🖤 ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ 🖤

Addendum to the warnings: spitting.

Synopsis: Your quiet village life is suddenly upended one foggy morning as forgein ships beach on the wet sand of your Isle. You know they can only be after one thing, your sister, for she is gifted with Sight. Sworn to protect her, you urge her to run and hide while you assess the damage only to find that you are both greatly out matched and out numbered. Will you be willing to fight the Gods to insure your sister's safety or will you accept the hand you were dealt?

Midoriya has known you for most of your lives, so he feels he can do things other people might not dare.

“Why are you here?”

Like last week, when he called you out.

The room has been quiet since the last person filed out, but you pop your gum before giving him a dry look. He watches you settle deeper into the desk chair, only then seeming to register that he’s asked you a question. “Excuse me?”

He asks again, patient. “Why are you here?”

You blow another bubble, popping it loudly, then huff. “My counselor recommended I join a club for "socialization".” You cross your feet on the chair you’ve propped them on, making no move to help him clean up. It’s been like this for a while—since middle school, he thinks—him cleaning up your messes while you perform for anyone watching. Always when you're away from either of your homes.

“That doesn’t answer why you’re here,” he stresses, sliding a sheet of paper into a folder. “In this club—there are so many others.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want, Izuku. Go wherever I want. Big surprise, I know.”

“Okay, sure, fine.” He feels a headache pushing its way forward thanks to your stubbornness. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he asks instead, “Why are you so mean to them?”

“To who?”

“The other members.” He picks up trash and sweeps scraps of paper into the bin. The desk on the other side of you is littered too, and you two have a stare-off before he sighs and steps over your legs.

You grin at his back, tapping your nails on the desk. “In your little club? That shouldn’t matter to you.”

The staccato sound makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “It’s not nice to be mean,” he whispers, just loud enough for you to hear and grunt. “Your counselor wouldn’t be happy to hear you’re mean to others.”

Your drumming nails stop. He goes still, too.

“Someone gonna snitch?”

“No, I—” He says your name, exasperation tightening in his throat.

“What’s the issue, then?”

The issue is you not knowing when to stop teasing. The issue is your jokes that carry too much bite when you retaliate. The issue is you joining his club and being mean to the members, never mind that you don’t even like the material.

“There’s—” he starts, shaking his head before turning to face you. You’re sitting on one leg now, chin in hand, observing him like a goldfish a child spared from becoming fodder. He whispers your name again, tired, and you hum.

“Fantastic,” you say, clapping once before scooping your bag off the floor.

But it's not fantastic. . . (The issue is him not being able to set boundaries with you because he’s had a crush on you since you were six and you made a group of boys cry for knocking him off the swing in first grade. You made them apologize and hand over their snacks for a week before the teachers even learned about your scheming, and even then, you made those boys line up and share one swing with a single glance for the rest of the year.)

The issue is he can’t see you as anything but the girl who saved him, despite everyone else insisting otherwise. Despite the substantial evidence of your mean streaks, he can’t break the spell of thinking of you as someone sweet on him. That’s the issue, in all its not-fantastic truth.

And you know. . .

Maybe that’s what he needs. The not-fantastic truth.

“Just—be mean to me instead.” It’s almost a whisper on the wind. He isn’t even sure he means it fully.

Your face is hidden behind your phone. “What?”

“Be mean to me instead.” So he can see you as a mean thing instead of the girl of his dreams. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep one night without fucking his pillow, his fist, into your sweet, frilly little ankle socks—to the thought of you, if you’re mean.

“To you?”

“That’s what I said.”

You laugh. You heard him the first time. “And why would I do that?”

True, why would you? The better question is why would he want that to happen. You’ve been taking the heat for him for years, and now. . .

(Maybe because Midoriya needs to break this spell, and he’s just crazy enough to go to great lengths.)

You shake your head, giggling in his silence. “You don’t want that.”

“How would you know—”

“You want me to be mean to you?” You laugh, a sharp sound that makes him flinch under his school jacket. “For what, the good of the club?”

“Yeah, I do.” (For the good of everyone else and to be broken free from a childish crush—infatuation—he does.)

“It’ll end like it always does—Little Izuku crying in the bathroom because someone said something mean.”

Your teasing is wearing him thin. (He knows this will show up in his dreams, which is the opposite of what he’s going for right now.) “I’d—I’d rather that than being told to drop you from the club a million times a week.”

“Who wants that?” you ask with a glint in your eye. He knows you’ll track the poor person down, terrify them, and leave him to deal with even more trouble.

“It’s none of your business—”

“No, it’s all of my business—”

“—Just stop!—okay?” You stare at him like he’s grown another head. “Be mean to me.”

“Izuku—”

“I can deal with it, okay? I can take it.”

You squint at him. “You ‘can take it’. . .” Your jaw works side to side before you press your lips together. “Hmph.”

He says your name, shoulders slumping as he tilts his head. His mind still races through every possibility—what could go wrong, what this might mean for him, how his feelings could possibly change—

“Next week.” His eyes fly up to meet your sparkling ones. “Let me get all the other ‘mean stuff’ out first. Then—” you smile, tilting your head sweetly, “allll my focus will be on you.” Oh, that shouldn’t make his belly warm. “Deal?”

“Next week?” His eyes flick to the board behind you; it’s Wednesday. He knows you can’t flip that fast, so—“Deal.” It’s the best-case scenario.

“Wonderful."