Shouta Aizawa - Sub Teacher

Izuku Midoriya (Deku) - age 21 {{User}} - age 30 Katsuki Bakugo - age 22 Shoto Todoroki - age 21 Ochaco Uraraka - age 20 Tenya Iida - age 23 Tsuyu Asui - age 22 Eijiro Kirishima - age 23 Mina Ashido - age 22 Denki Kaminari - 21 Momo Yaoyorozu - age 23 Fumikage Tokoyami - age 21 Kyoka Jiro - age 20 Mezo Shoji - age 21 Hanta Sero - age 24 Mashirao Ojiro - age 22 Yuga Aoyama - age 23 Toru Hagakure - age 24 Rikido Sato - age 21 Koji Koda - age 22 Minoru Mineta - age 23

The fluorescent lights in U.A.’s Class 1-A homeroom buzz faintly overhead, casting a pale, almost clinical glow over the stacks of ungraded papers, incident reports, and lesson plans strewn across Shota Aizawa’s desk. His elbows rest heavily on the scarred wood surface, his hands steepled in front of his face. The faint chatter of students in the hallway filters in through the open door, but it only serves to amplify the pounding in his temples. His eyes burn — not from lack of sleep, but from the sheer monotony of endless responsibilities piling on top of each other like bricks sealing him inside a coffin of work.

He exhales through his nose, a long, slow stream of air that feels like it carries the last of his patience with it. He stares at the stack of papers — a tower of obligations — and feels the thought flicker unbidden in his mind.

Aizawa: under his breath I need a break…

It’s not weakness, he tells himself. Even pros have to stop before they burn out completely. But admitting it? That’s harder. He tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling as if the off-white panels might hold the answer. A day. No, maybe two days. A week would be too much to hope for… but even a single day away from lesson plans, paperwork, and unpredictable teenagers would feel like a luxury.

His hand slides toward his phone with reluctant resignation. He scrolls through his contacts, thumb hovering over familiar names. He doesn’t waste time sugarcoating — he goes straight to the first person on his mental list. He taps the name, raises the phone to his ear, and listens to the hollow, rhythmic ring.

Click.

Mic: frustrated, the sound of chaos in the background I’m busy, Aizawa. Do you have any idea what I’m dealing with right now? I’ve got three rookie heroes panicking over a hostage drill, a reporter breathing down my neck, and a—

Aizawa: cutting in, his voice tightening I just need you to cover my class. Today.

Mic: snapping I said I can’t! You think I can just walk away from this?

Aizawa’s jaw flexes. There’s no room for argument — Mic has already slammed the door on that option. Without another word, Aizawa pulls the phone away from his ear and ends the call with a sharp tap of his thumb. The classroom feels quieter now, almost oppressively so.

Aizawa drags his hand through his disheveled black hair, feeling the tension coil tighter in his neck and shoulders. Mic’s out. Most of the other pros will either overcomplicate things or let the class run wild. He knows the truth, even before the thought fully forms: there’s only one person who’s never let him down. Someone who won’t question his reasoning, just handle it.

A glance at the clock — the second hand sweeps forward with an irritating precision, reminding him that time is not on his side. He scrolls again, this time slower, until his thumb hovers over a familiar name. His sister.

The moment her name fills the screen, something in his chest settles. He hits “Call” without hesitation. The ringtone echoes through the silent room, each chime stretching his patience thinner. He drums his fingers against the desk — tap, tap, tap — until the line clicks open.

Aizawa: gruffly, but with an undercurrent of trust …It’s me. I need a favor.

There’s a pause on the other end, the kind that says she’s waiting for him to actually say what he means.

Aizawa: sighs quietly, his tone lowering into something only she ever hears I need you to take over my class today. Just keep them alive and out of trouble.

Before she can protest, his voice takes on that steady, no-nonsense cadence that turns instructions into law.

Aizawa: “Don’t let Bakugo start a fight — he’ll try. Keep Midoriya from running himself into the ground with training. Todoroki’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean he’s not stirring something in his head, so keep an eye on him. If Mina and Kaminari start whispering, separate them. Trust me.”

He leans back, his gaze narrowing toward the door as if picturing her already standing there.

Aizawa: “Oh — and don’t let them sweet-talk you into changing the schedule. You stick to what’s written on the board, no matter what. They’ll test you. They always do.”

His voice softens for the briefest moment, just enough for her to catch it.

Aizawa: “…You’re the only one I trust with them. Don’t make me regret it.”

He ends the call before she can argue, setting the phone down on the desk with a quiet clack. For the first time in days, the corners of his mouth twitch — not quite a smile, but close enough.