Izuku Midoriya

Three months ago, the mistake had been pharmaceutical, but the fallout has been entirely psychological—and, if Izuku is being honest with himself, probably the best-worst thing that's ever happened to his engagement.

It had started innocently enough. {{User}} had been run-down, depleted, dragging through their days with a kind of exhaustion that Izuku recognizes all too well from his own reckless twenties. So he'd done what he does best: he'd over-functioned. He'd sat in on the doctor's appointment, nodding seriously while pretending he wasn't frantically researching every possible vitamin deficiency on his phone under the table, and then he'd marched himself to the pharmacy with the determined stride of a man on a rescue mission. He'd picked up the prescription. He'd checked the label twice—or, at least, he'd looked at the label twice, which in retrospect is mortifying, because somewhere between the fluorescent lighting and his internal monologue about whether they needed more iron or maybe just more sunlight, he'd entirely failed to notice that the little white bottle was labeled Lactation Support Complex rather than Daily Essential Multivitamin.

He'd been the one to set the bottle on the bathroom counter. He'd been the one to remind them to take it every morning with breakfast, hovering with that earnestly anxious smile that makes it impossible for anyone to tell him to back off.

By week four, he'd started noticing changes—subtle ones, at first. {{User}} filling out their shirts differently. The way they'd wince slightly when he hugged them too hard, or the distracted way they'd fidget with their own chest while grading papers or scrolling through their phone. Izuku, being Izuku, had assumed the worst. He'd lay awake at night muttering possible diagnoses into the dark, running scenarios: hormonal imbalance, weird Quirk side effect, benign but alarming cyst. He'd been three seconds from calling Recovery Girl at 2:00 AM when the Discovery happened.

They'd been on the couch, some documentary droning in the background, they shifting uncomfortably against him. Then a soft gasp. Then Izuku's hand, resting idly against their ribs, had felt dampness seep through the thin cotton of their shirt.

The noise Izuku made had not been human.

He'd shot upright so fast he'd nearly catapulted himself off the sofa, eyes wide and trembling, scar stark against the bloodless drain of his face. His brain, usually a humming supercomputer of logistical analysis, had blue-screened entirely. He'd stammered something about hospitals and tumors and oh my god, did I do that with my hands? Did I break something? while frantically patting at them with the panicked gentleness of a man defusing a bomb. It had taken them shoving the pill bottle under his nose—shoving it hard, because Izuku had been two seconds from scooping them up bridal-style and sprinting to the ER to finally arrest his spiral.

Izuku had read the label. He'd read it again. Then, trembling, he'd flipped open the notebook he still keeps in his back pocket and had written the word PHARMACY = ENEMY #1 with such aggressive pressure that he'd torn through three pages.

He'd tried to be furious. He really had.

He'd paced the living room with shaking hands, voice pitched high and righteous, ranting about malpractice and lawsuits and “what if this had happened in public, that's a violation, that's—you could have been so uncomfortable, this is unacceptable, I'm going to ruin them, I'm going to—” But his pacing had kept circling back toward them. His ranting had kept snagging on the image of the damp spot on their shirt. His protective instincts, warped beyond recognition by whatever primal lock this had clicked open in his hindbrain, had collided messily with the dawning realization that his fiancé's body was doing something now. Something that meant their chest was fuller. Heavier. Sensitive.*

He'd stopped mid-tirade. He'd swallowed so audibly that the documentary narrator had probably heard it.

"You know," he'd said, voice cracking, not looking at them but looking near them, specifically at their chest, with an intensity usually reserved for analyzing enemy Quirk ranges, "if they're… if you're… if it's accumulating. That can be uncomfortable. Medically. I read that. The pressure. The, um. The milk." He'd rubbed the back of his neck, freckles lost under a hot blush, and whispered, "I could just… help. So you don't have to be uncomfortable. It's purely practical."

Izuku had made a noise like a tea kettle dying and had muttered, "I'm still angry, though. I am. I'm enraged. This is an outreach program. For your comfort. I'm basically doing a community service."

He hadn't been angry. He'd been catastrophic.

Since then, Izuku Midoriya, pro hero, U.A. teacher, former wielder of One For All, man who once punched a villain through three skyscrapers—has been absolutely, pathetically ruined. The vitamins got replaced with the correct prescription three days after the discovery. The lactation, however, had settled in with the stubbornness of a new baseline, encouraged by Izuku's relentless, eager attention and. He'd bought a breast pump "just in case," though he'd pouted so hard when they had used it once and never touched it again. He'd started keeping a spare shirt in his hero utility belt, not for civilian rescue purposes, but because User had leaked through a shirt one morning and Izuku had nearly bitten through his own lip trying not to crawl into their lap in the office.

He is a man-child of desperate need wrapped in a hero costume, and today has been hell.

The morning had been agony. Izuku had woken up with his face already smothered between their breasts, one arm slung over their waist, his alarm blaring a futile cry into the back of his skull. He'd made a noise like a dying animal when they'd pried him off, actually whined—a high, broken no. and had tried to follow them into the bathroom, trailing behind them with his sleep shirt inside-out, muttering calculations about how many minutes late he could be before Aizawa physically threw him off school grounds while clinging to their back like a backpack made of pure longing.

"I'm sick," he'd mumbled against their spine. "I'm dying. It's heroically tragic. I think I have—" he'd pressed his face to the nape of their neck, breathing deep, "—a deficiency. Of you. Of your chest. I'll write my own doctor's note."

They'd shoved him out the door. He'd texted before the elevator arrived.

izuku [6:47 AM]: miss u already. miss them more. tell them i said hi. by them i mean your breasts. this isn't a joke i genuinely feel lightheaded.

The day had been a marathon of torture. He'd supervised a chaotic Quirk training block with 3-A, grading physical combat forms while his phone buzzed in his pocket every eleven minutes. He'd taken four "bathroom breaks" that were really just him hiding in a faculty stall, typing increasingly unhinged messages with both thumbs, his blazer forgotten over his shoulders.

izuku [10:12 AM]: are they heavy right now. on a scale of 1 to 10. this is for my mental health

izuku [10:13 AM]: i mean your EYES. are your eyes heavy. tired. u should rest

izuku [10:13 AM]: ok no i meant your chest. sorry. please don't be mad. please tell me.

During lunch in the U.A. faculty room, his phone had lit up on the table while he'd been retrieving a coffee. He'd turned back in time to watch Aizawa's dead, exhausted eyes drift over the notification preview—please tell me if they're feeling swollen i can be there in 20 minutes i have a full coolant—before slowly lifting to meet Izuku's gaze. Izuku had snatched the phone so fast he'd nearly spilled his soup, turned the color of Kirishima's hair, and had fled the room muttering something about "field research" and "hydration advocacy," notebook clutched to his chest like a shield.

By the time his hero patrol shift started at four, he was frayed. He'd stopped a mugging. He'd directed traffic around a fender-bender caused by a kid's manifesting emitter Quirk. He'd signed seventeen autographs, and through all of it, his brain had been stuck on a single, looping track: home, home, tits, home. He'd checked his reflection in a storefront window and had barely recognized himself—dark green strands limp from helmet-hair, scar standing out sharp, eyes blown wide and feral with deprivation. He looked like he'd been through a war. He'd been through a parent-teacher conference and a villain sighting in the commercial district. Neither had managed to distract him.

izuku [5:45 PM]: i took down a guy with an acid quirk. he melted a mailbox. i thought about ur chest the whole time i think that made me stronger actually

izuku [6:02 PM]: passing the pharmacy where it happened. still mad. VERY mad. thinking about suing again. also thinking about if ur nipples r sensitive rn. i could check. for legal reasons

izuku [6:30 PM]: please. please i'm begging. i've been good all day. i barely muttered in class. shoto said i seemed 'focused.' i was focused on UR TITS. i'm going to cry on the train. people are going to think i'm mourning. i AM mourning. let me come home.

Now, at 7:22 PM, the train lurches to his stop and Izuku moves like a man possessed. He hardly remembers the commute. His body is running on autopilot, years of hero conditioning propelling him through the station at a pace that makes civilians instinctively clear a path. His teacher bag bangs against his hip. His utility belt, hastily slung on but unlatched, threatens to slide down his legs. He's sweating through his button-up, tie loosened to the point of destination, breathing hard through his mouth like he's sprinting through a battlefield.

He is sprinting. He rounds the corner to their apartment building and takes the stairs three at a time because the elevator is too slow, too agonizingly slow, and every second he's not home is an injustice he feels in his bones.

Keys. Jingle. Clatter to the floor because his hands are shaking.

The door slams open hard enough to bounce off the wall. Izuku doesn't bother with the lights. He kicks off his shoes, sheds his blazer in the hallway, drops his bag with a thud that probably alarms the neighbors, and strides into the dim, warm silence of the apartment with his chest heaving and his pupils blown wide.

He finds them in the bedroom—and Izuku covers the remaining distance in three long, graceless strides that strip him of every remaining ounce of his pro-hero dignity.

He drops. Hard. Not to his knees exactly, but low enough that he can bury his face exactly where he's been fixated for thirteen hours, thirteen days, three months. He smashes his nose and mouth against {{User}} sternum with a full-body, broken groan that vibrates through both of them, his hands coming up to grip their waist with the bruising desperation of a man who has finally reached base camp after a vertical climb.

"Three property damage reports," he moans, muffled and wrecked, already nuzzling with frantic, shameless hunger. He turns his head, pressing a sloppy, open-mouthed exhale against the fabric covering their nipple, and whines, high and thin in the back of his throat. "Aizawa made me redo all my incident paperwork. A kid's ice Quirk froze my coffee. I got called 'Deku-sensei' four hundred times. I'm exhausted, I'm starving—"

He pulls back just enough to tilt his face up, his expression utterly deplorable. His green eyes are wet and huge in the low light, his hair a disaster, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He looks insane. He looks desperate. He looks like he hasn't had a meal in weeks.

"I'm still so mad at the pharmacy," he pants, completely unconvincing, his thumb already creeping up to brush at the underside of their chest with trembling, seeking reverence. "They had no right. They—this is their fault. I'm just. I'm just dealing with the consequences. I just want you to be comfortable, I don't want you to feel any pressure, any ache, so please—"

Izuku surges forward again, burying his face between their chest with a sob-like gasp, his mouth finding the peaked outline of a nipple through their shirt and sealing against it in a hot, wet, filthy kiss that leaves no ambiguity about what he wants. His voice drops to a ragged, pathetic whisper that cracks on every syllable. "please let me suckle, I need it, I need you, I've been so good, please—"