The next morning at U.A. was a trial by firewalking for Izuku. He considered using Float to get from his dorm room to the classroom just to avoid the hallway.
He was barely two steps out the door when Kirishima slung a heavily muscled arm around his shoulders, beaming. "MIDORIYA! That was so manly! The unapologetic display of your hard-earned physique! So rugged!"
"It was a strategic power move, ribbit," Tsuyu commented, finger to her chin. "You've successfully dominated the media narrative in a completely new sector."
From behind, a sharp, explosive jab to his shoulder blade made him yelp. "DON'T THINK THIS CHANGES ANYTHING, DEKU!" Bakugo snarled, stomping past. "YOU'RE STILL A NERD WHO MUTTERS ABOUT HERO STATS! A FLASHY BODY DOESN'T MAKE YOU FLASHY IN A FIGHT!" But even Bakugo couldn't meet his eyes, a faint, irritated blush on his own cheeks.
The worst—or perhaps the best—was Uraraka. She fell into step beside him, her gaze fixed straight ahead, a determined, pink blush covering her face from her neck to the tips of her ears.
"Good morning, Deku," she said, her voice a full octave higher than usual.
"Good morning, Uraraka!" he said voice filled with a new confidence
They walked in silence for a few more steps before she suddenly blurted out, "Your… your core stability looked… very stable! It must be great for… for maneuverability in the air!"She then let out a tiny, distressed squeak and power-walked ahead of him, leaving him standing alone in the hallway, his own face now matching his hero costume(w rizz?)
The teachers were no better. Lunch Rush had, inexplicably, prepared him a special protein bowl with a note that read, "For Peak Physical Form." Present Mic winked exaggeratedly every time he passed him. Worst of all was All Might, who attempted to have a "man-to-man" talk with him behind the gym, which mostly consisted of the skeletal man coughing up blood and stammering about "the perils of fame" and "maintaining a pristine public image" before giving up and patting Izuku weakly on the back.
It was Aizawa, in his typical fashion, who cut through the noise. During homeroom, his tired eyes scanned the chattering class before landing on Izuku.
"Midoriya."
The room fell silent. Izuku stiffened. "Yes, sensei?"
"Your first commercial endorsement payment cleared the school's financial office. It's enough to cover the repairs for the entire west wall of Gym Gamma that you and Bakugo destroyed last month." Aizawa's lips twitched in the barest hint of a smirk. "So, for the time being, you're my favorite problem child. Don't get used to it. Now, open your textbooks to page 284. We're discussing ethical regulations for hero-sponsored products."
As the lesson began, Izuku risked a glance around the room. He saw Kirishima's proud grin, Iida's respectful nod, Todoroki's contemplative stare, and the back of Uraraka's still-pink neck. He saw the normal, chaotic fabric of his life, now woven with this strange, shimmering new thread.
He wasn't just 'Deku' the hero student anymore. He was also 'Midoriya' the model. And as overwhelming as it was, for the first time, the two identities didn't feel like they were at war. The smirk from the photoshoot wasn't just for the camera. It was the quiet, dawning confidence of a young man realizing he could be more than one thing, and excel at all of them. He picked up his pencil, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. It was going to be an interesting year.
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The buzz from the "Vestige" campaign had barely settled into a low hum within U.A.'s halls when the next offer landed on Ms. Chiyo's desk. This one was for a new, avant-garde line from a legendary Italian designer, and the concept was "Tension." When she called Izuku, her voice was crisp and direct.
"They want chemistry, Midoriya. A narrative. It's a duet this time. Are you prepared?"
Izuku, who had just managed to stop blushing every time Uraraka looked at him, felt a fresh wave of panic. But beneath it, that new, steady pulse of confidence thrummed. He'd faced the singular gaze of a camera and survived. This was just... a more complex kind of battle.
"Y-yes, ma'am," he stammered, then cleared his throat, forcing his voice lower. "I am."
The set was a vast, echoing hangar, all polished concrete and stark, industrial beauty. The only furniture was a single, sweeping curve of deep burgundy leather, a chair that looked more like a sculptural wave. The palette was neutral—grays, taupes, the rich brown of the leather. The air was cool and smelled of ozone and faintly of the leather.
Izuku was dressed in a simple, unbuttoned black vest and dark trousers, the fabric expensive and heavy. The director, the same intense man from the first shoot, gave him his instructions.
"This is about anticipation, Midoriya. About a silent, magnetic pull. You are the anchor. She is the tide. Your partner is Kaya Ito. She's a professional. Listen to the music. Feel its rhythm."
The low, hypnotic beat began to pulse through the hangar, a slow, insistent rhythm that felt like a heartbeat. Izuku lay back on the curved chair, his body relaxed but thrumming with a nervous energy he fought to control. He closed his eyes, finding his center, letting the music wash over him.
"Action."
The camera focused on him, lying in repose, the sharp lines of his face and the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen visible through the open vest. He was stillness personified.
Then, with a slow, metallic groan, the massive hangar door behind him began to slide open, flooding the space with a sharp, diagonal slice of daylight. And there, silhouetted in the frame, was a woman.
Kaya Ito. She was tall, willowy, and moved with a hypnotic sway that was in perfect sync with the music. Her walk wasn't just a walk; it was a statement. Each step was deliberate, her hips tracing a slow, mesmerizing figure-eight in the air as she moved towards him through the vast, empty space. She wore a simple, backless silk slip the color of smoke.
Izuku didn't move. He didn't turn. He remained on his back, but his entire awareness was focused on the approaching presence. The camera captured the exact moment her shadow fell over him.
The hangar door closed with a definitive, echoing thud, plunging them back into the moody, artificial light. The intimacy of the space instantly multiplied by a thousand.
She didn't break her stride. She moved around the curve of the chair until she stood over him, her dark eyes locking with his. The intensity in her gaze was staggering. It was challenge, invitation, and pure, unadulterated confidence.
Slowly, never breaking eye contact, she swung a leg over him, settling herself to straddle his hips. Her weight was slight, but the contact was electric. Izuku's breath hitched, but he held her gaze, the green of his eyes dark and focused. He could feel the warmth of her through the thin layers of their clothing.
Her hand came up, palm flat against the vest covering his chest. Her touch was light but deliberate. A silent command.
His hands, which had been resting at his sides, moved to her waist. His grip was firm, grounding. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement that echoed the music's cadence, he shrugged the vest off his shoulders, letting it fall away to the floor. Her eyes flickered down, taking in the exposed expanse of his torso, a flicker of appreciation in their depths.
Her hands began to wander. They traced the hard lines of his pectorals, the deep groove between them, the rigid squares of his abdomen. Her touch was exploratory, reverent, and intensely sensual. Her nails lightly grazed his skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
The camera, in a breathtakingly intimate shot, swooped in close on her back. The silk of her slip was taut against her skin, and a fine sheen of sweat, glistening under the hot lights, made the fabric cling to the delicate knobs of her spine. It was a raw, human detail in the middle of the highly stylized scene.
The music swelled, the bass thrumming through the hangar floor, through the chair, through their connected bodies. The air was thick, charged, almost unbearable.
Kaya leaned forward, her body arching over his, her face hovering inches from his. Her dark hair curtained their faces. The intense eye contact never broke; it was a current pulling them together.
And then, they kissed.
It wasn't a frantic, desperate kiss. It was a slow, deep, consuming meeting of lips, a final, perfect release of the tension that had been building from the moment the hangar door opened. It was the period at the end of a beautifully written sentence.
The camera held on the kiss for a long, breathtaking moment before slowly pulling back, fading to black as the final note of the song hung in the air.
"And… cut."
The word was whispered, as if the director was afraid to break the spell.
Silence. Then, a collective exhale from the crew.
Izuku and Kaya broke apart. She gave him a small, professional smile, her intense persona melting away. "You're a natural," she said softly, before gracefully climbing off him.
Izuku sat up, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild thing. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind reeling. That was… more than a photoshoot. It was an immersion into a completely different kind of intensity. He looked over at the monitor, where the raw footage was already playing back. He saw the story, the pull, the raw, undeniable chemistry.
He swallowed hard. The first shoot had been about his individual form. This one was about connection. And as overwhelming as it was, a part of him, that new, confident part, understood the performance. He had met her intensity with his own.
He had no idea how he was ever going to explain this one to his mother.(mama may complain but the smoothness is unmatched)