Nemuri nodded slowly. “I think I just saw God.”

Aizawa, meanwhile, was staring.

Silent. Focused.

Eyes sharp.

Because for the first time he’d seen it.

The flash of instinct.

The true form of the quiet little analyst who walked like he didn’t take up space.

And it hit him all at once:

His mate wasn’t just sharp.

He was lethal.

And God help anyone who forgot that.

Nemuri never asked for this.

Not the attention. Not the legacy of latex and smirking tabloid covers. Certainly not the title of “Japan’s Most Marketable Dominatrix.”

What she had asked for was respect.

And the freedom to change.

To evolve.

To be seen as something more than a body in fishnet and a whip.

Her rebranding had gone better than expected, thanks to Izuku.

In fact, the entire shift had been so precise, so carefully executed, that the press didn’t even blink when her media appearances started focusing on education, on mentorship, on hero psychology and suppression tactics.

She was still Midnight.

But now, they listened when she spoke.

Which was why the costume issue hit her so hard.

Because she'd finally felt free.

And then her costume designer had looked her in the eye and said:

“I understand you want to appear more professional, but with your Quirk? You need skin exposure. This is just how it has to be.”

And suddenly, Nemuri was twenty again.

Fighting a PR team that only saw cleavage and heels.

But before she could even respond, before she could tell them to go to hell-

Izuku stepped in.

The conference room wasn’t particularly large.

But it felt like it was packed.

Nemuri sat at one side of the table, her fingers lightly tapping the surface. Her costume designer sat across from her, professional, polished, and visibly annoyed to be called in for what he clearly thought was a waste of time.

Power Loader stood against the wall with arms crossed and expression unreadable.

And at the front was Izuku.

In his usual slightly-too-big sweater and sleeves shoved to his palms. A small laptop sat open in front of him, already wired into the screen.

He cleared his throat, voice soft.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’ll make this brief.”

The lights dimmed.

And the presentation began.

Slide 1: Problem Overview

Nemuri’s current costume, Izuku explained, was outdated.

“Its material structure predates modern compression and sensory-reactive technology. The design prioritizes visual aesthetic over battlefield utility, creating gaps in defense, structural weakness in close combat, and increased quirk inefficiency in cold or wet environments.”

The designer raised a brow. “She needs exposed skin to activate her Quirk. That’s a given.”

Izuku nodded. “Correct. But she doesn’t need visible skin.”

Click.

Slide 2: Technology Overhaul

“Compression-reactive microfibers. Memory-flex polymer blends. Temperature-activated expansion mesh. These are materials already used in modern stealth and infiltration suits.”

Each bullet point came with photos. Samples. Diagrams.

“They allow for Quirk-compatible breathability and energy transmission without the need for external exposure. Pressure-sensitive mapping can be tailored to respond to neural output and muscle strain, allowing for near-instantaneous quirk activation without sacrificing coverage.”

Click.

Slide 3: The Prototype

On-screen appeared a full-body suit.

Midnight’s signature black and violet color scheme remained, but the design was sleek, reinforced at the joints, and entirely covered.

It wasn’t armor.

It was weaponry disguised as fashion.

The boots were combat-grade.

The gauntlets could deploy restraints.

The collarpiece was laced with targeted filters for her sleep-inducing scent particles, enabling directional quirk control.

And the body?

Constructed from a fully breathable adaptive fabric, marked with activation zones over key pressure points that aligned with her quirk focus.

It was bold. Striking. Powerful.

And most importantly: Hers.

Izuku looked back at Nemuri.

“I built it with Power Loader. We’ve already sourced materials. If approved, we can have the first version tailored within two weeks.”

The designer said nothing.

Then: “But the public-”

“The public,” Izuku said, “has already adjusted."

He clicked again.

Slide 4: Market Metrics

Engagement up 23%. Parent approval up 67%. Viewership among younger demographics increased. Hero support programs requesting seminars on quirk ethics and female leadership.

The designer blinked.

Izuku’s voice was quiet, but final.

“She doesn’t need to show skin to be seen.

She just needs gear that treats her like a hero, not a product.”

The designer left.

Power Loader stayed.

Nemuri hadn’t said anything through the whole meeting.

Now, she just stared at the screen.

At the armor that finally fit.

“You did all that?” she asked softly.

Izuku shrugged. “You deserved it.”

Like it was obvious.

Like it wasn’t the kindest, fiercest, most infuriatingly devoted thing anyone had ever done for her.

She leaned forward.

Pulled him into a hug.

He stiffened.

Then relaxed, slowly.

She didn’t cry.

But it was close.

Because someone had finally looked at her and said, you don’t have to prove anything.

Not with skin.

Not with curves.

Not with silence.

She was powerful.

And now she looked it.

And Izuku, quiet, terrifying, sunshine Izuku, had made damn sure of it.

Chapter Text

There was no formal invitation.

No calendar alert. No polite request. No indication of anything special at all.

Just a text from Aizawa.

Saturday. My place. 6 PM. No excuses.

And if it had come from anyone else, it might’ve been ignored. Or negotiated. Or rescheduled.

But it didn’t.

It came from Aizawa Shouta.

And when he summoned his pack?

You came.

Saturday evening arrived with the faint scent of warm spices and clean linen. Aizawa’s apartment wasn’t big but it was efficient.

Tidy. Quiet.

Lived in.

There were extra cushions thrown on the floor. Blankets draped over the back of the couch. A stack of mismatched mugs on the counter next to an aggressively expensive coffee grinder.

And food.

So much food.

Aizawa didn’t host often. But when he did? He committed.

He didn’t ask what people wanted. He already knew.

Hizashi needed high spice and something he could eat with his hands.

Nemuri needed texture, something crunchy to balance her sugar cravings.

Nedzu needed delicate precision and six separate sauces for dipping.

The table was chaos.

Intentional chaos.

Because Aizawa didn’t like people in his space.

He barely tolerated most of the staff at UA.

But these three?

They were his.

Nemuri arrived first, boots off at the door, arms full of contraband dessert.

“You didn’t say anything about dessert,” she said, already walking past him. “So I brought too much.”

“You always do,” Aizawa muttered.

“Love you too.”

Hizashi was next, loud and grinning and trailing the scent of street food he definitely wasn’t supposed to bring.

“YO!” he called as he kicked off his shoes. “Smells like a feast in here. Is that spiced eggplant? Shouta, you’re seducing me.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I live to make it weird.”

Aizawa just grunted and handed him a plate.

Nedzu appeared mysteriously, as always, via the fire escape and an unlocked window, gleaming with delight and already sipping tea before anyone could ask how.

“You make the best Saturdays, cub,” he purred, hopping into his usual seat. “This place still smells like the last time I napped here.”

Aizawa didn’t react.

Of course he didn’t.

Dinner was quiet.

Not in the way people expected silence to be.

It was comfortable.

Broken up by Hizashi’s laugh. Nemuri’s snark. Nedzu’s cryptic observations about the stock market.

Aizawa didn’t say much.

But he listened.

Watched.

Made sure every plate was full.

That every drink was topped off.

That the people who were his, his family, had everything they needed without asking.

Because that was the point.

Pack dinner wasn’t about food.

It was about presence.

About anchoring.

About reminding them all who they belonged to.

And for Aizawa, that meant watching them laugh. Bicker. Eat too much. Steal from each other’s plates.

It meant knowing they were safe.

It meant letting his instincts rest.

Because he didn’t have to guard them here.

Not tonight.

There was one extra cushion near the window.

Untouched.

Set out quietly.

Like a seat meant for someone who might come later.

Who hadn’t been invited yet.

Not officially.

Because he wasn’t pack.

But Aizawa had left the space anyway.

Just in case.

Because pack grew.

And matehood?

That required ritual.

And ritual began with invitation.

The seat would wait.

And when the time was right-

He would fill it.

The plates were cleared.

The lights dimmed.

The air settled.

It was the softest kind of aftermath.

Dinner had been loud in that quiet way, spoons against ceramic, Nemuri cackling when Hizashi tried to steal a dumpling, Nedzu trying to convince Aizawa to let him bring a portable hotpot to campus.

But now it was pack time.

The kind that didn’t require words.

Just pillows and blankets and old sake that had no business being poured this casually.

Hizashi had already slipped halfway to horizontal, head resting on a throw pillow shaped like a cat Aizawa refused to acknowledge.

Nedzu was nestled in the middle of the floor with a whiskey glass far too big for his paws, murmuring cryptic threats to the licensing committee.

Aizawa sat closest to the window, legs stretched out, silent and warm and settled in that rare way that only ever happened when all the right people were in the room.

And Nemuri sat between them all.

Back against the wall, legs stretched out. Phone in hand.

Sake glass resting loosely against her knee.

She wasn’t really listening.

Not to Nedzu’s quiet monologuing or Hizashi's half-hearted attempts to beat him at pun chess.

She was scrolling.

Slowly.

Quietly.

It started with a headline.

“Midnight Reinvented: A Hero’s Power, Not Her Wardrobe”

Then another.

“UA’s Midnight Breaks the Mold”
“Hero as Educator: Why Midnight’s Transformation Is What the Industry Needs”

Photos.

Screenshots.

Forum threads.

People talking about her quirk work.
Her mentorship.
Her teaching.

Her strength.

Not her corset.

Not her thighs.

Not her sex appeal.

Her.

There were even comments, young girls saying they wanted to be like her.

Parents thanking her for being honest.

A few of her old fans confused by the shift but staying anyway because, quote, “Damn, she actually knows her shit.”

She kept scrolling.

Her chest ached.

Her vision blurred.

And then her hand shook.

And she pressed the heel of her palm to her eye like it would stop the burn.

It didn’t.

The tears came slow.

Quiet.

Almost like she didn’t want to give them permission.

But they came anyway.

Because she hadn’t realized how much it hurt until it stopped.

Until it changed.

Until someone had let her be seen.

And she couldn’t take it anymore.

A sound escaped her. Half a laugh. Half a sob.

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket like it was no big deal.

Like it didn’t mean everything.

Hizashi sat up immediately.

“Nem?”

She shook her head, eyes still on her phone.

“No, I’m okay, I just-” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t think people would listen.”

Aizawa didn’t say anything.

But he moved.

Shifted closer.

Leaned against her shoulder.

Just enough pressure to anchor.

Nedzu placed his cup down and padded over, perching on the edge of her lap like a small, warm gravity well.

“You earned it, child.”

“I didn’t-” Her voice broke again. She scrubbed at her eyes. “I didn’t even know I was allowed to ask for something different.”

“Now you know,” Izuku’s voice said, quiet and calm, echoing in her memory.

He wasn’t here.

But he had been.

He’d seen her, and he’d made the world see her differently.

Not as Midnight.

But as Nemuri.

As someone.

Not something.

She cried for a while.

No one made it a thing.

Aizawa kept her upright. Hizashi brought her tissues and three different snacks. Nedzu snuck her the last of the fancy chocolate.

And when it passed, when her breathing evened and her eyes stopped burning-

She leaned back, tucked her feet under a blanket, and looked around.

“…This is good,” she murmured.

Hizashi raised a brow. “You mean the chocolate?”

“I mean this.” She gestured vaguely. “All of it. Us. This place.”

Aizawa didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

He just passed her a refill of sake in a cup that was absolutely not hers, because all the real ones were already claimed.

Nemuri smiled.

It was small.

But it was real.

And for once, she believed she deserved to feel it.

The warmth hadn’t faded.

Not entirely.

It still pulsed gently in the air between them, soft, invisible threads of comfort and understanding woven over years of friendship, loyalty, and hard-earned trust.

The tears had stopped. The sting behind Nemuri’s eyes had dulled to something quieter, more bearable.

The heavy ache of being seen, truly seen, and still respected, had settled into her chest like a heartbeat.

She sniffled once, kicked Hizashi in the thigh with a socked foot when he tried to offer her a third tissue box, and picked her phone back up from where it had slipped beside her.

“…You guys wanna hear my favorite one?” she asked, voice still a little hoarse, but stronger now. “Post, I mean.”

Aizawa blinked from where he was resting against her shoulder. “Go ahead.”

Nedzu, already perched on a cushion with his tiny paw back around a teacup, perked up. “By all means, Nemuri-chan. We’re already invested.”

Hizashi grinned, chin in his hands. “Lay it on us.”

Nemuri smiled down at her screen.

And began to read.

Posted by: AlwaysDownForMidnight (02:14 AM)

okay so i know i’m probably not the demographic for this new direction. i’ve followed Midnight since her first underground appearance, and yeah, i liked the heels. i liked the leather. sue me.

i also liked the confidence. the power. the fact that she owned a room just by walking into it and everyone knew they weren’t in control anymore. she wasn’t trying to be anyone else’s fantasy, she wasn’t asking.

and yeah, sure, i liked the fanart. still do. some of that stuff is amazing. but this?

this shift? this new version of her, with the field training vids and the breakdowns of her combat strategies and the lectures she’s doing on suppression quirks-

it makes me respect her in a different way.

she’s not less hot.
she’s just hot in a way that scares me differently now.

like she could walk into a room, say two words, and suddenly everyone shuts up and listens because she knows more than they do.

and i think that’s way sexier than the catsuit ever was.

anyway.

shoutout to UA for not burying the real her.
shoutout to whoever made the call.
and shoutout to Midnight, if you’re reading this.

i’d still lose a limb for you.

still busting a nut to your rule34 site,

respectfully.

 

Silence.

Then Hizashi snorted. Loud. Undignified. Immediately sprawled onto his side.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “'Hot in a way that scares me differently now' - I’m putting that on a T-Shirt!”

Nemuri giggled, wiping her eye again with the back of her hand. “It’s so dumb but also so sweet. I don’t think he even knows he’s complimenting me properly.”

“They write fanfiction,” Nemuri muttered. “Very specific fanfiction.”

Hizashi laughed even harder.

But Nemuri just smiled.

Because it was genuine.

That comment? That post?

It was pride without possessiveness.

It was desire without demand.

It was a reflection of her that she could live with.

Not one shaped by marketing teams and camera angles.

One shaped by her own choices.

And the people who stood beside her.

People who gave her space to grow.

To rest.

To breathe.

The sake had long since run dry.
The plates were cleaned and stacked.
The lights dimmed further.

Eventually, Hizashi nodded off against a pile of blankets. Nedzu disappeared into a pillow fort he swore wasn’t there five minutes ago.

Nemuri curled sideways into Aizawa’s shoulder.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just rested his head gently against hers.

Silent.

Solid.

Safe.

She let her eyes close.

Her phone slipped from her hand onto the blanket beside her.

Nemuri smiled.

And for the first time in a long time, she slept without armor.

It wasn’t just affection.
It wasn’t even devotion.

It was instinct.
Feral. Ancient. Unrelenting.

His mate had protected his pack.

Had bared his teeth for Nemuri, crashed into a room with no regard for himself, with no hesitation, to protect what was theirs.

And Aizawa's instincts roared.

It wasn’t just pride.

It was certainty.

Izuku was his.

Not maybe. Not someday.

Now.

And after what he’d done, after tearing apart Nemuri’s PR structure with nothing but data and venom and that terrifying, razor-sharp mind, Aizawa knew what had to come next.

The next phase.

The next offering.

And this one?

Would be perfect.

Aizawa hunted for three days.

Not in the field.
Not for villains.

But for precision.

Something that matched the texture of what Izuku had done. Something intimate, impossible to misunderstand for those who understood instinct, and yet subtle enough to slip under that man’s overworked radar.

He found it in a custom steel forge tucked beneath an artisan alley, known only to those who needed steel to be more than steel.

The blade he commissioned wasn’t large. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was elegant. Beautiful. Quiet.

A folding karambit knife, matte black, with a subtle green undertone in the light. The handle molded for perfect grip. Light, fast, lethal.

A whisper of protection.
A promise of violence in service of defense.

The blade etched with a phrase in ancient kanji, one that meant "strike only for the pack."

It wasn’t just a weapon.

It was a symbol.

Of trust. Of worth.

Of claim.

Aizawa didn’t leave it at UA.

Not this time.

No desk. No drawer. No envelope to tuck between meetings.

This was not a workplace gesture.

So he waited.

Watched.

Tracked his mate with the silence of shadow, the rooftops familiar beneath his boots. Followed him home as he always did, unseen, steps above, always within range.

Izuku’s apartment was too small. Too lonely.

Still.

Even after everything.

Still so quiet.

Aizawa landed on the fire escape like a phantom. Slipped the window open without sound.

He’d already memorized the space.
Knew which step creaked.
Knew where the lights bled through the curtain cracks.

He set the box down on Izuku’s desk.

Black wood. Clean lines. No ribbon. No note.

Because notes weren’t instinctual.

Instinct knew action.
Scent.
Presence.

He didn’t need to say mine.

The blade would speak for him.

He stood there for a moment longer.
Just long enough to memorize the rhythm of his mate’s breathing in the other room.

Then he slipped back out into the night.

Izuku nearly tripped over his own feet.

He hadn’t even had coffee yet.

Just shuffled toward his desk in pajama pants and a sweater several sizes too big, rubbing sleep from his eyes-

And stopped.

There was a box.

Clean. Elegant. Unsigned.

He stared.

His brain kicked into gear a few seconds late.

He opened it slowly.

Inside was the blade.

And it was gorgeous.

Beautifully balanced.

It felt good in his hands in a way that made his stomach twist, unsure if it was excitement or fear.

He tested the grip.

It fit.

Not just comfortably, perfectly.

He didn’t even know how anyone would have known the exact dimensions of his hands.

He looked around.

Nothing else.

No note. No tag.

Nothing but the blade and the sense that this wasn’t a gift.

It was something else.

Something older.

Izuku swallowed.

His fingers curled tight around the handle.

And for just a moment-

He felt safe.

Not because he was armed.

But because someone had given him a weapon to wield.

Not to protect himself.

But to protect them.

Izuku's instincts sang.

From across the street, crouched on the rooftop, hidden behind the edge of a vent pipe, Aizawa watched him lift the blade.

Watched him test it.

Hold it.

Accept it.

He exhaled slowly.

The next step was complete.

The blade had been given.

And his mate, whether he knew it or not, had received it.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.

The journalist had called ahead.

Cleared it with Nedzu.

Asked for a quiet, off-the-record chat with a few faculty members about UA’s approach to interdisciplinary heroics, support work, infrastructure, the collaboration between rescue efforts and frontline combatants.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t dramatic.

Which meant most of the high-profile staff were off doing their own thing.

But Power Loader was curious.

Hizashi had nothing scheduled that morning.

And Cementoss, well, he showed up because he was asked.

Izuku wasn’t supposed to be there.

He’d lingered.

Made the excuse of reorganizing quirk optimization data.

Had his notebook open and everything.

But the truth?

He stayed because something felt off.

And when the journalist walked in with polished shoes and a smile just a bit too wide?

That instinct sharpened.

It was civil. At first.

Small talk. Warm-up questions.

"How does Cementoss handle large-scale structure reinforcement?"

"How do you, as Power Loader, manage quirk-safe designs?"

"What’s it like, Present Mic, balancing education and hero work?"

Standard.

The lounge was quiet. Sunlight filtering through half-shut blinds.

Izuku sat at the far end of the room, head bent, pretending to update load-bearing calculations.

But he listened.

And slowly, very slowly, the tone shifted.

The questions for Hizashi were friendly. Playful. Filled with admiration.

The ones for Power Loader? Curious. Technical. Respectful.

But for Cementoss?

Always… something else.

"So, Cementoss, do you feel like your, ah, form impacts how your students relate to you?"

"Does it feel strange, existing so tangibly as something… constructed?"

"I mean, you’re very clearly not human in appearance, would you say your experiences align more with support gear than actual hero work?"

Cementoss didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react.

He just folded his hands. Patient. Tired.

He'd heard it before.

Dozens of times.

Mutation quirk?

Large. Stone-skinned.

Non-human silhouette?

People always found ways to rephrase the same insult.

He endured it like he always did.

But Izuku was watching.

He saw the way Cementoss’s shoulders stilled.

The way Power Loader’s jaw tensed.

The way Hizashi stopped smiling.

And then the snap.

"With a body like yours, don’t you ever worry students see you more as a building than a person?"

 

The pen in Izuku’s hand snapped in half.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

The journalist didn’t even notice at first.

But Cementoss turned.

So did Power Loader.

Hizashi’s smile had vanished completely.

Because Izuku had looked up.

And when the cryptid, quiet, methodical, endlessly efficient Izuku Midoriya, looked up from his notebook with eyes that didn’t glint, didn’t shine, but burned?

The room stilled.

He stood.

Calm. Controlled.

And walked across the room.

Not rushed.

Not aggressive.

But with intent.

"You said he's not a person."

Izuku's voice was soft. Dangerously soft.

The journalist blinked. "I- I didn’t say that. I was referring to-"

"You implied it."

Izuku took one more step.

"Let me guess. You think because his quirk changed his skin, his size, his shape, he’s something other. Something less. Something… useful, but not human, right?"

“I- no, I think mutation quirks are fascinating, I just meant-”

“You just meant that because his body isn’t what you expect a body to look like, that it’s acceptable to poke at him like a machine.”

Izuku’s voice stayed level.

But his presence filled the room.

A quiet pressure.

Not loud. Not violent.

But suffocating.

"You don’t ask how Eraserhead manages his quirk’s physical toll. You don’t ask how Power Loader deals with enhanced limb structures. You don’t ask Present Mic how he manages sound sensitivity."

A pause.

A breath.

“But you look at a hero with stone skin and buildings in his hands, and suddenly the line between equipment and person blurs for you.”

Izuku tilted his head. Just slightly.

"You do realize he built half the reinforced structures that saved students' lives last year, right?"

The journalist tried to speak.

Failed.

"I’ve optimized every department at this school," Izuku continued. "Every student, every faculty member, every department head. You know who had the most consistent hours? The highest emergency call-in rate? The lowest rest period between disasters?"

He pointed.

“Him.”

Silence.

"You look at him, and you see a wall. I see the one thing that keeps UA standing when the rest of us fall."

Another breath.

Then, softly

"And I think if you were even half the journalist you pretend to be, you'd see it too."

The journalist left.

Quietly.

Didn’t finish the interview.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Just gathered his notes, eyes darting, and left like a man who finally realized he’d walked into a place not meant for him.

Cementoss sat quietly.

Arms still folded.

“…You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

Izuku turned, still trembling slightly from the restraint.

“I did,” he said. “Because no one else should have to keep hearing that.”

Cementoss blinked.

Then, very, very softly “…Thank you.”

Izuku lowered his head.

Didn’t say anything.

Hizashi clapped a hand over his face and laughed. "Man. You really are scary as hell when you go off."

Power Loader was still grinning. “Should’ve brought popcorn.”

Cementoss smiled.

And for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t a resigned one.

It was warm.

It was seen.

Izuku sat back down.

Opened a new pen.

And tried very, very hard to pretend he hadn’t just gone full feral in defense of one of his own.

He failed.

But no one minded.

Izuku hadn’t meant to dig.
Not at first.

But instinct didn’t listen to intention.

And something about that man, the too-shiny shoes, the polished teeth, the subtle, practiced tone when he asked Cementoss if he “still considered himself staff, despite appearances”-

It stayed.
Clung.
Needled.

So Izuku did what he always did.

He opened a new file.

And hunted.

The journalist’s name was Daigo Nakanishi.
He worked under EnView Weekly.

A publication with a long-standing reputation for “quirky” takes and “edgy” journalism.
They liked scandal. Drama.
They especially liked whispering things too loud people wouldn’t say.

And they loved walking the razor edge of discrimination without falling into legal territory.

But Izuku was not a civilian.
He was not a student.

He was UA’s analyst.

And he did not miss details.

He found it within hours.

Buried under donation shell companies, misfiled work reimbursements, and three years of creative travel expense deductions.

Tax fraud.
Undeniable.
Clear.

Thirty-eight discrepancies.
Four accounts.
Two forged invoices.

And Daigo Nakanishi?
Had signed off on every single one.

He didn’t send it from his work address.
Didn’t use his name.

It was short.
Clean.
Precise.

Subject:
You Should Rethink Your Angle

Attached:
– 38 pages of organized financial discrepancies
– 1 spreadsheet comparing donation dates to private spending
– 1 ZIP folder of internal memos with falsified expense justifications

Body:
You’re going to write a full article.
A segment. A feature. A front-facing piece.

Not about Cementoss. Not about UA.
But about mutation quirk discrimination.

About how the industry fails them.
How the media reduces them.
How classrooms treat them like curiosities and hero agencies ignore them unless they’re indestructible.

You will include quotes. Statistics. Interviews.
You will speak to actual heroes with mutation quirks.

And you will apologize.
You don’t need to say it directly.
But we’ll know.

If this piece doesn’t air by the end of the month, I’ll file this packet with the tax office.
And then I’ll release it to the public.

Decide what kind of legacy you want.

– M

It was three weeks later.

The lounge was quiet.

Cementoss sat with a mug of tea.
Izuku sat at the far end of the couch, head bent in his notebook, pretending not to check the timestamp on the article he definitely didn’t threaten someone into writing.

The broadcast played over Hizashi’s laptop.

“…and in a growing call for representation, mutation-type heroes are speaking up about the quiet bias that often excludes them from mainstream attention…”

Cementoss blinked.

“…is that…”

Nemuri leaned over. “Yeah.”

The screen flicked to clips.
A montage of mutation heroes.

Voiceovers.
Soft music.
Statistics.

And a quote.

From Cementoss.

"My shape doesn’t define my strength.
My quirk doesn’t make me equipment.
I am not a building.
I am the one who keeps them standing."

Cementoss stared.
Silent.

Then quietly, hesitant, “…That wasn’t in the interview.”

Aizawa, from the corner, sipped his coffee. “No. It wasn’t.”

Cementoss turned.
Eyes flicked to Izuku.

Izuku didn’t look up.
But his pen paused.

Just for a second.

“…I thought they should hear it.”

Silence.

Cementoss leaned back.

Closed his eyes.

And smiled.

This time, it wasn’t just warm.

It was peaceful.

It was heard.

And Daigo Nakanishi?

Well.

He’d get to keep his career.

But only because Izuku let him.

Feature Segment: Built Different, Treated Lesser: The Unspoken Quirkism Against Mutation Heroes
By Daigo Nakanishi | EnView Weekly

In a society shaped by Quirks, where being “unique” is as commonplace as it is celebrated, one truth remains quietly, stubbornly unchallenged:

Not all Quirks are treated equally.

And more importantly:

Not all heroes are treated equally.

Today, we turn the spotlight not on those who dazzle in flight or flare in flame, but on those who hold the line. The ones who don’t shine through spectacle, but through foundation, in both infrastructure and ideology.

The mutation-type heroes.

The ones who look different. Sound different. Move different.

The ones whom hero society has, knowingly or not, placed at arm’s length for far too long.

The Silent Bias

At first glance, Japan’s hero industry appears inclusive. We see heroes of all shapes and sizes on billboards and broadcasts. The fan favorite with six arms. The breakout rookie with a tail. The towering veteran who melts through concrete.

But when you dig deeper, a pattern emerges.

In media coverage, mutation heroes receive less screen time unless their Quirks are easily visualized or conventionally appealing. In agency statistics, they’re less likely to be selected for frontline work or high-profile missions, regardless of success rate. In school settings, students with physical mutations report being treated as mascots or curiosities instead of teammates.

And when they do succeed?

They are rarely treated as people.

Instead, they're viewed as tools. As functions.

As things.

An interview with Cementoss – Hero and Educator

“My shape doesn’t define my strength,” says Cementoss, sitting with practiced calm in the UA faculty lounge. “My Quirk doesn’t make me equipment. I am not a building. I am the one who keeps them standing.”

For over a decade, Cementoss has supported one of Japan’s most formidable hero institutions, shaping UA’s terrain, defenses, and battlefields. His work has saved countless lives, often without the public even knowing he was there.

And yet, time and time again, he finds himself fielding the same questions.

Do you feel human?
Do your students relate to you?
How does it feel to be more… structure than man?

Questions that, if asked of other heroes, would be laughed out of the room.

But for mutation heroes, it’s normal.

Expected.

“People think they’re being clever with how they phrase it,” Cementoss adds, voice neutral but steady. “But it always comes down to the same thing. You don’t look like us, so you must be less.”

Beyond the mutation

While emitter-type Quirks allow for dramatic, cinematic expressions of power, fireballs, force waves and precision constructs, mutation-type Quirks come with permanence.

You can’t turn off stone skin.
You can’t retract claws.
You can’t stop having two jaws or a tail or scales.

And that makes the world uncomfortable.

"There’s a difference between awe and acceptance," says Mount Haruna, a pro hero known for her enhanced quadrupedal strength and elephantine form. “Civilians love to cheer for you. But they also love to cross the street when they see you out of costume.”

Another hero, who asked to remain anonymous, put it more bluntly:

“We don’t get to be beautiful.
We get to be useful.
Until they’re done using us.”

Quirked society has to let go of the human mold

This bias doesn’t just affect perception. It changes careers.

Mutation heroes report:

• Limited branding opportunities.

• PR teams pushing redesigns to appear “friendlier.”

• Pressure to underplay their own experiences.

And worse, when they speak up, they’re called ungrateful.

UA’s own Power Loader, a mutation-type engineer and instructor, notes that it bleeds into the support course as well.

"You'd be shocked how many companies won't sponsor a support item just because the user isn't 'marketable.'"
"Some of our smartest students get pushed out before they even start."

The tide of change

Despite this, things are changing.

Slowly.

With help.

Cementoss’s work has recently come into new light thanks to a growing awareness campaign launched within UA, supported internally by anonymous staff analysts.

Power Loader’s curriculum has shifted to spotlight inclusive design.

Mount Haruna is now hosting joint interviews with both mainstream and underground heroes.

And perhaps most importantly:

People are talking.

Not in whispers.
Not in backrooms.
But out loud.

About quirkism.
About visibility.
About dignity.

About humanity.

Final word

Not every hero burns bright.

Some are stone.
Some are metal.
Some are covered in chitin and shadow and teeth.

But they hold the line.
They shape the field.
They carry the weight.

And they deserve better.

We owe them more than questions about their biology.
We owe them more than tokenism.
We owe them respect.

Because at the end of the day:

They are not machines.
They are not props.
They are not curiosities.

They are heroes.

They are human.

And it’s long past time we saw them that way.

Editor’s note: This article is part of EnView’s new segment series on overlooked hero narratives. Reader submissions, experiences, and suggestions can be sent to the editorial board for inclusion in future features.

Chapter Text

The lights buzzed.
Dim, uneven. Too yellow in the corners.

The sink dripped.
The radiator hissed.
The walls, paper-thin, swallowed no sound.

Izuku sat on the floor of his apartment.

Knees pulled to his chest.
Sleeves swallowed his hands.
The same oversized sweater he'd worn two days ago, washed, maybe, sometime last week.

His fingers curled tight in his sleeves.
Pressing crescents into skin that had already been marked too many times.

He didn’t cry right away.

That came later.

First was the stillness.

The creeping, rotting stillness.

The quiet that had first found him in the aftermath of that long, brutal project, the one that left him spiraling into the floor, forehead pressed to the hardwood, asking himself what now, what next, what purpose, over and over and over again.

He’d barely survived that one.
That spiral.

He’d managed to claw his way back up with student quirk optimization charts.
Lesson planning restructuring.
Departmental scheduling.

But now?

Now that his systems were in place, the faculty acclimated, the structures stable.

There was nothing for his hands to do.

And if his hands weren’t doing, his mind would break.

He knew this.

Knew it down to bone.

So why the hell-
Why the hell did he feel like something inside him was pulling?

Not in that feral, sharpening way.
Not in a way he could weaponize.

But in something deeper.

Something older.

Something his.

At first, it was just discomfort.
A restless buzz in his chest.

Then an ache.

Like distance was dangerous.

Like he had left something unattended.

He thought of Power Loader’s workbench.
Cementoss’s reinforced corridors.
Hizashi’s throat strain tracker on the shared UA network.
Nemuri’s new PR dossier.

Aizawa’s sleep log.

Nezu’s tea orders.

He knew it all.

Tracked it all.

Not because he had to.

But because it made him feel safe.

Like they were safe.

Like if he just kept them all functioning, fed, defended, better, then maybe this time, they wouldn’t vanish.

This time, the hoard would stay.

The word struck him hard.

Hoard.

His stomach twisted.

He dropped his head against his knees and finally let himself breathe.
Just once.
A sharp, aching inhale that cracked something in his ribs.

"I claimed them," he whispered.

And his voice sounded shattered.

He hadn’t meant to.

Hadn’t planned to.

But he’d watched them.
Protected them.
Remembered what they liked, what they hated, what they needed.

He'd gotten angry for them.

Fought for them.

And somewhere along the line, he had started building something again.

Without realizing it.

And now it was too late.

Because his instincts didn’t ask for permission.

He’d claimed them.

All of them.

The faculty. The halls. The students.

His claws weren’t visible, but they were there.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know what would happen if someone took them away.

He didn’t know if he’d survive it again.

He’d had a hoard before.
People.

They’d torn it from him.

Called him unstable.
Called him wrong.
Called him broken.

And now, UA.

They let him stay.

Let him build.
Let him fix.
Let him belong.

He curled tighter on the floor.

Breathing ragged.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispered, voice wrecked. "I didn’t-"

But he had.

And part of him, deep, trembling, ancient, knew he wouldn’t survive losing them too.

He pressed his forehead to the cool wood.

Willing himself to calm.

To quiet.

But the ache stayed.

Because hoards were supposed to be safe.

And he wasn’t sure if this one ever would be.

Not for someone like him.

Not for someone quirkless.

Feral.

Unclaimed.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed on the floor.

Waiting for the fear to pass.

It didn’t.

But morning came anyway.

Chapter Text

Lunch at UA wasn’t usually a group affair.
Schedules didn’t often line up.
Meetings bled over. Cafeteria runs were staggered.

But somehow, miraculously, today was quiet.

No emergencies.
No drills.
No PR chaos.

Just teachers.
Food.
And a table pulled too long in the corner of the lounge, where Hizashi had dragged everyone by sheer force of charisma and the promise of warm bentos and baked goods.

Nemuri sat on one side, chopsticks in one hand, legs folded and grin lazy.
Cementoss occupied two seats, still somehow managing to make it feel cozy.
Power Loader was halfway under the table, eating while fixing a wrist brace.
Aizawa sipped his coffee, blank-eyed but present.

Izuku hovered.

At first.

Notebook clutched to his chest, standing awkwardly near the edge.

Until Hizashi turned.

"Yo! Midoriya! Get your feral little self over here!"

Izuku blinked.
Blushed.

And, carefully, settled at the very end of the table.

He didn’t mean to stay.

But the laughter.
The stories.

They were magnetic.

"Okay, okay," Hizashi was saying, waving a hand, "so this was, like, two years ago, right? Midnight’s doing a guest panel at a hero event and this poor intern hands her the mic still on. She turns to me, says, 'I swear to god, if another PR guy tries to script my intro, I'm gonna blast them with glitter grenades' - and the entire stadium hears it!"

Laughter erupted.
Nemuri rolled her eyes. “I meant it.”
“You also asked if the grenades came in lavender.”

"Important question," she deadpanned.

Power Loader snorted. "Once walked into a support expo panel to find Hatsume presenting my personal gauntlet as ‘The Old Man’s Disappointment Device.’"
"Wait," Izuku blinked, "the mark III design?"
"YES."

Izuku laughed.
Soft. Quiet.
But real.

It felt nice.
Like his chest had unknotted just a little.

And he wanted, just once, to join in.

So he smiled, thumb rubbing along the spine of his notebook, and said "Oh! I have one."

Heads turned.
Smiles stayed.

Encouraging.

Izuku’s voice was still soft, but a little brighter now.
"This was before UA, at my old job. The security firm that did freelance dispatch coordination for hero teams across a few prefectures. Anyway, one time during a city-wide villain sweep, my boss duct-taped me to the support van so the building cameras wouldn’t catch a quirkless staff member in view. Isn't that funny? Because the van was white and I wore a white shirt that day, and they said I’d blend in better."

Silence.

Dead.
Full.
Echoing silence.

Izuku blinked.
Still smiling.

"...and then they left me out there for six hours in summer heat. Which was okay! I had a water bottle taped to me too."

More silence.

Hizashi’s mouth had opened and not closed.
Nemuri’s chopsticks snapped in her hand.
Power Loader stared at him like he had grown a second head.
Cementoss didn’t move.

Aizawa’s coffee cup was shaking in his grip.

“…That’s not funny,” Aizawa said flatly.

Izuku’s smile wavered.

"But-"

"It’s not funny."

"It wasn’t- um. I didn’t- I thought-"

"You were taped to a vehicle in summer heat and left in plain view because they didn’t want people seeing a quirkless employee?" Nemuri’s voice was sharp. Acid under silk.

Izuku's breath stuttered.
"I mean… they said it would reflect poorly on the image-"

“Izuku.” Hizashi’s voice was tight. Not joking anymore. “That’s not a joke. That’s workplace abuse.”

"I didn’t- I thought-"

His voice cracked.

He had thought it was funny.
Or. At least. He’d trained himself to think it was.

To laugh.
To survive it.

To give it shape, so it didn’t own him.

But now?

With them looking at him like that.
With Aizawa’s eyes dark and murder-quiet, and Nemuri half out of her seat-

He realized maybe it wasn’t funny.

Maybe it had never been.

They didn’t push him.
Didn’t crowd.

Just shifted.
Softened.

Cementoss slid his lunch box closer to him.

Power Loader reached under the table and handed him an unopened protein bar.
Didn’t say anything.

Nemuri, very gently, leaned in and whispered,
“You get to laugh at your trauma if you want to, angel.”

Izuku nodded.
Silent.

Hizashi broke the tension with a sigh.

“Well, I was gonna tell the one about the time I accidentally crowd-surfed into a villain warehouse-”
“You did what.”
“Look, it was a misunderstanding!”

Laughter rippled again.

Softer. Gentler.

And this time, when Izuku laughed, it wasn’t to cover something up.

It was because, for just a moment, he belonged here.

Even with the cracks.
Even with the scars.

He belonged.

Lunch had become a ritual.

Not formal, not mandatory, just an unspoken agreement between too many overworked adults and one scrawny analyst with the social confidence of a damp ferret.

They gathered in the teachers’ lounge most days now, sometimes on the patio when the weather allowed. Nezu brought elaborate thermoses. Power Loader ate with noise-cancelling earbuds. Cementoss always had something pickled. Nemuri teased, Hizashi howled, and Aizawa drank the most expensive coffee known to man and quietly protected his mate.

Izuku sat near the end.
Hands wrapped around a thermos of tea.
Eyes always sharp, even if his posture was curled in, soft, unobtrusive.
Not quite part of the chaos, but not separate from it either.

Today, Hizashi had started it.
Again.

“Okay okay okay, so I’m on patrol, right? Midnight shift. It’s raining. I’m soaked. And this idiot villain slips trying to run and knocks himself out against a vending machine.”

Laughter.

Nemuri raised her can in salute. “Vending machines. The truest heroes.”

Cementoss snorted. Power Loader muttered something about structural weaknesses and vending machines being built like tanks.

Then it went around the table.
Stories. Mishaps. That one intern who glued himself to a cat.

Even Vlad had one now.
He was better. He laughed easier. And his story about a three-legged support drone chasing a squirrel into the gym had Hizashi in tears.

Then Izuku perked up.

Bright-eyed. Soft smile.

He straightened a little, clutching his thermos with both hands.

“Oh!” he said, softly excited. “I have one!”

The table turned.

Nemuri smiled. “Hit us.”

Hizashi leaned in, grinning.

Aizawa didn’t move, but he watched, sharp-eyed.

Izuku beamed.
Nervous, but proud.

“This was… um. Three jobs ago? I was working at a private agency. They did quirk data consulting and combat optimization, kind of like what I do now. Except it was… more chaotic.”

That should’ve been the warning.

But no one stopped him.

“Anyway! We had this training site that wasn’t technically up to code, but they ran simulations there anyway. It was mostly underground. And one time, one of the simulation doors malfunctioned, and I got stuck inside for like fourteen hours!”

Silence.

Izuku kept going, oblivious.

“They forgot I was scheduled for solo analysis, and the system thought I was a target dummy! So I had to keep dodging these live combat drones! For hours!”

More silence.

“They didn’t even notice until one of the engineers went in to fix a jammed trigger and found me sitting in the dark, eating one of the emergency ration bars with a broken drone under me!”

He laughed.

Like it was a joke.

Like that was funny.

“Oh, and the bar was expired! But it was still better than the vending machine snacks!”

He looked up.

Smiling.

Expectant.

Waiting for them to laugh with him.

But the table was silent.

Nemuri had her hand halfway over her mouth. Not in mirth.
Vlad’s knuckles were white around his fork.
Power Loader looked like he was reconsidering murder.
Hizashi had stopped moving entirely.

Aizawa looked like he was going to burn down whatever building that had happened in.

Izuku blinked. Smile faltering slightly.

“…It was supposed to be a joke,” he said, smaller now. “I didn’t get injured or anything.”

Hizashi exhaled. “You were… locked in a live drone range. For fourteen hours.”

“I mean- yeah? But it was fine!” Izuku tried again. “I figured out the drone behavior loops. And the emergency override codes! That part was kind of fun, actually!”

Nemuri very quietly reached out and took his hand.

Izuku flinched.

She squeezed. Gently.

“You were alone,” she said. “In the dark. With malfunctioning combat tech.”

Izuku’s voice was almost inaudible now. “I didn’t want to make trouble.”

Hound Dog wasn’t even there today. But later, he would hear about it. And howl.

Afterward, they didn’t push him.

Didn’t lecture.

But Nezu put in an internal request to locate the agency.
Aizawa looked up building permits.
Power Loader started mumbling something about sabotage and rebar.

And Izuku?

Izuku sat smaller than usual, blinking, confused.

Because he’d thought-

He’d really thought-

That was the funny story.

Not another horror show.

Not another warning bell for the people he was slowly, accidentally, helplessly beginning to love.

He sat in silence.

Aizawa handed him a new thermos of tea. The kind he only gave his mate.

Izuku blinked again.

And held on.

Chapter Text

It started small.

It always did.

A skipped dose.
A forgotten refill.
A flurry of work and an excuse: I’ll get to it later.

Izuku didn’t notice the spiral until he was already on the floor of the file room, chest tight, fingers clawing uselessly at the concrete as his brain spun out into a thousand sharp edges.

Too much.
Too fast.
Too loud.

His notebook was on the ground.
The pages fluttered like wings.
He couldn’t make them stay still.
Couldn’t breathe right.
Couldn’t move.

He reached for his pocket, where the emergency meds should be, and came up empty.

Panic bloomed fast. Bitter.
His thoughts stuttered. Froze.
No backup. No emergency dose.
He’d forgotten to pick up his refill.

And suddenly, every bit of stillness he’d built over the last few months cracked wide open.

He curled in on himself.
Not crying. Not screaming.

Just, small.

Eyes wild.
Chest heaving.
Nails digging into the grout of the floor like he could scrape reality back into order.

“Don’t be a problem.”
“They’ll send you away.”
“You’re not valuable if you break.”

He’d worked too hard.
Fixed too much.
He couldn’t spiral now.
Not here.

He didn’t hear the footsteps.

Didn’t notice the shift in air.

Didn’t sense the presence behind him until a quiet, calm voice slid into the room like it belonged.

“Midoriya?”

His head jerked up, vision blurry, breath hitching.

Aizawa.

Of course.
Of course Aizawa found him like this.
The one person he didn’t want to see him like this.

“I-” Izuku gasped. “I’m sorry- I just- my meds- I can’t-”

Aizawa crouched.
Slow. Steady.
Not touching. Not looming.

Just there.

Like a wall to lean on.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s alright.”

Izuku shook his head violently. “No, it’s not- I can’t- I forgot, and now I’m-”

His words tangled.

Aizawa reached into his coat.
Pulled out a small, worn pill case.

Held it out.

Same label.
Same dose.
Same brand.

“Take this.”

Izuku stared.

Frozen.

“…How did you-?”

Aizawa shrugged. Casual. Easy.

“Found it in the staff storage. Someone must’ve dropped it.”

He was lying.

They both knew it.

But Izuku didn’t question it.

Couldn’t.

His hands were shaking too hard.

Aizawa pressed the pill into his palm.
Uncapped a bottle of water from his pocket like it was nothing.

Like this wasn’t the most intimate thing he’d ever done for someone.

Izuku took the pill.

Drank.

Sat back against the wall with his knees still tucked to his chest and just, breathed.

Slow.
Shaky.
Ragged.

But real.

And Aizawa stayed.

Didn’t speak.
Didn’t press.

Just sat on the floor beside him, back to the wall, legs stretched out, like he just happened to be there too.

They stayed like that until Izuku’s hands stopped trembling.
Until his heartbeat came down.

Until the spiral ebbed into silence.

He didn’t ask how Aizawa had known the exact brand.
Didn’t ask how he found him, tucked into a room no one used at an hour no one passed through.

Didn’t ask why Aizawa’s presence felt like a weighted blanket he didn’t know he needed.

Because Aizawa didn’t offer answers.

Only safety.

Only silence.

Only presence.

And Izuku, still trying to rebuild the air in his lungs, let himself lean just a little closer.

Just enough.

And Aizawa didn’t move away.

Izuku hadn’t slept properly since the panic attack.

Not because of fear, he was used to spiraling.

But because he owed a debt.

Aizawa had helped.

Calmly. Without judgment.
Without questions.
And without making it weird.

Which somehow made it worse.

Izuku didn’t do well with kindness. Especially not the quiet, deliberate kind that wrapped around him like it meant something.

So now he was pacing the teachers’ lounge, half-charged on caffeine, full-charged on anxiety.

He needed to thank him.
Properly.

So he came up with a plan.
A logical one.
A simple one.

“Your diet is unacceptable,” he said flatly as Aizawa reached for his third jelly pouch of the day. “You’re coming grocery shopping with me.”

The lounge went silent.

Hizashi choked on his juice.

Nemuri stopped mid-scroll and stared.

Aizawa blinked. Once.

Then, with the absolute blankness of someone unfazed by confrontation:
“…Okay.”

Izuku froze. “Wait, really?”

Aizawa shrugged. “Sure.”

He turned back to his coffee.

Izuku stood there, stunned, as the realization set in.

He was now going grocery shopping with Aizawa Shouta.

Oh no.

The weather was good.
Lunch was warm.
And the staff lounge was dangerous.

Because today? Today was another story day.

Which meant Hizashi was already halfway through his third retelling of the “support drone that yeeted itself into a lake.”
Power Loader was aggressively shaking seasoning onto his lunch. Cementoss was side-eyeing him like a parent who’d already told the toddler no.
Nemuri looked relaxed.
Aizawa looked like he hated being alive.

Izuku was glowing.

Not literally. But the vibe was there.

He sat curled near the edge of the lounge couch, hugging a thermos like a security blanket, eyes bright and twitching at the corners.

“I have one,” he said softly.

The room quieted.

Hizashi grinned. “Oh boy.”
Vlad braced for war.
Aizawa’s eye twitched.

“No- no, I promise,” Izuku added quickly, already raising one hand like a truce flag. “It’s actually funny this time. I double-checked.”

Nemuri arched a brow. “Did you double-check your own memory?”

“Yes.” Izuku blinked. “Several times.”

The table leaned in.

Izuku cleared his throat.

“So, um. I went grocery shopping with Aizawa last week.”

Hizashi immediately made a noise like a suppressed laugh grenade.
Nemuri sat up straighter.
Power Loader dropped his chopsticks.

“…Continue,” Nedzu purred from his teacup.

Izuku nodded, eyes wide.

“We were just getting staples! Rice, eggs, caffeine, and some actual vegetables. Very normal! Everything was fine until-”

He paused. Looked deeply distressed.

“-until we reached the self-checkout.”

A long beat.

Vlad frowned. “...And?”

Izuku inhaled. “Aizawa has never used a self-checkout in his life.”

The room froze.

Aizawa made no move to deny it.

Izuku kept going.

“He looked at it like it personally offended his ancestors. Then he jabbed the screen once. Just- whack. With two fingers.”

Nemuri was laughing already.

“He said ‘this is inefficient’ and then tried to scan a basket. Not the items, just the whole basket.”

Hizashi howled.

“And then,” Izuku whispered, now visibly horrified, “he tried to barter with it.”

Cementoss leaned in. “Barter?”

“He told the machine it had one more chance to accept the rice or he’d file a workplace safety violation.”

Even Vlad choked.

“I asked if he wanted help. He said, and I quote, ‘I am a functioning adult and I will defeat this machine if it’s the last thing I do.’”

Aizawa remained silent. He did not deny it.

Izuku was red now. “He was there for sixteen minutes. I timed it. There were three managers watching from behind the bakery section.”

“Did he succeed?” Hizashi wheezed.

“No!” Izuku cried. “I had to bribe him away from it with yakult and the promise of letting him use the fancy coffee grinder aisle!”

The lounge erupted.

Power Loader faceplanted into his arms.
Nemuri wheezed.
Vlad fell back in his chair.
Nezu was laughing so hard his teacup shook.

And Aizawa?

He sipped his coffee, unbothered, and said dryly:

“It overcharged me for rice. I made the right decision.”

Izuku groaned.

“You scared a child into abandoning her Doritos.”

“She was in my way.”

“She was five.”

Aizawa sipped again. “Should’ve learned spatial awareness.”

Later, when the laughter had quieted, Hizashi leaned across the table and bumped Izuku’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he grinned. “You were right. That was funny.”

Izuku flushed. Hid behind his thermos again.

But his smile didn’t fade.

This time?

This time it really had been just a story.
Not a warning.
Not a red flag.

Just a memory.

One where he belonged.

Chapter Text

UA held business meetings from time to time, necessary evils, if one wanted to keep the top-ranked hero school running like a well-oiled machine. Nezu was particular about partnerships. He didn’t let just anyone through the gates.

But sometimes, certain hands slipped through the cracks.

And today, three such hands sat across from the staff in UA’s west-side meeting hall.

They wore pressed suits and polished smiles, carried expensive pens and cleaner-than-thou portfolios. Their names were dull, forgettable on purpose. The manager, Kisaragi, led the pitch. The two employees flanked him, Suda and Tanaka.

On paper, they represented a logistics optimization firm. One of Nezu’s latest potentials. They dealt with systems. Efficiency. Labor contracts.

Izuku hadn’t recognized their names.

But he knew their faces.

He kept his expression neutral. Kept his hands on his notes. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe too deeply.

He couldn’t afford to.

Not here. Not now.

Because those three?
They were from his first job.

The worst one. The one that never made it to any formal record because every crime they committed was buried under loopholes and paperwork and the brutal, simple truth:

No one cared what happened to a quirkless intern.

The meeting passed in a blur.

They were professional. Slick. Clean-cut in the way of people who knew exactly how to skirt legality and still smile for the cameras.

And they didn’t say a word.

Not to him.

Not directly.

But they saw him.
He knew they did.

And Izuku sat there, frozen beneath layers of analysis and practiced posture, heart a sharp, steady beat under his ribs.

He gave his data. Presented the projections Nezu wanted. Spoke with clarity and calm.

And when the meeting ended, he bowed with the others.

The teachers' lounge was warm after.

The kind of warmth only shared food and laughter could make.

They’d all gathered, the way they often did after long days, Aizawa curled in his chair with a mug of his sinful coffee, Nemuri scrolling lazily on her phone, Hizashi telling some half-unbelievable story about a kid who managed to set their backpack on fire during first period.

Izuku was in the corner, still half-tense, but trying.

Trying so hard.

And then the business reps walked in.

With faux-casual smiles.
With a bottle of wine they hadn’t brought during the meeting.

Kisaragi laughed easily as Nezu motioned them inside. “Thought we’d socialize a little, get to know the real team behind UA.”

Nezu, always polite, welcomed them. So did the others.

Izuku said nothing.

He stayed quiet. Stayed small.

But Nemuri noticed.
She always did.

And Hizashi, he watched too.

They flanked him almost immediately, light conversation curling over his shoulders like a shield. Nemuri passed him a plate of snacks. Hizashi bumped his knee gently against Izuku’s, chatting just a little louder than usual.

Izuku tried not to shake.

Then it happened.

Suda, the thinner one, glanced at him and laughed, offhandedly:

“Funny seeing you here again, Midoriya-kun. Never thought we’d run into you after your little internship.”

Izuku froze.

Nemuri’s smile sharpened.

“Oh? You worked with Izuku?” she asked, tone light. “Where?”

Tanaka chuckled. “Oh, ages ago. Back before he was... what did they call you in the last article? The ‘Cryptid of Optimization’?”

“Back then he was our intern,” Suda said. “The kind who made coffee and filed reports we didn’t read.”

They laughed.

Izuku didn’t move.

“Oh no,” Nemuri cooed. “You trained him? What was that like?”

“Training,” Kisaragi echoed with a grin. “That’s generous.”

Suda leaned back. “He once got shoved in a supply closet because he missed a deadline by ten minutes.”

Tanaka smirked. “Wasn’t even his fault. Our system lagged that day. But rules are rules, right?”

Izuku felt his heartbeat slow.

The words felt underwater.
Muffled. Distant.
Familiar.

Nemuri hummed. “Must’ve been hard, managing someone like him.”

“Oh, it was hilarious,” Suda said. “There was this one time we duct-taped him into the back of the delivery van for being too slow. Called it immersive experience.”

Hizashi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“You taped him into a van?”

“Oh, just once,” Tanaka said. “Twice, if you count the client incident.”

“Right,” Suda snorted. “The one where we told him to handle the whole meeting himself and then pretended not to know him? Gold.”

Kisaragi waved a hand. “We were just teaching him real-world resilience.”

Nemuri was still smiling. Still lounging like she didn’t just hear someone admit to workplace abuse. “And he didn’t complain?”

“He cried a bit,” Suda said, mock-sheepishly. “But you know how quirkless kids are. They either break or get good at pretending.”

Tanaka grinned. “Guess he figured out pretending.”

Laughter again.

And for a moment.
Just a moment.

Izuku truly believed the staff had turned on him.

Because no one was saying anything.
Because no one had thrown them out yet.
Because Nemuri was still smiling and Hizashi was still nodding and Aizawa was still sipping his coffee.

And Izuku sat there.

Still.
Quiet.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Like it always had before.
Like it always would.

And when he looked up.

He didn’t see the teachers anymore.

He saw bystanders.

And his breath stuttered in his throat.

That was when the spiral started again.

There was a second. Just one.

Between breath and breaking.

Izuku sat with hands curled too tight in his lap, shoulders hunched like a child caught trespassing, eyes wide and distant as laughter from those men, those monsters, echoed in the room. They'd reduced years of pain and quiet terror into cocktail anecdotes. Into punchlines.

And no one had stopped them.

Not yet.

So, Izuku did what he’d always done.

He braced for abandonment.

But something shifted.

Quiet. Sharp.

Instinctual.

A ceramic mug slid into his hands. Warm. Solid. Familiar.

His fingers twitched.

Not just a mug.

That mug.

The forbidden one. The sinfully expensive, off-limits-to-all, guarded like a dragon’s hoard mug. Aizawa’s mug. The one no one in the staff room ever touched. Not Hizashi. Not Nemuri. Not even Nezu.

But now it was in Izuku’s hands. Placed there without a word.

And when he blinked up Aizawa was still sipping from a second cup, slow and silent, gaze unreadable.

But his shoulders were tense.

His eyes were fixed.

His entire body was still, in the way predators go still right before they move.

He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t snarled.

Izuku didn’t have time to spiral.

Because the temperature of the room had shifted.

And Nezu, sweet, playful Nezu, was smiling.

But it wasn’t kind.

His paws were folded neatly in front of him. His eyes gleamed like polished steel. And beside him sat an untouched notepad, and a pen that had not stopped scribbling since the first implication of abuse.

His tail flicked once.

And then never again.

Izuku had only seen that kind of silence once before.

It had ended with a CEO being blacklisted from every business in Japan within seventy-two hours.

“Oh, you idiots,” Nemuri said softly, and finally dropped the act.

Suda blinked. “What?”

“You thought this was a joke,” Hizashi said, all the warmth gone from his voice.

Tanaka scoffed. “What, can’t take a little teasing?”

Power Loader slammed his tablet onto the table.

The screen glowed brightly with a waveform.

“Congratulations,” he said, voice flat. “You’ve just recorded several instances of labor law violations. Coerced intern labor. Physical endangerment. Emotional abuse. Oh, and my personal favorite: Violation of transportation safety standards.”

He smiled.

It was not nice.

“It’s all time-stamped and backed up on UA servers. But by all means, keep talking.”

Suda’s smile wavered.

“We were just-”

“Having fun?” Nemuri’s voice was like a knife dipped in sugar. “Like taping a child into a van? Or making them cry during a mock meeting because you didn’t want to pay them overtime?”

Tanaka opened his mouth.

Nemuri didn’t let him.

“That child,” she said, “grew up to optimize this school. You’re sitting in a building that functions better because of him. You’re working with heroes who trust him with their lives. And you thought this was going to be funny.”

“I-” Suda started.

“I’d stop while you can,” Aizawa muttered.

His voice was soft. Neutral.

But his eyes had gone dark.

Izuku didn’t dare move.

Because Aizawa wasn’t looking at the men anymore.

He was watching Izuku.

Not confused. Not dismissive.

Measuring.

As if calculating exactly what it would take to convince Izuku, in his quiet spiral, that he hadn’t been abandoned.

That he wasn’t alone.

“I’ll file the formal dissolution request,” Nezu said brightly. “This meeting is over.”

He turned to Izuku, voice softening.

“Would you like them escorted off campus?”

Izuku opened his mouth and stopped.

Because he didn’t have to.

Hizashi was already on his feet.

“Let’s go, gentlemen,” he said with an icy grin. “Before I start quoting Article 114 of the Workplace Safety Ordinance, which, for the record, does apply to quirkless interns now.”

Tanaka turned pale.

Suda looked like he wanted to disappear.

Kisaragi said nothing.

He just followed as Hizashi led them out the door with the kind of smile that made villains confess before charges were even filed.

When the door shut behind them, the silence returned.

Heavy.

But not cold.

Not anymore.

Izuku looked down at the mug in his hands.

Still warm.

Still full.

And in that moment, despite every old instinct screaming, run, hide, pretend it didn’t happen, he did something else instead.

He lifted it.

And took a sip.

It was good.

Too good.

Too expensive.

He didn’t understand it.

But no one stopped him.

Nemuri passed him a cookie without a word.

Power Loader reached over and flicked the back of his head, muttering something about “idiots who don’t report things.”

Cementoss sighed. “I hope they get sued.”

Izuku cried that night.

Not from panic.

Not from fear, or spiraling, or the too-familiar knot of tension in his chest that came when the world tipped sideways and no one caught him.

No, this was different.

He sat on the floor of his apartment, legs curled under himself, hands clutched to the soft, familiar warmth of a blanket he didn’t remember grabbing.

And he cried.

Silently. Guttural. Heaving, breathless sobs that left his chest aching and his throat raw.

Because they didn’t leave.

They didn’t turn on him.

Even when the men who had broken him walked into the same room and laughed about it, they didn’t turn on him.

No one looked away. No one told him to get over it. No one shrugged or changed the subject or gave him that look, that look that meant he was too sensitive, too fragile, too dramatic for a quirkless.

They defended him.

No, worse. They protected him.

Like he was something worth protecting.

His chest ached.

He’d spent so long believing it would happen. That one misstep, one revealed truth, one past job dug up would send it all crashing down again.

That this, the teachers’ lounge, the coffee, the laughter, was only borrowed time.

But they didn’t leave.

And that hurt in a way he hadn’t expected.

Because it meant it was real.

And real things could be lost.

So he cried.

And when the sobs faded into hiccups, into shaking breaths, into silence, he didn’t feel hollow.

He felt tired.

But not empty.

Aizawa watched from the rooftop across the street.

His instincts had screamed. Louder than before.

The moment Izuku’s shoulders had started to curl inward in that too-familiar way, every cell in his body had shifted to go.

So he did.

And now he sat above, hidden in the dark, perched like a shadow.

And he watched.

He saw the lights stay off for too long. Then flicker on. Then dim again.

He saw the window curtain shift.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t go to the door. Didn’t drop down the fire escape. That wasn’t how this worked.

Not yet.

Courting was still in process.

He had already done more than most instinct-bound would. The mug. The schedule. The rooftop following. The gifts, hidden just enough to blur the line between accident and design.

But comfort, direct comfort, was one of the final steps.

And it wasn’t time yet.

Not while Izuku was still wary.

Still waiting for the betrayal that would never come.

So Aizawa crouched in the dark, coffee thermos cooling at his side.

And he watched.

Watched until the sobs softened.

Watched until Izuku’s head lolled sideways, tears drying on his cheeks, breaths slow and even.

Watched until he fell asleep.

Safe.

Protected.

His.

Aizawa shifted, eyes half-lidded, breath curling in the chill.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Izuku had always assumed the muzzle was therapeutic.

A grounding object, maybe. Something tied to comfort or sensory regulation, like how some people wore compression sleeves, or how Hizashi used weighted vests off the clock to help him settle. Ryo Inui, Hound Dog, was a mutation type. A powerful one. Big, muscled, teeth and claws and instincts that hummed louder than most could bear.

But Hound Dog was also one of the kindest staff members at UA. Brutally honest, emotionally intuitive, and fiercely protective of every student who passed through his office.

The muzzle, Izuku thought, was just part of that self-regulation. A choice.

Until it wasn’t.

It was lunchtime. Hound Dog had just finished a counseling session and had taken the muzzle off to eat. A full grilled fish lay on his tray, quirk-responsive protein, fresh, unseasoned, and he leaned down to bite into it directly, tail thumping lazily against the chair leg.

For the first time in weeks, Izuku saw it.

Ryo smiled.

A real smile. One that split his face wide, full of sharp teeth and something lighter. Lighter than Izuku had ever seen on him.

But that light flickered out when the door opened and Hound Dog’s head snapped up, muzzle half in his hands.

He slipped it back on.

Fast.

Too fast.

Izuku blinked.

Something twisted low in his gut.

Later that day, he dug.

And he hated what he found. 

The HSPC file wasn’t even hidden.

It was in the old regulation archives from three years ago. Dusted and buried and quietly ignored since Nezu took over full operational control of UA’s internal compliance.

But it was still there.

“For staff members exhibiting aggressive mutation-based quirk traits, particularly those involving sharpened canines, maws, or scent tracking instincts, additional gear may be required to ensure student safety.”

“Use of a regulation muzzle will be deemed mandatory for any staff whose feral traits present a ‘perceived threat’ to minors, regardless of historical behavior or professional record.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped.

It wasn’t for grounding.

It wasn’t for comfort.

It was punishment.

A leash disguised as policy.

And worse, it wasn’t even about Hound Dog’s behavior.

It was about his face.

The HSPC rep arrived three days later.

They always did unannounced. Always timed for class changeover, when the halls were full and the image mattered most.

The representative was all smiles and shiny shoes. Clipboard tucked against a tailored jacket. She stepped into the lounge mid-lunch like she owned the place.

And the moment her eyes landed on Ryo’s bare muzzleless face, she clicked her tongue.

“Oh, Inui-san,” she said, voice syrupy. “Where is your restraint gear?”

Izuku looked up from his notes.

Ryo froze.

Nemuri narrowed her eyes.

Aizawa stilled.

The rep tutted. “We’ve been over this, haven’t we? You're only permitted in mixed student spaces if your muzzle is-”

Izuku stood.

There was no sound at first.

Not really.

But something in the air shifted. Like pressure dropping before a storm.

His hands were loose at his sides. His face calm. Quiet.

But every teacher in the room felt it.

Like watching a rabbit smile right before it tears out a wolf’s throat.

Izuku stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” he said gently. “Who are you?”

The rep blinked, visibly annoyed. “HSPC Compliance Supervisor Nakashima. And you are?”

“Izuku Midoriya,” he said. “UA’s systems analyst.”

She smiled, falsely polite. “Then I’m sure you understand that Inui-san’s compliance is part of our internal security policy. It’s not personal. Merely a precaution.”

“Oh,” Izuku said softly. “But it is personal.”

Nakashima faltered.

And then Izuku opened his notebook.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

His tone was polite. Clinical. Deceptively warm.

But the words were razors.

He walked her through each regulation, line by line, explaining how Hound Dog’s behavioral record had never once indicated a risk.

He cited court decisions, international standards on quirk accommodation, discrimination case law.

He presented a list of approved UA students with feral-adjacent quirks who were not required to wear muzzle gear.

He referenced mutation quirk protections under the Domestic Work Equality Act.

And then he read a line from Nakashima’s own report two years ago.

A line that described Ryo’s “appearance” as “provocative in an academic setting.”

Not behavior.

Appearance.

“Your department mandated that one of the most competent, emotionally intuitive counselors I’ve ever seen be treated like a threat,” Izuku said. “Because of his teeth.”

Silence.

Not a word from the staff.

Nemuri had gone still. Hizashi leaned back, watching with thinly veiled glee.

Aizawa didn’t blink.

And Hound Dog had stopped breathing.

Izuku closed his notebook.

“Effective immediately, all previous compliance orders from your division regarding Counselor Inui are null within UA jurisdiction,” he said, voice razor-sharp. “Principal Nezu has already filed the reclassification paperwork.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“But please, feel free to appeal. I’ll be happy to forward the paperwork to the Hero Commission oversight board.”

Nakashima paled.

She didn’t argue.

She left without a word.

Ryo didn’t speak at first.

The muzzle sat untouched on the table.

Slowly, he reached for it.

And then shoved it in the trash.

“Finally,” he muttered, rubbing his face like a man waking up after a long sleep. “Goddamn.”

Nemuri handed him a soda wordlessly.

Hizashi toasted him with his tea.

Izuku sat down again and returned to his lunch like nothing happened.

But his hands were shaking slightly.

And across the table, Aizawa’s gaze burned into him like fire.

Proud.

Dangerous.

Unspoken.

Unnoticed.

And very, very close to the next step.

The complaint came two days later.

Wrapped in soft legalese and red-stamped authority, stamped URGENT in the subject line. It read like a warning. It wasn’t one.

Izuku read it once. Then again, slower.

By the third time through, he was sipping tea.

Carefully.

Methodically.

Nakashima had filed the report herself, on behalf of the HSPC Compliance Division. It cited “inappropriate workplace behavior,” “undermining certified oversight,” and (Izuku had to set his tea down to not spill it) “inability to understand long-term compliance policies due to Quirkless status.”

They had said it outright.

He stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then he opened a new tab and scheduled a meeting.

The request was clear: A conference between himself, Nakashima, her compliance department supervisor, and the board member overseeing their division. He included a polite, professional justification, wanting to clarify jurisdictional boundaries, UA protocol, and compliance policy around mutation quirks in education.

Nakashima’s response came back fast.

Too fast.

She’d accepted it immediately.

She also added a second board member, her requested pick.

A man with a reputation made of stone.

Board Director Shindai Renjiro.

Cold, respected, unyielding. A man who allegedly could reduce hero careers to rubble with a disapproving glance. She clearly expected him to snap Izuku in half by presence alone.

She didn’t know what Izuku knew.

Because Izuku had done his homework.

The board member he requested was Takehara Itsuki.

Mid-forties. Stoic. Quiet. Brilliant.

Married to a woman with one of the most intimidating full-animal mutation quirks on record. Their daughter, age nine, had inherited the same. She hadn’t been accepted into three preschools because of it.

Takehara had been pushing legislation reform for the past six years.

Nakashima didn’t know any of that.

And now she was walking straight into a meeting with him.

And Shindai Renjiro?

The unshakable, terrifying director?

He was quirkless.

The meeting room was high glass, sharp white walls and chrome trim. A quiet HSPC conference hall designed for “transparency,” sterile and brutal in its acoustics. It was the kind of space built to intimidate.

It didn’t work.

Izuku sat on one end of the long table, expression mild, notes arranged in a clean row before him. He wore his usual dark green sweater. Soft slacks. His hair was a mess.

He looked like a child someone had left in a boardroom by accident.

Nakashima entered with a swish of her suit, her supervisor, a too-smug man with a jaw like he gritted it for sport, at her side. They nodded to the assistants, to the PA systems, and took their seats with the air of people who already believed they had won.

Then the board members entered.

Takehara nodded to the group and sat silently, folding his hands in front of him.

Shindai followed with the exact slow, intimidating calm everyone expected.

No one looked at him longer than three seconds.

Except Izuku, who smiled and offered him tea.

Shindai accepted it.

The meeting began.

The first fifteen minutes were, frankly, humiliating.

Not for Izuku.

For them.

He didn’t speak once.

Because he didn’t have to.

They filled the space with their own rot.

Nakashima walked through policy jargon like it was gospel, correcting Izuku’s interpretations in a voice that barely disguised the condescension. Her manager interjected with phrases like “perhaps someone without field experience doesn’t understand” and “of course, this must seem confusing to someone who’s never had a Quirk to regulate”.

The board sat silent.

Shindai unreadable.

Takehara, thoughtful.

It got worse.

“Let’s be honest,” Nakashima said at one point, laughing lightly, “mutation quirks that severe just don’t belong in the classroom. The public perception-”

“-is vital,” her supervisor finished. “Especially when children are involved. People like Inui-san may mean well, but appearance does matter. It’s about optics.”

Izuku didn’t flinch.

Didn’t speak.

He just took a careful sip of water.

Another ten minutes passed.

They tried to press Izuku on “overreach.” On how UA was “defying national guidelines” by allowing “unsanctioned personnel” to override HSPC field directives. They referenced “instability,” “loss of authority,” and finally-

Finally, “This is why people like him shouldn’t be in positions of power. Quirkless individuals simply can’t understand the risk.”

Silence.

Total silence.

Until Takehara, at the head of the table, tilted his head.

“Interesting,” he said softly.

Nakashima turned to him, smiling, thinking she had finally won something.

“Oh?”

Takehara looked at her. Calm. Steady. Nothing in his expression but polite interest.

“You mentioned that individuals with mutation quirks like Inui-san’s shouldn’t be in schools,” he said. “Could you clarify something for me?”

The silence after Takehara’s question was momentary, so brief that Nakashima and her supervisor didn’t even notice the shift in atmosphere.

Not yet.

Takehara leaned forward slightly, hands folded on the table in front of him. Calm. Mild.

“Say,” he said, voice steady and smooth as water on glass, “hypothetically, a child had a mutation-based Quirk. Something… animalistic in nature. Let’s say, an elongated jaw. Forward-set canines. Digitigrade gait. Clawed hands, thickened nails, maybe visible dermal plating over parts of the forearms.”

He tilted his head. “Would that child be allowed in a hero school under your compliance standards?”

Nakashima nodded immediately, smoothing her jacket. “Of course, as long as they meet the basic behavioral regulations and undergo the necessary psychological evaluations for instinct suppression.”

Her manager interjected with a smug little laugh. “Yes. I mean, let’s be honest, mutation-based quirks that extreme are rarely suited for mainstream education without heavy intervention. Children like that need specialist programs. Isolation training, perhaps. A muzzle isn’t always necessary, but restrictions would need to be enforced, of course.”

“Safety measures,” Nakashima said, smiling politely. “For everyone’s sake. After all, a child like that would be visibly threatening, especially to younger students. Parents would protest. You understand.”

Takehara nodded slowly, tapping one finger gently against the table. “Of course.”

“I mean, I’m sure the child is sweet,” the manager added with a chuckle, “but we can’t pretend appearances don’t affect perception. It’s not about the child, it’s about liability.”

“And optics,” Nakashima echoed. “Always optics. Hero schools are already under scrutiny. Allowing a student with that kind of physicality into a shared dormitory without visual control measures would be irresponsible.”

Takehara hummed. “Visual control. Such as…?”

“Oh, light suppression lenses, fitted clothing, voluntary leashing, muzzle gear if necessary-”

“Claw guards,” her manager added. “Tactile quirk inhibitors are a growing industry. And of course, we'd suggest training collars, if not now, then by early adolescence. Before the instincts settle.”

Izuku hadn’t moved.

Still hadn’t spoken.

He didn’t need to.

His pen was motionless on the table. His eyes fixed on the pair across from him, mild, wide, deceptively unreadable.

They were digging.

And Takehara was letting them.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “That’s very informative.”

Nakashima smiled like she’d just aced an exam.

Takehara’s voice stayed soft. “That’s excellent to know, because everything you just described fits my daughter exactly.”

Silence.

Utter. Absolute.

He smiled. Not kindly. “She’s nine.”

The air dropped a degree.

The manager’s face paled. Nakashima blinked, stunned.

Takehara continued, tone unchanged. “Her name is Yui. She enjoys painting. Last week, she made a mask out of clay because another child told her her face was ‘scary.’ She asked if she should wear it forever. I told her no.”

No one dared breathe.

“And her mother,” he added after a pause, “has even more advanced mutation traits. Twice the dermal plating. Full carnivore dental structure. She’s a preschool teacher.”

He leaned forward, finally, eyes still mild.

“So, you’ll understand, of course, when I say, if I hear either of you suggest again that people who look like my family don’t belong near children- I will ensure that your careers end quietly, permanently, and without the courtesy of a compliance hearing.”

Silence.

Dead, suffocating silence.

Nakashima opened her mouth. Closed it.

Her manager swallowed hard.

And then, Shindai stirred.

Just slightly.

He didn’t look at them.

Just picked up his tea, took a long, slow sip and said absolutely nothing.

Which made it worse.

Much, much worse.

Because it was a silence of consent.

And that was when Nakashima knew-

They were ruined.

Takehara’s words hadn’t faded.

Not truly.

They lingered in the air, coiling, simmering. Unspoken weight pressing against every wall of the room.

But Izuku?

Izuku didn’t acknowledge it.

He simply opened his notebook.

And began.

“Regarding the muzzle policy,” he said, tone as light and exact as a scalpel, “there is no clause in the national HSPC compliance framework that mandates visible restraint for mutation-based quirk users in educational environments.”

Nakashima smiled tightly. “We’re aware of the language. But it was intentionally written with flexibility. Our interpretation focuses on preemptive public comfort. Mutation-based quirks, especially aggressive ones, require a higher degree of visible behavioral regulation. That is standard across compliance offices.”

Her manager nodded, folding his hands together like he was about to deliver a lecture. “And with all due respect, Midoriya-san, I’m sure you’ve memorized policies. But policies require interpretation. Which is something analysts of a certain… background may lack the context for.”

The implication landed. Deliberate. Precise.

Izuku’s expression didn’t flicker.

“Article 32.2, subsection seven,” he continued, “as amended by petition of Hero Board Member Takehara Itsuki, outlines the direct prohibition of non-medical restraint for licensed staff on the basis of mutation visibility alone.”

A pause.

“Your muzzle clause violates that statute.”

Nakashima’s eyes narrowed.

“That amendment was… controversial. Not universally adopted. And certainly not enforced at a school-wide level in institutions where minors are concerned.”

“I wasn’t aware board-signed legislation was subject to personal preference,” Izuku said softly.

The manager gave a short, clipped smile. “You wouldn’t be, would you?”

Izuku’s eyes lifted, slow and unreadable.

“Meaning?”

“Well,” he said with a dry chuckle, “you don’t exactly have the biological equipment to understand how dangerous quirks can be in practice, do you? You’re not... of that world.”

Nakashima nodded, a touch too easily. “Let’s not pretend this isn’t a deeper issue. Quirkless individuals should not be in advisory positions over children with powers they fundamentally cannot relate to. It’s not discriminatory, it’s common sense.”

The manager leaned forward, polite and condescending. “It’s not a matter of prejudice. It’s about protecting children. Would you place a blind man in charge of a live-fire simulation? Of course not. So why allow someone biologically incapable of wielding a quirk to guide the development of those who can?”

“The very act of analysis requires intuitive understanding,” Nakashima added, firm. “Which you cannot fake, no matter how many textbooks you’ve memorized.”

“Exactly,” the manager said. “You can’t feel quirk potential. You don’t resonate with it. You analyze like an outsider. Detached. Like studying a thing.”

He smiled.

“Because to you, that’s all it is, isn’t it? A thing.”

Izuku blinked.

Very slowly.

He said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

Because Shindai, silent, unmoving until now, finally raised his eyes.

And spoke.

“Tell me something,” he said, gently. “Exactly how many years of active quirk usage qualify someone to be an analyst?”

Nakashima tilted her head. “Sir?”

“How many years of wielding their quirk does someone need before they’re considered qualified to advise children? Is it five? Ten? Do they need to rank in hero work first? Or is simply having one enough?”

The manager exhaled a quiet laugh. “Director, with respect, I don’t think it’s a number. It’s about connection. Having a quirk changes the way you view the world. That’s the critical distinction.”

Nakashima added quickly, “A quirkless individual cannot perceive instinctual activation patterns. They can’t feel resonance. It’s all theory to them. Analysis without embodiment is like learning combat from a pacifist.”

Shindai nodded. “So it’s not about training or education. Just… having a quirk.”

“Correct.”

“Even if they’ve studied for decades.”

“It’s not the same,” she said gently. “Would you take aviation advice from someone who’s never flown? Someone who’s never left the ground?”

The manager chuckled again, clearly enjoying himself now. “Honestly, sir, if it were up to me? I’d say analysis licensing should have a baseline requirement. At least a registration-level Quirk. No offense to Midoriya-san, but we can’t keep pretending biology doesn’t matter.”

Nakashima nodded. “In fact, I plan to submit a request to revoke his license. For safety reasons. There’s no precedent for a quirkless civilian to be this deeply embedded in a frontline hero institution.”

Shindai smiled.

Quiet. Small.

“Interesting.”

A pause.

Then:

“I suppose I should resign, then.”

Both Nakashima and her manager blinked.

“…What?”

Shindai didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t change his posture.

“I’m quirkless,” he said simply. “Always have been.”

Silence.

Not a gasp.

Not an apology.

Just dawning horror.

“I’ve chaired this board for thirteen years,” he continued. “I signed off on UA’s quirk safety reforms. Oversaw high-risk quirk deployment cases in over four districts. Helped write half of the statutes you just tried to cite. No quirk.”

He paused.

“Does that make me subhuman?”

The manager opened his mouth. Shut it again.

Shindai’s voice remained calm.

“Because that’s what you said. That without the right biology, we can’t be trusted to understand. That our knowledge is invalid. That we are, by design, incapable.”

His gaze sharpened. Barely.

“But you didn’t know who I was.”

He looked at Izuku then.

For the first time.

“And you forgot who was in the room.”

Nakashima’s hand shook.

Shindai set his tea down with an audible click.

The sound echoed.

Sharp.

Final.

He adjusted his cufflinks, neat, silver, understated, and then leveled the smallest, most civil of smiles across the polished chrome table.

“Is that all?” he asked, tone smooth as lacquer. “Or do you plan to waste more of our time with illegal tantrums disguised as policy?”

The air stilled.

No one moved.

Takehara blinked slowly, once. Izuku didn't even look up from his notes.

“I ask,” Shindai continued, the warmth in his voice like frostbite, “because I have work to return to. Unfortunately, not all of us are paid to project our insecurities onto competent staff.”

Nakashima made a sound.

A choked one.

Her supervisor paled visibly, lips thinning as he opened his mouth, only to close it again, helplessly.

“Unless,” Shindai added, as if indulging a child, “there’s something further? Perhaps another charming hypothetical about muzzling children or revoking licenses based on biology?”

Silence.

Dead.

Unmoving.

Shindai didn’t blink.

“Well,” he said, after a beat, “then I suppose we’re finished here.”

He stood.

The scrape of his chair against the floor was soft. Measured.

And far more terrifying than any yell could have been.

“I’ll be filing a formal recommendation for internal investigation into your compliance division,” he said, as if it were a weather report. “Effective immediately. I imagine the board will want a full audit of your team’s behavior, hiring standards, and ideological bias. Especially given today’s… display.”

Takehara finally stood as well.

“Expect contact from the Office of Equal Integration,” he added politely. “I believe they’ll want to review your language choices.”

Shindai gave a final nod to Izuku.

“Midoriya-san. Your work has been exemplary. I look forward to reviewing your submitted notes. Personally.”

Izuku inclined his head. “Thank you, Sir.”

The door opened.

Then closed.

Nakashima was left sitting at the polished chrome table, her mouth pressed in a thin, bloodless line. Her supervisor stared blankly ahead, the color drained from his face like water down a drain.

Izuku remained seated.

Calm.

Unflinching.

And for the first time since he’d walked into this building-

He smiled.

Just a little.

He packed his notebook, his tablet, his pen. Every motion quiet and exact. And before he stood, he finally looked at the pair across from him.

“They weren’t upset,” he said lightly. “They were disappointed.”

He tucked his bag under one arm.

“And that’s much, much worse.”

Then he left.

Without a backwards glance.

Chapter Text

Lunch was safe, now.

It had taken weeks. Maybe months.
And so he found himself sitting in the lounge more often.
At the far edge of the table, always watching. Listening.

And today?

Today, he noticed something else.

It started small.

A pattern.

Vlad King, 1-B´s homeroom teacher, hardened veteran, broad-shouldered and straightforward.
Had peculiar habits during lunch.

Not just the way he sat slightly angled away.
Not just the way he waved off food offerings with a gruff little nah, I’m good.

But the meals.

Always something high in iron.
Always overly salted.
Always under-portioned.

And never a protein that bled.

At first, Izuku thought it might be personal taste.
Then he noticed the clenching jaw.
The tension behind the eyes.

Then came the outburst.

Not a real one, nothing inappropriate, nothing unprofessional.
Just Vlad snapping at Cementoss over a comment that hadn’t warranted it.
An apology came seconds later, voice stiff and guilty.

But Izuku had already cataloged it.

Outburst frequency: increased.
Emotional baseline: unstable.
Dietary intake: inadequate.

And the numbers didn’t lie.

Izuku sat at his desk that night, files open, pen still in hand long after the charts were finished.

Blood-based dietary support systems for quirk mutations were common.
There were at least three major suppliers who offered synthetic alternatives.

And yet-

Vlad wasn’t meeting his basic needs.

Which meant it wasn’t an issue of access.

It was shame.

Internalized. Deep.
Buried under decades of being told that a need like his was “scary,” “gross,” “villain-adjacent.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted.

Because this wasn’t just unsustainable.
This was dangerous.

And yet, he couldn’t confront him.

Not directly.

Shame didn’t listen to logic.
Didn’t respond to charts and corrections.
It had to be unraveled.
Softly.

So Izuku made a plan.

“I brought snacks!” Hizashi declared, dropping a bag on the lounge table like a gift from the heavens.

Nemuri peeked inside. “Are those- oh my god. Yes. Give me the cheddar sticks.”

Aizawa didn’t react, but somehow a coffee refill appeared in his hand anyway.

Izuku watched from his seat, quiet. Hands wrapped around his bento.

Vlad dropped into a chair nearby, grumbling. “I forgot my lunch.”
He waved off Hizashi’s offer of a granola bar.
“Not hungry.”

Lie.

Izuku’s fingers tapped once against the side of his container.

Then, casually, he reached into his own lunchbox and pulled out a new addition:

A blood pudding cup.

Neatly labeled. Brand-name. High-quality.

He peeled the lid off like it was nothing.
Took a small, unconcerned spoonful.

The room paused.

Not in horror, just in mild surprise.

Vlad blinked. “Is that-”

Izuku nodded. “Mhm.”

Another spoonful. Casual. Calm.

“I’ve been trying iron supplements,” he said softly. “But they were messing with my stomach. This helps more.”

It wasn’t a lie.
His iron was low.

But the point wasn’t him.

The point was permission.

Across the table, Vlad went still.

Izuku didn’t look up.
Didn’t push.

Just… existed.

Just ate.

Like it was normal.
Like it was fine.

Because it was.

And slowly, Vlad’s shoulders loosened.

Two weeks later.

A second pudding cup appeared next to Izuku’s.
This one unopened.

Vlad didn’t say anything.
Didn’t look at anyone.

Just cracked the lid.

Took a bite.

No one commented.
No one blinked.

But Izuku, quietly, smiled into his tea.

The lounge was loud today.

Not chaotic, just, lively.
Nezu was on-site. Hizashi was telling a story about his student accidentally stealing a police drone. Nemuri was half-sunk into a beanbag with a pudding cup. Cementoss and Vlad were debating roof repair materials again. Power Loader was quietly eating while writing death threats to whoever designed a new support screw that stripped itself on insertion.

And Izuku was…

Happy.

Not outwardly, he wasn’t smiling much. But he was settled. Bent over a bento, murmuring a quiet answer when asked something, tapping notes against the corner of his phone.

Hizashi had said he’d warmed up like a half-feral cat, and honestly? Accurate.

So when Hound Dog came in, full stride and scarred coat heavy with snow from a midday patrol, he paused.

Just enough to watch.

Because he’d seen it before.

The way Izuku eased people.
He didn’t preach. Didn’t pressure.

He simply existed.

Soft. Quiet. Feral in all the ways people forgot to look for.

And now?

Now even Vlad basically drank his damn pudding cups without flinching.
Didn’t always finish them, but he started.

Progress.

It was subtle.

But Hound Dog noticed subtle.

He was built to notice subtle.

So he made a decision.

Not a test.
Not a challenge.

A statement.

A response.

And a little bit of fun.

Next lunch, he didn’t take his usual spot.
Didn’t eat outside.
Didn’t bring a container with labeled meat or civility.

He brought a whole skinned rabbit.

Cooked. Tenderized.
Headless. No fur. Clean.

But whole.

He unwrapped it on a cloth napkin like it was a delicate pastry, plopped into the nearest open seat, and started in.

Ripped with teeth.
Cracked with claws.
Effortless, casual, as normal as picking through rice with chopsticks.

The lounge froze.

Or some of it did.

Cementoss didn’t flinch.
Power Loader paused, muttered “huh,” and went back to eating.
Vlad blinked.
Hizashi choked slightly on a rice ball.
Nemuri blinked once, then went back to scrolling.

Izuku, at the far end of the table, looked up, curious.

Bright-eyed. Not startled.

Just watching.

And then, he smiled.

Soft. Small.

And went back to his curry.

Didn’t stare. Didn’t comment.

Just allowed it.

Hound Dog swallowed a bite of liver, tail giving one, lazy flick.

Good.

That was very good.

After lunch, when most of the others had filtered out, he lingered.

Izuku stayed too. Still scribbling something down in his battered notebook.

Didn’t speak.

But Hound Dog didn’t need him to.

He finished the last of the rabbit, licked his fingers, and finally grunted:

“You’re a tricky little bastard.”

Izuku blinked. “Oh?”

Hound Dog tilted his head. “Vlad. The pudding. The way you acted like it was nothing.”

Izuku’s shoulders went taut.

“…It wasn’t a trick,” he said softly. “Just normalization.”

“I know.”

A beat.

Then Hound Dog bared his teeth.

Not aggressive. Not dominant.

Just amused. Impressed.

“Still tricky.”

Izuku fidgeted with his sleeve. “You… didn’t mind?”

The pro hero huffed. “Kid, I once chased down an escaped quirk-born boar through campus and ate it raw behind the gym building. If you think this table intimidates me, you’ve got bigger problems.”

Izuku snorted. Couldn’t stop it.

A real sound. A tired one.

But it was genuine.

Hound Dog let him sit in the silence for a minute longer.

Then stood.

"Keep doing what you're doing," he said. "You're fixing things no one knew were broken."

Izuku blinked.

Then nodded.

"Okay," he whispered.

And Hound Dog left.

Leaving behind only bones.

It was supposed to be a normal outing.
Well, normal for them, anyway.

Nemuri had gotten the idea.
Something about fresh air, sunlight, and “reminding our bodies that we are not, in fact, cryptids.”

That was aimed at Aizawa. No one argued.

Somehow, it turned into a full faculty lunch trip.
Cementoss claimed a reinforced corner of the patio.
Hizashi brought chaos.
Power Loader had a list of complaints about the outdoor furniture design.

And Izuku had been collected.

Nemuri had looped an arm around him with a grin, Aizawa had said nothing but stared in a way that made declining feel like treason, and the next thing he knew, he was sandwiched between Nezu’s seat and a very pretty glass of hibiscus tea.

It was nice.

Crowded, but nice.

And Vlad?

Vlad was doing well.

Really well.

He was seated on the end, a tall glass in hand, red, dark, and chilled.
Label peeled off. No need for the brand name.

It was blood.

Synthetic. Enriched.

And he drank it like it was just a drink.

No flinching.
No side-eyes.
No hiding it behind a protein shake.

Just casual, relaxed consumption.
He even smirked at something Hizashi said.

Izuku, watching over the rim of his teacup, felt something warm uncoil in his chest.

Progress.

He wasn’t snapping at small comments anymore.
Didn’t twitch at surprise noises.
Didn’t vibrate like a pulled wire.

Even Aizawa was tolerating his presence today.

The table was calm.

Peaceful.

Balanced.

Until, of course, someone decided to ruin it.

She walked by slow.

Mid-thirties, maybe.
Expensive scarf. Sharp sunglasses.
The kind of calculated casual that always meant someone was watching.

Her heels clicked as she passed the table.
And then she paused.

Looked.

Stared.

At Vlad.
At the glass.

At the hint of red that lingered on his mouth.

And then, loudly “Disgusting. Just do that in private, like a normal person.”

The words cut through the noise like a blade.

Sharp. Ugly. Clear.

Vlad stiffened.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because Izuku stood.

So slowly, it was nearly unnatural.

Not loud. Not trembling.
Not shaking with rage.

Just cold.

Icy, clear-eyed, and precise.

He set his cup down with terrifying gentleness.

Nemuri blinked.

Hizashi stopped laughing.

Nezu cackled.

And Izuku turned.

“Excuse me,” he said softly.

The woman turned. Eyed him up. Dismissed him. “Yes?”

“You’re in a public space,” Izuku said.
Polite. Sharp.
“Surrounded by people with a range of dietary quirks, many of which are genetically tied to blood ingestion, carnivorous behavior, or external processing methods. Did you know that mutation-based dietary adaptations make up nearly 12% of the hero population?”

The woman blinked. “I-”

Izuku kept going.

“There are heroes who digest calcium through crushed bone, who metabolize protein through osmosis, and who drink blood because their bodies require it to function.”

Another blink.

He took a step forward.

“You’re not just insulting a man. You’re insulting an entire demographic of quirk-bearing civilians and professionals, heroes included, who were born with needs they didn’t choose and have spent years trying to manage while being told they’re monsters for simply existing.”

Her face began to twist. “That’s not-”

“You don’t get to look at someone finally comfortable enough to meet his needs in public and call that disgusting,” Izuku said, voice still soft, still perfectly calm. “What you’re doing is called quirkism. It’s a documented form of discrimination.”

A breath.

The last nail.

“And if I catch you doing it again, especially near any of my coworkers, I’ll make sure your name shows up in every corporate HR flagging database this city has access to. Is that clear?”

Silence.

Stunned. Gutted.

The woman flushed.
Stepped back.
And left.

Quick steps.

Izuku sat back down.

Picked up his tea.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look around.

Just sipped, calm and quiet, like nothing had happened.

Vlad watched him.

Very, very still.

Then lifted his glass again.

Drank deep.

Didn’t hide it.

Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t shrink.

And Aizawa, for the first time that afternoon, let himself relax.

Because his mate?

His mate was amazing. 

A proper gift/reward was needed.