Chapter Text
Possession Is 9/10ths Of The Law
~~~
It’s a well-known fact in their little circle that Shōta has what Hizashi has always kindly referred to as attachment issues.
Nemuri has always just called it “being batshit insane and better at hiding it than most people realize or expect”.
Which, while kind of rude, isn’t really something Hizashi can argue with.
Either way the point still stands:
Shōta has never, in any real or healthy definition of the term, been good with people.
Mainly, Hizashi and the others had learned pretty early on, because when it comes to personal interactions outside of work and/or other obligations Shōta has only two real speeds.
O% Interest or 1000% Fixation.
It’s caused more than a few road bumps over the years to say the least but they had eventually found a rhythm that worked for them.
But for Hizashi and the others it had started like this:
Shōta had kicked Hizashi’s ass at the Sports Festival and Hizashi had immediately wanted to be Best Friends™ with the surly little emo who’d transferred into his class.
Only Shōta had wanted less than nothing to do with either him, Nemuri, Tensei, or Oboro in the beginning. Instead, he’d blank stared all of them down any time they tried to speak to him.
He’d almost always seemed to be looking through them instead of at them.
That had only changed when Hizashi, the others at his back and agreeing with him loudly, had punched one of their classmates dead in the mouth for hissing villain at Shōta as they walked by.
After that there’d been a bit of actual life in Shōta’s eyes where they all were concerned.
Which had been more than worth the week of detention Hizashi had gotten as a punishment.
But the real turning point had come roughly a month and a handful of actual clipped conversations later.
Hizashi, who’d long ago perfected the art of flamboyant cheer as a defense mechanism, had shown up to school after a very very bad night at home.
Shōta had taken one look at the bruises around his mouth and the shake in his hands and gone stone cold in a way none of them had ever seen before.
Two days later Shōta had shown up to class with busted knuckles and something vicious lurking around the corners of his mouth.
Not so coincidentally that afternoon was the last time Hizashi ever saw his father.
Hizashi had home come from school that afternoon to the sight of his father, splints on his fingers and eyes wild and bloodshot as he shied away from Hizashi where before he’d never had a problem striking out, packing his stuff.
The man still sends money to Hizashi’s mom every month like clockwork even now but after that day he’d never darkened either of their doorsteps again. Not even after Hizashi had gone pro.
It was only afterward that Hizashi had managed to piece the full story together.
The afternoon before, when Hizashi had stayed back after class to speak with a teacher, Shōta had apparently had questions.
Questions that none of the others had felt safe comfortable not answering.
Oboro had, apparently, been the one to actually spill the details of Hizashi’s home life that they’d all pieced together by then. Nemuri had been the one to give Shōta his home address and Tensei had slid enough money into Shōta’s pocket to more than cover the train ride both ways.
Money that Shōta would eventually try to repay and Tensei would refuse to accept leading to them spending the next decade sliding the exact amount back and forth between the two of them in increasingly elaborate and ridiculous ways.
Hizashi had been stunned but achingly grateful and more than aware that he, as a hero in training, probably should have had a deeper moral reaction to the entire thing.
All of them should have really but … well.
It had felt too good to be able to sleep again without that sick underlying fear, without that anxious sort of hypervigilance tainting every moment of every day. It had felt good to never have to see that muzzle again or fresh bruises ringing his mom’s wrists.
Shōta, whatever he had done, had changed Hizashi’s life and won all of their undying loyalty in the process.
They’d never spoken of it again, too wary of being found out, but Shōta had hovered after that, more attentive to all of them than he’d ever been before. Present and aware and actually engaging.
But then it happened again.
An upperclassman had been inappropriate to Nemuri in a way that not even she could laugh off or flip around. She’d broken his nose and gotten detention for it of course but this time Hizashi had been the one to see the look in Shōta’s eyes when it all went down.
The upperclassman had dropped out of UA a few days later and all of them had known.
It hadn’t stopped there either.
All of them had seemingly been taken under Shouta’s vicious sort of protection. And as odd a mix as their group had been at the time it hadn’t taken long for the damages to start adding up.
A broken arm there, a withdrawal form here, the wide berth that was always left around their group, and the people who couldn’t look in their direction without turning pale.
Within six months they’d been on track to being one of the smallest classes in UA heroics history, with an unprecedented number of early dropouts and transfers.
They’d all waited, breathlessly, for Shōta to finally be caught, to step over some line that would see him facing consequences.
In the end, he’d just ended up with private classes with Nedzu instead.
Which, in Hizashi’s opinion, might have actually just made it all worse.
Because, after only a few weeks of those private lessons, Shōta’s personality had shifted just a bit. The extreme levels of almost soulless disinterest and feral intensity that had defined him before had seemingly been tempered a degree or twelve.
Instead, Shōta had seemed to put actual effort into rebranding his image and reputation in UA.
Out had gone the openly feral terror Shōta had become known as and in had come the more reserved model. He'd become known for his stoic cynicism and his attention to detail that was to be envied. An obvious shoo-in for Underground Heroics all the way around.
But, most importantly of all, somewhere along the way Shōta managed to become just another, if odder than normal, heroics student.
Eventually, even the instinctual fear that had been beaten into so many of their classmates had faded a few degrees.
People had, in general, simply thought Shouta had finally mellowed out a bit even if he was still standoffish and intimidating.
They’d all be so very eager, it seemed, to dismiss all the warnings his past behavior should have given them. Content somehow with the false sense of safety it provided them with.
But Hizashi and the others had known the truth of the matter.
None of Shōta’s issues had actually been solved.
Instead, Nedzu had just taught Shouta how to effectively mask them until the most advantageous moment.
All that vicious intensity not so much erased as it was … tucked away.
Life had settled for them though and they’d pressed forward.
Shōta’s true nature only peeked out from time to time right up until they’d lost Oboro.
That had been … bad.
Hizashi and the others had grieved their friend deeply and bitterly, would always grieve him really, but Shōta …
Shōta had been unhinged.
Damages had gone up again, Hizashi, Nemuri, and Tensei had barely been able to breathe without Shōta’s hands on their shoulders or the backs of their necks. His capture scarf, something that he never went anywhere without and none of the teachers saw fit to actually take from him, was almost always wrapped around at least a part of one of them.
Nedzu had, once again, been the one to rein him in when all was said and done.
They’d moved forward eventually, wounded and hurting and determined, but that hole in their group, that gaping chasm where Oboro had always stood had never seemed to fill itself in all the way.
Becoming a pro had, Hizashi and the others had been quick to realize, made Shōta both better and worse.
Better because he now had a sanctioned outlet for his more violent tendencies and worse because it allowed him to withdraw even more from everyone but the handful of people who were very much his.
And in all the time since they graduated and stepped out into the world as proper heroes and then eventually teachers, Hizashi has never seen anyone new break into Shōta’s space no matter how hard they tried.
Which is, honestly, kind of hilarious because people try far more often than most would think.
Ms. Joke for one has been particularly persistent no matter how many times Hizashi has warned her off in the past.
Which he’s done more times than he can count although Nemuri keeps telling him that some people just need to learn lessons on their own for them to stick.
Hizashi keeps trying though because as much as he loves Shōta and is settled into the way their friendship works, Hizashi’s also pretty sure the idea of Shōta in love might be actual nightmare fuel for him.
But Emi, sweet, loud, forcefully cheerful Emi, just doesn’t seem to know how to take good advice when it’s been served to her from multiple directions.
Instead, she seems set and determined to harass Shōta at every given opportunity.
One of these days she’s going to end up getting exactly what she wants, Shōta’s full and undivided attention.
And Hizashi is one thousand percent sure it’s not going to go the way she wants it to. Not by a long shot.
Because if Shōta was going to fixate on her he would have done it by now.
So, with all of that taken into account, Hizashi thinks he can be excused by the way he feels ice trace down his spine the day that Shōta shows up over two hours late to work only to walk into the staff room during Hizashi’s planning period with an actual smile on his face.
“H-Hey Sho,” Hizashi greets, taking a moment to clear his throat to try and erase the unease he knows Shōta will have already picked up on. “Having a good morning?”
“Help me find a new apartment,” Shōta basically orders him out of nowhere, like he’s not asking Hizashi to do the one thing they’ve all been trying to do for the better part of a decade now.
“Why the sudden change of mind?” Hizashi can’t help but ask, already reaching for his phone with the intent of alerting the group chat Shōta’s not a part of. “Finally tired of that dump?”
“No,” Shōta tells him blandly, phone in hand as he heads towards the coffee maker, “it’s just not suited for two. I’m going to need at least another room for Izuku’s home office.”
Hizashi abruptly freezes.
“I-Izuku?” Hizashi stutters the unfamiliar name out, eyes wide behind his shades and breath froze in his lungs.
Because they don’t know any Izuku. Hizashi knows they don’t. It’s not a name he recognizes from any of their group's conversations.
Which can only mean one thing.
Shōta has met someone new.
Someone new that Shōta is willing to not only make changes for but to share space with as well.
Someone he’s only bothered to tell Hizashi about now.
Hizashi, who had once watched Shōta calmly dislocate someone’s shoulder just for crowding him at a bar, finds himself speechless at the very idea.
“We’re in a relationship,” Shōta tells him nonchalantly. “His apartment is a dump and mine’s too small. This is the logical choice.”
Hizashi practically rips his phone out of his pants pockets and frantically thumbs open the chat. There’s no way in any of the hells he’s having this, more than likely, nightmare of a conversation without all the backup he can muster.
~~~
Shōta has always known that he’s … off somehow.
At least by other people’s standards that is.
His parents had let on to that particular fact when he was young.
Hindsight and years of observation have made Shōta realize that he’d been what most would consider an odd kid. His naturally stoic personality and a quirk that had quickly been labeled as “villainous” had seen him alienated from basically everyone above, below, and actually in his age group.
But, in his opinion, neither of those things had ever been the real problem. Had never been the sticking point where everyone, his parents included, had been concerned.
No, the real issues had always been Shōta’s temper and his tendency to fixate. And worst of all was always the rare situations where those two facets of his personality overlapped.
In those moments Shōta was always more than willing to show the depths of viciousness that dwelled within him.
Even from a young age, Shōta had been gifted with the descriptors of independent and clever which his parents had briefly rejoiced over. Right up until his first pre-school teacher had tacked on the words self-isolated, emotionally detached, and most damningly of all, violent.
Somehow, despite being so young and it being so long ago, Shōta can still remember the exact way his parent’s faces had fallen that afternoon.
Even as a child sitting in that brightly colored plastic chair with his hands clutching at his stuffed Neko Neko-chan doll as his parents and teacher talked, Shōta had never really seen the issue with the ways that he had carved out his own space in that classroom. He’d only really gotten around to biting a handful of kids before everyone had known to give him a wide berth and to never ever touch his doll. He hadn’t even been forced to draw blood.
It wasn’t his fault if it took them too long to learn the lesson he’d been trying to teach them.
And yet it had still been the first of many class/school changes for him.
It hadn’t been long before most of the kids and the teacher in his new class had realized the general guidelines to dealing with him.
As a rule Shōta didn’t like being bothered, didn’t like things he considered unnecessary but he also held on tightly to anything that managed to capture his attention. He didn’t like other kids, didn’t want to make friends, and didn’t want to participate in games or group activities.
And, above all else, Shōta didn’t like anything he considered his to be touched by anyone else.
But, to make matters worse, no matter how many conversations or detentions it earned him, Shouta had also never developed any sort of compunctions about lashing out whenever anyone crossed one of his boundaries.
By the time he was nine years old Shouta had changed schools twice and was fully aware of the fact that his parents were uncomfortable around him.
Family outings had become few and far between and any shared meal times were tense and silent affairs. Shōta had only been eight when he’d been allowed to eat alone in his room every night if he wanted to.
Once, when he was twelve, Shōta’s mother had caught him with the kitten he’d smuggled into his bedroom.
Once she’d seen that Shōta was feeding and caring for it just like the internet had told him to she’d broken down crying right there in his doorway.
Shōta hadn’t understood why until much later.
He’d overheard her that night whispering frantically to his father. Had stood just outside the kitchen door and listened to her ragged whispers about how she’s been sure he couldn’t be trusted around anything as fragile and helpless as an actual kitten. Had heard the way they had both mumbled about warning signs and red flags.
Not all of it had made sense but Shōta had slinked back to his room and his new cat with the soul-deep understanding that both of his parents were afraid of him despite the fact that he’d never tried to hurt either of them.
In the end that cat had been the closest thing to a friend Shōta had ever had. He’d spent the majority of his time and basically any money he’d had on its care. He’d groomed and trained and pampered that cat in every way he’d known how
Gutter, so named for where he’d found her, went with Shouta everywhere possible and a few places she technically wasn’t allowed. Leash trained and quiet, she’d been his in a way that had scratched some deep-seated need he hadn’t had the age or the wisdom to name back then.
And then one of the upperclassmen from Shōta’s middle school had thought she would be an easy target when he’d caught Shōta out and about by himself. Had thought that she was the obvious weak spot in the villain boy’s indifferent front.
The vet visit afterward had been tense.
But Shouta’s retaliation had been brutal.
In the end, Shouta had been forced to move schools again despite the lack of concrete evidence needed to put any official black marks on his file.
Gutter had eventually been fine, her ribs healing quickly under his diligent care. The upperclassman, who had refused to even speak Shōta’s name again after that, had even been slated to regain full use of his hands in the next few months if the proper quirks and physical therapy were applied.
So it had been yet another lesson learned and no real long-term harm done in Shouta’s opinion.
His parents hadn’t felt the same way.
Dinners in his room had become pre-cooked meals being left in the refrigerator and coming home after school to an empty apartment.
By the time Shōta had settled on heroics as his chosen life path both of his parents had been in tears, relief practically rolling off of them in waves on the rare occasion that he saw them. They’d been more than willing to enroll him in dance classes and a local gym alongside anything else he’d requested to help him along his chosen path.
When Shōta had gotten his enrollment to UA settled they’d pressed a shiny new apartment key into one of his hands, a bundle of banking details into the other, and had quietly asked him to never contact them again.
Shōta hadn’t bothered to argue.
He’d simply packed his few things, gathered the multiple bags of cat supplies, hooked Gutter to her leash and walked out. Looking back hadn’t really occurred to him either.
Settling into UA had taken time, clawing his way into the heroics course had taken longer, but Shōta had done it.
And then he’d found his life infected with people.
As previously established, Shōta had never cared much for people on a personal level.
They were loud, messy, and generally not worth his attention as a rule.
But Hizashi and the other idiots had eventually worn him down and they had rather firmly become his.
His to keep and watch over and protect in a way that no other people in his life ever had been before.
Losing Oboro, having him ripped away so suddenly and violently, had been like having a piece of himself gouged out. All of the careful masks and lessons Nedzu had given Shōta had been set to come tumbling down until the chimera himself had stepped in again and taken Shōta firmly in hand.
Still, it had taken years to undo some of that damage and even now Oboro’s loss still presses on Shōta just like it does the others.
Once he’d left UA and gone pro, Shōta had never imagined finding someone new he’d feel that kind of possessive intent over.
And the very idea of finding anyone he’d want romantically as well had always seemed ridiculous.
Sex wasn’t a mystery to Shōta of course, he’d even done his share of experimenting over the years. It had all been more clinical than Hizashi’s wild, laughter-filled abandon, Tensei’s hidden romanticism, or Nemuri’s everything but it had, in Shouta’s opinion, been only logical to explore and discover his own wants, needs, and preferences.
There had always been something missing though. No one Shōta had ever taken to his bed had ever lasted for more than a single encounter for one reason or another. He’d mapped out his own inclinations and yet his interest had never been fully captured by any partner he’d ever had.
So running into someone who makes every single part of Shōta perk up all at once comes as quite a shock.
It’s pure chance that they meet.
Fate some darkly giddy part of Shōta almost seems to purr.
Shōta, having been called in by Tsukauchi unexpectedly over a past case in the early morning hours, turns the corner a few blocks from the precinct after waving off the detective's offer of a ride to UA only to have his new obsession walk right into his arms in a flurry of spilled coffee and flying papers.
Normally Shōta would already be tamping down some degree of rage but this time …
This time he looks down into wide green eyes shining up at him from behind thick black glasses and he’s gone.
Like something has finally clicked into place, like some long dormant switch has finally been flipped in the back of his head, Shōta is instantly, irrevocably, in love.
“Oh, gods,” Shōta’s future husband practically whimpers, voice sweet and soft with red already flushing his freckled cheeks, “I am so sorry, Eraserhead.”
Shōta goes still.
“You know me?” Shōta can’t help but ask. He’s Underground for a number of reasons and the lack of fame most Underground Heroes receive is absolutely high up on that list. There are plenty of other pro heroes and police who couldn’t recognize Shōta as a hero at all unless they’d worked together previously on one case or another.
Shōta’s been on the wrong side of someone attempting to arrest him for vagrancy enough times to prove that fact.
So someone he’s never worked with recognizing him by name is exceedingly rare.
And Shōta knows he’s never worked with whoever this is.
He would have remembered.
“Y-Yeah,” the slightly stuttered answer is beyond charming. Shōta’s already imagining a thousand and one ways he can hear that stutter again in more private settings. “Y-You’re my favorite hero.”
See, that dark voice whispers delightedly in Shōta’s ear again, he’s already yours.
“Hmm,” Shōta hums, all of Nedzu’s training scurrying to the forefront of his mind. Careful, careful, his old sensei’s voice hums in his ear, you don’t want to startle your prey. “Not many people know Underground Heroes, especially not me.”
“I-I,” that stutter is back in full force along with a fresh wave of red across those cheeks, “I’m a-an analyst so I-I read a lot of your case files.”
Shōta is sure that, given the way those green eyes dart away from his own for a split second, he’s not being given the full story.
Not that it really matters.
Shōta is going to know everything he needs to know soon.
One way or another.
“What’s your name?” Shōta finally asks, squatting down abruptly to help gather up the files that are spread out on the deserted sidewalk around them.
“A-Ah, Midoriya,” he answers with an awkward half-bow from where he’s kneeling on the ground in front of Shōta, “Midoriya I-Izuku.”
Izuku, Shōta turns the name over in his head absently, more than a bit enchanted with the sight of Izuku on his knees in front of him. Aizawa Izuku.
It sounds right.
“Aizawa Shōta,” Shōta offers the familiarity it had taken literal years for anyone else to earn easily, something that feels almost like a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “You can call me Shōta.”
The flush that deepens across Izuku’s face looks absolutely delicious.
It takes all of Shōta’s self-control not to lean forward and take a bite. To not do his level best to see just how red that freckled skin would turn when he set his teeth against that slender throat or got his hand fisted in those curls.
Shōta bets it would be beautiful. Bets that he could make Izuku cry for him without too much effort at all. Could have him breaking and begging long before he actually got around to fucking him.
The thought alone is enough to have Shōta’s cock half-hard and his brain mapping out nearby alleyways, so he does his best to press that line of thinking down and away for now.
Soon, Shōta reassures himself, shoring up his resolve with absolutes just as Nedzu had once taught him, that will all come soon enough.
Izuku’s light yelp and frantic scrambling draws Shōta back to the present.
“I’m so sorry but I have to go!” Izuku scoops the rest of his files up rapidly and scrambles to his feet. “I’ll be fired if I’m late again.”
Shōta’s eyes abruptly narrow, the familiar heat of his quirk rising to settle just below the surface. He doesn’t like the sound of that at all.
“I’ll walk you,” Shōta states more than offers. “They won’t reprimand you if I take responsibility.”
Shōta will make sure of it. And it’s an excellent tactical maneuver in the strategy he’s already beginning to slot together in his mind.
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” Izuku protests, shoulders rounding just a bit.
“No trouble,” Shōta is quick to reassure him, already stepping up to take his place at Izuku’s side.
“If y-you’re sure?” Izuku stares up at him, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip and arms clutching his stack of messy files to his chest with knuckles gone white.
Shōta just reaches over, practically pries the files from Izuku’s hands, and starts walking.
There’s a brief pause and then Izuku’s scrambling to catch up with him just as Shōta had known he would.
The walk back to the police station Shōta had literally just left is pleasant. Even with the way that Izuku is so obviously stumbling over his nerves the entire time, his stuttering apologies and thanks eventually lowering to a mumble that Shōta can just barely hear.
Shōta, much to his surprise, finds it charming.
He can’t wait to hear it over breakfast or before bed. Can’t wait until he can find all the different ways to make Izuku’s voice break with something other than pure nerves. Or to see if he’ll keep trying to mumble when Shōta’s sliding his cock in and out of his throat.
Shōta honestly hopes he will.
More than aware of all the surprised eyes trained on him, Shōta walks Izuku all the way up to the front desk.
“I-I can get it from here, Eraserhead,” Izuku tells him, hands reaching out for his files. “T-Thank you for walking me.”
“Shōta,” Shōta reminds him, keeping his hold on the files and refusing to relinquish them.
“S-Shōta,” Izuku ducks his head, that sweet blush back again.
Shōta’s pretty sure it’s against a number of laws to fuck Izuku right here in the lobby no matter how good Shōta’s name sounds in his mouth. Plus Shōta’s always been a possessive creature not so far beneath the surface. No one else has the right to see Izuku break apart the way that Shōta intends to shatter him when the time finally comes.
“Good boy,” Shōta tells him as he finally lets the files go.
Izuku squeaks, flushes an even more vibrant red, bows again, and then moves around the front desk and down the dark hallway that leads to the analysis and records departments as if something is chasing him.
Which is another thought that Shōta is already looking forward to revisiting later.
Especially since Shōta now has a reason to visit two of the departments he’d never really had cause to venture down to before now.
Once Izuku has finally left his sight, Shōta turns towards the officer on desk duty.
The woman pales a few shades under his gaze.
“Midoriya,” Shōta wastes no time saying, “was with me. Make sure he doesn’t get in trouble for being late.”
He turns on his heel and strides back out, mind already clicking through various plans, without bothering to wait for a reply.
Shōta’s phone is in his hands before he even hits the door. He has a few things he needs to take care of before he can start the process of bringing Izuku into his rightful place in Shōta’s life.
First off is getting a better apartment than the one-room closet he’s lived in since high school.
Hizashi and his other idiots will probably be delighted to help him find a nicer place. As a matter of fact, Shōta’s pretty sure that group chat he’s not supposed to know about will be blowing up soon enough.
Either way, he’ll be able to get on with doing more important things all the sooner if they help him.
Like finding out any and everything he can about Izuku.