#shouta is loathe to send him back these days

[bloody-bee-tea]

Reaper!au where Hizashi is a little accident prone, clumsy mess so near deaths aren't anything new for him until he dies for real. Shouta comes to collect him but Hizashi is so shamelessly flirting with him that he gets flustered and sends him back instead only for them to again meet two days later, when Hizashi trips over his shoelaces.

Rinse and repeat.

Hizashi's been not-dying for almost ten years now.

[uhzuku]

Day 1 of asking for more catzawa content

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔. | 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮-𝐧𝐲𝐚.

𝐂𝐖 ‼️ | hybrids, hybrid au, no quirks, biting, some angst, biting as a fear response, cat hybrid aizawa, blood, slight gore, self loathing, catzawa being emo.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: as someone who’s been attacked by a dog, i can guarantee this is actually exactly how it goes dhcbdhbchf that medical emergency i mentioned back in august was oiterally me being attacked by a dog and having my hand uh. annihalated a lil 💀💀.

Honestly, it was all a complete accident, really. One moment you’d been easing into joking with the hybrid you’d gotten three weeks before, and the next he was tearing into your hand and sending blood across the couch and floor. 

It was, at most, your fault, and you knew that — you’d touched him before he was ready, and on his blind side as well, so you should have expected it. In your core ( and at the back of your mind ) you knew that it was a freak accident though.  You’d nearly slipped off the couch due to your socks not having a grip on the hardwood floor of your living room, and in an effort to save yourself you’d grabbed his shoulder on his blind side — and the rest was a blur of snarling, blood, and the sound of your own screeching. He’d turned in an instant, burying his teeth in your hand and jerking his head violently enough that you could almost swear you’d heard your own flesh tear ( but wasn't that dramatic? surely you couldn’t actually hear such a thing ). You’d lost focus for a second, shrieking at the pain of the torn flesh as well as the stabbing cold air on parts of you it wasn’t supposed to touch, and your shrieks were seemingly what woke Shouta up — at least, it’s what you believed. 

Really it was the taste of iron on his tongue. Your screams were nowhere near piercing enough to break through the way he’d blacked out from fear — there was always screaming, after all: in the shelter, in the fight ring his first owners had kept him in, in the two homes he’d had when he was young, and now here — but the taste of blood, your blood, was enough to jolt him out of the blackout, and that’s when your screams reached his ears. He had enough mind to unlock his jaw and stop jerking his head, spitting out your hand and leaping away as you stagger back away from him, your eyes as wide and panicked as his own. 

“I — I — I-!” he whimpers, unable to get his words out. No, no, no, no, no! Shouta hisses in his mind, his eyes wide as he stares at the blood running down your hand. Drops were quickly puddling on the floor, building in size until you’d clearly lost an amount that was alarmingly substantial. Shouta wanted to help, but God, what was he supposed to do? This was his fault — fuck, he was going to go back to the shelter. You’d report the bite, he’d get a bite record and be labeled aggressive, and with how slim his chances were before with how old and mangled he was, he’d never be adopted again. He was going to go back, and he was going to die in that place. 

“F-Fuck, that’s a lot,” you whisper breathlessly, shaking him out of his shock, and he starts to tremble at how hollow your eyes look. He sees you swallow hard, and he fights the urge to cower. “Fuck, okay. Okay. We’re gonna — stay here, okay? I need to go to the hospital, this is… this is not good.”

You stagger away from his crumpled up form and into the kitchen, not doing your usual check in that you did when he’d occasionally cower as you grab a hand towel to wrap around the gushing wound, and as the door closes behind you, he’s left in a silence permeated only by the scent of your blood. He trembles from his place pressed back into the corner by the entertainment center, but nothing happens, not yet anyway. 

Shouta knew what was going to happen. You would be fixed up at the hospital, then return with hybrid control, who would take him back to the shelter in a muzzle that would cut his jaw up again. If you miraculously didn’t demand euthenasia he’d be written up with a bite record and placed in the very back room with a muzzle on at all times, clipped with a padlock all the way around his skull so he couldn’t remove it on his own. At best he’d be sold to another fight ring, at worst he’d die alone in the dark, and all the while he’d know it was his own fault. You were falling, not attacking. Why did he have to be so fucked up?

After another moment of silence Shouta flees to the bedroom you’d given him, worming his way beneath the bed and hiding. He knew he was too old for it, but his remaining eye stung with unshed tears and his body shook slightly from fearful trembling. He didn’t want the shelter, he liked it here — but he’d ruined everything. 

It’s four hours before you return, and Shouta’s dozed off in his little hiding spot by then, but he wakes up immediately as the door opens. He can hear someone talking to you at the front of the house, but the strange voice disappears and the door closed immediately after, so he can only assume that it’s whichever neighbor you’d had drive you to the hospital — likely the old, tall, and skinny blond man who adored his garden that you were fond of, he seemed to have a soft spot for you. 

A half hour passes. Shouta listens with ears twitching between being pinned back and pressing forward a little as you putter around, and then the safety breaks. 

“Shouta? Where are you?” His one eye flashing with panic, Shouta pushes himself further back against the wall the bed was against; you couldn’t send him back if you couldn’t find him. “Shouta?”

He can hear you creeping closer to his room, and his heart pounds ruthlessly in his chest. You’re going to find him and hate him and send him back — God, he can’t go back, he’ll die-

“Are you in here?” you ask through the door, and he doesn’t reply. After a moment, you continue. “I’m assuming you are… Yagi and I brought dinner home on the way back, so if you’re hungry you can come get some.” Ha! Likely. Shouta plays with the claw on his left index finger with his ears pinned back nervously, and after another while you sigh. “You aren’t in trouble, Shouta. And I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

I wish I could believe you. 

“I’ll be in the living room if you need me; I’m off work for the next month or so, so it’ll just be us here — I hope that won’t bother you too much.” Your voice is sad, Shouta notes, and his eye stings again in time with his bottom lip trembling a little. What was the real point of putting it all off? Once you were tired of this hide and seek game he’d started you’d just have hybrid control forcibly remove him — maybe it would be easier if he just… accepted it, and went out. 

After all, he was hungry…

Swallowing hard, Shouta hauks himself out from the cramped spot under the bed, shaking the dust bunnies off, then carefully pads out, following the faint smell of takeout. He passes by the living room, and he can see you sitting on the couch, but you don’t acknowledge him as he passes by, and — oh. 

The blood he’d spilled that had been cast all over the floor was cleaned.

A new surge of guilt fills him. You’d cleaned all traces of his mistake up — or maybe Yagi had? He wasn’t in here for long though… Regardless, he should have been the one to clean it, and he’d left it to you. No wonder he was being sent back to the shelter. 

He really was a bad fucking cat hybrid. 

He worms his way into the living room, half to eat with your silent permission and half to assess the damage to your arm — but upon entering, you’ve moved, and you’re staring him down. Unlike the last time, his freeze response triggers, and he stands there staring at you while his breathing grows heavier and heavier. 

God. You look so tired. 

“Are you okay?” you finally ask, breaking the silence, and it stuns him for a moment before he shakes his head to clear it. 

“I — what?” he asks, voice slightly gravelly from disuse, and you take on a look of concern. 

“Are you okay?” you repeat, your brows furrowing. Shouta shakes his head violently. He doesn’t understand. 

“Why are you asking if I’m okay?! I ripped you up!” he snarls, tossing his plate onto the table next to him, and you nod for a moment as he calms himself down after the outburst. 

Once he’s calm, you ask, “Did you start the day off intending to?” and it makes him freeze, his brain metaphorically stuttering. 

“N-No, of course not—!”

“Then that doesn’t matter,” you say, shrugging. “What does matter is you being okay — I scared you when I grabbed you, and I hope I didn’t accidentally hurt your shoulder too,”

“… You… You didn’t…” Shouta whispers, borderline mystified that you somehow… aren’t angry with him. 

You nod with a sigh through the tiniest of smiles as you cradle your bandaged arm in your lap. “That’s a relief.”

The two of you go silent for a moment, and Shouta’s mind races. Somehow you weren’t angry with him, even though he deserved it, and you’d still fed him and hadn’t yelled — but oh, maybe this was a fucked up way of giving him a last meal before he returned, and you’d never been one for raising your voice anyway… 

“When will I be going back?” he finally asks, a thick sense of half-grief settling in his chest. 

He’d miss it here. 

You look confused. “Going back? Where?” you ask, and Shouta sighs; you were really going to make him say it out loud; how humiliating. 

“The shelter,” he grits out, his tail tucked and food forgotten as he stares down at his feet. 

“Why would you ever go back there?!” you exclaim, sitting up abruptly with a half hidden wince that he doesn’t miss. 

“I — You don’t want me anymore?” He can’t help that it comes out as a question — Shouta’s so fucking confused. “I hurt you.”

You shake your head at him, seemingly in disbelief. “On accident! And it was my fault, you told me the day I got you that you don’t like being touched.”

“But I bit—“ he argues, and you interrupt. 

“On accident. Right?” you ask firmly, and he nods hesitantly. 

“… Yes,” he whispers, “but—“

“Then there was no problem,” You say gently, then tip your head ever so slightly away from him. “Now come watch TV with me — your favorite is on.”

He does nothing but stare at you for a moment, your warmth and gentleness alien to him. Shouta knew humans, he’d been around them since he’d been born, but you? You were so different than every other human he’d come across — you didn’t hit, you didn’t yell, you didn’t threaten. You fed and you clothed and you comforted — and Shouta truthfully did not know what to do with that. All his life he’d been treated like a fighting mutt and like a useless object to possess, and now suddenly he was worth something to a human who treated him well? How was he supposed to easily process this? None of these thoughts, however, stopped him from obediently ( albeit hesitantly ) stalking fully into the livingroom and nestling himself against the far arm of the couch to watch television with you. 

If you weren’t going to be rid of him yet, he might as well enjoy the time he had left. 

[seijorhi]

Hi, found your work. You do great writing the characters so well. If I may request an Aizawa story. He's had his kidnapped darling for a while and she's been "good",but he has doubts so he starts to "test" her to see if she would run; like leaving a window or door unlocked and he watches her to see if she really stays or takes the chance to leave him. Meanwhile, darling does notice all this but she's not sure what to do. Sorry if this is long, but I think it could be interesting.

Of course, bby!

TW Stockholm syndrome, implied non-con, captive reader

Shouta Aizawa x female reader

Little Bird

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does.

There’s no reason that the sight of an open window should make you feel anything, much less the quiet unease that’s been slowly gnawing at you since morning.

It’s a warm day, the lingering summer heat more oppressive than usual, yet instead of turning on the AC as he usually does, Shouta chose instead to crack the window. A small, thoughtless gesture. You hadn’t even noticed until halfway through the late breakfast he’d painstakingly prepared for you, you’d felt the cool breeze tickle your skin, gently ruffling your feathered wings.

It was nice. A soothing balm against the building heat of the day. Your eyes had fallen shut, a soft, sleepy smile crossing your face, and for one perfect moment, you’d let yourself enjoy it.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt it, the breath of fresh air kissing at your feathers.

Because you didn’t fly anymore.

He didn’t want you needlessly risking yourself like that.

Because the windows were always shut.

Locked.

Because it was safer that way. Just like the padlocked front door with all of its chains - all the extra precautions were solely for the sake of your protection.

You knew this. You understood it.

So why did the sight of an open window make your heart seize, your breath stutter?

You hadn’t even heard him come up behind you, so caught up in the rush of… what exactly? Emotions? Your thoughts? The slow unease creeping up your spine?

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” he’s asked, jerking you bodily back to the present.

Swallowing harshly, you’d forced a smile onto your lips, shaking your head as you tried to remember how to speak. “I-it’s just hot,” you’d managed to stutter.

He’d hummed in quiet agreement, draping his arms over your shoulders to press an indulgent kiss to the crown of your head.

You’d relaxed into the comfort of his embrace, and that should have been the end of it - but it wasn’t.

Being one of his rare days completely off, Shouta’s determined to do as little as possible, which usually means spending the day curled up on the couch together - Shou reading, fingers gliding absentmindedly through the downy soft feathers of your wings. You’d come to love days like that, when he didn’t have to leave. He’d always make you feel so safe, so adored in his arms. Even the lazy kisses that almost always led to lazy lovemaking - the two of you entwined on the cushions, his hips leisurely grinding into yours as he peppers your skin with ardent affection - they’re something you’ve learned to crave.

Nobody else can treat you as well as he can. Nobody else can love you like he does, and he loves you so much.

You’re his angel, his treasure, his soulmate - the one thing on this earth that he can’t live without.

He adores you, takes care of you… letting him hold you close and shower you in that devotion should have been as easy as breathing.

Except today, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t settle. You tell him it’s the heat that’s making you restless, and it’s technically not a lie, but it’s far from the whole truth.

You can’t stop looking at the open window. It’s only cracked an inch or so, but that doesn’t really make much of a difference when it shouldn’t be open at all.

It’s locked for your safety, he’s told you a thousand times. The city below is teeming with a seedy underbelly of violence and corruption, and being the wife of a Pro Hero paints a lovely target on your back.

“Do you know how many of them would jump at the chance to take you from me? To hurt you as a means to get to me? Do you have any idea the awful kinds of things they would do to something so pure… so defenceless…”

You understand that, you know why you can’t leave the apartment - why the windows are locked and the front door’s always chained, even when Shouta’s home with you. He’s doing it out of love - to protect you.

But if that’s the case, then why is the window open now?

There’s a niggling feeling in the pit of your stomach that you just can’t ignore. It’s making it difficult to focus, to settle down and lose yourself in the books he’s brought you, or the TV that’s playing quietly in the background - some TV sitcom from the 90’s.

(Your wings ruffle and twitch restlessly, flaring with every gust of wind that breezes through that torturously tiny gap, and in amongst the discomfort, you feel an ache long since buried kindle.)

You could just ask him - surely there has to be a reason he’s chosen the window over the air conditioning to abate the summer heat, but every time you open your mouth, the words get stuck in your throat.

You don’t know why it’s bothering you so much. Shouta wouldn’t deliberately put you at risk, so him opening the window (the one that’s always shut, always locked) shouldn’t raise any red flags. It shouldn’t make you feel uncomfortable. It shouldn’t even register as an issue!

But the unease in your gut won’t let up. You can’t stop your eyes from darting across the room to stare, like you’re frightened that if he catches you looking, he’ll get mad, or he’ll close the window and that lovely, fresh breeze that feels so nice tickling at your wings will be gone, and you won’t get it back.

Which doesn’t make sense, because it’s just a stupid window!

I-it’s just an open window.

Except you know that it’s not, and the revelation tears at every inch of your sanity.

He calls you his angel, a nod, you suspect, to your pretty white wings, but you’re nothing more than a caged little bird, trapped and locked away for his enjoyment.

It doesn’t bother you that the window is open because it’s not safe, it bothers you because after however many months stuck as his beloved little captive - you’ve managed to rationalise everything. To accept it.

You tricked yourself into believing that you loved him back.

And the open window shatters that fragile illusion, because if you really loved him, if you really, truly wanted to be here with Shouta, an open window on a hot summer's day would be little more than an afterthought, not a bitter reminder of all that’s been taken from you.

The vitriolic disgust and shame that floods your veins threatens to overwhelm you entirely, send you crashing to your knees as a sob tears through your throat.

You let this happen. You let him twist and mold you into his perfect angel, his adoring wife.

He stole you, drugged you, tied you to his bed and raped you, and managed to convince you that that was love… and you let him.

But you can’t buckle. You can’t afford to make a single sound, because just across the room, your captor is curled up on the love seat, napping in the afternoon warmth and you might not get another chance like this one.

Your eyes dart to the window once more, and you swallow down the lump in your throat.

There’ll be plenty of time to wallow in self pity and loathing later.

It’s only opened a few inches, but you know that it slides all the way across. You know because you tried to escape that way once before, in the first few days of your captivity.

There’s a reason all the windows in the apartment are locked, and it’s not to keep the Villains out.

This time you’re silent as you pad barefoot across the floor.

Your wings spring open, stretching wide and ruffling in preparation as your eyes flicker back over to Shouta.

Still fast asleep.

A tiny breath of relief leaves your lips. As quietly as you can manage your fingers find the edge of the window pane and slowly, you ease it further open - far enough that you can clamber up onto the thin wooden sill.

Perched on the balls of your feet, braced against either side of the window pane, your wings tucked tight against your body to fit through the narrow gap, your heart stutters in your chest.

And maybe it’s a testament to how broken you really are, because as you take a deep steadying breath, closing your eyes to prepare for the leap - you feel it - an insistent little tug in your gut, a flicker of guilt that trickles down your spine.

You hesitate, just for a fraction of a second.

But it’s enough.

A pair of iron arms encircle your waist as you're yanked back, kicking and screaming through the window and into a hard chest.

“Going somewhere, angel?”

[queenangst]

it’s prompt time!!! ik it’s probably been done a million times, but i legit NEVER get bored of ofareveal!izuku !!! maybe it gets revealed to the entire class?? or to the teachers or just aizawa??? i’ll love whatever you write!!!!

for my 30 min fic challenge / send a prompt, and i’ll write you a fic in 30 mins / read more: ‘30 min fics’ tag | commission me!

note: i might do a part two to this on ao3!

the order of things [read on AO3]

The day ends with Midoriya and All Might leaving the classroom together in a very suspicious and not at all well-hidden way.

Shouta rolls his eyes after them. The rest of the class is packing up, gathering their things and chattering away about the little things. As he always does, he filters out the conversation but still picks up a few pieces, small jewels of information. Asui will be going home for the weekend, excited to see her sister; Yaoyorozu asking Satou to teach her how to make his favorite mochi; Kirishima and Kaminari making bets about who will win in their video game tournament. At least the bones they break are only virtual.

The only person who doesn’t move immediately is Bakugou. He seems to have noticed the same thing Shouta has; his eyes are dark, fixed on the door that Midoriya has just left through. His mouth twitches, almost into a smile before it turns into a frown, and he shoves himself from his seat and joins his other friends.

Shouta is careful to wait before he leaves the classroom, too.

“See you, sensei,” his kids chorus after him, and Shouta half-heartedly waves over his shoulder.

By the time he rounds the corner, headed for the teacher’s lounge, it’s ten minutes after Midoriya and All Might. A purposeful wait—he wants to let them have a moment to themselves before he interrupts. But Shouta also doesn’t give any warning before he pushes the door in.

He doesn’t see what he’s expecting: Midoriya, slumped into All Might’s side, fast asleep. All Might doesn’t even look up when Shouta enters, and whether he hears Shouta or not is an entirely different question. Shouta suspects he hasn’t, by the soft, vulnerable look on his face; the way the corners of his eyes are crinkling as he runs a hand down Midoriya’s back.

Shouta clears his throat quietly. All Might startles.

“Ah- Aizawa…” he says, moving his free hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

Shouta has his phone out and takes a picture before he even registers he’s doing it, because this is one, funny, and two, something Nemuri would kill a man to see.

“Are you busy?” Shouta asks as All Might sputters, split between being embarrassed and trying not to wake Midoriya. “I’d like to talk to you, if I can.”

All Might stops his arms from pinwheeling and looks down at Midoriya. A hand drifts, as if on its own, to push some hair out of Midoriya’s face.

In sleep, Shouta thinks, Midoriya looks more like a child. Awake, moving, acting, he already has the makings of a hero in him; but now, with little filter, he looks like what he’s meant to be. What he doesn’t allow himself to be.

But it only steels Shouta’s resolve.

“Aizawa…”

“We need to talk,” he cuts in, “and we need to talk about Midoriya.”

All Might falters.

Shouta has been keeping an eye on the problem child since the moment he’d leapt towards the zero-pointer in the entrance exams, and he’s found he’s loath to take his eyes off.

All Might bites his lip.

Shouta does not like to pry into secrets that aren’t his business, but every so often he finds himself in the middle of them anyway. He has stepped into the heart of things—in a dark cell with the ghost of a friend with unseeing eyes; in the shadow that comes under All Might’s cape; in the gnarled happenings of the Hero Commission.

Midoriya is one of those such things. He and All Might have been connected, so Shouta suspects, before their time at U.A. had even begun. He has a Quirk that is too powerful for his own body to contain, like trying to fill an entire ocean into a single glass of saltwater. Overflowing, and overflowing still.

“I think you know more than I do about Midoriya,” Shouta levels, and All Might’s face goes blank. “But as it stands, I think it is important for me to know what you do.”

All Might’s face remains blank. He’s good at that—practiced, Shouta thinks, because it is another skill that pero heroes learn on the job. There is perhaps no one better than All Might, who has had the entire world fooled for decades, just by smiling.

“What do you want to know?” All Might asks, delaying the inevitable.

“His Quirk.”

Shouta pauses, then says, “Or maybe I should be saying, Quirks.”

Because Midoriya had, in class that morning, been holding his own against Tokoyami and Dark Shadow; and there had been an opening that would have allowed Tokoyami to defeat him had it not been for the way Midoriya had squared his shoulders and stood still.

And lifted his arms in front of him. A moment later, the shield had materialized, a shimmering force field that had held against the force of a powerful Quirk, and had held until the exercise ended.

It is not the same Quirk that is written in Midoriya’s files; it cannot be the same Quirk. Yet Shouta only knows one other person—one villain —who has more than one Quirk.

“I don’t think…”

All Might sighs, and gently shakes Midoriya’s arm. “Young Midoriya,” he says, and Midoriya stirs. The Quirk must have taken all of his energy. “Young Midoriya, wake up.”

Midoriya jerks awake, and then freezes like a deer in headlights.

“It’s alright,” Shouta explains patiently as Midoriya looks at them both with wide eyes, like he isn’t supposed to be here, like he doesn’t feel quite like he belongs. “We just wanted to speak to you.”

“About- about what?”

“Your Quirk,” and the room goes silent.

Midoriya’s eyes flash. The fear remains, but it shares a space now with defensiveness. Shouta swears he can see the walls being built, brick by brick in Midoriya’s mind.

“All Might,” he says hesitantly, faltering and looking to All Might for guidance.

“My boy,” All Might says, completely somber, “this is your Quirk, and your secret now. Whether you choose to tell Aizawa—whether you make the choice to confide in anyone—is no longer up to me. It is your decision, and I cannot make it for you. I can only support you.”

When Shouta feels like it’s safe to, he moves forward until he can crouch in front of the seat where Midoriya is. Puts his hand on Midoriya’s knee, looks into his face.

“Midoriya,” he says, “you don’t have to tell me everything. But I am… your teacher, and it is my responsibility to take care of you and to help you. Not only my responsibility but my desire. And I cannot do that if you do not at least give me… something.”

Midoriya swallows. His eyes are shining as he looks back at Shouta. He thinks that is the best way he can express it; the only way. That it is a responsibility, a desire, and a need— in a language that Midoriya can understand.

Midoriya wavers, and Shouta says, “Please.”

Midoriya takes a deep breath, and it sounds like both the easiest and the hardest thing for him to say when he does: “I trust you.”

Shouta thinks he’s standing on the edge of a precipice looking down into waters that he cannot measure the depth of. But he’s not the drowning type—he’ll take it.

“My Quirk,” Midoriya says slowly, exchanging a glance with All Might, “is called One for All, and it was given to me.”