Aizawa Oneshots and More

Wilt, then Bloom Again

Hellooooo everyone :3 I pushed out another chapter! The writing bug really got me today, and hopefully it sticks tomorrow.
We are nearing 100 parts! Should we do a special? If so, comment some ideas >:)
This was requested by @ValoraRead!
Hanahaki AU with a little spin as stated by the requester above.

Eat well my darlings!
— —

The firsts time you coughed up a petal, you thought it was dust.

It clung to your lip — white, delicate, and fragrant with something achingly familiar. Cherry blossom. You stared at it for a long moment before brushing it into the sink, telling yourself it was nothing. The staff room was dusty, that's all.

By the third one, you stopped lying to yourself.

Hanahaki.

It's a cruel, beautiful curse. Love made visible, love turned against the body. It only bloomed when the affection was one-sided, and it only stopped when the love was returned... or when it died out completely.

You didn't want to believe it. But every time Aizawa passed you in the hall with that calm, half-lidded look, every time his voice cut through a late-night staff meeting, every time he stood too close during training exercises — your chest fluttered, and your throat tightened.

He isn't unkind. He's... Aizawa. Quiet, steady, tired in that way that made you want to reach out and help him carry whatever weight he bore. And yet, when you spoke to him, it always felt like you were standing on the edge of something too fragile to name.

You tried to keep it to yourself. You smiled through the nausea, through the nights spent coughing in your pillow. You hid petals in your coat pocket and washed the bloodstains from your collar before anyone could see.

But Yamada noticed first.

"Hey, (Y/N)," he'd said one morning, squinting at you over his coffee. "You've been looking kinda pale lately. You sure you're not coming down with something?"

You laughed, brushing him off. "Just tired. That's all."

He didn't believe you. Neither did you.

A week later, it becomes impossible to hide.

It happens during a routine staff sparring sessions - you're helping Class A train for their upcoming exams, stepping in to demonstrate counter-techniques. You barely dodge a blast from Bakugou when a sharp pain seizes your lungs.

You double over, coughing hard enough to make your vision swim. When you pull your hand away from your mouth, your palm is full of white petals streaked faintly pink with blood.

Aizawa is beside you in seconds. His scarf snaps around your waist to steady you as he catches your wrist. "You're hurt," he says, voice low but taut with concern. "What—"

You snatch your hand back, hiding the petals before he could see. "It's nothing," you gasp. "Just... just tired."

His brow furrows. For a second, it looks like he might press further - but he doesn't. He only releases the scarf, eyes narrowing in that unreadable way.

"Take the rest of the day off," he says. "You're no good to the students if you push yourself like that."

You nod and flee before he can notice the blood on your sleeve.

That night, you sit on the edge of your bed, petals scattered across your palms like confessions you didn't have the courage to voice.

You think of his hands; steady, calloused, and always careful when he bandaged injured students. You think of his voice, the soft rasp of it when he says your name.