Chapter Text
Izuku’s back hits the apartment door hard enough to rattle the frame in its hinges, the impact shivering up his spine and knocking whatever thin thread of rational thought he’d been clinging to clean out of reach. Katsuki is on him immediately, mouth hot and demanding, teeth catching his lower lip.
Izuku tries distantly to reach for the lock behind him. His fingers scrape uselessly along painted wood, sliding over the familiar grooves and edges without finding purchase, his coordination lagging just a fraction behind his intent. He breaks the kiss long enough to glance over his shoulder, vision swimming slightly as he tries to locate the lock activation button, because fuck they need to get inside.
Katsuki catches his chin between his fingers and turns him forward again, firm and unyielding, the grip leaving no room for argument and even less for dignity.
“Eyes on me, Izuku.”
And fuck that goes straight down his dick. His body reacting faster than his pride can even attempt to intervene. Heat pools low and heavy in his abdomen, his thighs tightening where Katsuki presses into him, every nerve suddenly and acutely aware of proximity, pressure, friction. It’s ridiculous, honestly, how efficiently Katsuki can dismantle him with two words and the right tone of voice, like Izuku’s nervous system had been specifically engineered for this exact humiliation.
He knows though, that somewhere beneath the rising static, that they really should get inside. The hallway camera above the stairwell is still functional, he’d noticed it just last week, and Mrs. Tanaka across the hall has the observational vigilance of a retired detective with nothing but time and moral superiority on her hands.
The last thing Izuku needs is his own employees getting dragged into another media containment nightmare because he’d been caught dry-humping Pro Hero Dynamight against his front door.
The previous DynaDeku (haha) scandal had nearly killed his PR intern. Not literally, but the migraine she’d shown up to work with the next morning had looked severe enough to qualify for medical leave.
And yet, despite all of that, despite logic and professionalism and basic human foresight, he still goes very very still under Katsuki’s hand, eyes lifting automatically to meet his.
Anyway, so here’s what happened:
This hadn’t been how tonight was supposed to go, really.
It had been an uneventful routine patrol for the most part. It was the rare kind where his and Kacchan’s schedules actually aligned after months of near misses and rescheduling, the both of them walking the same streets again like muscle memory had simply been waiting for permission to resume.
Musutafu had smelled like rain on hot pavement and distant street food, the air thick and familiar, the city settling into its evening rhythm as the sun dropped behind the skyline. Izuku remembers thinking briefly that it was nice.
He’d even caught himself wondering if they might finish early enough that he could suggest stopping by that katsudon place halfway between their agencies, the one Katsuki insists is mediocre despite having cleaned his plate every single time.
Which, in hindsight, had been an incredibly stupid thought to have.
The villain they had encountered that day hadn’t looked particularly threatening at first glance. Just large, massive really, their frame filling the narrow alley like architecture rather than a person, shoulders stretching the seams of their dress and casting their face in shadow beneath the flickering streetlight behind them.
But Izuku had fought way worse. He’d fought All For One, for god’s sake. He had survived things that had rewritten the definition of survivable. Logically and statistically, there was no reason his body should have reacted the way it did.
He remembers the moment the villain's quirk touched him though, because it hadn’t felt like being attacked. There had been no pain or impact, just a weird warmth, sudden and invasive, blooming beneath his skin and spreading before he could identify it as foreign.
It settled low in his abdomen, heavy and unfamiliar, coiling there with quiet persistence. His breath had caught unexpectedly, his pulse stuttering in a way that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with something deeper, more instinctive.
He remembers saying Kacchan’s name without meaning to, the sound of it leaving his mouth softer than it should have in the middle of a fight.
He’d blamed adrenaline immediately. Adrenaline explained most things. Adrenaline explained trembling hands and racing hearts and the way his body sometimes outran his ability to rationalize it.
At the time, it hadn’t seemed urgent. Aphrodisiac quirks existed. They were inconvenient, occasionally humiliating, but manageable, and pro heroes learned quickly which problems required hospitalization and which ones required privacy and patience.
Izuku had spent most of his life learning how to endure things quietly, how to catalog unfamiliar sensations and wait for them to resolve.
It does not feel particularly manageable now.
Katsuki’s hands slide beneath the edge of his suit in the present, palms hot against his waist, and Izuku’s breath stutters helplessly as the heat inside him answers immediately and eagerly. His nervous system feels stripped down to its most embarrassing, traitorous components, every point of contact magnified past reason.
Oh also, they’re not dating.
Izuku reminds himself of that with the kind of careful neutrality he’s perfected over years of saying things that technically count as truth without ever fully meaning them. This is logistics, he tells himself. Harm reduction. A mutually agreed-upon solution to a recurring occupational hazard that neither of them has ever bothered to define more precisely than necessary.
They’d exchanged emergency contact information after the second incident, with Izuku pretending it was purely procedural and not an admission of trust so intimate it had lingered under his skin for days afterward, surfacing at inconvenient moments when Katsuki wasn’t even there.
He doesnt think about it too long.
Not when Katsuki looks like this— flushed and breathing hard and his pupils blown wide enough to erase the sharp intelligence Izuku has known his entire life.
Not when he’s standing so close Izuku can feel the heat radiating off him in uneven waves, every inch of him tense with something raw and urgent that Izuku recognizes instinctively, his own body answering before his thoughts can catch up.
With Katsuki looking at him like that, what exactly is he supposed to do?
Izuku pushes him back just enough to create space, his hands sliding down the solid line of his chest before he lowers himself to the floor in one smooth motion, knees hitting tiles with a muted, grounding thud.
He sends one final look at the camera positioned at the end of the hallway and mentally reminds himself to take the footage down some time later.
The cool surface barely registers through the haze of heat clouding his thoughts, his entire awareness narrowing to the figure standing over him.
Even through layers of reinforced combat fabric, Izuku can see the unmistakable reaction of Katsuki’s body, the sharp rise and fall of his chest, the involuntary tension running through. Katsuki’s breath catches audibly, his hands flexing at his sides.
Izuku waits just long enough to watch Katsuki’s breath catch, then leans in and mouths at him through the fabric of the suit. The material warms instantly under his tongue, and Katsuki’s hand flies to his hair.
“Fuck,” Katsuki mutters, low and ruined.
Izuku noses along the outline of him slowly on purpose. He shouldn’t enjoy teasing this much, but Kacchan makes it too easy. He drags his mouth up the hard line of him until he finds the seam where the suit starts to retract, and Katsuki’s hips jerk.
“Deku,” Katsuki says through his teeth. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Izuku looks up at him, still on his knees, and Katsuki goes visibly weak for a second. Fuck… the quirk’s really making them both too honest but Izuku pretends not to notice. He pushes his fingers under the suit’s waistband, tugging until it gives and Katsuki’s cock is right there, heavy and flushed and already leaking.
Katsuki exhales. Izuku leans in and licks a slow stripe from base to tip, just to hear the noise Katsuki makes when he does it. He isn’t disappointed. Katsuki’s head drops forward, blond spikes brushing the door as he tries to breathe through it.
“Shit—Izuku—” he says, and his voice comes out rough enough that Izuku feels it in his own spine.
Izuku takes him into his mouth, steady and unhurried, letting Katsuki feel every inch of it. Katsuki grips his hair tighter, not yanking, just anchoring. Izuku hums around him, and Katsuki bites down on his bottom lip like he’s trying not to make a sound that’ll echo down the hallway.
Izuku pulls back just slightly, enough to catch his breath and enough to see Katsuki’s expression twist in frustration.
“Inside,” Izuku tries to mumble around him, which is unfairly garbled but he hopes the intention gets across. “We should—mhm—get inside.”
Katsuki lets out a sharp laugh that sounds more like a groan. “Then stop fucking—” Izuku swirls his tongue, Katsuki’s sentence dies, and his grip tightens. “Stop doing that and let me hit the damn button.”
Izuku doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets more deliberate with it.
“Goddamn it.” Katsuki hisses, already reaching for the door mechanism while his hips threaten to betray him. His hand connects with the panel and the lock wakes.
“Welcome. Voice activation required.”
Katsuki goes completely still above him. He lowers his gaze, one eyebrow lifting in a sharp incredulous accusation, and Izuku meets it without flinching, Katsuki’s cock warm and heavy against his tongue as he offers the most unapologetic shrug his current position allows.
He’d changed it last week after the facial recognition system kept locking him out when he came home sweaty or bloodied or otherwise insufficiently presentable for modern technology’s standards, and voice activation had seemed like a logical upgrade at the time.
Katsuki’s eyes narrow, suspicion and dawning realization flickering together, and Izuku keeps moving, slow and deliberate, the steady rhythm less about efficiency and more about watching Katsuki unravel piece by piece.
“Bakugo Katsuki,” he says hoarsely toward the panel beside the door.
“Access denied.”
Katsuki’s grip twitches.
“The fuck?” His voice fractures abruptly when Izuku chooses that exact moment to press his tongue more firmly along the underside, and Katsuki’s hips jerk forward in naked betrayal, the movement sharp and involuntary. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, visibly recalibrating. “Pro Hero Dynamight.”
“Access denied.”
Izuku can’t help it, he snorts softly, the vibration earning him a full-body shudder from Katsuki and a strangled sound that might generously be called composure dying in real time.
“God fucking damn it,” Katsuki mutters, forehead dropping briefly against the door like he’s petitioning it personally. His voice roughens further when he tries again. “What, Ground Zero??”
“Access denied.”
For a second Katsuki just stays there, shoulders rising and falling unevenly beneath the rigid lines of his hero suit, frustration radiating off him in waves that Izuku can feel as clearly as heat. Izuku watches the tension move through his throat when he swallows, watches the moment irritation gives way to something softer and needier, his pupils blown wide enough to swallow the sharp edge of his glare entirely.
Katsuki looks back down at him, and Izuku gives him that stupid, crinkled-eye smile he’s never quite learned how to suppress around him, mouth still wrapped around him like this is both completely normal and deeply unfair.
“Fuck you,” Katsuki breathes, which would be more convincing if he didn’t sound so close to breaking. Izuku hums thoughtfully, the sound vibrating between them, entirely unrepentant.
Katsuki exhales hard through his nose, defeat settling into the line of his shoulders with the reluctant inevitability of gravity.
“Fine,” he growls, voice quieter now, roughened into something dangerously intimate. “Kacchan.”
“Welcome, Kacchan.”
Katsuki closes his eyes and Izuku beams.
The lock releases with a click. Katsuki doesn’t waste a single second, he hooks both hands under Izuku’s arms, yanks him up with zero ceremony, and bodily throws him into the apartment the moment the door slides open.
As soon as the door slams shut behind them, Katsuki's hands are already fumbling at Izuku's suit, desperate to get him naked. Izuku laughs, a breathless sound that turns into a moan as Katsuki's mouth finds his neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin.
“Fuck—Ah!— Kacchan...” Izuku gasps, his hands moving to Katsuki's suit as well, hastily pulling it open and pushing it off his shoulders, exposing his muscular chest. He licks his lips. Yeah he’ll never get tired of seeing that. “We need to get this off.”
Katsuki growls, his hands moving to Izuku's ass, lifting him up and pressing him against the wall. Izuku wraps his legs around Katsuki's waist, grinding against him, feeling the hardness pressing against his own.
“Your new suit has too many layers,” Izuku mutters, his hands moving to the controls of their suits, trying to get them to retract. But his fingers are clumsy, his brain foggy with desire, and it's taking too fucking long.
Katsuki snarls, his hands moving to Izuku's suit, tearing at it, the fabric ripping under his fingers. Izuku gasps, his body arching into Katsuki's touch.
“Kacchan!” he scolds. “I just got that suit— oh my god.” Katsuki’s hands move to Izuku's exposed cock, wrapping around it, pumping it roughly.
“You feel so good,” Katsuki growls, his mouth moving to Izuku's, swallowing his moans. Izuku can't help but thrust into Katsuki's hand, fucking it like he's been starving for it.
Katsuki's tongue pushes into Izuku's mouth, exploring it more, tasting it more, and Izuku can't help but suck on it, his body writhing with need. Katsuki's hand moves faster, pumping Izuku's cock, and Izuku can feel the pressure building.
"Kacchan… please—ah! I'm going to come," Izuku gasps, his voice breaking.
Katsuki pulls back, his eyes dark and hungry. “Not yet, you're not,” he growls. “When you come, you’re doing it on my cock.”
Izuku whimpers, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. Katsuki smiles, a feral grin that sends a shiver down Izuku's spine.
“Bedroom,” Katsuki mutters, carrying Izuku down the hall, his hands never leaving Izuku's body. They stumble into the bedroom, Katsuki kicking the door shut behind them.
Izuku lands on the bed with a bounce, laughing as Katsuki crawls onto it after him.
“Now where were we?” Katsuki asks, his voice low and husky.
Izuku grins, pushing Katsuki onto his back and straddling his hips. “I think you were about to fuck me,” he says, his voice daring Katsuki to argue.
Katsuki's response is to pull Izuku to sit on his face, his hands gripping Izuku's ass firmly. Izuku yelps in surprise, his hands flying to the headboard for support.
"Wait, Kacchan—!" he starts, but the words die in his throat as Katsuki's tongue finds his hole, pushing against it and teasing it open. Izuku gasps, his body tensing, then melting into the sensation. Katsuki's tongue is relentless, pushing in and out, licking up and down, exploring every inch of Izuku's hole.
Izuku's hands fall down to grip Katsuki's hair, his hips moving in time with Katsuki's tongue, riding it like it's the best fuck he's ever had (it is). Katsuki's hands move to Izuku's thighs, spreading them wider, giving him better access.
“Oh god, Kacchan,” Izuku moans, his body writhing, his cock leaking onto Katsuki's cheek. “Feels so— feels so good.” He whimpers, his body trembling.
"Turn around," Katsuki commands, his voice low and rough.
Izuku does as he's told, turning around and facing away from Katsuki. He can feel Katsuki's hands on his waist and hips, guiding him down his body and positioning him close to his cock.
"Bend over," Katsuki says, his voice a growl.
Izuku complies again, bending over and presenting himself to Katsuki. He gasps when he feels Katsuki's fingers at his hole, pushing in slowly, testing him.
“Damn, nerd. Look at you,” Katsuki groans, his eyes wide with surprise. “You're so ready for me. You're already dripping.”
Izuku blushes, his body squirming with embarrassment and need. “I-it's the quirk,” he mutters.
Katsuki pulls his fingers out, replacing them with the head of his cock. Izuku gasps, his body tensing, but Katsuki doesn't push in yet. He's teasing Izuku, letting him feel the heat and pressure, but not the fullness.
“Please, Kacchan,” Izuku begs, his voice breathless. “I need you. I need you in me. I need you to fuck me.”
Katsuki's eyes darken, and he pushes in, inch by inch, letting Izuku feel every moment of their connection. Izuku moans, his body stretching to accommodate Katsuki's size, but he doesn't stop, pushing back, taking more of Katsuki's cock into him.
“Fuck, Deku. You feel so fucking good,” Katsuki groans, his hands gripping Izuku's hips as he finally bottoms out. “Come on baby, move for me.”
And so Izuku begins to move, his hips rising and falling in a steady rhythm, taking Katsuki's cock in and out of him. Katsuki's hands grip his hips tighter, guiding him, helping him set a faster pace.
“So fuckin’ hot,” Katsuki groans, his hips lifting to meet Izuku's, thrusting into him.
Izuku can only moan in response, his body moving in time with Katsuki's, taking every inch of him, giving everything he has. He can feel the pressure building, the need growing, and he knows he's not going to last much longer.
“Kacchan…” he gasps, his voice breaking. “I'm going to come. Please, please, please—” Izuku whines.
Katsuki reaches around, his hand wrapping around Izuku's cock, pumping it in time with his thrusts. “Then come for me, Izuku,” he growls. “Come all over my cock.”
That's all it takes. Izuku's body convulses, his dick pulsing as he comes, his hole tightening around Katsuki's cock. He barely has time to catch the aftershocks before Katsuki follows close behind, his body going rigid where he presses against Izuku’s back, a sharp inhale against his skin.
This part is familiar.
What comes after isn’t.
Izuku inhales sharply, the breath stuttering in his lungs when something flares deep inside him. It’s sudden and vivid, a burst of warmth that doesn’t fade with the rest of the aftershocks. It spreads instead, slow and deliberate, curling outward from somewhere low in his abdomen and climbing higher, threading its way up his spine in a way that feels… wrong, somehow. It wasn’t painful— it feels fantastic, don’t get him wrong.
“Kac—” Izuku starts, but the breath cuts out halfway, replaced by a quiet, startled sound he did not mean to make.
Katsuki stills immediately behind him, tension replacing exhaustion in an instant. His hand tightens reflexively at Izuku’s waist. “What? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Izuku says quickly, shaking his head against the pillow even though Katsuki can’t see it. He closes his eyes, focusing on the strange heat still flickering beneath his skin, waiting for it to settle the way it’s supposed to. It doesn’t. “No, not—nothing bad. Just… weird, I think?”
“Weird how?” Katsuki sits up abruptly, holding onto Izuku’s waist and the sheets for support. The sudden movement earns a moan out of Izuku. Kacchan’s voice is still rough, but there’s tension under it now, something wary and warm at the same time.
Izuku exhales slowly, trying to gather words for something that doesn’t feel like it belongs to words at all. “Kinda like the quirk didn’t just… make things stronger. Like it did something else? I don’t know. Maybe?”
Katsuki mutters a curse into his shoulder, annoyed and breathless but concerned in his own roundabout way, and shifts only enough to keep Izuku close, his arm still tight around Izuku’s waist.
They settle there gradually, the room quieting around them, their breathing evening out. After they’ve both calmed down, Katsuki gently eases them both to lay in bed. Izuku can feel Katsuki’s heartbeat through his back, still fast and grounding, and for a moment, he just lets himself sink into the warmth and familiarity.
Katsuki’s voice is the first thing to break the quiet, low and warm against the back of Izuku’s neck. “We’re checking in with Recovery Girl tomorrow.”
Izuku hums, the sound soft with exhaustion. “Yeah. Probably should.” His eyes drift closed… then snap open again as a thought slams into him.
“Oh,” Izuku says suddenly, the realization hitting him all at once. “Wait—Kacchan!” His voice comes out higher than intended, and Katsuki jolts behind him. “You have a mission tomorrow! Weren’t you supposed to prep for it?”
Katsuki answers by pinching Izuku’s side, because apparently that’s an acceptable form of communication between adults. Izuku squeaks before he can stop himself.
“I didn’t forget, dumbass.” Katsuki says, settling again behind him, his breath still uneven from earlier exertion. “We got hit with a wholeass quirk. They can live with me being late. Medical emergency or whatever.”
“Correction,” Izuku says, with all the dignity of a man who is very much naked under the blanket. “I was hit with the quirk.”
Katsuki grumbles. “We were both there, so we’re both going. End of story.”
Izuku gives him a slow blink, unimpressed. He knows Katsuki far too well to miss what’s happening here. Kacchan isn’t being responsible, Kacchan is being… Kacchan. If Izuku goes alone, he’ll either forget, or convince himself he’s fine, or get distracted by twelve other things on the way. Katsuki is simply cutting out the middleman.
“I’m gonna be gone for a month,” Katsuki says after a beat, quieter this time. Izuku already knows this, of course, but hearing it in Katsuki’s voice makes something tug inside his chest. “Can’t always be around to fuckin’ babysit you. So you’re going to her tomorrow so I don’t spend the whole damn mission worrying.”
Izuku shifts onto his back to face him. “I’ll be fine—don’t give me that look. I promise. I’ll go tomorrow.”
“First thing.”
“Well… Ow, ow, ow—Kacchan!” Katsuki pinches his cheek this time, entirely unrepentant. Izuku rubs the offended spot with a pout. “After work. Come on. In case you forgot, I teach high school besides hero work. I can’t miss class because of one mishap. That’d make me a terrible example.”
“Example my ass,” Katsuki scoffs. “Their sensei is a workaholic nutcase who thinks rest is a myth. Great fuckin’ example.”
He says this while tugging the blanket higher over Izuku’s shoulder the second he notices the slight tremor from the chill.
Izuku tries not to smile at that. “After work,” he repeats. “I swear.”
Katsuki studies him, and after a long, pointed silence and a muttered “fine”, he finally lets it go.
Sleep comes easier after that, Katsuki’s steady presence warm beside Izuku, the tension leaving the room inch by inch.
The same night, Izuku dreams.
He finds himself standing at the front of his U.A. classroom, except everything looks slightly off. The students’ desks are all lined up perfectly, which should have been the first red flag, and the second one arrives when he realizes each chair is occupied not by a teenager, but by a perfectly groomed pomeranian sitting upright with the kind of posture his students have never once demonstrated in their lives.
“Good morning??” he says out of habit, because apparently his subconscious insists on maintaining classroom decorum even in REM sleep. A few of the pomeranians blink at him. One of them yawns and another adjusts its tiny little paws like it’s preparing to take notes.
He’s halfway through deciding whether the poms need a syllabus when one of them hops out of its seat and trots to the front of the room with an air of confidence that feels… ridiculously familiar.
Its fur is a bright, impossible shade of blond and its eyes carry the sharp, unimpressed glint of someone who is always five seconds away from telling Izuku he’s overthinking something, and the stance—front legs splayed, chin tilted, tail flicking with what looks suspiciously like irritation—rings more than a few bells in his memory.
The tiny dog fixes him with a look so pointed it might as well be verbal. Izuku blinks back at it.
“Is… is there something you need to share with the class?” He says weakly.
The pomeranian makes a sound that isn’t quite a bark but settles into a weird middle ground that somehow communicates disappointment, impatience, and the faint suggestion that Izuku should already know the answer to whatever question he hasn’t actually asked.
For some reason, Izuku feels mildly scolded.
The rest of the dogs swivel their heads toward him, and there’s a ripple in the room. A warm pulse rises low in his stomach, not alarming enough to jolt him awake but strange enough to pull a quiet gasp out of him.
The blond pomeranian steps a little closer and Izuku reaches out on instinct. The moment his fingers graze warm fur, the whole classroom blurs like watercolor washing away in the rain.
He opens his eyes.
His hand is wrapped around nothing but air, his room is dark and quiet and Katsuki is long gone. The other side of the bed is empty and cold, but Katsuki’s scent lingers on the pillow, the sheets, and the air itself.
Izuku drags himself out of bed and into the kitchen, where breakfast is already waiting. He eats all of it, smiling fondly.
His day moves the way it always does: He goes to U.A. to teach his classes, some paperwork, and then after his shift at school he goes to patrol, encounters two minor villains who really should consider new career paths, and one grandmother who enlists him as a shopping assistant.
And predictably,
Izuku forgets to see Recovery Girl.
ᯓ★
His days settle back into routine after that.
He wakes early, makes coffee, and arrives at UA in time to prepare lesson plans he could probably recite from memory by now. Teaching fills the morning hours easily enough, the rhythm of it familiar and grounding in a way pro hero work rarely is. His students argue, interrupt, surprise him in small, gratifying ways that remind him why he chose this in the first place.
After, he changes into his costume, answers dispatch calls, stops the occasional purse snatcher or overconfident low-tier villain, and files reports that all blur together after a while.
The only thing noticeably absent from it is Katsuki, though that absence doesnt technically change anything.
They haven’t shared patrol routes regularly in a few years now, their agencies operating on different schedules, their lives orbiting each other in near-misses and brief overlaps that never quite align long enough to settle. Weeks can pass without seeing him in person. Months, sometimes.
Katsuki still calls him though. Not often, and never predictably, but enough that Izuku has learned to recognize the unfamiliar international numbers immediately, his chest tightening in anticipation before he even answers.
The conversations are rarely long. Katsuki complains about local hero protocols, about incompetent sidekicks, about villains who apparently lack both foresight and basic survival instinct. Sometimes he sounds exhausted, and sometimes he sounds wired and restless, like he hasn’t slept in days and refuses to admit it.
Izuku listens. Sometimes, he laughs in the right places. He reminds him to eat, which earns him a scoff every single time.
“Worry about your own damn self,” Katsuki had snapped during their last call, voice crackling faintly through the connection. “You forget to eat if no one’s there to nag you.”
Izuku had smiled at that, quiet and helpless.
That’s how the days pass.
Weeks later, he’s sitting at his desk in the faculty room, sorting through a stack of incident reports and student evaluations that all require signatures in slightly different places. The overhead lights hum faintly above him, the familiar background noise of a building that never truly sleeps. He’s halfway through drafting feedback on one of his students’ latest field exercise when the chair beside him scrapes quietly against the floor.
“Midoriya.”
He looks up to find Aizawa standing beside his desk, expression as flat and unreadable as ever, his capture weapon draped loosely around his shoulders.
“Have you seen this?”
He holds out his phone.
Izuku leans forward slightly and focuses on the screen. The video is already playing, a shaky, poorly framed footage of a city block engulfed in smoke and flame, the image jittering as whoever’s holding the camera struggles to stay steady. Emergency sirens wail somewhere off-screen. Civilians shout over one another, their voices distorted by distance and panic.
At the center of it all is a figure Izuku recognizes instantly.
Katsuki moves through the chaos, explosions flashing in controlled bursts beneath his feet as he clears debris and redirects collapsing beams away from trapped civilians. His costume is scorched in places, smoke curling from the edges of his gauntlets, but his posture is steady and unyielding.
Someone behind the camera moves closer. Unfortunately too close. Izuku feels the tension spike before anything even happens.
“Dynamight!” a voice calls out, breathless and overeager. “Can you comment on—”
Katsuki turns sharply, and even through the low resolution, even through the distortion of cheap recording equipment, his expression is unmistakable.
“DON’T GET SO CLOSE TO ME, DAMN IT!”
The shout blows out the microphone completely, the audio clipping into harsh static as the camera jolts violently backward. Even filtered through layers of compression and distance, his voice lands heavy and immediate, loud enough that Izuku feels the echo of it.
“I’M NOT A FUCKING SPECTACLE,” Katsuki continues. “YOU WANNA DIE OR WHAT?!”
The video ends abruptly.
“Kacchan…” Izuku murmurs under his breath before he can stop himself, the name slipping out soft and familiar, threaded with resignation.
Aizawa watches him for a moment longer before lowering the phone, his thumb tapping the screen dark.
“Your childhood friend will probably drop a few notches on the rankings,” he says, voice neutral.
Izuku lets out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head slightly. “Sensei… you really did try to fix Kacchan’s attitude back then, didn’t you?”
Aizawa sighs, dragging a hand over the back of his neck in a gesture Izuku has come to recognize as longsuffering defeat.
“I tried,” he admits. “As you can see, I failed.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the now dark phone screen. “At this rate, Todoroki will surpass him in the popularity rankings without even trying.”
Izuku smiles faintly at that, imagining Katsuki’s reaction if he ever heard those words spoken aloud.
They lapse into the familiar cadence of work conversation after that, upcoming field exercises, curriculum adjustments, the eternal administrative struggle of balancing hero training with actual academic requirements. Izuku listens, nodding along, making mental notes he knows he’ll revisit later.
It isn’t until Aizawa’s attention shifts, his gaze settling on the corner of Izuku’s desk, that the rhythm breaks.
The packed lunch from that morning’s faculty meeting sits exactly where Izuku had left it, still neatly wrapped and untouched.
Aizawa’s eyes narrow slightly.
“You haven’t eaten,” he says.
Izuku glances down at it, as if noticing it for the first time.
“I was going to,” he says automatically, which is technically true. At some point.
Aizawa doesn’t look convinced.
“Does Bakugo know you haven’t been eating properly lately?”
Izuku winces faintly at the question, something sheepish and unguarded slipping through his usual composure.
“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he says quickly. “It’s just—these past few weeks, I can’t really stomach anything in the mornings. I’ve been feeling nauseous a lot. Sometimes I actually throw up.” He laughs weakly, trying to soften it. “I think it might be an ulcer. God, Kacchan is going to kill me.”
Aizawa stares at him for a long moment, the kind of stare that makes Izuku feel like he’s fifteen years old again.
“Go see a physician,” he says finally.
Izuku hesitates. Aizawa exhales through his nose, already anticipating the resistance.
“But knowing you,” he continues, voice flattening into inevitability. “You won’t.”
Izuku smiles, guilty and unrepentant.
“At least see Recovery Girl,” Aizawa adds, slinging his capture weapon more securely over his shoulder. “She’ll want to know what you’ve been up to.”
Izuku nods at that. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure, I’ll stop by.”
He means it when he says it.
At the time.
It takes another few days before he actually does see her.
At first, it’s manageable. The nausea comes in waves, usually in the mornings, usually before he’s fully awake, curling low in his stomach like something tightening slowly. He learns to move carefully when he first gets out of bed, to breathe through it until it passes.
Most days, it does. Other days, it doesn’t.
He tries to eat lunch alone in the faculty room once, determined to prove (to himself, mostly) that he’s exaggerating it. The cafeteria had smelled overwhelming earlier, the scent of grilled meat turning his stomach so abruptly he’d had to leave before anyone noticed, but he tells himself it was just the crowd, the noise, or even the heat.
He does manage to buy a sandwich once the smell of meat dies down. He unwraps it and takes one bite, only for his body to reject it immediately.
The nausea spikes so fast it steals the air from his lungs, his stomach twisting violently in protest. He barely makes it to the trash can beside his desk before the contents of his nonexistent breakfast come back up, leaving his throat burning and his hands shaking faintly from the effort.
He sits on the floor afterward, back against the cool metal of his desk, breathing slowly through his nose until the room stops tilting.
Still, his stubborn ass doesn’t make it to Recovery Girl because it passes anyway. It always passes. And predictably, he doesnt tell Katsuki either.
Their calls continue, and Izuku listens, smiles into the phone where Katsuki can’t see him, and answers normally. He doesn’t mention the nausea or the vomiting.
He knows exactly what Katsuki would say.
The fuck have you been doing? Go see a damn doctor, idiot.
Followed by something louder.
And poooossibly angrier. So nope.
Izuku tells himself he’ll go eventually.
But eventually arrives faster than he expects.
By the fourth morning, the nausea hits before he even opens his eyes, his stomach cramping around emptiness that somehow still finds a way to hurt. He lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to ease.
It doesn’t.
“…Okay,” he murmurs to himself, voice hoarse with reluctant concession. Then he sends his stomach a glare. “I hear you, I hear you.”
He goes that afternoon.
UA's medical clinic hasn’t changed.
The familiar scent of antiseptic hangs faintly in the air, softened by something sweeter, the unmistakable artificial citrus of Recovery Girl’s candies, which she has been offering to injured students and stubborn heroes alike for as long as Izuku has known her. The space feels smaller than he remembers, or maybe he’s just grown into himself differently.
She looks up the moment he steps inside and her face lights up instantly.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite reckless child,” she says warmly. “It’s been so long.”
Izuku smiles despite himself, something in his chest loosening at the familiarity of it.
“Hi, Recovery Girl.”
She studies him as he approaches, sharp eyes flicking briefly over his posture, his complexion, the slight stiffness in his movement that he hadn’t realized was visible.
Her smile softens into something more concerned.
“You don’t look well,” she says simply.
Izuku laughs weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I was hoping it wasn’t that obvious.”
She gestures toward the examination chair, and he sits automatically, hands folding neatly in his lap like muscle memory.
“So,” she says, settling onto her stool. “Tell me what’s been happening.”
He explains it carefully. The nausea, the vomiting, the weirdly exaggerated fatigue he’s been feeling lately. The way food has become less appealing with each passing day, the way his body seems to revolt against him without warning.
She listens without interrupting, her expression thoughtful, one hand resting lightly against his wrist as she checks his pulse.
“Hm,” she hums softly when he finishes.
“Do you think it’s serious?” Izuku asks, trying and failing to keep the concern out of his voice.
She tilts her head slightly, considering.
“It could be an ulcer,” she says finally. “Stress does terrible things to the stomach, and you’ve never been particularly kind to yours.”
Izuku exhales, relief and dread tangling together in equal measure.
“Why don’t you take a sick day?” she continues gently.
He grimaces immediately.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she scolds, patting his arm. “It’s not as though you’ll be gone for weeks. Just one day. I’m only the school nurse, I can’t give you a definitive diagnosis here.”
Izuku sinks back slightly in the chair, the reality of that settling over him.
“…Is it that bad?” he asks quietly.
She gives him a look that answers the question before she speaks.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been vomiting for days,” she says. “Dehydration counts as a medical emergency, you know. Have you even been replacing your lost electrolytes?”
Izuku hesitates and her expression sharpens.
“…No.”
She sighs deeply, reaching into her desk and producing a wrapped candy, which she presses into his hand with practiced familiarity.
“Grab a bottle of Pocari on your way back,” she instructs. “And drink the entire thing.”
Izuku laughs softly, sheepish and obedient all at once.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turns toward her computer, already typing.
“I know a physician at Musutafu General,” she continues. “I’ll make the referral. All you need to do is schedule the appointment and take the day off.”
Izuku nods, staring down at the candy in his palm. “Okay.”
And so with considerable reluctance, and only after waking up the next morning with his stomach already churning in quiet, stubborn protest, he finally calls in sick.
Musutafu General Hospital is exactly as he remembers it. The facility was still too bright and too clean, the air chilled to an aggressively clinical temperature that makes him feel immediately out of place without his costume.
The waiting room television plays muted daytime programming no one is watching. A nurse calls his name eventually, polite and efficient, guiding him down a hallway that smells faintly of antiseptic and printer ink.
Dr. Sato greets him with a warm smile when he enters the examination room.
“Welcome, Pro Hero Deku,” she says, inclining her head slightly.
Izuku rubs the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious in civilian clothes. “Midoriya is fine.”
She gestures for him to sit.
The conversation unfolds predictably after that. He explains the nausea, the vomiting, the fatigue that seems to sit heavier in his limbs than exhaustion alone should account for. He tries to make it sound less dramatic than it feels, minimizing where he can, laughing lightly where appropriate. Dr. Sato listens attentively, jotting notes down, her expression thoughtful.
“Could be an ulcer,” she says eventually, tapping the end of her pen lightly against her clipboard. “But we’d need to perform an endoscopy to be certain.”
Izuku pales.
The word alone conjures vivid mental images he does not want to examine too closely, and the logistical implications hit him immediately afterward—another sick day, more paperwork, rescheduled classes, concerned colleagues, and Kacchan inevitably finding out somehow and yelling at him across three separate time zones.
“Oh,” Izuku says faintly.
Before he can fully assemble a polite protest, Dr. Sato tilts her head slightly.
“Before these symptoms began,” she asks, “Have there been any quirk related incidents? Exposure, injuries, or environmental effects? It’s standard procedure to rule out secondary complications.”
Izuku freezes.
The memory surfaces instantly, the villain’s quirk, the heat in the air, the unfamiliar warmth spreading under his skin. And Katsuki, afterward, glaring at him with unmistakable suspicion telling him to Go get your ass checked, you damned nerd.
Izuku winces slightly.
“…There was an encounter,” he admits. “About four weeks ago. An aphrodisiac-type quirk. It wasn’t severe, and the symptoms resolved quickly.”
He does not elaborate.
Dr. Sato’s pen pauses briefly against the paper.
She doesn’t say anything immediately, but the faint crease that forms between her brows makes Izuku’s stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.
“…I see,” she says after a moment.
She writes something else down.
“Alright. I’m going to prescribe you medication for the nausea and vomiting. Something mild and safe, and unlikely to interfere with... your quirk physiology.” Her pen moves smoothly across the prescription pad. “You’ll also need to replenish your electrolytes regularly. Pocari or any equivalent hydration solution will suffice.”
She tears the sheet free and hands it to him. Izuku takes it carefully.
“I’ll also need you to complete a few lab tests,” she continues, sliding another form across the desk. “Urinalysis, hormone panel, and routine bloodwork.”
Izuku scans the paper, recognizing some of the terms and absolutely none of the implications.
“…Am I going to be okay?” he asks, the question slipping out before he can rephrase it into something less vulnerable.
Dr. Sato’s expression softens slightly.
“I don’t want to make assumptions before reviewing your results,” she says gently. “These tests will help us reach a definitive diagnosis.”
He nods, swallowing.
“And the endoscopy?”
She hesitates. It’s brief, barely perceptible, but Izuku notices.
“We’ll postpone that for now,” she says, and Izuku releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Let’s review the lab results first.”
“Oh,” he breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
He gathers the papers carefully, folding them.
“Would it be alright,” he adds after a moment, “If the results were forwarded to Recovery Girl as well? She referred me here, and I think it would reassure her.”
And, he doesn’t add, reassure him.
Dr. Sato nods.
“That won’t be a problem, Midoriya-san.”
Izuku thanks her again before leaving, stepping back out into the sterile brightness of the hallway with the faint, persistent certainty that something has shifted, even if he can’t yet explain how.
He tells himself it’s probably just a stomach bug.
It would be the simplest explanation.
Recovery Girl calls him in two days later, during one of his vacant periods between lectures.
Izuku stands outside her office for a moment before knocking, the folder she’d given him tucked neatly under his arm even though he knows she already has the results.
“Come in,” she calls.
He steps inside. She’s sitting behind her desk, glasses perched low on her nose, a manila folder resting beneath her hand. She looks up at him and smiles.
“Well,” she says lightly, “I’ve been seeing a lot more of you lately.”
Izuku laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I missed you.”
“Hmph. It reminds me of the old days.”
He winces theatrically. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“It isn’t,” she says, and promptly smacks him on the arm with the folder. Not hard, but enough to make her point. “Didn’t I tell you all those years ago that I never wanted to see you in this clinic again?”
Izuku chuckles, sheepish. “In my defense, I stayed away for a pretty long time.”
She snorts quietly, then lifts the folder in her hand, waving it once in a gesture that is somehow both casual and deeply foreboding.
“You ready?”
Izuku exhales slowly, lowering himself into the chair across from her desk. His palms rest against his knees, fingers flexing once before settling.
“This feels like waiting for semester grades,” he says, smiling faintly.
“Well,” she says gently, flipping the folder open. Papers shift softly against each other, the sound disproportionately loud in the small room. “Your bloodwork came back mostly normal. Your electrolyte levels were a little low, which isn’t surprising given the vomiting. There’s also a slight drop in your red blood cell count.”
Izuku nods along automatically, relief already loosening the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.
“Nothing too severe,” she continues. “You’ll need to adjust your diet. More iron. Meat, if you can tolerate it. Liver would be ideal.”
Izuku makes a face. “I’ll… try.”
She hums, turning the page.
“And your hormone panel—”
She stops.
When the silence stretches, Izuku’s smile falters.
“…What?” he asks carefully.
Recovery Girl doesn’t answer immediately. Her eyes move slowly across the page, scanning, rereading, her brows knitting together.
His stomach drops. “Recovery Girl?”
She exhales quietly, then she looks up at him.
“You’re pregnant,” she says.
Izuku stares at her. The word hangs in the air between them, weightless and incomprehensible.
And then he fucking laughs. The sudden sound making Recovery Girl wince.
The cackle bursts out of him before he can stop it, his arms flying to his stomach as the absurdity of it overwhelms everything else. He leans forward, shoulders shaking, tears stinging faintly at the corners of his eyes as he tries and fails to compose himself.
“Good one,” he manages finally, wiping at his face. “Wow. For a second there I thought you were about to tell me I was dying.”
He inhales, still smiling.
“But seriously,” he adds, voice lighter now, “What’s wrong with me?”
Recovery Girl doesn’t smile.
“Yes, seriously. You are pregnant.”
Izuku’s smile disappears.
“What.”
She turns the folder toward him, sliding the papers across the desk with careful, deliberate movements.
“Your hormone levels show a significant elevation in human chorionic gonadotropin,” she explains, her voice clinical but gentler than usual. “hCG is a hormone produced during pregnancy. It was present in both your blood and urine samples. Your endocrine profile has also shifted to support gestation.”
The words stop making sense halfway through.
Izuku stares down at the numbers, the charts, the neat lines of text that might as well be written in another language.
“So,” she finishes quietly, “you’re pregnant.”
The room feels smaller suddenly.
He becomes aware of his own heartbeat, loud and uneven in his ears.
Recovery Girl hesitates.
“I’m assuming,” she says carefully, “that this wasn’t expected…?”
Izuku lets out a hollow sound that might have been a laugh in another context.
“Expected?” he repeats faintly.
He looks up at her, searching her face for any sign that this is a mistake, a misunderstanding, a joke taken too far.
“Who,” he says, voice cracking slightly, “who expects this?”
His hands flatten against his thighs, fingers trembling faintly.
“I’m a man.”
Recovery Girl genuinely looks pained. Izuku thinks he might be going insane.
There is nothing visibly different about him. Nothing to indicate that his body has apparently decided, without consultation, to violate several laws of nature simultaneously.
His brain helpfully supplies the conclusion anyway.
Holy fucking plus ultra.
He is pregnant.
He makes a small, distressed sound.
Recovery Girl immediately reaches across the desk, patting his arm.
“It will be alright,” she says gently, which is an insane thing to say under the circumstances.
Izuku nods automatically, because that is what he has been trained to do when faced with catastrophic information.
“Yes,” he says faintly. “Of course.”
He has absolutely no idea what to do.
Recovery Girl watches him carefully for a moment, her expression thoughtful rather than alarmed, which is somehow worse.
“…Does the father know?” she asks gently.
Izuku freezes.
His brain, which has been operating at approximately three percent capacity since the word pregnant entered his medical record, grinds to a complete and catastrophic halt.
Right. Of course.
Pregnancy, historically speaking, is not a solo endeavor.
There is, statistically and biologically, another party involved.
His vision dims slightly at the edges.
Recovery Girl tilts her head, studying him with the same quiet patience she’s used on generations of stubborn, injured children pretending they weren’t hurt.
He swallows. Of course he knows exactly who the father is.
There is no ambiguity there. Absolutely zero mystery. No dramatic reveal waiting in the wings. The timeline is painfully, horrifically clear, and it includes one very specific explosive blond currently stationed somewhere overseas, yelling at foreign officials and probably surviving exclusively on convenience store food and spite.
There is also no way, absolutely no universe in which Izuku tells him.
By the look of horror on his face alone, Recovery Girl’s expression softens with immediate understanding.
“I see,” she says quietly.
Izuku laughs weakly, the sound cracking midway through.
“No,” he says quickly. “Absolutely not. He can't know.”
The words leave his mouth before he can examine them, before he can reconsider the implications of keeping something like this from someone like Kacchan.
He winces.
“…Should I?” he adds helplessly. “I should, right? Oh god. He’s going to kill me.”
He drags both hands down his face.
“He’s going to explode,” he continues faintly. “Not—well, yes, explode, but not like—his quirk, I mean. Just—he’s going to be so mad at me oh my god he’s going to be so mad.”
Recovery Girl pats his arm gently.
“Sweetheart,” she says calmly. “You are not in immediate danger.”
He stares at her.
“That remains to be seen,” he mutters.
She smiles despite herself.
“This is your decision,” she says. “There is no obligation to inform anyone until you are ready. Right now, our priority is your health.”
Izuku nods automatically, because that is what he has always done when faced with overwhelming responsibility—accept it, compartmentalize it, survive it.
But this is not something he can punch his way through. This is not something he trained for.
There is something growing inside him without his permission, without warning, without any regard for the careful structure he has built around his life.
And eventually, inevitably, Katsuki will find out.
Fuuuuuuuuccckk.
Kacchan is really going to kill him this time.