Archive of Our Own

The stars are somewhat visible tonight. You’ve never seen them in their true shining glory, dotting the sky as if God himself had thrown glitter on a canvas. Not here at least. The city is not at all a good place for stargazing. Perhaps you should travel somewhere remote, secluded. It’s what your boss suggested you do.

But for now, you’ll settle for this. Looking at barely visible stars, the cold concrete of your apartment building’s roof against your back. Maybe you should’ve brought a blanket.

But maybe you deserve this cold. It was probably the last thing she felt before she died.

Your heart squeezes with fresh grief. Every time you think you’ve forgotten and moved on, the teeth sink right back in so suddenly it leaves you desperate for air. Your abdomen stings with a phantom pain. The memory still burns in your brain, though you wish it didn’t. So often you find yourself analyzing it like a movie scene, finding things you could’ve done differently so that it could’ve turned out better.

What happened happened. You couldn’t have done anything. That’s what everyone tells you. It’s what you try to tell yourself. But goddamnit, deep down you couldn’t believe it. Not when the signs were there.

Fuck, do you need a hobby. Something to get your mind off things.

A flash draws your attention to the sky. Shooting star, maybe. Now the universe was just taunting you. You wished for too many things. Hell, as a paramedic, you wished for miracles on a daily basis. It was basically in the job description.

But right now, you just wished for something good.

There’s another flash. Your eyebrows furrow. Meteor shower, maybe? But it looked green. You sit up a little, neck craning.

Then the star rapidly descends, landing on your rooftop. The loud smack of shoes hitting concrete echoes. You can hear little crackles of electricity. You can see them—sparks dancing around the figure that is now standing upright. They’re not turned towards you. Instead, they’re overlooking the city.

In the darkness you squint at their form. From the lights of the city and the green electricity surrounding them, you can figure out who it is pretty easily. Deku, the Symbol of Hope, Number one hero. You’ve been on scenes with him before, even treated him. You recognize those green curls and broad shoulders, even if he isn’t facing you.

You wonder what he’s doing here. Patrolling the city? Likely. He doesn’t belong to a big agency, so you’ve heard he just goes without any set schedule. Just like All Might did.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s in some sort of trance, scouring the streets below. With how attentive he is, you’re surprised you’ve gone unseen. Should you reveal yourself? Or let him move on?

It would be nice to talk to someone though. So, you clear your throat.

His shoulders jump, and he spins around. His quirk sizzles, expecting danger, but it dies when he sees you sitting there. All you can think is, yup, that’s definitely him. Big green eyes and freckles.

“Oh—sorry. Is this your roof?” He asks a little anxiously. You smile. For such a big guy whom you knew was very serious in the field, it was a little nice to see him like this. Aloof and awkward. Everyone’s human, you suppose.

“I’m afraid it is. Though I guess I could share it with you, but not for free,” you jest lightly. He blinks at you a few times before barking out a laugh. The tension in his shoulders relaxes, as do the muscles in his face.

“Oh no. Guess I’ll have to move over one rooftop if it’s too much,” he plays along.

You hum. “You can stay if you give me information.”

One of his eyebrows raises. “Information?”

“Like why the number one hero is sitting on my apartment building.”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Classified. Sorry.”

“Very classified, I’m sure.”

“Am I really that recognizable? I’m not even in uniform,” he pouts. It was true. He was simply dressed in a loose white t-shirt and black sweatpants.

You chuckle. “To the average pedestrian, probably not. But I’ve seen you up close before,” you inform.

He tilts his head to the side, scrutinizing your features in the dark. “I’m not just saying this but . . . you do look familiar.”

That’s when you finally stand, brushing debris off your butt and back. “I’m a paramedic from the hospital not far from here. We’ve been on scene together,” you introduce yourself. His face brightens a little bit. He takes your outstretched hand, shaking it.

“Oh! Uh . . . “ he trails off, repeating your name a few times under his breath. He becomes more sheepish the longer he tries to remember, nervously running a hand on his nape. You weren’t really offended. Amused was a better term to describe it.

“It’s okay if you don’t remember me. When I was treating you all you could focus on was getting back up. I swear, you just wouldn’t sit still. I was tempted to just chain you down,” you explain.

It’s a memory you think back on from time from time to give yourself a good giggle. Pro Hero Deku, fidgeting relentlessly as you stitched up his arm. Muttering to himself, incoherent things you couldn’t care to catch. In the moment you had been pretty frustrated with him. But later you’d smile about it, knowing you would have probably been the same way.

His expression goes from bashful to impish. “Oops,” he says without any real apology, making you laugh. But he studys you again now that you’re closer. “That doesn’t seem right though. I thought I’ve seen you somewhere else.”

You know where he’s seen you. The news probably. Blood staining your clothes, your hands, as you helplessly dragged your partner’s body away.

That thought alone is enough to dampen your mood. Of course, every time you’ve experience some sort of happiness these past weeks, it always comes back to haunt you. You don’t want him to realize. You don’t want to see the pity in his eyes. So, you back away from him, a smile plastered on your face.

“It was nice chatting, Symbol of Hope, but I should probably go to sleep. I think you should too. Can’t save anyone without proper rest.”

The harmless jab does nothing, because his grin has already fallen. He stares, confused, at your retreating form. The door to the stairs creaks open, and you close it without looking back.

You breath out once, twice, before heading to your room knowing damn well you weren’t going to sleep.

***

Another night finds you in a similar position. Though this time you’re leaning against the railings on the roof, blankly staring what city life was left below. The bags under your eyes have grown more prominent as restless nights slip by.

You hadn’t seen Deku since that night, and honestly you didn’t expect to see him again. It was merely a coincidence that the two of you met. At least the conversation was nice. First decent one you’ve had in a while.

You wonder how long your boss will let you stay off work. He told you to take as long as you needed. It had been at her funeral, when you couldn’t conceal your grief any longer. He had placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, and through the midst of the ringing in your ears, you could hear his kind words.

But at this rate you’ll need more time. Because you don’t feel any different than when you were at that funeral two weeks ago. The only difference is that all your tears had dried a long time ago.

It’s driving you insane, these feelings. On one hand you just want to do nothing but let the world slip by. On the other, you want to work until your hands fall off. Despite this, there’s one fact that’s undeniable.

You’ve seen too much death.

Something catches your eye in the distance. A flash of green, leaping from roof to roof. So it was Deku again, then? He must come out more often than you thought. Does he always patrol at night? Did he pass by your rooftop without you even realizing it before?

A feeling of safety washes over you. It was heartwarming, just the thought of him watching the city at night whilst people slept. The number one hero, indeed.

He’s quickly moving closer. To the point where you can see the after-glow of his quirk as he zips through the air. You’d feel embarrassed if he caught you lurking this late, so you duck down out of sight.

Later you’ll debate if he saw you, or if intended to land on your roof from the very beginning. Either way, when he touches down on your roof, he doesn’t jump to the next. Instead he skids to a stop on the rough surface. You can feel the energy of his quirk buzzing in the air, and you can also feel it slowly taper out.

He’s panting a little, as if it took a great deal of energy for him to get here. Maybe he just needs to rest . . ? But then he’s slowly glancing up, green eyes locking firmly with yours. You’re not sure what to say. Something feels . . . off. It hangs in the air heavy between you. There’s no trace of the playful mood that was there just a few nights ago.

There’s a quip on your tongue, but it fades when his expression morphs into something different. Something you’ve grown to dread these days.

Pity.

“On the news . . . I saw . . . “ he starts while you stand. “I’m—,”

“Don’t,” you cut him off. Your voice comes out cold and bitter. “Just, don’t. Please.”

His body has gone rigid, the iciness of your words freezing him in place. His mouth is hung open, the words he wanted to say lost to the wind. You turn your back to him with a sigh.

For a minute you stand there quietly, mouth set in a deep frown. You think he might’ve gone with how silents it’s become. But then he’s coming to stand wordlessly next to you.

He merely offers his presence, and nothing more. It actually does bring some semblance of comfort. But he’s a hero, with bigger fish to fry.

“You should go,” you urge quietly.

“Do you want me to go?”

“Do you want to stay?” You ask, taken aback. Because it sounded like he was hurt by your suggestion. Like he meant to stay and comfort you.

He shrugs. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Different words race through your mind. You want to tell him that he doesn’t know you. You want to tell him it doesn’t make sense, and that you’re fine, and he could go. But his eyes are almost pleading, so you simply say: “Okay. You can stay.”

“Free of charge?” He asks, hopeful.

It startles a laugh from you. “Yes. Free of charge.”

***

The weirdness of the situation bugs you. One night he shows up on your roof, you have a small conversation, and now you’re talking on the regular. Like old friends reuniting or something. You’ll talk about everything and nothing at all, just things to fill the silence.

You’ve found that your favorite thing is just to confuse the hell out of him, if only to see his confused expression. Something about it makes your heart both relax and speed up.

“Hey Deku . . . “

“I told you it’s Midoryia.”

“Right, so anyways Deku-“

“I know you’re doing it just to annoy me now.”

“-if I went and bought a dozen eggs, broke them all, how many watermelons would I need to go cliff diving into the Atlantic Ocean?”

“ . . . what?”

He, in retaliation, tells some of the worst jokes you’ve ever heard.

“What kind of tea is the worst to swallow?”

“What, Midoryia?”

“Reality.”

“Get the fuck off my roof.”

Though the one thing that bothers you the most is why exactly he keeps returning. He had no obligation to you. You may be somewhat friends now, but you weren’t before, so why did he come back? You get the courage to ask one night.

“Hey Midoriya?”

“Hmm?” He hums, watching the streets below.

“Why did you come back?”

Your question is vague, but he understands all the same. He releases a heavy breath, searching for an answer. His face falls, and it’s the first time you see grief in his eyes.

“I think it was because . . . I know what it’s like. To lose someone close,” he swallows thickly. “When you had the ability to save them. And couldn’t.”

The honesty of his answer leaves your eyes wide. It’s like some invisible pair of shades have fallen from your face, giving you a true glimpse of Midoryia Izuku. He was a hero, and being a hero didn’t just mean punching the bad guy.

You wonder how much death he’s seen.

“I appreciate it,” you start carefully. “But I’m not the only one who’s gone through something like this. There are hundreds,” you gesture to the city, “of others who deal with things like this. I’m not more special than any of them. So why?”

He considers your words. Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You stare at him. “You’re a strange man.”

He laughs. “I know.”

***

You’ve decided that spending your nights on the rooftop with Midoriya are over. Instead, they’ll be moving to your apartment. It’s gotten colder recently, and overall there’s nothing to do up there other than talk. Which, actually, can be pretty entertaining. But that’s not the point.

The salty, buttery smell of popcorn fills your apartment. You walk past the kitchen carrying a mountain of blankets and pillows, dumping them on the couch. You’re starting to assemble them to your liking when your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s Midoriya, texting you to let you know that he’s here and on his way up.

A giddy feeling blooms in your stomach, one you can’t seem to escape lately. It comes about when you imagine his smile, or replay his laugh in your mind. You haven’t given it much thought.

Moments later, there’s a knock at the door. It reveals a bright-eyed Midoriya, grinning at you. You take in his appearance in a series of rapid blinks.

“The hell are you wearing?” You ask, amused. You’re referring, of course, to the amount of hero merch he’s wearing. From an Uravity sweater to Shotou pants (one red leg and one white) and Froppy socks.

He looks down at himself. “What? It’s not that bad.”

“It’s horrendous. Hurry and get in before my neighbors see me letting a giant buffoon into my apartment.”

He lets you push him in without any resistance. Once he’s inside, you go to finish preparing, leaving him to glance around your apartment.

“I like this,” he comments.

“Like what?”

“All of it. It’s very homey.” You’d have to agree. You made it your mission to fill up the walls and corners of your apartment with various items and pictures. Midoriya falls silent, and you glance at him. He’s staring at the picture of you and your coworker. You quickly turn before he can see your expression.

“Just a few more things and then we can start,” you say with a neutral tone. He hums, disappearing around the corner to explore further. As you’re pouring the popcorn, you hear the sliding door open.

Quizzically you glance around the corner, spying him out on your balcony. He’s testing the railings, and the bolts holding it up.

“Watcha doing?” You call. He glances back at you, playful.

“Nothing.” You shake your head at him, but allow him to continue his examination. From your closet you uncover a small folding table. You set it up in front of the couch, stacking all of the snacks on it. When Midoriya wanders back inside, you push him over to couch, where you force him to sit.

“What’re you doing?” He shoots back as you bundle him up in blankets.

“Fussing.” He wriggles when you finish.

“I feel like a burrito.”

“Good,” you reply, burrowing up next to him. He manages to get one arm loose, curling it around you. “That’s the point.”

You’re scrolling through the movie options. None of them seem really appealing. It doesn’t help you both bicker on what to watch. Finally, you settle on Godzilla.

The night carries on easily, as they always do now a days. When Midoriya finally leaves with tousled hair and a yawn, you actually manage to sleep.

***

“Where are you taking me, fanboy?” You ask him as he leads you through the city. It’s one of the first times you interact during the day and not like insomniac gremlins. He had just texted if you were free, showed up to your apartment, and whisked you away.

He’s dressed ridiculously again today in more hero merch, but it’s much less conspicuous. A Chargebolt cap hides his curls, and a Red Riot mask covers most of his face.

Although you can’t see his smile, you can see the way his eyes crinkle.

“You’ll see.”

“I know you’ll give in if I pester you enough. You’re shit at hiding stuff.”

“Not this time. But you’ll like it. I think.”

You decide to trust him, because it’s hard not to trust him. You’ve expressed before how you want to hang out during one of his days off. It seems that day has finally come, and you’re more than ecstatic about it.

There aren’t many people out today. Those that are, thankfully, don’t seem to notice the hero in disguise walking in the streets.

Finally Midoriya stops in front of a moderately sized building. You squint up at the sign and gasp.

“Laser Tag?!”

“If you don’t want to, then we can go somewhere else.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to! Oh I’m gonna kick your ass . . . “ you trail off as you march into the building. He laughs as he follows you in, pulling down his mask.

The room you enter is dimly lit with glowing colors. At the front desk, a person wearing a big smile and glow in the dark glasses greets you. Midoriya swiftly purchases tickets for the both of you.

As you’re lead into another room, you tug on his sleeve. “You should’ve told me to bring money,” you whisper in his ear.

“I wanted to pay,” he replies. Your stomach does that funny little flip thing.

In the next room, there are some people already waiting in their gear. You can hear music beating from behind some doors, and you assume that’s where the battle will take place. Someone comes in and starts reading off rules as you both suit up in your gear.

“This place is an adults place only. I like it because playing against little kids can be hard. Especially when they follow you around the entire time.”

You laugh at the image of Midoriya running around in the dark being chased by children. He gives you a nudge, mock-pouting. You nudge back.

“Don’t like kids?”

“I like kids. I can just get . . . competitive.”

“Yeah? Well I bet I’m going to destroy you.”

The smile he shoots you can only be described as feral. “Whoever wins decides where to eat?”

“You’re on.”

The first game is an all-out free for all. When the doors open, you hurry to get a good spot. That’s when you realize that the place is actually pretty big. There a towers and slides and all kinds of stairs. Oh yeah, this was going to be fun.

Your spot is up high on a platform. There are plenty of escape options.

When the whistle blows, loud and sharp, you start scouting for victims. Despite all the people in the room, you’re only looking for one person. And god damnit, he’s a big guy, how have you not found him yet?

You get an answer when, in the middle of the open, you get shot. Momentarily stunlocked and unable to shoot, you glance around, wondering who it could’ve been. But then you see movement in one of the towers.

Oh, you think, advancing towards it. You’re dead.

But he’d expect you to come from the stairs, right? That’s when you notice the slide leading up to the tower. Well, it was in the rules to not climb up the slides, but what’s the harm? With one hand on your weapon, you use the other to scale the slide.

Luckily, the music masks your noisy climbing. As you near the top, you can see his legs. He’s standing right above the slide, poised to escape if someone came up the stairs. You grin to yourself, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

Pushing with your legs, you slide out right underneath him and fire. He scrambles back as his sensors buzz, eyes wide.

“What the-“

“Afternoon, sunshine,” you giggle maniacally.

“That’s against the rules!” He protests, but he’s wearing his own big smile.

“I never play by the rules!” You shout, descending back down the slide. You’re jogging away as soon as your feet hit the floor, because you’re pretty sure you’ve just invoked his wrath.

Your suspicions are confirmed a few minutes later. You hadn’t encountered him again yet, but you had been on the lookout on one of the high platforms. One moment you’re glancing behind you, the next something is wrapping tight around your wrists. There’s a flash of panic, but you follow the black tendrils all the way back to Midoriya, who blinks at you innocently.

“Hey!” You yell as he shoots you. “No quirks!”

“You climbed up the slide!”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures!”

Experimentally, you yank on whatever he’s got wrapped around you. It’s Blackwhip, you think, part of his quirk. Apparently, it’s pretty strong stuff, because it doesn’t budge an inch. Thankfully, the whistle blows, and everyone files out for the instructions for the next game.

“Cheater,” you mutter playfully to Midoriya.

He splutters. “Me? You started it.”

The next two games are both team games. One regular team game and a capture the flag game. Each team gets a turn defending the flag.

At first you were happy, because Midoriya was on your team. That was until he started following you around and stealing all of your shots, thus gaining the lead in points.

“Didn’t know I was playing with a scammer,” you mutter to him, on the way to whatever place he chooses to eat. You didn’t lose much except for your pride, but damnit you really wanted to beat him.

“If I’m a scammer, then you are too, you know.”

“Hmph.”

It’s late in the day now. You didn’t even realize, but quite a bit of time had been spent in there. When you first came out, your eyes had nearly burned out of your socket because you had gotten used to the dark.

Despite pouting about your loss . . . you were having a really good time. With Midoriya.

Something in the back of your mind whispers that you shouldn’t be having fun. You weren’t allowed too.

Eventually you’re ducking down in a little colorful restaurant. A flavorful smell sits in the air, making your mouth water and stomach grumble. A petite old woman sits behind the counter, her face brightening when she sees Midoriya.

“Ah, come in, come in, you’re always welcome here!” She beams. He stoops to her height so she can envelop him in a tight hug. You watch the exchange a little awkwardly, hanging near the door. “And you’ve brought someone new! Come here, my dear.”

Unable to help returning her smile, you approach. She takes your hands in hers. They’re warm and soft. Her eyes study yours.

“Pretty. Yes, very pretty.” Your face flushes. “But your eyes are sad, my dear. Smile! You are in Auntie Emi’s hands. What would you like?”

“Uhh, spicy curry sounds good,” you reply after studying the menu. She nods.

“Good choice. I will be back soon, have a seat.” Then she’s disappearing into the back. Midoriya leads you to a table.

“I found this place back when I was still in school. It was raining, and I was just trying to get out of it. Ended up here, and she basically forced me to eat after calling me miserable.” You laugh. “Honestly I probably was. All wet and in my hero costume was probably a pitiful sight.”

“Like a wet rat,” you added. He flicks a thread ball at you.

You aren’t waiting long before Auntie Emi is returning with two steaming bowls: both of which look delicious. You give her your thanks, and she gently pats you on the arm.

“I hope whatever troubles you will let you be. You are a vibrant person, I can tell. You will overcome this.”

Her words make you pause. “Thank you,” you murmur finally. She nods, going back around the corner. Both of you immediately dig in. It tastes delicious.

“So, spicy?” He asks. You look up mid-bite.

“Of course. Everything’s better spicy.” Something about your answer makes him pause. “What?” You inquire as he stares at you. He shakes his head, smiling fondly.

“Nothing.” He looks at the old woman, working behind the counter. “It’s nice, though. Getting comfort from strangers. It sounds weird, but it’s true. Your friends and family—you already expect comfort from them. But when it comes from someone new it feels different, y’know?”

You imagine a younger Midoriya, surrounded by the same orange lights with the rain pouring outside. Dripping wet and looking tired, eating at one of these tables while Auntie Emi comforted him about his struggles.

“Yeah,” you agree. “You’re right.”

***

It finds you one night. The grief. The pain. The aching of your heart. Shouldn’t you be over it by now? She was gone. Nothing was bringing her back.

But maybe that was the problem. You’d never get to go on calls together again. Never get to go out for drinks after a hard day. Never get to mess around in the office. Her kindness, her determination, and her beautiful mind were all lost.

You should just lay back down. Try to sleep and forget. And yet, you find yourself dialing Midoriya’s number anyways with shaking fingers. Part of you tells your body to stop, but it’s like you move without thinking. Holding up the phone to your ear, you breath out, as if that could expel all of your bad feelings.

He picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hey? Are you okay?” He asks immediately. The darkness of your room curls around you, your throat.

“Yeah, um.” You hate yourself for the tremors in your voice. “A-are you free?”

He’s silent for a second. You think maybe he didn’t hear you, but then he’s saying: “I’m coming. Just hold on, okay?”

You breath out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding. He says your name, snapping you out of your daze.

“Okay,” you whisper. He hangs up then, leaving you in the suffocating silence of your apartment. It’s too much and not enough. You feel stuck in a sick, never-ending loop.

Will you ever get better? Will you ever be fixed?

You don’t wait for long. Soon the sound of knuckles against glass has you rising to your feet, padding across your space. He’s on your balcony, watching as you unlock the door and push it open. He doesn’t hesitate once the door’s open. His arms are wrapping around you firmly, closing the door with his foot.

He curls his body around you, as if he himself could shield you from your grief. Maybe he wishes he could. You rest you’re forehead against his collarbone, holding on to him tight.

After a few minutes, maybe, he murmurs, “What do you need?”

Silently, you pull him towards your room. He follows like your shadow. When you bury under the covers, he does the same. When you press yourself to him, he holds you close. When you begin murmuring things to him, he listens.

“Do you know what happened, that day?”

His hand momentarily pauses in your hair, but quickly resumes. “What I know is what the media gave. I never trust the media.”

The headlines of the newspapers still burns in the back of your memory. Journalists have always loved to spin their stories, no matter the people they hurt or the damage they caused. You hated them.

“We got called out to a bus. Some guy had just passed out, nothing would wake him up. We suspected overdose, which it was. When we finally got the guy to wake up, he was all out of it, which is normal. We wanted to get him to a hospital first before we left. But he just kept refusing and refusing and getting more and more aggressive.”

Every detail is branded into your skull. The position of the sun in the sky, the faces of bystanders, the voice of the man who killed her. You could never forget what happened. The words just keep flowing and flowing.

“I was starting to get worried. As paramedics, we’re not really trained to deal with violence. I was just about to fucking tell my partner we should leave,” your words are cut off by a body-wrenching gasp. It rips through your lungs, your throat. That’s when the tears finally start flowing. “And then he snapped. His fingernails grew, hit both me and my partner. But he— it lacerated her femoral artery. She bled out in two minutes.”

Your entire body is shuddering now, convulsing with the force of your anguish. You can barely recognize your own voice; the sound of your wails foreign to your ears. They soon become muffled because Midoriya’s hugging you tight.

Minutes pass with him crushing you to his chest. Slowly, your sobs subside. But even then everything still hurts. Your head, your stomach, your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I’m a mess.”

“Don’t ever apologize for this stuff,” he says firmly. He peels away from you, and that pathetic little part of you wants to protest, but he merely passes you some tissues. “Besides, if you’re a mess, what does that make me?”

“A catastrophe,” you laugh wetly. He smiles softly. While you lay in bed, trying to get more comfortable, he fetches water and pills for you. Once you’ve taken them, he lies back down with you. Wrapping his arms around your middle like that’s where they were always meant to be.

Your eyes trace the freckles that dot his neck and collarbones. “It should have been me,” you whisper, one last spurt of the raging waterfall. His breath hitches, and then he falls silent. Finding the right words.

“The feelings don’t ever really go away. But they do get better,” he assures. A kiss is pressed to your head. “I promise.”

You’re asleep within the next minute.

***

You suspect he’s coming. The news had been on as background noise while you scrolled on your phone, broadcasting the current villain attack. Midoriya was facing off against a woman with heat powers, some of his uniform burnt. When it was all over and the reporters rushed in, you could see it. The exhaustion in his eyes.

It’s not that you think you’re the first person he turns to when something like this happens, but recently he’s been showing up at your door. You don’t ask why, just gently take him in and give him a place to stay.

He arrives when you’re setting up blankets on the couch. You can never expect where he’ll crash, except that he’ll want you to be there with him wherever he does. As you’re laying out the pillows, he taps at your sliding door. You’re there in a second.

The chilly night air accompanies him. His green eyes, usually so bright, are hollow. He tilts his head down in a silent show of defeat and question. You answer by cupping his cheek and lifting his head, offering him a smile. The warmth of your apartment welcomes him as you lead him inside. You bring him to one of your table chairs, where he sits heavily.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” You murmur. He nods. First you go to turn on the shower, making sure it’s set to hot. Then you take out bandages and petroleum jelly for his burns. Lastly you grab some spare, clean clothes that he’s left behind before and place it on the bathroom counter. When you emerge, he hasn’t moved an inch. “Water’s ready,” you tell him.

Slowly, he stands. You guide him to the bathroom, where steam is now clouding the area. He gives you one last forlorn look before the door is gently closing.

You’re quick to start on dinner after that. It’s from days like these that you learned Midoriya’s favorite meal is Katsudon. So as he washes himself off, you cook for the both of you.

He takes a little longer than usually today, but that’s okay. You want him to be able to eat right away. When he does finally finish, toweling his hair dry, you are just topping off the bowls. Though they need to cool, so you take the opportunity to examine his injuries.

They’re not too bad, luckily. A few minor scraps and burns. Nothing some bandages and petroleum jelly can’t fix.

Briefly you wonder why he’s so down today. There were no mentioned casualties, and it didn’t seem like a tough fight. But you’ll ask him later, when he’s ready to open up. For now, you push a warm bowl of food into his hands and join him on the couch for dinner.

He eats slowly and sluggishly. You end up finishing before him, but you know what you can do to keep yourself busy. His curls are unruly and tangled, so you fetch a comb. With gentle fingers, you start brushing through his forest-green hair. He sighs heavily, in content maybe, relaxing into your touch. You indulge him and scratch at his scalp.

His hair is warm and wet still. He smells like your shampoo.

Knowing him, he’ll want to do his own dishes. But you won’t stand for it. So when he finishes, you snatch his bowl away to set in the sink.

“Wanna sleep here or the bed?” You ask him softly.

His eyes are already drooping. The battle to keep them open is probably the hardest he’s ever fought. But he still summons the energy to mumble, “bed,” and you help him get there. You lay down first, and he follows soon after. He crawls over you and collapses on your body, head cushioned by your stomach. You resume your hands in his hair.

“What’s the matter, Midoriya?” You wonder. You want him to at least talk about it before he passes out.

“I . . . “ he sighs. “I don’t feel like I’m doing enough, sometimes.”

You tilt your head at him. “You do so much, Midoriya. You give so much, just to keep everyone safe.”

He shakes his head against your belly. “That’s what everyone always says. But to me, it’s not enough. It’s . . . “ he cuts himself off with another sigh. You smooth the crease in his brows, frowning.

“Is it something else . . ?”

He’s silent. For a long time. But you know he’s not asleep. Finally he shifts, looking up into your eyes.

“If my friend were here, he’d be working so hard too. I feel like . . . “

“ . . . Feel like you have to work enough for the both of you?”

“Something like that.”

Your heart cracks just a little. You think of your coworker. How you mourned her.

“Would he be happy, knowing you were overworking yourself like this?” You inquire quietly. He huffs against your chest, shaking his head.

“No. He’d probably call me stupid. But in more vulgar terms.”

Your hands smooth down to his shoulders, easing the tension there as well. Little by little does he relax, his breathing becoming more deep.

“Take a break with me, Izuku,” you tell him. You don’t even notice the slip up. Neither does he.

“Can’t,” he yawns. “City needs me.”

“The city can wait a little,” you affirm. “You can rest.”

You wonder if he knows that you mean ‘rest’ as in ‘relax’ and not ‘sleep.’ Maybe he didn’t even hear you. Maybe it doesn’t matter. You’ll always be there for him when he needs it.

***

“Ooh here’s a good one. ‘My crush on Red Riot has two sides. It’s either oh my god he’s such a gentleman or oh my god I want to make a home between his massive fucking tiddies.’”

Midoriya’s face flushes instantly. “Oh nooo,” he groans, covering his eyes with his hands. You cackle maniacally. “Okay. Here’s this one. POV: My last three brain cells during a test.”

He shows you a picture, one that must’ve been taken from some party. Pro hero Chargebolt is wrapped up in Cellophane’s tape, dangling from the ceiling. Said other pro is hanging on to the other side of the tape with a big smile. Pinky swings back and forth on him, mouth open wide as if singing some unheard tune.

You giggle. “More like POV: what firefighters actually do everyday.”

“Really?” Midoriya gawks.

“Hell yeah. You walk into the fire department at any given time and I guarantee they’re in there doing some dumb shit. You ever see the video of the one riding the fire hose?”

He laughs. You both keep scrolling, looking for more dumb tweets to read aloud. You sit shoulder to shoulder, a blanket wrapped around both of you. It’s warm enough to where the blanket isn’t needed, but you keep it anyways.

“Oh I like this,” you smush your cheek on his arm. “‘Find yourself an SO who looks at you the way Froppy looks at jelly.’ You expect maybe a chuckle, or at the very least a huff. But he’s gone silent next to you. A quick glance at his face reveals his face is stony. His eyebrows are furrowed, mouth turned downwards. “What’s up?”

He snaps out of his trance. “Oh! No it’s . . . nothing.”

Your lips press together, eyes narrowing. “Come on. We both know it’s not nothing. Was it a mean tweet?” He often gets upset if he sees someone bad-mouthing his friends online.

“No, not that. Just,” he sighs, rubbing his temple. “Here,” he resigns, handing his phone to you. You take it from him, reading the screen. “It’s dumb.”

‘Am I the only one who thinks Deku’s scars are hot? Like damn.’

Your eyebrows furrow as he explains. “I don’t get what people like about them. They’re so . . . ugly.”

You set both of your phones aside, shuffling closer to him. Taking his hand in yours, you smooth over the rough skin there.

“I think it’s less about thinking they look nice and more realizing what they mean. They’re proof that you’re a protector, and have fought to keep people safe. That’s what I think,” you assured him softly. You thumb over the criss-cross of scars on his palm.

He blinks at you. “Thank you, but-,”

“You are just so damn stubborn sometimes, you know that?” You cut him off jokingly. He huffs, frowning still. You make a decision then, and bring his hand to your face to gently kiss. His breath hitches, and you hear him utter your name, but you simply move on to another jagged portion of skin to peck. It’s like something has finally snapped in your mind.

His hand slips from your grasp, and there’s a split second that you fear you’ve gone to far. You’ve crossed the line, and now you can’t go back. But then he’s tilting your head towards him with a hand on your chin. He stares down at you with half-lidded, pupil-blown eyes. All at once your heart rate increases, and a realization washes over you.

In the next second, you’re both meeting in the center. You have a second to think, finally, as your arms link around his neck. Then he’s leaning into you more, pushing you down until your back is pressed to the couch.

Heat pools in your belly at the feel of him pinning you down. He’s still kissing you feverishly, like he can’t wait any longer either. When he does finally break away, he moves to your neck, kissing down a sloppy line.

“Is this okay?” He asks, but it’s said in between nibbles to your skin. Like he can’t get enough of you. Like he can’t physically stop.

“Yes,” you gasp, arching against him. You maneuver so that your legs are splayed on either side of his hips, searching for friction. “Please.”

He makes a strangled noise before rutting up hard into you. A quiet moan escapes you as the outline of him presses against you. The room is now too hot, and you’re wearing too many clothes. Your trembling hands go to the hem of your shirt to try and pull it off. But Midoriya is impatient, because he grabs your collar and rips right down the middle.

Both of you stare in shock at your torn shirt. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he apologizes in fear. But you simply cup his face and take him in another bruising kiss.

“Don’t be.” Another kiss. “That was.” A peck. “So fucking hot.”

“Yeah?” He says, matching your tempo.

“Yeah,” you assure, voice sultry and low.

He pushes your torn shirt aside. Not even bothering to unclasp your bra, he merely pushes it down so that your breasts spill out. Praises and gasps fall from your lips as he palms them, thumbing your sensitive peaks.

“Izuku, please,” you beg, but you don’t know what you’re begging for. His eyes suddenly snap to yours.

“Izuku,” he repeats. It’s then you realize that you’ve called him by his first name. “I like that.”

He starts to travel lower, mapping a path with his tongue. Your core buzzes the closer and closer he gets. When he suddenly stops, you sit up on your elbows to peer down at him.

He’s staring at the scar on your abdomen. Twin, puckered holes that were now a shade lighter than the rest of your skin. Midoriya locks eyes with you, and then gently smooches the area.

Your entire body shudders. You don’t even know why. Is this why he got so eager to jump your bones when you kissed his scars earlier?

If your body shuddered before, then it practically lurches when his hand presses against your clothed sex. A sharp gasp escapes you, one that turns into a long moan when he rubs up and down.

“Fuck, I can feel you,” he breathes heavily. “So warm.”

“ ‘Zuku please,” you beg.

“Please what?”

When you look down, he’s staring up at you. Something like mischief and possession swirls in his irises. Your stomach tightens.

“T-touch me. Please.”

He hums. “Good girl.”

Just like your shirt, he tears through your pants and panties and tosses them aside. Instinctively, you try to close your legs, but he holds them open with strong hands. He shoots you one last look, just to make sure, and you nod. Then he descends, mouth closing around your clit.

You nearly wail from the intensity. His tongue laps against you, sending little sparks dancing across your body. He draws out your pleasure with long, firm sucks that has you seeing stars. The sound of it all is lewd. If you had any self awareness left, maybe you’d be a little embarrassed, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Fuu-uuuck,” you whimper, one of your hands finding home in his curls. His hands shift from your thighs to your hips, pinning you down. “Izuku. Oh god, please.”

The knot deep in your stomach is growing. You can barely breathe. All you can think of is him, only him. Holding you down. Eating you out like a man starved. You can barely warn him as the heat suddenly swells and it slams against you like a tidal wave. You throw your head back, gasping, as your body jerks. He hums, letting you ride out your orgasm.

When you do come out on the other side, blinking up at the ceiling, he crawls over your body. He pulls you into another kiss, and you can taste yourself on him. Then he rests his forehead against yours, breathing deep.

“I don’t have a condom,” he admits.

“I’m clean. Are you?”

“Yeah, but, are you sure . . ?”

You silence him with a finger to his lips. Slowly, you roll over onto your stomach, pushing your ass in the air. His eyes get wide as he stares at you. “Fuck me, Izuku,” you order.

The breath he lets out is shaky. The couch dips as he shuffles behind you, experimentally rolling his hips into yours. He’s gone completely hard now; you can feel the entire length of him. A whimper on your tongue, you push back against him.

There’s a rustle of fabric as he hastily pulls his shirt above his head. For a moment you mourn the fact that you can’t admire his muscles—damn you why’d you have to get on your knees so early—but any thoughts halt when he pulls off his briefs.

He’s big. You clench on nothing.

“This is still okay?” He asks one last time. You nod, mouth dry.

“Yes, yes, plea—ohh,” you moan at the feel of him at your entrance. He holds on to your hips as he slowly pushes inside of you. Only when he’s fully in, leaving you feeling stuffed, do your muscles relax. You slump against the couch, held up only by your elbows and his hands.

Then he pulls out, and snaps his hips to yours. The force knocks the air out of your lungs. Your mouth gapes, but no words comes out as a hot spike of pleasure courses through you. And then he’s doing it again and again and again.

The sound of skin on skin fills the apartment. Your hands fist in the blankets beneath you, whimpers and moans spilling from your mouth. But above it all, you can hear him.

“Fuck, you’re so good. So pretty. God, I’ve thought about this, you, before. Imagined you’d take my cock so well,” he babbles. You can only nod along to his words, too lost in the feel of him ramming into you. He suddenly tugs at your hair, lifting your face from the cushions. “Let me hear you. Please?”

So you do. You let him hear how he ruins you. You let him hear the all the noises you make as he forces himself deep inside. And when your second orgasm tears through you, you let him hear that, too.

He fucks you through it desperately, his thrusts frantic and fast. You keen, high-pitched, the overstimulation borderline painful. And when he curls a hand underneath you to rub tight circles on your clit, you nearly scream.

“Can’t Izuku- I can’t-,”

“One more,” he begs. “Give me one more.”

Your last orgasm has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, body shivering. He follows right after, the pulses of your sex milking him as he stutters against your hips. The only noises of your apartment are your heavy pants.

“You’re okay?” Izuku checks. You smile weakly.

“Mhm. I love you, Izuku.”

His breath falters, but he glows with adoration. “I love you too.”

***

The road is bumpy. You rest your forehead against the glass of the car, watching the buildings pass. Two bouquets sit bundled in your lap, crinkling if you so much as shift slightly. Izuku keeps his gaze ahead for the most part, but glances at you ever so often.

You steady yourself with deep breaths. In, and out. In, and out.

“We’re almost there,” he murmurs. One of his hands comes to rest on your thigh. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just nervous a little bit,” you reply honestly. “Is that normal?”

He nods, smiling. “Yeah. I’m nervous too.”

Good, at least you weren’t the only one. Soon you’re pulling into a parking spot and stepping out into the sun, one bouquet in each hand. You pass one off to Izuku, and take his other hand in your own. Together, you walk towards your destination.

The big, iron sign is daunting as you come closer and closer. ‘Graveyard of Heroes,’ it reads. What a shame and what a privilege to be buried here.

You swallow thickly.

The guards nod to Izuku, and you both pass through without any trouble. The stone path leads up over a hill, and your pulse grows the further you climb. Until finally, you stand at the top, overlooking a sea of gravestones.

Your hand tightens around Izuku’s. He gives you a firm squeeze.

“Do you want to go first?” You ask. He nods silently and pulls you in a certain direction. Both of you have dressed up today. It felt wrong not too. He wears black slacks and a green button-up. You sport a flowy sundress that lifts in the breeze.

You can’t help but read the names of gravestones as you pass, wondering what their stories were. Some you recognize, some you don’t. Did they die for someone? Did they die for justice? Or were they like your coworker: simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

You’d never know.

Izuku’s hand suddenly slips from yours. There’s a question on your tongue, but it dies when you see he’s slowly approaching a gravestone. There are some other old, shriveled bouquets there. He kneels down in front of it, and lays down the fresh batch of daffodils and sunflowers.

‘Katsuki Bakugou,’ the headstone reads.

With hands linked in front of you, you watch respectfully. Izuku barely moves, save for the wind tousling his hair. Other than that, he keeps his head bowed and eyes closed. After a few minutes pass, he eventually rises and faces you.

“You okay?” You ask him, gently touching his deltoid. He smiles sadly.

“Yeah.”

Next, it’s your turn to lead him through the graveyard. It’s a bit of a long walk, since hers is farther along. When you do find it, it’s just the same as you left it. Cold and empty. You vow to bring color to it as often as you can.

Just like Izuku had, you kneel in front of it and offer the flowers. Yellow roses and pink tulips.

Hey, you think. It’s me. I still really miss you. And I still wish that it could’ve turned out differently. I hope that wherever you are, you’re happy and loved. I love you. This is goodbye for now, but I’ll be back. I promise.

Izuku is waiting patiently when you finally stand. “Ready to go?” He asks, eyes shining brilliantly with love.

“Yeah,” you smile, hoping, knowing that your eyes mirrored his. “Let’s go home.”