The Vigilante: Togata Mirio x Reader
genre: canon divergent, vigilante!mirio x hero!reader, porn with plot, smut and angst and fluff, progressed enemies (with benefits) to lovers
summary: nezu put you on the case. he was smart enough to know you'd be good at investigating vigilante togata, but he wasn't smart enough to predict how hard it would be for you to get mirio out of your head. and now, you're too far gone.
tw: 18+, smut (fighting as foreplay, afab reader, fingering, one clit slap, p in v, creampie, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation), violence, injuries, interrogations, reader is sort of police but i maintain acab in this fic, i confess i didn't research enough about the yakuza at all and im sorry, 75% plot and 25% smut
wc: 11.4k
other works
Every time you seek him out, you tell yourself it will be the last time.
You’re always wrong.
Tonight is no different, and the moonlight-limned streets of uptown Musutafu are about as deserted as they can be at this hour. Occasionally, you glimpse the silhouette of a hero on patrol, but it is no worry to you. The shadows are under your command, and you distort them until they cloak you, rendering you almost invisible - you use them every day on stealth and surveillance missions, busting cartels and all sorts alongside the police.
What you’re up to is grossly unprofessional. Worse, it’s far from the law that you work to uphold. Liaising with the enemy, entertaining the fancies of the target of your investigation… You could get imprisoned for that, your hero license revoked. You do it anyway. He makes it worth it.
Damn him.
Since you got assigned to his case two years ago, he’s been stuck in your brain like a constant buzz, the continual ring of tinnitus in your ears. He is insufferable, tricky, slipping from the traps you lay for him like it’s easy, but at the same time he’s always cheerful, always the grinning golden boy. Even now as a vigilante, he still seems the only one who’s big and bright enough to fit All Might’s shoes.
You hate that, almost more than anything else that he does, because wayward as he is, the civilians love him. There are almost never tip offs on his whereabouts; no neighbours of his safe houses come calling despite his lack of disguise. Sometimes you wonder why you aren’t the vigilante and he isn’t the hero, because you are the antithesis of him, darkness and shadows while he is sunshine.
Your hero ranking falls more and more the longer you are on his case, and though you were never that concerned with it before, you feel the sting of the public’s decision. Any other vigilante, any other obstruction to the law, and they’d admire your determination, but they choose him over you.
Cold air mists from your mouth as you let out a tight breath. Your jaw has begun to hurt from how much you’ve been clenching it. Those thoughts, this hate burning faux in your chest, are all superficial. You know how you feel about him, and that might be the most treacherous act of all - you have betrayed your duty, and in turn your heart has betrayed you.
So here you are, footsteps near silent as you pace one of the areas he told you he might be. He always gives at least three, and they always have multiple easy exits, which hurts, but you can’t really blame him because you’d be cautious too. In the early days, you’d just wander the streets looking for him, and sometimes, though you’d sense him close enough to almost taste his smugness, he’d let you return home, untouched and wanting, knowing no one could be as good as him. Bastard.
You’re not sure why you think it, but this time will be different - there is something in the air tonight, something hopeful and crisp and electrifying as you breathe it deep in your lungs, the sky so clear that you can almost taste the stars on your lips.
Something winks in and out of view in your peripheral.
Anyone else would be at a loss, but you know how he works. You alone are acquainted with his teasing. That flash, a flicker in the corner of your eye, not quite allowing you the pleasure of seeing him yet, is him, through and through.
Slowly, you turn to face the house, your eyes falling on the “to let” sign zip tied to the front gate, and you smile, a shudder tearing through you, twisting your stomach and spinning your heart like a top. You are an addict to the rush. You appraise the house, the windows and the door which you know must be unlocked by now, and a devilish grin comes unbidden to your face. Yes, you will give him a surprise.
Sneaking around the back, skulking in your cloak of shadows, you ease open the window facing the garden and climb through, silent as the dead; you are no stranger to subtlety, since after all it is the majority of your job. This hunting of him too should be part of your job, but it is different. You are selfish, hungry, and he is the only one who can sate you.
Silent, you round a corner, and there he is.
Vigilante Togata Mirio, beloved by the public, wanted by the law.
It is just his back, but it knocks the breath from you. He is broad, sheathed in rippling strength, like he has been carved not from marble, but granite. You ache to see the blue of his kind eyes.
The sight of him almost makes you call out to him, and the shape of his name is already on your tongue, but you hold it and instead explode forward, raw kinetic energy. For a moment, you think you might have caught him fully unaware this time, but he turns at the last second, whirling around with the flare of a black cape and a flash of ivory teeth. He grabs you right around the middle, an innocent hug that tucks your head snugly under his chin until he flips you over his shoulder and pins you to the floor.
Mirio’s grin is fully visible now, and it’s just as outrageous and bold as the first time you saw it. There's a challenge in his eyes. You bare your teeth right back at him, accepting the thrown gauntlet, and summon darkness.
The corridor is filled with your shadows, achieving two things: the blindness of both of you, and the inhibition of Mirio’s Quirk. The result of the strange blend of your two abilities - which is the slowing of his movements when he activates his permeability in the radius of your shadows - was why you were first assigned to him, and though you have no clue how Nezu puzzled out that you could slow the hero turned vigilante, it was him that made the call that put you on the case.
You’d said yes. You’d had no idea what Mirio would do to you.
You snap out of your thoughts as the shape of him, dim in the darkness, hurtles at you - that’s the problem, he’s slowed when he activates his Quirk, but without it, he moves just as fast as anyone else. He comes at you like he intends to blow right through you.
This is a dance you always fall into, taking turns to toy with each other until one of you breaks and loses patience first. You know it well, so you’re smiling when you trip his feet with your shadows, taking advantage of the short time he spends down by sprinting past him deeper into the house.
Gasping, you skid into a small kitchen, vacant of anything aside from bare counters and a dining table with chairs. Mirio doesn’t bother to be quiet in giving chase, calling your name in a way that’s wholly opposite from his golden boy reputation, and sharp thrills shoot through you as you realise there’s no way out of this kitchen but back through him.
He pauses in the doorway, noticing the same thing as you; your heart races in your ears, the frantic fluttering of a caged bird that only quickens at the sight of him prowling forward, emerging from your shadows like a shade himself, dressed in all black that hugs him artfully from head to toe. The air hazes with anticipation, becoming fire in your lungs, your belly. You smirk, though it’s more of a mocking, ironic twist to your lips than anything else.
“Want to tussle, pretty boy?”
“Sounds like a dream, brat.”
Dropping right down into the floorboards, he vanishes.
You blink, and he’s right there, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. The tilt of his lips is sultry, tantalising, and you allow yourself to stare at the rosiness of them for a split second before jerking backwards, out of his range. You know his game. You know he will not let you have him so easily just yet, and you revel in it. The fight is almost as good as what comes after, completely physical, two bodies straining against each other until you relent and collide.
Mirio feints to the right, and you foresee it and clash hard against his left side, hurling punches until he’s forced on the defence - you’ve always fought a little dirty, and so you let one of your shadows unfurl across the floor and push a chair into his backwards path. He knows you well enough by now, so he sweeps a foot back, kicking it neatly under the table like it had never been moved. It takes him off balance, minutely, but that’s enough for you.
You lower your shoulder and barrel at him, your shadows descending to prevent him from letting you go straight through him. Hitting him is like running into a concrete wall, but you feel the air knocked from his lungs. Your heart gives a kick at the feel of him twisting, taking you down with him. This feeling, this sweet electricity in your veins, is what you live for.
And him, of course.
You live for the feel of his warm chest under your palms as you go down, punching and kicking before his grip on you tightens and you begin to grapple. You live for the sharpness of his sapphire eyes, their facets precise enough to cut. You live for the grin on his handsome face, that way he has of looking at you that puts lightning through your chest. You live for him, fuck everything else.
Briefly, Mirio gains the upper hand, so you sink your hand into his stupid perfect pompadour and yank him off you, dishevelling it nicely in the process. You tug on his hair fiercely, and he groans, chin turned up so you can admire the strong lines of his neck; darting forward, you press a fleeting kiss to his jaw and release him.
Mirio springs to his feet and lunges for you, but you slip through his grasp, propelling yourself upwards with shadows. One hand on his shoulder to steady yourself, you wrap your legs around his neck and choke him. He swings wildly to dislodge you, but you cling on, squeezing tighter and tighter. He falls to one knee, and you can almost grasp victory by one of her white feathered wings -
Sharp pain blooms in your thigh. A jolt runs through you, right up your spine, and you gasp. He's sunk his teeth into the meat of your quad, the look in his eyes so ravenous that heat pools fast and blazing in the pit of your stomach. The only weakness he needs is in your grip loosening as you lose yourself in the hunger etched, blazing, on his face: he takes you down, slowing your fall at the last minute so you don’t slam against the floorboards.
And then every inch of him is pressed against every inch you. You can feel the hard lines of his chest, his stomach, the pressure of a leg between yours, and he overwhelms your every sense like he’s all that is. Mirio is huge, all broad shoulders and strong arms. The noise that you make escapes unbidden and breathy from your throat.
“Enough,” he murmurs, husky. “I need to fuck you.”
The switch is flipped, all pretenses left behind - your want spills from you like a river bursting through a dam, coasting over you until you’re trembling, your fingers fisted in his suit, your eyes glazing over. Unapologetic, your cunt clenches. He catches your lips with his, claiming you with a searing kiss, the taste of him leaving you as giddy as the first time.
You never used to let him kiss you. It was a boundary you couldn’t cross, territory you couldn’t enter when you still thought you felt nothing for him. Those days are gone. Kissing him now is tender as it is dangerous, for he sweeps you away from yourself and to him, in him, and you can’t even find it in yourself to struggle against it.
Shudders wrack your body as his lips trail slowly down your jaw, his hands running up your sides in parallel. The way he touches you is always exquisite, always captivating; you used to hate that he was so good, you used to hate that he could flip the switch so easily from brave paladin to this man that looks at you with eyes like blue holes, eyes you are too happy to let swallow you up.
That bracing night when you had taunted him and jeered at him, seeking a gap in his endless cheer, had ended with you bent over as he pounded into you and demanded am I fucking you right, then? Still think I couldn’t fuck you proper?
A shiver trips down your spine at the memory of him, and also too at how he mouths at you through your suit in a way that has you panting and cursing helplessly, thighs pressed together in a sorry attempt to appease the ache in your cunt for him. Delicately, he closes his teeth over your nipple, and you bite your lip to stifle a moan, toes curling in your boots.
“Fuck, sunny,” you choke. “Quit taking your bloody time.”
He takes that moment as a sign to do something truly maddening to the peak of your breast with his tongue. You’re forced to clap a hand over your mouth to muffle your cry, your whole body going rigid when he does it again, innocently, acting like he doesn’t know his own effect. This house might be empty, but there are neighbours, and you know he knows it.
He sucks lightly, tongue swirling in dizzying loops which make you forget all about the neighbours; suddenly you want your suit off your feverish skin, and you want to tear his to shreds so you can rake your nails over the breadth of his shoulders and watch the mesmerising red marks that are left in their wake.
He glances up at you. “Pretty girl, let me hear you.”
You push him off you. Your chest heaves, and his eyes follow. “You want the neighbours to have an earful too? It’s two AM in the morning.”
“So it is,” he chuckles. “I know a place.”
Without further ado, he scoops you up, though you protest (I’m perfectly capable of walking myself, sunny), and trots out of the house into the street. His stride doesn’t break once, and he takes back alleys and quieter routes to avoid the patrolling heroes, relying on your shadows to cloak the both of you when you’re forced out in the open. The walk doesn’t take more than three minutes. You can tell by his smirk that he knows you’re still throbbing and soaking your underwear.
In the end he comes to the rickety fire escape of a decent looking apartment complex, scaling it without a sound despite its evident creakiness until the sixth floor, where he stops and eases the window open, letting you climb in before him. A quick cast of your eyes around the place makes your heart jump strangely in your chest.
The place is mainly bare, but there are small things lying around. Socks, tucked haphazardly into shoes by the door. A cute Suneater plushie on the sofa next to a colourful Nejire-Chan one, both a little worn. The bed, made but rumpled, glimpsed through the ajar door. It is quite clearly lived in, the thought of which makes your heart do that odd caper from before, because he only ever takes you to empty homes.
Unspoken rules be damned, Mirio’s taken you to his current safe house.
The sparse decor makes sense - it’s temporary, easy to gather up if he needs to leave at quick notice, which he definitely would, what with the hellbent manner you and your team track him with. You gape at him, your mouth opening before snapping it shut. This is a show of trust, a leap of faith that tacks his survival on to you and what you might disclose about this place with a resounding boom. Drawing in a breath, you begin to speak, to protest, but he winks, still smiling that easy smile of his.
“I just wanted to have you on a bed that’s mine for once, sweets,” he says, cupping your waist and dipping his head so you share each other’s air.
You don’t know what to say, but tears are stinging unwelcome at the back of your eyes, and your knees are a little weak at the timbre of his voice, so you just kiss him. Sweet and tender and loving, you soften your hard edges just for him, because he deserves someone who’s willing to give him as much as he gives. You’re determined to be that person, to be enough.
“You’re a stupid fucking idiot, Togata Mirio,” you sigh against him. “I think I lo - ”
Abruptly, you cut yourself off before you promise too much. Not yet, not while you’re someone who’s unworthy, not when he might think it a spur of the moment thing. You feel the way he touches you all over, holding you to him and taking greedy handfuls of you, and for now, you let the flames burn the rest away until he’s all that remains, hot embers traced lovingly through your inferno.
Mirio brings you to the bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours as he settles you among the pillows, drowning you in his heady taste with his tongue laving over yours. Through your suit, he ghosts a thumb over your clit, and your hips chase him. He pins them to the mattress and you can’t help but curse him for it under your breath.
“Asshole.”
“Whatever dirty talk you like, sweet girl.”
Out of sheer spite, you almost flip him under you then, but his shoulders tense and bunch and you really are pinned by him now. He flashes you a wicked grin and begins to peel your suit off, stopping every few inches to suck a mark onto your skin and slide an “accidental” finger over your slit, agonisingly slow and patient in a way that infuriates you. You shake and clench and moan as he gloats, savouring the fact that he’s gotten a pro hero trapped and panting beneath him.
Once you're bare for him, he grins down at you, sweeping your suit onto the floor and adding his own to the pile a moment later - you help him wrestle it off, dragging your hands over his hot skin and squeezing his biceps appreciatively. He pulls your legs open for him, plying you with sweet kisses, and then he’s right there, right where you’re aching to be filled, his knuckle gliding up and down your cunt.
“Gotta stretch you out,” he mumbles, eyes glazed, the words for himself more than for you. “Gotta open your pussy up f’me,”
“Y - yeah,” you gasp as he slips his middle finger in. “Oh - ”
Your hips work to match the lazy pace he sets. Soon he adds another, and you clench around him, pussy bearing down and sucking him in like it wants him there forever. He scissors his fingers, keeping your legs pressed open like the petals of a flower with his palm at your inner thigh.
His name spills from your lips when he picks up speed and curls his fingers, pressing the heel of his hand to your clit and rocketing you ever closer to your high. You can see it there, suspended above you, the pureness of white light and the scald of euphoria on your tongue. Holy hell, you shake with the need for it, for him to be the one to take you there.
Mirio stops. You cry out in protest, your hips lifting helplessly as if to chase the fingers he now puts in his mouth to taste, and he smacks your clit sharply, stopping you in your tracks. Fire burns through you, and you almost come from the sting. It’s not quite enough. You squirm in the sheets, seeking friction and with it, release, but he holds you still, cruel and casual as he pushes you away from the edge.
“No,” you utter, almost a sob. “No, no, I need - I need - ”
“What’s that?” He asks smugly. “You want to come?”
Pitifully, you nod, reduced to nothing but a mess with wet eyes.
“You want my cock?” He fists it and makes to line himself up.
You turn frantic. “Yes, yes, I need it, need your cock - ”
“I’m not convinced, pretty girl.”
You know what he means, what he expects you to do: Mirio wants you to beg him for it, the cocky fucking asshole, and he won’t let you have what you need until you do so. Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you bite your tongue. Do you give him the win this time? Don’t you have a bit more fight in you? Your eyes stray to his cock of their own accord, and you see with a throb that he’s flushed an achingly rosy pink.
“Please,” you blurt.
He chuckles. “Is that all? I thought you wanted it, baby.”
Leaning in close, he kisses you slow, sucking at your lower lip. You hardly notice, because the head of his cock teases very purposefully at your entrance, almost catching there before running through your folds to brush over your swollen clit, sending a debilitating stroke of lightning through you.
“Fuck,” you cry hoarsely. “Shit, just give it to me. Please, please, I’ll take you so good - ah - Mirio - “
Your back bows as he buries himself in you, that triumphant grin still plastered all over his face. Hooking your knees over his shoulders, he folds you in half beneath him and begins to plough into you with his lips on your neck, coaxing blissful moans from your throat. The angle destroys you, makes you tremble and shake and sing for him. Sometimes, when he fucks you like this, you think he might be a god.
You come around his cock at the thought of a deity called Mirio moulding your pussy to the shape of his dick, his golden hair like a halo around him, and god almighty, he might just be the high power you suspect him to be with those circles he’s inscribing on your clit, infinity signs and spirals and gut wrenching ellipses. Frissons of pleasure shatter through your body and break over your skin, and you are ruined by him, by the orgasm he plucks from you with his divine touch.
Mirio makes you greedy, like Icarus. You fly too close to the raging sun, and you begin to fall now, the ecstasy taking on a sharper form. Your cunt is fluttering around him, and still he pounds into you, driving you to overstimulation; you claw at his back, digging your nails in and screaming his name.
Sweaty, panting, he watches you, the look in his eyes something no god could achieve, for it is too humble, too gentle, and with it, he becomes just Mirio again (though there is no such thing as just Mirio, because he is more than just anything). His pace slows, only a little, like he is giving you permission to come down. You don’t want him to go easy on you.
“More,” you plead, though it comes out near soundless.
He smiles and surges forward. Your eyes roll back when his fingertips find your clit, the muscles in your thighs jumping in response. Abruptly, he brings you to the edge again, and you teeter there as his thrusts speed up, so frantic that their rhythm is lost, his jaw clenched tight as he finds himself on the brink right beside you, deep groans cleaving through his chest. He laces his fingers with yours. You twist the sheets in your other hand, close to tearing them.
You come with a desperate utterance of his name, and he follows not a second after, muffling a choked gasp in your skin, spilling deep and warm within you, his hips slowing until they stop entirely, just kissing yours with his softening cock still inside to the hilt. Chest heaving, Mirio settles on top of you, his breath fanning over your collarbone. He presses his lips to your temple, tracing patterns on your waist with his thumbs, and you ache for his gentle tenderness.
If you are to make it back home undetected, you need to go now. A part of you protests that he is where home is, that he is so warm and big and that it’s so safe in his arms, and it prevails. Just a little longer, you tell yourself, during which your hands busy themselves finding refuge in the powerful grooves of his back.
The rise and fall of his breathing under your palms is slowing, and your eyes are beginning to feel heavy too, but your thoughts fall to the subject they always do after a night with him. Normally the self doubt occurs well into the way home, but it creeps up on you this time, striking faster, hitting harder when you’re still cradled to him.
Mirio is a good man. That’s not what your superiors tell you, pointing to supposed ties with a yakuza drug cartel, but it’s what your instincts tell you. You’d asked him, long before the dalliances, just after the run in with the collapsed building, why he chose to be a vigilante - it seemed he was doing the same thing as a hero, just without the glory. He’d told you that he couldn’t conscience the hero business, the rankings, the corruption and money, the way they used you like a tool, chewing you up and spitting you out once they were done. A bright thing with eyes wide shut, you’d laughed at him.
You’re not laughing any more.
Almost overnight, like clockwork, a vigilante, a man with golden hair and the ability to phase through solid objects had appeared, and he had the smile of Togata Mirio. At first, you’d hated him and his quick, clean escapes, his dumb puppy dog countenance, but now here you are, clasped in his arms like you’re the only thing precious to him, and you can only give him a half life, concealed by shadows.
He never says it, but he deserves better. Quietly, finality and determination alike stirring in your heart, you rake a hand through his soft hair and marvel at the strands’ delicate boldness between your fingers. It looks, in the light of the moon through the bedroom window, like it is forged of white gold. How he shines. You will offer him something whole.
“Mirio,” you whisper. “I want to join you.”
He stiffens, every relaxed muscle tensing until he’s rigid against you, blue eyes searching yours, any remnant of lethargy in them gone in an instant. His reaction is a shock to you. You almost thought you hadn’t said the words aloud, but you had, and they are an answer to a question he asks you every time you leave him: will you stay with me, by my side?
“You mean it?” He breathes, but you know he sees it in your eyes. “You’re certain?”
“I am. I mean it.”
You watch him carefully as he rolls off you, sits up, scrubbing his hands over his face and blinking hard at you. Wordless, reaching for you, he tucks you into the curve of his body, taking a hold of your chin so he can tip your gaze up to meet his.
“I’m not going to tell you a life like mine is easy,” he says measuredly, smoothing a thumb over your cheekbone. “I hear you, and I trust you. I admit that I started trusting you far earlier than I should have, but I need to hear you say you’re sure when you’re not high on a couple orgasms.”
“Sunny…” You trail off. He’s right, probably.
“I know, I know. Just go back and think about it some more. If you’re certain, come back here. I’ll stay for five nights, and if you don’t show I’ll take that as an answer.”
Your stomach flips - he’s never just supplied you with just one location, and now he tells you he’ll stay here and wait for you, when keeping mobile is the only thing that ensures he’s one step ahead of the police? This is madness, yet you cannot refuse him. A sizable ache has formed in your chest, balled against your ribs, and you hold him tight, pressing your face to his chest and breathing him in.
“Sweets?” He strokes a hand over your hair. “I won’t hold it against you if you don’t come.”
“No,” you say, shaking your head vehemently. “I’ll come. I’ll be there. You’ll see.”
Reaching up, a hand cupping the honey skin of his jaw, you kiss him to seal the promise. He holds your waist, then slides his grip around until he’s nearly crushing you against him, hugging you fiercely enough that you wonder if he ever intends to let go. Though you almost wish he wouldn’t, he does, loosening his grip so you’re curled beside each other.
The warmth of his body makes you drowsy. As sleep pulls you gently under, the last thing that occurs to you is that you know you shouldn’t be staying this long.
You wake with a start, a bolt of sheer terror lancing through your body. To your relief, it can’t have been more than forty five minutes since you drifted off, based on the moon’s high position in the night sky. Still, that might be too long already.
Mirio drew you close in sleep, enough that your back is snug with his chest, and you begin the delicate procedure of extracting yourself. He stirs, making a soft, bleary sound and tightening his arms around your waist, but you hush him, slipping from his grip. You hesitate just before you open the window to make your exit, feet silent on the carpet as you turn and make your way back to the bed.
“You’ll see me again soon,” you whisper, kissing his forehead.
His nose scrunches in his sleep, but he seems to have settled again, a pillow still warm with your body heat clutched to his chest. For a reason unfathomable, your eyes blur as you again face the window, easing it open and briefly letting the cold night air into his safe house while you climb through.
You allow yourself one last glimpse of him, peaceful and slumbering and bathed in moonlight (and also the stark beam of the streetlights outside) before you head back home.
The moment you return to your room through the skylight, you know something’s wrong - it’s not hard to deduct. Your superintendent stands between your bed and your wardrobe, dead and unreadable in the eyes. Cold dread drags fingers down your spine. This means the worst.
“Where have you been, agent?”
Sweat beads at your hairline, and you think of Mirio, sleeping without an inkling of the implications that come with your superintendent waiting for you in your bedroom, handcuffs and one of those sedative collars hanging from his belt. The top of your suit is unzipped to a few inches below your collarbone, and you know Mirio’s marks are visible in their dark blooms, incriminating you further.
Your eyes fall upon the screen held in your superintendent’s hand. It’s his work one, a smallish tablet, much like the one you own, except that you use yours mostly for reports and occasionally reading e-books, and his is displaying a map with a blinking red dot on it. That dot, more of an accusing crimson eye than an indicator of location, flashes steadily over your apartment complex.
“What is this?” You demand, fighting rising panic. “You have me bugged?”
“Indeed. We thought at first the strange hours you kept were just late night trysts, but they began to correlate strangely with Vigilante Togata’s whereabouts, so we moved from using security cameras to a tracker. I’m here to thank you for your aid in securing Vigilante Togata’s location.”
You lurch forward, already calling the shadows, but you find a gun levelled squarely at you, and you stop, lip curled. “You can’t catch him without me.”
A frenzied hope rises within you, sharp and sudden and frantic: maybe they’re lying, maybe your superintendent has been sent to come here with a bluff to flush out your truth. It’s too late to salvage your story, but there’s a chance Mirio can slip away. Without your shadows, he’ll be able to use his Quirk, and they’ll be helpless to stop him.
“We can’t catch him without your Quirk,” the superintendent corrects, the gun not wavering a millimetre. “We’ve taken advantage of the certainty of the situation and deployed canisters containing roughly sixty cubic metres of gas that is treated with your own shadows.”
You stiffen. “My shadows?”
“Yes. The sample was taken a few weeks back, if you recall.”
Protests mount in your throat, threatening to burst out. They’d said the samples were for experimenting on, in case maybe the scientists found the source of the strange limit to your control. Your jaw tightens. They’ve known this long? You’ve let them know Mirio’s location, time and time again, endangering him, time and time again, and now where is he? What are they going to do to him?
“I never gave my permission,” you object lamely.
“Ah,” your superintendent replies, a hideous smile twisting his face. “We didn’t think it necessary. We were sure you’d be elated to hear of the capture of a criminal.”
You almost fly at him then, with all your fury; you forget that you command the shadows, and you almost launch yourself forward, seeking only the crunch of his nose beneath your fists and the blood crusting beneath your fingernails. How dare he? How dare he be so smug, when a man who does good is no doubt finding himself trapped and cornered by those who are supposed to keep people safe at this very moment? How dare he smile, when -
An ugly sob rips itself from your throat.
You force yourself to stay still, to remain calm. Mirio would want that. He would be strong, he would square his shoulders and lift his chin and look the inspectors and the sergeants in the eye like no doubt he’s doing now. He would be unyielding, unbreaking even though gods he must think you betrayed him, he must think you promised yourself just to tear it away, he must think you did it to be cruel, to hurt him.
“Don’t spiral too far,” your superintendent cajoles, voice slick like an oil spill. “You’re a highly valuable asset, agent. Your Quirk is incredibly versatile. We’re giving you a last chance.”
“Fuck you,” you spit.
He continues, undeterred. “The vigilante will be told you supplied the team with his location. He will be brought in for interrogation. We think he will be more partial to you due to… emotional ties, so you are to interrogate him regarding dealings with the cartel. If you succeed, you’ll be demoted and moved to a low security job, and the tracker will be kept on you.”
You laugh mirthlessly. “And if I don’t get the information you want? Or if I refuse to interrogate him?”
“You will be incarcerated.”
He says it casually, as if he’s telling you what they’re serving at the police station’s canteen. There was a time when that was what it would have been, just as there was a time where you thought you liked this superintendent, that he was efficient and easy to work with despite his mean streak. He’d been a little more pleasant with you than other agents because you got things done. It appears those days are over.
“You will wait in the station until he’s brought in,” he announces, monotonous, uninterested. “You can decide there whether you want to cooperate, but before I escort you, I’d like to ask if he ever mentioned business with the drug cartel with you.”
“We didn’t talk much,” you snap, then catch his gaze pausing on the marks on your neck and add, “ - about work things.”
You hate the disdainful look he gives you, like you’re a blot of ink on one of his perfectly laid out, particular case reports - it makes you feel dirty, as if Mirio’s touch has sullied you when it has done no such thing. Bristling, you glare at the superintendent. He’s set you up to fail. The information tying Mirio to the drug cartel is tenuous at best, and besides, you know he’s not caught up in that business. Fury builds hot and scalding in your chest, burning hotter than the sting of your nails sinking into the palms of your hands.
“There’s barely anything linking him to the cartel anyway, even after two years of investigation,” you burst out, seething. “What the fuck do you want me to do? Magic evidence out of thin fucking air?”
“Of course the links are flimsy,” he scoffs. “They’re fabricated. Vigilante Togata was gaining too much popularity, and we believe that it’s what has been leading to the increased number of vigilantes. He is to be an example.”
The revelation hits like a bomb shell. It feels like you’ve been plunged into ice cold water, in the way your limbs won’t move and the way the air is thin in your lungs. They’re willing to sacrifice him for a newspaper headline. The case you’ve dedicated the past years to has been a fake, a facade for them to get what they want. You wonder if Nezu is the mastermind behind this, slaving away at his desk for the perfect algorithm that pulls wool over the most number of eyes.
Fast and disorientating, the anger strikes, and you wrangle it into submission. Already, you’ve thrown too much away. You’re determined to avoid squandering what little chance you have left of salvaging this. Slowly, you let out a tense breath and look at the superintendent with dull eyes.
“You’ve asked now,” you say, voice sounding like it’s been uttered from underwater. “You’re to escort me to the station?”
“Affirmative,” he replies, forming his mouth into the shape of a smile. “Think well, agent. Your loss to our ranks would be unfortunate.”
You wait in the police station, slumped in the spare chair of your superintendent’s office. He sits at his desk, and you can tell the moment when the team sent to retrieve Mirio is expected to return because he keeps glancing at his tablet. An hour passes by from then, and in the end, he scoops up the device and slams the office door, locking it behind him.
A lick of hope ignites within you, but you can hear the pacing steps of your superintendent outside, and the timbre of his voice as he replies to someone on the other side of the call is exacting and strict but it is not defeated. Sure, he is putting up grander resistance than they thought he would - of course he is, he learnt more and more about how to fight against your shadows every time you crossed paths - but he is tiring. They will catch him, and they will bring him back.
And then you will have to face him.
Your superintendent strides back into the office, the tablet switched off and the click of his shoes on the floor rhythmic. He flashes you a smile, the smile of a cold reptile with a mammal’s hot blood on its teeth, and suddenly, you cannot breathe.
You’re reminded abruptly of the time, three months into Mirio’s case, when a third party villain entered the fray and collapsed a building on top of both of you. Mirio could have permeated through the rubble and escaped alone, but you were injured and you had no idea if lifting the debris with your shadows would endanger civilians in layers above you. Worst of all was the dark.
You can still remember that darkness. It was infinite, smothering. Since you were a child, before your Quirk even developed, you’ve been afraid of the dark - logic asserts that with your Quirk, you’d lose that fear, but instead it breathed sinister life into each shadowy corner. Without light, there is nothing to stop the control being wrenched from your hands, and the thing that’s on the other side of the tug of war grows stronger with each shadow you summon.
So drowning there, clawing at the abyss to keep it back, you’d grabbed onto the ever smiling vigilante and begged him not to leave you here. He hadn’t, and his presence had made the gloom maybe a little more manageable, but you’ve never forgotten what it felt to be choking down there, all at once suspended in a boundless chasm and trapped in a black box that got smaller and smaller with every passing second.
This time, he’s not here, and you suffocate alone.
Well, not entirely: the superintendent still sits at his desk, that dead eyed shark smile still occasionally appearing on his face. You’re a highly valuable asset, agent. What was it that Mirio had said to you back then? They’ll chew you up and spit you out once they’re done using you?
As morning bleeds into afternoon, it becomes clear that the superintendent doesn’t think you’re going to attempt an escape. Although the window is locked and he has the key, the glass is easily breakable; still, he knows as well as you do that you won’t leave. You have an interrogation to pull off, information to produce out of a magician’s hat.
You tuck into the canteen lunch your superintendent brings you, and as you do, you wonder where Mirio is, and whether he is in chains by now, fighting them with his blue eyes blazing, cursing your name and all the lies he must think you sold him. He will be angry, you decide. He will shout, struggle, impassioned as always, though this time it will be against you.
Your heart hardens, and you take a deep breath, cold as a blade, and let it spread numbing through your veins.
You will do what you have to. It will hurt him, but you will do it.
The superintendent leaves the office around four o’clock and only enters an hour and a half later. He leans in the doorway, regarding you with a sort of distant amusement glittering in his disinterested eyes, and you wonder if he thinks you a resigned, listless thing. Does he preen, proud of himself, or does he only care that every ounce of utility has been wrung out of you before you are discarded, spat out?
“Have you made your choice, agent?” He asks coolly. “The prisoner is jailed and ready to be questioned.”
A muscle in your jaw feathers, and you meet his eyes. “I will interrogate him.”
He shows his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Brilliant.”
He leads you to the interrogation rooms as if you don’t know your way around the station, and you force your face into neutrality when you find yourself faced with at least half a dozen faces, your commander among them. Some of your inferiors are present, but they have schooled themselves into indifference too - it seems they’ve been informed that you’re a broken tool, soon to be discarded.
Steeling yourself, you turn to look through the two-way mirror. There he is, and you fight with every fibre of your being to remain impassive. He looks drawn and pale under the clinical white lights, like the colour has been bled from him, the sun retreated behind a tumorous cloud, and it strikes you as wrong that his head is bowed. Vigilante Togata faces everything head on, so why are his shoulders slumped, his eyes downcast?
Your eyes fall on the collar around his neck, and though it’s standard procedure, your stomach turns restlessly: if his heart rate rises over a certain threshold, it will activate a needle that will stab his carotid and pump him with sedatives. That could explain his heavy demeanour, but no, he is conscious, rubbing the hem of his nondescript grey shirt (you guess they confiscated his suit) between his thumb and forefinger.
“Please, start interrogating any time today,” your superintendent snaps.
“Yessir,” you mutter under your breath, and then you enter the interrogation room.
You can feel their gazes on you through the two-way mirror, and you pay them no mind, though the official words you’re supposed to say for the interrogation recording stick in your throat. He looks up as you enter, and you brace yourself for the hate in his gaze that will lance through you, but there is none. No accusations, no lobbed insults, just sorrow so deep he might as well be made of it. All of it is laid bare before you in his face, the hurt, the betrayal, cutting you to the quick.
Togata Mirio’s eyes are blue, but you never thought they were the sad type of blue until now.
And then, worse than the pain, he attempts a smile. It is a wobbly, tenuous thing with no substance to it, but of course it is. He is not happy to be imprisoned, and he certainly is not happy to see you, you who tricked him and double crossed him and pledged yourself to him, letting him hope for things that he now knows were too good to be true.
He looks away before you can, and as you take a step forward, approaching the table he’s seated at with leaden feet, you notice the tremor in his hands, enough to lightly rattle the handcuffs he wears. Standing before him, you fold your arms and set your jaw.
“What can you tell me about the drug cartel run by the Yamaguchi-gumi?” You ask, voice level.
He looks up so quickly it’s like he’s been electrocuted, gaze darting up to your face, but there’s a distracted air to him. There must already be some sedatives in his system to prevent him activating his Quirk too fast, and you can tell that he’s fighting the haze they’ve put him under. His face is upturned now, illuminating a purple bruise blooming across his jaw, no doubt one of many.
“You know that’s bullshit, sweets,” he murmurs, then blinks hard, shaking off some of his drowsiness.
Glancing at the two-way mirror, only to be met by your own reflection, you press on. “Which of their operations are you privy to?”
“We both know I’m not mixed up with them,” he replies. There is a tone to his voice that was not there before.
“Tell me about Kenichi Shinoda.”
“Do you get off on this? Do you think it’s funny? I don’t.”
Your next question dies on your lips. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he retorts, fully awake now.
“Please try to remain on topic, Mr Togata,” you grit out. “It would be advisable for - ”
“Advisable?” He echoes, incredulous. “Or what? They’ll beat me up again until I’m so sick of it that I lie and tell you that I’m stuck in with the yakuza, just to give you a reason to imprison me?”
His voice hasn’t risen much, but it hits you like a slap in the face anyway, because Mirio doesn’t rile like this, doesn’t lash out like this - he’s supposed to be level headed and careful, but the drugs have stripped back a layer of his inhibition. The handcuffs rattle jarringly as he leans forward in his chair, the cornflower blue of his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen before.
“I didn’t want to corrupt you or turn you or whatever they’re thinking I tried behind that mirror,” he spits. “I just wanted you, in any way I could get. You made me think it was possible, and then you tore it away from me. I - ”
You interject, cold, uninterested. “Let’s stay on - ”
“No, let’s not,” he interrupts savagely. “You couldn’t even bother to be there when they ambushed me in the bed I fucked you on not two hours before. Why was that, huh? Were you too scared to see me break? Well, here I am anyway!”
He’s shouting now, shouting in a way that paralyses you. You can tell he’s trying to get a reaction out of you. He pleads with his eyes for just a glimpse of you through your professional mask, but nothing slips through, and you watch him wordlessly, helplessly, each second damning you further in his view. His split lip reopens, oozing blood, and his hand flies up to touch it but he’s restrained by the handcuffs, so he wipes it roughly on his sleeve instead.
“You used me to your own ends. Well done, you played me good. I hope you get the damn promotion. I hope you’re satisfied.” His yelling crescendoes. “You know, I loved you. I thought maybe - ”
Abruptly, Mirio jerks and cries out, a red light on the collar flashing once, and you realise two things: one, there must be a needle deep in his carotid, steadily pumping him with sedatives, and two, his face is wet with tears. Slowly, he raises his head to look up at you. He looks dazed again, unfocused, but there is something unmistakably tired in the brokenness of his expression that makes you want to gather him in your arms and simply hold him, to hell with who’s watching.
Shaking his head and throwing off the mist, he sharpens, remaining subdued but watching you bitterly. The drugs have let things that were tucked tightly away spill free, and still they pour out - beneath that bitterness is a pain he cannot hide, a dogged, determined agony that hounds him. You can tell that he’s thinking it was stupid for him to ever trust you. He’s almost certainly right.
“I’ve never seen you so cold,” he says quietly. “Is this what you’re really like? Those nights were just a farce, weren’t they?”
You stare at him, and you hate how your silence must be an answer to him. No, you want to deny. You want to cradle his face in your hands until all he can see is you, and you want to tell him he’s wrong. It was real. With you, everything was real. I almost said I loved you last night, did you know that? Please don’t hate me for this. Please forgive me.
“That’s fine,” he whispers, and he cannot meet your eyes. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing.”
Your heart wrenches, a hard, painful yank in your chest, spearing through your ribs and twisting, and you wait for your superintendent to come in and declare that it’s clear the interrogation won’t be fruitful and should be adjourned, but he doesn’t. They want more from you. For him, you tell yourself harshly, forcing your voice not to waver.
“This is your last chance to give any information on the Yamaguchi-gumi.”
Mirio closes his eyes, and a tear trickles down his cheek and lands on the steel surface of the table. “Yes, I know them. In fact, I am involved in delivering stolen weapons for them and policing the drug mules.”
Your mouth drops open but you snap it shut immediately before a nescient what can come blurting out. It’s a bald faced lie, and a bad one at that - the fabricated ties implied that he had a hand in the procuring of the drugs alone - but it’s enough for them to use against him. For some reason, he’s letting you win. A wave of helplessness crashes over you: you became a hero so you could protect those you love. What a good job you’re doing at that now.
Mercifully, the door opens, and your superintendent gives you a curt nod and a smile that would normally signal to you that you’ve done well, but it means nothing to you with Mirio bowed over the table behind you. Your commander takes you to the side and informs you that you’ll hear about where you’ll be transferred to tomorrow. You hardly notice her, because to your right, a constable and an inspector are discussing Mirio’s impending transfer to Tartarus tomorrow morning.
The blood in your veins seems to freeze. Tomorrow morning means you only have tonight to act. You need to find the tracker they have on you and remove it. You need to locate which cell they’ll be holding him in at the station. You need, most of all, to let him know the truth - it was always real with him.
Time is of the essence. You have a prisoner to break out.
You find the tracker sewn neatly into the lining of your suit, just where slinky black fabric becomes hard exoskeleton armour. Once you've cut it out with a neat snick, you tuck it beneath your mattress and let yourself out by the skylight. The night air is crisp, pleasant, and you think with a grim sort of certainty: good conditions for breaking the law.
A harsh sort of rage overtakes you then, because why have they imprisoned an innocent? What kind of law is that? Clenching your teeth so hard it feels like your molars might shatter, you neatly snap your hero license in half and leave it on the desk. After the stunt you’re going to pull, you won’t be needing it.
Besides, it’s no longer a point of pride for you.
Entering the station is the easy bit, as is pinpointing which cell is his - there are only two prisoners being held today, which means only five guards on duty, and you sweep through the station like a silent tidal wave, taking them out one by one and leaving them bound and gagged in your wake. Your first idea is to let out the other prisoner to create confusion over your escape, but you realise with a sinking heart that it won’t be that easy.
To put it simply, Mirio won’t trust you. If you release the other captive, he might escape before you finish talking to Mirio, and you know that will take time: you’ll have to create the diversion afterwards. You saw his wounded eyes as you left the interrogation room. He will think you are there to boast, to rub it in his face. That’s on you. Had you been more careful, had you paid more attention, you might have been able to suspect the tracker’s presence, and you wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.
Swiping the stolen keycard in the slot, you let yourself in. Mirio half raises his head but doesn’t look up. Your breath catches. Something worse than fury wells up inside you, festering like a sore, a sharpness that’s wedged like a searing hot coal between your ribs. Bruises mottle his skin, and blood has dried from his nose and his lip, split in multiple places now; the collar is still in place, but it isn’t that which incenses you.
They have muzzled him.
You cannot imagine what he did for them to fasten the straps so tight that they cut into his flesh, but in your mind you hear him losing it, lunging for a sergeant with his voice rough in your ears, then the dull thumps of truncheons on flesh. Did he struggle enough to warrant the beating he received? No, never, yet still they have left him here, kicked and muzzled like a fighting dog that lost.
Crudely, you curse, and now he looks at you, and you are horrified, because those cornflower eyes have gone from deep wells to a wary emptiness that terrifies you. You’ve always been able to read him, but as you search his face for anything, anything, your heart sinks. He’s shut you out. The sedatives have worked through his system, and now he’s in control, he wants nothing to do with you.
There’s an irony to it all. Was this what you were like while you interrogated him? The cold chills your heart.
The apology that begins to shape itself on your lips is not enough, so instead you keep your mouth shut and begin working on getting the collar and muzzle off. He doesn’t exactly flinch away from you, but the distrust is like a shield that guards him from you. No relief leaks through, no hint of cheery familiarity sparks in the wounded blue of his eyes.
When the collar finally falls to the floor with a strident clatter, loud against the silence, he doesn’t move to rub at the red marks left from his bonds, but he gets up and slowly puts space between the two of you, his flat gaze never leaving yours. You stand there, pinned by the weight of his eyes that seem to say you did this to me, you think you can salvage us now?, and though an internal clock begins to tick down, the words stick in your throat, like you’re a bottle that has been corked.
“It’s - it’s not a trap,” you finally force out, voice piteously weak.
“Feeling guilty, then?” He asks. “Is that why you’re here?”
You shake your head. “No. No, I came to - “
“Don’t you think you should go?” His eyes remain dull, emotionless. “You’ll get in trouble if you’re caught here.”
Your mouth feels stuffed with cotton wool. Mirio has mourned you already, the you that clung to him in the dark and begged him to stay, the you that told him that you wished to join him less than a day ago. Who you are now is someone who’s dead to him. His eyes are detached and distant when he looks at you, like he doesn’t even know you.
He doesn’t try to make you bleed, he just looks at you like you’re a stranger, and the blankness in his face makes your eyes well and your hands shake. The man before you is just a shell, Mirio withdrawn so far within him that it could be anyone, just a random man off the street who looks right through you.
“Please, just li - “
You’re cut off by a low whining that grows higher and higher until it’s ear splitting. Ice lodges into the base of your skull, and for a moment you are frozen, paralysed by the blaring klaxon of the alarm loud and dooming across the station. Time has run out - they must have not been fully convinced by your interrogation act and kept you monitored.
“I know this is rich coming from me, but you need to trust me,” you say, ignoring the way your voice trembles. “Hate me later all you want, just… we need to go.”
Cringing, you wait for him to rebuke you, to laugh in your face and ask what makes you think he’d come with you, but he simply looks at you. Something slips in his composure, something that you don’t dare hope to be a hope of his own, and he steps forward, once, twice, not quite acceptance but not quite refusal either. Sweat begins pooling in your palms, and you feel the familiar itch in your fingertips as your Quirk kicks in. They’ll be outside.
“Please,” you whisper.
He nods. “Okay.”
The word has barely left his mouth when the door bursts open, and your heart plummets like a bird shot from the sky; there are two squadrons in the corridor, maybe three. Mirio is in no shape to fight, and you can already feel the fear creeping through you, stealing through your veins and quickening your breath. You’re not powerful enough to get out of this without a miracle.
You’ll be damned to not give them a fight. You raise your arms and call the shadows, and they billow around you, tearing through the first row that rush through the door. A voice rings out, commanding you to stand down, and you send a black tendril lashing in that direction, face twisted into a snarl. You can’t see him - soon you won’t be able to see anything - but you know that’s your superintendent.
Already you can sense the creeping darkness, oozing into your consciousness like a disease, insidious and creeping, a blade slipped casually into your side and twisted. You put it out of your mind. The second row has broken through your shadows and made contact. Throwing out a hand, you swipe aside one man and punch another in the throat, angling yourself in front of Mirio. To get him, they’ll have to get through you.
You catch a glimpse of metal, a long, gleaming stock aimed at you, and you don’t wait to see if it shoots sedatives or bullets. Darkness descends at your bidding, whole and absolute, and for a suffocating breath, you’re alone, a lost child in the night. The black is a living thing, squeezing you in its taloned grip and filling your lungs with the choking scent of your own fear.
And then you hear breathing, the scuffling of footsteps as the squadrons stumble against and around each other, as disorientated as you, but somehow, knowing that they’re here with you in the embrace of the night makes it worse. It would be so easy for the shadow to become solid and plug their noses and mouths and fill their chests until they’re all dead. It would happen slowly, and you will hear their muffled screams, one by one until you are the last.
Your only hope is that Mirio will make it out alive in the madness you’ve caused, but this dark is so vast you fear even his sun will get swallowed up.
Pounding hard in your ears, your heart quickens. You need to run, and yet you cannot, frozen to the spot, a prisoner awaiting the shots of the firing squad. Louder and louder, your breath comes, wheezing and all wrong. You’re drowning, the taste black and oily on your tongue. Control slips through your fingers, the night a writhing, untamed beast under your palms, and it bays for blood. You can only succumb. You can only watch blindly as it bursts forth, poison -
A hand slips into your own, calloused and warm and grounding.
A thumb sweeps a slow rhythm over your knuckles. Your breathing decelerates to match.
You look to him, and though the darkness is absolute, though it still bucks and roils inside you, it is scared of him. Somehow, impossibly, you can see the shape of him, see the faith in his blue eyes. Mirio shines as bright as the sun. Your fear dissipates; despite his distrust, he’s still there, right beside you.
He has not vanquished the dark, not fully, not yet, and the beastly night still lurks at the corners of your vision, but you are strengthened by his touch: steadfast and easy, he stands, shoulders squared, warming you to your marrow like beams of golden afternoon sun. The shadows have nothing on him.
“Thank you,” you gasp, though you doubt he’s heard it.
The words aren’t enough anyway. Even broken, he still has strength to lend to you. He stands there, fingers laced with yours, swaying on his feet a little and cradling his bruised ribs, but he looks the picture of certainty. Without thinking of it, you use your shadows to support him, and you realise with a start that you can feel the power sweet and tame at your fingertips, obedient to your bidding. This time, you float above the dark abyss instead of sinking into its maw, grounded by a golden silhouette with blue eyes.
You find you can sense the shapes in the darkness, hear the beat of their hearts and the hot rush of blood through their veins as they flail, blind and lost as you once were. Sending out tendrils ahead of you, you feel your way through them, seeking a path and leading Mirio by the hand behind you.
As soon as you’re out of the cell, you break into a run, scaling the nearest fire escape and bounding across the rooftop. You can only maintain your shadows for so long down there, and they’ll expect you to stick to the alleys, letting the shadows conceal your escape, but you can’t let them predict your moves, because there will be no soft fall, no quiet demotion, waiting for you if they catch you. You’ve cut loose now. Your license will be revoked if it hasn’t been already, and you can’t find it in yourself to mourn.
Mirio lets go of your hand.
You glance over him, and your heart gives a nervous twist. His eyes are guarded, hard, but there are cracks beginning to show, revealing flashes of desperate hope and cynicism alike. You want to run to him, to hold him and recite your promises into his skin, but that’s not what he needs.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he says, fighting to keep the tremble from his voice. “We’ve lost them, there’s time.”
Measuredly, he takes a few steps back, keeping a distance between you that must hurt him as much as it hurts you; you look at his clenched fists, and then at the way he stares out at the city, its myriad of lights under the swollen, setting moon. The wind picks up, slinking around your knees and threatening to pull the tears from your eyes.
Please, let me be able to fix this, you think, unsure who you’re praying to and hoping you're pleading with a merciful god.
“Hey,” you murmur. “Sunny, look at me.”
“Don’t call me that.”
His voice cracks, and you feel something unravel in your chest. You say his name, drawing in a breath to continue, but a knot pulls tight in your throat and you have to look away and force it down, willing the tears out of your eyes. More than anything, you want to touch him, to assure him that you’re here with him, but it’s a selfish wish.
“I meant everything I said,” you say. “I’m sorry that this was what it took for me to realise the truth about my job and the case and…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes. “It was my fault. I wasn’t careful enough, and I didn’t notice the tracker they had on me that led right to you. There was no other faster way I could think of to get you out. I shouldn’t have - ”
“Shut up,” he chokes out. “Just shut up.”
Alarmed, heart sinking, you look up to see the tears spilling over on his face; he takes a step towards you, and then you’re swept into his arms and he holds you so tight that you think he might want to imprint the feel of your body pressed to his on his skin. A sob is wrenched from the base of your throat, and you cling to him as your own eyes well up.
Relief overwhelms you, relief and something warmer that fills you up until you overflow. You hold each other until your eyes dry, and then you dangle your legs over the side of the parapet of the roof and talk, and finally, you sit in comfortable, thoughtful silence, leaning against each other. Mirio is warm against your side, fitting where he was meant to be all along.
You are the one to break the silence.
“I love you, sunny. You know that?”
He turns to you, eyes crinkling in a mischievous smile. “I know, sweets,” he replies innocently.
You jab a finger at his ribs until he squeals. “Say it back, you ass!”
His laughter rings out across the streets of uptown Musutafu, sweet and boisterous. As he says it back (finally), the sun begins to rise, gilding everything in the warm colour of his hair. The sky is perfectly clear: soon it will be the same blue as his eyes.
He is everywhere, so what more is a hidden corner of your heart?
a/n: three months and this 11k is all i have to show for it. anyways everyone pls give some love to this fic because without it the level of mirio brainrot would not have been sufficient enough to write this 🫡
