Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The faint, familiar buzz of her telepathic quirk was the first thing Izuku Midoriya felt as he rounded the final corner to her apartment building. It wasn't an intrusion, never with her. It was more like a gentle hum against his mind, a soft, welcoming presence that told him she was home, she was safe, and she was waiting. It was the only signal that could instantly soothe the tension in his shoulders, a tension that had become a permanent resident since the day the official rankings had declared him the new Number One Hero.

He kept the hood of his civilian sweatshirt pulled low, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, and a disposable face mask covering the constellation of his freckles( his own merch of his mask). It was a flimsy disguise, one not even a determined reporter could see through, but it was great to get him through the quiet residential streets of Musutafu without causing a scene. In the few months since he’d started making this trip, he’d learned the routes with the fewest cameras and the quietest back alleys. The world knew Deku, the smiling Symbol of Peace. Only a select few knew Izuku, and he guarded that privacy.

He slipped into the building and took the stairs quietly with no foot sounds, his heart thumping with a rhythm that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with anticipation. He didn't knock. He used the key she’d given him a month ago—an act of trust that had made his breath catch in his throat—and let himself in.

The apartment was warm and smelled of ginger tea and something uniquely Shino . He locked the door behind him, the soft click of the deadbolt an exhale of relief. He was safe here. He could stop being Deku for a few hours.

“You’re late,” a gentle voice chided from the living room.

Shino Sosaki was curled on the sofa, clad in a simple grey t-shirt and comfortable lounge pants, a book resting in her lap. Her signature cat-ear headgear was nowhere in sight, and her dark hair was tied back in a loose, messy bun. To Izuku, she had never looked more beautiful. The sight of her, so calm and domestic, was a balm on his hero-battered soul.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice raspy. He pulled off the mask and glasses, dropping his keys into the small bowl by the door. “There was a last-minute pile-up on the expressway. Nothing major, but the paperwork was a nightmare.”

She marked her page and set the book aside, her gaze soft and knowing. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Izuku.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Come here. You look like you’ve been fighting too much.”

He had been. Every day felt like a new battle. He collapsed onto the sofa next to her, his body boneless with exhaustion. He let his head fall onto her shoulder, inhaling her scent and letting the quiet hum of her presence wash over him. She didn't say anything, just wrapped an arm around him, her fingers gently tracing patterns on his back. They sat like that for a long time, the only sounds the ticking of a clock and their own synchronized breathing. In these moments, the ten-year age gap between them felt less like a chasm and more like a bridge. She was his anchor in the storm of his new life.

“I saw the news today,” she murmured after a while, her voice a low vibration against his ear. “That ridiculous gossip segment.”

Izuku stiffened. He knew exactly what she was talking about. “Number One Hero Deku: Still Single? We Investigate the Potential Women in the Symbol of Peace’s Life!” They had flashed pictures of Ochaco, Melissa Shield, even a few female pros he’d teamed up with once or twice. The speculation had been invasive and utterly baseless.

“It is so stupid,” he mumbled into her shoulder. “They have nothing better to do.”

“They’re curious,” Shino corrected gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were full of a deep, unwavering understanding that still humbled him. “You’re the most famous man in the country. People want to know who you go home to. And they’d never in a million years guess it was me.”

There it was. The insecurity that she so rarely let show, the one he hated more than any villain. The idea that their relationship was something to be hidden, not just for his privacy, but because she felt she wasn't… enough. A retired hero, a single mother figure to her nephew, a woman a decade his senior.

He sat up fully, turning to face her. He took her hands in his, his calloused fingers wrapping around her smoother, delicate ones.

“Hey. Don’t ever say that,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “They wouldn’t guess because we’ve been careful. Because this— us —is the one thing that’s just mine. Not Deku’s. Mine. And yours. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.” He saw the doubt still lingering in her eyes and leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “Shino. I go home to you . That’s all that matters.”

Her quirk gave him a soft mental nudge, a wave of pure affection and relief that was more intimate than any kiss. A small, genuine smile finally graced her lips. “Okay, hero. I hear you.”

The air between them shifted. The exhaustion and the outside world melted away, replaced by a simmering heat that was uniquely theirs. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he didn’t wait for another invitation. He closed the small distance between them, his kiss gentle at first, a question and a reassurance all in one.

She responded instantly, her hands coming up to cup his jaw, her fingers tangling in the soft green curls at the nape of his neck. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more desperate. It was a kiss that spoke of missed touches, of stolen moments, of the deep-seated need to reaffirm that this was real. He tasted the ginger from her tea and the raw, undiluted essence of her.

Izuku’s hands began to roam, one sliding down her back to rest possessively on the curve of her hip, pulling her flush against him. The other tangled in her hair, dislodging the tie and letting the dark strands spill over his fingers. He groaned into her mouth, a low, guttural sound of pure want. The sofa suddenly felt too restrictive, too public.

Breaking the kiss with a gasp, he looked down at her, his emerald eyes dark with a passion that still made her breath hitch. He wasn't the earnest, slightly awkward boy she had first met at the training camp all those years ago. This was a man, forged in fire and responsibility, who knew exactly what he wanted. And right now, he wanted her.

“Bedroom,” he rasped, his voice thick.

Shino didn’t need words. She simply nodded, a silent command and surrender all at once.

He stood, pulling her up with him effortlessly. He didn’t let her go, instead sweeping her into his arms. She let out a surprised squeak, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“Izuku! I can walk!” she laughed, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.

“I know,” he said, his lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck, making her shiver. “But I’ve been wanting to do this all day.”

He carried her into the bedroom, the familiar space lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the window. He laid her down gently on the bed, her dark hair fanning out against the white pillows like a halo. For a moment, he just looked at her, memorizing the way the shadows played across her face, the way her eyes shone with an intoxicating mix of love and lust.

He began to undress, his movements economical and sure. The civilian clothes came off, revealing the scarred, powerful body of the Number One Hero. Her eyes traced every line of him—the latticework of old scars that told the story of his journey, the corded muscles of his arms and chest, the faint, shimmering green lines of One For All that sometimes appeared when his emotions ran high.

Then it was her turn. He moved with a tender reverence, his fingers unbuttoning, unzipping, sliding fabric over skin. He worshipped her with his hands and his eyes, his touch both a question and a declaration. He made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, erasing every doubt, every insecurity.

When they were finally skin to skin, the world outside ceased to exist entirely. There was no Deku, no Mandalay. Only Izuku and Shino. His mouth found hers again as he settled between her legs, the kiss swallowing any words they might have had left. This was their true language. It was in the slide of skin against skin, the hitch of their breaths, the desperate grip of their hands.

He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust to the feel of him, his eyes locked on hers, gauging her reaction. Her name was a prayer on his lips, a mantra. He watched as pure pleasure washed over her features, and the sight was his undoing. His control snapped. His movements became deeper, faster, a frantic rhythm that was both giving and taking.

Shino met his every thrust, her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his back. Through their bond, she could feel the torrent of his emotions—his love, his relief, his fierce protectiveness, and the overwhelming release of shedding the weight of the world and finding solace in her. She opened her mind completely, letting her own feelings rush back at him—her adoration, her pride, the quiet, steady strength of her love that had been his safe harbor.

It was a complete and total union of body, heart, and mind. The climax, when it came, was a cataclysm. It ripped through both of them at the same instant, a shared, blinding wave of sensation that left them breathless and trembling in its wake. Izuku collapsed against her, his forehead resting in the crook of her neck, his body shuddering with the aftershocks.

For a long time, they just lay there, tangled in the sheets and in each other, their hearts gradually returning to a normal rhythm. He shifted his weight off her, pulling her close so her back was pressed against his chest, his arm a heavy, comforting weight around her waist.

“I love you, Shino,” he whispered into her hair, the words raw and honest in the quiet of the room.

She smiled, a sleepy, contented expression on her face. She reached up and placed her hand over his. “I know,” she whispered back. “I love you, too, Izuku.”

He held her tighter, his face buried in her hair, breathing her in. The world could have its gossip. The media could have its speculation. They could have Deku. But here, in the quiet moments, in the safety of her arms, he was just Izuku. And that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

The two thin, pink lines were unwavering. A declaration. A verdict.

Rumi Usagiyama, the Rabbit Hero: Miruko, stood perfectly still in her starkly minimalist bathroom, staring at the small plastic stick on the marble countertop. Her heart, a powerful engine that had carried her through a thousand life-or-death battles, was hammering against her ribs with a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm. It was a rhythm of panic. A cornered animal’s terror.

Everything in her life was a weapon, an asset, or an obstacle. She was a finely-honed instrument of combat, her body a testament to brutal discipline and an unyielding will. She didn’t do soft. She didn’t do vulnerable. And she certainly didn’t do… this.

Her mind, against her will, flashed back. Not to a battle, but to the cause.

Three weeks ago. The intoxicating, metallic scent of blood—hers and the villain’s—still lingered in her nostrils. Adrenaline sang a high-pitched symphony in her veins. They had won. It had been a close thing, a city block leveled in the process, but the oversized brute was now securely in Tartarus’s deepest hole. She and Deku had moved as one, a whirlwind of green lightning and pure white fury. He’d created the opening, and she’d taken the final, bone-shattering kick.

Later, in the private medical wing of his agency, they’d been patched up. The lingering energy of the fight still crackled between them, a current too strong to ignore. He’d dismissed the medics, his eyes, usually so bright and earnest, dark with an emotion that mirrored the feral energy thrumming under her own skin.

“You were reckless, Rumi,” he’d murmured, his voice a low growl as he dabbed a disinfectant wipe on a gash on her arm. His touch was meant to be clinical, but it burned her skin.

She’d scoffed, snatching the wipe from him. “Look who’s talking. You broke three ribs and an arm pulling that stunt.” She’d leaned in close, her voice dropping. “But it worked, didn’t it, Number One?”

The space between them vanished. The sterile room filled with a primal, dangerous heat. His hands found her waist, pulling her from the medical bed and flush against his body. He was bigger than her, solid muscle forged from years of impossible strain, but she met his strength with her own, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging in.

“It worked,” he agreed, his mouth crashing down on hers. It wasn’t a kiss of tenderness; it was a collision. A desperate, hungry claiming. They were two predators who recognized the same wildness in each other. He tasted of sweat, mint, and victory. She bit his lip, drawing a drop of blood, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through her entire body.

Their clothes were a hindrance, torn away with frantic hands. He slammed her back against the cold, sterile wall, lifting her legs to wrap around his waist. There was no gentle preamble, no soft words. There was only the raw, urgent need to consume and be consumed. He drove into her with a single, powerful thrust, the force of it stealing the air from her lungs. She arched her back, meeting his rhythm, her body screaming with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. It was a battle, a dance of dominance and surrender. His thrusts were punishing, relentless, and she clawed at the scarred landscape of his back, urging him on, deeper, harder, faster. This was where they made sense—in the beautiful, brutal violence of passion, where every risk was worth the reward. They were both addicted to the edge, and in this, they were perfect equals. The climax tore through them both, a shared, ragged scream of release that was swallowed by the soundproof walls of the medical bay. Utterly careless. Utterly perfect.

A loud car horn from the street below snapped Rumi back to the present. The memory faded, leaving only the cold reality of the two pink lines on the plastic stick. Careless. The word echoed in her mind, now an accusation.

She snatched the test and hurled it against the opposite wall, where it clattered into the trash bin. A surge of pure rage, hot and familiar, flooded her. She was Miruko. She survived bomb blasts and disintegration quirks. She was not going to be taken down by a microscopic bundle of cells. She would deal with it. Alone. Just like she dealt with everything.

Her resolve lasted for exactly one week. A week of ignoring his calls, deleting his texts, and throwing herself into her hero work with a suicidal ferocity that even her colleagues like Ryuku and Mt. Lady found alarming. She fought, she trained, she ran until her lungs burned and her prosthetic leg ached, trying to outrun the secret growing inside her. But every morning, a wave of nausea would remind her. Every night, a profound, bone-deep exhaustion would claim her. Her body was no longer entirely her own.

She was watching the news, morosely stabbing at a salad she had no appetite for, when his face filled the screen. Deku, the Number One Hero, is saving a group of children from a collapsed bridge. He was bruised, his uniform torn, but he was smiling that brilliant, reassuring smile, a child tucked safely under each arm. And in that moment, Rumi’s fury finally broke, and something terrifyingly fragile cracked through the surface.

The smile that saved the world was the smile of the man whose child she was carrying. The weight of that thought was suffocating.

A sharp, insistent knock on her apartment door made her jump, her fork clattering onto her plate. She knew who it was before her enhanced hearing picked up the sound of his distinctive, slightly uneven breathing.

She didn't move. Maybe he would go away.

Knock, knock, knock. “Rumi? It’s me. I know you’re in there. Please, just… talk to me. Are you hurt?”

His voice was thick with a worry so genuine it made her ache. She cursed under her breath. Of course, he was worried. She’d ghosted him for a week after their last near-death battle. He thought she was injured. The truth was so much more complicated.

Dragging herself to the door, she unlocked it and pulled it open just enough to peer out. He looked worse than he did on the news. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was even more unruly than usual. He was wearing civilian clothes, but he radiated the tense energy of a hero on high alert.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice flat. “Just busy.”

He didn't buy it for a second. He gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, his concerned green eyes scanning her from head to toe. “No, you’re not. You’re pale. And you’ve been ignoring me. Did something happen? Did someone threaten you?”

“No one can threaten me, Izuku,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not a damsel.”

“I know that!” he said, his frustration evident. “But you’re also not… you. You’re shutting me out. Just tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”

That was the problem. He always wanted to help. To fix things. And this was something he couldn’t just punch into submission.

“You can’t help,” she said, turning away from him and walking towards the large balcony that overlooked the glittering city. The night air was cool, a welcome shock to her system.

He followed her, his presence a warm, solid weight behind her. “Try me.”

She gripped the cold metal railing, her knuckles white. She stared out at the sprawling metropolis, a kingdom she helped protect, feeling like a complete stranger in her own skin. This was it. There was no more running.

“Rumi, whatever it is, we’ll face it together,” he said softly, moving to stand beside her. “We always do.”

She let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Not this.”

She finally turned to face him, her expression a mask of hardened neutrality she had perfected over years. She had to do this quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air between them, stark and absolute. She watched his face, her hero’s instincts clinically cataloging his reaction. First, confusion, as if his brain was trying to translate a foreign language. Then, dawning comprehension, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. Finally, a profound, deafening shock that seemed to leech all the color from his face. He was utterly, completely silent.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. It was as if her words had turned him to stone. The silence stretched, each second a torturous eternity. His mind was clearly racing, the brilliant analytical brain of the Number One Hero processing a million data points, a million consequences, a million futures, all at once.

Just as she was about to break, to say something sharp and self-destructive to fill the void, his expression shifted. The shock receded, replaced by something unreadable, something deep and firm. He took a single, deliberate step toward her, closing the space between them. His calloused hand, the hand that could shatter mountains, reached out, impossibly gentle, and came to rest on her still-flat stomach. His touch was warm, a steady, grounding pressure against the turmoil inside her.

He looked from her belly up to her eyes, his own gaze clear and unwavering. The silence was finally broken, not by a question of panic or accusation, but by two simple, life-altering words.

“Is it ours?”

The question was so earnest, so Izuku, that it shattered the tension into a million pieces. A harsh, incredulous laugh burst from Rumi’s lips.

“Who else’s would it be, dumbass?” she shot back, the insult laced with a raw, trembling vulnerability. “I’m not exactly known for my bustling social calendar.”

That was all the confirmation he needed. The storm of emotions on his face was a sight to behold. The shock didn’t vanish, but it was joined by a flicker of fear, a wave of awe, and then, settling over it all, came a blazing resolve. It was the look he got right before breaking his own limits, the look that had put him at the top of the world. It was a look that told her he had just identified a new mission.

“Okay,” he said, the single word a vow. He gently took her arm, his touch grounding her, and guided her back inside from the cold balcony air. He sat her down on the sofa, a strange reverence in his movements, before he began to pace. And then, the mumbling started.

“Okay… so, first thing is a full medical workup, Recovery Girl would be the best option, her quirk would ensure no complications and total confidentiality… then we need to discuss living arrangements, this place is secure but we’ll need more space, something with better fail-safes… We have to get ahead of the press. A joint statement, maybe a single primetime interview. Control the narrative before they can twist it. Your contract and maternity leave, my agency’s PR response… and I have to tell my mom, she’s going to cry, probably for a week straight…”

He was a whirlwind of frantic energy and logistical planning. Rumi watched him, utterly stunned. She had prepared for a fight, for him to be angry, scared, maybe even to ask her to… fix the problem. She had braced herself for a battle. She had not, under any circumstances, prepared for an immediate, detailed, multi-point action plan for their impending parenthood.

“Hey,” she cut through his muttering stream of consciousness.

He stopped pacing instantly, turning to her as if suddenly remembering she was in the room. His eyes were wide, the green irises bright with a terrifying, beautiful sincerity.

“You’re… serious,” she stated, the words coming out as a breath of disbelief.

In two quick strides, he was in front of her, kneeling on the floor so they were at eye level. He took both of her hands in his, his grip firm and steady.

“Rumi,” he said, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “I don’t run. Especially not from this. Not from you . We’re having a baby. And it’s… terrifying. And it’s incredible. But we’ll do what we always do. We’ll face it together.”

She looked into his eyes and saw no fear, no hesitation. Only the unwavering conviction of a man who had made his choice. A man who was choosing her. Choosing them. The thick, unyielding armor she had worn around her heart her entire life didn’t just crack; a piece of it melted away. A slow, genuine smile, small and shaky, touched her lips for the first time that week.

“You’re a real piece of work, Number One,” she whispered.

He just smiled back, squeezing her hands. “I know.”

Six Months Later

The afternoon sun streamed into the spacious living room of a penthouse apartment that boasted more security features than a national bank. Rumi was reclined on a massive, comfortable sofa, a soft blanket draped over her legs. Her form was radically different, her normally taut, muscular midsection now a proud, swollen curve that housed the next generation of hero. She looked… soft. It was a look that still made Izuku’s breath catch in his throat.

He was sitting on the floor beside her, his head resting gently against her belly, one of his old, worn hero analysis journals open in his lap.

“…and that’s why All Might’s Texas Smash was so effective as a tool for intimidation,” he read aloud, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “The air pressure alone could disarm opponents before the fight even began, which minimized collateral damage and…”

His lecture was interrupted by a sharp, powerful thump from within, right against his ear.

His eyes shot wide with pure, unadulterated wonder. He lifted his head, a grin spreading across his face.

“Whoa,” he breathed, placing his palm where his head had been. “Did you feel that? She’s definitely got a kick just like her mom’s.”

Rumi rolled her eyes, but the gesture was fond. She reached out, her hand coming to rest on his head, her fingers tangling themselves in his messy green curls.

“Damn right she does,” she said, her voice a low, contented purr. “She’s gonna be trouble, you know.”

He looked up at her, his smile brighter than any camera flash, filled with a love and excitement that was its own kind of superpower.

“I know,” he said, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her stomach. “I can’t wait.”

Chapter Text

Fuyumi Todoroki felt like a doll.

A perfectly dressed, perfectly poised, utterly breakable doll, placed on a shelf for display. The Hero Commission Charity Gala was a glittering, suffocating sea of power. Heroes in bespoke suits, business tycoons with predatory smiles, and politicians whose handshakes felt like contracts. And she, a simple elementary school teacher, was here because her father had "suggested" it. It was a hasty, last-minute affair; Endeavor and Shoto were required to attend, and Fuyumi was brought along as... what? Set dressing? A testament to the Todoroki family’s enduring legacy?

It felt more like she was bait.

“Fuyumi-san, you look absolutely radiant.” The voice was as smooth and oily as the man it belonged to. Tanabe Kenji, heir to some tech empire that built support gear. He’d attached himself to her the moment her father had been pulled away by a government official. “Your father’s work in the Kyushu sector has been revolutionary for our logistics.”

“I’m sure it has,” Fuyumi said, offering a polite but strained smile. She clutched her small evening bag, a lifeline in the overwhelming opulence.

“We should discuss it further. Perhaps over a private dinner this weekend?” Tanabe’s hand landed on the small of her back, a gesture of casual possession that made her skin crawl. He wasn’t looking at her; he was looking past her, at the name and power she represented. She was a prize, a connection to the #2 Hero.

Before she could formulate a polite refusal, a new presence altered the gravity of the entire room. It wasn’t loud or flashy. It was a quiet, immense pressure, the way the air changes before a storm.

Izuku Midoriya, the Number One Hero, Deku, had arrived.

He was a universe away from the earnest, freckled boy she remembered from the Sports Festival. He even wore his rugged hero patrol black suit even at the gala, probably finished his shift, and reached here with no notice given. He moved with an unshakeable, centered confidence that commanded more respect than any gaudy costume. When he smiled at a passing hero, the entire room seemed to brighten. This wasn't a boy anymore; he was a force of nature.

And he was walking directly toward them.

Tanabe puffed out his chest, seeing an opportunity. “Deku-san! An honor. Tanabe Kenji. My company is a major sponsor of—”

Izuku’s gaze passed over him as if he were a piece of furniture. His eyes, a warm and familiar green, landed on Fuyumi, and his smile softened with genuine recognition. “Todoroki-san. It’s been a long time. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Her name on his lips sent a ridiculous, fluttering warmth through her chest. “Midoriya-kun. Please, call me Fuyumi.”

Tanabe, irritated at being ignored, tightened his grip on her back. “Fuyumi-san and I were just making plans for the weekend.”

Izuku’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes went cold and still. He looked at Tanabe’s hand on her back, then back up to the man’s face. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“I believe the lady is uncomfortable,” he said. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a thousand victories, the authority of a man who could level a city block. It wasn’t a request. It was a verdict.

Tanabe’s face paled. He had built his world on money and influence, but that was a language of mortals. He was now standing in front of a living god, and he knew it. He snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned. “A misunderstanding,” he stammered, before bowing stiffly and melting back into the crowd.

The silence that followed was charged.

“Sorry about that,” Izuku said, his gentle warmth returning. “He seemed… persistent.”

“Thank you,” Fuyumi breathed, the relief making her feel lightheaded. “You have no idea.”

“It was nothing.” He looked at her, truly looked at her, and she felt seen in a way she hadn't all night. “You really do look beautiful, Fuyumi-san.”

That night, they talked for hours, tucked away in a quiet corner of the gala. When she left, she had his private number in her phone, under the pretense of "catching up properly."

Their affair was a secret, stolen world. Whispered calls, discreet meetings, and nights spent tangled in his sheets, shutting out the world below. It was a beautiful, selfish paradise. Their passion deepened, evolving from frantic need to a profound, tender intimacy. It was in the quiet aftermath of one rainy afternoon in her apartment, with his head resting on her chest, that she realized she was irrevocably in love with him.

It was during that same quiet moment that he spoke the words that would change everything.

“I can’t keep hiding this, Fuyumi,” he whispered against her skin, his voice raw with emotion. “Hiding us . I love you, and I want a future with you. A real one. I want to face your family, with you, by your side.”

She looked down at him, her heart hammering. “Izuku… you know what my father can be like.”

He lifted his head, his green eyes boring into hers with that familiar, unwavering resolve. “I’m not afraid of your father. I’m afraid of losing you. Let’s go to the family dinner this weekend. Together.”

And so she agreed.

Fuyumi walked through the imposing doors of the Todoroki estate, but this time, Izuku’s hand was held firmly in hers. They were a team. When they entered the dining room, she saw with a sinking feeling that her father had already invited a guest. Tanabe Kenji sat beside him, looking far too pleased with himself.

The room went silent. Natsuo’s jaw dropped. Shoto’s heterochromatic eyes widened slightly, the only sign of his surprise. Endeavor’s fiery gaze narrowed, moving from their joined hands to Izuku’s face.

“Midoriya,” Endeavor rumbled. “An unexpected guest.”

“I invited him, Father,” Fuyumi said, her voice clear and steady.

Tanabe, seeing his perceived rival, stood up with a sneer. “Fuyumi-san, I was just telling your father about my idea for a new collaboration. Perhaps you should let us alone to talk business.”

Izuku didn’t even look at him. He pulled out a chair for Fuyumi, seating her with a gentlemanly grace that made Tanabe’s posturing look childish. Then he took his own seat, directly opposite Endeavor. “Tanabe-san,” Izuku said, his tone deceptively mild. “I would advise you to choose your next words very carefully.”

The unspoken threat, backed by the power of the #1 Hero, was absolute. Tanabe paled, sat down, remained silent, and ducked out early from their place.

Fuyumi took a deep breath, her hand finding Izuku’s again under the table. “Father, brothers. I wanted to tell you all that Izuku and I are together. We’re in a serious relationship, and we love each other.”

The declaration hung in the air. Natsuo looked from Fuyumi’s beaming face to Izuku’s steady one, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “Good for you, Fumi.”

Shoto offered the rarest of gifts: a small, genuine smile. “I am happy for you both,” he said, his approval clear. He had seen Midoriya’s character up close, and he could think of no one better.

All eyes turned to Endeavor. The patriarch of the family was silent, his expression unreadable as he stared at the two of them. The sheer force of his presence was immense. He was analyzing, calculating. Finally, he let out a short, sharp scoff.

“Hmph.”

He picked up his chopsticks, his gaze dismissive. “I guess you did fine. No. 1, huh. Expect nothing less from you,” He glanced at the now-silent Tanabe with disdain, then back at Izuku. “...Keep her safe from your hero career choices..”

For Enji Todoroki, that was the equivalent of a heartfelt blessing. It wasn’t emotional, but it was a declaration of acceptance, a pragmatic acknowledgment of strength and suitability.

A wave of relief so profound it felt like a physical weight lifting washed over Fuyumi. She looked at Izuku, her eyes shining, and saw him smiling back at her, a gentle, private smile meant only for her.

The rest of the dinner was a surreal, almost comical affair. Natsuo peppered Izuku with questions, Shoto engaged him in quiet conversation about hero work, and Endeavor presided over it all with a gruff, almost content silence. The oppressive tension that usually defined these dinners had vanished, replaced by a new, hopeful dynamic.

Fuyumi squeezed Izuku’s hand under the table, a silent thank you, a silent promise. Their love was no longer a secret, but a foundation, strong enough to build a new, brighter future upon, even in the house of Todoroki.

Chapter Text

The first thing Izuku Midoriya heard when he let himself into Mitsuki’s new apartment was a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. She was pacing in her living room, a phone crushed to her ear, her face a mask of incandescent rage.

“No, you listen to me, you overpriced crap of a lawyer!” she snarled into the phone. “If Masaru thinks he’s getting the good china, he can pry it from my cold, dead hands! I bought that set with my own money!”

Izuku, the Number One Hero, Symbol of Peace, and vanquisher of All For One, did what he always did in this situation: he quietly shut the door, took off his shoes, and went to her kitchen to start making tea. This was his life now, on the rare afternoons he could steal away from his world-saving duties.

Mitsuki slammed the phone down, the plastic groaning in protest. “Divorce lawyers,” she seethed, storming into the kitchen. “God, I’d rather fight those villains of yours. At least they don’t bill you six hundred yen a minute.”

“Rough call?” Izuku asked, his voice calm as he measured tea leaves.

“That spineless jellyfish Masaru is trying to claim the antique dresser,” she fumed, leaning against the counter. “He says it has ‘sentimental value.’ The only sentiment that man has is for his own wallet.” She finally looked at Izuku, her garnet eyes raking over his civilian clothes. A slow, predatory smirk replaced her scowl. “You, on the other hand. You look like you have actual value.”

“I’m just here to make sure you’re not burning the building down, Auntie,” he quipped, a playful smile on his face.

The old honorific made her laugh, a harsh, throaty sound. “Still calling me that, you little shit? After all the things we’ve done on this very counter?”

“Force of habit,” he said, turning to face her. The air between them instantly shifted, crackling with a familiar, dangerous energy. “Besides, I think you like it.”

She closed the distance in three long strides, her hands grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him forward. “You know what I’d like more?” she growled, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “For the Number One Hero to forget about saving the world for an hour and focus on saving me from a truly catastrophic amount of sexual frustration.”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” he murmured, before his mouth crashed down on hers.

It was, as always, a collision. A battle of wills fought with teeth and tongues. There was nothing gentle about it. It was rage and loneliness and a lifetime of tangled history poured into a single, desperate act. He lifted her effortlessly, sitting her on the countertop she’d just mentioned, scattering a few pieces of mail. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in, a silent demand for more, for deeper, for now .

Their clothes were an inconvenient afterthought, shed with frantic hands until skin met skin. The cool granite of the counter was a stark contrast to the searing heat of their bodies. He drove into her with a powerful, certain thrust, and she arched back with a sharp gasp, her head thrown back. It was messy and wild, and exactly what they both needed. A mutually assured destruction of the stress and complications of their lives, leaving only the raw, explosive release that they could only seem to find with each other.

Later, tangled together on her thankfully large living room couch, a comfortable silence settled between them. Mitsuki traced the lines of an old scar on his arm, her touch surprisingly gentle.

“You know,” she said, her voice softer now. “You’re a real goddamn problem.”

“Oh?” he asked, nuzzling into her still-damp hair. “Am I not replenishing you enough? Should I go harder, maybe a 5%-”

She snorted, smacking his chest lightly. “Don’t be a smartass. I mean, this whole… thing.” She waved a hand vaguely between them. “It’s insane. You’re Deku. You’re supposed to be with some sweet, innocent girl who makes you packed lunches and blushes when you look at her.”

“And you’re supposed to be… what? A respectable divorcée who takes up pottery?” he countered, his voice laced with amusement.

“God, no. I’d smash all the pots,” she grumbled. “But this? Us? My little nephew now toweing me and fucking me to the pleasure heaven”

“And yet,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. “Here we are.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, a real, honest-to-god smile gracing her lips. “Here we are.”

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. The caller ID read: MOM. He winced.

“You'd better answer that,” Mitsuki said. “Or she’ll send out a search party. She still thinks you can’t cross the street by yourself.”

“She’s not that bad,” he chuckled, leaning over to grab the phone and hitting the answer button. “Hey, Mom. Yeah, I’m fine. Just relaxing on my day off.”

As he spoke, Mitsuki, in a fit of playful mischief, leaned over and nipped his earlobe, hard. He yelped, trying to stifle the sound.

“Izuku? What was that?” Inko’s worried voice chirped from the speaker.

“Nothing, Mom! Just, uh, stubbed my toe!” he lied, glaring at a supremely unrepentant Mitsuki.

“Oh, you have to be more careful! Are you eating properly?”

Mitsuki saw her opening. She leaned in close to the phone’s receiver. “Don’t worry, Inko!” she yelled, her voice ringing out clear as a bell. “I’m making sure your boy is very, very well-fed!”

Izuku’s face went white. He fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it. On the other end, there was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a faint, flustered sputtering.

“M-Mitsuki-chan?!” Inko squeaked. “Oh my. Oh my goodness. I… see. Well. You… you make sure he wears a jacket if it gets cold!” The line went dead.

Izuku stared at his phone in horror for a solid ten seconds before he looked at Mitsuki, who was now howling with laughter, tears streaming down her face.

“You are ... so chaotic,” he said, utterly defeated.

“And you love it,” she cackled. “Come on, that was hilarious. The poor woman probably needs to lie down.”

The absurdity of it, the sheer, catastrophic recklessness, finally broke him. He started to laugh too, a deep, rolling laugh that filled the apartment. The tension of their secret was so immense that puncturing it with something so ridiculous was a relief.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, pulling her on top of him.

“Promise?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling. Their laughter subsided, replaced by the low hum of desire. Their second round was slower, more playful, a celebration of their shared insanity. In the middle of it-

They never heard the key in the lock.

Katsuki Bakugo kicked the door open with his foot, his hands full of a grocery bag. “Hey, old hag, I brought you that coffee you like, so you can stop bitching about—”

He froze in the doorway.

His mother was on the couch, her hair a mess, wearing nothing but her blouse. And Deku was sitting next to her, shirtless and hastily trying to pull a cushion over his lap.

Katsuki’s brain seemed to short-circuit. His crimson eyes darted around the room, taking in the scene with a dawning, cosmic horror. 

His gaze snapped from the shirt to Deku’s bare chest. From Deku’s panicked face to his mother’s defiant, flushed one. The grocery bag slipped from his grasp, coffee beans and a carton of milk spilling across the floor.

Time seemed to stand still.

“WHAT,” Katsuki Bakugo whispered, his voice a low, guttural rumble that promised untold levels of destruction. “WHAT IN THE EVER-FUCKIN. HELL.”

Chapter Text

The final gate of Tartarus’s Rehabilitation Wing hissed open, a sound of finality that echoed in the cold, sterile air. Kaina Tsutsumi stepped through it, her stride even and measured. She wore simple civilian clothes that felt foreign on her skin, and in her hand, she carried a single bag containing the few possessions she now owned.

The outside world hit her first not as a sight or a sound, but as a scent: damp earth and clean, free air. It was intoxicating. For a long moment, she just stood there, breathing it in, a ghost returned to the living.

A sleek, black car was parked just beyond the security perimeter, its engine a low, quiet hum. Leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed over his broad chest, was Izuku Midoriya. He wasn't in costume, just a simple dark henley that stretched taut over his shoulders and jeans. He offered her a small, gentle smile that didn't quite reach his tired eyes. He looked less like the Symbol of Peace and more like a man waiting for someone he cared about.

She walked towards him, the gravel crunching under her boots. He pushed off the car, opening the passenger door for her.

“Ready to go?” he asked, his voice a low, comforting rumble.

“As I’ll ever be,” she replied, her own voice still raspy from disuse. She slid into the plush leather seat, the quiet luxury a world away from the hard cot she’d grown accustomed to. He closed the door behind her, got in, and soon they were pulling away from the most secure prison in Japan, leaving it behind in the rearview mirror.

The silence in the car wasn't awkward. It was comfortable, familiar. It reminded her of how this had all started.

Flashback: One Year Ago  

Their first meeting in her parole officer’s office was a study in tension. Izuku, the #1 Hero, sat opposite her, a thick file on the table between them. He was her official HPSC sponsor, the condition for her transfer from a maximum-security cell to the rehabilitation program. She was a coiled snake, her posture rigid, her eyes cold and cynical.

“The terms of your parole are strict, Tsutsumi-san,” he’d said, his tone professional but not unkind. “Mandatory weekly check-ins. Curfew. No contact with known associates.”

“I don’t have any associates,” she’d clipped back. “You killed them, remember?”

He didn’t flinch. “I remember.”

For weeks, their meetings were the same. Stiff questions, sarcastic answers. He was a duty she had to endure. But then, he started to break the rules. It started small. He noticed she never ate the bland food provided by the facility. The next week, he brought a thermos of rich, dark coffee and a pastry from a nearby bakery.

“This is against protocol, hero,” she’d said, though she didn’t refuse the offering.

“My secret if it’s yours,” he’d replied with that disarming smile. “Everyone deserves a decent cup of coffee.”

He started bringing her things to fill the crushing emptiness of her stark white room. A sketchbook and charcoal pencils. A used paperback novel. A soft, worn blanket because he’d noticed she was always cold. Each item was a small, silent message: I see a person, not a prisoner. He was chipping away at the fortress she’d built around herself, stone by stone.

The final wall crumbled during a parole review. A smug Commission official, eager to make a name for himself, cornered her, listing her past kills, his voice dripping with condescending judgment. “Do the names of the men you executed for us ever keep you up at night, Nagant?”

She was about to respond with something that would have landed her back in solitary for a month when Izuku stood up. The full, immense pressure of the Number One Hero filled the room, silencing everyone.

“Kaina Tsutsumi has done more to atone for her past than any person I have ever met,” he’d said, his voice dangerously quiet. “She is under my sponsorship and my protection. If you have a problem with her, you have a problem with me. Is that understood?”

It was. The official had shrunk back in his seat, stammering an apology. Izuku had put his entire career, his spotless reputation, on the line for her. For an assassin. For a traitor.

That night, during their check-in, the dam broke. She couldn’t form the words to thank him, so she’d reached across the table and her hand simply covered his. He’d turned his own hand over, his fingers lacing with hers. It was the first time they had truly touched. It was a promise. It was the beginning of everything.

BACK TO PRESENT

“We’re here,” Izuku’s voice pulled her from her memories.

She looked up, and her breath caught. “Here” was a sprawling, modern mansion, all clean lines, dark wood, and vast panes of glass, nestled securely behind a high wall on a secluded, wooded hilltop overlooking the city.

“It’s a bit much, I know,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he parked in the underground garage. “The Commission insisted. Security, PR… all that.”

He led her inside. The place was immense, beautiful, and profoundly empty. It had the sterile, untouched feel of a luxury hotel, not a home. It was a house built for the Symbol of Peace, but not for Izuku Midoriya.

“This is your room,” he said, opening a door to a spacious suite with a private balcony. “Take your time. Get settled. I’ll… make some tea.”

She watched him go, the slight slump in his shoulders telling a story of crushing loneliness. She knew then that he needed this as much as she did. She wasn’t just a parolee being given shelter; she was a partner, coming home.

A few days later, a semblance of a routine had formed. It was quiet, domestic. She’d found she enjoyed cooking, and he was a shockingly appreciative audience. They’d sit on the massive couch in the evenings, not always talking, just existing in the same space, a silent comfort to one another.

The peace was shattered by the chime of the high-tech doorbell.

Izuku glanced at the security panel, a flicker of panic on his face. “Oh. Uh oh.”

On the screen were three familiar, smiling faces: Ochaco Uraraka, Mina Ashido, and Tsuyu Asui.

“They, uh, sometimes drop by unannounced,” he explained, already moving to the door.

Kaina merely raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Go on, hero. Don’t keep your fan club waiting.”

The moment the door opened, he was engulfed in a wave of cheerful energy.

“Deku-kun!” Ochaco chirped, her cheeks rosy. “We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d bring you some of that mochi you like!”

“We figured you were probably living off instant noodles again!” Mina added, bouncing on her toes.

“It’s good to see you’re taking a day off, kero,” Tsuyu said, her gaze placid but observant.

They trooped into the living room, their bright, youthful energy a stark contrast to the house’s quiet solitude. And then, all three of them saw her. Kaina was leaning against the kitchen entryway, arms crossed, watching the scene with a cool, unreadable expression.

A stunned silence fell. They knew who she was, of course. The news of her parole, sponsored by Deku himself, had been a controversial topic.

“Tsutsumi-san,” Uraraka said, recovering first. “It’s… nice to see you.”

“Uraraka,” Kaina acknowledged with a slight nod. Her gaze drifted over the other two, then landed back on Izuku, who was juggling the box of mochi.

“Girls, this is Kaina,” Izuku said, trying to bridge the awkward gap. “She’s… staying here.”

The trio exchanged lightning-fast, subtle glances. Staying here? The implications hung heavy in the air. They tried to make small talk, but the dynamic had shifted. They directed their questions and anecdotes at Izuku, their affection for him worn openly on their sleeves. They were friendly to Kaina, but it was the cautious politeness one extends to a stranger in a familiar space.

Through it all, Kaina remained a silent, observant presence. She didn’t try to join in. She simply watched, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. When Izuku laughed at one of Mina’s jokes, Kaina’s eyes would track the movement, a quiet, proprietary glint in their depths. She was making no claims, yet her ownership was absolute. He was hers. This house was theirs. These girls were just visitors.

The girls felt it too. Their cheerful energy slowly deflated under her cool, silent scrutiny. Their visit was cut short, their excuses for leaving were polite but hasty.

As Izuku saw them to the door, Kaina picked up the abandoned box of mochi. When he returned, looking slightly frazzled, she was examining one of the pink confections.

“Quite the adoring harem you’ve got there, hero,” she said, her voice laced with dry amusement.

“They’re my friends, that’s all,” he said, sighing as he ran a hand through his messy green hair.

“Hm.” She popped the mochi into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “They seemed very… friendly.” She closed the distance between them, her hips brushing against his as she placed the box on the counter. She looked up at him, her past a dark, fascinating shadow in her eyes.

“It’s a shame they had to leave so soon,” she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. “Now you’re stuck here. All alone.” Her fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt. “With a paroled assassin.”

He looked down at her, the exhaustion and stress of the day melting away, replaced by a deep, unwavering affection. He saw not the assassin, not the traitor, but the woman who had fought her way back from the brink, the woman who understood the crushing weight of his life like no one else could.

“Good,” he whispered, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Kaina’s smirk finally bloomed into a full, genuine smile. She had him all to herself. And after a lifetime of taking targets, she’d finally found one she never intended.

Chapter Text

“So, the final details are set,” Nemuri Kayama announced, leaning back in her chair in the U.A. staff lounge with the air of a queen holding court. “Seems like I will be leading a joint tactical exercise with Deku's Agency next month. Infiltration and subjugation.”

Present Mic let out a low whistle. “Ooh, getting to work with the Number One! Our Problem Child is all business these days. So serious!”

Nemuri’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smirk. She took a deliberately long sip of her tea. “Oh, I’m sure he is. But all work and no play makes for a very dull Symbol of Peace. I suppose I’ll have to take it upon myself to make sure the poor boy remembers how to have a little fun.”

From a corner of the room, buried in a yellow sleeping bag, Shota Aizawa emitted a low grunt. “Leave him alone, Nemuri. He got lots of eyes on him; he is not one of your toys.”

“Shota, darling, you wound me,” she purred, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m simply fostering inter-heroes cooperation. It’s for the good of society.”

Mic snickered. “Yeah, a society of one. You.”

Nemuri just smiled, her confidence an unshakable, glittering force. She was Midnight. Men were an open book to her, and she’d been reading the same chapters for fifteen years. Izuku Midoriya, bless his earnest heart, would be a delightfully simple read.

Her confidence lasted until precisely 4:17 PM the following Tuesday.

The one-on-one planning meeting in his agency’s conference room had been too professional for Nemuri's Liking. He was humble, respectful, and sharp as a tack. He listened intently, took notes, and called her “Kayama-sensei” with a sincerity that was too cute. She paused her shenanigans for it. He was every bit the polite, heroic successor to All Might that the world saw on television.

As they finished, she stood up, ready to slide in a playfully suggestive comment about “debriefing” later. But before she could speak, he moved. He hadn't been by the door, but now he was, holding it open for her. As she passed, he leaned in, his voice dropping from its polite, public tenor to a low, intimate murmur that was for her alone.

“I have to say,” he whispered, his breath ghosting against her ear, “the reality of working with you is far more distracting than they were years ago, Sensei .”

The word, which had sounded respectful all afternoon, was now loaded with a slutery, flirtatious weight that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

She froze mid-stride, her brain short-circuiting. She turned, a witty retort ready on her lips, but he was already a few feet down the hall. He glanced back over his shoulder, gave her that same bright, innocent, million-watt smile, and said, “Have a great evening, Kayama-sensei!” before disappearing around a corner.

Nemuri stood there, utterly motionless, for a full second. What in the hell was that?

It was the beginning of a special kind of madness. Izuku Midoriya, she discovered, was two different people. In their group video calls with other agency heads and U.A. staff, he was Public Izuku: formal, a little shy, and endlessly professional. However, an hour later, a text would appear on her phone from a private number.

NO.1 CUTIE:  That was a brilliant point you made about flanking maneuvers. You’re as sharp as you are beautiful. 

Her heart would do a ridiculous, traitorous little flip. The first time, she’d texted back:   Why are you doing this? What's the game

The reply was instantaneous:   You

He was a ghost. At a press conference for the joint exercise, he maintained a respectful distance, but his eyes would find hers in the crowd, and he’d give her a slow, secret smile that felt like a shared conspiracy. Once, while passing in a crowded hallway at his agency, he’d “accidentally” brushed his hand against hers. The touch was brief, but it was deliberate, a jolt of electricity that shot straight up her spine. It was all utterly deniable. He was a master, and it was driving her insane.

“He’s a menace!” she finally declared a week later, slamming her mug down on the table in the staff lounge. “A smooth-talking, diabolical Casanova in a hero’s costume!”

Aizawa, who was attempting to nap, cracked one eye open. He gave her a long, deadpan stare. “Kayama, you’ve been aggressively flirting with anything that moves for fifteen years. You're finally getting delusions on the one person in Japan immune to your whole… thing, and now you’re projecting.”

“I do not have a delusion!” she hissed, her cheeks flushing.

“Aww, is little Nemuri-chan upset the little no.1 isn’t falling for her tricks?” Mic chimed in, wiggling his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, there are other fish in the sea! Big, dumb, easily seduced fish!”

They were laughing at her. They  thought she was the one  pursuing him and getting shot down. The irony was so thick she felt like she was choking on it. She couldn’t prove it. Every single move he made was a ghost, a whisper, gone before she could point to it. She, the R-Rated Hero, the master of seduction, had been rendered a babbling, paranoid mess by the one person everyone thought was a saint.

She’d had enough.

That evening, she stormed into his agency, using her visitor’s pass to make her way to the top floor. She found him in his office, alone, finishing up some paperwork.

“We need to talk,” she said, closing the door behind her with a definitive click.

He looked up, and for a moment, he was Public Izuku again. “Kayama-sensei? Is something wrong with the exercise parameters?”

“Drop the act, Midoriya,” she said, stalking towards his desk. “The innocent, blushing hero routine. I’m not buying it. What is your game?”

He watched her approach, a slow, confident smirk finally spreading across his face. It was the smile she’d only seen in flashes, but now it was here, bold and undeniable. He leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed. The air in the room shifted. Public Izuku had left the building.

“Game?” he repeated, his voice that same low, intimate purr. “No game. I’m just a fan who happens to be in a very, very fortunate position.”

He stood up and walked around the desk, his presence seeming to fill the entire office. He was taller than she’d realized, broader. He backed her up against the edge of his large oak desk until her legs hit the wood.

“I’ve admired you since I was a kid,” he said, his voice a low thrum. “Not just Midnight. You. Nemuri Kayama. Your confidence, your intelligence, your power… It’s the most captivating thing I’ve ever seen.” He leaned in, his hands planting on the desk on either side of her, caging her in. “I just wanted to see if the woman behind the mask was as incredible as the mask itself.” His eyes gleamed. “She’s better, hotter.”

Her breath hitched. Her carefully constructed persona, her years of being the one in control, all of it melted away under the sheer, unadulterated sincerity of his pursuit. He wasn’t teasing her; he was worshiping her. And god, it was intoxicating.

“So all of this,” she managed, her voice suddenly husky. “The texts, the whispers… for this powerplay?”

“Guilty,” he murmured, his face just inches from hers. “Is the #1 Hero not allowed to flirt with the woman he’s currently captivated by?”

That was it. That was the final blow to her composure. She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and crushed her mouth to his. The kiss was explosive, a release of weeks of pent-up tension, frustration, and a desire that had been simmering just under the surface.

What followed was a total, blissful surrender. He was a shockingly intuitive and confident lover, every touch, every kiss an act of deliberate worship. For the first time, Nemuri wasn’t performing. She wasn’t the aggressor or the seductress. She was simply… a woman, being thoroughly and completely adored. He proved her right in the most satisfying, earth-shattering way possible, and by the end of it, she was the one left a blushing, breathless mess on his desk.

The next morning, Nemuri walked into the U.A. staff lounge with a serene, self-satisfied glide in her step. She poured a cup of coffee, feeling like she was floating.

Present Mic wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Well, someone’s in a good mood! Finally give up on chasing the untouchable Number One?”

Nemuri took a long, slow sip of her coffee, the warmth spreading through her. A secret, triumphant smile played on her lips as she looked at her clueless friends.

“Oh, nothing like that, Mic. He is already caught." Caught by my desires, Inescapability.

Chapter Text

From the quiet sanctuary of her office, Ryuko Tatsuma watched the agonizingly sweet pantomime unfold. In the agency’s shared lounge, Izuku and Ochako were having coffee. They were a mess of blushing cheeks, stuttered compliments, and hands that brushed against each other with the shy, electric fizz of unspoken feelings. They were two comets locked in a beautiful, frustratingly slow orbit, both too dense to realize they were destined to collide.

Ryuko took a slow, deliberate sip of her jasmine tea, the delicate scent a stark contrast to the acid coiling in her gut. It was a feeling she’d grown to know well: a cold, ancient, and deeply draconic jealousy.

Her love for Izuku hadn't been a sudden spark. It had been a slow, creeping dawn she'd witnessed during the darkest days of the war. She had seen him as the world had—a symbol of overwhelming power. But she had also seen what others missed: the boy underneath, standing in the ruins, crying not for his own pain, but for the people he couldn't save. She had seen him offer his own rations to a terrified child, his hand gentle and steady despite the tremors of exhaustion racking his body. It was that—his profound, almost painful kindness—that she had fallen in love with. He wasn't a treasure because he was powerful. He was a treasure because he was good.

And Ochako Uraraka, sweet, kind, deserving Ochako, was standing in her way.

This is wrong, a small, human part of her whispered. But a deeper, more possessive voice, the one that hummed with the power of a dragon, answered back. A treasure left unguarded is a treasure waiting to be claimed.

Her campaign began with a gentle insertion. The next time Izuku was visiting, laughing with Ochako in the lounge, Ryuko joined them.

“Midoriya-san,” she said, her voice a warm, welcome intrusion. “I was just looking over the new HPSC threat assessments. I’d love your take on the Kyushu sector data when you have a moment.”

The shift was immediate. The conversation pivoted from lighthearted U.A. memories to the high-stakes world of the Top Ten, a realm Ochako was not yet a part of. Ryuko wasn’t her boss in that moment; she was Izuku’s peer, his equal. Ochako became a spectator in her own conversation.

It became a cruel, familiar script. Ryuko learned Izuku’s schedule, his habits. When she knew he was on his way, a priority alert would suddenly manifest.

“Uravity,” she’d say, her voice laced with professional urgency. “There’s a situation on the coast. I need you airborne in five.”

Ochako, ever the diligent hero, would rush off. Minutes later, Izuku would arrive, his bright smile faltering when he saw she was gone. Ryuko would be there to intercept him, her expression a mask of feigned sympathy.

“Terrible timing! I just had to send her out. Well, since you’re already here…”

The void Ochako left was soon filled entirely by Ryuko. It was in that void that Izuku, lonely and missing his friend, began to confide in her.

“I think… I have feelings for her,” he admitted one rainy evening, staring into a cup of tea she’d made him. “But I don’t know how to say it. It’s all so… complicated.”

Ryuko’s heart twisted with a vicious, triumphant pang of guilt. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “A true connection shouldn't be a struggle, Izuku,” she said, her voice a soothing balm of poison. “It should feel natural. Easy. Like this.” She squeezed his arm gently. “Like us.”

She was making his true love feel like an obstacle and her presence feel like a solution. It was the most despicable thing she had ever done. And it was working perfectly.

The final stage of her plan was set in motion months later. His visits were no longer for Ochako; she was now just a ghost they sometimes discussed. He came for Ryuko. For her quiet, her stability, her understanding.

He was in her office, ranting about a frustrating bureaucratic meeting, when she saw her opening. She let him finish, then looked at him with a soft, serious expression.

“Izuku,” she said, her voice cutting through his frustration. “I want to have a child.”

He blinked, thrown. “Oh. That’s… that’s wonderful, Ryuko.”

“I’m thirty-one,” she continued, as if reciting a mission brief. “And I’ve decided I don’t want a partner. But I do want a father. A good man. The best man I know.” She held his gaze, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. “I want you to be the father of my child.”

He stared at her, utterly poleaxed. But this wasn't the awkward, blushing boy from the lounge. This was a man who had been subtly conditioned for months to see her as his perfect partner. The idea, which should have been shocking, felt… right. It felt like the natural, easy conclusion she had told him love should be.

“I… mean,” he breathed, his eyes wide with a dawning, fierce emotion. "It's such an important decision, are you sure? I mean, I care about you and will want to support you still.”

The air crackled, charged with the weight of his acceptance. It was a checkmate.

“I’m glad we’re in agreement,” she whispered, standing and walking around her desk. “But I don’t want to leave something so important to the cold, impersonal hands of a clinic.” She stopped in front of him, her imposing height casting a shadow over him. She placed a hand on his cheek, her touch gentle but firm. “I want it to be with you. I want you.”

The raw, possessive honesty of her confession shattered the last of his restraint. He surged to his feet, his hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against him. “I thought you’d never ask,” he rasped, before his mouth crashed down on hers.

The kiss was a cataclysm, a consummation of her meticulous, heartless campaign and his slow, guided surrender. He lifted her as if she were weightless, pressing her back against the cool, solid wood of her office door, kicking it shut, and locking it with a heavy, final thud. There was no gentleness here, not at first. It was a raw, desperate claiming. Her meticulously planned seduction was met by a tidal wave of his own repressed passion, a passion she had deliberately diverted from its intended target and aimed at herself.

Clothes were a hindrance, torn away with a frantic, needful energy. Her hero costume, his shirt, all of it discarded in a heap on the floor. Skin met skin, and the friction was electric. He laid her down on the plush rug in the center of her office, the place where they had shared so many “friendly” cups of tea. Now, it was a battleground of pleasure and possession.

He was a surprisingly intuitive lover, his every touch, every kiss, a response to a silent question she hadn’t even known she was asking. But as the initial frenzy subsided, a new dynamic emerged. She took control, her movements slow, deliberate, and utterly dominant. She was the dragon, and this was her hoard, her most prized treasure. This wasn't just passion; it was imprinting. It was an act of branding him as hers, a physical sealing of the emotional trap she had so carefully laid. He met her possession with a complete and total surrender, giving himself over to her with a devotion that was both thrilling and terrifying. She was taking everything, and he was giving it willingly, gratefully. It was a dark, beautiful, and utterly selfish act of creation, a foundation for a new life built upon a bed of meticulous lies.

In the throes of their passion, lost to the world, to everything but each other, neither of them heard the soft click of a keycard granting access to the main agency door. Neither of them heard the quiet, hopeful footsteps padding down the hallway.

Ochako Uraraka, back a day early from her mission, a small, carefully wrapped gift for Izuku clutched in her hand, pushed open the door to her boss’s office to report in.

The scene that met her eyes was one of pure, shattering intimacy. Izuku, her Izuku, was on the floor, his head thrown back in ecstasy, Ryuko’s powerful, elegant form astride him. They were locked together, a single, moving entity, their faces flushed, their bodies slick with sweat.

Time stopped. The carefully wrapped gift, a silly All Might keychain she’d seen in a shop window, slipped from Ochako’s numb fingers. It hit the polished wooden floor with a soft, insignificant clatter that sounded, in the dead silence of her breaking heart, as loud as a gunshot.

They both froze, their heads snapping towards the door. Three pairs of eyes locked in a tableau of shock, triumph, and utter, soul-destroying devastation.

Chapter Text

The house was a masterpiece of modern architecture, a fortress of peace bought with the blood and sacrifice of the war. From the outside, it was perfect. From the inside, thanks to Fuyumi and Rei, it was finally a home.

Dinner had been a picture of domestic bliss. Fuyumi, all warmth and light, told a funny story about a student. Rei, a serene presence, listened with a gentle expression. And Izuku, the Number One Hero, sat between them, the adoring husband, the caring son-in-law. He loved Fuyumi with a purity that was the cornerstone of his life. He loved Rei for the fragile, beautiful peace she had brought into their home. He was a lucky man.

He was a monster, living a lie.

Later, in the master bedroom, he made love to his wife. It was, as always, a beautiful act of affection. His hands were gentle, his kisses tender. He whispered how much he loved her, and every word was true. She climaxed with a soft, happy cry, her body trembling in his arms before settling into a sleepy, contented stillness. “I love you, Izu,” she murmured.

“I love you too, Fumi,” he whispered back, the words both a vow and a curse.

Within minutes, she was asleep. She was satisfied. She was at peace.

He was a raging inferno.

One For All had supercharged every aspect of his being. It was a constant, thrumming hunger that a single, gentle encounter could never hope to sate. He was still painfully hard, his body screaming for release. Carefully, he slipped from the bed. He pulled on a pair of sweats and left the room, a nightly ritual of shame and frustration.

Down the hall, in another suite, Rei lay awake. She had heard the soft, familiar sounds from their room. The gentle murmur of voices, the rhythmic creak of the headboard, and then, the silence. She held her breath, listening, her heart a frantic bird in her chest. She heard the soft click of their door and his nearly silent footsteps in the hall.

Her body ached with a terrible, consuming need. It had started a month ago. Awakened by a strange noise, she’d ventured from her room to see him in the kitchen, bathed in the pale light of the open refrigerator. He’d been wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, his body a breathtaking roadmap of scars and power. But it was his expression that had branded itself onto her soul. He looked lost, haunted, and filled with a raw, desperate hunger that had nothing to do with food. It was a loneliness that mirrored her own, and it had awoken a part of her she thought long dead.

Since that night, her mind had betrayed her. Her daughter's husband, her sweet, kind son-in-law, had become the object of a dark, shameful obsession. Every night, she listened to him wander the house, a restless phantom, and her body would burn with a forbidden desire.

Tonight, the thirst was unbearable. Don’t go, she pleaded with herself. Stay here. You are a mother. She trusts you. But her feet were already moving, carrying her from her room, her silk nightgown a whisper against her skin.

She found him in the kitchen, staring out the large glass window into the dark garden.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He jumped, turning around. “Rei. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No,” she said, her hands clutching each other to still their shaking. “I was just… getting some water.” It was a lie. She was here for him.

He could feel her eyes on his back, a nervous, uncertain gaze that was a thousand times more dangerous than the knowing one he'd imagined.

“You push yourself too hard, Izuku,” she said softly. Her voice was strained. She moved to the sink, her movements graceful but stiff with tension. She passed behind him, and the hem of her gown brushed his bare skin. The touch was accidental, but it felt like a brand.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m fine.”

“No,” she whispered, her voice directly behind him now. He could feel the trembling heat of her body. “You’re not.” Her hand, cool and shaking, landed tentatively on the center of his scarred back. “You’re starving.”

A ragged breath tore from his lungs. He turned, his eyes wild with shame and a desperate, consuming need. She looked up at him, her serene mask gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability. Fear, desire, and a profound, heartbreaking remorse warred in her violet-grey eyes.

“My poor boy,” she murmured, the words a broken whisper. Her hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb tracing his jaw. “My sweet, hungry son.”

The touch, so full of forbidden tenderness, shattered him. He was on her in an instant, his mouth crashing down on hers in an act of frantic consumption. He tasted of guilt and desperation; she tasted of salvation and sin. It was a kiss of mutual, damning recognition.

He lifted her, her body shockingly light, and sat her on the cold marble of the kitchen island. Her legs, trembling, wrapped around his waist, pulling him in. This wasn't the gentle, loving man from upstairs. This was the beast, and she was a willing sacrifice.

His hands were rough, needy. He broke the kiss, his mouth trailing a hot path down her throat. “Rei,” he growled. “What are we doing?”

Tears welled in her eyes, silent trails of silver down her temples. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “Forgive me, Fuyumi… forgive me…”

The dirty, taboo words, the name of her daughter on her lips as he was about to take her, were gasoline on a fire. He ripped his sweats down. With a shaking hand, he tore the delicate straps of her nightgown, baring her breasts. He took one in his mouth, suckling hard, his other hand finding the wet heat between her legs. She was slick, ready.

“What would she think?” he whispered, his voice a ragged groan. “If she saw me now? Fucking her mother on the kitchen counter?”

A sob caught in Rei’s throat. “She would hate me,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut. “And she would be right.”

With a guttural cry, he drove into her. The sensation was a cataclysm of pleasure and shame. She met his every frantic, punishing thrust, her body arching to meet his, even as her mind screamed in protest. The sounds of their bodies slapping together echoed in the vast, silent kitchen, a sordid symphony of their betrayal.

He came with a strangled, broken cry, his body shuddering. She held him, her own climax a quiet, intense tremor, her hands stroking his sweat-slicked back, her tears finally falling freely, silently, onto his skin.

The remorse came crashing down. “My god,” he whispered, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “I’m a monster.”

“We are,” she sobbed quietly into his shoulder. “We are.” She gently pushed him back, her nightgown in ruins, her face a mess of tears and newfound peace. “But come.”

She led him by the hand through the silent house, past the master suite where her daughter slept, and into her own room. She sat him on the edge of her bed and returned with a warm cloth. She knelt before him and began to gently clean him, her touch methodical, her tears still falling. The act was so tender, so maternal, it almost broke him.

When she was done, she stood and shed the tattered remains of her nightgown. She stood before him, pale and beautiful in the moonlight, a canvas of quiet strength and profound sorrow.

“Tonight,” she said, her voice a soft, broken command, “you don’t have to be a hero. You don’t have to be a husband. You just have to be a man. My man. My boy.”

He pulled her onto the bed, and their second joining was a world away from the frantic coupling in the kitchen. This was slow. It was deliberate. It was a shared exploration of their sin. He kissed every inch of her skin, memorizing the taste of her guilt and his own.

She, in turn, lavished him with an affection that was a potent mix of the maternal and the carnal. She soothed his guilt with her touch, even as her own remorse was a sharp pain in her chest. It was a complete and total surrender to their shared damnation. Here, his monstrous needs were not a flaw; they were a mirror of her own.

He finally fell into a deep, sated sleep in her arms. Rei stayed awake, watching him, her fingers gently tracing the lines of his scarred back. A quiet, triumphant, and deeply sorrowful love filled her. She had him. She had saved a part of him. And she had damned them all.

He slipped back into his own bed just before dawn, his wife still sleeping soundly. He curled up behind her, the scent of her clean, sweet shampoo a stark, painful contrast to the musk of her mother that still clung to his skin.

Chapter Text

The air still tasted of dust.

Even weeks after the final battle, a fine, grey powder coated everything, a constant reminder of the city that had been broken. But now, there was a new sound that was slowly overpowering the echoes of destruction: the sound of rebuilding. The rhythmic clang of hammers, the scrape of shovels, the cheerful calls of volunteers. It was the sound of hope.

Izuku Midoriya was in the center of it all. He moved with a focused, tireless energy, his quirk carefully throttled down to lift impossibly heavy slabs of concrete, clearing paths for the construction crews. He was the Symbol of Peace, but here, he was just another pair of hands—albeit a pair that could do the work of a hundred.

It was during a moment of rest that he first started to notice her as more than just a passing face. He’d seen her before, of course. It was impossible not to. She was a giantess, a towering, elegant fox-woman who stood a good two feet taller than anyone else. But he’d only seen her in passing.

Today, he noticed a pattern. He was clearing a collapsed residential block, and there she was, helping a crew sort smaller pieces of rubble. An hour later, he was helping reinforce a damaged bridge, and he saw her again, handing out bottles of water. And later that afternoon, at the main volunteer tent, he saw her once more, a dusting of flour on her cheek, handing a warm, freshly-baked pastry to his mother.

Inko Midoriya was a force of nature in her own right, coordinating meal distribution with cheerful, unstoppable efficiency. And the fox-woman, whose name he now knew was simply Ippan Josei, was her star volunteer.

“Izuku! Over here, sweetie!”

His mother’s call broke him from his thoughts. He jogged over, a weary but genuine smile on his face.

“Mom, you should be taking a break.”

“Nonsense, there’s too much to do,” Inko chirped, before gesturing to Ippan. “Have you tried one of Ippan-san’s sweet buns? She used to be a baker, you know! She’s been an absolute lifesaver here.”

Ippan Josei looked up at him, and his breath caught. He was used to people looking at him with awe or respect. But her eyes, a warm, intelligent amber, held a different light. It was a soft, dazzling adoration, so intense it made her seem to shy away from her own gaze. A faint, charming blush was visible even through the soft, downy fur on her cheeks.

“It’s an honor, Deku-san,” she said, her voice a low, melodic murmur. “Your mother is the real hero here.”

The compliment made Inko tear up, and the conversation dissolved into a comfortable, domestic scene. Izuku found himself lingering, drawn to Ippan’s quiet, gentle presence. He learned that her small bakery had been destroyed in the war, and that she’d been volunteering every day since. He knew, of course, that she had a crush on him. It was in the way her large, elegant ears would twitch when he smiled, the way she would always save the best pastry for him. It wasn’t the loud adoration he sometimes got from fans. It was a quiet, deep, and profoundly sweet reverence that he found himself wanting to protect.

A few days later, the mood at the volunteer tent was somber. A list of temporary housing assignments had been posted, and many were finding their new homes were hours away from the city they were trying to rebuild. As Izuku approached, he saw his mother patting Ippan’s arm, a look of deep sympathy on her face.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” Inko said softly.

“What’s wrong?” Izuku asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Ippan jumped, startled by his presence. “Oh! It’s nothing, really. I just… my application for a local shelter was denied. The closest one with space is in the next prefecture. It’s no trouble, I just won’t be able to volunteer anymore.”

The thought of her leaving, of this quiet, warm presence disappearing from his exhausting days, sent a sharp, unexpected pang through his chest. He looked at his mother, and he saw the same thought reflected in her eyes.

“Nonsense,” Inko declared, her voice full of sudden, decisive energy. “Absolutely not. Izuku, we have three empty guest suites in that big, empty house of yours.” She turned to a stunned Ippan. “You will come and stay with us. It’s not a request.”

Ippan’s face went pale, then flushed a deep, mortified pink. She began waving her large hands frantically. “Oh, no, Midoriya-san, I couldn’t possibly! I would be a burden! It’s too much trouble, I’ll be fine, really, I…”

Oh my god, yes, please, I want to live with him, her inner voice was screaming, a high-pitched fangirl shriek of pure, unadulterated panic and joy.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Izuku said, his own voice gentle but firm, cutting through her flustered protests. “My mom’s right. We have more than enough room. We’d… we’d really like it if you stayed with us, Ippan-san.”

Faced with the united, kind front of her hero and his equally heroic mother, her protests crumbled. A single, happy tear welled in her eye. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

Moving in was a clumsy, heartwarming affair. Ippan had so few possessions that they fit into two small boxes. As Izuku showed her to a beautiful, sunlit guest room, she was so overwhelmed by the kindness that she was rendered almost completely silent.

The new dynamic in the house was… awkward. But a good kind of awkward. They would bump into each other in the hallways—or rather, he would nearly bounce off her, a small planet caught in the gravitational pull of a gentle, fluffy star. Their size difference was a constant source of mild, charming chaos.

The moment of truth came a week later. Izuku was coming down the stairs, exhausted after a grueling 24-hour shift. He was moving on autopilot, his mind a fog of mission reports and the lingering ache in his bones. Ippan was just rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, a basket of laundry in her arms.

He didn't see her until it was too late.

With a startled yelp, he tripped on the last step, his tired legs giving out from under him. He stumbled forward, a mess of flailing limbs, and collided directly with her.

The impact was… soft. Incredibly soft. His face was buried in a wall of warmth that smelled of clean laundry and cinnamon. He was vaguely aware of clean towels and shirts fluttering down around them like oversized confetti. He was completely enveloped, his entire world reduced to a gentle, pillowy darkness.

“Oh my goodness! Izuku-san, are you alright?” Ippan’s voice was a panicked, vibrating rumble directly above his head.

He tried to answer, but his voice was muffled. He was pressed so tightly against her chest he could barely breathe. He pushed himself back slightly, his hands finding purchase on her soft stomach, and finally managed to get his head free. He looked up, his face just inches from hers, and found himself lost in her wide, panicked amber eyes.

She was holding him, her strong arms wrapped around his back to steady him, her laundry basket lying forgotten at their feet. He was nestled against her like a child, completely and utterly safe.

“I’m… I’m okay,” he managed, his face turning a shade of red that would rival a tomato.

She didn’t let go. If anything, her grip tightened, a desperate, trembling strength in her arms. Tears welled in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You’re just… you’re so warm. You feel so safe.”

He looked up at her, confused but touched by the raw emotion in her voice. “I… I feel safe, too.”

That was it. That was the final crack in her composure. Her own exhaustion, her gratitude, her overwhelming, secret love—it all came pouring out.

“Izuku-san,” she began, her voice a choked whisper. “I have to tell you. I know this is inappropriate, and I’m your guest, and I’m so sorry, but I can’t keep it in anymore.” She took a shaky breath, her entire, massive frame trembling. “I think… I’ve been in love with you since that day at the camp. When you stood up for us. You’re just… you’re the kindest man I’ve ever known.”

With the confession finally out, she let out a small sob and pulled him into a proper hug, her head bowing over his. His face was once again buried in the impossibly soft, warm expanse of her chest, his world dissolving into a gentle, cinnamon-scented prison. He was completely, utterly enveloped.

He should have been panicking. He should have been trying to push away. But he wasn't. He was exhausted, he was overwhelmed, and he was being held by a woman whose kindness was as immense as her frame. He felt his own tension, the crushing weight of being the world's hero, just… melt away.

Slowly, tentatively, his own arms came up, wrapping around her broad, strong back. His voice was muffled, but the words were clear enough.

“I’m… I’m really glad you’re here, Ippan-san.”

It wasn't a confession of love in return, not yet. But it was an acceptance. It was a promise. And for Ippan Josei, buried in the joy and relief of her own brave heart, it was more than enough.

Chapter Text

The apartment was small.

It wasn’t just small compared to the sprawling, ostentatious penthouse she used to own; it was small by any objective measure. A cramped studio in a rundown part of Mustafu, with peeling paint and a window that overlooked a brick wall. It was all Yu Takeyama could afford. It was her punishment.

Six months ago, she had been Mt. Lady, the Gigantification Hero, a rising star in the top twenty. Her brand was flashy, her endorsements were lucrative, and her future was as bright and massive as her hero form. Then came the battle against a villain with a quirk that could destabilize the very ground it walked on. In the final moments of the fight, a seismic shockwave had sent her toppling backwards.

The rescue heroes, Deku and his team, had done their job perfectly. The civilian evacuation had been flawless; not a single life was lost. But the cost of her fall was measured in architecture. A shopping mall, two office buildings, and a multi-level parking garage, all pancaked into rubble by the weight of her unconscious, giant body.

The financial fallout was apocalyptic. No insurance policy in the world could cover that level of destruction. She was sued into oblivion by corporations and the city itself. Her agency, her wealth, her brand—all of it vanished in a tidal wave of litigation and bankruptcy proceedings. She had lost everything. More than the money, she had lost her way.

So she had run. Back to Mustafu, her hometown, a place she hadn't seen in years. She’d scraped together enough to register as an independent hero, working small-time gigs, trying to remember the woman she was before the skyline had a price tag.

The irony was not lost on her that the Number One Hero, Izuku Midoriya, had also, in his own way, come home. He’d eschewed the traditional agency model. He was a ronin, a wandering hero who traveled Japan, appearing wherever the fight was toughest, partnering with local heroes on the spot. But at the end of the day, the news always reported, he returned to his quiet, private home right here in Mustafu.

She was taking down a low-level purse snatcher—the highlight of her week—when she finally saw him in action again. It wasn’t a grand entrance. One moment, she had the thug cornered in an alley, and the next, Izuku Midoriya was just… there, a blur of green lightning, the situation resolved before she could even process it.

He turned to the local police, giving a calm, efficient report. He was smaller in person than he looked on TV, but he radiated an aura of power that was so immense it felt like it had its own gravity. When he was done, he turned to her, and his kind, familiar eyes widened slightly in recognition.

“Mt. Lady,” he said, his voice full of genuine respect. “It’s an honor. Your crowd control was perfect.”

She scoffed, a bitter, harsh sound. “My name is Yu Takeyama. And all I did was scare a kid in an alley.” She looked away, shame and failure a hot flush on her cheeks. “I’m not Mt. Lady anymore.”

He was silent for a moment. She expected pity, or worse, an awkward platitude. Instead, he said, “I heard you moved back to the area. I hope you’re doing okay.”

The simple, honest concern in his voice was a crack in the cynical armor she’d built around herself. “I’m broke, I live in a shoebox, and my biggest collar this week was a guy who stole a handbag,” she said, the words spilling out, laced with a venom meant for herself. “So no, Deku, I’m not particularly okay.”

He didn’t flinch at her tone. He just nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Good,” he said.

Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “Good?”

“You’re still out here,” he explained, his gaze unwavering. “You lost everything, and you’re still putting on the costume every day to stop purse snatchers. That’s not failure, Takeyama-san. That’s heroism.” He took a step closer. “I work alone because it’s efficient, but it’s not ideal. I need a partner. Someone I can trust to have my back, to handle large-scale threats and protect civilians while I focus on the main target. Someone with your experience and your power.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. Was this a joke? “You want to partner with… me? The hero who bankrupted herself by falling over?”

“I want to partner with the hero who is still standing right here after all of that,” he said, his voice ringing with an unshakeable sincerity. “I’ll handle the financials, the insurance, all of it. All you have to do is be a hero. What do you say?”

Tears, hot and shameful, pricked at her eyes. For the first time in six months, someone was looking at her and not seeing a liability. They were seeing a hero.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Okay, Deku.”

“Izuku,” he corrected her with a small, gentle smile. “It’s Izuku.”

Their partnership was a revelation. He was right; their styles were a perfect match. On the battlefield, they moved as a single, devastating unit. He was the scalpel, a high-speed whirlwind of overwhelming power that struck with surgical precision. She was the shield. But not the clumsy, destructive shield of before. With the pressure of financial ruin gone, and with Izuku’s quiet, constant encouragement, she rediscovered her own skill. She learned to use her gigantification with a new level of control, becoming a master of crowd control and defense, her massive form a living, breathing barrier between the chaos and the civilians.

He believed in her, and so, she started to believe in herself again.

The professional respect quickly bled into a deep, personal affection. Their lives became a comfortable routine of high-stakes battles followed by quiet, domestic evenings. They’d sit in her tiny, cramped apartment, sharing cheap takeout from a place down the street, the television murmuring in the background. In these quiet moments, the flashy, media-hungry Mt. Lady and the stoic, perfect Symbol of Peace were gone. There was only Yu and Izuku.

She found herself telling him things she’d never told anyone—her insecurities, her fear of being seen as a joke, the crushing loneliness of her old life. He, in turn, would talk about the immense pressure of his role, the ghost of All Might, the weight of a world on his shoulders. He was the only person who had ever seen the terrified, struggling woman behind her brand, and she was the only person who saw the tired, overwhelmed man behind the symbol.

One night, after a grueling fight that had left them both bruised and exhausted, they were sitting on her lumpy couch, sharing a pizza. A news report about their victory came on, praising their perfect teamwork.

“They’re calling us the ‘Dynamic Duo’ now,” she said with a small, tired laugh.

“It’s true,” he said, his voice quiet. He turned to look at her, his green eyes serious and full of a warmth that made her heart ache. “I couldn’t do this without you, Yu.”

The raw, simple honesty of his words was a final, gentle push against the last of her walls. They crumbled completely.

“Izuku,” she whispered, her own voice thick with an emotion she couldn't name.

He leaned in, and she met him halfway. The kiss was not the explosive, headline-grabbing affair the world would have expected from them. It was soft, hesitant, and deeply tender. It was a kiss of profound gratitude, of shared burdens, and of a love that had grown quietly in the rubble of their old lives.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers. “Is this okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” she breathed, before pulling him back for another kiss, this one deeper, more certain.

The transition from the couch to her small bed was a clumsy, gentle affair. The single-room apartment offered no real privacy, but they didn't need it. They were the only two people in the universe. What followed was a slow, deliberate act of worship. It was about healing. For him, every touch was an affirmation of his belief in her. He kissed the scars, both new and old, and praised the strength in her body, a body she had come to see as a liability. He made her feel powerful again, not for her size, but for her resilience.

For her, it was an act of complete and total surrender. She let him see every part of her—the fear, the insecurity, the desperate need to be seen as more than just a punchline or a price tag. His gentle, reverent exploration of her body was a balm to her wounded soul. He was the Number One Hero, a man of impossible strength, but in her arms, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, his own exhaustion and loneliness melting away under her touch. It wasn't about the thrill or the fame. It was about two lonely, broken people finding a way to be whole, to rebuild each other from the ground up.

They came together in a quiet, shared cry of release, a promise whispered in the dark of her small, humble apartment.

In the aftermath, they lay tangled in her cheap sheets, the sounds of the city a distant murmur. He was asleep, his head resting on her chest, his breathing deep and even for the first time in what felt like years. Yu was wide awake, her hand gently stroking his messy green hair.

She had lost a skyline, an empire built on flash and noise. But here, in the quiet, in the arms, it was all worth it.

Chapter Text

The apartment was their sanctuary. A simple, comfortable space that felt a world away from the constant pressure of hero work. For Izuku, coming home to Ochako was the best part of any day. Her bright, infectious optimism was the perfect antidote to the darkness he so often faced. He loved her with a depth that felt as infinite and powerful as One For All itself.

He let himself in, the exhaustion of a sixteen-hour shift weighing him down like a physical cloak. The lights were dim, the apartment quiet. He smiled, assuming Ochako was already in bed. He kicked off his boots, his movements slow and tired, and padded towards their bedroom.

He saw her in the kitchen, her back to him, quietly washing a teacup at the sink. Her soft brown hair was tied up in a messy bun, just the way he liked it. She wore one of his old, oversized All Might t-shirts, the faded fabric clinging to her familiar, gentle curves. A wave of profound, bone-deep love washed over him.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to break the peaceful silence. He just wanted to hold her.

He moved silently behind her, his large arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. It was different. Not her usual cherry blossom shampoo, but something warmer, more mature, like vanilla and chamomile. A surprise visit from her mom must have meant a gift of new perfume, he thought vaguely.

“Tired,” he murmured against her skin, his lips brushing against the soft pulse point below her ear. He placed a gentle, open-mouthed kiss there, then another, his fatigue melting away in the simple, loving act. “Missed you.”

For a second, she was perfectly still, a statue in his arms. And then, a tremor, a sharp, full-body shudder, ran through her. This wasn’t Ochako’s usual soft, happy sigh. This was a gasp of pure, unadulterated shock.

Slowly, her head turned. And Izuku’s world tilted on its axis.

It wasn’t Ochako.

It was her mother, Haruka.

Her eyes, the same warm, expressive brown as her daughter’s, were wide with a mixture of terror, confusion, and something else… something he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, name. He’d only met her a few times, but he knew her face. She was a widow, a kind, hardworking woman who looked so much like an older, more graceful version of the girl he loved. They were the same height, the same gentle build. From behind, in the dim light…

“I… I am so sorry,” he stammered, stumbling back as if he’d been burned, his hands flying up in a gesture of surrender. “Haruka-san, I thought… I thought you were Ochako. I am so, so sorry.”

Haruka Uraraka stood frozen, one hand clutching the counter for support, the other pressed to her neck where his lips had just been. Her face was flushed a deep, mortified crimson. “She… she’s in the bath,” she whispered, her voice a strained, breathless thing. “I came to surprise her for the weekend.”

The awkward silence that followed was a physical entity, a crushing weight in the small kitchen. But underneath the profound embarrassment, a different, more dangerous current was flowing. He had seen the look in her eyes before she’d masked it. It wasn’t just shock. It was a flicker of something forbidden. A spark.

That spark became a secret, creeping fire over the next few weeks. Haruka’s surprise weekend visit turned into a month-long stay, a chance to reconnect with her hero daughter. And in that time, the house became a minefield of unspoken tension.

It started with small things. A lingering touch when she handed him a cup of coffee. A shared, private smile over Ochako’s head at the dinner table. Late at night, after Ochako had gone to bed, they would find themselves in the kitchen again, talking in low, hushed whispers, their conversations charged with the memory of that first, mistaken touch. He was drawn to her quiet maturity, her gentle understanding of the world’s harshness. She, a woman who had been alone for years, was captivated by the sheer, unyielding goodness of the man her daughter loved.

The line was finally crossed one rainy afternoon. Ochako was called in for an emergency patrol. The moment she was gone, the atmosphere in the apartment shifted. Haruka was folding laundry in the living room. He came and sat beside her, under the pretense of watching the news. He didn’t say a word. He just reached out and took her hand.

She didn’t pull away. Her fingers, soft and warm, laced with his. And then he was kissing her, a slow, deep, and impossibly tender kiss that was a world away from the youthful passion he shared with Ochako. It was a kiss of shared loneliness, of a forbidden comfort they had both been starving for. It was a betrayal. And it was perfect.

Their affair was a thing of whispers and shadows, stolen moments in the quiet corners of the apartment while Ochako was at work or asleep. It was agonizing. It was beautiful.

The discovery was as quiet and devastating as their affair had been. Ochako, coming home early from a patrol cancelled due to bad weather, walked in the front door. She was about to call out a cheerful greeting when she heard their voices from the kitchen—low, intimate whispers. She peeked around the corner.

She saw them. Her mother, held securely in Izuku’s arms, his head resting on her shoulder. He was whispering something to her, and she was smiling, a sad, beautiful smile that Ochako had never seen before. Then, he leaned in and gave her a soft, lingering kiss.

Ochako didn’t scream. She didn’t cry out. The sound that escaped her was a small, broken gasp, the sound of a heart shattering.

They sprang apart, their faces masks of pure, unadulterated panic and guilt.

The confrontation that followed was not a storm of rage. It was a quiet, tearful hurricane that wrecked all three of them. Ochako sat on the couch between them, a universe of space on either side, and listened. She listened to their stammered apologies, their pained confessions of a loneliness she’d never known they felt. She saw the genuine, agonizing love they had for her, and the equally genuine, shameful love they had for each other.

She should have screamed. She should have thrown them out. But looking at the two people she loved most in the world, so utterly broken and lost, her heart did something she never thought possible. It chose not to break. It chose to expand.

“I can’t lose you,” she finally whispered, her voice raw from crying. “Either of you.” She looked at her mother, then at Izuku. “If this… if this is real… if you both really…” She took a shuddering breath, the words tasting like ash and madness. “Then I won’t make you choose. I’ll… I’ll share.”

The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of her impossible, heartbreaking offer.

The first time was a week later. The tension in the apartment had been unbearable, a constant thrum of guilt and unspoken questions. It was Ochako who broke it.

That night, after a silent dinner, she took Izuku by the hand and led him not to their bedroom, but down the hall, to the guest room where her mother now slept. She knocked softly.

Haruka opened the door, her eyes wide and fearful. She saw her daughter, holding the hand of the man they both loved, and she understood.

“Mom,” Ochako whispered, her voice trembling but firm. “No more secrets.”

She led him inside. The room was small, lit only by a single bedside lamp. Ochako kicked off her slippers and climbed onto the bed, her expression a mixture of profound sadness and a strange, resolute curiosity. She patted the space beside her, an invitation.

Izuku’s heart was hammering against his ribs. This was a fantasy. A nightmare. He looked from Ochako’s brave, tear-streaked face to Haruka’s terrified, hopeful one. He got into the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Haruka was the last to move. She closed the door, her movements slow, as if in a dream. She slipped out of her robe and slid under the covers on the other side of Ochako. The three of them lay there, a silent, trembling island in a sea of taboo.

It was Izuku who moved first. He reached out, his hand finding Ochako’s. Then, he reached across her, his other hand finding her mother’s. He held them both, a living, breathing bridge between two generations of women he loved.

What followed was an exploration. It was a slow, hesitant dance of discovery. Kisses were shared, tentative at first, then deeper as the initial shock gave way to a wave of consuming sensuality. His hands, his mouth, became instruments of a strange, beautiful peace treaty. He paid homage to Ochako’s youthful energy, her soft curves, the familiar taste of her skin. And then he would turn and worship at the altar of her mother’s mature grace, her elegant lines, the new, intoxicating scent he had come to crave.

Soon, the hesitance melted into a fluid, undeniable heat. Ochako, caught between the two people who defined her world, found her jealousy warring with a strange, voyeuristic thrill. She watched, fascinated, as her lover, her hero, brought her mother to heights of pleasure she had never known. And then, it was her turn. Haruka’s hands, so like her own, would stroke her back in comfort, even as Izuku’s body moved against hers.

It was a dizzying, overwhelming symphony of shared pleasure, of whispered confessions and broken moans. He was the center of their universe, a sun they both orbited, and he gave them both everything he had. The lines of mother and daughter, of lover and lover’s lover, blurred into a single, complicated, and breathtakingly intimate entity.

They climaxed in a tangled, shuddering heap, their ragged breaths the only sound in the room.

In the quiet, exhausted aftermath, they didn’t speak. They just held each other. Izuku in the middle, Ochako curled against his front, her mother spooned against his back. It wasn't a solution. It wasn't forgiveness. It was a beautiful, heartbreaking, and terrifying new beginning, a shared secret that would bind the three of them together, for better or for worse, forever.