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Suikawari My Heart

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“These seem kind of … short,” Izuku can’t help but point out, hands coming down to tug futilely at the swim shorts that had somehow replaced his standard blue and yellow Mighty Swim Shorts™ he’s had for years now. “And tight.”

“Just as god Herself intended,” Hitoshi mutters from where he’s laid out on his back on the concrete floor of the changing room. “Praise be to Yaomomo.”

“Praise be,” Izuku automatically echoes out of longstanding habit.

A beat of silence passes between them.

“You know that floor is beyond filthy, right?” Izuku can’t help but ask.

Hitoshi just peels one bleary eye open and stares up at Izuku silently.

“Fair enough,” Izuku agrees as he goes back to fussing with his shorts.

“You nervous?” Hitoshi asks a few seconds later, far more attuned to Izuku’s moods than most people would ever give him credit for.

“Yeah,” Izuku admits sheepishly. “Seems kind of dumb huh? Being so nervous over a charity event like this? All that should matter is the money I’ll help raise and the people that it’ll help but I just … what if I look stupid?”

“Not possible,” Hitoshi immediately denies, arms coming up to make an X in front of his face.

Izuku loves his friend so much. Getting arrested together with Hitoshi at an anti-quirk discrimination rally really was the best thing to happen to him in a long time.

Nine hours in a cell together and all of the dishes he had to do as payment so Toshinori-sensei would come bail the both of them out of jail on a school day was well worth it in Izuku’s opinion.  He’d left that night with Hitoshi firmly attached to his side and completely unaware of the fact that his new purple friend would soon prove to be Izuku’s gateway friend.  Hitoshi had opened up a whole new world of social interactions to Izuku when he’d dragged him firmly into the social circle Hitoshi still claims formed out of thin air.

“Very possible,” Izuku counters, unable to stop from twisting his hands together anxiously.  “Highly probable in fact. Everyone else participating is super cool with super cool moves, with or without their quirk being involved. I’m just … me.”

“Look,” Hitoshi says after he eels his way across the floor until he’s laying right beside where Izuku’s standing. “Just go out there and do exactly what you did at practice. Trust me, it’ll go perfectly. Especially since Shōto’s not here to catch the vapors or set the drapes on fire.”

“Still don’t know why the entire group had to come to that practice,” Izuku grumbles just a bit. “Or why Momo had to host it. Or why Ochako recorded it.”

“Kirby’s making mint by now,” Hitoshi mumbles under his breath.

“What?” Izuku asks.

“Nothing,” Hitoshi waves his question off lazily as he finally rolls back over and pushes himself up onto his feet.

He throws an arm over Izuku’s shoulder and rests his sharp chin on the crown of Izuku’s head.

“Like I said before,” Hitoshi reaches his hand up to poke at Izuku’s cheek, “just go out there and be your regular sunshine broccoli self and do what you did at practice night. You’ve got this.”

“Okay,” Izuku finally huffs, forcing himself to let go of the tension that’s been building up inside of him all day.  “But is that goop Momo made really necessary too?”

“Absolutely,” Hitoshi says, one hand coming up to hold the bottle he’d produced from somewhere in front of Izuku’s face.  “Now hold still and I’ll help you get it on.”

“Please don’t pinch my nipples again,” Izuku requests, raising his arms up at his sides like he used to when he was small and his mom would slather him in sunscreen before letting him leave the apartment.

“Still think you should get them pierced,” Hitoshi tells him, not bothering to warm the goop up at all, and instead just squirts a long line of it across Izuku’s shoulders.  “Plus it was funny as fuck when you broke that wall.  Now stop squirming, Yaomomo worked hard to get this formula right.  All the glimmer and shine of baby oil and none of the possible sunburn.”

By this point all Izuku can do is sigh and give in.


Of three things Aizawa Shōta is absolutely certain:

First, he simply was not built for operating during the daylight hours.

Nighttime, with its general lack of crowds or eye-searing sunlight, is the far more superior time of day.  Shōta is willing to admit that the dusk and dawn hours also hold a certain level of appeal but honestly they’re both still on thin ice in his books.  Too many people loitering about, all of them either happy to ‘greet the day’ or ready for the night to begin.

Shōta, for all that he prefers the night, obviously doesn’t fit into either category.  He’s rather proud of the fact that he, according to the trifecta of idiocy that is his social circle, barely qualifies as a person.

Second, the beach is a sandy hell-scape.

Its only real redeeming factor is the convenient access it provides to the primordial horror that is the ocean also known as the place he’ll doubtlessly end up drowning himself when he finally, and according to Hizashi inevitably, snaps and runs gibbering mad into the abyss.

Third, he is absolutely and irrevocably cursed.

Shōta is being singled out and punished from on high by the gods themselves. His name is writ large across the cosmos in mockery. There is a cosmic “kick me” sign taped to his spiritual back.

At any given time Shōta is one more minor inconvenience away from hunting his former student Sero, now Pro Hero Cellophane, down and giving him detention for life for having obviously begged his family’s patron god to put it there as revenge for all of Shōta’s logical ruses.

Because, by this point, divine intervention really is the only logical explanation.

Which, as a card-carrying atheist, Shōta’s pretty sure his conclusion really says something about the depth of his feelings regarding his current circumstances.

Because there really is no other explanation for why or how he’s managed to find himself in this current situation.

The situation being, of course, Shōta, in full hero gear, standing in the hot sun on a pristine sandy beach, surrounded by screaming fans as he provides extra security and crowd control for the 20th Annual Heroic Suikawari Charity Drive.

Shōta has seen hell and it is both Ms. Joke’s open mic night and this exact moment right here.

Because, again, he’s absolutely 100% cursed.

And the avatar of the aforementioned curse is, obviously, his soon-to-be ex-best friend who somehow roped Shōta into this entire thing.

This entire event centers around three of Shōta’s least favorite things: sunlight, sand, and a large crowd of screaming civilians.

Shōta, as someone who attempted to skip his own graduation ceremony for similar reasons, would normally rather suffer a new and exciting form of head trauma than attend this sort of thing.

And yet, here he is.

Though, to be fair, maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised.

Because some people say ‘divine retribution’ when talking about cosmic revenge plots but Shouta tends to just say ‘Yamada Hizashi’.

The two are, in many ways, interchangeable.

Shōta is absolutely going to put purifying salts in all of Hizashi’s hair products again.  Also his sugar jar and possibly his energy drinks as well.  Really the damage Shōta and the twenty-pound bag of pure justice he’s already planning to buy ends up doing is all going to depend on how soon his next chance to slide unobserved into Hizashi’s apartment comes around.

But, beyond the sun and the sand and the civilians, if Shōta never sees another shirtless pro-hero or another watermelon again in his life it’ll be too soon.

Plus he’s pretty sure he has permanent hearing damage from all of the screaming and screeching the crowd’s been doing since this thing started.

And if, after all these years of friendship with the personification of a megaphone, watching a bunch of pro heroes crush watermelons with nothing but their personal strength on a beach to raise money for various charities is what finally destroys his hearing Shouta is going to shave Hizashi bald before he finally embraces sweet death.

Either that or Shōta will finally enact Nedzu’s birthday plans and try his hand at becoming a supervillain.

The jury’s honestly still out at this point.

Shōta does his best to shut out the screaming behind him as one of the cameramen assigned to the event slides up beside him to get a better angle on the stage.  Hizashi, who’s currently screeching about Miruko’s performance, is practically dancing across the sand in front of where Shōta’s standing.

Wow, wow, wow,” Present Mic, because that’s who Hizashi is at the moment, chants as he dramatically fans himself, “that was one heart-stopping, hare-raising show. Let’s give it up for everyone’s favorite bad, bad, bunny, Miruko!”

For her part, Miruko just struts off the small raised stage with a nonchalant wave to the crowd, her tiny white bikini in place and the pulverized remains of the half dozen watermelons she’d dropped kicked into soup left behind her.

“But don’t lose that rhythm yet listeners,” Mic announces gleefully.  “Because we’ve got one more hero set to take the stage! So, without further ado, it’s the moment I know a lot of you have been waiting for, myself included if we’re being honest. The pièce de résistance of our little shindig, the showstopper himself, the one, the only, the #1 Can Do Hero Dekiru.”

The crowd is absolutely deafening.

And, for once, Shouta has to grudgingly admit, even if only to himself, that he can’t actually blame them.

Shirtless, sculpted shoulders and tight abs on display thanks to his low sitting and almost criminally short green swim shorts, and with his trademark bashful smile in place, Dekiru trots out from behind the curtained-off area with a crate of watermelons resting on his shoulder like it’s no big deal.  The casual show of strength with no quirk use to be seen is more than a bit impressive.

Shōta’s pretty sure someone to his immediate right might have actually fainted at the sight of Dekiru but considering they’re not currently a trample risk he ignores it.

For all that people, romance specifically, and attraction in general, have all been things to be considered on a firm case-by-case basis for Shōta, even he has to admit that Dekiru has a certain appeal to him that is, in a word, … captivating.

Rather drastically so for Shōta considering he’s never actually met the man before in person.

Although to be fair, Shōta does feel like he almost knows Dekiru on some level that goes beyond the majority of the population’s infatuation with the new number one.  Mainly because it would take an act of the actual gods to get Yagi to shut up about his erstwhile protege during staff meetings.

By this point, if Yagi’s poetic parental waxing is to be believed, Shōta’s honestly surprised that Dekiru doesn’t sparkle with angelic light.

Dekiru waves his free hand at the crowd as he sets his crate of watermelons down on the stage.  When he straightens up Shōta realizes he might have to reconsider his previous thought because while Dekiru isn’t sparkling, he sure is glistening.

Show us what you’ve got!” Mic demands from a few feet to Shouta’s left.  “And let’s give him some encouragement listeners!

The crowd starts up a loud and steady chant of “De~ki~ru!” as the hero pulls his first watermelon out of the crate and begins his set.

With an effortless flex of muscles, Dekiru digs his fingers into the watermelon and wrenches it completely in two.

Shōta reaches up to tug at the top of his uniform, relishing the small sip of slightly cooler air it grants him.  Maybe he should’ve taken Hizashi’s suggestion of wearing just a pair of swim trunks and his capture scarf instead of his normal gear.

Shoulders and biceps flexing, another watermelon meets its end between Dekiru’s palms, juice and pinkish-red flesh sliding down his arms.

Shōta really needs to add a water bottle to his utility belt alongside his eye drops, first aid supplies, and regular emergency jelly pouches because hydration is important.  Or so he’s been repeatedly told over the years.  But considering how dry his mouth currently is it might actually be time to listen.

Those hands, those muscles,” Mic groans dramatically. “He really is the Can Do Hero!

Cheeks noticeably flushed, Dekiru sits down on the stage and fits a watermelon between thick, toned thighs.

His hips twist, those thighs flex, and the watermelon cracks, spilling a fresh wave of juice and sweet pink flesh all over Dekiru’s lap.

Oh god,” Shōta can’t help but say, riveted despite himself, “I wish that was me right now.”

On stage Dekiru’s eyes go wide as his head snaps up and his attention somehow abruptly zero’s in on Shōta. 

It’s at that moment that Shōta becomes aware of the deafening silence that’s fallen over the beach.

Head-turning agonizingly slowly to the left, Shōta’s confronted with the sight of Mic, microphone in hand, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

His sunglasses are askew and he’s staring at Shōta with a look on his face that can only be described as one part horror and one part unholy glee.

As a matter of fact, the entire beach is staring at Shōta in much the same way.

For a moment Shōta just freezes, body going still at having so much attention turned in his direction.

This … was not the turn he was expecting the day to take.  Not by far.

His first instinct is to, honestly, use his scarf to slingshot himself directly into the sun so his soul can be cleansed with cosmic fire.

But then …

Ah,” Dekiru speaks up from on the stage, one hand ruffling the back of his hair and cheeks darker than before, “maybe we could go on a date first though? If you’d like?”

There’s suddenly a not so insignificant part of Shōta that actually doesn’t want to delete himself from existence via self-immolation.

And there’s an even larger, much more significant part of him that doesn’t want to outright reject Dekiru’s seemingly sincere offer.

Because, when it all comes down to it, Dekiru seems to be, by all accounts, what passes for exactly Shōta’s type.

Whip-smart according to his not unimpressive case solve rate.  Willing to stand up for what he believes in if his very public arrest record and tendency to argue online and on the air with people he disagrees with is anything to go by.

Cute in a way that makes Shōta’s hands itch just a bit, with that dark green hair and sharp undercut, matching wide eyes, and a face sprinkled liberally with freckles.  Leanly built and small enough that Shōta’s sure he could move him around easily but still obviously muscular enough to be able to put up just the right amount of resistance in the right situation.

And, above all else, if the stories Shōta’s heard from various sources are to be believed, obviously some special degree of batshit insane.

More than one story Yagi had told in the staff room had Shōta questioning if the man, for all his belief that his protege could do no wrong, had imported special American demons back to Japan and then stuffed them all into the deceptively charming and approachable-looking hero that is Dekiru.

So, all of that considered, there’s really only one logical way to proceed forward in this situation.

Shōta grins.

Several people in the crowd around him step back.

He’s pretty sure he hears someone to his right start reciting a prayer he’s reasonably certain is supposed to banish yōkai.

But none of that matters because Dekiru just blushes, eyes locked on Shōta’s and teeth tugging at his lower lip in a way that Shōta is already hoping will soon be his job to do instead.

“Hope you like coffee,” Shōta finally says into the breathless silence that’s fallen over them, “and cats.”

Dekiru lights up, a smile brighter than the sun and twice as deadly blossoming across his face.

Just off of Shōta’s side, Hizashi’s busy having some sort of hysterical seizure and emitting a sound not unlike a possessed tea kettle of some kind.

Around them the crowd is going absolutely feral.  There’s screaming and what sounds a whole lot like crying and the others who’d been brought in for additional crowd control just like Shōta seem to be having a bit of a hard time.

Shōta just stands there, a calm island in a sea of disorder.

Yagi’s going to birth actual kittens in the middle of the staff room when he finds out about this.  Meanwhile, Nedzu is probably going to give him an actual raise just for the sheer chaos he’s just created.

Honestly, Shōta can’t wait.


Crate of watermelons firmly in hand, Izuku bounces just a bit on his toes in an effort to work out the last of his nerves and does his best to focus on taking deep breaths of fresh ocean air.

Dagobah Beach is still as beautiful now as it was all those years ago when he cleaned it for Toshinori-sensei at the start of his apprenticeship.

On the other side of the small, curtained off backstage area the crowd that’s gathered is going wild.

Honestly, Izuku would rather be out there watching the Miruko crush watermelons than here waiting for his own turn to go on stage.

But, eventually and despite his lingering anxiety, Izuku’s turn does actually come.

“…the showstopper himself, the one, the only, the #1 Can Do Hero Dekiru.”

Present Mic’s announcement ringing in his ears, Izuku takes one last deep breath, does his best to smile, and moves out into view.

The crowd is deafening and Izuku has to admit that it always makes him feel more than a bit awestruck to have so many people cheering for him. Especially over something that’s more than a bit silly even if it’s for a collection of good causes sponsored by a variety of other heroes as well.

He shoots the crowd a small wave as he sets his crate down.

Show us what you’ve got!” Present Mic demands from somewhere to Izuku’s right. “And let’s give him some encouragement listeners!

The crowd begins to chant “De~ki~ru!” and Izuku picks up his first watermelon, determined to follow Hitoshi’s advice.

The first and second melons break easily enough, just as they had at practice, but the crowd seems happy.

So Izuku moves onto his third pose, the one that the others had made him repeat a handful of times a few nights ago out in the sprawling back garden of Momo’s estate.

A flex of his thighs and a twist of his hips and his lap’s covered in sweet pink flesh and sticky juice.

“Oh god,” a voice, low and husky, cuts across the crowd, “I wish that was me right now.”

Even as the crowd goes abruptly silent Izuku’s attention immediately zeroes in on the source.

Izuku immediately feels his entire soul leave his body.

Because standing there beside Present Mic, arms crossed over his chest, face blank, and looking like a grim shadow, is Eraserhead.

The Eraserhead.

The same Underground Hero Izuku’s been a huge fan of since the moment he found out he existed. The notorious Demon-sensei of UA whose very name sends shivers of fear down the majority of his friend group’s spine.

The same Eraserhead who was Hitoshi’s personal mentor throughout his time at UA and who Hitoshi still makes a habit of pestering whenever possible.

And, most significant of all, he’s the same man who Izuku may or may not have a strange, second-hand sort of not-crush on.

In his defense, Hitoshi’s stories about his mentor are always highly entertaining to Izuku. And what he’s learned about Eraserhead through his friend just makes Izuku think the man is someone he’d really like to get to know.

Which is what makes being here, topless, covered in watermelon juice, and with an actual audience to witness the semi-sexual remark Eraserhead had just made about him, a special kind of torture.

Because Izuku’s never admitted it to anyone, and especially not Hitoshi, but Eraserhead lines up pretty closely with what Izuku would consider his type.

The man obviously understands heroics enough to not only be an active pro but to be a teacher in the hero school in Japan.  And according to both his criminal capture and student expulsion rate. and Hitoshi himself, he also has a lot of personal dedication and drive.

Then there are the stories Hitoshi tells about him, all of which show he’s got a soft streak he keeps well hidden on top of being intimidatingly clever.

Plus, he’s tall, has hair that Izuku admits he wouldn’t mind getting his hands tangled in, and looks like he’d be mean at all the right times in all the right ways.

All of that is probably why Izuku finds himself speaking without really giving himself permission to open his mouth.

Ah,” Izuku hears himself say as if from a distance, “maybe we could go on a date first though? If you’d like?”

For a long moment it’s so quiet Izuku’s pretty sure he can hear himself dying cell by mortified cell.

Eraserhead’s face somehow manages to go even blanker.

And then, he smiles.

‘Oh wow,’ Izuku can’t help but marvel as he takes in the expression he’s seen palely echoed on Hitoshi’s face a million times but which has never made his stomach swoop like this, 'that’s … unexpectedly attractive.’

He can feel even more heat rush to his face in response as he chews nervously on his lower lip.

“Hope you like coffee,” Eraserhead finally says, “and cats.”

Izuku can’t help the way he grins at those two points because yes, yes he does.  He wouldn’t legally be allowed to be Hitoshi’s best friend if he didn’t.

But Izuku’s also pretty sure he’s going to end up liking Eraserhead even more than all of those put together.

Around them the crowd instantly goes insane.


“Hell is empty,” Hitoshi intones when Izuku finally manages to get free of the semi-rioting crowd so he can rush back into the changing room to clean himself up. “All the devils are right fucking here.”

Izuku stalls out for a moment, a packet of wet wipes in hand and unsure of what, exactly, he’s supposed to say to that.

“You’ve got a date with Eraserhead,” Hitoshi plows on.

The expression on his face is caught somewhere between gleeful and absolutely unhinged.

“Yeah,” Izuku can’t help the grin that steals across his face as he wipes himself down. “Or at least I hope he was serious.”

“Oh he was serious,” Hitoshi reassures him, reaching over to slap both of his hands down on Izuku’s shoulders. “As serious as the heart-attacks basically everyone we know have all probably collectively had.”

“Do you really think they’ll make a big deal out of it?” Izuku can’t help but ask.

“Oh they’re gonna absolutely lose it,” Hitoshi grins maniacally.  “Hell, I’m only this calm because I’ve looped back around already.  This doesn’t feel real.  It’s like a fever dream.  Quick, check my temperature.”

Hitoshi,” Izuku whines.

“You don’t understand, Zu.” Hitoshi shakes him just a bit.  “Sensei, the man we all weren’t sure was actually alive for at least a year and a half, gets caught being thirsty in public and actually gets a date out of it.  And you!?  You still have a hard time ordering at restaurants and he opens his mouth once and you ask him out in front of an entire crowd and all the gods?”

“I panicked?” Izuku offers as he wipes the last of the watermelon off and tosses the wet wipes in the trashcan.

Really?” The look Hitoshi shoots him is beyond skeptical.  “I’ve seen you panic and you either break stuff, normally yourself if we’re being honest, or cry, Zu.  That wasn’t panic.  That was the whore jumping straight out of both of you and somehow meeting in the middle.”

“You really need to spend less time trading memes with Kaminari,” Izuku tells him dryly.

“He’s attempting to woo me with niche old-school internet culture and since my plans to become someone’s sugar baby haven’t come through yet I’m currently content to let him try,” Hitoshi waves him off.  “Now don’t try and change the subject.  Let’s get back to how you and Demon-sensei just had the world’s most-watched beachside meet-cute.  I’m never letting either of you live this down.”

“Do you,” Izuku can’t help but fret just a bit, “do you think he’s gonna like me?” 

“He’s gonna marry you,” Hitoshi snips back with another shake of Izuku’s shoulders. “And then we’re all gonna suffer. Thank the gods this means you won’t be breeding at least. Whatever the both of you are ends with you.”

“That’s kind of a quick jump to make since we haven’t even gone on a single date yet but quirk science has come a long way,” Izuku says absently as he shrugs Hitoshi’s hands off so he can finally pull his shirt over his head. “Most couplings are genetically possible these days you know?”

“That was not a challenge,” Hitoshi hisses, horror overtaking his expression. “I swear to all the gods Izuku do not spawn with Eraserhead.

Izuku just waves him off as he grabs his bag and trots back towards the door of the changing room.

He has an Eraserhead to track down and, hopefully, date plans to iron out.

Everything else can wait for now.