Just-just listen, okay? This is nothing, nothing at all. It’s not in character, or driven, or anything, but it still is. So, have it. Have my Izuku Midoriya (kind of)xReader blurb. (It was written in a car.) -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You belong in seaside castles with wast, silent ballrooms. Sounds of the shore spilling into large, open windows. Your skin adorned with silvers and pearls, draped in linens.
Not here. Not in plain smothering meeting rooms with people who'll never see beyond your surface. Not with your elbows scraped raw, knees bloody and aching, having witnessed and done things you will never speak of outside of low murmurs in debriefings.
Fuck. Izuku thinks.
He doesn’t belong with you ether. Not in his office or on rooftops sharing little bits of yourselves over sweats and coffees he insisted you try. Not in his glass house, not quite a home, not in the one you speak about having back in your country. He shouldn't get to see it, not it's ancient doors and dented stone steps, not the soft and tender parts of yourself you must hold and leave there.
Then why did you let him witness and handle some little, aching bit of your soul in the palms of his hands? Why did you wrap your fingers along his as they trembled, as if your eyes hadn't gone red and glassy by simply doing so? Why is he the one splayed along the arm of your couch, laughing with you into the quiet of night, something warm and fluttering filling his gut?
You are greatness and grace, an electrifying power hidden along the marrow in your bones. All wrapped in the wonder of knowing you, how your eyes feel tracing the non-existent pattern of his freckles. Eternally busy, at least he wishes you were. Maybe then you couldn't turn him stupid with a quirk of the corner of your lips, amused or questioning, it doesn’t matter.
You blur at the edges, in the morning sun, between his fingers. Some part of you feels uncharted and yet still like something intimately known, like a sea of winking starts.
He imagines your water's warm, soft like milk, on his calves, staining his pants. He imagines you're warm and soft too, as is, not draped in linens and silks or infused with the sun. But just as you are, blood and bones, and greatness, held at your seams together with skin.
Would you let him? Hold, touch you. He thinks. Would you let him learn your softness? Burrow some bit of himself next to the parts of you that hurt, ache in their tenderness, the same as him. Press his forehead to yours like a bunny saying sorry, apologizing for simply being someone you know, at your feet, in your home, staring up at you as if compelled to by your sky’s.
Somehow, you've come to occupy the little cracks and spaces of himself he wasn't even aware were empty.