Chapter Text
"Do you think the fabric is starting to fray?"
Izuku held the green stuffed bunny up to the light. He ran a finger over the worn fabric of the ear. The toy was fourteen years old. It had survived three house moves and a dozen sleepless nights of studying. It was barely damaged, though the stuffing in the neck had shifted over the years. He tucked the bunny securely into the side pocket of his yellow backpack, making sure the long ears were tucked away.
He stared at the open suitcases on his bedroom floor. His room felt empty. The posters were gone, leaving behind pale rectangles on the walls. He was fifteen, and in a few hours, he would be moving into the UA dorms with the rest of Class 1-A. The excitement was there, but it was buried under a thick layer of anxiety. He shifted his weight, feeling the familiar crinkle of his diaper under his trousers.
The incontinence had been a constant since the car accident when he was nine. He didn't hide it anymore, and his classmates knew about the diapers, but the shame still lingered in the back of his mind. It was a clinical necessity, a medical reality. However, the bunny served a different purpose. It was the only thing that kept his head straight during long lectures on hero ethics and quirk theory.
He walked over to the living room and stopped. His mother was waiting by the door with a heavy-duty car seat. He looked at the seat, then at her. He didn't trust the belts of a standard car. He didn't trust the way the world moved when he wasn't strapped in tight. He waited for her to click the buckle into place before he even considered stepping toward the driveway.
"You're going to be the only one with a car seat at the dorms, Izuku," Inko said softly, though her eyes were wet.
"I'm not riding without it," he mumbled, clutching the strap of his backpack. The bunny was shifted deep in the pocket, its button eye pressing against his spine. He felt a sudden, sharp prickle of heat behind his eyes. The transition from the safety of home to the chaos of UA felt like a cliff he wasn't ready to jump off of.
As they pulled away from the curb, the familiar hum of the engine began to vibrate through the chassis. Izuku leaned his head back against the headrest, the crinkle of his diaper sounding loud in the quiet cabin. He felt the sudden, instinctive urge to suck his thumb, a feeling that usually only hit when he was completely overwhelmed. He fought it, reminding himself he was fifteen, a hero-in-training, and almost there.
He reached into his bag and felt the soft, worn fur of the bunny's head. As he squeezed the toy, the tension in his chest loosened, and his mind began to slip. The edges of his consciousness blurred, the complex worries about dorm assignments and combat training fading into a hazy background. He felt smaller, the world growing larger and more intimidating, until he wasn't thinking about hero ethics anymore—he just wanted his bunny and a nap.
By the time the car slowed down in front of the massive UA gates, Izuku was leaning heavily against the side of the car seat. He wasn't quite fifteen anymore; in his head, he was barely four, blinking up at the towering concrete walls with wide, glassy eyes. He let out a small, shaky breath, his thumb finding its way into his mouth with a wet *pop*. The crinkle of his diaper felt louder now, a comforting reminder of the safety and routine he relied on.
Inko sighed, glancing in the rearview mirror. She didn't comment on the thumb or the glazed look in his eyes; she had long ago learned the signs of his regression. She reached back and gently patted his knee, her voice softening into a soothing coo. "Almost there, baby. Just a little longer, and then we'll get your things inside." Izuku let out a soft, muffled whimper, clutching the green bunny to his chest and burying his face in its stuffing.
The car came to a complete stop, and the door opened to reveal a crowd of familiar faces. Bakugo was already shouting at Kaminari, and Iida was chopping the air with his hands, directing the flow of luggage. The noise hit Izuku like a physical wall, making him flinch and shrink back into the straps of his car seat. He gripped the bunny tighter, the sudden sensory overload threatening to push him even further back into the headspace of a toddler.
Inko leaned over to unbuckle him, her movements slow and deliberate. As the harness clicked open, Izuku didn't move to get out; he just sat there, blinking up at the bright sky with a confused, vacant expression. He felt the heavy weight of his saturated diaper, a warm dampness that usually wouldn't bother him, but now it felt like a signal of his vulnerability. He let out a tiny, fragile sound—not a word, just a soft keen—and tucked his chin against the bunny's head.
"Hey, Midoriya! You finally here?" Kaminari called out, jogging toward the car with a wide grin. He stopped a few feet away, his expression shifting from excitement to confusion. He noticed the car seat, then the way Izuku was curled into a ball, thumb jammed firmly in his mouth. The rest of the class began to drift closer, their curious eyes landing on the boy who usually rambled about quirk statistics but was currently staring at them like he didn't know who they were.
Bakugo pushed through the crowd, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel. "What the hell is he doing?" he barked, his voice cutting through the chatter. He stepped closer, squinting at Izuku’s glazed eyes and the way he was clutching that raggedy stuffed toy. Bakugo knew about the diapers—everyone did—but this was different. The usual nervous energy that radiated off Midoriya had vanished, replaced by a heavy, quiet fragility that made the air around them feel stifling.
Izuku flinched at the volume, a tear finally spilling over and tracking down his cheek. He didn't try to explain himself or offer a shy smile; he just whimpered and hid his face in the crook of his mother's arm, seeking shelter from the crowd. The sudden shift in his demeanor was jarring, turning the confident hero-student into a frightened child in the span of a few seconds. He squeezed the bunny tighter, his small, muffled breaths hitching as he realized he was no longer in the safety of the car.
Inko shifted, shielding Izuku from their gaze as she stepped out of the car to help him. "He's just a bit overwhelmed," she said, her voice tight but protective. She reached back to guide him out, but Izuku clung to the car seat, his legs kicking weakly. The dampness in his diaper was becoming an irritant, the heavy weight pulling at his waist, and the sensory shift made him let out a loud, needy cry that echoed across the driveway.
The class fell silent, the confusion deepening as they watched the interaction. Uraraka stepped forward, her brow furrowed in concern. "Is he okay? Midoriya?" she asked softly, tilting her head. She noticed the way he was staring at her—not with the wide-eyed admiration of a fan, but with the blank, foggy expression of a toddler. He looked small, not just in height, but in spirit, his thumb still jammed firmly in his mouth as he leaned into Inko for support.
Bakugo scoffed, though the aggression in his voice had dropped a notch. He crossed his arms, glancing from the car seat to the green bunny and then to the sagging seat of Izuku's trousers. "Tch. He's acting like a damn baby," he muttered, though he didn't move away. The rest of the students hovered in a tentative circle, sensing a vulnerability in their classmate that went far beyond his medical needs. They were waiting for the Izuku who took notes and muttered about strategies, but that version of him was gone, buried under layers of regression and fear.
Inko felt the tension radiating off her son and stepped further into his space, effectively blocking him from their view. Her expression was firm, the protective instinct of a mother overriding her usual politeness. "Everyone, please head inside and start unloading your things," she directed, her voice cutting through the awkward silence. "The teachers are expecting you. I'll come in and explain everything once Izuku is settled and comfortable."
Kaminari opened his mouth to ask a question, but a sharp look from Inko silenced him. The class began to drift toward the dorm entrance in a confused huddle, glancing back over their shoulders at the sight of the boy clinging to the car door. Uraraka lingered for a second, her heart aching at the small, broken sound Izuku made, before Iida ushered her forward with a stiff, formal wave of his arm. The gravel crunched under their retreating footsteps, leaving the driveway quiet once more, save for the distant sound of a bird and Izuku’s ragged breathing.
Now alone with his mother, Izuku let out a loud, wet sob and reached up, his small fingers grasping at Inko’s shirt. The sensory overload of the crowd had left him completely untethered, and the dampness of his diaper was now an unbearable weight against his skin. He didn't want the dorms or the heroes or the noise; he just wanted to be small. Inko sighed, leaning down to kiss his forehead and whispering something about a fresh change and a quiet room, while Izuku buried his face back into the bunny, his thumb clicking back into place with a needy, rhythmic suck.
Inko worked quickly, guiding him out of the car and into the shelter of the open door. She didn't try to force him to walk; instead, she scooped him up, feeling the heavy sag of his diaper against her hip. Izuku let out a soft, content hum, his head lolling onto her shoulder as he surrendered entirely to the feeling of being carried. The world felt blurry and distant, the towering UA architecture reduced to nothing more than big, scary shapes that didn't matter as long as he was held tight.
As they entered the lobby of the Heights Alliance, the silence was short-lived. A few students had lingered near the entrance, their curiosity outweighing Iida’s orders to move. They watched as Inko marched in, her arms locked securely around a trembling Izuku, who was now curled into a tight ball against her chest. The boy’s eyes were glazed, staring blankly at the ceiling as he sucked his thumb with a rhythmic, wet sound, his small fingers gripping the green bunny as if it were a lifeline.
Inko stopped in the center of the foyer and looked at the huddle of teenagers. She didn't offer a smile or a polite explanation; she simply gestured toward the open car door outside with a tilt of her chin. "If any of you actually want to be helpful," she said, her voice crisp and devoid of apology, "then go get Izuku’s things out of the car and bring them in."
The class blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the request. Bakugo scoffed and rolled his eyes, but he was the first to turn back toward the driveway, his heavy boots thudding against the pavement. He didn't ask questions; he just grabbed the handle of the heaviest suitcase and hauled it toward the door with a grunt of effort. Slowly, the others followed, forming a clumsy assembly line to ferry the luggage inside, while Izuku let out a soft, needy whimper, burying his face deeper into his mother’s neck to hide from the sudden commotion.
Inko carried him toward the elevators, the heavy sag of his diaper crinkling with every step she took. She could feel the dampness soaking through his trousers, a clear sign that the transition had been too much for his system to handle. As the elevator doors slid shut, isolating them from the confused whispers of Class 1-A, Izuku let out a long, shuddering sigh. He shifted his weight, leaning his head back as he surrendered to the fuzzy, warm haze of his regression, knowing that for now, the world was small enough to be managed.
Outside, the driveway had become a frantic hub of activity. Bakugo cursed under his breath, hauling a massive suitcase that looked like it contained an entire wardrobe of oversized t-shirts and soft fabrics. Kaminari and Sero followed close behind, glancing at each other with bewildered expressions. They had expected Midoriya to be the one helping everyone else with their bags, yet here they were, acting as a retrieval squad for a boy who had seemingly forgotten how to speak.
Upstairs, Inko stepped into Izuku's assigned dorm room and immediately shut the door, cutting off the noise of the hallway. The room was a sterile white box, devoid of personality and far too bright. She set Izuku down on the edge of the bed, and he immediately curled into a fetal position, the green bunny pressed against his cheek. The heavy, wet weight of his diaper was now an obvious discomfort, causing him to squirm and let out a frustrated, high-pitched whine.
Inko didn't waste time. She reached into the diaper bag and pulled out a thick, absorbent change and a handful of wipes. As she laid him back and began to peel away the sodden clothing, Izuku’s eyes drifted, his focus shifting from the ceiling to the window. He wasn't thinking about his quirk or the looming expectations of the hero course; he was focused on the rhythmic *scritch-scritch* of the wipes against his skin and the comforting, familiar scent of baby powder filling the small room.
Once he was clean and taped securely into a fresh, dry diaper, the tension finally bled out of his small frame. He let out a long, shaky breath, his thumb finding its way back into his mouth with a satisfied pop. He looked up at his mother, his eyes wide and glassy, and reached out a small hand to tug at her sleeve. He didn't have the words to ask for a bottle or a nap, but the way he leaned his head against her chest and clung to the bunny spoke volumes.
Inko smiled, reaching into the side pocket of the diaper bag to retrieve a large, adult-sized pacifier with a green shield to match his bunny. She gently nudged his thumb out of the way and slid the silicone bulb into his mouth. Izuku accepted it instantly, the rhythmic suction calming the last of his frayed nerves. He let out a soft, muffled sigh, his eyelids drooping as the warmth of the room and the security of the pacifier pulled him deeper into his headspace.
She lifted him one last time, carrying him to the bed and tucking him in under a soft, fleece blanket she had brought from home. She didn't just lay him down; she arranged the pillows around him to create a snug nest, ensuring he felt enclosed and safe. With one final kiss to his forehead and a gentle pat on the green bunny's head, she stepped back. Izuku's breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic cadence as he drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Outside the door, the hallway was a chaotic mess of shouting and dragging suitcases. Bakugo had just dropped a heavy box of notebooks with a loud thud, his voice booming as he argued with Iida about the proper way to stack luggage. Inside the quiet of the room, Izuku flinched in his sleep, the distant noise filtering through the thin walls. He curled tighter into his blanket, the pacifier bobbing rhythmically as he retreated further into the safety of being small, oblivious to the confused classmates wondering where the "real" Midoriya had gone.
Inko opened the door just a crack, her expression stern as she looked out at the huddle of teenagers. The air in the hall was thick with teenage energy and loud questions, but she silenced them with a single, sharp raise of her hand. "Quiet," she commanded, her voice a low, firm whisper that carried a weight they didn't dare challenge. "He is finally resting, and if any of you wake him with your shouting, you'll answer to me."
She stepped back into the room to double-check the tuck of the blanket, then pointed toward the elevator. "Leave the bags in a neat pile by the door and meet me downstairs in the lobby in ten minutes. Do not knock, and do not try to peek inside." The students blinked, momentarily stunned by the shift from the gentle mother they knew to this protective guardian. Without another word, Inko shut the door with a soft, final click, leaving them in a bewildered silence.
As the class slowly dispersed, the heavy silence of the hallway was broken only by the distant crinkle of plastic. Inside the room, Izuku shifted, his leg kicking out from under the fleece. He let out a soft, muffled whimper around his pacifier, clutching the green bunny to his chest as he drifted in the hazy border between sleep and the overwhelming reality of UA. He was safe for now, tucked away in a cocoon of powder and soft fabric, while the world outside waited for a version of him that currently didn't exist.
Downstairs, Inko stood in the lobby, her arms crossed as she waited for the students to gather. When they finally trickled back down, their faces were a mix of confusion and genuine concern. Kaminari leaned in, his voice a hushed whisper. "Mrs. Midoriya, is he... like, sick? He was acting so weird in the car. I've never seen him just... stop talking like that." He glanced toward the elevator, wondering if the boy who could out-analyze a pro hero had simply snapped under the pressure.
Inko looked at them, her expression softening but remaining firm. She knew the truth about the regression was a secret Izuku wanted to keep, but the medical necessity of the diapers was already out. "Izuku has a way of processing things that is different from yours," she explained, her voice calm. "He’s had a long day and a very difficult transition. He needs his space and his routine, or he can't function." She didn't mention the pacifier or the headspace, leaving the mystery of his behavior just vague enough to protect his dignity.
Bakugo stood at the back of the group, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the ceiling. He remembered the way Midoriya had looked in that car seat—the vacant eyes, the thumb in the mouth, the total surrender to his mother's care. It was a far cry from the brat who had fought him in the entrance exam, and it irritated him more than he cared to admit. "Whatever," Bakugo muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning toward the exit. "Just tell the nerd to wake up soon, or he's going to fall behind on the first day."
Denki, however, wasn't thinking about training. He stepped closer to Inko, his curiosity finally winning over his hesitation. "Mrs. Midoriya, I've gotta ask—the car seat thing? I mean, we all know about the... you know, the diapers, but the seat? He's fifteen. Why is he still riding in a toddler seat?" He looked back toward the elevator, imagining the sheer bulk of the harness and the heavy plastic shell.
Inko’s expression darkened, a flicker of old grief crossing her face. "The accident when he was nine wasn't just a fender bender," she explained, her voice dropping an octave. "The impact was severe, and the seatbelt across his chest failed. It snapped under the pressure, throwing him across the interior of the car." She paused, the memory of the twisted metal and the silence that followed the crash momentarily silencing the lobby. "He didn't just lose control of his bladder that day; he lost his sense of safety. Now, if he isn't strapped in tight, he can't breathe. The panic is too much."
The silence that followed was heavy, the students shifting uncomfortably. The image of a younger, broken Izuku being tossed like a ragdoll in a car was a jarring contrast to the boy they knew. Just as the mood turned somber, a muffled, high-pitched wail echoed from the elevator banks, followed by the distinct, rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of someone kicking a wall. The sound was small and needy, lacking any of the maturity of a teenager. Every head turned toward the elevators, realizing that while the "real" Midoriya might be asleep, something much smaller had just woken up.
Uraraka didn't wait for Inko's permission. She slipped past the group and ascended the stairs two at a time, her movements light and instinctive. When she reached the door to Izuku's room, she didn't knock or burst in; instead, she knelt on the carpeted floor and softly hummed a low, melodic tune, the kind of sound that mimics a heartbeat. She reached into the gap beneath the door and slid a small, plush keychain—a tiny, sparkling star she’d found in the hallway—across the floor. It glided over the carpet, coming to a stop right against the doorframe with a soft *clink*.
Inside, the waking child froze. The terrifying void of the unfamiliar room had been pressing in on him, the sudden absence of his mother's warmth sparking a fresh wave of panic. But then came the hum—a soft, vibrating frequency that anchored him to the present. He crawled toward the door, his diaper crinkling loudly in the silence, and spotted the sparkling star. With a tiny, shaky breath, Izuku reached out and gripped the toy, the tactile sensation of the glittery fabric calming the frantic beating of his heart. He didn't cry out; he simply curled back into a ball, clutching the star and his bunny, his breathing finally leveling out.
Downstairs, Inko watched the silence stretch, her eyes softening as she noticed Uraraka's quiet retreat from the stairwell. She knew the girl hadn't tried to force a conversation or demand an explanation; she had simply provided a bridge. The tension in the lobby began to dissipate as the students realized that while Midoriya was different in this state, he wasn't gone—he was just fragile. Bakugo leaned against the wall, his gaze flickering toward the ceiling, his expression uncharacteristically quiet as he wondered just how many layers of the "nerd" he had yet to discover.
Hours passed in a blur of unpacking and awkward, hushed conversations among the students. The frantic energy of move-in day eventually settled into a dull hum of anticipation for the term ahead. Inside the room, the hazy fog of regression slowly lifted, the mental gears of a fifteen-year-old grinding back into place as the afternoon sun shifted across the floor. Izuku woke with a start, blinking up at the sterile white ceiling with a sudden, sharp clarity. The pacifier was gone, the headspace had vanished, and the memory of his morning felt like a distant, blurry dream that left him feeling exhausted and vaguely exposed.
He sat up slowly, the familiar crinkle of his diaper reminding him that while his mind had returned to fifteen, his body still required the same medical routine. He felt a surge of gratitude for his mother’s discretion, then a spike of anxiety as he realized the time. He scrambled out of bed, quickly tidying the "nest" of blankets and stuffing the green bunny deep into his bag, though he kept the glittery star keychain gripped tightly in his palm. He dressed in a clean set of clothes, checked his tapes one last time, and took a deep breath to steady his racing heart.
When Izuku finally stepped out into the common area for a late lunch, the room went momentarily silent. He looked tired, his eyes slightly puffy, but the vacant, glassy stare was gone, replaced by the familiar, nervous intensity of the boy they knew. He offered a small, awkward wave to the group, his face flushing a deep red as he caught the curious glints in their eyes. "Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided Bakugo's piercing gaze. "I... I just needed a really long nap."
Kaminari was the first to break the silence, leaning forward with a grin that was more curious than judgmental. "Dude, we thought you’d been kidnapped by a sleep-demon. Your mom was terrifying." He paused, his voice dropping as he glanced toward the stairs. "Are you actually okay? You were acting... well, not like yourself." Izuku felt the phantom weight of the pacifier against his lips and the memory of the baby-powder scent, a sudden spike of embarrassment making him shift his weight. The crinkle of his diaper echoed in the quiet room, a loud, clinical reminder that some things hadn't changed, even if his headspace had.
Bakugo scoffed, though he didn't launch into a full-scale shouting match like he usually did. He just stared at the green bunny peeking out from the top of Izuku's yellow backpack, then looked back at the boy's face. "Whatever. Just don't let your 'naps' get in the way of training, Deku," he muttered, turning back to his food with a level of indifference that felt surprisingly like a mercy. Izuku let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, feeling a strange sense of relief. They knew he was fragile, they knew he was different, but the world hadn't ended.
He walked toward the table and sat down, his fingers absentmindedly brushing against the glittery star keychain in his pocket. He looked at Uraraka, who gave him a small, knowing smile and a tiny nod. She hadn't asked what happened or why he had been whimpering in his sleep, but the way she looked at him told him she understood something about the gap between the hero-student and the boy in the car seat. As he began to eat, the familiar chatter of Class 1-A rose around him again, a chaotic noise that usually overwhelmed him, but today, it felt like a shield.