synopsis: Izuku's wife comes home drunk
pairing: izuku x reader
warnings: mature, suggestive, fluff (mostly), soft!dom deku, fem reader, comfort, praise, encouragement, yearning, self-control
w/c: 2,511
The apartment was quiet, with the smell of ginger and soy sauce in the air. Izuku was currently cooking up some curry that had been simmering for the last hour. His sleeves were rolled up, and his freckled arms were dusted with flour from the dumplings he decided to make from scratch. It was a rare night alone for him. You, his wife, who usually did most of the cooking, had gone off to a small outing with your old college friends, a group of loud, lovely women who had insisted on a "girls night" and had shooed him away when he'd offered to drop you off and pick you up.
"She'll be fine, Midoriya! How about you go be a househusband for once!"
He had laughed, kissing you goodbye as your friends cooed at the two of you.
Now, the curry was nearly done. He was just about to taste it when he heard the sound of keys that had oddly missed the lock. Twice. He wiped his hands off on the towel, taking off the apron he had put on for the dumplings, as a small smile was already forming on his face. "She's home," he murmured to himself, making his way to the door.
The door swung open with more force than usual, and you stumbled inside, barely catching yourself on the doorframe. Your purse, which Izuku had just bought for you the week before, had slid down your elbow and thumped onto the floor, a few items falling out. Your hair, usually neat, was messily falling around your face. Your cheeks were a blotchy pink that traveled down your neck and disappeared beneath the collar of your dress.
"Izuuuu," you breathed, your voice pitched higher than normal, slow and slurred, with a grin. Loose and unfocused.
He was at your side instantly, grabbing your waist to steady you. You smelled like perfume and something sweet. Raspberry vodka? Maybe a fruity cocktail? Whatever it was, it was making his head spin. Your body swayed into his, your full weight on his chest, tilting your head up to look at him through half-lidded eyes.
"Whoa there, baby," he said, his voice soft with a mix of amusement and concern. "Were you drinking?" You didn't answer. Instead, your gaze dropped to his lips. Then, with a boldness that made his breath catch, you reached up, grabbing the front of his shirt, pulling him into a kiss.
It wasn't your usual kiss. This was something else entirely. Your mouth was warm, soft, and insistent against his. One of your hands slid up into his hair, fingers curling into the green curls at his nape, sending an electric shock down his spine.
Izuku made a small, strangled sound against your lips. His hands were still on your waist, and they tightened reflexively as the kiss deepened. For a dizzying moment, he forgot you had been drinking, forgot he was holding you upright. Honestly, he forgot everything in that moment, except the taste of raspberries and the way you were pressing your body against his.
When you finally pulled back, just a fraction of an inch, your eyes were glossy and dark. A thin line of saliva briefly connected your lips together before it broke.
"Izu…" you whined; the sound was low and needy and desperate. It vibrated through his chest.
His face was on fire. He could feel the heat creeping down his neck.
"Y-Yes? What's wrong, baby?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.
You looked up at him. A slight, embarrassed blush deepened on your cheeks. But you didn't look away. "I need you." The words hung in the air, and Izuku's brain short-circuited. You weren't someone who usually said what you wanted. At least not in this way. Izuku usually was just always able to tell. But right now, you were clinging to him. Looked him dead in the eyes and told him you needed him. Not wanted. Needed.
"Baby…" He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "Are… are you drunk?"
You shook your head almost immediately, a bit too fast, making you dizzy and wobble a little. Your lower lip pushed out in a pout that was so insanely adorable it made his chest ache. He could smell the alcohol on your breath. He sighed, but it was a fond sound. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Okay, come on," he murmured. He bent slightly and scooped you up before you could protest, with one arm under your legs and the other supporting your back, cradling you against his chest with ease. You let out a surprised little squeak, then immediately looped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder.
He carried you down the hallway and into your shared bedroom. Your sheets were still messy from that morning, and the pillows were still indented from the night before. Izuku laid you down on the bed, tucking the sheets around you, and when you looked at him, all flushed, dark eyes and parted lips, his heart did something complicated in his chest.
"I'll get you some water," he said, quickly turning toward the door. He needed a moment. Just one moment to cool down, to remember that you were drunk and that he was a good husband who didn't take advantage of his intoxicated wife.
But before he could make it there, your hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist. Your strong grip surprising him.
He looked back. You had pushed yourself up onto your hands and knees on the bed, your dress slipping off one shoulder, revealing the strap of your lace bra. Your expression was a devastating mix of shyness and raw need. And your eyes, those beautiful, warm eyes, were locked on his.
"Izuku…" Your voice was small, trembling at the edges. "Please… please stay."
His face went nuclear. He could feel the heat radiating off his own cheeks. "Baby...I—I'm just getting you some water, okay?"
But you didn't let go. Instead, you pulled his hand toward your body deliberately. Placing them onto your waist. His fingers spanned the curve of your hip, and he could feel the warmth of your body.
Before he could pull back, you leaned up and kissed him again.
This time, it was slower. More purposeful. Your tongue traced the seam of his lips, and when he gasped, you deepened the kiss, sliding your tongue against his. You tasted so utterly intoxicating to him that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Izuku groaned a low, helpless sound he couldn't suppress. His body betrayed his resolve. He leaned into you, one knee pressing onto the bed between your thighs. His free hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you in closer.
You made out like that for what felt like hours. It was hot. Messy. Desperate kisses that left you both breathless and flushed. You pulled at his shirt, trying to tug it up. He broke the kiss for just a second, just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere on the floor to be forgotten. Your hands immediately went to his bare chest, fingers tracing the ridges of his scars, his muscles, and the trail of hair that disappeared beneath his pants.
He was panting when he finally pulled his mouth away from you, resting his forehead against your shoulder. His whole body was trembling.
"Baby, we…" He swallowed, his throat dry. "We can't. You're drunk."
You shook your head against his, your fingers still flat against his chest. "I'm not," you argued. "I barely had anythingg."
He let out a breathless chuckle, listening to your slight slur, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Still. I'd rather do… this… when you're fully sober."
Your lip trembled. Your eyes, already glassy, shimmered with what might have been tears. For a moment, he thought you might cry. You pulled at his shoulders, dragging him down until his chest pressed flush against yours, making your bodies align. Your lips brushed his ear, breath warm and shaky.
"Izuku, please…" Your voice was a whisper, raw and honest. "Can you touch me…?"
That was the moment his self-control nearly snapped clean in half.
"W-What?!" The word came out strangled, almost a squeak. He shot straight up, looking at you. His entire body was screaming yes, every nerve in his body on fire. He wanted to. God, he really wanted to. He wanted to touch you everywhere, wanted to make you gasp and moan and fall apart beneath him. The image flashed through his mind. Your head thrown back, hands gripping the sheets, your voice crying out his name as your thighs shook from being overstimulated. He wanted to so bad he had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to stay focused.
You were drunk. You were vulnerable. And he loved you too much to take advantage of that.
He took a shaky breath. Then another. His hands, still on your waist, were shaking with restraint.
"Baby… I want to." His voice cracked. "I truly, truly do, but—
Your whine cut off his train of thought. A high, frustrated, desperate sound that cut through him like a knife. Your hips shifted beneath him, pressing up against his, and he could feel the heat of you even through your dress.
He closed his eyes, counted to five, and let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Okay. Okay, listen." He lowered his mouth to your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear. "I can't go all the way. Not tonight. I can't… I won't. But I can give you something. I can touch you. Just… not there. Not yet."
You whimpered, and your nails dug into his shoulders, the pain grounding him momentarily. He took that as agreement.
He kissed down your neck. Slow kisses that lingered on your sensitive body, worshipping you. Your neck, your collarbone, the hollow part of your throat. He wanted to worship all of you. He pushed the other strap of your dress down your shoulder, pulling it down to below your stomach, baring the lace of your bra. He pressed his lips to the swell of your breast, just above the fabric, kissing and licking it, causing a small whimper to leave your mouth, your body arching into his.
"God, you're beautiful," he murmured against your skin, the words muffled. "You have no idea what you do to me." He wanted to go farther. His hands roamed your waist and stomach, the dip of your hip, anywhere he could without going too far. He traced the bottom of the dress. His fingers skating just under the fabric to touch your thighs, pushing it up to bunch at your core. His hands traveled the bottom of them but not going any higher. He kissed the soft skin of your belly, just above your navel, making you shiver, a quiet moan escaping your lips.
"Izu…" Your voice was broken, pleading. "Please…"
He looked up at you, flushed, panting, eyes half-closed. Lips swollen from kissing. Your hands were fisted in the sheets beside you. Your chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Is this helping?" he asked, his voice breathless and strained.
You shook your head, a desperate little motion. He was touching you everywhere but where you needed it. It felt more like he was just teasing you, not helping you. "More… please… more izu…"
He let out a whine of his own, a frustrated, needy sound that matched yours. He buried his face in your stomach, his forehead pressed against your warm skin, fighting every instinct screaming at him to just give in.
When he looked up again, his expression was pained. Apologetic and so full of love it ached.
"I promise," he said, his voice rough. "I promise I'll make it up to you in the morning. Every single thing you want. Everything you need. I'll touch you everywhere. I'll—" He stopped himself, his face flushing darker. "I'll make you feel so good. Just… hold out for me till then. Please, baby. I...I don't have the self-control to keep going. If I keep touching you, I'm not going to be able to stop myself."
You stared at him with want, and for a long moment, Izuku thought you might argue with him. Might keep begging, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to say no to you again.
But then your expression softened. You nodded, small and resigned, and let your head fall back against the pillow.
"Okay," you whispered. "Okay."
He let out a shaky breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your stomach, then your collarbone, then your lips, so soft, sweet, and apologetic.
"I'm going to get your water," he said, forcing himself to stand. His legs felt shaky. "Then I'm coming right back. And I'm going to hold you until you fall asleep. Okay?"
You nodded again, pulling his pillow to your chest and hugging it after discarding the rest of your dress onto the floor.
He padded to the kitchen on unsteady legs; he glanced over at your forgotten dinner and poured a tall glass of cold water, grabbed two painkillers from the cabinet, and took a deep breath. Cleaning the stuff that had fallen out of your purse previously and shut off the lights.
"She's fine. You did the right thing. She'll thank you in the morning."
He thought to himself, though he wasn't 100% sure he believed it. Still, he brought himself back to the bedroom.
You had barely moved, still curled around his pillow, eyes half-closed, and your dress left on the floor. He helped you up just enough to drink half the glass of water and the painkillers, setting the rest of the glass on the nightstand. Then he slid into bed beside you, pulling the blanket over both of you.
You immediately rolled into him, your head finding its usual spot on his chest, your arm wrapping tightly around his waist and your leg hooked over his, tangling them together. Your skin and bodies pressed together.
He stroked your hair, slow and rhythmic, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"I love you," he murmured.
"Love you too," you mumbled, already half-asleep.
Within minutes, your breathing evened out, your body going soft and heavy against his. He listened to the quiet sound of your snores, felt the warmth of your breath against his skin, and let himself relax.
Only then did he close his eyes.
When morning finally hit and you were both awake, the memories from the night before came rushing back, flushing your face. He kissed the top of your head, then your cheeks, and finally the corner of your lips.
"If you still want me to touch you…" He murmured against your skin, feeling you shiver. His voice dropped lower, rougher, a confidence flickering to life. "…then don't stop me."
You didn't. And he didn't either.
Not until you were breathless and shaking and moaning his name like a prayer.
Your protest dies on your lips, swallowed by the sudden dark and the warmth of his palm against your cheek.
Izuku’s thumb strokes the tired skin under your eye, a slow, deliberate pass that makes your lashes flutter shut for a second. The scent of clean cotton and chamomile cuts through the stale coffee haze clinging to your desk.
Your shoulders drop. A shaky, full-body exhale escapes you, one you didn’t know you were holding.
“Let me take over now.”
His voice is a quiet rumble in the quiet room, a statement, not a request. His other hand is still on your closed laptop lid.
You open your mouth. “I just have to finish—”
“No.”
The word is soft. Absolute. His green eyes hold yours, unwavering. The earnest intensity usually reserved for analyzing a villain’s weakness is fixed on you, on the frantic pulse at your throat, on the way your fingers are still curled around a phantom pen.
He stands, his movement fluid and sure, and his hands slide from your cheek and laptop to your shoulders. His grip is firm, grounding. He turns your swivel chair away from the desk.
Before you can process the shift, his hands are at your hips, lifting.
It isn’t a question. You’re up, your own feet barely touching the carpet, and then you’re being settled into his lap as he takes your seat. The chair groans softly under the combined weight.
You’re straddling him, the position sudden and intimate, your knees bracketing his lean thighs on either side of the chair. Your own chair rolls away a few inches, abandoned.
“Izuku—”
“Shhh.”
One of his scarred hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your tousled hair. The other settles firmly on the small of your back, pressing just enough to arch your spine, to melt your tense body into the solid plane of his chest.
He smells like sun-dried linen and that faint, herbal tea. It’s a clean smell. A calm smell. It floods your senses, replacing the acrid bite of overtime and panic.
His breath stirs the hair at your temple. “You’re done. Just breathe.”
You try to hold onto the frayed threads of your to-do list, but his hand is moving in slow circles on your back, tracing the knobs of your spine through your shirt. His touch is methodical. Mapping. Soothing.
Another exhale tears out of you, less shaky this time. Your forehead finds the curve of his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is soft.
“Good,” he murmurs, the praise a warm vibration against your skin. His fingers continue their work, untangling the knots along your shoulders. “That’s it.”
You feel him shift slightly beneath you, a subtle adjustment. Then you feel it—the hard, unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressed against the heart of you, even through both your clothes.
A sharp, quiet gasp catches in your throat. Your eyes fly open, but you don’t lift your head.
His circling hand stills for a moment. His own breath hitches, a faint, controlled sound. “Ignore that,” he whispers, his voice strained at the edges. “It’s just… a reaction. It’s not for right now.”
You smile, the expression feeling foreign on your tired face, and relax deeper into him, your body going pliant against his solid warmth.
“You know breaks are just as important as studying, right, love?” His voice is a gentle murmur against your hair.
You nod, lifting your head to look at him. His green eyes are soft, patient. “I just have a big exam coming up. I’ve been trying to study as much as possible.”
He pecks your lips, a quick, grounding touch. “You’re not going to retain anything if you’re stressed and tired, hun.”
His hands slide securely under your thighs. In one smooth motion, he stands, taking your full weight with him as he lifts you from the chair. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, arms looping his neck. He carries you the few steps to your bed and deposits you gently onto the comforter.
He glances at his watch, the digital glow faint in the dim room. “It’s almost midnight, dove. And you haven’t eaten since this morning.” His tone leaves no room for debate. “I’m going to make you a quick snack. Then you’re going straight to bed.”
You look up at him, then let your gaze flicker down to the front of his jeans, where the evidence of his earlier reaction is still subtly apparent. “Um… are you… you know, sure?”
He chuckles, a low, warm sound, and sighs. “Yes, hun. I promise, that, isn’t my top priority right now.”
“Yeah, but…” You chew your lip. “I want to help…”
He pauses, a slight smirk touching his lips. “How about this: if you still want to help tomorrow—” he leans in, emphasizing the word, his breath a warm caress on your cheek, “—then I wouldn’t stop you. But.” He straightens, his expression softening back into that firm care. “For now, lay down. I’ll make you something to eat, okay?”
You nod, smiling properly now, and he bends to press a kiss to your forehead. His forest-green hair brushes your skin, smelling like home.
He leaves, his footsteps quiet on the floorboards, and you hear the faint click of the kitchen light switch. You sink into your pillows, the cool cotton a shock against your warmed skin. You pull out your phone, the blue light harsh, and tap open a silly video app.
Thirty minutes dissolve. The fatigue you’d fought against all day finally wins, pulling at your limbs, making your phone feel heavy in your hand. Your eyelids droop.
The smell reaches you first—buttered toast, something savory. Your stomach clenches with a sudden, sharp hunger.
Izuku reappears in the doorway, a plate in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He takes in your drowsy form, the phone slack on your chest, and his expression settles into something profoundly satisfied.
“Sit up a little, dove,” he says, setting the plate on your nightstand. It’s perfect—two slices of golden toast, a small mound of scrambled eggs, a few cherry tomatoes. Simple. Nourishing.
You push yourself up on your elbows, and he sits on the edge of the bed, picking up a slice of toast. He doesn’t hand it to you. He brings it to your lips. “Eat.”
You take a bite. The butter is salty, the bread crisp at the edges. It tastes like the best thing you’ve ever eaten. He feeds you the rest of the slice, piece by piece, then hands you the fork for the eggs. His watchful gaze never wavers.
You finish everything, drain the water. A deep, contented warmth spreads through your core. He takes the empty plate and glass, sets them aside.
“Lie down.”
You do. He pulls your comforter up to your chin, tucks it around your shoulders with a meticulousness that speaks of his obsessive nature. His scarred fingers smooth the fabric over your chest.
He stands, looking down at you. The desk lamp from across the room backlights him, casting his face in shadow, but you can feel the weight of his gentle gaze. “Sleep. No more thoughts about exams tonight. That’s an order.”
You smile into the pillow. “Yes, sir.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. He leans over, one hand braced on the mattress beside your head, and kisses you. It’s slow, deep, a promise and a reward all at once. When he pulls back, your lips are tingling.
“Good,” he whispers. He flicks off your bedside lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness, save for the sliver of light from the hallway. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
He gets onto the bed, pulling you onto his chest.
His hand finds the small of your back, begins slow, wide circles like before.
You feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek.
“Good. So good for me.” His lips press to the crown of your head. The kiss lingers. “You worked so hard today. I saw you. I’m so proud of you.”
His fingers trace idle patterns up your spine, then back down. The tension you’d carried in your jaw all day finally unclenches.
“You don’t have to do it all alone. Not ever.” His thumb sweeps over the knobs of your vertebrae.
Another kiss, this one to your temple. Then another, soft against your hairline. Each one is a brand, a silent claim of care. His murmured praises are a constant, warm stream. “My smart, dedicated angel. You’re incredible. You’re going to do amazing.”
The deep, rhythmic sound of his heartbeat under your ear begins to slow your own. Your limbs grow heavy, sinking into the support of him and the bed. The circles on your back never stop.
A tiny, helpless smile curves your lips as sleep finally pulls you under. You nuzzle once into his chest, a blind, seeking motion.
He feels it. His hand stills, cradling the back of your head. He looks down at your face, relaxed in sleep, at that faint smile. His own breath catches. He thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Long after your breathing has evened out into deep sleep, long after his arm has gone numb under your weight, he whispers it into the dark. “I love you so much, baby.”
The streetlights cast moving shadows through the blinds. He watches them travel across your shoulder. He would do anything for you. The certainty of it is a quiet fire in his chest. He closes his eyes, your scent filling his lungs, and follows you down.
You wake to late morning light and an empty bed. The blanket is tucked around you. The smell of tea and something lemony-clean hangs in the air.
You sit up, pushing your tousled hair back. The room is spotless. Your desk is visibly different from last night.
You shuffle over. Your laptop is closed. Beside it, arranged with geometric precision, are several new things. A fresh, steaming mug of tea. A bowl of cut fruit. And a binder.
You open the binder. The first page is a detailed, color-coded study schedule, breaking the next week down into manageable blocks with built-in breaks. The next pages are comprehensive notes on your exam topics, synthesized from your own textbooks and highlighted with clear, concise summaries in his neat, blocky handwriting. The last page is a timeline, mapping your study plan against the exam date with little encouraging notes in the margins: ‘Review session here,’ ‘You’ve got this,’ ‘Break for a walk.’
You hear the soft scuff of socks on floorboards behind you coming into the room.
Izuku leans in the doorway, a dish towel over his shoulder. His green eyes are bright, a soft smile on his face as he watches you take it in. “Morning,” he says, his voice warm with satisfaction. “I had some extra time.”
Oh, he was so getting rewarded later tonight for this.
synopsis: your boyfriends nurse you back to health
pairing: kiribakuxreader
warnings: sfw ,fem!reader, poly!relationship, fluff, washing, sick!reader
wc: 3,558
Y/n woke to the scent of ginger and the solid, furnace-like heat of Kirishima’s chest against her back.
His large hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades. “Easy, beautiful,” he murmured into her hair, the low rumble of his voice vibrating through her. She felt the chills recede for a moment, absorbed by the relentless warmth of him.
The bedroom door clicked open. Bakugo entered, a bowl cradled carefully in his hands. His usually fierce expression was softened into focused concern, his sharp crimson eyes fixed on her face. He moved with a precision that was almost silent, the muscles in his forearms tight as he balanced the steaming dish. “Sit her up, Shitty Hair,” he ordered, his voice a low, gruff command.
Kirishima’s arm tightened gently around her middle, his strength effortless as he guided her upright against the headboard. He rearranged the blankets around her shoulders, tucking them close. “There you go. Let’s get some of Katsuki’s magic into you.”
Bakugo sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He didn’t hand her the bowl. Instead, he lifted a spoonful of clear, amber broth. Steam curled up, carrying the sharp, clean scent of ginger and something citrusy. His eyes tracked from the spoon to her mouth. “Open,” he said, the word not quite gentle, but stripped of all its usual edge.
She obeyed, her body too heavy to argue. The broth was hot, but not scalding. Perfect. The flavor bloomed on her tongue—ginger, lemon, a hint of honey. It cut through the stale, sick taste in her mouth. She swallowed, and the warmth traveled down her throat, pooling in her empty stomach.
“Good,” Bakugo muttered, more to himself than to her. He dipped the spoon again. His movements were meticulous, his focus absolute. A strand of ash-blond hair fell across his forehead. He didn’t brush it away.
Kirishima’s hand resumed its slow circles on her back. His other arm remained a solid band around her, keeping her propped against him. He watched Bakugo work, his own sharp-toothed smile soft. “Told you she’d take it. Man, that smells amazing.”
“Shut up. It’s just fucking soup,” Bakugo grumbled, but the line of his shoulders loosened a fraction. He brought another spoonful to her lips. “Slow. Don’t choke.”
She took it, her eyes drifting shut for a second. The simple act of being fed, of not having to hold anything or make any decisions, felt like a profound surrender. A safe one. She let her head loll back against Kirishima’s shoulder.
“She’s burning up, Kat,” Kirishima said quietly, his palm flattening against her forehead. His calluses were rough against her fever-sensitive skin.
“I know.” Bakugo’s jaw tightened. He set the spoon back in the bowl with a soft clink. His free hand came up, the back of his knuckles brushing her cheek. The touch was startling in its tenderness. His skin was cool compared to hers. “Fever’s still climbing. Did you take the stuff I left?”
She managed a small nod, her words a sleepy mumble. “Mm-hmm.”
“It’ll kick in.” He said it like a decree. Like he could will the medicine to work through sheer force. He didn’t move his hand away. His thumb stroked once, just below her eye. “Finish the bowl. All of it.”
Kirishima hummed in agreement, a soothing sound deep in his chest. “You’re doing great. Just a little more.”
Bakugo resumed feeding her. The silence that fell was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was filled with the sound of her swallowing, the shift of fabric, Kirishima’s steady breathing. Bakugo’s entire world had narrowed to this bowl, this spoon, her face.
When the last of the broth was gone, he set the bowl aside on the nightstand. He looked at Kirishima. “Keep her upright for a few. Don’t let her lie flat yet.”
“On it, boss.” Kirishima adjusted his hold, his hand splaying wide over her sternum, feeling the rhythm of her breaths. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Bakugo stood. He looked down at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached out and, with a carefulness that seemed to cost him, smoothed the tangled hair away from her damp forehead. His fingers lingered. “Sleep,” he commanded, his voice rough. “We’ve got you.”
He turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft click. The space he left behind felt different. Charged. Kirishima pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “See?” he whispered. “Told you he’s a big softie.”
She nestled deeper into his hold, the chills starting to creep back at the edges. But the core of her was warm. Fed. Anchored. His hand kept moving, slow and sure, and she finally let her eyes close, the world narrowing down to the beat of his heart against her back.
The warmth was gone.
Y/n woke slowly, the deep, furnace heat that had been pressed against her back replaced by cool, rumpled sheets. She blinked, disoriented, in the empty bedroom. Late afternoon light slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across the meticulously made bed. The air smelled different—not of sleep and sickness, but of lemon and clean linen.
She pushed herself up on her elbows. Her head throbbed a dull, persistent beat, and a wave of dizziness made the room tilt. But the bone-deep ache had receded to a murmur. She was… better. Not well. But better. The realization was followed immediately by a childish, overwhelming pout. They’d left her.
With a grumble that turned into a cough, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards were cool under her bare feet. She stood, the world swaying gently, and had to brace a hand on the nightstand. The empty soup bowl was gone.
She shuffled to the bedroom door, her body feeling both heavy and unsteady. Pushing it open, she stepped out into the upstairs hallway. And stopped.
The entire loft was spotless. The usual scatter of hero gear, discarded jackets, and coffee mugs was absent. Every surface gleamed. Sunlight caught the dust-free railing of the staircase that led down to the living area. It was silent, save for the sound of water filling a bathtub. It came from the direction of their shared bathroom, down the hall.
Her pout softened into curiosity. Using the wall for support, she made her way toward the sound. The door was ajar, and a plume of warm, steamy air escaped, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and cedar.
She peered inside.
Kirishima was hunched over the wide tub, one arm deep in the water, testing the temperature. His broad back stretched the fabric of his tank top. Bakugo stood at the counter, his back to her, methodically arranging bottles—bath salts, a clean washcloth, a bar of her favorite sandalwood soap.
“What the fuck are you doing out of bed?”
Bakugo’s voice wasn’t a roar. It was low, sharp, and crackling with an anger that was pure, undiluted concern. He’d seen her reflection in the mirror above the sink. He turned now, his crimson eyes wide, then narrowing into a scowl.
He crossed the bathroom in three strides. “You should be in bed! Saving your strength.” His hand came up, not to shake her, but to cradle the side of her face. His palm was cool, his fingers pressing gently against her temple and jaw, holding her steady. His thumb swept over her cheekbone. “Your fever’s still there, you idiot.”
She leaned into his touch, her stubbornness rising through the fog. “I’m fine. I’ve rested enough.” Her voice was a rasp. “The bed was empty.”
From the tub, Kirishima let out a soft chuckle. He straightened, wiping his wet hand on his shorts. “Cool it, you two.” His smile was all fond exasperation. He walked over, the steam clinging to his red hair, and without ceremony, bent to press a firm, warm kiss to Y/n’s forehead, then another to Bakugo’s furrowed brow. “We were just about to come wake you up anyway, baby.”
He slipped an arm around her waist, taking most of her weight from Bakugo’s supporting hand. “We prepared a bath for you.”
Bakugo’s hand didn’t leave her face. His scowl deepened, but his touch remained impossibly gentle. “You’re shivering again. The fuck were you thinking, walking around?”
“Thinking I was abandoned,” she mumbled, sarcastically.
Kirishima’s arm tightened. “Never.”
“We cleaned. The place was a germ-infested shithole. Not conducive to recovery.” Bakugo said it like a medical report, but his eyes were on hers, checking, always checking. “The bath is for the aches. And to break the fever. It’s not a fucking spa day.”
“Smells like a spa day,” Kirishima said cheerfully, guiding her toward the filled tub. The water was a clear, inviting deep blue, swirling with dissolved salts and a few floating eucalyptus leaves. “Temperature’s perfect. We checked, like, ten times.”
Bakugo finally dropped his hand from her face, only to move to the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. “Arms up,” he commanded, his voice back to that stripped-back, practical gruffness.
She complied, too tired and too cared-for to protest. He lifted the shirt over her head with efficient, careful movements. Kirishima kept her steady, his gaze soft and unwavering. The cool air of the bathroom hit her skin, raising goosebumps, but the steam from the bath promised relief.
Bakugo’s knuckles brushed her spine as he helped her step out of her sleep shorts. There was no hesitation in his touch, no leer. It was clinical and tender all at once.
“In you go,” Kirishima murmured, his hands firm on her elbows as he helped her step over the high rim. The water was blissfully, perfectly hot. It lapped at her shins, her thighs, her hips as she sank down. A groan escaped her—half-pain, half-profound relief—as the heat enveloped her aching muscles.
She settled back, the water rising to her shoulders. The eucalyptus scent opened her stuffy sinuses. She let her head rest against the cool porcelain edge and opened her eyes.
They were both watching her. Bakugo had knelt by the tub, his arms folded on the rim, his chin resting on them. Kirishima sat on the closed toilet lid, his elbows on his knees. Their faces were mirrored studies in focused relief.
“See?” Kirishima said, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction. “Better already.”
Bakugo didn’t speak. He reached into the water, found her hand, and laced his fingers through hers. His calluses were familiar against her knuckles. He held on, his thumb making slow passes over her skin, his gaze fixed on the point where their hands connected beneath the blue water.
In that steam-filled room, held by water and by their unwavering attention, she was the center of their entire, spotless, carefully prepared world.
The warmth of Bakugo’s hand left hers. He straightened up from the tub’s rim with a soft grunt, his knees popping. “Alright. Enough soaking. Time to actually get clean.” His tone left no room for argument, but his eyes were still soft, fixed on her.
Kirishima stood from the toilet lid, stretching his arms over his head. “Yeah, you’re starting to look like a prune, baby.” He grabbed a fresh, fluffy washcloth from the counter and wet it under the tap, wringing it out with practiced ease.
Bakugo picked up the bar of sandalwood soap. He worked up a thick, creamy lather in his palms, the rich, woody scent joining the eucalyptus in the steamy air. He nodded to Kirishima, who moved to kneel on the other side of the tub, washcloth ready.
“Arms first,” Bakugo instructed, his voice low. He took her left wrist gently, his soapy hands gliding up her forearm, over the curve of her elbow, to her shoulder. His touch was firm, thorough, massaging the lingering ache from her muscles as much as washing her skin.
Kirishima mirrored him on her right side, the warm, damp cloth following the same path. His touch was broader, smoother, but no less attentive. “See? Just like maintenance on my gear,” he said, a playful grin in his voice.
She let them maneuver her, pliant and boneless from the heat. They worked in a silent, efficient tandem, Bakugo soaping, Kirishima rinsing. Her neck, her back, her sides. The care was so methodical, so devoid of any suggestive edge, that she almost forgot to be self-conscious.
Then Bakugo’s soapy hands moved to the front of her shoulders, dipping lower. Kirishima’s cloth followed. The water, now clouded with suds, did little to obscure her. Instinctively, her arms came up, crossing over her chest.
Kirishima’s low chuckle vibrated through the steam. “Relax, babe.” He paused, the washcloth dripping into the tub. “Just a wash. And nothing we haven’t seen already.” His tone was all warm teasing, stripping the moment of any awkwardness.
Bakugo didn’t tease. He simply looked at her, his crimson gaze steady. He didn’t pull her arms away. He waited, his hands resting on the rim of the tub, suds sliding down his wrists. His silence was a question.
Her face flushed, warmer than the fever could account for. Slowly, her arms uncurled, falling back to her sides in the water with a soft splash.
“There she is,” Kirishima murmured, approving.
Bakugo’s hands returned to their work. They were, if possible, even more careful. His fingers traced the slope of her collarbone, the soap slick and warm, before moving with a breathtaking, clinical tenderness over the swell of her breast. He was washing her. That was all. His focus was absolute, his brow slightly furrowed in his work.
Kirishima rinsed with the same reverent care, the cloth soft and warm. His knuckles brushed her skin occasionally, his touch grounding. “Almost done,” he promised, his voice a husky whisper near her ear.
She kept her eyes open, fixed on the ceiling where steam condensed and rolled. Her breath hitched, not from arousal, but from the overwhelming vulnerability of it. From being so thoroughly, so unceremoniously cherished. It was a different kind of nakedness.
Bakugo’s hands moved to her stomach, then her ribs, his thumbs pressing gently into the spaces between them, easing tension she hadn’t known she was holding. He worked down to her hips, her thighs, under the water, his movements efficient and complete.
Finally, he sat back on his heels. “Done.”
Kirishima made one last pass with the clean water from the tap, cupping his hand to pour it over her shoulders, rinsing away the last traces of suds. The bath water was now milky and warm around her.
Bakugo reached over and pulled the plug. A low gurgle echoed in the tub. “Up,” he said, standing and reaching for a large, terrycloth towel that had been warming on the radiator.
Kirishima moved to help, his hands under her elbows again as the water level sank. The cool air of the bathroom hit her wet skin, and she shivered violently.
In an instant, Bakugo had the towel unfolded, holding it like a shield. “Now,” he commanded, and Kirishima guided her to her feet, steadying her as she stepped out onto the bath mat.
Bakugo enveloped her. The towel was blissfully, almost painfully warm. He wrapped it tightly around her, rubbing her arms through the fabric, his motions brisk and heating. He bundled her up, leaving only her head exposed, her damp hair clinging to her neck.
Kirishima was already there with another, smaller towel, gently patting her face and neck dry. “All clean,” he announced softly, his sharp-toothed smile tender. “How’s the patient feeling?”
She leaned into Bakugo’s chest, the solid wall of him holding her upright inside her towel cocoon. The deep ache was gone. The chills were receding under the combined warmth of the fabric and his body heat. She felt scrubbed clean, inside and out. Light. Cared for.
“Good,” she whispered, the word muffled against his shirt. “Really good.”
Bakugo’s arms tightened around her. He rested his chin on top of her head. He didn’t say anything. He just held her, while Kirishima’s hand came up to cradle the back of her towel-wrapped head, his thumb stroking her hairline.
Bakugo’s chin lifted from her head. He released his tight hold just enough to look down at her, his crimson eyes assessing. “Bedroom,” he stated. “You’re not standing here all day.”
Before she could protest, his arms shifted, one sliding behind her knees. He lifted her, towel cocoon and all, against his chest as if she weighed nothing. Her damp head lolled against his shoulder.
“Hey, easy with the patient, Kats,” Kirishima chided gently, but he was already moving ahead of them, opening the bathroom door and then the bedroom door, clearing the path.
Bakugo carried her to the bed, where the rumpled sheets from her feverish night were currently being stripped and replaced with fresh, clean linen. He laid her down in the center with a careful, controlled motion, propping the pillows behind her once they were all changed. The towel still wrapped tightly around her.
Kirishima sat on the edge of the mattress, his weight making it dip. He picked up a bottle of lotion from the nightstand, unscrewing the cap. The scent of almond and vanilla drifted out. “Figured those aches needed more than just a soak,” he said, pouring a generous amount into his palm. “A little maintenance.”
Bakugo stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed. He watched as Kirishima rubbed his hands together to warm the lotion. A flicker of concern, sharp and new, cut through her haze of contentment. “Wait,” she murmured, her voice still rough. “All this… you’re both touching me so much. What if you get sick?”
Kirishima paused, then let out a low, rolling chuckle. He shook his head, his red hair catching the morning light. “Don’t worry about that, beautiful.”
“Tch. Idiot.” Bakugo uncrossed his arms, coming to sit on her other side. He picked up her hand, his thumb pressing into her palm. “You think I’d let something that stupid happen? Pumped us both so full of preventative meds this morning we’re practically antiviral. We’re not catching your weak-ass bug.”
He said it like an insult, but his fingers were already working at the tense muscles of her forearm, his touch firm and knowing. The lotion on Kirishima’s hands found her shoulders, his broad palms spreading warmth and pressure in slow circles.
She sighed, the sound shuddering out of her as the last knot of anxiety unraveled. “Oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Bakugo grunted, his focus on the line of her tendon. “Just relax.”
They fell into a rhythm. Kirishima worked on her shoulders and the nape of her neck, his thumbs digging into the tension with a practiced ease that spoke of post-mission recoveries. His touch was grounding, solid.
Bakugo’s hands were more precise. He mapped the aches in her arms, her wrists, each of her fingers, his pressure alternating between deep and feather-light. He didn’t speak, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration.
“He made this special broth, too,” Kirishima said conversationally, his voice a warm rumble near her ear. “Simmered for hours last night after your temp spiked. Guy was a menace in the kitchen. Almost blew up the cutting board because the ginger wasn’t slicing right.”
“Shut up, Hair-for-Brains,” Bakugo muttered, but there was no heat in it. His hands moved to her calves, his thumbs pressing along the muscle.
“It’s true! You were muttering about immune response and capillary dilation.” Kirishima’s laughter was soft. “My point is, you’re in the best hands. The worrying is already done. We’ve got you.”
She turned her head to look at Bakugo. He was focused on his task, the sharp lines of his profile softened by the diffuse morning light. He’d done all that. He’d calculated the risk, neutralized it, and then prepared everything down to the warmed towels.
His eyes flicked up, catching her gaze. He held it for a moment, his hands stilling on her leg. “What?”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He looked away, a faint, almost imperceptible pink tingeing the tops of his ears. “Shut up. Don’t mention it.” His hands resumed their work, moving to her feet, his thumbs pressing into her arches with a firm, perfect pressure that made her toes curl.
Kirishima’s hands smoothed lotion over her back, now exposed as the towel had loosened. His palm was a steady, warming weight between her shoulder blades. “Just focus on getting better, okay? That’s the only job you have today.”
She closed her eyes, sinking into the sensation of being kneaded and cared for, piece by piece. The fever’s lingering fog was replaced by a clean, heavy warmth. The room was quiet, save for the sound of their breathing and the soft slide of hands on skin.
Bakugo’s voice cut through the silence, lower than before. “Sleep.” It wasn’t an order this time. It was an offering. “We’re right here.”
His hand came to rest on her ankle, a simple, steadying point of contact. Kirishima’s palm settled over the center of her back, a living, breathing weight. Held between them, anchored by touch, she finally let go, and slipped under.
Two days later, when you were fully nursed back to health, and Bakugo was back to screaming at you to pick up your socks, you almost wished to be sick again.
synopsis: the start of something new
pairing: dekubakukirixreader
warnings: black!reader, fem!reader, poly!relationship, fluff, happy ending, communication, showering together, reader has a water quirk in this fic, reader's hero name, and is Mizuka (water in Japanese), written in 3rd person.
a/n: This chapter was kinda hard to write, I really didn't know how I wanted it to go and I didn't want it to end either, but I hope you guys like it<3
wc: 5,523
pt5 (Final Part). Read pt1, pt2,pt3 and pt4 here
Bakugo is the first to wake. Dawn is a grey suggestion at the window when his eyes snap open. For a terrifying second, he’s disoriented—the scent is wrong, the warmth is wrong. Then he feels the solid line of Deku’s back against his own, the heavy drape of Kirishima’s arm over his ribs, the soft brush of Y/n’s curls against his shoulder blade. Memory crashes in. Heat floods his face. He doesn’t move.
He lies there, statue-still, listening to their breathing. Kirishima’s is a low, steady rumble. Y/n’s is soft, punctuated by a tiny, almost-snore. Deku’s is deep and even, his chest rising and falling against Bakugo’s spine. The intimacy of it is worse than the sex. It’s defenseless.
Without thinking, Bakugo’s hand, which had been fisted near his own chin, unfurls. His fingers brush backwards, coming to rest against the bare skin of Deku’s side, just above his hip. The contact is a live wire. He expects to flinch away. He doesn’t. He leaves his hand there, feeling the rise and fall of Deku’s breath under his fingertips.
Kirishima stirs next, a deep, contented sigh ruffling Bakugo’s hair. His arm tightens, pulling Bakugo incrementally closer into the solid wall of his chest. Bakugo grunts, but it’s perfunctory. A habit.
“Mornin’,” Kirishima mumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep. His lips press a drowsy kiss to the juncture of Bakugo’s neck and shoulder.
Bakugo doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat is tight. He focuses on the sensation of Kirishima’s lips, the scratch of his stubble, the overwhelming rightness of being held by him while he himself holds onto Deku.
Y/n shifts next, stretching like a cat. She murmurs something incoherent and nuzzles deeper into the space between Deku’s arm and Bakugo’s back. Her knee bumps Bakugo’s thigh.
Deku is the last to surface. He wakes the way he does everything—with a sudden, full-body inhale, his consciousness snapping back online all at once. His muscles tense for a second before the context registers. He feels Y/n’s head on his bicep, Bakugo’s back against his, Kirishima’s arm reaching across. He goes perfectly still, holding his breath.
“We’re all awake, nerd,” Bakugo mutters to the wall, his voice rough. “Stop being weird.”
Deku lets out the breath in a slow, shaky exhale. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Kirishima says, his voice clearer now. He gives Bakugo a little squeeze before reluctantly pulling his arm back, sitting up with a groan. The loss of his warmth is immediate. “Man, I’m stiff.”
The spell breaks, but gently. Y/n blinks her big brown eyes open, looking up at Deku, then over at Bakugo’s back. A slow, soft smile spreads across her face. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.
Bakugo finally rolls over, dislodging Deku. He faces them, his crimson eyes scanning their faces—Y/n’s sleepy smile, Kirishima’s easy grin, Deku’s wide, anxious green gaze. His usual scowl is present, but it’s worn thin, like old leather. There’s no rage behind it. Just a weary, baffled acceptance.
“We stink,” he announces, pushing himself up on his elbows. The sheet pools around his waist, exposing the vivid bruises on his hips, the bite mark on his shoulder, the drying streaks of come on his stomach. He doesn’t try to cover them.
Kirishima laughs, a full, hearty sound that fills the room. “Yeah, we do. Shower?”
The question hangs there. It’s practical. It’s also a threshold.
Y/n sits up, the sheet falling to her lap. Her curls are a wild halo. She looks at Bakugo, then at Deku. “The shower’s big enough for two,” she says, her voice still husky. “Maybe… we should be efficient?”
Bakugo stares at her. Then he barks a short, surprised laugh. “Efficient. Right.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his back to them. The muscles in his shoulders are tight. “You two go first,” he says, jerking his head at Y/n and Kirishima. “Deku. You’re with me.”
It’s not a request. Deku’s heart gives a hard thump against his ribs. He nods, wordless.
Kirishima stands, offering a hand to Y/n. She takes it, letting him pull her up. As she passes Bakugo, she leans down and presses a dry, chaste kiss to his temple. “Don’t fight,” she whispers, just for him.
Bakugo’s jaw works. He doesn’t reply.
Kirishima leads Y/n out of the bedroom, his hand on the small of her back. The door clicks shut behind them, leaving a silence that is somehow louder than before.
The door clicks shut behind them.
The apartment feels too quiet.
Bakugo doesn’t turn around right away. He just stands there at the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, hands flexing once at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
Deku stays where he is, still sitting on the mattress. Waiting.
Watching.
The silence stretches.
Bakugo exhales sharply through his nose. “Stop staring.”
“I’m not—” Deku cuts himself off, because he is. He swallows. “Sorry.”
“Tch.”
Bakugo finally turns, dropping down onto the bed with a heavy thump, elbows braced on his knees. He drags a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than usual.
For a second, neither of them speaks.
Bakugo glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “You want this.” It comes out flatter than he meant. Not a question.
Deku doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”
Bakugo clicks his tongue, looking away again. “Of course you haven’t.”
Deku frowns slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Bakugo leans back on his hands, tilting his head just enough to look at him properly now, “You’ve been pining after her since we were kids.”
Deku’s face flushes immediately. “Kacchan—”
“Don’t ‘Kacchan’ me. It’s obvious.”
Deku looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Yeah. Okay. Fine.”
Bakugo huffs. “Pathetic.”
There’s no heat behind it.
Deku glances up at him, a little surprised. “You don’t sound mad.”
“I’m not.”
That lands heavier than anything else.
Bakugo’s jaw tightens slightly. “I was. Before.” His eyes flick away for a second, something sharp and complicated passing through them. “Thought I had it figured out. Thought I knew what the problem was.”
“And now?”
Bakugo lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Now I realize I didn’t know shit.”
Silence settles again, but it’s different this time. Less sharp. More… honest.
Deku shifts slightly on the bed. “Is that… a bad thing?”
Bakugo scoffs. “It’s annoying.”
Deku almost smiles.
Almost.
“But you’re still here,” he points out quietly.
Bakugo shoots him a look. “Don’t push it.”
“I’m not,” Deku says quickly, holding his hands up a little. “I just—” He hesitates. “I want to understand where you’re at.”
Bakugo studies him for a long moment.
Green eyes. Wide, steady, frustratingly sincere.
Same as always.
“Where I’m at,” Bakugo repeats slowly, like he’s testing the words. He leans back again, gaze drifting to the ceiling. “Is I don’t like not knowing what the hell this is.”
Deku nods slightly. “That makes sense.”
“I don’t like sharing.”
That’s quieter.
More honest.
Deku’s chest tightens. “I know.”
“But—” Bakugo’s hand clenches briefly against the mattress. “I don’t like the idea of not having it more.”
Deku stills.
That’s new.
“…Having what?” he asks carefully.
Bakugo’s eyes flick to him again, sharp. “Don’t make me spell it out, nerd.”
Deku swallows. “I just want to be sure.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—
“Us.”
It hangs there.
Heavy.
Real.
Deku’s breath catches slightly. “All of us?”
“Yeah.”
Bakugo looks away again, like even admitting that much is pushing it. "This is probobly a bad idea"
Deku lets out a small breath. “…Probably.”
“But you still want it.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Bakugo’s lips press into a thin line.
“…Yeah,” he admits after a second. “Me too.”
That settles something.
Not everything.
But something.
Deku shifts a little closer on the bed, careful, like approaching a skittish animal. “We don’t have to figure everything out right now.”
Bakugo raises a brow. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
Deku huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m serious. We can just… take it one step at a time.”
Bakugo studies him again.
Then exhales.
“Fine,” he mutters. “One step.”
Deku nods. “One step.”
Another pause.
Then Bakugo’s gaze sharpens slightly. “But if this goes sideways—”
“It won’t,” Deku says instinctively.
“It might,” Bakugo cuts in. “And if it does, I’m not letting it screw everything up.”
Deku’s expression softens, but his voice stays steady. “Neither am I.”
Bakugo watches him.
Long.
Searching.
Then he scoffs lightly, shaking his head.
There’s something almost fond in it.
Almost.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches Bakugo’s mouth. “Good.” He stands, the muscles in his back flexing. He offers a hand.
Deku takes it, letting Bakugo pull him to his feet. Their hands stay linked for a second longer than necessary, a silent pulse of understanding passing between them before Bakugo turns and leads the way out of the bedroom.
The bathroom is small, steam already curling from under the door. The sound of the shower spray and two voices, low and laughing, filters through. Bakugo leans against the hallway wall, crossing his arms. He nods toward the living room. “We wait.”
Inside the shower, the air is thick and warm. Y/n stands under the spray, her head tipped back, water cascading over her curls and down the slope of her shoulders. Kirishima is behind her, his big hands working a citrus-scented shampoo into her scalp.
“Your hair’s a monster,” he murmurs, his voice fond.
"So is yours," she counters, “your hands are rough,” she counters, but she’s smiling, her eyes closed. Little droplets spin lazily around her fingers, forming tiny, perfect spheres that float and pop in the steam.
He rinses the suds away carefully, his touch gentling. “Feel good?”
“Mhm.” She turns under the water, facing him. Water beads on his spiked hair, his eyelashes. She reaches up, wiping a trickle from his temple. “You’re pretty good at this.”
“Only for you,” he says, and he means it. He takes the soap, lathering his hands before smoothing them over her shoulders, her arms, her back. The touch is practical, thorough, but it’s also a quiet reaffirmation. His palms are warm and sure against her skin, washing away the physical remnants of the night, leaving only the new closeness beneath.
She returns the favor, her smaller hands gliding over the hard planes of his chest, the sculpted ridges of his stomach. There’s no urgency, no heat beyond the warmth of the water. It’s just them. Y/n and Eijiro. The simple, solid fact of each other.
“They’re okay out there,” Kirishima says after a comfortable silence, nodding toward the door.
Y/n’s water droplets quiver, then settle. “I know.”
He leans down, pressing a soft, water-slick kiss to her forehead. “Then we’re all okay.”
They finish rinsing. Kirishima shuts off the water and grabs two towels from the rack, handing one to Y/n. They dry off in the humid room, the silence between them easy and full.
In the hallway, Bakugo uncrosses his arms as the bathroom door opens. Steam billows out, followed by Kirishima, a towel slung low on his hips, and Y/n, wrapped in another, her curls damp and clinging to her neck. “All yours,” Kirishima says, his grin easy.
Bakugo just grunts, pushing off the wall. He jerks his head at Deku, and they move past them into the bathroom.
The space is still warm, the mirror fogged. Bakugo strips his towel and steps into the shower, not waiting. Deku follows, pulling the curtain closed behind them.
Under the spray, Bakugo is all efficient motion. He wets his hair, scrubs his scalp, his movements sharp and defined. Deku watches the water sluice over the bite mark on Bakugo’s shoulder, the faint bruises on his hips—marks Deku put there. His own body feels alive with the memory.
“Stop staring and wash,” Bakugo mutters, but there’s no bite in it. He passes the soap.
Deku takes it. He washes himself quickly, then, after a second’s hesitation, reaches out. His hand, slick with soap, touches Bakugo’s back, just between his shoulder blades. Bakugo goes still. Deku’s palm moves in a slow, firm circle, washing away the tension held there. Bakugo’s head drops forward slightly, a silent concession.
No words are needed. The water runs clear. Bakugo reaches behind himself, his fingers finding Deku’s wrist. He gives it a brief, hard squeeze. Then he turns off the water. “Done.”
They dry and towel their hair. When they emerge into the living room, they find Y/n and Kirishima already on the large, worn couch. Y/n is curled into Kirishima’s side, a blanket over their legs. The TV is off. The grey morning light has softened into something gold and gentle.
Bakugo stands there for a moment, a towel around his waist, his hair dripping. Deku hovers just behind his shoulder.
Kirishima looks up, his smile softening. He lifts the edge of the blanket in invitation. “C’mon.”
Bakugo walks over. He doesn’t sit on the empty cushion. Instead, he drops onto the floor, his back against the couch, right between Kirishima’s knees and Y/n’s. He leans his head back against Kirishima’s thigh. Kirishima’s hand comes down, threading naturally through Bakugo’s damp spikes.
Deku sits on the floor beside him, his shoulder pressing against Bakugo’s. After a second, Y/n’s hand finds his, her fingers lacing through his. Her other hand rests on Bakugo’s bare shoulder.
No one speaks. The only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and their quiet breathing. The space between them isn’t empty anymore. It’s filled with the solid warmth of Bakugo against Deku’s side, the steady weight of Kirishima’s hand in Bakugo’s hair, the gentle pulse of Y/n’s thumb over Deku’s knuckles.
Bakugo is the one who breaks the silence, his voice quiet, stripped bare. “No patrol today.”
“No,” Kirishima agrees, his thumb rubbing a circle on Bakugo’s scalp.
“No work,” Y/n whispers.
Deku lets out a long, slow breath. He leans his head against the couch cushion, looking at their joined hands, then at the three faces he has loved, in different ways, for so long. “Just this,” he says.
Bakugo’s eyes are closed. “Just this,” he echoes, and it sounds like a promise.
They stay like that as the morning solidifies around them, the sun climbing higher, painting their tangled, quiet shapes in light. Just them.
The late afternoon sun glints off the chrome and glass of the city, painting long shadows across the patrol route. Deku walks with his hands tucked into his armored pants pockets, the green of his costume vibrant against the grey sidewalk. Y/n matches his stride, her own deep blue combat suit fitted and practical, a utility belt holding vials of water at her hips. The two paired back together days after the night they all shared, three months back.
“So Eijiro’s convinced he can make the perfect spicy curry if he just adds one more ghost pepper,” Deku says, a smile in his voice. He glances at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Kacchan’s threatened to incinerate the whole pot if he sets off the smoke alarm again.”
Y/n laughs, the sound clear and easy. “Eiji’s gonna do it anyway. He thinks Katsuki’s threats are motivational.”
“They kind of are,” Deku mumbles, his gaze sweeping over a quiet side street automatically. “Last time it worked. The curry was… edible.”
“It was molten lava, Izuku.” You cried
“My sinuses have never been clearer.”
They walk another half-block in comfortable silence, their boots tapping a steady rhythm on the pavement. The city breathes around them—distant traffic, a siren several blocks over, the murmur of people in a cafe they pass. It’s a routine patrol, the kind that lets their minds wander to domestic things, to home.
Y/n nudges his shoulder with hers. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“The mumbling thing. You were cataloging sock colors or something.”
He feels a faint heat on his neck. “Not sock colors. Just… it’s nice. This.” He gestures vaguely between them, then out toward the city in the direction of their home. “The normal.”
She understands. The normal is hard-won. It’s built on hospital silence, on shattered trust, on a rooftop where desperation wore a clinical mask. She lets her knuckles brush against his as they walk, a fleeting point of contact. “It is nice.”
He turns his hand, catching hers properly. Their gloved fingers lace together. It’s a small breach of professional decorum, out here in the open. No one seems to notice. To the city, they’re just two pro heroes on patrol. They don’t see the history in the grip, the forgiveness, the quiet joy.
The alert vibrates through their linked hands before the sound reaches their ears—a sharp, digital chime from their shared comm channel. Deku’s hand tightens around Y/n’s for a fraction of a second before releasing. Their eyes meet. No words. A silent, professional understanding passes between them in the space of a heartbeat: the quiet is over.
Deku taps his earpiece. “Midoriya. Copy. Location?”
Dispatch rattles off coordinates two blocks east—a plaza near a shopping complex. Civilian cluster. Hostage situation. Quirk unknown, but visual confirms one perpetrator with a visible weapon. Deku’s mind is already mapping the route, calculating angles. “Engaging. Mizuka's with me.”
He looks at Y/n. She gives a single, sharp nod. Her playful softness is gone, replaced by a focused calm. The water vials at her hips slosh as she adjusts her stance.
Deku’s arms crackle with green energy. “Go.”
Tendrils of Blackwhip explode from his back, latching onto a lamppost, a balcony railing, the edge of a rooftop. He yanks himself forward, a green streak soaring over the street. Behind him, Y/n moves. With a fluid snap of her wrists, twin streams of water erupt from her vials, extending into long, whip-like cables that mirror Deku’s movement. She lashes one around the same lamppost, the water hardening momentarily under her command, and propels herself after him. The past month of him teaching her this—the precise control, the kinetic transfer—pays off in the seamless arc of her flight.
They travel in tandem, a dance of green light and shimmering blue. The city blurs beneath them. Deku leads, Y/n matches his pace exactly. The wind whips her curls back from her face. His mind is clear, tactical. The rooftop of the shopping complex materializes below. He lands in a crouch, Blackwhip retracting. Y/n touches down beside him, her water whips retracting back into her vials with a soft splash.
Below, the plaza is chaos held at gunpoint. A man, tall and lanky, stands in the center clutching a large duffel bag. In his other hand, he holds what looks like a child’s toy plastic knife—except it’s now the size of a broadsword, gleaming menacingly as he holds it against the throat of a terrified shopkeeper. A dozen civilians are huddled behind a overturned kiosk, frozen.
“Size manipulation,” Deku mumbles, his eyes scanning. “Object-based. He pulls something small from the bag, restores it to original proportions. The bag’s the key.”
“The weapon’s real now,” Y/n whispers, her fingers hovering over her vials. “If he reaches for something else…”
“We can’t let him. Distract and disarm. On my signal.” Deku’s voice is low, steady. “You take high, draw his eyes up. Use a water shield to protect the civilians behind the kiosk. I go low and fast for the bag. Ready?”
Y/n takes a deep breath. Tiny droplets bead at her fingertips, vibrating with nervous energy. She nods. “Ready.”
“Now.”
Y/n moves. She steps to the edge of the roof, throwing both hands forward. A curtain of water erupts from her palms, cascading down to form a shimmering, protective dome over the huddled civilians. It catches the afternoon sun, a brilliant, distracting prism. The villain’s head snaps up, squinting at the sudden light.
“Hey!” Y/n shouts, her voice clear and commanding. “Up here!”
In that second of distraction, Deku moves. A green afterimage. He drops from the roof, not falling but shooting downward, Full Cowl blurring his form. He aims not for the man, but for the duffel bag strap slung across his shoulder.
The villain is faster than he looks. He yanks the oversized knife away from the shopkeeper’s throat and swings it wildly in a wide, desperate arc toward Deku’s approaching form. The size makes it clumsy, but the edge is real steel, whistling through the air.
Deku twists mid-air, One For All flaring. He doesn’t dodge back. He pushes forward, inside the arc. His armored forearm meets the flat of the giant blade with a resonating CLANG that echoes through the plaza. He grunts, holding it, his boots skidding on the pavement from the force.
“Mizuka, now!” he shouts, straining against the weapon.
From above, a whip of water snaps down, not at the villain, but at the giant knife itself. It wraps around the hilt, tight as a vice. Y/n pulls from her anchored stance on the rooftop. The villain’s grip falters, the massive weapon wrenching to the side.
Deku uses the opening. His free hand shoots out, fingers closing around the duffel bag’s strap. He yanks. The strap tears. The bag flies into his grasp.
The villain snarls, abandoning the knife to lunge for Deku. But he’s unarmed now, and Deku is already spinning away, bag secured. Y/n releases her water whip, the giant sword clattering harmlessly to the ground, shrinking rapidly back to toy-size with a faint pop.
The man stumbles, off-balance. Deku doesn’t hit him. He simply steps inside his guard and plants a palm against his chest. “Surrender,” Deku says, his voice leaving no room for argument. The green energy dancing over his skin is answer enough.
The villain’s hands go up in surrender, his face a mask of theatrical defeat. “Alright, alright! You got me!”
Deku’s grip on the duffel bag relaxes a fraction. Behind him, Y/n lets the protective water dome over the civilians dissipate into a fine mist. It’s the opening he needs.
They don’t see the tiny, palm-sized pistol concealed between his fingers until it’s too late. His hand blurs, the weapon swelling to full size in an instant. The barrel swings toward Deku’s chest.
Deku’s eyes snap from the man’s face to the gun. Time stretches. His muscles coil with One For All’s green energy, but his gaze flicks instinctively, stupidly, toward Y/n on the rooftop—checking she’s clear.
“Deku!” Y/n’s scream shreds the air.
He’s a fraction slow. The trigger pulls.
A solid, crimson wall slams into existence between Deku and the muzzle flash. The gunshots are deafening pops in the plaza. Three rounds impact in rapid succession against diamond-hard skin.
Kirishima stands braced before him, his entire upper body hardened, shoulders hunched against the impact. The bullets flatten into lead pancakes and tumble to the ground.
“The hell?!” the villain snarls, staggering back from the sudden new opponent.
From above, a sun detonates. An explosion roars, and Bakugo rockets down from a neighboring rooftop like a scarlet-and-orange comet. He lands feet-first in the space between the villain and Kirishima, the pavement cracking under the force. Heat and the sharp scent of nitroglycerin roll off him in a wave.
“You’re dead,” Bakugo snarls, his voice low and vibrating with pure kill-intent. His palms spark.
“Deku, move!” Kirishima shouts, his hardening receding as he shoves Deku sideways, out of the immediate line. “With Dynamight! Now!”
The command cuts through Deku’s shock. He nods, a sharp, professional dip of his chin. His eyes meet Bakugo’s for a single, electric second. No words. A decade of fighting each other, then beside each other, crystallizes into instant, brutal understanding.
Bakugo moves first, a blistering forward charge, his right hand pulling back for a close-range blast. The villain, panicked, aims the gun at him.
Deku is already there. A green streak. He doesn’t attack the man. He kicks the gun arm at the wrist. The shot goes wide, punching into a planter. The gun spins from the villain’s grip.
Bakugo’s explosion concusses the air where the villain’s head had been a millisecond before—the man had ducked, stumbling backward. He’s fast, his size-manipulation quirk making him lanky and awkward but unpredictably quick.
“Mizuka! High!” Deku barks, already predicting the villain’s next desperate move toward his discarded, now-normal-sized gun.
From the rooftop, two whips of water shoot down. They don’t strike the man. They wrap around the gun, yanking it skyward out of reach. Y/n reels it up, her face a mask of focused calm, though her breath comes fast.
The villain snarls, reaching into his jacket—for what, another shrunken weapon? A grenade?
Bakugo and Deku converge on him from opposite sides. Bakugo goes low, a sweeping explosion at his feet to trip him. Deku goes high, Blackwhip tendrils shooting from his back not to bind, but to harry, to corral—lashing at the man’s face, forcing his head back.
It works. The villain stumbles, arms pinwheeling. He has no space, no time to retrieve anything.
“Red Riot!” Y/n calls from above.
Kirishima doesn’t need instruction. He’s already moving, a bull-rush of pure muscle and intent. He hardens his right shoulder and drives it into the villain’s midsection just as Bakugo’s trip connects.
The air leaves the man’s lungs in a whoosh. He flies backward, slamming into the base of the overturned kiosk. Before he can even gasp, Kirishima is on him, one massive, hardened hand pinning his chest to the ground. The other hand clamps around both of the villain’s wrists, immobilizing them.
“Stay down,” Kirishima says, his voice not a shout but a gravelly promise. The diamond shimmer on his skin glints in the sun.
Bakugo lands in a crouch beside them, a final, warning crackle in his palm. Deku touches down a step away, Blackwhip retracting, his green aura fading to a simmer. Y/n drops from the roof, landing lightly, the captured gun held securely in a globe of solidified water.
Silence, except for the villain’s ragged, defeated breathing and the distant wail of approaching police sirens.
They stand there, four points of a tense, breathing square around their subdued opponent. The fight lasted maybe thirty seconds. It felt much longer. Deku’s heart hammers against his ribs. He looks from Kirishima’s broad back—the back that just took bullets for him—to Bakugo’s heaving shoulders, to Y/n’s wide, relieved eyes.
Bakugo straightens up first. He doesn’t look at Deku. He glares at the pinned villain. “Pathetic,” he spits. But the word lacks its usual heat. It’s perfunctory. His eyes, sharp and assessing, scan Kirishima. “You good, Shitty Hair?”
“Solid,” Kirishima says, a grin breaking through his focused expression. He doesn’t let up his grip. “Nice sync, you two.”
Deku finally finds his voice. It’s rough. “Eijiro. You…” He stops. *You saved me* is too obvious, too loaded with everything unsaid between them. “Thank you.”
Kirishima’s red eyes meet his over his shoulder. The grin softens into something quieter, more real. He gives a single nod and grins. “Anytime, babe.”
Y/n walks over to Deku, her steps silent on the pavement. She stops close, not touching, but her presence is a tangible relief. “You’re okay?” she asks.
He looks down at her. The fear he saw in her eyes when she screamed his name is gone, replaced by a warm, intensity. He manages a nod. “Yeah. Thanks to you all.”
Bakugo scoffs, turning away from the scene to scan the perimeter as the first police cars screech to a halt at the plaza’s edge. But his posture is different. The explosive tension is gone, replaced by a watchful, protective vigilance that encompasses all three of them, and the civilians now peeking out from behind the kiosk.
They did it. Not as two separate pairs, but as one unit. The realization settles in the space between their ragged breaths, in the silent glances they exchange. It feels, terrifyingly, like a new kind of normal.
The last police car pulls away, its siren fading into the city’s hum. The ambulance follows, carrying the groggy, quirk-suppressed villain. The plaza is empty save for the four of them, the overturned kiosk, and the scattered evidence of their fight.
Y/n lets out a long, slow breath, the globe of water holding the gun dissolving into a harmless puddle at her feet. She turns to Kirishima and Bakugo, her big brown eyes wide with a soft curiosity. "When did you guys get in this area anyway?"
Kirishima chuckles, the sound warm and easy as he lets his hardening fully recede. He rubs the back of his neck, a peacemaker's habit. "Me and Katsuki missed you two," he admits, his grin unashamed. "So we were on our way to cut through your route. Got the alert about the hostage situation and just… redirected."
Deku’s heart gives a hard, warm thump against his ribs. He looks from Kirishima’s earnest face to Bakugo’s stubborn profile. A smile, small and genuine, breaks across his own face. Y/n mirrors it, her cheeks warming.
"We missed you guys too," Y/n says, her voice husky with leftover adrenaline and something softer.
Deku nods, his green eyes bright. "We make a great team," he says, the words leaving him in a rush of pure, unguarded feeling.
Bakugo scoffs, turning fully to face them. He crosses his arms over his chest, the motion drawing attention to the slight tremble in his hands—not from fear, but from the aftershocks of explosive force held in check. "Tch. Don’t get mushy. It was a clean takedown. That’s all."
But his eyes, sharp crimson, sweep over them. They linger on Kirishima’s chest where the bullets impacted, then flick to Deku, assessing, before finally landing on Y/n. The scrutiny lacks its usual cutting edge. It’s just… checking.
"You’re one to talk, Bakubro," Kirishima says, his grin turning sly. He steps closer, clapping a heavy hand on Bakugo’s shoulder. "Who was it that went ‘sunspot’ the second you heard ‘gun’ on the comms?"
Bakugo’s shoulders tense under the touch, but he doesn’t shake it off. "Shut up. It was a tactical reposition."
"It was a panic," Kirishima corrects, his voice fond.
Y/n laughs, a quiet, sparkling sound. "It was fast. You were… incredible. All of you."
Deku watches the water dance around her hands. His own fists, clenched tight during the fight, slowly uncurl. The green aura around him has completely faded, leaving just the man, sweat-damp and breathing heavily in his torn costume. "Eijiro," he starts again, the name still feeling new and weighted on his tongue. "Those bullets… you didn’t even hesitate."
Kirishima meets his gaze, his red eyes steady. "Course not. You’re part of the team." He says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world. "My job’s to be the shield in this relationship. That includes you."
Deku smiles, nodding, the warmth in his chest expanding until it feels like it might crack his ribs. Then Y/n moves.
It’s not a step. It’s a leap. She grabs Deku’s arm with one hand, hooks her other around Kirishima’s bicep, and throws her weight backward, pulling all three of them off-balance into a stumbling, four-person collision. Her arms wrap tight, her face buried between Deku and Bakugo’s shoulders. “I love you guys,” she says, her voice muffled and sweet and utterly certain.
The words hang in the air, a live grenade with the pin already pulled.
Deku’s breath catches. He feels the declaration ping against his heart, a clean, resonant strike. He doesn’t think. His arms come up, one circling Y/n’s trembling back, the other reaching past her to clutch at Kirishima’s torn costume.
Kirishima is the first to speak. “Yeah,” he rumbles, the sound vibrating through them all. His massive arms envelop the group, pulling them tighter. “We love you too, Y/n.” His red eyes find Deku’s over her curls. “All of you.”
Bakugo is a rigid line against them. He hasn’t moved, his arms trapped at his sides by the crush of bodies. His face is turned away, staring stiffly at the cracked pavement. A muscle jumps in his jaw.
Y/n lifts her head just enough to peer up at him. Her big brown eyes are glistening. She doesn’t say anything. She just waits.
“Tch.” The sound is pure Bakugo—all exasperation and no heat. He lets out a sharp, defeated breath. Then, with a roughness that betrays him, he brings one arm up and around, his hand landing heavily on the small of Y/n’s back. His other hand grips Deku’s shoulder, fingers digging in. “Shut up,” he mutters into her hair. “We know.”
It’s not the words. It’s the surrender. The four of them stand in the ruined plaza, a tangled, sweaty, bruised knot of heroes, holding on as the late afternoon sun paints their skin in gold and long shadows. Deku closes his eyes. He smells Y/n’s vanilla shampoo, Kirishima’s leather and citrus, Bakugo’s nitroglycerin and sweat. He feels the solid, living weight of them. His team. His.
Four separate pieces, worn and complicated, fitting together in a way none of them could deny anymore. Not temporary. Not fragile. Something stronger than that. Something chosen. Something perfect.
Summary: Ngozi Achebe has big dreams and aspirations for herself, but she has an even bigger quirk. Can U.A. help her achieve her goals of being the hero that she’s meant to be? With a power that belongs to the stars, she navigates as if she owns the galaxies. She has to decide if she wasn’t to shine brightly or go out in a blaze of glory. Will she prove to be a blessing or end up cursed?
Dividers: @uzmacchiato
Chapter 2: The Umbrella Girl (Part 1)
Locker room talk with the girls was everything but also nothing simultaneously. They continued to learn more about each other. Places they’re from, ages, birthdays. Since Ngozi was the only international student in their class, it was only natural they would like to learn more about her. She didn’t see any harm in that and was pretty open to sharing what felt safe.
“So you’re from Africa, I always want to travel there one day.” Ochaco slid her tank top over her bosom, smoothing it out. Ngozi opened up her locker as she began to place her school uniform. “Yeah, I was born in Nigeria. There’s so many different places, people and cultures. That’s what makes it very unique.” She reminisced about her homeland, spending a great portion of childhood there before moving around. During most summers she would go back and visit.
“Yeah, it’s a little funny. I was born during a meteor shower. So that’s how I got my name.” She was born in Africa, Nigeria specifically. A beautiful place with vibrant land and lots of culture. Her accent became more prominent the longer she spoke. “It means Blessing in Igbo. It’s a one letter difference, turn the ‘Z’ into a ‘S’ , my name would have meant Star. My Nana said it is the universe’s way of welcoming me home.” She used to cringe at this, but now she was starting to embrace it. It left a little bit of a sore spot as well since her passing, but it would be something she would cherish.
“That’s so wonderful how they thought of that.” Momo placed a hand over her heart, clearly moved by the gesture that paid homage.
She pulled down the black tank over her waistbeads, unaware her back was showing. Her skin was riddled with tiny spots that would twinkle, and a constellation that looked a little like a crab, the symbol for cancer.
“Whoa! Dude, is that a tattoo? That looks so damn badass!” Jiro zipped up her uniform before coming a little closer but keeping a respectful distance.
“Oh no, it’s basically a birthmark. It’s been like that since my quirk activated.” Ngozi explained, rubbing her side, where her skin would shimmer if she tried hard enough.
Ngozi felt herself starting to feel her to get a bit shy. Her fleckles would often twinkle like a natural blush, a tell-tale sign of her emotions. So she eased herself into new conservation of what Mr. Aizawa could possibly be planning for them.
“So, any ideas of what cruel and unusual punishment we might endure?” Ngozi pivoted the conversation off of herself to the actual task at hand.
Now dressed in the standard navy blue uniforms, Class 1-A stood underneath the warm sun, everyone had gathered around Mr. Aizawa. There was open track space, hurdles, and several other obstacles placed in various positions. Murmurs spread about what they could possibly be doing. They were going to have to see how capable they were to actually become heroes.
She absentmindedly twirled her parasol, a habit of hers recently. A handcrafted gift made of bamboo, it was navy blue laced with gold, on the handle was a Sun and Moon charm. Ngozi knew the real trials were about to begin. She had to make sure that she could stand out from the rest—especially since it looked like she already had a target on her back. She ignored the intense crimson gaze across from the field.
“Get ready for a good old fashion fitness test.” Mr. Aizawa lazily stuffed one of his hands in his pocket to produce a timer.
Many seemed a bit uncertain about how this was going to work for them with their quirks. Many of them could be at a disadvantage. No one was more nervous than Midorya who looked like he was going to be sick. This was just going to be a formality, just to gauge where they were at currently, no pressure right? “Mr. Aizawa, you’re seeing how well we have adapted with our quirks?” Ngozi raised her hand, asking what everyone was probably thinking.
“Essentially yes, it only makes sense to measure your abilities to see what kind of heroes you’ll be in the future. That being said, do take this seriously as you will be graded. The student with the lowest score will be expelled.”
‘Expelled?! Abeg, we literally just got here!’
Quiet gasps and nervous gulps overtook the students. Ngozi couldn’t believe it, he had to be bluffing. Gone if they couldn’t measure up with the best of the best? Surely her stamina had improved over the years. She had taken up track, dance, and gymnastics— which she ended up loving because they were great for her. She needed to do well and conserve her energy wisely. She couldn’t afford a fainting spell on her very first day, that would be utter humiliation. She could feel his prominent gaze on her as he spoke.
‘Pull yourself together girl and lock in real quick! You can do this!’
She attempted to hype herself up then began stretching her limbs just as the rest of classmates did. In the corner of her eyes was Izuku who was visibly turning the color of his hair. “You alright there?” She called out to him, slight concern in her expressions.
“Y-Yes! Never better, Achebe-san!” He was a bad liar, she couldn’t help but feel for him. They were probably in the same boat, quirks that were awesome on the outside, but brutal on the inside.
As always there was an overconfident blonde who sported a shit-eating grin, slamming his hand into his fist, crackling and popping emitting from his palms, leaving a smoky residue. Constantly wearing pride on his sleeve, it was very evident in his attitude.
“Hell yeah! Time to show all you extras the real deal!”
“Yeah, I’m totally cooked.” Denki anxiously chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Speak for yourself! Some of us don’t have a lot to work with!” Mineta cried, being the smallest and physically challenged out of all of them. Kirishima on the other hand was full of adrenaline, flexing his muscles proudly. “Whoo! Let’s gooo!!!”
“Let’s do our best!” Uraraka attempted to help boost their morale as well, with nods of affirmation and agreement.
Starting off with the distance throws, each of them would stand in the center circle, throwing the baseball to the best of their abilities. In true egoist fashion the explosion boy Bakugo was up first stepping up to the plate, throwing the most brutal of pitches.
“Take this! DIE!!”
The ball all but exploded into smoke, as it came back crashing down in a puff of smoke. He wore a satisfied grin as Mr. Aizawa announced his score, surely nobody in the class would beat that score.
“705.2 meters. Excellent range.”
Smugness radiated through Katsuki as he scoffed. This was apparently way too easy for him. How were they supposed to compete with that? As everyone took their turn to make their throws in the circle, many scored pretty fair or fairly low. He looked like he was about to combust when Izuku scored a tenth of a meter more than him. Even though it cost him a finger. She cringed, knowing the pain in must of caused him.
‘Mcwh, not a lick of sportsmanship.’
“Achebe, you’re up.” The exhausted gruff of a teacher held up his clipboard, marking the charts of his students.
Ngozi sighed softly before closing her umbrella, stamping it into the dirt as if it was a cane. She rolled back her shoulders before stepping into the circle. Catching the ball that Mr. Aizawa threw to her, winded her arm back, activating her quirk as a soft multi-colored aura began glowing around her body, tiny golden flecks of stardust emitted from her hand. Her deep bronze complexion seemed to shimmer, like millions of tiny stars dotting the night sky. In that instance, launching the ball as far as she physically could.
The ball propelled itself on stardust, shooting out of the field like a rocket, until there was nothing left but a twinkle in the sky. Her quirk was now deactivated as the halo-like aura disappeared from her.
“That was good…Right?”
Aizawa glanced down at the pacer, a brief sigh that was unimpressed but also unamused, leaving his lips. “It didn’t register, so I’m going to have to assume it’s an infinity.” The class interrupted into pure chaos.
“HUH?!”
“How did you even do that?”
“Incredible! Did that go into space?!”
To say she was flustered was an understatement. It went farther than she had anticipated, it was no wonder now why her parents didn’t put her in any sports that involved throwing or were quite extreme. There was a pretty good chance that the ball wasn’t coming back down. If it did, she hoped it was where that wasn’t populated, or some random ocean.
‘Chie! I’m so sorry nature!’
“Don’t think you’re hot shit, Sparkles! Being flashy doesn’t mean you’re the best.” Katsuki growled, moving past the Nigerian girl as he made his way to the next obstacle. Ngozi knew he was trying to get under her skin, but she wasn’t to let him see her stress.
“You’re right. I never said I was. But you probably think I am. It's not my fault you feel that way.” Ngozi flipped her hair, her long braids grazing his shoulders as she pressed forward, adding further insult to injury. She wasn’t going to give the satisfaction of getting under her skin.
Ngozi tried not to feel overwhelmed as it was only a single test, there were still several more tests left to do. She was just glad that she didn’t feel winded for the most part, she didn’t really experience aching and soreness. She could probably keep this up, making her rather hopeful.
The students continued through the courses, doing everything from the pacer, side jumps, distance running, grip strength. Countless tests to make sure they would reach peak physicality. Once completed, Mr. Aizawa rallied everyone together to discuss their scoring before he dismissed everyone. She had placed seventh, not the highest but not really low. It was rather safe. She thought she didn’t do bad at all, though she did wonder if she held back too much.
“Achebe. A word please.” She tried not to let dread fill her thoughts. Surely he hadn’t noticed, he couldn’t have been that perceptive. Who was she kidding? He probably had her entire file sitting somewhere in his file. He was the damn teacher, what could she possibly get away with? She walked over, ready to face the music.
Mr. Aizawa had called her over quietly to see him. He snuck a pass to Recovery Girl into her hands. She attempted not to frown. “End of day, I will be checking in” She nodded slowly as he gave a look of finality. She was not escaping this at all. “Yes, sir.”
Ngozi caught back up with the rest of her classmates, doing her best not to look forlorn. Today was one of her better days, though she couldn’t say how rest would be.
‘As long as I don’t run into anyone from class I should be good.’
She breathed out a slight sigh, her relief short-lived as she nearly forgot Midoriya was headed in that direction at the moment. She told herself to freak out, maybe he wouldn’t see her.
“Yup, you’re definitely not beating the fairy allegations!” Mina nudged her shoulders, as they walked back to the locker rooms to change before their academics.
“Are you sure about that? I don’t think I did anything gracefully.” Ngozi mused, pride was not her current state of mind. The note for the infirmary was burning a hole in her pocket, it was making her more anxious than anything. “GIRL! You literally sparkle, then you threw that ball so far into orbit we’ll probably never see it again! If I were you, I’d never stop bragging.”
“You have nothing to worry about, you all saw I short-circuited just running. I barely made it.” Denki shook his head, sighing loudly. This began to reassure Ngozi a little. Everyone was just trying to do their best.
This made Ngozi well up with laughter, because how could somebody be so honest? It made her think to herself, if they really knew what it was like? They wouldn’t be saying things so lightly. There wasn’t time to dwell on those things.
Lagos, Nigeria - 13 Years Ago…
The sun was beaming overhead in the middle of a school field, it happened to be a particularly warm day. That didn’t stop the young children from enjoying themselves during recess. They chased each other, played games, and played with toys. A tiny Ngozi ran across the field kicking a soccer ball. Her two tightly coiled afropuffs bounced, the gold clips holding them secure as she dribbled with her small feet, excitement shone through her features.
"Hey! Nyefee ya ebe a!"
“Hey! Pass it over here!”
A boy with hair with a buzz cute, a complexion of honey brown skin waved over to her as he ran.
"Ọ dị mma! Lee, ị gawa!"
“Okay! Here you go!”
She kicked over the soccer ball with rampant enthusiasm to the young boy. Her skin started to glisten in the sunlight as perspiration began to surcease.
"Bịa, mee ya!"
“Come on! Do it!”
Another young boy and girl were running besides them equally cheering and rooting to shoot the ball into the net. Ngozi began slowing down and as everyone picked up the pace, moving past her. Her breathing became heavy and her heart rate quickened.
"Chere m!"
“Wait for me!”
Ngozi cried as her legs began buckling under the weight of her small frame. She fell forward, collapsing as she couldn’t hold herself up any longer. Everything was tingling and she felt so exhausted. She struggled to pick herself back up but she didn’t have any strength.
"Enweghị m ike ịkwaga! Ọ na-ewute!"
“I can’t move! It hurts!”
She felt herself becoming dizzy as her vision blurred. The kids stopped what they were doing, running over to her, attempting to help before summoning a teacher to assist. Ngozi’s skin glimmered once more before her eyes rolled back, finally passing out.
"Ngọzi! Ngọzi! Teta!"
“Wake up!”
The academic school day came and went. Learning how to become a hero was one thing, but following the curriculum material was another beast. The classes packed a mean punch, math and science couldn’t even touch her. Ngozi mopped the floor with English. The only class that gave her a true challenge was the Japanese class, since it was mainly focused on the characters and writing systems.
“Whoever made all these classes back to back, may your bed be made of bricks.” Mina stabbed at her Omurice, nearly breaking the plate.
“Mina Ashido!”
Ngozi nearly hollered, clearly surprised by her clear disdain for academics. She couldn’t contain her laughter, cheeks subtly twinkling with amusement.
“I don’t care! I mean it!”
“You’re supposed to be scholarly or whatever Iida said.”
“You’re just saying that because you know how to do it.” Mina folded her arms and pouted.
“Maybe…” Ngozi giggled.
At lunch, Ngozi found herself sitting down with the other girls in their class, forming something of a girlhood already. She opened up the homemade bento box her mother had prepared for her. The strong aromatics of Jollof rice and Suya came waffling from the self-heated thermos. Her mouth immediately watered, only to be greeted with the taste of home.
“Ooh that smells amazing! And it looks yummy too!” Ochaco’s nose wriggled in delight. Eyes following the source of the smell. The girls looked over curiously at her bento box. She all of a sudden began to feel shy as she ate her meal.
“Yes, my mom makes the best food ever! Would you like to try some?” She remained hopeful, back then people would think such ethnic foods were weird so she would be nervous sharing such things. She was relieved to seem to be accepting of different cultures.
“Heck ya! Pass it over!” Ngozi broke off some of the Suya and gave them a scoop of Jollof rice, leaving a large portion for herself. The girls indulged themselves on the nibble, expressions bright as she watched.
“That tastes amazing!”
“So flavorful!”
“It has a spicy kick to it!”
She went to explain what it was and the spices it used. Slowly but surely she was starting to peel back the thinnest layers on herself. Ngozi was just a girl, finally beginning to feel a sense of normalcy. Even if it was just temporary.
“Don’t look, but someone is hoping you combust by how hard he’s looking.” Jiro’s loopy ear pointed in the direction of the boy’s table. Ngozi obviously didn’t listen, following her line of sight to a very agro ash-blonde.
Katsuki had been pressed since this morning by what happened. He couldn’t believe it, Izuku his childhood nemesis who he deemed worthless because he was quirkless, now here he was to compete with him. Then you have this girl who came out of nowhere basically stealing the damn show. It was getting under his skin, something had to be down about this.
“Oh hey!” Ngozi waved at him with the nicest smile she could muster. Bakugo’s head turned in the other direction with an eye roll and huff. She immediately frowned at his behavior, kissing her teeth.
“Somebody’s still upset, he didn’t even greet me back.” Ngozi tutted out her lips before looking back at the girls as they all bursted out in laughter.
“Damn, you are really bold!” Mina had to catch her breath because of that brief interaction.
“And very much alive.” Ngozi playfully rolled her eyes as she resumed eating her meal, still actively enjoying it. Hunger was currently overriding her annoyance.
The floating uniform of Hagakure became animated as she squealed. “I probably would have melted with that glare.”
Ngozi looked round the cafeteria not seeing the frenzied greenette anywhere, he must have been in the infirmary for the most part.
“Oh Midoriya left a bit early to get his finger fixed.” Tsuyu thought aloud, tongue languid as she was composed.
“That must have hurt a lot. But it seems like he’s used to that.” Momo felt sympathy for the young boy. The conversation seemed to drown out Ngozi's ears, no longer fully listening in.
‘How it is…A quirk that hurts you like that. Could he possibly get it?’
She tried not to think about it, nodding when the girls would speak, like she heard them. The day was nearly over, and she had to get ready to face the music. It was better to deal with it on a full stomach than have her gut collapse on itself.
Ngozi picked up her parasol that leaded beside her bag. She was thankful that they had a free period right afterwards. The girls were going to head over to the library to get ahead of the curve, but she declined.
“Sorry, I actually have another stop to make. I’ll catch you all later!” She called out, heading down the halls and turning the corners to head straight to Recovery Girl’s office.
Every step she took made her heart race and brought her further anxiety. She had to follow Mr. Aizawa’s orders, this was for her own benefit. It was probably just a routine check-up like they did before admissions. It wouldn’t hurt to just follow up, what was the harm?
‘No worries, you’ll be okay. Just get in and out.’
Ngozi had just made it to her office, taking a deep breath. She was about to knock on the door, when it began to slide open. She saw a bandaged finger, and internally screamed. She all but vanished before the door could fully open.
‘No, not like this! I didn’t think he was still in there!’
She held her breath, hearing their voices speak, then the door closed. She heard the sound of retreating footsteps, her shoulders started to relax. She popped her head to see the coast was clear, much to her relief. Ngozi walked back, knocking on the door before entering and shutting the door behind her.
What she was unaware of was a wild greenette was at the other end of the hall, right around the corner listening in.
His face was quite puzzled, as if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He though he heard someone, but they vanished. Was there somebody at the door going to see Recovery Girl as well?
He had looked down from walked, there was something flickering on the ground before it started to disappear
“Gold specks?”
He soon heard a feminine voice come out of Recovery Girl’s office. He attempted to pinpoint where he heard it before.
“Was that…Achebe?”
It hit him then. The specks were stardust. The girl with the cosmic quirk was his classmate! He rapidly sped through his notebook where he was already taking notes on his classmates. He already had a few facts about her, but a lot was still unknown.
‘It is her! But why is she going to Recovery Girl? Is she hurt?’
Panic began to set in, frantically thinking that he was so dumb to ignore a classmate’s needs and didn’t even know when it happened. He began to recall the physical fitness test, it had to have been then!
There was something going on with her. He knew he shouldn’t listen in, it wasn’t right. He removed himself, walking back down the halls to continue the rest on his day uninterrupted. Though his thoughts kept drifting back to Ngozi.
‘What’s going on with her? Is she okay?’
Sterile instruments and fluorescent lights made Ngozi’s stomach begin to churn. She had come in quietly, setting her pass down then sat down on the examination table, leaving her parasol close by. She looked around room momentarily before the petite elderly woman climbed up her chair to get a good look at her. Recovery Girl smiled warmly before placing a hand on her thigh.
“Something tells me we’re going to get real acquainted with each other. Care to let me know what’s been going on…?”
Summary: Ngozi Achebe has big dreams and aspirations for herself, but she has an even bigger quirk. Can U.A. help her achieve her goals of being the hero that she’s meant to be? With a power that belongs to the stars, she navigates as if she owns the galaxies. She has to decide if she wasn’t to shine brightly or go out in a blaze of glory. Will she prove to be a blessing or end up cursed?
Dividers: @uzmacchiato
Chapter 1: Blessings
16 Years Ago…
Lagos, Nigeria
A warm summer breeze lazily rocks the ocean, bioluminescent algae light up the shores like a pathway and the moon illuminated the darkness like a painting to a canvas. All was particularly calm at the moment, even though the city was rather lively, local news channels on the TVs were reporting coverage of a metro shower that was going to take place that evening. Surely city life would pause for this phenomena?
One would be sorely mistaken.
In the cozy yet bountiful Mansion of the Achebe household, pacing back and forth was a nervous and equally excited husband, Jabari. A very capable man who was used to using his hands for heavy machinery didn’t know what to do with them. So he clasped his clammy hands together and said a prayer. His wife Thandiwe was currently in labor.
“Oge eruola.”
“It’s time.”
An elderly woman spoke, peeking through the double doors. Her hair rich as a silken white swan and lines adorned her face and skin, showing a life well-lived. The matriarch of the family, carrying wisdom and fire in her soul. The former doula was tending to her daughter, the other midwives brought in towels, and basins of warm and cool water.
Jabari willed himself calm and entered the room where his wife was laying on the massive bed. A sheen coating of sweat transpired from her forehead.
“A nọ m ebe a ịhụnanya m. Echegbula onwe gị.”
“I’m right here my love. Don’t you worry.”
Jabari held Thandiwe’s hand softly, caressing her shoulder with the other one. Thandiwe looked over, uncertainty graced her features but her husband’s presence brought much comfort.
"Daalụ ịdị mma. Enweghị m ike ikwenye na ọ na-emecha eme."
“Thank goodness. I can’t believe it’s finally happening.”
Thandiwe was much too impatient, pain shooting through her lower belly as she attempted to breath calmly, as they have been anticipating this moment for years.
Amara, the matriarch then rolled up the edge of the bedcovers, taking a glance downward and cleansed her hands with warm water and alcohol. A few of the midwives stood at the side, ready for immediate medical attention.
"Ọ dịla njikere. Gaa n'ihu ma gbaa mbọ."
“She’s ready. Go ahead and push.”
Thandiwe looked up at Jabari, who nodded in confirmation, squeezing her hand firmly. She closed her eyes and began pushing with extreme force.
"Nke ahụ bụ ya, na-aga!"
“That’s it, keep going!”
Thandiwe groaned and cried out as pushed and and pushed, gasping for air and groaning with every contraction. Tears welled up in her eyes as she squeezed Jabari’s hand with a vice grip. No matter how painful it was, nothing compared to what his wife was going through.
"Ọ fọrọ obere ka ọ bụrụ ebe ahụ ịhụnanya, ị nwere ike ime ya!"
“Almost there love, you can do it!”
Amara readied her hands to cradle the incoming newborn. After pushing for what felt like hours, the faintest of wails could be heard throughout the room. Laying back against the pillows, Thandiwe relaxed and released a sigh of relief.
"Ọ bịala ebe a n'ikpeazụ!”
“She’s finally here!”
Small wails erupted from the tiny figure as Amara lifted her up to the new parents. Smooth brown skin, little tuffs of violet hair, plump cheeks seasoned with freckles and bright amethyst eyes warily gapped up at them.
Emotion radiated from them as the tears overflowed from Thandiwe and Jabari. She was perfect. She was here.
As the nightly breeze ushered its way in through the window, the sky prepared itself a dazzling presentation of lights. What a glorious spectacle of shooting stars and meteorites. The newborn cooed and gurgled with fascination, eyes twinkling with new found wonder.
“Lee ngọzi ọ bụ."
“What a blessing she is.”
Amara expressed with adoration at the loving little family with a wrinkled smile. What a wonderful gift that was bestowed upon them.
“Ọ bụ ya. Nke ahụ ga-abụ aha ya. Ngọzi…”
“That’s it. That will be her name. Blessing…”
Present Day…
Looking in the mirror for the hundredth time that morning, Ngozi fixed the red tie around her neck. She used the match red bow to pull back the top half of her braids. She straightened her blazer and pleated skirt one last time.
The waistbeads sat comfortably under her shirt, and her anklets jiggled over her dark knee-high socks. A gentle knock on the door got her attention.
"Bata."
“Come in.”
She turned to the door, to be greeted by her mother. The older woman with a golden gaze and sun-skinned bronze b, had to be her replica. She smiled brightly at her daughter.
"Ị dị njikere maka ụbọchị mbụ gị?"
“Ready for your first day?”
Ngozi nodded with a slight sigh. This would be the start of bigger and hopefully better things. Her hero career was starting off right here in Japan. She had to put her best foot forward.
"Ee, m na-eme nke a naanị maka otu nde ugboro."
“Yes, I’m only doing this for the millionth time.”
Her mother pursed her lips at that teenage attitude, giving her an unimpressed glare.
"Ndo, abụ m. Ọ bụ naanị egwuregwu ọhụrụ ka ọ bụ naanị ya."
“Sorry, I am. It’s just a new playing field that’s all.”
God forbid that her little girl grow up right before her eyes into a young woman. With new excitement, new fears were also lurking around the corner, and who could blame her?
"N'ezie, mana enwere m obi ike na ọ ga-abụ ahụmịhe dị egwu."
“Of course, but I’m sure it's going to be an amazing experience.”
Ngozi adjusted her earsbuds over her ears, fiddling with the frequency, not too loud and not too quiet, just enough to not give her nausea. Picking up the rest of her essential items and her backpack, Ngozi made her way downstairs with her mom, her father was in the large foyer, looking over 3D plans on his latest project.
"Lee ya, kpakpando nke ihe ngosi ahụ!"
“There she is, the star of the show!”
Jabari grinned widely, putting his tablet aside, and pulling her into a bear hug. The man had light freckles and medium dark locks touching his. shoulders. Ngozi felt her cheeks flush and freckles start to glow, cringe clearly evident in her expression, she laughed anyway.
"Ọ dị mma, ọ dị mma! Nke ahụ ezuola."
“Okay, okay! That’s enough.”
She pulled back and fixed her uniform, they acted as if she would be leaving forever. She would be home later that afternoon. It was bad enough that she was going to be taking a car to school and not the subway because they didn’t want her going a long distance.
They’ve been residing in Tokyo for the past few months, having resources and connections in the tech and art industries made things that made moving smoother. Ngozi’s mind was that much more made up, refusing to be coddled any longer, she was going to make the most of these next few years.
Ngozi was grateful for the private education that she received. Her grades were always stellar and she excelled in sports and arts, how was that any different? Her hobbies of reading manga and watching Asian dramas made it that much easier to comprehend the language, and it was becoming easier to speak it. She wouldn’t be experiencing that much culture shock.
"Ọ dị mma, agaghị m ahapụ gị ebe a ụbọchị niile. Agaghị m achọ ka ị bịa n'azụ oge maka akwụkwọ n'ụbọchị mbụ gị."
“Alright, can’t keep you here all day. Wouldn’t want you to be late for school on your first day.”
Jabari shared the same sentiments as his wife, this was a new avenue for everyone, but worries about their child will always be paramount. Thandiwe placed a neatly wrapped box of treats in her daughter’s hand and smiled.
Walking through the double doors to the walkway where a sleek black SUV was parked, waiting to depart. The chauffeur Kofi, a well trusted aide and guard, opened the car door. Ngozi looked back at her parents before getting in the vehicle, giving a small smile of reassurance.
"Ị nwere ihe niile dị mma?"
“You’ve got everything right?”
She nodded with an exhausted sigh.
“Yes, notebooks, stationary, tumbler, and visors.”
She switched to English, readying herself for school mode. It was already going to be a long day and they weren’t making her nerves any better.
“Support items?”
The ones that have been created to aid her in the use of her quirk, sat in the compartments of her backpack.
“Them too, the umbrella, earmuffs, fan, and visor.”
She patted the backpack one more, affirming she could finally roll up the car’s windows, the engine humming to life as it began to pull out the driveway.
“Good, have a great day!”
They both waved until the car could no longer come into view, holding hands as they watched their daughter leave for her new school.
Ngozi leaned back in her seat, relaxing her shoulders. They meant well and she loved them dearly, but it could be a little stifling at times. She pulled out her phone to scroll through some messages from old friends and cousins back home and in the states.
Missing you Madly! @NGoCrazzziii
You’ll be the best hero!
Good luck at U.A. girly!!
She read them all before typing her responses back to them all, a small grin gracing her features. Ngozi glanced out the window at the passing scenery on the way to the school, anticipation filling her heart.
When Ngozi first decided that she was going to be a hero, her parents were hesitant and terrified beyond reason. She went through a lot in her younger years, often finding herself in solitude at times. Her quirk, as majestic as it was, could end up being her kryptonite. Like glass you see up close but you couldn’t touch. She realized how different she was in every aspect, and that was something that she would have to embrace.
‘This is a clean slate. A new beginning…’
It wasn’t long before the car pulled up to the front gates of U.A. She could see various students funneling through the gates, making their way up the hills of the prestigious school. A few of them even stopped to glance at who could possibly be.
Exiting the car, Ngozi removed the umbrella from a side pocket in her bag, then tugged it to expand over her head. Kofi met her on the other side for debriefing.
“Have a great day, Miss Ngozi. I’ll be here to pick up this afternoon. Your parents will be home later this evening as they are dealing with business.”
“Okay, sounds good. See you then.”
She turned around then started walking through the gates of the school, as Kofi got back in the car to drive off.
“Drop the Miss, Kofi. It’s weird coming from you.” To which he laughs and waves, old habits just died hard. “Right, see you!”
Twirling her parasol, she began trekking up the hill. Other students make their own way to different sections of the school. It would be an understatement to say that U.A. was huge. It looked like a damn university! The sheer volume of students at this alone was massive. The tour she was given during orientation was most helpful.
‘The building for the First Years should be right around this bend.’
Flipping through the tunes selection on her phone, she finally clicked on the one that was befitting of the current mood. Ngozi quietly sang the words to her favorite Rhianna song, “Umbrella”, nodding her head to the beat, turning the volume up.
Under my Umbrella
-Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh
Lost in her own little bubble for the moment, she almost didn’t notice the speeding green blur that blasted right past her and several other students, nearly knocking them over. The sheer force almost had her umbrella flying out of her hand, holding on it for dear life.
“Sorry! So Sorry!”
The green haired boy bowed several times quickly before continuing to run off in the very direction that she was currently going. He is in quite the hurry, looking like a bundle of nerves and anxiousness.
‘Wait, where have I seen him before?’
Continuing up the road, she approached the giant building that had the number ‘1’ sign hanging over the archway. Ngozi waltzed through the automatic doors after closing her parasol. She found her assigned locker number, putting in the code and retrieving her school issued tennis shoes to put on. The cute Mary Janes she wore would just have to wait until she got back unfortunately.
Ding-Dong!
The first bell of the day sounded off, signaling classes were going to begin shortly. Her destination was Hero Course 1-A, only being a few floors up, she hurried up the staircase. It was better to be there a bit early than to be late.
In the Resource Office, a disgruntled man with shoulder length black hair fueled by coffee and cats stacked his papers together before placing them in a filing folder. Shōta Aizawa aka the Pro-Hero Eraserhead, he was certainly in over his head once again. How did Principal Nezu convince him to stay another year in the Hero class?
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find this year’s students most favorable.”
Principal Nezu was an extremely intelligent creature known for picking out the best talent for future Pro-Heroes. He slid over a case file to the permanently exhausted man. Compiled all together was a list of the students that had passed the entrance exams. A puzzled look on his features, seeing that he had an odd number, meaning there would be a special case.
‘Great even more work on my plate’ Aizwa could feel a headache forming and he pinched his nose bridge.
“I’ve placed the international student under your guidance. She’s very promising, please keep a watchful eye on her.”
Name: Ngozi Achebe
Quirk: Celestial Surge
Description: Ability to produce and manipulate stellar comic energy
He scanned over her files, as some of the information had to be redacted but he filled in the blanks for himself.
“I think that’s the most unique quirk I’ve heard of in a long time. An extremely powerful one at that when used correctly.”
He was picking up what Nezu was putting down. No matter what, this girl would be safest among them.
‘Fine, but no more extra assignments.’
That grin on Nezu’s face was all the affirmation that he needed. Shōta Aizawa was certainly in over his head. Closing the folder and procuring his sleeping bag, he slugged his way down to his new class for an eventful new year.
‘Here it is, Class 1-A’
Ngozi strutted down the hallway, glancing up at the signs on the room doors, coming to a stop. She braced herself, sliding the door open then walked inside. Several other students were already there getting acquainted with each other.
A girl with dark purple hair, asymmetrical bangs and long dangly earlobes was scrolling on her phone.
Another girl with bright pink skin, baby pink hair, with two antennas, her eyes dark, giving her an alien look. She was chatting up another girl who had black hair in a ponytail who was on the taller side. Then besides her was a girl with long green hair tied in a ribbon fashion, her looks rather amphibian.
‘Nothing odd about this at all.’
Ngozi made her way towards the seat in the very middle, ready to put her things down on the desk. She was relieved to see everyone in class were many of the top examinees that were at the entrance exams for U.A.
“Hey, you’re that girl with the umbrella that placed 5th at the entrance exam! I’m Mina Ashido, nice to meet you!”
Ngozi looked around to see who was catching her attention. The pinkette practically bounced over to her with excitement, she stuck out her for the purplette to shake, to which she amply took and shook.
“Oh yeah, you too! I’m Ngozi Achebe. You’re the girl that was sliding on that white liquid, right?” The exam itself was quite a blur, having gone by so fast, but there were many notable faces.
Mina nodded quickly, grinning brightly thinking she wouldn’t be noticed. “Yes! My quirk is acid, nothing really to write home about.” She laughed shyly, cheeks turning pink naturally. Their conversation garnered much attention from the others, as a couple more of her new classmates came over.
“No, I think it’s pretty cool. You melted a lot of robots.” Ngozi shook her head with a small smile.
“Thanks! But the way that you jumped and leaped over them, then blasted them with the umbrella before flying away is awesome!” Mina gushed, clasping her hands together in an excited fashion.
As the small crowd formed, everyone began to introduce themselves to each other.
“Momo Yayorozu!” Who can create matter with her body.
“Tsuyu Ausui!” The girl that has frog abilities and a long tongue.
“Eijiro Kirishima!” The redhead with the quirk that allows him to harden his skin.
“Rikido Sato!” A sweet giant who has the biggest of sweettooths.
“Tokoyami Fumikage.” The bird-headed boy who carried a dark aura within him.
“Shoutout Todoroki.” The peppermint haired boy, with the dual-quirk of Hot and Cold.
A tall boy with navy blue hair, stoic features who sported glasses, he was straightlaced and his movements were quite robotic. One could tell he was a stickler for the rules, someone who belonged in a leadership role.
He happened to be barking at an explosive blonde boy reprimanding him about putting his feet on the desk. “What deplorable behavior! Get your filthy feet off of the desk!” To which she found out he was Tenya Iida, the boy with the engine quirk.
“Shut the hell up Poindexter!”
Goodness that boy had a set of lungs on him, anyone could probably hear him from down the halls.
Iida was applauded by his words and demeanor. How could someone like that be let into this school? That boy who created explosions and called everyone “Extras”, happened to be the highest scorer in the entrance exams. Katsuki Bakugo was quite notorious and menacing.
If there was a time Ngozi desired to be deaf, it would be at this precise moment.
“Oh no, it’s him.” Tsuyu frowned, lowering her voice so she couldn’t be heard.
He rolled his eyes, then turned attention towards them, eyes landing on the bright purplette.
“Hey you, Lightening Bug!” He angrily stomped his way across the room.
Ngozi looked around the room and under the desks, making sure she heard that correctly. She then pointed to herself.
He stopped his tracks, confused as to why she was looking around. Was this girl blind? This only served to aggravate him more. This girl tried to show him up during the exams by getting several more 3-pointers than him, threatening to steal his shine.
“I’m trying to figure out who you think you’re talking to. I have a name.” Ngozi lifted a puzzled eyebrow, shrugging her shoulders. She blinks several times at the destructive blonde.
Everyone seemed to start backing away sensing some tension.
“You got a lot of nerve, snatching those robots up like that!” Bakugo attempted to approach closer but was blocked off by Kirishima. “Chill out dude, it’s not that serious.”
“Quiet shitty hair!”
“I was faster, that’s all. Besides TNT, you would have almost blown up the rest of us.” Ngozi folded her arms and rolled her eyes with a sigh. It was the first day and she was already making enemies, not really a great way to start off, but she didn’t care.
“Oooh burn…” The scared-faced Shouto mumbled aloud. Snickering and laughter chorused around them. She wasn’t wrong, he had done more damage than recovery.
His vermillion eyes practically flashed with rage at the insult. If it was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a bruised ego. He huffed out an unimpressed scoff, looking over the redhead’s shoulder. “Speak louder, I could almost hear you.”
Ngozi remained undaunted, kissing her teeth and waving her hand at him. “I said what I said.” quoting the words of her favorite tv personality. She sure as hell wasn't going to waste anymore breath on him. “Foolish goat.” Just to further rub salt in his wounds.
“What was that-” The door sliding open almost made him get whiplash with how fast he turned his neck to see who entered the room.
“Kacchan? You’re here too?” A freckled greenette walked into the room. It was apparent that they had history with each other. He seemed rather nervous and anxious, still in disbelief that he was actually here himself.
“Kacchan? Oh that’s rich!” Sero and Denki burst out laughing.
“How the fuck did you get in here Deku?!” Bakugo’s disdain for the broccoli shaped boy was quite evident, if looks could kill, he would be six feet under at that very moment.
Ngozi could tell that tension between the two was long standing. It wasn’t really her business to pry, but she would be watching from the sidelines. “Well I opened the door to get in.” The greenette tried to explain himself. The bright purplette couldn’t help but chuckle at his matter-of-factly statement.
“SHUT IT NERD!”
‘He walked right into that one.’
“No way, you took down that zero pointer! So freakin’ manly!” Kirishima cried. Izuku wasn’t used to having all that attention on him, it was beginning to overwhelm him as his cheeks gained color. “Yeah it was no biggie, it was part of the exam.”
“It was cool. Saw you broke your arm though, that must have hurt.” Ngozi glanced at him, a gentle look of concern on her face.
“Not that much, good thing Recovery Girl was there.” He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. He tried to play it off but she could sense that his ability was probably taking a toll for his body. Something she was all too familiar with. Ngozi relented, no longer feeling the need to pry.
The conversations had already gone left, everyone had already gone back to getting to know each other. “What is your quirk Ngozi?” The girl bob-cut with the bangs and rosy cheeks, Ochaco Uraraka, was the girl with the Zero Gravity quirk
How could she explain it without getting long winded, so for all of their sakes, she gave them a shortened answer. “My quirk is Celestial Surge. It allows me to power up and manipulate stellar cosmic energy. So basically I can make stardust.” She summarized as if she was piecing a puzzle together, as much as she was comfortable sharing. It would make it clear as to why she had several support items. The aftermath was really more a concern for her, but they didn’t need to be privy to that information.
They blinked as if they understood what she just said, giving nods of approval and excited faces. “So you’re like from outer space? That’s so awesome!” Kirishima chimed, pumping his fists. Which made Ngozi laugh aloud. Though it was pretty clear she wasn’t from here. “No, but I’ll take it anyway.” He was just too adorable for words.
“You’d be like a fairy then!” Mina gasped clutching her pearls. Once again she shook her head but she could see how it came off. “Yeah, you’re insanely pretty like one.” Kaminari mused with a wriggle of his eyebrows. Sero sighed, his friend was lying on thick. “Oh thank you?” She smiled softly, what a weird compliment that was.
“Tch, whatever.”
Katsuki rolled his eyes, clearly bored with everyone’s chatter. He wasn’t going to let this shit slide. Deku was hiding something and he was going to find out soon enough. The boy whom he had known was quirkless his whole life, and now for him to pop up with a quirk then get accepted into U.A.? It was more than just a coincidence, it had to be! That purple-haired girl with braids wasn’t safe either. A smart Alec just like that nerd, was she hiding a secret as well? If she was as powerful as they were claiming she was, she was going to have to back it up. He didn’t trust any of them, that’s what he was certain about.
Ding-Dong!
Ngozi shuffled back into her seat upon the bells ringing. The sliding door opened up once more, when a figure wrapped in what looked to be a sleeping bag slugged their way in before standing up straight. She couldn’t say it was the strangest thing she’s seen, but it was a valid mood. It was way too early.
Much to the rest of the class's surprise, this was going to be the person they would be stuck with until graduation.
“It’s too many of you in here.” He sighed mentally before shrugging off the sleeping bag with a yawn. The permanently fatigued man scanned his eyes around the classroom with a bored expression, before giving them a brief run down.
“I’m your homeroom teacher Shota Aizawa, better known as Eraserhead.”
He pressed a button on the remote, as gym uniforms fell from the room and onto their desks.
“Quickly get dressed and we’ll meet outside in the field. Don’t waste time.”
‘Damn that was quick. Straight to the point.’
Very short and precise, not a second was to be wasted. This made many of them nervous because they didn’t know what to expect with him.
Ngozi willed herself to remain calm, it was only the beginning of the day, the main event had even started yet. Surely she was going to make it through, right?
synopsis: He heard it. Deku heard it. Now what?
warning: nsfw, sub!reader, black!reader, fem!reader, poly!relationship, dom!kiri, switch!bakugo, switch!deku, praise, feelings, oral, penatration, everyone with everyone (not all on one), multiple orgasms, group sex, emotional vulnerability, confrontation, reader has a water quirk in this fic, reader's hero name and is Mizuka (water in Japanese), written in 3rd person.
pairing: dekubakukirixreader
a/n: woah, i dont know what happened. this chapter turned out WAY longer then intended so sorry in advance. there will be one last part after this one and that will be the end of this mini series hope you guys enjoy <3w/c: 10,558
pt 4. Read pt1, pt2, pt3 and pt5
The silence in the apartment was a physical thing, thick and heavy, pressing down on the three of them. Y/n stared at the floorboards, her fingers twisting together in her lap. A tiny, trembling orb of water, no larger than a marble, floated just above her knuckle, spinning in helpless circles. Kirishima stood beside the couch, his arms crossed, the diamond-like shimmer of his skin faintly visible under the lights. He watched Bakugo’s back, his expression braced for an explosion.
Bakugo hadn’t moved. He stood in the space between the kitchen and the living room, facing the dark window, his back to them. His shoulders were rigid, the line of his spine straight as a steel rod. The usual simmering energy around him was gone, replaced by a terrible, absolute stillness.
Y/n’s voice had been barely a whisper when she’d told him. Kirishima’s had been steadier, but just as quiet. They’d laid it out, the confusing pull, the realization on the bed, the terrifying possibility that what they felt for Izuku Midoriya wasn’t just guilt or pity or professional respect.
They’d braced for the detonation. For the shattered drywall, the blistering curses, the furious demand to know how they could even think it.
They got silence.
It stretched. Five seconds. Ten. A minute. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the frantic beat of Y/n’s own heart in her ears. The water orb above her hand split into two, then three, each quivering like nervous stars.
Kirishima shifted his weight. He rubbed the back of his neck, the peacemaker’s reflex kicking in. “Katsuki.”
Bakugo didn’t turn.
“Say something, man. Yell. Something.”
“What do you want me to say?” Bakugo’s voice was low, flat. Completely devoid of its characteristic heat. It was worse than shouting.
“I want you to… I don’t know. React.”
Bakugo let out a short, harsh breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You just told me you have feelings for Deku. Both of you.” He said the name like it was a foreign, toxic substance on his tongue. “You want a reaction? Here it is.”
He finally turned. His face was eerily calm, but his eyes were a turbulent storm. He looked from Kirishima to Y/n, his gaze lingering on the floating water droplets around her hands. “You said it out loud. You made it real.”
Y/n flinched. The droplets lost their shape, splashing softly onto her jeans. “Katsuki, we didn’t mean—”
“Shut up.” The command was quiet, but it cut. He took a step forward, not towards them, but into the center of the room, as if putting himself on trial. “You think I’m pissed because you feel something? You think that’s it?”
Y/n and Kirishima steal a confused glance from each other, brow furrowed. “Isn’t it?” he asks.
“No.” Bakugo’s hands, hanging at his sides, clenched into white-knuckled fists. A faint, acrid scent of nitroglycerin seeped into the air. “I’m pissed because you saying it… means I have to fucking admit it, too.”
The confession hung in the silent room, more explosive than any of his quirks.
Y/n’s breath caught. Kirishima’s arms slowly uncrossed, his defensive posture melting into pure shock.
Bakugo refused to look at either of them. He stared at his own fists, his jaw working. “All this time. All this fucking rage. I thought it was because he touched what’s mine. Because he crossed a line. Because he’s a shitty, self-sacrificing idiot who doesn’t know his place.” He gritted his teeth. “But it wasn’t. It was because he was there. And I wasn’t.”
He finally lifted his gaze, and the raw, unfiltered conflict in it was terrifying. “It was because when you were falling apart, he was the one who caught you. And part of me… hated him for it. And part of me…” He trailed off, the admission too vast, too damning to finish.
The quiet that followed was different. Not heavy with dread, but charged with a seismic understanding, the ground cracking open beneath all three of them.
A sharp knock at the apartment door shattered the moment.
Three heads snapped toward the sound. It wasn’t the friendly, familiar rap of a neighbor. It was three decisive, sober knocks.
Kirishima was the first to move, his body shifting automatically into a protective stance between the door and Y/n. Bakugo’s expression shut down, the vulnerability vanishing behind a familiar, impenetrable scowl. Y/n’s hands came together, a small globe of water forming between her palms without thought, ready to attack at any moment.
The knob turned. It was unlocked.
The door swung open slowly, revealing the figure standing in the dim hallway light.
Izuku Midoriya stood on the threshold, his green eyes wide, his face pale. He looked like a man who had walked through his own nightmare to get here. He was changed into his casual clothes, a dark jacket over a simple shirt, his hair messy from the evening wind. His gaze swept the room—taking in Kirishima’s defensive posture, Y/n’s startled, watery shield, Bakugo’s blistering glare.
He swallowed hard. “I… I was outside. I didn’t mean to listen. I couldn’t…” His voice, usually so mumbly and analytical, was just a strained thread of sound. He looked directly at Bakugo. “I heard you.”
Bakugo’s face went pale, all the blood seeming to drain away in an instant. Kirishima’s defensive stance dropped, his arms falling slack to his sides. The globe of water between Y/n’s palms lost its shape, splashing down onto the floorboards with a sharp, wet slap that snapped through the silent apartment.
The sound seemed to jolt Bakugo back into his body. Color flooded back into his face, a furious, hot red of pure embarrassment and shame. He moved not with his usual explosive speed, but with a deliberate, stomping rage that shook the floor as he crossed the distance to the doorway.
He didn’t speak. He grabbed a fistful of Deku’s hoodie, yanking him fully into the apartment and shoving him back hard against the now-closed front door. The impact was a solid, punishing thud.
“You think this is a fucking joke?!” Bakugo snarled, his face inches from Deku’s, his breath hot.
“Katsuki—!” Y/n started forward, her hands coming up, droplets forming at her fingertips again.
“You think it’s fucking funny to eavesdrop on people!” Bakugo shouted, not even looking at her, his voice raw and cracking at the edges.
Deku grunted at the impact, his head knocking back against the wood. But he didn’t struggle. He held firm, his green eyes meeting Bakugo’s blazing red ones. His expression was calm, too calm, and just a tiny bit cold. Annoyed. “It wasn’t on purpose, Kacchan.”
The old nickname landed like a slap. Bakugo’s grip tightened, the fabric of the hoodie straining. Deku had heard him. He’d seen his heated face. He could tell he was flustered, exposed. Why did Bakugo have such a huge, violent issue with just admitting his own feelings? A slow, unfamiliar anger began to simmer in Deku’s own chest.
“Bullshit,” Bakugo hissed. “You just happened to be standing outside my fucking door?”
“I was standing on the sidewalk,” Deku corrected, his voice low and even. “The window was open. Your voice carries.”
Kirishima finally moved, placing a heavy hand on Bakugo’s shoulder. “Hey. Man. Let him go.”
Bakugo shook the hand off but didn’t release his grip. His other hand came up, pinning Deku by the shoulder, keeping him trapped against the door. Deku could feel the heat of Bakugo’s palms through his clothes, the faint, familiar scent of nitroglycerin sharp in the air.
“You heard what you wanted to hear,” Bakugo muttered, but the fight was leaching from his voice, replaced by something defensive and brittle.
“I heard what you said,” Deku stated. No mumbling. No analysis. Just a fact. “You said you hated me for being there. You said you had to admit it, too.”
Y/n made a small gasp. The water droplets orbiting her hands trembled and fell, darkening the knees of her jeans.
“Shut up,” Bakugo said, but it lacked its earlier force. His knuckles were white where he gripped the hoodie. He was close enough that Deku could see the frantic pulse in his throat, the faint sheen of sweat on his temple. This wasn’t the angry, possessive Bakugo from the hospital. This was someone caught.
“No,” Deku said, the word quiet but absolute. The anger in him solidified. “You don’t get to say that to them and then tell me to shut up about it. You don’t get to be a coward about this.”
Bakugo’s eyes widened, genuinely stunned. “What did you call me?”
“You heard me.” Deku’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re scared. You’ve always been scared of anything that isn’t simple. Of anything that feels like this.”
For a long, suspended second, Bakugo didn’t move. The only sound was their breathing, harsh and mingling in the cramped space between the door and Bakugo’s body. Deku could feel the tremble in the hands holding him. It wasn’t from powering up.
Then, with a ragged, defeated sound, Bakugo’s hands loosened. He didn’t step back, but his head dropped, his forehead coming to rest against the door just beside Deku’s head. His spiky hair brushed Deku’s temple.
“Fuck you,” Bakugo whispered, the words stripped of all heat, just hollow and tired.
Deku stayed pressed against the door, his own heart hammering. He looked past Bakugo’s bowed head. Y/n was watching, her hands pressed over her mouth. Kirishima stood rooted, his face a mask of conflicted empathy.
“You meant it, though,” Deku said, his voice softening despite the anger still coiled in his gut. “Didn’t you, Kacchan?”
Bakugo’s head lifted from the door. He looked at Deku, his face still flushed a deep, humiliated red. His mouth opened. It closed. His jaw clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek jumped. He turned away, breaking the shared space, the shared breath. He took a step toward the hall, toward escape. He wanted to leave. He wanted to walk off. He just wanted to leave this situation. He wasn’t going to admit his feelings to Deku. So he could what? Hold it over his head?
“Say it to my face, Kacchan.”
Deku’s voice was quiet, but it stopped Bakugo’s retreat dead. His back went rigid.
When no answer came, Deku spoke instead. The words filled the apartment, clear and deliberate, stripping away every last pretense. “I have feelings for you, too, Kacchan.”
The air vanished. Y/n’s breath hitched. Kirishima went completely still.
Deku kept going, his gaze shifting to Y/n. “All of you. I—” He stopped, his eyes searching the space between them, searching for the right words. “Y/n. I’ve liked you since our second year at U.A. And what happened… what I had to do… it caused all those bottled-up feelings to resurface. It wasn’t just medical. It was never just medical.”
He glanced toward Kirishima next. His voice softened, earnest. “Our friendship… our working relationship… it’s been strong up until this moment. You’ve always been such a great person. A great hero. An amazing support. During U.A., during our careers… even the other night, at the hospital, when you told me to leave. It made me realize all the times I’ve caught myself trying to get closer to you. Bringing extra coffee to the office in case you needed it, because you’re always so tired after your patrols. The times where I’d tell Y/n we’d cross paths with you and Bakugo on the street. It wasn’t truly just for her sake, to see you. It was because I also wanted to see you.”
He looked back at Bakugo’s unmoving back, then to Kirishima’s stunned face. “Both of you.”
He took a shaky breath, his analytical mind finally surrendering to his heart. “And you, Kacchan. It’s always been complicated with you. But it’s not just rivalry. It hasn’t been for a long time. It’s watching you become someone who cares so fiercely it burns. It’s the way you protect what’s yours. And… some part of me has always hated that I wasn’t included in that. Some part of me has always wanted to be.”
Silence. Thick, heavy, absolute.
The tiny, shimmering droplets that had been forming above Y/n’s palms coalesced. They spun into a perfect, fragile sphere of water, hovering there, catching the lamplight. She was staring at Deku, her lips parted, her eyes wide and glistening.
Bakugo hadn’t moved. He was a statue facing the dark hallway.
Kirishima was the first to break. He let out a long, slow breath, the sound a surrender. He rubbed the back of his neck, his other hand coming up to cover his eyes for a second. When he dropped it, his expression was raw, stripped of its usual easy confidence. “Man,” he said, the word rough. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you, Midoriya?”
Deku’s shoulders slumped a fraction. The brave front wavered. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve ruined everything.”
“Ruined?” Kirishima shook his head, a tired, almost fond smirk tugging at his mouth. “You just dropped a bomb in the middle of the living room. ‘Ruined’ feels a little light.”
“I meant it,” Deku whispered, his eyes darting to each of them. “Every word.”
Y/n’s water sphere trembled. A single drop escaped, tracing a path down her wrist. “You… you liked since U.A.?” Her voice was small, hushed with disbelief. She had a feelings he liked her, but that was recent. During patrol she didnt know it stretched so far back.
“Yes,” Deku said, meeting her gaze fully. The intensity there, the years of quiet admiration, was unmistakable. “I always thought you were incredible. You just… you never seemed to see it.”
Bakugo finally moved. He didn’t turn around. He just spoke to the empty hallway, his voice low and gravelly, stripped of its customary heat. “This is so fucked up.”
“Yeah,” Kirishima agreed quietly, his eyes on Bakugo’s tense shoulders. “It is. But it’s also… here.”
“What are we supposed to do with it?” Bakugo asked, the question aimed at the wall.
Deku straightened, pushing away from the door. He took a step further into the room, into the space between them all. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t carry it alone anymore. Not after everything.”
Kirishima looked from Deku’s determined, vulnerable face, to Y/n’s overwhelmed one, to the rigid line of Bakugo’s back. The peacemaker in him wrestled with the man whose entire world had just been rearranged. He took a step toward Bakugo. “Katsuki.”
“Don’t,” Bakugo warned, but it was weak.
Kirishima ignored him, placing a hand on his shoulder. This time, Bakugo didn’t shake it off. “You heard him. It’s out. We’re all standing in it.”
Bakugo’s head bowed. A tremor ran through him. “It’s a mess.”
“It’s our mess,” Kirishima said, his voice firm with a decision he was making even as he spoke. He looked back at Deku, a new, complicated understanding in his eyes. “All of ours.”
Deku heard the words. ‘All of ours.’ His mind, always a step ahead in analysis, stuttered. All? Like him included? The realization didn’t land—it detonated. Quietly. Inside his chest. His eyes snapped to Kirishima, then to Y/n, wide and disbelieving. “Does that mean—” he started, the hope in his voice a fragile, terrifying thing.
“We like you too,” Y/n said. The words were soft, but they cleaved the remaining tension in the room clean in two.
Kirishima nodded, a small, weary smile touching his lips. “Yeah, man.”
Y/n’s face was heating, a deep blush spreading across her brown skin. “I don’t know how long you were outside or how much you heard, but… me and Kirishima feel the same. We realized it earlier. That we also had… habits. Thoughts. Of you.”
Deku was silent. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes, already glistening, welled up. A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down his cheek.
“Woah—hey, man—” Kirishima started, his peacemaker’s instinct surging forward, his own emotions forgotten in the face of Deku’s distress.
Deku held up a trembling hand. “I-I’m fine. I’m just… I’m just happy.” His voice broke on the word. “So happy. I thought I was going to lose all three of you over this whole situation. So to find out I won’t… that I won’t lose you, but that you guys feel the same?” He let out a wet, shaky laugh, smiling through the tears. “It’s… it’s everything.”
He bowed his head, a sob wrenching itself free from somewhere deep and buried. It was relief. It was years of longing. It was the weight of the rooftop, the hospital, the hallway, finally, finally lifting.
Y/n was moving before she thought. She crossed the space, She took Deku’s tears from his face turning them into water hearts, before dissolving into a fine, cool mist that gently kissed Deku’s heated skin. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into her. He was taller, but he folded into the hug, his face pressing into the curve of her neck. His body shook with silent tears.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her own eyes burning. “It’s okay, Izuku.”
Kirishima watched them for a heartbeat, the sight of Deku—the symbol of unwavering strength—breaking apart in Y/n’s arms. He moved in, his large frame enveloping them both. One hand splayed across Deku’s back, the other on Y/n’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Midoriya,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Let it out. We’ve got you.”
Bakugo stood apart. He watched the three of them tangled together on the floor, a silent monument to everything he’d just confessed to hating. He should be furious. He should be ripping Deku away from them, should be shouting, should be detonating the sickeningly sweet scene into splinters. His fists were clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
But the hate wouldn’t come. The rage was just… gone. Emptied out by his own confession, by Deku’s staggering honesty. All that was left was a hollow ache, and beneath it, a terrifying, quiet pull. He watched Kirishima’s hand, so gentle on Deku’s back. He watched Y/n’s curls, damp with her own mist and his tears. He watched the way Deku’s shoulders finally, slowly, began to still.
Bakugo’s fists unclenched. His fingers hung limp. He let out a long, defeated sigh, the sound leaving him deflated. He took one step. Then another. He moved as if through deep water, until he stood at the edge of their huddle.
He didn’t look at any of them. He just lowered himself to his knees, the movement stiff. He hesitated for one final, rebellious second, then leaned forward, his arms coming around the group. His embrace was awkward, tight, not quite encompassing all of them but trying to. He buried his face briefly against Kirishima’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of leather and citrus and home.
They stayed like that. A knot of four. Breathing synced. Heartbeats a messy, overlapping drum against each other’s skin. The apartment was silent except for their shared breath.
Bakugo was the one to break the silence, his voice a raw scrape against Kirishima’s shirt. “I like you too, Deku.”
He said it to the fabric. But they all heard it. Deku went very still in Y/n’s arms.
Bakugo pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was still flushed, his brows drawn, but his eyes held none of their usual fire. Just a stark, unguarded honesty that was more shocking than any explosion. Deku stared back, his green eyes wide, tear-tracked, vulnerable.
Bakugo moved. It wasn’t a decision. It was a gravitational pull. He closed the few inches between them, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Deku’s head, fingers tangling in the green curls. He leaned in.
Their lips met.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It was a seal. A punctuation mark on a sentence they’d been writing for ten years. It was short, and startlingly soft, just the warm, firm press of Bakugo’s mouth against his, a faint taste of salt from Deku’s tears. It lasted three heartbeats.
Bakugo pulled away as suddenly as he’d leaned in, releasing Deku’s head. He didn’t go far, his face still inches away, his breath fanning over Deku’s lips. He looked as shocked as the other three felt. A faint, uncharacteristic pink tinted the tips of his ears.
Y/n’s gasp was a tiny, breathless sound. Kirishima’s eyes were comically wide.
Deku just stared. His lips parted, still feeling the phantom pressure. He lifted a trembling hand, his fingertips brushing his own bottom lip. He looked from Bakugo’s stunned expression to Kirishima’s, to Y/n’s. A slow, dazed, impossibly bright smile began to spread across his face, cutting through the last of his tears.
"Don't you dare cry again," Bakugo growled, his voice rough but lacking its usual heat. It was a command, a defense against the overwhelming softness he'd just unleashed.
A weak, happy, but broken final sob left Deku’s lips—a release of a decade’s worth of tension. Then he surged forward, capturing Bakugo’s mouth with his own. The kiss was shocking in its initiative, clumsy with desperate feeling, all wet lashes and trembling pressure.
Bakugo stiffened for a fraction of a second, surprised. Against every screaming instinct, against his better judgement, he melted into it. His hands found Deku’s waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, further in. He opened his mouth, deepening the kiss with a low, ragged sound that was half-groan, half-surrender.
Y/n and Kirishima watched, stunned into stillness. The air crackled, shifting from emotional catharsis into something hotter, more present. Kirishima’s wide-eyed shock slowly dissolved into a knowing, soft smirk. He turned his head, pressing his lips to the back of Y/n’s neck.
She jumped, a tiny gasp escaping her. “E-Eiji—”
“Shhh,” he hushed against her skin, his voice a low, warm rumble. He kissed up the column of her neck, his stubble a delicious scratch against her sensitivity. “Just go with the flow.” He breathed the words into her, then found her lips with his, kissing her deeply, thoroughly.
Y/n melted against him, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. A fine mist gathered unconsciously in her curls, catching the lamplight like a halo of dew. Kirishima’s large hand slid down her back, anchoring her to him.
The sound of their kissing, wet and soft, seemed to pull Bakugo and Deku apart. They broke, breathing harshly, foreheads resting together. Deku’s eyes were glazed, his lips slick and parted. Bakugo’s gaze was dark, intense, tracing the features he’d spent years pretending not to memorize.
“You kissed me back,” Bakugo stated, as if accusing him of a crime.
“You kissed me first,” Deku breathed, a giddy, disbelieving laugh threading his words.
Bakugo’s answer was to kiss him again. Slower this time. A deliberate exploration. His tongue swept into Deku’s mouth, tasting salt and something uniquely, fundamentally Izuku. Deku moaned, the sound vibrating against Bakugo’s lips, and his hands came up to fist in the front of Bakugo’s shirt.
On the floor beside them, Kirishima was easing Y/n down onto the worn rug. He followed her, his body a warm, heavy weight that made her sigh. He kissed along her jaw, her cheek, before reclaiming her mouth. His hands were everywhere—cupping her face, sliding under the hem of her shirt to feel the smooth, warm skin of her waist.
Y/n’s quirk responded to her fluster. Tiny, perfect spheres of water began to float up from her fingertips, drifting around their heads like lazy fireflies. Kirishima chuckled against her lips, catching one on his tongue. “You’re sparkling,” he murmured.
“I can’t help it,” she whispered, embarrassed and aroused.
“Don’t stop,” he said, and kissed her harder.
The room filled with the sounds of them. Ragged breathing. Soft, wet kisses. The rustle of clothing. Deku had somehow ended up in Bakugo’s lap, straddling him, their chests pressed together. Bakugo’s hands were under Deku’s shirt now, roaming the dense, familiar muscle of his back, learning the landscape he’d only ever seen in battle.
“Kacchan,” Deku gasped, breaking the kiss to bury his face in Bakugo’s neck. He shuddered as Bakugo’s teeth scraped his earlobe.
“Don’t stop now, nerd,” Bakugo grunted, but his hands gentled, one coming up to cradle the back of Deku’s head. His touch was contradicting his words—fierce and tender all at once.
Kirishima pulled back from Y/n, his own breathing heavy. He looked over at the other two, a fond, possessive warmth in his eyes. “Getting a little crowded over here,” he said, his voice husky. “Think we should move this to a bigger floor.”
Bakugo tore his mouth from Deku’s skin. “Shut up, Shitty Hair,” he said, but there was no venom. He looked dazed, his lips swollen, his hair more disheveled than usual. Deku still clung to him, vibrating with a quiet, overwhelmed energy.
Y/n propped herself up on her elbows, her curls a wild cloud around her face, still glittering with moisture. She looked at the three of them—her two boyfriends, and the man who had just crashed into the center of their world. Her shyness warred with a sudden, fierce want. “The… the bedroom is bigger,” she offered, her voice barely audible.
Kirishima’s sharp-toothed grin was brilliant. He leaned down and kissed her, swift and hard. “Great idea.”
He stood in one fluid motion, then offered a hand to Y/n. She took it, letting him pull her up. He didn’t let go, lacing his fingers with hers. Bakugo watched them, then looked at Deku still in his lap. Something unspoken passed between them—a challenge, an invitation. Bakugo shifted, preparing to stand, his arms tight around Deku.
Deku understood. He climbed off, his legs unsteady. He reached down, offering Bakugo a hand. Bakugo stared at it for a long second, that familiar pride warring with a new, terrifying need. With a scoff that lacked all conviction, he took it, letting Deku haul him to his feet.
They stood there, the four of them, in the messy living room. A paused scene of tangled desire and disbelief. Kirishima, still holding Y/n’s hand, took the first step toward the hallway. He tugged her gently, and she followed, looking back over her shoulder at Deku and Bakugo.
Bakugo’s hand found Deku’s shoulder, pushing him forward. “Go on,” he muttered, and thrusting Deku forward.
Kirishima’s first tug toward the hallway became a silent procession. They moved through the cramped apartment like a single, four-pointed organism, connected by clasped hands and charged glances. Bakugo was the last to cross the bedroom threshold, his shoulders nearly brushing the frame, his presence a palpable heat at Deku’s back. The room was neater than the living room, dominated by a large bed with a rumpled dark blue comforter.
Kirishima led Y/n to the edge of the mattress and sat her down gently. He leaned in, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her forehead. “Be right back, gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice a warm promise. Then he straightened, his sharp-toothed grin returning as he turned and stalked toward Deku with a predator’s ease.
He stopped a foot away, his crimson eyes gleaming. “You know, Midoriya,” Kirishima said, his voice a low, husky rumble. “I’ve been pretty curious what you taste like.” He glanced meaningfully over Deku’s shoulder at Bakugo, a silent signal passing between them.
Deku swallowed hard, his throat clicking. He looked from Kirishima’s expectant, open expression to Bakugo, who gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. Deku’s own nod was shaky. “O-Okay.”
Kirishima didn’t move until he saw the consent fully settle in Deku’s wide green eyes. Then he closed the distance. The kiss started soft, a tentative press of lips, a little awkward in its newness. Kirishima’s mouth was warm, his bottom lip pressed gently on Deku’s. Deku’s hands fluttered at his sides before settling hesitantly on Kirishima’s solid waist.
Kirishima hummed, a pleased sound deep in his chest, and deepened the kiss. His tongue swept in, confident and exploring, and Deku gasped into his mouth. The taste was citrus and leather, utterly foreign and deeply compelling. Kirishima’s large hands came up to cradle Deku’s jaw, his thumbs stroking the high points of his cheeks.
Across the room, Bakugo approached the bed. Y/n watched him come, her breath hitching. He didn’t say a word, just climbed onto the mattress and crawled over her, caging her beneath him. “Look at you,” he muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper against her ear. “All sparkly and flushed for everyone.”
He kissed the sensitive spot just below her jaw, and Y/n whimpered. Her hands came up to clutch at his shoulders. “K-Katsuki…”
“Shut up,” he breathed, not unkindly, and continued his path down her neck with open-mouthed kisses and sharp nips of his teeth. His hands slid under her shirt, pushing the fabric up to expose her stomach, then her chest. He took his time, his mouth hot and wet on her skin, teasing each peak through the lace of her bra until she was arching off the bed with soft, broken cries.
Bakugo glanced over his shoulder at the two men still kissing by the door. A possessive, smug smirk touched his lips. “Hey. Nerd.” His voice cut through the wet sounds of their mouths. “Come here.”
The command broke the kiss. Deku pulled back from Kirishima, lips slick and swollen, his eyes dazed. He looked at Bakugo, then back at Kirishima, uncertain.
Kirishima chuckled, swiping his thumb over Deku’s damp bottom lip. “Go ahead, man,” he said, his voice thick with arousal. He gave Deku a gentle push toward the bed.
Deku stalked over, his movements uncharacteristically deliberate. Bakugo was still lavishing attention on Y/n’s breasts, her bra now pushed down, his mouth claiming one peak while his thumb circled the other. The sight was profoundly erotic—Bakugo’s fierce focus, Y/n’s writhing surrender, the sheer possessive intimacy of it. Deku’s blood sang with a heat that was more than just want.
Bakugo pulled his mouth away with a wet pop, looking up at Deku. Y/n’s chest heaved beneath him. “Show me,” Bakugo said, his voice rough. “Show me how you pleased my baby that night.”
Deku’s eyes went wide. “W-What?!”
“You heard me,” Bakugo fired back, his smirk widening. He shifted to the side, making space on the bed, but kept one hand possessively splayed on Y/n’s stomach.
Kirishima chuckled from behind Deku, coming to lean against the footboard. “Well? Go on, Midoriya.”
Deku’s gaze snapped to Y/n’s face. Her eyes were dark, her lips parted, her curls fanned out around her. Tiny droplets of water trembled at the ends of her hair. There was no shame there now, only a nervous, aching want. She gave him a tiny, shy nod.
He wanted to do this right. Not a clinical intervention, but this. He climbed onto the bed, settling over her, his weight dipping the mattress. He caged her much more gently than Bakugo had, one forearm braced beside her head. “Hi,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
A small, breathless smile touched her lips. “Hi.”
Deku stared at her, drinking in the reality. “I never got to kiss you that night.” He let the words hang, heavy with missed chances. “Can I kiss you now?”
Y/n’s answer was another nod, more sure this time. He didn’t wait. He captured her mouth instantly, and the kiss was everything he imagined it would be. It was all passion, a torrent of unspoken feelings—apology, longing, reverence. Y/n moaned into his mouth, her hands coming up to tangle in his wild green hair. He kissed her until they were both breathless, until the world narrowed to the slick heat of their mouths moving together.
When he finally broke away, both of them were panting. Her face was flushed a beautiful deep rose under her brown skin. Deku felt his own control fraying, the desperate ache in his pants becoming a painful throb. He dropped his head, kissing a trail down her neck, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. He listened to every hitch in her breath, every soft whimper, cataloging the sounds like precious data.
He made his way down her stomach, his lips brushing over warm skin, his tongue dipping into her navel. His hands hooked into the waistband of her soft pants. He glanced up, seeking one final confirmation in her eyes. He found only heat and trust. He pulled, dragging the fabric down her legs along with her underwear, exposing her completely to the cool air of the room—and to the three pairs of eyes watching her.
The wetness was immediate, glistening evidence of her arousal. Deku stopped, his breath catching. “Beautiful,” he muttered, the word torn from him. He kissed the inside of her thigh, his stubble scratching delicate skin, and she jerked with a sharp cry. He did it again, slower, on the other side, tasting salt and her unique, musky scent. When she whined his name—a broken, pleading “Izuku…”—he grinned against her thigh.
Then he finally put his mouth where she needed him. He started slow, a soft, broad stroke of his tongue through her slick heat. Y/n cried out, her back arching off the bed. Deku moaned against her, the taste exploding on his tongue—intoxicating, deeply female, utterly Y/n. He ate her with a focused, passionate patience, exploring every fold, circling her clit with relentless, tender attention before sucking it gently into his mouth.
Kirishima watched from the foot of the bed, his own breathing ragged. The sight was foreign, and so fucking hot it made his head spin. Y/n, their Y/n, writhed and moaned, her fingers clenched in Deku’s hair, her water quirk making the air around her shimmer with a fine, floating mist. Deku was between her legs, utterly devoted, his sounds of pleasure vibrating against her. Kirishima’s hand drifted to the front of his own pants, pressing against the hard outline there.
Bakugo watched, his earlier smirk softened into something raw and intense. He saw the way Deku’s shoulders moved with the effort, heard the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on her, saw the absolute bliss on Y/n’s face. A possessive pride warred with a sharp, voyeuristic arousal. This was his idea, and it was better than he’d imagined. He leaned down, capturing Y/n’s mouth to swallow her cries, kissing her deeply as Deku made her fall apart.
Kirishima moved from the footboard, his hand coming to rest on the back of Deku’s neck. The touch was solid, grounding. Deku shuddered against Y/n, a low moan vibrating through her, but he didn’t stop his ministrations, his tongue working her with devoted, wet strokes.
“Easy, man,” Kirishima murmured, his thumb rubbing the tense muscle. His other hand reached out, his fingers brushing through the damp curls at Y/n’s temple. “You’re doing so good, for us princess.”
His touch on both of them was a circuit closing. Y/n’s hips jerked off the bed, a broken sob escaping her throat. Deku’s response was to redouble his efforts, his mouth sealing over her clit, sucking with a rhythm that made her thighs tremble violently around his ears.
Kirishima’s hand slid from Deku’s neck down the rigid line of his spine, feeling the muscles flex and work. He leaned over, his chest pressing against Deku’s back, and kissed the side of Y/n’s stomach. “Come on, gorgeous,” he whispered against her skin, his voice a hot, rough promise. “Let go for him.”
Bakugo watched, his own breathing shallow. He saw Kirishima’s large, scarred hand splay possessively over Deku’s shoulder blade, saw the way Deku leaned into the touch even as he devoured Y/n. The sight carved something open inside him, a raw, aching hollow he didn’t have a name for. His earlier smirk was gone, replaced by a stark, focused intensity.
Y/n was keening now, a high, desperate sound. Water droplets beaded across her skin, trembling and merging into tiny rivulets that traced the curves of her body. The air itself grew humid, thick with her scent and the electricity of her quirk reacting to her pleasure. “Izuku, I— I can’t—”
Deku pulled back just enough to growl, “Yes, you can.” His voice was guttural, unrecognizable. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, and her entire body bowed off the mattress. He sealed his mouth over her again, his tongue and fingers working in devastating tandem.
Kirishima kissed a path up her torso, his mouth finding Bakugo’s where it was still pressed to Y/n’s shoulder. The kiss was brief, a clash of heat and need, a silent communication. When Kirishima pulled back, his crimson eyes were dark. He kept one hand on Deku, the other cupping Y/n’s jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Now, baby,” he commanded softly. “Let us see you.”
It was the final permission. The orgasm tore through her, violent and absolute. A choked scream ripped from her throat, swallowed by Bakugo’s mouth as he captured her lips. Her back arched, her hands flying from Deku’s hair to clutch at the sheets. A shimmering wave of water burst from her skin in a harmless, sparkling mist that soaked into the comforter and dampened their hair and faces.
Deku rode it out with her, gentling his mouth but not withdrawing, drinking every pulse and shudder, his own body shaking with the force of her release. He moaned against her, the sound one of profound satisfaction and awe.
Slowly, gradually, she collapsed back onto the bed, boneless and gasping. Deku rested his forehead against her inner thigh, his own breaths coming in ragged pants. The room was silent except for their breathing, the wet sound of his mouth leaving her skin, and the faint drip of water from the bedside lamp.
Kirishima gently wiped a bead of moisture from Deku’s temple, his touch reverent. “Hell of a demonstration,” he breathed, a proud, husky laugh in his voice.
Bakugo hadn’t moved. He was still propped over Y/n, staring down at her blissful, wrecked face. His hand, which had been splayed on her stomach, now trembled slightly. The reality of what he’d orchestrated, what he’d witnessed, slammed into him with the force of a grenade blast. This wasn’t just about proving a point anymore. The jealousy was gone, and instead left a hot coal of want in his gut, but it was tangled now with something else—a fierce, possessive pride in her pleasure, a sharp, voyeuristic thrill at seeing Deku give it to her, and a confusing, terrifying pull toward the green-haired man still trembling between her legs.
Y/n’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and sated. She looked up at Bakugo, her expression soft and vulnerable. “Katsuki…”
The sound of his name on her spent lips broke his paralysis. He leaned down and kissed her, deep and slow, a claiming that felt different now—softer, more desperate. When he pulled back, he looked at Deku.
Deku finally lifted his head, his lips glistening, his face flushed. He looked dazed, overwhelmed. His green eyes found Bakugo’s profile.
The silence stretched, heavy and charged. Kirishima, still stroking Deku’s back. He saw the rigid line of Bakugo’s shoulders. The confession they’d dragged out into the open was now a living thing in the bed with them, and Bakugo was trying to strangle it.
“Katsuki,” Kirishima said, his voice quiet, aroused. Bakugo looked at him, smirking.
Bakugo looked at Kirishima, whose quiet, aroused voice had just called his name. His crimson eyes were dark, intense. Bakugo’s smirk faltered for a second, then returned, sharper. He shifted his gaze down to Deku, who was still breathing heavily against Y/n’s thigh. “Did you like it, Nerd?”
Deku lifted his head fully, his lips swollen and wet. He looked at Bakugo, then back at Y/n’s blissful, spent expression. His breath was uneven, his whole body thrumming with adrenaline and desire. He was completely undone by her, by this. A slow, dazed smile spread across his face. “Yes.”
That was the response Bakugo wanted. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his features. “Wanna keep going, then?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer. His voice dropped, rough and commanding. “How about you fuck her.”
Y/n’s eyes flew open. Deku froze, his smile vanishing into shock. Kirishima, however, let out a low, approving hum from where he still stood by the bed. He leaned closer to Deku, his chest a warm line against Deku’s damp back. “Mmm,” he drew out the sound. “Come on, Midoriya,” he whispered into his ear, his breath hot.
God. Deku couldn’t believe this was happening. His mind scrambled, the analyst in him trying to process the logistics, the emotions, the sheer impossible want. He looked from Y/n’s wide, trusting eyes to Bakugo’s challenging stare. “But… what about you two?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Kirishima smiled, a flash of sharp teeth. He glanced at Bakugo’s now-heated face. “Oh, I can handle Katsuki.” His hand, still on Deku’s back, slid down to the small of his spine. “He falls apart when I touch him.”
Bakugo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. A faint flush crept up his neck. He looked at Deku, a dare in his eyes. “Well? You said you wanted this. All of it. Prove it.”
Deku’s control snapped. He moved with a speed that was pure hero instinct, pushing himself up on trembling arms. He looked down at Y/n. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her skin glistening with a fine sheen of water and sweat. “Y/n?”
“Yes,” she breathed, the word barely audible. Her hands reached for him, pulling him down. “Please.”
He kissed her again, deep and hungry, as his hands fumbled with his own pants. The fabric was strained tight, unbearably uncomfortable. Kirishima’s hands were there, helping, deftly undoing the button and zipper. Cool air hit Deku’s overheated skin, and then Kirishima was pulling the fabric down his hips, freeing him.
Deku broke the kiss, gasping. He was achingly hard, his cock flushed and desperate. The head brushed against Y/n’s inner thigh, leaving a wet streak. He shuddered. Kirishima’s large, calloused hand wrapped around him from behind, giving him a single, slow stroke. Deku’s hips jerked forward into the touch, a choked groan escaping him.
“Easy, hero,” Kirishima murmured, his voice a gravelly vibration against Deku’s shoulder. He guided Deku’s hips, positioning him at Y/n’s entrance. She was so wet, her heat radiating against him. Deku looked into her eyes, seeking one last anchor.
Bakugo watched, his own breathing shallow. He had shifted, kneeling beside Y/n’s head, one hand carding through her damp curls. His other hand found Kirishima’s hip, gripping hard. His expression was a storm—possessive, furious, and utterly rapt.
“Izuku,” Y/n whispered, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs. Her water quirk reacted, a fine mist rising from her skin, making the air taste like rain.
Deku pushed inside. Slowly. The stretch was exquisite, overwhelming. Y/n cried out, her head falling back against the pillows. He felt every inch of her, hot and tight and slick, and for a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, lost in the sensation of being sheathed completely in her.
Kirishima’s hand remained on his hip, a steady, grounding pressure. “That’s it,” he encouraged, his own voice thick. He was pressed against Deku’s back, and Deku could feel the hard line of Kirishima’s arousal against him.
Deku began to move. A shallow thrust, then deeper. The sound was obscenely wet, a slick, rhythmic slap of skin. Y/n’s moans were high and broken, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his sweat-slicked back. He set a pace that was relentless but tender, each thrust measured, each withdrawal a sweet agony.
Bakugo bent, capturing one of Y/n’s nipples in his mouth, sucking hard. She arched off the bed, a scream tearing from her throat. The dual sensations—Deku moving inside her, Bakugo’s mouth on her—drove her toward another peak with terrifying speed. Water droplets beaded and rolled down her temples.
Kirishima watched them, his crimson eyes burning. His hand on Deku’s hip began to move in time with Deku’s thrusts, urging him deeper, faster. His other hand reached around, his fingers finding the tight, wet junction where Deku’s body joined Y/n’s, rubbing slow, firm circles over her clit.
Y/n shattered. Her orgasm was a silent, breathless convulsion for a second before the sound followed—a raw, sobbing wail. Her inner muscles clenched around Deku in rhythmic pulses, milking him, pulling him deeper. The wave of her quirk followed, a burst of cool, harmless water that sprayed across their chests and faces.
Deku cried out, his rhythm faltering. The feeling was too much, the sight of her coming undone beneath him, the heat of Kirishima at his back, the knowledge of Bakugo’s searing gaze on them. His own climax coiled tight, a desperate pressure at the base of his spine. He was so close.
Bakugo pulled away from Y/n’s breast, his lips wet. He looked at Deku’s strained, euphoric face. “Don’t you dare stop,” Bakugo growled, the command guttural. “Not until she feels every fucking drop.”
The words, the permission, the sheer filthy ownership in them, tipped Deku over the edge. With a final, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, he came. Pleasure ripped through him, white-hot and blinding. His vision whited out as he spilled inside her, his body shaking violently, a broken litany of her name, their names, falling from his lips.
Deku collapsed on top of her, both of them breathless and spent. The air in the room was thick with heat and the scent of sex. Kirishima’s low chuckle cut through the quiet. “Hey now, I know you two aren’t done after just that. Me and Kats still haven’t come yet.” He ran a hand through his spiked hair, his crimson eyes dark with intent. “How about you both come use your mouths on us? And when I’m ready, I can fuck Katsuki’s brains out.”
The sultry, filthy words made Bakugo’s face heat. “The hell you will!” he bit back, the protest sharp but lacking its usual explosive force. His embarrassment was palpable, a flush crawling up his neck.
Kirishima’s smile only widened, a flash of sharp teeth. “We’ll see.” He turned back to the duo collapsed on the bed. “So, how about it? You two up to help out a bit?”
Miku, still trembling from her climax, managed a slow, dazed nod. Deku, his body humming with aftershocks, nodded as well, pushing himself up on shaky arms. He climbed off her, his movements clumsy, and settled on his knees on the floor beside the bed, right in front of where Bakugo stood.
Kirishima walked around to Y/n’s side of the bed. He sat on the edge, his large frame dipping the mattress. He reached out, his calloused fingers gently stroking her flushed cheek. “I know you’re tired, baby,” he murmured, his voice a rough contrast to the dirty offer. “So can I face fuck you? Will that be easier for you?”
Y/n’s big, brown eyes found his. She was pliant, sated, her curls damp and wild around her face. She nodded again, a soft, trusting sound escaping her parted lips. “Yes.”
“Good girl,” Kirishima breathed, the praise warm and genuine. He helped her shift, guiding her to the edge of the bed until her head hung back over the side, her throat exposed. He stood over her, one hand gently carding through her curls as he undid his pants with the other. “Just relax. Take what you need.”
Across from them, Deku was staring up at Bakugo, who hadn’t moved. Bakugo’s crimson eyes were locked on Kirishima and Y/n, feeling hot. Deku’s gaze dropped to the prominent bulge in Bakugo’s combat pants. His own mouth felt dry. He reached out, his fingers hovering near the zipper. “Kacchan?”
The old nickname, spoken in a voice hoarse from crying out, made Bakugo flinch. He looked down, his expression a complex storm of defiance and want. He gave a single, sharp nod, a silent command.
Deku’s hands worked the fastenings, his movements careful despite their shaking. He peeled the fabric down Bakugo’s hips, freeing his cock. It was thick, flushed, and already leaking at the tip. The faint, familiar scent of nitroglycerin mixed with sweat filled Deku’s senses. He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over the heated skin.
At the same time, Kirishima guided himself into Y/n’s waiting mouth. She took him slowly, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth. A low, gravelly groan rumbled from Kirishima’s chest. His hand stayed in her hair, not forcing, just holding. “Just like that,” he encouraged, his hips giving a shallow, experimental roll.
Deku watched for a second, mesmerized by the sight—Y/n’s throat working, her eyes closed in concentration—before he turned his full attention to Bakugo. He didn’t tease. He took the head into his mouth, his tongue flattening against the slit, tasting the salt and sharp, chemical tang that was uniquely Bakugo.
Bakugo hissed, his fingers snapping forward to tangle in Deku’s messy green curls. The grip was firm, anchoring. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word shredded.
Deku sank deeper, taking more of him, his nose pressing into the coarse hair at the base. He hollowed his cheeks, setting a slow, deep rhythm. His own spent body was forgotten, replaced by a fierce focus on the man above him, on the way Bakugo’s thighs trembled, on the choked-off sounds he was trying to suppress.
Kirishima’s pace was steady, relentless. Y/n’s hands came up to rest on his thighs, her fingers digging into hard muscle. The wet, slick sounds of her taking him filled the space between Bakugo’s ragged breaths. Kirishima’s other hand found one of Y/n’s, lacing their fingers together, his grip tight. “So good,” he gritted out, his head falling back. “You feel so fucking good, princess.”
Bakugo was unraveling. His control, usually an iron cage, was melting under the heat of Deku’s mouth. His hips began to move in tiny, aborted thrusts. “Nerd,” he growled, a warning and a plea. The hand in Deku’s hair tightened, guiding him to a faster pace. Deku obeyed, his jaw aching, a needy moan vibrating around Bakugo’s cock.
The dual sensations—the sight of Y/n servicing Kirishima, the feel of Deku’s desperate, worshipful mouth—drove Bakugo toward his peak with terrifying speed. He was muttering, a stream of fragmented curses and Deku’s name. His free hand came down to clutch at Deku’s shoulder, blunt nails biting into skin.
Kirishima’s rhythm stutters. He hears it—the broken, ragged edge in Bakugo’s breathing, the way his mutters are dissolving into pure sound. He pulls himself from Y/n’s mouth with a wet, soft pop, his cock glistening. He gives her a quick, apologetic kiss, his thumb brushing her swollen bottom lip. “Good girl, thank you,” he murmurs, his voice rough. He turns his head, crimson eyes sharp. “Midoriya, stop. Let him simmer.”
Deku freezes, his mouth still full of Bakugo. He pulls off slowly, the loss of heat making them both shudder. A thin strand of saliva connects his lips to Bakugo’s throbbing tip. Bakugo growls, a low, feral sound of protest that borders on a whimper. His hips jerk forward once, seeking the warmth again, finding only air.
“Midoriya,” Kirishima says, softer now. “Can you hold onto Y/n for a minute?”
Deku nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He gets up on unsteady legs, the cool air of the room hitting his sweat-slicked skin. He goes to Y/n, who is still lying boneless at the edge of the bed, her curls a wild halo. He gathers her gently, lifting her and settling them both further onto the large bed, his back against the headboard. He holds her against his chest, her damp skin sticking to his. She nestles into him, a quiet sigh escaping her, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his forearm.
Kirishima turns his full attention to Bakugo, who is still standing, flushed and trembling with unmet need. “What’s wrong, Katsuki?” Kirishima teases, his voice a low rumble. He steps closer, into Bakugo’s space. Bakugo’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek. He doesn’t answer, his crimson eyes blazing with a mix of fury and humiliation.
“You know,” Kirishima continues, reaching out to run a broad hand down Bakugo’s tensed arm. “You’re not going to get anything if you don’t ask for it right.”
Bakugo’s gaze darts to Deku and Y/n, then back to Kirishima. “Fuck off,” he snarls, but it lacks heat. It sounds strained.
Kirishima’s smile is all sharp understanding. “I’m not going to fuck you if you don’t ask for it.” He lets the words hang, simple and absolute.
The silence that follows is heavier than any explosion. Bakugo’s chest heaves. He looks utterly exposed, the last of his defensive rage stripped away by Deku’s mouth and Kirishima’s unwavering patience. The feelings they’d all confessed earlier still hang heavy on his mind and body, and this is the crucible—Bakugo having to voice a want, to be vulnerable in his taking.
Deku watches, his arms tightening around Y/n. He can feel the rapid beat of her heart against his side.
“Eijiro,” Bakugo grinds out. It’s not the ask. It’s a plea for mercy.
“That’s my name,” Kirishima says, not moving. “Use the rest of it.”
Bakugo’s eyes squeeze shut for a second. When they open, the defiance is gone, replaced by a raw, shocking honesty. “Fuck me,” he whispers, the words so quiet they’re almost lost. “Please. Just… fuck me.”
Kirishima’s expression softens into something triumphant and unbearably fond. “Okay.” He closes the final distance, his hands coming to rest on Bakugo’s hips. “Okay, Katsuki.”
He guides Bakugo backward toward the bed, not to where Deku and Y/n are, but to the opposite side. He pushes gently, and Bakugo goes, lying down on his back, his skin flushing darker under Kirishima’s gaze. Kirishima kneels between his spread thighs, his own arousal thick and eager. He doesn’t rush. He leans down, capturing Bakugo’s mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, swallowing the last of his protests.
Deku turns his face into Y/n’s hair, breathing her in. He can’t look away from the other two for long. He watches Kirishima’s broad back flex, watches his hands, so often shields, now become instruments of exquisite pressure as they grip Bakugo’s thighs, spreading him wider.
Kirishima reaches for the lube on the nightstand. The sound of the cap clicking open is loud in the quiet room. He slicks himself, then his fingers, his eyes never leaving Bakugo’s face. He works Bakugo open with a focused, tender thoroughness that seems to dismantle Bakugo piece by piece. Bakugo’s head is thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out, his own hands fisted in the sheets.
“Look at me,” Kirishima says, his voice a gentle command.
Bakugo’s eyes flutter open, finding Kirishima’s. There’s no hiding in them now, just a wide-open want that’s terrifying in its sincerity.
Kirishima positions himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against Bakugo’s entrance. He holds there, letting the pressure build, letting Bakugo feel the imminent stretch. “You asked for this,” Kirishima reminds him, not cruelly, but as a fact. A gift given.
He pushes inside. Slowly. Inexorably. Bakugo’s mouth falls open in a soundless gasp, his back arching off the bed. Kirishima sheathes himself to the hilt with a low, gratified groan, burying his face in the curve of Bakugo’s neck. “God, you feel good,” he rasps against Bakugo’s skin.
Then he begins to move. His thrusts are deep and powerful, each one rolling through Bakugo’s body with the force of a tidal wave. The bedframe creaks in a steady rhythm. Bakugo’s sounds are punched-out, helpless things—grunts, choked moans, Kirishima’s name fractured into syllables.
Y/n shifts in Deku’s arms, turning to watch. Her water orb dissolves, sprinkling a fine, cool mist over their tangled legs. Her big brown eyes are wide, taking in the sight of Bakugo coming completely undone, of Kirishima moving over him with a possessive, loving certainty. Deku feels her awe, her acceptance, humming through her skin into his.
Kirishima’s pace builds, his hips snapping forward with more urgency. One of his hands finds Bakugo’s, prying his fingers from the sheet and lacing them together, pinning it beside Bakugo’s head. The gesture is unbearably intimate. “Come on, Katsuki,” Kirishima grits out, his breath coming in harsh pants. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Bakugo shatters. His orgasm takes him violently, his body bowing off the mattress as he comes untouched between their sweat-slicked stomachs with a raw, broken cry that is pure surrender. Kirishima follows him over, driving in one last, deep time as his own climax rips through him. He stills, shuddering, his forehead pressed to Bakugo’s shoulder, a long, low groan vibrating from his chest.
For a long moment, the only sounds are their ragged breathing and the quiet rustle of sheets. Kirishima eventually eases out, collapsing beside Bakugo, who hasn’t moved, his eyes closed, his chest still heaving.
Deku finally looks away, pressing a kiss to the crown of Y/n’s head. The room is a wreck of spent bodies and charged silence. The confrontation is over. Something else has begun.
Kirishima pulls out slowly, his breath a heavy gust against Bakugo's sweat-damp skin. Bakugo lets out a soft, wounded sound—a whimper—as the emptiness registers, his body clenching around nothing. The two boys collapse side by side on the ruined sheets, spent and breathing hard.
A cool, gentle touch glides over Bakugo’s ankle. He flinches, then stills as a long, rope-like stream of water, shimmering in the low light, wraps around his calf. It travels up his leg, over his hip, a liquid ribbon that feels like a caress. It winds around his bicep, then rises to hover beside his face. The water coalesces into the soft, unmistakable shape of lips that press a cool, fleeting kiss to his scarred cheek. Bakugo’s eyes go wide, his breath catching.
The stream detaches, slithering across the rumpled bed to Kirishima. It twists around his thick forearm, a loving squeeze, before rising to form another watery impression of lips that brush his forehead with tender reverence. Kirishima smiles, a slow, exhausted thing, his eyes closing for a second.
Finally, the stream flows to Deku, still holding Y/n. It loops around his neck, a cool, claiming necklace, before shaping into a more defined kiss that presses against his mouth, tasting faintly of clean rain and salt. Deku kisses back instinctively, his lips meeting the cool pressure, and a soft laugh escapes him, wonder in his green eyes.
The water stream lingers for a heartbeat in the center of their tangled group, then dissolves into a fine, glittering mist that settles over their heated skin like a blessing before vanishing into the air. Y/n lets out a shaky, contented sigh, nestled against Deku’s chest, her fingers still tracing his arm.
Bakugo is the first to move. He pushes himself up on one elbow, his movements stiff. Without a word, he shuffles across the mattress, closing the gap between them. He doesn't look at anyone, his jaw set, but he presses his back against Deku's side, his head coming to rest near Y/n's hip. The contact is demanding, undeniable.
Kirishima follows, rolling onto his side and scooting in behind Bakugo, his broad chest slotting against Bakugo's back. He throws a heavy arm over both Bakugo and Deku, his hand coming to rest on Y/n's waist. The bed is large, but they fill it, a knot of limbs and warmth.
Comfortable silence settles, thick and warm as a blanket. The only sounds are their slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city through the window. Deku feels the solid weight of Bakugo against him, the gentle pressure of Kirishima's arm, the softness of Y/n in his lap. It's overwhelming. It's perfect.
Bakugo's hand finds Y/n's ankle, his thumb rubbing a slow circle over her bone. It's a quiet, possessive gesture. "Show-off," he mutters into the sheets, but there's no heat in it. His voice is rough, used.
Y/n lets out a tiny, watery giggle. A few droplets bead on the ends of her curls. "Sorry," she whispers, not sorry at all.
"Don't be," Kirishima rumbles, nuzzling the back of Bakugo's head. "It was manly as hell."
Deku lets his head fall back against the headboard, his eyes closed. He can feel the ghost of the water kiss on his lips. The analytical part of his mind is finally, blissfully quiet. There's no strategy to mumble here, no threat to assess. Just this. The heat of them. The rightness of it.
Bakugo shifts, turning his face slightly. His crimson eyes are open, staring at the wall. The confession they'd dragged out of him earlier hangs in the air between their shared breaths. Them saying it out loud made it real. Made his feelings real. The admission feels like a live wire under his skin, even now.
"This doesn't fix anything," Bakugo says to the wall, his voice low. "The shit outside this room is still there."
"We know," Kirishima says, his arm tightening a fraction.
"The agency. The press. Our fucking reputations," Bakugo continues, listing grenades he can't throw.
Y/n's hand finds his where it rests on her ankle. She laces their fingers together. Her touch is cool, calming. "We'll figure it out," she says, so softly it's almost a breath. "Together."
The word 'together' lands in the center of them. Deku opens his eyes, looking down at the top of Y/n's head, then at Bakugo's tense profile, then meeting Kirishima's steady gaze over Bakugo's shoulder. Together. It's a concept he's fought for his whole life, but never like this. Never this terrifying, intimate form.
Bakugo lets out a long, controlled exhale, the fight draining from his muscles. He turns his head further, his nose almost brushing Deku's side. "You're staying," he states. It isn't a question.
Deku's heartbeat kicks against his ribs. "If you want me to."
"Shut up," Bakugo grumbles, closing his eyes. "Of course we fucking want you to."
Kirishima chuckles, the sound vibrating through them all. "Eloquent as ever, bro."
They settle deeper into the silence. Y/n’s breathing evens out first, her body going lax in sleep against Deku. Kirishima follows soon after, his heavy arm going slack. Deku watches the slow rise and fall of Bakugo’s shoulders, waiting for the tension to leave. It takes a long time, but eventually, Bakugo’s breathing deepens, his brow finally smoothing.
Deku stays awake, holding them all. The room is dark, the future is a tangled mess, but here, in this wrecked bed, they are a completed circuit. The current that flows between them is quiet, powerful, and new. He presses one last kiss into Y/n's hair, lets his own eyes close, and gives in to the pull of them.
This is right was his final, coherent thought before sleep pulled him under completely. The warmth of them, the weight, the impossible tangle of limbs and trust—it was an answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life without knowing the words.
He sleeps deeply, dreamlessly, for the first time in weeks. His body is a lead weight of exhaustion, physical and emotional, anchored by the three points of heat pressed against him.
hello !! i just came across your fic about a reader with a water quirk and just wanted to say, please don’t tag it as an “x reader” when the reader has a given name, it should be tagged as an “x oc” instead :)
i’m letting you know bcs people get annoyed about incorrect tagging and i don’t want you getting any hate lol
ah, ok thank you! ill remember that for future writing. thank you so much! i will slowly edit it to y/n.
synopsis: days had passed since the day of the incident. In that time, the boys and Y/n come to a collective realization
pairing: dekuxreader, dekuxkirishima, dekuxbakugo, bakugoxreaderxkirishima, (Eventual dekubakukirixreader)
warnings: black!reader, fem!reader, poly!relationship, unknown feelings, potential loss, short heartbreak, emotional cheating(technically), light jealously, reader has a water quirk in this fic, reader's hero name and is Mizuka (water in Japanese), written in 3rd person.
wc: 4,931
Name has been changed to Y/n after someone brought it to my attention<3
pt 3. Read pt1, pt2 , pt4 and pt5 here
The local news played softly from the television mounted on the wall, a bland backdrop to the quiet sanctuary of Y/n’s bedroom. Three days of medical leave had settled into a fragile routine of takeout and too many pillows, with Kirishima a constant, solid presence beside her. They were tangled in her sheets, her head on his shoulder, laughing breathlessly at a stupid story he’d just finished about Bakugo and a particularly stubborn vending machine. The sound of her own laughter still felt foreign in her throat, a fragile thing.
The news segment shifted to hero coverage. The anchor’s voice was bright and professional. “And in other news, following the recent incident involving Water Hero: Mizuka, the agency has announced a new, permanent partnership for the Pro Hero Deku—”
Y/n’s laugh died mid-breath.
There he was. Izuku Midoriya, in full costume, standing beside a woman with a telekinetic quirk Y/n vaguely recognized from the rankings. They were shaking hands for the cameras, a standard publicity shot. Deku’s smile was professional, warm, but it didn’t reach his eyes the way it used to. A hot, sharp pang lanced through Y/n’s chest, so sudden it stole her air. She stared, unblinking, at the screen.
Kirishima’s arm around her shoulders went very still. The comfortable silence curdled, thick and heavy. The TV chattered on, but the words were just noise. All she could see was Deku’s hand in another hero’s, his attention turned politely toward a stranger. Bakugo had made sure of this. He’d gone to the agency and demanded it. The logical part of her knew that. The rest of her just felt a hollow, inexplicable hurt.
“Did you like it?”
Kirishima’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the white noise in her head like a blade. Y/n whipped her head to look at him, her curls bouncing. “What?!”
“You heard me.” He wasn’t looking at the TV anymore. His crimson eyes were on her, his expression unreadable, a mask of calm over the deep, diamond-hard strength beneath.
Her face flooded with heat. She could feel it, a prickling wave from her neck to her temples. Tiny, shimmering droplets of water began to bead and quiver in the air above her fidgeting hands. “I-I mean, in the moment, yeah,” she stammered, looking away, her voice small. “I couldn’t think about anything else. It was just… a need. The quirk.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Kirishima’s voice was patient, terribly direct. He shifted to face her more fully, the mattress dipping. “Did you like Midoriya pleasing you?”
Y/n’s heart stopped. The water droplets wobbled and scattered, falling silently onto the duvet. Her quirk was fully back to normal. There weren't anymore uncontrolled manifestations. These were her raw emotions causing her quirks to sputter, often when she was nervous. She looked down at her lap, at her own hands twisting together. She hadn’t let herself think too deeply about it these past days. She’d boxed it away with the shame and the hospital smell. But now, the memory unspooled, not just as a clinical emergency, but as a moment. His focused, green eyes. The careful, deliberate touch of his fingers. The shock of relief that wasn’t just physical.
Midoriya was handsome. Sweet. So damn smart. He’d always been there, even back at U.A., a steady, kind presence in the chaos. She’d had a tiny, secret crush on him once, a flutter she’d buried because Ochaco had looked at him like he hung the moon, and Y/n wasn’t the type to get in the way.
She thought about the question. She looked at Kirishima—her boyfriend, her rock, the most understanding and patient man she’d ever known. If she did like it, he would listen. He wouldn’t explode. This was a door Bakugo would never, ever open. She met his gaze, her own wide and uncertain.
“I… don’t know,” she whispered.
It was the truth. She wasn’t fully sure where the line was between the quirk’s artificial fire and the simple, human fact of his hands on her. The confusion was a tangled knot in her stomach.
Kirishima watched her for a long moment. He reached out, not to touch her, but to gently capture one of the stray droplets hovering near her wrist. It burst against his calloused fingertip. “You’re thinking about it now,” he said, not accusingly. Observing.
She nodded, mute. The air between them was charged, intimate in a completely new and terrifying way.
“It’s okay if you did,” he said, his voice low. “It doesn’t make what happened less messed up. It doesn’t change what he did wrong. But feelings aren’t wrong, Y/n.”
A tear escaped, tracking hot down her cheek. It mixed with the condensation on her skin. “It feels like a betrayal,” she choked out. “To you. To Katsu.”
“It’s not.” Kirishima finally closed the distance, his big hand coming up to cradle her jaw, his thumb wiping the tear away. His touch was infinitely gentle. “It’s just complicated. And we gotta be able to talk about the complicated stuff, or it festers.”
She leaned into his palm, her eyes searching his. “Are you mad?”
He let out a slow breath, a faint, weary sound. “I’m not mad at you. I’m pissed at the situation. I’m pissed he was put in that position. I’m pissed he had feelings he didn’t handle.” His thumb stroked her cheekbone. “But I asked because I needed to know what we’re dealing with. In here.” He tapped his own chest, over his heart. “And in yours.”
Y/n looked at him, really looked at him—at the steadfast love in his eyes, and the quiet, unspoken hurt beneath it. The man who built his life on unshakable bonds, now carefully assessing the cracks in one. Her breath hitched. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, the words aching with more than just this moment.
“Don’t be,” he said, and pulled her into him, tucking her head under his chin. She went willingly, her face pressed against the familiar scent of leather and citrus on his shirt. He held her tight, a fortress against the storm inside her. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
On the television, the news had moved on to weather. The room was quiet again, but the silence was different now. Lanced open. Cleaner. Y/n closed her eyes, listening to the strong, steady beat of Kirishima’s heart, and wondered when the guilt would stop feeling like a second skin.
The steady thump of Kirishima’s heart against her ear was a metronome in the quiet room. Y/n’s fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. The confession hung between them, a live wire. She thought of the hospital hallway, the muffled voices she’d half-heard through a haze of medication and shame. Her voice was small when she finally spoke. “What did you talk to him about?”
Kirishima’s chest stilled beneath her cheek for a second. “Who?”
“That night. Outside my room. With Deku.” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “I woke up. Just for a minute. I heard you leave, and then… talking.”
He let out a slow huff, a sound of weary resignation. His crimson eyes were fixed on the ceiling. He was silent for a long moment, his jaw working. “You,” he finally said, the word simple and heavy.
Y/n’s breath caught. A tiny, perfect sphere of water formed at the tip of her index finger, quivering. “Me?”
“I wanted clarification on the question I asked him in your room. The one he didn’t answer.” Kirishima’s voice was flat, recalling the memory. “I wanted him to say it out loud. To own it. He did. Said part of it was personal for him.”
Hearing the confirmation, stripped of Deku’s clinical justifications, made Y/n’s heart stutter against her ribs. The water droplet fell, darkening a spot on his shirt. She swallowed. “How did that make you feel?”
Kirishima didn’t answer immediately. His hand, resting on her back, began a slow, absent circle. He was choosing his words with the same care he used to assess a crumbling building. “I was upset,” he admitted. “Not necessarily about him liking you anymore. Because… I had an idea about that a long time ago.”
He paused, his gaze turning inward. Y/n watched the memories play across his face—the tight line of his mouth, the slight pinch between his brows. “I saw his face when I came out of your room that night. When you and Bakugo were laying together. He was on the floor in the hall. Just… sitting there. And my chest…” He tapped his sternum with his free hand. “It softened. Hurt. For him. I don’t think I know how I feel, either.”
The admission hung in the air, vast and unexplored. Kirishima’s expression grew more distant, more thoughtful. He wasn’t just thinking about the rooftop or the hospital. He was thinking about Deku. Their relationship as pros. Their dynamic back at U.A., all earnest determination and unspoken rivalry-turned-respect. The stray, curious thoughts he’d had about Midoriya before Y/n, before Bakugo, thoughts he’d never examined under a bright light.
“How do you think about Midoriya?” he asked suddenly, shifting the focus. His eyes found hers again, sharp. “In general.”
Y/n blinked, thrown. She settled back against his shoulder, her gaze drifting to the now-dark television screen. “In general?”
“Yeah. Just… him.”
She thought. It was easier to list qualities than dissect the knot in her stomach. “He’s kind,” she started, her voice soft. “Really, genuinely kind. And he’s smarter than anyone gives him credit for. He notices things. He cares too much, sometimes. It weighs on him.”
Kirishima gave a soft, agreeing hum. “The muttering,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “He still does that. Full-on analysis sessions under his breath in the middle of a debrief.”
A surprised laugh bubbled out of Y/n. “Yes! And he gets this crease right here,” she tapped her own brow, “when he’s concentrating on paperwork. And he always buys too much coffee for the office, because he’s worried someone might want one and there won’t be any left.”
“And he breaks, like, three pens a week from gripping them too hard when he’s frustrated,” Kirishima added, the smile warming his voice. “It’s a little cute.”
The word ‘cute’ lingered in the air between them, harmless and then, suddenly, not harmless at all. Y/n’s laughter faded. Kirishima’s faint smile slowly vanished. They both fell silent.
The realization didn’t arrive with a thunderclap. It seeped in, cold and clear, like water through cracks. They were lying in their bed, in the home they shared with each other and Bakugo, comfortably listing the endearing, fond qualities of another man. Not with anger. Not with clinical detachment. With a shared, affectionate recognition.
Y/n’s fingers stilled on Kirishima’s chest. The air above their tangled legs began to shimmer faintly, a constellation of minute water droplets forming unconsciously. Kirishima’s hand stopped its circular motion on her back. He was holding his breath.
They looked at each other. Really looked. In the dim light, Y/n saw the same dawning, bewildered comprehension in Kirishima’s eyes that was chilling her own veins. It wasn’t just her confusing, guilt-ridden feelings. It wasn’t just Deku’s unrequited, problematic longing.
The silence stretched, taut and fragile. It was full of the words they didn’t speak. Words about a green-haired hero who was kind, and smart, and broke pens, and whose hurt had made Kirishima’s chest ache. Words about a man who had touched Y/n with a focus that, even through the chemical haze, had felt like a confession.
Y/n’s lips parted. No sound came out. The shimmering droplets in the air trembled, caught in the gravity of the unsaid thing.
Kirishima was the one who finally broke the silence, his voice a low, rough scrape. “Oh.”
It was just one syllable. It held a universe of shock, of exhaustion, of surreal understanding. It held the terrifying, silent agreement that now lived in the space between their bodies.
They might have feelings for Izuku Midoriya.
The air on the rooftop was cold, tasting of exhaust and coming rain. Katsuki Bakugo landed with a soft scrape of his boots, the echoes of his explosions fading into the city’s hum below. He’d been walking patrol routes for three days straight, volunteering for the overnight shifts, the solo assignments. The agency hadn’t argued. His usual patrol partner, Eijiro, was home with their shared lover.
Home was too quiet. Too full of Y/n’s unspoken shame and Kirishima’s careful, weary stability. He wasn’t mad at them. That was the problem. The fury had a single, green-haired target, and if he stayed in that apartment smelling of her vanilla and his’s citrus, he’d burn a hole through the floor. So he walked. He answered calls for purse snatchers and drunken brawls with a brutal, silent efficiency that left the petty criminals trembling. The work was a grinding stone against the edge of his anger, wearing it down to a sharp, fine point.
He meant what he’d said to the damn nerd. It wasn’t over. He played the conversation in his head on a loop, refining his insults, imagining the crack of his fist against Deku’s jaw. A hundred different ways to make him pay for touching her, for looking at her, for existing in that hospital room with his heart on his fucking sleeve.
The massive explosion ripped through the night two miles east, a flash of orange against the skyline. The sound reached him a second later, a deep, rolling boom that vibrated in his teeth. His radio squawked to life before he could move, a dispatcher’s tense voice requesting all available heroes for a structural collapse and villain engagement. Coordinates flashed on his wrist display. He was already moving.
Explosions propelled him in searing bursts across the skyline. He landed on the perimeter of chaos—a half-collided storefront, dust pluming, civilians screaming behind a police cordon. And in the center, a whirlwind of motion. Chunks of concrete and twisted rebar floated in the air, shot forward by a woman in a sleek blue costume—Jinx, the new telekinetic. Deku was a green streak beside her, Blackwhip lashing out to snare flying debris, trying to corral the villain.
The guy was fast. A blur of enhanced agility, ducking under Jinx’s projectile hail, using the rubble as parkour courses. Deku moved to intercept, a mirror of the villain’s speed, his focus absolute. Then the thunder of Bakugo’s descent registered. Deku’s head turned a fraction, his eyes scanning the new arrival, and for one catastrophic second, his green eyes locked with Bakugo’s red.
Deku froze. It was less than a heartbeat, but in a fight this speed, it was an eternity. A slab of concrete Jinx had been guiding, swerved, its trajectory now arcing directly toward Deku’s exposed back. He was still looking at Bakugo, his guard down, his face a mask of stunned recognition.
“LOOK OUT, YOU STUPID NERD!” Bakugo’s roar tore from his throat, raw and furious.
The sound snapped Deku from his trance. He whipped around, saw the mass bearing down, and dropped into a roll so fast it was a blur. The concrete slab slammed into the ground where he’d stood, shattering into a thousand pieces. Dust washed over the street. Bakugo’s boots hit the pavement, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a second, all he saw was the impact, the dust, the empty space. A cold shock, sharp as a blade, stabbed through his gut. His mouth went dry. “I-Izuku?” The name was a whisper, lost in the chaos.
Then a pained grunt to his right. The speed villain was pinned, wrapped in crackling tendrils of Blackwhip, struggling against the binding. Deku stood over him, breathing hard, a streak of grime on his cheek. “Villain secured,” Deku called out, his voice steady but edged with exertion.
“Great job, Deku!” Jinx jogged up, offering a smile. “Your coordination was solid. My bad on the drift.”
Deku smiled back, a professional, placating thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine. We got him.” He was holding the villain’s bindings, but his gaze flickered past his partner, back to Bakugo.
Bakugo stomped forward. The cold shock in his veins was evaporating, replaced by a boiling, incomprehensible rage. He didn’t think. He grabbed a fistful of Deku’s costume front, yanking him away from the villain and Jinx, shoving him hard against the still-standing portion of the building wall. “What the fuck was that?!” he screamed, spit flying, his face inches from Deku’s.
Deku’s eyes went wide with genuine confusion and alarm. “Huh? What? Kacchan, what are you talking about?”
“I thought you got crushed, you damn nerd!” Bakugo snarled, shaking him once. The words felt too big, too revealing. He could still feel the phantom impact in his own chest.
Deku’s face softened, the confusion morphing into something more concerned. He actually had the nerve to chuckle, a breathless, bewildered sound. “Yeah, almost did. If you hadn’t yelled, I mean. I had enough time to roll out. Honestly, your distraction worked in our favor—the villain looked your way, and I got him with Blackwhip. So… thanks.”
His sentence trailed off as he finally, truly saw Bakugo’s face. The glossy sheen in Bakugo’s eyes, the tense, almost pained set of his jaw, the furious tremble in the hand gripping his costume. Deku’s concern deepened. “K-Kacchan?” he asked, his voice dropping. “Are you okay?”
The question was a lit match dropped in gasoline. Okay? He was fucking furious. Furious at Deku, but not for the same reason as before. He was relieved. He was sick. When Bakugo realized the wet heat brimming in his own eyes, he recoiled as if burned. He let go of Deku violently, throwing him back against the wall with a hard thud. “Of course, nerd,” he spat, turning his back abruptly. His voice was rough, forced into its usual gravel. “Watch where the hell you’re standing next time.”
He stared at the ruined street, at the flashing lights, his hands clenched into fists so tight his palms ached. The image of the concrete crashing down played behind his eyes. The cold terror that had lanced through him. It wasn’t just anger. The relief was too vast, too physical. It felt like weakness. It felt like a betrayal. He was pissed at him moments ago. He wanted to blast him to pieces. So why did the thought of those pieces buried under rubble make his breath stop?
Behind him, he heard Jinx talking quietly to Deku, the shuffle of the police taking the villain into custody. Bakugo didn’t turn around. He just stood there, breathing in the dust and the rain-scented wind, trying to figure out why the hell he was so upset, and why none of the reasons he’d been clinging to for three days seemed to fit the hollow, pounding dread still echoing in his chest.
Deku watched the rigid line of Bakugo’s back. The subtle tremor in his shoulders wasn’t from cold—the night was mild, the air thick with settling dust. It was a fine, almost imperceptible vibration, like a bowstring held at full draw. Anger, yes. But something else was there, something that made the air around Bakugo seem staticky and raw. Deku took a hesitant step forward, his own concern a tight knot in his throat. “Kacchan—”
The wail of sirens multiplied. Bright, intrusive lights washed over the rubble as news vans screeched to a halt at the edge of the police cordon. Reporters and cameramen spilled out, their voices layering into a chaotic buzz. The moment shattered.
“Heroes! Over here!” A reporter in a sharp blazer waved, microphone thrust forward. “Can you tell us what happened? Casualties?”
Jinx, ever the professional, stepped smoothly into the light, offering a practiced, reassuring smile. “The situation is contained. One villain in custody, no serious civilian injuries thanks to a rapid response.” She glanced back at Deku, a silent cue to join her.
Deku’s eyes flickered from the reporters to Bakugo, who hadn’t moved. He gave one last, searching look at that tense back before turning, his own hero persona clicking into place. “The structural collapse was triggered by the villain’s quirk during attempted robbery,” Deku explained, his voice clear and steady for the cameras. “Pro-hero Jinx and I were able to subdue him and prevent further damage.”
A camera light swung, catching the grime on Deku’s cheek, the determined set of his jaw. “Deku, you’re with a new partner tonight. How’s the adjustment?” another reporter called.
“Jinx is incredibly capable,” Deku replied, the answer automatic, diplomatic. “Our coordination is already solid.” He could feel Bakugo’s presence like a heat signature at his back, silent and seething.
The questions continued, a bland stream of professional inquiries. Deku and Jinx answered them, his mind split. One part recited agency-approved statements. The other part replayed the concrete slab falling, the way Bakugo’s roar had contained not just fury, but raw, undiluted panic.
When the media finally began to disperse, satisfied with their footage, Deku turned. The space where Bakugo had been standing was empty. He scanned the perimeter and spotted him already a block away, a lone figure stomping down the rain-slicked street, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against nothing.
Bakugo heard nothing but the echo of his own heartbeat. The reporter’s voices, Deku’s polished answers—it was all white noise. His palms stung where his nails had dug half-moons into the skin. He focused on the pain. It was clean. Simple. Better than the sick, swooping feeling that had hollowed him out when that rubble fell.
He replayed the sequence. Seeing the nerd. The split-second of eye contact. The distraction. The slab. The cold dread. The roar ripped from his guts. The relief so potent it felt like a punch when he saw Deku had rolled clear.
“I thought you got crushed.” The confession, screamed in Deku’s face, burned his tongue now. It was a weakness. A vulnerability. He’d handed it to Deku like a damn offering. And for what? Because the idea of Deku being hurt, being gone…
His footsteps faltered. He stopped under the flickering neon sign of a closed ramen shop, staring at his distorted reflection in the window. The face looking back was pale, eyes wide and unsettled. He looked… scared.
The realization was a ice-water bath. He wasn’t just angry at Deku for touching Y/n. He was terrified of losing him. The two feelings were a tangled, snarled mess in his chest, and he couldn’t pry them apart. The jealousy was hot and familiar, a constant ember since high school. But this? This cold, gut-deep fear? That was new. And it was fucking unacceptable.
It meant the damn nerd mattered. Not just as a rival. Not just as an obstacle between him and his lovers. But as a… constant. A piece of his fucked-up world that was supposed to be there, always pissing him off, always pushing him, always being annoyingly, infuriatingly alive.
“Damn it,” he growled to his reflection, hitting the window frame with the side of his fist. The glass rattled. He wanted to blast something. He wanted to scream until his voice broke. Instead, he stood there, breathing hard, watching the ghost of his own breath fog the glass.
He thought of Y/n at home. Of Kirishima’s patient, understanding eyes. Of the quiet bed he was avoiding. They had their own quiet chaos to deal with, a chaos he’d helped create. And here he was, on a dark street, having a fucking existential crisis over Deku of all people.
The anger finally surged back, a welcome, clarifying fire. Good. He could work with anger. He clung to it, fanned the flames. He was pissed at Deku for existing. Pissed at himself for caring. Pissed at that damn villain who had gotten to y/n that day. Pissed at the whole screwed-up situation. He turned from the window and started walking again, his pace furious and deliberate. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. From the rubble, from the memory of Deku’s concerned face, from the terrifying hollow the near-miss had carved inside him.
He walked until the city sounds faded into a distant hum, until the only light came from streetlamps and the occasional passing car. The rage settled into a low, simmering burn in his veins, a more familiar companion than the cold fear. It was a shield. He’d let it hold. For now.
Bakugo walked until his shift tracker vibrated on his wrist, the official end-of-patrol alert buzzing against his skin. He stood under a flickering streetlamp for a long minute, forcing his breathing to even out, letting the cold night air leech the last of the fight’s heat from his costume. The anger was still there, a low-grade burn in his chest, but it had banked into something manageable, something he could carry home without it spilling out of his eyes. He turned toward their apartment, his steps measured and slow, deliberately shedding the chaos of the night with each block.
Back at the scene, Deku watched the empty space where Bakugo had vanished. The police were wrapping up, the news vans pulling away. Jinx nudged his arm. “Hey. We’ve still got thirty minutes on our route.”
“Right.” Deku nodded, falling into step beside her. The silence between them was filled with the city’s night sounds—distant sirens, a train rumbling on elevated tracks, the whisper of a breeze through broken glass.
After a few blocks, Jinx bumped his shoulder playfully. “So, you really think we work good together?”
He glanced at her, his mind still half a mile away, following a figure with hunched, furious shoulders. “Yeah. You’re a good hero,” he said. The statement was professional, factual, and devoid of any excess warmth.
She chuckled, a light sound. “I was actually super happy to hear I was going to be your new partner. What happened with your old one? Did y’all not work well together?”
Deku stopped walking. The question was innocent, curious. His sudden, irrational flare of annoyance was his own problem. He looked down at his scarred hands. “We worked perfectly together,” he said, his voice softening without his permission. “The way she moves on the field is amazing… beautiful. The way she uses her quirk in so many different ways. She helps anyone she sees. She’s a truly special hero.” He realized he was rambling, the words spilling out like a dam had broken.
Jinx’s smile had frozen. A flicker of irritation passed behind her eyes, quick and sharp. “Sounds like a tough act to follow,” she said, her tone cooling several degrees. She picked up her pace, ending the conversation. The rest of their patrol passed in brisk, normal chatter about patrol grids and agency protocols.
An hour later, Deku was alone in his small agency office, shrugging out of his torn costume. The conversation with Jinx replayed in his head, a looping record that always landed on Y/n. He thought of her laughter, the way her curls bounced when she nodded, the tiny, unconscious water droplets that would float around her fingers when she was thinking or nervous. He thought of the rooftop. His hands. Her skin. The impossible, gut-wrenching need in her eyes that had mirrored a need he’d buried for years.
His mind pivoted, unbidden, to Bakugo. The raw panic in his roar. The way he’d grabbed him, the violent shake, the sheen in his own eyes. “I thought you got crushed.” The confession felt seismic now. And the way he’d walked away, shoulders tight with something far more complicated than rage.
Then Kirishima. Firm but not cruel in the hospital hallway. The weary set of his jaw. The shocking, unexpected care in his voice when he’d asked if Deku was okay, even amidst the wreckage.
Deku sank into his desk chair, staring blankly at the wall. He was thinking about all three of them. Constantly. Separately, then together, a tangled knot of memory and emotion. He knew what his feelings for Y/n meant. He’d always known, even when he’d tried to ignore them. But the other two? Bakugo was a complicated, furious constant in his life, a rivalry so deep it felt foundational. Kirishima was a friend, a rival in a different way, solid and good and frustratingly understanding.
Did the tightness in his chest when he saw Bakugo’s fear mean something? Did the hollow ache when Kirishima set a boundary in that hospital mean something outside his hurt for Y/n? Was this just guilt and tangled history, or was it… something else? The thought was vast and terrifying. It meant his world, which had already been knocked off its axis, was far more fragile and interconnected than he’d ever allowed himself to see.
He finished packing his bag on autopilot. He left the agency building, the night air cool on his face. He started walking home. His feet moved, but his mind was a storm. Y/n’s smile. Bakugo’s glare. Kirishima’s sigh. Over and over.
He took a left turn. Then another. The streets grew more familiar, lined with quiet apartments and small, shuttered shops. He wasn’t thinking about direction. He was just walking, trying to outpace the whirlwind in his head.
He stopped.
The building was unassuming, brick and modest. But he knew the number. Knew which window on the third floor was theirs. A light was on behind the closed blinds—a soft, warm glow in the darkness.
He stood on the empty sidewalk, his bag hanging heavily from his shoulder. He hadn’t planned this. His body had brought him here while his thoughts were elsewhere. He stared up at the light, his heart pounding a hard, slow rhythm against his ribs. He was at their doorstep. Y/n was up there. Kirishima was up there. Bakugo was probably up there now too.
He didn’t move. He just stared, the night silence pressing in around him, the weight of all his realizations anchoring him to the concrete.
synopsis: The aftermath of what happened Bakugo and Kirishima are now full of rage and the Deku's hidden feelings come up in ugly truthwarning: angsty, black!reader, fem!reader, poly!relationship, betrayal(sorta), conflict, hurt, comfort, reader has a water quirk in this fic, reader's hero name and is Mizuka (water in Japanese), written in 3rd person,.pairing: dekuxreader, bakugoxreaderxkirishima, (Eventual dekubakukirixreader) a/n: this chapter and the following chapter will not have any smut just slightly mature content as of mentions of it. this mini series will probobly be around 4-6 parts total. first time writing anything close to angsty so bear with it and hope you enjoy pt 2 <3.
w/c: 4,860
Name has been changed to Y/n after someone brought it to my attention<3
pt 2. Read pt1 ,pt3, pt4 and pt5 here.
The phone call ended and the silence that followed was a physical thing, a weight pressing down on the sterile air of the hospital room. Deku lowered the device, his fingers stiff. He didn’t know what would happen when they arrived. He just knew he was screwed. He told himself it was professional. Strictly clinical. Which it was. Except for the reaction his body had while touching her. The thoughts he’d had of her. The feelings that had roared back to the surface, a dam he’d spent years reinforcing now cracked and leaking. He hated to admit it, even in the privacy of his own skull, but in that moment on the rooftop, he had wanted to keep going. Past what was medically necessary. The memory was a live wire against his spine. He was so fucked.
Across the room, Y/n stirred. A soft, ragged inhale broke the quiet. Deku was on his feet instantly, the chair scraping against linoleum. He moved to the bedside, a reflexive surge of protectiveness overriding his dread. He was tempted to grab her hand, to anchor her—or himself. He decided against it. He wasn’t going to do anything worse than he already had. His hands stayed at his sides, clenched.
Her eyelids fluttered. A tiny droplet of water beaded at her temple, tracing a path down her deep brown skin into the wild curls splayed across the pillow. Her brow furrowed in confusion, then smoothed as consciousness fully took hold. Her big, expressive eyes opened, blinking slowly against the fluorescent light. They landed on the ceiling tiles, then drifted, disoriented, until they found him.
Deku watched the realization flood her. It was a wave crashing behind her eyes. The drowsy confusion evaporated, replaced by dawning, horrifying clarity. The rooftop. The gas. The overwhelming, desperate need. His hands on her. His fingers inside her. The violent, shuddering relief he’d given her. Her face burned, a deep, warm blush spreading from her cheeks down her neck. She looked away, toward the window, but there was no escape.
"Deku," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, scraped raw from screaming—or from silence. She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.
"You’re in the hospital," he said, his own voice low and too steady, the forced clinical tone from the phone call clinging to him. "You’re stable. The quirk’s effects are neutralized."
She gave a tiny, jerky nod. Her hands lay limp on the white sheets. Then, as if her quirk was a nervous system of its own, a response to her spiraling shame, water began to gather. Not gentle shapes like hearts or bubbles. Tiny, frantic droplets coalesced above her palms, quivering in the air, vibrating with a chaotic energy before falling like a minuscule, desperate rain onto the blanket, leaving dark pinpricks of moisture.
She saw it and flinched, closing her fists to stop it. The water splashed against her knuckles. "Stop it," she murmured to herself, a pained plea.
"It’s okay," Deku said automatically, the hero, the fixer. The words felt hollow.
"It’s not," she breathed. She finally looked back at him, her eyes shimmering. The blush hadn’t faded. It was a confession. "I’m so sorry. I was… I couldn’t…"
"You have nothing to apologize for," he interrupted, firmer now. "It was a villain’s quirk. It wasn’t you."
"But it was my body," she said, the words rushing out in a tormented whisper. "And you… you had to…" She couldn’t finish. She shook her head, curls bouncing. A single tear escaped, tracking the same path the droplet had taken. It was followed by another. She wasn’t sobbing. She was just silently overflowing.
Deku’s chest tightened. The professional detachment he was clinging to cracked. "Y/n. Look at me."
She did, her gaze liquid and wounded.
"I did what was necessary to save your life," he said, each word deliberate, willing her—willing himself—to believe it. "Your core temperature was spiking. Your quirk was destabilizing. Manual stimulation was the fastest way to trigger a systemic reset. It was a medical intervention."
He was mumbling now, a rapid-fire analytical stream, just like when he was flustered in training. Listing facts like a shield. But his right hand was clenched so tight his knuckles were white.
She heard the technical explanation, the hero textbook terminology. But she was staring at his clenched fist. She heard the strain underneath the words. Her own memory wasn’t clinical. It was sensory, visceral. The heat of his body over hers. The shocking, gentle firmness of his touch at first, then the determined rhythm. The way she’d arched against his hand, begging for more, her own partners’ faces a distant, blurry thought in the hurricane of her need.
The thought of Kirishima and Bakugo hit her then, a second, more brutal wave. Her eyes widened in fresh horror. "Eiji… Katsuki…"
"I called them," Deku said, the sentence dropping like a stone. "They’re on their way."
Her breath hitched. "What did you tell them?"
"The truth."
The two words hung in the air, devastating. She processed it. Her boyfriends knew. They knew Deku had touched her, had brought her to that intimate, violent peak. A low, anguished sound escaped her. "I didn’t think of them. Not until after. Not until it was over and I was already…" She covered her face with her wet hands, shoulders curling in. "G-God, I’m a terrible person."
"You were incapacitated," Deku insisted, but the fight was leaving his voice. He was tired. He was guilty. He was, beneath it all, desperately afraid of the door opening behind him.
She lowered her hands. Her face was a masterpiece of shame and sorrow. "They’re going to hate this. They’re going to hate…" She didn’t finish. She didn’t say me. She didn’t want to. The water droplets above her bed began to swirl slowly, a tiny, mournful vortex.
Deku looked at her, really looked at her, in the quiet hospital room. He saw the friend he’d secretly loved for years. The professional partner he’d betrayed. The woman whose most vulnerable moment was now a ghost between them, and a soon-to-be weapon in the hands of the men who loved her. He had saved her life. And in doing so, he might have shattered everything else.
"I’m sorry," he said, the words quiet, raw, and utterly inadequate. It wasn’t an apology for the medical intervention. It was an apology for the want that had lived in his touch. For the complicated storm he’d unleashed. For what was about to walk through the door.
Before she could answer, the handle of the hospital room door turned with a decisive, sharp click.
The door swung inward, and Kirishima filled the frame. His broad shoulders were tense, his usually bright crimson hair seeming dull under the harsh fluorescents. His expression was a raw, open wound—pained, strained, but meticulously controlled. His diamond-hard eyes scanned the room, landing first on Deku. The pain in them crystallized instantly into a flash of pure, hot anger. Deku saw it, the hardening of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils. Kirishima bottled it. Swallowed it down with a visible, physical effort that made the muscles in his neck cord.
His gaze tore away from Deku and found Y/n on the bed. He took in her puffy, red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks, the wild state of her curls against the sterile white pillow. He saw the tiny, trembling droplets of water still falling from her clenched fists onto the blanket. The anger bled out of him, replaced by a profound, aching concern. His expression softened, the hard lines of his face melting into something tender and devastated.
He didn’t look at Deku again. He moved past him as if he were furniture, a hostile piece of the landscape. He went straight to Y/n’s bedside. “Baby,” he said, his voice a rough scrape of relief and worry.
That single word, the sound of his familiar, earnest voice, broke her. A sob ripped from her throat. “Eiji, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t—”
He didn’t let her finish. He leaned over the bed rail and gathered her into his arms, pulling her gently against his solid chest. She buried her face in the leather of his jacket, her hands coming up to clutch at his back. Her apologies became a muffled, desperate stream against him. “Shhh,” he murmured, one large hand cradling the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her curls. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re here.” He kissed her forehead, a firm, reassuring press of his lips. “It’s all okay.”
Deku stood rooted to the spot a few feet away, silent. He watched Kirishima’s big hands, so gentle on her shaking form. He watched the way Y/n crumpled into the embrace, how she seemed to dissolve into his strength. The scene was intimate, private, and he was a trespasser witnessing it. A sharp, unexpected pang hit him square in the chest—hot, ugly jealousy. It was a visceral punch, stealing his breath. He had just been the one at her bedside. He had been the one to pull her back. Now, he was an outsider. The new, raw awareness of his own feelings made the sight physically painful. He turned his face away, staring at the blank, beige wall, his own hands curling into useless fists at his sides.
Seconds later, the atmosphere in the room changed. The air didn’t just grow tense; it became combustible.
Bakugo shouldered his way through the door without knocking. He didn’t enter. He occupied. He took up all the oxygen. His gaze, sharp and blazing, swept the room and locked onto Deku with the precision of a missile lock. His expression was pure, unadulterated fury. His jaw was clenched so tight Deku could see the muscle ticking. His hands were half-curled at his sides, tiny, threatening pops and sparks dancing across his palms. He opened his mouth, a blistering accusation already forming on his tongue.
“Katsuki.”
Kirishima’s voice cut across the room, sharp as a blade. He hadn’t let go of Y/n. He was still holding her, but he’d turned his head, his gaze nailing Bakugo with a warning so intense it was almost a physical force. “What did we talk about?”
Bakugo’s eyes snapped to Kirishima. A silent, furious argument passed between them in a microsecond. Kirishima’s eyes held a command: *Not here. Not like this.* Bakugo’s glare promised annihilation. But, with a brutal effort that seemed to cost him, Bakugo bit back whatever he was about to scream. His mouth clicked shut. He tore his gaze from Deku as if the sight burned him, turning his simmering attention toward the bed.
He stalked over, his movements coiled and dangerous. He didn’t hug Y/n. He stopped at the bedside rail, his eyes raking over her. His scrutiny was intense, clinical in its own way, searching for injury, for weakness, for proof of what had been done. He saw her tear-streaked face, her grip on Kirishima, the residual shame in her posture. His anger didn’t dissipate. It refined, focusing into something colder, more lethal.
“You’re in one piece,” Bakugo stated, his voice low and gravelly. It wasn’t a question. It was an assessment.
Y/n peeked out from Kirishima’s jacket, her eyes wide and swimming. “Katsuki, I—”
“Save it,” he grunted, but the harshness was undercut by the way his hand came up. He didn’t stroke her hair like Kirishima. His touch was abrupt, almost awkward. He used the back of his knuckles to wipe a stray tear from her cheek, the gesture startling in its rarity. “Just… shut up. You’re alive. That’s the part that matters.”
Deku watched the exchange, the strange, abrasive tenderness of it. He didn’t know what to do. He was a statue in the corner of the room, a ghost they were all pointedly ignoring. The urge to explain, to defend his actions, warred with the crushing weight of his guilt and the fresh, aching jealousy. He remained silent, waiting for the detonation.
Kirishima finally straightened, though he kept one hand on Y/n’s shoulder. He turned his body, deliberately placing himself partially between Bakugo and Deku. He fully looked at Deku for the first time since his entrance. The anger was back in his eyes, but it was banked, controlled. “Midoriya,” he said, the name sounding formal, heavy. “We need to talk. Outside.”
Bakugo’s head whipped around. “The hell we do. We talk right here. In front of her.”
“Katsuki,” Kirishima said, a low warning.
“No, Eijiro. He did what he did to *her*. She gets to hear him say why.” Bakugo’s eyes were back on Deku, and this time there was no buffer. “So. Talk, Deku. Start with your hands on my girlfriend.”
The room went preternaturally quiet. The only sounds were the steady, electronic beep of Y/n’s heart monitor and the faint, wet hiccup of her trying to stifle another cry.
Deku finally unglued his feet from the floor. He forced himself to meet Bakugo’s incendiary gaze. His mind, usually racing with analysis, was a flat, terrified blank. “It was a medical emergency,” he began, the rehearsed line sounding feeble even to him.
“Bullshit,” Bakugo spat, taking a step forward. Kirishima’s hand came up, palm out, stopping his advance. “Medical emergency my ass. You touched her. You… you finished her. Don’t you dare hide behind some medical emergency bullshit!”
“Her core temperature was spiking past critical!” Deku’s voice rose, fraying at the edges. The analytical floodgate opened, a desperate defense. “Her quirk feedback loop was causing systemic destabilization! Manual stimulation was the fastest, most direct method to induce a parasympathetic nervous system reset and—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the science!” Bakugo roared, the sound explosive in the small room. Y/n flinched. “You think I don’t know what that gas does? You think I haven’t seen the reports? There are other ways! You could’ve waited for the medics!”
“She would have gone into quirk shock! She could have drowned herself from the inside!” Deku shot back, his own temper flaring, green energy flickering involuntarily across his arms. “There wasn’t time!”
“There’s always time to keep your damn hands to yourself!” Bakugo’s voice dropped into a deadly, seething whisper. “Unless you wanted a reason not to.”
The accusation hung in the air, toxic and undeniable. It wasn’t just about the rooftop anymore. It was about years of shared history, of quiet glances, of a friendship that had always lived a little too close to a line.
Deku’s breath caught. He saw the knowing in Bakugo’s eyes. Bakugo had always seen too much.
Kirishima watched Deku’s face, saw the flash of something that wasn’t purely professional guilt. His own controlled expression tightened with dawning, sick understanding. “Midoriya,” Kirishima said, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “Look at me. Was it just medical?”
"I—" Deku started, the word a dry crack in the silence. He stopped. His mouth opened, closed. His eyes, wide and green and desperate, darted from Kirishima's hardened gaze to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but at the people waiting for his truth. He could feel the scientific explanation, the perfectly logical defense, lining up on his tongue. But it stuck there, a lump of ash. Because Kirishima hadn't asked for the mechanism. He'd asked for the motive. And the truth was a tangled, ugly knot in his chest. A part of it—a small, shameful, undeniable part—had been personal. He tried to force the professional words out. They wouldn't come. His silence stretched, brittle and damning.
Everyone in the room heard the answer in that silence.
Bakugo moved. It wasn't a step; it was a detonation. A raw, guttural sound ripped from his throat as he launched himself forward, his right hand swinging back, palm already blazing with a heat that warped the air. "YOU FUCKING—!"
Kirishima was faster. He didn't shout. He moved with the solid, immovable certainty of a cliff against a wave. He planted himself squarely between Bakugo and Deku, his own arms coming up, his skin flashing to a jagged, diamond hardness an instant before Bakugo's swing connected. The impact wasn't an explosion—it was a brutal, concussive *CRACK* of hardened fist against hardened skin, the sound violent and final in the confined space. The force shuddered through Kirishima's body, but his feet didn't slide an inch on the linoleum.
"KATSUKI!" Kirishima roared, his voice not a plea but a command, strained with the effort of holding back Bakugo's fury. His diamond-hard arms trembled with the contained energy. "STAND DOWN!"
Bakugo's face was a mask of apocalyptic rage, his teeth bared, spittle flying. He strained against Kirishima's blockade, the smell of burning nitroglycerin sharp and toxic. "GET OUT OF MY WAY, HAIR-FOR-BRAINS! I'LL KILL HIM!"
"NOT HERE!" Kirishima bellowed back, shoving forward just enough to make Bakugo stagger back half a step. "NOT LIKE THIS! LOOK AT HER!"
Bakugo's blazing eyes flickered, against his will, to the hospital bed. Y/n was sitting bolt upright, her hands clamped over her mouth, her face a portrait of pure horror. The water droplets that usually danced playfully around her fingers were now a shimmering, chaotic storm, pelting the blanket and her own arms with frantic, uncontrolled splashes. A thin stream of water was leaking from the corner of her eye, tracing a path through her tear-tracked cheek. The sight of her distress hit Bakugo like a physical blow. His aggressive stance faltered. The explosions sputtered and died in his palm, leaving behind tendrils of acrid smoke.
Kirishima didn't relax. He kept his hardened form between them, his chest heaving. He turned his head, just enough to pin Deku with a look that was no longer questioning, but utterly, devastatingly certain. "Get out," Kirishima said, the words low, graveled, and final. "Now."
Deku stood frozen, his own body thrumming with fight-or-flight energy, green flickers dancing over his skin. He looked past Kirishima's shoulder at Y/n. Her eyes met his, wide and swimming with a fresh wave of tears—and shame. It was that shame that finally unlocked his feet. He took a stumbling step backward, then another. "Y/n, I'm—"
"Don't," Kirishima cut him off, the single syllable like a slab of stone. "Don't you speak to her. Get. Out."
Bakugo was still vibrating with fury, but he was contained, a storm held behind a dam of his own choosing. His eyes promised Deku a future, painful reckoning. "This isn't over," Bakugo hissed, the sound barely audible but carrying all the venom of a scream.
Deku’s jaw worked. No words came. He gave one last, agonized look at Y/n, who had curled in on herself, her face now hidden in her hands, her shoulders shaking. The little water storm around her hands was soaking the sheets. He turned on his heel and walked stiffly to the door. The click of the latch behind him was the loudest sound he’d ever heard.
In the hallway, the sterile calm was a mockery. Deku leaned back against the wall, his head thumping against the cool plaster. He squeezed his eyes shut. He could still see it: the rooftop, the desperate heat of her skin under his hands, the way her back had arched, the choked, broken sound she’d made—not just from relief, but from something else. And his own traitorous body, responding. The part of him that hadn’t stopped at clinical necessity. The part that had wanted to soothe, to claim, to prove he could be the one to pull her back from the edge. Kirishima had seen it. Bakugo had always known it.
Inside the room, the silence was thick and suffocating. Kirishima let his quirk drop, his skin softening back to normal. He let out a long, shaky breath, running a hand through his spiky hair. He turned slowly first to Bakugo, who was staring at the closed door as if he could burn through it with his glare. "Katsuki," Kirishima said, his voice exhausted.
"Don't," Bakugo mimicked his earlier tone, but it lacked heat. It was hollow. He finally turned away from the door, his shoulders slumped under a weight that wasn't physical. He walked to the window, staring out at the dark city, his back to the room.
Kirishima’s attention went to Y/n. He approached the bed slowly, the anger gone from his face, replaced by a deep, weary sorrow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning softly under his weight. Gently, he pried her hands away from her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips trembling. The uncontrolled water droplets slowed, then stilled, as if her quirk was as exhausted as she was.
"Baby," he whispered.
"I'm sorry," she whispered back, the words raw. "I'm so sorry, Eiji. I didn't... I didn't think of you. Of either of you. Not until after. I was just... lost."
Kirishima’s heart cracked. He pulled her into him again, holding her tight. "I know," he murmured into her curls. "It wasn't your fault. The quirk, the gas... it wasn't you."
"But he—"
"We're not talking about him right now," Kirishima said firmly, his hand stroking her back. "We're talking about you. You're safe. You're here."
From the window, Bakugo spoke, his voice rough but clear. "He's always looked at you." He didn't turn around. "Always. Fucking nerd never knew how to hide it."
Y/n stiffened in Kirishima's arms. A fresh tear escaped, tracing the path of the last. She had known, on some level. The lingering glances, the way Deku’s analysis of her battle tactics always felt a little too personal, the warmth in his smile that seemed reserved for her. She'd tucked it away, a secret she never examined. Now it was out, ugly and exposed, and it had poisoned everything.
Kirishima held her tighter, his own jaw clenched. He had known too. He just hadn't wanted to believe it could ever matter. He looked over Y/n's head at Bakugo's rigid back, at the tension held in every line of his body. The storm wasn't over. It had just moved, settling deep inside each of them, waiting for the next crack of thunder.
The silence in the hospital room stretched, thick and heavy, until well past midnight. The only sounds were the steady, soft beep of Y/n’s heart monitor and the deep, even breaths of sleep. She was out, curled on her side, one hand resting on the pillow near her face. Bakugo sat in the chair pulled flush to the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. His hand, however, was not relaxed; his fingers were laced tightly with Y/n’s, his grip possessive even in sleep.
Kirishima watched them from his own chair, the green monitor light etching their forms in sharp relief. He’d been sitting in the same position for hours, his mind circling the same brutal, inescapable facts. Eventually, he stood. The movement was slow, careful not to disturb the fragile peace. He glanced at the sleeping pair—Y/n’s peaceful face, Bakugo’s stubbornly set jaw even in repose—and a faint, pained smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes.
He moved to the door, eased it open, and slipped into the hallway. The overhead fluorescents were dimmed for the night, casting long, lonely shadows. The nursing station was quiet. And there, just as he’d known he would be, was Deku.
He was crouched against the wall opposite Y/n’s room, still in his torn and dirty hero costume. His head was bowed, his arms resting on his knees, his hands hanging limp between them. He looked utterly defeated, a statue of guilt carved from weariness. Kirishima’s heart, against his will, softened a fraction. He walked over, his steps quiet on the linoleum.
Deku’s head snapped up at the sound. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale. He scrambled to his feet, his body tensing for a blow, verbal or physical. His right hand clenched at his side, green energy flickering and dying instantly, as if he didn’t have the strength to sustain it.
Kirishima stopped a few feet away. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just studied the man who had been a friend, a rival, and was now the source of a deep, personal fracture. The anger had banked, leaving behind a cold, heavy residue of understanding. “You okay?” Kirishima asked, his voice low and rough with disuse.
The question seemed to physically stagger Deku. His shoulders slumped, and a bitter, choked sound escaped him. It wasn’t a laugh. “Am I okay?” he echoed, his voice scraped raw. He looked at Kirishima as if he’d asked the most insane question in the world. “No”
“You’re still here,” Kirishima observed, his tone flat. It wasn’t an accusation. Just a fact.
“Where else would I go?” Deku whispered. He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “I can’t… I can’t leave her. Even from out here.”
Kirishima absorbed that. The raw, unvarnished truth of it. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms. The posture wasn’t aggressive; it was weary. “She’s asleep. Katsuki’s in there with her. He’s holding her hand so tight I’m surprised he hasn’t broken it.”
A flicker of something—pain, jealousy, understanding—crossed Deku’s face. He looked down at his own hands. “He should be.”
“Yeah,” Kirishima agreed quietly. “He should.”
The silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of the hospital. Deku finally broke it, the words rushing out in a desperate, mumbled torrent. “I didn’t plan it, Kirishima. You have to believe that. The quirk analysis was clear, the physiological cascade was irreversible without synaptic release, the medical ETA was eighteen minutes and her vitals were spiking, her own quirk was starting to malfunction, she was in distress, she was—”.
“Midoriya.” Kirishima’s voice cut through the analytical flood. “Stop.”
Deku’s mouth clamped shut. He looked like a scolded child.
“I don’t need the science,” Kirishima said, his gaze steady. “I believe you that it was medically necessary. I really do. What I need to understand…” He uncrossed his arms, pushing off the wall to stand squarely before him. “What I asked in there. Was it just medical?”
Deku’s breath hitched. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. He looked at the closed door to Y/n’s room, then back at Kirishima. The confession was a ragged, honest tear. “No.”
The word hung there. Kirishima nodded slowly, as if confirming a dreaded diagnosis. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Deku gasped, the tears finally spilling over. They tracked clean lines through the grime on his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want… I never meant to…”
“But you did,” Kirishima said, not unkindly, but with a finality that brooked no argument. “You touched her. And part of you liked it. Part of you wanted to be the one to save her, to comfort her, to be… that for her.”
Deku couldn’t speak. He just nodded, a jerky, miserable motion.
Kirishima sighed, a long, heavy exhalation. He looked down the empty hallway, his own conflict clear in the tight line of his jaw. “I’ve known, you know. For a while. The way you look at her. It’s not the way a partner looks. It’s… more. Katsuki’s always seen it. It’s why he’s so damn explosive about you.”
“I never acted on it,” Deku whispered fiercely. “I never said anything. I never crossed a line. Until tonight.”
“And tonight, you crossed every line,” Kirishima finished for him. He met Deku’s wet, anguished gaze. “And now it’s out. And it’s broken something. In her. In us. In you.”
Deku swallowed hard. “What do I do?”
“You stay away,” Kirishima said, his voice firm but not cruel. “For now. You give her space. You give us space. This…” He gestured between them, and back towards the door. “This can’t just go back to normal. You understand that, right?”
“Yes,” Deku said, his voice small. He understood. The cost was written in the exhaustion on Kirishima’s face, in the memory of Bakugo’s rage, in the shattered look in Y/n’s eyes. The cost was everything.
Kirishima studied him for another long moment. The hero in him, the one who valued redemption above all, warred with the man whose heart had been bruised. The man won, but just barely. “Go home, Midoriya. Get cleaned up. Get some sleep. Nothing else is getting solved tonight.”
Deku nodded again, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He took a shaky step, then paused. He didn’t look at Kirishima when he asked, his voice barely audible. “Is she… is she really okay?”
Kirishima’s expression softened, just a fraction. “She will be. She’s strong. We’ll make sure of it.” The ‘we’ was deliberate, a boundary firmly redrawn.
Deku accepted it with a final, numb nod. He turned and walked down the hallway, his steps slow and heavy, the silhouette of his retreat swallowed by the dim light. Kirishima watched him until he turned the corner and vanished. Then he let his head thump back against the wall, closing his eyes. The hallway was silent again. The storm had passed, leaving only the wreckage, and the long, quiet work of rebuilding.
synopsis: you get hit with an aphrodisiac. deku is forced to cross a line to help you
pairing: dekuxreader, bakugoxreaderxkirishima, (Eventual dekubakukirixreader)
warnings: nsfw, sub!reader, black!reader, fem!reader, poly!relationship, praise, cheating (technically), roof sex, minor conflict, oral, no penetration, reader has a water quirk in this fic, reader's hero name and is Mizuka (water in Japanese), written in 3rd person,.
a/n: this fic is heavily inspired by this fic I read a few weeks ago on ao3 just my own version. this will be split into a few different parts. A lot of people may now like this pairing or relationship so please ignore it if its not something you like or support <3
wc: 4,428
Name has been changed to Y/n after someone brought it to my attention<3
pt1. Read pt 2 , pt3, pt4 and pt5 here
The heat didn't crest. It settled. A low, relentless burn deep in y/n’s gut that pulsed in time with her frantic heartbeat. Her combat suit, designed for flexibility and protection, became a prison of synthetic fabric. Every seam chafed. The high collar felt like a vise around her throat. She took a step back, her boot scraping against the rooftop gravel, and the sound was impossibly loud.
Across the roof, Deku’s posture shifted from victory to high alert in a millisecond. His eyes, wide and green and terrifyingly perceptive, cataloged her: the slight tremble in her hands, the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the sheen of sweat already glistening at her temples. "Mizuka?" His voice cut through the night air, clean and sharp. "Report."
She opened her mouth. A weak puff of air escaped. Her own voice felt foreign, thick. "I… it’s…" The explanation died. How could she articulate this? It wasn’t pain. It was a need, formless and hungry, coiling tight inside her. Unconsciously, her fingers twitched at her sides, and a dozen tiny water droplets spun into existence around them, orbiting her knuckles in frantic, glittering loops.
He was moving before she finished failing to speak. A green flicker outlined his form as he crossed the distance, not with a superhuman leap, but with swift, grounded strides. He didn’t touch her. He stopped just inside her personal space, his gaze scanning her face, then darting to the unconscious villain who had expelled the shimmering gas. "Respiratory contaminant. Possible neuro-toxin or metabolic accelerator. We need to evacuate you for analysis." His words were clinical, rapid-fire, but his eyes weren’t. They were dark with a concern that went beyond protocol.
"Not… a toxin," y/n managed to gasp. Her body betrayed her, leaning forward a fraction into the space he occupied. He smelled like ozone and clean cotton. The scent was an anchor, and it made the heat worse. "It’s… different."
Deku’s analytical mutter started, a low stream of consciousness. "Different presentation. No convulsions, no paralysis. Pupils are dilated. Skin is flushed. Increased perspiration. Heightened sensitivity to…" His voice trailed off. He was watching the water droplets dance around her fingers. He’d seen her nervous habit before, in briefings, but this was different. This wasn’t a shy flutter. This was a distress signal.
His right hand clenched, then unclenched. A tell. "Your quirk is manifesting involuntarily. Your autonomic nervous system is compromised." He reached for his comms unit. "This is Deku. Requesting immediate medical extraction at my location. Partner is compromised by an unknown quirk effect. Symptoms are… atypical."
A crackle of static. Then a dispatcher's calm voice. "Acknowledged, Deku. ETA seven minutes. Hold position."
Seven minutes. The number echoed in the hollow, fevered space of y/n’s mind. Seven minutes was an eternity. A low moan escaped her lips before she could bite it back. The sound was utterly unprofessional, soaked in a kind of ache that had no place on a mission. Her knees buckled.
He caught her. His hands were on her biceps, firm and steady. The contact was a lightning strike. The fabric of her suit might as well have not existed. She felt the heat of his palms, the strength in his grip, the faint tremor he was trying to suppress. Her head lolled forward, her curls brushing against the armored plating of his chest.
"Mizuka. y/n!" He used her first name, his voice dropping, softening around the edges of its command. "Look at me. You have to fight it. Whatever it is, you have to compartmentalize."
She forced her head up. His face was so close. She saw the faint scar under his eye, the freckles across his nose, the tight line of his mouth. His analytical gaze was gone, replaced by something raw and fiercely protective. It was the look he got when civilians were in the line of fire. She wasn't a civilian. She was his partner. Or she was supposed to be.
"I can't," she whispered, the truth ripped from her. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to fist weakly in the front of his costume. The water droplets splashed against the dark green material, leaving tiny dark stains. "Deku, it… it feels like I'm burning up from the inside."
His jaw tightened. He was processing, analyzing at a speed she couldn't follow. His eyes flicked from her fever-bright eyes to the way her body arched slightly toward his, seeking relief from a pressure only it understood. The clinical terms failed him. The reality was in the scent of her arousal, sharp and unmistakable on the cool night air. It was in the damp heat he could feel radiating through her suit where he held her.
The dispatcher's voice crackled again, oblivious. "Deku, be advised, all medical units are currently engaged in a multi-car pile-up on the expressway. Your ETA is now eighteen minutes. Can you stabilize?"
Eighteen minutes? Deku’s gaze locked with y/n’s. A silent, terrible understanding passed between them. Stabilize. How? This wasn't a wound to pressure. This wasn't a poison with an antidote. This was a biological imperative, a quirk-induced frenzy winding tighter with every second.
Y/n’s composure shattered. A sob hitched in her chest. "Please." The word was a broken thing, stripped of all pride. Her hips gave an involuntary, shameful roll against the solid plane of his thigh, seeking friction, seeking anything. "I can't… I can't wait."
Deku flinched as if struck. His hands on her arms tightened, not in anger, but in a kind of desperate resolve. The professional distance was gone, incinerated. What remained was a man, a hero, and a woman coming undone in his arms. His mind, always racing, showed him the brutal calculus: eighteen minutes of this escalating torment, her quirk potentially spiraling out of control, her dignity in tatters. Or.
Or he could stop being just her temporary partner. He could do what a hero does: save her, by any means necessary. Even if those means crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. His breath left him in a ragged exhale. The fight left his posture, replaced by a grim, heartbreaking acceptance.
"Okay," he said, the word so quiet it was almost lost to the city's hum. "Okay, y/n. I've got you." It wasn't a lover's promise. It was a soldier's vow, heavy with consequence. He began to lower her to the rooftop, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers.
The rooftop gravel was cold and uneven against her back, a stark contrast to the fire under her skin. Deku knelt over her, his shadow blocking out the sodium-orange sky. His hands, which had lowered her so carefully, now hovered above her hips. He wasn’t touching her. He was frozen. His eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, visible puffs in the night air.
Kirishima. Bakugo.
The names were a silent scream in his skull. Her boyfriends. His… colleagues. Rivals, in Bakugo’s case. Friends, maybe, in Kirishima’s complicated way. They were at their apartment right now, probably waiting for a check-in text that would never come. They trusted him, in the loose, professional way heroes trusted each other with their partners’ lives. This wasn’t in the manual.
Y/n writhed beneath him. A low, desperate sound vibrated in her throat. Her hands scrabbled at the closures of her combat suit, fingers clumsy and frantic. “Hurts,” she choked out. “Everything… it’s too much.”
Eighteen minutes. The medical ETA was a death sentence for her composure, for her dignity. Deku’s analytical mind, the part that never stopped, presented him with the grim data: her heart rate was dangerously elevated, her quirk was manifesting in destabilizing micro-bursts—tiny spheres of water now beading on her eyelashes, her collarbone, the gravel around her head. She was a system overloading. The aphrodisiac wasn’t just desire; it was a physiological crisis.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words meant for the two men who weren’t there. For the line he was choosing to cross. For himself.
His hands descended. Not to her hips, but to the main zipper of her suit, where it plunged down her torso. His fingers were steady. A hero’s hands. They didn’t tremble as he grasped the pull. The sound of the zipper parting was obscenely loud—a metallic purr that seemed to go on forever. He peeled the tough fabric back, revealing the thin, sweat-dampened undershirt beneath. The heat coming off her body was immense, a palpable wave that carried her scent: fear, exertion, and the sharp, unmistakable musk of her arousal.
Y/n gasped as the cooler air hit her damp skin. Her back arched off the ground, a beautiful, tortured curve. Her eyes found his, glazed and pleading. “Please, Izuku.”
His name, not his hero name. It shattered his last pretense. He pushed the undershirt up, baring her stomach, the soft swell of her lower belly. His knuckles brushed her skin. She cried out—a sharp, broken sound—and her whole body jerked toward his touch.
He had to be clinical. Methodical. He mapped her reactions like a battlefield. The way her muscles clenched when his palm pressed flat against her lower abdomen. The way her breath hitched when his thumb brushed the edge of her leggings. He hooked his fingers into the waistband. The elastic was tight, soaked with her sweat and something else. He pulled them down, just past her hips, revealing the dark, neat triangle of her curls, glistening wet in the dim light.
Deku’s own breath caught. This was the threshold. The point of no return. He could still stop. He could cover her, wait, let her suffer the eighteen minutes.
She sobbed. A raw, ragged sound of pure need. Her hand shot out, fumbling, and found his where it rested on her hip. She didn’t push it away. She guided it down, her grip weak but insistent. Her skin was impossibly hot. Slick.
He closed his eyes for one second. When he opened them, his gaze was resolved, dark with a painful kind of duty. “I’m going to help you,” he said, his voice low and rougher than he intended. “This is medical stabilization. Do you understand?”
She nodded, a frantic jerk of her head, tears mixing with the water droplets on her cheeks. “Yes. Yes. Please.”
His touch was deliberate. His index finger parted her, finding the swollen, dripping heat of her. She cried out again, her hips rolling up into his hand, seeking pressure. She was so wet. So ready. The evidence coated his finger instantly, hot and slick. His own body reacted, a tight, aching pull low in his gut that he viciously ignored.
He began to move. A slow, steady circle over her clit. He applied pressure based on her gasps, the jerk of her muscles. He watched her face, not her handiwork. He saw her bite her lip, her eyes squeeze shut, then fly open to lock onto his with a bewildered, vulnerable intensity. This was the violation and the rescue, inextricably woven.
“Breathe, y/n,” he instructed, his tone softening despite himself. “Try to breathe with it.”
She tried. Her breaths came in ragged sync with his circling touch. The tension in her body was a coiled spring. The water droplets orbiting her hands grew larger, merging into trembling spheres. One dripped from her fingertip and landed on his wrist, cool against his feverish skin.
He increased the pace. His wrist ached. The sound was filthy—the wet, rhythmic slide of his fingers against her, the choked sounds she couldn’t suppress. He added a second finger, dipping just inside her entrance, feeling the fierce, clenching heat. She gasped, her back bowing off the gravel. “There… oh god, there…”
Deku focused on the mechanics. The angle. The pressure. He was building her toward a release, a pressure valve for the quirk’s torment. He was dimly aware of his own hardness, trapped in his costume, a purely biological echo to her crisis. He shoved the awareness aside. This wasn’t about him. This was a rescue. A medical intervention.
Her sounds changed. Grew higher, tighter. Her hands fisted in the discarded fabric of her suit. Her thighs began to tremble around his hand. He saw the crest approaching. He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. “Look at me,” he said, the command gentle but absolute. “Stay with me. Almost there.”
Her eyes, wide and drowning, fixed on his. Her mouth was open, her breaths coming in short, sharp pants. The world narrowed to this: his green, solemn eyes holding hers, and the exquisite, devastating friction of his touch. The pressure built, a wave gathering force, tightening every muscle in her body until she was shaking with the strain of it.
She broke.
Her climax broke over her like a wave, violent and total. A choked cry tore from her throat, her back arching off the gravel as her body seized around his fingers. The trembling spheres of water orbiting her hands burst into fine mist. Her thighs clamped around his wrist, holding him there as the convulsive pleasure racked her, wet heat pulsing against his skin. Deku held her gaze through it all, his expression unreadable, his touch unyielding until the very last tremor subsided.
He didn't pull away. He let her ride the aftershocks, his fingers still buried inside her, his thumb making slow, gentle circles as she shuddered and gasped. The frantic heat in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a dazed, heavy-lidded exhaustion. The unbearable tension drained from her muscles, leaving her boneless and pliant against the cold rooftop. Her breathing slowed, deepened. Her lashes fluttered once, twice, then stayed closed. A single, perfect water droplet, the last of her quirk's manifestation, traced a path from her temple into her dark curls.
She was out. Stabilized.
Deku carefully withdrew his hand. It was slick, glistening in the low light. He stared at it for a moment, his mind strangely blank. Then he wiped it on the clean inner lining of his own torn glove, a mechanical, efficient motion. He looked down at her.
Y/n slept. Peacefully. Her face, which had been twisted with need, was now soft. Her lips were parted slightly, her breathing even. The violent blush had faded from her cheeks, leaving her deep brown skin glowing with a sheen of sweat and leftover dew. Her curls were fanned out around her head, some strands stuck to her damp neck. She was beautiful in a way that felt like a physical blow.
The feelings he’d buried since their second year at U.A. surfaced, not as a slow trickle, but as a floodgate breaking. The quiet admiration. The way his heart had stuttered whenever she’d managed to hold Bakugo’s gaze during a joint training exercise. The way she’d blush and tiny, intricate water butterflies would flutter around her fingers when he’d praised her tactical thinking. He’d pushed it all down when she’d started dating Kirishima, and then when Bakugo had, inexplicably, entered the picture too. He’d folded that part of himself away, labeled it ‘inappropriate’ and ‘unprofessional.’
Now it was out, raw and undeniable, staining the clinical purpose of what he’d just done. His body echoed the betrayal; he was painfully hard, a fact he acknowledged with a cold, internal shame. This wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be.
He moved with deliberate care. First, he pulled her leggings back up over her hips, his movements gentle as he settled the fabric. He smoothed her damp undershirt down, then carefully re-zipped her combat suit, the sound much softer this time. His knuckles brushed her sternum as he fastened the closure at her throat. She didn’t stir. He adjusted her suit, making sure she was covered, preserved. A hero tending to a fallen comrade.
But his hands lingered. He brushed a curl from her forehead, his fingertips lingering on the warmth of her skin. He couldn’t help it. He sat back on his heels, pulling her upper body into his lap, cradling her head against his thigh. The gravel was too cold. He wouldn’t leave her on it. He shrugged out of his own torn cape and bundled it under her head.
He held her like that, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. The city hummed around them, indifferent. In the distance, he finally heard the distinct whine of medical transport jets approaching. His time was up.
The medical team touched down on the roof in a whirl of wind and efficient noise. Two heroes in white and orange relief uniforms jumped out, a floating stretcher between them. Their eyes scanned the scene: the secured, unconscious villains, the scorch marks from Bakugo-style takedowns Deku had used earlier, the heroine asleep in Deku’s arms.
“Status, Deku?” the lead medic asked, her voice brisk.
Deku’s voice, when it came, was steady. A hero’s report. “Villains subdued with emitter-type quirks, one with a potent contact aphrodisiac gas. It hit Mizuka directly. Symptoms included rapid systemic overheating, involuntary quirk manifestation, and psychological distress. I performed emergency physical stabilization to prevent physiological crisis until your arrival.”
The medic nodded, already pulling a scanner from her belt. She ran it over y/n’s prone form. “Vitals are stable. Elevated endorphins, but no sign of continued metabolic spike. You restrained her?”
“I facilitated the body’s natural release mechanism to dispel the quirk’s primary effect,” Deku said, the clinical jargon tasting like ash. He didn’t look at the medic. He looked at y/n’s peaceful face. “Manual stimulation to induce orgasm. It was the fastest way to neutralize the biological imperative and prevent her quirk from destabilizing further.”
There was a beat of silence. The other medic coughed slightly. The lead medic’s professional mask didn’t slip, but her eyes flickered to Deku’s face, then to y/n’s. “Understood. Unorthodox, but the scan confirms it was effective. We’ll take her for full decontamination and overnight observation. The media liaison will want a statement.”
“The statement is the villain’s quirk and her stable condition,” Deku said, finally looking up. His green eyes were hard. “The method of stabilization is a private medical detail. Releasing it serves no public safety purpose and would only cause her and her partners unneeded distress.”
It wasn’t a request. It was the quiet, immovable will of a top hero. The medic held his gaze for a second, then nodded once. “Understood. We’ll keep the report clinical.”
They transferred y/n to the stretcher with practiced ease. Deku’s arms felt suddenly empty, cold. He stood as they secured her, his body aching in places he refused to name. He watched them lift the stretcher into the transport.
“You coming?” the medic called.
“I’ll secure the scene for the police transport,” Deku said. His job wasn’t over. “Just… make sure she’s warm.”
The jet door closed. The engines whined to a higher pitch, and it lifted off, carrying her away into the orange-tinted night. Deku was alone on the rooftop with the unconscious villains and the ghost of her heat on his skin, the scent of her in the air, and the truth he would have to tell her boyfriends that was already curdling in his stomach.
The police arrived twenty minutes later, their boots crunching on the rooftop gravel, their voices a low, procedural hum. Deku gave his statement with robotic efficiency. Yes, the villains were subdued. Yes, the aphrodisiac gas was the primary threat. Yes, the injured heroine had been transported for decontamination. He pointed to the scorch marks, the bindings, the lingering shimmer in the air where the gas had dissipated. His mind was not on the chalk outlines or the evidence bags. It was in the sterile hold of a medical jet, checking a pulse he could no longer feel.
While an officer photographed the scene, Deku’s eyes caught a glint of light near the rooftop’s edge. He walked over, his movements slow. It was y/n’s phone, screen cracked but still alive. It had fallen from her utility belt during the struggle. He knelt and picked it up. The screen was cool against his palm.
It lit up at his touch. The lock screen was a photo of her, Bakugo, and Kirishima at some festival, red and gold lantern light softening their faces. She was laughing, tucked between them. Deku’s throat tightened. Notifications crowded the top of the screen: 7 missed calls from ‘Katsuki♡’. 4 missed calls from ‘Eiji♡’. A string of increasingly worried texts.
His thumb hovered over the call back button. He could picture Bakugo’s face, the sharp concern morphing instantly into protective rage. He could hear Kirishima’s steady voice trying to mediate, trying to understand. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not with the ghost of her heat still on his skin, the memory of her climax seared behind his eyes. He needed to see her first. He needed to know she was okay, truly okay, before he handed this grenade to her boyfriends. He slid the phone into his own belt pouch. He’d return it to her personally.
The rest of his shift was a blur of paperwork and debriefs at the agency. He signed forms, nodded at superiors, changed out of his torn costume. His body moved through the routines, but his thoughts were a single, repeating loop: the hospital. He needed to get to the hospital.
He went straight there, still in his hero uniform. The night shift nurse at the reception desk recognized him immediately, her professional smile widening. “Hero Deku. She’s in room 407. Stable and resting. The doctor just finished his rounds.”
The hallway was too bright, smelling of antiseptic and filtered air. Room 407 was quiet. Deku pushed the door open slowly.
Y/n lay in the hospital bed, sleeping. The harsh overhead light was off, only a soft lamp near the wall glowing. She was wearing a standard-issue hospital gown, the sheets drawn up to her waist. Her curls were a dark cloud against the white pillow. An IV line was taped to the back of her hand. She looked small. Peaceful. The frantic, desperate woman from the rooftop was gone, replaced by the quiet, flustery hero he’d secretly admired for years.
A man in a white coat looked up from a chart. “Ah. Pro Hero Deku. I’m Dr. Saito.”
Deku bowed slightly. “How is she?”
“Perfectly fine, physiologically speaking,” the doctor said, his tone reassuring. “The decontamination scrub cleared the last of the quirk’s residual compounds. Her vitals are strong. She’s just sleeping off the biochemical crash and the sedatives we gave her for comfort.” He glanced at the chart. “There is one minor side-effect. Her quirk might be a bit… glitchy for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Minor, involuntary manifestations. A bit of extra condensation, maybe a rogue puddle. Nothing dangerous. Her control will return fully with rest.”
Deku nodded, his eyes drifting back to y/n. A tiny, perfect sphere of water, no larger than a marble, was floating lazily above her fingertips where they rested on the blanket. It shimmered in the lamplight. Her subconscious, even in sleep, playing with water. The sight punched the air from his lungs.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Deku said, his voice rough.
“We’ll keep her overnight for observation, but she should be cleared for release tomorrow morning.” Dr. Saito offered a final nod and left, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
Deku was alone with her. The hum of the medical equipment filled the silence. He pulled a chair close to the bed and sat, his elbows on his knees. He just looked at her. The steady rise and fall of her chest. The way her long lashes fanned against her cheeks. The gentle curve of her mouth. A small, helpless smile touched his lips. She was okay. She was safe. That was what mattered.
The smile faded. The weight in his stomach returned, colder, heavier. He had to make the call. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He pulled out his own phone, his thumb finding Bakugo’s contact. He took a deep breath and pressed call.
It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. It went to voicemail. “This is Bakugo. I’m busy. Leave a message.” The beep was sharp, demanding.
Deku ended the call without speaking. Annoyed. He wasn’t leaving that in a voicemail. He scrolled, found Kirishima’s number. Kirishima would answer. Kirishima always answered. He pressed call, his heart a dull, heavy drum in his chest.
It picked up on the second ring. “Midoriya?” Kirishima’s voice was tense, strained. There was noise in the background—the sound of a city, of movement. “What’s going on? We’ve been trying to reach y/n for hours. Her agency just said she was involved in an incident and taken to the hospital. They wouldn’t give us details.”
A rush of static, a hand maybe covering the receiver. He heard Bakugo’s voice, muffled but unmistakable: “Give me the damn phone—.” Bakugo's voice.
"Calm down Kats-" Kirishima fires back.
“Where is she?” Kirishima asked, cutting through, his voice firm now. “Which hospital?”
“Tokyo General. Room 407.” Deku said it quickly. “But listen, the situation… it was complicated. The villain had a contact quirk. An aphrodisiac.”
There was a beat of dead silence on the line. Then Kirishima’s voice, lower. “What does that mean, complicated?”
Deku’s gaze fixed on the floating water droplet above y/n’s hand. “It means she was in immediate physiological distress. Her quirk was destabilizing. The medics were eighteen minutes out. I had to… stabilize her. To prevent a crisis.”
“How.” The word wasn’t a question. It was a demand.
Deku’s free hand clenched into a fist on his knee. He made himself say it, the clinical term he’d used for the medics. It sounded hollow now, ugly. “I manually induced orgasm. It was the fastest way to neutralize the quirk’s imperative.”
The silence that followed was a living thing, thick and charged. He could hear Kirishima’s ragged inhale. He could almost feel Bakugo’s fury radiating through the phone.
“You…” Kirishima’s voice was a strained whisper. Then it hardened, shifting. Deku could picture his face, the concern solidifying into something sharper. “We’re on our way. Don’t you move.”
The line went dead.
Deku lowered the phone. He looked at y/n, still sleeping, unaware of the storm he’d just summoned. The tiny sphere of water above her hand trembled, then split into two smaller droplets that orbited each other slowly. He reached out, his fingers stopping just short of hers. He didn’t touch. He just watched the water dance, and waited for the aftermath to arrive.
"if you can hold off for five minutes," he says, rubbing soft circles around your clit with his thumb, "i'll buy it for you."
you blink up at him, lips parted. "...what if i can't?"
he leans in and presses a kiss to your knee, then another, higher. "you'll still get it," he murmurs, "but i'll make you come on my fingers until you can't ask me for anything else."
he keeps the setting of the vibrator low at first and doesn't even touch your clit with it yet. just traces the inside of your thighs while his fingers press in deeper, a soft whimper slipping past your lips.
"you're not even a minute in," he says, pressing the toy higher, just grazing past your clit. "want me to stop?"
"no—" you breathe.
"then stay still."
you try. hands fisted in the sheets, mouth parted on quiet little gasps, your body practically begging for it at this point. he's just... watching you. eyes heavy-lidded as he slides the vibrator higher and presses it to your clit.
your whole body jerks at the sudden pressure, and he has the nerve to glance over at the clock.
"two and a half minutes."
"izuku... i can't..."
he leans in and presses a kiss to your stomach, lips trailing lower. "then come, you still get the bag."
your hips stutter, pussy clamping down on his fingers, and he presses the toy a little harder, groaning low in his throat.
"making such a mess, baby," he says, pressing a kiss against your clit as he moves the toy away. "which colour did you want?"
Hiii okay so im not 100% sure if you write smut but if you do, do you think you could write something with deku and his partner using blackwhip? Ive seen others write about it and its always such a fun read. Do you also think you could do a more dominant deku? But whatever you think is best!
Synopsis: trying blackwhip on you
Warnings: nsfw, dom!izuku, sub!reader, bdsm, cunnilingus, teasing, established relationship, boob sucking, praise, oral, no penetration, mild edging, mild degradation, quirk use
a/n: first time writing smut so bare with it
wc: 2072
"Fuck, baby, you look so pretty like this." His voice is lower than usual — rough around the edges, threaded with something reverent and dangerous all at once.
You and your boyfriend have been together for a while and have tried many things with each other. So, when you bring up the idea of using blackwhip in the bedroom? How could he possibly say no to you?
You had expected hesitation. A lecture about safety. Maybe even a firm no.
Instead, you’d gotten a long, thoughtful look… followed by, “If you’re sure.”
Now you’re here. Heat creeps up your neck, across your cheeks, settling in your chest. You try to keep your breathing steady, but the way he’s looking at you makes it nearly impossible.
"Are you feeling okay?" The roughness from earlier softens immediately. His eyes search your face, not your body. You look up at him with a small nod. He doesn't look convinced. His thumb brushes lightly along your thigh — slow, grounding. Wrists secured gently but firmly above you, legs bound just enough to keep you open beneath him. The dark tendrils shimmer faintly in the dim light, responsive to his focus, but carefully controlled.
You feel exposed.
Completely.
You felt a little embarrassed, and it showed. "You sure? We can stop if your not sure and try again another time. Don't feel like you have to force yourself if your uncomfortable."
“I’m okay,” you insist, though your voice wavers slightly. “I want this. I do.” He studies you for another long second. “It’s just…” You swallow. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” he repeats softly, stepping closer to the edge of the bed. “You trust me enough to try something like this… and you’re embarrassed?” You huff a tiny breath. “I’m completely exposed.” He hums thoughtfully, gaze darkening just slightly as it drifts over you again — slower this time. “You are,” he agrees. The heat between your legs pulses at the way he says it. He steps forward and runs his fingers lightly along your inner thigh — barely there, just enough to make you shiver.
“And you’re reacting so beautifully.”
Your breath catches. Your face heats as he drags his fingers up your clit just enough for you to shiver. "Izu..." You whine his name. Your breath heavier. "Yes, angel?"
“I thought you said you were going to be gentle.”
“I am. We wont do anything extreme today.” His fingers trace lower, unhurried. Testing. Watching your expression more than anything else. “I just want to see how sensitive you are like this.”
Your wrists flex instinctively against the hold, and the black tendrils tighten slightly in response — not painfully, just enough to remind you you’re restrained.
Your stomach flips.
He notices.
His gaze lifts to your face. “Too much?” he asks immediately. You shake your head quickly. “No.” His shoulders relax just slightly.
“Good.”
The teasing edge returns, subtle but present. “Because I like seeing you like this,” he admits quietly. “Melting for me...” He lowers himself slowly, hands sliding up your thighs as he goes. His touch is deliberate, dragging warmth over your skin. He pauses before he reaches where you want him most, pressing a soft kiss just above your knee.
Then another.
And another.
Each one lower.
Slower.
You exhale shakily.
“Izu…”
“Patience,” he murmurs against your skin. His breath alone makes you tense. He finally parts you a little wider, eyes flicking up to yours. "I just wanted to tease you a little." He glances up at you once more before sinking down between your thighs, peppering kisses on them. He takes his time, exploring, learning your reactions as if this is something entirely new — even though it isn’t. You arch instinctively, and the blackwhip shifts again, holding you steady.
A soft sound escapes you.
He glances up, eyes darker now. “Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do. And the way he watches you as he continues — attentive, focused, almost possessive in his concentration — makes the heat coil tighter in your stomach. He decides he's finally had enough. "Tell me what you want, baby?" Your wrists flex against the binds as you try to guide him down with a small, desperate motion. You whine softly, your body betraying you in every possible way.
You just need more.
He catches your attempt easily, one hand sliding to your hip to keep you still. A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Maybe these binds aren’t tight enough,” he murmurs, tone teasing but controlled. “You’re still squirming so much.” The black tendrils respond faintly, tightening just enough to remind you that you’re not the one in control here.
A shiver runs through you.
His finger traces lazily on your clit — barely there, slow enough to make you gasp at the lightness of it. “Use your words, princess.” Your lips part, but your thoughts are scrambled. Heat pools low in your body, making it hard to think clearly.
"I...I want your mouth." you manage, voice trembling. He doesn't waste a moment. Izuku lowers himself again, and this time he doesn’t take it slow just to watch you unravel; he devours you. Your hands instinctively try to tangle in his hair, to pull him closer, to keep him there — but the restraints hold you in place.
He notices.
Of course he does.
And he loves it.
The way your wrists flex uselessly.
The way your thighs tremble.
The way you try to chase something you can’t control.
He keeps one hand firm on your hip, grounding you while his mouth works with far less patience now. Exploring inside of you. "Thats my good girl" he murmurs against you, voice low and heated. "Take it for me." Your legs shake at the praise. “You’re doing so good,” he continues, the words almost reverent despite the hunger in them. “Tell me how it feels.”
Your head falls back against the pillow, breath stuttering.
“I–It—” A sharp inhale cuts you off. “It feels… so good.”
The sound of his quiet grin is almost as devastating as the sensation itself. He doesn’t rush, but he deepens the rhythm, more confident now. More deliberate. Every reaction you give him only fuels him further. You can feel how much he enjoys this — not just the physical reaction, but the control, the trust, the way you’re falling apart under his attention. And when he slowly adds a finger inside you — testing, careful, watching your face the entire time — your breath catches and you tense.
“Relax,” he murmurs softly, the protective note returning just for a moment. “I’ve got you.” The possessiveness is still there. But so is the care. And that combination makes it impossible to hold back the way your body responds to him. You don't think you will last much longer. You can feel it building — tight and coiled low in your stomach, your muscles responding to every slow movement of his fingers. You’re trembling now, hips lifting instinctively, breath breaking apart into soft, helpless sounds. He feels it.
The way you're clenching around just one finger. The way your back arches without permission, The way you keep whispering his name like it’s the only thing grounding you. Your nipples getting hard and erect for him. Just calling his name.
He gives one last slow drag of his mouth before pulling back — not completely, just enough to shift upward. His finger stills inside you, leaving you suspended right on that edge. You almost cry. You were getting close.
“Izuku… please…”
Your voice cracks slightly.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he resumes the slow movement of his fingers — painfully controlled, each motion deliberate and unhurried. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough. "Izuku..." you try again, desperation creeping in. Your vision blurs faintly, tears threatening to gather from the sheer frustration of it.
For a split second, something soft flickers across his expression.
He almost feels bad.
Almost.
But the sound you’re making — the way your body strains against the restraint — does something to him. Something darker. Something he hadn’t quite expected to enjoy this much. Deep down he loves seeing you whine like this.
“You wanna cum, angel?” he asks quietly.
You nod immediately, too fast, too desperate.
“Beg for it,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “Beg me to let you.”
The words surprise even him. You see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly after he says it — like he’s discovering this side of himself in real time.
Your sweet, patient boyfriend.
Unlocking something sharper. When you hesitate, unsure how far he wants you to go, he leans down and takes one of your nipples gently between his lips. The sudden sensation pulls a broken sound from you.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns softly, not harsh — just firm. You glance down at him, breath uneven. His words should make you flustered, should make you shy away. Instead, they make the heat surge stronger.
“C-Can I please cum?” you whisper. He hums thoughtfully, shifting his attention slowly to give the other side an equal amount of attention, refusing to rush.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, princess.”
Your body writhes helplessly, his slow pace inside you becoming unbearable. “Please, Izu,” you gasp. “I’m begging you. I need it. I need to— please… can I?” The desperation in your voice is real now. Honest. Raw. And that finally seems to satisfy him. He presses a kiss to your forehead — unexpectedly tender — before adding another finger, increasing the rhythm just slightly. “Of course, angel.”
The warmth in your stomach flares, spreading outward, your body tightening with each steady movement. You’re so close — so painfully close — but you still can’t quite reach it. You were squirming and struggling so much. You couldn't focus. You’re squirming, struggling against the holds, needing something more. Something grounding. He notices the frustration in your face and he had to admit he secretly enjoyed it. The way your brows pinch. The way your breath turns sharp.
But he softens.
Just enough. He presses a trail of kisses down your body again, returning to where you need him most — but this time, as he does, the dark tendrils loosen. Releasing you from Blackwhip. Your arms drop free. Your body instantly folds toward him, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The contact sends a wave of relief through you — the missing piece finally restored.
Yes.
This.
You needed this.
"I-Izuku...I—"
“Go ahead,” he murmurs against you. “Cum for me.”
That’s all it takes.
The tension snaps, your body finally tipping over the edge you’d been clinging to. You cling to him as it rolls through you, breathless and shaking, his name breaking apart on your lips. Your orgasm leaks out of you onto Izuku's fingers and into his mouth. He stays with you through it — steady, attentive — letting you ride it out without rushing you.
Only when your body starts to soften does he ease back, fingers sliding free gently. “You did so good,” he whispers, climbing up beside you.
The intensity fades into something warmer now.
He gathers you against his chest, pressing slow kisses along your shoulder, your neck, your arms. His hand rubs soothing circles along your back, grounding you completely. The darker edge is gone. What’s left is your Izuku again. You laugh softly, still catching your breath.
“I think we should use Blackwhip again.”
He huffs a quiet laugh against your hair.
“Definitely.”
And the way his arm tightens around you says he’s already thinking about next time.
He shifts slightly to pull the blanket over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like you might drift away if he doesn’t hold you close enough. His thumb moves in slow circles over your hip, soothing, affectionate. “You did so good,” he repeats quietly, but this time there’s no tease in it — just pride, just care. You feel him relax fully beneath you, the last of that tension dissolving as he presses his forehead to yours.
“Next time,” he whispers thoughtfully, brushing his nose gently against yours, “I’ll make you wait even longer.”
There’s no edge to it now. Just warmth. Just a promise.
And the way his arm tightens around you says he’s not going anywhere — not tonight, not next time, not ever.
Synopsis: izuku doesnt like to share you
Warning: heavily suggestive content towards to end, protective!izuku, fem!reader, flirting, established relationship
WC: 2304
The party had started easily enough.
Soft lighting. Music low but present. Too many heroes in one apartment, shoes kicked near the door, jackets thrown over chairs like no one there worried about public image.
Izuku had introduced you the way he always did.
Not as an accessory.
Not as a secret.
Just with quiet pride.
“This is her.”
And when someone teased, “Midoriya finally bringing someone around, huh?” he didn’t laugh it off.
He’d simply looked at you.
“Yes.”
The way he said it had made heat rise to your cheeks.
He stayed near you at first, hand resting at your lower back, thumb brushing idle circles when conversations shifted too quickly or voices got too loud.
He never hovered.
He anchored.
And you loved that about him.
But as the night wore on, the conversations drifted into more tactical territory. Agency budgets. Patrol rotations. New interns. Hero licensing reforms.
You didn’t want to cling to his sleeve while he talked shop.
So when he got pulled into a deeper discussion near the balcony, you slipped quietly toward the kitchen.
Water.
Just water.
You didn’t notice him glance after you.
You didn’t notice how his gaze tracked you automatically until you were out of his direct line of sight.
You only noticed when someone spoke beside you.
“Hey.”
You turned.
It took a second to recognize him — one of the newer sidekicks from Izuku’s extended agency network. You’d been introduced earlier, but only briefly.
“You’re Midoriya’s girlfriend, right?”
“Yes,” you said softly.
He leaned against the counter casually. “Didn’t expect him to date someone so… civilian.”
The wording made you pause.
“That’s not an insult,” he added quickly. “It’s just — most pros date other pros. Easier that way.”
“Oh.”
He studied you for a moment.
“You don’t seem like you’d enjoy parties like this.”
“I don’t mind them.”
“You look like you mind.”
You gave a small, polite smile.
“I’m fine.”
He stepped slightly closer, voice lowering.
“You know, people talk about him like he’s untouchable.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass.
“What do you mean?”
“Like he’s too disciplined. Too composed. Doesn’t slip up.”
You didn’t respond.
The sidekick’s gaze lingered a second too long.
“I’m surprised he leaves you alone in a room like this.”
You shifted subtly.
“I’m not alone.”
“He’s across the apartment.”
“That’s not the same as alone.”
He laughed softly.
“You’re loyal.”
The tone was different now.
Less teasing.
More probing.
“I just know where I stand,” you replied.
“And where’s that?”
You didn’t like the way he asked that.
Before you could answer, he leaned slightly closer.
“Does he get jealous?”
The question landed heavier this time.
“No.”
“Really?”
His eyes flicked toward the living room.
“Because if I were him, I wouldn’t let anyone stand this close to you.”
Your pulse jumped.
“I think you should step back.”
The words came out softer than you intended.
He didn’t move.
Instead, he tilted his head.
“You don’t sound very sure.”
That was the moment Izuku saw it.
Across the room, mid-sentence, he noticed your posture change.
Shoulders tightening.
Chin dipping.
The polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
He didn’t react immediately.
He watched.
Measured.
But when the sidekick’s hand came to rest on the counter beside yours — close enough to box you in slightly — and his hand gliding to your waist,
Izuku moved.
He crossed the room without rushing.
Without calling attention.
He stopped directly behind you.
Close enough that you felt him before you saw him.
His hand settled at your waist.
Firm.
Claiming space.
“She asked you to step back.”
His voice was calm.
Level.
The sidekick stiffened.
“Oh. Midoriya. We were just talking.”
Izuku’s thumb pressed slightly into your side.
“I heard.”
The sidekick smiled awkwardly. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I’m sure.”
The words were polite.
But there was steel beneath them.
Silence stretched.
Then the sidekick tried to laugh it off.
“Relax. I wasn’t going to steal her.”
Izuku’s jaw tightened.
“I wasn't worried”
The room didn’t notice.
But the air between the three of you changed.
The sidekick held Izuku’s gaze for a second too long.
Testing.
“You’re pretty territorial for someone so composed.”
Izuku didn’t blink.
“I don’t share.”
The words weren’t loud.
They weren’t angry.
They were fact.
The sidekick swallowed.
And stepped back.
“Right. Message received.”
He left.
Izuku didn’t look away from you immediately.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You told him to step back.”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t.”
A beat.
“No.”
His hand slid from your waist to lace with your fingers.
“Then I step in.”
The car door shuts with a heavier sound than it needs to.
Izuku doesn’t slam it. He doesn’t lose control like that. But the way he grips the steering wheel once he’s seated tells you everything you need to know.
The engine hums to life.
Silence stretches between you — not uncomfortable, but thick. Charged.
He doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are broader than usual somehow, like he’s still standing between you and that guy at the party.
You fold your hands in your lap.
“I didn’t encourage him,” you say softly.
“I know.”
Immediate. Firm.
That’s not what this is.
A red light stops the car. The glow paints his face in crimson. He finally looks at you then, and there’s something sharp in his eyes — not insecurity, not doubt.
Claim.
“He touched you"
It’s not a question.
Your breath catches slightly. “I moved away.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
The light turns green. He drives again, but his movements are deliberate now. Controlled. Every shift of the wheel precise.
“He leaned in too close,” Izuku continues quietly. “And he didn’t back off when you asked him to.”
You swallow. “You handled it.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
“I wanted to handle it worse.”
That makes your stomach flip.
He exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s recalibrating himself.
“I don’t share,” he says finally.
It’s calm. Almost too calm.
Your fingers twist together. “I’m not something to share.”
“I know that,” he says immediately. His voice softens just a fraction — not gentler, just lower. “That’s the point.”
Another red light.
This time he doesn’t look away.
“I don’t like other people thinking they get to try.”
There’s no jealousy in it. No fear.
Just possession. Just certainty.
Your heart pounds a little faster.
“He was looking at you like he thought he could have his way with you.”
A small, almost incredulous huff leaves him. “That’s not how this works.”
You shift in your seat, heat rising under your skin. “You didn’t seem very calm back there.”
“I wasn’t.”
The admission sits heavy between you.
His thumb taps once against the steering wheel, then stills.
“I’m trying to be.”
“For me?”
His eyes flick to you again, something dark flickering there.
“For both of us.”
The air inside the car feels warmer now. Thicker. You can feel the restraint rolling off him in waves — the careful, deliberate containment of someone who could have snapped and didn’t.
Not because he couldn’t.
Because he chose not to.
Your voice is barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
His lips press together.
“I know.”
A beat.
The car finally turns onto your street. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, shadows sliding over his face.
He parks. Turns the engine off.
The silence afterward is louder than the drive itself.
He doesn’t move immediately.
Then — slowly — he unbuckles his seatbelt.
When he looks at you this time, it’s steady. Focused.
“I’m done being polite.”
And the way he says it makes your pulse stutter in anticipation.
The hallway outside your apartment is quiet when you step out of the elevator.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes every sound sharper — the click of Izuku’s shoes against tile, the soft rustle of your sleeve as you adjust your bag on your shoulder.
He walks slightly ahead at first.
Not rushing.
But purposeful.
You watch the way his shoulders are still set, how his hands are flexing faintly at his sides like he hasn’t fully come down from the adrenaline yet.
When you reach your door, you pull your keys out, but your fingers fumble slightly.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His hand closes gently over yours — not grabbing, just steadying.
“I’ve got it.”
His voice is lower now. Still tight, but not sharp.
He takes the keys carefully and unlocks the door.
The second you’re inside, the world shifts.
No music. No voices. No watchful eyes.
Just you.
And him.
He shuts the door behind you, and the click of the lock sliding into place feels louder than it should.
You barely get two steps into the entryway before you feel his presence behind you — close enough that your back brushes lightly against his chest.
He doesn’t trap you yet.
He just stands there.
Breathing.
You can feel the rise and fall of his chest. Slightly uneven.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
The question surprises you.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
You turn halfway to face him. His expression is different now — still intense, but less edged. More searching.
“I’m fine,” you say again. "I should be asking if you okay,"
His eyes scan your face like he’s checking for something you might not be saying.
“I just didn’t like that,” he admits.
“I know.”
“He kept testing the line.”
His jaw tightens again at the memory, but this time he exhales through it.
“I can understand if someone flirts with you. It's bound to happen no matter what.” His hand slides to your waist slowly, fingers resting there like he needs the contact. “But when someone tried to touch you…”
He trails off.
You feel it then — not anger.
Protectiveness.
“He ignored you,” Izuku finishes.
Your heart softens just slightly.
“I handled it.”
“You shouldn’t have had to handle it alone.”
His forehead dips forward until it nearly rests against yours, but he stops just shy.
“I was across the room,” he says, quieter now. “And I could see it.”
“See what?”
“That he thought he could get away with it.”
The hand at your waist tightens just a fraction.
“I don’t like people thinking they get chances with you.”
It isn’t possessive in a cruel way.
It’s resolute.
Steady.
Like he’s stating a boundary the world needs to respect.
Your fingers lift slowly, sliding up his chest until they curl lightly in the fabric near his collar.
“I chose you,” you murmur.
His breath hitches.
“I know.”
“And it'll always be you, Izu...”
His eyes close for a brief second, like that sentence hits somewhere deep.
When they open again, the sharp edge has dulled.
He’s calmer now.
Still intense.
But grounded.
His thumb brushes slowly over your hip.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says quietly.
“I didn’t think you were.”
A faint, almost sheepish breath leaves him.
“I almost lost it.”
“You didn’t.”
He nods once.
Because that matters.
For a few seconds, neither of you moves.
The tension shifts — not disappearing, but changing shape. Less volatile. More intimate.
His hand slides from your waist up to your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone.
“You deserve to feel comfortable,” he says softly. “Anywhere.”
There’s something gentler in his tone now.
Protective, not territorial.
“You don’t need me hovering. But I’ll always step in if you need it.”
Your pulse slows just slightly at that.
“You don’t scare me when you get like that,” you admit.
His gaze sharpens again — but not harshly.
“No?”
“No.”
You step closer.
His breath deepens.
“You scare everyone else,” you add quietly.
A faint smirk touches his mouth.
“Good.”
The word isn’t cruel.
It’s protective.
His forehead finally rests against yours.
And for a moment, the intensity gives way to something softer — something warm.
“I don’t like the idea of someone thinking they can push past you,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t have to raise your voice to be heard.”
Your fingers slide into his hair.
“You’re very intense when you’re protective.”
“I know.”
There’s no apology in it.
But there’s affection now.
His hands settle at your hips, drawing you just a little closer — not pinning, not trapping.
Just grounding.
“Next time,” he says quietly, “I’ll be closer.”
Your heart flutters.
“Planning ahead?”
“Always.”
And when he finally leans in to kiss you, it isn’t sharp or claiming at first.
It’s slow.
Intentional.
Like he’s reminding himself — and you — that he’s here.
That you’re safe.
That no one else gets access.
The tension doesn’t disappear.
It deepens.
And when his grip tightens just slightly, when his breath grows heavier against your lips, you know the edge isn’t gone.
Your heart raced.
His mouth moved down to your jaw. You neck. Your collarbone.
Your breath hitched, and your hands slid into his hair.
He exhaled sharply against your skin.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
A faint huff of breath left him.
His fingers intertwined with yours.
"I love you angel."
His grip on you got harder as you tensed from his words. You were already melting, and he loved it.
He stepped back from you, just enough to guide you down the hallway.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
You didn’t.
One step.
Another.
Your back brushed the bedroom doorframe.
He paused there.
Breathing heavier now.
Eyes darker.
Still checking.
Always checking.
“Last chance,” he murmured.
You stepped backward into the room.
Pulled him with you. Your face burning.
The door shut behind you with a soft click.
And his voice, low and steady in the dim light, brushed your ear.
Any headcanons for Midoriya with a cynical vigilante reader?
Synopsis: Izuku falls for a vigilante
Warnings: Timeskip, Grumpy!Reader (Kinda), Confessions
Midoriya finds out about you by accident.
Not through the news. Not through police reports.
Through pattern recognition.
There’s a vigilante operating three districts over — efficient, quiet, strategic. You avoid casualties. Avoid publicity. You disappear before cameras can catch more than a blur.
But you leave outcomes.
Villains subdued with minimal force. Civilians escorted safely. Property damage lower than most licensed heroes.
Midoriya notices.
Of course he does.
He starts tracking your movements in a notebook. Not to arrest you — not at first. Just… studying.
You’re careful. Calculated.
And angry.
He can tell.
The first time he corners you, it isn’t dramatic.
It’s raining.
You’re standing on a rooftop, blood on your sleeve that definitely isn’t yours.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you say without turning around.
“I could say the same to you,” Midoriya replies, landing lightly a few feet behind you.
You glance over your shoulder.
Green costume. Steady stance. Too-bright eyes.
“Symbol of Peace doing patrol this far out?” you ask flatly.
“I go where I’m needed.”
You snort softly. “That’s optimistic.”
He notices the way you say it. Not mocking. Just… tired.
“You saved twelve people tonight,” he says instead.
You stiffen slightly. “So?”
“So you don’t have to do it alone.”
That makes you laugh.
It’s not a nice sound.
“Alone is the point.”
You’ve never liked heroes.
Not personally. Conceptually.
Licensing. Sponsorships. Rankings. Smiles for cameras while neighborhoods rot.
You’ve seen heroes show up late.
You’ve seen them choose optics over outcomes.
So you stopped waiting.
Midoriya confuses you.
He doesn’t lecture you.
Doesn’t threaten arrest.
Doesn’t even try to fight you.
He just… keeps showing up.
If you intervene in a situation, he adapts around you instead of against you. Covers blind spots. Shields civilians while you handle the aggressor.
It’s infuriating.
“You’re making this harder,” you tell him one night, breath fogging in the cold.
“For who?” he asks gently.
“For me.”
He studies you like you’re a problem he wants to solve — not eliminate.
“You don’t trust the system,” he says carefully.
“No.”
“You don’t trust heroes.”
“Correct.”
He nods slowly.
“Do you trust me?”
You don’t answer.
You get hurt two weeks later.
Bad timing. Bad intel.
By the time Midoriya arrives, you’re still standing — barely — but your arm is hanging wrong and there’s blood on the pavement.
His stomach drops.
You try to wave him off. “Don’t— don’t make it a thing.”
But he’s already there.
Gentler than you expect.
His hands hover before settling carefully at your shoulders. Not restraining. Grounding.
“You need medical attention,” he says, voice steady but tight.
“I’ll manage.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
You glare at him.
He doesn’t look away.
For once, there’s no idealistic speech. No bright declaration.
Just quiet conviction.
“Let someone help you.”
The words hit harder than they should.
You’ve built yourself around the idea that needing help is weakness. That working outside the system means carrying everything alone.
Midoriya doesn’t argue your cynicism.
He just refuses to let it isolate you.
You let him take you to a safe contact instead of a hospital.
It’s the first compromise.
After that, things shift.
You still operate independently.
Still refuse a provisional license.
Still think the hero industry is flawed.
But you stop disappearing when he shows up.
You argue with him about reform instead of dismissing him outright.
You tell him stories — quiet ones — about why you stopped believing.
He listens.
Not to correct you.
To understand.
And slowly, infuriatingly, you start believing that maybe he’s not naive.
Maybe he’s stubborn.
Maybe optimism isn’t ignorance.
Maybe it’s a choice.
One night, sitting on a fire escape after a joint operation that absolutely was not planned, you say:
“You really think this system can change?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looks at you like it’s obvious.
“Because people like you care enough to fight it.”
You look away before he can see the way that lands.
You’re still cynical.
Still sharp-edged.
Still not fully convinced.
But when he reaches out — slow, giving you every opportunity to pull back — and rests his hand lightly over yours…
You don’t move away.
Maybe you don’t believe in heroes.
But you might believe in him.
And for now?
That’s enough.
It doesn’t change overnight.
You don’t suddenly trust the Hero Commission.
You don’t start smiling for cameras.
You definitely don’t register for a license.
But you start answering his texts.
That’s new.
At first it’s tactical.
Patrolling south tonight. Increased activity near 5th.Got intel on a trafficking ring — sending location.You’re bleeding. Don’t argue. I’m coming.
He starts keeping pace with you instead of chasing you.
If you’re already on scene, he adjusts around you seamlessly. Covers exits you’d normally handle alone. Times his strikes with yours like you’ve trained together for years.
You hate how well you work together.
You hate it more that you look for him now.
There’s a split second, every patrol, where you scan rooftops unconsciously.
Just in case.
The first time the public captures you clearly on camera, it’s because you hesitate.
A villain goes for a civilian.
You move.
So does he.
You collide midair — not painfully, just close enough that his arm wraps around your waist to steady you.
Too close.
For too long.
The cameras eat it up.
By morning there are headlines speculating about “Deku’s Shadow Partner.”
You’re furious.
He’s embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he tells you, meeting you on your usual rooftop.
“I don’t want to be a headline.”
“I know.”
You pace.
“This is why I don’t— this is exactly why I don’t—”
“Then don’t be,” he interrupts gently.
You stop.
“I’m not asking you to step into the light,” he says. “I just… don’t want you to disappear because of it.”
You stare at him.
“You care way too much,” you mutter.
He smiles faintly. “Yeah. I do.”
That’s when it hits you.
He’s not trying to fix you.
He’s not trying to recruit you.
He’s not trying to win an argument.
He just wants you safe.
And around.
It gets quieter after that.
Less rooftop debates. More shared silences.
Sometimes you sit with your shoulders brushing while watching the city breathe below you.
Sometimes he brings you food because you forget to eat.
Sometimes you show up at his agency after hours just to drop off intel — and stay longer than necessary.
The first time he falls asleep sitting next to you on a rooftop, head tipped slightly toward yours, you freeze.
He looks younger like this.
Less symbol. More boy.
You don’t move.
You let your shoulder take the weight.
When he wakes up, flustered and apologizing, you just say:
“You’re heavy.”
He laughs softly.
You don’t mention that you didn’t mind.
The confession isn’t dramatic.
No rain. No explosions. No near-death moment.
It’s late. Quiet. The city glowing below.
You’re both sitting on the edge of a building, boots dangling.
“You know,” he says carefully, “we’ve been doing this for months.”
“Doing what?”
“This.”
You glance at him. “Illegal cooperation?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I meant… us.”
The word hangs.
You don’t joke this time.
“…Yeah.”
He fidgets slightly with his glove. Not shy. Just nervous.
“I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” he says. “And I know you don’t like labels. Or publicity. Or—”
“Midoriya.”
He stops.
You don’t look at him when you speak.
“If we were just partners, you wouldn’t look at me like that.”
Silence.
“…Like what?” he asks quietly.
“Like you’re waiting for me to decide something.”
His breath catches slightly.
You finally turn toward him.
You’re not good at this part. The soft part. The vulnerable part.
“I don’t believe in hero rankings,” you say slowly. “Or the system. Or most institutions.”
A pause.
“But I believe in you.”
His eyes widen just slightly.
“And I’m tired of pretending this isn’t more than patrol routes and shared intel.”
There it is.
Raw. Uneven. Honest.
He exhales shakily, relief washing over his features.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
He smiles — not the bright public one. The quiet one. The real one.
“I’ve liked you for a while,” he admits. “I just didn’t want to push you away.”
“You’re annoyingly patient.”
“I know.”
You study him for another second.
Then, before you can overthink it, you lean forward and kiss him.
It’s not rushed.
Not desperate.
Just certain.
His hand comes up automatically, resting at your waist — steady, grounding, like it always does.
When you pull back, he’s smiling like he just won something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
“So,” he says, a little breathless. “Are we…?”
You roll your eyes lightly.
“We’re not telling the press.”
“Obviously.”
“And I’m not wearing coordinated costumes.”
He laughs.
“Okay.”
You hesitate — then lace your fingers with his.
“For the record,” you add, staring out at the city instead of him, “I still think the system’s broken.”
He squeezes your hand gently.
“Good,” he says. “Then we’ll fix it.”
You don’t correct him this time.
You just stay there — hand in hand — watching over a city neither of you are willing to give up on.
It’s like his nervous system is permanently set to high sensitivity. Every brush of skin is amplified. Every casual bump feels intentional. Every bit of warmth sinks in too deep, too fast.
And unfortunately for him—
You are the most affectionate person alive.
You hug when you’re happy.
You hug when you’re sad.
You link arms when you walk.
You sit too close.
You rest your chin on his shoulder when he’s muttering in his notebook.
You grab his hand mid-sentence because you like the way his fingers twitch in surprise.
The first week you started dating, he nearly passed out.
The first time you randomly sit in his lap in the common room, he freezes.
One second he’s mid-sentence, rambling to himself about a training exercise.
The next—
You’re straddling his thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He stops talking immediately.
Like someone hit pause.
His entire body goes rigid. Not subtle. Not smooth. Just completely locked up.
“—and then if Todoroki adjusted the ice output by—”
Silence.
You blink at him. “Um...Izu?”
His hands are hovering uselessly in the air, unsure where they’re supposed to land. His face is turning red by the second.
“I— you— I mean— hi,” he manages.
You grin. “Hi.”
You shift slightly to get comfortable.
Oh.
His breath catches so sharply it’s almost a squeak.
“S-sorry—!” he blurts, like he’s the one who did something wrong.
You tilt your head. “Why are you apologizing?”
“I’m not— I just— this is—” His hands finally land on your waist, but they’re stiff. Careful. Like he’s afraid to hold you wrong.
You giggle. Planting a kiss on his cheek.
He swallows.
Very audibly.
His heart is pounding so hard he’s convinced you can feel it through his shirt. His palms are warm against your hips. He doesn’t know where to look. Your face? Your shoulder? Literally anywhere else?
“You’re really red,” you say, way too amused.
"...You cant just do that" he breathes
"Why?"
Because he can feel everything.
The warmth of your thighs. The weight of you. The way your fingers trace absent circles at the nape of his neck.
It’s not overwhelming in a bad way.
It’s just a lot.
“You don’t want me here?” You ask when he doesn't reply
His head snaps up instantly.
“No! I do! I just—”
His grip tightens for half a second before he realizes and loosens it again.
"I just...want you to stay." He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth and hides face in your neck, making you smrik.
“You’re really tense Izu...,” you murmur, brushing your nose lightly against his cheek.
“I’m trying not to be,” he admits.
His hands grip harder on your waist.
Careful at first.
Then a little firmer.
Your lips hover near his ear. “Am I distracting you?”
“Yes,” he says immediately.
You smile against his skin.
“Good.”
He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, but when you shift again — deliberately this time — his grip tightens before he can stop it.
“Hey,” you whisper, noticing. “You okay?”
He nods, swallowing.
“I’m fine,” he says, but his voice is lower now. Rougher. “You just don’t make this easy.”
You lean back just enough to look at him.
His freckles are nearly hidden under the flush spreading across his face. His eyes are dark — not shy, just very aware.
“You sure you don't want me to move?” you ask softly.
His fingers press into your hips in answer.
“Yes.”
The word comes out quiet. Certain.
You hum thoughtfully and drag your thumb along his collarbone.
His breathing changes again.
“You’re really warm,” you tease.
“You’re sitting on me.”
“And?”
He lets out a shaky laugh.
“And you know exactly what you’re doing.”
You tilt your head, pretending to think.
“Maybe.”
He studies you for a second, then pulls you closer — not rough, but decisive. One hand firm at your lower back.
If you’re going to play like this, he’s not going to be completely defenseless.
