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puppyguppy · 8 months

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You aren't sure what to expect.

To be fair, neither are the students, probably. As far as anyone knew, this hadn't been in any other years' lesson plans; nor had it been in this one's. But, this class has been special from the very start; in both definitions (and extremes) of the word. They'd survived a war, after all. They'd grown up so fast, too fast -- so, it's sort of a suckerpunch, and kind of silly, to see them all here still. As third years now, give or take, sitting in their same assigned, but rebuilt and refurbished seats. Wearing the same UA uniforms, except for one specific detail. One specific difference.

They are all wearing aprons over top those uniforms.

Which is also sort of silly.

To see. And to think about.

Because, for as grown up as all these students, these heroes are now, some things had inevitably fallen to the wayside while learning how to win a war, and studying how to survive said war thereafter. Such a thing as cooking just hadn't been of any importance to practice.

It had been put on the back burner, so to speak.

That isn't to say every student is incompetent in a kitchen. You know for a fact Bakugou can not only cook in one, but command one. Sato, of course, has to be able to bake, what with the base of his quirk. And, from what you have seen, Midoriya...manages. So, today's lesson isn't really for them.

But then there's he rest of them.

There's Mineta. There's Kaminari. There's Sero. There's --

Todoroki.

There's you, who'd been asked to assist in today's impromptu culinary course. You can only assume they would've preferred Lunch Rush, your boss, but on such short notice -- well. The students still needed lunch. Or, maybe, they figured your own quirk might come in handy? Doubtful, but, you could wonder. You could hope. It isn't anything special, your quirk. Preservation. More specifically, more accurately... preservatives. You can slightly alter the state of organic material, such as food, to remain safely consumable under varying conditions, for far longer than naturally achieved. It isn't much, but when entire cities were left without power during the war?

For the first, and only time in your life, you'd felt like a hero.

But now you are back in a classroom. The same classroom as all those other heroes. You are at work. And they are students.

And then there's. Him.

Their teacher. Their sensei.

And Not-So-Underground-Anymore Hero, Eraserhead.

Aizawa Shouta.

Also in an apron.

Oh, fuck.

"Alright, listen up," he drawls, visible eye slowly sweeping across the classroom. By now, the students know to shut up and pay attention. That man has saved their lives a hundred times over, but...the same could be said about them. A lot of them call him Dad now. He pretends to hate it. It's downright adorable. You probably shouldn't know that, but you see a lot, learn a lot, eavesdropping during lunch hour.

All eyes are on him, as he takes a moment to tie up his hair. With a scrunchie. Which journeys from a pocket, to a wrist, and then between his teeth, before finally reaching his head.

The bun is sloppy in the best way possible.

Internally, you stand to attention, like he might randomly pick you out of all people in the room, and tell you to drop and give him twenty. Or something. Instead of cooking something, or cleaning something, or whatever the real reason it is that you are here.

Outwardly, you clasp your hands behind your back and rock on your feet. Waiting for just as much instruction as the students.

"It has come to my attention that some of you -" those 'some' seem to sink in their seats; all save for Todoroki, anyways, who still lacks a single shred of shame. Or sense. One of the two. Or maybe both. Bless him. "Still don't know how to take care of yourselves. I know I've always stressed the importance of accepting help from others, especially those studying alongside to specifically support you, but. Never once have I implied that any of you should abuse the convenience and accessibility of takeout. Or TV dinners." Aizawa heaves a sigh, and at the same time, rolls up the sleeves of his usual jumpsuit.

"In a pinch, any food is better than none. But, there's no beating the balance and nutritional value of a home cooked meal. Which should be different for each of you; catered specifically for your metabolisms, strengths, and quirks." As he continues, he leans forward and rests both his hands on the flat of his desk.

The position stretches the apron across his chest, the fabric taut since having to fit and synch over the bulk of his jumpsuit. It shatters the illusion that he's slim beneath all that baggage. Which you knew. You know. That he's more shredded than your favorite type of cheese. But, it's something that you so rarely get to see for yourself, that the reminder is like getting dunked in an ice bath.

Your heart hammers through the shiver of fight or flight.

"Frankly, it's embarrassing that I even have to go over this with most of you. But, I'm not about to leave Japan in the hands of heroes that can't even cook their own rice."

"But, isn't that what a rice cooker is for, sir?"

Kirishima means well. You know he does, because he always does. But, good intentions aren't enough to spare him from the power Aizawa's one-eyed glare still holds. You think the kid deserves a pass, though; he's right up there with Bakugou when it comes to calculating and caring about what goes in his gut. Even if he blends most of it up and slams it back as smoothies.

"What I'm going to show you today is a meal so simple any of you could do it. And I mean that. Literally. Any of you could do it, can do it, and will do it, as your assignments. It's quick and easy, but you all need to then collect the appropriate ingredients to curate such a meal into your everyday diet."

The class mutters and mumbles amongst themselves for a moment, while Aizawa starts pulling various supplies out of the drawers in his desk. Cutlery, a cutting board, a hot plate, a wok...a bag of rice, a couple of eggs, green onion, garlic, the usual herbs and spices, and some chicken. It's. Honestly impressive he had all that in there. And maybe. Worrisome? Scary?

It sure is something.

And then there's a spatula waved in your general direction.

"You're here to help, since I only have two hands, and I already know about six other pairs that'll need holding today." He already looks exhausted, but that's also like. Just kind of his thing. He has every reason to be exhausted. And he definitely pulls it off. The permanent, fluffy bedhead that falls around his face (except for when he puts it up, like now). The facial hair that sits between purposefully styled stubble and a state of forever five-o'clock shadow. The bags smudged beneath his eyes and creased into crows feet like eyeliner. On the one hand, he deserves what a lifetime of sleep would do to him. On the other hand, you selfishly want to deprive him of any sleep yourself, if it keeps him looking so, so --

"And, if you don't mind; it'd be nice if you could keep their meals from spoiling until dinner. Or, at least until they can get them to a fridge."

He smirks. At you.

Or, well. He smirks at what he says, but while looking at you. And you wonder how pretty he is when he sleeps, and you picture a load of laundry pulled fresh from a dryer, then dumped on a bed (your bed), warm and rumpled and inviting, beckoning --

An unnatural sounding cough from somewhere in the classroom snaps you out of your spiralling thoughts, and after a swift, startled glance, you realize Shinsou is looking at you. Oh. He can't -- you can't remember. If he can hear thoughts or - or read thoughts. Or not. Surely he wouldn't without consent either way. Right? Your thoughts still feel like your own, and only your own. Still embarrassing though.

"Y-Yeah, sure." You clear your throat, and you smile. Not just at him, but for him. "No problem."

Big problem.

You're way too stupid to be this close to him. Everything has always been in passing, before. The closest you'd ever been had been serving him up the occasional lunch. With a wall of glass between you. Rarely did he ever say anything, or even really look at you. But, you'd watch him leave as you worked. Or sometimes talk to students, fellow faculty staff, etc. Safe. Your thoughts and feelings preserved, just as much as the meals you quirked.

Saved, to ruminate and masticate upon later, in the privacy of your own home.

There's no glass wall here.

But, there are students.

And you have a job.

So, you pull yourself together. If not for your own sake, then Shinsou's.

The lesson proceeds quite...casually. With Aizawa explaining how everything can be cooked in the one, same pan, why he picked the protein that he did, how to know when something is fully, properly cooked...you notice Midoriya taking notes, because of course he is. These aren't your students by any means, but you know enough to not be surprised. Bakugou looks bored, but again, this lesson isn't for him. Todoroki, at least, looks like he's taking the class seriously.

"I really don't care how you cut, or chop, or dice things. It doesn't matter, so long as the pieces are similar enough to cook at the same time."

The sound of quick, efficient slicing fills the classroom, and you're drawn to it; the sight more than the sound of it, like a fly to honey. The way he handles a knife is sure and steady, practiced. The action all in the wrist instead of the hand. He guides the blade against his knuckles, fingers safely guarded. It shouldn't be as fascinating as it is, since his capture weapon is technically made of some kind of metal, and requires ridiculous amounts of precision and accuracy. Obviously, he'd be good with a knife. Duh.

But you are still a fly.

Hungry, dumb, greedy.

A little gross.

And you're stuck (staring) in the honey of his hands.

Chicken, chopped. Green onion, julienned. The rice has been simmering away in the wok from the start -- after Aizawa had demonstrated rinsing said rice at least thrice. Now, the garlic is peeled, assumed and expected to be minced; however, Aizawa drops the knife to instead, more or less, fondle the clove, rubbing the thing between the pads of his fingers for a few seconds.

"Personally, I prefer cooking with just the yolk of an egg. Might seem strange since there's less protein, but that's what the meat is for. The yolk's got everything else." As he explains, he cracks an egg into a bowl, which he then dips his fingers into, and - and just --

pulls out the yolk. The. Whole yolk.

Like he has the sun pinched perfectly in his fingertips. Gold, and round, and there's an atmospherical change in the classroom. Or, maybe it's gravitational, since it's no longer just you staring at his hands, but each and every student, too. In awe.

"How the fuck?"

"Language, Bakugou." Aizawa scolds, though it's more like an endearment. Can't be mad at the kid for voicing what they were all thinking. What you were thinking.

"It must be the oil secretions from the -- "

"Eugh, I never wanna hear that word from your mouth ever again, Deku!"

Aizawa pinches the bridge of his nose with his clean fingers, closes his eyes, and probably counts back from ten, by the looks of it. You bite your cheek to keep from laughing. It's stupid, but in a harmless way.

Once all is composed again, both class and sensei, there's another egg cracked, and another yolk delicately scruffed, and you just. You cannot help it. You can't help thinking about those hands scruffing something else. Something meatier, like the back of a neck. Or pinching something just as fragile, just as wet, but a whole lot warmer --

Another cough, and you almost jump right out of your fucking skin. You don't even bother to look this time (can't bring yourself to look this time). You can feel eyes on you. Are you just that obvious? All you've been doing is standing there. And watching. Staring. Just a little. But not any more than everyone else. In that moment, you're not sure which reality is worse; the one where you're just that easy to read, or the one where Shinsou can read your mind.

For the rest of the lesson, until it's the students' turns to cook, you keep your eyes moving, and your thoughts as tame as possible. It gets easier as the class starts to chatter, discussing various techniques and ingredients. Mineta manages to make some innuendo filthier than your thoughts, a feat which has half the class groaning; Bakugou threatens to use him as the protein for his meal, because at least then he'd be good for something, but then, Tokoyami, of all people, counters that he'd just be empty calories. Aizawa has a hand pressed to his forehead as Todoroki laments the loss of the personal chefs he'd grown up with, all the while inquiring about the nutritional worth of cold soba. Some students actually try to complete the spontaneous coursework, while others just...rub garlic and crack eggs.

Surely, Aizawa had expected nothing more.

And nothing less.

Eventually, though, everyone has some kind of meal prepared, though even your quirk can't guarantee that all of them are...edible. Still, you give each plate your attention, the meals held up like offerings as you make your way through the desks. Some say their thanks, to which you nod and smile, but then you reach Shinsou's desk, where he's sitting with his arms crossed, and an eyebrow arched.

You feel like a kid caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

The smile you give him is sheepish, and tinged pink, before you scurry on.

The rest is relatively uneventful.

The kids form their usual groups, snapping into cliques like puzzle pieces, before filing out of the classroom. It's almost too much, the all at once quiet that settles, disturbed only be the sounds of Aizawa cleaning up his desk. Not wanting to up and abruptly leave, you start to tidy up a few desks yourself, when --

"Thank you for your help today."

You're smiling before you even lift year head to look at him.

"You're welcome. Thanks for asking for my help. This was...different. But it was also fun. I had fun. Yeah."

Eloquent.

Aizawa hums, and continues to clean. That is probably the end of the conversation. That should be the end of the conversation. But, you're you, so it's not. Of course it's not.

"Hey, so. Uhm, Shinsou...he can't like, read minds, can he?"

Aizawa stops and snorts.

"No, and thank gods for that. The best he can do is feel someone's thoughts. The intention and emotion that makes them, but only while they're under his influence."

That's not nearly as big a relief as you want it to be.

"...Sorry. About him."

Confused and caught off guard by the apology, you blink at him. He doesn't meet your eye as he leans back against the wall, behind his clean-again desk.

"I think he was trying to...not so subtly insinuate something. It was extremely inappropriate behavior though, and I'd hope you hadn't noticed. I'll have a talk with him later."

You blink again. Yeah, sure, it was loud and clear to you that Shinsou had been insinuating something, because you were right there thinking about that something. Shinsou had been staring at you. But, if Aizawa also thought he was insinuating something...

"Not that I don't appreciate the apology, it's fine, but...what is it you think he was insinuating, exactly?"

He rubs at the back of his neck and shrugs, the apron still straining, struggling to contain all that is Aizawa Shouta. He'd probably be more comfortable if he took it off. If he took it all off. Or, maybe left the apron on.

"To put it plainly? He and Eri have it in their heads that they can play matchmaker."

Oh. Wow. Well. Okay.

"So...what? He thought you and I would be a good match?" You laugh because how can you not? It's ridiculous. Shinsou hardly even knew you before today, and still doesn't -- same for Aizawa. What kind of criteria does the kid have that almost a complete stranger can tik do many boxes off?

"Assuming so, based on all the looks he kept giving me."

"You? Why would he be looking at you, when I -- " you shut your mouth hard enough to clack your teeth together. Hoo, boy! That could've been bad!

But Aizawa finally looks at you, his expression guarded while he (what feels like) appraises you. He crosses his half-exposed arms over his chest, and you swear you can hear a seam rip, some threads popping.

"He might be under the impression that I have a...thing, for you."

A thing.

God, what are you? High-schoolers?

"Why would he think...? What kind of 'thing'?"

He shifts, just his weight, from his prosthetic leg to the organic one, and shoots a glance towards the door. Like he's ready to run. Or maybe to stop you from running. Or, maybe he just doesn't want anyone walking in.

"The kind of thing that keeps me up at night."

Aizawa's eyes are dark as he stares you down. Dark like chocolate, and you think of the satisfying sound of a bar snapping clean in half. Like your spine bent over a knee, a hand hot on your ass. His gaze tempers you like the treat, your mind maybe melting into a puddle on the floor. You want him to clean up the mess of you with his tongue, and only his tongue. Distantly, fleetingly, you think this can't be real. There's no way. You're just --

You're just you.

Someone with a strange quirk who works in a highschool cafeteria.

"You have no idea, do you."

It's not...posed as a question, but you shake your head, anyway. He makes a soft sound, something either amused or soothing. Maybe even a little mocking, a little mean. He moves, then. Deliberately slow, slower than he has to, even while missing a leg. He stalks around his desk until he's standing right in front of you, and then he holds your chin. Pinches it, between his thumb and the curl of the rest of his fingers underneath your jaw, so that he can feel it when you swallow. You can still smell the garlic on his hands. You could reach out. Touch, fist the fabric of that stupid fucking apron; cling to it as he throws you down onto his desk --

"That you're the tastiest looking thing behind that glass every day."

Ohhh, okay, haha --

Like a disturbed, deflated souffle, your knees go weak, and all the oxygen leaves your lungs in a giddy rush. Arms weak, too; mom's spaghetti and all that. But, he catches you, and his laugh is muffled where his mouth ends up squished into your temple.

It's mortifying.

Though he doesn't seem to mind.

#aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral reader #its 6AM and I haven't slept #once again based on a tiktok #blame the panera crack juice #breakfast for the bestie

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