#and then waking up in the aftermath and being made to remember what i did...

[transmascfucktoy]

hmmm. im probably into hypnosis

[thebestsetter]

Thinking about Megumi Fushiguro only showing his vulnerable side around you.

And it's not like he doesn't trust his friends. It just happens that he doesn't feel safe showing that side of him near them. He thinks that it makes him seem weak. And he definitely doesn't want to look weak.

He didn't even use to show his sensitive side around you at first. He never initiated cuddles, kisses or even hugs. Maybe, if you were lucky, he'd wake up feeling brave and would hold your hand. Once in a blue moon.

But bear with him! It's his first relationship, so he has zero clue about what to do in this whole dating thing. He needed a patient partner, and, luckily, you were exactly that: never forced him to do anything he didn't want to do, never initiated anything without his consent first and never complained about his lack of experience. You were perfect for him.

One day, he was on his way to Jujutsu High after a difficult mission. His whole body was aching from head to toe, his head was hurting and he had some really bad cuts that were gonna scar for sure. The fight with a special curse had taken a toll on his body, even if he wasn't alone during it. And, honestly, even though he was literally limping, he couldn't think about anything else other than you.

His favorite part of the mission was the aftermath, not only because it meant that the problem he was choosen to solve was over, but because when he came to the dorms he knew you would be there, waiting for him with your arms between your thighs and a gentle smile. The thought of you always made him smile like a lovesick fool. Perhaps he was, indeed, a good old fashioned lover boy. Maybe he had, in fact, become one of the hopeless romantics he used to despise, because, on his way back to Jujutsu High, despite feeling like he was literally being eaten from the inside out because of how much pain he was enduring, he still found the strenght to squat and pick a pretty flower he saw on a bush.

He handled it with so much care, his eyes literally sparkling with love when he looked at it. It was so beautiful. It reminded him of you. He imagined your reaction when he gave you the flower. Would you smile and smell it, looking for a vase to put it on your desk so everyone could see? Or would you laugh at him in an affectionate way and hug it close to you, smiling at how smitten he was for you? And you would be right (as you always were), because he was, indeed, smitten. He would burn down the entire world if you asked him to. He would do anything just to make sure that you were always smiling. He would rather be skinned alive than make you cry. You were his light, the one who guided him through darkness. He couldn't even remember how his life was before he met you, and he honestly didn't want to remember. You made everything so easier, his life had so much color with you in it and the sky seemed brighter. It looked like the birds were singing a soft melody made exclusively for you both, and everything was sunshine and rainbows. Life had never seemed so bright.

"Megumi? Did you even hear what we just asked you?"

"We're losing him. I bet he's thinking about his girlfriend again."

"Ugh, he's such a loser when it comes to her. It's so sweet it makes me sick."

"What happened to bros before hoes, Fushiguro?"

"I don't know what you idiots are on about" Megumi sighed after snapping out of his trace "And I was not thinking about my girlfriend." It's not like he's embarassed of you, but he didn't feel like being mocked by Nobara and Itadori just because he thinks about you once in a while. Maybe not only once in a while. Maybe he did think about you a lot. More than he'd ever admit.

"Suuuree. And that flower is for who? I bet it's not for me or Nobara." Itadori pointed to the plant on his hands

"Shut up." Fushiguro blushed, placing the pink flower (very carefully, may I add) on his pocket. Yuji and Nobara smirked at eachother, enjoying the abashed state their friend was at.

"As we were saying, we wanted to know if you're going with us to Shoko's. She probably has something to help us with our cuts. And some of these are nasty! I really hope they don't scar, because there's a really big one on my face. That will make my modeling job harder, I'm sure. But my pretty face will make up for it"

"I think the scar will be the least of your problems..." Itadori murmured

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing!" He sweatdropped and quickly changed the topic "Anyway, are you coming with us, Fushiguro?"

The black haired boy sighed.

"I don't think so. My cuts are not that bad. I just need a little rest. If they hurt, I'll go seek help."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, you guys can go without me"

"Okay then. Bye Fushiguro!"

"I still want to know what you said earlier."

"I said nothing, what do you mean?"

Hearing his friends playful chatter disappear in the distance, Megumi's thoughts drifted to you again. He was honestly so tired that he could only think about cuddling with you or laying on your lap.

He must have been really entretained by his thoughts, cause he didn't even notice he had gotten to your dorm before he literally knocked on the door.

"I'm coming!" He heard your sweet voice saying.

"Megumi! You're finally back! I missed you!"

No feeling could ever surpass the feeling of you holding him, your arms wrapped around his torso in a strong hug that made him weak. He hugged you back as quickly as possible and nuzzled his head on the crook of your neck, closing his eyes and ihnaling your scent that drove him half-insane. It was like a drug. You were like his drug.

"I missed you too" reaching for his pocket, he grabbed the flower and gave it to you, as if he was trying to show you that, even during his missions, he still thought about you constantly. "Here"

"No way. Gumi, you shouldn't have..." you said, taking the flower from his hands and sniffing it, a content smile on your face.

"But I wanted to." He returned your smile, grabbing the flower from your hands and putting it behind your ear, removing a strand of stray hair from your face in the process.

"Even though I'm absolutely loving this moment" you said, cupping his face "You stink. Please go take a shower."

Crap! He had forgotten to shower! Now you were going to think he was stinky! Ugh, how could he be so irresponsable?

He quickly grabbed a towel and some spare clothes he had in your dorm (he went there a lot. It was practically his second home or something like that. Actually, his home is wherever you are. So, it happened that your dorm felt like home, too) and took the fastest shower he had ever taken in his life. He just wanted to go back to your arms in less time as possible. He wanted to merge with you, wanted you to hold him so close that you became one.

"I'm finished" he said, going to your room. He had to put some bandage in his larger bruises, so he was still shirtless. That being said, you could literally see how big they were.

"Oh dear God! Megumi, did you go to Shoko's? These injuries look bad!"

"They're not as bad as they look" he said, laying beside you and staring at your eyes. He didn't know what came over him, but the next words he said made even him surprised "But I bet they'd get better if you cuddled with me"

It was the first time he was initiating something. You'd be a fool to let the opportunity go.

"Well, if you say so" you smirked, looking a him with a glint of playfullness. "I really hope I can help you with that. Not sure if I'm capable tho. Don't know if my cuddles are good enough"

"Don't act ridiculous, of course they are"

"Let's start with your treatment, then." You laughed. And oh, how he loved the sound of your laugh. He loved it even more because he was the cause of it.

Carefully, you slipped your arms around him, hugging him closer to you. Your legs linked together, and he buried his face on your boobs (he didn't even have any indecent thoughts behind that action. It just felt comfortable). And, just when he thought it couldn't get better, your hands found their way to his hair. You gently unraveled all the knots, one by one, while massaging his scalp. He let out a peaceful sigh and began moving his hands up and down your back, as if massaging you, and drawing random things in your exposed skin with his fingers, like little hearts or silly smiling faces. Everything was perfect at that moment. He felt safe with you, something he didn't feel with most people. He felt completely at ease. Nothing and no one could ever ruin that moment for him.

*Click*

Until something did. Or even better: some people did.

"KUGISAKI! I TOLD YOU TO TURN THE VOLUME OF THE CAMERA DOWN"

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT I DON'T KNOW HOW YOUR STONE AGE PHONE WORKS. MY GRANDPA HAS A BETTER PHONE THAN YOURS"

"What. Are you guys. Doing here." It came out more like a comand than a question. Megumi felt frustrated that they had interrupted your alone time, and, honestly, even though he loved his friends, he just wanted them to go away. When they barged him uninvited, you had stopped playing with his hair, and he just wanted to feel your hands on his head again.

"Well, Gojo-Sensei asked us to come check if you really didn't need Shoko's treatment. But it looks like you have everything under control. We'll be going now. Just pretend we were never here..." Nobara said, trying to run away as quickly as possible before Megumi got even angrier.

"Hey! Isn't that the flower he grabbed on our way back? I knew it was for her! Look how cute, she even put it on her desk!" Itadori clearly didn't get what Nobara was trying to do.

"You idiot! We need to go fast, or else he'll get mad! Let's show the photo to Gojo-Sensei! I bet he'll find it funny. We can also use it as future blackmail, but we need to go before he gets us." The brunette girl whispered, but it was loud enough for the whole building to hear

"I can hear you, you know?"

"You're right! Let's go!" Megumi was promptly ignored.

In a normal occasion, Fushiguro would probably go after them, trying to get them to delete the picture. But he was just so tired that he didn't even have the strenght to.

"Ugh, I hate them"

"No you don't" You smiled, booping his nose and resuming your hands' work on his hair "you just need sleep. You're clearly tired, and the mission made you hurt. You deserve to rest. I'll be here when you wake up"

"Thank you." Should he say it? Oh, screw it. You needed to know. "I love you"

"I love you too, Gumi"

Honestly, he couldn't be happier right now. And so, with the feeling of your skin close to his and your hands on his hair, Megumi Fushiguro drifted off to a peaceful slumber, with the sweetest dreams he ever had. Of course they were sweet. They were only about you, afterall.

You were his everything. He loved you. And you loved him back. That was something he would forever be proud of.

~ A/N: I need sleep.

Masterlist

[ratyts]

would it be weird

(leon x gn!reader)

masterlist

continuation of this from leon’s perspective. leon escapes the friendzone. also its 4am sorry for any typos i need to post this now!!!

warnings: friends to lovers, romantic tension, resolved romantic tension

word count: 2.5k

Leon blinked. His arms loosened around you, slipping down your torso. His breath stilled, lips pressed tightly together. What was it you'd said to him? He was your… best friend? Right. He could get on board with that. You were definitely his best friend as much as he was yours. His best friend whose skin was brushing against his lips, seated on his lap, holding onto him like a lifeline. His best friend who he could hardly stand to keep his hands off of, who would pick up his calls at all odd hours of the night, who consumed just about every one of his waking thoughts. He let the silence linger too long after you spoke. Leon couldn’t admit it now that his plan had failed, but thirty seconds ago, he thought he’d finally found the perfect time to casually confess his love for you. He would have to reconvene with himself later. 

Leon had never really had a best friend before you. He had no frame of reference for how it was supposed to feel. He knew he felt differently, more intensely, about you than he did his other friends. He also knew that your relationship was different from every romantic relationship he’d had in the past. But that was a given, because you weren’t his partner and you weren’t just a normal friend. You were everything to him. There wasn’t an appropriate category for you in his mind, your relationship was liminal, but he at the very least knew “best friend” wasn’t enough. The thought of only being that to you– forever, it made his heart clench. Even more so when you whispered it right into his ear like a love confession. Worst birthday gift ever.

He chuckled, refocusing himself in the moment, “I know, you’re my best friend too.” Your breath seemed to tremble at his response, and he wondered if you also knew that wasn’t enough. 

The two of you stayed like that for a moment longer before he pulled away, looking up at you with a wry smile. Past the twitch in his eye he could feel brewing, Leon could see some humor in his situation. He was in the friendzone. At the rate he was going, he’d find himself in the “you’re like a brother to me” zone before he knew it. He’d done it to himself, really. It had taken him far too long to admit to himself that he loved you as a friend, and by the time he was ready to say that, he already loved you much more and in a much different way. You weren’t to blame, he decided. Leon had marched his way into the friendzone, and it was his responsibility to claw his way out. 

That night ended as peacefully and normally as it could’ve, considering the occasional twitch of Leon’s eye and his sudden insistence to leave you alone even less than usual. He’d coaxed you into his bed (even though you always shared the bed when you came over), and latched onto you as he slept (he was always a wild sleeper), and was very proud of himself in the morning. 

In a moment of retrospection the next morning, as he watched you dig through his cupboards, completely disheveled and barely awake, he realized he had been subconsciously acting on his feelings for a long time. He thought back to the time you walked in on him changing. How it was the reddest his face had ever been, and how he embarrassingly made an effort to wear more tank tops around you– and sometimes skip the shirt completely, in the aftermath. You seemed pretty unaffected at the time, laughing it off much easier than Leon did. 

He thought back to a time even before that, the time he’d held you– really held you, for the first time. His memory of the night was blurred, he must have had one drink too many, but he remembered how it ended. It was the only time he’d cried in front of you, the only time he’d cried in front of anyone in the better part of ten years. It wasn’t over anything in particular, but you didn't ask. You just slid closer to him, wordlessly wrapping an arm around his back. Neither of you moved for a minute, then Leon raised his head and his teary eyes met yours. He wasn’t sure which one of you moved first, but before the next tear rolled down his cheek, the two of you had connected like a puzzle piece. Thinking back on it, he thought he should've known by then that you were always going to be the most important person in his life.

In his kitchen, you whipped around, empty handed. “Where’s all the food?”

“Top left,” Leon gestured towards the cabinet, the corners of his lips upturning as you returned to your search. He abandoned his position by the entrance, slowly moving closer to you. It would be so easy, so normal to close the distance. He wanted to kiss you.

“Pancake mix?” You said, stretching your arm out to grab the box, “When was the last time you went to the store?”

“A while ago,” he chuckled, walking up behind you, his chest inches from your back. “Wanna go with me?” 

Your head turned towards him, eyes widening slightly (because of his proximity, he hoped), “Uh, yeah.” You elbowed him, creating some space between the two of you, “You- you go get ready.”

He nodded, turning around to do as you said, wondering if he could’ve grabbed you. What would’ve happened if he had leaned in a little closer. He brushed it off. Leon couldn’t even disobey an offhand remark you made.

You were always so collected. It was wishful thinking, assuming you had ever been remotely flustered by him, he thought. Leon hopped around his room, slipping on a pair of jeans and a fresh t-shirt he hadn’t sweat through during the night. He could be stoic, broody even, that much Leon could admit– at least to himself. He wasn’t affectionate, he wasn’t emotional, never vulnerable. Except with you. Around you, Leon was embarrassingly honest, in his mind, at least.

He passed you as he left his bedroom, you grumbling something about needing ten minutes to get ready and that he should “make some coffee or something.” He looked over his shoulder as you shuffled away, shutting the door behind you. Again, he took your suggestion. Moving on autopilot, Leon emptied his bag of coffee grounds into the machine and flipped the on switch. The machine grumbled, shaking on the countertop as the coffee streamed into the pot. His gaze drifted towards the clock, then his bedroom door, then back to the pot. He sighed, pulling two mugs out of the cabinet– both gifts from you– as the stream became drips then finally stopped. He poured your cup first.

“Hey.” He jumped, coffee spilling onto the countertop as he spun around to see you standing only inches away from him. 

“Jesus,” Leon said with an exhale, setting the pot down then running a hand over his face. 

“Weren’t you just bragging about your super fine tuned reflexes?” Your expression was mocking, lovingly mocking, as you looked up at him. You bent sideways, glancing at the coffee dripping from the countertop to the floor then back at him with a raised brow. “You’re jumpy today.”

He rolled his eyes, painfully aware of your proximity, “I have no rebuttal.” He lifted a hand to pinch your cheek, wiping the smugness off your face, “You win, let’s go.”

He stared at your face in the moments before you pushed his hand away. Leon’s ability to read your expressions was nowhere near consistent. He could read you like a book anytime you weren't looking at him. The second you directed a look at him, it was his best (or worse, really) guess. He squinted, eyes following the back of your head as you stalked to the front door, slipping some shoes on. 

Leon sometimes thought he was a horrible friend to you. He was constantly crossing lines, pushing boundaries, going a bit further than rationality should’ve allowed. Usually, you didn’t push back. In fact, you almost always accepted anything he had to offer with willing and open arms. Except a confession. He hoped that one had been an accidental misstep.

You shuffled alongside Leon, bundled up in one of his sweaters, wincing each time a burst of chilling wind hit your face. It took him about thirty seconds to goad a reluctant yes out of you to walk the few blocks with him to the grocery store rather than drive. Leon looped an arm around you once you were outside, spinning you around to walk on his other side, away from the curb. He said something about the wind, but kept his arm around your shoulder even after you had been repositioned. It was his pesky desire to be as close as possible, to protect you from, what? The empty neighborhood street? That much he couldn’t even rationalize to himself.

Leon liked to position himself as your protector. Although you had never needed his help before, he was half sure that was because of his preemptive protective measures. There’s a fine line between possessiveness and protectiveness, he had come to learn. Leon toed it frequently. He didn’t think of possession in the usual sense– despite the places his jealousy would occasionally lead him. You weren’t an object, not something to be owned. You weren’t a doll either, you didn’t need him, not in that sense at least. But, to a certain extent, he couldn’t help it. As the two of you walked side by side, he could barely take his eyes off you to look in front of him. He tripped once in the produce aisle and somehow flat tired you twice in the deli then once in canned goods, but he couldn’t stop. 

You pulled him backwards by the collar of his sweater, stopping him at the checkout line. His eyes snapped back to you, refocusing on the task at hand. He gave a lazy smile and a shrug in response to your furrowed brow. 

“You okay?” You asked, releasing his collar, looking for an answer in his expression. He blinked, nodding, likely too obviously hoping you wouldn’t find one. You were quiet for a beat before relaxing your face, wordlessly nudging him towards the cashier.  

The walk home was colder. The bag dug into the palm of Leon’s hand, and even though you kept asking if you could carry it, Leon insisted. He kept close, your shoulders brushing with every step, even as the weight of the bag threw off his rhythmic steps. You glanced over at him every few seconds, checking for silent communication. Leon was still thinking about his failed confession. Wondering how much longer he had before someone else swept you up and away. How much longer he could hold onto you like you were his. His eye twitched again. 

By the time the two of you got back inside, he was sure his face was flushed entirely red. He kept his eyes on you as he dropped the bag in the kitchen, doubting how much of the redness was from the cold.

“Finally,” you shivered, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the couch. You rubbed your hands together, looking over your shoulder to see Leon standing feet away, hesitating. Before your confusion could grow, he quickly followed your suit, settling down next to you. You turned away, satisfied, turning on the TV and flipping through the channels. Leon was sitting close enough that his knee brushed against yours, his hand brushed against the side of your thigh. He looked at you with a pensive expression, eyes continuously flickering back down to your lips. He wasn’t sure when it started, but it felt familiar, like he’d been staring all day. He swallowed, hard. Then before he could think, his lips parted.

“I want to kiss you,” he blinked, eyes wide as if his words surprised himself. Leon kept his voice steady, betrayed only by the blush on his cheeks. 

You were silent for a moment before you paused your ministrations on the remote and turned your head towards him, brows furrowed, “Huh?” 

“You heard me.”

“No-” You blinked, shaking your head, losing the remote in the crevice of his couch, “No, what? Say it again.”

He sighed, embarrassment creeping up and the looming fear of rejection hanging above his head, “Remember when I said I love you? Last night?” 

You nod, your face painted with confusion and something else Leon couldn’t decipher. 

“Well,” he cleared his throat, shifting to rest his arm along the top of the couch, “I… Damn it. Can I kiss you or not?”

Your mouth fell open, then shut quickly. Processing for a moment, you begin a slow nod, your eyes boring into his, “...You can kiss me.”

Leon freezes, and you don’t move either. He’s not sure who leaned in first, but a moment later your faces are inches apart and his half lidded eyes snap open as he sees yours flutter shut. He inhales sharply and grabs the back of your neck, bringing your lips together. You recoiled, pulling away as quickly as it had happened, a hand shooting up to cover your mouth and Leon swears the cloud of rejection is floating above him again.

“Holy shit,” you said, your words muffled by your hand.

Leon nods, hesitantly, heart threatening to beat out of his chest, “Yeah.”

“You love me?” You swallow, voice small.

He nods again, certain his cool facade has melted into something pathetic and desperate by now. He moves to release his hold on your nape and your hand grabs his forearms before he can, keeping him in place. In a less than graceful maneuver, you use his hand to pull you closer. Then, inches apart again, you raise your hands to cup his cheeks and lean in. By the time Leon realizes you haven’t slapped him and stormed out, you’ve already peppered kisses across every inch of his face you could reach. 

Oh, God, he thinks. He’s so stupid.

His hands regain purpose, and he pulls you in with a new force, pressing his mouth against yours without hesitation. Leon’s free hand found itself at your waist, pulling you in until you were chest to chest. Your arms wrapped around his neck, falling on top of him. You gasped, and he took advantage of the opening, deepening the kiss, holding onto you like you were the last tether he had to earth. A shiver ran down his spine as you pulled away, chest heaving, eyes locked onto his. He placed a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth then pulled you back down into an embrace, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. He couldn’t wipe the stupid smile off his face, so he just chuckled and held onto you tighter.

“Leon,” you began, breath hot on his skin, “I feel so stupid.”

He laughed a little harder, feeling your smile against his neck, “You have no idea.”

[random-fandom1984]

Can I have some g1 soundwave x reader please😅😅😅😅😅

Being the only femme Cybertronian on the Ark can be... something. Especially when some of them try hitting on you without getting to know you; quite annoying really, but you keep it pushed down; but some people can tell because of your alt-mode.

You stayed in the Ark because of your job as a medic. Your alt-mode is a heartbeat monitor, which also corresponds with your sparkbeats, which is how some people, very few, can tell what you're feeling.

You made your own little base of operations under an abandoned amusement park. You'd bring in people who were injured and left behind in the ruckus of the battlefield between the two factions. Human or Decepticon.

Whenever it's a human, you'd ask them to promise to not tell your Autobot friends about your place of escape, and they do. But with Decepticons, you make sure that they are knocked out, and you just give them a few amounts of anesthesia because they would break in, destroy the place, kidnap you and hold you for ransom against your friends.

One day, when looking through one of the many aftermaths of a battle, you found a minicon in the rubble, Soundwave's minicon: Frenzy. When you took him back to your base, you realized you've forgotten to stock up on more anesthesia, so now you have to worry with the fact that he might wake up soon as you did the procedure of fix-and-repair.

As you were putting your tools away, he woke up with a fright, and you quickly explained the situation to him, which slightly calmed him down. Key word: Slightly. He was suspicious of you but is slowly diminished as you continued to work on the minor injuries that just need a new paint job and be buffed. The last bit disappeared in an instant when you gave him an Energon Goodie.

When he came by again, to your surprise that he remembered the way here, you gave a tour of the place above, he somehow managed to get the place up and running again; thank Primus that your location was miles away from the nearest civilization.

As time went by, Rumble found out, then Ravage, then Laserbeak. When they come to visit, it would be like as if there was no war, they're having a good time in the amusement park.

Sooner or later, Soundwave got suspicious. Where were his kids minicons going late at night?

Being the best spy he is, he followed them, and was surprised that they were hanging out with an Autobot, weren't fighting like there was a war, stopping a fight between Rumble and Frenzy as calm as possible- and somehow easily get them to make up?! He couldn't do that without them continuing to squabble with each other.

He used his telepathy powers to look into your thoughts to see if you secretly had ill intentions with his sons minicons, but there wasn't any!

When his minicons return back to base, it's an instant interrogation the moment they step foot back in the habsuite: How long has this been going on? How did this happen in the first place? What do she always do with them? The only questions that were about you were answered back with positivity.

Curious, he decided to look more into your file when the Decepticons fight the Autobots near the Ark. When he does, all he finds is all good things.

When it was the next time they decided to visit, he wanted to meet her in person. And so he did, and by Primus were you nervous. You were worried he might blow your helm up. You, Soundwave, and his minicons walked through the park, watching the minicons play games, ride the rides; he began to trust you.

The more you all hang out in private, at your secret location, the more you begin to bond closer together, mainly you and Soundwave; the minicons noticed it as clear as day.

So, being mischievous little ones they are, Rumble and Frenzy decided to stage a lil' something. In private, the minicons would call Soundwave Sire, or dad in human terms. So, when the next time you and they met up, they would unexpectedly drop Carrier, mom, at random times in the night. When they first did it, they'd put on an act like as if they didn't mean to say it and it just slip. You fell for their act, so did Soundwave because it was unexpected.

They see you? An Autobot medic? As a parental figure? I mean, sure, you heal up their injuries, you give them Energon sweets if they be good and behave, calmly deal with their fights, gives them sweet head pats, have the most caring optics he's seen, the most beautiful smile- Oh, scrap! He's in love.

He would lie awake at night, questioning why he found you attractive. For starters, your gently touch that he felt when you repaired him, your smiles seem to shine brighter than any star, and sound from your vocalizer was like a siren's call and he was the sailor that was lured by its enchanting melody, your optics the prettiest shade of blue that rivals with this hunk of rock's sky, have the spirit of a Carrier with his kids- Primus, he was hooked, lined and had sunk deep.

After he came to terms with his newfound emotions, he started noticing something about you. Every single time he was close to you, he'd see the screen of your alt-mode, on your chassis, start getting taller. One time, he danced with you as music played in the park, and he saw that the big spikes became frequent, and a subtle blush would be on your cheek plates that you try to hide with your servo and turning your helm to the side. He found this adorable, so much that he became addicted to having that cute blush on your face.

When back on the Ark, you would get pings from an unknown comm-link number, only to realize it's Soundwave, and he's sending you something. When you are finally alone in your habsuite, you would take a look to see that they were poems; they were so sweet, you reread them, laying on your berth, kicking your feet as you excitedly giggle from how nice, sweet, and adorable they are that they might as well be invitations for Cupid to continue to shoot arrows into your spark, making you fall harder for the Con.

When they spent the night in your secret base, you all had fun doing any activity that comes to mind: pillow/blanket forts, teaching the little ones the steps on how you make your glorious Energon Goodies, etc. The last activity was a horror movie marathon. Every time a jump scare would pop up on the screen, you would hug the closest bot, and it just so happened to be Soundwave. During the horror movie marathon, you, Soundwave, and his kids ended up in a cuddle pile, scared, all but Soundwave, Ravage, and Laserbeak.

They decided to spend the night here before returning to the Decepticon base at the break of dawn. You decided to put the little ones to sleep. He decided to start cleaning up the mess that was made, and when he finished, he came back to you telling the ending of an old Cybertron bedtime story.

To him, it looked so nice and peaceful, and you looked so motherly that he just wanted to confess right there, right now. What sealed the deal was you placing a goodnight kiss on the top of their helms, tucking them to sleep before leaving the room they were occupying, only to be dragged off to somewhere by Soundwave, into the place you slept in from time-to-time.

You wondered what was happening, until Soundwave got on one knee plate, servos holding your own, visor looking up into your optics, glistening as he let out a very poetic, charming, delightful, exquisite of him telling you about his feelings, everything about you that made his spark soar: your voice, your optics, your touch, everything.

He carefully watched the screen on you chassis to see if there was any indication of making you uncomfortable or not. And by the end of his heartfelt confession, he watched the heart monitor didn't make any giant spikes. Oh, no. It made a heart at the center of the monitor as blush covers your entire faceplate.

Part 2

[misshoneyimhome]

What's up buttercups 💕

Lucky number thirteen is here—and it’s time for our Ice King, the Golden boy, to really prove what he's made of. If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to bring Auston Matthews home to meet your mother… well, this is my (very shameless) take on that fantasy 🙈 Not saying I’ve imagined this scene for years… but also, not not saying that 😉

As always, I hope you enjoy every messy, steamy, awkward moment. Happy reading, babes—and sending you all the love ❤️

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, 18+ smut: semi-public dry-touching, oral sex (m receiving), orgasm denial/edging, slight sub/dom-act, fingering, unprotected vag sexual intercourse (no cum inside), oral sex (m receiving), cum swallowing

Word count: 6.8k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven ; Chapter twelve

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo

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Chapter thirteen - A king can move one space at the time…*

::

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

The game continues. Last night, the Queen did not surrender. She rose—flushed, glorious, and kissed by fire—and the King, ever unpredictable, played a move no one saw coming. But if chess has taught us anything, it’s this: each piece has a purpose. And some, when pushed to their limit, become more dangerous than ever.

So, what now?

They’ve shared the battlefield. They’ve blurred the lines. And if last night’s performance was any indication, the Ice King is no longer playing to protect the crown—he’s playing to win her.

And yet, every kingdom has its knights.

Did anyone even recognise Lorentz or Knies on the ice? Each move made by our Queen and King is being watched—studied—by the court they keep.

But at what cost?

We move one space at a time, dear readers. And sometimes, the most powerful move is the one you don’t see coming.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

—

You woke up alone.

The November rain was steady against the windows, soft and relentless, painting streaks across the glass like the sky couldn’t make up its mind about being gentle or cruel. The light was grey and muted, seeping into the room in thin, silvery layers. Almost romantic if it weren’t so dull. If your chest didn’t feel like it had been pinned in place by something, you couldn’t quite name.

Auston was gone.

The sheets were still tangled around your legs, warm from where your bodies had been. You shifted slightly, the dull ache between your thighs blooming back to life with the movement. It was the kind of soreness that lingered, clinging to your skin like memory—tender hips, stiff neck, the faintest tremble in your limbs that told the full story of how he’d handled you. The inside of your elbows bore light pressure marks—imprints of where he’d held you down. You didn’t mind.

There was no trace of sunlight—only the soft hum of rain and the distant creak of old pipes in the walls. But the scent still lingered, curling around you like a second duvet. Auston. That familiar blend of cedar, fresh air, and the heat of skin against skin. Faint traces of your perfume, too. And the salt-sweet aftermath of everything he’d done to you. With you.

Your hand reached blindly for the other side of the bed, finding nothing but cool fabric and the ghost of his weight in the mattress.

He hadn’t even asked to stay.

And you’d let him.

There had been no cuddling. No whispered promises or tangled limbs. Just his presence, steady and firm beside you until sometime in the early hours. You remembered waking once—briefly—to the sensation of his back to you, the soft sound of his breath steady and slow. He hadn’t touched you. Just existed beside you. And somehow… that had been enough.

But now? Now he was gone, and you were left with your thoughts and the echo of last night.

You reached for your phone, half-buried in the tangle of covers, your fingers fumbling over the charger cord. The screen lit up immediately, a single message waiting for you:

Auston: See you later, boss. Just tell me when and where.

You stared at it for a long moment, your lips twitching in a quiet, disbelieving smile. It was classic him—short, cocky, a little smug—but it landed like a stone in your chest. Not because it hurt. But because it felt… certain. Like a promise.

He was still in this.

Whatever this was.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, rereading it once. Twice. Then again, like the words might shift or reveal something deeper if you looked hard enough. But they didn’t change.

And yet, they grounded you.

You sank back against the pillows, head tipping to the side, breathing in the scent of him one more time. Your skin still tingled in places—especially the ones he’d marked with his mouth, his teeth, his hands.

Last night had cracked you open.

Not just physically—though that had certainly been part of it. But emotionally. Viscerally.

You hadn’t expected to want what he gave you. You didn’t think you’d enjoy being touched like that, commanded like that. But God, the way he had looked at you—like you were made to be ruined by him, the way he’d coaxed every cry and curse out of you like it was a melody he’d memorised—he made you melt.

And the worst part?

You wanted more.

You wanted him to push further. Take more. Say the things he said with that voice that went dark and low just before he lost control. You wanted to know what else he could unlock inside you.

You weren’t scared of it anymore. You were curious.

Your phone buzzed again—this time with a message from your mother—and the real world came crashing back like a wave.

Right. Tonight.

You swung your legs out of bed, feet touching the cool floor, and tried to find your centre. To stay in control. But the second your eyes caught the soft pink bruises at your inner thigh as you passed the mirror, your stomach fluttered again.

He hadn’t just fucked you. He’d changed something in you.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, tying your robe around your waist with a sharp tug. “No spiralling. Just… dinner.”

Dinner with your family.

Dinner with Auston.

The sheer absurdity of it made you want to laugh. Or hide. Or crawl back into bed and pretend you didn’t just spend the night giving Auston Matthews control of your body in ways you never thought possible.

But you didn’t do any of those things.

You headed to the shower. Let the steam clear your head or try to. You washed him off your skin but not from your thoughts.

And you tried—really, truly tried—not to overthink.

It wouldn’t be easy. Not for you. And certainly not for him.

Meeting your family never was.

You’d grown up in a house where expectations were tucked beneath the placemats and poured into the wine glasses. Where your mother loved you loudly but judged you louder. Where your siblings always knew the right thing to say, and you were still learning how to speak without apology.

So, bringing Auston into that? Even fake Auston?

It felt like standing in front of a firing squad.

You towelled off and stared into the mirror again, this time really looking. At your still-slightly-swollen lips. At the faint love bite near your collarbone. At your eyes—wide, uncertain, and yet… excited?

You sighed.

“Get it together,” you muttered, reaching for your moisturiser. “It’s just one dinner. With your fake boyfriend. Who gave you two or three orgasms last night. No big deal.”

Totally normal.

Completely fine.

You weren’t spiralling at all.

But the nervous flutter in your chest? It didn’t lie.

Something had changed. And tonight, you’d find out just how much.

_

Auston had gone home to walk Felix. He needed the fresh air—the quiet grounding of early morning rain against concrete, the leash loose in his hand, the familiar click of claws on pavement. But more than anything, he just needed to breathe.

Your apartment still clung to him. Your scent. Your skin. The sounds you made. The softness in your voice when you said his name like it meant something real.

He hadn’t meant to stay last night. He really hadn’t. But after everything—after the game, the hallway, the car park—walking away had felt impossible. So he hadn’t. He’d stayed. Watched the curve of your back rise and fall with each breath beside him, his own heart hammering beneath ribs that had never felt so breakable.

No cuddling. No tangled limbs or whispered promises. Just presence. And yet it had felt louder than anything else.

Auston adjusted his grip on the leash as Felix paused to sniff at a streetlamp, tail wagging.

He’d crossed boundaries with you. Pushed you to your limits. And he’d loved every second of it. The way you melted beneath him, the way you begged without shame, the way your body gave in and gave back like it had always belonged to him. He’d learned something about you last night. Something about himself, too.

And he wanted more.

Not just more of your body—though fuck, that haunted him—but more of you. The you who teased and challenged and met him toe to toe. The you who looked at him like he wasn’t just the Ice King, but a man worth melting for.

His phone buzzed. A message lit up from a number he sort of recognised - Brunette #4 (or maybe it was #3, he didn’t really know):

“Hope you’ll be happy with her. Jk. You’re a dick. Hate u!”

Auston snorted under his breath. Swiped it away without replying. He didn’t care. Not anymore. Not about girls who knew his schedule better than they knew his laugh. Not about pretty distractions with perfect lips and no substance.

He pulled up your last message instead.

You: Dinner’s at 6. I’ll send the address. Be on time.

He smirked. His thumb hovered briefly before he typed:

Auston: Yes boss. I’ll be there. Game face on.

_

Back at your place, your nerves were fraying at the edges like the hem of a dress you hadn’t had time to mend. You sat cross-legged in front of your vanity, trying not to look like you were about to implode, while Jess hovered behind you like a glam squad with a grudge.

“Jess,” you snapped, batting her hand away as she reached for your face again, “if you touch my eyebrows one more time—”

“Oh my god, calm down,” Jess groaned, rolling her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. “I’m not carving them off with a butter knife. I’m literally brushing them. You act like I’m trying to steal your identity.”

“I’m meeting my mum,” you hissed, eyes wide in the mirror. “With Auston. For dinner. Do you have any idea how deeply not okay I am?”

Jess’s face softened, just slightly. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair. But, babe—look at you. You’re gorgeous. Like scary, don’t-make-eye-contact-on-the-subway gorgeous. She’s gonna take one look at you two and assume he’s already picked out a ring.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to show how those words made your stomach twist. “Sure. Because nothing screams eternal love like emotionally repressed NHL captains and dinner with overbearing mothers.”

Jess gave you a look. “You joke, but seriously? What you said he said last night? To that girl - If that’s not real, then I need to see my therapist again.”

You froze. Just a little. Just enough for her to notice.

She plopped down beside you on the bed, lipstick in hand, legs crossed like she had all the time in the world. “Like, do we need to start brainstorming engagement hashtags? Because #MapleMatrimony kinda slaps.”

You laughed—too loud, too sharp. “Please stop. I can’t breathe in this blouse, let alone process a fictional wedding.”

Jess just grinned, unbothered. “I’m only half-joking. He looks at you like he’d move mountains. Or at least miss a morning skate, which for him? Basically the same thing.”

You didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, you focused on your eyeliner, smudging it just enough to look like you weren’t trying too hard. “He’s just good at playing the part,” you said, voice breezy. “We’ve had to… navigate a lot lately.”

Jess leaned in, peering at you. “Yeah, and most guys don’t navigate their way into your bed and your family dinner in the same weekend. Just saying.”

You grabbed the pillow next to you and whacked her with it. She yelped, laughing.

“Okay, okay!” she said through giggles. “Fine, I’ll shut up. But I’m not blind, and neither is your mum. And I swear, if he pulls the whole ‘let me help with the dishes’ move after dinner? I’m starting a Pinterest board.”

You shook your head, but the smile tugging at your lips was reluctant. “You’re impossible.”

Jess shrugged. “And you’re in denial.”

There was a pause. Then, casually, she added, “Oh—and guess who asked about you again?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Ryan,” she sing-songed. “Mr. ‘Just One Date’ is now Mr. ‘Persistent Since Wednesday.’ He’s clearly not over it.”

You groaned, tossing the pillow at her again. “Don’t start.”

Jess caught it this time. “What? You’ve got options, babe. Even if one of them is currently playing doting boyfriend and giving your mum grandkid fever.”

You stared down at your phone. Fingers hovering. Thinking.

“I should text him what wine she likes,” you muttered.

Jess grinned, satisfied. “Oh yeah. Nothing to see here at all.”

You didn’t respond.

Because the truth? You weren’t sure where the performance ended anymore either.

_

“Our Queen has left the palace gates. Destination? Home turf. But family dinners are rarely just that, especially when love—or the illusion of it—is on the menu.

Tonight, the Ice King faces a far more dangerous opponent than any rival team: the Queen’s mother. A woman known to wield passive-aggression with the skill of a seasoned general. And while our King might be fluent in post-game interviews and press charm, is he ready for the battlefield of Sunday roasts and sibling shade?

One wrong answer and the royal illusion could come crashing down. - The Benchwarmer”

_

The drive to your mother’s house—just over an hour outside of Toronto—felt longer than usual, even with the November dusk softening the edges of the highway in moody streaks of grey and fading gold. The rain had stopped earlier, but the clouds still hung low, like they were waiting for an excuse to open up again.

Auston was behind the wheel, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other lazily tapping against the gearshift to the rhythm of a song you barely heard. He looked frustratingly relaxed, like he was driving to a pre-game skate and not straight into the lion’s den of your family dinner.

You, on the other hand, were wound so tight your fingers had gone numb from fidgeting with the seam of your skirt.

It wasn’t Auston you were nervous about.

It was everything else.

Your mother wasn’t cruel. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t throw tantrums or make scenes. But she could disarm a person with a single look, a question phrased too politely to be anything but loaded. Her wine glass was her weapon, her smile the misdirection. And Auston—cocky, confident Auston—wouldn’t see it coming until he was already bleeding out on the dining room floor.

You could practically hear her now:

“And what exactly is your long-term plan?” “Do you think professional hockey is a real career?” “What does a man with no stability offer my daughter?”

All delivered with silk-gloved precision while she passed the roasted vegetables and offered seconds like it was all completely civil.

Your older brothers weren’t much better. Two walking LinkedIn profiles with perfectly pressed collars and curated families, ready to pounce under the guise of protectiveness. They’d test Auston’s patience, push his buttons, try to make him squirm just enough to feel like they’d done their big-brotherly duty.

And the twins? Seventeen and already halfway viral on TikTok. They’d either flirt shamelessly or roast him within an inch of his life—maybe both. If they weren’t already drafting a group chat called Matthews Watch 2025, you’d be shocked.

You exhaled sharply and glanced over.

Auston was focused on the road, one hand casually adjusting the volume. His jaw was relaxed, his leg bouncing lightly to the beat. If he was nervous, he sure as hell didn’t show it.

“You good?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

He glanced your way and smirked. “Game face on.”

You let out a humourless laugh, nerves bubbling just beneath the surface. “This isn’t a game.”

Auston shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Isn’t it?”

You didn’t respond. You just turned your face back toward the window, watching as the city slipped away behind you and suburbia crept closer with every mile. Your heart pounded louder than the bass in the car, every street sign a countdown.

Tonight, you weren’t just pretending to be Auston’s girlfriend.

You were pretending that you could handle the weight of all this. The chaos. The closeness. The quiet questions clawing their way up your throat.

Because deep down, you weren’t sure if this was still about pretending anymore.

You pulled into the driveway a few minutes before six. The sun was already beginning to dip behind the neighbour’s maple trees, casting long shadows across the familiar brick path that led to the front door. Auston shifted beside you in the driver's seat, gaze fixed on the modest two-storey house that had been home for most of your life. It wasn’t extravagant, not like some of the places he knew, but it was warm, lived-in—paint slightly chipped around the doorframe, wind chimes clinking lazily near the porch light.

“This it?” he asked, a touch of amusement in his voice.

“This is it,” you replied, inhaling deeply. “The arena of maternal judgment.”

He smirked, one brow rising. “Can’t wait.”

Inside, it was everything you remembered—faintly scented with lemon polish and lavender, the hum of an old dishwasher in the background, the faint creak of floorboards under soft slippers. Your mother appeared in the hallway almost instantly, all smiles and carefully curated cheer.

“Auston, welcome,” she said with a tone that could only be described as formal hospitality laced with subtle suspicion. She extended her hand—her grip was firm, brief.

“Thank you, Mrs—”

“Oh, none of that. Call me Janice,” she interrupted. “We’re not so formal here.”

You exchanged a look with Auston. Oh yes, she was in performance mode.

The introductions followed in rapid succession. Your eldest brother, Daniel, shook Auston’s hand with a nod that barely concealed his “I’m watching you” energy. His wife, Samira, was sweet, if a little wide-eyed. Your second brother, Thomas, had his baby on one hip and didn’t even try to hide his smirk as he muttered, “So this is the guy,” before disappearing into the living room.

The twins—Chloe and Claire—barely looked up from their phones, though Chloe offered a distracted, “We’ve seen you on TikTok,” and Claire added with a smirk, “We liked you better without the moustache. Makes you look like a creep.”

Auston took it all in stride, unbothered and smiling just enough. He gave each person just the right amount of charm, nodded at the right moments, and even asked about the dog that no longer lived there.

Your mother ushered you both down the hallway like a tour guide, pointing out where the new wallpaper had gone up, how the fireplace had finally been repaired. And then, just before dinner, she opened the door to your old bedroom.

“This used to be hers,” she said with a fond glance at you. “Now it’s where the kids keep all their toys. Can’t let any space go to waste.”

You blinked at the bright foam alphabet tiles covering your once carefully curated posters and polaroids. Auston stepped inside, smiling faintly at the worn-out Beatrix Potter books and abandoned LEGO sets.

“So this is where the magic happened?” he teased under his breath, glancing at you.

“Don’t,” you warned, shooting him a look—but your lips twitched.

Your mother appeared behind you with a perfectly timed glass of white wine. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she said. “Now don’t drink it all at once.”

You accepted the glass gratefully, only for her to add with a slightly raised brow, “Though I do hope it’s not a nightly habit now that you’re dating a professional athlete.”

You didn’t answer. Just took a very long sip.

Auston bit back a grin.

Game on.

_

Dinner had started surprisingly well. Your brothers, of course, couldn’t resist giving Auston a hard time—sarcastic questions about his “hobby” turned career, jabs about his skating, jokes about his salary. But Auston, to your complete lack of surprise, took it all in stride. He handled them with the same cool detachment he gave reporters in scrums—smiling when appropriate, firing off one-liners that made even your stiffest sibling crack a grin.

And somehow, you were right there with him.

Trading barbs. Meeting teasing with sass. You weren’t just surviving the family dinner—tonight, you were thriving in it. For once, you felt calm, composed. Powerful, even. Like something about Auston’s presence grounded you, amplified you.

Or maybe it was the wine.

Or the fact that you still hadn’t fully shaken the memory of him last night—his mouth, his hands, the way he’d made you feel like the only woman in the world.

Your skin buzzed with that memory as you passed the potatoes and laughed at something Thomas said. But then—then—you felt it.

Auston’s hand.

Low and steady, it landed gently on your thigh beneath the table. His pinky brushed against the hem of your skirt. Innocent enough. Until it wasn’t.

His fingertips dragged upward, slow and deliberate, until they slipped under the fabric entirely. He didn’t go far—just grazed the edge of your inner thigh, barely there, before retreating and starting again. Lazy circles. Featherlight teasing.

Your fork paused mid-air. You didn’t even blink.

You pressed your legs together instinctively, but it only made it worse. Or better. You weren’t sure.

So you retaliated.

You mimicked his motions, letting your hand drop onto his knee under the table, soft and casual. His thigh was warm beneath your touch. Solid. You traced light patterns there, fingertips dancing higher and higher, until you reached the seam of his trousers. You gave the inside of his leg a slight squeeze.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t miss a beat as he answered Daniel’s question about locker room politics.

But you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The tight clench of his jaw.

Oh, so this was how he wanted to play it.

His hand moved again, bolder this time, sliding further up your thigh. Your breath hitched when his fingers pressed against the heat between your legs—just for a second. Just enough to remind you that he could ruin you with a single move. Then he pulled back like nothing had happened.

“Tell me, Auston,” your mother chimed in from across the table, setting her wine glass down with a faint clink. “Do you ever think about what comes after hockey? I mean, it’s not exactly… a sustainable lifestyle, is it?”

You rolled your eyes. Here we go.

Auston didn’t even blink. “That’s fair. I’ve started thinking about long-term investments, actually. Property. Some charity initiatives, too.”

“Oh?” your mother pressed, eyebrows raised. “And how do you plan to balance that with… family?”

And that’s when you did it.

Your palm slid slowly over his crotch under the table. He was slowly hardening beneath your touch.

You kept your expression neutral as you sipped your wine.

Auston coughed once. Covered it as a laugh. “I guess it comes down to good support systems. And priorities.”

You watched your mother nod, unimpressed. Your brothers had already lost interest and launched into some story about a neighbour’s divorce.

You turned toward Auston slightly, lips barely parted, voice just low enough to vibrate beneath the buzz of conversation. “You’re doing great.”

His eyes slid to yours. Dangerous. Hungry.

“You’re playing with fire, boss,” he murmured, leaning in like he was adjusting his chair. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You smiled sweetly, brushing your hand just a little firmer across him, enough to draw a subtle breath from his lips.

“Maybe I want to finish it,” you whispered back. Then, after a pause, “Maybe I want to finish you… with my mouth.”

He exhaled slowly. Closed his eyes for half a second.

You felt him swell fully against your hand. Felt the tension in his thigh. The deliberate stillness in his posture.

And you—well, you sat there like nothing was happening at all.

Just a woman. At dinner. With her mother and siblings.

And the man whose self-control you were absolutely annihilating under a perfectly ironed tablecloth.

The opportunity came when your eldest brother launched into his third monologue of the evening—something about a new executive title, a cross-border investment, or his firm’s sixth-figure quarterly bonus. You didn’t really catch the details. You just saw Auston’s gaze flick to yours, jaw tight, pulse visible in his neck, and you knew. It was time.

You leaned toward your mother with a polite excuse, murmuring something about needing the bathroom. And Auston followed less than a minute later, slipping away while the table erupted into a discussion about mortgage rates.

The hallway was narrow. Quiet. You led him toward the guest bathroom at the back of the house—furthest from the dining room, furthest from voices. And you barely managed to click the door shut before Auston’s mouth crashed into yours.

It was heat. Desperation. Tongues tangled. Teeth clashed. His hands found your hips and pushed you against the wall with a groan that vibrated through your spine.

“You think you can get away with that?” he rasped against your mouth. “Touching me like that while your mum talked about fatherhood?”

You didn’t answer. You just dropped to your knees instead.

And oh, the look on his face—shock melting into pure, ravenous hunger—burned itself into your memory.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands, unfastening it with a confidence you rarely felt. The second you freed him from the constraints of his trousers, he was already hard—So thick, flushed, desperate, it made your mouth water.

You wanted to taste him so badly. To show him you could unravel him just like he could you. 

You took him in, slow at first, your lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling in a soft, maddening tease. His groan cracked in his throat. One hand slapped to the door behind you. The other found your hair, fingers tightening just enough to remind you he wasn’t in the mood for slow and sweet.

You stroked him with one hand while your mouth worked the rest—hollowing your cheeks, flattening your tongue, bobbing your head in an unrelenting rhythm that had his knees locking.

“Fuck—” he hissed, biting down on the inside of his fist.

You glanced up at him through your lashes. He was flushed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as he stared down at you with something that looked dangerously close to reverence.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

But you did. For just a second. Just to drag your tongue along the underside of his cock and blow softly against the tip. The way he twitched in your hand made you smirk.

He groaned—louder this time—and you had to reach up with your free hand, press a finger to his lips.

“Shhh,” you whispered, licking a drop of precome off your bottom lip. “You want your ‘future mother-in-law’ to hear?”

“Jesus,” he growled, his hips bucking forward.

You took him deeper this time. All the way down. Gagged around him. Drooled messily down your chin as your throat tightened and your fingers dug into the meat of his thighs.

Auston’s head tipped back. His fingers fisted in your hair, dragging you closer, harder, until you could barely breathe. You didn’t care. You wanted to ruin him. You wanted him undone and breathless and at your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the tremble of his thighs. The twitch of his cock against your tongue. The broken sounds falling from his lips.

And then—

“Dessert, anyone?” your mother’s voice called out faintly from the kitchen.

You froze.

Auston’s breath hitched.

And then you pulled back. Slowly and gently. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“What the fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth. His hand was still braced against the door. His cock, swollen and red, was still slick with your spit. His jaw was clenched like he could crack a tooth.

You stood, adjusted your skirt with a wicked smirk, and leaned in close to whisper against his jaw, ”what? Dessert’s ready.”

And just like that you left him to himself. Hard and needy. Completely blue balled. 

You walked back into the dining room like you hadn’t just left Auston Matthews on the verge of orgasm in your childhood bathroom. Sat back in your chair, reached for your wine, and smiled at your sisters like nothing had happened at all.

But Auston?

He sat beside you moments later, composed only in appearance. His eyes were dark. His body was still wound tight with frustration. And you could feel the fury in the way he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he murmured.

You sipped your wine. “Promises, promises.”

His hand slid beneath the table again, but this time it wasn’t playful.

It was a warning.

_

The silence in the car was thick.

Not the kind that begged to be broken, but the kind that said more than any words could. Auston hadn’t spoken since the moment your mother waved goodbye from the porch, a slice of pie in one hand and suspicion still stitched into her parting smile. You hadn’t expected warmth from her—not really—but the tension she brought to the table had taken its toll.

Still, it hadn’t been your mother’s scrutiny that turned Auston cold. You knew exactly what it was. The tease. The touch. The look on his face when your mother had called from the kitchen just before he could unravel completely in your mouth.

He was furious. You could feel it in every rigid turn of the steering wheel, every calculated blink in your direction that never quite landed. And you… well, you couldn’t decide if you were sorry or smug.

The highway stretched out in a blur of taillights and twilight. You sat with your hands folded neatly in your lap, trying not to squirm under the weight of his silence. Until, without warning, Auston took a sharp exit—one you didn’t recognise.

“Aus?” you said, voice hesitant.

He didn’t answer. Just kept driving—off the main road, down a gravel path that led to nowhere in particular. Trees lined the edge of the clearing, the sky above now dipped in deep navy, only the dashboard casting a faint glow between you.

The car slowed to a stop, and you turned to him, your heart already in your throat. “Where are we—?”

“I’m not done with you,” he said.

His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous in the way it coiled around your spine.

“I had to sit through dinner with your entire family,” he continued, still not looking at you. “Had to smile while your mum called me irresponsible, while your brothers grilled me about my future, and your sisters tried to trip me up with questions like it was a game.”

You swallowed hard. “You handled it like a pro.”

His jaw ticked. “I always do.”

And then he turned to you, finally—his gaze like a live wire sparking against your skin.

“But what I can’t handle,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “is being left hanging with a hard-on the size of my ego and a mother asking me if I want whipped cream on my pie.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed.

His hand was on your jaw in an instant. Firm. Possessive. “You think that’s funny?”

“No,” you whispered, biting your lip.

“Because you’ve been playing games all night, boss. But I don’t think you really understand what it means to play with fire.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Until he said, “Back seat. Now.”

And something inside you snapped like a live wire—sharp, electric, alive. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just… heat. Thrumming low in your belly, rising like a tide you had no desire to stop.

Because the version of you that might’ve once laughed nervously, who would’ve deflected or joked her way out of something this intense? She was gone. Left behind somewhere between last night’s hallway, this morning’s sheets, and the exact moment Auston’s fingers slid up your thigh under your mother’s dinner table. In her place was someone braver. Bolder. Someone who wanted to see what happened when you let yourself burn.

You climbed over the centre console without a word, heart hammering, breath shallow. The seat was cool against the backs of your thighs, the leather creaking softly as you adjusted yourself, skirt riding high. Your legs spread, just slightly, as if inviting him. Daring him.

The passenger door clicked shut behind him, followed by the low sound of the lock sliding into place.

And then he was on you.

No warning. No sweet nothings. Just heat and hands and hunger.

Auston’s body crowded you instantly, the weight of him pressing you into the leather as if he needed to stake a claim. His mouth brushed the line of your jaw, not quite a kiss—more a threat, soft and searing. One hand palmed your hip, dragging your skirt higher until the cool air kissed the backs of your thighs. The other pressed to the seat beside your head, anchoring him above you, his breath skating across your lips.

“You don’t get to start something like that,” he growled, low and sharp, “and not finish it.”

You met his eyes—dark, wild, furious with want—and whispered, “Then finish it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His mouth crashed to yours, and it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was possession, full and messy and open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that swallowed sound and left nothing untouched. His tongue slid against yours with practiced intent, tasting you, claiming you.

Auston didn’t undress you, not fully. He didn’t need to. His fingers worked with fast, controlled precision—skirt pushed up, blouse tugged open at the buttons, bra shifted just enough for him to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple like it was instinct.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

Every move he made was calculated. Every shift of his hips, every scrape of his fingers—deliberate and punishing. He had something to prove, and your body was the battleground.

You barely noticed your legs spreading wider to accommodate the press of his knee. All you could focus on was the press of his fingers between your thighs, dragging through your folds like he already knew exactly how wet you were. How ready. And he groaned when he found you—low and primal, the kind of sound that made your spine arch and your hands fist in his jacket.

He teased you first, because of course he did. Auston was many things, but merciful was not one of them—not when you’d left him hard and needy and furious in your mother’s bathroom.

His fingers slid through you with maddening control. Circles. Pressure. Just enough to make your hips lift off the seat. Just enough to make your lips part around a silent plea.

“Already soaked,” he murmured against your throat, voice thick. “Knew you’d be like this.”

You whimpered. He chuckled, dark and dangerous, before slipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right—making your eyes slam shut and your walls clench.

“You gonna beg now, boss?” he whispered, dragging his mouth to your collarbone. “Or you still think you’re in charge?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your mouth had gone slack, your body arching into his like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. And when he pulled his fingers away—leaving you empty, aching—you almost sobbed.

He made you wait. Just long enough to drive you mad.

And then, finally, he undid his trousers with one hand, shoved them low enough to free himself, and lined up without ceremony—just the heat of him pressing at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock sliding through your folds like a warning.

When he finally thrust inside, it was with one, deep, devastating stroke.

You cried out—high and sharp, the sound muffled by the crook of his shoulder as your body split around him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t soft.

It was punishment. And it was perfect.

His pace was relentless. The windows fogged instantly, your moans caught in the thick, humid air, your fingers scrabbling against the car door, the seatbelt strap, his shoulders—anything to ground yourself. But he didn’t give you a moment to adjust. He just took. Again and again, until your mind blurred and your muscles locked and you couldn’t remember a world that didn’t have him inside you.

“You like pushing me?” he rasped, snapping his hips forward so hard your breath caught. “This what you wanted?”

You could barely nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

But he felt it. The way your body clenched around him, the way your legs wrapped tighter, your cries becoming desperate now.

And he rewarded you.

One hand snaked between you, pressing to your clit with just the right pressure, and your vision went white.

You came with a shudder, his name falling from your lips like a prayer and a curse all at once. But Auston didn’t stop. Not until your orgasm had rippled through every inch of your body. Not until you sagged beneath him, boneless and shaking.

Only then did he pull out.

And the way he looked at you—hair a mess, sweat at his temples, eyes blown wide with control and something almost… tender?

That was almost more intimate than anything else.

Almost.

Because he wasn’t done.

Not yet.

You were breathless, dazed, legs still wrapped loosely around his hips when he sat back, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

“Not done,” he said simply.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He reached down, tugging gently at your chin until you were sitting upright, your body still humming. His other hand slipped into your hair.

“On your knees,” he murmured. “And finish what you started.”

And so, you did.

With no hesitation. No shame. Just pure lust.

You took him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, eyes locked with his as you teased the sensitive tip with your tongue. The moment he moaned—low and broken, fingers tangling in your hair—you gave him more. Let him feel the shift from control to surrender, inch by inch, until there was nothing left between you but want.

You gagged as he hit the back of your throat, drool dripping and your lips slick with spit, your jaw aching from the stretch. But you didn’t stop. You focused—breathing through your nose, relaxing your throat, working him with every ounce of skill you had.

And the sounds he made—deep, raw, shameless—only spurred you on. Each moan felt like a reward. Each choked whisper of your name a spark down your spine. You’d never known giving pleasure could feel like this. Like power. Like intimacy.

His thighs trembled beneath your hands, his body tightening as he fought the losing battle for composure. His grip in your hair was desperate.

And when he finally came, it was with your name torn from his lips and a full-body shudder that seemed to ripple all the way through his chest.

“Fuuuck….” 

Then silence returned, but it felt different now. Calmer and sated.

And slowly, Auston tucked himself back into his jeans and reached for your hand. “Back up front,” he said softly, a touch of humour finally returning to his voice. “Before we both end up sleeping in the parking lot.”

You couldn't help but laugh, breathless. “Not the worst night I’ve ever had.”

He smirked. “Yeah, me neither.”

_

“Dearest Toronto Readers,

There are games, and then there are matches. And make no mistake—what we witnessed tonight was no mere exhibition. It was war. It was seduction. It was strategy wrapped in silk sheets and served with a side of family dysfunction.

The Queen has led the King into her past—into the trenches of old bedrooms, relentless siblings, and mothers who wield judgement sharper than any hockey blade. But it was he who took the upper hand, responding not with charm alone, but with heat, with control, with a level of desire that could scorch through even the most carefully built walls.

And the Queen? She did not falter. She flirted with fire, then begged to be burned.

But readers… beware. Because the Ice King is melting, and if we’ve learned anything from the great chess masters of history, it’s this: when the most reserved piece begins to feel, the board is never the same.

One space at a time, remember?

But after tonight, we wonder—who’s really making the moves?

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

[hanafubukki]

Can be seen as a part 2 to this fic

You were avoiding Lilia.

Ever since the Malleus overblot, you had tried your best to stay away from Lilia.

It helped that everyone was busy dealing with the aftermath. In addition, the four from diasomnia that caused all this needed time to heal and deal with their relationships.

It didn't mean that you didn't see them on campus, but you had a group of first years who would negate anyone that made you uncomfortable.

And that turned out to be Lilia in this case, though this was all thoughts they assumed and not confirmed by you.

But it did let you run away.

Surprisingly, even Sebek helped. He had mentioned he did not agree with your methods in the dream world, but you had helped him and those he cared about. He said that he would help until you were comfortable to talk with them, with him.

You don't know if you would ever be ready to talk to Lilia.

To confess your thoughts and your feelings. To be vulnerable in such a way.

But you knew you would have to be.

It is during these moments when I’m glad I don’t have magic and I can’t overblot.

You knew eventually you would have to talk to him.

Maybe that’s why you had worn your comfiest clothes, and taken a blanket with you to watch the stars outside today of all days.

A feeling called you outside.

“Couldn’t sleep, YN?”

“Hmm…you could say that. How’s the boys?”

“They are recovering, many feelings are being expressed.”

“Family communicating? Working? Wow, who would have thought?”

Lilia laughed as he settled next to you.

“Should you be speaking?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“The cliff?”

“Maybe I was feeling jump-OW!”

You rubbed your cheek as Lilia smiles at you, the hint of danger in his eyes had you shutting up real quick.

“I just wanted to wake you…without unneeded heartbreak.”

“Yet you believed your actions wouldn’t cause any?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

You remembered how Grim scrambled to you, crying and calling your name.

You remember shocked faces, guilt, and tears.

You remembered Malleus and how he looked somehow even paler than when he put you all to sleep. How magic circled around him uncertainly.

You knew you hurt them, but at least they were awake you reasoned to yourself.

At least, they were able to stop Malleus.

You couldn’t bring yourself to apologize.

Finally, finally, you were able to do something.

Finally, you were able to help.

You weren’t stuck on the sides, watching helplessly.

You heard a hum from next to you.

“Taking such heartbreaking actions. And for what? A foolish crush?”

That had your attention. It had you turning, heated.

“Its more than a crus-”

You abruptly stopped yourself.

The look in Lilia’s eyes spoke of the hunter catching his prey.

He brought up his hand, tilting your chin up towards him. The look in his eyes has you slightly shaking.

Anticipation? Excitement? You couldn’t tell.

“My dearest, faes love intensely. I won’t ever let you go. If you wish to be free, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“I love you. Who said I wanted to be free?” You finally spoke the words you were afraid to say before.

The glowing magenta eyes were the last you saw until you were enveloped in warmth.

Bonus:

“Let me go!”

You tried to leave Lilia’s room to attend class but he was literally holding you down with all his strength.

While his bed was comfy and you wouldn’t mind sleeping more, you had class!

“I can’t miss class! We have potions today! Grim might burn the school down!”

“I told you I wouldn’t let you go khee hee hee.”

Silver, Sebek, and Malleus watched as you struggled against a clingy Lilia.

“Why not join their class, Lilia? Would that not be the obvious choice?”

“Tsunotaro, no!”

“Human, you should know better than to take deals made with fae lightly!”

Silver smiled, his family was complete and whole again.

They were healing.

He felt the love for those around him increase.

And it seems, his family had a new addition as well.

[scary-grace]

the one - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

You made a deal with Fate to grant Shigaraki Tomura a long and happy life, but that came at a cost - in the world your wish created, the two of you never met. But his life isn't the only one your wish changed, and as you struggle to carry the burden of a past that exists only in your memory, you find your path crossing with old friends and former enemies in a way you never expected. Can you build a life worth living in the aftermath of everything you've seen and done? Can you do it without the person you changed everything for? Or will you and Tomura, against all odds, find your way back to each other one more time?

For Challenge Friday @pixelcafe-network! Fixit-ish, angst, tw for drug use/addiction, recovery. 21k in part 1. Dividers by @cafekitsune.

part i part ii

i. if one thing had been different

Do you know what you are truly asking of me? The entity’s voice isn’t audible, but it’s a physical sensation all the same – a roll of thunder rattling your chest, a vibration that settles into your bones and won’t stop. Even the smallest wish changes the world. You are asking me to alter the course of history. To change what has already happened, and replace it with the happy outcome you desire.

Laid out like that, it sounds awful. You sound awful for asking it, but you didn’t come this far to back down now. Awful as it is, selfish as it is, you still want the same thing you wanted when you set out on a quest into dark and forgotten places, far from the sunny, modern, well-lit surface of the world. “Yes,” you say. “That is what I wish.”

Why?

Why not? “What happened to Tomura wasn’t fair. I want to fix it.”

What happens to so many is unfair. The world is an unfair place, the entity counters. It’s telling you. You’re the one who lives in it, who experienced the unfairness that led you to the League of Villains, who seethes with frustration and hatred every time you think of how little the world has changed. Was what happened to Shigaraki Tomura truly so much worse than the rest? Why is it that he deserves a happy outcome?

“Doesn’t everybody deserve a happy outcome?” you ask. “The people who love everybody else didn’t come find you. I did.”

A villain, with a villain’s selfishness, the entity rumbles. You won’t argue it. And yet, your wish is not for a happy outcome for yourself.

“If Tomura is happy, I’ll be happy,” you say. “That’s what it means to love someone.”

You don’t remember when you fell in love with Tomura. Don’t remember when you realized that you’d do anything for him, that you weren’t fighting for an ideal any longer, but for him. But you remember when you found out he loved you back. There was something magical about being one of the few parts of the world he didn’t hate, something improbable and special and rare about being someone worth surviving for. You’ve kept those memories close, spent so long turning them over and over in your hands that they’ve worn smooth and featureless. All that’s left is the feeling. The warmth and peace and comfort of waking up alongside him and knowing he belonged to you.

It’s been so cold since he died. Since the heroes murdered him, and no matter where you look, you can’t find evidence of him anywhere in the world. You were released after five years in Tartarus, because while you were present at the scene of every last one of the League’s crimes, there’s no evidence that you killed anyone, and when you got out, you were horrified to see just how completely he’s been forgotten. If the world had changed because of him, it might be easier to survive. But it hasn’t. So you’re here.

If he’s happy, you’ll be happy, the entity repeats. You are aware that there is a price.

Everything has a price. “I’ll pay it. I don’t care what it is.”

So be it, the entity says. Speak your wish again.

“I wish for Shigaraki Tomura to live a long and happy life,” you say. “That’s all I want.”

It will be so, the entity murmurs. Return to the surface, and sleep. When you awaken, all will be as you asked.

The truth settles deep into your chest, deeper even than the entity’s voice. You’ve been granted your wish, and when you wake up in the morning, everything will be all right. “What price did I pay?”

You said you didn’t care.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know.”

I cannot say for certain, the entity says, except to say that it is not your life. You will live to see every result of your wish.

“Good,” you say. As long as Tomura can be happy, you’ll be happy, too.

It’s a long climb back to the surface. When you emerge into the polar night, beneath a sky devoid of clouds and moon and northern lights, the exhaustion feels as though it’s part of you, something that will never leave. Maybe it’ll follow you into the world your wish created. Maybe that will be the price of your wish. If it is, you’ll take it. As you stumble back to the shelter you built with only half an expectation that you’d ever return, you feel at peace for the first time in eight years. For the first time in eight years, it’s easy to fall asleep.

When you wake, you’re no longer in your shelter. No longer in the north. You’re in a city – you can tell by the noise – and you’re asleep on a hard mattress in a drafty room. It wasn’t your most restful sleep, but you open your eyes rather than trying to drift off again. Your wish must have been granted, because things have changed, and you don’t want to sleep. All you want to do is find Tomura again.

He’s not here. The room you’re staying looks like a motel room, somewhere no one stays for long, and your belongings are piled up in one corner of the room. You get dressed, gather them, and leave. It’s all right if you have to look for him a little bit. You have no memory of how you got here, but then again, this isn’t the world you lived in. You’re the only one who knows the world has changed. When you find Tomura, it’ll start to make sense again. He’ll have lived in this world the whole time, and you know he won’t mind explaining.

But there’s no sign of Tomura anywhere. Not in the motel lobby, not in the park across the street. His number’s not in the phone whose passcode is thankfully present in your muscle memory, and you pick your way down the block, anxiety beginning to bubble in the pit of your stomach. You know things have changed, because they’ve changed for you. So where is he?

Finally it occurs to you to look him up on the internet, and when your search result returns nothing, your heart drops so far and fast that it makes you nauseous. You wind up crouched on a street corner, struggling to breathe, until it occurs to you that a world with a happy outcome for Tomura might be one where he never became Shigaraki Tomura at all. You search his first name instead, the one he murmured to you half-asleep once and never again. Shimura Tenko.

Shimura Tenko is a pro hero. His hero name is Endgame. He’s a protégé of All Might’s, although not his successor, and when he’s in the news, he’s in it for rescue heroics. Shigaraki Tomura never existed, and Shimura Tenko is a hero who saves people, and it starts to dawn on you with horrible slowness. With shaking fingers, you search your own name. And you find your name in the news, too – in the news articles about the minor heroes who’ve captured you, with an ever-longer rap sheet attached.

Now you understand. You wished for a long and happy life for Tomura, but the only way for him to live happily is to never become Shigaraki Tomura. And if he never became Shigaraki Tomura, he never met you. Tomura will have a happy ending, but you won’t be part of it. And you remember what the entity promised, too: You will live to see every result of your wish.

Your own happiness was the price for Tomura’s. And you’ll be paying for the rest of your life.

He’s happy. You know he’s happy – pro hero Endgame, nowhere near the top ten, with friends and a dog and a mentor who’s proud of him and some girl he keeps getting photographed with out and about – and you try out different ways to be okay with it. What you said to the entity as you made your wish feels stupid, naïve. If he’s happy, you’re happy, because that’s what it means to love someone? If that was true, you wouldn’t feel sick every time you hear his name. You can’t make it okay that way. You have to find something else.

You try telling yourself that Shimura Tenko isn’t the man you love. You loved Shigaraki Tomura, and this isn’t him – it’s someone else, someone you’ve never met, someone you don’t know. You’re in love with someone who’s died, someone who’s never existed. You can be happy for him, the same as you’d be happy for a stranger having a good day. You can’t mourn for something that was never yours to begin with. Everything’s okay.

But that isn’t right, either. You’ve seen him smile in pictures, heard him laugh in interviews, and it’s just the same as you remember. The scars on his face are the same ones you ran your fingers over so many times, the birthmark at the corner of his mouth is the same one you kissed. The love you felt for Tomura defined your life, and he’s still there. How can he not be there? You can see him. Sometimes, when you’re particularly delusional, you imagine that he’d recognize you if the two of you met again, but you know in your heart that you’d be nothing to him. Just another stranger. Just another villain.

You’re still a villain, a minor one, and without Tomura and the League of Villains to force society to confront even one small piece of their hypocrisy, nothing’s changed for the better. With your record, the police and the heroes always have a tab on you, and you know they’re waiting for a chance to pull you off the street. The fact that you’ve been to Tartarus and know it’s worse doesn’t make you feel any differently about being in jail, so it’s worth avoiding. Sometimes you can’t help it, though. Sometimes you have to steal if you want to eat. And when you can’t ignore what you’re seeing, you have to act.

At first you don’t recognize the man on his knees in the middle of the intersection, hunched and mumbling, hands clamped on either side of his head. He’s wearing a paper bag over his head, not the mask you’re familiar with, but as soon as you hear his voice, you know who it is. Twice is surrounded by a perimeter of police cars, a ring of civilians hanging well back out of the way, and you can see a Maiden in the background, waiting to encase him. You don’t see injuries, or stolen property lying around. It looks like a scene you’ve witnessed a dozen times, where the distinction between a person in need of help and a dangerous criminal is erased, and you know without even thinking that you can’t witness it again.

You try to talk to the police. Tell them you know Twice, tell them you can calm him down, tell them there are other ways to handle this scene, even though you know they won’t listen. What do you do when they don’t listen? Get louder. Get more insistent. Become such a nuisance that their attention turns to Twice and not you, and that has consequences. Consequences like you getting Tasered. Like your head striking the side of a cop car as you fall, before cracking hard against the concrete. Like you passing out and waking up in a holding cell with a splitting headache, all set for a month’s sentence for interfering with a police matter.

You have a concussion and a fractured cheekbone, neither of which the jail’s doctors care about treating, and your headache never fades. You’re set to spend the entire month cringing away from the light and groaning in pain until someone in the cell with you takes pity on you. “If you don’t quiet down, they’ll smother you in your sleep,” she murmurs in your ear. “Take these.”

It’s an effort to focus your blurry eyes on the pills she’s holding out. You know what they are – something you avoided before, no matter how badly you got knocked around or how much you wanted to forget. But you’re tired of how much this hurts. Tired of remembering every day what you lost and fending off the thought of just how hollow your wish-come-true has made you feel. You pluck the neuroin pills out of your cellmate’s hand and swallow them dry, their bitter taste flooding the back of your throat.

Neuroin works fast. It doesn’t put you to sleep. But it’s enough to make you forget. And when you do remember, all you want is to forget again.

“Can you hear me?”

Someone is tapping your shoulders, speaking loudly and clearly, but it feels like they’re speaking to you from the surface, when you’re kilometers deep in the sea. You try to slip away, but they rub their knuckles hard across your sternum, and it hurts. Even then, you can’t rise to defend yourself – just keep lying there, your breathing slow and uneven, your mind going grey at the edges. Their hands might still be on you. You can’t tell. Their voice, familiar as it is, is growing more distant by the second.

How did you get here? Why is it so hard to wake up? Do you even want to wake up? You don’t have a choice about that, and it doesn’t matter. You made the only choice that mattered already, and it brought you here. Wherever here is. Whatever’s happening to you now. You could find it, if you searched, but it doesn’t matter, either. You can hear another voice. “Give it up. They’re all gone.”

“Not yet,” the first voice, the familiar one, says. “It’s only been a minute and a half, and protocol allows for a second dose.”

“You can waste it if you want, but what do you think it’ll do? She’s as dead as the rest of them –”

“Doctors pronounce people dead. Not heroes,” the first hero says sharply, and something about the way he says the word kicks off a faint spark in you. An alarm goes off. “Second dose. You can do this. Come on.”

Neuroin is hard to come up from, and this must have been a bad batch, but with two doses of Narcan in your system, you can fight your way back if you want. And you do want. You want to see if you’re right, despite knowing that it’ll devastate you, despite knowing that seeing him will make you wish you’d never woken up in the first place. You have to know. You fight your way back to the surface, your breathing labored and still uneven, and look into the eyes of the hero who wouldn’t give up on you.

You were right. “Welcome back,” the pro hero known as Endgame says, his raspy voice calm and steady, his crimson eyes soft. “I don’t know how much you remember about what’s happened –”

“Overdose.” Your speech is slurred. You sound drunk, and you don’t want to sound drunk talking to Tomura. He always clowned on you for not being able to hold your liquor. “Narcan. Been here before.”

“On purpose?” Tomura asks, and you shake your head. He looks relieved, even though he doesn’t know you, even though he’s a hero and should probably see you as a waste of space. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s an ambulance coming. Do you want to try sitting up?”

You give it a shot, knowing that you’re not strong enough, just so he’ll touch you again, and he does. One arm around your back to hold you up, one hand on your shoulder to steady you. “This wasn’t your fault,” Tomura tells you. Tomura sounds like a hero. He is a hero – but he always was, wasn’t he? Your hero, the League’s hero, the one who fought for everyone who’d been left behind. “Someone’s been purposely tainting batches of neuroin by cutting them with some other compound, which makes it – well, I guess if this has happened before, you probably know.”

You nod rather than admit that most of your previous overdoses, while not truly purposeful, weren’t all that unintentional, either. “We’re looking for the person who did it,” Tomura continues, “and we’ll find them. But this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what was in it.”

“Using it was a choice.” You glance up and see the hero Tomura’s paired with looking down at you, arms crossed over his chest. Bakugou Katsuki has the same eat-shit look on his face that you remember, the one that says you and everybody else are beneath him, the one you were glad to see wiped off his face after Tomura killed him. “No one held your arm down and made you shoot up.”

“No one asked you,” Tomura snaps at him. He refocuses on you, even though Bakugou’s right – no one made you shoot up. No one’s ever had to make you take neuroin. “Hey. Look at me.  The paramedics are going to be here, and they’ll take you to the hospital. Once the doctors clear you, you’ll go to court, and the judge will give you a choice between jail and treatment. You don’t have to keep living like this. You can choose differently.”

No, you can’t. You’ve tried treatment. It hasn’t worked, just like overdosing hasn’t worked. You will live to see every result of your wish, and you can’t live with it, no matter how hard you try. The only thing treatment will do is clear your head enough to remember everything you lost. You must be shaking your head, because Tomura’s voice softens even further. “It’s not too late. It’s not too late until you stop breathing, and you’re already breathing better. This might be where you are right now, but you don’t have to stay here, and if you want to live differently, there are people who want to help you. It’s not too late. I swear.”

He keeps talking to you, saying everything and nothing, while you notice that the hand on your shoulder has a ring on its fourth finger. He’s married. Somewhere in the years since your wish changed the world, Tomura got married, and it wasn’t to you. He got his happy ending, and you weren’t part of it. Instead you’re a neuroin addict with close to a dozen overdoses under your belt, and he’s a hero who brought you back because it was the right thing to do. You almost wish he hadn’t. If the batch was tainted, then it wouldn’t have been your fault, and this would finally have been over.

And then something strange happens when the EMTs take you away from him, transferring you onto a stretcher. As he looks down into your face, Tomura’s expression shifts oddly. “Do I know you?” he asks, and your heart lurches. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”

He looks like he’s thinking hard about it. Like the answer to that question matters at all. “In another life,” you say, and the paramedics pick up your stretcher and carry you away.

You’re at the courthouse bright and early, but there are so many people waiting for a hearing that you aren’t seen until midafternoon. You lurk in the corner of the courtroom, listening to people being charged with petty theft, possession with intent to distribute, trespassing, disorderly conduct, defacement of property. Nonviolent crimes. The people who are charged with violent crimes are few and far between, and for some reason, the ones who do are the ones with lawyers. You don’t have a lawyer. You’re going to jail – again.

Fine. There’s neuroin in jail if you know where to look, and you always know where to look. You’re dozing off, daydreaming about how creatively you’re going to tell the judge where she can stick her offer of treatment, when someone says your name. Your name, in his voice – of course you’re going to sit up and take notice. “T – um, Endgame. What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how you were doing,” Tomura says, and smiles. There’s a sad tinge to it. “Have you had your hearing yet?”

“Um, no. Not yet.” Your mouth is as dry as sandpaper. “Do you usually come to the hearings?”

“No,” Tomura says, and walks away. He’s back a second later, with a paper cup of water that he passes to you. You take a few sips. “If you want the truth, the batch of neuroin you and your friends got ahold of wasn’t the only one that was tainted. There were dozens of overdoses last night, and you’re the only one anybody was able to bring back. So I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Oh,” you say. You wouldn’t call the people you were using with your friends, exactly. The only thing that ties you together is neuroin. Tied you together. Bakugou was right – they’re all gone. “I’m – uh, I’m fine.”

“Did you decide yet?” Tomura asks. “What you’re going to say at your hearing?”

No. You decided to say no, because you’ve been to treatment five times and flunked five times, two times for relapsing, twice for treatment noncompliance, and one time because you lost patience and climbed out the window. But Tomura’s looking at you, with that straight-to-center gaze you remember so well, and he looks so hopeful that you’ll make the right decision. So hopeful that you won’t take away the one win he got last night. You can’t remember the last time you saw Tomura looking that way.

You can’t ruin it. “I think yes. I don’t want to go back to jail.”

Tomura’s smile brightens, and from the front of the courtroom, the bailiff calls your name. You make your way forward. You can’t go back on what you just said to Tomura, not while he’s still here, and when the judge asks the treatment-or-jail question, you opt for treatment. When somebody opts for treatment, the system works fast. There are counselors and caseworkers from the court’s preferred treatment program waiting, and they’re all over you the second your hearing ends.

You thought he’d leave once he heard the answer he was hoping for, but Tomura is still there as the counselors are hustling you out. “Good luck,” he tells you. “I’ll be rooting for you.”

“Thanks,” you say, even though you wish desperately that he hadn’t said it. Now you’ll be wondering if he’s thinking of you, rooting for you, every time you think about dropping out of treatment. “Um, thanks for not giving up on me.”

“I don’t give up on people,” Tomura says, and just like before, his expression shifts as he studies you. “Are you sure we don’t know each other?”

You answer the same as before, this time over your shoulder as your overenthusiastic, overly optimistic caseworker leads you towards the doors. “In another life.”

For you, with treatment, you bail out in one of two phases. The first place is detox, because detoxing off neuroin is actual hell. The only way out of it is through, according to the treatment counselors, but you know there’s a second way – more neuroin – that’s a lot quicker and easier. Of the five times you’ve been to treatment, you’ve dropped out of detox three times. The first two times you snuck out. The second time you climbed out a window, fell fifteen feet, snapped your ankle, and wound up in the ER high out of your mind on legal painkillers. Detox is awful, and there’s nothing waiting for you on the other side. Quitting treatment is the only smart thing to do.

But this time, when you think about quitting, there are two things that get in the way. One of them is the likelihood of getting another bad batch of neuroin, this time without Tomura there to save you. The other is Tomura himself.

You know you won’t see him again. You know he’s married, that he doesn’t care about you any more than the average hero cares about the average person they save, that he doesn’t actually remember you. You just have one of those faces, and maybe he’s seen you in the news after you’ve gotten arrested again for doing something stupid. And at the same time, you promised him you’d try. You don’t want to break a promise to him, even if he’s probably forgotten about it already.

So you grit your teeth and stick it out through detox for the third time, sweaty and nauseous and in agonizing pain. Once your blood tests show that the neuroin’s left your system, the doctors on the medical side of the treatment center offer to put you on methadone, which is basically neuroin without the fun. The last two times you detoxed, you refused it, but this time, you accept. It helps with the withdrawal symptoms, which is good. You’re tired of not being able to eat and sleep.

Detox is the first phase you bail out. The second phase is when you go from quiet time alone with your thoughts to three different treatment groups plus individual therapy per day. You would have hated this anyway – you were never big on sharing your backstory before – but now your backstory is a total blank, because your memories are of what happened before you made your wish. You had to figure out what you’ve been up to through your police reports, which sucks, and it gets you in trouble for not “taking ownership” of all the stuff you did. You can’t exactly explain.

And that’s the problem. That’s always been the problem. Half the time in treatment is spent figuring out why you use and how to cope differently, but you can’t admit why you use without somebody putting you on antipsychotics. You know it sounds insane. But if you’re not honest, you can’t get better, so you’re in a double bind. When you’re sent in to meet your individual counselor for the first time, you’re already so over it that you can barely mumble a hello.

But then you look up. You see who your counselor is, and your jaw drops, because it’s Midoriya Izuku sitting across from you, holding a cheap ballpoint pen and a notebook and staring out at you from behind a pair of glasses with dark frames.

The question explodes out of you before you can stop it. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” Midoriya says, like this is normal. Like he’s not the one who killed Tomura and took away the only person who made you happy. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t try that on me. I’ve heard it all before,” you say. The longer you study him, the more confused you get. There are no scars on his hands, no scars on his face. The high school diploma on the wall hanging next to his bachelor’s degree and master’s degree isn’t from UA’s hero course – it’s from General Studies. “Didn’t you want to be a hero?”

Midoriya flinches ever so slightly, and you realize all at once that it’s not just your own life you ruined with your wish. You created a world where Midoriya isn’t All Might’s heir. Which means Midoriya’s quirkless. Which means that he spends every day coping with a dream that didn’t come true. Which, not coincidentally, is exactly the same thing you do, and another stupid question comes flying out of your mouth. “How come you’re not on neuroin?”

Midoriya bursts out laughing at that. “My patients ask me a lot of weird stuff, but I haven’t heard that one before,” he says. “Do you mind if I write it down?”

“Uh, sure.” You watch as Midoriya cracks open his notebook and scribbles something down. You don’t know if it’s your quote or not. “Okay. I was stupid, but – why are you here?”

“And not on neuroin?” Midoriya chuckles. You can tell already that you’re never living this one down. “I wanted to help people. When I was a kid, I thought being a hero was the only way to do that, but it isn’t. And I started thinking that the people who need help the most aren’t the people heroes are helping. There’s something I can do that heroes can’t. So that’s why I’m here. Why are you here?”

“Better here than jail.”

“Right,” Midoriya agrees. “Except this is your sixth time in treatment, and you’ve never made it farther than this room. What is it in here that scares you so much that living on the street and shooting up neuroin seems like a better option?”

You blink. “That’s kind of blunt. Do you talk to all your patients like that?”

“Only the ones who’ve heard it all before,” Midoriya says. Fine. You earned that one. “Seriously. You’ve overdosed nine times. This last one, we were lucky to get you back at all, and they aren’t having any luck finding the person who’s contaminating the supply. This isn’t just about jail or not jail anymore. It’s your life. So I think it’s kind of important to find out why you’d rather risk it out there than talk about it in here.”

Your stomach clenches. “Why do you think?”

“I looked through your files,” Midoriya says, “and both times you made it this far, you referenced something that your intake clinician described as “an elaborate delusional architecture”. You were prescribed risperidone and quetiapine, both of which you declined to take, and you were dropped from the program due to treatment noncompliance. I think we should talk about that.”

“So you can put me on risperidone again?”

“Here’s what I was thinking,” Midoriya says. He sets his notebook aside and leans forward in his chair. “Based on your history, I don’t see evidence that the delusional architecture is actually impacting your ability to function day-to-day. It’s impacting your emotional experience, not your behavior, which means to me that it’s not a problem antipsychotics can fix. Antidepressants, maybe – or mood stabilizers – but I think it would be better if we just talked about it. If you tell me the truth, I’ll make sure they don’t put you on antipsychotics for talking about it.”

“You can do that?” you ask, skeptical. “I thought the psychiatrists ran the show.”

“I see you more often than they do. If I tell them that we’re dealing with a mood disorder or trauma, with psychosis as a secondary concern, they’ll treat the other stuff first,” Midoriya says. That makes sense to you, sort of. You’ve never made it this far in treatment, so you can’t say for sure if he’s full of shit. “Treatment won’t go anywhere if you don’t buy in. If going to bat for you with the prescribers is what it takes, that’s what I’ll do. What you want matters to me.”

Your eyes are starting to burn. “I can’t have what I really want.”

“Okay,” Midoriya says. He picks up his notebook. “Tell me about it.”

You almost refuse. You almost choke down the words, like you’ve done so many times before, because it won’t change anything. But then you think of Tomura, who told you he’s rooting for you. Of Midoriya, sitting right in front of you, whose dream you tore away and who picked up a new dream to replace it. Nothing else you’ve done has worked so far, and you have to live in the world your wish created. Maybe it’s time to try something different.

“You’re crying,” Midoriya says, and you raise your hand to your cheek to find it wet with tears. You didn’t even notice. “It’s okay to take your time. You don’t have to tell me everything today.”

“I can’t. It’s a long story and we only have an hour,” you say. You don’t know where to start, really. Maybe you should just start with yourself. “Um – okay. So once upon a time, there was this kid. She didn’t want to be a villain when she grew up.”

“What did she want to be?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Midoriya says again. His face is kind. You remember how he lost that kindness in the world you destroyed and wonder if he ever missed it. If he even knew it was gone. “What happened to her?”

You swallow hard. Wipe away more tears that you didn’t realize you were shedding. And then you tell him everything.

You go to group therapy and talk about early recovery, relapse prevention, mental illness, trauma, and then you go to individual therapy and keep telling Midoriya the story. It gets bigger, bigger than just you, pulling in so many people whose lives might be different now, whose lives you changed or ruined with your wish, who will never know there was something else before. But Midoriya knows, because you’re telling him. He knows you’re holding something back, too.

“You promised you’d tell me the truth,” he reminds you, after you’ve spent forty-five minutes dancing around the question he hasn’t asked directly. Then he asks it. “Was I a hero in your timeline?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t want to tell me about it because you didn’t want to upset me,” Midoriya guesses. You nod. You’re not sure when you stopped hating Midoriya – maybe when you realized that this version of him would have fought to save Tomura instead of killing him. “Elaborate delusional architecture, remember? You know I wanted to be a hero, so you made me a hero in your story. I think that’s really nice.”

Huh. That’s not how you were expecting him to take it, but it makes its own kind of sense. If he’s not going to be upset, then it’s okay for you to keep telling it. “Okay, so All Might was hurt fighting this villain called All For One, and he needed somebody to be his successor. He picked you and gave you his quirk.”

“Gave it to me?”

“His quirk was special. It was called One For All and it could be passed from person to person,” you say. “You were All Might’s successor. But All For One had a successor, too. And that was Tomura.”

“Tomura. That’s who your wish was for,” Midoriya says, and you nod. “Your wish came true, right? Who’s he in our timeline?”

“All For One called him Tomura. He was Tomura when I met him, so that’s what I called him, but that wasn’t his real name. Not the one he was born with.” You’re babbling, stammering. “His real name was Shimura Tenko.”

Midoriya knows who that is. “Endgame,” he says. There’s an odd look on his face. “When did you meet him?”

You tell him that, and whatever else he asks, and although you’re pretty sure he’s planning to use you as a case study at some point, he keeps the prescribers off your back. You decide you don’t want to be on methadone anymore, so you switch to suboxone, which means going through mini-withdrawal and being sick and bitchy and terrible for a day or two. You and Midoriya take a break from the story so you can talk about the decision, and when Midoriya presses you on the answer, you give one you don’t expect. “I don’t want to be chained to a clinic when I get out.”

“You’re planning to graduate treatment,” Midoriya says, and smiles. You nod uncertainly. It feels weird to say that, and to think it, when you’ve been thinking of getting out of here as a countdown to overdosing again. “And you’re interested in having more freedom. Is there something that you’re hoping to do with it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” you say. “Ask me in a couple weeks.”

You complete a couple of your treatment groups and join new ones, and meanwhile, the woman you’ve been sharing your room with graduates. She’s a pro hero who picked up a painkiller addiction after repeated injuries, and the two of you never quite got along. But you wish her well anyway, and she looks you up and down before inclining her head. “Good luck, Seeker. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

People get nicknames in treatment. You never stayed long enough before to find out, but you picked up a nickname – Seeker, for reasons beyond your understanding. The woman who becomes your next roommate has a nickname when she arrives: Skeeter, short for mosquito. “Because she’s annoying?” you ask Birdie, who transferred from the same jail as the new person’s coming from. Birdie shakes her head. “Or something else?”

“She’s crazy,” Birdie says, and lowers her voice. “She drinks blood.”

Toga. Can it really be Toga? You haven’t looked up the other members of the League, too afraid of what you’ll find, but the idea of Toga as your roommate – did Midoriya do this? No, you don’t think so. He says that he’s fine exploring your mind palace, but doesn’t want to rearrange the furniture, which means that it’s a coincidence. The same as it being Twice you were trying to help when you got the injuries that led to your neuroin addiction was a coincidence. The same as it was a coincidence that Tomura’s the one who brought you back from your overdose, just like it’s a coincidence that Midoriya’s the one trying to help you build your life back. When does it stop being a coincidence and start being a pattern?

Your new roommate is there when you get back from group, because she doesn’t have a schedule yet, and it’s pretty clear that she doesn’t want to be there. Toga never got to grow up in your timeline, but she grew up in this one, and she looks like you felt eight years after the end of the war. Tired, angry, hopeless, done. There are bite marks up and down her arms, and that’s what you ask about first. “Did you do those yourself?”

“I need blood.” Toga’s lying on her bed. She rolls to one side, puts her back to you. “Better watch out. I might bite you, too.”

“Would it help?” you ask, and she startles. “My blood is full of suboxone, so it might not taste the best, but –”

“Is it a kink thing?” Toga asks. “Are you weird?”

You laugh in spite of yourself, and you realize how long it’s been since you laughed. “My counselor says I have the most elaborate delusional architecture he’s ever seen. But I’m not that kind of weird.”

“Then why would you give me your blood?”

Because you know her. Because you know how horribly people treated her because of her quirk, when there were other options everywhere if they’d just taken a second to look. Because you know what almost saved her, and why it didn’t work. “It’s not going to kill me. And it might help you get better.”

“I can’t get better,” Toga says. Then, after a little while: “Let me think about it.”

While she’s thinking about it, you bring it up to Midoriya. It turns out that Midoriya keeps files on all the patients’ quirks, and he’s been working on one for Toga since the idea of transferring her from jail to treatment was floated. “It sounds like you’re conceptualizing it like your suboxone,” he says to you. “A harm-reduction measure, which makes sense in theory. But I know where you got this idea. And I’m worried about playing into your delusions.”

“If it’s a good idea, does it matter where it came from?” you ask. It doesn’t matter all that much to you that Midoriya thinks you’re crazy. As long as he thinks you’re functional, it’s fine. “It’s better than her biting herself. Or biting anybody else.”

“Yes,” Midoriya agrees after a second. “I’ll take it up the chain. You know –”

He trails off. “What?” you ask.

“I might have an idea about what you can do after you graduate treatment.”

“Okay,” you say. “What is it?”

“Ask me in a few weeks,” Midoriya says, and you roll your eyes. “Let’s go back to the story. What happened next?”

You’re at the part of the story with Overhaul, where the League ends up messing with the Hassaikai enough to tip the advantage to the heroes during their raid. You were one of the people Tomura loaned out to the Hassaikai, and you remember how much fun you and Toga and Twice had making Irinaka lose his cool. How proud Tomura was of the three of you when you came back. How happy he was to see you, specifically, and how good it felt to know that some part of his lopsided smile was just for you.

You don’t want to talk about that with Midoriya, and luckily for you, there’s a different part of the story he’s interested. “In your timeline, the Shie Hassaikai was responsible for manufacturing Deleter rounds?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Who’s doing it here?”

“They don’t know,” Midoriya says, and your stomach drops. “As far as I’m aware, the Shie Hassaikai has never been considered as a possible source. In this timeline, have you had any contact with the Shie Hassaikai?”

“Nope,” you say. “They don’t sell the stuff I like. And even if they did – no way would I go to them. I’d rather go through withdrawal.”

“Really?”

“No,” you say, and Midoriya snorts. “Why are you so interested in this part? I thought it was just my delusional architecture.”

“It’s an unusual part of it,” Midoriya says. “Most of your delusion can be traced to information that’s publicly available, which means that your mind had a realistic foundation to build on. This is the first thing you’ve told me, other than the part where you added me to the structure and came up with an explanation for All Might’s quirk, that can’t be traced to a particular source – and yet you’re just as sure of it as you are of everything else. It’s just strange.”

“Are you going to tell them to put me on risperidone?” you ask warily.

“No, no,” Midoriya says distractedly. “Just taking a few notes.”

You believe that’s what he’s doing. But at the end of the day’s session, those notes don’t go into your case file. They end up dead center on Midoriya’s desk, and as you shut the door, you see the disquieted look on his face.

“You’re in love,” Himiko tells you as she paints your nails during rec time. “I can smell it.”

You’ve heard her say that before. You shrug, just like you did then, and she pushes the point. “Who is it? Is it your counselor? He’s cute –”

“No,” you say. The idea of dating Midoriya is almost too weird to laugh about. “It’s nobody here. I won’t see them again.”

“Because they’re dead?” Himiko’s mouth turns down. “That’s really sad.”

“Not dead,” you say. All of this happened because you decided that ‘dead’ wasn’t an option when it came to Tomura. “It’s just not possible. He’s with somebody else, and even if he wasn’t, he’d never want someone like me.”

“What does that mean?”

“A drug addict with a criminal record,” you say, and Himiko swats you. “What?”

“That’s not a growth mindset. If I have to use the growth mindset, so do you.” Himiko’s mocking you a little bit, but you kind of deserve it. You’ve been in here for nine months and counting, and you’re turning into a bit of a treatment evangelist. “If you want to be mean to yourself, say it like you’re going to grow from it.”

“Fine. If he was looking for a partner, which he isn’t, my backstory is not compatible with his standards due to my history of substance abuse and criminal activities.” You’re pretty proud of that reframe. It sounds a lot less judgmental like that. “There’s not a point in thinking about it, so I try not to. It is what it is.”

“You feel really strongly for somebody who’s not thinking about it,” Himiko observes. “Most of the time when I smell love on people, it’s like a breeze. Sometimes it’s stronger and sometimes it’s weaker. It sticks around, but it changes. That’s not what I smell from you.”

She quiets down, stroking pale blue nail polish onto your little finger. She made a point of telling you that it’s not your color, but she agreed to put it on you anyway.  “Yours is part of you. It never changes. If someone took it away, you wouldn’t be you anymore. And it’s not usually like that.”

“Are you saying I’m codependent?” You’d buy it. You’re on your third time through Untangling Relationships group therapy, because the counselor in charge thinks you’re not taking it seriously. “Harsh.”

“No, it’s just sad,” Himiko says, which is worse. “To love somebody so much that they’re part of who you are, and for them not to feel the same way.”

“Maybe in another life,” you say, and she kicks you under the table this time. Lightly, though. You can tell she feels bad for you. And you’re not sure she should.

You love Tomura. You’re never going to stop loving him. You loved him so much that you risked it all, made a wish that cost you everything, just so he could have a chance at a long and happy life. He’s gotten that life. That life doesn’t include you, could never include you. And as you work through your groups in treatment and tell Midoriya your story and add day after day onto your clean time, you’re trying to figure out how to build a happy-enough life alongside the truth that you’ll never have what you really want.

That happy-enough life can’t include neuroin. You wouldn’t want it to, even if you could use safely. It has to include something other than moping and wallowing and kicking yourself for believing that Tomura’s happiness would be enough to make you happy, too. In between storytelling sessions, Midoriya’s been doing his best to hammer the idea of meaning-making into your head. Whether your life has meaning or not depends on you. It’s a choice you can make, just like the choice to shoot up was. You can choose for your life to matter. You’re still not sure how.

One day when you get to Midoriya’s office for your individual session, Midoriya’s not alone there. There’s a hero with him, a hero you recognize – Sir Nighteye. You cringe backwards on instinct, half out of shock at seeing him alive instead of dead, and Midoriya hurries to reassure you. “You aren’t in trouble,” he says. “Sir Nighteye just wants to talk to you. About, um –”

“About the Shie Hassaikai,” Sir Nighteye says. “I believe you have some information about them.”

You glare at Midoriya. “I thought our conversations were confidential.”

“Yes,” Midoriya says, “but one of the cases where they aren’t is if you report that a child or someone who can’t care for themselves is being abused or neglected. What you were telling me about – Eri – qualifies.”

You kind of want to strangle him. “Eri is part of my delusional architecture, remember? She’s not real. It’s a waste of time to –”

“Prior to this point, criminals who use Deleter rounds have been scrupulous about removing unspent bullets from the scene,” Nighteye interrupts you. “In the last incident, we went to great lengths to recover an unspent bullet, and were able to test its contents. True to your report, the bullet contained human DNA, harvested from an adolescent girl.”

An adolescent. In your past, Eri was rescued when she was four, or five, or something. She’s a teenager, and no one’s been looking for her. Nobody even knew she was there. Nighteye folds his long fingers together and leans forward to study you. “I don’t know where you got this information, and I don’t care,” he says. “I want to know if you have any more.”

It's quiet for a moment, a moment where your throat goes tight and misery washes over you. There’s one more person whose life you’ve ruined, and compared to what’s happened to you and Midoriya, this is thousands of times worse. No one rescued Eri as a kid, and now she’s a teenager. Who knows what Overhaul’s done to her, or what she’s become in an effort to survive him? They aren’t the same, but you can’t help drawing the comparison – Overhaul to All For One, Eri to Tomura. Your information is thirteen years out of date to when Eri’s rescued in your memories, but if there’s any chance it can help, you have to speak up. “I know some things. Ask me and I’ll do my best.”

It feels almost like it happened to someone else, after so much time – five years in this timeline, and eight years in the one you changed. You give details about the Hassaikai, about the layout of their compound, about who’s likely to be in Overhaul’s inner circle, about where Eri’s being held and what her quirk is. You could spill the entire story, and it still wouldn’t lessen your guilt. For as many people as your wish has saved – Tomura’s alive, Toga’s alive, Twice was still alive eight years after he died in your memories – it’s damned an equal number. You first, then Midoriya, and now Eri. A little kid who should have been saved, but wasn’t. Just like Tomura.

You will live to see every result of your wish. There’s no amount of neuroin in the world that could block it out. That doesn’t mean that you don’t wish for it anyway.

You don’t pay attention to the outside world, but Himiko does, and so do the other women in the treatment program. They watch TV during rec and read magazines when they can get their hands on them, and if they get visitors, like Himiko does from Uraraka Ochako, they make their visitors give them the news. Uraraka Ochako is a pro hero in this timeline, too, and one visiting day, she doesn’t show. Himiko doesn’t really mope, but you can tell she’s hurt, so you try your best to cheer her up. You’re doing her nails for her in the room you share when Birdie hollers from the rec room. “Skeeter! Your friend’s on TV!”

“Huh?” Himiko startles, and you paint her whole fingertip instead of just her nail. “Why? Is she okay?”

“There was this huge drug bust. They’ve got her airlifting this jacked-up yakuza loser out of this sinkhole where their hideout used to be –”

Himiko scrambles off the bed and runs, leaving you to cap the nail polish and take a second to get your shit together. The Shie Hassaikai raid is happening, or just happened – thirteen years later than it should have, but it’s happening. They’ll rescue Eri, if she’s still there to rescue. They’ll take down Overhaul, even if it’s long-overdue. Things are back to the way they should have been, even if it took a while. You don’t need to think about it any further than that. Not about how this proves to Midoriya that your delusional architecture isn’t totally false, or about how Eri’s spent thirteen extra years suffering because of your wish. And definitely not about why the heroes were so fast to crack down on Overhaul when they still haven’t found the source of the tainted neuroin.

You decide not to watch the news. You’ll find out later, and sure enough, Midoriya calls you in for an unscheduled session in the morning. When you get there, he’s alone. No sign of Sir Nighteye, who died during the Hassaikai raid in your memories. “Um, what happened?”

“Sir Nighteye wanted to be here, but he’s recovering from his injuries,” Midoriya says. He looks disturbed as all hell, worse than you’ve ever seen in this timeline or the one you lived through before. “The information you provided proved to be accurate. The heroes were able to accomplish their raid on the Shie Hassaikai with minimal casualties.”

“Oh.” You should be relieved, but you’re too tired – you barely slept last night. “What about Eri?”

“Yes,” Midoriya says. “Among those discovered inside the compound was an older teenage girl, who does answer to Eri. Her appearance is the same as you described. But –”

A chill goes down your spine. “What?”

“She’s angry,” Midoriya says simply. “She should have been saved, and she wasn’t.”

Just like you were afraid of. Just like Tomura. You slump down in your chair, and Midoriya keeps talking. “She was planning to fight, but a hero talked her down. You probably don’t need me to tell you which hero, but –”

“Endgame,” you say. Midoriya nods. That look is still on his face. “What?”

“I’ve been through your records. Again. And no matter where I look, I can’t see where you came up with the information that led to the raid,” Midoriya says. “I looked into your quirk, too. It lets you find hidden things, but you have to know what you’re looking for. And I can’t figure out how you knew to look for Eri.”

You couldn’t. The Shie Hassaikai were tight-lipped as hell when you were embedded with them, probably because Overhaul knew better than to trust Tomura right away, and even while you were in their hideout, you didn’t find out where Eri was hidden until the heroes beat you to it. “So,” Midoriya continues, his voice oddly brittle, “the only conclusion I can come to is that part of your delusional architecture – isn’t. And if one piece of it is true, then that makes me wonder if other parts of it might be true, too.”

“You don’t want to go there,” you say. Midoriya’s gaze snaps from the middle distance back to you. “Why do you think I’m like this? I wasn’t before. Going there turned me into a neuroin addict, and I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, so –”

“In your history, what happened to Eri after she was rescued?” Midoriya cuts you off. “Tell me.”

“They took her to UA,” you say. “Eraserhead looked after her. They needed him to manage her quirk.”

“That’s what their plan is now, too.” Midoriya takes a deep breath, lets it go. “I’m going to argue that she should come here instead. And I need you to tell me what I need to know to win.”

All you can do is stare at him. “I saw your expression when I said she wanted to fight. And you guessed right away that it was Endgame who helped her,” Midoriya says. “I think you’re comparing what happened to her to what happened to Tomura in your memories. What do you think would have helped him more – going to UA and living in the staff dorms while the students his age lived normal lives? Or going somewhere with people who could help him recover, around people who understand some of what he’d gone through?”

You’re pretty sure Tomura would have started biting people if he’d been rescued from All For One at age eighteen and dropped off at UA. You met him when he was nineteen, and he was already enraged, the hurt and confusion and fear that he admitted later buried completely under anger. Would treatment have helped him? You don’t know. But you think he’d have been better off around people who understood why he had a problem with heroes than he would have been around a bunch of hero kids.

“Here,” you say. Midoriya nods. “If she’s like him, she’s not just angry, she’s hurt. She might not feel rejected like he did, but she probably feels forgotten. Maybe she feels like she deserves it because her quirk can hurt people – like she’s dangerous, or like she ruins everything she touches. Her social skills are probably – not good.”

“We have groups for that,” Midoriya says, and you manage a weak laugh. “My one reservation is you. Based on my understanding of your – um – memories, you see yourself as responsible for what’s happened to her, and I’m concerned that seeing her on a regular basis in what’s previously been a safe space for you will have a negative impact on your recovery.”

Your instinct is to argue, because you usually argue with Midoriya when it comes to what you can or can’t handle, but like you’ve been doing recently, you force yourself to stop and think. You had such a hard time handling what your wish did to you that you became a neuroin addict. You’ve been able to cope with what you did to Midoriya, since he’s the one who killed Tomura and he thought you were crazy up until today, but Eri had nothing to do with what led you to make your wish. Seeing what happened to her because of you is going to be awful.

But the world is awful. If you ever want to get out of here and live a life that matters, you’re going to have to cope with that, and even just Himiko being here is enough to keep you from leaving. If you took away the happy life Eri had being raised by Eraserhead and Present Mic, you owe her a place to heal. And you owe it to her not to look away.

“I can hack it,” you say. “This is the right place for both of us to be.”

Midoriya nods. He looks relieved and not, sort of like you feel – the right thing is happening, but you’re really ambivalent about it. “About your memories –”

“Don’t go there,” you say. “It’s just a story.”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Just a story,” Midoriya agrees, and he picks up his notebook. Some snarl of tension in your shoulders and the back of your neck relaxes. “Right.”

“Remember,” Himiko’s counselor says to you and the others, all settled into the common area, “this is supposed to be fun. If you don’t like the thing you made, don’t beat yourself up about it, and don’t compare it to what everybody else is making. If all you want to do is color, that’s fine. This is about finding things you enjoy, that bring you peace.”

“Origami doesn’t bring me peace. It makes me want to bite things.”

“You don’t have to do origami,” Himiko’s counselor says patiently. “We’ve got lots of options. Just try to do something fun.”

The newest patient, a tiny woman who hasn’t stopped crying yet, blows her nose. “I can’t have fun without my Gentle.”

“Suck it up, honey,” Birdie says from the other side of the circle. “Some of us used to get high for fun, and you don’t hear us complaining.”

You know she’s referring to you. Everybody here has issues, but you’re the only addict, even if the yoga master who comes in twice a week insists that everyone’s addicted to something. “Speak for yourself. If I get a paper cut, I’m going to bitch the roof down.”

“Guys,” Himiko’s counselor says again, over the sound of Birdie’s cackling. You think her name is Nakayama. “Let’s try to keep it low-key. Everybody’s under a little more stress tonight.”

“Yes,” Digit mumbles, sipping from a cup of flavored water that you and everybody else are pretending contains tea. “The zookeepers are coming.”

Right. The treatment center’s pitch for Eri to come here instead of UA was successful enough that she’s coming here for a tour – and she’s bringing the pros she’s most comfortable with as moral support. “Let’s not look at it that way,” Nakayama suggests. “We’ve got visitors coming today, because a potential new patient is touring. It’s more about her than it is about all of you.”

“How come she gets to tour this place?” Jinx complains. “I just got chucked in here.”

“If she comes here, you’ll all be here for the same reason,” Nakayama says. She’s really calm. You can see why she and Himiko work well together; Himiko needs somebody who can take her crazy without being sucked into it, and Nakayama has ice water in her veins. “The purpose of this place is to help you recover –”

“And live our best lives?” Hyena asks. She’s another pro hero, just like Digit and Jinx – somebody who veered off the path at some point and wound up in the deep end. You remember her, you think – one of Endeavor’s sidekicks. Now she wears her flaming hair short and spiky. “Sure.”

“I’d settle for a life that means something,” you say, and she looks at you. “That would be good enough for me.”

“I think it’s possible to have both,” Nakayama says. “All right. Everyone pick something to do. You can talk if you’d like, but there’s no pressure. Just try to find something you’ll enjoy.”

You might need to up your suboxone, because you’re thinking about how much you’d enjoy a hit of neuroin to settle your nerves. You’ve got coping skills for that, sure, but neuroin is faster – and you need it fast, because Midoriya gave you a heads-up at your session this morning about just who Eri’s bringing with her. All Might will be here. Eraserhead will also be here. Bubble Girl will be here, which you couldn’t care less about – but Endgame will be here, too, and the idea of seeing him again makes you want to hide.

You are hiding, sort of. You’ve got on a sheet mask, from a care package Himiko got from Uraraka, and you’re sitting with your back to the door so you won’t see the others first thing when they come in. You’re doing origami, because you suck at origami. It’s a good reason to keep your eyes down. The question pops into your head, like it’s been doing all day, of whether Tomura will remember you, and you acknowledge it before firmly pushing it to the side. It won’t matter if Tomura remembers you or not if he never gets a good look at your face.

“Hey,” Birdie says after a little while, “aren’t we giving the wrong impression about this place? It looks like a sleepover in here.”

“Yeah.” Himiko looks up from her work. “I’ve been on a lot of locked wards, and this is the squishiest locked ward I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a friendlier environment,” Nakayama agrees. “The purpose here is treatment and recovery, not punishment.”

Hyena makes a disbelieving noise. “If that’s true, then you’ve got way too many criminals here.”

An awkward silence falls. “I mean, she’s a pathetic criminal’s sidekick,” Hyena says, pointing to the new girl, who bursts into tears again. Nakayama tries to shush her, but she keeps talking. “And then over here we’ve got a murderer, a fraudster, and a drug addict. I think a little punishment’s in order.”

“Does it help?” you ask. Hyena gives you a derisive look. “I mean it. Nobody here is running away from the stuff we’ve done. Does it make you feel better to bring it up?”

“Aww, did I hurt your feelings?”

“No,” you say, and mean it. The bar somebody would have to clear to hurt your feelings these days is pretty damn high. “I just want to know. You’re a hero, and your job is to help people. When did we stop being people to you?”

Hyena opens her mouth, then closes it again, and an even more awkward silence settles into the place where her retort was meant to go. “I think,” Nakayama starts, then coughs. “I think it might be a good idea to –”

The double doors at the far end of the common area open, and all of you freeze at the sound of footsteps. The next thing you hear is Midoriya’s chattering. “You’ll see some of the patients in here. I think they’re having art group, so – um – maybe you should wait a second so I can explain –”

There’s a lighter set of footsteps, breaking into a run, and before you or anyone else can say something, a tall, stick-thin girl with long grey-white hair and red eyes drops down into the circle across from you. “Are you guys the criminals? What did you do?”

The hero patients instantly start protesting that they aren’t criminals, and while Nakayama and Midoriya try to settle them down and Eri watches with clear disdain, you take the opportunity to watch her. In some ways, you see exactly what you were scared to see – she reminds you so much of Tomura, not so much in her appearance but in the way she’s tense with anger, the way one hand winds into a fist to yank at her hair. Her forearms are covered with scars instead of bandages, and even though they’ve probably been feeding her more in the hospital, her face is still hollow. She looks awful. Just like he did.

And at the same time, you’re relieved. She didn’t back away when she saw people; she jumped in, even if it was a mess. Tomura did the same thing with the League of Villains, and there was hope for him, even if the rest of the world refused to see it. There’s hope for her, too.

You clear your throat, and she looks at you, her gaze hot enough to burn holes through you. Like she knows you’re guilty. Like she knows it’s your fault. “Hi,” you say. “Sorry. We’re the criminals.”

You gesture at your side of the circle – why didn’t you realize there were sides until just now? – and Eri’s gaze follows your hand. “What did you do?” she asks again. “I want to know.”

“I’m a hooker,” Birdie announces. “I slept with guys and stole their identities so I could buy myself food and rent rooms instead of sleeping on the street.”

“And?” Sugimura, her counselor, prompts from where she’s standing with the tour group.

“And I bought myself designer shit,” Birdie says, rolling her eyes. “And I’m not sorry.”

Hyena snorts. “She’s gonna be here a while.”

Eri ignores her, focusing in on the new girl. “What about you?”

“She arrived recently, and she’s still adjusting,” Nakayama says. Apparently she’s decided to roll with whatever’s going on here. “It can be a bit of a shock.”

“You have couches and nobody’s cutting you up. Some shock,” Eri says. It says something awful that she puts having a couch and not being tortured on the same level, but she’s transferring her almost-accusing stare onto Himiko now. “What about you?”

“I killed people.”

“How many?”

“Twelve,” Himiko says. Eri’s eyebrows lift. “Then I got caught. I was in prison for a while, but then they moved me here so I could rehabilitate.”

“You’re allowing a multiple murderer to rehabilitate?” Eraserhead says to Midoriya. He sounds about as disdainful as the others. “That’s a serious lapse in judgment.”

“She was underage when she committed her crimes and she was underage when she was captured,” Midoriya says. You’re impressed he’s standing up to Eraserhead. Then again, Eraserhead’s not his teacher. “We evaluated her and determined that there was room for growth, and she’s made a lot of progress in the four months she’s been here.”

“I don’t even want to kill anybody anymore,” Himiko says. “I get all the blood I need.”

Eraserhead coughs, but Eri doesn’t blink. She looks away from Himiko, aims her gaze at you. “What did you do?”

“A ton of neuroin,” you say. “Other stuff, too. But mainly neuroin.”

She studies you for a moment, and you hold her gaze. You owe her that much, even if looking at her makes you feel sick with guilt. “Sensei hated people like you,” she says, and it takes all your dubious self-control not to flinch at hearing Tomura’s name for All For One fall from her lips. “That’s why he tried to kill you all.”

“He – what?” Tomura. That’s Tomura’s voice. You shrink down, and Himiko seizes your arm in excitement, which is how you know she’s figured you out. You’re never going to know another second’s peace, but that’s the least of your worries now. “What are you saying? Was – Sensei – the one who was tainting the neuroin?”

You wonder if you’re imagining the way Tomura’s voice tripped on the word. Probably. Eri is nodding. “He didn’t have to add anything to it. His quirk let him move the molecules around however he wanted,” she says. Her expression shifts into thoughtfulness. “There was somebody who helped with it. Somebody big. They didn’t want drug addicts in their world.”

That doesn’t sound like All For One, which was your first thought. Who does it sound like? Before you can search your memories in earnest, Eri’s speaking to you again. “Do you know what my quirk is?” she asks. You nod. You can’t remember if you’re supposed to know or not, but you figure Midoriya will help you cover. “Why aren’t you scared?”

She reaches out, and you hear quick footsteps as Eraserhead approaches, but you don’t flinch. “It’s just a quirk,” you say. “All that matters is how you use it.”

“That’s what Endgame says,” Eri says. You wish your sheet mask covered your whole face, not just most of it. It’s a relief when she looks away, around at the art supplies. “What’s all this stuff?”

The disdain is back in her voice. “Art supplies,” you say. “Want to join?”

Eri blinks. “You should,” Himiko urges. “None of us are any good, and we don’t care. It’s just for fun.”

You wonder if Eri knows what fun is. Tomura didn’t, really. The best he could do was distinguish between more angry and less angry, lonely or not lonely, itchy and itchier. The first time you heard him laugh, you felt like you were on top of the world. “Come on,” Birdie adds. “Make some shitty origami.”

“You’re welcome to if you’d like,” Nakayama says gently. “There’s plenty of space for you here.”

For a moment, you think Eri will bolt. Then she settles in and picks up a sheet of origami paper, the same color as the one you’re holding. “Show me how to make that.”

You’re folding the world’s shittiest paper crane. You unfold what you’ve done so far so you can start flat, then make the first fold again, watching as Eri copies you and trying not to listen to the rest of the tour group. “I don’t care if she fits in here,” Eraserhead is saying quietly. “You’re playing into how she already views herself – as a criminal and a monster.”

“Maybe that’s how you look at criminals and villains. That’s not how we look at them here,” Midoriya says. He’s probably sweating bullets. You know All Might’s lurking in the offing. “Our patients are people, same as you. They deserve a chance to recover, if they want it, and the ones who are here want it a lot. The recidivism rate for patients in this program is lower than for people released from prison.”

“Our goal is to support the patients in healing from whatever led them here,” Sugimura says. She’s the oldest of the counselors, the one in charge. It hasn’t escaped your notice that most of the counselors here are young. “Taking accountability for what they’ve done is part of that, but not the only part.”

“What about schooling?” All Might asks. He’s trying to talk quietly, too, but if you remember right, All Might’s voice comes in the same volumes as Present Mic’s – loud and louder. “If she were at UA, her education –”

“Some of our patients also need to finish their compulsory education. She can study with them,” Midoriya says eagerly. You’re pretty sure he’s talking about you and Himiko, and the idea of going back to school is news to you. “There are a lot of ways to meet Eri’s needs, whatever they turn out to be.”

“Maybe we should see where she’d be staying,” Tomura suggests. “I saw the place she was before. It can’t look like that.”

“Right,” Midoriya agrees. He hurries over to where you and the others are sitting. “Um, Eri, would you like to –”

“I’m not done with my crane.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it. You can finish it when you get back,” you say. “Go check the rest of the place out.”

You’re expecting Eri to tell you to eat shit, but instead she hesitates for a moment before sliding the crane over to you. You set it carefully on the table and out of the way, and Eri gets unsteadily up and joins Midoriya. As the heroes pass, heading for the doors on the other side of the common area, you keep your head down again. You don’t want Tomura to look at you. As bad as it would be if he recognized you as the overdose victim he guilt-tripped into treatment, it would be worse if he didn’t recognize you at all.

“Aren’t you coming?”

That’s his voice, but he’s not talking to you. You know damn well he’s not talking to you, so your heart shouldn’t twist like this. “No,” Bubble Girl says. You’d almost forgotten about her. “Some of my friends are here.”

“Suit yourself.” You picture Tomura shrugging. The double-doors close again, and a moment later, Bubble Girl is on the other side of the circle, giving hugs to Hyena and Jinx and Digit.

You find yourself unconsciously scooting away, and Himiko and Birdie are doing the same thing, dragging the new girl along by default. Nakayama catches your eye. “Is this happening for a reason?”

“Just giving them their space,” you say, moving Eri’s half-finished crane carefully to your side of the table. “Nothing weird.”

Bubble Girl and the others are all talking over each other, laughing and giggling in a way that tells you heroes never change. The likelihood that Hyena and the others actually face their problems is zero – they’re going to do their time and get out and go back to being the same fake, morally bankrupt figureheads they’ve always been. Hyena thought it was okay to humiliate you and the others, but she’ll never acknowledge that her treatment of criminals was bad enough to land her here. You and Himiko and the others have to reflect. They get away with it.

Finally they quiet down a bit, and Hyena’s voice picks up above the others. “No offense, Awata, but what the hell is up with your man’s hair?”

“I have no idea,” Bubble Girl says. “It looked so nice before, but he started growing it out, and now he won’t cut it. Even if I ask him to.”

“Did you ask him nicely?” Hyena asks. “On your knees?”

Birdie makes a disgusted sound, then hides it in a cough. “Shut up,” Bubble Girl says, but she’s giggling. “It looks crazy. I’ll tell him you agree.”

“Did he say why?” Jinx asks.

“No! I keep telling him I hate it, but he won’t cut it, and he won’t say why not!” Bubble Girl heaves a dramatic sigh and flops forward onto the table, almost flattening Eri’s crane. You move it even further away. “You really don’t know somebody until you marry them. I had no idea Tenko was this weird.”

That one takes a second to land, but once it does, you’re fucked. You take a second to try to recover, determine that it’s hopeless, and try to get up, only for Himiko to grab your arm and yank you back down. You look askance at her, but she’s not looking your way – just holding on so tightly that you can’t break her grip without breaking her fingers. What’s her problem? You need to throw up. Failing that, you need to cry, and you can’t do it here. Bubble Girl. Tomura married fucking Bubble Girl, and you can’t sit here and listen to her bitch about his hair.

So much for being stable in recovery. If there was a syringe of neuroin sitting on the table in front of you instead of a paper crane, you’d shoot up right now, even if you knew Overhaul had doctored it specifically to kill you and every other neuroin addict in Japan. The veins in your arms are shot, scarred to hell and back, but your jugular vein’s practically virginal. You can imagine exactly how it would feel – a sharp sting, a rush of cold, and relief. For however long it lasted. You’d take it, even if it was just a split second.

You will live to see every result of your wish. Right. Go fuck yourself. You want to die.

But Himiko’s yanking on your hand, and when you look up, you see a piece of paper in front of you. Her handwriting is cute, if hard to read, and while you’re trying to decipher it, Digit speaks up. “I’m surprised you’re here,” she says. “I thought places like this creeped you out.”

“Yeah, I’m surprised you didn’t come to see us before,” Hyena says. There’s a weird edge to her voice. “What gives?”

“I’ve been meaning to! I’m just busy,” Bubble Girl says. Himiko is yanking on your arm like she’s trying to dislocate your elbow. “Honestly, I’m here for Ten. He says he’s here for Eri – and he is – but he’s looking for somebody, and if he doesn’t find her, it’ll mess him up.”

“Who?”

“Some junkie,” Bubble Girl says, and you freeze in Himiko’s grip. “He got stuck on street patrol one of those nights where everybody was overdosing, and he only got one person back. Losing people always hits him hard, so he’s like – fixated. He actually went to court the next morning to try to talk her into treatment.”

She’s talking about you. You left enough of an impression on Tomura that his wife knows about you. “I tried telling him that it’s not on him,” Bubble Girl continues. “All those addicts care about is their next hit, so she probably dipped out of treatment the second everybody looked away – but Ten’s convinced she’s different. He’s so naïve sometimes.”

He’s not naïve. Tomura believes in people. He believes in people who everybody else has given up on, just like Midoriya does this time around. You risk lifting your eyes from your crane and find Nakayama looking at you, a question on her face. You shake your head. As much of a shock value as there’d be to revealing that you’re the junkie in question, you don’t want Bubble Girl to know it’s you. And somehow you don’t think pushing back on Bubble Girl’s opinions on drug addicts is a winning strategy.

Himiko is still yanking on your arm. “Stop it,” you say. “I’m gonna hurl.”

“Read what I wrote you,” she hisses. You focus on the piece of paper she slid in front of you, put all your effort into deciphering her handwriting, and read the message: She doesn’t love him as much as you do.

Does she think that will make you feel better? Of course you love Tomura more than Bubble Girl does. You love Tomura enough to alter history, even at a cost that’s been torturous to pay. You’ve loved Tomura through living on the street, spending weeks or months in jail or prison, through neuroin overdose after neuroin overdose and withdrawal and nine months of inpatient treatment. She can’t love him more than you do. No one could.

And it doesn’t matter. He loves her. That’s the ballgame. He loves her, and he never met you until it was too late, and even if it hadn’t been too late, he’d never have looked your way. You might be trying to get better, but the heroes are right – you’re just some junkie. That’s all you’ll ever be.

But you can hear Midoriya’s voice in your head, reminding you that you’re more than what you’ve been through, what you’ve done. Tomura’s voice, telling you that it’s not over until you stop breathing, and you’re already breathing better. And as much as you try to stifle it, there’s the proof Bubble Girl just gave you: Tomura has been thinking about you, talking about you. Enough that his wife knows. And when he comes back in here, you can show him something he’ll be happy about – you, doing better. Recovering. It doesn’t matter if his wife thinks you’re just a junkie. What Tomura thinks is all that matters.

You finish your paper crane, then get to your feet and walk to the trashcan. You peel off the sheet mask and drop it inside. Your skin probably looks like shit, but you’re still here, and you’re sober. Bubble Girl can go to hell. You’re still floored that out of all the people Tomura could have married, he married her.

When the tour group comes back through the common area, it’s with good news, at least for the treatment team: Eri’s going to stay here. She’ll be a patient like all of you, except with significantly more freedom, because she’s not a criminal or a disgraced hero completing a mandatory treatment program. You have a feeling that your treatment program and Himiko’s are about to change, given that Midoriya apparently has his eye on you as schoolmates for Eri. Maybe it won’t be the worst thing.

All Might has to leave, and so does Bubble Girl, allegedly. She says an abrupt goodbye to her friends, plants a kiss on Tomura’s cheek through her weird mask, and books it. So much for sticking around to support her husband. Eraserhead has more questions for Midoriya, and Eri comes back to finish her paper crane. Tomura lingers, looking around at the common area, almost restless. You watch him out of the corner of your eye for a while, trying to work up your courage. Then you realize you don’t have any. You get up from the table and head for the water fountain, staying squarely in his eyeline, waiting for him to look your way.

He recognizes you instantly. His face lights up in a way that’s all kinds of bad for you, and as he crosses the room to you, there’s almost a spring in his step. You see what Hyena meant about his hair – it’s past his chin, approaching his shoulders. More like you remember it, and the question pops out of your mouth before he can say a word. “Your hair’s longer.”

“Yeah,” Tomura says. He raises one hand and scratches lightly at his neck, and déjà vu mixed with nostalgia hits you like a breaking wave. “My wife hates it.”

Your coping skills must be pretty good, because you don’t quite throw up – but not as good as they could be, because you could still really go for some neuroin. “Do you like it?”

Tomura blinks. “I do,” he says after a second. “I feel more like me this way.”

Because it’s how he used to be. He feels more like himself because he is more like himself, more like the man he was before you changed history. That man died young. Tomura is thirteen years older than that man ever got to be. “Look at you, though,” Tomura says, changing the subject. “You look like you feel better.”

“I hope so. The last time you saw me I was coming off an overdose.” It’s hard to keep your voice light, airy. To pretend this conversation isn’t killing you. “I’ve been here for nine months. I think it’s going okay.”

“You’re still here. I think it’s going great,” Tomura says. His voice is warm, proud, and you’ve heard that voice before, so you believe it. “I meant it, when I said I was rooting for you.”

“I know.” You can’t hold his gaze any longer. You look away. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” Tomura says. With your eyes down, you see his hand lift as if to reach for you, then fall back to his side. “I still feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“You have. This is the third time we’ve met.”

“No, before that,” Tomura says. He’s not quite frowning. “Are you sure –”

“Shimura.” Eraserhead appears at Tomura’s side, and you take a quick step or three back. “Counselor Midoriya’s informed me that visiting hours are over. It’s time to go.”

“Right.” Tomura nods, and Eraserhead sets off to say goodbye to Eri. Tomura lingers for a second longer. “I almost had it. Where I know you from.”

“In another life,” you say, and Tomura smiles halfway. Three times is an inside joke, almost, even if you never see him again. If you never see him again, there are things you want to say. “What you do out there matters, even if other people don’t take it seriously. Keep not giving up on people – like you didn’t give up on me.”

“I haven’t given up on you,” Tomura corrects. “I’m still rooting for you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re worried you might cry. “If your hair makes you happy, you shouldn’t cut it.”

Tomura laughs, startled. His laughter’s still a little rusty, and you love it just as much as always. “Thanks,” he says. Eraserhead calls out to him sharply, already at the doors, and just like that, he’s gone.

Eri is staring at you again. Eri does a lot of staring. You’re supposed to let it happen, since she’s trying to get used to being around people who aren’t Overhaul and his creepy friends, but you’ve set up a policy of your own. If she stares at you for longer than thirty seconds, she’s supposed to ask about whatever she’s staring at, and you’re approaching the deadline. She speaks up as it’s ticking past. “What are those?”

“On my arms?” It’s one of those spring days where the weather’s warm but the central heating hasn’t switched off yet, and you have your sleeves pushed up for the first time in a while. You hold out your arms to show her, and she leans closer for a look. “Track marks.”

She glances up at you, puzzled. “I used to shoot up,” you explain. You think it’s safe to say ‘used to’. You’ve got almost a year of clean time. “Sometimes the punctures got infected, or I used the same one too many times and the vein collapsed. My circulation is kind of bad now, and I’ve got these scars. Anybody who sees me in short sleeves is going to know what I used to do.”

“They’ll judge you,” Eri says. You nod. “Just like they do.”

The heroes liked Eri at first, until Eri made it clear just how much she doesn’t like the heroes. Part of you thinks that’s your fault, too. You got in good with Eri early on, somehow, and through you, she made friends with the other criminals. Once she saw how the heroes talked about you all, treated you all, she became roughly as anti-heroics as Tomura used to be. You spent a week or so in individual therapy wailing to Midoriya about how you ruin everything before you got your shit back together.

It’s not the same as with Tomura. Eri has people around her who want to help, who want her to get better. And it’s not like she’s not having any positive contact with heroes. The daily schoolwork you and she and Himiko do is taught by a regular teacher, but Eri gets electives, and almost all of them are taught by pros. Not to mention visitors. Eri gets visitors every night if she wants them, and at least once a week, All Might and Endgame stop by.

You always make sure you’re somewhere else. You don’t want to see Tomura with his hair grown out, with a wedding ring on his finger. Midoriya tells you that part of being successful in early recovery is not making things any harder for yourself than they need to be, and since nothing makes you want to use quite so much as being near the person you love most in the world, who’s permanently out of your reach, staying away from Tomura is the smart thing to do.

You know that. Midoriya knows that. Anybody you were honest about things with would agree, and when Midoriya gave you permission to avoid Tomura as much as possible, you still pushed back. “But avoiding’s not a long-term strategy, right? I can’t just avoid him forever.”

“That’s true. Sometimes there are situations where triggers can’t be avoided,” Midoriya agreed. “At the same time, when they can be avoided, they should be. And since Endgame represents the source of your pain –”

He doesn’t represent it. He is it. “Yeah. I should stay away.”

And you have, for the most part. Himiko usually goes to hang out with them, but you take the time alone in your room to think, or to study. You need to study. You’re coming up on a year in the program, a year sober, and that means you’re eligible for discharge – and you don’t want to leave. That means you need to find a way to stay. And that starts with finally finishing high school.

“Don’t you care?” Eri asks, and you realize you’ve zoned out. “About what people think?”

“I’ve been a villain since I was eighteen,” you say. “I missed the boat on that one a while ago.”

“I thought you had to have a quirk to be a villain.”

“I have one,” you say. It doesn’t come up very much, because it’s pretty useless, but you’ve got one. “It’s called Find. If I know what I’m looking for, I feel kind of a pull towards it. Like when people play that hot and cold game.”

Eri frowns. “What’s that?”

“Um – you’re looking for something, or trying to guess something. When you get closer to it, the person who knows what it is – or where it is – tells you that you’re getting warmer. So I feel it like that. It’s kind of useless.”

“No it isn’t,” Eri says, frowning. “Could you find people with it?”

“Yes.” You used it to find the entity that granted your selfish, impossible wish. It took you three years, but it worked. Something occurs to you. “I have to know what I’m looking for to find it. I didn’t know –”

“Nobody knew to look for me.” Eri still sounds bitter when she says it. “Even if you had, nobody would have listened to you.”

“Yeah.” It doesn’t make you feel any better, but it’s true. “It sucks.”

“It’s the heroes’ fault,” Eri says, and you glance at her. “They could have made you a hero and you could have helped people. But they put you in jail and made you a neuroin addict.”

“Nobody made me take neuroin,” you say. Eri rolls her eyes. “I hear you, though. Maybe it would have been better if they’d made me do something useful with my quirk instead of just stealing stuff.”

Or finding neuroin. You used your quirk to find a lot of neuroin. Eri still look dissatisfied. “It’s stupid,” she says. “Don’t you ever just want to –”

“Go crazy?” you ask.  She nods, and she reminds you so much of Tomura that it hurts. “I’ve seen where that ends. I’m trying something different. What do you want to do?”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” Eri says.

“Yeah. That’s why it’s so important,” you say. “You’re not like me. You haven’t made any mistakes yet. You can do whatever you want to do. So – what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Eri says, and you nod. “I want to watch Sinister tonight when my visitors show up. And I want you to come too.”

Eri’s been developing some likes and dislikes. She really likes sugar and sweet foods. She really likes music, and one of the heroes who tutors her is teaching her to play guitar. She really likes origami, and she’s better at it than you. And she also really likes horror movies – the old, weird ones. You know it freaks the treatment team out a little bit, but they’re trying to give her as much autonomy as possible. “It’s nice of you to invite me, but I have to study.”

“English, right? We can play the movie in English with the subtitles on.” Eri is staring at you. “Skeeter is coming. And Honey. Why won’t you?”

“I really need to study.”

“You have to come,” Eri counters. “Otherwise I won’t feel like you’re supporting me.”

That strikes you as pretty manipulative, or guilt-trippy, or something. When you glance at Eri, you can’t tell what way she meant it. “My counselor says he really wants me to focus on school,” you say. “I’ll ask him what he thinks when I see him today. If he says yes, I’ll go.”

“Good,” Eri says confidently. “He’ll say yes.”

You’re not so sure, but you promise yourself you’ll give it a shot, and when Eri looks away, you roll your sleeves back down. You’ve been practicing being open about your scars so she’ll be more comfortable being open about hers. But her scars aren’t her fault. Nothing about what’s gone wrong in her life is her fault. Almost everything that’s gone wrong in your life is yours.

Your appointment with Midoriya is his last one of the day, and when you go in there, you’re expecting him to be alone. He isn’t, and just like you did the first day when you realized your counselor was someone who hated you in your real history, you recoil back against the door hard enough to jar your teeth in your head. “You aren’t in trouble,” All Might says, but you’re not buying shit from him. You look at Midoriya, panicked, but he’s avoiding your eyes. “I just want to talk.”

“About what?” You hate All Might. You want to hate All Might – but All Might in the new history did what All Might in your timeline should have done, saving Tomura instead of forgetting about him. “I don’t have anything to say.”

“The tip regarding the Shie Hassaikai came from you,” All Might says. “I came to see if there’s anything – else.”

“About the Shie Hassaikai?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. “I was led to believe,” All Might starts, then clears his throat. “I was led to believe that you might know something about the Hero Killer.”

It takes a second for that one to hit, and once it does, you turn to glare at Midoriya. “Are we just pretending confidentiality doesn’t exist now?”

“Someone’s life is in danger,” Midoriya says. “I’m obligated –”

“That only counts if I’m the one who’s going to kill someone,” you snap. “And I might be, if you keep telling people!”

“I’m sorry,” Midoriya says. “I shouldn’t have broken your trust. But if there’s something you can do to help someone, you should. I’ve heard you say that.”

“Yeah, when it would actually help,” you say. “You guys have had the Hero Killer in custody for years. What the fuck do you think I can help with?”

All Might glances at Midoriya. “I thought you were joking,” he says. Midoriya shakes his head, and All Might turns back to you, the look in his blue eyes wary. “The Hero Killer has never been in custody. Very few people have seen him and lived, and of those, none have gotten a clear enough look to describe him. He’s killed more than forty heroes, including hero students, and maimed a dozen more.”

“And what do you think I can do about it?” you snap. “Did Midoriya tell you I’m crazy? I’ve got this elaborate delusional architecture going on. You can’t trust anything I say.”

“What you told Sir Nighteye was accurate,” All Might says. “If you were correct once, you could be correct again. You can help save people’s lives.”

You think of what Eri said. Of what you could actually do to help people. It’s not ratting out the Hero Killer. “Heroes’ lives. Why should I save them? So you all can keep chasing fame and fortune by beating up people like me? You aren’t in it to help people. You’re in it for money or fame or power. He’s right about you.”

All Might frowns. “The Hero Killer’s never released a manifesto.”

Right – the Hero Killer’s message only got out because he was arrested. He hasn’t been arrested here, which means you sound crazy. Or like you really do know something. “I’m sure he’s got his reasons.”

Midoriya is glaring at you. Like he has any right to glare at you, when he’s the one spilling your secrets to get All Might to pay attention to him. “Even if the Hero Killer has his reasons, not all heroes are like you say,” he says. “There’s no telling which heroes he’ll hurt.”

Every muscle between your jaw and your abdomen tenses up in an instant, making it hard to breathe. Why didn’t you think of that? The Hero Killer hurt Tomura even in your memories, when they were both villains, but Tomura’s a hero now, and Stain would kill him without a second thought. All Might seems to sense that you’re wavering. “Anything you might know would be helpful,” he says. “I don’t need to know how you know it.”

Great. You struggle to unlock your jaw enough to speak. “I know his name, but it won’t help you find him.”

“Share it, please.”

“Akaguro. Akaguro – um, Chizome.” You remember watching the Hero Killer video with Tomura. He Decayed his phone halfway through. “His quirk – it lets him paralyze somebody if he tastes their blood. It doesn’t last forever.”

“How long does it last?”

“Long enough to make a difference.” For you all, at least. If Stain had been serious about killing you and Tomura, Kurogiri was paralyzed more than long enough to make escape impossible. “That’s all I know.”

“You mentioned his reasons,” All Might says. You don’t answer. “Say more.”

You try to remember all the stuff Spinner and Dabi said about Stain when they’d get into their bullshit sessions about who understood his ideas the best. “He thinks being a hero is about sacrifice. And about doing things for others with no expectation of payment. He thinks that once people take money for doing heroics, they stop being heroes, so he hates them all. The only one he doesn’t hate is you.”

“Me,” All Might repeats. You nod. “Why?”

“He says you’re a true hero. And only a true hero is worthy of killing him.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” All Might says. A shadow crosses over his face, and you wonder if he’s thinking about All For One, who he must have killed for real. “Violence only begets more violence.”

Tomura said that. You remember Tomura saying that. Since when does All Might – “In your opinion,” All Might starts, and you snap out of it, “I would have the best chance of bringing him in alive.”

“Just kill him,” you say. All Might looks surprised. So does Midoriya. “If you’re just going to stick him in Tartarus, dead is better.”

“Were you –” Midoriya breaks off, scribbles something in his notes. “Never mind. We’ll get there. Um, sir – All Might – do you have any other questions for my patient?”

All Might shakes his head. “Thank you,” he says to you. “If your information leads to the Hero Killer’s capture, you’ll receive the same reward as last time.”

That’s news to you. “There was a reward?”

“Yes,” All Might says, frowning. “As thanks for your cooperation with the investigation of the Shie Hassaikai, the government has expunged two of your felony convictions from your criminal record.”

You have four felony convictions. Had. If he’s telling the truth – and you can’t figure out why he’d lie to you after you gave him the information he asked for – you only have two left. It’s been months since the Hassaikai raid, and Midoriya must have known. Why didn’t he tell you? Somewhere in your stunned silence, All Might nods to you and leaves, and it’s a little while before you recover the power of speech.

By the time you do, Midoriya’s already braced himself. Good. “You’ve got some fucking nerve,” you spit. “I want a new counselor.”

“I was trying to help –”

“Who were you trying to help? Me, or yourself? You’ve been treating me like I’m crazy for almost a year, and now you’re using me for information so you can buddy up to All Might!” You can’t remember the last time you got angry like this. It’s been forever. “Is getting good boy points from your favorite action figure really that important to you? All that bullshit about caring about people the heroes can’t help – when all you care about is being a hero –”

“They’re going to clear your record!” Midoriya doesn’t shout, but he speaks with more emphasis than you’ve ever heard him use. “Do you know what that means? When you get out of here, you’ll be free. No probation, no work or housing restrictions – nothing. You’ll be able to do whatever you want to do. I want you to have that, because I care about you. Even if you don’t feel that way.”

The worst thing is, you think he’s telling the truth. Midoriya does care about you. But if he cared about Tomura the same way in that other life, you wouldn’t be here. “And none of it has to do with getting All Might’s attention?”

“Maybe a little bit.” Midoriya looks away from you. “But this is personal to me, too. The Hero Killer killed one of my classmates, in my first year at UA. I want to see him pay for what he’s done.”

“In Tartarus.”

“Where else?” Midoriya glances down at his notebook, then up at you. “Were you there?”

“We’re not there yet,” you say. You and Midoriya look at each other for a moment. “If I get another counselor, they’ll tell the shrinks to put me on antipsychotics, right?”

“I’d highly recommend otherwise, but it’s likely,” Midoriya says. He sighs. “I broke your trust, and I apologize. If you would prefer not to continue to work with me, I understand, and I’ll do everything I can to facilitate a smooth transfer to a different therapist.”

He’s not saying he’s sorry for ratting you out. Some part of you appreciates the honesty, and you don’t want to end up on antipsychotics again. “I don’t want you to go behind my back again. If there’s something you think needs to be shared, tell me so I can decide. I don’t want people to start acting like I know the future.”

“I understand,” Midoriya says. He looks relieved at first; then he glances down at his watch and jump-scares himself. “Sorry. Let’s not burn through any more of your session. We left off in the story at – um –”

“Gigantomachia,” you say. Then you remember something. “One thing – Eri wants me to go to movie night. She said I have to or she won’t feel supported in her recovery. But Endgame is going to be there –”

“Don’t go,” Midoriya says at once. “Blame me.”

You’re planning to. You settle into your chair and start talking.

Eri’s unhappy with you, but you shift the blame onto Midoriya so successfully that she refuses to talk to him when he stops by to say hi on his way out. While Eri and Himiko and Honey head to the visiting room, you head back to the room you share with Himiko to study. Your exam’s in less than two weeks. If you don’t have your high school diploma, you can’t be admitted to the peer support specialist training program Midoriya found. And if you aren’t in that program, helping new patients through detox, you’ll graduate from treatment and be back out on the street.

You don’t want that. You’re not ready for it. This is the only place you’ve felt content since Tomura was murdered, even if ‘happy’ is permanently out of reach, and if training to become a peer support specialist is your way to stay, you’ll do it. You remember more from your two and a half years in high school than you thought you did, despite the fact that you spent way too long pickling your brain in neuroin. But English was your worst subject in school, and it’s still your worst subject now. If you fail, that’s where it’ll happen.

Even knowing that, you can’t quite focus tonight. Your head is spinning through scenario after scenario, pointless thoughts chasing their tails endlessly, and you keep coming back to All Might asking if you want to help people, Eri saying that you could use your quirk for something good, Midoriya saying way back at the beginning that he wanted to help people the heroes couldn’t. Is there something you can do? What can you do that others can’t?

When the answer occurs to you, it makes you feel like an idiot for taking so long to figure it out. You head to the small library and the ancient computer you’re allowed to use, praying the website won’t be blocked. It isn’t, but the database you find yourself staring into is enormous, and your brilliant idea suddenly feels a lot less doable. There are so many. How are you supposed to do anything with all of this? What can any one person do?

One person can make a difference. If one person had reached out to Tomura when he was a child, it would have changed everything – and you know that for sure now, because you live in a world where it did. One person did that. You could be that one person. Even if it was just for one other person, it would be enough.

You print pages at random, until you’ve got twenty or so, then take them back to your room to study them. English can wait a little bit. You memorize the details on each page, repeat each name out loud until it rings in your head, look at each face until you could pick it out of a crowd with ease. You’ll do the same tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after, and when they’re impossible to forget, you’ll go and memorize some more. It might not come to anything. But it’s worth a try.

Overhaul looks like you remember him, except for the arms. He’s got them both, but no legs, and no effort’s been made to restrain him as he sits at the defense table, attorneys on either side of him. “They used a quirk-canceling bullet on him,” Midoriya tells you. “He’s no longer an imminent threat.”

“But he’s not harmless,” you say. “Not with what he’s doing to Eri.”

Eri’s been improving steadily. Everyone can see it. But she’s needed as a witness in Overhaul’s trial, and even going over her testimony in one of the sensory rooms at the treatment center is enough to unhinge her. She can’t calm down without help from people she trusts, and that list of people is pretty thin. One of them is Endgame. One of them is Midoriya. And because You will live to see every result of your wish, one of them is you.

The trial is supposed to be closed to the public, but you and Midoriya are here in the otherwise-empty audience as support people for Eri. Endgame is keeping her calm in the room where the witnesses are sequestered, but while she’s on the stand, she’s supposed to look to you and Midoriya, and use the sight of the two of you as a touchstone. She has a packet of origami paper, too. When she wants to pull at her hair, she’s supposed to start folding it so she has something else to do with her hands.

That one was your idea, and you remember seeing a surprised look on Endgame’s face. Midoriya didn’t look surprised at all. “I knew you’d be good at this,” he said, smiling. “You’ll make a great therapist, too.”

Your peer support specialist course was only two months long, and now you spend most of each day down in detox and intake, trying to keep people from dropping out of treatment the same way you used to. Nothing reinforces your desire to stay sober like watching someone detox off neuroin, and because you’ve been through it yourself, you’re in theory the best person to talk someone through it. In theory. In practice you get sworn at a lot. Yelled at a lot. Called lots of names. You’ve even had people shake you down for neuroin.

A lot of them do leave, but every one who makes it through and gets moved up to individual and group treatment feels like a victory to you. And as much as you hate to admit it, helping people is kind of a high. Enough of one that you’ve started taking college classes, too, hoping to become a counselor or a social worker. You’re coming up on a year and a half sober. The Hero Killer was captured based on the information you gave, which means your record is clear of felonies, with misdemeanors that will be wiped off your record once you’ve gone five years without committing any more crimes. The life worth living that you found so difficult to imagine is easier to picture now.

With your future coming into focus, it’s ever so slightly easier to ignore the past, or at least to put it in its place when you need to. Which is good, because in the leadup to Overhaul’s trial and for the sake of helping Eri, you’ve found yourself dealing with Endgame a lot more than you ever expected to.

Endgame. You’ve made yourself stop calling him Tomura, because he’s not Tomura. The Tomura you fell in love with is gone, first into death, then from everywhere but within your memory when you changed his past. Endgame is someone else, someone who never belonged to you, and so what if his laughter makes your heart ache? So what if seeing his hands open at his sides makes your fingers cramp with the desire to slide your hand into his? So what if you end up crying after you see him, every single time, in the bathroom or in your debrief therapy session with Midoriya or into your pillow at night while Himiko sits on the edge of the bed, petting your hair? You can see him, interact with him, without breaking down. That’s good enough. You’re fine.

The timer on your watch beeps, and you silence it in a hurry. Time for more suboxone. You’re on a pretty strict schedule, and you place your midday dose under your tongue as yet another hero takes the stand. If the prosecution is going to call every hero who was present during the raid on the Hassaikai compound, this is going to take a while.

Weirdly enough, Overhaul’s lawyers are the ones who get you out of it. They agree to stipulate that the majority of heroes involved in the raid would give testimony almost identical to the heroes who already testified, in exchange for the government dismissing the other twenty-nine heroes. The only ones who are left after that are the ones who interacted with Overhaul directly, and Tomura – Endgame – is first on the list.

He's good on the stand. Convincing. There’s still something magnetic about him, something that makes people sit up and pay attention. You find out that he’s the one who took out Overhaul’s legs, in the course of trying to subdue him alive, and find out that he’s the one who Decayed the Hassaikai compound down to its foundations to expose the place where Eri was imprisoned. Endgame describes the conditions she was being kept in in enough detail to make you sick. The only consolation is that Midoriya looks pretty sick, too.

The Hassaikai lawyers take a stab at cross-examining Tomura – Endgame – but he’s a nightmare, and based on the way one corner of his scarred mouth tugs up in a smirk, he’s doing it on purpose. It’s not good for you to see him like that, looking so much like he did in your memories. You’re relieved when he’s off the stand. Now you can settle in and wait for Eri, just like –

“That was a mess.” Endgame sits down on your right, scaring the hell out of you. You lurch to one side and collide with Midoriya, and when you flinch back, you fall against him for a second before lurching upright again, your heart racing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. How’d I do?”

“At not scaring me? Like hell.” You start a round of box breathing, picturing that YouTube video of a mandala expanding and contracting in your head. “On the stand? Fine, probably. I’m not a lawyer.”

“It went well,” Midoriya says. “They’d have kept you on for longer if they thought they could get anything out of you.”

Endgame nods. You see one of his hands lift to the side of his neck, then fall back. “I don’t get called out to a lot of these things. Usually I’m doing rescue stuff.”

“You were good,” you say. “How is she?”

“She’s okay,” Endgame says. You’d believe him, except for what he says next. “How bad do they need her testimony to put him away?”

“Not to put him away, but to make sure he never gets out,” Midoriya says. Endgame’s expression is grim. “We’ll be here for her. That’s all we can do now.”

“Right.” Endgame makes himself comfortable next to you, and cold sweat starts dripping down your spine.

You try to pay attention as the next witness comes on, and the next, but all you’re conscious of is Tomura sitting beside you, close enough that you can feel his body heat but not so close that you can touch. You haven’t been this close to him since he was helping you sit up after your overdose. His hair’s even longer now, the ends trimmed instead of tangled like you remember them, and you fold your hands in your lap, squeezing tight so they won’t ache at the memory of running your fingers through his hair. You’ll be crying later. You just know it.

When Eri takes the stand, your attention snaps from Tomura to her in a heartbeat. Her face is set in a mask of determination, her hair done in the simple style that Honey helped her with this morning, her dress picked out by Himiko, who has an eye for this kind of thing. She looks so young, and although you know she’s rattling with anger, it’s not visible to the naked eye. Tomura could never have mastered that kind of control in your memories. Then again, Tomura never got the help he needed.

The prosecutor keeps it brief with Eri, asking her to describe her experiences in brief, her understanding of Overhaul’s plans, and what happened when she was rescued. Her psych evaluation was entered into the record, so he doesn’t have to ask her questions about her mental health. But this was never the part you and everybody else was worried about, and sure enough, when the Hassaikai lawyer steps up, Eri goes tense. Her eyes shift away from the attorney, going straight to the defense table. To Overhaul.

This is what you were afraid would happen. That she’d be drawn in by him, cowed into silence by him – or worse, that she’d get so angry she loses her ability to express herself and winds up feeling powerless all over again. But you know Eri. You know she’s strong. You wait as she stumbles on the first question, and as the prosecutor objects to the second, Eri tears her eyes away from Overhaul and looks towards the audience. You hold her gaze, and without breaking it, you reach into your coat and hold up the packet of origami paper you brought, identical to the one she holds. You extract a piece of paper, and slowly, Eri pulls one from her pocket to match.

The two of you have been doing origami together, you working from instruction or memory while she copies each fold you make. You’re not sure why or how that happened, since you’re bad at origami, but it seems to help. You make the first fold for a paper crane, and Eri does the same as she answers the defense attorney’s next question. Her voice is still shaking, but her eyes are fixed on your hands.

You try to tune out what she’s saying. Knowing what your wish did to her will make you want to use, and you’re already triggered enough with Tomura sitting right here at your side. You didn’t mean for it to happen, but you can’t change it. All you can do is what you’re doing now. Being here, trying to have her back, while she tries to put away the man who tormented her. Maybe you need to remember that. You’re not the one who tortured her. That was him.

Tomura touches your arm, and once again, you startle so badly that you almost crush your half-finished crane. Your packet of paper slides from your lap to the floor, and Tomura ducks down to retrieve it, haphazardly wedging the spilled papers back in. Not all of them, though. He keeps ahold of one, looks at you with eyebrows raised. He wants to fold, too? You nod, and Tomura faces front, folding fast to catch up to you and Eri.

You didn’t know he did origami. If you did, you’d have offered him some paper from the start. On the stand, Eri counters a question about how Overhaul treated her when he wasn’t experimenting on her with a flat, unequivocal response. “He never stopped experimenting on me,” she says. “It happened every day.”

Your stomach clenches, and you breathe deep through your nose and out through your mouth – which turns out to be a mistake, because this close to Tomura, you can pick up on what he smells like, and it’s so familiar, so much like home, that your heart breaks all over again. You’ve never wanted to use more than you do right now, when you’re so close to the person you did everything to save, knowing that in saving him you set yourself up to lose him a second time. It hurts. It will never do anything but hurt, and you have to live with it forever.

You keep your eyes on Eri, even as your vision threatens to blur. Her eyes are clear, and she’s sitting upright in her seat, aware and alert, as the two of you set your completed paper cranes down, hers on the railing of the witness stand, yours balanced on the back of the bench ahead of you. Eri starts to draw another piece of paper out of the packet, and so do you, but then her eyes dart sideways. Her mouth twitches. Her shoulders shake. Not like she’s going to cry – like she’s trying not to laugh. You follow her gaze straight to the paper crane Tomura’s just set down on the bench alongside yours.

At least, you think it’s supposed to be a crane. “What is that?”

“A crane,” Tomura says, and your throat hums with laughter. “You were folding too fast. I think I missed a step.”

“I’ll say. It looks like a dinosaur.”

“Hey. Don’t make fun of him,” Tomura says. “Birds used to be dinosaurs. Maybe he’s the missing link.”

The longer you look at Tomura’s misshapen crane-thing, the worse the hum in your throat gets. There’s something so ridiculous about it with its tiny wings, the way it lists sideways, the fact that Tomura folded a beak onto its head and its tail. And in spite of that, there’s something weirdly upbeat about it. Like it knows things can’t get any worse than this, and it doesn’t care. Tomura scoots it along the bench until it’s right alongside your crane, like it’s trying to make friends, and the juxtaposition of the two is too much to handle. You let the piece of paper fall into your lap and clamp your hands down over your mouth to hold in your laughter.

You see a grin flash across Tomura’s face out of the corner of your eye, and your heart lurches – and then you remember the point of all this, why you’re really here. Eri, and you completely forgot about her. You look up in horror and find her looking back, clearly watching Tomura’s crane debacle. Her eyes are still clear. And she’s almost smiling.

How often have you seen her smile? Even now, it’s rare, and in an instant, everything else falls away. You draw another piece of paper out of your packet, matching Eri’s again, and this time, you hold out one for Tomura, too. He hesitates. “What?”

“This might be a bad time to tell you,” he says, solemn except for a spark in his red eyes, “but I’m shit at origami.”

It’s an effort not to laugh. “Pay attention this time, then,” you say. You hold out the piece of paper again, and this time, Tomura takes it.

By the time Eri steps down from the witness stand, she’s folded six paper cranes to match yours, and Tomura’s folded six cranelike objects of his own. He lines his up alongside yours, side by side, and you tell yourself that this is enough. You’ve found a life that matters, even amidst the mess you made. If sitting next to him for a few minutes, folding the worst origami known to humankind, is the best it gets, it’s better than you ever thought.

You’re packing up to leave for your first shift when your phone buzzes. You haven’t had a personal phone in a while, so it takes you a second to respond, and you hesitate when you see Midoriya’s number. The two of you are in a weird grey area right now – he’s still your therapist, but you’re also sort of his coworker, and either way, it’s weird for him to be calling you. You pick it up anyway. “Yeah?”

“It’s not a story.”

You knew this was coming. You close your eyes. “What happened?”

“He asked me. All Might.” Midoriya’s voice is shaking, although you can’t tell whether it’s with excitement or terror. “To be his successor.”

Ever since Eri came to the treatment center, All Might’s gotten more interested in its mission, and he spends a lot of time with Midoriya talking about it, but you didn’t think it went this far. You never thought it would go this far, and based on the way Midoriya’s hyperventilating into the phone, he didn’t expect it, either. “Breathe,” you say. “How did it happen? Did he say why he picked you?”

“He said the world needs a new kind of hero,” Midoriya says. “One who reaches the people no one else can. Who believes people can change if they want to, and who won’t give up on them as long as they’re still trying.”

“Like Endgame,” you say without thinking.

“That’s what I said,” Midoriya says. He sucks down another deep breath. “But All Might said Endgame can’t do it alone. So he asked me.”

The world really must be different now, if that’s All Might’s take on things. Even if you’d heard that coming out of a hero’s mouth in the world-that-was, you’d never have believed it, but All Might’s not just saying it – he’s putting his money where his mouth is, by choosing someone who sees criminals and villains as more than just monsters in need of a beatdown. “What did you say?”

“I said I had to think about it,” Midoriya says. “I’m not sure I can’t do more good here.”

“Wow,” you say, and Midoriya makes a questioning sound. “I’d have thought you’d be all over it.”

“I want to, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing,” Midoriya says. “I know what I do here matters. I don’t know if I can make being a hero matter the same way. I promised him an answer in three days.”

“You’ve got some thinking to do, then.”

“Tell me about it.” Midoriya’s quiet for a moment. “It works exactly like you said it does. His quirk. Everything he told me is something I heard from you.”

What are you supposed to say to that? “It was never just a story,” Midoriya says, and you shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah.” All at once you’re done with this conversation, and dreading what’s going to happen at your therapy session tomorrow afternoon. “Look, I have to go. I’ve got my first shift with –”

“As a de-escalation support specialist?” Midoriya’s voice brightens up instantly. “Do you know which hero you’re pairing up with?”

“They just promised it was someone I’d be able to keep up with,” you say. “Not somebody who can fly or something.”

“I’ll build in extra time to our session. I want to talk about that, too,” Midoriya says. He sounds more like himself now, to the point where you wonder if he isn’t right. If this isn’t the right thing for him to do, instead of picking up All Might’s quirk and trying to be a hero. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks.” You hang up the phone and finish packing in a hurry. It’s your first day – or night. You can’t be late.

You’re not sure whose idea the de-escalation specialists was, but somebody high-up liked it enough to turn it into a pilot program. No top heroes are involved – it’s for heroes who go on regular patrols, who come into contact with villains, criminals, and civilians on a regular basis. Heroes who opt in are paired up with someone trained in crisis response, who can hopefully de-escalate situations and prevent them from turning violent. It’s probably more about reducing property damage than about helping people, but given that you took your first hit of neuroin to treat injuries you got in a situation that didn’t need to escalate like it did, you think it’s worth a shot.

At least a few heroes have signed up. You and the other support specialists are going to rotate through shifts with them, and you’ll be mostly on the night shift, since you still work your day job in detox and do treatment in the afternoon. Himiko and Eri are coming back from dinner as you leave, and Himiko grabs you in a hug. “Be careful,” she instructs. “I haven’t been out there in a while, but it’s probably still crazy.”

“I hope you get paired up with a decent hero,” Eri says. “Most of them are losers.”

Eri’s doing better – a lot better – but she’s still not the biggest fan of heroes. Neither are you, to be honest, but if you can help even one person tonight, it’s worth putting up with a hero for a couple hours. “I’ll be careful. And thanks,” you say to both of them. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

It’s still weird to you that you’re able to leave the treatment center when you want to. Not that you go out very often – Himiko and Eri and Honey and Birdie are here, and they’re your friends. But you can go out. Go for a walk. Go to the convenience store and buy pads when Eri realizes she hates tampons, or to the grocery store to get a cupcake for Birdie when you found out it was her birthday. You can buy things now, because you have money. You can come and go as you please, because it’s home. Neither of those are things you ever thought you’d have again.

The world you made with your wish isn’t perfect. There’s plenty of things wrong with it still, but you can’t pretend it’s not better. Nobody cared about de-escalation in the world-that-was. You used to hear hero students bitching about how there weren’t enough villains. But here they care enough that the program you’re in is one of several pilots, all across Japan. Himiko’s alive in this world. Twice is alive. Spinner’s alive; you looked him up, found out that he writes books, read one of them and found yourself smiling. Maybe Dabi and Magne are alive out there, too.

Tomura’s alive, too. That’s why you did this. He’s alive and he’s happy, and you – maybe you aren’t as happy as you would have been with him. Maybe there’s a piece of you that’ll always be missing. But you’re happy enough, you think. You finally have a life that matters.

You reach the street corner where you’re supposed to meet the hero you’ll be working with, right on time. The hero’s late. You resist the urge to pull out your phone and mess around with it. If you’re out on the street, on a shift, you’re on duty, so you need to pay attention. You learned to read a crowd when you were a criminal. Now you can use that for something good.

You hear footsteps behind you, and someone comes to a stop beside you. “Sorry I’m late. There was a – hey, it’s you!”

You’d know his voice anywhere. “It’s you,” you say helplessly, and turn to face Endgame.

He hasn’t cut his hair yet. Every time you see him, you wonder if it’ll be gone, if Bubble Girl has finally worn him down, but it seems even longer than it was before. He’s smiling at you, lopsided and sincere. “I was wondering if you’d sign up. It seems like your kind of thing.”

You nod. “I guess we’re working together tonight?”

“Looks like it. Is that going to be okay?” Endgame tilts his head, studying you. “Sometimes I feel like –”

“Like you’ve seen me somewhere before?”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” Endgame says, “let’s go with that. I’m good to go if you are.”

“Me too,” you say. He starts off across the street and you follow him, and for eight hours on a cloudy spring night, you’re exactly where you belong.

part 2 ->

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @deadhands69 @cheeseonatower @lvtuss @issaortiz @cryptidfuckerofficial @xeveryxstarfallx @f3r4lfr0gg3r @evilcookie5 @stardustdreamersisi @baking-ghoul @atspiss @koohiii @shikiblessed @warxhammer @handumb @boogiemansbitch @minniessskii @agente707 @lacrimae-lotos @aslutforfictionalmen

[eddieisashifter]

HOZIER: SELF-TITLED

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 an ask game themed off of hozier's debut self-titled album! reblog for asks and I hope this is fun! this is my first time making an ask game, so lmk what you think. inspired by @miaojune's short and extra sweet ask game (which you can find here!)

⛪ TAKE ME TO CHURCH — is there something you find yourself devoted to? is it a person? or is it an ideal? or something else? what makes you drawn to it or them?

🪽 ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH AND THE CODEINE SCENE — did you ever have a wild night out? was there anything less than legal there (it's okay I won't tell)? did someone go with you? did you go in a group? what was the aftermath?

🍼 JACKIE AND WILSON — if you have an s/o, do you want kids in your future? have you talked about it? if do you, have you made plans for them and your future family?

🌻 SOMEONE NEW — what makes you fall in love with life every day? it could be something big, like your s/o, or something smaller. what brings life to your day to day and makes life worth living?

⏳ TO BE ALONE — do you enjoy being alone? or do you find enjoyment around other people? is there something you like to do when you're alone? or is there someone you'd rather be alone with?

🐍 FROM EDEN — have you ever done something crazy for someone you care about? cross the country to meet them? show up in the middle of the night? throw a massive party? how did they take it?

🥀 IN A WEEK — is there a place you could spend hours or days in, just existing? what makes it so calming to you? is it the atmosphere? the people there? does it ever become hard to leave?

🪷 SEDATED — what do you do when you need a break from the world? is there an activity that grounds you? or a place that makes you feel more tethered? what about it makes you feel better?

🪦 WORK SONG — what carries you through a hard day? is it a thought of a person at home? a vision and passion for your future? what makes you keep going on those hard days?

💋 LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO — how did you meet your s/o? did you know each other since you were kids or did you meet in a drunken fling? did you like each other at first, or did you hate them, or was it love at first sight? tell us your meet-cute!

🐾 IT WILL COME BACK — is there something you keep coming back to over and over again? is it a person or something else? is it not so good for you, and if so, what drags you back every time?

🦋 FOREIGNER'S GOD — are you connected to your culture? did you grow up in it or find it later in life? is it important to you, or do you not care as much about it?

🍷 CHERRY WINE — have you ever had to deal with a terrible situation? was it with another person, maybe someone you cared about? how did you resolve it?

🌲 IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE — fun question! what's the craziest dream you ever had (that you can remember)? what made it so crazy? can you even remember all the details or did you wake up with fragments?

🌿 RUN — what is the best part (in your opinion) about your hometown or country? why do you love it? is there anyone else that shares your opinion?

🔥ARSONIST'S LULLABYE — have you ever acted on your impulsive thoughts? what happened and how did people react? did you get hurt or in trouble?

[formulaonecrumbs]

junie could you do more osc comfort? him comforting reader before a surgery where they’re doing a d&c to check her out and the aftermath of him just being in the hospital and bringing her home

-🧸

i love you lots junie

right here when you wake up

Oscar Piastri x PCOS!reader

summary: oscar comforts reader through a d&c surgery and takes care of her after.

warnings: medical mentions, d&c surgery, implied fertility concerns, hospitals, post-op recovery

A/N: i didn’t know what a d&c was so i DID in fact look it up. also i don’t know if u wanted more on the fertility matter but i thought i’d keep it more soft. i love u, 🧸❤️. hope surgery goes well and everything’s alright!

⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘

you’re cold when you wake up, even under three hospital blankets.

it’s the kind of cold that sinks into your skin, not sharp or biting—just… hollow. like something inside you has gone quiet.

you don’t even remember falling asleep.

but you remember oscar holding your hand while the nurse walked you back. remember the tremble in your fingers, the soft kiss he pressed to your knuckles, the way he said “i’ll be right here. when you wake up, i’ll be right here.”

and he is.

slouched in the uncomfortable hospital chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands—but as soon as he hears the rustle of sheets, he looks up. eyes soft, mouth parted, relief blooming across his face.

“hey,” he whispers, coming closer. “hey, sweetheart. you’re okay.”

your throat is dry. “how long was i out?”

“a couple hours,” he says, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “everything went fine. they said you did great.”

you blink hard, biting back the sting in your eyes.

he notices immediately. “hey. none of that. you don’t have to be brave right now.”

“i’m not—” your voice cracks. “i’m just tired.”

he nods, hands warm as they cup your face. “i know. i know, baby.”

he kisses your forehead, lingers there, and for the first time since you signed the consent form, your chest eases just a little.

he’s quiet the whole ride home.

not distant—just tuned into you. one hand on your thigh, the other on the wheel. eyes flicking to you at every stoplight, checking if you’re still comfortable, still okay.

you sit curled toward the door, legs tucked up carefully, cramping dull but persistent.

you don’t speak until you’re parked in the driveway. “i feel empty.”

oscar doesn’t try to fix it. he doesn’t say anything stupid or sugarcoated. just turns the engine off, leans across the console, and wraps his arms around you like he’s trying to hold every broken piece together.

“you’re not empty,” he murmurs. “you’re here. you’re whole. you’re mine.”

he carries you inside—not because you ask, but because he sees the way you hesitate on the doorstep, the way your hands tremble when you reach for the handle.

you bury your face in his neck. “i can walk.”

“i know,” he whispers. “but let me, okay?”

he lays you on the bed, tucks the blankets in around you, then disappears for a minute—only to come back with a hot water bottle and a painkiller and the tea you like when your stomach’s a mess.

he sits behind you, legs on either side of yours, pulling you into his chest.

you don’t say anything for a while. just breathe.

after a few minutes, he speaks again, so quiet you almost miss it. “i hated not being allowed in the room with you.”

“wasn’t much to see,” you mutter.

“wasn’t about that,” he says. “it was about you being in pain. and me not being able to hold your hand through it.”

you don’t cry. you just… lean further into him, like if you try hard enough, you can disappear into his chest completely.

“thank you,” you whisper.

“for what?”

“for not leaving. for not making it worse.”

he huffs a soft breath. “baby, you could go through anything, and i’d still be right here. nothing could make me leave.”

you fall asleep with his arms around you and his lips pressed to the crown of your head.

and in the quiet, he holds you like you’re still made of something precious.

because to him, you always will be.

THE END :>

[msnmnt]

The Morning After

pic from pinterest 🩶

A/N: I like to think this is in the same universe as my other fics, taking place between Lay Your Love On Me and Teach You, but I think it’s also fine to be read on it’s own.

Summary: Contains smut! Taking place the morning after Mase takes y/n’s virginity, there’s lots of fluff for the aftermath the morning after. Then… Mason wants to make her feel good once more. 😏 Enjoy! 💗 (ps sorry for the unoriginal title, I need to work on that 😅)

Your eyes fluttered open, slowly blinking as you adjusted to the dim room, lit only by the daylight that was seeping through the light grey curtains that you didn’t completely recognise.

It took you a few moments to properly wake up, but soon the memories from the previous night were flooding back to you. They were Mason’s curtains, and you were tucked up in Mason’s bed.

You gradually remembered the events from the previous evening and how it had ended with Mason being his usual total sweetheart self, not wanting you to move and cleaning you up with a wet cloth and towel so you could stay comfy in his bed. You recalled how your cheeks had flushed a crimson colour as he wiped between your legs, catching his attention when you winced slightly at the sensation of the cold water on the area which was so sensitive. Mason’s head had jolted to look at you, his heart dropping at the little whimper that left your mouth. You had had to reassure him that you were okay, just a little sensitive, and he had continued cleaning you up.

Mason had gone on to dress you in one of his tops that he knew you loved, and the pair of you had snuggled down, limbs tangled as you indulged in some pillow talk. But if Mason was honest, he had barely taken in what you were saying, far too enamoured by the glow on your face that he was sure had only appeared after he had made love to you. He could feel himself falling more and more in love with you as he listened to you quietly ramble on about not much, softly blinking as his eyes fixated on your features, the way they were so perfect to him.

You couldn’t quite remember falling asleep, but you did remember how the evening had ended with Mason cuddled up behind you, his arms looped around your waist as he held your body against his, telling you how good you did for him and how in love with you he was.

You didn’t have chance to register that Mason’s arms were no longer caging you in, far too caught up in your thoughts as your tummy buckled at just how perfect your caring boyfriend had made the previous night. You couldn’t have asked for anything more. Well, that was what you thought, till you noticed Mason wander through his bedroom floor, dressed in nothing but a pair of grey jogging bottoms that sat dangerously low on his hips.

He tried his best to tip toe in, his hands gripping tightly onto a tray filled with two croissants and two glasses of fresh orange juice.

You couldn’t fight back the smile on your face as you sat up in bed. When Mason noticed you were awake, he tutted in disappointment before carefully placing the tray onto the bed.

“Why’re you awake?” Mason asked, unreasonably annoyed that he hadn’t got the chance to wake you up with breakfast in bed like he had planned out in his head.

“Because you have the thinnest curtains known to man.” You chuckled, looking over at the thin bits of fabric which were now doing little to hold back the sunlight. “Seriously, you can tell you haven’t had a woman’s touch around this place.” You rubbed at your sleepy eyes before scanning the room. His furniture was nice and the room was modern, but you could tell none of it had really been given much thought.

“You can give it your touch all you want, baby.” Mason climbed onto the bed, slipping himself back under the covers. “I’m serious, you can do whatever you want to it.” Mason cupped your face in his hand, his eyes looking over the sleepy but lovey look on your face, matching his.

He lent in, capturing your lips with his in a sweet kiss. His other hand slipped to go under the shirt of his that you were wearing, holding your hip as he licked at your bottom lip. You gladly opened up to allow his tongue to slip in, the minty taste of his toothpaste making your mouth tingle.

Mason’s kisses got hungrier and your lips turned up into a grin as you pulled away, your gaze snapping down to the bedding and noticing that Mason’s sudden movements had jolted the tray, causing the juice to spill over the top of the glass.

Mason shrugged his shoulders, bringing his face back to yours, and you giggled at how keen he was.

“Mase, baby.” You laughed as he looked on innocently, completely smitten and just wanting to show you love. “Be careful, you’re going to get the bedding all wet.”

Mason gave you a look and raised his eyebrows, and you just rolled your eyes at his childness.

“Come on, let’s eat.”

Mason settled down next to you and you shared the pastries, making quick work of eating them all. You sat in mostly a comfortable silence and you couldn’t help but beam at how natural the domestic setting had you feeling.

As you ate, Mason kept a hand on your thigh, lightly stroking as he just wanted to keep his hands on your soft skin at all times.

Once you had finished the pastries and juice, Mason put the tray to one side before reaching his arm out and tapping his bare chest. You felt your tummy flutter as you shifted yourself over to allow his body to envelope yours, his hand coming to grip at your arm as he placed a soft kiss to your forehead, the softness making you nuzzle your head into him.

“How’re you feeling this morning, angel?” Mason asked before planting one more kiss to your hair, grabbing one of your hands in his and intertwining them in his lap.

“I feel good.” You turned to look up at him, his honey eyes staring back into yours with a look of love and adoration. “Really good, actually.” You smiled and Mason’s heart thudded at how genuinely happy you looked. He was so glad he had managed to relax you and make the night memorable for you as well, for all the right reasons.

Something about the way he was looking at you with such softness and care as well paired with the thoughts back to last night seemed to enlighten something in you and you found yourself squeezing your thighs together.

You pulled your hand from Mason’s and he furrowed his brows in confusion before watching as you bought it to his bare chest, ever so slightly tracing your nails across his chest and running them all the way down to the tops of his jogging bottoms. A little giggle left Mason and you were sure it was the sweetest sound you had ever heard, deciding to continue dragging your nails across his chest in random patterns, up and down, diagonal and across, as he watched on, small sighs leaving his parted lips at the sensation.

After a few minutes, you finally convinced yourself to be brave and you lightly grazed your hand over his crotch, noticing the faint outline of his cock as it was clear he was not wearing boxers.

Mason let his eyes fall shut as he took in a few breaths, your hand brushing over his hardening cock. Finally he convinced himself to reach down and gently grab your wrist in his hand, stopping your movements.

“What’re you doing, baby?” Mason asked, his heart hammering in his chest.

You shrugged, trying your best to mask how nervous you were at trying to make the first move. You don’t want to, but seeing Mase sat there all shirtless and sexy, the heat was pooling in your stomach, and you had to do something about it.

“I just thought I could maybe - maybe touch you. Try and make you come with my hand.” You admitted shyly and Mason felt his cock twitch at your words. He tried his best to compose himself, shaking his head.

He gently pushed you back onto the bed so you were laying flat, coming to hover above you. Mason cupped your cheek, his thumb lightly stroking at your soft skin.

“Absolutely not baby.” He begun to scatter soft kisses to your neck, feeling pleased with himself when he noticed the small but purple mark behind your ear that he had left last night, gently soothing the skin with his tongue. “My girl deserves the best.” He cupped your cheek, his thumb lightly stroking at your soft skin. “Anyway, what kind of a boyfriend would I be if I let you do that before I’ve gone down on you?” His breath fanned over your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You crooked your neck down, your face warming at his words and the feel of his breath on you. His warm skin on yours. His sweet words filling you with complete joy.

Mason scattered little kisses all over your face, his hands wandering down the curves of your body. He slipped your top (his) top up your body till your midriff was exposed and he begun to plant sloppy kisses to your skin, his lips dangerously close to where you really wanted them.

“Mase…” Your couldn’t help him name from falling from your lips, your heat pulsing.

“Yeah, baby?” He asked smuggly before scootching down the bed a little more so he could scatter wet, open mouth kisses to the insides of your thighs, purposely avoiding going where you really wanted him as your hips twitched up slightly, making Mason chuckle.

“Please…” Your voice was laced with desperation but Mason was feeling cheeky, loving having you so desperate for him.

Mason moved his mouth over your mound, his breath hitting your core. You squirmed once more and Mason bought his hands to grip at your hips.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.” His lips pressed a kiss to your centre and a whimper fell from your lips, music to Mason’s ears.

You looked down and the sight of Mason’s head between your legs made you go crazy. You couldn’t keep your eyes off him, finding it difficult to hold yourself together.

His hands played with the sides of your knickers and he looked up at you, feeling smug as your eyes were glazed over, completely fixated on him and what he was doing.

He pulled them down your legs, his eyes falling straight to your pussy, his cock twitching.

“Gonna be a good girl for me, huh?”

You whimpered at his words and Mason huffed smugly, finally giving what you wanted and planting a single kiss to your clit.

He pulled away again, dragging the tip of his finger slowly up your slit, watching on as you squirmed under his touch.

Mason took in the sight of how wet your folds were, and he couldn’t wait to ruin you.

He ducked his head down to blow on your most sensitive area, smirking when he saw your entire body twitch at the sensation. He used his fingers to part your lips slightly, groaning as you pulsed around nothing, whimpering slightly in desperation.

Mason left kitten licks all around your slit, gasps leaving your mouth as you felt him so close to where you were so desperate for him. Finally Mason’s tongue licked a stripe to your clit, and you let out a strangled mix between a gasp and a moan, your whole body relaxing and sinking into the mattress beneath you.

You reached your hands down to tangle into his hair as his tongue continue to perfectly work your nub, swirling round in circles. You lightly tugged at Mason’s hair and he moaned in response, the sound vibrating through your core.

The sweet sounds falling from your lips as his tongue worked you to perfection had Mason repositioning himself between your legs so his lower body came into contact with the bed beneath him, allowing him to shamelessly rut his hips into the soft mattress, relieving some of the pressure he was feeling.

Mason bumped his nose to your clit and you brought your hand to the nape of his neck, softly playing with the hair there as his tongue swiped over your slick folds. Your hips jolted slightly and your pussy rubbed against his nose once more, eliciting the sweetest of moans from your lips, causing Mason to moan, muffled into your heat.

He pulled away before using his thumb to mimic the previous movements of his tongue, the perfect circles making you throw your head back against the pillows below you.

Mason slowly sunk one finger into you, intently focused on your face to make sure you weren’t in any kind of pain. He curled his finger and as it brushed against the spongey part, he felt you clench around him, your nails seeping into the skin at his neck.

He whined as his lips stayed attached to your clit, licking and gently suckling as he straightened out the finger he had buried deep in you before curling it to graze against your g-spot. You were in complete bliss, a mixture of whimpers and moans leaving your parted lips as you watched him work your body so sweetly.

Mason slipped a second finger in, sliding in so easily with how wet he had got you. He was quick to find the same rhythm as before, his fingers curling at the perfect angle as he expertly fucked you with them.

The pleasure was piling in your tummy and your thighs were shaking, threatening to close around his head. Mason used his free hand to press into the soft flesh of your thigh, pinning you down.

You could feel your high approaching and you wanted nothing more than for Mason to carry on just what he was doing, so when he pulled his mouth away you let out a strangled groan in dismay. Mason smirked to himself as he watched on as you writhed beneath him, his fingers still inside of you as you looked up at him, eyes wide and confused as you stuck out your bottom lip at the loss of contact.

You were taken by surprise when you felt Mason spit onto your clit, his fingers slipping out of you to messily spread his salvia on your pussy.

“Fuck, Mason…” You moaned, knowing you wouldn’t last much longer. Your thighs involuntary tried to close around his head once more, and he dug his fingers into your skin harder, sure to leave fingerprints as he pinned your thigh back to give his the access he needed.

He slipped two fingers back into you, pumping and curling them to brush perfectly against your g-spot as his tongue swirled your now overly sensitive clit.

“Mase.” A strangled moan slipped from your lips as you struggled to compose yourself any longer. “I don’t think - I feel like I’m gonna - oh.”

The noise that fell from your lips only spurred him on more. He removed his hand from your hip and placed it flat on your stomach, pressing down slightly. Mason was certain he could feel his own fingers as they curved inside of you, the feeling making him groan into your core.

“Masey, baby-“

“It’s okay, princess.” Mason mumbled into your pussy, focused on keeping his movements exactly the same, wanting nothing more than to bring you to your high now. “Let go for me, angel. Come all over my tongue.” He reattached his lips to your clit, gently sucking and licking as he felt your pussy tightly grasp around his fingers.

A uncontrollable sob fell from your lips as your thighs tightened around him, allowing the blissful feeling to completely take over your body. You pulled at his hair a little harder than you probably should’ve as his fingers and tongue made you see stars, and he groaned into your core.

Once you both managed to calm your breathing, Mason gently slipped his fingers out, trying his best to compose himself.

You tried your best to open your eyes but you couldn’t help them from falling shut as you took some breaths, attempting to bring yourself back fo reality.

Mason surfaced from between your legs, a massive grin across his face as your chest raised up and down rapidly. His lips were glistening and you felt yourself blush at the mess you made on his face, but Mason was completely shameless. He held your face and kissed you softly and tenderly before slipping his tongue into your mouth, the taste of yourself on him making you pull away shyly.

”I’ll be back in 5 minutes, I just need to have a shower real quick.” Mason said before planting a final quick kiss to your lips, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart twinge in disappointment at him leaving you already, even if it was just for 5 minutes.

“Oh.” You mumbled out disappointed, which Mason picked up on straight away.

“Sorry angel, it’s just - I’ve made a bit of a mess in my pants.” He trailed off, nuzzling his face into your neck in embarrassment.

Your eyes widened and you raised your eyebrows. “You… you came in your pants?” You questioned, a little unsure till you felt Mason nod into your neck.

He pulled back up to look at you, his face reddening. “I couldn’t help it. The noises you were making and how you were tugging my hair just made me so fucking hard, baby.”

“Oh.” You couldn’t help but feel pleased with yourself, your confidence increasing more and more. “Maybe I could… join you in the shower?” You asked hopefully. “I guess I need to clean up too.”

Mason grinned, grabbing your hand and leading the way into his en-suite where the pair of you basked in the warm water, the shower full of nothing more than lots of sweet touches and soft kisses as you washed each other clean.

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Home for the First Time

It was early when there was a knock at the door of Wayne Manor, Bruce was still in his nightgown because even though it was nearly noon he’d been out late. He stayed back while Alfred opened the door, curious to see who it was and hoping he hadn’t forgotten he was supposed to meet with press or something today. But no, it was two children, nearly identical besides the fact one had blue eyes and the other green.

“Hello,” The blue eyed one greeted with a bright, charming smile, he had one arm out slightly, subtly shielding the green eyed boy who was hanging back a little, a serious look on his face and a stubborn set to his jaw. “My name is Danyal Al Ghul and this is my brother Damien. Perhaps Bruce remembers an ill advised dalliance with our mother Talia roughly 11 years ago? We are the result, and she says it’s time we meet our father and learn what we can from him.”

“Of course we’ll submit to a DNA test to prove our lineage,” The green eyes one, Damien, put in. Danial didn’t look at the boy as he nodded along.

Behind Alfred Bruce choked on his coffee and started to cough. Alfred was unflappable as always and simply nodded once. “I see, why don’t you two come through into the sitting room? The paternity test shouldn’t take long using our equipment, we’ll just need a bit of your hair,” Alfred said as he stood back and usured the kids in. Bruce deciding now would be a good time to disappear and compose himself before he had to meet these unexpected children.

---------------

Danyal was nervous and excited as they sat in the drawing room, cradling mugs of tea neither of them had drunk. Damien was probably suspicious of an attempted poisoning, but Danyal was just nervous! Not that he showed it, his hands didn’t shake and an impassive little smile stayed on his face as he observed every inch of the room. That was the difference between him and Dami really, Damien had been raised the heir to the Demon Head, Danny to the Bat and Wayne industries. They had gone through the same physical training of course but they had different behaviours ingrained in them.

Damien had been taught to repress all emotion and not show it at all where as Danny had been taught how to mimic them. Hide his true emotion and show the appropriate ones. A ‘press smile’ as they say, to charm and manipulate and give just the right half answers that truly gave nothing away. He excelled in science and technology which would be perfect for running Wayne Enterprises, so it mattered less that his reading skills flagged behind Dami’s a bit, or that he had been the weaker combatant.

Had been, until he had been struck by lightening and then revived by Lazarus. It had been a disappointment, but thankfully not something he could have been faulted for, an act of god to punish their grandfather for his avoidance of death and because even the gods feared who they would become. He remembered the strike, the unimaginable pain of it, and the aftermath as he lay on the ground, his heart stuttering and thumping to hard, then not, then fluttering, then not, then nothing as he had passed out.

He did not remember being dropped in the pit, but he did remember waking up within it. It burned through his veins, seeping in to the hand that had been struck holding his weapon, racing up along the fractals of energy, collecting the currents that still had him twitching uncontrollably and curling together into a hard ball in his chest. A wash of cold spread over him from his new centre, soothing the burn of the acrid, acidic pit. It made drifting there… comfortable.

He knew it shouldn’t have been, he had seen multiple people break the surface, gasping and screaming and clawing their way to shore, but it wasn’t for him. Then again Ra’s bathed in the pool, so maybe this was alright? It made him wonder about the people who never surfaced again, did they choose to stay because this was how it felt to them too? Drifting listlessly in comfortable… What? What was this feeling. Danny had turned and dove deeper into the pit, seeking answers as he always did, even when it wasn’t wise.

He didn’t know how long he swam before he could see the edges, the pool narrowing closer and closer till he could barely make it through, and then he found an exit. It was small, a porthole into a void of stars and doors. It was unlike anything he’d seen and he realised immediately it was calling to him, that was why he had dove. It wanted him to enter, it called it was where he belonged, it terrified him. When something far to large drifted by his little vantage point he fled back towards the surface, the life he knew, and the broken family he still loved.

He was a bit surprised to find that Damien and mother were still there but grandfather had already left. That was fair really, Danny didn’t know how long he had been down there, but his brother and mother are still there. It seemed Damien was being allowed a rare moment of weakness, on his knees by the edge of the pond, staring blankly into the water with their mother crouching next to him, rubbing his back though Damien’s eyes were still dry. They were… grieving him.

He burst through the surface of the glowing pool, gasping for air he scrambled up onto the bank, coughing up the disgusting liquid clogging his lungs. His ears were ringing and his sight narrowing to a green blur, completely unaware of what was going on around him until two hands, one the size of his own, and one larger land on his body. The smaller set held back his hair while larger rubbed his back, slowly sound returned and he heard his mother’s soft cooing and Damien’s panicked breath.

He gasped for breath and looked up at the two of them, the green retreating from his vision as he blinked rapidly. “Damien? Mother?” He had gasped seeing the relief overtake both of their faces that Lazarus hadn’t stolen his mind.

It hadn’t, in fact he was just as sharp as ever and had found that since then no one could detect him when he wanted to remain unseen, no door could stop him or keep him out. He was what any assassin dreamed to be, but it had also come with new awareness since he had been overhearing things no one would usually let him hear. He had heard the conversations Grandfather had with mother going back and forth about which of them should go to their father, since it was always meant to be Danyal but now with his new abilities he was clearly chosen by Lazarus so maybe he should be the true heir.

Danny known Grandfather was manipulative for as long as he could remember, not like Damien, who still had faith in the league and their grandfather. Damien was smart, and talented, he was suspicious enough for both of their physical safety, but he had a much harder time realizing when they were being manipulated, or when they were being used. That was alright, Danny could make up for this weakness as Damien had done for his unwillingness to kill. It had taken him a while of carefully planted seeds in both Grandfather’s ear and Mother’s to bring them around to the idea of both of them going to father.

Danyal didn’t know if father would be any better, but he would probably be easier to escape from then the league and maybe with some distance he would gain the courage to point out to Damien how it was wrong.

That was how life found them both sitting on their fathers couch, Danny’s tea long since having grown cold. He surfaced from his thoughts, seeing his eyes shimmering unnatural green in the reflection within the cup, as it usually did when he thought about his death.

He blinked it away in time to look up and see Bruce entering the room, he put his smile back on and stood, Damien following suit and looking sullen. They had agreed Danny would take the lead, but Damien still didn’t like it. “You must be Bruce, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Danyal said offering his hand to shake. Bruce blinked looking a little startled and shook his hand, Danny did his bast to give a good, firm handshake, hopefully his hands were too cold. “Mother always speaks highly of you, and even Grandfather admits there’s much we can learn from you,” He said, stepping back to let Damien shake Bruce’s hand as well.

“And anyone who can impress grandfather must be half a god,” Danny joked causing Damien to hiss and elbow his side as he usually did when he though Danny was speaking out of turn. Danny made a little oof sound and then gave Bruce a conspiratorial look, pleased to see he had made the stoic man crack a smile.

“It’s good to meet both of you as well, I’m sorry I didn’t know about either of you until today. The paternity test confirmed that you are my sons, Alfred is already setting up rooms for you next to each other in the family wing. In the mean time how would you feel about meeting a couple of your siblings? I believe Tim, Cass, and Stephanie are home at the moment? You’ve had a long trip, if you’d rather wait till tomorrow then I understand.”

“We’d love to meet them,” Danyal said, a little louder then usual to cover his brothers scoff. Damien scowled at Danyal who scowled back just as fiercely and tried to step on Damien’s foot, he knew the other boy would move out of the way before he could but it would make his point not to be disrespectful! It was clearer then clear that their father didn’t care much for blood given how much he loved all his adoptive children no matter what Grandfather thought. If Bruce wanted a biological heir he could have easily have gotten one, their blood might give them a slight advantage but they would have to prove their merits. But of course Damien believed everything Grandfather said still.

Damien dodged and then kicked back, Danyal rolling his eyes and dodging as well. Before a full fight could break out they both heard Bruce chuckle at them, Danyal gave the man a sheepish smile and while Damien blushed and looked down at the floor sulkily. “Alright, well then follow me. I’ll call Dick as well, I’m sure that when he finds out he has two new brothers to meet he’ll come running, I’m sure he’ll be here for dinner as well.”

“We’ve heard a lot about him too,” Danyal said with an impassive smile, they had to know about those who might be their competition after all. Danyal knew a bit more then Damien but they both knew what they needed to, like strengths and weaknesses. Danyal wondered if he was going to have to come to their adopted siblings defences, he fully expected Damien would try to assassinate them, whether or not it was actually wise to do so.

“Alright, then lets go see Tim first, he’s playing video games in his room. Steph and Cass are in the studio together,” Bruce said as he ushered Danny and Damien out of the sitting room and up a set of back stairs into the family wing of the manner. Danny and Damien following, having a silent argument of signs and dodgable blows about how exactly they should be handling this. What finally ended the argument was Danny flashing fang, his eyes glowing green and baring his teeth at Damien. Both to remind Damien of his true strength and to show how important this was to him, which made Damien relent for now he wasn’t sure.

Either way they had sorted it out by the time Bruce opened the door. “Tim, how do you feel about two new brothers?” Bruce said almost sheepishly and Tim groaned, pausing his game and spinning around in his chair.

“Damn Bruce where did you find these two?” He asked giving his adopted father a tired glare.

“On his doorstep,” Danny said promptly.

“We’re his biological sons,” Damien said at almost the same time, then glared at Danny who shrugged, both were true.

“Damn really?” Tim asked as he finally got up, examining both of them.

“We already did the paternity test,” Damien said with what Danny would call an unwarranted amount of pride.

“It’s nice to meet you, I’m Danyal. You can call me Danny if you want,” Danny said, stepping forward and offering Tim a handshake and his best smile. Tim blinked and shook his hand. “I’ve never played a video game, they didn’t allow such frivolities in the compound. They look like fun though, perhaps you could teach me?”

“Uh sure, sounds fun. What about you? You want to learn other little bro?” Tim asked looking to Damien.

“Why would I want to learn a skill with no practical use,” Damien scoffed. “My name is Damien, and I do not approve of nicknames,” He said, giving Danny a haughty look as he shook Tim’s hand. Danny just rolled his eyes.

“Whatever you say little D,” Tim scoffed. Damien gave an indignant squawk and before he could go for a weapon Danny grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him back.

“Okay that’s enough of that,” Bruce said, grabbing a knife Danny had missed Damien drawing and twisting it out of Damien’s grip as Danny got his brother in a headlock.

“Sorry about him, the League of Shadows doesn’t care much for social graces, I barely escaped being just as feral as him,” Danny joked before letting out an oof as Damien elbowed him in the side and escaped his hold.

“Eh it’s not the first time a brother has tried to kill me. I can look after myself,” Tim said, which was clearly a warning to Damien judging by the look. Danny knew that Tim could, but also knew he was still underestimating them, and he hoped that wouldn’t bite him before he figured it out. “Let me know if you change your mind, I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do with tech and media, I’ll be happy to be your guide.”

“Tt,” Damien scoffed and stomped out of the room.

“Well I’m looking forward to learning about all of that, I think it’ll be fun! Ignore him, he’ll come around. Just, uhh, watch him, That won’t be the last time he tries to stab you. If anything it’s a bonding activity for him,” Danny joked as lightly as he could before hurrying after his twin, Bruce on his heels.

Part 2: here

Masterpost

[momo-minomo]

Fic Fairy Friday: Dick and Tim being brothers

I want to start regularly posting fic recs with one larger rec post of at least 10 recs centered around a theme, trope, or relationship every Friday. Since this is the first one I'm gonna go with my favorite: Tim and Dick being brothers! And as a bonus, a couple of playlists I made for these two on Spotify to listen to while you read if that's your thing. ❤️

The Fic Fairy Friday Masterpost

Good Fellows by thatcuriouscat

Summary:

After rescuing Bruce from floating around the past, Tim is Not Okay. What comes next after losing everything that really matters? Tim’s got some thoughts. So do the rest of the family. And Ra’s al Ghul. …And the Joker. Jason looks murderous. “God DAMN it, Tim, this was not the situation I had in mind when I generously taught you how to be a younger brother out of the kindness of my heart!” Even more shocked by this, Dick asks incredulously, “You, Jason Todd-Wayne, tried to give younger brother lessons? Where did you even get the audacity?” Jason rounds on him hotly. “Bitch, you wish you knew how to be a younger brother!” “FOCUS,” Tim demands. “We’ve got like, an hour to pull this off.”

Momo's Notes: Starting this off with my all time favorite Batfam fic. It plays fast and loose with comic canon but the actual characterization for everyone in the Batfam is so freaking perfect. This fic focuses on all of the Bat boys (in this fic Cass hasn't met them yet) and Bruce in the immediate aftermath of him being saved from the timestream but a big part of the plot is the reconciliation between Dick and Tim. Unlike a lot of Tim-centric fics set in this time no one is being unfairly bashed and Tim's stubborness and avoidance of his problem is just as much of a stumbling block in their relationship as Dick's actions in Red Robin. And Dick isn't demonized for making Damian Robin so much as he's criticized for HOW he did it.

tiptoes by thirdgleam

Summary:

Tim wakes up in an alternate dimension. One where he's eleven and living on the streets. One where Batman really does work alone, no Robin by his side. One where Dick is eight years old and the Flying Graysons are still flying. It would all be much easier to deal with if he remembered how he got there. or Tim: Older Brother Extraordinaire (eventually)

Momo's Notes: God this is one is heart-wrenching. Tim struggling with his grief over the family he's been separated from even as he slowly grows to love the versions of them who are adopting him here just shreds my heart. His internal war over wanting to go home but knowing his new little brother Dickie NEEDS him is just SO good. And bonus: if you REALLY want your heart ripped out of your chest check out the side stories from the point of view of Tim's original Batfamily as they struggle with their own grief over losing him. I was in tears SO FAST.

Five Times Dick Was Tim’s Safety Net and One Time Tim Was Dick’s by PrinceJakeFireCake

Summary:

“Tim forced his gaze away from his phone, took a moment to breathe deeply, then tried to figure out the best way not to die anytime soon. For Bruce. For Alfred. For his friends. For Dick.” Dick has always been there for Tim, even before they knew each other.

Momo's Notes: Inspired by the Young Justice comic with the suicide prevention hotline number. One of the things I love most about Dick and Tim's brotherhood is that they lean on each other as equals. When Tim needs help to keep going he calls Dick. When Dick is in over his head, he calls Tim. I love them.

Code Cryptid by SummerKnight717

Summary:

In which Dick Grayson and Tim Drake tag team to make both Bruce and some very unfortunate kidnappers regret all their life decisions. Jason Todd is definitely not the only theatre kid in the family... Dick really doesn't like putting on the Batsuit, thank you very much. So when he has to, he is at least owed some fun in it...

Momo's Notes: How about something short and cheerful after how heavy the last two were? This is in Bruce's pov and is a perfect showcase for how similarly unhinged Tim and Dick are when they work together lol

only you will have stars that can laugh by silverwhittlingknife

Summary:

You coming over is possibly the only thing that’s gonna stop me from wanting to punch your dad in the face, Dick doesn’t say. My current Christmas Day plans are 1) pace around at home, and 2) try not to obsess about what Bruce is up to, so trust me, you’ll be an improvement, Dick doesn’t say. Tim's alone on Christmas Eve. Dick finds out, and fixes it.

Momo's Notes: This is based on (and expands upon) the DCU Holiday Bash 3 comic. It's early in Tim's Robin career, before Babs even knows his name, but after Jack Drake woke from his coma and continues to be the worst. This is such an indulgent big brother Dick fic for me. Him daydreaming about Tim still being his little brother even if his parents hadn't died, that they'd grow up in the circus together, shredded my heart. This fic is just one in a series called A Thousand Ninjas based around Tim and Dick's brotherhood and I recommend reading all of them, they're so good!

Show Me Who I Used To Be by Fairy527

Summary:

While Tim is living with Dick and temporarily stepping in as Nightwing, he helps Dick work through a few memory issues (AKA, a scene from an alternate version of the Ric Grayson plotline)

Momo's Notes: I will never forgive DC for choosing to do the god awful Ric Grayson storyline over Tom King's suggestion to have Tim fill in as Nightwing while helping Dick recover. We could have had SO MUCH brotherhood content! Thankfully we have fics like this one exploring the scenario, though I wish it were longer.

do more harm by dizarys

Summary:

"Hey," Jason laid a hand on his shoulder, "We’re gonna get him back." "Yes," Dick growled, drawing his escrima sticks and clenching them tightly. "We are." He flipped off the stack of shipping containers with a tight somersault, landing lightly. A split second later Jason landed heavy and solid behind him. The four guards didn't stand a chance. --- Dick's temper isn't usually a problem. But when Robin disappears...crossing the line seems a lot easier.

Momo's Notes: I love how feral Dick gets in the comics when Tim is in danger. The number of times Tim's had to physically pull Dick away from beating a dude to death because he hurt/threatened/looked funny at Tim is ridiculous lol. This fic is a double pleasure because it also has some yummy brotherhood moments between Jason and Dick and explores Dick's feelings towards his own rage issues.

how to feed your local demon by InkpotSprite

Summary:

“Oh, don’t forget your–” A few papers fell out as Dick lifted it up, revealing pictures of Nightwing, Robin and Batman in the middle of a fight with Poison Ivy. “Files.” “Ah. Those.” Tim laughed nervously, the sharp, citrus-like taste filling the air. - Dick is an incubus, starved for affection after the loss of Jason. Tim isn't affectionate by nature but wants to help anyway.

Momo's Notes: This is adorable. In an AU where supernatural creatures are normal Dick is an incubus (not necessarily sexual they feed on emotions in general) and kid!Tim is worried that Bruce's emotionally stunted ass is starving his oldest son. So he takes it into his own hands to keep Dick well fed with hero worship and affection.

a soft place to land by unchosenone

Summary:

Tim rubs the back of his head, trying to affect a joking tone. “I knew I should’ve just gone for the new escrima sticks.” Dick is ready to be a good big brother to his grieving little bro. Tim flips the script.

Momo's Notes: Yes! THIS is the Tim and Dick I know and love! Dick is always ready to put aside his own issues to support his little brother but he never quite gets that Tim is just as willing to support him in whatever way he needs. They're equals and they balance one another.

CONTENT WARNING: This last rec deals with aftermath and trauma of a canonical sexual assault

In the comics both Dick and Tim have been repeatedly assaulted and then DC pretends it never hap

pened. This fic deals with Tim having been nearly SA'd by the Daughter of Acheron in Red Robin and Dick finding out about it and both of them dealing with it together. It's well written but if that content will trigger you please avoid it!

Pinned by orphan_account

Summary:

"It’d been a long time since the catacombs. Cass had been there, she’d saved him, he knew that. But in the rush of everything that came after that night, he hadn’t exactly had an opportunity to think about it. Hadn’t wanted to process any of it. The whole thing had been shoved into the back of his brain and locked up tight. Now, it was like everything was throwing itself against the chains in protest, begging him to think and feel and remember, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t." Or The aftermath of Red Robin #24/#25 with Tim and Dick talking together. TW for past attempted rape, please read the tags and check the notes for more specific tw's

Momo's Notes: If DC is going to use SA in their comics I wish they'd be brave enough to actually address the trauma and long lasting effects SA would have on the characters. This story deals with the realistic consequences Tim would have to face after Red Robin 24/25 and explores how Dick would respond to it considering his own trauma.

Spotify Playlists!

Tim Drake & Dick Grayson - Chaos Robins

Tim Drake | Red Robin - Genius and Loyalty

Dick Grayson | Nightwing - Cheerfully Kicking Your Ass

[al-the-remix]

BuckTommy Whump Week Day 4: Prompts: Getting shot // Chronic pain

Another fic for @bucktommywhumpweek! I'm hoping to finish a few more of these before the week is actually over, lol. Rated: E ... I don't know if this really qualifies as whump (like my last whump week fic 💀) but I just can't help making them all sappy atm.

What people didn’t know about bullets was that they rarely went through-and-through in a nice neat manner; not through walls, or car doors, or flesh. They bounced around inside you like a rubber ball, inflicting the most damage possible. 

Buck had seen the aftermath more times than would have liked to. 

The memory of being called to his first GSW was a visceral one, it had been a domestic dispute and once they’d loaded the victim into the bus, Hen had rubbed his back as he’d thrown up into some nearby shrubbery. Buck could still feel the acid burn in the back of his throat when he remembered it. 

He’d seen cadaver photos in his text books, but those never compared to the real thing. The sheer volume of blood that poured out of people was enough to make him nauseous just thinking about it. The cartoonish version of a bullet hole that he’d carried around in his head for most of his life just hadn’t held up. 

Maybe it had been shortsighted of him, but Buck had never taken the time to consider what might come later; not until Tommy had taken Buck’s hand in his own and laid it over the meat of his shoulder and let Buck feel the little knobs of bullet fragments lodged there, like ball bearings trapped beneath his skin. 

“Do they bother you?” Buck asked, in wonder. 

“Not often,” Tommy replied, his hand still blanketing Buck’s as he let him dig his fingers into his shoulder muscle like he would be more than happy to just leave it there forever. “Most of the time I forget they're even there.”

Buck found that hard to believe. He couldn’t imagine having a foreign object stuck in his body and not obsessing over it every moment of every day. 

Tommy was giving him an amused, knowing look. 

“What?” 

“You’re going to be thinking about those for a while aren’t you?”

Buck huffed, rolling his eyes. It was a little unsettling maybe, sometimes, being understood so through and quickly by another person. He liked it; it made him feel all shivery and warm inside, but more importantly it made him feel daring. Bold. 

“Yeah, maybe I will.”

Tommy took Buck’s hand in his own: his palm big, warm and dry, and slid it down to rest on the muscular curve of his outer thigh. “There’s some more over here too,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows as Buck gave all the nice warm flesh there a squeeze.

There wasn’t a lot of talking after that, but Tommy had been right, Buck had thought about it for a while, his mind stuck on invisible scars and mementoes carried around inside you that no one else could see. 

///

Buck wasn’t sure if it was the thunder or the soft orange glow spilling into the mezzanine that woke him. Quiet noises came from the kitchen below, the muted purr of the kettle and the shuffle of Tommy’s socked feet against the tile. Tommy had still been in Buck’s bed when he’d fallen asleep hours ago, tucked up against Tommy’s side as Tommy read by the lamp light.

Buck pulled on his sweatpants and made his way down to the main floor, feeling oddly awake for 4 am. He rarely had a bad night’s sleep when Tommy was with him, taking up space in Buck’s bed and stealing his covers. 

Tommy sent him a guilty look when he noticed Buck, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, not pulling honey from Buck’s kitchen cabinet. He was wearing one of Buck’s old hoodies and some sleep shorts. The circles under his eyes were dark and deep. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he whispered like Buck might be standing there in front of him, still asleep.

“I don’t mind,” Buck said and meant it. He wasn't the one with the shift in far too few hours.

Buck leaned back against the edge of the counter crossing his arms as he did, and settled in. He knew whatever was bothering Tommy would work its way out on its own, like a splinter buried beneath skin. He watched quietly as Tommy stirred honey into his tea. Buck was no stranger to sleepless nights and aching bones. Tommy had sat with him through some of the more recent bad nights, endlessly patient. 

Buck watched him closely, quietly analyzing the tilt of his body and the clench of his jaw as Tommy leaned against the counter opposite him. The cool light from the stove hugged the contours of his face, digging out dark wedges beneath those cheekbones that could cut glass. 

“Well, aren't you gonna ask?”

Buck shrugged. “I figured I'd just wait you out.”

Tommy sighed, setting his mug to the side. He was smart enough to know when he was on the losing side of a battle. “It's the scar tissue around the shrapnel I've still got in me. Every so often it begins to pull in uncomfortable ways and makes it impossible to get settled.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Tommy tilted his head like he was really considering Buck and his words. “Honestly I don't know, I normally just take an Ibuprofen and put on a movie or something and try to just ignore it.”

“Well, I think we can do better than that,” Buck said, and Tomy raised a brow, curiosity peaked.

With hands planted firmly on Tommy’s shoulders, Buck guided him back upstairs to bed and got him splayed out on his belly across the center of the mattress on a towel, sweater-less, with his arms tucked comfortably under his head. 

“Finally, just where I want you,” Buck teased as he straddled Tommy’s waist, reaching for the massage oil. He could feel Tommy’s laugh vibrate through his ribcage, muffled by the pillow.

Buck admired the span of Tommy’s back as he warmed the oil up between his hands, deciding where to begin. The bullet and shrapnel scars were faint now, Buck knew their locations by memory and feel alone. He started by smoothing his hands up the center of Tommy’s back, following the column of his spine and the thick muscles flanking it, getting Tommy warmed up and used to his touch before applying more pressure. 

Buck always preferred to talk while he worked, and with Tommy the smooth flow of words came easy. If he let himself, he could probably let his mouth run for hours, and Tommy would listen. 

“You know, I wanted to be a masseuse for a while.”

Tommy hummed, his eyes had drifted shut when Buck began to work on the tight knot of tissue just below his shoulder blade, he peeled one open now, offering Buck an amused look over his shoulder. “And which hunky guy did you follow that career into?”

“Ha ha,” Buck said, poking his fingers playfully into Tommy's side, just to watch him squirm. “Actually, it was after working at the ranch, there was this ex bronco rider, who had compressed his spine one too many times, mucking out stalls with me. He told me all about how his girlfriend had taken massage therapy classes to help him with his back because his insurance wouldn’t cover the treatment.” 

“Ah, so it was a hunky girl that time.”

Buck chuckled. He liked how easy it was to talk with Tommy about stuff like this; he wasn’t ashamed of  himself or his past, but he was wary of how people might perceive him because of it. He’d wanted so badly for Tommy to think of him as a serious person, to know that Buck was all in. That dating him didn’t imply some sort of unspoken risk–and with Tommy it never had. 

“You know me–I always liked the idea of helping people, I just didn't know how, yet.” 

“Maybe I’m being selfish, but I think you ended up right where you were supposed to be,” Tommy said, and groaned in pleasure when Buck really started working at the scar tissue webbed deep within his back muscle.

“How’s that feel?” Buck asked, anticipating Tommy's approval.

“Fucking awesome.”

Buck grinned. He knew he was good with his hands, but it was a whole nother thing entirely to be good with his hands for Tommy. Pleased with himself, a heavy satisfaction settled warm in the pit of his stomach. He loved everything about this: having Tommy pliable and relaxed beneath him, working slick skin over with his hands, making Tommy feel good, being able to help in some small way.

Buck shuffled down, straddling Tommy’s leg so he could work his fingers into the outside of Tommy’s thigh where he knew a metal shard the size of his thumbnail lived. That one had been logged in there when an IED had struck the lead vehicle in their convoy, and some of Buck’s satisfaction melted away as he thought about just how many close calls his boyfriend’s body was littered with. He was normally the one getting shit for taking risks, but in truth Tommy was just as guilty as he was. 

Tommy had gone completely boneless underneath him, his skin pink and a little shiny from having Buck’s oiled up hands all over him. He continued to rub gently circles into his skin even after he’d finished with the final shrapnel wound he knew of, running his nails lightly over the thick swirls of hair on the backs of Tommy’s legs. 

Tommy shifted his hips against the mattress, spreading his legs a little wider. Buck knew that move, and that satisfaction in his gut twisted and flared back to life. He slid his hands up the backs of Tommy’s thighs as slowly as he could handle.

“Are you hard?” he asked, worming his fingers under the hem of Tommy’s shorts when he reached them. 

“Yeah,” Tommy sighed. “That felt really good, but, uh, we don’t have to do anything, you must be tired and–”

He was starting to sound way too with it for Buck’s liking. Buck dug his thumbs into the soft inner flesh of Tommy’s thighs and let his hips roll in a slow, pointed drag along the back of Tommy’s leg so there was no way he could miss the semi Buck was sporting.

Tommy’s muscles jumped under his hands as he groaned. “Okay, Okay, you’ve made your point. Help me out of these–”

Buck was more than happy to peel Tommy’s shorts down his legs as Tommy lifted his hips obligingly. He had half a mind to just dump a generous amount of the oil on Tommy’s big pale ass and go to town, but he had a feeling that would probably ruin the [slowly winding] mood they’d built. 

In a show of what he considered great restraint, Buck slipped a slick hand between Tommy’s thighs, rolling his balls softly in the palm of his hand just to hear the noises he would make. Quiet chuffs and deep groans were muffled by the pillow as Tommy ground his hips in lazy circles against the mattress and back into Buck’s hand, and Buck was starting to think he’d never get over how good it felt to have another man like this: a big body to push and pull and work at until it ultimately unraveled.

Buck stretched up so he could press a kiss to the thick curve of Tommy’s shoulder, not caring one bit about the oil that still clung to his skin. He let his hand drift up and rubbed his slick fingers indulgently over Tommy’s asshole, gratified by the way he moaned and pushed into it. 

“You can if you want to,” Tommy said, breathless, and Buck could tell without even looking at his face how gone he was just from having Buck’s hands on him. 

“I have a better idea,” Buck said, pulling at Tommy’s hip. “Here–roll onto your side for me.”

It didn’t take Tommy long to clue in once Buck pressed himself all up along his back and reached for the bottle of oil again, slicking his dick up in the shallow space between their bodies. 

His body tensed when realization dawned. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah. Evan– ” 

And it was Tommy’s turn to lose his cool, his voice reedy and feverish, a thin tremor through his body as Buck maneuvered his thigh so he could fit his dick into that hot, tight space between them. He wrapped an arm around the barrel of Tommy’s chest, pinning him tight against his own as Buck took that first long, indulgent roll of his hips. 

Buck had always enjoyed fucking someone’s thighs–what wasn’t there to like–but there was something specific about the way Tommy got so worked up over it, even in the early hours of the morning after a sleepless night, even when Buck had just worked his body to jello with his hands, that rocketed the act up into the stratosphere.

Tommy squeezed his thighs around him, Buck could hear the labored cadence of his breathing and the obscene sounds of him fisting his own cock, as Buck fucked the slick give of his thighs. The way the head of his dick kept nudging up against the soft resistance of Tommy’s balls with every stroke was still just different enough to scratch at Buck’s brain in new and interesting ways.

Tommy’s fingers dug into his hair, pulling Buck’s face down so he could slide their mouth together at an awkward angle. The kiss was sloppy, Tommy kept sucking Buck’s tongue into his mouth and then breaking away to moan again and again as he got closer to coming. Buck could feel it all through his body, wound like a coil ready to spring. He wasn’t far behind, his plan to keep things slow and simmering had fallen through quickly. He should have known better; with Tommy pressed against him like one big throbbing pulse, overwhelming Buck’s senses with the musky scent of his body, and the sounds he made when he touched himself, and how good it felt to rut against him like this, the desperate slide of skin against skin, there was just no chance he was going to last.  

Buck buried his face in the hollow of Tommy’s shoulder, just above where that pale constellation of shrapnel lived, and stilled as he came in thick pulses all along Tommy’s taint, that little space between his thighs instantly going wet and frictionless. 

Tommy made a wounded sound, and Buck held him tight in the cradle of his arms as Tommy hitched his hips into his fist until he came. He was still pressing kisses against Tommy’s damp hairline when Tommy reached up and laced their fingers together, no longer shaking. 

“Well, I’m definitely not thinking about the stupid shrapnel anymore.”

“Good,” Buck said, allowing himself to feel smug about it. “My work here is done.”

“Not so quick hot stuff,” Tommy said, reaching back to pat him on the hip. “I expect your help de-oiling in the shower. I think this mess is a four-handed operation.”

“Yes, sir.” Buck peeled himself from where he’d been clinging to Tommy like a limpet.

He took a moment to admire the long, glistening stretch of Tommy’s body, limp and satisfied. Debauched, even.

"What?" Tommy asked, stretching his arms above his head as he rolled onto his back, offering Buck a good view of where his come was actively drying in his happy trail. Buck would have a fun time scrubbing that out.

"Nothing, I'm just happy you're here, with me."

Tommy face went immediately soft and he pressed up on his knees so he could pull Buck into one more lingering kiss before breaking away.

"There's no where I'd rather be."

[volturissideslut]

Hii!! Can you do Jane x reader where she’s Jane’s mate but still human. One day some important information gets leaked out and everyone in the volturi thinks the reader leaked the info. (Aro can’t read her mind) So they question her for a long time and when she still says that she didn’t do it they make Jane torture her with her power. As Jane is torturing her someone walks in and says that she didn’t do it. By the time Jane stops the reader is passed out. Everyone and mostly Jane regrets what they’ve done. The reader doesn’t wake up for a few days and Jane is in absolute sorrow. And when she finally wakes up she doesn’t even look Jane in the eyes bc of the betrayal she feels. Just a lot of angst yk:))) Buuut they make up in the end. Thank youuu🫶🏻

𝕵𝖆𝖓𝖊 𝖁𝖔𝖑𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎

This is more of the aftermath than anything. Mentions of looking thinner

"Get out"

Though your voice was hoarse, it didn't lessen the impact. Not one bit. Jane didn't think it was possible to vampires to have panic attacks, yet what else could this be. Why was her chest so tight? She doesn't need to breathe. And though she can't sweat he skin feels clammy behind all her layers. She's a vampire, their brains go fast - she could finish a novel in five minutes, but this feels too fast. It's making her dizzy. It's making her sick.

"Please-" her mouth feels dry. Is she panting? Why does it feel like Felix is cracking her chest again? You two can get through this. You can move past this. The thought is the only thing keeping her semi-rational right now. "I can't even look at you right now. Please leave, Jane. I can't see you anymore" and god you look so broken. And she did it. Your skin looks sickly, at least seven shades yellower. And your eyes - so dull - are dragged down by the bags she gave you. Are you thinner? You look thinner, you look malnourished. Definitely unhealthy.

It's the shakey movement of your hand accompanied by a wince that pulls her from her intense observation. And she remembers what you want. She wants to stay - absolutely has to - but she can't ruin this even more. She needs to save this and even now she recognises that her being here will be detrimental to that. So she does leave.

Out the door, she sits on the floor and stares at the ceiling. Not that her eyes are recognising anything though. No. Her head is leaned back against the big double door to your shared chambers and all she can bring herself to do is listen intently to your heartbeat. You're still here. You're still safe.

You, on the other side of the door, can no longer bring yourself to stifle your own sobs at the betrayal. Your mate, your love, the one who promised to always protect you, had actually been the only vampire to hurt you. The only one you ever truly trusted. Though her gift is mental, the rough treatment had still hared you. But it was hard to tell what hurt more - the mental scar on the one on your heart.

Could you even stay?

Maybe it was time to leave

--------

That night you packed, leaving through the window. Were you as strong as them? No. But could trust Jane and be in the same place as her? Also no.

It was killing you just to be in that room, with all of them memories. All of them were now tainted, and now you could see all the similarities between her room and the dungeons.

Bag at your side mainly just filled with your previous belongings you couldn't part with, you climbed out the window only to be face to face with Alec. For fucks sake.

"You shouldn't be here," his tone was more concerned than accusing. Was he actually worried for you, though, or was he more bothered about his sister? that seemed like the more likely answer. "come. Ill walk you back" he takes the bag for you and begins to guide you gently back, hand delicately on your arm as if you were made of porcelain. He looked guilty. Remorseful even.

He led you back the longer way round as if he was giving you time. He even sat with you in the garden for a few minutes - until Jane cane storming through.

"There you are! Your heartbeat grew faint and the window was open and I-" and her hand are on your face. She stops speaking when you flinch back, heart dropping to her feet, until she feels you lean into her.

Damn mate bond and damn exhaustion because you let yourself fall into her. She can feel your heart rate speed up in fear but feels frozen when you make no effort to move away.

"Let's- let's get you to bed, yeah?" she turns her head, face frightened as she mouths a 'thank you' to Alec for keeping you here and safe. He just nods, head down as he shares part of her shame. A drop in the bucket compared to hers, though.

--------

Here she lay, back in your shared chambers, sat up against the headboard of the bed while you lay on their lap asleep. Icy fingers comb through your hair and scratch lightly at your scalp.

"We'll be okay, right? We'll be okay."

[professionalcinderellas]

anti-symbiotic

pairing: insomniac's/ps5 peter parker/reader

warning: marvel's spiderman 2 spoilers! summary: Peter almost killed you last night under the influence of the symbiote, and you have the pleasure of dealing with the aftermath. tags: reader is mj, angst, anger, all that jazz.

author's note: loved spiderman 2 but didn't really feel fulfilled with how they don't address this particular scene. crossposted on ao3.

Peter Parker's antics never made you scared. Broken bones, gunshot wounds, mystical villains, or masked demons, it never felt particularly "hard" being Spider-man's girlfriend. Aside from some missed dates and late bills and being generally overprotective once upon a time, things were generally great. Handling anything with him felt so easy in spite of the pressures that were put on you.

But since Aunt May died, it felt as if Peter was somewhere far away that you couldn't reach. Ever since he almost died, even further away. He was already hardly home, and when he was, he was obsessively working on something to use as Spider-man. You knew he needed time, but you also knew he needed to talk about his feelings--even though you knew he wouldn't. Weeks of attempts piled up in the corner of your mind, endless replays of asking him if he was okay and trying to lure it out of him. After the fiftieth failed attempt to coax him to bed, with the sun already high in the sky and him still working on his iron spider legs, you found yourself wondering just how much distance lay between the two of you.

But it was never something that felt tangibly tested until now.

Last night was spent desperately trying to wake him while hunters gathered around the area, swarming Peter and losing track of Miles in the process. Your palms still felt the pebbled gravel of the road embedded into them, and the damp coldness of being trapped in that tunnel. Peter's voice, if it even was Peter at that point, rang in your head all night.

He could've really hurt you, and could have even killed you. 

The thought made you acutely aware of the cuts and bruises that littered your body from last night; your bandaids felt itchy and your hand started gently nursing at a scab that was on your knuckle. Thankfully, Harry and yours' fresh tea demanded more importance to distract you. Until you walked into Peter in Harry's room, where the intensity of their gazes made you immediately aware of the context of their conversation.

"Pete!" You never said his name before like you did now. There was an honest attempt to hold your gaze steady at him, before it eventually fell. The bags under your eyes felt much more apparent suddenly, and your eyes defocused themselves on the ground as you set aside the two cups of tea occupying your hands. Your skin felt prickly, like it didn't fit right over your body, and you couldn't help but wonder if this is what the symbiote also felt like. 

"Uhm," The words drowned in your throat and sunk back into your chest. A long pause takes over the room before you're able to find your voice. "What do you remember about last night?"

Your body betrays you in full, arms frozen on your sides and lifted up ever so slightly as if you were prepared to sprint out of the room at a moment's notice. It takes everything in you to look at his face, and he isn't looking at you so much as he's looking at the floor trying to recall. 

"I... just remember feeling tired..." Peter's brows are knitted together to form an expression that feels foreign to you. For some reason, a look of betrayal for your suspicion clears over his features. Peter's sharp brows and tensed jaw warned like a snake about to bite. Comparatively, Harry's eyes darted over to you, with eyebrows raised ever so slightly--a wordless sentence that made itself clear to you from expression alone. 

You okay? You could see his face asking. It took a slow nod from you before Harry's attention moves back to Peter. Your words are careful by the time you open your mouth next. "Pete... you're not yourself. That suit is changing you."

"This suit is the only reason I'm still alive." He didn't have the slimy black tendrils he did last night, but he didn't need that for you to step back with the tone he sported.

"Yeah, it's pretty great, isn't it?" Harry speaks up.

"Why don't you pop some more pills and say what you're really feeling?"

A fly buzzes over their heads. Harry is standing up with his cane, and you can't fathom why. Their words are too quick for you to react, but they replay in your mind again for good measure. It makes heat rise in your face and a cloud dawns over your usual good judgement, making you feel almost jittery. You take a sharp breath inwards to stable yourself on the tightrope of their conversation--and then you willingly fall off.

"Stop Pete, what is your problem?" Your tone rose significantly, anger replacing whatever hesitancy you had before.

"I'm busting my ass out there trying to save you, and this is what I get?" Peter continues on at Harry, and you realize he made a conscious choice to ignore your words. Which pisses you off even more. 

"I said stop, Peter." Your eyebrows raise over the word 'stop' and your mouth enunciates every single word, dragging him away from the attention of Harry. Peter turns to you wordlessly with those unfamiliar fixed brows you've been studying. You could push the envelope more.

"I saw your story." Acknowledgement. Peter's fangs are bared towards you now.

"I tried to tell you." Indignance defies the fear that made you back off, and you find yourself closer to him as you speak. The intensity of his gaze means nothing when you're made acutely aware it isn't Peter Parker you're speaking to anymore, or at least, not the one you knew. As far as your mind was concerned, this was a near stranger.

"Yeah, but you didn't, did you? Your job is to write the truth." Peter retorts angrily. This provokes another sharp inhale from you that makes you almost dizzy. A laugh echoes through the room, and only afterward do you recognize it as your own--it serves as your own kind of warning.

"I did. Nothing I said in there was a lie. It was kind of prophetic, really." A slow shake of your head emphasizes the contempt you bare towards him in response, your tone even and sharp for good measure. It felt agonizing to write those words last night, but when Peter nearly kills you and treat Harry like this? Whatever empathy you held in your chest dissolves entirely. Who gave a shit if you didn't have powers?

"The truth is, I'm the hero here. Not you." Peter shot back. It may have been the paranoia, but it feels as if those familiar tendrils were going to spout out of him again at any second. 

"Yeah, real hero you are, huh? Real heroes almost kill their girlfriend because their suit was doing their bidding for them? Is that what you tell yourself?"

Everyone in the room stopped breathing. You were in Peter's face now, close enough that you were looking up at him. Peter's face freezes in time alongside his breath, and the expression is no longer so terrifying to you now. 

"What are you-"

Stop. Don't say anything you can't take back, you thought, but something in the back of your mind wanted to take it further. You study his features again and the words boil over. 

"What? Are you gonna try and kill me again?" You exhale into the tail end of a laugh, and you can feel it hit the both of you. Your hands are shaking. Peter's hands are clenching and unclenching in a repeating cycle. His gaze doesn't even meet yours anymore. 

"I-I didn't know. I don't remember that." There's a flicker of the Peter you knows in his eyes, and a shadow falls over his eyes when he looks down. His expression read as... shameful, embarrassed, or torn maybe. You're curious if he remembers, but it doesn't matter either way. It was clear his feelings were hurt, and your words were a bucket of cold water over his head. But you weren't going to budge.

"You should leave. Harry doesn't need this right now." Peter's eyes snapped to you to read your expression, but there was nothing displayed on your face. Your eyes met his to prove a point, and then trailed over to look at Harry, who was staring at the both of you with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry." It's the last thing he says as he exits the room, his head hung downwards and his shoulders hunched inwards. It's only after he leaves that you can finally breathe again, your shoulders slumping and eyes squeezed shut. Harry looks at you with an expression you're not interested in finding out. 

"Are you okay?" Harry asks, with a tone that read almost like he was approaching some sort of wild animal. It made you snap out of your anger and finally look at him, your lips thinning into a line. 

"Yeah. It's fine, sorry, didn't mean to get into that in front of you. Or use you as an excuse." Your hands were still shaking, and you were starting to take deep breaths to take yourself down a notch. Not wanting to have Harry try and comfort you when he was the one who was sick, you look towards the towards the door and back at him. "If you want to check on him, you should." 

He nods slowly and makes his way out of his room, his cane hitting the ground rhythmically as he walked out. It was the only sound you could hear as you sunk back on Harry's couch, the cold leather being of no comfort.

You didn't open your eyes as you sat back. You didn't want to see Peter waiting by the elevator or see Spider-man swing across the city skies or have Harry comfort you. A wave of regret washes over you in full, whatever feelings you were holding back in your anger coming back in full swing to puncture your chest. You knew you weren't right for your outburst, and it feels as if every word hung on to fear rather than love. It's hard to imagine what Peter would have done to you if he did catch you, your mind involuntarily running through vague daydreams of dismembered limbs or becoming a tendrilled monster yourself.

But it didn't matter when all those thoughts lead back to Peter's face as it fell when you spoke, anger dissolving into sadness and shame. 

[cheetz0]

I wrote some character analysis of Cole last night and thought I'd share :) below the cut 🔽

Cole is someone who's grown up to be the one who loses. He actively chases it. He can't be a leader not because he's incapable because that'd mean there won't be anyone above him punishing him. He's learned to live through everything by humiliating himself, acting like a fool, like he can't tell penny from dime long enough until the ones looming ahead with blades meant for his head are gone.

He survives and he hates it. He's good at he does and he wish he weren't because he's the horrendous murderer he is now because of how good aim with that six shooter of his, or how easily he can charm people into believing whatever bullshit he masterfully weaves and sells as reality.

He should've died, shouldn't have been born, shouldn't have survived those dozen hundred times he nearly missed death but he's too damn good at being this monster that beats people in the game of survival. His hands aim for their own and he's not sure how to not do that anymore. Just point at the space between their eyes and pull the trigger and wonder when you even commanded your arm to do this. Just shoot and add the burden of murder to the pit of other hundreds of people and their futures you marked futile. He doesn't know how to not make his arms not do what they're best at. He doesn't know what he is besides this, besides half-truths and a shaky will to live. Besides the unsureness of what he'll be doing today when he wakes up that gives its place to simply accepting anything.

So what if I go on that mission? My arms will let me survive. So what if I make that decision? I'm always so neatly placed on the line between truth and lie that it won't matter afterall. So what if this and that happens to me? I haven't been the one living this life anyway. It's always my trigger finger making me survive the fights and my thousand made up selves saving the aftermath.

Cole isn't living his own life. He's watching it from afar. He's as surprised as the other person when anything happens in his life. He's lived a lie, a disgrace, a life that shouldn't have been created. He's lived them for so long he doesn't care anymore.

He remembers a time when he was a teen and tried to fix his wrongdoings. He remembers a time when he cried after taking a life. He remembers a time when he, too, seeked redemption. He remembers a time when he was human enough to care.

He sees Hanzo burning with what he felt when he first shot a man in the heart and saw him die. He sees him drowning in boiling hot regret. And he knows best that regret is nothing but a sad understanding that you could do better than what you did. He sees him bury himself in what he felt in the innocence of his youth, a beg for forgiveness. A cry to the universe or whatever is up above that they care. He sees that and immediately softens. He's a man stern as a rock with the innocence of a kid at 13 when he first had to shoot a man. He cares.

He's not stupid though, they're both sinners. But he knows that if there's 7 hells, and if they go both to one for all they did, he belongs the deepest depths for not caring what he does anymore. And hanzo? He cares.