#and each life something else changes but the outcomes are the same | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chewingcyanide · 1 year ago

Text

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — secretly pining over someone is never fun—even less so when they’re your childhood best friend, and dating someone else.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 —all the angst, jealousy, thoughts of inferiority, cursing, big sadness from reader over here, not proofread i got better things to do

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x fem!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — my valentine’s day jhughes special (albeit a day late ☹️), as promised! sorry it took me so long. couldn’t figure out how to end it. this is unapologetically self-indulgent. also not a wip, but i HAD to do it to em. i’m sorry if your name is brooke or bianca. i love you. promise. maybe we’ll make a part two, if yall like it enough!

₊⊹ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @dancerbailey3, @bellstwd, @kashee-h, @crazycat-ladys-blog, @brucewaynegfreal, @love4dlr, @jackhughesily, @leavethemonsteralive, @loveforaugust, @43hughes, @nathandoe, @choppedlamphandscowboy, @bunting58, @angelayse, @ru-kru, @sleepretreat, @nonsensical-nonsence, @maih23 (if your name is white, i couldn’t tag you!)

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀�� 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Everyone knows the saying you never know what you have until you lose it. Truth was, you knew exactly what you had—you’d just never imagined you’d lose it.

You never imagined you’d lose him.

A shared childhood and mothers’ who found friendship with each other had brought you and Jack Hughes together, kept you glued even as skin stretched and futures diverged—where he’d gone on to be a star hockey player, you’d quietly came into adulthood, trekking through the difficulties of college.

In your younger years, Jack had always been there. Life of the party, a mirrorball everyone gravitated to for its decadent shine—you, contrastingly, felt like a sore thumb at parties, attending them only to see the smile on Jack’s face. Differing personalities and life routes aside, Jack was your person. The first person you called whenever you were sad, or happy, or bored. The one who knew all of your test scores first, who took hours long flights just to visit you during breaks in the season.

Distance nor time had left a lasting mark on your friendship, kept together by constant phone calls and texts. Whilst you remained imbedded in the hustle of Toronto, Jack was trapped in New Jersey—a gap that you closed every summer, when mutual desire to see one another (as well as his brothers) brought you and him to Michigan for a few months.

From childhood, to high school, to now—it had always been you two. Jokes passed in the years, swirling around with assumptions of the two of you ending up together, finally realizing it after years of proclaimed friendship. For Jack, it’d never been romantic. Loving and caring, a relationship he’d never trade for the world, but the intimacy ended there. Memories of him outwardly flirting with girls in front of you at bars or parties flashed in your mind any time you figured maybe; he’d never given any indicator that you were or would ever be more to him than his best friend.

For you? It was an embarrassingly different story.

College had stolen much of your time—left none for a love life. But truthfully, that didn’t much phase you.

Hookups, flings, boyfriends—all of them paled in comparison to Jack. A childhood crush perpetuated by maturation without loss of contact, Jack had just… always been there. Always a best friend, never a lover; the hanging axe of rejection was too dire a outcome for you to ever consider telling him. Killing a friendship you’d grown with would kill you. And maybe he felt the same way, maybe the kisses he reserved for the crown of your head and the guiding hand he kept on the small of your back meant something, but you couldn’t continue existing if they didn’t.

So, a dutiful friend, you kept quiet, spared the connection and suffered in unrequited love.

And it hadn’t really changed until Jack had gotten a girlfriend. In all your years of knowing him, he’d had a few—though they rarely lasted more than a handful of months, and a selfish and bitter part of you liked that. Sometimes they overstepped, viewed themselves above you in the ranking of Jack’s life; he made painfully clear they never would be.

And it felt good, to be that cherished. But then you remembered he didn’t actually love you and it felt a whole lot less impactful.

Not Brooke.

Brooke, a box-dye blonde with a less-than-stellar reaction to your friendship with her boyfriend, was unarguably beautiful—unapproachably so, someone you’d picture whenever thinking of the girl Jack would end up with. You knew it would never be you, but you hated that it was her, hated that it was finally cemented, the coffin wheeled out.

A friendship you’d cherished for years had been weathered down by the abrasive actions of his girlfriend. It left a bitter taste in your mouth; Jack never seemed privy to Brooke’s nonverbal dislike of you, and you never made comment of it. If Jack was happy, what did it matter? If you said anything, all you’d appear to be was a child throwing a tantrum, the attention torn from them. You refused to jeopardize Jack’s happiness, even if it meant shredding your own.

Brooke tolerated you; that was the best word you could think of. There was surely no excess of love, but you didn’t think she flat out despised you, either. Passive aggressive to the point of just being aggressive, snide looks whenever she didn’t think you could see, intentionally separating you from Jack whenever the two of you were talking—it all made you hate being around her, and by extension, him.

So when he’d invited you to dinner with him—and some of his teammates, a monthly ritual at his house—the knee jerk reaction had been to decline, lie, run while you were still free from the piercing glare of Brooke; because you knew she’d be there, clung to his side, as if you had any intention of taking him away.

… Well, you’d did have the intention. Never the will, so then again maybe she was right to hate you. Feelings you’d never act on, words you’d never say—none of it mattered. She had him. Not you. Never you.

You should’ve said no.

Pouting eyes and pleading lips caved you. As soon as you’d agreed, you’d regretted it—knew in your bones it would only serve to wedge the knife in your heart deeper, solidify the loss of a what you thought would be a lifelong partnership. Your platonic soulmate, twin flame pinched out by hateful fingers.

Getting ready for the dinner felt like preparing for a cage fight, where all night you’d have do endure blow after blow—them kissing, them touching, him loving her in a way you wished he’d love you.

Night blanketed the sky by the time you’d arrived to Jack’s home, shadows slipping by the window, shapes of people telling you that you were likely late—the stone in your stomach had slowed you monumentally. The torture was self-inflicted, you knew. There would be no pity when your heart finally gave out.

She did this to herself, they’d say. Hearts can only endure so much before they break.

Voices coalesced into one as you pushed open the door, welcomed by the familiar atmosphere of friendship and loud laughter. You’d completely forgotten to text Jack that you’d gotten here—and for some reason, as you crossed the threshold into the gaping space of his living room, you felt like an outsider. Sudden eyes landed on you like bullets, and all you saw was Jack—his side taken dutifully by Brooke, always beautiful, striking in a way you didn’t think you’d ever been.

Looking at her, it made sense why she was the one Jack chose. Why you hadn’t been. A best friend. Childhood acquaintance. Faded t-shirt he’d strung along for too many years, even as the design weathered away and the fabric weakened. He’d gotten a shiny new one, the novelty still in tact, yet he hadn’t let you go.

Some part of you, deep in the caves of your wounded heart, wished Brooke would ban him from your presence. Maybe then your hurt would lessen. You knew you’d never be able to let go on your own.

Jack’s eyes caught you, stood awkwardly in the mouth of the hallway. He attempted to stand, only for Brooke to tug him down by his t-shirt—the shirt you’d bought him for his birthday last year, impressed with two hearts holding hands. She said something to him, something low and hissed between clenched teeth. Before you could see his reaction, Nico was invading your space, arms winding around you.

“There she is!” he announced, the ground leaving your feet as he lifted you playfully. “We were waiting on you to eat. Sure do like to take your time.”

Residual bitterness faded at Nico’s words—Jack may have been your best friend, but years of being attached to him introduced you to his teammates; they were always kind, if a little overbearing. A big brother that toed the line of overprotective and well-wishing.

Grateful for the attention distractor, you allowed your shoulders to relax and lungs to decompress. The first cut at seeing Jack, still happily in love with Brooke, was already dealt; you just needed to get through the dinner, and not look like a hostage while doing so.

“Yeah, yeah,” you laughed, shoving Nico’s shoulder as he brought you towards where the others were gathered in the living room. “Make fun of me for driving like a grandma all you want, at least I’m safe.”

Not looking at Jack took more self control than you’d care to admit. Blurring in your peripheral, a mess of colors stacked atop one another, you knew if you glanced—saw the claim Brooke was staking for all to see—it would only make you want to leave. So you didn’t.

Luke was next to greet you, offering a pity-imbued smile. Despite never mentioning your affections for his older brother, you knew he knew; saw it in the way he would look at you, the frowns offered. In times when Brooke inadvertently talked you down, it was Luke who told her off, put balm on the wound.

A side hug and a soft smile—you barely were able to muster one yourself. “How have classes been?”

You graced Luke with an exasperated groan. “Terrible, thanks for reminding me. Economics is kicking my ass.”

Luke sat. You remained standing. A loose thread peeking from your sweatshirt seemed far more intriguing than eyes you were trying desperately not to meet.

“Tough luck,” remarked Luke, conversations reviving after the novelty of your arrival wore off. You recognized a couple of faces around you—Dawson, Jesper, Alexander, and John. Faces you’d become acquainted with in your years of being Jack’s friend.

The title felt a bitter reminder of your ceiling, never surpassing Jack’s best friend. Loved and cherished, a desired presence, just not how you wanted. Who were you to complain? It was better to be his friend than nothing at all; to have a little piece of him, proof that at one point, you’d mattered enough to get it.

You just weren’t sure if you did anymore.

Where once Jack’s name was a regular occurrence, flashing on your phone screen—texts, calls, FaceTimes, they all faded once Brooke came into his life. Movie nights on his couch, reruns of old films that you could quote down to the last line, stopped. You knew Jack cared enough to extend invites, but at this point, you figured it was more out of pity and shame than actual want of your company.

Beggars really couldn’t be choosers.

Eventually, everyone made their way into the dining room. Chairs lined a large wooden table, one chosen and haphazardly assembled by you and Jack when he’d first bought this house. Scratches imbedded in the finish sent flashes of dropped hammers and clumsy feet into your mind, memories that felt too far to touch.

Mind far afield, you sat down—somewhere between Luke and Nico, far enough from Jack to be inconspicuous but close enough to feel the sharp burn of his eyes. It was petty, you knew, to have still not greeted him. Not that Brooke would’ve likely even let you. A sadistic part of you wanted him to feel even a modicum of the agony that rattled you whenever you were forced to watch him and Brooke, wanted to wonder and question why you were so cold.

Then again, maybe he didn’t care.

Body detached from your mind, the last thing you expected was to be spoken to—least of all by Brooke. But there her grating voice was, verging on overuse, but you knew that was just how she talked. Chafing and annoying and awful—

“Still no boyfriend?” A venomous smile curled her lips; friendly to the untrained eye. You knew better.

Your fingers twitched. The food in front of you spoiled, appetite evaporated. Of course she asked that—both a jab and a reassurance; if you had a boyfriend, her relationship with Jack would be safe. Not that it wasn’t, regardless.

You wished you could scream at her, leap across the table and force her to hear your words: you’d never have Jack. Want him, yes. Spend years pining over a boy who looked to you like the sister he never had, absolutely. But actually have him, feel his love in every touch and kiss? No. That wasn’t on the cards for you; you’d folded long ago.

“Nope,” you drawled. The pressure of Jack’s stare caved you—you caught his eyes, eyebrows creased, the wrinkle of his forehead that made itself prominent whenever he was annoyed.

What did he possibly have to be annoyed about?

Catching Luke’s gaze only irked you further, alit the urge to push out of your chair and flee Jack’s home. Pity swelled in his eyes, the beginnings of a frown quirking down his lips. You didn’t want pity; didn’t want to feel like the entire world was in on some inside joke you’d never understand. Everyone saw it, your love for Jack. Saw the lovestruck comedy that was your life—girl loves boy, boy isn’t even aware of it, hilarity ensues.

Everyone but Jack. And honestly, that was for the best.

You didn’t think you’d be able to handle the frown when he found out. Jack Hughes, always kind, never malignant, searching for a way to politely turn down his best friend without taking an axe to the connection. Really, there would be no bloodless way to let it die—so you lived in moments between, where nothing felt impactful or important or real.

When Jack was without Brooke, you could almost imagine he was your Jack—the one who turned down every girl so that he’d be free to go to prom with you, the one who got banned from a restaurant for life for pouring a drink over your cheating ex-boyfriend’s head. The Jack who always protected you, always cared, even when all of his friends couldn’t understand it.

That Jack who currently hand his arm around the back of Brooke’s chair, shoulders touching—a casual thing, something you’d done with countless strangers, yet it felt impactful enough to make bile swim in your throat.

“Probably for the best,” Luke interjected after the conversation—if it even was that—between you and Brooke came to an awkward stalemate. “Guys are dicks.”

A tension somehow always existed whenever you were in a room with Brooke. One you never wanted, never fed into. Like a shadow, the morning mist, it hung thick as smog. Choking you, nearly forcing you from the room.

“You’re a guy,” you laughed weakly, offering Luke a pointed look.

“No one at college, then?” Nico piped up. You felt bad for not looking at him, but he was too close to Jack and Brooke—you didn’t want to see them.

Cozy, warm in a way you thought only you’d ever be with Jack. Familiar, united. Their relationship didn’t seem as superficial as his past ones had, woven together under the pretense of good sex and no real connection. Watching Jack love his new, perfect girlfriend made you physically ill; and maybe that was dramatic, maybe it made you a backwards person with failing morals—you couldn’t care anymore.

Years of hiding your love, months of watching his own be poured into a girl that wanted you out of his life—it wore you down to your bones, dangerously close to burning to ash.

“Most of them are… strange, to say the least,” you responded with a wince. And that was true; your major seemed to just attract men whose one quality was making women uncomfortable. “Plus, having a boyfriend would just distract me. Finals are coming up and I’m already worried about how I’m going to do on them.”

Luke scoffed. “Hookups exist.”

A wince followed Luke’s words. Eyes fell to where Jessica was rubbing her hand—Jack apologized, albeit half-heartedly. Confusion overcame you; had he squeezed her hand too tightly?

In the past, you’d had boyfriends. Not that they lasted very long. Somehow, there was always something wrong with them—something only Jack could see; he’d endlessly nitpick, nag, explain why your newest boyfriend wasn’t good enough for you.

They were too old, too uptight, not nice enough. Always something. And without fail, Jack was right—scarcely did they make it past the first date before some measly excuse fell from their lips. But maybe it wasn’t them; maybe it was you. So, with an aching heart refusing to connect with any other but Jack’s, you gave up. Delved headfirst into college work and stayed below the waves, even as they began to drown you.

All you offered in response to Luke was a shrug.

Conversation picked up then, thankfully fell away from you. Limelight sufficiently dimmed, you allowed yourself to watch Jack; a habit you’d never quite shaken, even in the embarrassing moments when he caught your peering gaze.

You weren’t sure exactly when you’d fallen in love with Jack—just that you had, and now you couldn’t touch the bottom of him. Water filled your lungs, suffocated you, but if drowning meant being near him, you’d happily do it. Dying in his platonic embrace seemed better than dying all alone.

Ruffled brown hair, the sort of charm that every boy-next-door seemed to possess, and clear blue eyes that shone every emotion like a transparent window to his soul—all of it made Jack Jack, the boy you loved, would admire even in moments he didn’t think he deserved reverence.

You’d seen it all: the self-deprecation after his failure of a rookie year, dwindling confidence, tears imbued with hurt and disappointment, frustration of someone who knew they were better. It was you who’d been by his side, proved an anchor to a person you couldn’t live without.

Yet he’d still chosen Brooke.

For most people, that would be the last step off the cliff, boneless body breaking against the canyon. Not you—so full of hope and dreams, undeterred by every sign the universe gave you. You weren’t his only, but at least you were one.

Jack’s lips parted into a smile, one you could tell was real—his kissed Brooke’s temple, pinched her on the side. An intimate moment in a crowded room. You felt almost as if you were trespassing, a stranger watching two people in love. Part of you didn’t even associate that boy as Jack, because you couldn’t understand how he could love someone so averse to you, so… mean. But then again, it wasn’t about you.

It was about him. Accommodations had been made for years—leaving parties early because you were uncomfortable, blowing off his guy friends to comfort you after a bad date, scrapping his wants and his plans because of something to do with you.

He was probably sick of it. Sick of you, dictating what he could and couldn’t do. Who he could and couldn’t date. Because who cared if Brooke hated you; Jack loved her, despite it all. And that was what made dread swirl into a storm in your heart, ribs nearly cracking under the rate it was thundering at.

Abruptly, you stood. Felt the chair nearly topple. Eyes came to you—Jack’s friends. Yours, yes, but Jack’s foremost. You were just intruding, butting into a life that no longer fit you. Time had passed, the wishful minds of children grown into adulthood. He didn’t owe you anything anymore, especially when all you were was a storm cloud over his parade.

Just as soon as you had, Jack stood, concern clear in his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Your tongue felt like lead. “Nothing—nothing, sorry. I’m—I need to use the restroom.”

You didn’t wait much longer before leaving the room.

Air felt scarce, lungs punctured and deflating quicker than you could patch the holes. Clumsily, you pushed open the door to the bathroom, steadied your shaking hands on the edge of the sink. Looking at yourself, reflection marred by the onset of tears, all you could do was compare—compare to Brooke, to every girl Jack had ever wanted, ever liked, ever loved.

Was it their features, doughy lips that worshipped him in a way you didn’t? Was it their bodies, womanly and free in a way you didn’t like to be? Or was it deeper, were their souls crafted from the same light, in a way you’d always thought your own had been with Jack’s?

Idiot, fool, dreamer—you were all of it. Like a lap dog, bird in its teeth, you always returned, remained dutifully at Jack’s side for the moment he might open the screen door and finally let you in.

Brooke had every right to hate you. Perceptive in a way Jack wasn’t, she saw what everyone else did—the lovesick eyes, foolish faith chaining you to him, an unrealized desire that would never be acted on. Had you been in Brooke’s place, you would’ve hated yourself as well.

Water poured from the faucet, gathered in your cupped palms. Attempting to desecrate any evidence of tears, you gently splashed the water in your face—went to dry it when you heard the sound of the front door creaking open.

“Oh, thank God you’re here, Bee.”

Cold crept up your spine. Eavesdropping was wrong—you knew that, yet still found yourself leaning against the bathroom door to catch Brooke’s words.

“What’s going on?” came the response, likely the voice of Bianca, Brooke’s best friend. You’d met her once at a game (met was a loose word; she’d given you a snide look and taken to ignoring you the entire time).

Brooke’s voice lowered to the point where you were forced to strain to hear her speak. “You know Jack’s little pet?”

A lapse. Your heart seized, taken by some concoction of shame and surprise.

“No.”

“Yes!” responded Brooke. “She’s fucking everywhere. I asked Jack not to invite her tonight, and lo and behold—”

“Wait, I thought you talked to Jack?”

“I did.” Vexation laced every letter. “I told him it made me uncomfortable how close they were, how she was always around, blah blah. He got defensive, but he said he’d talk to her.”

“Clearly not,” Bianca muttered. “Look, I wouldn’t worry about it. They’re childhood friends, yeah? He probably feels like he has to stay her friend, or something. I mean, Jack’s a good guy, he wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone; if he dropped her, he’d look like a douche. I’m sure she’ll get the hint eventually.”

Footsteps began, voices fading along with them. “I fucking hope. It’s honestly pathetic.”

Blood roared in your ears, drowned out the sound of your beating heart—if it was even beating anymore. Something bitter and hot invaded your airways, lashed like whips against your flesh. It was no secret Brooke disliked you, disliked the closeness of you and Jack, but to hear it, the vicious way it fell from her lips—it made your gut twist and constrict, pushing bile towards your throat.

Pathetic. They thought you were pathetic, hopelessly waiting, like a dead plant praying for flowers that would never come. Lovelorn, seeking affection that only came by way of friendship and never more; they were right, and it became evident with a strike of lightning to your body.

Is that truly how Jack felt? Was he waiting for you to give up, so to spare you the hurt of being let down? Had you become baggage? Chained to him, the memory of childhood the only thing keeping you relevant, when times were less impactful and his life didn’t center around being a professional athlete. The stain of youth, remaining only for its joyful memory; that’s all you were now—a memory.

Just like your love, it seemed everyone saw Jack’s hints but you. Rose-colored lenses blurred everything but what you wished to see; of course you missed them, ignored them so your narrative remained intact.

God, you were an idiot. A fucking idiot.

Head pounding, the squeeze of an oncoming migraine rattling your brain, you opened the bathroom door. Felt like a trapped bird all the way back to the table—you just had to get through dinner, only an hour or two, so as to not raise any suspicion, and then you could fade from Jack’s life.

Not that he’d notice. He hadn’t even spoken to you tonight, though no fault of his own; Brooke kept her claws deep, and it was clear he didn’t want to risk an argument. Not that you could blame him—she was his girlfriend. Her. Not you. He didn’t owe you anything.

Conversations filled your ears, ostracized you—every time you had opened your mouth before, it had felt wrong, the scratch on a vinyl everyone skipped over. You saw him first—noticeably tense, chair a bit further away from Brooke that it had been earlier. Tensed forehead, hands balled on the table; you longed to ask what was wrong, as you were used to doing. But you imagined talking to him, and it somehow felt wrong, a peasant addressing a king.

Then, your eyes fell to your seat.

No longer empty, occupied now by Bianca, who was talking casually with Brooke, as if her actions hadn’t changed your entire perception of the situation. There were no more seats. No more room. The metaphor wasn’t lost on you, hit with the same sting of antiseptic on a wound—there wasn’t any more room for you at the table, just as there was no room for you in Jack’s life.

Maybe this was always meant to happen. Childhood didn’t remain forever, and it seemed, neither was your friendship. You’d always wondered why Jack had chosen you, someone so dissimilar to himself and his friends. Eventually, you made peace with it. His friendship was a balm to everything negative. Now… here you were again, more ostracized than ever.

What were you supposed to do? The long haul wasn’t meant to have an end.

Everyone was looking at you now. Stage fright, you lost your speech, thousands of eyes from a crowd looking at you, spotlight centered on your face, and you couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t—

Blue eyes found you, stood stonily at the entrance of the dining room. Jack’s eyebrows knitted, confused as to why you were still stood. When he saw Bianca, his lip curled. Frustration sparked, bemusement painted over. Once more that protective streak flared, something you were so used to—it had once felt the greatest trophy, proof that the Jack Hughes cared enough to stand up for you. It felt a sore consolation now, a reminder that, as always, you’d be the meek girl from his childhood he was forced to drag along, defend, shield from his new life that he fit into perfectly, that you spilled out from.

“Get up.”

Then, the attention went to him.

Brooke glanced at her boyfriend, annoyance flashing on her face. Their conversation paused. “What?”

Jack nodded towards Bianca. “She took her seat,” he explained in a clipped voice. “Get up.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Jack, it’s not a big—”

“It is,” he interrupted. Tension sparked in the air like a misfired firework. “She needs to sit and Bianca took her place, so—”

“It’s fine!” The words spilled out before you could second guess them. They came out raw and pained and everything you didn’t want to appear as; pity pooled from everyone, that sort of second-hand pity you saw on strangers faces when you’d lose your footing and fall.

It was too much. Pins dug into your skin, all of a sudden too tight. You needed to leave. Now, before your bones crumbled and heart gave out and finally everything burst.

“I—um, I should probably get going, anyway,” you said, nodding as if trying to be convincing. “With finals comin’ up I should get in as much studying as I can.”

Determination was something you’d always admired about Jack; it only irked you now. He stood, shrugged off Brooke’s outstretched hand and came to stand before you, and God—it was a disservice to not admire him, even as annoyance creased his eyes and drew inwards his lips. Beauty, in such a raw form, it startled you. Growing up, he’d always been the center of everyones attention. The hockey prodigy, the first overall draft pick, the franchise player for the Devils.

You? You’d been nothing special. Yet he’d still chosen you. And here he was, apparently doing it again—but why? Why when he had a beautiful girlfriend and a perfect life and fun friends did he always come back, when clearly you were no more than a burden?

You tried not to seem spiteful. You did. But it was so hard to hide your wounds and ignore their pain. He may not have seen them, but they were unfortunately still there. And it seemed they always would be.

“You can’t,” he said, searched your gaze—he’d always been able to see straight through you, with such simplicity it frightened you. You tried to shuttered your expression, hide your pain. It wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have. “Dinner’s just started—”

“Really, J, it’s fine.” Heat bored into your face where you knew Brooke was staring, daring you to express any deeper connection with Jack past the sheltered friendliness you were currently forcing.

You weren’t going to budge. Jack saw that, and so he sighed and glanced out the window. “I’ll drive you home.”

Oh, God. Nothing was ever easy. Pushing and pushing and pushing until you weren’t sure you even wanted to get up anymore, to even try. Every time you did, right back down you went, encapsulated by everything Jack.

Freedom felt a forgotten thing. You couldn’t remember a time when you didn’t love Jack, when he wasn’t at the forefront of your mind, main star of the play.

And honestly, you were tired. Tired of wishing for something that would never happen. Tired of being viewed as the shackle around Jack’s wrist. Just tired.

“No need,” you muttered noncommittally, saw the way Jack’s face twisted with concern and confusion and everything you didn’t want to see. “It’s your dinner, J. With my grandma driving, I’ll get home safe.”

The attempt at a joke didn’t land. Smile didn’t even begin to twitch his lips. “It’s dark outside,” he stated, an obvious fact that held no weight for anyone but you and him. “I always drive you when it’s dark.”

That was true enough; your inability to see properly at night meant Jack became your chauffeur, not that he ever complained—even still, it was another thing he did for you, time sacrificed to accommodate you. Prepared to leave his own dinner, his own girlfriend, just to make sure you didn’t have to do something you were uncomfortable with. Conceptually, it was sweet, a sort of gesture that would’ve normally made your heart soar. Now? It made you feel like a burden, an incapable little girl still hiding in the shadow of her protector, afraid of the sting of daylight.

No more.

“I’m going to be fine,” you reassured. Jack didn’t appear convinced—he never was satisfied when it came to you, to your safety, unless he was directly involved. “Stay and have fun.”

“What if—”

“Let her go, babe.”

Brooke’s voice proved the nail in the coffin; a part of you heard the undertone of excitement shot through her words, the possibility of your leave alleviating any annoyance your presence had brought. Without you, Jack’s attention would be fully on her. Without you, he wouldn’t have to concern himself on whether you were having fun and if you were okay.

You. You. You.

You’d considered yourself Jack’s anchor, the grounding of his mind—unfortunately, you’d forgotten an anchor also keeps a thing in place, forcing inactivity.

Let her go.

It rang like a death knell, struck sharp as a poisoned dart, invisible but so unmistakably fatal.

Gathering what remained of your dignity, you grabbed your purse off of your—Bianca’s—chair, caught the commiseration shining in Luke’s eyes like a tarnished trophy. It only stung, reminded you that you needed pity.

Before you could flee the room like a scolded dog, Jack caught your wrist. Heat bloomed, a fever rushing to your head—his simple touch made you sick with want and need and something deeper that would never be realized or fostered. Something you had to let die.

“Text me when you’re home,” he said softly. Fingers gently squeezed your wrist. Where once you’d feel comforted, you just felt trapped. “Please.”

Not trusting your words, all you did was nod.

Honestly, you’d expected some dark cloud to cover you when finally you decided to move on. A procession of funeral goers flocking like crows, unable to understand why you’d abandoned a years-long friendship over something insignificant. Over words spewed from hateful lips.

But it wasn’t what you’d overheard. Deeper, a more sharp knowledge that even if Jack loved you, held you closer than anyone in his circle of friends, he’d never want you in the way you desired. And for a while, that was okay. Because he existed separate of everything—and then came Brooke, and it all crumbled.

You could handle him not loving you. You couldn’t, however, handle him loving someone else so openly.

Street lights blurred behind tears, a mess of streaky lights like a watercolor canvas. Flashes of nights when Jack would drive you home, insisting on taking the wheel so that you didn’t have to toe out of your comfort zone, they haunted you like a inescapable film reel on repeat in your mind. Memories fogged by lost youth, angry words from Jack’s lips as he’d stand up for you—never a party person, denounced for draining the fun. Jack never let those insults slip lip before he was barking at whoever said it.

A responsibility. A burden. The lines had become blurred in recent years.

The latter seemed more fitting.

Through a barrier of tears, you were able to send Jack a text as your car rolled to a stop in the parking lot.

at my dorm

j :)

ok good. u ok? u seemed off @ dinner

Fingers hovered over your screen. Make movements to draft a text. Nothing seemed sufficient.

You let the text stale. Sit stagnant on your phone. Jack would likely worry, eventually call—you just wanted to fall into a void and never return. Not after the mess you’d made of dinner.

The mess you’d made of your life.

Making a ghost of yourself was far more difficult than you’d thought it would be.

Incessantly, Jack had texted you, called you—you didn’t answer any of them. Silence felt a balm to your shame. Selfish, you knew, to just ghost Jack without offering any explanation, but nothing would be sufficient, not without souring the connection you were hoping would die without pain.

Cowardice, craven, pathetic—you knew you were all of it. To you, you were giving Jack a chance to pull back, to fizzle the friendship of his own accord. Maybe then it would’ve stung less, if the desire of its end was reciprocated, mutual. As it were, it was not.

Even with your withdrawal, Jack still tried. Shot texts, called and punctuated them with voicemails, sent you TikToks and Snaps and everything he would normally do if everything was fine; but it wasn’t. And you knew he knew, could sense the urgency in his attempts at communication.

You felt dirty, filthy with shame and guilt.

Despite your best efforts, you didn’t appear as unaffected as you hoped. While your insides were shredding themselves, you tried valiantly to paint over your visage with the normal happy-go-lucky smile you always wore. Most people, if they noticed, didn’t comment on it.

Unfortunately, Kaylen did notice.

Since your freshman year of college, Kaylen had been your roommate—low maintenance, intelligent to the point of making you stupid without even trying. As such, she was far more perceptive than you gave her credit for.

There’d been times you confided in her about your feeling for Jack, sought out advice that never seemed good enough. Because no one but yourself could fix the valley that had split between Jack and you. You could seek outward help all you wanted, but nothing would change unless you did something—and, really, you weren’t sure that was even a good idea anymore.

Two days of moping resulted in Kaylen’s intervention.

“Get up.”

Sunlight bled through your shut eyes, forced a wince. Hands rolled you onto your back, the somewhat stiff mattress of your bed providing a measly cushion. Sleep intruded on, your hands extended, attempted to push away the figure you knew what trying to rile you.

“Go away,” you grunted, throat thickened by sleep and other terrible emotions.

“No,” Kaylen hissed. When finally you opened your eyes, her squinted expression invaded your vision. “Look, I’ve let you be miserable for two days, but it’s getting ridiculous. What the hell happened with you and loverboy?”

A jolt nearly paused your heart mid-beat. Thinking about Jack stung in a way you didn’t like to admit, mainly due to the fact that it was painfully embarrassing that he had such a control over you.

“Don’t call him that,” you muttered, bit your tongue to stop anything else from spilling out.

Kaylen’s eyebrows quirked. “So it is about him?”

Nails scraped your lungs. “No—yes—fuck,” you moaned, sitting up and balancing your forehead on bent knees. “It’s… all fucked up, K. I don’t know what to do.”

A sigh left her lips. You felt the bed dip as she climbed beside you. “I can help if you tell me.”

And so you did, started at the beginning of dinner to the end, as you left like a dog defeating in a cage match, heart crying blood. Comforting circles were rubbed into your thigh, but all they did was remind you how Jack used to trace shapes onto your leg, or arm, or back—how he touched you, just to know you were there, with him. He said it placated him.

It was shameful, how bile teased your throat even imagining it.

Rationally, you knew everything was your doing. Loving Jack, torturing yourself by being in his presence whilst he focused his attention on his girlfriend. Expecting any semblance of affection or intimacy even as another held his heart, branded her name over your own. It was always going to happen—knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

When finally you finished, the conclusion of your mournful, self-pitying tale followed by the sting of unwanted tears, Kaylen’s thoughtful silence waned. Her lips pursed, fingers twitching. You expected her to berate you; what had you expected, stupid girl? He has a girlfriend!

Instead, Kaylen hugged you. “Shit, babe, I’m sorry,” she murmured, pulled back with that pitiful smile you’d seen one too many times—one you’d be fine with if you never saw again. “He cares about you—”

“Not how I care about him, though,” you finished, and Kaylen gave a weak nod.

“I mean, if you told him what Brooke and her little bitch of a friend said, I’m sure he’d leave her. He’s done more for less.” That much was true. Regardless of whose lips it came from, Jack didn’t tolerate disrespect towards you—cut long time friends off for assuming they had any authority to speak poorly of you.

And you knew—knew with the same certainty that you knew your own name—that Jack would break up with Brooke if he knew how she’d spoken of you.

That should’ve made you giddy. Bursted bright light in your chest at the prospect of having Jack to yourself once more. Instead, it made you feel heavy, sand packed into your bones. Who were you to invade his happiness? If he’d chosen Brooke, so be it.

Sure, she’d disparaged you, but Jack’s life wasn’t yours to dictate anymore. If he wanted Brooke, he’d have her, until he decided to leave—not because you decided for him.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Eyelids heavy, the residue of late-night tears remaining on the skin, you felt the fight leave you. Kaylen frowned. “I just want it all to be over.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Seriously? You’re giving up on an eight year friendship because of something some dickface said about you? I thought Jack meant more to you than that.”

Kaylen’s words stung. Made you defensive, because she was right—you were giving up and you did care about Jack, but the pain had become too much. “It’s not—it’s harder to explain than that. He’s outgrown me, K. Everyone can see it but him. I’m an obligation, a burden, and yeah, maybe he loves me as a friend and maybe he wants me around, but his friends never have—his fucking girlfriend doesn’t. And at this point, I just want it to end, I want him to be happy without the conditions of making me happy.”

Silence followed. Contemplation showed clear on Kaylen’s face. You could tell, even without her words, that she didn’t agree—but, she didn’t comment on that. Rather, she placed a hand on your leg and squeezed.

Just like Jack always did.

“It’s your life, babe,” she conceded. “And if you want to do this, I’m not going to stop you—but you have to be content with it.” She gestured to you, the nest of blankets and red-rimmed eyes. “Because this? This isn’t happiness over a good choice. You’re miserable without him, and it’s been barely two days. Think about what you’re doing before it’s irreversible.”

With that, Kaylen got up and went to her own bed, and neither of you made comment of it for the rest of the day.

Her words came again and again like a fractured turntable. Of course you were miserable—Jack had been a constant in your life for eight years, consistently preserving your peace, including you when you’d never felt more like an outsider. Happiness was synonymous with Jack, his smile, his presence, him.

Did you regret your decision? Yes, and no. You regretted the way you’d gone about it. The petty silence, ignoring a person who’d made your younger years bearable. Your friendship deserved a better death than that, a reason rather than just… fading from existence, as if it never mattered in the first place.

That wasn’t the message you wanted conveyed, and so with fingers unsteadied by aftershocks, you texted Jack.

You weren’t sure how you’d explain, if you could tiptoe around the actual reason. Maybe you couldn’t, and maybe that was okay.

i’m so sorry for everything. i’ll explain in person. can we meet up?

Your response came half a second later. As if he were waiting. That selfish part of you prayed he had been.

j :)

ofc. my place tn?

yeah. that’s good. brooke won’t be upset?

Asking after her made you want to puke, but you knew it was necessary—she didn’t like Jack even breathing near you, having an entire sit down conversation with him was certainly out of the question.

Thrice, the little text bubble appeared and disappeared on your phone screen. You could sense the apprehension without any background knowledge.

j :)

not a problem. we broke up.

It was shameful, the backwards type of pleasure that brought you.

Maybe you were a terrible person. A terrible friend. You tried to reason that it wasn’t wrong to love someone, to wish they were yours.

shit j. i’m sorry

j :)

i’m not. i’ll see u tn. 7:30 work? have dinner w the guys.

yeah, that’s fine. see you soon, j.

j :)

be safe. i’ll text you when i’m home.

The hard part wasn’t even over, and your heart was already breaking in two.

Sweat beaded at your palms, the cold claws of apprehension raking down your spine. Countless times you’d been stood here, facing the lifeless beige of Jack’s apartment door. This time, however, you stood here knowing it was the last time. A silent farewell to familiarity, the ties finally cut. Jack would fight, you would cry, and maybe he’d be able to change your mind—it seemed such an unlikely outcome that it calcified every inhale in your throat.

Shaking hands rapped the wooden door, where behind would come the execution of a friendship you’d held like a crutch for years upon years. Your childhood had died, and maybe it would’ve been better had it been left there as well, so as to spare you this heart-rending pain.

Even still, you wouldn’t have traded those years for the world—everything they taught you, through pain and happiness. It made you who you were, brought you to his doorstep with melancholy eyes and a failing heart.

Footsteps echoed on the other side of the door, urgent in a way that picked up your heart rate. The next moments you imagined with brutal clarity—Jack’s hopeful gaze, blue in a way no one else’s ever had been, the soft slope of his nose you teased him for, scrunched whenever he was particularly concerned. How he’d usher you in, hear your words, plead for a moment to explain, and then admit his love for you.

That was how you dreamt it. Unsurprisingly, it was not how it went.

Instead of the door opening to reveal the man you’d love for a lifetime, the squealing hinges were followed by a face that nearly knocked you backwards. Previous indifference smeared into flat-out disdain as Brooke’s eyes caught your figure, engulfed in one of Jack’s faded hoodies and likely disheveled in a way she’d never experienced herself.

Arrows punctured your lungs, sole your breath and defaulted your barely beating heart. Brooke was here. At Jack’s apartment. After they’d supposedly broken up. Had he lied? Was he tricking you, making you the fool? He never would, you knew that, but your wounded mind spun falsities to perpetuate your pain, as if punishment for trusting him in the first place.

“What do you want?” Brooke grunted, leant against the doorframe. Lips twitched into a smirk, the smile of the victorious.

You’d never considered yourself a violent person, but the urge to punch her in the teeth itched your fists. “Is Jack here?”

Her face fell. Something dark flashed in her face—she hesitated a moment, tossed a look over her shoulder. “Yes.”

The curt response was better than nothing, you supposed. “Right, well, can you tell—”

Brooke ran a hand through her hair. Adjusted the clasp of her necklace. “We were kind of in the middle of something. Come back later?”

The axe struck down.

Gravel filled your throat. Suffocated you. If Brooke knew the affect of her words, for once it didn’t show on her face. Years of life had taught you many things, drug you through agonies you wouldn’t relive for anything, yet somehow, this was the worst pain.

To be betrayed, trust snapped by a single action, it stung. Wormed venom in your veins and contaminated your bloodstream, poisoning your heart. Realistically, Jack hadn’t actually done anything wrong. He was allowed to hook up with other girls, to love them—he had, for years.

That wasn’t the issue.

No, it was the fact that he’d set a time, invited you over, and somehow forgot? Or had he set it all up, just to rub it in your face, get his lick-back for your prolonged silence towards him? Either way, it hurt, hurt like a bitch.

Made stone, all you did for a moment was blink at Brooke before a voice called from the background, “Who is it?”

Jack.

Fright found you then, broke away your shell of stone. You couldn’t let him see you, the dog wishing once more to come in from the cold. If he’d planned it, and saw you, he knew he’d won. If he hadn’t planned it, then he realized that—irrecoverably—he fucked up. Both choices felt like a criminal trial you didn’t want any part of.

“I—um—have a good night,” you rushed out, feet stumbling over themselves as you practically ran away from Jack’s door.

So much for closure.

So much for being broken up.

Maybe this was your sign. The one you needed to finally pull away.

Because Jack Hughes didn’t love you. Not past platonic soulmates—a relationship stained with past memories, ones that made both of you incapable of letting go, even as you outgrew it.

You were done being second best. Done trying to squeeze into a place you didn’t fit anymore.

If Brooke was Jack’s choice, so be it. You didn’t want any part of it anymore.

2K notes · View notes

scribbledswans · 2 months ago

Text

✦ lakeside desire

Till death do us part. But what do you do when it finally does? More importantly; Is it considered infidelity to fall in love with someone you're in hell with, even if you'd been married to another in your life?

WARNINGS:

Kind of a weird moral dillemma in this one, Potentially OOC Guest 1337

This fic is also up on ao3

There's nothing Guest finds more calming than the shore during downtime. Distorted images of the moon dance on the surface of the lake, old wood of the dock creaking under the strain of each step he takes. He fidgets with the wedding band wrapped around his finger, chest heavy with thought.

Some horribly selfish part of him hopes his wife didn't move on. Guest shakes away the thought as quickly as he can. It would be cruel to doom his daughter to a life without a father. He hopes, for Charlotte's sake, that Daisy managed to move on without him. Whether or not she found someone new to give her love to is something he doesn't need to think about. A bigger question settles on his mind, something more real than hypotheticals regarding a world he's no longer part of.

Is it unfaithful for a dead man to fall for someone else?

Guest runs his hand through his hair, the blue strands becoming messy and disheveled at his attempt to self soothe. He regrets leaving his wife and daughter behind, but there's nothing he can do now to change that outcome. He made his choices, but you?

God. You deserved a long life, something kind and comfortable. Yet here you were, subjected to the same conceivably eternal torment as him. His gut tells him it isn't fair— some cruel force punishing the innocent for a grief they can't control. Here he is, though, counting the seconds before the peace becomes entropy.

And here you were, suddenly, tired eyes looking him over like he was a stray dog.

"Hey, can't sleep?" you ask through a yawn, taking a seat next to him on the dock.

Guest looks you over, slightly concerned by your half-awake wandering. "You should be resting while you can. It's important that you make the most of the downtime, you never know when we'll be sent back out there again."

A peaceful look washes over you when you look out at the water. "I just wanted to visit. I don't get to see you outside of treating your injuries."

This strong, sudden sense of yearning bubbles into his throat, and he does everything in his power to swallow it down. Your ability to patch him up quickly is what helps him keep his head at times, and he wants to make sure it stays that way. If he lets his feelings off a leash, it'd make these sick games that much harder for everyone.

Guest says nothing, returning to fidget with the tarnished gold ring on his finger, a symbol of faith now reduced to a mere question. His gaze darts to your hands, eyeing the way you twist your own ring around your finger, staring off into the water. He entertains the idea of you feeling the same towards him— pining for companionship in such an unforgiving environment. Wondering if it makes you any less faithful to your living loved one if you were to act on this want.

"Hey." You say, eyes still fixed on the water, "Do you ever think about them?"

He chuckles, a dry and mournful sound. "When It's quiet."

You don't acknowledge his response, your hands coming to a halt. Guest watches you bring your knees to your chest, some of your hair falling out of its neatly kept place. It's here, seated before the quiet water with your face lit up by the moon, that he lets himself indulge. Despite the exhaustion around your eyes and the mess of your hair, you're pretty. He can't quite recall when he started noticing it, but he's seen it for a while now. The crease of your brow tells him you're worried about something. The way you chew on your lip tells him it's serious.

Guest hesitates. He's not much for overthinking, that's part of his efficiency, but the things you do his brain are too much.

Regardless, "Are you okay?" He asks anyway.

You look at him, finally, and your expression is a mix of fear— no— apprehension, and doubt. Guest tilts his head, placing his hand on your shoulder to ground you a bit. You blink, and shake your head.

"Yeah. I mean, I don't know." The words clumsily fall from your mouth, "I want something to happen. I know it shouldn't but..."

You trail off, eyes flickering from his face to his hands. "It keeps me up at night knowing it could."

Silence. Uncomfortable, grating silence, thickens the air around the both of you. Guest begs his heart to stop beating so loud, like you'll hear it through his chest. He swallows hard, trying to scan your face for any sort of clue. Deep down, he knows, but he's not impulsive. He needs you to say it.

"What is it that you want to happen?" His saliva is napalm in his throat when he swallows, ignoring the way his heart sinks into his gut when you look away from him.

Then, a quiet murmur. Something secretive and vulnerable, something resembling a hushed confession caged away behind clenched teeth.

"I want to kiss you. I don't know if I should."

Guest's jaw falls slack for a second, only a second, expecting words to follow. Instead, he's silent, and he pulls his hand away from you. He can't help but feel like he had himself doomed. As much as he wants this, and trust him, he wants it bad— he has a wife and kid. You have a spouse.

At least, the both of you had those things. The realization sort of graces his conscious as he looks back at you. You don't have them, not anymore. Neither does he. Death was very sure to bring the two of you here alone, regardless of how many people waited for you at home.

His hand meets your shoulder once more, prompting you to look at him. A calloused palm greets your jaw, the hand not on your shoulder cradling your face in the slightest of touch. Dark blue eyes flicker to your lips, and back to your face, begging for some sort of go ahead. When you lean in, he does too— rough lips connecting to yours in desperation.

He feels your hands travel to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to you in unabashed want. Your lips are chapped, cold air and poor sleep making for a careless and rough kiss for the both of you.

After a few seconds, you pull away. Guest caresses your cheek with his thumb, rough hands feeling like satin in your lovesick stupor. He watches as you stand up, a little bit of shock and well met excitement plastering your face. A small smile tugs at his lips, warmth finding its way to his face when he sees you twirl your hair kind of like a schoolgirl.

"You should sleep now. I promise I'll try to rest soon too."

You nod sheepishly, returning to your cabin not long after. When he knows you're gone, he presses the back of fingers to his lips, feeling the warmth of where yours had been.

#forsaken x reader #forsaken roblox #guest 1337 forsaken #guest 1337 x reader #swan drabbles #homicidal porkchops #oneshot #I will probably end up reformatting this on pc when i wake up lol #enjoy fr

148 notes · View notes

destinywillowleaf · 1 year ago

Note

anon PLEASE elaborate

i wanna know how/where you're adding her

cause personally I'm torn between two places her story could be added and post-S8 (presumably also post-S9, maybe pre-S10?) wasn't one I'd considered

the first idea was post-S13, since they don't head back to the monastery right away and "wherever the wind takes us" could be to somewhere like the Ninjago version of Thebes. there's a reason that story is "tragedy: null and void"

the other idea only hit me last night because of anon actually, cause if they only met after her play finished... antigone would kinda be. dead. but being dead isn't the end-all be-all considering the departed realm exists and a portal to it is opened during season 11...

antigone but she’s in ninjago post season 8 au

.👀

#antigone #lloyd garmadon #ninjago #tagammemnon #tragedy: null and void #tragedyshipping #not sure how romancing a ghost would work though. probably like romance with a human?#im probably not gonna explore the ghost version much but if it piques anyone else's interest then i say go for it and have fun #null and void is gonna be interesting to explore considering what each of their narratives are and how their tragedies shape their stories #something about the roles destiny and the gods play in their lives and what their stories are ''supposed'' to be #especially on antigone's side. like i know exactly what i'm doing story-wise and how that changes the outcome #(and i do still need to finish watching/reading her play)#but even though her story will still unquestionably be tragic... it's not going to be the same. the title is what it is for a reason.#the tragic parts of lloyd's life are a lot harder to avoid considering a) how much it shapes the ninjago's story and b) how MUCH happens #so maybe the title could be reworked. idk man i'm just here to have fun and think too much about legos #then again there's always option 3 of ''this is completely outside canon things on both ends don't worry about it''

23 notes · View notes

guys-im-literally-spiderman · 5 months ago

Text

I've recently been inspired by @steviewashere's posts about gay steve and this is the outcome of that :)

Steve was almost bamboozled by Robin.

He just didn't quite get it.

It seemed that, for her, in spite of the fear and hiding that came with being gay, she loved it about herself. She allowed herself to become blushing and gooey when she talked about girls with safe people.

In the privacy of her friendships, it was almost like she was the same as anyone else. A hormonal, perpetually embarrassed teenager jumping from crush to crush.

But being gay haunted Steve.

Every time his eyes lingered just a little bit too long, and every time he felt absolutely nothing kissing a girl left him feeling sick to his stomach.

Its something he can't face.

Won't face.

He hasn't told a soul.

That's why he's filled with a sense of dread when Robin asks him to go with her to a gay club she heard about in Indy.

He knows that she's looking for the support of a friend, and he wants so desperately to be that for her. But she doesn't know. Doesn't know that when a man hits on Steve they'll see right through him. He won't be able to hide.

It's not her fault she doesn't know, though.

So he goes anyway. He sticks by her side until she ushers him away whining that he was "scaring off the babes".

He gets a drink, and he dances. And someone starts flirting with him. Not just anyone, but a man. Because they're allowed to do that here. And that's wonderful.

With the extra bravery from the alcohol coursing through his veins, he thinks "when in Rome...".

He lets go of the weight of hiding that pains him each and every day.

By the end of the night, they're kissing to the Bronski Beat song blaring on the dance floor.

It started off soft, and gentle and beautiful. With whispers exchanged between kisses, kept in their own little bubble only for them. Leaving Steve feeling warm and gooey.

Then it turned to something dirtier, needier. And Steve had never felt so many things at once in his life. Desire, fear, want, acceptance, hatred, and above all a desperation never to let this go.

Something in him was changed. In a single moment, he realised that he could never go back to the denial. He had discovered something beautiful. The weightlessness of being who really was.

He felt a bone deep kind of joy.

As he and Robin left the bar, wandering to a nearby park, they exchanged teary admissions, bearing their hearts to each other.

Once they make it to the park, they lay in the grass, yelling out "I'm a homosexual!" into the void of Indianapolis and 2 am. Their yells a confusing combination of admission and a statement of pride.

They know that they have to stay hidden in their small-minded town. They know their lives will be hard. Their fears do not evaporate purely because of a moment of comradery.

But the endeavor to accept themselves and each other makes life so so much better.

#steve harrington #gay steve harrington #platonic stobin #platonic soulmates #stobin #they love each other so much #steddie #eventually

182 notes · View notes

gudfornuthin · 4 months ago

Text

The only thing that matters

Dae ho x fem!reader

Summary: Dae ho joins the game in hopes of building a better life for the two of you. Turns out, you both had the same idea.

A/N: based on this request and this one. Hope you all enjoy and feedback is appreciated :)

Dae ho is startled awake by blaring music from above him. His body aches and there’s a pounding in his head as he tries to gage his surroundings.

Rows and rows of high rise bunk beds fill the massive room, along with hundreds of strangers. All wearing the same outfit, all looking around with the same confused expressions. A group of masked people stand at the end of the room, wearing pink jumpsuits and holding guns. What the hell has he got himself into?

Dae ho moves to sit on the end of the bed, preparing to face whatever is about to happen. Before he gets up, a sudden panic takes over him, as he quickly searches his pockets. He feels something cold and heaves a sigh of relief. Dae ho pulls the object out, a small locket in the shape of a heart. The chain broke ages ago meaning he hasn’t been able to wear it. That doesn’t stop him from carrying it everywhere he goes. He’s also surprised that he’s still got it, considering his change of clothes. For some reason they didn’t take it away from him, and he couldn’t be more thankful.

He opens the locket, staring at the picture inside. A young woman, smiling wide with her head tilted slightly to the side looks back at him. His long term girlfriend, Y/N. The love of his life. The reason he’s here in the first place.

The couple had been struggling financially and your options were limited. After Dae ho left the marines and Y/N was laid off from her office job, it became harder to keep things a float. It didn’t take long for them to form a growing debt, which also didn’t help their relationship. After meeting the salesman in the subway, Dae ho was ready to take the risk. He didn’t bother telling Y/N about what he was doing, and he feels bad because of it. He hopes she’ll understand.

Dae ho kisses the picture of his girlfriend and moves to where the crowd of bewildered strangers have gathered. The pink suits begin to explain everything, as well as the games they’re all about to participate in.

- - -

The players are all lead to the first area where they enter another large room with a large strip of flat land, and an incredibly creepy doll standing tall opposite them. The rules are explained, and the game begins.

One player in particular seems to take on the leading roll, sharing tips and helping everyone slowly make their way to the finish line. Dae ho doesn’t know how and why this man seems so confident and focused on making sure he’s being heard, as the game itself is fairly easy.

That is until the first bullet hits. Unsurprisingly, chaos erupts throughout the room, players shoving each other and running in multiple directions, desperate for a way to get out. The man, which Dae ho sees now is player 456, yells behind his arm for everyone to hold still, and yet many don’t listen.

Dae ho can feel the sweat forming on his forehead, holding his breath and trying to stop his body from shaking too much. He wishes he’d never agreed to that salesman’s game. He wishes he’d just stayed at home, safe with the one person he cares about. Instead there’s a high chance he’s going to be killed.

The screaming soon stops, as the doll calls out green light. No one moves, horrified of the outcome. Dae ho flicks his eyes around the room, trying to figure out what everyone else is going to do. That’s when he spots her.

“What the hell?”

He’s about to move closer when the doll calls out red light. While the players remain static, player 456 yells out, once again taking the lead and explaining what they need to do. Form a line, and get behind someone bigger than you.

“Green light.”

While most people form different lines, Dae ho bolts over to where he was just looking, quickly moving to stand in front of the woman he can’t possibly believe is here with him. She’s shocked to see him too.

“Dae ho?”

Following player 456s instructions, Dae ho moves his arm to cover his mouth, just as the doll calls out red light.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He mumbles.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Y/N replies, her head hanging low, ducking behind her boyfriend.

Rather than starting a fight while their lives are at stake, Dae ho chooses not to reply. Green light is called, and he reaches back for her hand, tugging hard and pulling her along with him to the finish line. He’s pissed off, she probably is too, but there’s no way he’s letting them kill her. Finish the game, then talk.

- - -

The game was a bloodbath to say the least. Somehow wanting to pay off a debt turned into fighting for your life. Literally. Dae ho just can’t bear to think about the upcoming challenges. Either way, he’s thankful to still be alive. Alongside his girlfriend no less.

Dae ho and Y/N sit next to each other on one of the beds, having not spoken a word to each other since finishing the game. They’re both tired, and wondering who’s going to be open and honest first. Y/N breaks the silence.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Dae ho glances at her. “Well, I didn’t either.”

Y/N huffs. “I got a loan from the bank a few months ago, just to help out with our bills. Then I lost my job and borrowed more money and it just,” she sighs. “It got ahead of me. I’m sorry.”

Dae ho takes her hand into his, squeezing tightly. “We both got desperate. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

They go quiet again, Y/N resting her head on his shoulder. He kisses her on the forehead, then on the cheek, then gently on the lips. She smiles.

“We’re here now,” Dae ho says. “And we’ve got each other. We can do this.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, but Y/N nods at his words, snuggling deeper into her boyfriend’s embrace. They try not to think about all the players killed, and whatever waits for them tomorrow.

- - -

Taglist: @h3ll0k1ttyx @ivanttier @shewanfsrevenge @sugalump3d @putrescentpoet @leviathans-fish

(Sorry if some tags don’t work)

#dae ho x reader #squid game x reader #dae ho #squid game #kang ha neul #x reader

212 notes · View notes

bratbby333 · 1 year ago

Text

your beauty never scared me ˚➶ ｡˚ ☁️ suguru geto

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ synopsis: after having your heart broken, your best friend helps you pick up the pieces ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ content + warnings: nsfw + mdni !! fem!reader x suguru, reader was in a toxic relationship + cheated on, fwb!suguru, angst, comfort, smut, unprotected sex ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ word count: 5k (+ a smau!! woo!!) ⁺˖ ⸝⸝ author notes: pink indicates reader's pov, orange is suguru's...inspired by Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green <3 also this was not beta read so pls excuse any typos xx i hope yall enjoy !!

Heartache has its own special way of ruining someone…

...stripping away every ounce of self-respect you work so hard to accumulate. That’s the trouble with letting people in. The outcome is almost always undecided, left in the hands of fate or whatever the hell you believe in. Perhaps it's a moment of weakness, letting a stranger entangle themselves with every fiber of your being, see every inch of your skin, explore the darker parts of your mind– even the things you hide from yourself. Putting trust in the wrong things, the wrong people. Never knowing someone’s true intentions until you discover them in bed, in your bed, with another. When something breaks inside of you, something cynical puts the pieces back together. You are a shell of who you once were. Blame it on soul-crushing character development.

It’s hard to watch the woman you love destroy herself…

...for the sake of holding on to someone who has only ill-intent in their heart. Perhaps it’s best to remove yourself. It’s agonizing, knowing you have the ability to save her from all this. You could relieve her of the heartache, free her from the suffering. Bring her nothing but joy. She has changed, evolved, and is nearly unrecognizable now. You watch as he withers her down into nothing. That man broke her, leaving her to pick up the pieces. And the woman you see now isn’t the same one you knew all those years ago.

The cold air of December flurries around outside as your chest erupts in warmth at the sight of her name illuminating your lock screen. She asks to see you, and you’d be a fool to decline. As she’s sat before you, you take in every part of her that you missed. But she’s different now. Dull eyes, sloping shoulders, her cheekbones are sunken in as her clothes hang from her figure like it's two sizes too big. But it isn’t, you remember the day she bought that t-shirt. The soul that normally inhabits her body has been replaced with something…unrecognizable. You know it’s her, but your mind tells you otherwise. The way her voice lilts from her lips, how chillingly different she sounds while delivering the news, it’s heartbreaking.

She informs you she won’t be around much, mentioning that it will take time for her to heal from this. You pretend to be supportive of the distance she wants to place between herself and her loved ones, even though it absolutely crushes you.

There’s something peaceful about loneliness…

…only relying on yourself for company. It can be draining of course. With the few friends you do have, you make the most of it. It’s a serene feeling, private even. People perceive you however they please, but only a few trusted individuals know your ins and outs. It's refreshing.

God forbid you have to cater to someone else, especially when dating. It's hard enough having to take care of yourself. You make sure your friends know they’re loved and appreciated, of course, but the idea of inviting another person into your life; someone who demands your time and attention in order for it to work out? No thank you. It’s backfired for you many times before, you aren’t willing to go through it again. Your friends have watched you heal from heartbreak after heartbreak, each one more damning than the last. No one blames you for your cynicism, it’s understandable.

Plus, the emotional upkeep of a romantic relationship is exhausting. And the idea of meeting someone, falling for them, and it not working out in the end? Torturous. Why put yourself through all that?

“You just haven’t found the right one!”

“They’ll come around when you least expect it!”

“You gotta put yourself back out there!”

Blah, blah, blah. Not interested. There’s no room for hopeless romance in this ill-fated world. You’re not dealing with that pain anymore. Not if you can help it.

The trouble with love is that it’s cruel…

…discriminatory, even. Picking and choosing who gets to rejoice in its bliss and simultaneously alienating the unfortunate souls who suffer in its unyielding grip. You attempt to find peace in the silence of her absence, telling yourself that she’s okay, but knowing all too well that her precious heart is still shackled to someone so undeserving. You hold on to the irregular check-in’s you get from her. You hope she’s healing, and you prepare yourself for the outcome; that when she finally returns, she will not be the same person she was.

Betrayal has a pesky habit of sticking around…

…a lingering feeling that still eats away at you. The night you caught him in his infidelity, something deep within you broke. It wasn’t your heart, no, that would be too simple. It was your psyche, the core of your being. The day he left, a part of you left with him. The chemistry of your brain changed, your atomic makeup shifting toward nihilism.

So you move through life differently now. Every positive outlook you once had now cast to the wayside, replaced with unyielding suspicion in attempts to keep your heart guarded from the outside world. Hope has finally run out, the idea that there’s good in everyone proven to be a goddamn lie. You shove your desire for love into a padded safe and hide it away on a forgotten shelf in your mind. Hell, you’d burn that obnoxious feeling if you could. Run it through a meat grinder, chuck it into a volcano, nuke it. Doesn’t matter. Anything to stop it from tearing you apart. It’s not like it’s done you any good. Besides, who would want someone as damaged as you?

Part of you feels guilty…

…for sitting idly by, knowing your dear friend was hurting so deeply. But there wasn’t much you could do. You grant her space, knowing she wasn’t given that same courtesy for four years of her life. You pray she returns soon, aware that she doesn’t do well on her own. Her own mind is acting like a prison, holding her hostage, forcing her to relive her pain day in and day out. But, god damn it, you can’t take it anymore. You have been without her for so long. So you reach out, demanding she spend time with you. Self-isolation can only get you so far. It had been months since you’d seen her last. And to your surprise, she agrees.

A spring evening, 65 degrees, the setting sun…

…a gentle breeze that laps at your warm skin as you sit cross-legged on a checkered blanket. The beautiful flowers of May decorate the ground in colorful clusters. The cicadas sing while the bees are busy buzzing around. It’s a strange feeling; coping with the fact that your life has reached rock-bottom, a total stand-still as you work to heal yourself, yet life continues to move, to grow, to thrive. It’s inspiring in a way. You are accompanied by Suguru. He managed to get you out of the house after weeks of rotting away inside, anchored down by the gut wrenching feeling of heartbreak.

Laughter echoes through the park as the two of you revel in the serenity. Life feels…good. Whole. Worth living. It’s been a while since it has felt this way. It shouldn't feel strange, but it does. Happiness has become a foreign concept to you.

Sitting before you is the woman you love…

…the color in her cheeks has returned, the fullness of her face present once more. After suffering through the many months of thunder and unrelenting downpour in her mind, she has bloomed once more. Finally. You couldn’t pull your attention away from her even if you wanted to, your body and mind drawn to her in the most spiritual way. Even though she’s deep in thought, working to take in her surroundings, her beauty is still very much evident. She isn’t even aware of the power she holds– utterly entrancing. You would do anything to live in this moment forever. You’d do anything for her.

But in this moment…

…with a forgotten feeling of fulfillment creeping its way into your chest as the soft rays of the sun dance across your skin and the sounds of nature swirl through your ears, you realize something. Something so beautiful, yet so fucking terrifying. You love him. Suguru. Maybe it was just your heartache talking, connecting dots that had no business associating.

You brush it off, hide it away, and chalk it up to just being in a vulnerable moment. Your heart had been torn from your body only a few months prior. Anger still rips through your chest when you think about it. Four years wasted on someone you had placed on the highest pedestal, far higher than you placed your family, your friends…yourself. You were blindsided. In an instant, everything you had come to love, the home you felt safe in, the person you thought you knew…ripped away. Like it was nothing at all.

Suguru has done what he could to mend the wounds for you, knowing good and well that if you are left to your own devices you would spiral past the point of return. And as renewing as this spring evening is, you know you will never be the same again.

But you can’t help but fixate on the way he makes you feel. And as hard as you try to push those feelings away, they continue to bubble up. What happens when it finally reaches its boiling point?

You’re only human. You have wants, needs, and desires…

…so who do you turn to for that release? Suguru, of course. Isn’t that what friends are for?

Some would say it’s an evil thing to do; to use someone for pleasure, your own personal gain. A part of you understands that, too. Sure, it may have started out that way, but it’s shifted. And that scares the shit out of you, how you find yourself searching for his validation, the sadness you feel when he leaves in the morning after a night full of fun. So why not tell yourself that you’re just doing what you need to do, rather than what you want to do. Ignoring the fact that deep down you really fucking love it.

It’s not like you’re taking advantage of him and the bond you share…not really, anyway. The two of you are very close, having known each other for ten years. Side by side, maneuvering through a decade of emotional ups and downs; personal dilemmas, weird family dynamics, terrible relationships, fluctuating hormones and unexpected cast changes within your friend group. But the two of you have always stayed consistent, the main characters. Your personalities mesh well, constantly riffing off one another. Never ending laughter and smiles. He's seen you at your absolute worst and vice versa. The true definition of unconditional love. So why not get a little more from him? After all this time, it feels warranted, well-deserved, even. Ignoring what you feel for him, it just makes sense that this is how it should go down. Plus, if it was such a bad idea, why would he agree?

You would accept her…

…in any way she chooses to present herself to you. After years of watching her hurt, you finally have your friend back, and there isn’t anything you wouldn't do to make her happy. Especially with guilt that you still feel, knowing there was nothing you could have done that would’ve saved her from her suffering. So when she suggests the idea of being friends with benefits, you’d be insane to deny her that. Is it a bad idea? Perhaps. You refuse her offer? She slips away, seeking refuge in the arms of another, someone who could hurt her…Never again.

You crave her so deeply that this arrangement seems perfect. Even though you dread the morning after, not wanting to leave her side…jumping on every opportunity to see her, showering her in praise every time you’re nestled deep within her warmth– the way her eyes light up at your word makes you melt. Is it possible she feels the same way? The more you think about it, the less crazy the idea seems. Would she leave you in the dust if you told her the truth? You don’t want to risk losing her. Not if you can help it. But you can’t confess your underlying intentions. Even though a deep part of you hopes for more, it doesn’t even matter at this point. Hide it. You get to be with her in a way that you never have before, and that’s enough for you…right?

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

It all transpired after one drunken night playing a confessional card game with your friend group. You were shit-faced and horny, and he wasn’t any better off. You’re honestly surprised his dick still worked that night, but god did it work. You didn’t expect it to go any further after that, assuming it was a one-off occasion. The two of you never really addressed what happened, either, didn’t take the time to have a real conversation about it. Just a quick “hey, do you wanna…” followed by an indifferent “yeah, why not?”, and that was that. Which is probably a good thing, because any more talking would have most likely resulted in your true feelings coming to the surface. But it happened, and is still happening, so who are you to complain? It’s perfect.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

Your friends and random on-lookers alike say you’re compatible, and yeah, they might be right, but fuck that. Why risk the friendship you cherish so deeply for a title? That's idiotic. It's borderline insanity. The minute you put a label on something it all comes crashing down. So, why ruin a good thing?

Don’t overthink it. It’s nothing serious, and it never will be. You refuse to open yourself up to somebody else, someone new. No more getting hurt. You’ve let Suguru into your life in a more meaningful way than you have for anyone else. And that’s far enough.

Does he know every little thing about you? Sure.

Does he care for your well-being? Yeah.

Is he attentive, thoughtful, and supportive? Of course…it is Suguru after all.

But so what? That's what friends are for.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

You and Suguru see each other frequently, at least three times a week, whether it’s just a normal hangout or…a hangout. You just get what you need and go; a good laugh, dinner and a movie, casual drinks, or a heaven-sent dick appointment. You both seem content, enjoying one another’s company and…bodies…and minds and souls.

Fuck.

It’s hard to ignore your totally natural, human need for deeper intimacy. But you try to, and damn do you try hard. It would probably be best for you to stop hooking up with Suguru and just go back to how things were.

You can’t go through this. Not again. You’ve already shifted the perfectly normal dynamic you once had into something deeper. Something…real. There’s no turning back now. So you continue to hide behind your ego, fighting off every demon known to man in hopes that this will all just go away.

You’ve been somewhat successful in suppressing your feelings, molding them into something more manageable. You are best friends, with the addition of benefits. Simple. Nothing more, nothing less. You pretend to be ignorant of Suguru's awe-inspiring beauty. How his energy is absolutely addicting, the way his lingering touch burns your skin so beautifully. He makes you feel seen for everything you are and appreciates you for everything you’re not. That sentiment alone propels you through the unexplored cosmos, crossing the line between reality and nirvana as starlight dances across your skin.

Not to mention, when you two are actually fucking? It's like two parts of the same soul finally meeting after centuries of arduous searching. You don’t know where your body stops and his begins, entangled in the most profound way.

God. You sound insane. This is no way to view a friend…your best friend, at that. Get it together.

What would you even call this? Touch starved? No, he touches you plenty…and in all the right places, too. Is it desperation? Your insatiable need for love? Karmic punishment for all your failed relationships? The corny trope where you end up falling for your best friend? As much as you want to fight against the feelings you have for him, it’s too late.

Whatever. Just play it off. You refuse to let your walls down. And you’d hate to give Suguru the satisfaction of being the one who commandeered heavy machinery and sent a wrecking ball toward your emotional fortress.

If you don’t acknowledge your feelings they’ll just cease to exist, right? Yeah, that’s how it works. And it’s a super healthy coping mechanism, too.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

All this deep pondering and emotional soul searching has got you worked up. You decide to see if Suguru wants to come over. Not because you miss him, or anything. It’ll be nothing more than a casual hook up. Dick only, no feelings.

You catch yourself giggling at his messages. Gross. You brush it off with a shake of your head, a violent wave of self awareness washing over you.

I'm not going through this again. I refuse.

You read the messages over and over. Do you seem desperate? Do your texts carry the perfect amount of indifference? Whatever. It doesn’t matter, it’s just Suguru, anyway. He's stuck around this long, it would take a lot to scare him off, now.

The plan’s in motion, and you’re going to have a good time tonight. You feel your heart rate spike at the thought of seeing him. That's a totally normal reaction for someone who has no feelings involved, right? Just friends…right?

Suguru chuckles as he reads your response. Excitement floods through his body in anticipation. Is it finally time to confess? His own eagerness catches him off-guard. He can’t. It’s too soon. He takes a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. Keep it together.

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

It’s been so long since the feeling of joy has drifted between these barren walls. You take a swig of your drink, exhaling happily through your nose as the sweet juice dances with the sting of the liquor, warming your chest as you swallow. Leaning back on the couch with one leg kicked up on the coffee table, you absentmindedly swirl your glass as you gaze at Suguru.

“I’m really happy to see that you’re doin’ better,” he muses, taking a sip before setting his cup down. You offer him a small nod paired with a gentle smile, looking back at the drink nestled between your fingers; the ice that’s creating condensation on the outside, the way the sun seeps between the half-open curtains in your living room, the cooing of birds just beyond your window panes. Quite frankly, you’re trying your hardest to focus on anything but him. Ignoring the thrum of your heart every time you look into his eyes, pretending the smooth cadence of his voice doesn’t make your body tremble.

Say you do confess? What then? Is that really something you want, anyway? Or is it just nice to lust after someone? No, it’s not that. You really do love him. You haven’t even considered the possibility of him reciprocating these feelings, and odds are if he does, you’ll just run for the hills, not willing to open your heart up again. Your last relationship destroyed you. There’s no way you’ll allow someone to fill that void. Not with the possibility that it’ll all be a farce.

After a moment of silence, you finally speak up. “Me, too. And it’s all thanks to you, Sugu.” You finally meet his gaze, and it’s as if his eyes are attempting to pierce through you with how intently he’s looking at you. His expression quirks as if to ask what you mean. You decide to test the waters a bit. Fuck it.

“You…you’ve made me feel…whole again,” your words come out a bit choppy and drawn out, still battling with your decision to come clean. Your eyes dart around his face before looking away once more. You fiddle with your fingers, unsure of if you want to elaborate. Even if you stop here, it’s okay. That’s a totally normal thing to say to a friend who helped you in your time of need.

Your head snaps toward him at the sound of your name. More is said, but you focus on the way he addresses you. He says it so softly, so gently, like the very syllables of your title grace his tongue as they sway from in between his vocal cords. For four years, your name was used against you, weaponized with anger and hatred. But his words are relayed to you with nothing but love behind them.

Your ears are ringing as you stare at him blankly. You shake your head in hopes to clear the thoughts that are clouding it. “Wait…wha? What did you just say? The last part?”

“I said, it’s because I love you,” he smiles as he watches your face flush. Time slows as your heart rate speeds up. You brows furrow a bit, trying to piece together what the hell is going on. A million thoughts spin through your head as you stare at him. “You…love…me? Like, in a ‘best friends’ kinda way, right?” You’re shocked as he shakes his head. “No. I love you, and I have for a while. In a more than friends kinda way,” he laughs a bit before leaning forward, reaching for your hand. “You love me, too. Don’t you?”

“I-” your words get caught in your throat as his fingers rub against the back of your hand. As calm and collected as Suguru seems on the outside, he is spiraling on the inside. He isn’t sure where this newfound confidence is coming from, but he decides to roll with it. His heart thrums in his chest as he anxiously awaits your response. He has reached his tipping point, wanting nothing more than to finally be able to call you his.

You look down, staring at the place where the two of you meet, the feeling of electricity coursing through your body. A chill runs down your spine before you look back at him. “I-I do. I love you.”

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

You’re laying on your back, your hair fanned out across the bed. Your arms are wrapped tight around his neck as he gently thrusts into you with slow, deep ruts of his hips. His head is tucked into the crook of your neck, his warm breath brushing across your sensitive skin.

He leans back, looking down at you with a sweet smile, “You are so beautiful.” His eyes run up and down your body, taking in every dip and curve of your figure, before fixating on where the two of you meet. His lips part as he watches himself disappear inside of you, a deep moan breaking through his chest at the sight of your sweet juices coating his length. He rubs intricate circles into your clit, loving the way you sound as your body writhes under his touch.

Tears begin to pool behind your eyes as you gaze up at him, entranced by the way he manages to stimulate every sense in your body. This is what love truly feels like, bestowed upon you by a man who wants nothing more than to fulfill every facet of your life.

He presses his forehead against yours as he continues to pump into you, his movements influenced by nothing more than pure adoration.

The sun bounces off your features, illuminating your face in such an ethereal way. His breath catches in his throat as he watches the way the light makes your eyes glow. You are angelic in every sense of the word. Someone too pure for this realm, unfathomably delicate; sent to this world to be worshiped and protected.

“I love you. So much,” he groans. Every ounce of devotion he has for you is being pumped into your body with every plunge. It’s overwhelming for him. He's nearly bursting at the seams as he makes love to you, moving his hips so tantalizingly slow, but wanting to thrust into you with fervor, to pound the message into you that you are deserving of all love in the world, and that he will be the one to give it to you. But he takes his time, wanting nothing more than to savor you.

Small whimpers break through your throat. “I…ahh!– I love you, S-Suguru,” you moan, whining as his head brushes into your sweet spot, making your back arch off the bed as your chest presses into his. The pleasure raking through you is immeasurable, every neuron in your brain firing off at once. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate to feel every single part of him.

He cups the sides of your cheeks, brushing away your tears before placing two soft kisses over each eye. “Why’re you cryin’, my love?” he coos, concern evident on his face as he rubs his thumbs against your face. His hips pause as his eyes dart between yours.

“Just…’m just so happy,” you whisper, scrunching your nose up with a small sniffle before placing a kiss on his lips. He smiles deeply before returning to his original pace.

“You deserve it...just wanna make you feel good, baby,” his hips press him into the deepest parts of you, rubbing against your sweet, gushing walls, but his pace remains deliberate. “You deserve all the pleasure in the world,” his teeth grit ever so slightly as he feels you clench down on him. “F-fuck, baby… fuck. You are just... incredible,” he groans, angling his hips to keep brushing against your g spot.

Even though you’ve had each other many times before, no other instance compares to the way you feel right now. Your body brimming with love, fulfillment…with him. His touch makes you feel reborn, like no one has ever hurt you before. His hands glide across your skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake, his unyielding passion evident in the way he clings to you, and you to him.

“Sugu…” you gasp as he bottoms out once more. Short pants leave your lips as you feel the tightness in your stomach intensify. “P-please, keep goin’...I’m…gonna cum,” you mewl. His hands reach underneath your body, palming each asscheek as he lifts your lower half off the bed. The new angle makes your eyes roll as stars begin to dance around your head. “Me too…y’feel so fuckin’ good.” The fiction of his pelvis against your clit shoots ripples of pleasure through you. Your nails drag down his back in an attempt to ground yourself, but to no avail. This feels otherworldly. His pace picks up a bit, pushing you to unravel, your body succumbing to bliss. The warmth that engulfs his lengths makes him reach his peak right after you, his hips stuttering as he works you both through your orgasms.

He props himself up on his forearms, making a conscious effort to not collapse on you and crush you with his body weight, though you would most definitely welcome it. He watches as your chest rises and falls, every soft pant that leaves your lips like music to his yearning ears. He can’t bring himself to pull out, loving the way your walls are still spasming around him. You stare into his eyes for a moment, running your fingers down his spine. A gentle moment of silence settles between to two of you. No words are spoken, but they don't need to be.

He begins to get up, but your legs lock around his waist immediately, resheathing him inside of you. “Baby–”, he begins to object, but your arms wrap around his shoulders once more, pulling him down as you kiss the spot below his ear, “Jus’ a few more minutes. Love having you like this.”

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest as he smiles into the crook of your neck. “You keep this up and we might just have to go again.”

And you do. For hours and hours, attempting to make up for all the years wasted. Your two souls engaging in the most mesmerizing dance. He is determined to replace all the heartache you feel with pleasure. And he does. You feel nothing but him. And he can’t focus on anything other than you. Rolling around together until the golden hue of the setting sun shifts into a light pink as it rises above the horizon. But it feels like no time has passed at all.

Suguru draws soft circles into your skin, holding you tight against his sweat-glistened chest. Your body trembles from the copious amount of pleasure coursing through you. A gentle peck is placed on the top of your head before he looks toward the ceiling. A sense of contentment washes over him, dancing with the soft pulse of his many orgasms still reverberating through his body. After years of waiting, you are finally his, and he is determined to grant you your well-deserved peace.

Dawning a robe, you sit on your balcony, listening to the birds sing you their habitual 'good morning'. The door slides open behind you, and Suguru takes a seat, presenting you with a cup of tea. A quiet thank you leaves your lips as the two of you take in the scenery before you.

“We should probably get some sleep now, huh?” You ask, turning to him as you take a sip, smiling at the fact that he knows exactly how you take your tea. But, of course he does. It’s Suguru.

He grins, “No…I don’t want to leave this moment behind just yet.” You blush, reaching your hand out to grasp his.

“Me neither.”

In his eyes, you are precious, the most important person in his life. The deep-rooted fear of not being worthy of love is disproven in the form of Suguru’s undying loyalty to you. He has waited years to be with you, and he would have waited years more. And as the two of you sit together, with your fingers intertwined and heartbeats in sync, you know there is nowhere else you want to be…no one else you want to be with. An unfamiliar feeling of safety creeps into your chest. You’re in good hands now.

Maybe opening yourself back up to love wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

author notes: this fic is incredibly self-serving...but i really needed this. i just want a pretty boy named suguru to save me from the heartache i feel rn ugh

my reqs are closed at the moment, but thirsts and chats are always welcome !!

alsoooo !! i just wanted to send out a big big thank you for 700 followers...im literally in shock i cannot believe it. im spinning around my room rn just thinking abt it. yall are amazing n i appreciate every single one of you 🫶🏼

tag list: @anxious-chick @call-memissbrightside @the-weeb-of-the-uchiha @sadmonke

likes, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated !!

611 notes · View notes

scary-grace · 2 months ago

Text

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.

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.

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @deadhands69 @cheeseonatower @lvtuss @issaortiz @cryptidfuckerofficial @xeveryxstarfallx @f3r4lfr0gg3r @evilcookie5 @stardustdreamersisi @baking-ghoul @atspiss @koohiii @shikiblessed @warxhammer @handumb @boogiemansbitch @minniessskii @agente707 @lacrimae-lotos @aslutforfictionalmen

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tenko shimura x reader #tenko shimura x you #shimura tenko x reader #shimura tenko x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #a bisquared production

110 notes · View notes