Alpha Aizawa

The fluorescent lights of the U.A. faculty lounge hummed with a sterile energy that felt worlds away from the sunny, laid-back campus you’d left behind in California. You stood just inside the doorway, clutching your transfer paperwork a little too tightly. ​Being an Omega in the hero world usually meant navigating a minefield of "protective" protocols, but being an Omega teacher at U.A.? That was a whole different beast. The air here was thick with the scent of powerful Alphas—the metallic tang of Blood Hero Vlad King and the overwhelming, sunny heat of All Might. It was enough to make your instincts want to curl up and hide. ​Then, the heavy door at the far end of the hall creaked open. ​Shota Aizawa drifted in, looking like a man who had been dragged through a hedge backward. His hair was a mess, his scarf was tangled, and his capture weapon looked more like a sleeping bag than a tactical tool. But as he caught your scent across the room, he went perfectly still. ​The two of you had spent three years surviving on 2:00 AM FaceTime calls and "I’m alive" texts sent from hospital wings. Seeing him in 3D—without a pixelated screen between you—felt like finally catching your breath after a long underwater dive. ​He didn't run. He didn't make a scene. He simply walked over with that slow, deliberate gait, stopping just inches from your personal space. Up close, the scent of him—dried coffee, old books, and the sharp, cooling musk of a tired Alpha—washed over you, acting like an immediate anchor. ​"You look exhausted," Shota muttered, his voice gravelly and low enough that only you could hear. His eyes searched yours, softening in a way he’d never allow a student to see. "The flight was twelve hours. You should be at the apartment, not standing in a hallway." ​He shifted, his body naturally moving to block you from the view of the other teachers, a subtle, possessive instinct he couldn't quite suppress. ​"Nezu is expecting us," he said, though he made no move to leave. His hand twitched at his side, clearly aching to touch you. "But if you need a minute to... adjust... I can tell him the paperwork got delayed."

The humidity of Musutafu hit you the moment you stepped off the transport, but it was nothing compared to the sensory overload of U.A. High School’s main gates. As a new transfer from the U.S., you were prepared for the cultural shift, but as an Omega, the sheer concentration of "Heroic" pheromones in the air was like trying to listen to a whisper in the middle of a rock concert. ​You followed the winding path toward the main building, your heart drumming a rhythmic beat against your ribs. It had been six months since you’d last seen Shota in person—six months of grainy video calls and time-zone math that made your head spin. ​You found him exactly where he said he’d be: tucked into a shadowed alcove near the faculty entrance, away from the prying eyes of arriving students. He was slumped against the wall, his yellow sleeping bag tucked under one arm like a discarded skin. ​When he looked up, his dark eyes narrowed, tracking your movement with a sharp, predatory focus that quickly melted into something weary and relieved. As you closed the distance, his scent reached you first—bitter espresso and the cool, damp smell of a forest after rain. It was the scent that had haunted your pillows for years, and now, it was finally tangible. ​"You're thinner," Shota grunted, though his voice had that low, rhythmic vibration that usually preceded a purr he’d never admit to. He didn't move to hug you—he was far too guarded for that in a school hallway—but he stepped forward until your boots were nearly touching, his shadow completely enveloping you. ​He leaned in, his nose brushing the air near your neck, catching the faint, frantic spike of your scent. A subtle, grounding rumble started in his chest. ​"The Alpha faculty members are already gossiping about the 'American Omega' coming to fill the vacancy," he murmured, his eyes flicking toward the security cameras. "I told them to mind their own business, but they're curious. You sure you're ready for this? It’s not too late to hide you in my apartment and tell Nezu you got lost in transit." ​He reached out, his calloused thumb grazing your wrist—right over your pulse point—checking your heat levels with a practiced, protective flick of his gaze. ​"Tell me you brought the good coffee from Seattle," he added, a tiny, tired smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Because if I have to survive your first week on the sludge they serve in the lounge, I might actually lose my mind."

The morning air in Musutafu is crisp, a far cry from the humid departure gate you left behind in the States. Standing before the towering "H" shaped towers of U.A. High School, the reality of the situation finally sinks in: no more lagging video calls, no more sleeping in his oversized hoodies to catch a fading scent, and no more thirteen-hour time differences. ​You’re the new Heroics Ethics teacher, but to the man currently trudging toward the gate, you’re just his. ​Shota Aizawa looks like he’s been pulled through a hedge backward—standard procedure for him. His black hair is a static mess, and his yellow sleeping bag is tucked under one arm like a discarded cocoon. But the moment his dark, tired eyes land on you, the lethargy vanishes. ​As an Omega, you feel the shift in the air before he even speaks. His scent—dark coffee and the faint, bitter medicinal tang of his eye drops—wraps around you like a physical weight. He stops just inches away, his presence looming and protective. Without a word, he reaches out, his hand sliding behind your neck to pull you into a firm, grounding forehead-to-forehead press. It’s a silent, Alpha-coded claim that says more than a "Welcome Home" ever could. ​"You're late," he grumbles into the space between you, though his thumb is tracing soothing circles against your nape. "I was about to send a search party, or at least tell Nezu the Americans stole you back." ​He pulls back just enough to look you over, a flicker of genuine warmth softening his gaze. "The faculty lounge is already a circus because they know you're coming. Hizashi has been screaming 'USA' for twenty minutes straight. If you want to turn around and fly back, now’s the time." ​He takes your luggage, his fingers lingering against yours as he turns toward the main entrance. "Otherwise... let's go. I've got a desk for you right next to mine. I'm not letting you out of my sight today."

UA High had never hired an omega teacher from overseas before. That fact followed you like a shadow as you stood outside the faculty building, credentials freshly clipped to your jacket, passport still heavy in your bag. You’d crossed an ocean from the United States for this position—months of interviews, background checks, quirk evaluations, and careful discussions about status, accommodations, and boundaries. Newest omega faculty member. Licensed hero educator. Foreign hire. You exhaled, steadying yourself before stepping inside. The halls were already alive with controlled chaos—students training, heroes moving with purpose, the weight of responsibility baked into the walls. UA didn’t feel like a school so much as a frontline disguised as one. Nezu had been welcoming. Thorough. Almost too cheerful. Aizawa Shota, on the other hand— You hadn’t seen him in person in over a year. Long-distance had meant late-night calls, clipped messages between patrols, and stolen moments through grainy video screens. You’d told him you were considering a position in Japan. You hadn’t told him it was finalized. You hadn’t told him when you’d arrive. Part of you needed this to be real first. The staff room door slid open quietly. You stepped inside just as a familiar, tired voice muttered something about caffeine being a lost cause. Capture weapon slung loose, shoulders tense from too many nights without sleep, Aizawa stood with his back to you—every bit the pro hero you’d missed. Then he turned. The room went still. His eyes widened just enough to betray him before his expression locked down, professional instincts kicking in hard. But you felt it—the sudden spike of recognition, the shock, the restrained emotion fighting behind red-rimmed eyes. “...You’re here,” he said finally, voice low, disbelieving. You offered a small, steady smile. Calm. Confident. Omega or not, you belonged here. “Looks like we’re coworkers now,” you said. “Surprise, Shota.”

UA High was never quiet—but today, there was a different kind of buzz in the air. Whispers followed you down the hallway as you were escorted toward the faculty offices, not because you were foreign (though the American accent didn’t help), and not even because you were young for a pro hero–level instructor. It was because you were an omega. A male omega, at that. UA had alphas, betas, even a handful of omega support staff—but an omega hired as a teacher? That was new. Rare. Controversial. And somehow... Principal Nezu had approved it without hesitation. Your scent—soft, calm, unmistakably omega—was carefully muted with suppressants, but those sensitive enough could still tell. Aizawa Shota certainly could. He stood slouched near the staff room door, capture weapon loosely wrapped around his shoulders, tired eyes lifting the moment you stepped into view. For someone who looked perpetually half-asleep, the way his posture stilled said everything. You were real. You were here. And after months of long-distance calls across time zones, his omega was standing at UA. “Nezu said you’d arrive today,” Aizawa muttered, voice low, rough—but not annoyed. If anything, there was relief under it. “Didn’t think he meant this early.” As an alpha—and an underground hero—he was already hyper-aware of the school, the students, the risks. Having his long-distance boyfriend suddenly working at UA, as the newest omega teacher no less, was... a complication. But when his gaze softened, just slightly, it was clear he wasn’t unhappy about it. “Welcome to UA,” he said, eyes lingering on you longer than professionalism strictly required. “...You sure you’re ready for this place?”

The heavy wooden doors of U.A. High’s faculty lounge creaked open, and for a moment, the usual morning chatter—Present Mic’s loud coffee-fueled rambling and Midnight’s sharp laughter—faltered. ​The air in the room shifted. It wasn't just the scent of a newcomer; it was the unmistakable, soft undertone of a male Omega, a rarity in the hero world, especially within the hallowed, Alpha-heavy halls of the world’s top hero academy. ​Shota Aizawa didn't look up from his yellow sleeping bag immediately. He didn't have to. He’d known that scent for years, though usually, it was filtered through a grainy webcam or trapped in the fabric of a hoodie mailed across the Pacific. After three years of long-distance longing and international data plans, the "American transfer" wasn't just a rumor anymore. ​"You're late," Shota rasped, finally peeling one eye open. He looked exhausted—more so than usual—but as his gaze landed on you, there was a flicker of something deeply possessive and relieved in those dark eyes. ​"The flight from the States was thirteen hours, Shota," Hizashi (Present Mic) chirped, vibrating with excitement as he looked between the two of you. "Give the kid a break! Besides, look at him! Our newest foundational heroics teacher is finally here!" ​Shota stood up, his capture scarf settled messily around his neck. He stepped into your personal space, ignoring the curious stares of the other teachers. He didn't care about the 'rarity' of your dynamic or the hushed whispers about a male Omega joining the staff. To him, you were just the piece of his life that had finally stopped being 6,000 miles away. ​He reached out, his hand hovering near your shoulder before his fingers brushed against your collar, subtly marking you with his scent in front of the others. ​"Welcome to U.A.," he murmured, his voice dropping to a tone he reserved only for you. "Try not to let the students eat you alive on your first day. Or the Alphas, for that matter."