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Push and Pull

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It’s hard not to worry about him.

They might’ve had a rough start, all those years ago. It was impossible to trust someone who smiled all the time, with no apparent weakness.

But the first time he was pulled to the office – the first time the Principal stood on the table, and disclosed the secret of All Might – Aizawa came to understand him a little more.

The All Might form is loud and boisterous, overflowing with confidence, all sunshine and rainbows. Not to say Aizawa discredited his work. Surely, the Symbol of Peace has changed the world in one way or another, and with obvious great sacrifice. But to Aizawa, it was fake. A front. The world didn’t need to know this, but Aizawa did, and he hated it.

But his true form; Toshinori Yagi, sunken eyes and brittle grimace etched into his face – Aizawa arose to like that part of him. He might look sickly to you, but Aizawa sees long legs and ruffled hair, with a gentle and worn personality that’s seen some shit. As time passed, they’ve come to understand one another.

After the battle at U.A., Toshinori asks him out for drinks.

 “I’m on pain meds.”  Aizawa deadpans, staring straight into Toshinori’s equally tired eyes.

Toshinori shrugs, “Don’t tell Recovery Girl.”

So he doesn’t.

It may or may not become a weekly thing. Going out for drinks. Sometimes it’s needed, to forget about the atrocities of the week before, but sometimes they don’t even drink. They might just order soda water, and pick at a basket of fries.

Sometimes they talk, and sometimes they don’t. That’s what Aizawa likes about Toshinori. He doesn’t expect anything.

After the training camp fiasco, they come to bond over their mutual desire to protect these kids. Heroes are gathered. A carefully crafted plan is made.

Kamino happens.

The fall of All Might is a catastrophe to society, and a bitter pill for the world to swallow. But Aizawa has seen him every single day for the past year and a half, and even Aizawa has realized that it truly is his time. Toshinori looks tired. Holding the world on your shoulders must be. The man needs rest.

“The flame in me has been extinguished,” Toshinori says, but manages to come into the school a week later, smiling anyways.

He’s still putting on that strong front. Aizawa can see right through him. It takes weeks for their lives to calm down enough to get Toshinori back into that bar.

He’s started wearing clothes that fit him; it must be a new level of acceptance. However, that’s the first that Aizawa sees Toshinori and thinks that he…he looks…handsome.

He’s wearing suit pants and a button down. They’re tailored to him, sculpting all the long, slender lines of his body. The belt shows just how narrow Toshinori’s waist is.  His eyes are tired, jaw set with exhaustion, but it’s a good look on him.

When Toshinori sees him, he offers a half smile and a short wave. Aizawa sits across from him at the bar, loosening the scarf around his neck.



“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It has.” Aizawa looks around the bar. “They’ve changed some things.”

Toshinori shrugs, “Some things have changed.” There’s weight behind those words, and it doesn’t fall on deaf ears.

The waitress already knows what they want. However, when she sees Toshinori, she bows, offering a thank you and an apology.

“I never knew it was you, All Might,” she bows. “Forgive me.”

Toshinori gives a smile, gently setting a hand on her arm until she’s standing upright.

“You were never meant to.”

She brings them sake and beer. Toshinori cracks a Budlight open, and takes a full swig.

“Are you supposed to be drinking that?” Aizawa asks, monotone.

“Nope,” Toshinori beams, and drinks more. Aizawa snorts, and takes a sip.

Aizawa is not too good with… feelings. He tends to lack empathy, so he’s been told. But Toshinori must be hurting, and it doesn’t sit well with Aizawa. It’s a feeling in his chest that he can’t ignore.

He manages a simple, flat, “You okay?”

Toshinori looks up, “Hm?”

“It must be hard.” Aizawa continues, “What happened at Kamino.”

Toshinori makes an ahhh noise, and sets down his drink. His tongue runs across his bottom lip, pink sliding across pale skin.

“It was to be expected.”

“You knew it would happen?”

“It was supposed to be worse,” Toshinori shrugs.

Aizawa feels something dark pit in his stomach. He says, rather than asks, “You were supposed to die.”


Aizawa chews the inside of his cheek, and nods wordlessly. Toshinori turns his head to cough blood into a napkin.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Toshinori laughs, the dark air lifting with it. “Me too!”

“Will you still teach?”

“That’s all I have left, really,” Toshinori looks to his hands. They’re bandaged, all the way up to his shoulder, white slipping beneath the cuff of his shirt. “If I failed the world, then I’ll raise a new generation to do what I could not.”

There’s something sad in his eyes. He smiles through a grimace, but his eyes remain blue and cold.

Aizawa picks at the lip of his drink, looking up through his lashes as he says, casually, “You’re not alone in this, you know.”

That shocks Toshinori into meeting his eye. The look on his face is dumbstruck – like he never considered the idea.

“Yeah,” He mumbles, “I guess so.”

“And you didn’t fail,” Aizawa sips. “So you can shut up already.”

Toshinori laughs again, nodding to himself, saying yes yes, alright.

It’s a sad day, but with pleasant company.



They’re in a quirk training class when Toshinori appears.

His wounds might’ve healed, but Aizawa still feels unsettled. Bakugou is blasting the roof to kingdom come. Todoroki is aiming at figures Cementoss is creating. The class is practicing, bits of debris flying in circles.

Then in comes Toshinori, bright eyed and bushytailed.

The students are happy to see him, but Aizawa is not.

“You should be resting,” he says, as soon as he’s shooed the students away.

“I feel fine,” Toshinori smiles.

“Yes, but it’s-“

“If you say ‘it’ dangerous’, I’m going to pile drive you through that wall,” Toshinori jokes, making a fist and clasping it with his other hand.

Aizawa frowns, “The last time you were here, you almost got smashed by a boulder.”

“But I was fine, wasn’t I?”

“Because Midoriya saved you.”

“I’m not going to cower at the sidelines,” Toshinori huffs. “I’m not as fragile as you think I am.”

But you are.

“Let him go,” Cementoss says. “I’ll keep a close eye.”

Aizawa watches as he patters off, giving each individual student his time. Toshinori can lift up the students in a way that Aizawa cannot. He’ll give them a critique, then a suggestion, then a pat on the head, and send them on their merry way.

“The students could use a morale booster,” Cementoss smiles.

“Am I not a good cheerleader?”

Cementoss gives a short laugh.

“Of course you are.”

“Perhaps we have a good cop bad cop thing going on,” Aizawa muses.

Cementoss shakes his head, “No. These kids respect you just as much as All Might.”

Aizawa doesn’t respond. He watches Uraraka bounce on her heels, beaming at whatever Toshinori is saying. Toshinori has the gentlest look on his face. Soft and welcoming. It’s attractive.

Sooner or later, Aizawa is going to have to acknowledge his own attraction. He knows it’s there – and it’s irritating him more than usual. Aizawa has done relationships, done the one night stands, done everything, but he hasn’t felt a physical attraction towards anyone in years, which makes this recent development…mildly concerning.

Toshinori turns back around, and notices him staring. He gives a short wave and a smile – and he beams when Aizawa gives a nod in return.

Whatever. If that’s how the cookie crumbles, then so be it.



Aizawa thinks he must be growing soft, after it is made clear that this is the first class he’s had, where he hasn’t expelled a single student after a year.

This batch is just…endearing. They push each other harder. Aizawa has always believed in acknowledging good work. They might stumble, but Aizawa is still glad to be teaching them in their second year. Toshinori has an even bigger soft spot for them, so Aizawa can’t be too bad.

Speak of the devil. Aizawa is just cleaning up, when Toshinori comes peeping through his door.



“Are you busy?” Toshinori steps in, arms folded in front of him. He’s in a muted tweed suit, rather than the bright yellow atrocity he wore as All Might, and for a lack of a better word, he looks good as hell.

“Not necessarily,” Aizawa turns away to avoid staring. “I’m headed home.”

“Ah, okay.” Toshinori shifts. “Uh, haha. We’ve known each other for so long, aha, I have no uh, no idea where you live.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to know,” Aizawa replies.

Toshinori rubs at his face, “Ah, right. That’s fine.”

Aizawa swallows. His face looks warm, and it’s kinda’ sweet, to hear him stutter in that deep voice of his.

“Five stops on the A train.”

“Huh?” Toshinori looks up.

“Five stops on the A train,” Aizawa repeats, not looking up. “Then a ten-minute walk from there.”

“Oh,” Toshinori blinks. “Um, well. I’m much closer. Two stops on the B. Would you uh, like to come over for drinks?”

Aizawa looks up.

“Not feeling the bar, are you?”

“I’m over this tie,” Toshinori jokes, pulling at it in jerky motions to get it to loosen.

“That’s why I don’t wear them,” Aizawa says. He sets his folders in his bag, and asks, “When are you leaving?”

“Now. But I can wait.”

“Let me run these by the office, then we can go,” Aizawa says, and Toshinori’s face brightens.



He has a very plain apartment, for being the Symbol of Peace. Aizawa tells him so.

Previous Symbol of Peace,” Toshinori corrects him, but Aizawa scowls in response. Quirkless or not, All Might will always be a beacon of hope. Toshinori is a fool not to see that.

Still, Aizawa keeps his mouth shut, and takes off his shoes by the doorway. It’s an American style home, with couches and a few dining chairs. It’s small and pleasant and very Toshinori.

He disappears off into his bedroom, before pattering back into the kitchen. Aizawa snorts, and picks up a framed photograph off the mantle.

“Midoriya would be happy to know you have this.”

It’s a framed photo of them both. One where they’re smiling, cheeky and childish. They look like father and son.

“D-Don’t tell him about that,” Toshinori stumbles, nearly dropping the case of beer out of his fridge.

Aizawa gently sets it back. “He loves you a lot.”

“I love him too,” Toshinori replies, without hesitation. There’s always been something odd between those two, but Aizawa isn’t nosy enough to ask what it is. Toshinori probably wouldn’t tell him anyways.

Toshinori sits on the loveseat, and gestures for Aizawa to sit on the couch. He does, taking a beer with a nod.

In the short time that Aizawa was studying his apartment, Toshinori has already changed out of his uniform, and into a simple tracksuit.

“Are you going running later?” Aizawa cracks open a beer.

“If I can,” Toshinori nods.



“Why?” Aizawa repeats. “You’re retired.”

Toshinori flexes a slender arm, “I can’t grow flabby, you know. Gotta’ stay in shape and all that.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine.” Toshinori huffs, an inkling of annoyance dripping into his voice. “I need some normalcy in my life.”

Aizawa nods.

Toshinori ruffles a hand through his hair, the strands messily falling around his face, before he pushes them back. “I don’t know. I need to keep fighting.”

“You make no sense,” Aizawa sips, shifting to get a little more comfortable on the couch. “I’m sorry, but you can’t fight.”

“N-Not in that way, ah,” Toshinori sighs, and sets down his drink. “You know, I” He swallows. “Can I tell you something?”

A pang of anxiety throbs through Aizawa. He manages a calm, and lazy, “Sure.”

“You can’t tell anyone.” He sighs, “I haven’t- I haven’t even told Midoriya.”

Aizawa lifts an eyebrow, in an urge for him to continue.

“You know I had a sidekick, right?”

“Yes,” Aizawa says. “Nighteye.”

“Correct,” Toshinori sighs. “We had a falling out…over a long-term vision he had of me.”

Aizawa doesn’t like where this is going, but he remains silent.

“I’m supposed to die. I think…I think I already should have. I’d accepted that, when he told me.” Toshinori gives a dry laugh. “He wanted to change fate. He wanted me to retire early, back when I was first injured. But I couldn’t do that, you know? The world wasn’t ready. So when I fought at Kamino, I thought that was it for me.”

Aizawa doesn’t bother hiding the look on his face. There’s a twist in his chest, and his hands feel cold.

“The prophecy hasn’t come true yet.”

“It might’ve changed,” Toshinori mumbles. “There’s a slight margin of error in his long-term predictions. Whether it did change, or it didn’t, I still want to live.” He clenches a fist, the veins his arms protruding as his knuckles turn white.

Aizawa hesitates, before setting his drink on the coffee table as well, and folding his hands into his lap, between his knees.

“That’s a bitter pill to swallow.”

Toshinori shrugs, “I’ve tackled worse.”

He looks like he’s hurting. Like he’s repeated that lie a thousand times, and can no longer bear it. Aizawa thinks long and hard, and says nothing. Toshinori says nothing either, sipping his beer, staring out the window. It’s a comfortable silence. But Aizawa breaks it.

He shifts on the couch, “Come here.”


“I’m tired.” He deadpans. “Sit here.”

Toshinori is slow to wipe the surprised look off his face. He stands up, shifting around the table, until he sits a respectable distance away on the couch. The T.V. is playing on mute, some news channel or something. Aizawa stares at it, as he shifts closer to lean his head on Toshinori’s shoulder. Toshinori jumps slightly, but relaxes eventually. Aizawa closes his eyes, because it hurts to keep them open. Toshinori’s shoulder is surprisingly soft, his bodyweight sturdier than you’d expect. His free arm lifts a bottle to his lips, and Aizawa can hear his throat work as he swallows.

“You won’t stay healthy drinking that shit.”

Toshinori laughs softly, “I only drink with you.”

“Then stop.”

“I don’t want to.” He can hear the smile in Toshinori’s voice. “How else will I get you to come over?”

Aizawa’s chest squeezes.

“Ask. Like a normal human being.”

“Would you really come?”

“Would you really want me to?”

“Yes.” Toshinori says. Aizawa feels an arm fall around his shoulders, and he hates that it gives him – god forbid – butterflies. Ugh, barf. Toshinori continues, voice soft, “You’re surprisingly cuddly.”

“Shut up.”

“I have eyedrops, if you need them.”

“Do you really?”

“I can get them now.”

“No.” Aizawa grits, with an unsaid stay, so Toshinori doesn’t move. He goes home later that night, as if nothing happened at all.



“Shouta Shouta Shouta~!” Hizashi swings in, “What’s up, kitty cat?”

 “I could’ve sworn I asked you not to call me that.”

“Hm?” Hizashi sways, perching atop one of the student desks. “I can’t recall.”

Aizawa blinks, “What do you want?”

“Nemuri and I want to go out for drinks this week,” Hizashi says. “Since that last investigation is over, we should be in the clear this weekend. Unless, you know, something else bizarre happens.”

“Toshinori and I have plans this weekend, I think,” Aizawa rubs his forehead. Hizashi gives him a look, eyebrows raised, and Aizawa huffs, “But I’m free Friday.”

“Sounds good,” Hizashi grins. “You two hang out a lot.”

“He’s quieter than you.”

“Rude!” Hizashi laughs. “You two are dating, right?”

Aizawa rubs his eyes, trying to alleviate the sudden sting, “Uh, I don’t think so.”

“What the fuck? You don’t think so?”

“Yeah, I mean. I dunno’.”

Hizashi snorts, “What kind of bass ackwords logic is that?”

“Do you actually understand any of the words that come out of your mouth?”

“Oh, oh, speaking of,” Hizashi rocks a little, to pull out his phone from his back pocket. “Emi has been calling me constantly trying to get ahold of you.”

Aizawa groans, and softly plants his forehead against his desk.

“She wants to ask you on date.”

“I know. She’s been blowing up my phone.”

“You should just tell her you’re gay and move on,” Hizashi studies his nails. “Just rip the band aid off. You guys were friends, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Aizawa frowns. “And her hero name is Ms. Joke. She’s going to think I’m kidding.”  

“Sort your priorities, dude,” Hizashi hops off the desk. “Just tell her to stop calling me.”


“Friday then?”

“Yeah, whatever, I’ll be there.”

“Kay~” Hizashi sings. “Good luck with your love life.”

Aizawa muffles into his paperwork.




Alright, so, they might be dating.

Aizawa isn’t actually sure. They greet each other in the school hallways, and sometimes eat their lunches together. Toshinori waits for him after class, and they take the same train home. They’ve started going to different restaurants, rather than bars. And on weekends, when not called to duty or swamped with papers to grade, he goes to Toshinori’s apartment. Sometimes he brings papers to grade, and Toshinori works on his own, side by side.

Their lives thread together so naturally. They’re subtle changes, like Toshinori buying him random books he sees in the grocery store windows. Or Aizawa inviting him over to his own apartment for dinner.

But there’s big changes. Like how Toshinori has grown comfortable enough to collapse into his lap after a meal, or fall asleep against his shoulder like a cat.

There isn’t a shred of awkwardness. Like they’re both too old and tired to care about conventional standards of personal space. Aizawa likes how Toshinori’s weight feels against his chest. He likes that his arms are soft, and his hands are callused, and his hair is ridiculously fluffy. Maybe Aizawa just likes cats.

“Your hair looks good like that.”

Aizawa moves his paper out of the way to look down, to his lap, where Toshinori’s head lays.

“Oh yes. I’m sure I look incredibly flattering from that angle.”

“I’m being serious,” Toshinori says. “I like when you put your hair up in a bun.”

Aizawa replies, “Well, you too.”


“Your hair.” Aizawa gestures, and goes back to skimming Iida’s horribly detailed research paper. “It looks good up.”

“Ah.” Toshinori flushes, and turns in his lap. He pulls the blanket to his chin, and says nothing.

“How cute,” Aizawa teases. “You can dish compliments, but you can’t take them.”

“I can too,” Toshinori pouts, defensive. “It’s just weird.”

“How so?”

“People complimented me all the time as All Might,” he says. “But in this form I’ve been mistaken for a zombie on multiple occasions.”

Aizawa frowns, “You’re kidding.”

“Nope! I’ve been called a skeleton, a ghoul, a creep - all before I was outed as All Might, of course.”

“People are stupid.” Aizawa huffs. “You’re stupid. You should have more self-worth than that.” 

Toshinori scoffs, “How insensitive.”

Aizawa moves the paper once more, to lean over and look Toshinori in the eye.

“They don’t know what they’re talking about.”  

He whacks Toshinori on the forehead, and goes back to reading.

“Ow!” Toshinori flushes. “That was Young Iida’s paper, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“Jeez. I could feel the excessive use of filler words.”

That breaks an unexpected laugh out of Aizawa. It’s short, but he laughs once; he reaches for a drink of water, when Toshinori stares holes into his face.

They’re at Aizawa’s apartment tonight. It was a long day – it’s been a long week, honestly. They’re no closer to solving this League of Villains mystery. It only gets more complicated by the hour. Aizawa teaches all day, and is usually called out by night. Toshinori is called into meetings constantly, his extreme battle intellect a fucking drug for alliance strategists. An evening like this is welcomed, in Aizawa’s book.

For someone who loves sleep as much as he, Aizawa doesn’t actually sleep too much. He could send Toshinori home, if he wanted to. But he won’t. Because he doesn’t want to. So there.



“Are we dating?”

Aizawa swallows. He’s slow to finally set the paper aside, joining a large stack of similar essays. Toshinori has gone head to head with some of the strongest villains in the world, but here, he looks normal. Human. With dark circles and messy hair, hands drawn into a big fluffy blanket.

“Don’t know. Are we?”

“I asked you first.”

“Sure,” Aizawa says. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“That’s a lie,” Toshinori laughs, hands coming up to lock behind Aizawa’s neck. It forces his back to bend; strands of his hair fall between them, some slipping out of his bun. Aizawa follows his touch, large hands heavy at his neck.

“We might as well,” Aizawa says, forcing his tone flat – but it comes out too soft. Too genuine. “You take up enough of my time as it is.”

“Fine,” Toshinori hums, and tugs on the back of his hair. “Might as well.”

He pulls once more, so Aizawa dips his head, and presses his lips against Toshinori’s in a short, soft peck. It’s childish, the way his heart beats erratically in his chest. He worries Toshinori might hear it – but he tugs harder, as if unsatisfied, so Aizawa kisses him again.



Aizawa lived the singe life for a long, long time. Every past relationship was a struggle to adjust. Partners require active participation and careful wording. Extreme amounts of your personal time, with dates and names and parents to remember. Aizawa can do it, but it’s exhausting.

However, Toshinori is almost effortless. He’s content with cheap restaurants, and doesn’t mind slow service. He couldn’t care less whether they ate out or stayed in, I just like being with you, he says. How disgustingly sweet.

Aizawa waits for the catch. There must be one.

But weeks are swept beneath their feet, and Aizawa feels, god forbid, happy. Hizashi asks what it is, and Aizawa says it’s a new eyedrop prescription. That’s not a complete lie.

Toshinori respects his privacy. He doesn’t question when Aizawa cancels on dates, and he doesn’t complain when he refuses an offer on dinner. However – he’s become horrifyingly good at reading Aizawa’s moods – and sometimes he refuses to let Aizawa leave until he tells him what’s wrong. Neither of them are a hundred percent honest with the other, but it’s on mutual, careful terms. Everyone has secrets.

The catch comes unpredictably in the form of sex.

It’s a warm night, so they run fans in every room of Aizawa’s home. The television plays distantly in the background, nothing but white noise, as Aizawa sits straddling Toshinori’s lap, fingers running through blonde hair.

It’s nicely familiar. They’ve been here before, hands in hair, lips moving slow and lazy. Sometimes Toshinori speeds it up out of restlessness, and sometimes Aizawa slows it back down. Still, Toshinori kisses nicely. It’s refined. Sometimes he tastes like blood, but Aizawa isn’t bothered by it.

They’ve never gone farther than this. Aizawa would kind of like it to – considering the preexistent sexual tension, piled upon the copious amounts of makeout sessions. Not that Aizawa is expecting anything; it’s just that Toshinori is hot, and the breathy exhales he makes are cute, and he really wants to run his hands down the lines of his thighs.

Toshinori sucks on his tongue, fingers playing with the shell of his ear, and Aizawa feels warm and sticky already. The clothes are too much between them; like a tight, outer shell. Aizawa pulls his tongue back, and runs it along Toshinori’s swollen lower lip – and the latter lets out a fain whisper of a groan, the sound rushing through Aizawa, hot and heavy.

The moment that Aizawa reaches for the hem of Toshinori’s t-shirt, Toshinori seizes up completely. His hand jolts to grip Aizawa’s wrist, fingers shaking. Aizawa freezes, wide eyes staring up into Toshinori’s.

“Ah- uh-“ Toshinori flushes. “Um-“

“Sorry.” Aizawa lets go.

“N-No! I just, um.” Toshinori wets his lips, “This form-“

“Oh,” Aizawa breathes. He’d never really thought about it; whether the loss of All Might would affect his ability to have sex. “Is it too strenuous? We don’t have to do anything more.”

“No- fuck,” Toshinori’s head flops back against the headboard. Curse words sound good from his lips; Aizawa resists a shudder for his pride. “I’m just an eyesore, you know.”

Aizawa’s face falls. He looks Toshinori directly in the eye, extreme distain written across his lips, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Toshinori lets out a hot breath, and hikes up his own shirt – and there’s the scar, twisted in muscle. It looks like a flower, blooming up his chest.

“No. It’s beyond a turnoff.”

“God, shut up,” Aizawa barks. “Don’t tell me what I do and don’t find attractive.”

Toshinori looks dumbstruck, “You like this?”

“It’s attached to you, innit’?” Aizawa shifts a little on Toshinori’s lap, hands falling down to fumble with his belt. “Leave your shirt on if you want, but the scar doesn’t bother me.”

Toshinori has a strange look on his face. Aizawa pulls out the belt, leather hissing against the loops, before he tosses it away.

“I’m going to blow you,” Aizawa says, “And then you’re going to tell me how amazing I am.”

Toshinori’s face flushes, legs spreading when Aizawa prompts him.




Their first ‘fight’ is trivial, and both their fault.

The longer they date, the stronger the urge to protect Toshinori. His deflated form isn’t completely fragile, but it’s not All Might, and Toshinori sometimes forgets that. He stands too close during mock battles – jumps right in, during student camps.

There’s an attack during a field trip. It was foolish on the Villains’ part – they’re a class full of second years, hardened through experience and training. The issue isn’t their ability to win; it’s the heavily populated area, full of civilians.

And Toshinori.

“Get behind me,” Aizawa says, snapping on his goggles.

But Toshinori ignores him, running directly into the fray. An emitter with an earth quirk sideswipes Toshinori into a wall, and Aizawa has a goddamn heart attack. His gut falls into his feet, hot fury pooling in his chest. The world crumbles before his eyes.

“Idiot!” Aizawa shouts, jumping to action– but Midoriya is already on it, kicking the emitter in the jaw, and sending him flying. The villains are detained. The students are sent home safely. Toshinori sustains minor injuries, and he’s healed easily.

It’s a tense train ride back to Toshinori’s apartment. 

Aizawa slams the door shut as soon as he’s inside, ripping off his scarf and throwing it to his feet.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I saw an opening!” Toshinori argues. “They had a civilian hostage!”

“You’re not a hero anymore!” Aizawa shouts back – and he doesn’t yell often, so it sounds rough. “Stop thinking you’re invincible!”

“I know I’m not! I just – All Might can’t sit there and watch as innocent people-“

“You are not All Might,” Aizawa hisses, low and hot, and he immediately regrets it.

Toshinori chokes a little. His shoulders hunch. He stumbles over his words, eyes watering, and Aizawa feels like the biggest asshole on planet earth.

“Wait, Yagi-“

“I am.” Toshinori hisses, through stubborn, unshed tears, choking on blood,  “All Might is me. Ever since I was kid I just – I just wanted to help people.” He presses a hand against his chest, as if the flame of All Might still burns. “It’s hard to let go.”

Aizawa swallows around cotton, and ducks his head in a short bow, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Toshinori says nothing, and looks away.

Aizawa sighs, “I…I know it’s hard, but you have to trust us. I can’t have you out there getting hurt.” He runs a hand through his hair, drawing Toshinori’s eyes back to him. He continues, “You have to keep living. You said so yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” Toshinori says, low and genuine, and Aizawa isn’t sure when they crossed the distance between them, but suddenly they’re hugging.

They fit unexpectedly well. In this lesser form, Toshinori is shorter than All Might, yet still a hair taller than Aizawa. Their arms fit right – hands fisting in the backs of shirts – chests pressed together with force. Aizawa lifts a hand to brush the bangs out of Toshinori’s face, and Toshinori lets him.



“Hey Dad, have you seen Dad?”

Aizawa’s eye twitches.

“Ashido, we’ve been over this.”

“Oh, sorry!” She bows, “Dad, sir, have you seen Dad?”

Aizawa is too damn tired to deal with this right now, so he points halfheartedly to a door down the hall.

“All Might is in a briefing with some of the other pro heroes. They’ll be out to give you sector assignments soon.”

“Oh, okay!” Ashido beams, “Thank you!” She bounces away, way too chipper.

He can feel Hizashi’s grin without seeing it.

“So when did that start?”

“It’s some kind of practical joke,” Aizawa rubs his forehead, to erase his headache. “They’ve been doing it for weeks now.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t expelled them.”

“All Might loves it.”

“Of course he does.”

Aizawa huffs, leaning against a wall, “Kids have no respect for their elders these days.”

“I think it’s damn hilarious,” Hizashi laughs. “Dadzawa and Dadmight. It’s like a sitcom where a couple gets married, and each one has fourteen kids.”

Can you be quiet? God-“

“Nope!” Hizashi cackles, “It’s against my biology.”

“Hey, look who it is,” Kayama appears, whip in hand. “My two favorite boys~”

“Nem-mmm-Midnight,” Hizashi claps her on the shoulder. “How’ve you been?”

“Good! It looks like you both got called in too.”

“The Alliance wanted all able bodies, apparently.”

“Yeah?” Kayama elbows Aizawa, “Where’s your man?”

“Shut up-“

Hizashi snorts, “He’s a part of the main counsel now.”

“Wow, Eraserhead. You’re technically dating your boss.”

Aizawa’s hair lifts, scarf floating slightly, as he stares holes into Kayama’s face. He rumbles, low, “I have students here.”

She lifts her hands with a smile, “Sorry! Sorry!”

Aizawa’s hair flops down, and he pulls his weapon tight around his neck. “Who even told you anyways?”

Hizashi starts to whistle, turning on his heel – and Aizawa fists a hand in the back of his shirt.

“Dad Sensei?”

Aizawa lets go, turning to Kirishima.

“What?” He snaps.

“Do you know how much longer we’ll be here? I have an internship later.”

“Twenty minutes or so,” Aizawa says. Kirishima beams a thank you, and bounces away.

Both Hizashi and Kayama open their mouths, but Aizawa cuts them off, lifting a hand.

“Don’t say it.”



It’s been a long long, long long, long past few weeks. Hairpullingly. That’s not a word, but it is now.

There was another student abduction. Another.

His class doesn’t just attract trouble. They stick their noses in it, and dive right in. Whether that’s a good or bad thing – it’s up for debate. But some of his students weren’t where they were supposed to be, and Midoriya was captured.

“He did it for me! They- they were going to take me!-“ Ochako hiccups, in tears, and Aizawa has nothing to say, because he believes her. Midoriya would.

Toshinori is beside himself with worry, which is simultaneously surprising, and not. Midoriya is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but Toshinori knows something about Midoriya that they don’t. Aizawa assumes. If Toshinori does, he won’t tell.

It’s a restless week full of meetings. Unlike with Bakugou’s kidnapping, there’s no lead. No trail left behind. Class A is told specifically and clearly not to intervene with rescue operations, but Aizawa is well aware that they scheme behind his back. He doesn’t have time to stop them.

Seven days later, Toshinori comes sprinting into the Alliance headquarters with sunken eyes and disheveled clothes. He has a lead, and they follow, because he’s right.

They find Midoriya in one piece. Shaken, but alive. The villans took skin samples; large chucks cut up and down his arms.  Toshinori is adamant that they burn all the samples, but the police refuse.

With that fiasco done and over with, in comes the weeks of press conferences. Covering up their footsteps, consoling worried parents. They hear a book and a half from Miss Midoriya, and Aizawa doesn’t blame her.

In the days that breeze by, Aizawa doesn’t see Toshinori once outside of school. They text questions about work, but that’s about it.

Aizawa doesn’t realize how much he’s grown to rely on Toshinori’s company. As he sits at home, face lit by the screen of his computer, eyes sore, he suddenly misses a shoulder to lean on. Literally, metaphorically, whatever. He wonders if Toshinori is okay – but he’s too prideful to ask.

Instead he texts – come over.

Toshinori replies that he can’t. Their schedules don’t match up for the next two weeks; and the disappointment is heavy. Aizawa doesn’t show it, but he misses him. His class starts to smile again, with Midoriya healed and fine – but Aizawa feels raw. Tired and worn and mentally defeated.

Fingers trail against his neck in passing. It’s meant to be encouraging – but Aizawa scowls, the soft touch nothing but a tease. Toshinori is doing it on purpose; sliding his hands along his shoulder blades, and humming a soft hello on his way.

So when Aizawa sees him standing in the school gym corner, he slips his hand along the narrow curve of Toshinori’s waist. He startles under his fingers, but Aizawa is gone before he turns.

Pats on heads, shoulder clasps, and soft, breeze-like touches – they’re unseen by anyone else, a notion known only to them. They don’t talk about it.

That next week Toshinori approaches him in the teacher’s lounge, on his way out to teach a class. His hand comes to respectfully rest on Aizawa’s forearm, as he leans in and asks, “Are you busy Friday?”

“No,” Aizawa lies. He is, but he can cancel.

“Is dinner okay?”

“Yeah,” Aizawa says, without looking up from his computer.

Toshinori smiles, and hums against Aizawa’s ear, “Okay. See you then.” Aizawa jerks in his chair, and Toshinori laughs, heading out the door.



Fuck dinner.

Now, to give Toshinori credit, he did actually cook a meal. It smells nice – like noodles and vegetables.

But as soon as Toshinori opens the door, Aizawa shoves him backwards, throwing the door shut with his foot, and slamming Toshinori back against it with his forearm. Toshinori is slack in his arms, as if he was prepared. So when Aizawa presses close, Toshinori is the one to dig his nails into the back of Aizawa’s skull, and pull until their lips are smashed together.

He tastes like toothpaste. Aizawa maps the inside of Toshinori’s mouth with his tongue, and Toshinori sucks on it, grazing his lower lip with his teeth. It’s the messiest they’ve ever kissed. The hottest, too.

“I cooked,” Toshinori manages to say against his lips.

“We’ll reheat it later.”

Toshinori’s arm slips around his waist, tugging him close. Aizawa follows his lead, bracing a forearm against the wall, so they’re closer. Toshinori hums in what Aizawa assumes is a yes, before Toshinori is slipping his fingers between the space of his lower back and his belt, mouths melting together.

Aizawa can feel some part of him relax; the anxious knot in his stomach unties, and winds with arousal instead.

Toshinori really does taste like toothpaste – Aizawa assumes he expected this – but the longer they kiss, the faster the taste bleeds from toothpaste, to Toshinori.  

His fingers are strong along Aizawa’s skin. They skim from his back, to his hip, the lip of his shirt pooling over his wrists. Aizawa’s thigh slips between Toshinori’s – and he lets out the softest exhale. One that Aizawa feels in his soul.

He moves his lips from Toshinori’s mouth, down his sharp jaw, and to the skin of his neck. He’s warm, very much alive. Aizawa leaves long, fat kisses, because he can.

“You almost seem stronger, when you act like this,” Toshinori says, with a laugh.

“Because I am.”

“I’ve been working out, you know.”

“Against my wishes,” Aizawa says.

Toshinori’s arms slip up and down his back, sometimes down to his ass – sometimes to pull on his hips, and grind down on his thigh.  

“Why are we doing this against a door?” Toshinori asks. “My back hurts.”

“Because,” Aizawa grunts, into his neck.

The hand suddenly pushes, jolting Aizawa away. He’s gripped around the waist, turned, and thrown backwards. Aizawa is so stunned, that it takes a moment to register that Toshinori has flipped him, forcing his hands to press against the adjacent wall. An arm braces around Aizawa’s chest – and in turn, a thigh between his legs, and Aizawa’s eyes roll back from the sudden pressure.

He sags against Toshinori, and away from the wall, suddenly drunk from no alcohol. Toshinori is sturdier than you’d expect; so Aizawa lolls his head back against Toshinori’s bony shoulder, and lets out a hot breath.

“Ah, cute,” Toshinori says into his ear.

“Shut up.”

Toshinori pulls him back, grinds him against his thigh, and Aizawa is made aware of how hard they both are.

“Nnn-let’s move.”

“Oh, now you want to move.”

Aizawa grinds back, arms bending backwards to lock behind Toshinori’s neck. Denim rubs against denim, and Toshinori lets out a noise when Aizawa’s ass presses against his cock.


It’s not far to his bedroom. Toshinori puts a lid over the pot of ramen, and works his belt off as Aizawa kicks his shoes away. It’s easier once their pants are shucked off, thrown into a pile on his desk chair. It’s a decent sized bed, with a cute little desk lamp. It’s plain, but there’s memorabilia hung on the walls – awards, tokens of gratitude. Pictures of old friends.

Aizawa sits on the edge of the mattress first. Toshinori follows – but Aizawa rolls them, so he can go back to working on that hickey again. He’s careful of where he decided to place it – right at the bottom of his throat, where a high collar shirt will hide it. His skin is pale, and soft to the touch, but he tastes salty, and smells like a man. Toshinori sighs, arms squeezing around Aizawa to hold him close, and Aizawa purrs.

Large hands sweep up to his shoulder bones. They run across his spine, then down to his ass to squeeze. It makes him tingly. Fingers prod his sweater away, and Aizawa frowns when it’s thrown to the floor. He opens his mouth to say I like that sweater, you fuck – but Toshinori’s hands roll down his chest, and across the front of his boxers, so Aizawa keeps his trap shut.

Toshinori doesn’t make any move to take his tank off, so Aizawa doesn’t prod him. Instead he licks down as far as his collar will allow, pressing his teeth into the hollow of his neck.

“Let me suck you off,” Toshinori mumbles, smooth, like an afterthought.

Aizawa grinds their hips together, the movement still rough between the fabric of their underwear, but smoother than before. It alleviates the pressure, a little, but there’s a desire for more. To be even closer.

Aizawa nips at his ear, “Is that alright?”

He can hear Toshinori’s eyeroll, “I’m fine.”

“Are you still spitting blood?”

“Since I stopped transforming…I’ve been feeling better.” Toshinori admits. His right hand fondly plays with the strands of Aizawa’s hair.

“You’re healing,” Aizawa hums.

“I guess.” He grinds upwards. “I missed you. Roll over.”

Aizawa gives him one lass kiss – a peckbefore he rolls to his back.

Toshinori sits up, and pulls a hairband from his wrist. It’s oddly sexy, the way he ties up his hair up in a messy bun, his bangs out of his face. His eyes look determined, as he peels of Aizawa’s boxers, and parts his thighs.

He’s not a kid anymore, but Toshinori makes Aizawa feel like one. The second he wets his lips, and presses his tongue flat against the head of his cock, Aizawa feels his gut lurch down between his legs.

Toshinori is slow. He doesn’t look hesitant; rather, like he wants to take his time. He pops only the head into his mouth, and sucks lightly. He leans back to spit into his palm, and wrap his fingers around his base, so Toshinori can lazily suck him into his mouth, and lick up the underside like a popsicle. Aizawa throbs under his hands.

His head flops back against the pillows, “Oh god.”

Toshinori holds him against his tongue, halfway down his throat, and swallows, gathering more saliva to slowly spit onto the head of Aizawa’s cock. The way he flicks his tongue – god, fuck.

“You know, I never asked…” Aizawa clears his throat, trying to sound unaffected, “…not that I care-“

Toshinori pops off, and works his wrist in long, practiced strokes that make Aizawa’s head spin.

“Bout what?”

“Which way you swing.”

“I’ve never had a gender preference,” Toshinori leans down, to casually slip him in his mouth, and bob halfway, before popping off again, “-for as long as I can remember, anyways.”

Aizawa doesn’t reply; his attention turns to the feel of Toshinori’s sticky lips.

Toshinori holds him against his tongue, giving flat kitten licks, and watching Aizawa’s face with genuine curiosity. Aizawa tries not to react – but it’s hard not to, when Toshinori bobs his head, fist meeting his lips.

Toshinori is so slow – he savors the taste, like its not crude at all. The arousal isn’t fast and hot anymore – but a long, infuriating build, that Aizawa feels all the way down in his toes.

He swallows hard, rubs his cockhead against his cheek, licks between the slit and smiles when Aizawa about chokes.

“Sorry,” Toshinori pulls back, working his fist faster, finally. “Too slow?”

“Fine,” Aizawa grits, trying not to come.

“M’bad,” Toshinori presses a free hand into his thigh, and squeezes, “I really like doing this.”

He bends his head to bob a few more times, swallowing on the upstroke, mouth wet and warm – and Aizawa’s hand flies down to pull on Toshinori’s head, thigh struggling to squeeze against his grip.

“That’s fine-“ Aizawa wheezes, “-another time. I wanna’ fuck you. Like, yesterday.”

Toshinori’s face bleeds red. Aizawa scoffs.

“Now you have the audacity to blush?”

Toshinori rubs his cock against his lips and pouts, “I dunno’.” He avoids Aizawa’s eyes, body language bashful. Aizawa puts aside his own arousal to sit up against the headboard, and extend his arms.

“Come here.”

Toshinori slowly climbs into his lap, a tank top strap slipping off his shoulder – and he suddenly looks fragile. He isn’t, but he looks meek. To have the symbol of peace, the savior of the world, the golden boy, blushing in his lap – it’s kind of an honor.

Aizawa holds Toshinori’s face in his hands, and kisses him.

“I can bottom.”

“I want to,” he says.

“Boxers off, then,” Aizawa mumbles, into his cheek. “I’ll take care of you.”



He’s squirmy and cute, skin red and bitten, hair falling out of his bun, bleeding into the sheets around him.

Toshinori has the longest legs Aizawa has ever seen. Aizawa is not short either – a proud 6’1- but Toshinori’s legs don’t end. They’re slender, curved up under Aizawa’s arms, as he folds him in half.

He’s only worked three fingers in – but Toshinori is already chewing on his bottom lip, trying to stay silent. Aizawa keeps pressing on his thigh with his free hand, just to see how flexible he is.

“Ah ah ah ah ah – stop –“ Toshinori cries.

Aizawa pulls out his fingers quickly.

“We’re gonna’ run out of time,” Toshinori spreads his thighs, and readjusts on the bed. He seems to have lost that nerveousness from before – he must be close, because he shamelessly pulls at Aizawa, impatient and on the edge.

It’s very unceremonious. Aizawa is quick to grab a condom, slide his knees beneath Toshinori’s thighs, and fuck in without hesitation. Toshinori lets out a long, relieved moan, and its so hot it brings Aizawa to a grinding halt.

He builds a decent pace eventually. They’re both kinda’ messy – and Aizawa would pride himself at being better at sex, if his current day to day life wasn’t so mentally and physically draining. He also kinda’ just likes Toshinori. Whatever he does just seems so much more attractive.

But that’s fine. Sex doesn’t really have to be perfect. Aizawa feels every sound Toshinori makes – it hits him in the gut, and he’s hard enough to fuck diamonds. Aizawa has no idea what he looks like, or what he sounds like, but he must be okay, because Toshinori’s legs are hiked up by his hips, toes curling whenever Aizawa's hips work back in.

Everything is so hot, Aizawa feels sweat gathering under Toshinori’s fingers, making them slip on his skin every so often.

His name must be too much for Toshinori right now, because he keeps saying “Aiza-Aizaw-Ai-Aiza-“ in half hiccups. His hands bruise Aizawa’s shoulders, but it’s of no importance.

Their lips meet every so often, whenever Aizawa leans close enough to do so. It’s hard to hover above him – so Toshinori just pulls, until Aizawa is resting all of his weight on him- and his cock slides just right, enough for them both to moan down the other’s throat.

Aizawa shutters hard, eyes struggling to stay open. He wants to watch Toshinori’s face; he wants to watch the spit from their kisses slip down his chin – but Toshinori is meeting him thrust for thrust, and Aizawa has to close his eyes just to concentrate.

He comes first, because it’s just too much. Thighs hitting thighs – he shoots into the condom,  groaning into the side of Toshinori’s neck.

Toshinori might be saying something. Aizawa can’t tell – his ears are ringing – but he can still feel his deep baritone. It’s such a contrast to his flushed body, twisting and thrusting back in an attempt to come, a hand fisting down between his legs to pump his swollen cock. Aizawa still has half a mind to bat his hand away, and give a few extra thrusts through the sensitivity, just to watch Toshinori’s back arch as he shouts.



Aizawa is absolutely not prepared for the morning after.

Not that he was really planning on it, but they showered that night, and reheated all the food Toshinori made, and by the time they finished it was way too late for Aizawa to take the train home, so. He stayed.

At first he wakes to Toshinori pressed against his back. He’s a quiet sleeper, but a leech, trying to seep all of Aizawa’s body heat. Aizawa would like to think he’s hardened through life, with a cold, ugly heart, but it’s definitely not cold enough to wake up Toshinori, so Aizawa goes back to sleep.

He feels like a different person when he wakes up again. It’s a late hour; the clock reads noon. That’s the longest he’s slept in years.

He immediately looks for Toshinori; but he’s gone. The kitchen smells like an American breakfast; eggs and bacon and syrup.

God forbid, the universe decides to turn Aizawa’s world upside down all over again, because he’s horribly unprepared to see Toshinori walking around pantsless in an old All Might shirt.

It’s huge on him. It should be unattractive. He looks swallowed by the sleeves, the collar so big, it hangs to one side. God, he looks fucking adorable.

“What are you doing?”

Toshinori turns, and lord, his hair is up in a ponytail. “Well, G’mornin’ to you too, buddy.”

“Good morning.” Aizawa deadpans. “What are you doing.”


“Take that off.”


“Then you owe me ten dollars for every All Might shirt you wear,” Aizawa says, as he crosses the short distance to the kitchen.

“You’re being weird,” Toshinori laughs. “Do you need coffee? You can help yourself.”

Aizawa leans against the counter. He watches Toshinori flip a pancake effortlessly, before Aizawa leaves the counter, and immediately walks up behind him, to wrap his arms around Toshinori’s tiny waist, and press his face into his shoulder.

Toshinori snorts, but doesn’t say anything. He lets him hover until breakfast is done. Aizawa will go back home eventually – but eventually is not now – so Aizawa doesn’t worry about it.



“Go for a walk with me,” Toshinori says.

Aizawa keeps his eyes closed, head resting against the back of the teacher’s lounge couch. There’s no one else here today; the mini fridge hums distantly off in the corner.

“No. I’m too tired.”



“You’ll get older this way,” Toshinori sits next to him, hands politely in his lap. “You have to stay in shape, you know.”

“A squid mutant attacked one of my students during the field trip last week, and I wrestled him to the ground. I consider that enough of a work out.”

Toshinori laughs, and it rings around the silence of the teacher’s lounge. He looks good; he’s filling into his body better, now that he doesn’t damn near kill himself every day. It’s been over a year since the fall of All Might – and Toshinori still struggles with that, in silence – but Aizawa thinks he’s getting better. Working towards a level of acceptance.

Aizawa looks up to the doorway. The window is tinted, outside students unable to see, so Aizawa leans into Toshinori’s side, and lets him throw an arm around his shoulders. Toshinori squeezes him closer.

“Just a quick walk.”


“All the trees are blooming at the park down the street! You have to see it.”

“I know what flowers look like.”

Toshinori’s lips press quick against the top of his head, and Aizawa’s eyes fly open.

“Life is short, Shouta.”

Damn. Toshinori knows that Aizawa is weak to that low, smooth tone. He turns with a glare, and Toshinori offers a grin. He’s wearing the cologne that Aizawa secretly likes, and his free hand slips down to squeeze and prod at Aizawa’s thigh.

Aizawa looks to the clock and sighs.

“If there’s a hill, you’re carrying me.”

Toshinori laughs, swaying to his feet and pulling on Aizawa’s hand.