Chapter Text
Rain splattered against the sidewalk in steady, dull sheets. The air was wet and cold, but not sharp, just annoying. Izuku shifted the weight of the grocery bag in his arms, tucking it tighter against his chest as he adjusted the plastic umbrella over his head.
He glanced both ways before stepping off the curb, boots hitting a shallow puddle that soaked through his socks. He made a soft noise of irritation, then kept walking.
Two blocks to go. He was already running through his evening plans in his head, soba first, then maybe set up that spreadsheet for the neighborhood co-op. He could fold laundry during the water boil.
The street was mostly empty. A couple of parked cars, a shuttered storefront with half-lit signage, and a black van idling quietly up the road, engine low.
He didn’t notice it.
He reached the corner and started to turn.
The side door of the van slid open.
There were footsteps, fast, sudden. Heavy boots behind him.
“Hey, wait-”
Hands grabbed him from behind. One at his mouth, the other around his middle. The umbrella flew from his grip, clattering against the pavement as he kicked out, groceries falling, tofu smashing open on the street.
He let out a muffled yelp, legs scrambling for traction, but they were already dragging him backward.
His heel caught the curb. He twisted, panicked.
Something slammed shut.
Darkness.
The van door. The engine growled louder.
The last thing he saw before it all went black was his Totoro umbrella, half-open, lying in a puddle.
The van rocked over a pothole, jostling Izuku hard enough that his knee slammed into something metal. He flinched, letting out a muffled whimper inside the scratchy sack that smelled vaguely of engine grease and old onions. His hands were still free, somehow they hadn’t tied him up properly, so he was half-curled in a fetal position, damp, cold, and trying very hard not to pass out.
It was hot inside the sack. His breath kept bouncing back into his face, too fast, too shallow. His nose itched. His chest hurt.
The van slowed. Someone barked a word he couldn’t hear. Then the vehicle made a sharp turn, tires screeching a little, and he tipped sideways, bumping against something that grunted and pushed him back.
There were voices, low, muttering, nervous. Someone said “shit” more than once.
Then:
“Open it.”
Suddenly the drawstring yanked loose at the top, and bright fluorescent light poured in.
Izuku gasped like he’d just broken the surface of a pool, blinking hard as three blurry silhouettes leaned over him.
“...That is not the councilman.”
“Oh my god,” Izuku wheezed, dragging himself halfway up and yanking the sack off the rest of the way. “Oh my god, you kidnapped me!”
The three men backed up a step as he scrambled to sit fully upright, curls plastered to his forehead, hoodie soaked through.
“I was just walking home! You maniacs- What the hell is this?! Who are you?!”
“Hey, calm down-”
“Calm down?! I got yoinked into a van by strangers dressed like they got lost on the way to a wedding!”
“Look- Look,” the one nearest him said, trying to talk fast, hands up. “There was a mix-up. You matched the description-”
“What description?!” Izuku snapped, his voice cracking with hysterical disbelief. “Do city officials usually carry reusable shopping bags and novelty umbrellas?!”
The guy in the back coughed.
“Well, the photo we had was blurry-”
“Oh my god.”
The van lurched again as it turned, and Izuku dropped his head into his hands. He was still shaking., damp and dizzy. Still coming down from the primal terror of being snatched off the street like a side character in a crime docuseries. But now that he could see their faces, three men who looked more uncomfortable than threatening, it started to settle in.
He wasn’t gagged. He wasn’t tied. One of them, an older guy with a scar over one eye, was looking at Izuku like he was questioning every decision he’d ever made.
They were still in the van. Still driving.
Izuku sniffed loudly and wiped his face on his sleeve.
“Okay,” he said, voice still shaking, “okay. I’m- I’m not dead. Yet.”
“Right. You’re not.”
“Because I’m not who you were supposed to take.”
“Yes.”
“Because, and I want to say this in the most polite way possible, whoever grabbed me is a freaking dumbass.”
There was a tense silence.
Then the guy with the scar turned slowly to glare at the younger one in the corner seat, who shrank visibly under the weight of the stare.
“You said he had curly hair and a green jacket!” the younger guy squeaked. “This guy has curly hair and a green-”
Scar growled.
Silence.
Izuku let out a long, shaky exhale and slumped back against the wall of the van.
“So what now? You gonna drop me off at the nearest police station? Pay for my tofu? Give me a ride home and a snack because I think I’m crashing from adrenaline?”
Scar muttered something under his breath and pulled out a phone.
“I’m calling the boss.”
Izuku stared at them.
“Wait- There’s a boss?”
All three of them groaned in unison.
Izuku clutched the remains of his grocery bag and immediately began rethinking every decision that had led him to shop for soba during a storm.
The room wasn’t a cell, technically.
It had a door, sure, and maybe that door locked from the outside. And okay, the only furniture inside was a dented metal folding chair and a table that wobbled slightly on one leg. But there was a towel on the chair, so that made it hospitality, right?
Izuku sat stiffly on the edge of the chair, arms crossed, still damp from the rain.
The three men had unceremoniously marched him in, dropped him there, and then closed the door behind them with a click. No threats. No yelling. Just awkward glances, like they weren’t entirely sure what you were supposed to do with a mistaken kidnapping victim.
Izuku glanced around the room. Blank concrete walls. Dim ceiling light with a soft flicker in the corner. It smelled faintly of gun oil and someone’s leftover lunch.
He sighed. Loudly.
Then louder.
Nothing happened.
He leaned back and shouted toward the door.
“You know I’m not the guy, right?! Like, if this is some kind of weird hostage improv exercise, I’m gonna need snacks!”
There was a long pause.
Then the faint sound of someone cursing down the hallway.
In another room just down that hallway, one with slightly less flickering light and significantly more cigarette smoke, Scar stood stiffly near the desk, arms behind his back.
Aizawa sat on the couch, shoulders slouched, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You kidnapped a civilian,” he said flatly.
Scar shifted his weight. “Yes.”
Aizawa didn’t open his eyes.
“Because he was… what, holding a suspicious umbrella?”
Scar cleared his throat. “To be fair, it was oversized. He could’ve been hiding something under it.”
Aizawa gave him a slow, exhausted look and dragged a hand down his face, groaning low under his breath.
“You do realize the man we were after is sixty-two years old.”
“Well-”
“And five foot two.”
“He was crouched!”
A beat passed.
Scar stared at the floor. Aizawa stared at the ceiling.
“He made tea,” Scar said finally.
Aizawa blinked.
“What?”
“Right after we opened the bag and he freaked out. He hyperventilated for a bit. Cried a little. Then asked if we had a kettle. Made a pot for the team.”
Aizawa exhaled through his nose and stood.
“Take me to him.”
Back in the holding room, Izuku had given up trying to yell for justice and was now poking the broken table leg with a rolled-up flyer someone had left under it.
He looked up as the door creaked open.
A man stepped in. Older. Disheveled in a deliberate way. Dark hair tied back. Low-slung sweatpants, plain shirt, and the kind of heavy-lidded glare that could unnerve a stone.
Izuku blinked.
“Hi,” he said.
The man didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him. Head tilted, eyes scanning, from his wet socks to the flattened plastic bag on his jeans.
“You’re not the councilman.”
“I’m very not the councilman,” Izuku said, nodding enthusiastically. “Unless the councilman is secretly a freelance accountant.”
The man finally stepped into the room, dragging the door shut behind him with a thunk.
“I’m Aizawa. I run this family.”
“Oh, great,” Izuku said. “Good. Because I’ve got feedback.”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow.
“You people are terrible at kidnappings. Like, is there no checklist? No ID confirmation? What if I’d been carrying eggs? That sack wasn’t padded. And who uses a van anymore? That’s like, step one on every true crime podcast.”
Aizawa stared.
“Do you want a ride home or what?”
“Yes,” Izuku said, then hesitated. “But I also want a written apology. And dry socks.”
The door clicked shut behind them.
Aizawa stumbled into the main office at 10:47 a.m., wearing a hoodie and a pair of unmatched slippers. His hair was a mess, his eyes half-closed, and he had exactly zero expectations for the morning besides hot coffee and maybe yelling at Denki for the paperwork mix-up.
He was not expecting to find the kidnapped civilian from yesterday arranging mismatched coffee mugs on a tray in his office.
“...What,” Aizawa said.
Izuku looked up, perky and freshly showered, dressed in a borrowed shirt that hung too big on him and sweatpants cinched tightly at the waist.
“Morning!” he chirped, cheerfully sliding a mug across the desk. “Coffee? I didn’t know how you take it, so I made four versions. There’s black, one with soy, one with two sugars, and one with oat milk and cinnamon.”
Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He just stared at him.
Izuku smiled wider.
Then, as if this was normal, he stepped around the desk, picked up a pile of loose paperwork, and started sorting it by size.
“What… are you doing here?” Aizawa asked finally, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I stayed the night!” Izuku said, like that should’ve been obvious.
Aizawa blinked.
“In this building.”
“Yeah. Your guy, Denki, I think?- Said I could use one of the empty rooms, and I figured, hey, safer than walking back in the dark! You never know when you’ll get kidnapped.” He made finger guns and winked.
“...You know we aren’t a hotel.”
“I’m not picky.”
Aizawa rubbed his face. “You should’ve gone home.”
Izuku cocked his head. “Why? You guys obviously need help. Do you know your financial books are organized in four different formats? Someone labeled bribes as ‘donations,’ another guy just wrote ‘secret stuff’ in a column and left it.”
Aizawa didn’t say anything, but he did make a mental note to find them later.
“I stayed up till three cleaning it up,” Izuku continued proudly, sliding a folder across the desk. “Also? The armory closet has weapons mixed in with the cleaning supplies. I almost sprayed a Glock with bleach.”
Aizawa opened the folder.
It was color-coded.
There were footnotes.
“You’re a civilian,” he said, still not quite sure this wasn’t a fever dream. “You shouldn’t be here. I could kill you.”
“Uh-huh,” Izuku said, leaning one hip on the desk and sipping from the oat milk mug. “And yet, here I am. Drinking your coffee. Fixing your logistics. Looking at your tired, sexy face and wondering if this whole yakuza thing comes with benefits.”
Aizawa slowly lowered the folder.
“I’m sorry?”
Izuku smiled with way too much sparkle in his eyes. “Just saying. You’ve got this whole hot exhausted crime boss thing going, and I’m a guy with flexible morals and access to spreadsheet software. Feels like fate.”
Aizawa stared. Long. Tired.
Izuku sipped again and gave him a slow once-over.
“…Also, I folded your laundry,” he added. “Your guys were gonna just leave it sitting in the dryer.”
Aizawa turned to leave.
“I’m going to pretend none of this is happening,” he muttered.
“I’m making soup for lunch!” Izuku called after him. “Don’t be late, boss~”
Aizawa kept walking, but halfway down the hall, he stopped.
“...Wait. What laundry?”
It had officially been three days since the kidnapping.
Three days since Izuku Midoriya was forcibly dragged off the sidewalk and into a life of organized crime.
Three days since anyone in the Erasure-kai had known peace.
“Who the hell keeps mixing bleach with ammonia?!” Izuku shouted from the hallway, holding two spray bottles up like loaded guns.
Shinsou, leaning against the wall with a cup of instant noodles, blinked slowly. “That’d be Denki.”
“He’s going to gas someone to death.”
Shinsou slurped. “Yeah, probably.”
Izuku stormed down the corridor in house slippers, hoodie sleeves rolled up, his hair tied into a little puff at the back. He’d been up since seven cleaning out the storage rooms because “nobody else here cares about mold, apparently,” and then stayed up reorganizing the inventory logs for their not-a-gun-smuggling operation because someone had filed “sniper rifles” under sporting goods.
He had not asked permission.
Nobody had given him permission.
And somehow, no one could stop him.
The spare room he’d slept in on night one had since become an Izuku-shaped nest. Blankets piled high, books stacked in neat towers, a whiteboard propped against one wall with color-coded notes.
By day three, he’d unpacked.
The Erasure-kai inner circle was… struggling to adjust.
Hizashi, Aizawa’s right-hand man and loudest enabler, had started calling him “Izucchi” and gave him finger hearts over breakfast.
Katsuki refused to acknowledge him at all, except when Izuku snatched his plate away and told him “no second servings until you’ve eaten something green.”
“You’re not my fuckin’ mom!”
“You’re my problem,” Izuku snapped back, piling salad onto his plate. “Now chew.”
Katsuki did chew. Like an angry chipmunk.
Mina and Kirishima found him adorable and mildly terrifying. He scolded Mina for tracking blood into the hallway “Shoes off at the door or I’ll throw them in the garbage!” and caught Kirishima trying to stash a katana in the umbrella stand.
“Is this an umbrella?” Izuku asked.
“Uh-”
“It’s dripping blood.”
“...Yeah, fair.”
Denki was the worst offender.
He left wires everywhere, forgot what building they were staking out, and yesterday, tried to impress a girl by pulling a butterfly knife out of his boot and slicing open his sock.
Izuku patched him up in the kitchen while ranting about tetanus and hygiene.
“You’re not even supposed to have a knife,” Izuku said, wrapping his foot. “Where did you even get that?!”
“I thought it looked cool…”
“Are you twelve?”
“Emotionally? Yeah.”
“I believe that.”
By mid-afternoon, Izuku had cleaned out the old surveillance room, moved in a humidifier, vacuumed all the dust off the server fans, and started sketching out a new meal rotation.
He paused to drink water. No one else in this place drank water. The fridge had three Red Bulls and a protein shake that was definitely not supposed to be purple.
“Hydration is how we survive, people,” he muttered under his breath.
And Aizawa? Aizawa avoided him. Not out of malice, out of what Izuku assumed was a deep, resigned confusion. Every time their eyes met across a room, the man would sigh like someone who just remembered he left the stove on.
Izuku would smile.
And then, when he crawled into bed at night, lights off, his phone resting on his chest and a warm breeze from the half-cracked window, he would imagine Aizawa leaning over him, heavy hands on his hips, sleepy eyes locked on his.
He'd stare up at the ceiling and think:
God, I want that man to rearrange my guts like I rearranged his gun locker.
And then he’d roll over and fluff his pillow, mentally organizing the boss’ schedule for the next week because his love language was acts of service, and damn it, someone had to make sure these criminals were eating vegetables.
The Erasure-kai had seen a lot of things.
They had seen enemies explode mid-deal. They had seen rival gang leaders cry like infants under interrogation. They had seen Hizashi set an entire building on fire because “I hated the wallpaper.”
But none of that prepared them for Izuku Midoriya.
A civilian. A kidnapped civilian. Who, by all accounts, should have begged to be released, or at the very least run screaming the moment he saw a gun.
Instead?
He stayed.
He unpacked his toothbrush, reorganized the pantry, and yelled at Shinso to wipe his feet before entering the common area.
The inner circle was already used to it, grumbling, yes, but begrudgingly letting him slide into the ecosystem like a determined ferret.
But the larger organization, the rank and file, the outer members, the guys who only came in for heists or heavy lifting, were still struggling to process it.
Like today.
Today, the warehouse downstairs had been turned into a makeshift “conversation” room. Two men tied to chairs. Blood on the floor. The smell of sweat and gunpowder in the air. The usual. Mina, Katsuki, and Kirishima were standing off to the side while Shinsou flipped through a clipboard.
“Should we take fingers this time or just the kneecaps?” Mina asked, chewing gum like she was picking an appetizer.
click
The side door opened.
Izuku strolled in, carrying a tray with a glass pitcher of lemon water and five clean glasses, each with a tiny sprig of mint.
Everyone froze.
Izuku glanced around.
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in the middle of something.”
He stepped over a bloodstain without looking down and placed the tray neatly on the nearest tool bench.
“You’ve all been down here over an hour,” he added. “Dehydration’s a real threat, especially with high-stress activities. Drink something.”
He turned to the two tied-up men, nodded politely.
“You too, if they let you. But you do look like you’ve been punched in the kidney, so maybe just small sips.”
He gave Kirishima a gentle little shoulder-pat and left without another word, humming softly as the door swung shut behind him.
Dead silence.
Katsuki was the first to speak.
“...Did he just hydration-check the hostages?”
“Yes,” Shinsou said flatly. “Yes, he did.”
The whispers spread faster than bleach fumes in Denki’s latest accident.
“He’s the boss’ boyfriend, right?”
“No, he’s a civilian. A kidnapped one!”
“Then why is he still here or alive?”
“I heard he corrected the tattoo guy on how to spell ‘retribution’ in kanji.”
“No way.”
“And he made banana bread.”
In one afternoon, three different guys tried to “test” him, casually dropping death threats or cleaning pistols too close to his face.
Izuku, without flinching, told one of them to use a mat under for gun oil this time, because “I just scrubbed that countertop yesterday.”
He folded towels in the same room while Hizashi casually waterboarded a mole.
He sewed a rip in Kirishima’s shirt while the guy was washing blood off his knuckles.
He scolded Mina for leaving a burner on.
He complimented a hitman’s knife-throwing form, then told him to "maybe do that outside next time because you almost hit the rice cooker."
Aizawa returned from a three-day trip to Osaka to a clean base, a reorganized evidence locker, and a laminated weekly menu on the fridge that said:
Monday: soba
Tuesday: curry
Wednesday: katsudon
Thursday: meatball bento
Friday: sushi night, BYO soy sauce
He stared at it for a solid ten seconds.
Then he turned.
And found Izuku, barefoot in the hallway, hair tied up with a pen stuck behind his ear, holding a laundry basket.
“Oh, hey,” Izuku said. “You’re back. I was just gonna change your sheets. Your pillow’s got terrible neck support. We need to talk about that.”
Aizawa opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Then slowly rubbed at the corner of one eye.
“You know you don’t live here, right?”
Izuku blinked. “Why not?”
Aizawa didn’t answer.
Mostly because he didn’t have one.
Aizawa sat in his office, one leg crossed over the other, chewing silently on the end of a pen. He stared at the wall across from him. Somewhere in the distance, someone dropped a tray. Someone else screamed “I WAS USING THAT PEELER, YOU BASTARD!”
It was a normal morning.
Except it wasn’t.
Because there was a civilian living in his base. Voluntarily.
And not just living there, thriving.
Izuku Midoriya was, at that very moment, in the next room lecturing a group of junior enforcers about filing tax deductions correctly for their "consulting" front.
“-and remember,” came his voice through the wall, “if you’re gonna claim vehicle expenses, you have to log mileage. You can’t just write down ‘crime stuff’ as a business reason.”
Aizawa took the pen out of his mouth, set it on the desk, and sighed.
It had been, what?, a week now? A week and a half?
He hadn’t killed the man. Or threatened him. Or tossed him out. He’d offered to drop him off twice. Maybe three times. He couldn’t remember.
Each time, Izuku had smiled, waved him off, and asked if he wanted help reviewing crew schedules. Then he baked banana muffins with protein powder.
Why hadn’t he kicked him out?
He leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Izuku was...
He was attractive. Sure. He had big eyes, strong hands, and a round little ass that bounced when he jogged up stairs. He was cute, in a dorky, terrifyingly competent kind of way. And also annoyingly kind. He made little labels for people’s leftovers and scolded grown criminals for not drinking enough water.
But Aizawa didn’t let people stick around because they were cute.
Usually.
Izuku was also smart. Like, too smart. Dangerous-smart. He had a brain like a sponge and a tongue that didn’t know when to stop. He asked questions Aizawa didn’t want to answer and found answers Aizawa didn’t know existed. The damn man rebuilt their books from scratch in a week and somehow got Denki to stop putting forks in the microwave.
And still, he was a dork. Tripped over his own shoelaces. Used a tea towel as a cape when baking. Called a Glock “a little spicy friend.” Somehow managed to insult Katsuki, lived, and made him eat broccoli.
Aizawa hated how much he liked that.
He rubbed his face again.
Yeah.
He knew exactly why he let him stay.
The door opened without a knock, as usual.
Izuku popped his head in.
“Hey. Lunch in fifteen. I made katsudon. Also-” he stepped in fully, holding out a folded piece of paper, “-Denki got a letter. I alphabetized all your court bribes by first name, hope that’s okay.”
Aizawa took the paper without a word.
Izuku lingered, bouncing slightly on his toes. “Also, uh… your shirts are stiff. Like cardboard. I’m buying fabric softener.”
Aizawa gave him a long, flat look.
Izuku grinned, then turned and disappeared down the hall, humming some dumb little tune under his breath.
Aizawa stared after him for a long moment.
Then muttered to himself:
“I’m in so much fucking trouble.”
There were few things in life that could shake the Erasure-kai.
Police raids? Routine.
Gunfights in traffic? Tuesday.
Shinsou drinking four espresso shots and staring at the wall for five hours straight? Standard behavior.
But nothing, nothing, prepared them for watching Izuku Midoriya casually grope their boss.
It started innocently enough.
Aizawa walked into the main hall, shirt just slightly damp from a morning training run, a towel slung around his neck. The man didn’t look particularly threatening, more like a dad who just realized he left his coffee on top of the car, but the moment he stepped in, half the crew instinctively stepped aside like cats sensing a storm.
Izuku, from across the room, looked up from where he was measuring rice into a rice cooker.
“Oh hey,” he said. “You’re sweaty.”
He jogged over. No hesitation. Not a care in the world.
“Did you hydrate?”
“No.”
Izuku tsked. “Of course not.”
And then, then, he slapped Aizawa’s ass.
SMACK.
Not a light tap. Not a shy little brush. A full-palmed, confident, expertly-angled ass slap. Like he knew the terrain.
Every yakuza in the room froze.
The sound echoed. Someone dropped a phone.
Aizawa didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull a gun.
He just kept walking.
Izuku followed him casually, looping an arm around his waist like this was some domestic sitcom, hand slipping up to poke his chest through the thin shirt.
“You been hiding these pecs under that baggy hoodie, huh?” Izuku teased, smirking as he squeezed. “What’re you smuggling in here, boss?”
And Aizawa?
He just let it happen.
He even grunted.
That was the worst part.
Not a threat. Not a growl. A lazy, acquiescent grunt. Like a man who'd had his ass slapped many times and would allow it to continue.
The room melted down.
Mina dropped her tablet. Denki physically choked on air. Kirishima’s entire worldview cracked.
Shinsou looked directly at a wall and whispered, “I saw nothing.”
Katsuki screamed, “WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING”.
“Are they dating?”
“Are we allowed to touch the boss now?”
“No,” came ten voices in unison.
Later that day, a meeting was called. Not by Aizawa. By the rest of them.
In the surveillance room, chaos brewed.
“Okay, so he slapped the boss’s ass, right?”
“And he poked his chest.”
“Does that mean they’re banging?”
“Wouldn’t he be dead if they weren’t?”
“No one’s allowed within five feet of the boss, and this guy’s copping a feel like it’s casual Tuesday!”
Shinsou, sitting in the corner with a coffee, muttered, “You’re all idiots. He’s just into him.”
Katsuki looked like someone had told him the sun was fake. “You think the boss likes being felt up in public?”
Shinsou shrugged. “Has to be.”
Meanwhile, Izuku was in the kitchen humming to himself, slicing carrots into perfect little coins and texting Aizawa:
Remember to drink water today or I’m gonna do more than slap your ass next time 💚
He put down the phone and smirked to himself.
Then he wrote “protein-packed lunches for muscle maintenance 💪” on the whiteboard.
Izuku Midoriya, civilian accountant and very determined man, believed he was making excellent progress seducing the big, grumpy yakuza boss.
In his mind, everything was going great.
Step One: Move in without permission.
Step Two: Establish dominance via sorting their books out.
Step Three: Casual physical touch (ass slaps, peck pokes, leaning over Aizawa to reach for things he didn’t actually need)
Step Four: Domestic invasion. Feed him. Hydrate him. Fold his laundry.
Step Five: ???
Step Six: Getting dicked down on the office chair.
That’s how it worked, right?
He had no idea the rest of the gang was already referring to him, in increasingly serious tones, as “Boss’ Boyfriend.”
He also didn’t know that his “normal” flirting was spreading like an STD through the organization’s rumor mill.
“Did you see him cut Aizawa’s soba noodles in half so they’d be easier to eat?”
“Bro, I saw him re-lace the boss’s boots while he was still wearing them.”
“Didn’t he wipe blood off Aizawa’s jaw and go, ‘such a messy boy’?”
Aizawa had said nothing about any of this.
Not when Izuku reorganized his sock drawer.
He just… let it happen. Grunted occasionally. Once muttered, “You’re exhausting,” with no real heat behind it.
Which, to Izuku, was practically a proposal.
He was in the middle of meal prep, teriyaki chicken bowls, steamed veggies, a new high-protein dessert recipe he was trying, when he realized he was out of soy sauce.
No big deal. Storage room.
He headed down the hallway, opened the wrong door.
And walked in on Shinso, kneeling next to a bound man, casually sawing through a lower leg with a short hacksaw.
“Oh,” Izuku said.
Shinso looked up.
Blood pooled slowly around the man’s body. The guy screamed something unintelligible into a gag.
Izuku blinked.
“You’re in storage room C,” Shinso said, not even pausing the movement.
“Got it.”
Izuku nodded politely, backed out of the room, shut the door.
Walked three feet.
Turned around.
Opened the door again.
“Can I get the cleaning bleach when you're done? Someone keeps leaving chunks in the drains.”
Shinso stared at him for a moment. Then shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll bring it up.”
“Thanks, sweetie.”
Back in the kitchen, Izuku resumed chopping scallions like nothing had happened.
“Found the soy sauce!” he called out cheerfully.
Hizashi looked up from his crossword, slowly put his pen down.
“Izucchi.”
“Hm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah? Why?”
“You walked in on a man being dismembered alive and came back with condiments.”
“Oh,” Izuku said, blinking. “Right. That was a leg, huh?”
“Izucchi.”
“Listen, if I get squeamish about blood, who’s gonna make sure Aizawa’s getting three balanced meals a day? Not you, Mr. Red Bull for breakfast.”
Hizashi slowly nodded.
“...So,” he said, “you and the boss, huh?”
Izuku beamed. “He hasn’t said no yet.”
That afternoon, Izuku folded Aizawa’s laundry, baked matcha cookies for the crew, reorganized the med supplies, and left a heart-shaped sticky note on Aizawa’s door.
He thought it was going great.
By the two-week mark, Izuku Midoriya had achieved a legendary level of domestication within the Erasure-kai.
He had full control over the kitchen, the laundry, the first aid supplies, and Aizawa’s calendar. He started reminding people of their appointments with the accountant like it was normal, as if he wasn’t a civilian still living in a criminal syndicate’s headquarters without any kind of official employment contract, or logic behind it.
He went from “accidental hostage” to “glorified househusband” fast.
Izuku walked around in his slippers with a cleaning rag over one shoulder and a clipboard in hand, scolding hardened criminals for leaving half-empty energy drinks on his counters.
“Drink it or throw it away, Katsuki, you absolute menace.”
“DON’T CALL ME THAT-”
“Also your vitamins are on the shelf. Take them. You look pale.”
“…tch.”
He’d even started meal planning for assassination days.
He called it Murder Mondays.
And every night after lights-out?
Izuku lay in bed, surrounded by freshly washed sheets and the faint scent of eucalyptus fabric spray, and jerked himself off to increasingly graphic mental images of Aizawa pinning him to the wall and making him beg.
He didn’t just fantasize about the yakuza boss.
He fantasized about domestic Aizawa, the one with bedhead and sweatpants, holding a cup of black coffee while lazily fucking him over the kitchen counter before morning strategy meetings.
Sometimes he imagined getting railed on top of the filing cabinet.
Once, he nearly passed out thinking about Aizawa growling “open wider, you’ve been mouthing off all day” while spreading him on the couch.
He came every time. Silently.
Then cleaned up, rolled over, and drifted off to sleep thinking about how sore he would be the next morning.
Meanwhile, the rest of the yakuza were unraveling.
Because they’d seen normal civilians before.
Civilians screamed. Cried. Fainted. Called the cops. Had existential meltdowns at the sight of a broken nose.
Not Izuku.
Izuku walked through war zones like he was checking for dust.
Someone got shot in the stairwell? He stepped over the blood, clicked his tongue, and said, “You’re not bleeding on the floors I just mopped, are you?”
Kirishima got into a rooftop fight and came limping back covered in bruises?
Izuku slapped an ice pack on him.
One time, one time, he wandered into a garage shootout while holding a casserole.
Glass shattered. Bullets flew. Two guys screamed. Izuku flinched exactly once when a bullet pinged off a metal shelf near his head.
Then he calmly walked up to Katsuki, smacked him in the back of the head with a wooden spoon, and said, “What did I say about gunfire during lunchtime?!”
The entire room froze.
Katsuki blinked. The gun in his hand wobbled slightly.
“…Sorry.”
The casserole was unharmed.
Rumors shifted from “he must be the boss’ boyfriend” to “maybe he’s the boss.”
Some of the outer-circle guys started calling him “Midoriya-san” out of fear.
One of the rookies, after watching Izuku calmly wipe blood off a torture chair while humming a pop song, whispered, “I think he’s invincible.”
“He’s not,” Shinsou said, sipping cold coffee.
Aizawa still said nothing.
Still didn’t tell him to leave. Still let him touch, tease, rearrange his entire existence with soft little hums and sass.
Every time Izuku gave him a pointed once-over or adjusted his collar or licked sauce off his own thumb while looking Aizawa dead in the eye?
Aizawa just stared back. Silent. Unbothered.
And maybe a little turned on.
But he hadn’t made a move.
Yet.
Izuku sat cross-legged on the couch one night, sipping tea while Hizashi cleaned a combat knife in the corner and Denki played video games with the volume too loud.
“Hey,” Kirishima said, walking past with a bandaged arm. “You, uh… doing okay here?”
Izuku blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah. You know. Considering everything.”
Izuku paused. Thought about it. Looked around the room.
A pile of unlaundered bulletproof vests in the corner. A whiteboard labeled Interrogation Goals (Q3). The faint sound of someone being punched downstairs.
He sipped his tea.
“I’m thriving,” he said.
Izuku Midoriya was… happy.
Like, genuinely happy.
He still woke up every morning to distant gunshots, a suspicious irony smell coming from the boiler room, and a bathroom schedule that required military precision. But that didn’t bother him anymore. If anything, it was comforting. Consistent.
He rolled out of bed at 7:00 AM sharp, wrapped in his favorite oversized hoodie (technically Aizawa’s, but Aizawa hadn’t claimed it back), made himself tea, and checked the week’s cleaning rotation while humming along to a playlist.
The Erasure-kai were, as it turned out, not terrifying monsters. They were idiots.
Shinsou read self-help books and fell asleep on couches.
Katsuki nearly blew up the microwave trying to make instant ramen.
Mina put glitter on throwing knives. Kirishima practiced speeches in the mirror. Denki once asked if you could charge a taser using the microwave.
Izuku spent half his time fixing things, the other half sighing dramatically about the things he couldn’t fix, like the fact that nobody labeled their leftovers.
There were no rival gang members breathing down his neck. No threats. No “keep your mouth shut or else.”
Because, unbeknownst to him, the underground had reached a decision.
You do not fuck with the guy living in Aizawa Shouta’s base.
Word spread fast.
Some said he was a secret assassin. Others said he was cursed, touched by death, immune to pain, invulnerable to bullets. One faction of the Shie Hassaikai was still debating whether Izuku was a myth.
A high-ranking member of the Todoroki clan, after seeing Izuku casually hauling a bag of dirty laundry through the back entrance while three yakuza bled on the front steps, quietly ordered no contact with “the green one.”
A rival boss allegedly tried to send someone to spy on Izuku. That spy returned twenty minutes later with a Tupperware full of stew and a thousand-yard stare.
“He made me eat broccoli,” the man whispered.
After that, they blacklisted him entirely. Nobody approached him. Nobody even glanced at him wrong.
Izuku had no idea.
He thought people were just nice.
One afternoon, he went with Hizashi to restock medical supplies from a contact downtown. They walked into a neutral zone warehouse. Three groups were already inside, Shie Hassaikai, Giran’s people, even a couple of guys from the Sasaki gang.
As soon as Izuku entered, the room shifted.
Tension, murmuring, staring.
Izuku, blissfully unaware, smiled and waved. “Hi!”
Every single person either nodded politely or looked away.
One guy bowed.
Izuku blinked.
“Wow, everyone’s so respectful here,” he whispered to Hizashi.
Hizashi, not missing a beat, said, “Yeah, kid. Real nice place. Definitely not because they think you’ll eat their soul if they make eye contact.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Later that day, Izuku returned to base, happily reorganized the spice rack, and left a small note on Aizawa’s desk that read:
“Don’t forget to stretch today. Your back’s gonna hate you otherwise. I worry, okay? 💚”
Then he microwaved himself some leftovers, curled up on the couch, and dozed off watching a documentary about animal babies.
He had no clue how many people were scared of him.
Or how many feared what would happen if anything ever happened to him.
But that was fine. He had a room and one very hot boss he planned to climb like a tree.
Life was good.
Izuku Midoriya, kidnapped-civilian-turned-househusband-to-an-entire-yakuza-syndicate, had come to a powerful, undeniable conclusion:
His seduction plan was going great.
Aizawa had not murdered him.
Aizawa had not told him to leave.
Aizawa let him slap his ass, sit on his lap, reorganize his kitchen, grope his chest, and boss his men around.
That was, by all known measurements, winning.
So it was time to escalate.
No more timid flirting. No more “oops my hand slipped and now I’m caressing your forearm for two full seconds.”
It was time for physical warfare.
Step one? Wear his clothes.
Izuku had already claimed one of Aizawa’s hoodies, but now he doubled down. He started casually stealing shirts, sweatpants, that big zip-up with the cigarette holes in the cuff. He wore them around base like he owned them.
The effect was immediate.
Every time he passed someone in the halls, there was a subtle pause, a glance, a raised brow, a look that clearly said “...that’s the boss’s hoodie.”
Denki almost dropped a plate when he saw Izuku in one of Aizawa’s deep-cut black tank tops, the arm holes so loose that the sides of his chest were very visibly jiggling.
“Midoriya- Your- You’re- There’s-”
Izuku smiled sweetly. “Hmm?”
Denki short-circuited and fled.
Step two? Increase the touching.
Where before he might’ve just bumped shoulders or casually grabbed Aizawa’s arm, now he lingered.
A hand on the chest that stayed longer than necessary.
Fingers brushing over Aizawa’s jaw under the excuse of wiping away sauce.
Kneading Aizawa’s shoulders while whispering “you’re always so tense, boss~” directly into his ear.
The most controversial move? Sitting on his lap.
He started with meetings.
Aizawa was in the middle of a debrief with the inner circle, muttering into a stack of reports. Izuku walked in with a plate of dumplings, looked around, found no free chairs, and without a word, plopped himself right into Aizawa’s lap like it was his birthright.
Everyone stopped talking.
Aizawa barely blinked.
Izuku ate a dumpling, slowly, legs draped over one of Aizawa’s thighs, leaned back and murmured, “You should eat too.”
The room stayed quiet for a full thirty seconds.
Then Hizashi nodded like a man witnessing destiny. “Well. That’s a power move.”
It didn’t stop there.
At breakfast, if Aizawa sat down, Izuku sat on him.
On a call with a supplier? Lap.
Watching the cameras? Lap.
Smoking on the balcony at 2 AM? Izuku appeared, sat sideways across his thighs, and stole a drag off his cigarette.
“Are you just using me as a chair now?” Aizawa asked one night, not even looking up from his phone.
“Yes,” Izuku said, playing with the collar of Aizawa’s shirt. “You’re warm.”
“…You have legs.”
“I like yours better.”
Aizawa didn’t respond. Just shifted slightly, let him get more comfortable.
Izuku knew he wasn’t ugly. He knew what he was working with. He was soft in all the right places. His ass was fat. He had that cute, round-chested look and his skin was soft enough to be a selling point.
He had tits, okay? Small but noticeable. Jiggle-tested.
He’d catch Aizawa glancing sometimes. Not long. But enough.
A second too long at his thighs when he bent over to grab something.
A flick of the eyes when Izuku stretched, shirt riding up.
One time, just once, he was sure Aizawa’s gaze had landed directly on his nipples through a tank top.
So the game plan was simple:
-
Be hot.
-
Be domestic.
-
Sit directly on his dick until something happened.
The rest of the crew was losing their minds.
Mina whispered, “It’s like watching a nature documentary where the prey seduces the predator.”
Katsuki refused to sit in the same room. “I swear if he climbs that man like a jungle gym at breakfast one more time I’m gonna break something.”
Denki started taking bets on when they’d bang.
Shinsou said, “Boss is gonna crack eventually. He’s not made of stone.”
Izuku sat in Aizawa’s lap, arms around his shoulders, whispering something about lunch plans, one hand trailing down the front of his chest.
Waiting.
Smirking.
Knowing it was only a matter of time.
Izuku Midoriya had tried everything.
Flirting? Check.
Touching? Check.
Lap-sitting? Double check.
Wearing Aizawa’s clothes while straddling him in public? Oh, absolutely check.
But Aizawa still hadn’t fucked him. Or kissed him. Or even made a vaguely sexual grunt. The man was a fortress of sexy, tired resistance.
So Izuku devised the ultimate, final escalation.
Infiltration.
Target: Aizawa Shouta’s bed.
Objective: Cuddling. Full body contact. Domestic blitzkrieg.
Secondary objective: Steal his warmth and maybe his will to resist.
It started innocently. Kind of.
One night, Izuku wandered down the hallway in one of Aizawa’s old T-Shirts and a pair of shorts so small they could qualify as panties. He carried a pillow under one arm, a sleepy look on his face, and a mission in his heart.
Aizawa’s door was unlocked. Foolish.
He knocked once and pushed it open before getting an answer.
Aizawa was already in bed, on his side, one arm under the pillow, hair down, shirtless, a faint frown on his face even in sleep.
Izuku stood there for a moment, admiring. Thirsting. Mentally rehearsing exactly how to not dry hump him in his sleep.
Then, silently, like a very sexy ninja, he slipped into the bed.
Aizawa stirred. Didn’t open his eyes.
“…Midoriya.”
Izuku snuggled up behind him, gently draping an arm over his waist like he belonged there.
“I had a bad dream,” he whispered.
“You dream in Excel.”
“It was a bad spreadsheet.”
Aizawa grunted.
Did not push him off.
Izuku nuzzled in closer. “You’re warm.”
Another grunt. Less annoyed this time.
“I’m staying,” Izuku added firmly.
Aizawa sighed. “I figured.”
He didn’t leave in the morning.
Aizawa woke up, found Izuku still there, tucked against his side, leg casually thrown over his thigh like a koala. Breathing even. Drooling a little.
Aizawa blinked.
“…This is happening now, huh?”
Izuku made a sleepy little “mmnh” noise and burrowed deeper.
Aizawa laid back down.
The next night, Izuku showed up again. Just slinked in with a yawn and flopped into the bed like it was his.
Night three? Same thing.
By the end of the week, he had a toothbrush in Aizawa’s bathroom, fuzzy socks under the bed, and a little white noise machine on the nightstand that played “calming rain with distant thunder.”
Word got out.
As always.
“You’re telling me- He just… climbs into the boss’s bed?”
“Every night.”
“And the boss lets him?”
“Lets him.”
Katsuki paced the hallway like a man on the verge of an emotional breakdown. “That fucking twink is sleeping his way to the top.”
“I think it’s romantic,” Mina whispered, tearing up. “He’s like a little bed parasite.”
“He’s like a housecat,” Kirishima agreed. “You let him in once and now he’s moved in.”
Denki was placing bets again. “I give it three days before the boss either kisses him or dies of sheer horny repression.”
Shinsou just sipped coffee and said, “Honestly? I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
Izuku, meanwhile, had never felt more powerful.
Each night, he curled into bed, slid under the covers, and pressed his entire existence against Aizawa’s stupid broad back like a living heating pad.
He didn’t grope. Didn’t even hump. He just cuddled.
He was going to cuddle this man into submission.
And the best part?
Aizawa had started reaching back.
A hand resting on his thigh. Fingers idly brushing his arm. A subtle pull when Izuku started to scoot away in the morning.
They hadn’t talked about it. They hadn’t kissed. No “hey, by the way, I’m letting you live in my bed and wear my clothes and wrap yourself around me like a clingy koala” conversation.
But Izuku knew.
He was winning.
It was a quiet morning.
The kind of quiet that suggested something terrible was about to happen, or that someone in the building had just discovered that yes, bleach and ammonia actually shouldn’t be mixed.
Izuku Midoriya padded into the kitchen in fluffy socks and Aizawa’s oversized shirt, his hair an impressive halo of curls, clutching a cup of tea like it was a religious artifact. He yawned, stretched, made a squeaky little noise as his spine popped, then shuffled toward the fridge to judge its contents.
“Who put raw liver next to the strawberries?” he muttered, already reaching for a trash bag.
Aizawa walked in behind him, still damp from his shower, shirtless, towel draped around his neck. He grunted in acknowledgment, paused behind Izuku, and reached around him for the kettle.
His hand casually brushed over Izuku’s hip, then stayed there.
Izuku blinked.
“Uh. Morning, boss.”
“Morning,” Aizawa mumbled back, pressing briefly against him to grab a mug.
Izuku stared ahead at the fridge like it had secrets to reveal. His brain took a moment to catch up.
Aizawa just copped a feel. Casually.
He tried not to squeal.
The hand was gone just as quickly, Aizawa sipping his coffee like nothing had happened, settling against the counter, eyes already half-closed.
Izuku, heart pounding, turned back around with the liver in one hand and a rising internal scream.
He had no idea that Aizawa thought they were already dating.
Because, unbeknownst to Izuku, Aizawa had fully, calmly, and without confirming anything verbally, accepted that they were in a relationship two weeks ago.
Why wouldn’t they be?
They slept in the same bed.
Izuku packed for him bentos.
Izuku wore his clothes, sat on his lap, groped his chest, slapped his ass, cuddled him nightly, made him tea, and called him “boss” in that voice that was way too fucking flirty to be professional.
Of course they were dating.
He just assumed Izuku knew.
Izuku did not know.
Izuku thought he was still running the slowest, thirstiest, domestic seduction campaign of his life.
Izuku Midoriya had reached his limit.
He had pulled every move in the book.
Wore the clothes. Sat on the lap. Slept in the bed. Whispered "goodnight" into Aizawa’s neck.
He’d fed him, cleaned his home, mothered his men, and given that man more quality ass contact than a massage with a happy ending will ever give you.
And yet.
No kiss.
No groping.
Not even a single horny grunt when Izuku leaned over him to grab the paprika.
Aizawa just let him exist. Casually. Comfortably. Like they were married and had been for a decade.
Izuku, staring dead-eyed into his reflection while holding a pair of the sluttiest shorts he owned, decided right then and there: If this didn’t work, he was going to fake his own death.
That morning, he emerged from his room in a black tank top that clung and shorts so tight they crept into territories no waistband should enter. The kind of shorts that could legally be categorized as denim floss.
Mina choked on her cereal. Denki dropped his phone. Shinsou walked directly into a doorframe.
“Morning,” Izuku said sweetly, strutting past like nothing was wrong. “Has anyone seen Aizawa?”
“He’s in the office,” Kirishima said weakly, eyes locked straight ahead like a man resisting a holy temptation.
“Thanks!”
Izuku didn’t knock.
He slammed the office door open like a man possessed.
Aizawa, who had been quietly reading a report, looked up. Took in the outfit. Blinked.
“Midoriya.”
“No,” Izuku snapped, slamming the door shut behind him. “We are talking. Now.”
Aizawa blinked again. “Is something wrong?”
“You’re goddamn right something’s wrong!” Izuku marched up to the desk and slapped his hands down on the wood. “You are the hottest man I’ve ever met. You have shoulders and thighs thick enough to qualify as weapons. You let me sit on you daily, and I sleep in your bed like some kind of house-trained boyfriend-shaped pet and you haven’t made one move on me.”
“I-”
“No! Let me finish! I’ve flashed my ass, I’ve jiggled my tits into your face, I’ve made food. I’ve worn your clothes. I’ve groped your chest.”
Aizawa was very, very still.
“And yet,” Izuku hissed, voice high with exasperation, “you haven’t even kissed me. Why?!”
A beat of silence passed.
Then Aizawa, slowly, like he was solving a crossword puzzle on live television, said:
“…I thought we were already dating.”
Izuku blinked.
“...What?”
Aizawa leaned back in his chair. “You moved into my room. You sleep in my bed. You feed me. You do my laundry. You wear my clothes. You call me 'boss' like it’s code for ‘daddy.’ I assumed we were dating.”
“YOU- WHAT-”
“And I figured you weren’t comfortable with kissing yet. Since you never initiated it.”
Izuku’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“You thought I was the shy one?”
“You’ve been very touchy,” Aizawa said calmly. “I assumed kissing was the final step for you.”
Izuku made a noise so high-pitched it could only be heard by dogs.
“I’ve been seducing you for weeks. You thought I didn’t want to kiss you?!”
Aizawa shrugged. “You never tried.”
“I- YOU-”
Izuku stormed around the desk in a flurry of thighs and rage, grabbed Aizawa by the collar, yanked him down, and kissed the everloving shit out of him.
Aizawa kissed back. Hard.
One hand on Izuku’s hip, the other sliding up his back like he’d been waiting for this. There was tongue. Teeth. A low sound from Aizawa’s chest that sent every hair on Izuku’s body standing up like a damn haunted doll.
When they finally broke apart, Izuku panted against his mouth.
“I’ve literally been sleeping on your dick, you emotionally constipated scarecrow.”
“I know,” Aizawa murmured. “That’s why I thought we were dating.”
Izuku smacked him in the chest. “You dumb, hot, bastard.”
Then kissed him again.
Harder.
Something deep in Aizawa snapped like a tripwire pulled too tight for too long.
Weeks of barely restrained hunger, quiet restraint, and patient longing burst open under that single kiss like a blown fuse, and he didn’t hesitate, not for a second, before grabbing Izuku’s hips and dragging him in.
The second kiss was messier. Wetter. A collision of mouths and teeth, breath hot between them, and Izuku gasped into it, fingers tightening in Aizawa’s shirt like he’d waited his whole life to be handled.
He shoved the chair back, stood, and lifted Izuku onto the desk in one smooth motion, spreading his legs like he owned them. The little shorts rode up obscenely high, just barely covering anything, which Aizawa immediately remedied by gripping one thigh and tugging them up even higher, until soft skin met wood and Izuku made a strangled, breathy moan.
“You’ve been sleeping in my bed for two weeks,” Aizawa growled, dragging a hand down Izuku’s bare thigh, up under the edge of the shorts, palm hot, fingers teasing the edge of something soft and needy. “Wearing my clothes. Grinding on me in the fucking kitchen. And I didnt kill you for it.”
His hand cupped between Izuku’s legs, pressing slow and deliberate.
“And you thought I didn’t want to touch you?”
Izuku’s breath hitched. “I thought you were just- Just- Fuck-”
Aizawa shut him up with a sharp roll of his hips, crowding forward so Izuku’s back arched, thighs spreading even wider. His hands were everywhere, palming the soft curve of Izuku’s tits through the tight tank top, squeezing the thick meat of his thighs, gripping his ass like he was starving for it.
“I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks,” he muttered into Izuku’s throat, tongue hot, rough with need. “You think I didn’t notice these pretty little tits bouncing under my shirts? That fat fucking ass all over my lap? You were teasing me, you little brat.”
“I- I wasn’t teasing-!” Izuku gasped, but his voice broke on a moan as Aizawa bit his neck, just enough to make him squirm.
“You wore this outfit into my office.” His voice was low, threatening. “You knew what it would do to me.”
Izuku’s hips lifted helplessly into Aizawa’s palm. “Maybe I wanted to be punished,” he whispered, wild with anticipation.
Aizawa laughed, dark and low. “You’re going to get wrecked, baby.”
He shoved the shorts down in one fluid motion, dragging them over plush thighs and off completely. Izuku gasped as the cold air hit his bare skin, then choked when Aizawa dropped to his knees without ceremony, grabbed those thick thighs in both hands, and pulled him to the edge of the desk.
“No teasing.” Aizawa growled. “You wanted this? Then take it.”
And he dove in.
Izuku nearly screamed.
The first wet swipe of Aizawa’s tongue on his fluttering asshole made him jolt, he grabbed fistfuls of Aizawa’s hair, back arching off the desk, thighs instinctively trying to close but being held open by iron-strong hands.
Aizawa suckled like he wanted to own him. Groaned like he’d found religion between Izuku’s legs. Every pass of his tongue was ruthless and focused, circling, teasing, plunging, fingers stretching him open, until Izuku was a mess of gasps and broken little whines, hips rocking desperately against his mouth.
“F-Fuck- Fuck- I’m gonna- Gonna-” Izuku cried, thighs trembling, chest heaving.
Aizawa pulled back just long enough to growl, “Not yet,” before standing, undoing his pants with one hand, and hauling Izuku’s legs around his waist with the other.
Izuku barely caught a glimpse of his cock, thick, hard, already leaking. Aizawa jerking his cock with fast pumps, spreading lube over it from god knows where, and pushed in.
He slid in slowly. Torturously. Inch by throbbing inch until Izuku clawed at his back, moaning high and desperate.
“Fuuuck- Too big- Shouta-”
“You can take it,” Aizawa murmured into his mouth. “You’ve been begging for this.”
And Izuku had. For weeks. And now that he had it, now that he felt Aizawa stretch him open and fill him perfectly, he didn’t want anything else.
Aizawa kissed him deep, slow, fucking him with the same pace, long strokes, heavy and smooth, grinding in deep every time their hips met. Izuku was gasping into his mouth, making soft little helpless sounds, clinging to him like he’d float away otherwise.
“Feels so good,” Izuku whimpered. “You feel so good, I- Fuck, I wanna come, please-”
“Not yet,” Aizawa growled again, hips snapping harder. “You’re gonna come on my cock.”
And Izuku did.
Loud. Shaking. Screaming into Aizawa’s neck as he fell apart, clenching around him, milking his cock like he was made for it.
Aizawa bit down on his shoulder and finally let go, slamming in once, twice, and coming with a low groan that shook Izuku to the bone.
They stayed there for a moment ,panting, tangled, slick with sweat and cum, foreheads pressed together.
“I hate that it took a tank top and booty shorts to get you to touch me,” Izuku murmured breathlessly.
“I was being respectful,” Aizawa muttered.
“You let me dry hump you at breakfast.”
“That’s different.”
Izuku snorted. “You’re the dumbest, hottest man I’ve ever met.”
Aizawa just kissed him again.
Izuku was still trembling, arms tight around Aizawa’s shoulders, gasping for breath, when he felt the heat of Aizawa's cock still twitching deep inside him. Still filling him.
And then, fucking hell, Aizawa’s hand moved.
Down between their bodies.
He didn’t pull out. Didn’t pause. Just reached between them and gripped Izuku’s cock, slick and twitching and so goddamn sensitive, and started to stroke.
Slow at first. Cruel. The kind of rhythm that felt like worship and torture at the same time.
Izuku cried out, half-broken, hips jerking. “Shouta- Shouta, I just-!”
“I know,” Aizawa muttered against his throat, voice low, ragged with the aftershocks of his own orgasm still pulsing inside him. “You’re still so fucking hard. I’m not stopping until you give me everything.”
He kissed his neck, his jaw, licked a stripe up his throat.
Izuku arched back with a helpless moan as the strokes kept coming, slow, then faster, squeezing just enough at the base to make his thighs spasm, overstimulation catching like a live wire under his skin.
And then Aizawa bit his collarbone.
“Fuck-”
Izuku writhed under him, nails dragging down his back, trying to twist away, to stay in it, to survive it, and failing at all of it.
And then Aizawa’s mouth was on his chest.
He didn’t just kiss.
He sucked.
Hot mouth dragging across Izuku’s soft, bouncing chest, tongue flicking one nipple, then the other, lips sealing around it, teeth scraping just enough to make Izuku’s eyes roll back in his head.
Aizawa groaned into the soft skin, thumb stroking the slit of Izuku’s cock as he worked that nipple like he was starving for it.
“I’ve wanted these since the first night you walked into my room,” Aizawa growled. “You were bouncing in my shirt and you knew exactly what you were doing.”
“I- Fuck- I did-!” Izuku gasped, voice cracking.
“I know you did. And now they’re mine.”
He suckled harder, cock still buried deep, hand moving faster.
Izuku was gone.
Thighs shaking. Back arched. Little sobs spilling out of his mouth as pleasure rolled up from his balls in tight, overwhelming pulses.
“Please- Shouta- I can’t- Gonna- fuck-”
“Do it,” Aizawa ordered, sucking hard on his tit, tongue circling rough and fast. “Come for me again.”
And Izuku broke.
He came with a sharp cry, twitching, shooting all over his own stomach and Aizawa’s hand, hips bucking helplessly through it while Aizawa kept stroking, dragging every last drop out of him, milking him through the second orgasm with wet, filthy smacks of skin and the obscene sound of Aizawa still licking his chest like he’d never get enough.
Cum smeared across Izuku’s stomach, dripped down between them. Aizawa pulled his hand up, wet with it, and licked his fingers slow, watching Izuku with hooded eyes.
“You’re so fucking pretty when you come,” he murmured, kissing Izuku’s spit-slick lips.
Izuku whimpered, dazed and flushed and glowing with afterglow, completely wrecked and grinning.
“Worth the slutty shorts?”
Aizawa kissed him again, slow and deep and filthy.
“Worth a third round.”
It had been three days since the Fuckening™.
Three glorious days of Aizawa walking around with actual bite marks on his neck, and Izuku floating through the base like a man who had achieved his final form via cock-induced spiritual awakening.
Katsuki swore the shorts got shorter. Shinsou believed they had molecularly shrunk.
The entire Erasure-kai had seen things.
Izuku sat cross-legged in the common room, wearing one of Aizawa’s loose button-downs with nothing underneath, hair in a floppy half-bun, glasses perched on his nose, sipping tea and writing something in a notebook.
Across from him, Denki whispered to Mina behind his hand.
“Do we… call him something? Is he like our mom now? Gang stepmom?”
“I vote for Crime Wife,” Mina whispered back. “Boss’s Boss.”
Shinsou walked in, looked at Izuku, looked at the half-naked Aizawa trailing behind him and sighed.
Later that day, the base held a vote, unofficial, but still highly contested, on what to call Izuku.
Options included:
-
Boss’ Beloved
-
Midoriya-sama
-
Mommy (denied immediately)
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King of Tits
Shinsou submitted “Husband.” Just “Husband.”
It won by a landslide.
Meanwhile, rival gangs had begun adjusting their policies.
Rumors spread even faster now:
The cute green one? Taken.
By him.
The Todoroki clan sent flowers. No note. Just flowers.
(They were promptly dissected for hidden bugs. Still, the sentiment was nice.)
Back at home base, Aizawa came out of the shower one evening, towel around his hips, only to find Izuku organizing the weapon lockers, again, while humming and wearing fuzzy socks and a collar.
“Izuku,” he said flatly.
“Hmm?”
“You’re in my shirt again.”
“And nothing else,” Izuku said brightly.
“Do you want me to rail you against the gun safe?”
Izuku smiled. “Yes, actually.”
Aizawa just sighed and kissed him. “Later. Your food timer’s beeping.”
By the end of the week, the Erasure-kai was functioning smoother than it ever had.
Books balanced.
Missions successful.
No poisonings.
Everyone was hydrated.
Aizawa had a partner, the boys and girls had a gang-mom, and Izuku finally had a man who not only rearranged his guts but folded the laundry afterward.
A perfect system.
And as Izuku slung his leg over Aizawa’s lap during the morning briefing, fully shirtless, sipping juice from a novelty mug that said “World’s Sluttiest Spouse”.