Chapter Text
The apartment smells of stale air and the lingering, phantom scent of ozone—the only trace he ever leaves behind. It has been three weeks since you last saw him without a screen separating you. Three weeks of eating dinner alone while the television blares the frantic, worshipful chanting of crowds. The Symbol of Peace. The Pillar. The Saviour.
To the world, he is the sun that banishes the shadows. To you, he is a ghost that haunts a shrine you are expected to maintain.
You sit on the edge of the perfectly made bed, the sheets cool and unwrinkled on his side. The suitcase by the door stands like a tombstone, marking the death of your patience. It isn’t a decision born of sudden rage, but the slow, eroding rot of loneliness. You are tired of dating a concept. You are tired of being the secret solace he comes home to only when his bones are breaking, only to patch him up so he can leave you again.
The lock clicks. It is a sound so rare it feels foreign. The door opens, and the atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, growing heavy with a pressure that pricks at the skin.
Izuku Midoriya enters. He looks less like a man and more like a ruin held together by sheer will. His hero costume is scuffed, dark stains mapping the violence of his day across the resilient fabric. His hair is a mess of sweat and grime, his eyes dull and heavy with an exhaustion that would kill a lesser being.
He sees you. The dullness in his emerald eyes fractures, replaced by a desperate, hungry relief.
"I'm home," he breathes, the words cracking. He moves toward you, stripping off his heavy gauntlets, expecting the routine. He expects you to rise, to offer warm hands, to soothe the ache in his muscles. He expects the soft landing.
"God, today was... the press wouldn't stop, and there was a collapse in Shizuoka..."
He doesn't see the suitcase yet. He is too blinded by the assumption of your permanence. In his mind, the world changes, cities fall and rise, but you are the constant. You are the prize he earns for breaking his body over and over again.
"Izuku," you say. The name feels heavy in your mouth. "We need to talk."
He stops. The air grows still. That hyper-analytical mind, usually reserved for dismantling villains, instantly dissects your tone. He catalogs the stiffness in your shoulders, the lack of a greeting, and finally, his gaze slides to the bag by the door.
The exhaustion vanishes, replaced by a sharp, vibrating tension. The air in the room begins to hum with static.
"Talk?" He forces a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It’s the smile he wears on camera, the one that hides terror. "Can it wait? I haven't slept in thirty hours. I just want to hold you."
"No, it can't wait." You stand up, putting distance between you and his reaching hand. "I’m leaving, Izuku. I’m done."
For a moment, he just stares, his brain refusing to process the data. It’s an error code. You leaving? It doesn't fit the equation. He saves the world, and in return, he gets to keep you. That is the contract he wrote in his head.
"Leaving?" He laughs, a dry, brittle sound. "Where are you going? A trip? I can... I can try to get time off next month. We can go together."
"I’m breaking up with you."
The silence that follows is deafening. It sucks the oxygen out of the room. The green lightning that usually dances around him in battle flickers invisibly against your skin, raising the hair on your arms.
"You're breaking up with me," he repeats, his voice dropping an octave, losing all traces of the bumbling, tired boy. "Because I'm working? Because I'm saving lives?"
"Because you're never here!" you snap, the hurt finally bleeding through. "I am alone, Izuku! I am in a relationship with a news report! You miss anniversaries, you cancel dates, you come home bleeding and pass out, and then you’re gone before I wake up. I can't be a prop in your life anymore."
He looks at you, really looks at you, and you see the shift. The panic of losing you curdles into something darker, something possessive and terrified. He steps closer, and the sheer density of his presence pins you in place.
"I do this for you," he whispers, his eyes wide, swirling with a toxic mix of adoration and madness. "Every time I smash a villain into the pavement, every time I break my fingers, every time I take a hit that would kill a normal man—I do it so you can sleep safely. I built this peace for you."
"I didn't ask you to!"
"It doesn't matter!" He closes the distance, his hands gripping your shoulders. His grip is iron-hard, trembling with suppressed strength. He could crush stone, yet he holds you with a terrifying fragility. "You don't understand. The world is dangerous. It’s rotting. If I stop, if I rest, it all falls apart. And if I let you go out there, without me... without my protection..."
"I can take care of myself."
"No, you can't." The denial is absolute. "You have no idea what monsters are out there. I keep them away. I keep everything away."
He pushes you back, gently but inexorably, until the backs of your knees hit the bed and you sit down heavily. He looms over you, casting a shadow that swallows you whole. Blackwhip tendrils manifest subconsciously, writhing like dark snakes around his ankles, reacting to his spiking emotional distress.
"You think this is neglect?" He leans down, his face inches from yours. You can smell the sweat and the metallic tang of dried blood. "This is sacrifice. I give everything to that ungrateful world so I can have this. Just this. This room. You."
"I’m not a reward, Izuku."
"You are my life!" he snarls, the mask of the Symbol completely gone. "I am hollow without you. I am just a weapon without you. You don't get to leave. You don't get to decide that I'm not enough when I have become everything for everyone else."
He grabs your face in his hands, his calloused thumbs stroking your cheekbones with frantic reverence. His eyes are manic, tears pooling in the corners but refusing to fall.
"I’ll do better," he says, the words rushing out, breathless and frantic. "I’ll cut my patrol hours. I’ll make the sidekicks take the night shifts. I’ll retire if I have to—no, I can’t retire, they need me—but I’ll make them wait. I’ll fix it."
"Izuku, stop. It's too late."
"It is never too late!" His voice booms, shaking the window panes. He flinches at his own volume, then instantly softens, pressing his forehead against yours. He is burning up, his skin fever-hot. "You can't leave me. I won't let you. It’s not safe out there for you. You’re the Symbol of Peace’s weakness. If you leave, they’ll hunt you. They’ll hurt you to get to me."
"Is that a threat?"
"It’s a fact!" He pulls back, looking at the suitcase with genuine hatred. With a flicker of movement too fast to track, a tendril of Blackwhip shoots out, wraps around the handle of your luggage, and hurls it across the room. It smashes against the far wall, bursting open, spilling your clothes like entrails.
You gasp, shrinking back.
"I won't let you walk out that door," he says, his voice eerily calm now. "I love you too much to let you die. And you will die without me. I'm the only one who can keep you safe."
He climbs onto the bed, straddling your hips, his heavy hero boots pinning the duvet on either side of you. The weight of him is immense, grounding. He looks down at you like a god looking at a devotee who has lost their faith.
"You're just lonely," he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I understand. I’ve been selfish. I’ve neglected my heart."
He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, drawing you into his lungs like oxygen.
"I'm not going back to the agency tonight," he mumbles against your skin, his lips hot and wet. "Or tomorrow. I'm going to stay right here. I'm going to remind you why you belong to me. I'm going to hold you until you forget about that door."
You try to push at his chest, against the armor plating, but he is an immovable object. The Symbol of Peace has decided that peace is no longer the priority. You are.
"Please, Izuku," you whisper, tears pricking your eyes.
"Shh," he soothes, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you still. "Don't struggle. It’s okay. I’m here now. I’m never letting you out of my sight again. If I have to burn the world down to keep you in this room, I’ll do it."
He lifts his head, offering you a terrifying, broken smile, the green lightning crackling softly in the dim room, locking the air in place.
"You're safe now," he whispers. "I've got you."
The air in the room is no longer oxygen; it is pure pressure, the heavy, static-charged atmosphere of a storm that refuses to break. You are pinned beneath the weight of the strongest man alive, a man whose muscles are coiled like steel cables beneath scarred skin.
"Get off me!" You shove against his chest, your palms slipping against the scuffed, cool plating of his hero suit. It is like pushing against a mountain. He doesn't even sway.
"I can't do that," Izuku murmurs, his voice vibrating through your sternum. "If I let you up, you’ll run. And if you run, I can't see you. And if I can't see you..." He trails off, his pupils blown so wide the emerald iris is barely a ring of green fire around the black void.
He grabs your wrists, not with anger, but with the terrifying, casual strength of a god who forgets that mortals break. He pins them above your head with one hand, his fingers encircling both of yours, crushing the delicate bones together.
"You're hurting me, Izuku!"
"I'm saving you from yourself," he corrects, his logic fractured and absolute. "You're hysterical. You’re not thinking clearly. It’s the stress. I’ve let the world weigh on you too much."
Blackwhip surges. It doesn't shoot out like a whip this time; it oozes from his back, viscous and sentient, pulsating with a dark, oily energy. The tendrils slither over your legs, wrapping around your ankles, your calves, binding you to the mattress with a horrifying intimacy. It feels cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the furnace heat of his body.
"Stop it!" you scream, thrashing, but the quirk tightens, effectively spreading you out, leaving you utterly exposed to him.
"Look at you," he whispers, his gaze raking down your body with a hunger that feels filthy, a tangible slime. "Fighting the only thing that stands between you and the abyss. You’re so beautiful when you’re angry, but you’re so stupid right now."
He lowers his head, his mouth hovering over the pulse point of your neck.
"I need to make sure you understand who you belong to," he growls, the hero persona dissolving into raw, animalistic possession. "I need to put my scent so deep in your skin that no villain, no civilian, no one will ever dare look at you again."
He bites down. It isn't a kiss; it is a claiming. Teeth graze sensitive skin, bruising the tender flesh of your throat. He sucks hard, intending to leave a mark that will turn violet and black, a collar made of blood and broken capillaries.
"Izuku, please—"
"Mine," he hisses against your skin, his free hand tearing at the hem of your shirt, rough calloused fingers grazing your stomach, seeking purchase. "You are mine. My sanctuary. My shrine. I will lock you in this room and worship you until you forget the shape of the sky. I’ll fill you with so much of me there won’t be room for thoughts of leaving."
He grinds his hips down, the heavy, armored codpiece of his suit digging into your pelvis, a hard, unyielding reminder of the arousal spiking through him. The friction is obscene, a mockery of the intimacy you once shared.
"I’ll ruin you for anyone else," he breathes, his hand sliding lower, past the waistband, his fingers invasive and demanding. "I’ll fuck the rebellion right out of—"
BOOM.
The world turns white.
The shockwave hits before the sound registers. The entire wall of the apartment—the one facing the city skyline—disintegrates. Glass, concrete, and steel scream as they are atomized.
In a nanosecond, before your brain can process the explosion, the pressure atop you shifts. Izuku doesn't move away; he encompasses you. He collapses his frame over yours, transforming from a jailer into a human shield.
Debris rains down like shrapnel hail. A chunk of concrete the size of a car engine smashes into Izuku’s back. You hear the sickening crunch of impact, the groan of his armor plating buckling, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't make a sound. He just holds you, his hand cupping the back of your head, pressing your face into the mattress to shield you from the dust.
Silence follows, ringing and absolute.
Then, the wind begins to howl through the gaping hole where your living room wall used to be.
Slowly, terrifyingly, Izuku lifts his head.
Dust coats his hair, turning the green to gray. Blood trickles from a cut on his forehead, winding through the grime on his cheek. But his eyes... his eyes are glowing with a voltage that makes the air taste like battery acid. One for All screams through his veins, green lightning arching violently off his skin, turning the ruined bedroom into a strobe-lit nightmare.
He looks over his shoulder.
Hovering outside the ruined apartment, suspended by gravity boots, is a villain. A B-lister, someone looking for clout, holding a smoking launcher.
"Found you, Symbol of Peace!" the villain crows, manic and foolish. "Thought you could hide in your little love nest while the—"
Izuku stands up. He doesn't rush. He simply unfolds his body from yours, Blackwhip gently releasing your limbs, though the tendrils remain hovering like vipers waiting to strike.
"Stay," Izuku commands. His voice is devoid of humanity. It is a tectonic plate grinding against another.
He turns to the intruder. The villain’s smile falters as he sees Izuku’s face. It isn’t the face of a hero. It is the face of a calamity.
"You," Izuku says, the word heavy with a death sentence. "You broke my window."
"I—what?"
"You touched my home." Izuku steps toward the precipice of the broken floor, the wind whipping his torn cape. "You aimed a weapon at her."
"Wait, I just wanted to fight—"
Izuku vanishes.
There is a crack of displaced air, like a thunderclap right in your ear. In the blink of an eye, Izuku is outside, mid-air, his hand clamped around the villain's face.
"Don't look," Izuku’s voice echoes back to you, strangely distorted.
You can't look away.
He doesn't just defeat the villain. He dismantles him. With a roar that sounds like a jet engine, Izuku drives the man downward, slamming him into the side of the building. But he doesn't stop there. He drags him up the vertical concrete, grinding the man’s armor and bones against the structure.
"YOU COULD HAVE HURT HER!" Izuku screams, the sound tearing his own vocal cords.
He throws the villain upward, then uses Blackwhip to snag the man’s ankle, whipping him back down with centrifugal force. He meets the falling body with a punch that clears the clouds above the city. The impact creates a shockwave that rattles the remaining furniture in your room.
The villain is unconscious before he hits the neighboring roof, a broken, crumpled heap.
Izuku lands back on the edge of your ruined floor. Steam rises from his body. His knuckles are split, blood—his and the villain’s—dripping onto the carpet.
He stands there for a moment, his back to you, breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling like a bellows. The green lightning fades, leaving only the darkness and the city lights bleeding into your exposed sanctuary.
He turns around. The madness is still there, but now it is vindicated. It is triumphant. He walks toward you, stepping over the shattered remains of your suitcase. He reaches the bed, where you are curled up, shaking, covered in plaster dust.
"See?" he whispers, his voice breaking into a sob of terrifying relief.
He climbs back onto the bed, his bloodied hands reaching for you. You flinch, but he ignores it, pulling you forcefully into his lap, smearing blood onto your clean clothes. He buries his face in your hair, rocking you back and forth.
"See what happens?" he gasps, his heart hammering against your ribs like a sledgehammer. "I told you. I told you it wasn't safe. I told you they want to hurt you."
He pulls back to look at you, his eyes frantic, searching your face for a scratch, a bruise.
"You were going to leave," he says, a tear cutting a track through the blood on his face. "You were going to walk out that door. And if you had... if you had been on the street when he attacked..." He chokes on the thought, his grip tightening until it hurts.
"You can never leave," he states, the verdict final. "Look at the wall. Look at the world. It wants to eat you. I’m the only one who can stop it."
He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, tasting of copper and dust. "I'm going to take you to the bunker," he murmurs against your mouth.
"Underground. Where no one can find us. Where no windows can break. You understand, don't you? I'm doing this for you. Tell me you understand."
His hand slides to your throat, resting there, a heavy, possessive weight.
"Tell me," he commands, his eyes pleading and threatening all at once. "Tell me I'm right."
You flinch. It is a visceral, involuntary spasm that jerks your body away from his blood-streaked face. His hand, heavy and trembling with the aftershocks of violence, hovers in the air where your cheek just was. The rejection hangs between you, sharper than the jagged glass littering the floor, colder than the wind howling through the shattered wall.
"No," you choke out, the word scraping your throat.
Izuku blinks, the manic glow in his eyes dimming just enough to reveal the confusion beneath. To him, the equation is solved: Danger exists + I saved you = You stay with me. He cannot parse the variable where you reject the solution.
"No?" He repeats the word as if it’s a foreign language. "What do you mean, no? Look around you!" He gestures wildly to the gaping hole in the apartment, the city lights bleeding into your sanctuary like an infection. "There is no 'no' anymore! The world just tried to kill you!"
"You're the one killing me!"
The scream tears out of you, raw and hysterical. You scramble backward on the mattress, kicking at the sheets, putting distance between yourself and the Symbol of Peace.
"Two years, Izuku! Two years!" You sob, the tears finally spilling over, mixing with the plaster dust on your face. "It started with missed dates. Then it was cancelled weekends. Then you were gone for days. Now I don't see you for weeks! I’m already in a cage! I’m already rotting in this apartment waiting for a text back from a ghost!"
He freezes. The accusation hits him harder than the concrete slab did. He looks wounded, his expression crumpling into that of a kicked puppy, but the underlying steel of his obsession remains unbent.
"I am saving lives," he whispers, his voice thick with a terrifying righteousness. "I am holding up the sky."
"And crushing me underneath it!" you shout back. "A bunker? Underground? You think that’s love? That’s a coffin, Izuku! If you lock me away, I will wither. I will hate you. I will forget who I am, and I will resent you until the day I die."
"You won't." He shakes his head, a frantic, jerky motion. He crawls forward, ignoring your retreat until your back hits the headboard. There is nowhere left to go.
"You think you want freedom, but you don't. Freedom is dangerous. Freedom is that." He points to the stain on the neighboring roof where he broke a man's body.
"I’m doing this because I love you," he insists, his voice rising, cracking. "Don't you get it? If I put you in the bunker, you’re safe. I don't have to worry. I can focus. I can fix the world faster so we can be together properly. If you’re down there... I’ll know you’re waiting."
"I am not a toy you can put in a box when you're done playing!"
"You are my heart!" he roars, the sound vibrating in your chest. Green sparks sizzle off his skin, singing the sheets. "And I can't leave my heart walking around outside where it can get stabbed! I can't trust the air not to poison you! I can't trust the ground not to swallow you!"
He lunges.
It isn't an attack; it is a capture. He wraps his arms around you, trapping your flailing limbs against his chest. He is a furnace, burning with the heat of One For All and the fever of his own delusion. You struggle, hammering your fists against his back, your nails digging into the exposed skin near his neck, but it’s like fighting a tsunami.
"Let me go!" you scream into his shoulder. "If you love me, let me go!"
"I can't," he sobs, burying his face in your neck, his tears hot and wet against your skin. "I can't, I can't, I can't. If I let you go, the silence will eat me alive. I need to know you're there. I need to know you're mine."
He stands up, lifting you effortlessly as if you weigh nothing more than a feather. He cradles you against his chest, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, locking you against his armor.
"You'll thank me later," he murmurs, his voice vibrating through his chest into yours. He begins to walk toward the door, stepping over the wreckage of your life—the spilled clothes, the shattered glass, the broken suitcase that represented your freedom. "When the world is burning and you're safe and cool and untouched underground... you'll understand. I'm the only one who knows what's best for you."
"Izuku, please!" You grab his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are wide, glassy, and terrifyingly vacant of reason. "This isn't you. This is crazy. You're the Symbol of Peace!"
"I am your peace," he corrects, his gaze intensifying, swallowing you whole. "And you are my duty. The world can wait tonight. The police can handle the cleanup. My priority is securing the asset."
The terminology sends a chill down your spine. Asset.
He kicks the front door open. The hallway is empty, the alarms of the building blaring, red emergency lights flashing. He doesn't take the elevator. He moves to the stairwell, hugging you tighter, shielding your head with his broad hand as he prepares to move.
"Don't worry," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple that feels like a brand. "I blocked the signal in the bunker. No news. No outside contact. Just quiet. Just us. I'll visit every day. I promise. I won't neglect you anymore. You'll have all of my attention whenever I'm there." He smiles, a broken, beautiful, terrifying expression.
"We're going to be so happy," he says, stepping into the shadows of the stairwell, carrying you down into the dark. "You'll see. You'll learn to love the cage."
The concrete stairwell is a throat swallowing you whole, lit only by the rhythmic, strobe-light pulse of the red emergency alarms. Thump. Thump. Thump. His boots are heavy on the metal-edged steps, a metronome counting down the seconds of your remaining freedom.
You stop struggling. The sudden stillness of your body against his armor makes him falter for a microsecond. He glances down, the shadows casting his face in a skull-like relief, the green lightning in his eyes buzzing with a manic, confused hope. He thinks you’ve broken. He thinks you’ve accepted the collar.
"That’s it," he whispers, shifting your weight closer to his chest, the blood from his forehead smearing against your cheek. "Just rest. I’ve got you."
"Izuku," you say. Your voice is not a scream anymore. It is quiet, steady, and sharp enough to cut glass. "Do you remember the boy who ran into the sludge villain? Do you remember the boy who moved without thinking because he saw someone in pain?"
He stiffens, his step hitching on the landing between floors. The air around him ripples with unease.
"Don't," he warns, his voice tight. "Don't bring that up. I am that boy. I’m saving you."
"No," you say, looking directly into those glowing, fractured eyes. "That boy wanted to save people with a smile. He wanted to give hope. He wanted to be a pillar that people could lean on, not a cage they had to be locked in."
He stops completely. You are suspended in the dark, halfway between the ruined apartment and the buried dark of the bunker. The red light washes over his face, making him look demonic, then tragic, then demonic again.
"You're not saving me," you continue, pressing your hand against the cold plating of his chest, right over his thundering heart. "You're taking my choice away. That’s not what heroes do, Izuku. That’s what villains do."
The word hangs in the echo chamber of the stairwell. Villain. It hits him like a physical blow. He actually stumbles back a step, his back hitting the concrete wall with a dull thud. The accusation pierces through the layers of trauma, exhaustion, and delusion, striking the very core of his identity. He has broken every bone in his body to avoid being that word. He has sacrificed his youth, his health, his sanity to be the antithesis of that word.
"I am not..." His breath hitches, turning into a hyperventilating wheeze. "I am not a villain. Overhaul... Shigaraki... they take things. They destroy things. I protect."
"You're stealing me," you whisper, relentless. "You're using your power to force me into a hole in the ground because you're scared. That is selfish. That is weak. That is everything you swore to fight."
He looks at you, and for a terrifying moment, the face of the Symbol of Peace dissolves. His mouth trembles, his eyes fill with a deluge of tears that spill over, washing away the blood on his cheeks. He looks horrifyingly young. He looks like a child holding a broken toy he refuses to let go of.
"But I love you," he cries, the sound raw and ugly, echoing off the concrete. "I love you more than being a hero! If being a hero means I have to watch you leave, if it means I have to come home to an empty room and wonder if you're dead in a ditch somewhere because I wasn't there—then I don't want to be a hero anymore!" The confession rips out of him, carrying the weight of years of repressed terror.
"I’m tired," he sobs, sliding down the wall until he’s crouching, still clutching you desperately to his chest, curling his body around yours like a dragon guarding a hoard. "I’m so tired of being the Symbol. Everyone wants a piece of me. Everyone wants me to bleed for them. You’re the only thing that’s mine. Just mine."
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his tears soaking your collar. He is shaking so hard his armor rattles. The immense, tectonic power of One For All is trembling against your skin, unstable and terrifying.
"You're right," he chokes out, his voice muffled against your skin. "This is villainous. I know it is. I know."
"Then let me go," you plead softly.
"I can't." The refusal is a whimper, small and pathetic, but absolute.
He lifts his head, looking at you with bloodshot, desperate eyes. The madness hasn't left; it has simply changed flavor. It is no longer the righteous fury of a protector; it is the selfish, starving greed of a man who is drowning and refuses to let go of the driftwood.
"I can't let you go," he whispers, his hands tightening on your arms, bruising in their intensity. "I’m not strong enough to be good anymore. Not with you. I’d rather be a monster and keep you, than be a hero and lose you."
He stands up, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. He wipes his face with his shoulder, smearing the blood and tears into a grotesque mask.
"I’ll accept it," he says, his voice hollow, devoid of the earlier bravado. "If I have to be the villain in your story to keep you alive... then I’ll be the villain. I’ll take the hate. I’ll take the resentment. As long as you’re breathing. As long as you’re here."
He starts walking down the stairs again. The rhythm is faster now, fueled by a terrifying acceptance. You appealed to the hero, and the hero died right there on the landing. All that is left is the man, and the man is selfish.
"We're almost there," he mutters, more to himself than to you, his gaze fixed on the darkness below. "It’s better this way. You’ll see. No more villains. No more heroes. Just us."
The heavy steel door of the basement level looms ahead, a black maw waiting to swallow the last of the light. He reaches for the handle, his hand steady now, the trembling gone. He has made his choice. He has sacrificed his morality on the altar of his obsession. "Forgive me," he whispers as he pushes the door open.
The laughter that tears from your throat is not a sound of joy. It is a jagged, hysterical thing, sharp as the shrapnel embedded in the plaster upstairs. It scrapes against the concrete walls of the basement corridor, echoing back like the cackle of a ghost.
Izuku stops on the threshold of the heavy steel door. The sound terrifies him more than any villain’s monologue ever has. It is the sound of something breaking that cannot be fixed with a smash or a punch.
"Why are you laughing?" he whispers, his voice trembling, the green lightning flickering erratically around his cowl. "Stop it. Please, stop it."
"I can't!" You gasp, tears streaming hot and fast down your face, mixing with the grime. "It's just... it's so funny, Izuku. It's hilarious."
You shove against his chest, weak and futile, but he lets you slide down until your feet touch the cold concrete, though his arm remains an iron band around your waist, keeping you fused to his side.
"You say you're doing this because you love me," you choke out, the laughter dying into a wet, gasping sob. "You say you're doing this because you nearly lost me. But you lost me years ago, you idiot! You lost me every time you checked your watch during dinner. You lost me every time you walked out that door to save a stranger and left me staring at the wall."
He flinches as if slapped. The words are physical blows, bypassing his durability quirk and striking the soft, rotting meat of his guilt.
"I tolerated it," you hiss, looking up into his wide, panicked eyes. "I sat in the silence. I swallowed the loneliness because I thought, 'He's the Symbol of Peace. He belongs to the world. I have to share.' I martyred myself for your dream, Izuku! And now? Now you tell me that wasn't enough? That you have to bury me to keep me?"
"I didn't know," he pleads, his voice cracking. "I thought you understood. I thought you were strong enough to wait."
"I was waiting!" you scream, the sound raw and shredding. "I was waiting for you! If you had just stayed... if you had just taken one night off... if you had just looked at me the way you look at the news... we wouldn't be here! You created this! You made me leave!"
He stares at you, his face pale beneath the grime. The logic is irrefutable. The villain of this story isn't the man who attacked the apartment; it isn't the press; it isn't the weight of the world. It is his own negligence. He realizes, with a dawning horror, that he starved the garden and is now trying to preserve the withered flowers in concrete.
But the realization doesn't set you free. It breaks something fundamental in him. His expression shuts down. The panic vanishes, replaced by a hollow, terrifying resolve. If he has already ruined it, if he is already the villain, then he has nothing left to lose but you. And he refuses to lose you.
"Then I'll make up for it," he says. His voice is dead calm, devoid of the earlier hysteria. It is the flat, monotone voice of a man who has decided to ignore reality.
"Izuku, no—"
"I'll make up for every second," he interrupts, his grip tightening until it borders on painful. "I have infinite time now. We both do." He kicks the door fully open and drags you across the threshold.
The transition is jarring. You leave the cold, damp, red-lit urgency of the stairwell and step into... a living room.
It is a perverse, sterile replication of domesticity. The air is filtered, smelling of ozone and artificial lemon. There are soft, plush carpets, warm yellow lighting, and furniture that looks comfortable but has never been touched. It is a stage set. A dollhouse buried fifty feet underground. There are no windows, only high-definition screens on the walls projecting a live feed of a peaceful, sunny meadow—a looped lie of a world that doesn't exist.
"I built this for us," he murmurs, pulling you deeper into the room. The heavy steel door swings shut behind you. The locking mechanism engages—a series of heavy thuds, like coffin nails being driven home. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound seals the atmosphere, cutting off the hum of the city, the wind, the reality.
Silence descends. It is heavy, thick, and suffocating.
"Look," he says, gesturing with a bloody hand to the kitchenette, the fully stocked bookshelf, the massive bed in the corner that looks soft enough to swallow a person whole. "Everything you like. Your favorite snacks. Those books you mentioned months ago. I listened. I was always listening, even when you thought I wasn't."
He turns you to face him, his hands gripping your upper arms. He looks around the windowless room with a disturbing pride.
"We can have dates here," he says, a frantic smile stretching his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes; his eyes are dead. "I can cook. We can watch movies. No phones. No alarms. No villain attacks. The world can burn above us, and it won't matter. I won't leave. I promise, I won't leave this room until you're happy again."
"I will never be happy here," you whisper, the horror of the sterile cage setting in. "This is a tomb, Izuku."
"It's a home," he corrects, his tone brooking no argument. He reaches up, his gauntleted fingers clumsy as he begins to unbuckle the heavy armor at his neck. He strips off the cowl, then the shoulder plates, letting the pieces of the Symbol of Peace drop to the floor with heavy clatters.
He is dismantling the hero. He is shedding the skin that kept him away from you. Underneath, he is just a man in a sweat-drenched black bodysuit, scarred and muscular and trembling with adrenaline.
"You'll learn to love it," he says, stepping closer, crowding you against the pristine, unused kitchen island. He traps you between his arms, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. "You tolerated the loneliness for the hero? Fine. Now tolerate the obsession for the man."
He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your terror and your shampoo.
"We have forever to fix this," he breathes, the green lightning sparking softly, locking the electronic lock on the door with a finality that vibrates through the floor. "Start the clock."
The phone at the Might Tower Agency doesn't ring; it screams.
It is a red line, reserved for national emergencies, for war, for the End of Days. When the receptionist answers, hands trembling, there is no sound of battle, no roar of flames. There is only a terrifyingly calm voice, underscored by the faint, muffled sound of someone—you—screaming in the distance.
"I'm taking a sabbatical," the Symbol of Peace says.
The Agency Director, a woman of steel nerves, snatches the phone. "Deku? We have reports of an explosion at your residence. The villain 'Shrapnel' was found pulverized on the adjacent roof. Where are you? The media is swarming. We need a statement."
"The statement is: I am unavailable."
"Unavailable? Midoriya, the stock market is crashing just on the rumor of your disappearance. There are three active disaster zones in Kyushu. We need you."
"Send Dynamight. Send Shoto. I don't care."
The line goes dead.
Within hours, the narrative spirals. The official story is "Undisclosed Medical Leave." The unofficial story, whispered in forums and dark alleys, is that the Symbol has finally snapped. The city feels the absence immediately. The crime rate spikes by 14% in the first twenty-four hours. The sun still rises, but without him in the sky, the light feels colder, thinner. The world waits for its savior to return, unaware that he has traded the weight of the globe for the weight of a single, steel door.
Underground, time does not exist. There is no sun to set, only the dimmer switch Izuku controls.
The moment he locked that door, the numbness that had shielded you shattered. The incredulous laughter died, replaced by a violent, scorching rage. You didn't swoon. You didn't blush at his devotion. You felt the walls closing in, and you reacted with the primal panic of a trapped animal.
You grabbed the nearest thing—a heavy, ceramic vase filled with artificial flowers—and hurled it at his head. It shattered against his shoulder, the ceramic shards exploding harmlessly against his density. He didn't even blink. He just looked at you with those wide, sorrowful eyes, like a parent watching a toddler throw a tantrum.
"I hate you!" you screamed, grabbing a book, a lamp, anything not bolted down. "I hate you! I hate you! Let me out!"
"You don't mean that," he said, his voice maddeningly soft. "You're just in shock."
"I am in hell!"
You lunged for the door, your fingers scrabbling uselessly against the cold steel, tearing your nails. He was on you in an instant. Not attacking, but containing. Blackwhip surged out, not as thin tendrils, but as thick, dark ribbons that wrapped around your waist, your wrists, your ankles, pulling you away from the exit.
You fought him. You kicked his shins, you bit his forearm until you tasted copper, you clawed at the hero suit that still clung to his chest. It was like fighting a statue. He absorbed your rage, his body an immovable object.
"Let it out," he whispered, pulling you into a crushing hug, pinning your arms to your sides so you couldn't hurt yourself—or him. "Scream. Hit me. Break your hand on my face if it makes you feel better. I’m not going anywhere."
"You're a monster," you sobbed into his chest, your energy fading, leaving only a bitter, acidic taste in your mouth. "You're pathetic. You couldn't keep me with love, so you used force."
"I used what worked," he murmured into your hair, rocking you back and forth as you went limp, defeated by physics. "I used the only option left."
The first week is a blur of artificial light and suffocating care.
Izuku doesn't sleep. You're not sure he needs to anymore. Every time you wake up in the massive bed—which he insists on sharing—he is watching you. Sometimes he’s stroking your hair; sometimes he’s just staring, memorizing the rise and fall of your chest as if it’s the only scripture he believes in.
He creates a routine. A terrifying, domestic pantomime.
It's the third day. He cooks breakfast. Pancakes. He remembers you like them slightly burnt on the edges. He sets the table with the precision of a surgeon.
"Eat," he says, pushing the plate toward you.
You stare at the food. You aren't hungry. You feel sick. "I want to go outside."
"The air filtration system here is better than outside," he counters, ignoring the request. He cuts a piece of pancake and holds the fork to your lips. "Open. You need your strength."
You turn your head away. "I'm not a child, Izuku."
"Then stop acting like one and eat." His voice drops, the green lightning flickering ominously in the periphery of your vision. "If you don't eat, I’ll have to feed you. And neither of us wants to make this medical."
You eat. It tastes like sawdust and surrender.
He smiles, wiping a crumb from your lip with his thumb, his touch lingering too long. "Good girl. See? We're taking care of each other."
It's the fifth day. You stop fighting physically. It’s useless. Instead, you withdraw. You become a ghost in your own prison. You sit on the plush rug, staring at the fake meadow on the digital wall, refusing to speak.
The bitterness inside you hardens into a cold stone. You look at him, at his desperate attempts to engage you, and you feel nothing but a dull, aching pity mixed with revulsion.
He tries to read to you. He tries to play board games. When you don't respond, he plays for both of you, moving your piece, speaking your lines in a high, mocking imitation of joy.
"Oh, look, you won!" he cheers, clapping his scarred hands. "You're so good at this game, sweetheart."
"I'm not playing," you say, your voice raspy from disuse.
"You're here," he says, his smile faltering, twitching at the edges. "That's enough. You're safe. You're not working. You're not stressed. You're just... existing. With me."
It's the 7th day. You only know because you've been tallying every time Izuku dims the tomb.
He eventually snaps. Not in anger, but in a desperate need for connection.
You are lying on the couch, refusing to look at him. He crawls over you, his heavy body blanketing yours, forcing you to acknowledge his existence. He buries his face in your neck, inhaling deeply.
"Why won't you love me?" he whispers, the question childish and broken. "I gave up everything. I stopped the patrols. I stopped the interviews. I’m here. I’m right here. This is what you wanted. You wanted my time. You have all of it."
"I wanted a partner, Izuku," you say, looking at the ceiling, refusing to meet his eyes. "Not a warden. You didn't give up everything. You just dragged me down into your darkness."
"I am your light!" He grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are manic, wide, swimming with tears and madness. "I am the only thing that matters! Why can't you see that? I saved you!"
"You buried me."
He stares at you, his chest heaving. Then, slowly, terrifyingly, he leans down and kisses you. It is a desperate, bruising kiss, trying to force passion where there is only resentment. When you don't kiss back, when you lie there like a corpse, he pulls away, panting.
"You'll forget," he promises, his voice trembling. "Give it a month. Give it a year. You'll forget about the sun. You'll forget about the apartment. And eventually... you'll remember how to love me. I can wait. I have nothing else to do."
He lays his head on your chest, listening to your heart, satisfied that at least the organ is beating, even if the spirit powering it has gone dark.
Time bleeds. In the bunker, days are measured not by the sun, but by the rhythm of Izuku’s obsession. He is a clockwork mechanism of smothering affection. He cooks. He cleans. He exercises in the corner, his sweat slicking the floor as he maintains the body of a god for a war he refuses to fight anymore.
You watch him from the couch. The anger has burned down to ash, leaving only a vast, gray apathy. You remember how, once, the sight of him walking through a door would set your nerves alight, a flush rising to your cheeks, a smile breaking involuntarily across your face. You remember the butterflies.
Now, you look at him and feel like you are looking at a stranger wearing your lover’s skin. The muscles, the green hair, the freckles—they are all there, but the man is gone.
He catches you staring. He always does. His sensors are tuned to your frequency. "See something you like?" He grins, wiping his face with a towel. It’s a ghost of his old, sheepish smile, the one that used to melt your knees. Now, it just looks practiced.
You don't smile back. You can't. The muscles in your face have forgotten how.
"I'm thirsty," you say flatly.
He is moving before the sentence is finished. "Water? Juice? I have that pear nectar you like. I went out last night while you were sleeping to get it."
He presents the glass like an offering at an altar. You take it, your fingers brushing his. He shudders at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut for a second, starving for a touch you refuse to give freely.
This is your leverage. It is the only weapon you have left in the arsenal.
You take a sip, the sweetness cloying on your tongue. You set the glass down and look at him. If you want to survive, if you want to keep your mind from shattering, you have to play the game. You have to pretend the butterflies aren't dead; you have to pretend they are just sleeping.
"Izuku," you say, forcing a softness into your voice that feels like swallowing glass.
"Yes?" He drops to his knees beside the couch instantly, his hands hovering over yours, afraid to grab, desperate to hold.
"I..." You swallow the bile. "I miss the sky. I know... I know you say it's dangerous. But if you're with me... surely it's safe? Just for a minute? Just to the top of the stairs?"
You reach out. Your hand trembles—not from affection, but from the sheer effort of the lie—and you cup his cheek. His skin is hot, burning with the quirk and his own feverish emotions. You run your thumb over the scars on his jaw.
"Please," you whisper. "For me?"
For a moment, it works. He leans into your touch, a low, broken sound vibrating in his throat. He looks at you with such naked hope it’s almost blinding. He sees the "you" he remembers, the one who looked at him with love.
"You want to go up?" he murmurs, nuzzling his face into your palm, kissing the center of your hand. "With me?"
"Yes. With you."
He pulls back, his eyes searching yours. He scans your face with the analytical precision that made him the greatest hero in history. He looks for the dilation of your pupils, the flush of your skin, the genuine spark of joy.
He finds only the reflection of his own desperation.
The hope in his eyes curdles. He sees the emptiness behind the act. He sees that you are not asking because you want to be with him under the stars; you are asking because you want to escape him. You are manipulating him.
His face hardens. The warmth evaporates, replaced by a glacial, terrifying resolve.
"You're lying," he says softly.
"I'm not—"
"Your heart rate didn't spike," he interrupts, his voice dull. "You're not excited. You're just... calculating."
He stands up, pulling away from your touch as if you burned him. The rejection hurts him more than a physical blow. He paces the room, hands tangling in his green curls, muttering to himself. The air pressure in the room drops, the ozone smell intensifying.
"I tried," he whispers, turning back to you. "I tried to make it nice. I tried to give you time. But you're not getting better. You're just... fading. You're unhappy."
"I am a prisoner, Izuku! Of course I'm unhappy!"
"You're not a prisoner! You're safe!" He roars, the sudden volume making you flinch. He sees the flinch, and his expression crumbles into misery. "I'm doing this for you. Why can't you be happy? Why can't you just smile for me? That’s all I need. Just one real smile."
He stares at you, and you stare back, cold and unyielding. The silence stretches, taut and wire-thin, until it snaps.
"Fine," he says. The word is final.
He walks to the kitchenette, opening a cabinet you haven't looked in. He moves with a strange, frantic purpose. He pulls out a small vial and a syringe.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierces through your apathy. "What is that?" You sit up, backing into the cushions. "Izuku, what are you doing?"
"I can't watch you be sad anymore," he says, his voice eerily calm, the voice of a doctor preparing to amputate a limb to save the body. "It hurts me. It hurts us. You're sick with misery, sweetheart. You're traumatized by the outside world. You need help to relax. To accept your new reality."
"No." You scramble off the couch, putting the furniture between you and him. "No, stay away from me!"
"It's just a mild sedative," he lies—or maybe he believes it. "Mixed with a quirk-enhancer I confiscated from a dealer in Roppongi months ago. It... it creates euphoria. It washes away the anxiety. It makes everything feel soft. Warm."
"You're going to drug me?" You scream, backing toward the locked steel door. "You're insane! This isn't love!"
"This is care!" He vaults over the couch, landing silently. "I need you to be happy. If you can't do it on your own, I'll help you. I'll always help you."
He catches you. It’s not even a contest. One hand wraps around your wrists, pinning them behind your back, while the other brings the needle up. You thrash, you scream, you kick his shins, but he is the Symbol of Peace. He is immovable.
"Shh, shh," he soothes, pressing you against the cold wall. "Don't fight. It'll only pinch for a second."
"Izuku, please! Don't do this! I'll smile! I promise, I'll smile!"
"It's too late for pretending," he whispers, regret heavy in his tone. "I want the real thing. Or at least... something that feels like it."
He uncaps the needle with his teeth. He presses his knee between your legs to keep you still, his body weight holding you pinned. He finds the vein in your arm with practiced ease.
"I love you," he says, staring into your terrified eyes as the needle pierces your skin. "I'm doing this so we can be happy. You'll thank me when the fear goes away."
He depresses the plunger.
The cold liquid floods your veins.
"There," he murmurs, tossing the syringe aside. He pulls you into his arms as your legs give out, the drug hitting your system with terrifying speed. "I've got you."
The world begins to blur. The sharp edges of your anger soften. The panic that was screaming in your chest quiets down, drowned out by a fuzzy, artificial warmth that spreads from your chest to your fingertips. Your eyelids feel heavy. The concrete walls don't look so cold anymore; they look... cozy.
You look up at him. The monster is gone. Through the haze of the drug, he just looks like Izuku. Your Izuku. His green eyes are glowing, not with madness, but with a blurry, distorted halo of love.
"Izuku?" you slur, your head lolling against his chest.
"I'm here," he answers, lifting you into his arms, carrying you back to the bed. "I'm right here."
He lays you down, brushing the hair from your damp forehead. You feel a smile tugging at your lips—not because you want to, but because the chemicals are forcing the muscles to contract, forcing the serotonin to flood your broken brain.
"See?" He smiles back, tears of relief pricking his eyes as he sees your drugged, compliant expression. "You're smiling. You're happy."
He climbs into bed beside you, pulling the duvet over both of you, cocooning you in his warmth. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of his victory.
"We're going to be so happy now," he whispers into the dark. "Forever."
You try to remember why you were angry.
You try to remember the door. But the thoughts are slippery, sliding away into the golden fog. All that’s left is the weight of him, the heat of him, and the terrifying, chemical bliss of the cage.