What They Made of Me

Izuku Midoriya was confirmed quirkless at four—and the world never let him forget it. Mocked, beaten, and hidden away by a mother desperate to protect him, his light slowly faded behind closed doors. But at ten years old, he vanished—taken by the League of Villains and turned into their experiment, a nameless subject trapped in glass and silence for five long years.

When heroes finally raided the lab, it was too late. The villains were gone, their horrors erased. All that remained was a boy floating in a tube—fragile, scarred, and barely alive. And as All Might stared at him, something deep within his heart broke… because this wasn’t just another victim. This was the boy who once dreamed of being a hero.

Notes:

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Chapter 1: Dreams Denied

Chapter Text

Izuku was only four when the doctor’s words shattered the world he thought he knew.

No Quirk. None at all.

The room had gone silent after that, suffocatingly so. His mother’s hands trembled as she clutched his, her teary apology ringing over and over again in his ears — as if she’d done something wrong. As if he had.

From that day forward, life began to quietly, cruelly unravel.

Kacchan stopped talking to him. The boy who used to smile at him, who used to pull him along by the hand and declare they’d become heroes together — that same boy turned away. His grin twisted into a sneer. His words, once warm, burned like fire.

“Don’t follow me, Deku.”

“People like you just get in the way.”

“You’ll never be a hero.”

The others followed his lead. Their laughter echoed like knives in the air, sharp and merciless. Quirkless. Useless. Pathetic. Each word hit harder than any explosion.

But Izuku, small and soft-hearted, told himself it was fine. He told himself that maybe — just maybe — Kacchan still cared a little. Maybe deep down, the boy who used to call him “Izuku” was still there.

Even when the bruises bloomed across his arms like wilted flowers, even when the dirt clung to his knees after another shove to the ground, even when his mother asked why his clothes kept tearing — he smiled.

Because as long as Kacchan was still there, as long as he wasn’t completely alone, he could endure it.

He whispered it to himself every night before sleeping:
“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. But he needed to believe it.

Then, one day, even that fragile illusion began to crack.

It was an ordinary afternoon — the kind of golden day when the sun dipped lazily behind the trees of their small neighborhood park. The laughter of children carried through the wind, carefree and distant. Izuku sat on the edge of the sandbox, gently stroking a scruffy black cat he’d found there days ago.

The cat didn’t hiss at him. Didn’t run away.
It blinked up at him with slow, trusting eyes and leaned into his touch.

Izuku thought maybe this was what kindness felt like.

The others were nearby, Kacchan and his little gang. They laughed loudly, bragging about whose Quirk was stronger, whose explosion was brighter. Kacchan’s voice cut through them all — bold, confident, already echoing with the tone of someone destined for greatness.

“He’ll be the number one hero for sure!” one of them shouted.

“Yeah, while Deku stays... well, Deku,” another added, laughing.

Izuku pretended not to hear. He traced small circles on the cat’s fur, whispering nonsense in a soft, trembling voice. The cat purred. For a fleeting moment, the noise of the world faded, replaced by that tiny heartbeat under his palm.

Then came the voice he couldn’t ignore.

“Oi, useless.”

He froze. The purr stopped. The cat darted away into the bushes, leaving behind the warmth Izuku didn’t know he needed.

He turned slowly.

Kacchan stood there — arms crossed, eyes blazing like the explosions he was so proud of. The other boys flanked him, grinning.

Izuku’s small hands fidgeted nervously with the hem of his shirt. “Y-Yes, Kacchan?” he whispered.

His voice was soft, careful — like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. He didn’t look up. He’d learned not to. Kacchan hated it when he looked him in the eyes, said it made him sick. Said someone as pathetic as him had no right to.

Izuku understood that. So he stopped looking.

Stopped speaking too loudly.

Stopped taking up space.

He stood there, waiting, like a soldier waiting for orders — or punishment. Kacchan’s shadow stretched over him as he stepped closer, and Izuku could feel the weight of it pressing down.

He told himself, again, that it was fine. That maybe Kacchan was just teasing. That maybe, deep down, there was still a bit of warmth left in that cruel, burning light.

But the truth was colder than he wanted to admit —
and this was the day he would finally begin to understand just how cruel “fine” could be.

Katsuki didn’t wait this time. There was no warning, no sneer that gave Izuku a chance to brace himself. The first explosion cracked the air like thunder, and before Izuku could even gasp, the second came—hot, searing, merciless.

Each blast struck his arms, leaving angry red marks that burned and throbbed beneath the thin layer of dirt clinging to his skin. Smoke curled in the air, the acrid scent of sweat and ash mixing with the faint sweetness of the park’s grass. Izuku bit down on his lip until he tasted iron.

He didn’t scream. He’d learned long ago that crying only made them laugh harder. So he stayed still. Silent. The world around him blurred—the jeers, the cackling voices, the taunts that twisted through the air like poison.

They were laughing again. They always laughed.

Somewhere inside, a small voice told him to run, to fight back, to do something. But his body wouldn’t move. His heart thudded quietly, as if afraid to make a sound. He just stood there, trembling, letting the pain bloom across his skin like a punishment he somehow deserved.

Maybe he did deserve it. Maybe being quirkless meant he was supposed to hurt.

Katsuki grabbed him by the hair then, rough fingers tangling in his soft curls. The world tilted, and Izuku’s small frame was forced upward, his feet barely brushing the ground. Katsuki’s shadow swallowed him whole, his red eyes sharp with disgust and something else—something darker.

“Listen, Deku,” Katsuki’s voice dripped venom, low and simmering with hate. “We don’t want your face here anymore, got it? You’re annoying to look at. You think you can be a hero? Don’t make me laugh.”

The words cut deeper than the burns. They carved into him, slow and cruel, etching shame into the marrow of his bones. Izuku tried to nod, but Katsuki’s grip tightened, forcing his gaze upward.

Izuku’s wide green eyes met his, full of something fragile—hope, maybe. That quiet, stubborn hope that refused to die, no matter how many times it was trampled.

But Katsuki crushed it anyway.

“Stop pretending to be someone you’ll never be, shitty Deku.” His voice cracked with something sharp, a twisted pride. “I’ll be the Number One Hero.”

He lifted his other hand, the one still hovering near Izuku’s face. Tiny sparks flickered across his palm, golden and angry. Izuku could feel the heat even before the light bloomed fully, casting harsh shadows across his face.

“And I’ll erase you from this world,” Katsuki hissed, his eyes narrowing. “Because people like you—quirkless, worthless—don’t belong here.”

The explosion went off point-blank.

A flash of light. A sound like the sky breaking open.

Pain tore through him, white-hot and blinding. His ears rang. His body gave out before his mind could catch up, the force knocking him backward into the dirt. For a heartbeat, he could smell burnt grass, feel the faint flutter of wind against his cheek.

Then—nothing.

His limbs went slack. The world around him dimmed, colors draining away until everything felt heavy, distant, and cold. He thought he heard someone laughing still, thought he felt the rough earth beneath his palms, but even that faded as his eyelids fluttered.

He wanted to move—to tell them he was fine, like he always did. But the words wouldn’t come. His throat ached, his lips trembled, and then… silence.

The laughter grew faint. The warmth of the sun vanished behind the darkness closing in.

And Izuku—sweet, broken Izuku—fell still, his small body crumpled in the dirt, surrounded by the echoes of cruelty he never deserved.

At last, his eyes closed.

And for once, he didn’t tell himself it was fine.

Chapter 2: The Last Straw

Chapter Text

Inko paced near the window, wringing her trembling hands as she stared at the dimming sky. The sun had long dipped behind the rooftops, painting the neighborhood in a soft orange haze, but her little boy still wasn’t home. Normally, by this hour, she would have heard the faint sound of his small footsteps running up the hall or his bright voice calling out, “Mom, I’m home!”

But tonight, there was only silence.

She tried to stay calm—Izuku was a good child, a careful one. Maybe he’d just lost track of time. Maybe Katsuki had decided to play with him again, and they were off running around like they used to, back when everything was simpler, kinder.

That hope flickered like a candle in the dark, fragile but alive.

Yet her heart refused to rest.

The memory of Izuku’s tear-stained face from a few weeks ago crept back into her mind—his tiny body trembling as he clung to her, the words tumbling out between sobs. “Kacchan doesn’t like me anymore, Mama… he hurts me now.”

She’d seen the bruises on his little arms, the faint red marks that didn’t belong on a child’s skin. Her breath had caught, her heart breaking in slow, quiet cracks. She’d cried with him that night, apologizing over and over—apologies that meant nothing, that healed nothing.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she had whispered, cradling him close. “I’m sorry my quirk is weak… I’m sorry the world’s so cruel. I’m sorry I can’t protect you from it.”

Izuku, sweet as always, had tried to smile through his tears. “It’s okay, Mama. I’ll be a hero. I’ll protect you someday.”

That was the kind of boy he was—gentle, kind, too good for the sharp edges of the world.

Now, standing in the quiet of their little apartment, Inko felt the seconds crawl by like hours. Each tick of the clock echoed against her ribs. Her stomach twisted tighter with every passing minute. She’d tried calling around—neighbors, shops nearby—but no one had seen him.

When the clock finally struck past seven, the sound made her flinch. The air felt heavy, like the calm before a storm.

Then the phone rang.

Her heart stuttered violently in her chest. For a moment, she just stared at the receiver, afraid to touch it—afraid of what she might hear. But her trembling fingers reached anyway, lifting it with a shaky breath.

“H-Hello?”

The voice that answered was frantic, rushed—half-choked between breaths.

“Inko! Inko, thank goodness you answered!”

She knew that voice instantly. Mitsuki Bakugo. Katsuki’s mother.

“Mitsuki?” Inko’s voice wavered, fear already clawing at her throat. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright?”

There was chaos in the background—footsteps, voices, something metallic clattering. Mitsuki’s voice cracked when she spoke again.

“Listen to me, you need to go to Hosu General Hospital. Now.”

Inko froze. Her heart stopped for one terrifying second. “What? Why? What happened?” Her breathing turned uneven, shallow. “Is… is Izuku there? My son—where’s my son?!”

Her words came out choked, trembling so badly she had to clutch the edge of the counter just to stay upright. The walls felt like they were closing in.

Mitsuki hesitated, and that hesitation was worse than any answer.

On the other end, Inko could hear the faintest quiver in her friend’s voice—the sound of someone trying not to break.

“Inko… please, just come. Hurry.”

The line went silent after that, but the quiet was deafening.

Inko stood frozen, the phone still pressed to her ear, tears already blurring her vision. A cold, heavy dread seeped into her bones, deeper than fear—something primal, something that whispered she might never be the same after this.

Her baby. Her little boy.

Without another thought, she grabbed her coat and keys, her legs barely steady beneath her as she stumbled out the door. The night air hit her like ice, and she started to run—each step fueled by nothing but desperation and the echo of one thought looping endlessly in her mind:

Please, Izuku. Please be okay.

The sliding doors of the hospital opened with a sharp hiss, and Inko nearly stumbled inside, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her heart thundered in her chest like it was trying to escape. The sterile scent of antiseptic hit her immediately—sharp, cold, and unforgiving. It made her stomach twist.

She didn’t even have to ask where her son was. Mitsuki was already there in the lobby, pacing with her hands wringing together, her normally sharp eyes wide with panic and guilt. The moment she saw Inko, she rushed forward and seized her hand without a word. Her grip was tight, trembling.

Inko couldn’t even form a question—her throat felt locked shut—but Mitsuki didn’t need to answer anyway. They were already moving, half-running, half-stumbling through the long, echoing hallway. Their footsteps slapped against the tiled floor, too loud in the silence. The white walls seemed endless, stretching out like a bad dream.

Inko’s mind spiraled as they ran. Each turn they took felt like it carried her farther from the world she knew and deeper into something she didn’t want to face. Her heart clung desperately to one fragile hope: that this was nothing serious. That Izuku, her precious boy, would be sitting up with a sheepish grin, maybe with a small bandage or two. That a nurse would laugh softly and say, “He’s fine, just a few scratches.”

She prayed for that—fervently, silently, over and over.

Please let it be nothing. Please let him be okay. Please let my baby smile again.

She imagined walking into the room to find Izuku awake, swinging his legs from the bed, a lollipop in his mouth like always after he got patched up. Maybe he’d say he tripped. Maybe he’d even laugh, embarrassed. That’s what she wanted—no, needed—to believe.

Her lungs burned from running, but she didn’t care. Hope was the only thing keeping her legs moving.

She told herself she’d fix it all once they got home. She’d talk to Katsuki’s parents, to the school, to anyone who’d listen. She’d make it stop. Her son didn’t deserve this—none of it. She’d been patient for too long, too forgiving, too scared to make waves. But not anymore.

Even if Izuku didn’t understand, even if he begged her not to make things worse, she’d still do it. He was a good child—too kind for his own good—and he thought forgiveness was strength. But he was only four. He didn’t know how cruel the world could be yet. He didn’t know how it could take someone bright and gentle and grind them down until there was nothing left.

She wouldn’t let that happen. Not to him.

Her grip tightened around Mitsuki’s hand as they turned another corner, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the air. Every door they passed made her heart skip—what if it was that one? What if she opened it and—

No. She refused to think like that.

He’s alive. He’s strong. He’s my little boy. He’ll be okay.

She whispered the words in her head like a mantra, clinging to them as if they could change fate itself.

Finally, Mitsuki slowed down in front of a door near the end of the corridor. She didn’t speak, didn’t even look at Inko. The silence between them was heavy, thick with everything neither of them could say.

Inko stared at the door handle, her heart hammering against her ribs. The world around her blurred—the buzzing lights, the faint beeping of machines somewhere far off, the smell of disinfectant. Everything narrowed to that one door.

For a moment, she couldn’t move. Fear had wrapped itself around her bones, cold and paralyzing.

But then she took a breath—a shaky, desperate breath—and told herself one last time, He’s alive. He’s fine. He’s strong.

And with trembling hands and a heart on the verge of breaking, she pushed the door open.

What she saw inside nearly stopped her heart.

The world seemed to slow, then collapse in on itself. The sterile white of the room blurred around the edges, and for one dizzy, fractured moment, Inko thought she must be dreaming—because surely this couldn’t be real. Surely the universe wouldn’t be this cruel.

The bag in her hand slipped from her grasp before she even realized she’d dropped it. It hit the cold tile with a hollow thud, spilling its contents in a small, pitiful heap: the candies she’d bought on the way, the green-wrapped ones Izuku loved so much, and the tiny All Might plushie he carried everywhere. Its bright yellow hair and smiling face stared up at her from the floor, mocking her with its cheerfulness.

Her knees buckled beneath her. The strength drained from her body all at once, leaving nothing but trembling and disbelief. She sank to the floor without grace, her palms slapping the tile, and the sound echoed in the suffocating stillness of the room.

On the bed—too big for him, too white, too wrong—lay her little boy.

Izuku was so small. So heartbreakingly small. His face was pale, framed by curls that stuck damply to his forehead. Tubes ran from his nose, wires from his chest, machines beeping steadily beside him like fragile borrowed heartbeats. His arms were wrapped in gauze, tiny burns peeking out from beneath the layers, and his hand—oh, his little hand—was limp against the sheets.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs refused to work. The sound of the machines faded behind the roaring in her ears.

Mitsuki’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, gentle but trembling, her voice trying to break through the fog—but Inko couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear anything except the rush of blood in her head and the faint, fragile whir of the ventilator keeping her son alive.

Her son. Her sweet, bright boy.

Why? Why him?

Why Izuku, of all children?

He’d never hurt anyone. Never raised his voice. He smiled at strangers, helped old ladies cross the street, cried when he saw hurt animals. He was good. He was kind. He didn’t deserve this.

The thought cracked something open inside her, something deep and ancient. Her chest heaved, the sound that tore out of her more animal than human—raw, ragged, endless. The dam of her restraint shattered, and grief came pouring out in great, uncontrollable waves.

She screamed his name. Over and over and over again, as if by sheer force she could pull him back to her, as if her voice alone could bring warmth back to his tiny hands.

But Izuku didn’t move.

He lay there, silent beneath the hum of machinery, the faint rise and fall of his chest barely visible under the blanket.

Inko lurched forward, reaching for him, but Mitsuki caught her before she could touch the wires, before she could tear the fragile tubes away. “No—no, I have to—!” she tried to say, but her words came out broken, choked by sobs.

Mitsuki’s arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her in place as she fought against her, screaming until her voice cracked, until her throat burned. The nurses came then, faces blurred and urgent, and someone’s voice—too calm, too practiced—said something about needing to step outside.

Inko didn’t remember standing. She didn’t remember being led out the door.

She only remembered the last glimpse of that hospital bed—the small, motionless figure surrounded by machines—and the soft, cruel sound of the door closing behind her.

And in that instant, something in her heart broke so completely she knew it would never mend again.

The hours crawled by like centuries. Each tick of the clock echoed through the sterile hospital hallway, a cruel reminder of how long hope could stretch itself before breaking. The world outside the small waiting room had grown dark long ago, the city lights flickering through the high windows, but Inko didn’t move.

She sat slumped in one of the hard plastic chairs beside Mitsuki and Masaru, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. She couldn’t feel them anymore—her fingers had gone numb long ago. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, where faint reflections of the fluorescent lights shimmered on the tiles. Every now and then, her body would tremble, a small involuntary shiver that passed as quickly as it came.

She was somewhere between awake and not, caught in a daze that blurred everything into a dull hum.

Mitsuki had already told her everything.

The words had spilled out through tears and shaking breaths—how she’d gone to fetch Katsuki after worrying about how long the kids had been out, how she’d walked into the park just in time to see her own son—her bright, confident boy—and his friends surrounding Izuku. Beating him. Laughing.

How Mitsuki had screamed Katsuki’s name so loudly that the birds flew from the trees. How she’d run forward without thinking, shoving the other boys away, scooping Izuku’s tiny, limp body into her arms. How light he had felt—too light—and how his head had rolled against her shoulder, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

She said she didn’t even think to call Inko until she reached the hospital, until the doctors had rushed him through those double doors and she was left in the hallway, covered in dirt and tears, realizing the weight of what had just happened.

Mitsuki’s voice had cracked when she said Katsuki was at home now, grounded, silent, terrified. She said she and Masaru would deal with him later—that he would learn from this, no matter what it took.

Masaru, quiet and solemn beside them, nodded as she spoke. His hands were clasped tightly together, knuckles white, as though he was holding back something heavy and bitter inside.

Through it all, Inko said nothing. She just sat there, listening, her eyes unfocused and empty. The words passed through her like wind, leaving behind faint echoes of horror and disbelief. She didn’t even realize she was crying until she felt the wetness on her chin, cold and constant.

Mitsuki had reached for her then, her eyes glistening. She said they’d take care of everything—the hospital bills, the medicine, the therapy, whatever Izuku needed. She insisted that it was their responsibility now.

Inko had broken down at that, finally letting out a quiet sob as she leaned into Mitsuki’s arms. Her voice trembled as she thanked her—again and again and again—her gratitude tangled up with grief. She told her how grateful she was to have them, even after this, even after everything their sons had done to each other.

Because she was grateful. She knew Mitsuki and Masaru’s kindness was real. They didn’t owe her anything, yet they offered everything.

But still, somewhere deep in her chest, disappointment burned quietly. Not toward them—but toward Katsuki. She had watched that boy grow up with Izuku. She had watched the way they laughed together, the way Izuku looked up to him like he hung the stars in the sky. To think that same boy could turn so cruel... it was almost too much to bear.

Yet Inko told herself that he was still a child. A misguided one. Children could be taught to be better.

But not at Izuku’s expense.

Never again.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but steady—a mother’s voice forged from pain and resolve. She told them that once Izuku recovered, he wouldn’t be going back to school. He wouldn’t play in that park anymore. He would stay home, where she could watch over him, where the world couldn’t hurt him again. She would homeschool him herself.

Mitsuki and Masaru were stunned. They exchanged a quick, sorrowful glance, but neither argued. Mitsuki’s eyes softened, her voice trembling as she said that maybe this was for the best. She promised again that Katsuki would learn, that he would understand what he’d done. They would make sure of it.

She swore that they would help however they could—that they would pay for everything, visit Izuku once he was well enough, and make things right.

Inko nodded through her tears, managing a small, broken smile. She told them she believed them, that she was thankful, that she would call as soon as Izuku woke up.

Eventually, she urged them to go home. They’d done enough already, she said softly. They had their own son to face, their own guilt to carry.

Mitsuki hesitated, her hand lingering on Inko’s shoulder, as if she was afraid to leave her alone. But Inko’s eyes were calm in that moment—empty, but resolute—and Mitsuki finally nodded, whispering that she’d call in the morning.

When they left, the room fell silent again.

The clock ticked. The lights buzzed faintly. And Inko sat there, alone now, staring at her reflection in the window—tired, tear-streaked, unrecognizable.

Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped steadily, and she told herself it was her son’s heartbeat. She clung to that sound like a lifeline, whispering the same words over and over into the quiet.

He’s alive. He’s strong. He’ll come back to me.

And she sat there in the stillness, waiting for the dawn, waiting for a miracle.

Chapter 3: A Mother's Promise

Chapter Text

It took two long, merciless days before Izuku finally woke up.

Those forty-eight hours were pure torment for Inko. The sterile smell of antiseptic clung to her skin, and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor became the only sound that reminded her her son was still there—still fighting. She didn’t sleep much. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his tiny body, bruised and wrapped in wires, his chest rising and falling with fragile effort.

The doctors had tried to soothe her, explaining that Izuku’s body was simply overwhelmed. He had been exhausted far beyond what a child his age should ever feel. They’d found older wounds too—marks that had begun to heal only to be torn open again. Hearing that nearly broke her. She had clutched the side of the hospital bed, trembling, whispering apologies to no one and everyone.

But the waiting—oh, the waiting was worse than anything else. It hollowed her out, minute by minute.

Mitsuki and Masaru Bakugo came by often, their faces etched with guilt. Katsuki came too, his usual fierce eyes subdued, carrying a small bouquet of flowers in his trembling hands. He set them quietly on Izuku’s bedside table without saying a word. Inko had wanted to be angry—to tell him how his words and actions had driven her son into this—but when she saw his eyes glistening with something that looked an awful lot like regret, she couldn’t. Not yet.

The second day passed in that same slow rhythm—machines humming, nurses moving softly, and Inko’s heart praying desperately for just one more sign that her boy was still in there, still trying to come back to her. The Bakugos couldn’t visit that day, but they called, and Inko reassured them that she was managing, that they didn’t need to worry.

Then came the third morning.

The sun bled pale light through the thin curtains, painting soft streaks across Izuku’s face. Inko was standing by the small table, phone pressed to her ear, explaining to his school principal that she would be pulling her son out indefinitely. Her voice was steady, but her heart was in pieces.

And then she heard it—a tiny, broken sound.

A groan.

Her phone clattered to the table. Inko was at her son’s side in an instant, hands shaking as she reached for him. His fingers twitched, weak and clumsy, but real.

“Izuku,” she breathed, voice trembling. “Baby, can you hear Mama?”

His eyelids fluttered. The faintest green peeked through. His lips moved—dry, cracked, but alive. “...Mom?”

That single word shattered her. Tears fell before she could stop them, her whole body folding with relief. She gathered his hand in hers, kissing his knuckles over and over. “Yes, baby. Mama’s here. I’m right here.”

She waited until both of his eyes were open, dazed and blinking up at her. Then, with practiced gentleness, she reached for the bottle on the nightstand, slipped a straw through the cap, and held it to his lips.

“Drink for me, baby,” she whispered.

He obeyed, sipping slowly, each swallow easing the dryness in his throat. When he finished, she smiled through her tears and brushed the hair from his forehead. He looked small, so terribly small. But he was awake. He was here.

Inko called Mitsuki immediately, her voice still uneven from crying.

Mitsuki’s voice on the other end sounded both relieved and guilty.

“That’s amazing news! I wish we could come right now, but work’s a nightmare today. We’ll come to pick you up when he’s ready to go home, okay?”

Inko’s heart softened. “I’m sorry for calling you so suddenly, Mitsu-chan. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mitsuki just laughed softly, the kind of tired laugh that only mothers understand.

“You could never interrupt, Inko. Call me anytime. Always.”

After a few more exchanged words, they hung up. Inko turned back to her son, who was now playing absently with his beloved All Might plushie—the one he’d had since he could barely walk. His fingers traced the toy’s golden hair and stitched smile like it was something sacred.

Her heart swelled painfully at the sight. She bent down, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Mama’s just going to get the doctor, okay? I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

But before she could reach the door, his small, trembling voice stopped her.

“Please forgive Kacchan, Mama,” Izuku said softly, his tone almost pleading. “He didn’t mean to.”

Inko froze. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Because what could she possibly say?

If she spoke, she knew her voice would break under the weight of her grief and anger. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t okay—that no apology could undo the pain he’d suffered. But looking at him, so fragile and so kind even after everything… how could she?

So instead, she walked to him, brushed her fingers across his cheek, and smiled through the tears she refused to let fall.

She would not cry anymore.

Not in front of him.

From this day on, she swore she would make him smile—no matter what it took.

After the doctor’s quiet inspection—gentle hands and kind eyes moving over her son’s small, still-healing frame—Inko finally exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The steady rhythm of Izuku’s heart monitor was the only sound that mattered anymore.

The doctor smiled softly at her, clipboard in hand, and said that Izuku was stable. Still weak, yes. Still sore and recovering, yes. But stable. It was a word that wrapped itself around her like sunlight after too many nights in the dark. He advised them to stay another day or two, just for observation—to make sure there were no hidden complications. Inko agreed immediately. She would’ve agreed to anything if it meant keeping her son safe a little longer.

When the doctor left, the silence that followed wasn’t heavy like before—it was gentle. Izuku spent the rest of the day drifting between sleep and wakefulness, his soft breathing filling the quiet corners of the room. He looked so small beneath the crisp white sheets, but there was color in his cheeks again, faint but there, like spring returning after the longest winter.

Every time he stirred, Inko was there—tucking his blanket up to his chin, running her fingers through his messy green hair, whispering small things like “you’re doing so well, baby,” or “mama’s right here.” She didn’t care that her back ached from the hospital chair or that her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Watching him heal was worth every ounce of exhaustion.

By the next morning, Izuku’s strength had returned enough for conversation. The light through the window fell in soft slants over his bed, catching on the All Might plushie that stood guard by his pillow.

Inko sat by his side, telling him about the Bakugos—how Mitsuki and Masaru had been calling every day to check on him, asking how he was doing, how he was healing. Izuku’s eyes lit up at that, the corners of his mouth curling into a shy, dimpled smile. He was always like that—always grateful, even when the world didn’t deserve his kindness.

But then, softly, as if afraid of the answer, he asked about Katsuki.

Inko’s heart clenched.

For a moment, she couldn’t find her voice. She saw again the memory of her boy’s small body broken and bruised, and the anger she’d buried rose like smoke in her chest. But when she looked at Izuku—his big, trusting eyes staring up at her—she forced a smile.

“You don’t need to worry about that, sweetheart,” she said gently, brushing a hand across his hair. “Mama’s handling everything.”

She didn’t tell him that she’d already gone to the school. That she’d withdrawn him completely, signed every document herself. She didn’t tell him how she’d looked the principal in the eye and said she wouldn’t be sending her son back—not now, maybe not ever. Not until she was sure he’d never be hurt again.

She knew her little boy. He’d cry and insist it wasn’t fair. He’d say he wanted to go back, that he could fix things, that Katsuki didn’t mean it. Izuku would always look for the light, even when it burned him.

But Inko couldn’t risk it anymore. Not when she’d seen what the world could do to a child like him—so soft, so full of love that it made him fragile.

She would protect that softness, even if it meant being the villain in his story for a while.

It wasn’t forever, she told herself. Just for now. Just until he was strong again, until the trembling in his hands faded and he could laugh without pain. Then maybe, maybe, she’d let him go back out into the world.

But not yet.

For now, he would stay home—safe, loved, and alive.

Inko reached out and squeezed his hand. “You just focus on getting better, okay, my love?” she murmured, her voice a soft promise against the hum of the machines. “The world can wait.”

Izuku nodded sleepily, his small fingers curling around hers. Within minutes, he was dozing again, the faintest smile still lingering on his lips.

And Inko sat there, watching over him, her heart steady for the first time in what felt like forever.

Yes, the world could wait.

Because her son—her everything—was finally safe.

Chapter 4: Falter

Notes:

please let me know your thoughts! comments always motivate me to write more! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) ‹𝟹

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned softer than the ones before it—light spilling through the hospital window in a way that painted everything gold, warm, forgiving. Inko stirred awake in the chair beside her son’s bed, expecting to see him still curled beneath the blanket. But instead, she blinked in surprise when a small weight pressed against her lap.

Izuku was sitting there, bright-eyed and beaming, his All Might plushie squeezed tightly against his chest as if afraid it might float away. His cheeks were flushed with life again, his curls messy and untamed, and his small voice rang out as he chanted excitedly about going home, about seeing Kacchan again, about playing like they used to.

It was such a simple, innocent wish—and it shattered Inko’s heart in the gentlest way.

There it was again, that unshakable light in her boy. No matter how the world treated him, Izuku still wanted to love it back. Still wanted to believe that everything could be okay, that the friend who broke him could one day be kind again.

Inko smiled through the ache, her arms instinctively wrapping around him as she carried him back to the bed. He was getting heavier, she noticed distantly. Her little boy was growing. “Well,” she said softly, brushing his bangs from his forehead, “Mitsu-chan promised to pick us up and give us a ride home. Let me call her while you get dressed, okay?”

“‘Kay!” Izuku chirped, setting his plushie down neatly before scampering toward the bathroom, small feet padding across the cold tile floor.

“Careful!” Inko called after him, half exasperated, half amused.

His laughter echoed down the hall, light and sweet like bells.

She shook her head with fondness as she picked up her phone and dialed Mitsuki’s number. It barely rang once before the familiar voice came through, lively and loud as ever.

“Oh, Inko! Is the little hero ready to go home?”

Mitsuki said, and before Inko could answer, there was a distant yell from somewhere behind her friend—“Mom! Where’s my All Might hoodie?!”

The two mothers laughed, the sound easing the tension that had clung to Inko’s shoulders for days.

“Yes, as you can hear,” Inko said with a small chuckle, “he’s very excited to go home.”

“Well, that’s good to hear! I’m getting ready to head out now—give me five minutes and I’ll be there!”

They chatted briefly—just long enough for Inko to thank her, to hear the warmth in Mitsuki’s voice that reminded her of how lucky she was to have someone who cared so much. When they hung up, another shout from the bathroom reached her ears, this time an impatient, “Mama! I can’t find my socks!”

Inko laughed softly and went to help him, heart light for the first time in what felt like forever.

When Izuku was finally dressed—tiny hands tugging proudly at the hem of his shirt, his hair still a fluffy mess—Inko guided him back to the bed so she could finish signing the last of the discharge papers. The doctor, the same gentle man who had checked on him so patiently, came by to give Izuku one last look.

“Well, young man,” he said kindly, crouching down to Izuku’s level, “you’ve been quite brave.” From his coat pocket, he pulled out a brightly wrapped lollipop and offered it to him with a smile. “But you have to promise me something, okay? Promise me you’ll keep getting stronger.”

Izuku’s eyes widened, green and earnest. He extended his little pinky with solemn determination, linking it with the doctor’s. “I promise,” he said softly, voice full of that innocent conviction that could move mountains. “I’ll get strong… and I’ll be a cool hero like All Might!”

The doctor chuckled, ruffling his curls. “I’m sure you will.”

When he left, Inko felt tears sting her eyes again—but this time, they were warm. Hopeful.

Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by Mitsuki’s familiar voice calling their names. She appeared in the doorway, blonde hair slightly tousled, her smile bright and relieved.

“There’s my favorite little guy!” she exclaimed as she crouched to hug Izuku. He squealed happily, wrapping his arms around her neck, his lollipop clutched in one hand and his plushie in the other.

The sight of it—of someone embracing her son with love and not cruelty—made Inko’s heart ache in the most tender way.

Mitsuki helped her pack their things, carefully folding the blanket Izuku had been using and placing it atop the neatly zipped bag. Together, they walked down the sterile hospital hall, the rhythmic squeak of their shoes echoing softly. Mitsuki carried the heavier bags, insisting that Inko focus on Izuku, while Inko held her boy’s hand as he skipped beside her, humming quietly to himself.

When they reached the car, Mitsuki popped open the trunk, sliding their bags inside with ease. Izuku was already in the backseat, buckled up and smiling at the window, All Might plushie tucked under one arm.

He looked so happy. So alive.

Inko took a slow breath as she stood there, watching him. Her heart was still sore, stitched together with love and worry, but it was beating steady again.

Her son was going home.

And that, for now, was everything.

When they finally arrived back at the Midoriyas’ small apartment, the air felt lighter—warmer somehow, like home itself was sighing in relief to have them back. Izuku clutched his All Might plushie to his chest, his little legs bouncing with barely-contained energy despite his mother’s repeated warnings to take it easy. The faint scent of hospital disinfectant still clung to his clothes, but his spirit was bright—too bright, almost painfully so.

To him, this was over. The bad thing had happened, yes, but now he was home. Home meant cartoons and his mom’s cooking and maybe, maybe, Kacchan coming over to play again like before.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—how he’d tell Kacchan he was okay now, that he wasn’t mad, that they could start fresh. Kacchan didn’t mean it, after all. They were just playing too rough, right? That’s all.

So the second they stepped through the door, before Inko could even take off her shoes, Izuku turned to her, eyes wide with hope.

“Can Kacchan come over?” he asked, his voice sweet and bubbling with excitement. “We can watch the new All Might episodes! I missed them, but—but we can catch up together, right?”

Inko froze.

Across from her, Mitsuki Bakugo—who had drove the boy home—met her gaze. Both women shared the same tight-lipped silence, worry tracing their expressions like fine cracks in glass.

Here it was. The inevitable moment they’d both been dreading.

Inko slowly knelt down in front of her son. Her knees ached from exhaustion, but the ache in her chest was worse. She took one of his small hands in both of hers, her thumb brushing circles against his skin as if that alone could protect him. His other hand was still clinging stubbornly to his All Might plush, the fabric worn but well-loved.

“Baby,” she started softly, voice trembling with the weight of what she had to say. “Listen to Mama for a second, okay? I… I don’t think you and Kacchan should play together for now.”

The words felt like stones dropping into a lake, and she could see the ripples of hurt immediately spread across his face.

Izuku’s bright smile faltered. His lip trembled, his big green eyes welling with tears faster than she could prepare herself for. “B-but why?” he stammered, voice breaking as he shook his head. “I told you, Mama, Kacchan didn’t mean it! He didn’t mean to—he—” His gaze darted to Mitsuki, desperate for backup. “Auntie! Kacchan didn’t mean it! We were just playing! He just got mad, that’s all!”

Oh, her sweet, foolish boy.

Always defending him. Always offering his heart to someone who only ever hurt it.

Inko’s throat tightened. She wanted to pull him into her arms, tell him he was right, that everything would be okay. But she couldn’t—not this time. She couldn’t let kindness keep breaking him.

“Zuku,” she said quietly, voice trembling but firm. “What happened the other day almost took you away from me. Do you understand that? Your little body couldn’t take it anymore. You’ve come home with bruises before, and I told myself it was just kids being kids—but this…” Her voice cracked. “This wasn’t playing.”

Izuku’s eyes widened, confusion and guilt warring in his expression. Inko brushed a tear off his cheek before it could fall, her own tears threatening to spill. “Mama’s always been afraid, every time you came home hurt. Do you want Mama to always be scared like that, Zuku? Hm?”

He shook his head quickly, hiccuping through his sobs. His tiny shoulders trembled, and she pulled him close, feeling every shudder of his fragile chest against hers.

Mitsuki finally knelt beside them, her own expression softening as she cupped Izuku’s damp cheeks in her hands. “Hey, hey now,” she said gently, wiping his tears with her thumbs. “It’s not like you’ll never get to play with that boy of mine again, Zuku. It’s just for a while, okay? You’re still healing—and that brat of mine doesn’t know how to be gentle yet.”

Izuku sniffled, his bottom lip quivering.

“When you’re all healed up,” Mitsuki continued with a small smile, “we’ll bring him over. He’ll apologize, and then you two can play again. But first, you have to rest. Deal?”

The boy’s tears slowed, and he nodded, trying his best to look brave even as his lashes glistened. “O-okay,” he whispered, pouting through the remnants of his sobs. “I’ll heal really fast, so Kacchan can play with me again.”

Both women smiled—tired, aching smiles. The kind that come from equal parts love and heartbreak.

Later, as Mitsuki prepared to leave, she paused by the door and told them to wait a moment. “Hold on, I’ve got something in the car for the little hero,” she said with a wink before disappearing down the hallway.

Izuku perked up immediately, curiosity overtaking the sadness that had clung to him all afternoon.

When Mitsuki returned, she was holding a large box wrapped in bright paper. Izuku’s eyes widened, his whole face lighting up. He took it eagerly, tearing into the wrapping with the kind of joy only a child could have.

Inside was a complete set of All Might action figures—every costume, every pose, all pristine and shining in their little plastic stands.

“Auntie!” he squealed, throwing his arms around her waist. “Thank you, Auntie! It’s all for me?”

“Of course it is, little hero,” Mitsuki laughed, ruffling his hair. “All yours.”

Izuku clutched the box to his chest, beaming brighter than the sun itself, and scampered off to his room to admire his new treasures. The sound of his laughter echoed faintly from behind the door, and for a moment, the world felt soft again.

Both women stood in silence, watching the closed door with weary smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

When they were certain the boy couldn’t hear them, Mitsuki exhaled heavily, the sound breaking the stillness. “I should get going,” she said quietly. “I’ve got a brat of my own to deal with.”

Inko nodded, and the two women embraced—a brief, tired hug between mothers who loved their sons more than anything in the world.

“Call me, okay?” Mitsuki murmured. “Anytime. For anything.”

“I will,” Inko promised softly.

And with that, Mitsuki left—her footsteps fading down the hall, leaving Inko alone in the quiet apartment with her sleeping son and the distant hum of the city outside.

The world felt fragile still, but for the first time in a long while, Inko believed she could hold it together. For him.

Chapter 5: A Still Tomorrow

Chapter Text

A week had already passed since that terrible day at the park — since the scream that tore through her chest and the world seemed to collapse in on itself. Now, their small apartment was filled with a silence that had become both a comfort and a curse. Izuku’s laughter hadn’t returned yet, not fully, but the sound of his little feet padding around the living room was enough to remind Inko that he was still here. He was alive. And that alone was worth every sleepless night she’d endured.

His wounds were healing, slowly but surely. The bandages came off one by one, leaving pale pink marks that would fade in time. Every morning, she’d help him change them, and every morning, he’d wince, but never complain. He was so brave — too brave, maybe — and it broke her heart that someone so small had to learn pain this young.

Still, there were smiles. Small, tentative things that bloomed when she cooked his favorite meals or when she let him watch his All Might tapes. He’d sit cross-legged on the couch, green eyes shining again, the light flickering across his face as if nothing had ever gone wrong. Those moments were precious, fragile little pockets of peace, and Inko cherished every second.

But peace never lasted long. Reality had a way of creeping in, quiet and relentless. Bills, rent, food, medicine — all of it piling up on her desk in the corner of the room like an accusing mountain. She was the only parent Izuku had. The only one left to keep him safe, to keep the lights on, to make sure his dreams — whatever was left of them — could still have a chance to grow.

She’d already taken leave from both her jobs during the hospital days, but she couldn’t keep it up forever. Her savings were thin, her body was tired, and though she wanted nothing more than to stay by Izuku’s side forever, she knew she couldn’t. Not if she wanted him to have a future worth protecting.

So she’d made arrangements. It had taken her days to decide, but Mitsuki — always brash, always dependable — had mentioned a tutoring program that helped children who needed to study from home. A kind woman, she said. Trustworthy. Affordable. Inko had hesitated at first, not wanting to take advantage of Mitsuki’s connections again, but eventually, practicality won over pride.

When she reached out, the tutor had replied kindly, her messages polite and warm. Hanae Suzuki — that was her name. A young woman in her twenties with a calm demeanor that immediately put Inko at ease.

Their first meeting had been a quiet, almost tender thing. Izuku, still a bit frail and shy, clung to the hem of his mother’s skirt like a shadow, peeking at the stranger with wide, uncertain eyes. Hanae had only smiled — that gentle, motherly sort of smile that made you feel safe without a single word — and crouched down to his level. She offered him a candy wrapped in gold foil, and the little boy, hesitant but polite, reached for it with trembling fingers.

“Nice to meet you, Izuku-kun,” Hanae said softly. “My name is Hanae Suzuki. I’ll be your new tutor. I’m in your care from now on.”

Her voice was warm, melodic — like a lullaby that could chase away the storm in his heart. Izuku’s cheeks had gone pink almost immediately. He stammered out a greeting, voice small and shy, and when Hanae laughed and ruffled his hair, Inko thought she might cry.

Finally, someone gentle. Someone who could reach her boy in ways she couldn’t.

Hanae had thanked her afterwards, bowing politely and assuring her that their lessons would begin the following week.

And now, that week had come.

The sun was barely up when Inko found herself bustling around the kitchen, her apron smeared with flour as she prepared breakfast for both her son and his tutor. She wanted everything to be perfect — the house clean, the food warm, Izuku happy. Even though Hanae had insisted she could handle it all, Inko couldn’t help herself. This was her boy. Her world.

“Izuku!” she called over her shoulder, flipping the last of the tamagoyaki onto a plate. “Come down already! Suzuki-san will be here any minute and I have to leave for work!”

There was a faint clatter upstairs, followed by the hurried thud of little feet. “Coming!” he shouted back, his voice still soft, still carrying that childish lilt that made her heart ache.

He came down moments later, hair messy and one sock missing, rubbing his eyes sleepily but smiling up at her. Inko couldn’t help but smile back, smoothing down his hair before turning as the doorbell rang.

When she opened the door, Hanae stood there again — the same kind face, the same easy grace. But this time, she held a small paper bag in her hands, the scent of groceries wafting faintly through the air.

“I brought some things for Izuku-kun,” Hanae said with a sheepish smile. “Snacks, and a few things for lunch. Just in case he gets hungry while studying.”

That simple gesture — that thoughtfulness — hit Inko like a wave. Her throat tightened, her eyes burned, and she had to blink a few times before she could even speak.

“Oh, you didn’t have to…” she started, voice trembling.

But Hanae just smiled again, shaking her head gently. “It’s no trouble at all. He’s a wonderful boy, Midoriya-san. I’m happy to help.”

And in that moment, as Inko looked between her son — shy and small and so heartbreakingly innocent — and the woman who had just offered to help guide him, she felt something loosen in her chest.

Maybe things would be okay. Maybe, finally, they could start healing.

She reached out and squeezed Hanae’s hand, whispering a quiet thank you — one that carried all the fear, gratitude, and hope she couldn’t say aloud.

Then she glanced at Izuku again, who stood by the kitchen doorway clutching his All Might plushie, looking at his mother with those big green eyes full of trust.

And Inko swore to herself once more — no matter what, she would keep him safe.

Even if it meant giving up everything else.

When Inko finally returned home that evening, the sun had already begun to sink behind the city skyline, painting the windows in shades of gold and rose. The streets outside were growing quiet, the hum of traffic softening into the low murmur of night. She was exhausted — her feet ached, her shoulders burned, and her hands still smelled faintly of cleaning supplies from her second shift. But the moment she unlocked the door and stepped inside, a weight lifted from her chest.

“I’m home,” she called softly, her voice echoing faintly through the little apartment. She kicked off her shoes neatly by the entrance and lined them up beside Izuku’s much smaller ones. The sight of those tiny sneakers — scuffed, worn, beloved — always made her heart squeeze.

Normally, her son’s laughter would’ve filled the air by now. He always came running to her with his bright smile and open arms, tripping over himself to tell her everything that happened while she was gone. But tonight, the apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Before she could call his name again, a gentle voice answered from the living room. “Ah, Midoriya-san. Welcome home.”

It was Hanae — her son’s new tutor — her tone calm and warm, a voice that carried the serenity of someone who rarely raised it. When Inko reached the living room, it didn’t take her long to see why the place was so peaceful.

Their small home wasn’t large enough for secrets. From the doorway, she could already see Hanae kneeling by the low table, gathering scattered blocks and action figures into a neat pile. The faint scent of crayons and plastic toys lingered in the air. Izuku’s green All Might blanket had been pulled over a small figure curled up on the couch — a mop of soft green hair peeking out from under the edge.

“I was just tidying up a bit,” Hanae explained kindly, glancing over her shoulder with that gentle smile of hers. “Izuku-kun did wonderfully today. We finished our lessons hours ago, so I let him play for a while. But he tired himself out, poor thing. He’s napping now.”

The relief that washed through Inko’s chest was almost dizzying. Her son was safe. Resting. Breathing. She let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and managed a weary smile.

“Thank you, Suzuki-san,” she said softly, stepping further into the room. “I hope he didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

Hanae chuckled, the sound light and genuine. “Not at all. In fact, I almost wish he had. He’s such a calm child — polite, thoughtful, and so eager to learn. He kept to himself while playing, humming little tunes under his breath. It was… peaceful, honestly.”

Inko couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed in her chest. Her boy — her sweet, gentle boy — had always had that quiet magic. Even after everything, he still brought light to people. Still managed to leave traces of joy behind him like stardust.

“That sounds like him,” Inko murmured fondly.

Hanae smiled and stood, brushing invisible dust off her skirt. “Well then, I should get going before it gets too late. Thank you again for the food earlier — it was lovely.”

“Of course,” Inko replied, following her toward the door. “And please, call me Inko.”

The woman paused, her smile widening just a little. “Then only if you call me Hanae.”

That earned a soft laugh from Inko, one that carried the kind of tired happiness that came after a long day. The two exchanged polite bows, gentle thanks, and quiet goodbyes. As Hanae slipped her shoes back on and stepped into the cool evening air, Inko called after her softly, “Have a safe trip home.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, the apartment seemed to exhale. The silence returned — but this time, it wasn’t empty. It was soft, filled with the rhythmic hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the wall clock, and her son’s steady breathing from the couch.

She padded quietly across the floor, her steps slow, reverent. Izuku lay curled on his side, his little hands tucked under his cheek, lashes fluttering faintly as he dreamed. His cheeks were still a bit flushed, and his hair stuck up in every direction — that same messy halo that reminded her of when he was a toddler who’d nap mid-play just like this.

Inko knelt beside him, the floor cool against her knees. Her hand found its way into his hair, fingers brushing softly through the strands.

“I’m home, Zuzu,” she whispered, her voice trembling with tenderness.

He didn’t stir, just breathed in deep, his face peaceful — and oh, how beautiful that peace was. She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, the scent of shampoo and childlike warmth filling her heart with something achingly pure.

Straightening up, she took a moment to look around their little living room — the toys neatly stacked, the books arranged by Hanae, the faint traces of the day still lingering in the air. It wasn’t much, their home, but it was theirs. And within these walls, Izuku was safe.

That was all that mattered.

With one last fond look at her sleeping son, Inko rose and went to change into something more comfortable. The weight of the day still clung to her shoulders, but her heart felt lighter now. As she tied her hair back and made her way toward the kitchen to prepare dinner, the scent of soy and ginger beginning to fill the air, she thought to herself —

Maybe, just maybe, things were starting to fall into place again.

Chapter 6: Longing

Chapter Text

The days that followed began to melt into one another, blurring softly at the edges like watercolor. Each morning started the same way — with the gentle rhythm of life returning to their little home. Hanae would arrive with a kind smile and a thermos of tea in hand, and Inko would rush out with a flustered apology and a grateful bow, her heart easing every time she caught a glimpse of her son smiling up at his tutor.

It became their new rhythm, their quiet sanctuary of normalcy.

Hanae tutored and cared for Izuku on weekdays, her patient voice carrying through the apartment as she guided him through his lessons. She never raised her tone, never sighed in frustration — only smiled, encouraged, and listened when Izuku’s curiosity ran wild. Sometimes, she’d stay longer than planned, letting him chatter about heroes until his voice went hoarse. And Inko, though tired when she returned home, would always find herself pausing at the doorway, just to listen to the sound of her son laughing again.

On weekends, Inko made sure the world belonged only to them. She’d cook his favorite meals, play board games until both of them were in stitches, or cuddle up beside him while watching reruns of All Might’s old interviews. Sometimes, they’d build blanket forts together, the apartment glowing with lamplight and warmth. It was peaceful. Safe.

And then, weeks turned into months.

Mitsuki visited often — her voice always loud and full of life, her laughter bouncing off the walls. She brought new clothes for Izuku (“he’s growing too fast, Inko!”), new toys (“don’t even think about refusing this, woman”), and homemade food that always tasted like comfort. Her visits stitched themselves into their lives like golden thread — a steady rhythm of kindness, a promise that neither Inko nor her son would have to face the world alone.

Izuku adored her. He would light up at the sound of the doorbell, eager to greet “Auntie Mitsuki” and show her what he had drawn that day or what new thing he’d learned from Hanae.

Between Hanae’s gentle warmth and Mitsuki’s fiery affection, the Midoriyas’ small world began to feel whole again.

But even still, little hearts are prone to longing.

As time went on and his body mended, Izuku began to feel it — that restless spark that came from being young and yearning for more. Playing with his mom was wonderful. Studying with Hanae was fun. But there was an emptiness that none of them could quite fill — a space carved in the shape of laughter shared under the sun, of scraped knees from running too fast, of friendship.

His wounds had faded into thin scars now. The pain was gone, replaced by the faint memory of it. Surely that meant he could go outside again, right?

Surely that meant he could see Kacchan.

The thought grew roots inside him. He missed his best friend — even if Kacchan shouted sometimes, even if he pushed him too hard, Izuku still believed there was good in him. He remembered the afternoons they’d spend pretending to be heroes, shouting “Plus Ultra!” into the wind. Surely, after everything that happened, Kacchan would be gentler now. Maybe he’d even apologize. Maybe they could start again.

One afternoon, Izuku made up his mind.

He padded softly down the stairs, still clutching his All Might plushie to his chest — a nervous habit he hadn’t quite grown out of. His heart pounded in his small chest, part excitement, part dread. He could hear voices coming from the kitchen: the familiar sound of his mother and Mitsuki chatting over tea.

He smiled faintly, ready to burst in and ask, “Mom, can I go play with Kacchan again?”

But just as he was about to call out, he froze.

He heard Katsuki’s name.

That alone made his steps falter. His breath caught in his throat as he leaned slightly closer to the wall, not quite meaning to eavesdrop — but something in his mother’s tone made him stop. There was a tremor in it, something heavy and sorrowful, like rain on glass.

“…he’s still the same, Mitsuki,” Inko’s voice was saying, quiet but trembling at the edges. “Izuku asks about him all the time. He misses him. But I just can’t… I can’t let them be together again, not yet.”

Mitsuki sighed — a weary sound that carried both guilt and frustration. “I know, Inko. I’ve tried talking to that stubborn brat, believe me. Katsuki—he doesn’t even want to hear Izuku’s name right now. It’s like he’s ashamed, but too proud to admit it.”

A silence settled between them, thick and tense. Izuku clutched his plushie tighter, his heart stinging at the words.

“He’s just a kid,” Mitsuki said softly, “but he needs to face what he did. I told him that. I told him that if he ever wants to make it right, he has to talk to Izuku himself. But you know how he is.”

“I know,” Inko murmured, and Izuku could almost hear the tears in her voice. “I just… I don’t want to risk it again, Mitsuki. I almost lost my baby once. I can’t—” her voice broke, soft and raw, “I can’t go through that again.”

That was when Izuku’s small world began to wobble.

He pressed his back against the wall, his hands trembling slightly. The weight of their words pressed down on his tiny chest like something too big to understand, too heavy to carry.

Kacchan didn’t want to see him?

The idea felt like a betrayal, sharp and cold and unfamiliar.

He blinked fast, tears already pooling at the corners of his eyes, the image of his friend’s bright, fiery grin shattering into something distant.

His mom’s voice softened again, shaky but determined. “For now… I’ll keep him here. Just until I know he’s ready. He’s happy, at least. He’s safe.”

Happy. Safe.

But Izuku didn’t feel either. Not in that moment.

Because for the first time since he woke up from the hospital, the world outside their home suddenly felt farther away than ever — and Kacchan, the boy he still called his friend, felt like someone who no longer remembered him at all.

Izuku didn’t make a sound. He stayed frozen, crouched low behind the wall, tiny fingers trembling where they pressed against his lips. His heart pounded too loudly in his chest — too fast, too heavy — like it wanted to escape. Every word from the kitchen spilled through the air like shards of glass, and each one seemed to cut deeper than the last.

He tried to be quiet. Tried not to move. Tried to swallow the ache rising in his throat. But it hurt too much — the things he’d heard, the weight of them settling like stones in his small chest. His mind spun, trying to make sense of it, but all he could cling to was the one thing that shattered him most:

Kacchan doesn’t even want to see me.

His breath hitched, eyes burning as he covered his mouth tighter to keep the sob from breaking out. He didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not where they could hear. Not where his mom could find him like this again — small, pathetic, crying over something that was probably his fault anyway.

But no matter how hard he tried, the tears came anyway.

His body felt heavy — heavy with realization, with heartbreak too big for a child to understand. He stayed there for a while, shaking, until the ache in his chest grew too unbearable to contain. And then he ran.

His footsteps echoed through the small apartment, uneven and clumsy, the sound startlingly loud against the stillness. From the kitchen came the startled cries of his name — one desperate, one worried — but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back. The floor seemed to tilt beneath him, the air too tight, his vision blurring with tears.

All he wanted was to reach his room, to shut the door, to disappear from a world that suddenly felt too cruel.

By the time he slammed the door behind him, his chest was heaving, and his face was a mess of tears and trembling lips. His All Might plushie sat on the bed, that bright smile of its stitched face staring back at him like a cruel joke. He threw himself onto the sheets and buried his face into the soft toy, muffling the broken sounds that tore their way out of him.

It felt like everything was slipping away — like sand falling through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold on.

His best friend didn’t want him.
His mom didn’t trust him to go outside.
And he didn’t have anyone else.

He was alone.

A sick, twisting feeling built inside his stomach, crawling up into his throat until he thought he might choke on it. The words he’d heard so many times before whispered like a ghost in his ears — Kacchan’s voice, sharp and cruel and too familiar.

Deku.

Useless.

Quirkless.

He’d tried so hard not to believe them. Tried to tell himself that if he worked hard enough, if he kept smiling, if he just kept trying, people would see that he was more than what they said. But now?

Now, even his best friend didn’t want to see him.

Maybe… maybe Kacchan was right all along.

Maybe it really was pointless — all the dreaming, the hoping, the wishing to be someone great. Maybe he really couldn’t be a hero like All Might. Heroes weren’t weak. Heroes weren’t locked away at home, hidden from the world because they couldn’t protect themselves. Heroes didn’t cry into their pillows wishing someone would tell them they mattered.

Heroes had quirks.

Heroes were strong.

Heroes didn’t look like him.

The words pulsed in his mind, each one heavier, crueler than the last, until they started to sound like truth instead of lies.

Heroes weren’t like me, he thought miserably, clutching the worn plushie tighter to his chest. Heroes were never like me.

And if that was true — if the world didn’t want someone like him, if even Kacchan didn’t — then maybe he should stop trying to be something he could never become.

His tears soaked the toy’s fabric, his small shoulders trembling as he whispered broken apologies to no one in particular — to his mother, to Kacchan, to the dream that once made his heart soar.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking in the quiet. “I’m sorry for being me.”

He stayed like that, curled in on himself until exhaustion pulled him under.

In the end, Kacchan was right.

He really was just a Deku.

The air in the apartment was thick with the kind of silence that hurt. It wasn’t peaceful or calm—no, it was heavy, trembling, like the whole world had stopped breathing with them.

When Inko and Mitsuki heard the pounding of small feet against the wooden floor, both women froze. For a second, they didn’t even register what was happening—until the sound of a door slamming upstairs made them both flinch. It was so loud, so desperate, that it seemed to echo in their bones.

“Izuku!” Inko called immediately, panic rising in her voice. She darted for the stairs, Mitsuki right behind her, hearts racing with the same dread. But when she reached his door and tried the handle, the sound of his sobs from the other side stopped her dead.

She pressed her palm against the wood as if she could reach him that way. “Sweetheart? Please, talk to me.” Her voice cracked at the end, small and fragile. “Zuzu, it’s just Mama…”

No answer. Only the muffled, broken rhythm of a child crying into his pillow.

Inko felt the sting of tears gather at the corner of her eyes. She turned to Mitsuki helplessly, guilt spilling from every trembling breath. “I’m so sorry, Mitsu-chan. I think he heard us…”

Mitsuki shook her head immediately, though her own expression was full of guilt. “No, don’t apologize, Inko. This one’s on me—I shouldn’t have mentioned Katsuki.” She swallowed hard, looking toward the closed door with a pained grimace. “I’ll head home for now. Just… tell him I said sorry, yeah? I don’t think he’ll want to see me for a bit.”

Inko could only nod, though the action was slow, weighed down. “He’ll come around,” she said softly, more to comfort herself than to convince Mitsuki. “Drive home safe, okay?”

When Mitsuki finally left, the apartment felt too quiet again. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears.

Inko stood there in the hallway, staring at the door that separated her from her son. Her sweet, gentle boy who didn’t deserve even a fraction of this pain. She hesitated, hand hovering over the knob before she finally turned it. It wasn’t locked—of course it wasn’t. Izuku never locked his door. He was too trusting, too good for a world that had already started to bruise him.

She opened it slowly, like she might wake him from a nightmare—but it turned out, he was already living one.

He was curled up on the bed, small body trembling, face pressed into the pillow. His tears had soaked through the fabric, leaving dark blotches where they fell. His eyes were red and puffy, his little fists gripping the blanket like it was the only thing keeping him together.

Inko’s chest tightened, and she had to press a hand to her mouth to keep the sob from spilling out. “Oh, baby…” she whispered brokenly as she crossed the room.

She sat beside him, careful not to startle him, and reached out with a shaking hand to brush his damp curls from his forehead. Her thumb wiped the streaks of salt from his cheeks, but more tears replaced them just as quickly.

“Zuzu,” she murmured, her voice trembling as she leaned down to press a soft kiss to his temple. “Mama’s here, sweetheart.”

He didn’t answer. He only hiccupped quietly, face still turned away.

So she didn’t say anything else. Words wouldn’t help right now. Instead, she simply gathered him close, wrapping her arms around his small, trembling frame and holding him like she could shield him from everything—every cruel word, every rejection, every broken dream.

Her heart hurt in ways she couldn’t even name. Because this wasn’t just sadness—it was grief for something that shouldn’t have been lost. The innocence, the hope, the boundless belief that the world would be kind to him… it was slipping away, one tear at a time.

She wanted to promise him that it would get better. That people would see him for who he really was someday. That he would be a hero, even without a quirk. But the words caught in her throat, because right now, even she didn’t know how to make him believe that.

So she stayed there in silence, brushing his hair gently, whispering small comforts into his skin.

The sky outside darkened fully, the stars beginning to flicker to life—but inside that quiet room, there was only the sound of a mother’s soft hums and a child’s quiet sobs fading into the rhythm of sleep.

And even when he finally drifted off, Inko didn’t move. She just held him tighter, whispering into the night a promise she wasn’t sure how to keep:

“I’ll make it better, mama will make sure of it. Somehow, I’ll make it better.”

After that day, something in the Midoriya household changed. Not all at once, but slowly—quietly. Like sunlight fading behind clouds that never left.

Izuku never brought up Katsuki again. Never mentioned the park, the playground, or his classmates. It was as though he had drawn an invisible curtain between himself and the outside world, and once it fell, he never tried to lift it again.

He still smiled, still laughed when Inko tickled him or when Hanae praised his handwriting. But his laughter was softer now, restrained, like he was afraid of being too loud—like joy was something he had to ration.

Inko tried not to notice, tried to tell herself it was just a phase, that he was simply growing up. But then one afternoon, she found him kneeling by his toy shelf, carefully packing things away.

Every action figure, every plushie, every All Might figurine he once treated like sacred treasure—it all went into boxes. He folded their tiny capes neatly, tucked them away with almost ceremonial care, as if he was saying goodbye to dear friends.

Panic clawed at Inko’s chest as she dropped to her knees beside him. “Zuzu, what are you doing?” she asked, her voice shaky.

But Izuku only turned to her with a small, tired smile that didn’t belong on a six-year-old’s face. “It’s okay, Mama,” he said brightly, far too brightly. “I still like All Might and the heroes, but… I don’t want to make you sad anymore.”

Inko froze. She couldn’t even speak.

And when she didn’t answer, Izuku went back to packing—methodical, calm, heartbreakingly mature.

By the time he was done, his room looked… empty. The vibrant All Might posters were gone, replaced by bare walls. The shelves once overflowing with color now stood cold and plain. It was as if the world had been drained of color—and with it, so had Izuku.

He kept one toy, though. A small, faded green rabbit plush, sitting at the edge of his bed. Inko didn’t have the heart to ask why.

She only stood there, watching in silence, her hands trembling as she gripped the doorframe. Her son—her bright, curious, endlessly hopeful boy—had dimmed.

And then, as if that dullness wasn’t already too much for her to bear, Izuku began to change in another way.

At first, it seemed harmless—endearing, even. After lessons with Hanae, he would sit on the couch with his little notebook, eyes glued to the television as he watched hero documentaries. His expression was focused, his lips moving in soft mutters.

Inko thought it was sweet at first. Maybe, she hoped, he hadn’t given up on his dreams after all. Maybe he still wanted to be a hero, still admired them with that same spark.

But then she noticed what he was really doing.

He wasn’t watching the way a fan would. He was studying. Analyzing.

Every movement, every tactic, every quirk—he observed it all with an eerie precision for someone so young.

Inko and Hanae would exchange looks, unsure whether to be amazed or afraid.

He didn’t play anymore. He didn’t pretend to be a hero saving the world. He studied them instead, as though if he couldn’t be one, he could at least understand them.

Sometimes, Inko would catch him staring at his old toys, his gaze wistful but distant—like he was looking at relics from a dream he’d already buried.

Months blurred into years. The boxes of toys gathered dust. The laughter that once filled their home grew quieter.

And Izuku grew.

At seven years old, he was still gentle, still polite, still smiled up at her with those big green eyes. But the playfulness—the spark of wild imagination that once made him build blanket forts and shout “SMASH!” in the living room—was gone.

In its place was a thoughtful, almost solemn boy. One who watched the world far too closely, far too quietly.

He carried notebooks everywhere now. The covers worn, the pages filled with messy scrawls of names, numbers, diagrams. “Hero Analysis for the Future, No. 13,” read the latest one in careful handwriting.

And when he spoke about heroes, it wasn’t with awe anymore—it was with precision.

“Kamui Woods has great agility but limited reach,” he muttered one morning, tapping his pencil against the paper. “Best Jeanist prioritizes order and image—it affects his split-second decisions.”

He said it like he was cataloging a world he could never belong to.

Inko listened from the doorway, her heart breaking quietly inside her chest.

Her little boy—once all dreams and laughter—was now a mirror of still water, reflecting the world’s cruelty too clearly.

He was still her Izuku. Still kind. Still warm. Still her sunshine.

But oh, how she wished he didn’t have to dim his light just to survive.

The morning sunlight was soft, warm, and lazy—the kind that made the curtains glow golden and the air feel gentle. The world outside was quiet, except for the faint rustle of leaves brushing against the window. Izuku stirred beneath his blankets, half-dreaming, half-listening to the distant hum of the city beyond their walls.

Then came the familiar sound of soft footsteps—light, careful, the kind that always came with comfort. A hand brushed his hair back, and his mother’s voice, tender as ever, called out to him.

“Zuku, sweetheart… time to wake up.”

He blinked sleepily, his green eyes unfocused for a moment before he turned toward her, mumbling incoherently into his pillow. Inko laughed quietly, her tone patient, soothing. She’d always been gentle in the mornings, knowing how her boy loved his sleep.

But something was strange this time. Her voice held an odd lilt—soft, yes, but a little too bright. Nervous, almost.

“Mmm… Mama?” he murmured, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. His hair was a fluffy mess, his pajamas wrinkled. “It’s… Saturday.” He yawned widely. “No lessons today.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Inko smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “But I was thinking… maybe we could go out for a bit. Just the two of us. How does the mall sound?”

Izuku froze, blinking at her like she had just spoken in another language.

The mall?

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone anywhere farther than their front gate. The walls of their home had become his whole world—safe, predictable, but also stifling. Every time he’d asked to go outside, Inko had gently refused, saying it wasn’t safe yet, that she just wanted to protect him.

So now, hearing her offer—so casually, like it was nothing—felt unreal.

“The mall?” he echoed softly, like testing the word on his tongue.

Inko chuckled and nodded. “Yes, Zuku. The mall. We can get you new notebooks, maybe grab some ice cream… You’ve been studying so hard lately. You deserve a break.”

Her voice was warm, but there was something else beneath it—something fragile. Guilt, maybe. Hope. She wanted this to be normal, wanted this to feel like an ordinary mother-son outing.

Izuku stared at her, trying to figure out what to feel. A part of him—the small, childlike part still buried under layers of quiet—fluttered with excitement. The idea of seeing people, of walking around in bright, open spaces, of hearing chatter and laughter again—it all felt like a dream.

But another part of him hesitated. What if he wasn’t ready? What if people stared at him the way they used to? What if he ran into Katsuki?

He looked at his mother again. She was smiling, though her hands twisted nervously in her lap. Her eyes—those tired, kind eyes—looked like they were begging him to say yes.

Maybe she needed this even more than he did.

“Okay,” he said finally, a small, cautious smile forming on his lips. “I’d like that, Mama.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Inko’s face lit up completely. Relief flooded her expression, her eyes shining as she leaned forward and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered, holding him close. “Thank you.”

They spent the next hour getting ready—Izuku putting on the green sweater she’d knitted for him, the one with slightly uneven sleeves but full of warmth. He brushed his hair carefully, wanting to look neat, and packed his little hero notebook into his bag, just in case.

When they stepped outside, the sunlight hit his face, and he froze for a moment. It had been so long since he’d felt it so directly—the warmth, the brightness, the open air filling his lungs.

Inko noticed and reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “You okay, baby?”

Izuku nodded, clutching her hand tighter. “Yeah… it’s just—really bright.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “It’s supposed to be.”

And together, they began their slow walk toward the station.

Every sound seemed new to him—the chatter of people, the distant bark of a dog, the rustle of wind in the trees. He stuck close to his mother, a little shy, a little scared, but beneath that… a flicker of something else.

Wonder.

Maybe, just maybe, the world outside wasn’t as cruel as he remembered. Maybe it could still be kind, if he stayed close to her.

And as Inko glanced down at her son—his small hand clinging to hers, his eyes wide with quiet awe—she silently prayed that today could be the start of something new.

Chapter 7: First Encounter

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The mall was far louder than Izuku remembered. The moment they stepped through the glass doors, the world seemed to explode into color and sound — laughter, chatter, music echoing faintly from the speakers above. People rushed past them, hands full of shopping bags and phones, and Izuku could feel his chest tightening a little with every step they took deeper inside.

He hadn’t realized how small their apartment had felt until now — safe, quiet, predictable. Out here, everything moved too fast.

He clung tightly to his mother’s hand, his small fingers digging into her palm. His wide, green eyes darted everywhere — to the children running past, to the mannequins standing too still, to the flashing lights of the stores. His heart thudded against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Inko noticed immediately. She slowed down, turned to look at him with worry softening her expression. Her boy looked so lost, so tense — like a little soldier trying not to flinch at every sound.

She crouched slightly, brushing a strand of his hair back from his face. “I only want you to enjoy yourself, Zuku,” she murmured gently, her smile tender and hopeful. “You can tell me if there’s something you want me to buy, okay? You don’t need to be scared. Mama’s right here.”

Her voice, like warm tea on a cold morning, eased something in him. He nodded quietly, breathing out a shaky sigh. Maybe… he could try. Just this once.

So with that, their day began.

They started at the food court — the comforting smell of fried chicken and fresh bread filling the air. Izuku’s eyes widened at the variety, and for a moment, he forgot about the noise, about the people. He ended up choosing katsudon, his favorite, while Inko settled for a light salad.

Watching him eat — cheeks puffed out, lips smudged with sauce — Inko smiled to herself. It had been so long since she’d seen him like this. Her little boy.

After they finished, they walked hand in hand into a clothing shop. Izuku shyly tried to insist that his clothes were fine, that he didn’t need new ones, but Inko only gave him that look — the gentle, immovable one that every mother seems born with.

Minutes later, she was holding up shirts against him, humming thoughtfully. “You’ve grown again,” she mused, pretending to measure his height against her own. “Soon, you’ll be taller than me.”

He laughed — a small, breathy sound — and it made her heart ache with something bittersweet.

By the time they left, Izuku was carrying two shopping bags, his cheeks faintly flushed with embarrassment but his eyes softer, lighter.

And then, they passed a store full of color — posters of heroes, figurines stacked high on the shelves, and bright lights reflecting off shiny packaging.

Inko stopped instinctively. Her heart clenched. She almost kept walking — she knew what this kind of store meant for him, what memories it might stir up. The part of her that wanted to shield him, to keep him safe from every reminder of pain, screamed to walk the other way.

But the other part — the part that remembered his laugh when he used to wave his All Might toys around, the one that missed the way his eyes used to sparkle when he spoke about heroes — whispered otherwise.

Maybe… maybe this could help heal something in him.

“Why don’t you take a look around, hm?” she said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll wait here.”

He hesitated, glancing at her uncertainly. But when she smiled at him — that soft, encouraging smile — he finally nodded and wandered off, clutching his bags close.

The shop was like stepping into a dream. Rows upon rows of brightly colored figures, limited edition posters, collectible cards — everything glittered under the soft store lights. Izuku’s eyes darted around in quiet wonder.

And then he saw it.

An All Might figure. New edition. Standing tall on the shelf, cape flowing, grin confident and bright. His heart skipped. He wanted to hold it — just to see it up close, to feel like a child again for even a moment.

But just as he reached for it, another hand shot out.

A man’s hand — larger, pale, and rough around the edges.

Izuku blinked, startled. The man was strange. He was tall, his face shadowed by the hood of a black sweatshirt despite the heat outside. His posture was tense, restless.

“Ah— s-sorry,” Izuku stammered automatically, stepping back.

The man turned his head slightly, and for a split second, Izuku caught the glint of sharp redeyes under the hood. His stomach twisted uneasily.

“What are you staring at, brat?” the man’s voice was low, rough — a growl that sent a chill down Izuku’s spine.

Izuku shook his head quickly, clutching the straps of his bag tighter. “Uh— nothing! I-I was just looking! I’ll g-go now.”

He turned to leave, heart thudding fast, his small body trembling ever so slightly.

The man said nothing more — just grunted and turned back to the shelf. But as Izuku hurried away, he could feel those unseen eyes still on him, heavy and cold.

He rushed back toward the front of the store, where his mother waited. Inko smiled at him, oblivious to what had happened, her hands full of a paper cup of coffee.

“Did you see anything you liked?” she asked, her tone bright.

Izuku forced a smile, nodding a little too quickly. “Yeah… lots of stuff.”

She didn’t notice the way his eyes darted once more toward the shadowed aisle before looking back to her. She only saw her little boy smiling, and for that moment, that was enough.

They left the store hand in hand, unaware that the man in the hoodie was still standing there, turning the All Might figure over in his hand — and quietly watching them disappear into the crowd.

When they finally returned home, the sky outside had already begun to melt into shades of pink and gold, the dying light brushing across the apartment walls like soft paint strokes. Izuku barely made it through the door before collapsing face-first onto his bed, his small frame sinking into the comforter with a sigh so heavy it almost sounded like relief.

Eight bags. Eight whole bags. His arms still tingled from carrying them, and his legs—long unused to walking anywhere farther than the kitchen—throbbed with a dull ache. Yet despite the exhaustion pressing down on him, there was something light in his chest, something that fluttered like wings struggling to remember how to fly.

This day had been fun. Really fun.

It had been so long since he’d laughed like that—laughs that came freely, bubbling out before he could even think to hold them back. He remembered his mom’s gentle smile as she helped him pick out a hoodie, her soft laugh when he made a face at a ridiculous hero-themed hat. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t look tired. There weren’t shadows under her eyes or worry in her voice. She just… was. Present, radiant, happy.

And that, more than anything, made him happy too.

Izuku turned over, hugging his pillow close, his messy curls pressing into the soft fabric. The faint hum of the city outside filled the silence of their small apartment—the sound of cars, distant chatter, the occasional bark of a dog. It was strange how alive it all felt now. For so long, his world had been walls and windows, muffled footsteps in the hall, and the quiet hum of a life paused in place. But today? Today felt like pressing play again.

He thought about the stores they visited—the food court where they shared fries, the clothing shop where his mom insisted he needed new shirts (“You’re growing so fast, Zuku!” she’d said, even though he swore he wasn’t), and the toy store full of hero figures. That one had been the hardest. He could still feel the phantom ache that came with seeing All Might’s face again, that deep-rooted longing to be like him, to save, to protect… but also the tiny spark of warmth that followed it. Like maybe—just maybe—that dream hadn’t died completely.

He smiled faintly into his pillow.

Maybe this was what healing felt like. Not instant, not perfect, but gentle and slow. Like sunlight creeping into a dark room, chasing away the dust and silence bit by bit.

His mind began to wander as sleep tugged at him. Maybe after this, after a few more months of showing his mom he was okay, he could ask her to let him go outside more often. Maybe even—his heart skipped—go to school.

He’d miss Hanae, of course. Her patient teaching, the way she smiled whenever he got an answer right. She’d been a part of his every day for so long, it was hard to imagine mornings without her. But still… he wanted to meet other kids again. To laugh with them, learn with them, maybe even make a friend or two.

And if he could prove to his mom that he could handle it—that the world outside wasn’t going to break him again—then maybe she’d see that he was ready.

He still wanted to go to U.A. after all. That dream might have been buried under fear and years of isolation, but it was still there. Faint, trembling, but alive.

Izuku yawned softly, curling up under his blanket as his thoughts grew fuzzier, slipping between memories and hopes. The scent of his mother’s cooking drifted faintly through the door, grounding him in warmth.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t fall asleep with tears in his eyes.

For the first time in a long time, he dreamed of futures, not fears.

Tomorrow would come, and maybe it would be hard. But tonight, Izuku Midoriya was happy—and that, in itself, felt like a small, quiet miracle.

Shigaraki placed the All Might figure onto the desk with an absent-minded clack, the plastic echoing faintly through the dim apartment. Dust swirled lazily in the slanted evening light that spilled through the half-drawn curtains, painting long shadows across the cluttered room. The air was heavy with the scent of cigarettes, metal, and something faintly burnt—like the ghost of chaos left behind.

He leaned back against the worn-out couch, a low creak sounding under his weight as he rested his head on the edge, staring up at the ceiling. His gloved fingers tapped against his thigh in a slow, uneven rhythm.

That kid.

The image of him kept replaying in his mind—over and over again, looping like a glitch in his thoughts he couldn’t quite erase. The small, freckled face. Those wide green eyes. The way his little hands trembled when he spoke, yet he still tried to sound brave. It was… annoying. But more than that, it was strange.

He’d seen hundreds of faces. Faces twisted in fear, in hatred, in desperation. But this one—this boy—was different. That fear hadn’t been disgust. It hadn’t been the kind that screamed “monster” at him like the rest of the world always did. It was… softer. A child’s fear. The kind that came with confusion rather than contempt.

And for reasons he couldn’t even explain, it bothered him.

He groaned quietly and dragged a hand down his face, the leather of his glove rasping against his skin.

“What the hell’s wrong with me…” he muttered under his breath, glancing at the All Might figure again. The ridiculous grin of the Symbol of Peace stared back at him, frozen and perfect. Shigaraki scoffed. Of all the things he could’ve walked out with, it had to be that.

Still, he didn’t throw it away.

Instead, he sat forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at it. The bright colors stood out painfully against the dull gray of his room. He could still hear the kid’s quiet voice echoing faintly—“Uh– nothing. I’ll– I’ll get going.”

He hadn’t meant to scare him. Not really. He just wasn’t used to being looked at. Not without judgment, not without whispers, not without the heavy weight of fear that came with the name villain.

But that boy—he had looked at him like a person. Just for a second. And that tiny flicker of humanity felt foreign enough to sting.

Shigaraki leaned back again and sighed, tilting his head toward the window. Outside, the city’s neon glow blinked weakly, shadows of lives continuing without him. A world that had long since moved on.

That kid wouldn’t. Not completely. He had that look in his eyes—the kind that remembered faces, even when he didn’t want to.

“Guess I made an impression,” he said to no one, voice hollow but tinged with a strange amusement.

He picked up the All Might figure, turning it in his hand. The bright, smiling hero looked absurdly out of place in his grasp. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to crush it, even though part of him wanted to—needed to.

Instead, he placed it gently back on the desk, right beside the cracked monitor and a stack of old game cartridges. It stood there like a misplaced relic of a brighter world, a tiny, mocking piece of light amid all his ruin.

“Oh well,” he muttered, his tone soft but laced with something darkly wistful. “Maybe I’ll see you again, kid.”

He wasn’t sure if he meant it as a threat or a promise. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

But deep down—buried under all the bitterness, the anger, the decay—there was a quiet whisper of something he didn’t want to name. A strange, reluctant curiosity.

Maybe fate had a cruel sense of humor. Maybe it was already setting the stage for something neither of them could escape.

And for the first time in a long while, Tomura Shigaraki smiled—thin, tired, and almost human—as he stared at the All Might figure, the faint reflection of a boy with green eyes flickering behind it in his mind.

Someday.

Maybe.

They’ll meet again.

Notes:

oh yeah shiggy is here ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Chapter 8: Little Braver

Chapter Text

Izuku’s fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. He kept rubbing his palms together, feeling the soft drag of skin against skin, trying to calm the storm raging inside his chest. His heart was beating too fast, too loud. It reminded him of those younger days — when he was just a small boy clutching the hem of his mother’s skirt, too shy to ask for a new All Might figure. Except this time, it wasn’t a toy he wanted. It wasn’t something simple or silly or easy to grant.

This was something heavier. Something that could change everything.

Today, Izuku was going to ask his mom if she could let him go to school again.

It wasn’t U.A., not yet — he wasn’t that bold. Just a small public school near their apartment. Somewhere he could start over, maybe make a friend or two, and—if he dared hope—learn to feel normal again. Like he hadn’t spent the last three years living behind the same four walls, where the world only existed in textbooks and TV screens.

He could almost hear his pulse in his ears as he stood by his bedroom door, gathering courage.

You can do this, Izuku.

He inhaled deeply, clutching the hem of his hoodie, and padded down the stairs quietly. The scent of laundry detergent lingered in the air, warm and clean. His mother was sitting on the couch, folding freshly dried clothes into neat piles. The television hummed softly in the background, a daytime drama she wasn’t really paying attention to.

Inko looked so peaceful. Her face relaxed, her shoulders unburdened for once. It struck him how long it had been since he’d seen her like this—truly calm. Guilt twisted deep in his stomach. She deserves this peace, he thought. She doesn’t deserve to worry again.

But still… he couldn’t stay trapped forever.

“Mom?” His voice came out smaller than he intended.

Inko turned immediately, her face lighting up the way it always did when she saw him. “Oh, Izuku!” she beamed, patting the space beside her. “Come here, sweetheart. Is something wrong? Or maybe you’re hungry?” She chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “We could make katsudon for lunch—your favorite.”

Izuku swallowed, the words caught in his throat. He shook his head and forced a shaky smile. “It’s not that, Mom. I just… I want to talk to you about something.”

The air shifted. Inko paused mid-fold, her attention fully on him now. Her eyes softened, patient and kind, but his nerves were already crawling under his skin.

“I—uh… I want to go to school this year,” he blurted out, his voice quiet but steady. “There’s this school near our apartment, and it’s not far, and I… I just thought maybe I could try.”

For a moment, the world went still. The TV’s faint chatter blurred into static in his ears. Izuku held his breath, terrified of what he’d see when he looked up. Would she be angry? Would she say no? Would she think he wasn’t ready?

But when he finally gathered the courage to look, his heart nearly broke.

Inko wasn’t angry. She wasn’t sad. She was smiling.

It was the kind of smile that reached her eyes, warm and proud and full of love.

“Oh, Izuku…” She dropped the shirt she’d been folding and reached out, cupping his face with both hands. Her thumbs brushed lightly over his cheeks before she leaned forward and kissed his nose, the same way she used to when he was little.

“I knew this day would come,” she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to betray her emotion. “I knew I couldn’t keep you here forever. You’re growing up, my baby boy. You’re so brave for wanting this.”

Izuku blinked hard, and the tears he’d been trying to hold back started to gather, blurring her face into something soft and shining. “You’re… you’re not mad?”

“Mad?” She laughed quietly, shaking her head. “Never. I’m proud, Zuku. So, so proud. I know what happened hurt you, and I know I’ve kept you close because I was scared too. But you’ve shown me—you’re ready to step out again.”

Something inside Izuku cracked then. All the guilt, the fear, the loneliness he’d carried since that awful day three years ago—it melted under her words like frost beneath the sun.

He threw his arms around her and buried his face into her shoulder, shaking with quiet sobs. Inko’s arms wrapped around him instantly, holding him tight, her fingers smoothing through his messy hair.

Neither of them said anything for a long time. They didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, the silence said it all. It said I trust you.

It said I’m proud of you.

It said You’re not alone anymore.

When Izuku finally pulled back, his eyes were red but his smile was real. The kind that reached deep, all the way to his heart.

“I’ll make you proud, Mom,” he whispered.

Inko brushed her thumb across his cheek and smiled through her tears. “You already have, my love.”

And as the afternoon sun poured through the window, painting them both in golden light, Izuku made a silent promise in his heart—

That he would never make his mother cry out of fear again.
Only out of pride.

Izuku’s days began to take on a new rhythm — a rhythm that hummed with quiet hope and nervous excitement. For the first time in years, the world outside their apartment walls no longer felt like something to fear. It was still loud, still unpredictable, still so much bigger than him—but it didn’t make him shrink anymore. It made him curious.

He started small.

Inko had told Hanae about his plans, and the news had brought tears to the woman’s eyes. She’d been more than just his tutor; she’d been a friend, a confidante, a soft-voiced mentor who had seen him through his loneliest days. When Inko explained that the lessons would now only be twice a week until school began, Hanae tried to smile, but her voice wavered as she said, “It’s hard to say goodbye to a boy you’ve watched grow this much.”

The goodbye wasn’t immediate, though — and for that, Izuku was grateful. Their lessons changed after that day. They no longer revolved solely around arithmetic or kanji practice; instead, Hanae began teaching him how to speak with confidence, how to hold eye contact, how to start a conversation without stuttering over every other word. She turned her gentle lectures into games, helping him practice smiling when he greeted someone, how to answer politely when a stranger spoke to him.

She’d often end their sessions by saying, “You don’t have to be the loudest voice in the room, Izuku. Just be kind. Kindness makes people listen.”

He took that to heart.

And Inko, bless her heart, made sure her son had plenty of opportunities to put those lessons into practice.

She started sending him on little errands — first with her, then by himself. A carton of milk from the store down the street. A bag of vegetables from the old lady at the corner stall. Sometimes, she’d ask him to return a borrowed book to Hanae or deliver sweets to Mitsuki’s house.

At first, every trip outside felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. His heart would race, and his palms would sweat as the doors slid shut behind him. Every sound — car horns, chatter, footsteps — felt like it was pressing in too close.

But then… something shifted.

The first time the cashier smiled at him and said, “Thank you, kid,” Izuku stammered out a quiet “You’re welcome,” and it didn’t feel so terrifying.
The first time he helped a stranger pick up their dropped groceries, his chest filled with something warm and bright that lingered even after he got home.
And the first time he saw kids his age laughing together outside the park gates, he didn’t feel jealousy. Just a quiet longing, like maybe—maybe soon—he could join them.

Inko watched all of this with a bittersweet ache in her chest. Her baby was growing up, truly growing up this time. She missed the days when he would cling to her side, when she could protect him from everything with just a hug. But seeing the way he smiled after coming home from errands, how his words flowed a little easier and his eyes looked a little braver each day… that made every worry worth it.

Weeks turned into months, the calendar filling with red circles marking the countdown to the first day of school. Izuku grew a few centimeters taller, his hair a little longer, his confidence inching forward step by step.

By the time the last week of summer arrived, he no longer hesitated before stepping out the door. He still checked twice that he had his wallet and phone, still gripped his backpack straps a little too tight, but he no longer flinched at the outside noise. The sunlight didn’t feel too bright anymore. The wind didn’t sting his skin with memories of fear.

Hanae cried on their last official lesson day, pressing a small notebook into his hands — filled with handwritten notes and reminders. Things like Don’t apologize for existing. and Smile at least once every morning.

“You’ll do great,” she whispered, hugging him tightly. “You’re ready.”

And for the first time in a long while… Izuku believed her.

He wasn’t the trembling, broken little boy who hid behind closed doors anymore. The kind of courage that starts as a whisper but grows into something unshakable.

And as the sun dipped below the city skyline that evening, painting the streets gold and pink, Inko stood by the window watching her son laugh softly to himself as he flipped through a school brochure — a sight she hadn’t seen in years.

Her eyes glistened as she smiled.

Chapter 9: Catalyst

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Izuku was buzzing. That was really the only word for it.

It was as if every nerve in his body had come alive, humming with the thrill and terror of what this day meant. His first day of school — a real school — after years of homeschooling, hospital visits, and lessons that took place only within the safety of their small apartment walls.

He was up long before the sun had fully risen, the city still heavy with morning mist. His uniform—neatly pressed and far too formal for someone who hadn’t seen a classroom in years—hung awkwardly on his small frame. The all-black blazer made his freckles pop even more, and his green hair stuck out in every possible direction despite his mother’s many attempts to tame it.

Right now, though, he was in the middle of absolute chaos.

He darted around their apartment like a tiny green tornado—checking his backpack for the third time, making sure his notebooks were in order, then realizing he hadn’t eaten, grabbing a piece of toast, and promptly forgetting it halfway through his next round of panic.

By the time Inko walked into the living room, the sight that greeted her nearly made her burst into laughter. There was her son—her sweet, anxious boy—half-dressed, trying to button his blazer with one hand while a piece of toast dangled precariously from his mouth. His bag sat open on the floor beside him, the contents spilling out in what could only be described as an academic disaster.

“Oh, Zuku,” she chuckled softly, shaking her head.

Izuku looked up, cheeks puffed out around the toast. “Mffh?”

Inko just smiled and crouched down, brushing a few crumbs off his shirt before taking over the task of buttoning his blazer properly. Her hands were gentle and practiced, the same hands that used to button his onesies when he was a toddler, the same hands that held him through nightmares and sick days.

“There,” she said quietly once she finished, leaning back to admire her work. “Now you look handsome.”

Instantly, Izuku’s cheeks turned scarlet. “D-don’t say that, Mom!” He tugged at the edge of his sleeve, trying to hide his face. “I just… I just hope I won’t embarrass myself today.”

Inko’s heart softened. He still spoke like that—still doubted himself so quickly. But the fact that he was trying… that he was stepping out into the world again after everything… it filled her with such fierce, aching pride.

“You won’t,” she assured him, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. “You’re going to do wonderfully. Just be yourself, alright?”

He nodded, muttering a shy, “Okay, Mom.”

Then she went through her checklist, the same one she always did when she worried. “Your phone’s in your bag?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Your wallet?”

“Yes.”

“Lunch money?”

“Mom,” he groaned, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve got everything.”

She hummed, pretending to be unconvinced. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you? I could walk you there, just in case—”

“I’ll be fine,” Izuku interrupted quickly, though the nervous tremor in his voice betrayed him.

Inko sighed but relented, hands on her hips, pretending to pout. “Kids these days. No appreciation for their mothers at all.”

Izuku laughed—a soft, genuine sound that made her chest tighten with warmth. “I appreciate you every day, Mom.”

And then came the hardest part.

He slipped on his shoes, slung his bag over his shoulder, and paused by the door. He turned to her, eyes bright with both fear and excitement. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her tight.

“I’ll see you later, Mom.” His voice was small, but steady.

Inko hugged him back, closing her eyes and breathing him in—the faint scent of laundry detergent and toasted bread. “Be safe, Zuku. And have fun, alright?”

“I will.”

He pulled away, gave her one last grin, and stepped outside.

For a moment, he just stood there on the sidewalk, staring at the street ahead. His heart hammered in his chest like a drum, each beat echoing the mantra that had kept him going for months:

You can do this.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and began to walk.

The morning sunlight kissed his face as he turned the corner, the sound of the city rising around him—the laughter of children, the rumble of cars, the distant call of birds. It all felt too big, too loud, too alive.

But this time, it didn’t make him want to run back home.

It made him want to keep moving.

And so he did—step by step, heart thudding, eyes wide with the fragile, beautiful hope that maybe… just maybe… this was the beginning of something new.

The school gate loomed in front of him like some kind of grand monument—tall, polished, and way too intimidating for someone who already felt like a walking ball of nerves.

Izuku stood there frozen, the morning breeze tugging lightly at his blazer. His heart was pounding so loudly he could practically hear it echoing in his ears. He clutched the strap of his bag as though it were the only thing tethering him to this reality.

He’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. Walk through the gate. Don’t trip. Don’t stutter. Smile if someone looks at you. Don’t freak out. You’re fine. You’re fine.

But standing there, with students laughing and chatting as they streamed past him in perfect, effortless confidence—Izuku felt like a ghost haunting his own dream.

He squeezed his eyes shut, muttering the mantra his mom had told him that morning.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe ou—

“Hey there! What are you doing?”

Izuku jumped about a foot in the air. The startled yelp that escaped him was so high-pitched it could’ve shattered glass.

He turned his head so fast he nearly sprained something—and froze when he saw her.

A girl stood beside him, maybe his age, maybe a little shorter, her brown hair bouncing around her face and her grin so bright it nearly blinded him. Her uniform was slightly disheveled, like she’d run the whole way here and couldn’t care less. Big brown eyes blinked at him curiously, the sunlight catching in them like honey.

“Cat got your tongue?” she teased, leaning forward a little. “Ah! My name’s Ei Akizuki! What’s yours?”

Izuku opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing.

Words refused to exist. Someone’s talking to me, his mind screamed. On my first day! A girl is talking to me—

His brain blue-screened.

Then—

Flick!

“—Ow!” Izuku squeaked, instinctively pressing his hand to his forehead.

Ei had flicked him. Square on the center of his forehead, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Stop staring, that’s rude, you know!” she scolded, though her grin betrayed that she wasn’t actually mad.

You’re the one who—! Izuku’s thoughts shrieked internally, but all that came out was a tiny, awkward noise that vaguely resembled a dying mouse.

“I—uh—sorry! I wasn’t—uh—I mean, I didn’t—uh—”

He was spiraling, and it was so painfully visible.

Ei blinked, then laughed, a sound bright and unrestrained. “You’re funny.”

Izuku blinked, too startled to even panic about that statement. “F-funny?”

“Yeah! You made that face like you saw a ghost.”

He was starting to think she might be the ghost—some chaotic apparition that had wandered in from a much cooler world.

“U-um… my name is Midoriya Izuku,” he finally managed, voice so soft it nearly got eaten by the morning air.

“Midoriya, huh?” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Nice to meet you, Midoriya!”

Before he could even respond, the sharp clang! of the school bell rang out across the courtyard. The sound made Izuku jump again—today was apparently destined to be full of tiny heart attacks.

“Oh no, we’re gonna be late!” Ei gasped.

Izuku blinked. “W-wait, what?!”

Before he could even process it, she’d grabbed him by the wrist.

And then—she ran.

Dragged him straight through the gate, laughing breathlessly as students scattered around them. Izuku barely kept up, stumbling and trying not to fall flat on his face as his heart leapt into his throat.

“Wait! Akizuki-san!” he cried. “I-I don’t even know if we’re in the same class!”

“Then tell me yours!” she called over her shoulder.

“I’m—uh—new! First grade!”

“Then we are going the same way!” she declared with unwavering certainty. “Let’s go, Zu-chan! And call me Ei!”

“Z–Zu—what?!”

But she was already pulling him through the door, her laughter trailing behind them like sunlight.

Izuku’s brain was short-circuiting. His hand still tingled where she held it, his heart beating so fast it might combust at any moment.

And yet—somewhere beneath the chaos, the panic, the absolute whiplash of being adopted by this whirlwind of a girl—something in him fluttered.

It was small. Soft. Warm.

Hope.

Maybe—just maybe—this day wouldn’t be as terrifying as he’d thought.

Yup. Izuku spoke way, way too soon.

Peaceful morning? Gone. Vanished. Shattered like glass under a sledgehammer.

If there was one thing Izuku learned in life, it’s that when things seem too good, the universe is probably just inhaling—getting ready to sneeze chaos all over your plans.

And right now, he could practically feel the sneeze coming.

The back of his neck prickled. Like heat. Like someone’s glare had decided to set up camp there and burn holes through his soul.

He didn’t even need to turn around. He already knew who it was.

“Hey, Zu-chan,” Ei whispered beside him, leaning close enough for him to smell her strawberry shampoo. “Why’s that creep staring at you like that?”

Izuku froze, his fingers twitching nervously around his pencil case. He didn’t even need to follow her gaze. He knew exactly which “creep” she was talking about.

Because there was only one person with that particular shade of blonde—like wildfire and fury rolled into one—and those sharp red eyes that could make anyone feel two inches tall.

Bakugo Katsuki.

Kacchan.

The ghost of his past. The boy he once called a friend.

Or maybe “friend” was too generous of a word now.

When Izuku and Ei had first entered the classroom, he’d instantly recognized the back corner desk. The posture. The spiky hair that defied gravity and reason. His stomach had dropped, and he’d forced himself to look anywhere else, pretending he hadn’t seen him. Pretending he was fine.

Ei, bless her, had dragged him toward a seat near the window, chattering about how she liked sunlight and fresh air. Izuku had silently thanked every higher being in existence that she did, because it kept him far enough from—

“Oi. Shitty Deku.”

—that.

Izuku flinched. Hard. He didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. The rough, crackling voice was carved deep into his memory—like an old scar that sometimes still stung when the weather changed.

Of course. Of course this would happen.

He turned slowly, hesitantly, forcing himself to meet Bakugo’s glare. The same scowl, the same sharpness in his eyes, the same stance that screamed arrogance—but there was something else, too. Something heavier. But Izuku didn’t dare look close enough to name it.

“H-hey, Kacchan,” he said softly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Katsuki snorted, hands shoved into his pockets, leaning just slightly toward him. “That’s all you got? ‘Hey’? You didn’t show your damn face for years, Deku, and that’s all you say?”

His tone wasn’t loud, not yet—but it carried enough weight to make the nearby students glance over, curiosity sparking.

Izuku’s fingers trembled beneath the desk. He wanted to say something. Anything. But his throat tightened.

He thought of saying, You told me not to show my face again.

He thought of saying, You didn’t want me around.

He thought of saying, I almost died, Kacchan.

But what came out was nothing. Just silence.

He dropped his gaze to his lap, shoulders curling in as if to make himself smaller. It was muscle memory—years of learned reflexes kicking in at once.

Ei, sitting beside him, narrowed her eyes. She could feel the tension rolling off them like static electricity. She didn’t know who this Kacchan guy was, but she didn’t like him. Not one bit.

Still, she stayed quiet. Watching. Waiting. Her hand hovered near Izuku’s, not touching but close—just in case he needed grounding.

Katsuki stood there for another heartbeat, jaw tight, something unreadable flickering behind his scowl. Then he clicked his tongue in irritation and stalked off, plopping into his seat with all the grace of a thunderstorm.

Izuku didn’t move until he heard the scrape of the teacher’s shoes at the front of the room.

“Good morning, class,” the teacher announced, his calm voice slicing through the thick, invisible tension.

Izuku exhaled shakily, realizing he’d been holding his breath this entire time. The sound that escaped him was quiet—almost like a whimper—but there was relief in it, too.

Ei glanced sideways, offering him a tiny smile. “Hey,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the shuffling of notebooks. “You okay, Zu-chan?”

He nodded. A lie. But it was all he could manage.

As the teacher began the lesson, Izuku stared out the window, eyes unfocused. The morning sunlight spilled gently over the classroom floor, warm and soft against his hands.

He told himself that this was fine. That he could handle it. That he’d come this far—and he wouldn’t let his past ruin the one thing he’d finally dared to hope for.

But deep down, under the fragile calm of his breathing, his heart still whispered the same trembling truth:

He wasn’t ready to face Kacchan again.

Not yet.

Notes:

thank you so much for the kudos! you guys are amazing ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵)‹𝟹

Chapter 10: Sunshine and Freckles

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

By the time the bell rang for break, Izuku nearly jumped out of his skin. His nerves had been buzzing the entire morning, and the sudden chime felt like thunder in his ears.

Around him, chairs screeched and chatter filled the classroom—students already pairing off and heading for the cafeteria. He looked down at his bento box on the desk, its neat little compartments still untouched.

“What do you wanna eat?” Ei’s cheerful voice rang beside him, cutting through the chaos like a ray of sunlight. She leaned against his desk, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “I’m craving shokupan right now. And pudding. Definitely pudding. Oooh, maybe milk tea too—no, wait, too sweet. But pudding though!”

Izuku blinked at her enthusiasm, his lips quirking into a small, unsure smile. “Um, I actually have my own food with me…” he mumbled, fiddling with the strap of his bag. “Mom made it for me this morning.”

Ei gasped dramatically, clasping her hands together. “You’re one of those homemade bento kids! Cute!”

Izuku’s face flamed, and he ducked his head. “I-it’s nothing special! Really!”

“Fine, fine,” Ei laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “I’ll go buy my own food, then. But we can eat together, yeah?”

Izuku froze mid-motion, his chopsticks hovering in the air. “T-together?” he echoed, voice small, almost squeaky.

Ei tilted her head, brown hair swaying. “Yeah. Together. Why?”

“Well—uh—it’s just…” His eyes darted around nervously, as if the walls might offer him a way out. “Don’t you have… um… other friends to eat with?”

He winced as soon as he said it. The words sounded wrong, heavy with a kind of quiet fear he didn’t mean to show.

Because deep down, he wasn’t used to being chosen. Not first, not ever.

Ei blinked, then grinned wide, popping the “p” in her next word. “Nope! You’re actually my first friend here, Zu-chan!”

Izuku blinked at her in disbelief.

She leaned closer, smirking playfully. “Huh. If you think about it, it almost looks like we’re dating!”

The words hit him like a bolt of lightning. His eyes went wide, his face went crimson, and he practically short-circuited on the spot.

“D-D-DATING?! W-w-w-wha—no! I mean—what are you even—?! Ei-san!!”

Ei’s laughter filled the air, loud and bright and unrestrained, like the kind of laughter Izuku hadn’t heard in years. It made something ache in his chest—something warm and painful at once.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” she chuckled, wiping away a tear from laughing too hard. “You’re just way too fun to tease, Zu-chan. Seriously, you’re adorable when you panic.”

Izuku looked like he might combust at any second, so she grinned and added, “Tell you what—come on. I’ll treat you to some pudding as an apology.”

“E-Ei, you don’t have to—”

“Too late, already decided!” she sang, grabbing his wrist with surprising strength and tugging him toward the door.

Izuku stumbled after her, still stuttering, but a shy smile slowly crept onto his lips.

Maybe this was what normal felt like.

Maybe—just maybe—he could get used to it.

Back in the classroom, a chair scraped harshly against the floor.

Bakugo Katsuki sat there, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed at the doorway where the two had just disappeared.

The sound of their laughter still echoed faintly down the hall, and for some reason, it made something ugly twist in his chest.

He clicked his tongue, leaning back in his chair, scowl deepening.

“Tch.”

That damn nerd. Acting all shy, letting some random girl cling to him like that?

And that girl—she was loud, unfamiliar. Too comfortable with him. Like she’d known him for years.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

He told himself it was just irritation—just annoyance at seeing Deku acting all… different. Like he hadn’t vanished for years and left everyone guessing.

But that wasn’t all of it, and he knew it.

That feeling under his ribs wasn’t just irritation. It was heavier. Sharper.

Jealousy, maybe. Or guilt. Or something he couldn’t even name.

Whatever it was, it burned.

Bakugo clicked his tongue again, crossing his arms. “Whatever,” he muttered under his breath, though his jaw stayed tight.

He’d get answers out of that damn Deku later.

One way or another.

“Ei-san… I-I really don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” Izuku whispered, glancing over his shoulder as though a teacher might pop out of thin air and catch them red-handed.

The metal door behind them was still swinging open from when Ei had picked the lock.

“Relax, Zu-chan,” she said easily, a grin tugging at her lips as she twirled the hairpin between her fingers like it was a weapon of choice. “We’re not breaking anything. We’re just gonna eat. It’s quiet up here, and no one comes around anyway—perfect, right?”

Before Izuku could argue, a gust of wind swept through, carrying the scent of fresh air and sunlight. The rooftop opened up before them, wide and empty—an ocean of blue sky above and the faint hum of the city below.

He blinked, momentarily forgetting to breathe. It was… beautiful. Peaceful.

Still, the rule-follower in him twitched. “B-but… the door said authorized personnel only!”

“Yeah, well,” Ei smirked, pushing the door open wider with her hip, “I’m authorizing us.”

Before he could protest, she grabbed his wrist again—he was starting to think that was her favorite habit—and pulled him onto the rooftop.

They sat down on the warm concrete near the door, where the wind wasn’t too strong. Ei plopped her food down beside her while Izuku carefully unwrapped his bento box, neatly tied in a green cloth his mother had folded that morning.

The lid opened with a satisfying click, revealing neatly arranged rice, tamagoyaki, and a few pieces of karaage shaped like stars.

“Whoa!” Ei gasped, eyes sparkling. “Even your food is cute! Your mom made this?”

Izuku nodded, shyly pushing the box a little closer to her. “Y-yeah… do you want to try some?”

She didn’t hesitate for even a second—just grabbed his chopsticks, took a bite, and chewed happily.

He stared at her, half in horror, half in amazement. “Y-you used my chopsti—”

“Mmm! So good!” she interrupted, flashing him a grin before handing them back like nothing had happened. “You’re lucky, Zu-chan. If I had food this good, I’d never eat cafeteria lunch again.”

He could only blink at her, a small laugh escaping before he could stop it. It was light, bubbling up like a sound that hadn’t seen sunlight in years.

Ei froze mid-bite, watching him quietly.

“...You should laugh like that more,” she murmured, almost without realizing she’d said it.

Izuku’s laughter faded into a bashful smile, his cheeks dusted pink. Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, just… new. A little fragile.

He cleared his throat first. “S-so, um… where are you from, Ei-san?”

“Harunashi,” she said between bites, talking with her mouth full in the most unladylike way possible. “We just moved here last month. My mom wanted a change of scenery or something. Our new place isn’t too far from here—you should come by sometime!”

Izuku blinked. “S-sure… our apartment’s close too. Maybe I could, um, introduce you to my mom.”

“Deal,” she grinned, taking a sip from her drink while he picked at his food again.

For a while, neither of them spoke. They just sat there under the open sky, the hum of the city below and the wind tugging gently at their hair. The clouds drifted lazily above them, painted gold at the edges by the afternoon sun.

For the first time in a long time, Izuku felt… at peace.

Then Ei spoke again. “So,” she said casually, “what’s your quirk?”

The chopsticks froze mid-air.

His heart stuttered, like it had forgotten how to beat for a second.

He didn’t look at her. He just stared at his lunch—his untouched rice, his trembling hands. His throat felt dry.

It shouldn’t have been a hard question. Everyone had a quirk. Everyone could answer that easily.

Except him.

Ei noticed immediately. The playful grin on her face faltered, replaced by something gentler—concern, maybe. “Zu-chan?”

He took a shaky breath, forcing his voice to work. “I… I don’t have a quirk.”

The words came out small. Barely a whisper.

But the silence that followed felt deafening.

The wind blew through the rooftop again, carrying away the sound of laughter from below, the smell of food, the warmth of the moment—leaving only the heavy quiet between them.

Izuku didn’t look up. His chest felt tight, his hands cold.

He expected her to laugh, to pity him, to pull away like everyone else always did. He braced himself for it.

But instead, Ei just stared for a long moment—and then softly set her drink down beside her.

She didn’t say anything right away.

And somehow, that silence was kinder than any words could’ve been.

"Mine wasn’t that great either, don’t worry," Ei said after a while, her voice calm but honest.

Izuku blinked, his mind momentarily blank. Not that great? That phrase didn’t exist in his vocabulary when it came to quirks. Every quirk — no matter how small, weak, or strange — held potential. Every ability could shine in its own way. He had spent his whole childhood believing that, studying quirks until the notebooks he filled became an extension of himself.

So, to hear someone say that about their own quirk — not with bitterness, but with simple acceptance — it threw him off a little.

“C–can I know what it is?” he asked, voice soft and eager, the curiosity already sparking in his bright green eyes.

Ei grinned, puffing out her chest a little. “Sure! I call it Kinetic Crown. Cool, right?”

The name alone had Izuku’s entire body light up like a switchboard. He sat up straighter, practically vibrating with excitement. “That’s— that’s amazing, Ei-san! It sounds powerful, and— and elegant at the same time! What does it do? How does it work? Can you control it consciously or is it reflexive? Can you—”

Ei laughed mid-bite of her pudding, holding a hand up to stop the avalanche of questions. “Whoa there, genius boy. One at a time, okay?”

Izuku flushed red, sheepishly scratching his cheek. “S–sorry, I just— it’s— it’s a really cool name…”

“It’s an emitter-type quirk,” she explained, waving her spoon like a conductor’s baton. “It reacts on instinct to protect me. Think of it like— uh— an invisible armor that flares up when I’m in danger. It’s saved me a couple of times already. So don’t worry, Zu-chan!” She beamed, nudging his arm playfully. “If any bullies show up, I’ll shield us both!”

He stared at her for a long moment, the wind brushing through his messy hair, making the world feel a little softer.

She said it so easily. So confidently. Like it was the simplest thing in the world to protect someone.

Something in his chest ached — not the painful, breaking kind, but the kind that felt like a seed cracking open to let light in.

She’d protect him.

No one had ever said that before.

Not in the same way she did — like it was already decided. Like it wasn’t something that needed to be earned or deserved.

At that moment, Izuku didn’t care that the world still saw him as quirkless, or that his dream of becoming a hero seemed impossible. Because right now, sitting beside Ei on the rooftop, the sun painting their faces in gold, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time — hope.

Maybe… maybe losing Kacchan wasn’t the end of everything.

Maybe the bruises, the insults, the quiet loneliness — all of it — were just the road that led him here.

To this rooftop.

To this laughter.

To this girl who wasn’t afraid of anything.

Maybe his mom was right to keep him home for a while — to give him the chance to heal, to breathe. Because if he hadn’t gone through all that pain, he wouldn’t have been ready to meet someone like Ei.

Someone who didn’t look at him like a disappointment.

Someone who didn’t pity him.

Someone who, without hesitation, promised to stand by him — not behind, not ahead, but with him.

And Izuku realized, as Ei grinned at him with pudding smeared on her cheek, that maybe this was what it meant to start over.

To rebuild.

To find courage again, in the smallest, most unexpected moments.

Because maybe his first real friend wasn’t the explosive, angry boy from his past — but this reckless, bright-eyed girl who looked at him and saw something worth protecting.

And for the first time in a long, long while…

Izuku Midoriya smiled without holding back.

Notes:

ei is my self insert! ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)
let me explain more about kinetic crown: the user can unconsciously use this when they felt like they were in danger. they can lift debris, deflect attacks, or propel them through the air. think of it like it is connected to telekinesis. the field is connected to the user's feelings, depending on how confident and composed the user is when they use it, the more powerful.
when the user is panic and surrounded by fear, well, let's just say the "crown" falters.
when the quirk is active, a purple floating particles orbit around their head and hands like halo.

Chapter 11: Catharsis

Chapter Text

The first day of school had gone… surprisingly well.

For once, Izuku won't go home with his heart heavy or his shoulders tense from the weight of everyone’s stares. For once, there was laughter — small, shy, and real — bubbling between him and someone new.

Ei was… different.

She was loud, a little reckless, endlessly curious, and had this strange way of dragging the world into her orbit without even trying. Izuku had never met anyone like her before. She didn’t walk next to him like she was doing him a favor. She didn’t talk down to him. She just… talked to him. Like equals.

By the end of the day, he already knew her favorite color (gold, because it “looked like sunlight on water”), her favorite food (sweet shokupan, the fluffier the better), and her dream (“to go somewhere far away, somewhere I can be whoever I want to be”).

He told her about his favorite things, too — about how he loved katsudon, and how he used to fill notebooks with hero notes, and how he once wanted to be a hero himself.

And through it all, she listened. No mocking, no smirks, no sighs. Just soft curiosity.

It was new. It was strange. It was… nice.

Izuku liked her. Really, really liked her.

And deep inside, he prayed she wouldn’t end up like Kacchan.

Because that wound — the one Bakugo left behind when he called him “Deku” for the first time — it never truly healed.

It was hard not to think of him, even now.

Of them — his old friends — who laughed when he fell, who shoved him down and called it strength training, who said he’d never be a hero because he didn’t have a quirk.

He remembered it all too vividly:

The way Katsuki’s smirk always came right before the pain.

The sound of his own voice trembling, trying to defend himself, only to be drowned out by laughter.

The moment the name Deku stuck — like a curse, like a brand — and Izuku Midoriya became nothing more than a joke.

He thought the years would dull it. That distance would make it fade. But now, standing in front of a school gate under the pink spill of sunset, one familiar voice shattered that illusion.

“Oi, Deku.”

That tone. That same venom curling around the word.

Izuku froze. The world tilted slightly, his pulse quickening, hands tightening around his bag.
He didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.

Kacchan.

He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Ei-san,” he said softly, turning to her with a small, shaky smile, “you can go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Ei blinked, surprised. She looked past him — at the boy approaching, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp as a blade. Something about him made her skin prickle. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was suffocating.

Still, she could tell Izuku didn’t want to make a scene. So she nodded, though her gut screamed otherwise. “Then… see you tomorrow, Zu-chan. Don’t forget to text me, okay?”

Her voice was light, but her eyes said something else entirely.

She stood there for a moment longer, watching as Izuku walked toward Bakugo — small, hesitant steps that reminded her of a rabbit approaching a wolf.

Then she saw it. That tiny, almost imperceptible flinch when Bakugo said something too harsh, too close. The way Izuku’s shoulders curled inward, like he was bracing for a hit he’d already memorized.

Something twisted in Ei’s chest — hot, sharp, protective.

Her fingers curled into fists, her quirk humming faintly at the edges of her nerves.

That boy — that scowling, arrogant boy — whoever he was, he had no right to look at Izuku like that.

Not after the way Zu-chan laughed on the rooftop. Not after he said he didn’t have a quirk, and she saw the way his eyes dimmed just before she promised to shield him.

She turned away only when they disappeared around the corner, but her mind was already made up.

If that Kacchan ever dared to hurt Izuku again — even with words — he’d find out just what Kinetic Crown could really do.

Because Ei wasn’t bluffing when she told Izuku she’d protect him.

And this time, she’d make good on that promise — no matter who she had to stand against.

Katsuki’s voice still carried that same sharp, seething edge that used to make Izuku’s stomach twist in knots. Some things never changed, it seemed.

"You're too damn close, shitty nerd." The insult landed like muscle memory — harsh, practiced, almost lazy — as if Katsuki didn’t even need to think before spitting venom.

Izuku flinched instinctively, a twitch that betrayed the years of conditioning. He wasn’t even standing that close; Katsuki had been the one to call him over in the first place.

And yet, here he was — following the boy he once called Kacchan down a road he thought he’d never take again.

He remembered every crack in the pavement. Every turn, every half-broken fence, every sound of gravel under his shoes.

This was that place. The place where everything went wrong. The park that haunted his dreams — the one where Katsuki’s hand had once sparked too close, the smell of smoke too sharp, and the air had filled with the sound of his own choked breath.

And he never got an apology for that. Not once.

But what else was new? This was Katsuki. Apologies were beneath him.

They stopped at the clearing — overgrown grass brushing against their shoes, the same crooked lamppost standing like an old ghost. Izuku’s throat went dry.

He’d always known this moment would come, but part of him hoped it wouldn’t.
Still… maybe this time could be different. He wasn’t the same scared little boy anymore, was he? Maybe— maybe he could fight back, even if just a little.

“What do you want, Ka—”

He stopped himself mid-sentence.

Don’t call him that.

He didn’t deserve that name anymore.

“B–Bakugo-kun,” he corrected softly, voice wobbling despite his effort to sound steady.

Katsuki’s stare was like a blade — cutting, dissecting, judging. His crimson eyes narrowed as his lip curled into that familiar, infuriating smirk. “Hah? Since when did you start bein’ so damn polite, huh?” he sneered, voice dripping with mockery. “Who told you to act all formal like that, nerd?”

Izuku could see his hands twitch in his pockets — the restless tremor of sparks just waiting to ignite. The same reflex he always had before things got violent.

“So you got yourself a new friend, huh?” Katsuki said, stepping closer until Izuku could smell the faint burn of nitroglycerin. “What happened to me bein’ your best friend, huh?”

Izuku’s heart pounded, and before he could stop himself, his eyes snapped up — and for the first time in a long while, he glared.

Best friend?

That title had burned to ash years ago, back when Katsuki turned his quirk on him — when the person he’d admired the most had laughed as he fell, coughing on smoke and humiliation.

“...If you’re not gonna say anything important,” Izuku said quietly, his voice trembling but firm, “then I wanna go home, Bakugo-kun.”

He even bowed a little — out of habit, out of fear, out of the old instinct to keep the peace — and then turned to leave.

But he barely took one step before a rough hand tangled in his hair and yanked.

The world spun — the sound of gravel scraping his palms, the sting at the back of his scalp, his breath catching painfully in his throat.

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?” Katsuki’s voice snarled above him, his breath hot and furious. “We’re not done talkin’, Deku.”

“K–Ka—Bakugo-kun, please, let me go. My mom will be worried—”

He barely got the words out before a heavy boot pressed against his back, pinning him down. The pressure wasn’t enough to break anything, but it didn’t have to. It was a message.

You don’t get to walk away.

“I said we’ll talk, damn it!” Katsuki growled, his tone caught somewhere between anger and desperation. “Why didn’t you show up for three fuckin’ years? And don't make me repeat myself anymore.”

Izuku squeezed his eyes shut, his heart slamming against his ribs.

Katsuki’s voice cracked slightly, just enough to sound human before it hardened again. “I know my old hag still visits your place. She even told me to come with her once or twice, but—”

He scoffed. “—why the hell would I do that?”

He reached down again, fisting a handful of those messy green curls, forcing Izuku’s face up to meet his eyes. His grip trembled, and for a second, there was something raw and confused buried beneath the anger.

“Why the hell would I apologize,” Katsuki hissed, “for something I didn’t even do wrong?”

Izuku stared up at him — cheeks scraped, eyes wide, and heart breaking quietly.

“...Didn’t do wrong?” he whispered.

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. The only sound was the wind — soft and cold, brushing past like it couldn’t stand to stay.

But instead, he just looked at him — really looked — and realized that Katsuki didn’t even understand what he’d done.

Or maybe he did. And just thought of it as right to tramp all over Izuku like that, because why else would a good for nothing like him live in a place like this?

And that, somehow, hurt worse than the burns ever did.

But damn it all—

Izuku couldn’t hold it in anymore.

All those years of silence, of swallowing his own pain and pretending it didn’t hurt—he couldn’t do it. Not anymore.

His hands were trembling, his throat tight, but his heart was louder than his fear.

He shoved Katsuki’s hand away with both palms, the motion raw and clumsy but filled with something desperate. His voice cracked when he spoke, eyes stinging as tears began to blur his vision.

“Stop it, Bakugo-kun! Just— stop!”

Katsuki froze, startled. No one ever raised their voice at him like that—especially not Deku.

But Izuku didn’t stop there. The words came pouring out, spilling from a place that had been festering for years.

His fists clenched. His breathing was uneven. His voice shook, but every syllable burned.

“You— you have no idea what you did to me,” Izuku said, his tears now freely streaming down his cheeks. “You think it’s nothing, don’t you? You think it’s fine because you didn’t have to live with the mess you made!”

Katsuki’s brows furrowed, mouth opening to retort, but Izuku didn’t let him.

“Do you even know what happened after that day? After you almost—” His voice broke. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, forcing the rest out. “—after you almost killed me?”

Katsuki flinched. The word killed hit like a slap.

Izuku laughed bitterly, the sound cracked and heavy. “You don’t know, do you? You never asked! You never cared to know what happened after that!”

He took a shaky step back, his shoulders trembling. “It’s your fault, Bakugo-kun. All of it. You’re the reason my mom— she—” His voice broke again, and he pressed his hands to his face, shaking his head. “She worked herself half to death just so I could be safe. Because she thought the world would destroy me the way you did.”

The image burned behind his eyelids—his mom sitting on the couch late at night, the faint glow of the TV doing nothing to hide her tears.

Bills scattered like fallen leaves across the coffee table.

Her uniform still wrinkled from the day’s work.

Her hands trembling as she called Auntie Mitsuki, her voice breaking as she whispered apologies between sobs.

"Please, Mitsuki-chan… just for this month. I’ll pay you back next week, I promise. It’s just… it’s been hard lately."

He hadn’t meant to listen. He’d just been on his way to get a glass of water. But after that night, something inside him had gone still.

That was the night he stopped believing he was just a “shitty nerd.”

That was the night he realized Katsuki Bakugo had stolen something from him that he’d never get back—his normal childhood.

And now, standing before him again, with the same smirk and the same arrogance—Katsuki had the audacity to say it wasn’t his fault.

“Oh yeah,” Izuku whispered, his tone sharp and trembling. “I remember now. You’re still the same, huh? Still so arrogant. So proud.”

He couldn't see through his tears already. “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you. You never had to. You’ve always had everything, right? A big house, parents who could afford anything you wanted. You didn’t have to worry about food, or rent, or— or whether your mom could sleep for more than two hours before her next shift.”

His eyes met Katsuki’s, glassy but fierce. “You don’t get it, Bakugo-kun. You’ll never get it.”

Katsuki’s smirk faltered, the first crack in his usual armor. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if the words were stuck somewhere between his throat and his pride.

Izuku sniffed, wiping at his tears with the back of his sleeve. His voice softened—hoarse and weary. “Just… please. Don’t bother me again. Ever.”

And before Katsuki could respond, Izuku turned. His steps were small but steady, his head bowed low as he walked away.

Katsuki didn’t chase him.

Didn’t say a word.

He just stood there, frozen, his fists trembling uselessly at his sides.

And for the first time in his life, Katsuki Bakugo didn’t know what to say.

Izuku didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He just whispered to himself as the wind brushed against his tear-streaked cheeks—soft, final, and aching.

Goodbye, Kacchan.

Notes:

hi everyone, this is important and not in any way meant to be rude.

i don't want you guys to ask for my socials and then ask me to do a paid collaboration for your art. i gave you guys my socials because i want to have a conversation, a way for us to communicate and be friends (if you like), or simply use it to send me your ideas if you have a request that you want me to write.

please, i just want to write here and happily do your ideas. i don't get money by writing here and i also don't want that.

i'm only a student. writing is only my hobby, not my job because i don't want it to be.

please respect my wishes. thank you.

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Mini_Pot_Noodle on Chapter 1 Wed 22 Oct 2025 06:45PM UTC

I’m loving this idea already and it’s just 1 chapter, I can’t wait to read what happens next :)

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Nikala on Chapter 1 Thu 23 Oct 2025 01:48PM UTC

Interesting!

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freya (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 27 Oct 2025 11:14PM UTC

Each line felt like remembering a life I’d never lived, yet somehow carried within me all along. I have some art ideas inspired by it that I’d love to share. Could I send you a pitch? You can reach me on Instagram, Discord

Instagram: @freyalysander12
Discord: @freyalysander12

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YallTookAllTheGoodUsernames on Chapter 2 Sat 25 Oct 2025 03:34AM UTC

I'm super excited to see where this goes!!!

Don't rush yourself but I'm really looking forward to the next chapter!!!💗

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WildEyzBaby on Chapter 3 Sat 25 Oct 2025 02:53PM UTC

🥰🥰🥰

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Tubbox1223 on Chapter 3 Mon 27 Oct 2025 09:13PM UTC

I've been searching for fanfics and I couldn't find a singular one that really stood out to me, but then I found this fic and while I haven't read that much of it yet, so far I'm loving it^^
(Been searching for some dark themed experimented deku au, so when the tags said "torture", "blood and gore" and "kidnapping" and it also was updated recently, it kinda turned into a "must read" for me😭)

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1. thisuserisdead on Chapter 3 Tue 28 Oct 2025 09:14AM UTC
  
  thank you for giving this one a try! 🩷
  
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WildEyzBaby on Chapter 4 Sat 25 Oct 2025 07:26PM UTC

🥰🥰🥰

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simp_ly04 on Chapter 4 Sat 25 Oct 2025 08:23PM UTC

That sweet baby just T-T

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Nikala on Chapter 4 Sat 25 Oct 2025 09:14PM UTC

Eeeeh, I just wanted to mention that a "minx" is usually used towards women that flirt a lot and are, uhm, frivolous? I've never heard anyone use it towards kids, and don't think it should be, if yk what I mean 😅
Great chapter besides that!

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1. thisuserisdead on Chapter 4 Sun 26 Oct 2025 01:04AM UTC
  
  oh really? english is not my first language and i thought it was an endearment! this is really awkward. i'll edit it out right away 😣 this has taught me to never listen to my friends ever again
  
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2. 1. Nikala on Chapter 4 Sun 26 Oct 2025 05:15PM UTC
    
    Hahaha yeah, never trust your friends teaching you words in foreign language 😆
    
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iheartjimin on Chapter 4 Wed 29 Oct 2025 02:59PM UTC

poor izuku

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WildEyzBaby on Chapter 5 Sun 26 Oct 2025 05:12PM UTC

🥰🥰🥰

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WildEyzBaby on Chapter 6 Mon 27 Oct 2025 03:53PM UTC

🥰🥰🥰

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WildEyzBaby on Chapter 7 Mon 27 Oct 2025 03:54PM UTC

🥰🥰🥰

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Nikala on Chapter 7 Mon 27 Oct 2025 06:36PM UTC

Hell naw, leave poor Izuku alone 😭

Last Edited Mon 27 Oct 2025 06:36PM UTC

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Nikala on Chapter 8 Mon 27 Oct 2025 10:09PM UTC

Three chapters in a day? Damn we blessed 😄

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1. thisuserisdead on Chapter 8 Tue 28 Oct 2025 09:13AM UTC
  
  get ready for more 🫡 (i'm running high on 3 hrs sleep with ramen for a meal)
  
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WildEyzBaby on Chapter 8 Mon 27 Oct 2025 10:57PM UTC

❤️❤️❤️

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1. thisuserisdead on Chapter 8 Tue 28 Oct 2025 09:13AM UTC
  
  i love your profile 🩷
  
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WildEyzBaby on Chapter 9 Tue 28 Oct 2025 04:50PM UTC

🥰🥰🥰

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Quin_blair (Guest) on Chapter 9 Tue 28 Oct 2025 06:28PM UTC

This story makes me feel every jittery step of Izuku and every fiery glare of Kacchan while Ei's wild energy lights up the chaos around them like a heartbeat I can almost hear.

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Nikala on Chapter 10 Tue 28 Oct 2025 09:05PM UTC

Aaaww poor little Izuku. So happy for him! So sad it's not gonna last 😭

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WildEyzBaby on Chapter 10 Tue 28 Oct 2025 10:56PM UTC

❤️❤️❤️

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