Aizawa Oneshots and More

Lifetimes

HIII GUYS!!!! Here's a new chapter for y'all to sink your teeth into!

ALSO I started watching MHA again (since I stopped watching when the 4th season ended) and I'm so PUMPED. I'm in season 4 now, like where Eri is introduced and all that jazz <3 such a sweetheart

ANYWAYS

This is a request by Rejkirekin! 

Survivor! Aizawa x Immortal? Reader!

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The city has long since stopped breathing.

Its buildings stand like brittle bones, swallowed by creeping vines and the rot of abandonment. Cars rusted in the streets, doors still open as if the drivers had simply stepped away. Every window is like an open wound. Every corner whispers loss.

The air hangs thick with dust and ash. No sirens, no voices, no laughter. Only the low murmur of wind passing through a graveyard that had once called itself civilisation.

Aizawa walks alone.

His scarf hangs loosely at his neck, faded and fraying. He moves without hurry, but with purpose. The kind of pace born from years of moving through danger without letting it rule you. His boots crunch over glass and crumbling brick as he steps into what was once a public library.

The walls have collapsed inward, books scattered across the floor. Most are too damaged to read, but occasionally he picks one up anyways. Just to feel the weight.

He isn't looking for anything in particular.

Sometimes he just wanders. Listens for signs of survivors. He rarely finds any.

He's beginning to believe he's the last one who still tried.

As he moves through the shadowed ruins, a sudden shift in the air makes him stop cold.

It's subtle. But every trained instinct in his body snaps to attention.

The air pressure dips.

The soundscape changes.

And then – behind him – comes a voice.

Soft and warm. Impossible.

"This place is... so sad."

Aizawa spins around, capture scarf at the ready, unfurling with a practiced flick.

But what he sees makes him freeze in place.

You stand there, framed in a broken window of light.

No shoes. No dust on your skin. Clothes that don't belong to any era he knows about; woven in pale silks, strange fabrics that shimmers even in shadow. Your posture is calm, hands folded in front of you like you were at a funeral. You don't flinch under his stare.

He heard no footsteps. No breathing. No heartbeat.

Just a presence. Unmistakable and absolute.

"Who are you?" he asks sharply, voice low and rough with disuse.

You tilt your head, blinking slowly as if the question amuses you.

"Someone who remembers this place," you say. "Before it fell."

His eyes narrow. "You mean before the collapse?"

"I mean before the sky fractured. Before the streets emptied. Before you stopped hoping anyone would come back."

Too specific. Too personal.

Aizawa's stance didn't change, but a warning coil of tension runs through him. His quirk is active. If you had any powers, he could and will erase it. And yet, something in him knows that wouldn't matter.