unconventional | 5 | midoriya x reader
summary: HeroExpo is incredible, and that’s not even counting the really cute hero fanboy you just met. Well, you think he might be cute under that Deku cosplay. It’s hard to tell because it’s really, really good. Like, too good.
length: est ~20,000 words | 6 chapters
tags: romance, pro hero au, misunderstandings, conventions/fandom culture
warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut
HeroExpo @heroexpo_official
Deku meet and greet now features several more of your favorite pros! If you missed Uravity, Shouto, Dynamight, Ingenium, or Creati, come see them in Hall B, Room 143!
dox 🔥(STORE OPEN!)🔥 @doxxerelle
replying to @heroexpo_official
there is a criminal lack of hanta sero in this line up. my lawyers will be in touch.
xinju @greenhopp
i would LOVE to know what they threatened dynamight with to get him to do this after the last time.
zennie | commissions open! @jennie_xz_art
Special last day promotion! Buy any two UA Class 21XX keychains and get the third free! Running low on Deku so get him while you can!! #HeroX
green bean protection squad @bunnnniboi
replying to @heroexpo_official
/sweating/ its happening omg ITS HAPPENING IM GONNA TOUCH DEKU RED ALERT RED ALERT
Everything was a blur after that.
You heard yourself offer some kind of choked excuse—though what you said would be forever unknown to you—and you turned to flee into the train station, not waiting for his response. You all but threw yourself through the turnstiles, running for the platform where your train was just coming into the station. You wound your way through the crowds of commuters on autopilot, your brain swimming.
Your Izuku was not only not your Izuku, he was Izuku Midoriya, number one hero Deku. And it should have been fucking obvious from the start.
Everything finally felt like it was snapping into focus—how he’d clearly been familiar with the industry, how his diagrams were structured like he’d worked with support before, why his costume was so eerily accurate—and you could have fucking kicked yourself. He’d even said it, hadn’t he? When those girls came up to ask for his picture, when they’d asked, “Are you Deku?” which you had so stupidly interpreted as “Are you meant to be dressed as Deku?” instead.
And he’d said yes, right the fuck in front of you, and you’d missed it.
Your mind worked itself in increasingly more panicked circles. You didn’t remember getting onto the train, or sitting down, but by the time you’d recovered yourself enough to take stock of things, you were crammed into a corner seat at the end of one train car. You also discovered you were already four stops past your own, and you slumped down further in your seat, drawing your coat up around your face.
You couldn’t have uprooted yourself if you tried, so you rode the train to the end of the line, mind still working over the events of the evening. Your stomach churned and your heart wouldn’t stop racing, and still you sat huddled in a miserable little pile of regret.
Finally the conductor poked his head in to ask you to get off, and you mechanically made your way to the other end of the platform to board a train back towards home.
You barely registered yourself getting off at your stop, didn’t remember making your way across campus. You barely remembered swiping your card at the dorm entrance, plodding slowly down the hall, and shouldering your door open.
You threw yourself into bed without shedding your clothes, drawing your comforter up over your head like you could hide beneath it forever. It did nothing to shield you from the memories that were bombarding your brain’s feeble walls like an invading army.
Izuku—no, Deku—must have thought you were so fucking stupid. Of course he was too nice to say so, but there’s no way he hadn’t thought it. Asking him to lunch as a thanks for a save from a candy wrapper, like he hadn’t saved Japan—hadn’t saved the entire world—like fifteen quadrillion times. Making him accompany you to all of those panels, telling him UA Class 21XX was your favorite, absolutely drowning him in ideas for upgrades to his own suit.
And worst of all, making eyes at him, thinking you even had a chance with him for a single second, making him get you a sweatshirt replica of his own suit—no wonder he was so stammery and so awkward about it. He must have been so lost as to how to dislodge you, how to scrape off the mouthy little barnacle that had clung to him the entire convention. It must have looked to him like you’d been using him for access to things—his time, his merch, audiences with fellow pros.
You groaned, stuffing your head under your pillow.
There was no way it didn’t look like that from his perspective. And he’d still been nice enough to invite you to bring your work to his meet and greet, even after everything. He really was the most beloved hero for a reason.
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