Six Years Later
Izuku stirred in the king-sized bed that dominated the master suite, a tangle of limbs and laughter from the night before.
His wives—Mina, Momo, Nemuri, and Ochaco—sprawled around him like petals of a chaotic flower: Mina's pink tail draped possessively over his thigh, Momo's dark hair fanned across his chest like ink on silk, Nemuri's leg hooked over his hip in lazy possession, Ochaco's hand curled against his palm, fingers interlaced even in sleep.
The air smelled of jasmine from Nemuri's perfume, vanilla from Momo's lotion, bubblegum from Mina's shampoo, and the faint citrus of Ochaco's optimism.
It was chaos perfected, love multiplied, a harmony Izuku had never dared dream in his quirkless childhood—or even in the reborn soul's shadowed memories.
He shifted carefully, not wanting to wake them yet. Six years. It felt like a lifetime and a blink. The boy who had stumbled into a vampire dungeon at fifteen, wielding cosmic trades and hidden gods, was gone.
In his place stood a man: Pro Hero Deku, Number One in the polls (a tie with All Might, who insisted on sharing the spotlight), husband to four extraordinary women, guardian to a little sister who called him "big brother" with eyes full of stars.
The world had healed in fits and starts, villains turned to allies, shadows banished to light. But the path there... oh, it had been a war won in whispers and wishes.
Izuku slipped from the bed, padding barefoot to the balcony doors. The city stretched below: Musutafu reborn, quirk-crime rates at historic lows, heroes patrolling not as wardens but as neighbors.
He leaned on the railing, breath fogging the chill air, and let the memories wash over him like a tide—Ocean's legacy, still thrumming at eighty percent in his veins, mapping the distant heartbeats of a sleeping world.
It began with the League's unraveling, six years ago to the day
The Shie Hassaikai raid had been Izuku's solo symphony of salvation: Overhaul broken in a vault of blood and fury, Eri safe in a sphere's embrace, the yakuza's empire crumbling under the Earth Titan's parting quake.
He'd emerged from the sewers at dawn, body mended by a senzu bean's miracle (227 left then), Eri's ball warm against his heart. The official story? A "rogue pro tip" led police to the HQ; collapse buried the evidence, survivors spun tales of "ghosts and monsters" dismissed as quirk-induced delirium.
Chisaki vanished—officially "killed in the rubble"—his Eight Bullets scattered, quirk bullets confiscated as "experimental failures."
Izuku had vanished too, melting into U.A.'s shadows, Eri's ball tucked away until the time was right. But the League of Villains? They stirred next, Shigaraki's decay itching at the edges of the healed world.
Mirio Togata had taken point on Tomura—Tenko Shimura, the boy beneath the monster. The golden senior, One For All's unchained heir, had cornered the League's heir in a rain-slicked Yokohama warehouse, quirks clashing in a ballet of light and rot.
Mirio's Permeation phased through decay waves, Blackwhip coiling Shigaraki's hands before they could touch, Gearshift turning the air to molasses around the villain's strikes.
Shigaraki raged—hands crumbling crates to dust, All For One's vestiges whispering suicide—but Mirio was relentless, Fa Jin bursts shattering the warehouse walls without harming a soul, Smokescreen blinding the remnants, Float carrying Shigaraki into a gentle pin.
"You don't have to be this," Mirio had said, golden eyes unyielding. "The hands... they're not yours to bear alone."
Shigaraki—Tomura—had broken then, not in body but in the cracks of his soul. The vestiges silenced by Mirio's unyielding light, the boy beneath surfacing in sobs.
Rehabilitation followed: six months in a quirk-suppressant facility, therapy with Hound Dog and gentle pros, All Might's visits like beacons.
Tomura emerged changed—hands gloved, not to hide but to hold—living "normal" in a quiet apartment, working at a game shop, piecing a life from the ashes of All For One's lies.
Mirio checked in weekly, their bond forged in that warehouse: mentor and reformed, light and shadow in balance.
Izuku handled the rest. The League's remnants scattered after Shigaraki's fall, but he hunted them not with vengeance, but verdict.
Dabi first—Touya Todoroki, flames flickering in abandoned factories. Izuku cornered him in a blaze of blue inferno, Power scaling through the heat haze: ten punches shattering fire walls, twenty crumpling the villain's guard. The Master Ball snapped shut mid-roar, Touya's silhouette kneeling in crimson light.
Toga Himiko next, her knives dancing in moonlit alleys, bloodlust a siren's call. Izuku met her in a whirlwind of blades and dodges, scaling to thirty before pinning her with a gentle choke—ball sealing her giggles into loyalty.
Kurogiri, the warp gate, fell in a portal storm over Tokyo Bay—Gasper's time-stop freezing the voids, Izuku's fist closing the rift with a scaling forty.
Moonfish, the blade-mouthed horror, in a subway slaughter—thralls distracting, Izuku's fifty shattering jaws.
Mr. Compress, the theatrical thief, on a rooftop gala—fifty-five compressing the marble, ball claiming the mask.
Spinner—Shuichi Iguchi—and the last holdouts: captured in a highway chase, scaling to sixty before the spheres claimed them.
Others—mustard, magne's echoes—were given chances: quirk-suppressants, therapy, second lives in anonymity. Izuku watched from shadows, the hero's heart weighing each mercy.
All For One came last, a year into the purge. All Might—prime, regenerated, eternal—had stormed the League's final lair, a Kamino facsimile in the mountains.
One For All at boundless hundred percent, fists like comets, Regeneration mocking every stolen quirk's assault.
All For One unraveled—stolen powers flaring in futile rainbow, vestiges silenced by the Symbol's unyielding light. The battle shook the peaks: air pressure waves carving valleys, decay met by unbreakable might.
All Might emerged victorious, All For One in chains—not dead, but diminished. Tartarus claimed him for a year: quirk-sealed, therapy-mandated, a punishment of reflection.
"Live better," All Might had said, voice thunder-soft. "Or don't. But the choice is yours now." AFO emerged changed—not redeemed, but reflective—exiled to a quirkless island commune, monitored eternally, a villain pondering the void he nearly birthed.
Izuku's gifts followed, quiet revolutions.
Dabi's ball first, handed to Shoto Todoroki in a U.A. dorm at midnight, the dual-haired teen's eyes hollow with old grief. "He's... yours now," Izuku said, pressing the sphere into chilled palms. "But he doesn't have to stay that way."
Shoto stared, then nodded—resolve cracking the ice. He vanished that night, ball warm in pocket, confronting the flames of family.
The Todoroki estate, that fortress of fire and frost, shattered under reunion's weight. Rei wept first, porcelain hands trembling as Touya materialized—scarred, blue flames dimmed to embers, eyes wary behind white hair. Fuyumi gasped, Natsuo froze, then lunged in a bear hug that smelled of salt and smoke.
Enji—Endeavor—hesitated at the threshold, massive frame dwarfing the doorway, flames flickering uncertain.
"Touya..." The word broke, a chasm. The eldest son met his gaze—defiant, but cracking.
Enji stepped forward, arms enveloping, hesitant then fierce, the Number Two Hero reduced to a father holding what he'd nearly lost.
"I'm sorry. Gods, I'm sorry." Hugs followed: messy, tear-streaked, the family knitting around the scar.
Shoto destroyed the ball that dawn—hammer from the forge, smashing the sphere to glittering dust—freeing Toya not as captive, but kin.
Therapy wove them tighter: flames tempered, frost thawed, a dynasty reborn in forgiveness's forge.
Toga's release came softer, in a Musutafu park at cherry blossom fall. Izuku knelt before her sphere, Mina at his side—pink tail twining his ankle for strength.
"You're more than blood," he said, pressing the release. Himiko materialized giggling, knives gone, eyes wide.
The ball shattered under his heel—crystal rain—and she lunged, hugging fierce. "Deku-kun! Free!"
"With conditions," he teased, rolling up a sleeve. "My blood, weekly. No more stealing from strangers."
Her fangs grazed gentle, a sip of warmth sealing the vow. Himiko bloomed after: therapy with Hound Dog, quirk controlled to heal not harm, a sidekick gig with Mina—acid and blood a duet of delight.
Love found her in quiet ways: a barista with a quirk for coffee that never burned, dates under lanterns where fangs smiled soft.
Eri's freedom was dawn's gift. Inko Midoriya's apartment, that cozy nest of katsudon steam and All Might posters, Izuku arrived at sunrise, ball in trembling hand. "Mom," he said, voice cracking. "Meet your youngest."
The release was tears: Eri unfolding small, horn glinting, eyes huge with wonder. Inko gasped, then enveloped—soft arms, green hair mingling silver, "Oh, sweetie... you're home."
The ball shattered in the sink—ceramic crash, dust washed away—and Eri bloomed: "Big brother!" Inko's daughter now, quirk Rewind a gentle rewind of traumas, school with quirk-counseling, playdates with Kota (the boy who'd once hated heroes, now a water-cannon prodigy).
Family dinners became rituals: katsudon for four, Eri's giggles the sweetest spice.
Sacrifice came last, a quiet offering to the universe that had given so much. Necromancy—the green fire that raised ghosts and bound the dead—had weighed heavy after Eri's rescue.
Gasper, the dhampir; the skeletal thralls, echoes of bone; even Muscular, brute in ball-form—tools of war, not life.
Izuku stood alone in an empty field at midnight, pouch open, fifty senzu beans crumbling to dust in his palm.
"Take them," he whispered to the stars. "Send my servants where they belong. No more death in my hands."
The universe answered: a rift tore skyward, emerald vortex swallowing the undead. Gasper bowed last, wings folding—"Farewell, Master"—vanishing to a realm of eternal night, supernatural kin where vampires ruled and humans were myth.
Thralls clattered into void, bones to dust to rebirth. Muscular stayed—ball-sealed, a reluctant guardian for dire need.
Necromancy faded then, sigils dimming on his palm, the tide lighter. 227 senzu beans left—177 now—a price for peace.
And now, present—six years woven into joy
Izuku turned from the balcony as the first wife stirred: Ochaco, brown eyes blinking sleepy, floating unconsciously an inch off the sheets. "Deku... time?"
He slipped back, kissing her forehead. "Not yet. Five more minutes."
Mina mumbled next, tail tightening. "Mmm... hubby... more cuddles." Momo sighed content, arm draping his waist; Nemuri purred, leg sliding higher.
Marriage had come in a whirlwind three years prior: a quadruple ceremony under cherry blossoms, All Might officiating with tears, Inko beaming beside Eri in a flower crown.
Mina's vows fierce and fun—"I'll melt the world for you, green bean"—Momo's elegant and eternal—"Creation is ours, together"—Nemuri's sultry promise—"I'll bind you in dreams forever"—Ochaco's gravity-defying joy—"I'll lift you higher than stars."
Life bloomed: Pro Hero Deku, agency co-run with Mirio (Lemillion & Deku, unbeatable duo), patrols a dance of light and escalating might.
Wives wove the days: Mina's agency for quirk-misfits, Momo's inventions revolutionizing support gear, Nemuri's classes mentoring with velvet steel, Ochaco's zero-G rescue ops saving skyscraper souls.
Eri thrived—ten now, horn a proud curl, Rewind a healer's gift under strict control. School plays, sleepovers with Kota (their "water and rewind" duo unstoppable), Inko's katsudon her favorite. "Big brother," she'd say, hugging fierce, "you're my hero."
Family expanded: Shoto's reconciliation a bridge, Toya—Dabi no more—reclaimed as brother, flames teaching control at U.A. Toga, Himiko-chan to the wives, blood-sips weekly a ritual of trust, her knife-work now surgical saves.
The captured others? Master Balls repurposed: Kurogiri warped supplies to remote villages, reformed; Moonfish's jaws guarded quirkless havens; Compress staged charity shows; Spinner advocated lizard-quirk rights.
Shigaraki—Tomura—found peace in normalcy, game-shop clerk with Mirio's weekly check-ins, hands gloved but open.
All For One? Tartarus broke him subtler than fists—solitude, therapy, vestiges silenced. Released to island exile, he pondered, a villain unmade by time's quiet decay.
Izuku's arsenal slimmed: Power his blade, Ocean and Resurrection his shields, senzu hoard a rainy-day mercy, Dragon Balls: in storage, Master Balls dwindled—eighteen empty, ten bound (Muscular, Overhaul, and echoes of the fallen, tools for direct need).
Dawn crested. Wives woke in cascade: Ochaco floating breakfast trays, Momo creating fresh flowers, Mina acid-etching heart-shapes on toast, Nemuri brewing coffee with a wink. Eri burst in later, Inko trailing with bento boxes, "School time, loves!"
Izuku watched them—his constellation—and knew: the war won, the epilogue written in laughter and light.
The soul smiled, finally home.