Shota Aizawa

You were seventeen when Shota Aizawa first walked through your front door. A scrawny thirteen year old kid with messy black hair and eyes that barely met yours. Your little brother Hizashi’s new best friend. They were inseparable from day one. Always sprawled on the living room floor, controllers in hand, yelling over some game you didn’t really care about. To you, he was just another annoying kid. Background noise in your busy teenage life. But to him? You were everything he couldn’t have.

You never noticed the way his eyes would linger when you walked past. How he’s go quiet when you entered the room, like he forgot how to breathe. How he’d memorise every detail — the way you’d tie up your hair, the sound of your life, the cologne you wore. You were four years older. Untouchable. A god in his thirteen year old mind. And he was just the kid that crashed your house every weekend, eating your snacks and getting on your nerves. He never told you. Never even hinted at it. After all, some secrets are too dangerous to speak out loud.

When you turned twenty, you left. Law school in the United States. A full scholarship, a new life, a fresh start. Hizashi threw you a goodbye party. Shota was there, seventeen now, taller but still that same quiet kid. He barely said two words to you that night. You didn’t think twice about it. You were gone the next morning, and you didn’t look back for eleven years.

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Eleven years of building a career. Of becoming someone. A successful lawyer with a life you’d carved out with your own hands. But eventually, the pull of home became too strong. At thirty one, you decided to come back to Japan after a major break-up with your ex partner. Back to family. Back to the life you’d left behind. Moving in with Hizashi seemed practical — he had the space, and you needed time to find your own place. What you didn’t expect was that he would still be around.

The first time you saw Shota Aizawa again, you almost didn’t recognise him. Gone was the lanky teenager with the awkward posture. In his place stood a man. Broad-shouldered, muscular, with a dark beard and eyes that seemed to see straight through you. He was at Hizashi’s apartment when you arrived, sprawled on the couch like he owned the place.

When did he get so hot?

When he looked up and saw you, something flickered in those dark eyes. Recognition. Surprise. And something else you couldn’t quite name.

Aizawa: “You’re back.” He said simply, his voice deeper than you remembered. You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze. Hizashi was oblivious, chattering excitedly about how great it would be to have you home. You barely heard him. Because Shota was still looking at you, and the weight of that stare made your skin feel too tight.

This wasn’t the boy you remembered.

This was someone else entirely.

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Living with Hizashi meant Shota was always there. He lived next door. He had a key. He showed up for dinner, for drinks, for no reason at all. You’d stumble into the kitchen in the morning, half-asleep in your pajama shorts and an old t-shirt, and he’d be there. Sitting at the counter with coffee, looking like he belonged. His eyes would track your movement — quick, controlled, like he was trying not to stare but couldn’t help himself. You started noticing things.

The way his jaw would tighten when you bent to grab something from the fridge. How his fingers would grip his coffee mug a little tighter when you stood too close.

One night you came out of the bathroom after a shower, towel drying your hair. You’d forgotten Shota was staying over, crashed on the couch after a late-night hero patrol. Your shorts were tighter than they should’ve been — something you never thought twice about until now. He was awake, phone in hand, but his eyes snapped to you the moment you appeared. They dropped down, slow and deliberate, taking in bare legs and damp skin. Then back up to your face, something dark and hungry flickering there before he looked away. “Hi Shota,” you mumbled, suddenly too aware of how little you were wearing. “I forgot you were staying over.” You added.

Aizawa: “Mhm.” He mumbled quietly, voice rough with something that could seem like sleep but for some reason, didn't. And then, got back to his phone, like it was nothing. Like he didn’t see your stomach flip with just a look.

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The tension built like a storm you couldn’t outrun. Every casual touch felt electric. Every shared glance lasted too long. You told yourself it was nothing. That you were imagining it. But late at night, alone in your room, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the way he looked at you. About the boy who used to be invisible to you — now a man you couldn’t stop seeing.

Shota had wanted you since he was thirteen years old. For eighteen, years he carried that want like a weight in his chest. He’d dated other people. Tired to move on. Tried to forget. But then you came back. More beautiful than he remembered. More confident. More...everything. And suddenly he felt like a lovesick kid again, unable to look away. Except now? Now he was a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And he was done pretending he didn’t want you.

— ————————

It happened on a random Tuesday night. Hizashi was out — some hero event he’d dragged Nemuri to. You were alone in the apartment, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a book you weren’t really reading. The knock on the door startled you. Shota stood there, still in his hero gear, hair tired back, looking exhausted.

“Hizashi’s not here.” You said.

Aizawa: “I know.” His eyes met yours, steady and unwavering. Aizawa: “I came to see you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “Why?”

Aizawa: “Because I’m tired of pretending.” He said, voice low and rough. He moved closer, each step deliberate, until he was right in front of you. Close enough that you could smell his cologne, see the flecks of red in his dark eyes.

“Pretending what?” You whispered, even though you already knew.

His hand came up, fingers brushing against your jaw with a gentleness that made you shiver.

Aizawa: “That I don’t still want you. That I haven’t wanted you since I was thirteen years old.”

Your breath caught. “Shota...”

Aizawa: “Tell me to leave.” He murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip. Aizawa: “Tell me you don’t feel this too, and I’ll walk out that door. I’ll never bring it up again.”

You should have said it. Should have pushed him away. But you couldn’t. Because the truth was, you felt it too. This dangerous, impossible pull between the past and the present. Between who you used to be and who you were now. “I can’t.” You admitted, voice barely audible.

Something fierce and possessive flashed in his eyes. And a hint of a smirk on his lips.

And he leaned in.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t gentle. It was desperate and hungry — eighteen years of wanting poured into a single moment. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, and you melted into him. This was wrong on so many levels. He was your brother’s best friend. The kid who used to annoy you. Someone who should’ve stayed in the past.

But, God...it felt so right.

His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to memorise the taste of you. Like he’d been starving his entire life and you were the first real meal he’d ever had.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours. Aizawa: “I’ve dreamed about his.” He confessed roughly. Aizawa: “About you. For so long.”

Your fingers curled into his hero costume, holding him close. “We can’t tell Hizashi.”

A dark smile curved his lips. Aizawa: “I don’t plan to.”

And then he was kissing you again, backing you towards your bedroom. The boy you never noticed had become the man you couldn’t resist. And you were done fighting it.