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It was a perfect rooftop for a dramatic confrontation.
The wind was high. The skyline glowed like a stage. And crouched on the ledge, hoodie flapping just enough to look cool, stood the notorious teenage villain… Green Bean.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he declared, pointing a gloved finger at the dark figure approaching across the roof. “Finally. My story will be told—my pain made known to the world!”
Pro Hero Eraserhead blinked slowly.
“I just want to talk.”
Green Bean—aka fifteen-year-old Izuku Midoriya—whirled with enough flair to almost trip over his own feet. He recovered with a little cough, tugged his hood lower, and sneered (or tried to).
“Talk? Talk?! I am a villain. A menace. A harbinger of society’s rot. I don’t talk, I—”
“You’re a kid with Wi-Fi and too much time,” Eraserhead interrupted, already regretting showing up without a coffee. “Also, your villain name is Green Bean. You sound like a salad ingredient.”
Green Bean froze mid-monologue. “It’s metaphorical,” he snapped. “Green as in envy, youth, untamed rage. Bean as in… potential. Compact power. The underdog legume.”
Aizawa just stared at him.
Izuku scowled harder. “Don’t look at me like that! I spent a week workshopping it on an anonymous villain subreddit!”
“I can tell,” Aizawa said flatly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, glanced around the rooftop, then added, “You hungry?”
“What?” Izuku blinked.
“You’re obviously low on blood sugar. Screaming about legumes. There’s a vending machine down the block or a coffee shop on 3rd.”
“Wait—wait, no! You’re supposed to fight me!” Izuku flailed one arm while clutching the edge of his hoodie with the other. “We trade blows. I do a slow, tragic flashback. Rain starts falling. You weep, internally, and then I escape dramatically in the mist!”
A pause.
“Kid, it’s a Tuesday night. I’ve been awake for 36 hours, and my scarf is in the laundry. I’m not doing this.” Aizawa turned and started walking toward the fire escape.
Izuku opened his mouth in betrayal. “You’re just—leaving?!”
“No,” Aizawa called back over his shoulder, “I’m buying you a hot chocolate. Get off the ledge and try not to trip on your own drama on the way down.”
Izuku sputtered. “I’m not DRAMATIC!”
He was absolutely dramatic. He stomped after the pro hero, muttering about injustice and unsympathetic government figures and the lack of respect for his aesthetic. He still followed, though. Because free hot chocolate.
Ten minutes later, they were seated in a cozy corner booth of a 24/7 café. Izuku’s hoodie was now slightly less intimidating under soft fairy lights and a display of cat-shaped sugar cookies.
Aizawa sipped his black coffee like it was oxygen.
Izuku glared over a whipped cream mountain. “I could be dangerous, y’know.”
“You threw biodegradable glitter bombs at a bank ATM.”
“It was symbolic!”
“Mhm.”
Izuku pouted into his hot chocolate.
After a few beats of silence, he mumbled, “…I did want to tell someone my story, though.”
Aizawa sighed, set down his cup, and leaned back. “Then talk. But skip the evil laughter. You’re in a public place.”
Izuku gave him a suspicious look. “Are you just pretending to listen so you can arrest me later?”
“If I wanted to arrest you, you’d be cuffed already.” He gestured lazily with a stir stick. “I think you’re just a tired, angry kid who didn’t get the help he needed.”
Izuku stared at him, stunned.
“No one’s ever said that before,” he said quietly.
“No one ever offered you hot chocolate before either, huh?”
“…No,” he muttered.
Aizawa leaned back, took another sip, and sighed. “Then maybe it’s time someone did.”
There was a marshmallow stuck to Izuku’s cheek.
He didn’t know it, but Aizawa did. And he didn’t mention it.
Not because he was being kind—he was just emotionally and spiritually exhausted and couldn’t summon the energy to care about marshmallow hygiene at this point.
Izuku was still hunched over his hot chocolate from fifteen minutes ago, sipping through a straw and glaring at the table like it owed him money.
“So,” Aizawa said, finally breaking the silence, “how long have you been doing this villain thing?”
Izuku squinted up at him. “Are you interrogating me?”
“I’m asking a question. This isn’t an interrogation. It’s a vibe check.”
“Is that slang?”
“I’m 25, not 85. Yes, it’s slang.”
Izuku narrowed his eyes suspiciously but answered anyway. “Technically, I started when I was thirteen. I hacked into a hero’s support system and rerouted all their announcement speakers to blast All Might’s ‘You Can Be a Hero’ speech in reverse.”
A beat.
“…Why?”
Izuku shrugged. “Felt poetic.”
Aizawa snorted into his coffee.
“I’m serious!” Izuku said, sitting up straighter. “I was making a statement! A symbol of how society’s messages get twisted when you don’t fit the mold.”
“You reversed a motivational speech. That’s not villainy, that’s Tumblr-core rebellion.”
“Hey, Green Bean is an artiste.”
“Again, your name is Green Bean.”
Izuku groaned and flopped forward dramatically across the café table.
“I know, I know,” he mumbled into the faux wood grain. “I panicked when the news first said it and then it stuck and now I’m a walking vegetable joke.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Aizawa muttered. “But if the shoe fits…”
Izuku peeked up at him. “…Did you ever have a villain phase?”
“No, but I had an ‘I will absolutely disappear and ghost everyone’ phase in high school. Same energy.”
They sat in tired silence for a bit, the sound of the espresso machine in the background.
Izuku stirred his drink with a straw and muttered, “So what’s your angle here, huh? Hero trying to reform a villain for a redemption arc?”
“Nope.”
“Secret underground adoption program?”
“Definitely not.”
“…Are you lonely?”
Aizawa raised an eyebrow. “Are you lonely?”
Izuku opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away.
Aizawa didn’t press.
He pulled out a wrapped granola bar from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. “Eat something that’s not sugar. You’ve been shaking for five minutes.”
Izuku blinked at it. “You… carry snacks?”
“I work with teenagers. Of course I carry snacks.”
A beat.
“…Am I a teenager now?”
“You were always a teenager, Green Bean.”
Izuku looked personally attacked.
Then he tore open the granola bar with all the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t eaten all day and made a big show of eating it very rebelliously. With aggressive chewing.
“You’re a little gremlin,” Aizawa said, sipping his coffee again. “But you’re my problem now.”
Izuku paused mid-chew.
“…What?”
“Nothing.”
“You said—”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Did you just claim me?!”
Aizawa stood up, coffee in hand. “Come on, I’m walking you home.”
“I never told you where I—wait, are you stalking me?! That’s illegal! I know my rights!”
“You posted a TikTok last week with your window in the background. Also, you geo-tagged it.”
“…It was for the aesthetic!”
“Right.”
Izuku followed him out of the café, still muttering, hoodie pulled back up, marshmallow long gone, replaced with a suspicious glint in his eye.
“You’re weird,” Izuku said as they walked.
“You’re worse,” Aizawa replied.
And somehow… it didn’t feel like a villain escort.
It felt like a really, really weird first step toward something else.
Aizawa should have known better than to let a teenage villain into his heart through caffeine and sarcasm.
But hindsight was 20/20, and currently, he was being tailed.
Not by a league of criminals.
Not by a cunning assassin.
No.
By Green Bean, age 15, hoodie-wearing chaos gremlin, full-time drama goblin and part-time snack courier.
“You’re not very stealthy,” Aizawa muttered, not even turning around as he walked down the alley behind a convenience store on patrol.
A plastic bag rustled behind him.
“I brought you a rice ball,” came the slightly offended reply. “You look like the kind of person who forgets to eat lunch and then just stares into the void until dinnertime.”
Aizawa did forget to eat lunch, actually, but that wasn’t the point.
He turned. “You’re supposed to be laying low. You’re technically still a villain.”
Izuku handed him the rice ball with a stubborn little nod, like feeding him canceled out his crimes. “I’m not doing villainy right now. I’m on snack duty.”
“You’re on my nerves.”
“You’re welcome.”
Aizawa accepted the rice ball with a sigh, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “What did I do to deserve this?”
Izuku flopped dramatically against the brick wall, arms crossed, and looked up at the night sky like a moody anime protagonist. “Maybe society made me like this.”
“Society should’ve installed a mute button,” Aizawa deadpanned.
Izuku snorted.
A soft silence fell between them. For a moment, all that could be heard was the distant hum of city life and the crinkle of Aizawa’s plastic bag as he ate.
Then—
Izuku’s head drooped.
Aizawa glanced over.
“Midoriya?”
No answer.
“Midoriya.”
Still no answer.
He walked over—and sure enough, the kid had fallen asleep standing up against the wall, hoodie hood pulled forward, breathing slow and steady.
Aizawa blinked at him. “…How?”
A soft snore.
And just like that, the chaos gremlin was reduced to a snoring bean burrito in the alleyway at 11:23 PM.
Aizawa muttered a curse under his breath and reached into his coat, pulling out a spare scarf.
He laid it gently over Izuku’s shoulders. The kid stirred slightly but didn’t wake. His hands curled loosely under his chin, the world’s least intimidating villain.
And that’s when it hit Aizawa, like a metaphorical piano from the sky:
He was getting attached.
No. Nope. Not happening. He was not adopting this feral little anarchist. He was a pro hero. A man of principle. Of boundaries.
He stared at the sleeping boy, who softly mumbled something about “cheese fries” in his sleep.
…Dammit.
He sighed deeply, the sigh of a man who just knew in his bones he was going to be registering this kid as a dependent by the end of the month.
“You’re lucky you’re funny,” Aizawa muttered, mostly to himself.
Then, pulling out his phone, he sent a message to someone at the Commission:
Hypothetically speaking, how early is too early to request guardianship of a villain if they’re more like a sleepy, emotionally neglected stray cat with opinions on rice balls?
He didn’t expect an answer.
He didn’t expect the warm fuzzies either, but they were there, stubbornly forming in his chest like mold on bread.
^^^
Aizawa’s underground classroom was a well-kept secret.
Which was impressive, considering it now contained:
- Six at-risk quirk-havers in varying stages of teenage rebellion,
- A chalkboard held up by duct tape and vengeance, and
- One known villain curled up in a beanbag chair like he belonged there.
“Do we ask?” said Yuto, a spiky-haired teleporter who once phased through a vending machine to steal soda.
“We never ask,” muttered Rin, who had a fire quirk and a permanent glare.
The entire class stared at the green-haired kid in the corner, sipping from a juice box and doodling something on a clipboard.
Aizawa walked in, coffee in one hand, deeply regretting all his life choices in the other.
He set the coffee down and clapped once. “Alright, ground rules: that’s Green Bean. Yes, the Green Bean. No, he’s not here to vaporize you. Yes, he made himself a sticker badge that says ‘Assistant to the Regional Hero.’ Don’t ask.”
Izuku looked up and waved cheerfully, his hoodie half-zipped, a bandaid on his cheek, and a full “Hi I’m New” sticker with sparkles on his chest.
“Do I count as a guest speaker?” he asked.
“You count as unpaid labor,” Aizawa replied, unamused.
Izuku beamed. “So I am an intern.”
“Not legally,” Aizawa muttered, then turned to the class. “Get your worksheets. Midoriya, you’re helping Takashi with quirk control. And no villain speeches.”
“They’re monologues,” Izuku huffed.
Aizawa gave him a look so tired it had its own gravity.
Ten minutes later:
“Okay!” Izuku said brightly, kneeling beside a nervous boy whose hands kept sparking. “So the trick with electrical quirks is grounding your energy. Literally. Like with rubber soles. Or metaphorically. Like with emotional trauma, but that’s an advanced class.”
Takashi blinked. “You… don’t talk like a villain.”
Izuku shrugged. “I tried the whole edgy loner thing. But then Aizawa caught me and fed me protein bars until I felt human emotions again.”
Takashi laughed.
Izuku paused, startled.
Oh. He liked that sound. It felt like something good. Something right.
From across the room, Aizawa sipped his coffee, pretending he wasn’t watching.
He totally was.
Later, as the kids filtered out, Izuku stayed behind, organizing pencils for no reason.
“You know you don’t have to come here,” Aizawa said, leaning against the doorframe.
“I know,” Izuku said. “But I like it.”
“Why?”
Izuku hesitated, fidgeting with a paperclip. “…Because it’s quiet. And no one looks at me like I’m about to explode. Except for Rin, but I think that’s just her face.”
Aizawa made a quiet sound. Something between a sigh and a hum.
“Also,” Izuku added, “I like how you don’t treat me like a lost cause.”
“You’re not.”
Izuku blinked at him.
A beat.
Then he smiled. Just a little.
“…Do I get a desk?”
Aizawa sighed, long and dramatic. “Fine. But you’re not getting one of the good chairs.”
“I already stole one.”
“Of course you did.”
^^^
Aizawa had one rule for his home.
Okay, technically three.
- No villains.
- No explosives.
- Don’t wake him up unless you’re bleeding or on fire. Preferably both.
So when he came home after patrol to find Green Bean curled up on his couch under a weighted blanket with a half-eaten grilled cheese on the coffee table and the cat sitting smugly on his stomach…
He took a deep breath.
Then another.
Then a very long, very tired sip of his lukewarm coffee before calmly asking,
“…Why are you here?”
Izuku peeked out from under the blanket like a very guilty burrito. “You gave me a key.”
“I gave you the emergency key.”
“This is an emergency! You ran out of juice boxes and clearly need my help with grocery management.”
Aizawa stared at him.
Then at the cat.
Then at the grilled cheese.
“…Did you use my pan?”
“I cleaned it!”
A pause.
A beat.
“…You used the good spatula, didn’t you?”
“…Maybe.”
Aizawa dragged a hand down his face. “Midoriya—”
“You have almond milk now,” Izuku said quickly. “Because I saw your cereal and, like, who even eats bran flakes dry, that’s actually evil.”
Aizawa stared for a long moment. Like… a long moment.
Izuku started fidgeting under the blanket.
“I can go,” he said softly, suddenly very aware of the fact he was a 15-year-old ex(?) villain who had basically moved in with a pro hero. “I mean, if it’s too weird or—”
“Stop.”
Aizawa sat down heavily in the recliner with the grace of a collapsing deck chair.
“I’m too tired to fight you on this.”
Izuku blinked.
“So… I can stay?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re not saying no.”
“I’m saying if you burn my pan again, I’m locking the fridge.”
Izuku grinned like he’d won the lottery.
Aizawa gave him a long, slow side-eye. “And you’re doing homework.”
“I don’t go to school.”
“You do now.”
Izuku let out a melodramatic groan, burying himself under the blanket. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“This is being fifteen.”
The cat purred loudly in agreement.
Later that night, Aizawa sat on the couch, grading papers while Izuku sprawled beside him, mumbling about equations in his sleep and clutching the TV remote like it was a sword.
Aizawa looked down at him.
This kid—this absolute menace—had monologued about villainy in a food court, handed him a rice ball, fallen asleep in an alleyway, made friends with juvenile delinquents, and reorganized his spice rack alphabetically.
And now he was asleep on his couch.
Breathing softly.
Safe.
Home.
Aizawa sighed and reached for the throw blanket, tucking it around him.
“You’re mine now,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Izuku, half-asleep, mumbled, “’kay.”
A beat.
“…Dad.”
Aizawa froze.
Then leaned back against the couch.
“…Yeah, kid.”
Another beat.
“…Me too.”