floral heartache izuku midoriya/reader 6/6 final part
chapter summary
It's not a conscious decision, not on your part at least. You moving in with Izuku starts slow. Your time there begins to extend from a few days to a week, then more. Your things show up slowly at first, a couple shirts, your toothbrush. Shampoo and conditioner. It's not even you that's doing it, it's him. He's the one that's casually bringing more and more of your boxes up from his basement. He's the one that insisted you bring Hiro with you.
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You hadn't been expecting things to go the way they had when you spent the night, though you can't say you didn't like it.
Flashes of hot, sweat-slicked skin against your own flicker through your head. You remember how far down his freckles had reached, you think of those green eyes, staring up at you from between your legs. Scarred thick fingers squeezing so tightly at your thighs they left bruises. His mouth sealed over yours, swallowing down every noise you made. His own hiccuping sounds when you–
You're distracted. You can't be distracted. Today, you're officially back on duty. You're not back on the patrol roster quite yet, but you have a lot of paperwork to catch up on, so you hunker down in Katsuki’s office to do it.
On paper, you're a solo agent. You don't belong to any one agency, just like Aizawa and Hitoshi, but you frequently find yourself working with or in Katsuki's agency. Hitoshi joins you under the guise of being your partner and taking responsibility for half of the paperwork. You know it's really just because he and Katsuki are officially dating now and he wants to see him.
Simp, you think, as if you aren't exactly the same.
“Remind me again why you couldn't have just finished this shit?” you ask, wincing when the hand shaped bruise on your thigh throbs as you shift and tuck your foot beneath yourself.
Hitoshi notices your discomfort. He's seen it before, having marked you similarly. He watches for the telltale signs. The way you hiss, press your fingertips to the bruise in the same way whomever left them there must've, then flush a pretty shade of pink when you're inevitably reminded of how it got there.
“You got laid. You have a sex injury,” he accuses teasingly, leaning forward to press his own finger to the bruise. When you gasp, he does not hold in his laugh.
“It's not an injury, Jesus,” you bark out a shocked laugh too and slap his hand away when he keeps poking, “Just a bruise.”
“Damn,” he whistles, frowning down at his mug when he realizes it's void of any form of caffeine, “Didn't think he had it in him.”
“What, fucking me?”
“Well, fucking you hard enough to bruise. Figured he'd be, like, vanilla. Missionary with super intense eye contact, you know, the works,”
“You are so fucked in the head,” you say.
“Like you aren't?” he throws back.
“I'm getting more coffee,”
“That's crazy, me too,” he grins, “You can give me details while we walk.”
“I hate you,”
“Mm, I don't think you do,”
── 𓇢𓆸 ──
They tell you that your apartment won't be fixed one month into your stay with Katsuki. Your landlord's son had been kind enough to call you the moment he found out.
“They found more structural damage after the accident that isn't worth fixing,” he explains over the phone, “Dad didn't wanna charge the tenants for an apartment they weren't currently living in. But without that income, he couldn't afford it anymore without risking foreclosure. And after finding out about the extent of the damages, he just decided to sell. He closed on a deal with a real estate company this morning and they're wanting to begin demolition immediately. Tenants have a week to get their things out.”
“That's not enough notice for more than half of the building,” you huff, “Where's your father gonna go?”
“My sister has an extra room,” he says, sounding extraordinarily tired, “I know a week isn't enough. I pushed for a month, but they wanna get started as soon as they can. And I have no say anymore. I'm sorry, Aviator.”
“Don't worry about it,” you sigh, “Thanks for calling. And tell your dad I said thank you, too.”
── 𓇢𓆸 ──
You hate moving. Even if you didn't particularly love where you were living, you still get this sad, melancholic feeling deep in your gut when you have to leave. It's definitely some childhood trauma shit, but you don't have time to deep dive into that. And packing is a whole different annoyance. Especially packing an apartment that still looks like a warzone. You have backup on the way, Izuku and Katsuki are coming after their joint patrol and Aizawa and Hitoshi texted saying they're a few minutes out. You're thankful for them, because you are… ah, overwhelmed.
Most of your stuff in the living room isn't even worth an attempt to save it. Your couch is destroyed, torn and missing pieces. Your TV is completely busted, folded in half and crushed under a chunk of your wall. Throw blankets are tattered, knick-knacks and tchotchkes broken or lost in the chaos, framed photos shattered and bloody.
You start in your bedroom instead.
By the time Aizawa and Hitoshi show up, you're nearly done packing all of your clothes. Hitoshi is gentle with you, he knows how you feel about moving. He offers you a coffee that you take with a grateful groan.
“How's it going?” Aizawa drawls, leaning back against your doorframe.
“The living room isn't even worth packing,” you huff, “Part of me wants to dig through the mess to see if I can salvage anything. But it seems useless at this point. They took so long that anything near the busted wall got wet from the rain we got a few days ago.”
“I'll dig through it for you,” he offers.
“You don't have to,” you mutter, defeated and tired.
“I know I don't have to, but I will,” he hums, scooping the hair off his neck to tie in a low bun, “You can focus on everything else. When will the boys be here?”
“Another fifteen, probably,” you say, “They're bringing the moving truck.”
“Well, with five of us it should be pretty quick,”
“Yeah,” you huff, “Thanks, Shouta.”
“Anytime, kid,”
── 𓇢𓆸 ──
“You have my merch?” Izuku coos, leaning past you to grab the sweatshirt behind you.
“Of course I do,” you laugh and slide another box across the floor and into the hallway. Katsuki scoops it up easily, grinning when you roll your eyes at his show of strength.
“I didn't know that,” Izuku blubbers suddenly, tears gathering on his lashes. “This is a limited edition, too!”
“Izuku,” you huff, snatching the hoodie back, “It's almost like I was desperately, embarrassingly in love with you for years.”
“Was?” he teases, catching you by the waist when you try to walk away and pressing himself against your back. He grins when you roll your eyes at him and leans down to leave a trail of light kisses over your shoulders.
You tilt your head back, urging him to drop one against your lips, “Kiss me and maybe that ‘was’ will change into ‘am’.”
“Anytime,” he murmurs into your neck, kissing a path from just below your ear to your lips and then leaving two more once he gets there.
── 𓇢𓆸 ──
It's not a conscious decision, not on your part at least. You moving in with Izuku starts slow. Your time there begins to extend from a few days to a week, then more. Your things show up slowly at first, a couple shirts, your toothbrush. Shampoo and conditioner. It's not even you that's doing it, it's him. He's the one that's casually bringing more and more of your boxes up from his basement. He's the one that insisted you bring Hiro with you.
It's been such an easy transition, you hadn't realized how normal it felt. Your dishes mixed with his in the kitchen, your books beside his on the shelves. Hell, you have your own dresser and a dedicated side of the bed and closet now. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to even notice. It's been nearly three months, and you're just putting it together on a random, lazy Sunday morning.
“Do I live here?” you ask, startling yourself. Izuku is across from you, lounging on the couch and half asleep. The TV drones on while he blinks a few times dumbly, mind lagging and drowsy. You gasp, horrified, “Did I accidentally move in with you!?”
“You didn't realize?” he laughs, sitting up with a stretch. You're momentarily distracted by the slither of skin that peeks out when his shirt rises with his arms. He grins when he catches the look in your eye.
“No? What the fuck? You did?” you say as soon as your tongue catches up with your brain again.
“Baby,” he snickers, “You never even started looking for apartments.”
“I'm– I was just procrastinating!”
“Every single one of your boxes has been unpacked,” he adds.
“I didn't ask you to do that!”
“Are you upset?” he murmurs, suddenly looking guilty.
“I–” you hesitate, taking in your home. Your things fit so seamlessly with his, like it was always meant to be like this, “I don't think I am.”
“Okay,”
“Just– sorry, I guess,”
“What? Why?”
“For moving in with you without asking, maybe? I don't know. Are you upset?”
“Are you kidding? Coming home to you is everything I've ever wanted,” he's so earnest when he says it, “I was gonna ask anyways, but then it just sort of happened.”
“Oh my God, that's so fucking embarrassing,” you whine and drop your head to your hands. He coos, crawling from the couch to the lounge you're occupying and crushing his weight down on you carefully. You let your hands fall from your face to wrap around his shoulders and curl into the dark green curls at the base of his neck, “Is love always this easy?”
“I don't know,” he answers honestly, “I wouldn't say this was easy. It took us a long time to get here.”
“Yeah, but now that we got here it is,” you whisper into his hair, pressing gentle kisses to the crown of his head. “I think it's supposed to be like this.”
“I think so too,” he groans, squishing his face further into your chest, “You're so warm.”
“Are you tired, baby?”
“Mm, no,” he says, turning to bite at the swell of your breast. When you hiss, he apologizes with wet licks and kisses over the mark until you make a softer noise.
“Oh,” you sigh, “Okay, not tired.”
“Definitely not tired,” he huffs, scooping you up easily as he stands. “But I still prefer the bed for this. Only the best for my love.”
Your laugh is warm, loud and unapologetic, bouncing along the walls of the house as he carries you up the stairs and to your bedroom. His own laugh twists together with yours, filling the corners of your shared space. Somewhere downstairs, the bell on Hiro's collar jingles.
It's a vibrant feeling, realizing that this is your home, too. The bed he drops you on is yours, too. And the shower you share after is yours. You and him have weaved parts of each other into your lives, intertwined everything to make it shared.
It's not ‘mine’ or ‘his’ anymore, it's ‘ours.’
It's shared. It's two people coming together to make one life because they love each other enough to make space for one another. It’s two people tipping the scale between them, shifting their weight to make everything balance.
It's everything you've ever wanted.
── 𓇢𓆸 ──
When you were a kid, you didn't ever want to fall in love. You watched first hand how love ruined your mother. The man who helped bring you into this world hadn't even stuck around long enough for you to meet him. And when he left, he took a piece of your mother with him you think. And she spent years looking for it. Chasing men, begging them. Changing for them.
Every man after that was the same. Kind in the beginning, sweeter than sugar to you and your mother. And then, somewhere along the line, a switch was always flipped. They didn't want kids, they didn't want you. And they never stuck around long enough for you to call them dad, not that you ever would.
You didn't need a dad, you had your mom. She was enough for you, she always would be.
You weren't enough for her.
She craved love so badly from a man, it wasn't enough if it was from you.
One man stuck around long enough. He treated her so well, he said he loved her. He asked if she loved him too. If she loved him enough to leave you behind.
The first few times he asked, she had laughed him off. You listened through the crack in your door, waiting and wishing that she would finally put your relationship with her first.
When you were ten, she left. And you learned that unconditional love doesn't exist. Not with men or women. Not with family, not with your own mother.
“He's gonna marry me,” she had said, delighted and rushing to pack her suitcase. “He just– well. He doesn't want kids. You want me to be happy, don't you? You understand, right?”
You didn't. Of course you didn't.
If love could do that, if it could take your mother away from you, you didn't want it.
Your grandparents had been furious with your mother when they took you in. They raised you well. With so much love, they taught you it could be good. They were so proud of you when you got your acceptance letter from UA. And they cheered for you during your first Sports Festival.
They tried to show you better love, healthier love.
“Love is easy,” your grandmother said, time and time again, “It shouldn't be hard. Real love is so easy, so simple. They won't ask you to change, they won't want you to be different. They'll love you as you are. And if they really love you, you'll believe them when they say it.”
And eventually, you could see it in them, in the way your grandfather knew how your grandmother took her tea, in the way your grandmother still made his favorite meal every year on his birthday, even after he passed. When she passed three years after him, you were more happy than sad. Still heartbroken, of course, but she was with him again. He had always been her happy place, and you knew they were together again, wherever they were.
You see them again in your life, in the relationships around you. You see them in Izuku and yourself, in Katsuki and Hitoshi, in Shouta and Hizashi. You see that same love, the good kind. The unconditional kind. The kind your mother failed to show you.
And you can see it now. Written between the lines of love, of devotion you've given each other. It's so saccharine, warm and gooey like honey. Izuku is so easy to love, he is so quick to give it right back. He makes the space for you, so he can love you and the rest of the world too. He fits himself in that hole in your chest, he cups his hands so tightly together to collect your soul when you pour it into his accepting palms. And he doesn't hesitate to pour his own into your hands, because he trusts you with it. Because he loves you.
He is so sweet, so kind, when he says he loves you too. He is a good man, and you are grateful to be the one to love him. You're grateful for the mornings where you wake up with him and the nights you fall asleep with him. And he, in turn, is just as grateful. And he shows it so openly. Touching you whenever he can, even if it's just a hand on your arm as he passes by you or a leg tangled between yours while you sleep. He kisses you at every opportunity, in public and in private. He dances with you in the kitchen, dips you low to the floor and presses a kiss over your heart.
You've spent years wanting him, loving him, and you are so fortunate in being able to do that. He'd shout his love for you from the rooftops if he could, you're sure. And you would do the same damn thing.
Being in love with Midoriya Izuku is so easy, all things considered. It's as automatic as breathing and blinking and being, because he loves you back just as easily. And in some sick and twisted way, you're thankful for those flowers that had sprouted in your chest. Without them, you wouldn't have this easy, beautifully simple love.
“I love you,” you say.
“I love you,” he replies. And it's so easy, and he doesn't ask you to change anything about yourself, and you believe him every time he says it.