#that he doesn’t know how to exist without them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hivemuthur · 19 hours ago

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To Be Known - Ch.15.

viktorxfemale!reader very explicit as usual, Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 10,1 K (not sorry anymore)

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: domestic fluff through Reader’s lens, spanking, anal fingering during sex, the usual crying after sex, subspace/domspace, injection mentioned, oral sex, anal sex, angst.

author’s note: Reader’s POV on the weekend + what follows after Viktor’s visit to Young Vic. As usual, playlist here and artist is @petitesieste ♡ @doggrowth thank you so much for bearing with me and beta reading! A little extra info at the bottom.

Cross-posted on AO3

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For two days, you exist in an indeterminate space between Viktor’s hands. Between his kind hands, spreading soap across your shoulders and chest, and his heavy hands, beating you clean of your sins. The I love you he expresses in both moments carries equal weight.

Washing Viktor is effortless. You know the lines of his body: collarbones, the stubborn muscle at his neck, old scars under your thumbs. Vetiver from here on becomes his scent. It lingers in his hair and armpits. You smooth the lather over his chest, across beauty marks and strokes of pearl, and there’s a comfort in it. He leans in, lets you work, sighs from somewhere deep in his belly. That sound alone should be illegal, but you don’t stop.

The second one on the list to be outlawed is the giggle. You barely word a remark when his ribs shy away from your fingers and he laughs outright, swatting you away with one hand. Thank God Viktor closes his eyes, because the look on your face is so awed you are almost ashamed of it.

It’s another thing to be washed in return. You feel seen, not just naked—naked is fine at this point—but bare in ways that have nothing to do with skin. Viktor’s hands work slow, patient, mapping the length of your arms and the dip of your waist, as if he’s memorising you for an exam no one else will ever take. When his fingers slide over your ribs, you shiver from the nerve of it: the audacity of being loved so ordinarily. You wonder if he notices the bite marks from last night, the old bruise near your hip, how uneven your breathing gets when he’s being gentle.

You help him out of the cabin without thinking, moving on muscle memory alone. The same way you reach for him when you’re first to leave bed. Instinct, as fundamental as breathing. Your brain keeps up its little war with your heart—logic stacking arguments, pros and cons, practical fears, as if any of them might protect you from how good this feels. Every time you surrender, let yourself lean into the warmth and the clumsy closeness, it feels better than anything your head could manufacture. The heart wins out in these tiny moments. They feel clean in a way nothing else does.

You ogle him secretly while brushing teeth. Eyes wander sideways over his arms, chest, and hips wrapped loosely with a towel. During the spit and rinse you sigh internally, and what you couldn’t word when he gave you his boyish giggle, you find the courage to say now.

Your fingers wrap around the towel and pull him close. Then, the towel drops, and Viktor stands in front of you naked. You can’t help but think how pretty he is in all forms. What you think, you tell him, and more, and for one moment you hope to maybe have found agency over what you are able and unable to say. But it’s shot for shot now, and Viktor—your beautiful in all the significant areas man—once again knocks you out with his reaction.

Suddenly, it’s back to being precarious. Because if this is Viktor’s reaction to something as basic as receiving a compliment—one that understates entirely what he is—then you have no idea how you are going to give him any justice. How you are going to face the expectation of being a girlfriend without letting him down horrendously. And for a fleeting second, it pisses you off that just loving someone doesn’t solve any of those issues.

You mull it over while giving in to the compulsion, scrolling through your inbox. Your thumb flicks through the avalanche of overnight messages—an old reflex, a quick hit of control. The plate Viktor slides in front of you goes untouched, steam curling up and dying. He notices, of course, and crushes you again by assuring you nothing will be taken without your permission. You know damn well whatever little you permit is not enough, and you sit there feeling stupid for being so desperate you can’t last twenty-four hours without checking if the theatre world has fallen apart without you.

As soon as he points you to the floor, gratitude floods your veins. The raw honesty of it, the longing of your flesh, leads you to splay yourself across his lap, trusting, obedient—where he can deliver his love in a series of stark slaps.

You are so grateful for it, you could cry. To be given something you understand—a simple choreography, something that has always made sense when nothing else does. The rules of cause and effect, your body reading his intentions before your mind can catch up. You feel yourself settle, safe, exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Then he peels your clothes away as if you were always meant to be naked. Calls you a slut, but it sounds so adoring you smile terribly while he inspects the drip between your thighs. How utterly depraved to lubricate from being bent over his knee and spanked. How blissful it feels—almost beyond words.

His mouth brushes the prominent vertebrae at the top of your spine as long arms come from behind to wrap around you. Viktor pulls you to sit on his lap and spreads your legs. Soon, with thighs shaking and the heat in your ass still raw where his hand left it, you are so grateful you actually do cry. Because, fuck, it feels fantastic to be so full of him. It feels fantastic to ride yourself back into tranquillity on his cock. Each drop of your weight drives him deeper and drives the burn home—pain and stretch folding over one another until they can’t be told apart.

When Viktor teases you with his thumb it’s all you can think about. More, all of it. One plea is all the encouragement he needs. He keeps that thumb buried where he pressed in, working small, torturous strokes just inside the tight heat of your ass—enough to keep you shaking, every descent forcing you to take both lengths at once. Your clit slaps the thick root of him on each grind, and the sting there flares, then dissolves into something hotter, wetter. The rhythm turns ruthless: down, crest, spark—again—until your breath hiccups and vision fuzzes at the edges.

You feel him throb, feel yourself clench, a matched set closing around the same pulse. The fullness is obscene and perfect; it pinches a sob right out of you—and God, you are being loud. Tears bead and run, from just sheer too-much. He holds onto your hip, lets you spend yourself on him. When you break, it’s sharp and bright, body meaning to lock and shiver, but Viktor commands you—no, begs you—not to stop. So you keep going, lure him after you with the world’s most effortless I love you ever spoken out loud.

It’s then when he bends, his chest meets your back, arms lock around you and teeth sink into your shoulder. Heat spills so deep the aftershocks roll through both of you, his cum a balm to your abused centre. You sag forward, tears streaking your cheeks, and can only whisper, thank you, thank you, thank you, into sex-slicked air, and it’s so quiet Viktor can’t hear you.

“Stay, stay, stay,” he mutters, reaching blindly for your face, finding dampness. It takes everything in you to empty yourself of him, but the reward evens out the loss. It’s Viktor’s neck against your nose, his stomach to yours, hands in your hair, his mouth on your forehead, your brow, below your eyes, and finally, finally on your mouth. It’s not even a kiss so much as a press, as if he’s giving you CPR through touch.

The deeper you go with Viktor, the finer the space he folds you into. Where it used to hit like falling through ice—shock, darkness, silence—it’s now a slow tilt, a gradient descent. Sensation narrows, breath softens; you feel the floor of yourself long before you touch it. And coming back is just as gentle: a hand on your shoulder, his voice saying your name, and the surface rises to meet you.

The result is still the same—noise stripped out, marrow quiet, the hard edges of thought filed smooth. Yet lying there afterward, chest fluttering against his, you wonder if there might be other ways to hush the maelstrom. Something less consuming than Viktor fucking you into being. You wonder, and you’re almost afraid of finding out.

From this, it takes a couple of breaths for you to return to yourself and register hunger. The regular human one. And he helps you dress. Ushers you to the bathroom, where you twist to admire your ass in the mirror.

Then, Viktor feeds you. Patient and kind, movements smooth, he prepares a new breakfast, and again, you can’t help but stare.

Because Viktor looks just breathtaking in his own space. It’s subtle—no swagger, no borrowed authority—just a quiet rightness that settles over him. His shoulders loosen, but he stands taller, as if the weight that usually drags him forward has redistributed into balance. The habitual hunch is barely there; his spine aligns in a long, sure line. The shallow crease between his brows smooths out, replaced by a soft intent focus. When he speaks, the words come measured, already arranged; you catch the sense he’s ten sentences ahead, mapping the conversation the way a conductor sees the whole score. Even the smallest gestures carry that certainty: the way he plates the food, folds a napkin, touches the back of your chair before you sit. It isn’t power in the usual sense—more an ease inside his own skin, as though every part of him has finally been given its precise job and is content to do it. Watching him, you feel the room settle too, like gravity has chosen a gentler pull.

He meets you exactly where you live. His steady current of assurance finds the hollow places in you and fills them, lets you finally unclench. In turn, your raw urgency sparks warmth in him, keeps his composure from tipping into distance. With him guiding and you giving way, every movement falls into place—an effortless rhythm neither of you could reach alone. In that shared space, breathing is easy, choices are simple, the rest of the world briefly irrelevant.

And this breakfast is so different. Now you want to eat from this man’s hand, lick his fingers when you’re done, detach those hands from his body and wear them as a tight collar. Have you been grateful before? No—now you are fucking grateful. Now the two of you are the best versions of yourselves, and you love those. And you love Viktor for giving you yourself back.

When the mood settles into calm, you play with fire by picking up something that will immediately reveal how much time you actually spend thinking about him. Your acting skills have never reached a level that could fool Viktor. Inevitably, your secret is out; no amount of tickling saves you. But instead of being painfully smug, he is only a little—what dominates his face is an expression of complete adoration as he offers to read with you.

So you stage The Memorandum, and the deeper you go, the more convinced you are that the universe is mocking you. Every page is a mirror you didn’t ask for. The invented language, the frantic translations, the circular memos that never reach a point—every bit of it feels like the way you talk around what matters, the way you bury need under schedules and jargon. Gross can’t get his message read; you can’t get a clean sentence of feeling out without choking on disclaimers. You laugh at the absurdity, but the laugh is thin; every correction Lear gives him might as well be one of your own deflections—clarifying, revising, stripping meaning until nothing true is left. By the time Viktor voices Gross’s final complaint, you realise you’re hearing your own: a terror of plain speech, and the quiet disaster that blooms whenever you try to keep everything perfectly managed, perfectly safe.

It flickers and quickly dies in your expression when Viktor licks your neck, clearly happy to be let in on something this close to your heart. You don’t take it away from him.

When he hands you the syringe with quiet trust, your face contorts between awe and hesitation. You smooth a gentle hand across his stomach, thumb brushing over faint bruises—yellow-green echoes of past injections. Viktor says nothing, his breathing slow and even, trusting you fully, and that quiet vulnerability lodges somewhere deep in you. You disinfect the spot carefully, his stomach twitching beneath the cool swipe of antiseptic, and he steadies himself, palm wrapped around yours. Needle piercing skin is a brief resistance, then smooth glide. Viktor's eyes drift shut, the lines on his forehead relaxing, gratitude softening his expression as you withdraw. Another part of him handed to you on an open palm.

In the morning, the first thing you reach for is your phone. The bed beside you is still warm, and Viktor announces himself by throwing a towel on the bed and leaning in to kiss your forehead. You take your turn in the shower, lingering in front of the mirror, fingers running across the painting he left on your skin as you check the blossom.

You know he thinks it’s pretty, but for you it’s something completely different. A reminder of a moment in which you transition between clutter and slip into focus. And a semi-permanent one, when every time you get dressed, sit, lean on it, you will think of him. Signature lasting only as long as it takes for your immune system to clean up the mess of dead cells, so the cycle can begin anew.

You stretch in the kitchen doorway, making all your major joints pop at once. Viktor doesn’t turn, only laughs and says, “There she is,” as he pours water in the press.

You slip your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, hoping the warmth will still the noise already gathering in your head. The phone in your hand thrums—work messages stacked like bricks, some frantic, some routine, each one a reminder the week is waiting to dismantle you. Behind your eyes, yesterday’s reading still bangs around: wrong words, crossed wires, the joke of clarity.

Viktor pauses, as if he can feel the doubt through fabric. He turns and kisses you—slow, sure, sealing off the noise for a moment. His hands find your hips and he walks you backward, gentle but unyielding, until the edge of the kitchen table presses the small of your back.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, lips ghosting yours.

“Not yet,” you breathe, phone forgotten on the counter.

“Good.” His lips tip into a crooked smile. “I am. Bend over the table for me, will you?”

Your mouth gets the question out even as your body is already folding. “What are we doing?” You’re in position before the words finish, hands flat to the wood, legs spreading on instinct. Viktor doesn’t need to ask; obedience rolls off you like water.

“I am having breakfast,” he says, dragging a chair behind him, the scrape loud in the quiet kitchen. “And you are feeding me.”

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, peels them down, and exhales—half gasp, half growl. Your T-shirt he rolls up, bunching it into the dip of your spine, most likely to clear his view. He smooths both palms over the heat of your skin, thumb tracing the outline of his own fingerprints. “What’s the situation here?” he asks, tone curious, almost clinical.

“Good,” you hiss, the word trembling out as his touch spreads the ache. Good isn’t enough said. It hurts just right. It’s a dull, persistent ache that warms you up from the inside. Just like iron-stiff muscles after running a marathon are a trophy, this is your trophy for being a good girl.

Viktor chuckles, leans in, and drags his tongue flat across one cheek of your ass, slow as paint across canvas. “I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, thumb parting you, then his mouth dips lower, sealing over the seam of you—first a kiss, then an open-mouthed devotion that makes your elbows buckle against wood.

“F-fuck,” you breathe, knuckles whitening as you grip the edge of the table. A tremor runs through you when Viktor’s mouth finds its pace—slow at first, like he’s testing something, then deeper, each pass of his tongue coaxing your spine into a perfect arch.

He hums against you, a low vibration that sparks heat up your back. Fingers keep you open, gentle but insistent, as if he’s protecting every inch he’s worshipping. You push onto him without thinking, heels lifting, the need to meet each stroke urgent and immediate. Every time you rock back, his chuckle spills against your skin—a quick, pleased sound that tells you exactly how much he enjoys the way you can’t stay still.

When he finally lifts for breath, his voice is wrecked but playful. “Still with me?” He presses a kiss just above the bruised curve, hands resting, waiting. Another heartbeat, another pause. “Tell me how it feels.”

You try to shape an answer, but the words collapse—a sigh, a plea, nothing intelligible. Viktor lifts away, thumb still holding you open, breath warm. “I’m not sure I quite follow,” he says, voice light and dangerous. “What was that?”

“Good,” you manage, hips tilting up for contact that isn’t there. “It feels good.”

He’s grinning now, smug and patient, simply watching you strain. You crane your neck, searching for his eyes. “Viktor, please,” you breathe—the word splits at the middle, raw and exposed.

“Please what?” He rubs a slow circle just beside where you need him, nowhere near enough.

You squeeze your eyes shut, gathering your fleeting dignity. “Please give me your tongue,” you whisper, arching harder, spine a drawn bow.

The grin softens into something hungrier. “There’s my girl.” And he bends back to you, mouth sealing over everything he’d just denied, tongue sliding deep, relentless, until the plea turns into a broken, grateful sob. Viktor reads every twitch, alternates tempo: a long glide that has you melting, then a teasing, feather-light flick that makes you hiss and beg under your breath.

Between strokes he speaks in quiet praise—simple, wickedly kind things he knows will land: “Good.” “Beautiful like this.” “Give me more.” Each line punctuates the heat spiralling low and tight in your belly, until you lose track of which words he says and which your body invents.

You feel another laugh against you, a little thrill of sound before he dives back in. Every pulse of his mouth draws you higher; every pause drags a moan out of you. It’s a rhythm of worship and tease—just enough respite to make the next return unbearable.

Then, mouth seals onto you with no more breaks—tongue working tight, focused circles, the steady pressure that unravels thought. Your knuckles creak on the table edge; breath hitches, fractures. His free hand strokes up your spine, soothing while he devours, pace unwavering until your whole body coils. You press your forehead to the wood, trembling, and come hard against his mouth—sharp, flooding, vision white-edged.

You’re still shuddering when his hand slides lower in a final caress. So dazed you barely register him standing, only the new heat of his cock sliding slick between your cheeks as he rocks forward.

“How are you?” Viktor’s voice is husky, words pushed through quickened breathing.

You glance back: pupils blown, lips shining, the flush of want high on his cheeks. The sight knocks the rest of the air from your lungs. You manage a smile, soft and wrecked. “Good,” you whisper, and mean it.

Viktor groans and falls forward, hands braced on either side of your shoulders. He dips his head, voice strained. “I am so tempted to fuck your ass like this, you have no idea.”

And God, this excites you. Doubts fall away once more, as Viktor slowly elbows every unread email away from your brain. You close your eyes and rock back, offering. “Do it,” you whisper.

He sucks in a wet gasp, fingers threading into your hair. “Are you certain?”

You nod, slow, tilting toward his mouth as far as you can. “Yes. Fuck, yes,” you say, and then: “Use me.”

Viktor makes a sound that etches itself into your memory with intensity that borders violence. “Oh my dearest darling, you have no idea what you are doing to me,” he rasps. One hand settles at your throat, the other slips lower, gathering the slick he’s coaxed from you. He works it over the tight entrance, massaging small circles. His cock glides between your thighs as he rocks, coating himself in the heat of you.

You meet him half-way, as much as you can. Offer yourself through small wiggles and sighs. He presses a single fingertip in, slow enough that the burn blooms then settles. It’s good. It forces you to focus your breathing and dedicate your entire attention to his hands. “Colour?” he murmurs.

“Green.”

He waits—one breath, two—then begins to move, shallow, coaxing. When your muscles ease, he slides in a second finger. It starts all over—at first, it sets your tissues ablaze. You have to battle off the distraction of his cock nudging your clit each time his hips move. Through exhales and praise, you adjust, and Viktor checks in on you again: “Colour?”

“Green,” you manage, voice barely there. He opens you gently, gives you one adoring thing after another under his breath. When you soften around him, he adds a third finger, filling you, the stretch turning sharp-sweet. “Still green?”

You release air through mouth shaped like an o. “Green,” you whisper, shoulders trembling.

“You are doing so well, my good girl,” he coos, fingers thrusting and twisting; each pull drags heat through your gut, each push leaves you more pliant. The burn has thinned into a pulse, a wanting that feels astonishingly right—you press back, greedy to expand.

Only when you open for him completely does he withdraw. The slicked fingers leave you empty just long enough to sense the blunt crown of his cock nudging at your entrance. “Ready?” Viktor asks.

“Yes,” you say, heart hammering.

He drags himself through your slit first, gathering every shimmer of slick, then angles up and presses—slow, devastating. You tense at the breach; his hand moves to your hip, the other steady at your throat. “Breathe. And any time you want to stop, we stop.”

“Okay,” you mouth, voiceless. “Okay.”

The words leave on a ghost of breath, as the crown breaches. The shock is electric: a white flash behind the eyes, muscles shivering around the sudden, blunt heat. For a few heartbeats it stings—bright, foreign, impossibly full—then, as Viktor holds still and the pulse of his cock beats inside that first inch, something in you loosens. Breath spills out. The burn thaws into a deep, slow bloom; tremors give way to a liquid ache that feels wickedly right. Your back uncoils, each vertebra loosening a notch at a time, vision hazy at the edges, every nerve narrowed to that single point of pressure where you start—astonishingly—to open and want.

“Fuck, Viktor,” you breathe, sweat prickling at the well of your spine. “Please, I—” The pause is agonising; you need him to move, in or out, anything but stillness. “Please fuck me, I can’t—”

“God, you’re tight,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, laying his chest along your back. “Colour, colour—I need to know.”

“Fucking green,” you hiss and nearly buck your ass into him. He exhales, relief and hunger tangled. He takes another slow inch, hips rocking forward. There’s pain, for a moment. You tense and squeal, the sound raw enough that he stills at once.

“Does it hurt?” He’s already easing back, hand cupping your throat but lighter now.

“No. No—just a little. It’s good, Viktor. It’s good.” You cover his hand with yours, guiding his fingers to tighten, the pressure grounding you. “Please fuck me. Pleasepleaseplease fuck me,” you beg him, barely recognising your own voice.

Something in you—a need—yawns open. Something from the very depths of you howls at being fucked like this. Because he’s being so destructively patient, so gentle. And you can tell it costs him absolutely everything to not just bury himself inside you, and somehow this stupid sacrifice makes you feel seen and not alone. Because Viktor is not just fucking your ass for breakfast. He’s taking care of you—of your tired, tormented brain, of your rabbit heart, and he’s doing all of it because you are being a good girl.

He groans, obeys the invitation—shifting, pushing deeper by fractions. The stretch burns and blossoms; every time he pauses, you breathe into his grip, easing the muscles until they loosen around him. He whispers steady encouragement, words sliding against your ear: “That’s it… take me… still green?” Each check-in gets the same answer, voice shaking but sure.

When he’s seated—hips not flush to your backside, but close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him—the fullness is a living thing, thrumming where his cock settles and throbs. Viktor holds there, letting you feel the weight of him, letting himself feel you gripping every inch. Then—inch back, slow drive forward, a rhythm that starts careful and builds, your whimpers turning to low, ragged moans that echo in the quiet kitchen, until restraint blurs into raw, rolling pleasure and you finally lose track of where the pain ends and the wanting begins.

He fucks you like he loves you, you can feel it. It’s just another confession spoken through bodies, through skin. And this time it’s not scary, because this need you can understand exactly.

One palm slides between your belly and the table, finding your clit with unerring aim. He circles—slow, precise—nothing gentle in the intent. “Oh my fucking God,” you groan, head dropping, the words vibrating straight into his fingers at your throat. Instinct makes you push back, coaxing that grip to tighten, and the chain-reaction is instantaneous: his cock thrums deeper, thumb works harder, every nerve laced into a single, blinding current.

Ass filled so utterly you swear you can feel his pulse in your spine; slick heat blazing where his hand teases; throat cinched just enough to throw gasoline on every spark. Pleasure ripples outward in overlapping shock-waves, each one bigger than the last, until the world is stripped to three points of contact—cock, clit, throat—fused into a single, unbearable sweetness.

“My darling— Nemůžu, já—” Viktor’s whisper breaks apart against your ear, spilling raw and helpless an instant before his body does. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he hisses into your ear, drives in and freezes, a guttural groan punching out of him as he spills deep, cock jerking, knees shaking against the backs of your thighs.

The sudden flood tips you straight over the edge; you clamp down around him, violent and greedy, milking every last drop while your own climax howls through nerve and bone, white-hot and endless. “Viktor—oh, fuck—yes,” you babble, his name breaking apart on each wave as pleasure rips through you.

Bodies lock, lungs scrape for air. Then, his grip eases on your throat; his other hand coaxes trembling circles that turn aftershocks into shivers, until both of you sag, boneless, against the table—one heartbeat, two heartbeats, perfectly spent.

Viktor moves first and it nearly hurts to lose him. As soon as his cock slips free you can feel the cum pulsing out of you, dripping between your legs, and you could swear you hear him sniffle—or maybe just drag in a wet breath through his nose.

Then—mouth. Warm and tender, it comes to kiss your aching skin as Viktor murmurs, “Děvče moje.” He rubs his cheek over the bruised curve and adds, “Talk to me. How are you, my darling girl?”

And how are you? Beyond ruined. Nothing hurts and everything aches. Your ass burns inside and out with a sweet kind of fire that rolls through your body in waves, making your fingers feel fuzzy when you push yourself off the table. Every nerve hums like struck metal; vision swims into shapes and heat. Before you know it, you slot into Viktor’s lap, imprisoning him with your limbs, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Fuck, Viktor,” you breathe, the words shaky in his neck. And he tries to be the anchor, but the tremor in his muscles betrays him when he cups your face, and the tremor in his voice betrays him further as he checks he hasn’t ruined anything.

“You’re so good,” you tell him, blinking away tears.

He’s so good—hands on every place you need them, even though you can feel he needs to be held, too. The rest of language deserts you. Phonemes, consonants, diphthongs: all the usual furniture of speech feels alien, and you wonder how you’ve ever managed to set foot onstage. “Fuck, I can’t speak,” you murmur, curling back into him. Viktor chuckles, dares to tease.

“I think we should have breakfast in bed today,” he whispers against your shoulder, all honey-warm.

You tip your head, study his face, and dry-smile. “I bet you’d eat off my ass if I asked you to.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. Grist to the mill, his mouth drags along your jaw, hands slipping under your damp T-shirt. “I’d eat off it if you asked me not to, even.”

“Freak,” you snort, soft and fond.

“I’d eat just your ass day and night, my beloved.” He seals the promise with a deep, clumsy, slow kiss—tongue flat, coaxing yours out, humming into your mouth. “I’d eat you whole.”

A sigh, long and deep, grounds you. “I’d eat you whole,” you echo, catching his bottom lip and kissing him back until words are pointless.

Once again, the slipstream inside your skull is quiet. Satiation settles over you like a heavy quilt—muscles lax, breath relieved, mind blessedly blank. Viktor pads around the kitchen in nothing but his underwear, making toast, scrambling eggs, fussing with the French press. You watch from the chair, shoulders slack, and the sight alone—bare calves, still-kissed neck, hair in soft damp tufts—manages to keep the hush intact.

You help carry everything back to the bedroom. He arranges the tray; you fold your legs under the duvet, leaning into the warm dent his body left. Between bites he slips into caretaker mode, telling you—gentle, practical—how to do maintenance after the kind of morning you’ve just had. You wince, cheeks burning, because somehow this feels more exposing than any position he’s bent you into.

Later you settle in the lounge. Viktor stretches out with a book; you curl beside him, head fitted to the crook of his shoulder. It’s good, it’s normal. But the phone beside your ankle won’t stop vibrating—a mosquito whine of notifications. You pretend to ignore it, yet your gaze flicks over each time the screen lights. With every buzz the calm thins, like steam peeling off a cooling kettle. Viktor’s thumb strokes your arm in absent patterns; you breathe in the scent at his throat and try to hold the moment steady. Another buzz, another glance, and you can feel the hush beginning to splinter.

The phone wins eventually. You pick it up, thumb already scrolling, and there it is—a message from Charlie, blinking with its polite urgency. A stomach bug; the entire lighting crew flattened, sending your next week's rehearsals into a tailspin unless replacements materialise, pronto. You huff out a sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, the comfort of Viktor’s warmth suddenly prickling with guilt.

First, you try from the couch, legs tucked beneath you, phone tilted as if holding it closer to your face might somehow solve the problem faster. Message after message trickles out, each response more useless than the last—half-hearted apologies, gentle brush-offs, lukewarm leads to other people who don’t reply at all. The endless scroll grates your nerves raw, and finally, after the sixth politely-worded rejection, you mutter a low, defeated, "Fuck."

Viktor shifts beside you, and his thumb pauses, mid-stroke, on your arm. You don’t have to look up to see his expression; it’s etched already behind your eyes, brows knitted, eyes gentle and questioning and trying so hard to pretend it’s all right.

“How upset will you be if I leave soon?” you start weakly, though it’s a laughably thin lie. His weak smile does all the work, stripping your resolve down to bone until you’re forced to offer him scraps of truth. “I just accumulated over a hundred emails and half of them I actually have to respond to before tomorrow.”

Viktor's nod is slow and knowing, a quiet resignation dimming the gold of his irises. You’ve broken a tiny bone between you; you can feel it snap. It hurts more than you'd like to admit.

“This week might be terrible, Viktor,” you whisper, the guilt blooming, heavy as a bruise, beneath your ribs. “I know it’s unfortunate timing—”

He shakes his head, not to stop you, just to push away your apologies. But when he finally looks up, his eyes betray him, open and wounded, quietly pleading, unable to conceal how badly he wants you to stay. You force yourself upright, already mourning the warmth of his side against yours.

He takes your offer of Thursday being a possibility like he has to force himself to believe it. It stings, because it mirrors your own hesitation. You both linger in the doorway, Viktor clinging to you as if you might change your mind at the last minute, until you have to plead for him to let you go. He milks it to the very end, the elevator doors the final thing that parts you.

You let yourself long for him through the whole descent and then the cab ride home, replaying his hands on you; now the burn in your skin whenever you sit without thinking is its own small comfort.

As soon as you get home, a bitter, throaty laugh escapes when you open your laptop. Hoping the week wouldn’t obliterate you? Naïve. It does that and more before Monday even arrives.

It finds you still awake in the grey edge of dawn, hunched over your desk, trying to put out the lighting-tech fire. By the time you cobble together a backup plan—an external crew on a fixed-term contract—pale fingers of morning slip through the curtains, and you realise there’s no point in chasing sleep now.

The week barrels forward like a stage-winch gone haywire: cue sheets lost, cue sheets rewritten; Charlie barking into headsets while you juggle three different crews, praying none of them wedge a Fresnel where a flood should be. Every hour some small disaster erupts—an actor with a late November flu, a dimmer pack that shorts, the stand-in electrician who can’t read the plot. You and Charlie stitch the mess together with gaffer tape and adrenaline, lurching from grid to wings to office until nights collapse into mornings.

In the brief, fluorescent pauses—plastic takeaway fork dangling from your mouth—you catch that yellow Post-it on the desk: call V, a little heart-shaped wound pulsing at the edge of vision. Texts cross like missed trains: your 02:17 “Still up, sorry,” answered at 05:04 when you’re buried in a production meeting prep. You fail Thursday spectacularly, trading the promise of his arms for a last-minute hire crew who agree to the job only if you sign before midnight. In the morning you type I miss you terribly and hit send before you can backspace it away.

Guilt rides shotgun through every cue-to-cue. This is what you wanted all along—work stacked high enough to keep the shadows out—yet now every solved crisis feels like a tax levied against something tender. You replay Viktor’s voice—I take only what you give—and find a strange, aching gratitude in his silence; no breach, no demand, just a space kept open for when you can breathe again.

Still, the absence scours. The memory of his hands on your hips flares each time you pass a mirror; the scent of his soap clings to your scarf like a stubborn line note. One week without him leaves you brittle and over-caffeinated, counting hours until the house lights rise on something gentler—hoping the next call won’t be another apology, but the long, clean exhale of going home.

When the following Monday makes it look even worse than the previous one, you nearly tear your hair out. Tuesday detonates before lunch. Charlie slips through your doorway, cheeks flushed, tie crooked, whispering the disaster straight into your ear: an entire rig of Fresnels—gone. Vanished between strike and call-time.

Theatre goes into lockdown. No one clocks out, everyone files in. A siege of clipboards and suspicion. You’re halfway through triaging the fallout—calling hire houses, drafting emergency budgets, wondering how many kidneys you can sell for tungsten—when Charlie reappears, knocking once and then ushering someone inside.

Someone tall, cane hooked over an elbow, two takeaway cups clutched like peace offerings.

Time folds. Coffee. Cane. Viktor.

Everything hits at once: flabbergast, because he’s here, really here, eyes already apologising for turning up unannounced. Then shame, because your grease-smeared sweatshirt, hair far from fresh, and lipstick eaten off by stress make you look like the love-child of insomnia and phosphorescent light. Guilt, mirroring his, at the ten days of missed calls and sorry texts ringing in your ears.

Then you’re threaded through with relief—real, physical, like air after surfacing—just the mere sight of him brings it. Yet fear cinches tight just behind it, the old reflex whispering: See? This is where the closeness tips. This is where the leaving starts. You try your very best to chase away the familiarity of this sight—your lover, face sad and longing, stood on your doorstep with I missed you poised on the tip of their tongue. You pray for him not to say it.

Viktor stops two paces in, as if gauging the blast radius. You register the smallest tell: shoulders rolled forward, guilt-furrow just beginning between his brows. He lifts the coffees an inch, a mute question—

Charlie, either saint or sadist, slaps a Post-it on your laptop—suspects—and retreats, closing the door with theatrical delicacy. The latch clicks; the silence blooms.

Before you know it, your hands are twitching, mouth mutters hollow apologies, excuses and questions, and your spine locks into a stiff pole. But Viktor is faster than any of this. Instead of answering, he kisses you, rolling ten days of absence between tongues. You are close to melting into it, into his coat smelling of wool and the street, but before your brain locks off hearing completely, it reaches you: “I missed you.”

The phrase that usually marks the beginning of an end in a scenario like this: you, overworked; the other side, disappointed. You push him away—gently—but your insides are churning. Saved by the bell, you pick up the ringing phone and can barely make yourself nod at the joyous update on the lights being found. In a brittle tone, you offer him Saturday and leave him hunched in your office.

You run through the corridors, bell ringing loudly between your ears. I missed you. You’ve heard it so many times. An argument past partners used for everything: for showing up when you can’t afford the loss of time. For calling Charlie or Mel when you wouldn’t pick up. For going through your phone, your emails. For asking dumb, accusatory questions about actors and producers. For turning your bedroom upside down looking for evidence. For leaving.

And Viktor is nowhere near venturing that far, still lingering on the weak bottom of that list. But what he’s done today—completely oblivious—is enter into the realm of people whose expectations you will never be able to fulfil.

Evening out your breath, you arrive where you are needed. And then, carry on. Through crisis after crisis, complaint after complaint, blisters upon blisters on your feet. You don’t get to wash your hair for the next two days, and spend the entire Wednesday at Young Vic, catching two hours of sleep drooling on your desk. Viktor doesn’t text first but sends you a smiley emoji that stares death at you from the screen when you confirm Saturday. It’s harrowing that you can’t bring yourself to tell him you miss him again. And you miss him and his heavy hands and his kind hands so fucking much your entire body aches.

Just as the shoemaker’s children go barefoot, you, the child of theatre, go without actually seeing the effects of your two weeks’ worth of extensive labour and skip the pre-premiere, opting instead on visiting Islington.

When you ring his doorbell, it’s with breath held tight in your throat. He lets you in after one buzz and doesn’t even bother to open the intercom line. In the elevator, you crack all your joints and scratch your neck furiously until the scraped epidermis feels uncomfortable under your fingernails.

His door is already open. And there, as usual, Viktor waits for you, head low, posture tentative. He blinks once, as if to steady the frame.

“Hi,” he says, soft, almost questioning. A beat—your bag slides off your shoulder, your mouth tips in the smallest smile.

Permission granted. He’s on you in a breath, arms winding tight, nose in your hair. The sound he makes isn’t a word, just that low ache of finally. You angle yourself to kiss him, and this time Viktor waits for your mouth to meet his first, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to go this far.

“Hi yourself,” you tell him, brushing hair off his forehead. “How are you?”

“Eh, tired,” he says with a shrug. His lips press to the crown of your head when he mutters, “But glad you made it.”

He takes you to the kitchen to make tea, and you briefly wonder if he’s disinfected the table, though you suspect he hasn’t. When he takes the opposite seat, you instinctively curl your palms into loose fists against the wood, but Viktor still manages to brush your knuckles.

“So, how was your week?” he asks.

You sigh with your eyes closed and decide to tell him. It will serve as a solid groundwork for what you are about to offer. You tell him of all the late hours, what was solved and what remained a mess just for you to be forced to accept it; you tell him how the lights theft was no theft but a misplacement by the new crew, and how it backtracked you a few hours, how you’ve slept in your office, and how Charlie’s mother fed you the last ten days. How all of this doesn’t matter because the spectacle is happening right now as you speak, and when you left, everything looked great.

Viktor’s face reacts to everything you say with smiles, chuckles, worried glances and nods corresponding to the story beats. When you are done, he uncurls your fingers from the fist and laces them with his. And you do not know how, but Viktor seems to know exactly where this is going.

“What are you really saying here?” he asks carefully, eyes fixed on your joined hands.

It strikes you how he’s already sounding disappointed. You feel like you’re being catalogued and found lacking. Teeth worrying your lower lip, you look down and speak quietly, distrustful of your voice. “I think we should maybe regroup?”

And Viktor frowns. He clears his throat and adjusts himself in the chair. “Could I ask you to be clearer?” he says, matching your volume.

You are already tormented. His fingers are lead-heavy between yours. You exhale a shaky breath and start your rehearsed line: “I think the last two weeks have proven that I am not in a space to commit to something that would be fair on both sides.”

Viktor breathes heavily through his nose, visibly forcing himself to remain calm. He retreats his hand and leans back in the chair, giving you a look of being utterly unimpressed. “Could you be any more impersonal?”

“Viktor,” you chide, daring him, trying to reason. “Admit it, it was terrible. And it’s not something that is temporary. This is what my life looks like.”

He chuckles, incredulous. Gets up and begins a slow three-legged walk up and down the kitchen. “So, help me understand something here,” he says, “You would rather nip it in the bud instead of talking to me first and searching for a solution or a compromise?”

“Unless you are able to extend the day beyond twenty-four hours, I don’t see how I could compromise,” you mutter dismissively.

Silence, for a beat. He’s walked past you and stopped somewhere behind you. Then, the steps resume until he pauses by your side. “Is this happening because I came to visit you at work?”

Yes, you think. “No,” you lie through your fucking teeth.

But Viktor is too smart for this. He plays no games, abandons the concept of treading carefully. He looks you square in the eye and asks, “What are you so afraid of?”

You frown, mouth pulling sideways. “Nothing.” It's defensive, brittle. You pause, softening your voice, eyes flicking to him pleadingly. “Will you stop that? I am not saying we need to drop it completely—”

“Oh? Aren’t I lucky?” Viktor interrupts sharply, a cold note underlying the mockery. He leans, planting one hand flat on the table as if bracing himself against anger. His voice is tight, biting. “Should I be proud of myself for being so great in bed that you’re willing to come back for that, but nothing else?”

“Don’t be cruel,” you say, throat closing around the words. He scoffs, pushing himself up and walking a few uneven steps, creating distance. You rise instinctively, reach out—but your hand freezes mid-air. Voice lowering, you let the words fall out fast, hugging yourself in an attempt at comfort. “Please, trust me. I know how this ends. I've seen it, I've lived through it. You coming to my work was just the beginning. It'll get worse, and you'll end up resenting me.” You tighten the hold around your shoulders, voice dropping even quieter, almost inaudible. “It was good before. Easier. We can just—”

But Viktor doesn’t fall for it. His posture stiffens, spine snapping straight. “If you want it easy, you have to look elsewhere,” he says, voice dangerously controlled. When he speaks your name, it cuts through the room, pinning you in place as effectively as a hand around your throat. “Is that truly what you want?”

He turns then, eyes finding yours. His voice is hoarse, wounded, cracking open down the middle—and for the first time, you see clearly that he's afraid too. It’s there in the cave of his shoulders, in the startled, pleading depth of his eyes. And it hits you fully: you’re not the only person in this room with gnawing fear. Worse still, unknowingly, you've struck directly into the very core of Viktor’s.

“N-no, I’m just—”

You stare at him helplessly, while the language fails you once more. Your hands knot together, knuckles white, your breathing reduced to shallow, unsteady gasps. Viktor’s limit is approximately ten seconds of silence before he breaks it.

“What?” he spits the word out, short and sharp. His whole body leans toward you on the cane, tense, as if ready to seize the truth from your mouth.

The dread of being confronted mixes with pure peril of him seeing through this strange contraption around your chest, successfully deflating you of air. “Of course not, Viktor, I—” There’s a gasp, a hitch of breath so audible it’s like nails on a blackboard. “I just don’t know how to navigate this yet,” you blurt out, voice strained.

He inhales unevenly, and you sink deeper between your shoulders. “Before we—by a common agreement—” he says, limping past you, “decided that there is no point in calling it casual anymore, how many times have you slept in my bed, in my arms, snoring and drooling like you live here?”

He stops behind you, twists the cane into the floor and tilts his head in your direction. “How many tears have I wiped off your face? Have I ever disposed of you right after?” His tone is clipped, voice shaken by frustration.,

“No.” You stay drilled into your spot right where you stand. “You haven’t.”

“What is different then? Why is this harder than before?”

He stares at you like he’s searching for a crack to pour himself into, exasperated and—just beneath it—oh God, heartbroken.

“I don’t know,” You clutch at straws, at razors to the drowning, hands wringing the fabric of your shirt. “There is more expectations, more responsibility?” More risk, a bigger wound, a potential loss much more devastating than it would be before. So many thoughts—vulnerable and honest—bounce off each other in your head, yet none makes it to live out its life as meaningful confession.

“Is it?” he whispers, a haunted sound. “How?”

And there it comes. An absolutely ugly, vile thing crawls out before you can swallow it down. “Well, you… did come to my work.” You say, eyes cast down, ashamed of voicing it.

He scoffs, appalled. “I haven’t seen you in almost two weeks,” Viktor says, taking a step toward you. “I came to say hello. To bring you a coffee. To give you a kiss, is that so unthinkable?”

“Viktor,” you try your best to sound kind, “we both know you wanted more than a kiss and—”

He winces. You hate it. You feel it in your teeth, in your stomach. “How dare you.”

“What?” You blink at him, flinching back at the chill in his tone, bewildered.

“How dare you call me out on something like this. Have I not stopped immediately? Have you no sense of romance and courtship?” His voice cracks again, half anger, half perplexed hurt.

“Viktor, I was at work,” you say, trying to steady your voice, but it comes out too quick, words tumbling over each other. “Completely not in the headspace for romance and courtship, running on empty, trying to navigate complete chaos—” You swallow, hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. “And there you fucking pop in.” You hesitate, searching his face for any flicker of understanding. “It’s not romantic, it’s controlling.”

Even as it leaves you, heat blooms under your skin—shame prickling cheeks, voice trembling on the edge of something you can’t communicate properly, something enormous and heavy with fear.

His face is horrifying. He looks older. Mouth parted, eyes glassed over and reddening by degree. It wrenches your heart into a steel grip.

“Please tell me you are not being serious right now,” he whispers, sounding completely destroyed. His voice has the weight of a thousand silent disappointments, but he doesn’t look away.

And there is no way of explaining this anymore. You try, so desperately to be heard, but you miss each other by a glimpse of meaning. A small calamity. A gentle mistranslation of thought that wreaks disaster.

“Well, what is it if not a higher stake of expectations?” You slip out brittle, hands gripping the air as if you could wrestle sense into them.

Your name comes again—so pained it nearly slices you open. “I have told you,” he says, stepping closer, hand reaching for yours—determined to bridge the gap. “I am taking you as you are. I obviously made an awful mistake by coming to your work, but I promise it will not happen again. So what expectations are we talking here?” His thumb brushes your knuckles—there’s a tremor you’ve never felt before.

“I— Viktor,” you squeeze his palm, seeking anchor, “I’m just telling you… it is harder for me now. Before—it was… easier. God, I don’t know.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, squinting up at the ceiling, fighting the urge to bolt.

He leans in. It’s quiet, barely there, his breath mingling with yours. “Are you having second thoughts?” The question is soft, not accusing—terrified.

“No!” you snap, eyes wide, the denial flaring out of you. “No. Viktor I told you. I told you… first.”

“No,” he says, voice small, with the gentlest shake of his head. “I told you first. In my mind, first. Four weeks in,” he admits, and it’s benevolent and kind and awful. “Then cowardly, when you were asleep. Then, even more cowardly in a language you can’t understand, and all that while drunk.” A hollow chuckle, then: “But I… knew what I was afraid of. Why are you so scared now after you’ve been so brave with me?” He holds your gaze. He’s being brave now.

“I just… oh, it was so much simpler before. We just met and it was just the two of us, and now—” You trail off, speech dissolving.

“Let me make this clear then.” He straightens and clears his throat, your hand abandoned. “So you would rather step back—back into an arrangement where I cannot, under any circumstances, disturb your life. In which we pretend we don’t know each other in front of our friends. In which you’d rather have a horrible fuck in a car, than invite me in, yes?” There’s no malice in it, only exhaustion.

“N-no, I—I don’t know,” you stammer, defensive, desperate to find your footing. As the first shock of it passes, anger prickles your cheeks. “Why are you bringing this up? If it was so horrible, why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because—I had no idea how to show you that I am no threat to your independence.” Viktor’s voice is quiet. Each word accentuated with a thud of his cane against the tiles. “That I will only take as much as you are willing to give. That I am not a man who will ever tell you there is something in this world you cannot have.” A beat, and he lets his hand fall, almost helpless. “Besides. Would you invite me in then, if I stopped you?”

You stare at him, throat collapsed, lungs burning from holding it all in.

“I thought so.” He looks away, bitter. “What is it that you want then? No commitment? Just sex? Or, nothing?” His mouth barely moves, his voice rough as sandpaper.

“N-no.” You shake your head. “Of course not.”

“What do you need from me?” he presses.

“I don’t know.” You feel yourself shutting down, fear overriding reason.

Viktor’s jaw works as if chewing, determined not to let this become silence. “Not good enough.”

“Viktor, I can’t—” You’re out of air, of courage, of anything that could pull this conversation back from its edge.

Once more, it’s him taking a leap of faith. “Talk to me,” he says. “What is this poisonous emotion?” A hand, cold, cups your face, and Viktor rests his forehead against yours. “Lásko, please, talk to me. For fuck’s sake, it’s me. Whatever you say, I will never think badly of you. Please, tell me what is happening.”

But for you, it’s game over. Thoughts blend with one another and there are too many. All of them swell in your head, painful, and your throat clenches, making it impossible to move anything through.

Viktor closes his eyes like he’s praying. “I really, really need you to talk to me. Tell me what is wrong, so I can fix it. Darling, I beg you.”

It’s survival instinct now—lizard brain kicks in. The only language you are fluent in emerges from the bottomless pit—the one where mouths don’t speak. Where tongues are used to beg. It’s a mad kiss—deep, pleading. And for a moment you think Viktor understands it for what it is. His lips part for you and there is even the faintest sigh coming from him, until—

“Stop,” he protests, grabbing your wrist. “…stop this. Why won’t you talk to me?”

Trapped in the sympathetic response, all you can do is stare at him. It’s something between fight and freeze, where you are caught in a loop of actions. You try again—cup his face, pull him close, thumbs digging into the hollows of his cheeks, eyes squeezed shut as you attempt to pour meaning into gesture. The meaning being: that you want him. That you are sorry. That you love him, but you are scared.

And it splits you in two that today, Viktor doesn’t speak your language.

“Stop,” he breathes, voice shredded and helpless. He says it even as he lets you kiss him—allows you to try, for one final moment, to make everything right through touch.

His voice breaks down further, trembling. “Red,” he whispers so quietly you don’t catch it at first. “Red.”

The second one lands like a gunshot in a wasteland.

You freeze, lips hovering above his cheek. “You can’t… you can’t say red now,” you mumble like an idiot. Stunned, disgusted with yourself, you scan his face for an answer.

Viktor lets out a low, haunted chuckle. “This is not how you react when someone says red,” he manages, the sadness in it sour and metallic. “Please, I need to think.” He turns away from you, spine hunched as if he’s shrinking into himself.

“Viktor,” you gasp, tears welling. You reach for him, clutch at his arm, trying to make him turn back to you, but he halts you—his palm coming down firm and warm on your hand.

He says your name, sound both steady and drained. “This is enough. Go home. Please.” His eyes stay locked on the floor, jaw set, refusing to look at you.

A stunned silence settles in the space between you, then: “No. No, Viktor, I beg you, don’t leave it like this,” you plead, clawing at his shirt. The sobs come raw and uncontained.

“This won’t work now,” he mutters, shoulders hulking sullen. “I said… red, I said red.” His voice cracks, rising and breaking, and he sounds so lost it makes your heart skewer. You see the tear slip down his cheek before he can wipe it away.

“Viktor, please. I love you, please,” you say, as if it could patch what’s come undone.

He pulls away, voice suddenly firmer—final. “Stop.” He turns to you then, and you see it all—the red of his eyes, the sag of his shoulders, how utterly crestfallen he is, how bereft. “This is not what I want. I don’t want you to tell me you love me because you are frightened. Don’t you think I deserve better?”

He takes a shuddering breath, holding your gaze for just a heartbeat longer before turning away. “Please, leave me. I will call you, I promise.”

“Why do you want me to go?” you whisper, almost too quietly for it to reach him.

“Because I’m… hurt,” he manages, ragged and thin.

“Viktor—” Your own voice fractures, pain lancing through you like a tumorous growth of a second spine.

“Please.” He sounds so tired. “Let this breathe. Go home.”

You stand there, for a moment, waiting for a reprieve—a miracle, a change of heart—but it never comes. Viktor just shakes his head, one hand gripping his cane like a lifeline, the other pressed to his mouth. Today is the day you thought would never come. The day in which stay has turned into go. As you pick up your shoes and shut the door behind you, you realise the sodden, pathetic stay was always brave. That his heart was always full of valour for the both of you. And now you are running home like a coward, cursing every time you rolled your eyes at his stay.

—

Gross’ final complaint is literally: “Goodness! So much fuss about three little words!” (Clasps fire extinguisher in his arms and leaves) – which to me is incredibly funny, because even though he is talking about Ptydepe, the “I love you,” is also just three little words with a lot of fuss around them :’)

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #to be known

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rainrot4me · 9 hours ago

Note

HIIII I JUST WANTED TO ASK IF YOU COULD DO HCS FOR THE CREEPS ON HOW OBSESSIVE/POSSESIVE/JEALOUS THEY ARE OUT OF 10 TYYY🙏

✦ . jeff the killer

Obsessive: 9/10

He doesn’t know how to do casual. Once you’re in his orbit, you’re in. He memorizes your routines, stares when you’re not looking, and gets twitchy if you give anyone else more attention than him.

Possessive: 10/10

“You’re mine. Say it.” He leaves marks on purpose and gets smug when people stare. Anyone gets too close? He’ll grin like a wolf and ask if they’re ready to bleed.

Jealous: 8/10

He acts like he doesn’t care… until you see that glint in his eye and realize he’s been eerily quiet for too long. Expect a cold shoulder and petty payback before he pulls you into his lap and refuses to let go.

✦ . ticci toby

Obsessive: 7/10

He doesn’t mean to be, but you’re one of the only soft things in his world, so he clings to you in the ways he knows how—tracking your movements, popping up when you least expect it, asking you too many questions.

Possessive: 8/10

He gets grabby. Arm around your waist, hand in your back pocket, eyes on you like a guard dog. “Don’t go anywhere without telling me, okay?”

Jealous: 6/10

It sneaks up on him. He’ll sulk, get quiet, maybe lash out at them and not you. But once you soothe him, he melts like putty.

✦ . eyeless jack

Obsessive: 6/10

He’s curious, careful. Not unhinged like Jeff, but he learns you, dissects you emotionally like he does physically. There’s a clinical obsession there—like studying a rare creature he doesn’t want anyone else to touch.

Possessive: 7/10

He’s subtle. He doesn’t need to bark; he just looks at someone and they step away. He’ll leave faint scratches only you can feel, brush his fingers over your pulse when he kisses you.

Jealous: 5/10

He handles it with eerie composure, but it festers under his calm. He might get colder, moodier—until he corners you and reminds you, quietly, that you’re his.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Obsessive: 7.5/10

He watches. Silently. Listens. Remembers your favorite snacks, where you like to be touched, what makes your voice falter. It’s more intense devotion than manic fixation.

Possessive: 9/10

He gets tight-jawed. Hands on you all the time. Wears something of yours when you’re not around. He won’t share you—he’s already made peace with killing for you.

Jealous: 8/10

Tim doesn’t do well with it. He bottles it up and then snaps. One minute he’s glaring across the room, the next he’s dragging you outside to growl, “You don’t need anyone else.”

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Obsessive: 6/10

Quiet obsession. It simmers. You’ll never notice until it’s too late and he knows everything about you—how your breathing changes when you lie, what you dream about.

Possessive: 10/10

Subtle, but absolutely rabid beneath it. “You’re mine” isn’t a threat, it’s a promise. He doesn’t need words; his presence alone will make anyone nearby uncomfortable.

Jealous: 9/10

He’s not confrontational. He’ll sit in a corner and stare until the tension is unbearable. Then he’ll come up behind you later and whisper something like, “Tell me again who you belong to.”

✦ . kate the chaser

Obsessive: 7/10

She tries to play it cool, especially around the others, but Kate is laser-focused once she starts falling. She’ll lowkey stalk your social media, memorize your schedule, and sit across from you silently just to watch you exist.

Possessive: 8.5/10

Kate is very territorial, especially in physical space. She’ll stand close, speak in a low voice so people know she’s talking to you, and will not hesitate to glare someone down.

Jealous: 8/10

She gets nasty. Not loud or dramatic, just… sharper. Her eyes narrow. Her mouth tenses. The tone drops a few degrees colder. “Are they really worth the trouble, or are you just bored?”

✦ . ben drowned

Obsessive: 8/10

You’re his favorite game. He checks your online activity, reads your messages, haunts your dreams for fun. He knows you inside and out and feeds off the control of it.

Possessive: 8.5/10

His signature move is leaving little glitches in your life—reminders of him, everywhere. “You can’t escape me, babe. I’m in your files and your head.”

Jealous: 9/10

Spiteful. He will roast the person hitting on you to hell and back, crash their computer, and then act like he didn’t just threaten someone’s soul. “Oops. That must’ve been… a virus.”

✦ . clockwork

Obsessive: 5/10

She tries not to be, but she cares too much. She gets anxious when you’re away too long, texts you 3 times in a row when she knows she shouldn’t. She’s in love, hard.

Possessive: 6/10

Protective. She’ll hook her arm around you, glare at people even looking your way. She doesn’t need to say much—her body language speaks volumes.

Jealous: 7.5/10

It hurts. She overthinks it. She might confront you, then feel guilty and clingy afterward. She’s not above whispering “mine” while lying in your lap, just to be sure.

✦ . laughing jack

Obsessive: 9.5/10

Fixated. You’re his new favorite toy and he doesn’t share. He wants your attention at all times. He gets moody if you ignore him, dramatic if you call him clingy.

Possessive: 10/10

Territorial as hell. Hugs you in front of others just to stake a claim. Uses pet names obnoxiously loud. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t realize you wanted to flirt while taken.”

Jealous: 10/10

Unhinged. He’ll pull some cartoonishly evil trick on anyone who flirts with you. The kind of guy to say, “Oops, did I just poison their drink? My bad.”

✦ . slenderman

Obsessive: 5/10

He’s above obsession… right? (No, he’s not. He just doesn’t show it.) He has eyes on you at all times and you’ll never know. It’s omnipresent. Chilling.

Possessive: 9/10

He doesn’t warn anyone—they just feel it. Reality distorts a little when someone gets too close. “They are spoken for,” he’ll say without inflection. And they’ll leave.

Jealous: 6.5/10

He doesn’t get jealous—he eradicates the source. Smooth, cold, final. He doesn’t lash out; he simply removes the threat and returns to you like nothing happened.

꩜ .ᐟ

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scary-grace · 3 days ago

Text

the one (part ii) - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

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

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

part i

ii. could everything be different

You thought your memories of the world-that-was would fade as you spent more time in the world of your wish. Hoped for it, maybe. Hoped that it might get easier, and in daylight, it does. In daylight, you can see everything you’ve fought for here, see a life that matters. In daylight you’re with the people who’ve become your friends, the ones you think you might be able to call your family. At night, alone, it’s different.

Maybe that’s why you always take the night shift. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the hero who likes the night shift, too.

You’re not sure why Endgame likes the night shift, given that he’s got a wife to go home to, but at least one or two nights a week, he’s out there with you, trying to solve problems without immediately resorting to violence. You knew he had this in him, this ability to see without judging, this desire to help and not hurt, but watching it in action night after night is something else. If you’d needed any reminder at all of why you love him, this would work, and spending so much time with him is all kinds of bad for your mental health. Almost enough to make you wish for a hit of neuroin to take the edge off.

“Why not switch to the day shift?” Midoriya asks when you own up to it. “If being around him this much is endangering your recovery, it’s not a good idea.”

“I can’t just hide from anything that endangers my recovery. Some of it, I have to suck it up and cope with,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Hiding is one thing. Avoiding something that reliably triggers you is something else,” Midoriya says. He’s right, but it’s annoying you. You roll your eyes. “Let’s play the tape to the end. The fact that he’s married to someone else is difficult for you. What if he told you he was going to be a father?”

“Like – kids?” You lock your facial expression down tight. “Not my business.”

“No, but you look like you’re going to throw up.”

“Neuroin’s not going to fix that,” you point out. “It doesn’t help with nausea.”

“The nausea will fade, but the thoughts and feelings that triggered it won’t disappear as quickly,” Midoriya says. “And for five years, your response to painful thoughts and feelings was to get high.”

“If I did that, I’d lose everything.” You know that deep in your bones. “My friends. My job. My future. All of that matters more to me than neuroin.”

“It’s not the neuroin that matters to you,” Midoriya says. These days, he won’t let you get away with shit, which is reassuring – and annoying. “What do you think about when you’re spending time with him? Don’t just say work.”

You were going to just say work. “I’m not thinking about trying to win him back or something stupid like that. I know the deal I made. I know he’s gone. I just –” You’re hoping Midoriya will interrupt you, but he just looks at you expectantly. “I think about all the things I loved about him before. How I can see so much more of them now that he’s happy. I love him so much. And he’s happy without me. So watching him be happy should be enough.”

“But it isn’t,” Midoriya says, almost gently. Your eyes burn. “If I can use a personal example, the expectation for General Studies students at UA is that they go into hero-adjacent fields as adults. I didn’t. It was too hard for me to be that close to something I couldn’t have.”

“You don’t get to use yourself as an example of dreams not coming true anymore,” you say. “How’s One For All treating you?”

Midoriya looks embarrassed. “It’s fine.”

It was sort of a foregone conclusion that Midoriya would accept One For All and become All Might’s successor, but he’s going about it in a weird way. He works out a lot, and you found out that he does martial arts on the side, but he’s not making any effort to train as a hero or pass the licensing exam. As far as you can tell, his hero activities have mainly consisted of going out at night, rescuing people from themselves, and doing it all in disguise. Every so often, the vigilante people call Savior makes the news. The news seems more confused about him than anything else.

You’re pleased with the outcome. It’s better than All Might giving his quirk to some asshole who just wants to punch people. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to let Midoriya get away with pretending you and he are still the same. “Your dream came true. Mine won’t. And I accepted that a while ago. Now I have other stuff that makes my life worth living. If he was still the only thing that mattered to me, I’d be worried like you, but he isn’t. Okay?”

“We’re going to keep checking in about this,” Midoriya warns. Whatever. Your answer won’t change. “Let’s get back to the old history. I think we left off at –”

“The Meta Liberation Army,” you say, and Midoriya’s face darkens. “What?”

“I read Destro’s book.” Midoriya taps the cover of a copy sitting on his desk. “And with All Might’s and Sir Nighteye’s help, I’ve been looking through every official record we have. There’s no record of the Meta Liberation Army. Anywhere. Are you sure –”

“Yeah, I’m sure they exist. They tried to kill me,” you say. “Hard to forget that.”

“In the old history, they acted almost fifteen years ago,” Midoriya says. “Why would they stay quiet this long?”

You don’t know why rich quirk supremacists do anything. Liberation ideology only made sense to you on the surface. It fell apart if you breathed on it wrong, and you used to irritate the MLA lieutenants by asking them really pointed questions and watching them try with all their might not to blow up at you. “Can I borrow that book? Maybe it’ll help.”

“Sure. I highlighted some stuff,” Midoriya says. He slides it over, and you set it aside to read if things get slow tonight. “What else was happening in the old history around the same time as you and the others were facing the Meta Liberation Army?”

Your memory of that isn’t as good. You were too focused on Tomura’s recovery from his injuries, and after that, too focused on the handful of weeks you spent with both of you healthy and safe before he left to claim the power Dr. Ujiko offered him. It occurs to you suddenly that those were the last weeks you spent with Tomura just as himself, that when you saw him again, it was barely him – shreds of him, everything else swallowed up by All For One. When was the last time you talked to him? The last time you kissed him? You realize all at once that you can’t remember.

“Okay. It looks like thinking about that brings up some stuff for you,” Midoriya says, and you focus with an effort. “Tell me about it.”

“The guy who makes the Nomus,” you mumble. “Did I tell you about him?”

“Not yet,” Midoriya says. “Who was he?”

“We called him Dr. Ujiko. But that wasn’t his real name. He was –” Your stomach drops so fast that it makes you dizzy when you realize you don’t remember. “Do you think he’s still alive? If he’s still alive –”

“Let’s hit pause on this,” Midoriya says. “If the doctor was involved with All For One in your history, then All Might should be here when we talk about him.”

“Can it wait?” You don’t think so. “You don’t know what I know about him. The things he did – to Tomura –”

You break off, struggling to find the words. Your pulse is beating loudly in your ears, so loud that you have to read Midoriya’s lips as he tells you to breathe, to count out your inhales and exhales to force your nervous system to regulate. As soon as you have your breathing under control, you explain yourself. “He took people’s bodies and quirks and turned them into monsters. He did the same thing to Tomura so All For One could possess his body. What if he still has it? All For One’s quirk?”

“We’ll talk with All Might,” Midoriya says again. “First thing tomorrow morning. But you’re working tonight, aren’t you? Do you know who you’re with?”

“I never know until I get there,” you say, which is true. True, but not honest. “There’s a good chance it’s him.”

Midoriya nods. “If you get triggered out there, if you feel out of control at all, call here,” he says. “Whoever’s on the night shift – I think it’s Arai tonight – call and they’ll talk you through it. This job is important to you, but it’s not worth your recovery.”

“I know,” you say, and you stand up. “Good luck out there tonight. If you’re going out there.”

Midoriya glances guiltily away, which means yes. “Good luck to you, too.”

You’re slow to leave, mainly because you’re trying to figure out how to store your borrowed copy of Destro’s book inside your coat, and you have to jog to make your usual train, then to make it to the street corner on time. You know you’re on time, but the hero you’re working with tonight is already there, leaning against a streetlight with his arms crossed and a grin on his face. “You’re late.”

“No, I’m not.” You pull your phone out of the pocket to show Endgame the time. “I just wasn’t early.”

“Yeah. I beat you here,” Endgame says, his smile going lopsided. “Finally.”

You and Endgame work together often enough to have a running joke, something along the lines of you being so early to everything that you make him look late, which you counter by pointing out that he’s usually late by five minutes or so anyway. You’re not willing to cede ground just yet. “How long have you been here?”

Endgame’s satisfied smirk slips a little bit. “Longer than you.”

“If your heart rate’s below one-fifteen right now, I’ll climb the tree the next time we have to rescue someone’s cat.” The thought occurs to you to reach out and check for yourself, but it’s easy to suppress. After so much time spent with him, it’s more natural to hold yourself back than it is to act on your old impulses. “Did we get any instructions for tonight, or is it just a standard patrol?”

“Standard to start with.” Endgame rolls his shoulders, then sets off, leaving you to follow him. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s breathing a little harder than normal.

No night on the job is exactly the same, always a mix of brief moments of excitement and long moments of boredom. The nights that start off the quietest can go wild in a heartbeat, and even nights where you can feel tension simmering in every interaction can go from dusk until dawn without breaking. Depending on the hero you’re working with, you wind up in different parts of town, but Endgame almost always defaults to the rougher districts. You’ve never asked him why.

You want to, but you’re not sure you want to hear the answer. This is already enough of a balancing act for you. You don’t need to make it harder.

On balance, you prefer the busy nights when you’re working with Endgame, but tonight isn’t one of them. The two of you end up wandering, not quite aimlessly, keeping to the streets where trouble’s most likely to start. “It’s not usually this quiet,” Endgame remarks. “Think it’s working?”

“The de-escalation thing?” You want to say yes, but it’s just one quiet night. “I think it’s just the rain keeping everyone inside. If you’re already on the street, there’s no point in being cold and wet at the same time.”

“We should go inside, then,” Endgame says. “If that’s where the people who need help are.”

“Isn’t that against protocol?” You remember something from training about not going into unsecured areas, staying mainly out in the open where you can see what’s going on and escape through multiple routes. “I’m up for it if you are, but I’m not going to be much use to you if there’s trouble.”

“If there’s trouble, we’ll get out of there,” Endgame says. He scratches lightly at the side of his neck, and you avert your eyes. “Are you up for it? I can’t do it without you.”

Now you’re rolling your eyes. “Yes you can.”

“No way. You’re the one who knows where to look.”

You do. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you come out here, night after night, knowing you might see Tomura and spend hour after hour looking at what you lost. There are things you’ve found here, too. And every night you’re out here is a chance to find some more. “All right,” you say after a moment, and the way Endgame smiles at you almost breaks your heart. “Follow me.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Eri asks you as the two of you wait in line for the doors of the bookstore to open. “Honey said I shouldn’t ask you, since you worked last night. But nobody else can leave without permission and they said I can’t go alone.”

If you were in Eri’s spot, you’d be losing patience with the rule about not being allowed to go out in public alone, but Eri seems okay with it. She only gets frustrated when it gets in the way of her doing something that any other nineteen-year-old would be allowed to do without question, which is why you’re here, even though you were on patrol with Eraserhead last night and he ran you ragged. “It’s no problem. Tonight’s my night off anyway, so I’ll get lots of sleep. There was no way I’d let you miss something this cool.”

“I promised Skeeter I’d get a copy signed for her, too. And Honey.” Eri is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, more excited than you’ve seen her get about anything in a while. “Do you think we’ll get to talk to him at all?”

“Spinner? I bet,” you say. You might be dead on your feet tired, but the tension in your shoulders at the thought of seeing another member of the League is more than enough to keep you awake. “He seems like a nice guy. Even if he writes the scariest books anybody’s ever read.”

The book of Spinner’s you read a while back was one of his earliest ones, but since then, he’s evolved into writing horror. Eri likes horror novels as much as she likes horror movies, and she talked you, Himiko, Honey, and Birdie into reading one of them along with her. The other three liked it. You were weirded out, and you’re still weirded out. Something about the way Spinner writes, something about the scary stories he chooses to tell, feels a little too familiar for comfort.

You didn’t run it by Midoriya before deciding to come to the book signing, but in your opinion, it’s nowhere near as high-risk as going on patrol with Endgame every so often. You’re just going to see Spinner. Just going to see how he’s doing. Given that he’s free instead of being locked up in Tartarus for life, you think he’s probably doing okay.

“Do you think his new book will be scary, too?” Eri leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. She’s been experimenting, fashion-wise – right now she’s in black and red, with ripped jeans even in the cold and black eyeliner even heavier than Honey’s trademark dark circles. “He said he was inspired by recent events. What’s even been going on?”

There’s only one thing you can think of that would catch Spinner’s attention. “The Hero Killer got captured. Maybe it’s that.”

Eri’s nose wrinkles. “How is he inspiring? He was just as stupid as – as Overhaul.”

She’s been away from him for more than a year, but you know she’s still scared of him. Her voice always catches like that when she says his name. You and the others have been trying to help, with varying degrees of success, and there’s only one strategy you’ve found that works. “You mean, loser Overhaul who’s going to be in prison for the rest of his life? Jackass Overhaul who cried like a baby when the judge read the verdict? That Overhaul?”

“Fuckass loser crybaby Overhaul,” Eri says, with feeling, and you nod in agreement. The two of you are getting some weird looks from the people behind you in line, but you ignore them. “He’s scared of people touching him. I bet his prison jumpsuit gives him hives.”

“I bet you’re right. I swear they use itching powder as detergent in there.”

Eri gives you a curious look. “How do you know?”

“I’ve just heard things,” you say. You’re not supposed to know what Tartarus is like. “If Spinner’s new book is about anybody, it’s definitely the Hero Killer. Overhaul’s way too lame.”

“I bet Spinner’s writing about something cool,” Eri says. “Overhaul’s lame as fuck.”

Her voice isn’t shaking any longer. “Damn right.”

Spinner’s new book isn’t about Overhaul. You and Eri collect two copies each once you get inside the bookstore, and while you’re waiting for Spinner’s talk to start, you scan the summary on the back. You guessed right about the Hero Killer, but there’s a twist you didn’t expect – time travel. The main character’s been transported into the body of his own past self, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid a chain of events that starts with the Hero Killer and ends in the destruction of the entire world. All he has are memories of the way it all unfolded the first time around.

Spinner’s last book was a little too close to comfort. This one feels like a direct hit, even though the main character’s a man, even though the entire world didn’t end the first time around – just your part of it. By the time Spinner’s talk starts, you’re a nervous wreck.

Spinner looks good. Happier than you ever saw him before, and you wonder if he wouldn’t have been all right in the world-that-was if he’d never gotten mixed up with the League of Villains. Would things have gotten easier for him at some point? Would he have found other people who understood him, who cared about what he cared about? Seeing him this way makes you think the answer’s yes. Out of everyone in the League, Spinner would have been the easiest to save, and the heroes didn’t care.

People care now – some people, at least. Spinner’s okay now. The only person who knows it used to be different is you. That’s your burden, you remind yourself, as the echo of your old anger rocks through you. If carrying it is the price for everything that changed for the better, it’s a price you’re willing to pay.

Spinner’s talk is about horror as a genre, and why he’s branched into it from fantasy. The excerpt he reads from his book sounds pretty good – the kind of thing you’d be interested in, if it wasn’t familiar enough to send shooting pains of anxiety through your fingers. Eri is practically vibrating as the two of you wait in line to have your books signed. “He’s so cool,” she says, and you nod. “I can’t wait to tell Endgame.”

“Huh?”

“He likes Spinner’s books, too. You’d know if you ever came to hang out with us.” Eri gives you a reproachful look. “I told him about this thing and he said it sounded awesome, but he couldn’t go.”

“He probably had work,” you say, feeling like you dodged a bullet. “He keeps busy.”

“Not work. It’s his anniversary. With his wife.” Eri rolls her eyes. “She sucks.”

You mark today’s date in your head as a day where you shouldn’t go anywhere or do anything unsupervised in the future. It’s a good thing you’re with Eri. “Why do you think she sucks?”

“Skeeter told me. When I came to visit, she came too, and she was a bitch to you.”

You’re praying that’s all Himiko said. You swore her to secrecy about your feelings for Tomura, and Eri would be the worst possible person for her to spill the beans to. Even if she didn’t, you’re now in the position of having to defend Tomura’s wife to Eri. “She wasn’t a bitch to me. She didn’t know I was there.”

“So?” Eri gives you a weird look. “She didn’t know you were there, so she said how she really felt, and how she really feels makes her a bitch. I don’t know why he even married her.”

You didn’t expect Eri to have this level of feelings about Tomura’s marriage, and a thought crosses your mind. It’s not a thought you like. “Eri, do you – like him or something?”

“Ew. No. He’s old,” Eri says, and you almost laugh. “You’re all old. I don’t have to have a crush on Endgame to think he should marry somebody who makes him happy.”

Your head is spinning a little bit. A timer goes off on your phone, reminding you that you’re due for another dose of suboxone, and you focus on taking it out of your bag, prying open the bottle, sliding a dose under your tongue. “Skeeter can smell when people are in love,” Eri continues. “She says he doesn’t love her as much as he did before.”

Himiko didn’t tell you that. Would you have wanted to hear? Probably not. “I don’t think you all should be gossiping about him like that. It’s not nice.”

“I don’t care about nice,” Eri says. She scowls. “Endgame would have had more fun coming to meet Spinner with us than hanging out with her.”

“Maybe we can do something nice for him anyway,” you say, and she looks at you. “We’ve got four books here. That’s one for you and Honey and Himiko – and I’ll ask Spinner to sign the fourth one for Endgame.”

“But then you won’t get one.”

“That’s okay,” you say. You’re not sure you want to read this book, anyway. “It’s not the same as coming to the reading and meeting him, but it’s better than nothing, right?”

“Tell Spinner to sign it to Endgame,” Eri says, and you nod. “I bet he’ll like it.”

She seems like she feels a little better, which is good. Her moods are intense, and sometimes, all it takes is one bad thing to ruin what’s otherwise a good day. You can relate to that. All it takes is one reminder of everything you gave up to get your wish for you to find yourself wishing you could neuroin it away.

Wishing for neuroin isn’t the same thing as craving it, or needing it the way you used to. It’s almost wistful, almost nostalgic, to remember the days when just this one thing was a little easier, even if everything else was worse. That’s probably something you should process with Midoriya, the next time the two of you hit a dead end trying to figure out what to do with your memories. You’ve been dragging your feet lately. You’re getting to the parts of the story you don’t want to tell.

One of those parts is what happened to everyone who survived – all three of you, you and Compress and Spinner. Eri reaches Spinner’s table first and he greets her, smiling. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Eri. I love your books,” Eri says. She’s making some pretty intense eye contact. You don’t believe in telling people to smile when they don’t feel like it, but she looks like she’s trying to stare a hole in Spinner’s head. “My friends do, too. They couldn’t come because they’re not allowed to leave.”

“Oh,” Spinner says. He blinks. “Uh – what are their names?”

You realize all at once that Eri doesn’t know them. People go by their treatment nicknames so consistently that she might not even know yours. She glances at you for help. “Honey’s real name is Manami,” you say. “I’ll take care of the other two.”

Eri chats with Spinner while he signs her book and Manami’s, talking his ear off about all her favorite parts from the last book he published, and they’re still talking when you set your two books down on the table. “I’m glad you said that. My editor wanted me to cut that part,” he’s saying to Eri. “She thought there were already enough twists and I didn’t need –”

He glances up at you, double-takes, and startles so badly that he knocks his water bottle off the table. One of the bookstore employees races to retrieve it, and Eri asks if he’s all right, and all the while, Spinner stares. “You, uh – you’re with Eri?”

You nod. Spinner looks good, looks peaceful, looks happy – or he did until a few seconds ago, when he saw you. “And the books,” he says – stammers, almost. “One’s for you, and one’s for –”

“Neither for me. There’s a two-book limit, and I have some friends,” you say. You set the books down and Spinner picks them up with shaky hands. “I can give you their names, if you want?”

Spinner nods. You start with Himiko, using her surname in addition to her given name to see if any flash of recognition crosses Spinner’s face. If there is, he’s hiding it well. “What about the second one?” he asks, and you open your mouth, only for him to answer first. “Endgame, right? Shi – Shimura Tenko.”

“That’s him,” you say. Somehow you aren’t surprised. “You know him?”

“I’m a big fan of his work. Especially that de-escalation stuff he’s started doing,” Spinner says. “Nice to see somebody looking out for the rest of us.”

“She helps with that!” Eri breaks in. You cringe. “Seeker goes out on patrol with Endgame all the time –”

Spinner double-takes again. “You’re a hero?”

“No,” you say. “That’s just my nickname. From treatment.”

“What kind of treatment?”

You want to answer, but one of the assistants taps Spinner’s shoulder, reminds him that there’s a giant line behind you and Eri. Spinner nods. He signs Himiko’s book, then Endgame’s, then picks up a piece of paper off the table and adds something extra to it. He gives you a meaningful look as he tucks it into Endgame’s book and hands it back to you. Something for you. When you open the book to check, well clear of the line and with Eri peering over your shoulder, you find that Spinner’s written his phone number, along with a message underneath: Call me tonight.

“He likes you!” Eri hugs you from one side, which you let her do to prove you trust her ability to handle her quirk. “Are you going to call him? You should. If you date him, he’ll come by the treatment center to pick you up and I can ask him more about the books.”

“I don’t think he wants to date me,” you say. You think Spinner wants to talk. About what? “I’ll call him, though. Just for you.”

Eri elbows you, just like Himiko always does. “That’s not a growth mindset. Why wouldn’t he want to date you?”

Because that’s not who the two of you are to each other. You and Spinner were friends, allies in trying to protect Tomura and make his dreams a reality. Both of you failed, and both of you survived to see the nightmare that a world without Tomura became. Spinner lived, just like you did. If Spinner had been released from Tartarus alongside you, he’d probably have gone with you on your quest to change history and give Tomura the life he should have had all along. If anyone in the new history is likely to know something changed, it’s Spinner. And that means the two of you need to talk. Whether it’s a good idea or not.

Eri keeps needling you about it as you make your way out of the bookstore and into the autumn cold, until you distract her by suggesting the two of you grab dinner out – and dessert. You know the subject will come up later, probably in front of Himiko and Honey and Birdie, but you’re grateful for the temporary reprieve. The need for neuroin, for a quick fix to all of this, is a low hum in the back of your mind, but you’re able to stifle it. Or so you think. As you and Eri are crossing the street, headed for the nearest izakaya, you feel the faintest brush of something warm across your cheek.

It’s your quirk, letting you know that something you’re looking for is – not close, exactly, but that you’re looking in the right direction, and you come to a stop in the middle of the crosswalk, looking towards it. Neuroin, probably. It’s the first time your quirk’s activated like that in a while. Something else to talk to Midoriya about at your next appointment. Sometimes it feels like you’re going to be in therapy for the rest of your life.

“Come on,” Eri says, and you snap out of it. A car honks at the two of you and Eri, who’s picked up some bad habits from Birdie, gives it the finger. You catch her free hand and tug her the rest of the way across. The warmth of your quirk fades quickly. By the time you’ve stepped into the izakaya, you barely remember it was there at all.

“Have you given it to him yet?” Spinner asks, and you look up from where you’ve been studying a watermark on the table. “Endgame. The book.”

“Not yet,” you say. “I only see him on patrol, and I haven’t been on shift with him in a while.”

You’ve been trying not to think about that, about how long it’s been since you saw him. Spinner’s features, wary and guarded since you walked into the café, settle into a frown. “I thought you saw each other more than that.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Spinner says. He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how I guessed it was Endgame you wanted the book for. And I don’t know why seeing you back there felt like dodging a bullet.”

“Ouch.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Spinner says. “You know that feeling when something bad almost happens? Like when you step out into the road too early, and somebody pulls you back before you can get hit?”

You nod. “It’s like that,” Spinner says. “A near miss. That’s how it felt to see you.”

“Like I did something bad to you?”

“No,” Spinner says. “Like you reminded me of something that happened. I just couldn’t remember what.”

He gives you an awkward, curious look. “Is that what it was like to see me?”

“Sort of,” you say. “Has that ever happened to you before?”

“Sort of. One time. I needed to talk to a magician for one of my books, and I felt like I knew him even though we’d never met.”

Compress. It must have been. “Did he feel the same way?”

“I didn’t ask,” Spinner says. “It would have been weird. It was weird with you.”

“Yeah,” you agree. You lift your coffee cup off the table and take a sip, remembering all at once why stimulants were never your thing. “Is that why you wanted to meet up?”

Spinner nods, and takes a sip of his own coffee. You came to the café late, close to closing time, but there are still people here, and one of them not-so-subtly snaps a photo of you and Spinner together. You wonder what they’re planning to do with it. Spinner’s famous. You’re nobody. Maybe they think you two are here on a date.

That’s what Eri, Honey, and Birdie all thought, when they found out you were going to meet Spinner before your shift tonight. Himiko was the only one who didn’t get in on it, the only one who didn’t pester you about what you were wearing or why you don’t own any makeup at all. She stuck close, though, and while the others were distracted, she leaned in closer. “It’s not a date. Why are you going?”

“He wants to talk about something,” you said. “It’s not going to hurt anything to go.”

So far it hasn’t, at least – and you’ve learned something. Himiko doesn’t remember anything, Twice didn’t remember anything in the brief moments you saw him, Endgame’s déjà vu when he looks at you is a product of your imagination more than anything else. But Spinner knew something was up when he saw you, and he knew something was up when he saw Compress, too. And the three of you have something in common: You’re the only ones who survived the war.

All three of you lived in the world-that-was until your wish erased it from history, and when you and Spinner look at each other, it’s not hard to imagine that he can see an afterimage of the way things used to be. After his trial, you never saw him again. In Tartarus, you were kept in separate cells, locked down twenty-four hours a day in spite of the fact that neither of you were truly dangerous. It didn’t matter. Spinner was the only one who understood how you felt about losing Tomura. He was Tomura’s best friend, and you were the love of Tomura’s all-too-short life, and even though it never happened here, part of it still remains.

Midoriya has a word for the times when something from your memories happens here, at a different time or in a different way. He calls it harmonization – different arrangements of notes, but still in the same key. It makes as much sense to you as anything else, and you feel it again here with Spinner, just like you did with Himiko, just like you do with Tomura. The only difference is that Spinner feels something, too.

“To be honest,” Spinner says, and you force yourself to focus, “I don’t get along with many people. Not that I start fights or anything – I just can’t connect. It’s like we’re traveling on parallel lines. They might be close, but they’ll never cross.”

Spinner’s got a way with words. You wish he’d found his voice sooner in the world-that-was. “That sounds pretty lonely.”

“Yeah,” Spinner agrees. “Do you ever feel like that?”

“I used to,” you say. More coffee. You’re going to be buzzed for your entire shift tonight, and you’ll still have a hard time sleeping when you get home. “I’m a neuroin addict. I’ve been sober for two years and counting, but some part of me is always going to think that using’s an option, even if the rest of me knows better. I used because I was in pain, and because I was alone. When I got to treatment, I met people who understood. And I’m not as lonely as I was before.”

“I’ve never met a neuroin addict,” Spinner says, and you laugh. “Sorry. I just thought – since you called yourself that –”

“It’s okay,” you say. You don’t mind Spinner using those words. Not the way you’d mind it from a random civilian, or a hero, or Endgame’s wife. “I think you probably haven’t. A while back there was someone tainting the supply, and it killed a lot of people who used. Neuroin’s hard to bounce back from, and a lot of people who used it and didn’t die are in prison right now.”

“Really?” Spinner’s nose wrinkles. “Do people on neuroin get violent?”

“No,” you say. “I spent more time zoning out than anything else. But possession of neuroin’s illegal, so if you’re caught with it, you pick up charges. That doesn’t happen to people whose opioid of choice is a prescription drug.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” Spinner says frankly. You nod. “Hey, um – maybe not tonight, but do you think you’d mind if I –”

“What?”

“Interview you about this stuff,” Spinner says. You don’t know what you were expecting him to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “In case I want to write about it in the future. I don’t want to get things wrong.”

“Sure,” you say, “but you shouldn’t interview just me. You should talk to a lot of people. There’s more than one story, and if you’re going to tell it, you should tell it right.”

“Yeah.” Spinner smiles halfway. “I like doing research almost as much as I like writing. When I’m asking questions, people talk to me.”

Which is sort of what happened just now. You feel a stab of guilt and a pang of sympathy, all at once. “If you want to hang out sometime, I’d like that. I’m busy a lot, with work and – um, other work – but I think we might get along.”

“Don’t say that because you feel sorry for me.” Spinner says. “I know you feel sorry for me. I can tell.”

You can always tell, too. “Maybe,” you admit, “but that’s not why I said it. Like you said, it feels kind of like we know each other already. So I’d like to catch up.”

“Me, too,” Spinner says. His smile is tentative, and you match it with one of your own. Sometimes it still feels strange to smile. “Can I ask something dumb?”

“Go for it.”

“Did your friends like the new book?”

“They really liked it,” you say. “You should swing by the treatment center sometime. They’d go crazy over you.”

You’re thinking of Honey in particular, but you know Himiko and Birdie would want to meet him, too. Spinner actually blushes. “What about your daughter?” he asks, and you almost choke on your last sip of coffee. “Eri. What did she think?”

You’re too busy coughing to answer, and Spinner watches you with increasing concern. “Are you okay?”

“She’s not my daughter,” you manage, your eyes streaming. “I love her – a lot – but we don’t look anything alike. Do we?”

“No,” Spinner admits. “I don’t know. I just thought – you guys seemed really close. And I figured she probably took after her dad.”

It occurs to you all at once whose features she matches, and you can’t decide whether to take your next suboxone dose early or just throw up. “Sorry,” Spinner says. “That was a weird thing to say. This is why nobody talks to me.”

“It’s fine,” you say. You clear your throat, force down the nausea, and tell yourself you can wait on the suboxone. “She really liked your book. She’s been telling everybody how good it is. If you do come by the treatment center, she’ll talk your ear off.”

You remember something else Eri said, something she’s been saying. “She’s been talking about being a writer,” you say, and Spinner’s eyes light up. “I don’t think she knows where to start.”

“Maybe I could do a workshop or something,” Spinner says. “I do those sometimes – for orphanages or alternative high schools. I don’t know how much pull you have over there, but –”

“Not a lot, but I know the counselors would be really into it,” you say. The idea of bringing Spinner and Himiko back together, of spending time with both of them for the first time in fourteen years, fills your chest with warmth even as it goes tight with sadness. “I’ll talk to them about it. You’ll probably hear about it tomorrow or something.”

“That would be nice,” Spinner admits. Your phone timer goes off, letting you know that you do in fact need more suboxone – and that it’s time to leave for your shift. “Do you have to head out?”

“I’ve got work tonight. And I’ve got the book with me, in case I see Endgame.”

Spinner nods, but his brow is furrowing, and you don’t want to think about why. You drain your coffee, resigning yourself to a full night of your bones rattling in your skin, and get to your feet. “It was nice to see you. Let’s do this again. Soon.”

“I’d like that,” Spinner agrees. He gets to his feet, too. “Do we, like – shake hands or something?”

“Let’s hug,” you say instead, and you do, ignoring the picture that’s snapped in the background, ignoring the fact that you’ll be crying the instant you hit the street. This is a good thing. “Missed you.”

“Yeah,” Spinner says. His shoulders relax slightly, and you hang on for another second before letting go. You and Spinner used to punch each other a lot, for reasons that were beyond either of you when Dabi asked what the hell you were doing. This is nicer. “Missed you too.”

You take out your phone and study it, wondering if it’s time to call dispatch. You got to the meeting spot half an hour ago, and whichever hero you’re working with tonight still isn’t here. Are you supposed to run things alone tonight? They’d have told you, wouldn’t they? None of the heroes you work with are great at showing up on time, and some of them are worse than others, but half an hour is a new record. And it’s a problem. When it comes to crisis situations, things can go off the rails in a split second, and while you can’t be everywhere at once, you’d like to be somewhere at least.

Maybe you were paired up with Eraserhead for tonight, and he got hurt or something. He gets banged up a lot, more so than the other heroes. Or maybe you were with Lemillion, who only wants to save some people and tends to look for excuses to get out of his shifts. You don’t know why he’s even here, really. This program is supposed to be voluntary, for people who believe in its mission, and Lemillion likes punching people way too much for that to be the case.

Whoever they are, they’re past late and approaching really late, and you’re starting to get annoyed. You’re an addict and a criminal. You’re supposed to be the unreliable one, and if even you can manage to show up on time, why can’t –

“Hey.” The voice is quiet, out of breath, and it still sends a jolt down your spine. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

You turn to face Endgame, and almost instantly you can tell there’s something wrong. Tomura always wore his emotions on his sleeve, showed them on his face, and even though Endgame is older with a hell of a lot more self-control, you can still see it in his eyes, in the downturned corners of his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good. Give me a second.” Endgame’s breathing is slow to even out. Did he run here? Why would he run if he was already half an hour late? “I’m good. Let’s go. You can pick the route.”

That’s not supposed to be how it works – the hero’s in charge, and always picks the route – but you decide not to argue about it. You start walking, the opposite direction from where you and Endgame usually go, and he follows you, still putting on his cape. And his gloves. He’s never this late, and never this off-balance, and after a couple blocks, you can’t help asking again. “Are you okay? It seems like something happened.”

Endgame glances at you, then looks away in a hurry. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He’s acting weird. You haven’t been on-shift with him in two months, and he’s acting really weird. Now that you think about it, he hasn’t come around the treatment center much, either. Eri’s been wondering where he is. So has Himiko. Seeing him now, seeing that something’s wrong, worries you more than a little, and as the two of you start your shift in earnest, you try to talk yourself down. Endgame is your coworker. It’s normal to worry a little bit about your coworker when they’re so obviously out of sorts. It’s not normal to focus on it, to keep asking, to buckle under the overwhelming need to find out so you can fix it. Worrying is fine. As long as you keep it in perspective.

A busy shift would help with that, but tonight is painfully slow. The two of you walk in silence, where you would have talked before, and with every step, the tension between you builds. You stopped looking at him a while ago, but you can feel him looking at you, and two hours into your shift, he finally speaks up. “Sorry I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. “I started picking up the day shift instead.”

“Oh,” you say. “How do you like it?”

“It blows,” Endgame says. “The cops are a lot more active during the day, and they keep interfering when I’m trying to de-escalate. Some heroes are good at dealing with them, but I’m – not. Apparently I have a problem with authority.”

“Sometimes the authorities are wrong about things,” you say. “And the people they’re after need someone like you to stand up for them.”

It’s quiet for a second, just enough time for you to wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing. You try to watch what you say about Endgame, but sometimes you forget. “That means a lot,” he says finally. “People keep saying that I’m making trouble over nothing.”

“You aren’t,” you say firmly. You wonder who’s saying that, and how they’d feel about a private conversation with a former drug addict, criminal, and Tartarus inmate who’s also one of the founding members of the League of Villains. Hero or cop, you’re not scared of anybody. “Maybe the day shift isn’t your thing. There’s nothing wrong with that. And there’s nothing wrong with you for not agreeing what the best way to help somebody is. The whole reason this program exists is because the cops’ way doesn’t work.”

You risk a glance at Endgame, trying to see if you’re getting through to him. It’s hard to say. You could always read Tomura like a book, but Endgame is more difficult. He’s not the same person you fell in love with. You need to remember that before you start thinking you can make him feel better. “I don’t mean to overstep.”

“You aren’t,” Endgame says at once. “I like the night shift. I didn’t want to switch.”

“Why did you?”

“My wife asked,” Endgame says. Your stomach lurches. “She said it was a distraction from what I should be doing.”

You made a policy with yourself not to comment on Endgame’s wife, regardless of who brings her up or when, but this time, the question slips out before you can stop yourself. “What does she think you should be doing?”

“Actual heroics,” Endgame says. You hear the faintest echo of Tomura’s frustration, Tomura’s fury, for the first time since you found him in this world. “Fighting villains. Going on missions where I fight villains and get good press for doing it. Saving people who want to be saved – no, she said –”

“Deserve to be saved,” you say. Endgame nods. His jaw is clenched. “That’s how most people think. It’s not that out of line.”

“Have some self-respect,” Endgame snaps, and you flinch. “You’re not stupid. You know what it means. You’re saying that most people believe I should have let you die. That I shouldn’t have even tried, because you didn’t deserve to be saved. How can you be okay with that?”

You’re not okay with it. You don’t know what to say in the face of Endgame’s anger. Even though you’re not its true target, it still stings. “Kao said it,” Endgame says. His fury’s cut with confusion now. With hurt. “Yesterday. So I’m back on the night shift. For good this time. And I feel better doing this. More like –”

He trails off, and before you can think better of it, you fill in. “More like yourself.”

It’s quiet for a moment. “You always know how to say it,” Endgame says. “I missed that.”

You knew this conversation was a mistake. You should never have said a word when he brought up Bubble Girl – and you’re an idiot, so you keep talking. “You still haven’t cut your hair.”

“I’m not going to,” Endgame says. “Like you said. I feel better that way, too.”

Another silence falls. “What do you think of it?”

“Your hair?” You’re going to tell Midoriya about this conversation tomorrow, and Midoriya’s going to read you the riot act, and you’re going to feel like a moron until the next time you see Endgame and stick your foot in your mouth. “What matters is how you feel about it. It’s your hair.”

“Right,” Endgame says, and for a second you think you’re off the hook. “Do you like it?”

Maybe you should switch to the day shift. Or walk into traffic. You have to say something now, and the longer you wait, the worse it’ll look. If you were normal, if you weren’t in love with him, what would you say? “I think it suits you.”

“Yeah?” Endgame is looking at you. You nod. “Thanks.”

You walk in silence again until your timer goes off, reminding you to take your suboxone and stop acting like a lunatic. You need the reminder if you’re going to get through the rest of this shift, and as awful as it is, you find yourself praying for things to pick up just a little bit. You need things to stop being weird, right now, and the fastest way to get there is for you and Endgame to find something to do.

Tonight’s route takes you through downtown, which can be kind of dead late at night, unless there’s something going on to lure everybody out. There’s some kind of street fair, something you’ve seen posters for around town, and events like that tend to draw everybody, civilians and criminals alike. Endgame hesitates at the edge of the crowd, glances your way. “What do you think?”

“I’d have been all over something like this,” you say. “Pockets to pick. Food to steal. Lots of ways to get in trouble.”

“All right. Let’s do it.”

The street fair is busy. Endgame glances around, confirms there’s no hero onsite, and reports to dispatch that he’s got the event supervised. Then the two of you walk, slowed by the crowd, at risk of getting separated by a single wrong step. Endgame catches your arm before you can protest, draws you in closer. “We need a vantage point,” he says in your ear. Maybe you’re in hell. “How do you feel about heights?”

The two of you end up crouched on a balcony, not particularly high but high enough to get a good view of the fair, and low enough that you can probably jump down without breaking something. You study the crowd, looking for anyone moving strangely, anybody walking against the current, anybody trying to move fast in a street that’s slow. Back in the day, you’d have been erratic at a place like this, trying to decide where to act and when and what you were even going to do. You got pretty good at pickpocketing out of necessity. Somewhere like this, you’d never get caught.

But not everybody has your experience. You spot something out of the corner of your eye and focus in, nudging Endgame to get his attention, too. The would-be pickpocket doesn’t look any older than sixteen, and while he’s picked a good target, he’s not going about it with any confidence. He keeps coming in close, then hesitating, retreating, coming in close again. When he steps off to a safe distance, you wonder if he’s changed his mind – only to see his arm extending through the crowd as he activates his quirk and scoops the wallet out of his mark’s back pocket.

He’s committed a crime, and he’s used his quirk to do it. In the eyes of the law, that makes him a villain, and you decide all at once that you won’t let that happen. You hop down from the balcony, rolling your ankle – of course – and weave through the crowd, catching up to the kid without him ever knowing you’re there. It’s easy to lift the wallet out of his back pocket, and once you’ve got it, you tap his shoulder with your free hand. “Missing something?”

He checks his back pocket first, then whips around, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching. “That’s mine.”

“It’s mine, the same way it was yours. Because I took it,” you say. The kid’s arm shoots out, but you switch the wallet to your other hand. “Want to tell me what you need it for?”

“Money. Are you stupid or something?”

“What do you need the money for?” you ask. The kid blinks. “Maybe I can help.”

“Sure you can,” the kid scoffs. “Unless you can find me a place to stay –”

“How old are you?” You can think of a few things off the top of your head, especially if he’s underage. The kid tells you he’s fourteen, which is younger than you thought, and by the time you’ve gotten his first name out of him, Endgame’s caught up with you. The kid takes one look at him and tries to bolt, but you reach out and stop him. “Yuichiro, hang on a second. He’s not here to arrest you.”

“Yeah. This is her show,” Endgame says, nodding to you. “I’m just her backup. She’s going to call some people and see about getting you what you need, and in the meantime, you’re gonna hang out with me. Are you hungry?”

Yuichiro’s expression goes guarded in a way that makes you nervous. “What do I have to give you?”

“Nothing,” Endgame says, puzzled. “I’m hungry, and I’d look like an asshole if I got something for me and not for you.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“No,” Endgame says. He’s starting to catch on, and he glances at you, eyes narrowing. You shake your head: Not now. “Just tell me what you want to get.”

You watch Endgame and Yuichiro out of the corner of your eye as they head for the nearest vendor, and as you select the first number on your resource list and place a call. If the first shelter doesn’t have room, you’ll call the next one. And the one after that. You don’t know where this kid’s been staying, but there’s no way you’re letting him go back there. If you can get him into a shelter, he’ll have a caseworker, someone to look out for him. And maybe there’s a chance he won’t wind up back on the street.

By the time Endgame and Yuichiro come back, Endgame holding what looks like a pastry box and Yuichiro tearing into an order of takoyaki, you’ve got good news. “Okay. There’s a shelter here that only takes teenagers, and they’ve got an open bed. There’s a car coming to pick you up.”

“Are they going to call my parents?”

“No,” you say. “Not unless you want them to. They won’t kick you out, either. As long as you’re engaging in at least one of their programs – they have a lot of them – you can stay as long as you need.”

Yuichiro looks wary. “You’re thinking it sounds too good to be true, right?” Endgame says, and Yuichiro startles. “Like there’s a catch somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Yuichiro says. “There’s always a catch.”

“Not this time,” you say. “Everybody there wants to help you. If you want help.”

The car pulls up – always the same car, always the same driver. Yuichiro hesitates again, then glances up at Endgame. “Can you come too?”

“Sure,” Endgame says easily. “Let’s go.”

You watch the two of them walk to the car, Endgame getting in first to prove it’s safe and Yuichiro following him. This is the first time Endgame’s agreed to go along with someone to the shelter, but Yuichiro’s the youngest kid you’ve run into out here, and something awful is going on around him. Maybe Endgame can get it out of him. He wasn’t going to tell you. You’re a lot better with adults than with kids.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, with a number you aren’t familiar with, and you open the text. sorry I bailed

Endgame. It was the right call. How is he?

something’s really off with him. he doesn’t want to talk about it at all. Endgame’s typing bubble doesn’t vanish for more than a split second before he’s off again. want to come meet me at the shelter? we can pick up patrol from there.

You glance around at the street fair. It’s still busy, but some of the vendors are starting to close up shop. This is winding down. I’ll head your way after.

Somehow it’s only four hours into your shift. It feels like time’s picked up, speeding faster to push you away from those awkward moments with Endgame early on. You still can’t figure out how things sideways. He was upset. What were you supposed to do, just leave it alone? Asking was the right thing to do, the thing you would have done for anyone you were about to spend eight hours with. And then he opened up, and you asked the logical follow-up question, and somehow it all ended up with you telling him that you like his hair. This is a disaster.

But he and Bubble Girl are fighting. You shouldn’t care about that at all, but you do – and they’re not just having a little spat. The disagreement Endgame told you about is ideological, intractable. Either a person believes that everyone’s worthy of being saved if they want to be, or they think that some people deserve to suffer no matter how badly they want help. You’re not surprised Tomura has a problem with it. You’re not surprised to hear confusion and hurt in his voice at the realization that someone he loves would have written him off at five years old.

You understand, because you love him. You remember Himiko’s note from the day Eri came to tour the treatment center – She doesn’t love him as much as you do – and for the first time, it strikes you as something other than an inviolable law of the universe that the two of them are together. Bubble Girl doesn’t love Endgame as much as you do. Endgame deserves better.

That’s a thought you shouldn’t have. You add it to the list of mistakes you need to talk to Midoriya about and keep scanning the street fair for other people Tomura’s wife thinks deserve to die.

The street fair winds down without any further incident, other than you returning the stolen wallet and pretending you found it on the ground, and you set off in the direction of the shelter, walking at a more leisurely pace than usual. You know the shelter’s intake process takes a little while, and you need time to clear your head – which you don’t get, because Endgame calls you before you’ve gone more than a couple blocks. “Send me your location. I can meet you halfway.”

“Sure.” You hang up and share it, only for him to call back immediately. “What?”

Endgame doesn’t answer your question. Of course. “I did some damage control for you with Yuichiro,” he says. “He’s a little intimidated.”

“By me?” That might be the weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to you. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I think that move where you pickpocketed him and then solved all his problems might have done it.” There’s a hint of laughter in Endgame’s voice. Is he making fun of you? “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Pickpocket people? I couldn’t get a job, and I had to get money somewhere.” You used to use your quirk to guide you to the people who had the largest amount of cash on hand, and you’d ditch their empty wallets afterwards. “Did you get anything out of him about what happened?”

“Little bit. He’s been on the street for two months, and he ran across somebody who offered him a place to stay at night, in exchange for his body. Whatever that means. He didn’t exactly elaborate.”

Your skin crawls. “Sounds like human trafficking to me. Did he say anything else about who it was – or where he was supposed to go –”

“He said they move around. Somewhere different every night,” Endgame says. “Whoever this is, they’re way ahead of us. This city’s not even on the record as a human trafficking hub.”

Was human trafficking something people cared about in the world-that-was? It should have been, but you don’t remember hearing about it, probably because most of the people getting trafficked were undocumented foreigners who came to Japan looking for work and criminals like you. It’s a different story when kids are involved. “Did he say if there were other kids with him? Or – fuck!”

The right side of your face erupts in what feels like a sheet of flames. You drop your phone, then double over, hand pressed against it. It doesn’t help. The burning actually seems to get worse, and the only thing that cuts through the searing heat is the sound of Endgame’s voice. You don’t have him on speaker, but you can hear him shouting through the phone. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

You reach for the phone with your left hand. You need your right, or your face might actually light on fire. “I’m –” Not fine. Absolutely not fine. “I don’t know –”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.” Endgame hangs up the phone, and you sink slowly to your knees. The burning doesn’t fade when you look straight ahead. When you turn your head to the right, it gets worse. When you look left, it lessens ever so slightly. You look left, then right, a few more times, trying to confirm it. Left is better. It’s hot, then cold, then –

Hot. Cold. By the time Endgame catches up to you, you’ve figured it out, and you’re already getting to your feet. “My quirk,” you say, as he’s opening his mouth to ask the question. “There’s something I’m looking for. It’s close.”

“Where is it?” Endgame asks. His hands brush against your elbows, reaching out to steady you even though you don’t need it. You nod to the left. “What is it?”

“I don’t –” Yes, you do. “I went to the missing persons database. I memorized some of the profiles.”

“Were any of them kids?” Endgame doesn’t wait for your answer. “If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you. Just tell me where to go.”

“I can walk,” you say. “But we should run.”

By the time your quirk leads you and Endgame to a nondescript office building, closed for the night, the burning of your quirk’s spread through your entire body. Your vision is blurry, and it’ll keep getting worse, right up until you’re face to face with the person you’re looking for. Endgame catches your arm and pulls you off to one side, out of sight. “How many people you’re looking for are in there?”

Maybe that’s why your quirk is activating so strongly. “At least one. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Endgame says. “We’re going in.”

For a moment, you’re thrown back to the world-that-was, to every time Tomura said something insane and looked at you to follow along. “We don’t have any idea who else is in there. Shouldn’t you call for backup or something?”

“If it’s the same people who had Yuichiro, they’ll be gone by morning,” Endgame says. “I won’t let that happen. Come with me. Tell me where to find them.”

This is a bad idea, but you know instinctively that Endgame won’t back off. And if he’s going in there, the fastest way to get him in and out is to find the people you’re looking for – which is also going to be the fastest way to turn your quirk off. “Fine.”

You don’t spend a lot of time breaking into buildings on hero business, and apparently there’s a procedure – ditch all unnecessary gear, make sure Endgame’s location is visible on the Hero Network, set a fifteen-minute time delay that will send up a red alert if it’s not turned off by hand. While Endgame takes care of that, you store your belongings out of sight, then send a message of your own. Endgame doesn’t want to wait for formal backup, and you understand. But you know there’s somebody else out here tonight, someone who cares more about saving people than fighting villains. You send your location and tuck your phone away.

“Ready?” Endgame asks, and you nod. You must have some kind of look on your face about it, because he takes a few steps closer to you. “Hey. Nothing bad’s going to happen to you in there. I won’t let it.”

It’s not you you’re worried about. You don’t know what it is. You nod again, and when Endgame heads for the building, you follow him without looking back.

Endgame runs his fingers along the wall, like he’s searching for something. The two of you should be searching for an entry point. Your struggle to focus your eyes as Endgame sets his hands flat against the wall – and before his touch a piece of the wall crumbles away, leaving a hole big enough to walk through without ducking your head. “What?” Endgame asks, when he catches you staring. “It’s faster this way. And I’ve never seen this way set off any alarms.”

It’s not that. For a moment, you thought you’d seen a ghost. You step through the makeshift entryway without waiting for Endgame’s permission. Your quirk led you here. You need to lead the way, and your quirk leads you up the stairs. Six flights of them, to a door that’s locked – and barricaded, based on the fact that it doesn’t give even slightly when you shove it. Endgame reaches past you without a word and Decays a path through. The burning of your quirk intensifies further. The person, or people, you’re looking for are here.

Here looks like a doctor’s office, suspiciously well-lit for the fact that it’s past midnight. Some of the rooms are flagged as being in use, while others are vacant, doors hanging open. “Are you sure they’re here?” Endgame asks in your ear, and you give a thumbs-up. “Okay. Be careful.”

You try to step lightly as you pass the closed doors, as you peer into the open ones. One look into an open one tells you exactly what kind of place this is, tells you that your guess of human trafficking was accurate. The victim who must have been in here is gone. But there’s evidence all over the place of what happened to them, and bile wells up in the back of your throat. It’s horrible enough if it was an adult. If it was a kid –

“Fucking hell.” Endgame is peering over your shoulder, his hair brushing against your cheek. “Was the person you’re looking for in here? Can you tell?”

“I can’t track people. My quirk just tells me where they are now.” You look away from the empty room with an effort. Your face is still burning, almost unbearably hot. “This way. I think we’re close.”

You pass open rooms – so many open rooms – and when you reach a closed door, your quirk lights you up with a sheet of agony. All you can do is indicate the door. Endgame tries the doorknob, finds it locked, and Decays the entire thing. You stumble forward, reaching inside for the light switch. It takes you a moment to find it, but once you do, you see who your quirk’s been leading you to. The heat drains out of you, so fast and sudden that it makes you shiver. Just like the five kids in this room are shivering, curled up in a corner of the room, watching you with frightened eyes.

Endgame sucks in a breath at the sight, and you see his hands curl into fists at his sides, only to relax just as quickly. He makes his way through the room in quick, sure steps, crouching down just out of reach from the kids. “Hi. My name’s Endgame. I’m here to help. What are your names?”

Two of the kids won’t talk, or maybe they’re mute. One of them was in the files you memorized – disappeared four years ago, at three years old, never to be seen until now. There’s a second kid from your files, but this one’s older, and she’s able to talk, able to introduce the others. “Okay,” Endgame says. You can’t see his face, but you picture him smiling, putting on a brave face. “You don’t have to tell us what happened here, but it’s not going to happen anymore. You’re safe. We’re going to get you out of here.”

“We are,” you echo. You should have memorized more missing-person profiles. Your quirk should have alerted you to all these kids, not just two of them. “Is there anyone else here? Is it just the five of you?”

The older girl, the one you were looking for, shakes her head. She starts helping the others to their feet, and Endgame does the same. One of them, the youngest one, can’t keep their feet under them, and Endgame picks them up. The sight of him carrying a kid, the kid’s head resting on his shoulder, does all kinds of damage to you. You avert your eyes and usher the kids out into the hall, one at a time.

The older girl, Kitano Arisa, comes out last, after Endgame and the youngest kid. She seizes your arm in one shaking hand and pulls until you lean down. “There are more,” she whispers. “In the lab.”

Your heart sinks, in the same moment as you realize why she didn’t tell you. She wants Endgame to focus on getting her and the others out, not get distracted by trying to rescue others. “You did the right thing,” you tell her, and her expression crumples. “Follow Endgame. I’ll go.”

You don’t check in with Endgame first. You don’t need to. You did your job getting him here, finding the kids you were looking for, and now it’s your turn to find the one you didn’t know about. You make your way down the hall as quietly as possible, picking every lock on every closed door you find. You aren’t as fast as Endgame’s Decay, but you still get the doors open. There’s no one inside except one, a kid who’s been bound and gagged. You untie him, peel the gag off, and tell him where to run.

Finding this place was hard, but you’re aware that the rest of it is too easy. There were multiple prisoners here, and when it comes to human trafficking, people are profit. There’s no way whoever runs this place has left so many people unguarded. Unless it’s not human trafficking. Unless whoever brought these people here has something else in mind. Like what?

The lab is well-lit, glass-windowed, easy to peer into. The only door you can see has a keypad, a fingerprint scanner, and a card-reader, so there’s no way you’re getting in. You peer in through the window, trying to stay out of sight. If whoever’s in here sees you, you’re in big trouble. You activate your quirk, seeking the fastest escape route if you’re spotted. Then, as the warmth of your quirk is just beginning to curl around your cheek, you see something that wipes every thought of escaping right out of your mind.

It’s the equipment. You’ve seen this equipment before, some of it – but unlike what you saw in the doctor’s workshop underneath a hospital in another life, this is downsized. Portable. Easy to move somewhere overnight, with the right combination of quirks involved. Someone is bustling around in the lab. They’re too tall to be Dr. Ujiko, and they’ve still got a face, which means they aren’t All For One. And All For One really must be dead. Otherwise this equipment wouldn’t be needed to implant quirks.

That is what’s happening. The person strapped down to a lab workstation is bound and gagged, and the glass between you and them must be soundproofed in addition. You know from watching even a piece of what the doctor did to Tomura that gags are useless against the kind of screams a person who’s being tortured lets out. For a moment, all you can remember is the horrible morguelike smell beneath the hospital, the doctor’s croaking laughter, Tomura’s convulsions on the operating table as he fought desperately to escape. How helpless you felt. How certain you were that there was nothing you could do.

Fuck that. There’s always something you can do. You turn without thinking about it, break the glass over the fire extinguisher case on the wall, and yank it out. Part of you wants to stop, to look for an ax or something better, but you can’t fathom waiting, just like you can’t fathom waiting for help to arrive. You’re expecting it to take multiple swings for the soundproof glass to shatter. You break it in one.

The torturer looks up, shocked, and you have time to register that it’s not someone you recognize before you leap up and through the broken window. Whoever it is, he’s a second too slow in responding, and before he can grab for a weapon or activate their quirk, you clock him in the gut with the fire extinguisher. You shove him to one side as he doubles over, then race for the workstation and the victim.

You don’t get far. The torturer grabs your ankle and yanks you off your feet, only to catch your boot to his face when you kick back. You actually hear his nose crunch, and blood gushes down his face in a steaming flood. “Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?”

You’re not going to dignify that with a response. You kick him again, hard enough to shatter his glasses, then scramble up, finally reaching the workstation. The person there is still thrashing in agony, and worse, they’ve still got machines connected to them, plugged into a hole in their stomach. You can’t just pull them out of here. They could die. Like Tomura would have, if you’d tried to free him from the doctor in the middle of a procedure.

The memory washes over you, strong enough to make you wish for neuroin, but it’s not like before. There’s something you can do. “It’s going to be okay,” you promise the victim, and you unhook the gag and lift it out of their mouth. “More help’s coming. I promise I won’t leave until –”

“Behind you!” The victim’s voice cracks with terror, and you turn just in time to see the scalpel being driven down towards your back.

You throw yourself to one side, but not quite fast enough – the blade sinks into your upper arm and drags down, opening a bloody gash that you can’t think about right now. He’s still coming after you, and you can’t leave the victim unattended. Toga taught you how to handle yourself against a knife. Do you remember? You remember enough, maybe. But your arm’s a mess, and you’re hemmed in by the workstation. You manage to turn to face your attacker, to seize his wrist with both hands as he brings the knife down on you a second time.

You aren’t weak. You can hold him back. But he’s got leverage and a free hand, one that he drives into your side hard enough to make your ribs creak. You’re conscious of the victim on the table, how you promised they’d be okay, how you swore more help is coming. You can’t make them watch you die. No one’s here yet. You promised –

Ropes of black and green energy wrap around the torturer, and in the space of a split second, he’s yanked back away from you. You slump back against the workstation, clamping one hand down over your bleeding arm, as Midoriya drags the man back through the broken window. You’ve never seen him in his hero outfit before. It looks homemade, and it looks like someone took an All Might onesie and dyed it green. “You made it.”

“Yeah. Sorry it took me a second.” Midoriya surveys the scene, all the while keeping the torturer restrained. “EMS is on their way up. I’m going to lower this guy down to the police. Is there anybody else here?”

“I don’t know. They only told me about the one here.”

“I’ll search,” Midoriya decides. He glances back at you, his concern evident through the mask. “I’m sorry. If I got here faster, maybe you wouldn’t have –”

“Get that guy out of here, search, and go,” you say. “Don’t get caught.”

You know you’ll be hearing about this tomorrow morning in therapy, but right now, you and Midoriya both have jobs to do. He vanishes back through the window, pulling the torturer with him, and you lever yourself upright with an effort, turning your attention to the victim. You hear footsteps on the stairs and repeat yourself. “See? I told you. Help is on the way. Everything’s going to be fine.”

EMS gets there first. You stammer out an explanation for some of the machines, praying they won’t ask you how you know, then allow yourself to be shuffled back away from the workstation. You’re nowhere near as bad off as the victim – any of the victims – but you’re not in good shape, either. It’s been a while since you got in a brawl like this. The last time was in another life.

You knew Tomura was dead. You didn’t know about Dabi yet, or Toga, but Tomura was dead, and that was enough. You didn’t want to be taken alive, either, so you fought hard against the heroes who tried to apprehend you, and you did enough damage to add two extra years to your sentence in Tartarus. You hurt people. Maimed them on purpose. You got beat half to hell in the process, but you were dangerous, and you weren’t going down easily. You couldn’t figure it out. Why they wouldn’t kill you. Why they’d murder Tomura and make you live.

Your head is spinning, or maybe you’re just getting lightheaded. You turn around unsteadily, looking for something to lean on, only to find yourself face-to-face with Endgame. He’s not out of breath, in spite of sprinting up so many flights of stairs, and he looks furious. “That was stupid,” he spits at you. “Why did you do that?”

“The kids,” you mumble. “I didn’t want them to wait.”

“So I should have gone, and you should have gotten them out!” Endgame snaps. “Are you out of your mind? You aren’t a hero. Why did you –”

The world tilted a few seconds back, and you’re struggling to stay on your feet. Endgame steps forward without hesitating, and for the first time since he helped you sit up after the overdose, you find yourself in his arms. You try to get your feet back under you, and take a shot at answering his question at the same time. “I’m not a hero. You don’t have to be a hero to save someone. All it takes is – is one –”

Nausea swims up and over your head, and the world blurs into grey, then black. Not for long, though. When your awareness comes back, you’re still inside the building, being carried down the stairs in Endgame’s arms, your head tilted against his shoulder, your forehead pressed to the side of his neck. When you take a shallow breath in, all you can smell is sweat and the familiar scent of his skin. You shouldn’t be here. “I can walk.”

“No problem. I’ll let you walk and you can wipe out down the stairs.” Endgame’s voice is oddly tense. Maybe you’re heavy. “Just hold still.”

You’ll never get this again. Maybe you should just enjoy it. Not pretend he wants to carry you, or that the way he’s holding you is different from the way you’ve seen him support other victims. Not to imagine that there’s something special about you. You’ll cry about this later, wish for neuroin to take the edge off the pain, but for now, you lean into Endgame and breathe deep. His hair brushes against your cheek as he walks. That’s familiar, too.

All the emergency personnel outside the building are occupied with the kids, like they should be, so Endgame kidnaps a first-aid kit and treats you himself. You feel like that’s a bad idea, too, but you can tell Endgame’s losing patience, so you don’t push the point. It’s – nice, anyway. Different. This is something you never got in the world-that-was, because Tomura was always injured worse than you are, and you didn’t hold it against him. You knew how things were. He didn’t need to patch up your scrapes and bruises to show you that he loved you.

Endgame doesn’t love you. He’ll never love you. But you find yourself fixated on his gentle touch as he tells you to lie back, props your legs up, slides a makeshift pillow beneath your head, cuts open your sleeve to clean the cut on your arm. You wonder what it would have been like to have this before. To know that Tomura could take care of you, and to be sure that he would.

“What happened up there?” Endgame asks as he applies steri-strips, piecing the wound back together. You’re averting your eyes, not because you have a problem with blood but because it’ll be hard enough to bounce back from this already. “I didn’t hear much except from Savior when he dropped the mad scientist off.”

The mad scientist. That’s a good word to describe him. “He was working on someone. Torturing them. I couldn’t just watch.”

“What did you do instead?”

“Swung a fire extinguisher through the observation window,” you say, and Endgame snorts. “And then I picked a fight.”

“And lost.”

“I lived, so I won,” you protest. “But I could have won the other way. I kept getting distracted. Because of –”

“The victim,” Endgame says. “That’s the hardest part for me, too.”

You look at him then. You’re not sure how you’re supposed to look away, and you find his gaze distant, even as one hand cradles your elbow, as the other smooths a steri-strip down. “I didn’t get into this job because I like fighting or something. I like helping people. I’m not good at focusing on fighting if I know someone’s being hurt, even if I have to fight to make it stop. So I get it.”

His eyes refocus, settling on yours. “I’m not letting you off the hook, though. Starting that fight was a stupid idea.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” It’s harder than it should be to hold his gaze, and with the effort that takes, there’s nothing left to stop what you say next. “I saw something like that before, and I didn’t stop it then. I had to stop it now.”

You wonder if you’re imagining the wariness in Endgame’s gaze. “Do what you have to, but wait for me next time,” he says. And then: “You’re supposed to make it out. None of it matters if you don’t.”

A bolt of lightning tears down your spine, and for a moment, you hear the ghost of Tomura’s voice in Endgame’s, younger and angrier but still carrying that same tense undertone. You’ve heard him say that before. In another life, in the middle of a battle where he was still fighting for more than just himself. Were you ever fighting for more than yourself? Maybe. You’d like to think so. You fought for the League, for your friends. But you would have fought through anything to be at Tomura’s side.

And tonight you were. You wrench your gaze away from his face. “Don’t say stuff like that. I’m your coworker, not some civilian.”

“Just your coworker. Not your friend?”

You can’t read his tone of voice, and you don’t know what to say to him. You don’t know how to tell him it’s a bad idea to be friends, that it might work for him but your heart probably won’t be able to take it – and at the same time, you can’t imagine telling him no. Not when he’s telling you he cares about you as more than just a coworker, more than just a civilian. “We’re friends,” you say, and you glance his way just long enough to see him smile.

An EMT comes by to check Endgame’s work, and confirms that you should be allowed to go home as long as you drink and eat something something first. You’ve got snacks in your backpack, which Endgame gets up to retrieve – but before you can unzip it, he holds up the box of pastries he bought instead. It feels like the two of you were at the street fair a lifetime ago. “I got these,” he says. “So we could share.”

You get your face under control with an effort, but all your efforts go out the window when you open the box. You make yourself a promise never to ask how he knew – what your favorite pastry is, which flavors you like, two of each so you can both try them all. It’s the last detail that makes your head spin. Whenever it was your job to find food for the two of you, you always made sure to get two of everything. Tomura never knew what he liked. You wanted to help him find it.

You can’t do this. “I’m not hungry,” you say. You get up, nudge past him, and start walking home.

You don’t make it far. You get dizzy, and worse, the tears kick up, and even worse than all of that, Endgame follows you. But you’re still a criminal at heart, and you know how to avoid being found when you don’t want to be. You find a place to rest, sit down with your head between your knees, tuck a suboxone film under your tongue, and cry until your head hurts.

The longer you think about it, the worse it gets. You’ve embarrassed yourself. How are you supposed to look Endgame in the eye after that? How are you going to explain why you got up and ran away when he offered you food? Even worse than that, you got a taste of it again – the way it felt to be with him, to be in on the joke, to be on his team and fighting at his side – and a single taste was enough to bring it all roaring back. You’ll love Tomura for the rest of your life, and your ability to pretend there’s a difference between him and Endgame is at an end. You can’t keep working with him. You have to quit your job.

Do you even have a job anymore? You just walked off it, and in the process of finding the missing kids, you used your quirk without a license to do so. They could prosecute you. You could lose everything. Maybe you already have. You definitely have – that’s the way your luck goes, the way it’s always gone. What are you supposed to do now?

Neuroin, your brain suggests, and in spite of the suboxone and your two years of sobriety and all the coping skills you’ve picked up, you’re struck by the need for a hit. And why shouldn’t you take one? Everything’s ruined, again, and this time, it’s all your fault. Why can’t you forget, at least for a little while? Enough neuroin and these past few years will feel like a dream, pretty but distant, something that was never true. You’re useless. Worthless. All you know how to do is –

Somewhere within you, something kicks back. Everything’s ruined – according to who? Your brain might be insisting, might be screaming for relief, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. You force yourself to take a deep breath, then another. The situation with Endgame is awful. There’s nothing you can do about that right now. But your job, and your quirk, and your criminal record. Where’s the proof that you’re going to lose your job? You were basically at the end of your shift anyway, and people are allowed to go home early after hard nights. Your quirk? You didn’t use it to hurt anyone. You used it to do something good, something nobody else could have done. Who’s going to prosecute you for that?

You can think of prosecutors who would, but it’ll be a tough fight, and you know people who will have your back. And there’s something it reminds you of, something you can’t look at too closely right now. You can deal with it later. Right now you have to get on top of the impulse to use, something that’s all but immune to rationality and reason. You can hold it off, sure. Not for long. And not alone.

When you take out your phone, there are messages from Endgame. You can’t deal with those right now, either. Instead you scroll downwards to the treatment center’s overnight line, wiping at your eyes as the phone rings twice. It’s Nakayama who picks up, and you start talking before she can prompt you. “I’m out on patrol. Something happened and I got triggered. Can I stay on the phone with you while I try to get home?”

“Of course.” Nakayama’s voice is soft, calm. You know that voice. You can hear yourself using it, sometimes, when you’re out on patrol trying to talk someone down. “Where are you right now?”

You give her your approximate location, then ask her not to share it. “I can get back on my own. I just need some company.”

“I hear you. Let’s figure out the best way to get you home before you start walking. Where’s the nearest train station?”

“It’s too late for trains.”

“It’s morning,” Nakayama tells you. “If you get to your nearest station, you won’t have to wait too long. Do you feel like you can make it there?”

You wipe your eyes one last time, get to your knees, then your feet. “Yeah. I can get there.”

The walk home isn’t quite a blur. For some part of you, it’s like you never left the world-that-was, never left the streets. It’s late and you’re tired and you’re hurt and all you want is to not feel for a little while. But it’s different now. You know it’s different, and in case you needed proof, a crisis response team on the daylight shift actually stops you. This time it’s Uraraka Ochako, with a de-escalation specialist you haven’t met before, both of them staring at you with concern. “It looks like you’re having a rough night,” the specialist says carefully. “Can we do anything to help?”

You shake your head. “I’m okay. I’m on the phone with someone who said they’d keep me company for the walk, and I’m not far from home. I can get there in one piece.”

They don’t look like they believe you. You probably wouldn’t believe you – your sleeve is bloody, and you look like you’ve been bawling your eyes out. When you fish your badge out of your pocket, their expressions clear in a hurry. “You were with Endgame at the rescue tonight,” Uraraka says, and your stomach lurches. “I’m going to let him know we found you. He’s really worried.”

Your need for a hit roars back, then doubles. All you’ve done tonight is fuck up. He shouldn’t be worrying about you. The fact that he’s worried about you means you’ve crossed way too many lines with him, like an idiot, and you’ve ruined everything, again – “Deep breaths,” Nakayama says softly in your ear, and you force yourself to count them out. “You’re almost home. Answer them and they’ll let you go.”

Right. If you want to get out of here before you have a public breakdown, you need to answer them. “Thanks,” you say to Uraraka. “Everything’s fine.”

She buys it. The de-escalation specialist doesn’t, but keeps his mouth shut. “Nice work on the rescue tonight,” he says instead. “Everybody’s talking about it.”

Probably because Endgame’s been worrying about you on the team channel. Because you acted like a lunatic and made him worry about you, which you did because you suck. You count out your breaths again before you try to speak. “Thanks. Good luck out there.”

You ask Nakayama to talk to you the rest of the way back to the treatment center, and she does, telling you about what happened in tonight’s art group and how Honey finally finished the voodoo doll she’s been making of Gentle Criminal – and how Himiko handed her a knife she definitely wasn’t supposed to have so she could stab it. She describes how hard Eri laughed, how she decided she wants to make a voodoo doll, too. You won’t be much help with that. You don’t even know how to sew. And if you were going to make one, who would it even be of? Deku? All Might? All For One? Who do you blame for everything that’s gone wrong?

You. What’s happened is your fault. And you’ve spent enough time stabbing yourself with needles full of poison for a lifetime.

When you finally make it to the treatment center, Nakayama comes out to the employee entrance to greet you. “I let the detox side of things know you’ll need the day off,” she says. You’re too drained to argue. “It might be a good idea to eat and get some rest.”

You think so. You shower in the staff bathrooms instead of the patient ones, eat in the staff breakroom rather than the communal dining room, and sneak back into your shared room only once you’re sure Himiko’s left for breakfast. With some food in your stomach and all your crying done in the shower, you’re almost too tired to set an alarm so you’ll wake up in time for treatment in the afternoon. And once you’ve set it, you find yourself fumbling over to your messages, to see what Endgame’s been sending you.

Endgame: what just happened

Endgame: where did you go?

Endgame: don’t do this tonight

Endgame: is it because I said we’re friends?

Maybe you shouldn’t be reading these. They’re making you want to smother yourself. After that, there’s a missed call or two. He called you twice in a row, without leaving messages, and you try to picture his expression as you let them both go to voicemail. Was he angry with you? Probably. You never went dark on Tomura, but if you did and everything turned out to be fine, he’d have been pissed. He’s probably really pissed at you, and maybe that’s a good thing. You keep scrolling.

Endgame: you don’t have to talk to me or anybody. please just let me know you’re okay.

Right – he knows all about your backstory, so he’s probably worried you ran off to get high. Which you would have, if your coping skills hadn’t kicked in at the last second. You text him back, knowing it’s a stupid idea. Still sober.

not what I asked. are you okay?

You weren’t expecting him to text back this fast. Or to still be awake. Maybe he’s been doing press or something – or the end-of-shift documentation, which must be hell after a shift like that. I ran into another team on my way home. They said they’d tell you.

They did. I wanted to hear from you. Endgame’s typing icon hovers for a long time. what happened?

The stress must have gotten to me. I’m just going to sleep it off. You need to get out of this conversation, just like you’ve needed to get out of your feelings all night. You should rest, too.

Yeah. I’ve got one more thing to do first. Endgame’s next text comes in a few seconds later. sleep well.

You mean to say the same thing to him. It would be rude not to. But your mind feels so foggy and exhausted that you can’t figure out how to say it in a way that won’t come across as too familiar, as too obvious, as too big of a hint that you feel more for him than you should. Finally you set your phone aside and fall asleep.

When you wake up, it’s to chaos – Himiko’s in your room, which is also her room, but so is Eri, and when you peer around them, you see the tops of Honey’s ponytails bobbing in the doorway. “Look at this,” Eri says, pushing her phone at you. “You’re on the news.”

“Everybody’s talking about it,” Honey adds. “You have to tell us what happened.”

“It’s in the paper, too,” Birdie announces, shouldering past Honey. “Here, sign this. Since you’re famous now, I might be able to hawk it.”

“There’s a special report on in ten minutes. Sugimura said we can all watch,” Eri says. She pats your shoulder – not your injured one. You’ve been sleeping on that one for hours, and it hurts like hell. “Wake up and come with us.”

You mumble assent, and Himiko shoos the other three out, promising them that she’ll get you there on time. Once they’re gone, she sits down at the edge of the bed. “Somebody stopped by and left something for you,” she says, and she lifts a familiar box into your field of vision. “Do you know who?”

You don’t want to think about it – Endgame, at the end of a long shift, heading home to a wife who’s pissed that he’s back to working nights. Endgame, who’s got every reason to go straight home. Endgame, who stopped by the treatment center instead, to drop off the box of pastries for you. You shake your head in answer to Himiko’s question, and although you’re sure she knows you’re lying, for once she lets it go.

“Okay,” Midoriya says. He looks at you across the table, and you look blankly back. “We’ve got some stuff to go through today.”

“Yeah.” You still feel hollow, in spite of the fact that you ate two of the pastries Endgame left for you. The ones the two of you were supposed to share. “Where do you want to start?”

“First, I wanted to tell you I’m proud of you,” Midoriya says, and you look up, startled. “Not for your work last night. I mean, I’m proud of that, too. But I’m really proud of the part where you asked for help when you felt like you couldn’t cope alone. That’s a lot harder to do than most people understand. It really shows how much you’ve grown from when I first met you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I was thinking about before.”

“Did you use?” Midoriya doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m proud of you. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

You’re too tired to argue, and there’s something you’ve been thinking of, something you’ve been turning over in your head as you stumbled through this afternoon’s group treatment sessions. “I think I figured it out,” you say, and Midoriya raises his eyebrows. “What the doctor and the Meta Liberation Army are doing.”

Midoriya nods eagerly. He pulls out his notebook, and you struggle to lay out your thought process. It felt clear to you earlier, and it’s hard to say now. “I recognized the equipment they were using on that kid. It’s the same kind the doctor used on Tomura, to give him the extra quirks. And on the news I heard a Detnerat spokesperson apologizing that someone had stolen their tech and used it like this. Except – the equipment didn’t look pieced together. It looked like it was made that way.”

Midoriya is nodding. “And the Meta Liberation Army – they’d want to be able to give people quirks, wouldn’t they? That way they don’t have to deal with quirkless people. They can take the weak and make them strong.”

“I think so,” you say. “For Detnerat to build that equipment, they’d have to be in contact with the doctor. And with All For One dead, the doctor would have needed a patron who could fund his research off the books. I think they might be working together.”

“I think you might be right,” Midoriya says. “And I think I know how to make them show themselves.”

“Really?”

Midoriya nods. He flips a few pages back in his notebook, scans it, and then looks up at you. “In your history, you said that the Meta Liberation Army provoked the League of Villains on purpose. They wanted to destroy them, so that they could be the ones to lead the revolution against hero society. Is that right?”

You nod. “Since they haven’t done anything in this timeline, I think the only way they’ll come out into the open is if they think they’re losing their chance,” Midoriya says. “Obviously, we can’t just make up a rival group of villains, so our best shot is to do it legally.”

Legal stuff isn’t exactly your specialty. “How?”

“By passing legislation to legalize quirk usage for everyone, not just heroes,” Midoriya says. He flips back to the front of his notebook and starts writing, although you can’t imagine he’s writing fast enough to keep up with the words flying out of his mouth. “The legislation’s been on the back burner for years. Every so often somebody floats the idea, and as soon as it picks up any traction, the HPSC crushes it. Their contention is that ordinary people using their quirks is dangerous and irresponsible, and makes things worse rather than better. But after yesterday –”

He fumbles on his desk, then holds up a newspaper copy, the same one that Birdie joked about wanting you to sign earlier today. “We’ve got proof that they’re wrong.”

You didn’t really look at the headline before. You wanted to go back to sleep. But you take a closer look and see that the cover photo is actually two photos. On one side is Midoriya, lowering the mad scientist safely down to the police. On the other side is Endgame, carrying one of the kids and leading the others out to safety.

That’s the picture that captivates you, but you know that’s not what Midoriya wants you to look at. “Your press clippings look good. That’s a lot nicer than they usually are to vigilantes.”

“I thought they were going to put up a Wanted poster,” Midoriya admits, and you snort. The idea of Midoriya’s bright-eyed, way-too-earnest expression in his tie-dyed All Might onesie on a Wanted poster is absurd. “But it’s not the photos I want you to look at. Check out the headline.”

You read it in silence at first. Then you read it aloud. “Civilians’ quirks aid hero in miracle rescue.”

“Civilians,” Midoriya says, stressing the plural. “They’re talking about you, too.”

“They shouldn’t,” you say at once. “I’m not a hero.”

“That’s not what it says. It says you’re a civilian, and that’s the point,” Midoriya says, his voice pitching upwards with excitement. “Without your quirk, those kids wouldn’t have been rescued. No one would have even known they were there. And under our current laws you could be charged for using your quirk to find them.”

Your stomach drops. “Not that you’re going to be charged,” Midoriya says hastily. He shoves the paper at you again, pointing out a sentence he’s underlined. Something about the district attorney issuing a statement saying they’ve got no plans to prosecute you. “But that’s the thing. There are people all across Japan who aren’t heroes, who could do something good with their quirks. Who could make a difference. And right now there’s no room for people who can do what heroes can’t. All the law allows for is punishment.”

He sucks down a breath, then keeps going. “That’s the Meta Liberation Army’s whole point, right? Suppression of quirks is wrong. It limits people’s freedom and it prevents society from advancing. They think it’ll take a revolution to fix society, but what if it doesn’t? What if we do it on our own? Then it won’t be the HPSC who tries to stop it –”

“It’ll be them,” you say. “The only thing bigger than Re-Destro’s forehead was his ego. He thinks it’s his destiny to lead the revolution. He won’t take it well if someone else does it.”

“And if he somehow does, then we’re still fine,” Midoriya says. “If they don’t revolt, things change for the better, and nobody gets hurt.”

He looks at you, his eyes bright. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s naïve,” you say flatly. “Someone always gets hurt.”

“Maybe,” Midoriya says. “Maybe nothing can change for the better without someone, somewhere being hurt. You probably know that better than I do.”

You do. There’s no change anyone can make that will be better for everyone. There will always be someone left behind. “But think about it,” Midoriya says quietly. He leans forward, like he’s telling a secret, like whatever he’s about to say is too fragile to survive in open air. “What if it didn’t take a war to change the world?”

“There was a war,” you say. “It didn’t change anything.”

“So it’s time to try something new,” Midoriya says. “What do you think?”

You think it’s crazy. When you think about the doctor, when you think about the MLA, all you can think about is the nightmare they unleashed, a nightmare you never woke up from in the world-that-was. The Hero Killer’s fate was one thing. Overhaul’s fate was another. But this is different. This is worse. You can’t imagine a confrontation with them that ends in anything but disaster, just like it did before.

But it doesn’t have to be like it was before. Tomura won’t be facing Re-Destro and the Meta Liberation Army alone – he’ll have Midoriya on his side, and other heroes behind him, and maybe the MLA will let society change without starting a civil war. The doctor, wherever he is, can’t get to Tomura now, and All For One has been dead for twenty years or more. It can be different. You’ve lived in this world long enough to know how different it can be.

You look up at Midoriya. “The past harmonizes, right?” you say, and he nods. “Maybe it’ll go better this time. I just don’t know how we do it.”

“All Might can help with that,” Midoriya says confidently. “He’s the most respected hero in Japan. If he calls for a change in the laws, people will answer. And the government will have to answer anyway. They’re catching a lot of heat for why they weren’t using your quirk to find missing people the entire time.”

“It was Eri’s idea,” you say. “I wouldn’t have thought of it without her.”

“You should tell her,” Midoriya says, and you nod. It’s quiet for a little while after that, and Midoriya’s got the look on his face that means he’s got something to say, something he knows you probably don’t want to hear. “I wasn’t sure whether to say this, but you mentioned the past harmonizing already. I was wondering if you want to talk about this.”

You don’t need to ask him what he means. You see it when he turns the newspaper to the second page and holds it out. Most of the page is taken up by a photo spread chronicling every piece of the rescue, and your eyes are drawn immediately to a photo in the lower right corner. Endgame’s in it. So are you.

You’re sitting up, upright on the tailgate of an ambulance instead of lying across the back, and it’s clear in the photo that you aren’t steady. You must not be, or else there’d be no reason for Endgame’s hands on you, one on your shoulder and one on your hip, to keep you from falling back. You spent most of the wound-tending session trying to avoid looking at Endgame, but for this single moment, you were looking up at him, your eyes intent on his face. The camera caught you looking at him. And worse than that, it caught him looking at you.

You’ve seen that expression on his face. It’s the one he wore when he asked if you knew each other, if he’d seen you somewhere before. And the longer you look at the photo, the more you see, things you wouldn’t have noticed because you were too lost in your efforts to hide how you felt. You know how Endgame touches the people he saves – hands mostly open, always one finger lifted, even though he has control of his quirk. That’s not how he’s holding you. The hand on your waist and the one on your shoulder both have all five fingers down.

You can’t look at it. You avert your eyes and shove the paper back towards Midoriya. “What am I supposed to talk about?”

“Nakayama told me what happened last night,” Midoriya says, and you let your eyes fall shut. “It’s got something to do with whatever was happening here, right?”

“Yeah. I fucked everything up, and I called Nakayama so I wouldn’t stick a fucking needle in my arm.” The venom in your own voice, the hatred, shocks you. You didn’t think this was in you anymore. “I humiliated myself. I ran away, like some overdramatic, pathetic piece of shit, and I made him worry about me – like I was doing it for attention or something –”

“Were you?” Midoriya asks. You open your eyes to glare at him. “Seriously. If you were really doing it for attention, then we can talk about that. If you weren’t doing it for attention –”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “That’s what I thought it would look like. What people would think.”

“We’re not talking about people right now. Just you,” Midoriya says. “What made you feel like you had to leave?”

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, even though you’re not crying, trying to force some sense back into yourself. “It felt too much. I felt too much. It felt like it did before, but it wasn’t, and I felt like if I sat there any longer, he was going to see. And he was going to ask. And I didn’t –”

You trail off. “I snapped over a box of pastries. How stupid is that?”

“That depends. What was it about the pastries?”

“They’re my favorite kind,” you say. You can’t look at Midoriya, can’t look at the picture in the paper – can’t even shut your eyes without seeing the way Endgame looked at you. You look down at your hands in your lap instead. “I never told him that this time. I remember everything we’ve talked about – I have to be so careful, or I’ll – and I never mentioned it. And that could be a lucky guess, right? He could have picked at random and gotten it right.”

“Right,” Midoriya agrees. “It’s good to be able to generate alternate explanations. What else about the pastries?”

“He got my favorite flavors. Two of each, so we could share.” Your voice goes quiet, frail. “That’s what I used to do when I’d buy food for us. Two of each kind, so we could both try them, and he could work out what he liked.”

Midoriya’s quiet. You know you’ve gotten far enough in therapy that you can piece this together out loud, that you can articulate your thought process without his help. That doesn’t mean you like doing it. “If it had just been the right pastries, or the right flavors, I could write it off,” you say. “Even if it was the right flavors and the right pastries. But getting two of each – it felt too close to be a coincidence, even though it was. I just couldn’t take it.”

“Too close to be a coincidence,” Midoriya echoes. It’s quiet for a moment. “You know what? I don’t think it was a coincidence at all.”

Your stomach lurches. “Now who’s got the delusional architecture?”

“You were never delusional,” Midoriya says. He smiles slightly. “We talk about how the past harmonizes – your past, with our present. It happens over and over again – with Eri, with Spinner, with me. It sounds a little different, but it’s the same notes, the same people. Why couldn’t that happen with you and Endgame?”

“Because that’s not the deal I made. I gave him up,” you say. Your voice shakes, even though it shouldn’t. It’s been so many years. “I don’t get him back.”

“Have you been trying to get him back?” Midoriya asks. You shake your head. “Then –”

“They’re fighting. Him and his wife. He was upset about it tonight, and I asked if he was okay –”

“Like a friend would?” Midoriya asks. “You’ve been honest with me, and nothing you’ve told me about your interactions with Endgame have suggested that you’ve crossed lines. If you and Endgame are growing closer, it’s because being closer to you is something he wants – and you’re shaking your head. What about that do you find hard to believe?”

Everything. “I know what I gave up,” you say again. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“You know what you gave up,” Midoriya repeats, instead of backing off. You grit your teeth. “In changing history with your wish, you created a timeline where you and Tomura never met at nineteen. You didn’t meet him then. There’s nothing in the conditions of your wish that says you couldn’t meet him later on.”

“No,” you admit. “When I made the wish, the entity said that I’d live to see every result of it.”

“That’s not the same thing as saying you’d never see him again.”

No, it’s not. Every result of your wish leaves a lot of possibilities open – way more than you’d ever have guessed on that first morning, when you woke up and realized what you’d given away in exchange for Tomura’s long and happy life. You’ve found yourself in a place you could never have imagined that day, or even three years ago, and Tomura has what you wanted for him. A long and happy life. And there’s nothing in the bargain you made that said you could never be part of it.

You lower your head into your hands. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“The same thing we all do,” Midoriya says. “Keep living, and see what happens next.”

You don’t want to hope. Hoping makes you feel sick. “That blows.”

Midoriya sighs and leans back in his chair. “Tell me about it,” he says. “At least we’re not alone with it, right?”

“Yeah,” you admit. Your life, every bit of it but the last three years, scrolls through your mind – moment after moment with no one to talk to, nowhere to turn, nowhere to go but deeper into your own mind. As much as this sucks – “It’s better this way.”

<- part 1

taglist: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @evilcookie5 @lvtuss @shigarakislaughter @deadhands69 @shikiblessed @xeveryxstarfallx @babybehh @atspiss @baking-ghoul @minniessskii @dance-with-me-in-hell @boogiemansbitch @agente707 @handumb @warxhammer @issaortiz @cheeseonatower @koohiii @lacrimae-lotos @stardustdreamersisi @aslutforfictionalmen

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shimura tenko x reader #shimura tenko x you #tenko shimura x reader #tenko shimura x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #wish au

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majestyeverlasting · 12 hours ago

Note

Hello! I saw your requests were open and that you wrote for Eddie, so I had to 😋😞

I wanted to ask if I could request an Eddie x reader where let’s say reader isn’t the best withemotions and communication kinda sucks cause they grew up without a good example for love, maybe their parents weren’t good for one another/very bad marriage. due to this readers view of love can be like very tainted, or that love is kinda toxic in a way. So, they’re kinda self sabotaging/think Eddie deserves better cause they struggle with communication, and it boils down to a fight one day where Eddie is hurt they won’t let him in, and reader is kinda guilty and cries to him for the first time ever and just lets him know they love him a lot, more than anything, but don’t know how to show or say it.

Like they believe he’ll leave them, but he promises he won’t/loves them for them, and wants to show them love isn’t like how their parents were!

If you take this, thank u so so much but g you don’t it is a-okay!

𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

pairing eddie munson x female reader [friends → lovers] summary haunted by the version of love you saw growing up, you return to Hawkins and find yourself entangled in the most honest connection you’ve ever known [fluff, angst, slow burn, wc 4k]. a/n thanks for your patience, anon! really enjoyed writing this one.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

Each step you take results in a thick slosh that joins the patter of rainfall and rustle of the trees. The neon red open sign of the Quick Mart glows up ahead like a beacon amid the dreary evening. Of the two vehicles parked at the gas pumps, you can’t help but feel you’ve seen the van before.

The bells above the doors jingle as you step inside. The air is cool against your wet skin as you wipe your Keds on the tattered black entrance rug. Rather than venturing deeper into the store, you stay near the front window and pray the storm clouds have already planned their exit. There was nothing particularly exciting waiting for you at home, but sometimes even your mother’s company was better than being alone.

Time was supposed to be the great healer of all, but now that you’re back home from college, you realize not much has changed within Hawkins at all. It was as if the town was forever tethered to this singular state of existence.

“Oh, no,” a lighthearted voice laments. “Rain got you good, huh?”

You turn around, and there stands Eddie Munson and his warm smile at the checkout counter. His hair is pulled back out of his face, and a few rain droplets wet his gray t-shirt. He starts your way after the clerk hands him his bag. It’d been his van you recognized outside. He’s one of Steve’s friends.

“Maybe just a little bit,” you joke as he stops a couple feet away.

Eddie’s gaze strikes a balance between sympathetic and amused. Even if it teetered toward the latter, you doubt you’d be offended. There seemed to be an eternal glimmer of warmth in his eyes.

“Where ya comin’ from?”

“The library,” you say. “Should’ve watched the news this morning.” You pull your shirt away from yourself so it doesn’t cling to your frame.

Eddie’s gaze flits down to your body, more observant than anything. Then he meets your eyes again as if it’d been wrong to look.

He clears his throat. “You’re Steve’s neighbor.”

“I am.”

“I remember seeing you around,” he says. “Guess our paths just never crossed.”

You never realized how tall he was up close. Or how good he smells. You suddenly feel more aware of yourself.

“I can give you a ride home if you want,” he says.

You shake your head before any words leave your mouth. “It should be letting up soon. Usually doesn’t last when it pours like this.”

“You sure?” He watches the way you bite your lower lip in consideration. “C’mon.”

Eddie starts towards the door, and the air returns to his lungs when you follow.

•••

The inside of his van smells like pine, smoke, and earth. For a few seconds, you refrain from relaxing too deeply into the seat, but you eventually give in. The discomfort from being wet doesn’t last long. You don’t notice the tool bag at your feet until Eddie hisses apologetically.

“Lemme get this outta your way,” he says.

He reaches down, but you beat him to it. A surprised grunt escapes you at the weight, and he chuckles as he takes it from you and slings it to the back like it's light as a feather, bicep flexing. While he’s turned around, he grabs something else you can’t see at first. A green towel is soon placed in your lap.

You blink down at it in pleasant surprise.

“It’s clean,” he promises.

“I wasn’t worried,” you assure, offering a small smile. You start wiping the moisture from your face and arms. “Thanks.”

As Eddie pulls out the lot, the rubber of the windshield wipers squeak faintly as they move. You find yourself entranced by how they smear the raindrops. Eddie shoots a couple of brief glances your way. There’s an intimacy to the moment that he can’t help but be aware of.

“Am I takin’ you home or someplace else?”

The question shouldn’t catch you off guard, but it does. “Home, please.” That word feels heavier than it should. “I’m right across from Steve.” You forget he already knows.

Hawkins is as slow and sleepy as ever as you two cruise down the empty streets. Eddie drives with one hand on the wheel, and your attention drifts from his arm to the bend of his knuckles. The weight of your gaze makes him peek over at you. You shift just slightly enough to confirm that you’d been staring, and he smiles, a subtle upturn of his lips as he refocuses on the road.

For someone described as kinetic energy personified, Eddie knew how to settle into a silence. How to take what it gave him without trying to refashion it. It almost scares you how there’s such a sense of ease here by his side, traveling in the rain. You’d never given any thought to what it might be like, but you’d never have guessed this. He feels safe.

“I never realized you had so many tattoos,” you murmur, breaking the stillness.

He glances down at his arm. “Think you’ve been staring long enough to pick a favorite?” When your brows lift in surprise, he huffs a laugh that’s equally as worried as it is shy. “I’m messin’ with you.”

A spark of boldness drives you to touch the one just above his elbow. It’s one of the softer tattoos he has, an intricate human-like creature with pretty wings. “Is this a fairy?”

“When I was younger, my mom had this really nice garden,” he starts. “She always claimed it was filled with ‘em, and I believed her.”

“Do you still believe in them?” You’re partly teasing.

“I believe in a lot more than fairies these days.” It grows quiet, and he bites his lower lip. “She passed when I was eleven.”

That lands harder than you’re prepared for.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

Back then, it had taken a few years for Eddie to accept people’s sympathy instead of brushing it off. The last thing he’d wanted was pity from people who’d move on by the next day. More often than not, he felt like that same seven-year-old boy watering flowers with her on summer afternoons. As long as he could stay in tune with that version of himself, he’d have his mom forever.

•••

When Eddie pulls into the driveway of your house, the lights in the foyer turn on. A second later, your mother’s head peaks through the curtains and disappears just as fast. Eddie chuckles, but his smile fades when he realizes the heavy look on your face. You hadn’t found her vigilance endearing. It takes a second for you to register that he’d laughed, and by the time you force a smile, it’s too late for him to believe it.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, leaning in a bit.

It’s too soon to tell him that she holds you to a high set of standards—especially now that you’ve graduated and are expected to either land a job or find an affluent husband who can provide. Too soon to admit that you can’t remember all the times she said she was proud. Her expectations overshadowed them all, and things worsened after the divorce, when your father moved out. Some days it was easier to love your parents than others.

“It’s complicated.”

Eddie didn’t know you as well as he did Steve, but perhaps, you and Steve were one and the same. Always wanting to be everywhere but the one place that was supposed to be a safe haven. Eddie used to be ashamed of Forest Hills and his uncle Wayne’s cramped trailer. But every day he came home, he knew he could leave the weight of the world at the door and not have to worry about picking up a new set of troubles inside.

Things were never as they seemed from the outside looking in.

Eddie clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you sigh. “Thanks for the ride.”

He means to say you’re welcome, but you hop out of his van and jog to the front door. Your mom is there to welcome you inside to seek solace from the rain. She waves at Eddie as he backs out of the driveway, and he politely waves back.

All he can think about is that he wishes he’d met you a whole lot sooner.

•••

Smoke flows into the air as Steve exhales beside you. He stares at a distant point down the street before taking another relaxed drag. Ashes pepper to the ground when he lowers the cigarette from between his lips and flicks it with his index finger. The sky is a beautiful ombre as a result of the setting sun. The two of you had come outside to sit on his curb and watch the day wind to its end.

“So are you two, like…” Steve trails off as he meets your gaze. It’d been three months since Eddie drove you home.

“Please don’t.” You drop your face into your hands. He elbows you gently, and you return the gesture ten times harder.

“Ouch!”

“That did not hurt,” you say.

“Did too,” he counters, chuckling as he massages his arm.

A hush falls between you, and you shake your head when Steve offers you the cigarette. In the near distance, the laughter of children and the rhythmic thump of a basketball drifts into the air. Thanks to Steve’s question, all you can hear now is the way Eddie says your name, always a touch lighter than the rest of his words. You can hear his laugh. You can see his wild curls and kind, dark eyes.

Sighing, you look at the house across the street with its long driveway and crisp, manicured lawn. The epitome of the small-town American dream. After years of living within its walls, you could confidently say it felt like a home on some days, but never all the time. Just like all the smiles and laughter you shared with your parents when they were married, they were real on some days, but never all the time.

They lived together until you left for college, but even then, it always felt like they were miles apart. They’d met young, married young, had you young. Somewhere along the line, they stopped being brave enough to show up as their full selves. New hopes and desires went unvoiced and became grounds for resentment to grow. In their minds, it was easier to let those weeds sprout until the inevitable day the growth took over entirely.

Part of you feared it was contagious.

“I wasn’t trying to pry.” Steve finally says. “It’s just that Eddie said something earlier that…” he realizes he shouldn’t divulge, not when he wasn’t here to clarify or defend himself.

“That what?”

Steve ignores your question. “And you’re together all the time.”

Somehow, those words make you feel caught. You hold Steve’s gaze. He’d grown into his pouty lips and round eyes, but you can still see the freckle-faced kid who would always ring the doorbell and ask you to come out and play until you eventually started joining on your own. Life always seemed to be sweeter outside, and it turns out the way he felt wasn’t far off.

“We’re together all the time too,” you note.

“Not like that.”

“Like what?”

Steve shakes his head as he laughs. “You’re the most impossible person on planet Earth.” You can hear the affection in his voice.

“Good,” you concede, then nudge him again, this time much softer. “Loser.”

“Weirdo.”

“Dork,” you shoot back.

But more than that, he was right to suspect that something had blossomed between you and Eddie. It was a matter of when, not if, you acknowledged it out loud.

•••

A metal clang erupts the second you climb out of your car. No sooner does a beautiful gray pitbull trot up to you with a wagging tail. Mike’s Tire & Auto Shop never has felt like a real place, but the lot was filled with cars every day, and you seldom heard any complaints. Perhaps that was by virtue of being one of the only service shops in Hawkins. That never stopped your folks from traveling the extra six miles to get their vehicles serviced at a more sophisticated place just outside town.

All the garage doors are open, and various cars are hoisted on the lifts. A couple of mechanics tinker around, but none of them have the hair you’re looking for. With a deep breath, you start towards the garage, a Tupperware container in hand. The mystery pitbull happily follows along. Once you’re inside, you’re mindful not to step on any random car parts or get in anybody's way. A few of the workers appear to want to say something, but refrain.

“Gloria Anne!” A sharp whistle follows the exasperated exclamation, and the dog promptly leaves your side to follow the sound.

You turn around in time to see her heel with dutiful precision beside an older, bearded man dressed in a button-down. He wipes his face with a rag as he approaches you.

“I’m so sorry about that. She ain’t usually like this.” Before you have the chance to say it’s okay, he continues, “It’s these goddamn pregnancy hormones. Yesterday marked four goddamn weeks. M’gonna be a grandpappy.”

Your brows raise in surprise. “Oh…wow. Congratulations,” you say. “I wasn’t sure whether or not to pet her. Didn’t want to get her riled up or anything.

The man shakes his head. “She’s a sweetheart. Only thing riled up around here is my blood pressure.”

Then he curses under his breath. “Where are my manners—I’m Mike. Think I might’ve seen you ‘round town before.” He squints at you as if it’ll help jog his memory. “Haven’t been back to work here since I blew my back out this past winter.”

Eddie comes out of the break room to the sight of you talking to Mike. Alaric, one of the other mechanics, motions to you as if to say what’s this chick doing back here. Eddie waves him off. Over the past few months, he’d gotten used to all the ways you managed to pop up in his life.

“We usually ask that all customers enter through the reception area for their own safety,” Mike says.

“I was actually looking for someone,” you say. “Eddie Munson?”

“That knucklehead over there?” He affectionately points to Eddie, and your head whips that way.

There he is with his coveralls tied around his waist and his hair in a bun, tattoos on display. A boyish smile curls at his lips upon locking eyes with you.

Eddie joins you on one of the benches in front of the shop. He seems grateful for the excuse to step away, sinking back into the wood and letting his legs fall open so his knee touches yours.

“I baked these last night.” You crack the Tupperware open, and he smiles at the chocolate chip cookies inside. “I realized I’ve never visited you at work, so I figured I’d find a reason to stop by. Thought you could maybe share with the guys.”

“Or eat them all myself,” he jokes, warmth stirring in his chest. “You’re not trying to butter me up for something, are you? You know I’ve got an awful sweet tooth.” He knocks his knee against yours.

A laugh escapes you, and Eddie bites his lip to keep from grinning wider like an idiot.

“What would I be buttering you up for?”

As he shrugs, there’s something about the weighted way he studies you. It’s like he’s trying to figure you out all over again. You’re pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Butterflies flutter in your stomach.

He gets a soft look about him. “Guess you’re just thoughtful like that, huh?”

You shrug like it’s not a big deal. As if you hadn’t remembered the comment he made about chocolate chip cookies the other week. Or as if you hadn’t chosen to wear one of your favorite denim skirts.

“My mom’s visiting her sister in Chicago, so they wouldn’t have gotten eaten at my place,” you say, a bit shy and warm from the way he’s looking at you. “And I already gave Steve a couple.”

“I’m on break for another five minutes,” he says. “I say we take first dibs.” His eyes are hopeful.

He hums around the first bite he takes, and you somehow feel like the center of the world. He’d go on to make you feel that way every time you were near.

════ • ════

The first day of Summer ‘89 is marked by rain. A steady fall that continues well into the evening. Eddie can’t see it, but he can hear it all around, against the windows and the roof. It’s your touch he’s focused on as he sits on the floor between your legs, eyes slipped closed. Your fingers are gentle as they comb through the long strands of his hair and detangle where needed. Every so often, you massage his scalp to hear him make that pleased sound in the back of his throat.

His head eventually falls slack against the inside of your thigh. You don’t stop. Not until light begins to pour into the otherwise dim living room. Eddie opens his eyes at the disappearance of your touch. He suddenly remembers where he is. Across the room, the TV drones a rerun of I Dream of Jeannie.

“I think the sun’s coming out,” you say softly.

“Looks like it,” he says, rubbing his eyes.

“Let’s go see.”

He groggily pushes to his feet and pads to the front window with you close behind. Sure enough, the sun has broken through the storm clouds above. It looks like heaven has opened. You admire the view through the raindrop-stained window. What you’re not expecting is for him to open the front door. Warm air flows into his trailer along with the scent of wet earth. The sound of the rain filters in much crisper.

For a moment, the two of you stand in the doorway and soak everything in. You don’t realize you’re leaning into him until he rests a hand on your lower back. As much as you want to stay by his side and enjoy the comfort of his proximity, you retreat back into the trailer with a lump in your throat. What doesn’t register is the tight sigh Eddie releases as he remains in the doorway a few seconds longer.

By the time he returns to the living room, you’re seated stiffly on the couch. Eddie doesn’t join you or move from his place. He stares at the carpet for a few beats, then meets your gaze. That usual sparkle in his eyes has dulled. You wish the couch would consume you whole.

“What are we doing?” Eddie’s voice is so small that you’re almost able to convince yourself you don’t hear the question.

You swallow in place of an answer.

“I really like you,” he admits.

“I like you too.”

He huffs a humorless laugh as he gives you a helpless look. “You know what I mean.”

That’s what scared you the most, knowing. The possession of knowledge isn’t passive. It demands one to be in a state of action or consideration. Seldom did knowledge yield a steady, unchanging state of being. To know is to feel and react. And the way you feel about Eddie is more than just in your head. It’s a truth that runs through your bones.

“I just need to know whether or not I’m wasting my time thinking there’s something else here,” he says.

Amid all the emotions stirring within you, the easiest and cheapest one is offense.

“So I’m just a waste of time?”

The feeling that flares in his chest is wild and unfamiliar, hurt and disbelieving at the same time.

“No, I actually enjoy spending time with you—if you can believe that.” The sarcasm he tacks on his shaky around the edges. “You laugh at my jokes and make me feel good, but you’re also just a really awesome person.”

“Eddie…”

“You can’t keep leaning in only to pull away,” he stresses. “It’s not fair to either of us.”

Summer hadn’t reached its end, but you’d never know that meeting him back on that fateful day last year would’ve led to having some of the best times of your life. From days at the pool, to walks at Lover’s Lake, to spending the night at his place, to Sunday cruises around town. Eddie was everything you never knew you needed.

Tears sting in your eyes.

“I want more.” He motions between the two of you. “And every time you laugh at my jokes, or trace my tattoos, or fall asleep in my van, I’m left wondering if you feel the same way.” His words grow quieter on the tail end like he’s scared you’ll deny ever being on the same page.

You don’t realize you’re crying until the couch cushions dip as he joins you. All you can do is shake your head because you don’t know where to begin. Eddie hesitates for a fraction of a second before he reaches out to take your hand. That’s all the permission you need to sink into him. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, and this time, the last thing on your mind is creating distance. You tuck your face into his neck like it’s the safest place in the world.

Eddie gives you a squeeze, but he still feels out of his depth at the sight of your tears. One thing he knows for sure is that he wants to make them go away.

“You deserve better,” you manage.

With a gentle lift of his shoulder, he attempts to make you sit up and look into his eyes. But you double down because you’re not sure you’ll be able to stop crying if you do.

“You are the better,” he finally says.

Those words give you enough courage to look at him. You feel bare, but the only thing that resides in his eyes is a palpable attentiveness.

“I’m not good at this. You don’t wanna be with me,” you insist. “You’ll look up one day and realize you made a mistake. And you’ll leave because you respect yourself enough not to keep trying.”

Eddie’s chest grows heavy with your implication. “That day’ll never come.”

“That’s what everybody thinks in the beginning.”

“We’re not everybody,” he asserts lightly. “Look at me.”

You redirect your attention to him.

“Do you want this?” Eddie asks, bringing a gentle hand to your cheek to wipe your tears.

You nod because you’re afraid to say it out loud. The words have dried in your throat.

His eyes continue to search yours, and it feels like he’s seeing more than he ought to see. But for some reason, your fear begins to melt. Because you realize you’re staring into the same warm eyes that’d taken in your soaking figure at Quick Mart. The same eyes you managed to find at every hangout and party. The same eyes that would peer over at you during movie nights, heavy with sleep.

Eddie’s mouth opens a couple of times before he finally says, “I love you.”

Your breath is promptly sucked from your lungs because you know you’d heard him right. Yet somehow, it doesn’t feel like the first time. The words strike a part of your chest that recognizes the sentiment. It’s the same one that had come along with all the times he called to check up on you, brought you snacks, stayed up late with you, played his guitar when you didn’t feel like speaking. It’s just that now, you’re actually hearing the three words out loud.

“I know you didn’t grow up with the perfect example of what that looked like between two people—neither did I,” he continues. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve to take a crack at it ourselves.” He strokes your cheek with his thumb.

What he’s not expecting is for you to lean forward and press your lips to his. He stills, only to melt into you in the next breath. Warmth engulfs both of you all the way down to your toes. Eddie’s sure you can hear his heart beating within his ribcage. The kiss is tentative and sweet, just enough to get a taste and leave you with the sneaking suspicion you’ll forever be addicted. When you pull away, it’s to whisper against his lips.

“I love you too.”

Eddie smiles at that and pecks your lips again because he can’t help himself.

Outside, the rain has stopped. If you were to part from each other and go look through the window, you’d see that a faint rainbow has stretched itself across the evening sky.

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

EDDIE MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

#eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie x reader #eddie x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie x you #joseph quinn

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mixingandmelting · 3 days ago

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Hey so how do you think Tim drake would deal with his s/o and him are building stuff and he’s all about instructions and his s/o doesn’t understand the instructions, they say they gonna wing it, he smugly waits on the sidelines for them to mess up, and then s/o messes up once, doesn’t call for help, realises mistake, and then changes what they’re doing and then succeeds in making the thing perfectly without instructions, s/o had used their imagination in their head for it, like picturing everything as a 3d images and rotating them in her head and that helped her put everything together. The words on the page just looked like spaghetti to her. S/o isn’t even smug, they’re joyful to Tim “:D I did it”? (S/o basically does this with everything so it’s not luck, they might have hidden talents they don’t know about cuz their minds very scatterbrained). And for directions, he has directions and s/o sometimes decides not to follow him and he’s like “why?” And s/o’s like “My gut”. “The winds off”. Like a vague answer and then s/o ends up being right for a change?

It was supposed to be difficult. Hell, it was even listed as one of the top five most difficult LEGO sets to exist.

“So, did I do it?” You obviously smile at him, eyes sparkling in hope.

“How…?” On his knees, both of his hands hold the back of his head.

Sitting there, on the coffee table, is the LEGO Star Wars UCS Millennium Falcon perfectly built to a tee. Built from you purely winging it, not looking at the instructions even once. Yes, he agrees, the instruction pamphlet didn’t really make all that much sense. But he still insisted it was readable, just had to squint the eyes a bit to realize what the actual piece was when the two of you had first opened the box. Until you started grabbing the small blocks and randomly fitted them together.

“And you’re sure that piece goes there?” His voice full of doubt and suspicion. He was pretty sure that wasn’t right, his eyes flickering between the blocks in your hands and what was diagramed on paper.

“Yeah, seems like it?”

“And how do you know that?”

“My guts are telling me so.”

Your guts, huh.

Tucking the instruction manual under his arm, he sighed and pinched his nose bridge. He’ll give your guts some credit, there are times your guts are right. But not ALL the time.

“And what makes you so sure your guts are right?”

Instantly, it had led to the two of you squabbling, going back and forth where at one point, the two of you were debating on the correct pronunciation of either. Eventually he left you alone when you continued to stubbornly insist you knew what you were doing.

He was confident you weren’t going to be able to pull it off. There were 7,541 pieces in that LEGO set, all looking similar to one another. All he had to do was to sit back and you would soon go to him and ask if you could see the pamphlet.

“I had to guess a couple of times for some of them, but it was more doable than I thought.” Doable his ass, do you know what doable means?

“I’m dating a genius.” He grumbles, completely humbled and seeing you in a new light.

“Aw, stop. You’re making me blush.”

As much as he hated you gloating about your victory nonstop, he did appreciate the cuddle session and the small pecks you stamp on his cheeks, doing its job to prevent him from getting grumpy and full out sulking.

#tim drake #tim drake x reader #red robin dc #red robin x reader #dc x reader #tim drake imagine #dc imagine

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lilyisnot · 2 days ago

Text

Everything I Ruined

Slow-Burn Romance/Tragic Romance

Inspired by: Mr plankton

Pt1

She stared out the motel window

Still in the dress

Still barefoot

Still aching

Geum stood behind her, hoodie half-off, breathing quiet like he didn’t want to exist too loudly.

“I should hate you,” she muttered.

“I know.”

“You ruined everything.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to just show up after everything and expect me to fall into your arms.”

“I don’t.”

She turned, sharp. Angry. Cracked open.

“You don’t?” she snapped. “Then what the hell was all of that? You carry me out of my wedding and now you’re just…standing there? Like you didn’t ruin me being happy!”

He said nothing.

She stormed forward.

“You don’t get to take me away from a man who actually chose me and then go quiet like you didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t get to be quiet now, Geum.”

Still, nothing.

She shoved him.

Hard.

He barely moved.

She hit his chest again. Furious.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You left me alone.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t fight for me!”

“I didn’t know how” he said louder now.

Her chest heaved. Her eyes were glossy. And then she saw it.

Blood.

His knuckles.

Split open again. Same hands that used to hold her like she was something fragile.

Without speaking, she stormed into the bathroom. Grabbed a towel. The motel’s first-aid kit.

“Sit” she ordered, returning.

He hesitated. “What are you—”

“Sit down, Geum. Before I change my mind.”

He obeyed.

She grabbed his hand rough, trembling and started wiping the dried blood away.

“You always do this” she said. “Throw fists like they’re words. Pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

He watched her. Silent.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care this time” she whispered. “That if you ever came back, I’d slam the door. That I wouldn’t touch you again.”

She paused. “…But I can’t stand watching you like this.”

He closed his eyes.

“I don’t deserve this.”

“You don’t.”

She wrapped his hand in gauze.

But then held it just one second too long.

Their eyes met.

The tension and the unspoken words that haven’t been said to each other are seen in the eyes.

⸻

The next morning, the motel room was quiet when she woke up.

Geum wasn’t in the chair anymore.

For a moment, her chest clenched like he’d left her again.

But then she heard the door open.

He walked in holding two drinks and a bag of convenience store snacks.

“I didn’t know what you liked anymore” he said.

She blinked sleep from her eyes. “You could’ve asked.”

He set the bag down. “That ruins the surprise.”

She peeked inside the bag and found soft, casual clothes something comfortable and cute.

Her jaw tightened, then softened. “Thanks.”

He shrugged “Better than that dress.”

⸻

They didn’t talk about the wedding.

They didn’t talk about the man she almost married.

They didn’t talk about what this meant her running off with him like something out of a dream that turned wrong.

But that afternoon, he said

“Let’s go somewhere.”

She stared at him.

“Where?”

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

But something in his voice was too steady. Like he’d planned it.

“Let’s just drive.”

⸻

He took her to a tiny candle shop hidden between an old bookstore and a laundromat. The kind of place you’d miss if you blinked.

“Seriously?” she asked eyeing the place

“A candle shop?”

“Trust me.”

He pushed open the door. The bell above it jingled like a memory.

Inside, it was warm and golden. Shelves of handmade candles, soft music playing from a dusty speaker. A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled.

“Back again?” she said to Geum.

“She’s with me today” he replied.

The woman nodded, stepping into the back. Left them alone.

She gave him a look.

“You’re weird.”

“You already knew that.”

He walked slowly down the aisles. Lit one of the display candles with a match.

“Smell that.”

She leaned in.

“It smells like—”

“Vanilla almond. Your favorite.”

She paused. A little caught off guard.

“You remembered?”

“I remember everything I ruined.”

⸻

They wandered the shop in near silence.

Some candles smelled like peppermint. Others like coffee or books or summer storms. One smelled exactly like the old soap his hoodie used to carry. You remember.

He bought it.

Didn’t say why though.

“Why here?” she finally asked.

He lit another candle and stared at the tiny flame.

“Because it’s quiet. And soft. And I figured after everything I’ve done you deserve at least one place that doesn’t smell like regret.”

She didn’t reply.

But she didn’t walk away either.

⸻

Later, they sat on the curb outside the shop, sipping paper cups of warm cider from a stand next door. A breeze lifted her hair. He tugged his hoodie sleeves lower.

She glanced sideways at him.

“You’re acting off.”

“I’m always off.”

“No. Today’s different. You’re not just quiet. You’re… distant.”

He stayed quiet for a second too long.

Then…

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

He smiled at his cup.

“You always use to say that.”

⸻

They drove back in silence.

She picked the music old R&B songs they used to hum in the car when they were together and everything still felt like it could last forever.

He didn’t sing along.

Just tapped the wheel gently, like he was trying to stay present.

⸻

Back at the motel, she kicked off her shoes with a sigh and dropped onto the bed.

Not her bed. The bed.

There was only one.

“Seriously?” she muttered.

“It was the only one they had.”

“Of course it was.”

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t look at him either.

She went to the bathroom, washed her face, changed into the clothes he bought her soft, clean, casual.

When she came out, he was already on the other side of the bed, laying flat on his back, hoodie still on, staring at the ceiling.

She rolled her eyes and got in.

Turned her back to him.

“No funny business” she said.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

⸻

The room was quiet.

Not heavy. Just quiet.

She closed her eyes, trying to fall asleep.

“Hey” he said after a minute.

She opened one eye.

“What?”

“Thanks… for today.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Then…

“Don’t make it weird tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

Another pause.

“Goodnight” she mumbled.

“Goodnight.”

#weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #weak hero class 1 #geum seong je x reader #geum seong je #mr plankton

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madameisaacpereire · 1 day ago

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Since Henry is obsessed with Ancient Greece and Homer… what if after Richard, Julian makes another addition in class? And she is intelligent, pretty much in par with him, and can get along with the class better than Richard. But what captured his attention the most is— she looks like she was ancient greek painting or sculpture that came to life, like Galathea.

How do you think that would go?

I need to feel something other than angst and sadness and pain🥹😭

Thank you!❤️

this is basically half your request but half not because i don't write anything painless. this time, it's a slightly OOC henry suffering instead of you, though! i wrote this with @mrs-dot-kennedy & without her, this fic truly wouldn't exist. i was going to just say no. all thanks and credit are really hers.

some faded attic dream (to kiss or to kill you.)

henry winter x fem!reader

It’s an unseasonably warm morning in mid September when you start taking a lone class with Julian. He doesn’t like taking on students who won’t study with him only, but there’s something about you that strikes a mischievous twinkle into his eyes when you meet; something that has him breaking his rules once again.

The air is sweet, as all across campus apples are beginning to fall and rot beneath their trees much faster than students or gardeners can collect them. It’s bright outside, everything tinged soft yellow by the sun, and the air still manages to hold a note of crispness; the promise of death to come.

You show up just as Julian is about to begin speaking, just exactly on time. A cream cashmere shawl drapes lazily over your arms and shoulders like an afterthought, contrasting against the navy blue of your dress. Your hair is pulled up out of your face so that your cheeks, pink from your brisk walk, are in full view.

“Good of you to join us, darling, I was beginning to worry you might not make it.” Julian says, his face crinkling up with pleasure.

You smile softly and slide into the nearest open seat, right between the redhead with a nervous mouth and an unnervingly stoic man built for football, features contrasting in a way that makes him look dead. Francis and Henry, you learn when Julian takes a moment to introduce you to everyone you don’t already know before launching into his lecture with gusto.

You do not look at Henry when he speaks. This alone would be almost unforgivable without your lateness; combined, it is an affront to both higher education and him. You do not seem to place value in his opinions right away. It’s agonizing. You recline in your chair as Julian speaks like a fragment of an antique statuary carelessly arranged by some indifferent hand, and the room— with its the smell of old books and tea, of faded carnations and fine dust— sinks in around you like mist.

Your voice, measured and low, responds not to any one person, but to the room itself— or perhaps to the text, as if your interlocutor might be Homer, or Plato, or Julian, or no one at all— and this is unbearable.

The others have noticed you, of course. Francis with a kind of awe, Richard with the open admiration of a dull boy who has never seen grace, Charles with a shy sort of softness. But none of them recognize the thing he sees at once: the uncanny resemblance not to any living woman, but to something conjured from myth and pigment, from wet clay hardened by fire and time.

With the way your features slope in the bright lighting you look more like you belong on the walls of P. Fannius Synistor’s Boscoreale Villa, immortalized by oil; or perhaps even unearthed from stone, displayed in an echoing hall between the Three Graces and Kephisodotos’s statue of Eirene. You could easily have been dredged up from ruins and dusted off before walking into this room, and Henry wouldn’t be surprised.

Henry watches you with the same rapt attention he has reserved all his life for hidden structures and formal systems, yet you confound all of it. There is nothing structured about your presence, no formality within your glances or speech. You smile at Bunny when he makes a joke in poor taste. You compliment Camilla on her earrings.

One day, you tell Julian that you prefer The Odyssey to The Iliad. And he smiles as he responds, words fond and slow, almost grandfatherly as he says:

“Yes, many women do.”

But it is not The Odyssey that lives in your eyes, Henry thinks— it is The Iliad, crashing and blazing and violent, dipped in red and gold. When you walk out of the room he sits motionless, confounded and dumb, forgotten among teacups and Latin dictionaries, like a man in Apollo’s temple might sit and ponder once the Oracle has gone silent.

The beauty you possess is understated by modern standards, of course, but in nature it is one many have captured in stone, oil, and tapestry. You look, to him, as if you’ve gotten lost in the threads of time itself, found yourself in Vermont by mistake.You ought not to be seated like this, close enough to touch as you absorb Julian’s lecture with quiet surety. You ought not to be in a lecture at all. You ought to be enshrined behind glass and gold somewhere, with a small white placard at your feet reading: Origin unknown. Circa 5th century B.C.

He doesn’t know what the feeling knotting into his chest is when you come into his line of sight or his mind— Henry Winter is not a man who ever finds himself unnerved by beauty beyond that which is found in language; where letters and syllables are bent and re-arranged until they haunt. Whatever the feeling is, he despises the way it spears through and taunts him each day.

You turn up once in a crimson velvet cloak. The hood is pulled over your hair, the buttons fastened neatly down the front to keep the harsh autumn winds from biting, and you look even more surreal this way; life breathed into a fairy tale illustration. You laugh when Charles steals the words straight from his mind, pointing out the resemblance. It’s a real laugh, unstudied and surprised, your head tilting slightly as you look out at him from beneath your lashes.

It cuts through Henry like a dull blade. You have never laughed at anything he’s said, and he’s unsure why but this bothers him. When he speaks, you listen with the courteous detachment of a priestess attending to an uninteresting supplicant and answer only when required, as if your words are something to be earned.

In discussing Thucydides one day, Julian declares that your class would have little trouble taking Hampden if they so wished. And while Francis laughs joyfully at the prospect of becoming a crew of seven Demigods, Henry wonders what you would look like with spoils of war heaped at your feet. Precious delights like rubies and gold, vases filled with olive oil and sweet wine.

Later, when he sees you alone on the green, seated beneath a white ash tree with your shoes tucked neatly beside you, he does not approach. He simply watches, concealed behind the pages of Herodotus, and thinks— not for the first time—that it is not the gods who haunt this place, but something older, something gentler and more devastating.

He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, not really. You are just a girl. A student. Another fleeting constellation in the brief, bright sky of Hampden. But when you leave the room again, the scent of bergamot and old paper trailing behind you like the remnants of some ancient rite just completed, he feels emptiness prying open his chest; as though you’ve stolen something from him without ever touching him at all.

There is something set-apart hidden in your posture. Something profound in the way you bend your head over the table, soft lips parted open just so while you read. Something kind in the way you correct Richard’s translation of philotēs during a lull in class. You do so with your voice soft, words falling from your mouth with a honey that borders on apologetic. Henry already knows it’s wrong, of course— he notices before you manage to— but hearing you say as much aloud stirs something unexpected to life: not irritation, but an odd sense of relief, as if some hidden order had just been restored.

He has never once been good at identifying the feelings within himself or others; it’s more confusing to him than even the most complex conjugation or declension. Nuances in human emotion are far blurrier than those in languages, especially languages long buried. Languages have rules. Languages have order, and there is a maddening lack of it in the way you flip through pages, or the explosive, intoxicating way you laugh. You live by a set of rules, it seems, that he has seldom encountered; that he hasn’t paid any mind to when he has.

You are just a girl, he reminds himself every time he catches himself looking too long, transfixed by the way your fingers wrap around your pen when you make notes in book margins; stunned once more by the way you swirl into the room, dusting snowflakes from the shoulders of your fawn colored overcoat.

He likes girls very much and always has, of course, but never has one distracted him from his studies. Never before has one reminded him so strikingly of the hand painted china teacups his mother collects and lines up along the parlor mantel back home, or the prisms in the windows of their library. Never has he felt so much like he desires one’s company, ‘nor has a woman ever struck him as a self sustaining piece of art. This is something he can’t understand.

He hates it. The way his whole body curves toward you without him physically moving; the way you’re a constantly present mimeograph in his mind, classical features immortalized in blue ink– and he knows it’s absurd. You will forget him— likely already are— and yet he will remember you in the sharp, electric way one remembers lighting long after it has disappeared back into the sky. He tells himself that he doesn’t care if you do forget him.

You speak about kleos in class, softly yet without hesitation, explaining the terrible paradox of eternal glory: how it is won only through ruin, how even Lord Achilles had to die for his name to echo across centuries. Julian is enraptured and the others listen, nodding intermittently in the way people do when they don’t quite understand, but desperately want to be seen as clever. And Henry—he sits so still that it feels like something is breaking inside him. Not because of what you say, but because of the way you say it.

You speak of glory like one who has seen it firsthand, as if you were there to watch Hector’s body get dragged through the dust from the safety of a painted amphora. And when you finish speaking, when your voice fades and the room returns from the battlefield, back to the ticking of the clock and the smell of bergamot, Henry cannot meet your eyes. He feels as if you’ve stripped him down to bone, as if you can see him better than anyone else could dream of. You terrify him in the same soft way the sacred does, in its quiet refusal to be understood.

There is a brief moment when your hand brushes against his as you pass him an open book. It’s irrelevant, really. A graze, a flicker of warmth and nothing more. Still, Henry finds he can no longer read the page your thumb rested against. It is as if the words had been scoured away and replaced with something ancient and wordless.

He spends half an hour staring at a blank margin, trying to decide whether it’s madness or reverence that tightens like a garrote at the base of his throat. He tries to decide whether or not it is love. He doesn’t even believe in love, not really. It feels silly to entertain the thought— but he also no longer believes, not entirely, that you are real. So perhaps things are changing.

Of course, you are real: there’s tangible proof of this fact only days later, when you slice the delicate skin of your finger open on the corner of a page. You gasp softly and deathless ichor does not bead along your open skin as he half expects it to; instead the watery, warlike red of mortality blooms. It’s pretty, even as Charles offers you a handkerchief to wipe the blood away. You bleed like a painting and it stills Henry’s breath.

Your presence is even more agonizing as Christmas draws closer— as Hampden fills with deep drifts of wet, white snow, and peppermint and cinnamon cling to the air— because he knows that you’re real and still, he does not command your respect or adoration the way he commands that of the others; you do not gift him the same affectionate attention as Camilla.

You’re arranging your soft woolen mittens on the radiator to dry, soggy with the memory of snowballs scooped up by your hand when you respond wittily to something Bunny says. Conversation seems to crash around you at once, vying for your approval, and a shocking ache twists into his chest like ice cold ocean water, suffocating as it drowns him.

He has begun to resent the way you speak. Not for any failure of insight— your translations are crisp, your references impeccable— but for the way you attract the room’s attention without trying; the way even Julian leans forward when you start to argue a point. You’ve become something of a fascination, even for the less astute among them. Richard looks at you like you are a miracle. Charles, predictably, lights up when you laugh. And Henry watches this unfold with the cold clarity of someone who has already calculated the theorem and is now forced to watch the rest of the class stumble toward it.

They fawn because they are lesser. You bother him because you are not and therefore don’t. It should be gratifying, matching wits with someone at his level, but instead, it infuriates him. Henry assures himself that you are not smarter, not sharper, but merely a well-made echo of something else— some faded Attic dream come walking. And yet, when you interrupt him— gently, yes, calmly, yes, but because you disagree— he feels something thin and sharp splinter deep behind his eyes.

You’re clever. You know exactly what you’re doing to him. That’s what he decides as he watches you tease out a metaphor from Aeschylus with effortless grace, as if you’ve had the structure memorized since infancy. He starts correcting you, deliberately and precisely, in ways that are not quite wrong but not quite necessary either. And you only tilt your head, blinking once, twice, before responding without rancour.

That is what makes him angriest. You never rise to meet him in the place where he wants you most: the realm of serious, unrelenting intellect, where brilliance burns like magnesium and leaves the unintelligent to fall behind. You will not even condescend. You only smile like you mean it— how kind of you to mention it, Henry, but I think the verb there actually is in the present tense— and go on speaking as if he doesn’t draw blood.

No man is above criticism, nor correction, and this is something he believes far more deeply than in any god or creation myth. But this is simply not something that happens to him; he finds himself the strongest intellect in each friendship that has wormed its way into his day to day. And that is, perhaps, the final insult: not that you wound him, but that you don’t even know you have done it.

One person should never hold this much sway over his emotions, this much weight in his mind. The space you take up compares only to that of Julian’s, to Homer’s, and he doesn’t believe that you deserve it. He begins to understand, though he won’t admit it, why godlike Paris stole and defended Helen so ardently. He begins to understand, in a way that angers him further, why so many stanzas have immortalized women like you. You are even more of an equal to him than he initially realized, and he can’t tell if he wants to absorb or erase your existence– to kiss or to kill you

You start seeing Charles soon after. It happens all at once, as though some ridiculous Roman comedy has been enacted around him while he was too busy puzzling out how he feels. You wear Charles’s coat to class one morning. It’s too long for you and the sleeves fall over your wrists like a cheap children’s costume.

You blush when he touches your arm. You tuck your hand beneath his elbow as you walk together across the quad, the way women used to do in oil paintings of the Georgian period: demure, practiced, possessive. And Henry says nothing. He only begins to escort Camilla to class, her perfume trailing behind like smoke, her soft smile fixed in place like a relic from a scene staged too carefully to abandon. He touches her shoulder. He tells her she looks lovely in French. She looks at him with something like love and he does not care. It is the symmetry that pleases him.

It should be easier to hate you now. But it isn’t. If anything, you have grown stronger in his imagination— more vivid, more mythic. Like Helen in Euripides, you’ve become more powerful in absence than you ever were in proximity. He sees you out the window once, your fingers tied up in Charles’s hair. It’s obscene. Not because of the intimacy, but because you don’t look divine anymore: you look human. Soft. Caring. And still, Henry cannot stop watching.

There is something unspeakably degrading beneath all of it now: under how much space you occupy in his thoughts, mixed into the way his stomach tightens when your voice reaches out to him from the hallway. You have dethroned Gods without lifting a finger. And when Julian asks a question you cannot answer, when your face clouds over for just a moment, an ugly, gleeful satisfaction blooms in his chest like rot.

It is the first time he has been able to look at you and feel nothing like reverence. Only what he feels this time is hunger. You are not his, you are Charles’s, and yet he wants to claim each sigh and soft smile that graces your face for his own. He wants to trap and cage them between his teeth, to tear them apart until he can breathe again; until you look something worse than human, something grotesque enough that he might finally turn his thoughts elsewhere.

It’s not fair to sweet, soft, messy Camilla, who stares up at him the way he wishes you would— as a man freed from black darkness for the first time might marvel at the stars and who hung them— but you sullied the meaning of fair the moment your watercolor eyes skimmed over him with disinterest that first day. He cannot bring himself to mind.

Spring blooms up through the ice and slush slowly, then all at once. It brings with it cotton dresses and bare arms and ink stained hands holding wildflowers, which you present to Julian as you stumble in late with a bashful smile, declaring that they remind you of last week’s reading. It brings with it the smell of fresh cut grass floating from your hair when you walk past him; it brings visions of you in Dante’s sacred wood, singing in dulcet tones as you haunt Earthly Paradise.

You’re still human, distinctly, but spring brings with it the echoes of the you he once saw: the sacred beauty brought to life from her painting or poem to torment him tirelessly. It’s shameful and obsessive, the way he continues to think of you still, yet it is also addictive that he cannot bring himself to stop. You persist in his mind both fully formed and in shadow as if you’ll never leave. You are heaven. You are a plague. You move through the world like you have never been wounded, and it offends him. How can you remain whole when he feels cleaved in two?

He tells himself it’s a philosophical reaction, a natural response to order misaligned, but he dreams of you— not as you are now, but as something monstrous and cruel, a muse sharpened of firelight. He tastes you in the vowels of Homer. You are not divine, he tells himself. You are a symptom. A fever. A lapse in judgment. And still, he memorizes the way your script loops when you write. As if it’s hallowed, as if it’s blessed.

When you smile at him, one last time— briefly, absently, an afterthought—he feels a relief so profound that it borders on despair. You have seen and dismissed him and that is all. You will never worship what he has made of himself. You will not know the weight he bears. You are not Galatea after all, not a statue granted life but a girl simply walking off into the sunlight, toward a summer filled with sweet joys. He watches you go, white dress catching the breeze like a banner in retreat, and he does not follow.

And for the first time, Henry feels the breadth of his solitude. It is not tragic. It is merely true.

#henry winter x reader #henry winter fanfic #henry winter #the secret history #mrs. ken!#[𝐢 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫; asks!]#koi!

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jebbzfixations · 3 days ago

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Another post out of left field from my account, but I don’t think anyone really expects me to stick to one thing anymore. To the people who followed me for criminal minds analysis, I’m so sorry I will get back to that I just have a lot going on right now. I want to write a little something about Andor. My brother and I just finished the show, and it’s quickly become one of my favorites of all time. Star Wars has always been a huge part of my life and one of my top fixations, and this show is, imo, the best thing to come out of the franchise since the OG trilogy. There’s so much to talk about with this show, and I probably will eventually, but for this little essay I want to focus on Luthen.

Out of all the characters in this show, Luthen fascinates me the most, and that’s probably because he is so against the archetype of a typical Star Wars character. I love the franchise, even a lot of the parts of it that most people don’t like, but I really don’t think it’s known for morally grey characters. Sure, maybe Luke is at some point, but in the end he chooses light. That’s the theme of the franchise: light vs darkness. A character like Luthen goes completely against that theme, and the show is so much better for it. The truth is, a real rebellion could not exist if it were only made up of Leias, Hans, and Lukes. Even Cassians and Mon Mothmas can’t build real change. To create a rebellion strong enough to change a galaxy, someone has to get blood on their hands. Someone has to do the dirty work. That someone is Luthen.

Everything I’m saying so far is obvious to anyone who has seen the show, but whatever I’m talking about it anyway. To me, Luthen is the Erwin Smith (any AOT fans out there?) character type of true selflessness. Not the type of selfless that makes someone give things away to the homeless or donate all their money to charity. Luthen is selfless to the point where he is okay with complete character assassination. He does not care that he is cruel, he does not care that almost everyone scorns him, and he certainly doesn’t care about any of the lives he could potentially be putting in danger. To him, it is the cause above all else. He would kill a thousand to save a million. He proves that when talking to Cassian about Ghorman and their eventual doom. “They will burn brightly.”

Obviously, none of this can absolve him of guilt, and a lot of his actions are not forgivable. There’s a middle ground in terms of a person’s morality when it comes to rebelling. But the harsh truth of it is, you cannot rebel without losing people. You cannot rebel without putting people in harm’s way. There is no reward without cost. Luthen, out of everyone, understands that the most. Cassian is noble, genuine, a caring person who wants to save the people of Ghorman. Luthen knows that it’s already too late. The people of that planet were doomed from the start. Luthen can see the big picture.

I guess what I wanted to write this about, really, was how he’s treated toward the end of the show. It’s intentional, almost everything in this show is, but it still angered me. Almost everyone on Yavin detests Luthen. And why shouldn’t they? He ruined their lives, took them from their families, separated them from loved ones, and devoted them to a cause that requires sacrificing all other aspects of life. The most successful rebels are the ones who gave up everything. Mon loses her family, her status, her livelihood, her safety. Cassian loses almost every friend, all his family, and the love of his life. Even later, Luke loses his family, Leia her home. Luthen is, in a way, responsible for all of this loss. They hate him because he is cruel, he is unkind, he asked too much and burned every bridge. But in that scene where all the leaders are gathered around, Cassian is right. Luthen built this place. He built the alliance from the ground up and didn’t care who he’d become on the other side of it. He dies as he lived: almost completely alone, with no satisfaction, no home, no future. He is a man who has nothing to give the people of the future a chance.

I used to be a fan of the Star Wars sequels. I know, sue me. There was something about the chemistry between the actors, the richness of the characters, the beautiful production of the movies that drew me in. But this show has, in a large way, changed my mind. Look at what Luthen did, look at what he created. He gave the rebellion a chance, and they were able to take it. Cassian and Jyn pave the way forward, Leia, Han, and Luke stand on the ashes of the fire Luthen set. He burns his decency, his humanity, and gives himself to the cause entirely. You’re telling me all these people did all of this work, and then all the sudden the First Order just rises up? And it starts over again? I get that in real life, that’s how it may work. Kings rise, kings fall, kings rise again. But it feels…hollow. A fault of storytelling. Those sequels existing means Luthen sort of lived and died for nothing. Sure, the bones of the rebellion are still his, and it wouldn’t exist without him, but the characters who save the day in those movies are barely tied to the alliance. Okay, Poe and Leia are, but the rebellion feels like a subset of the story in those films. They refuse to acknowledge how it takes an army, how it takes a monster like Luthen, how it takes a martyr like Cassian, how it takes foot soldiers and lying and stealing to give the world a chance.

I get that Andor as a show retcons a lot of the original story. The OG trilogy is nowhere near the tone of Andor. Sure, the themes are there, but the OG Star Wars movies are fun. They’re for a younger audience, they’re about action and space and cool lightsabers, and so maybe I can’t get mad at the sequels for betraying the darker tone of rebellion when that tone was never there in the first place. In fact, it’s Luke who saves the day on his own, the hero’s journey, but in the end, his story is about sacrifice, too. Sacrificing his father, his innocence, all of who he is. And then he just has to end up on an island alone, away from the friends he saved the galaxy with? Groveling because despite all that hard work, despite everything, he still lost? Maybe that’s a good story. But after Andor…it just feels wrong.

This was supposed to be about Luthen, but it ended up being about a lot of other things, too. I guess my main point is, I think Luthen is one of the best, well written characters of not just Andor, but the entire Star Wars universe. I’m curious to hear other people’s thoughts on him and the show in general. My brother and I are planning to do a Star Wars movie marathon starting with Rogue One, even if that means having to watch Attack of the Clones (worst Star Wars movie, fight me).

I guess if there’s one lesson this show wants to teach about rebellion, it’s that not everyone can be a Luke or a Cassian. Without a Luthen, you have a room full of wonderful, kind, genuine people who will achieve absolutely nothing at all.

“I burn my life to make a sunrise that I know I’ll never see.”

#Andor #Andor season 2 #Andor s2 #Andor season one #Andor s1 #Cassian Andor #luthen rael #Luthen #Star Wars #Star Wars analysis #Andor analysis #Star Wars essay #I watch too much TV #this show genuinely makes me want to just decide the sequel series isn’t canon #i’m sorry Rey Poe and Finn you’re still my baes

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acrosstheujiverse · 1 day ago

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; [semicolon] | winth.

(winth = words i needed to hear).

【📂】 summary: sometimes all it takes is a steady presence to remind you of your worth—and to help you find light in the dark. 【🖇️】 pairing: bestfriend!seungkwan x mildly depressed!reader. 【💿】 genre: angst; slice-of-life; hurt/comfort. 【🧺】 tags: mental health; depression; emotional support; vulnerability. 【📦】 word count: 850

📬 — author’s note！this may or may not be the start of a series ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ … we’ll see haha! ^^ (07/17/24) it’s a series now! (06/21/25)

« series masterlist | dk's winth. »

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

it’s 1:16 a.m., and you’re lying awake in your bed, motionless. it’s been hours. the stillness wraps around you like a coffin.

you can hear the distant hum of traffic outside your window, but it doesn’t feel real. the world outside keeps moving, indifferent, while you’re stuck in this frozen moment—detached from everything, even yourself. days like this are becoming more frequent. you feel like you’re drowning in an endless abyss of darkness. it’s suffocating, and yet… you don’t have the energy to fight it anymore.

on days like this, when your mind isn’t okay, you lose all motivation. you can’t bring yourself to do anything. it feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on you, unseen by everyone else. you push people away without meaning to. you convince yourself that it’s easier to just stay in bed, wrapped in silence. you don’t have the strength to pretend anymore.

you stop texting your friends. stop answering calls. stop doing anything that once brought you joy. even the thought of doing something—anything—feels impossible. you’re just… tired.

tired of trying. tired of pretending. tired of yourself.

no... “tired” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

and sometimes, those dark thoughts... they grow louder. you don’t want them, but they sneak in anyway. they whisper lies you don’t want to believe, and yet, for just a moment, you do.

your eyes drift toward the door, lingering on the narrow crack. then you hear a soft knock, and a voice you know by heart.

“(y/n)?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

the door creaks open, and you feel his presence—seungkwan. he always knows when you’re spiraling. no matter how much you try to hide it, he sees through you. he walks over, sits gently on the edge of your bed. he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask questions. he just exists beside you, a quiet, steady presence.

there are times when you don’t want to speak, but the truth is, you don’t want to be alone either.

after a long silence, you whisper, barely audible. “i don’t know how to do this anymore, kwan. how do i go back to normal?”

“i… i wish i had the right words,” he says softly, voice calm and unwavering. “but you don’t have to go through this alone. i’m here. always.”

you shut your eyes tight, trying to hold back the tears, but they fall anyway. you feel broken—but somehow, in his presence, there’s a flicker of safety.

“you are enough.”

three simple words. but they hit you like a tidal wave. you are enough. you didn’t realize how much you needed to hear it until now. the weight pressing on your chest loosens, just a little. you choke on a sob, the emotion spilling over. no one’s ever said those words like they meant them. not like this.

“i’ve been pushing myself too hard, haven’t i?” you whisper.

he nods, his expression soft, understanding in his eyes. no judgment. no pity. just... presence. he’s letting you be who you are in this moment, and somehow that makes it bearable.

“i’m sorry,” you murmur, guilt tightening in your chest. “i don’t want to drag you down. you don’t deserve that.”

“don’t say that,” he replies, voice firm but gentle. “you never drag me down. i choose to be here. i choose you. you matter more than anything. and i’m not going anywhere.”

you blink through the blur of tears as his hand finds yours. it’s warm. grounding. a quiet reminder that you’re not invisible. not alone.

he smiles—soft, honest. and for the first time in what feels like forever, you breathe.

“look at the stars tonight,” he says, his head tilting slightly toward the window. “aren’t they bright?”

you glance outside. the sky is clear. the stars look like scattered fragments of something ancient and kind.

your gaze shifts to him, watching how the starlight dances in his eyes. his face is calm, peaceful—but there’s something else. something that steadies you. like he’s holding the night together.

“oh, look at that. isn’t the moon beautiful?” he whispers, wonder in his voice.

you rest your head against his shoulder, your voice soft. “the moon is shining as bright as the stars because…” you pause. “…the sun is doing its job. it produces the brightest light. the moon reflects it.”

you look at him, your heart aching—but softer now. for the first time, you don’t feel like the moon—alone, struggling to glow in the dark. you feel the sun. you feel him. his light. his warmth. his quiet, constant love reflecting on you.

maybe you forgot that even when you feel swallowed by the dark, the light is still there—even if you can’t see it.

his hand strokes your hair, his head leaning gently against yours, and he holds you in that stillness.

“i’ll be the sun, (y/n),” he whispers. “you don’t have to shine alone. you never have to be alone.”

as your eyes close, with his warmth wrapped around you like a quiet promise, you finally let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—you’ll be okay.

— fin.

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kingkruell · 10 hours ago

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MARGINALIA | PART 2

LOVE LETTERS (AND OTHER TRAGEDIES)

WC: 5.287

SUMMARY - gojo satoru, half-drowned in his hoodie and fully drowning in his own crush, sends the text—something about your handwriting curling its toes and your eyebrows having feelings. you laugh. he panics. you say hi. he short-circuits.

a nerdjo series

listening to side by side - crumb

nerdjo artwork by @/629sora on X

[reblog and comment for next part’s taglist]

part 1 >> part 3

“fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.”

the words tumble out of gojo satoru’s mouth like a prayer on a loop, low and urgent under his breath as he paces his dorm room like a man possessed. beads of sweat glisten at his hairline, clinging to the white strands plastered against his forehead. the rain taps softly against the half-open window, cool night air sneaking in to brush against his skin, but inside the dim, cramped room, he’s burning.

not from the heat. not from the ramen cup he forgot he made.

from you.

from the text.

oh god. the text.

he stops mid-step, fingers tightening in his hair as he stares blankly at the glow of his phone screen on the bed. it might as well be a live grenade. his heart is a fist in his throat.

this isn’t happening.

there is no way gojo satoru—the guy who barely flinches at project deadlines, who routinely forgets socks are a social expectation, who hasn’t seriously thought about a girl since he discovered how many command-line tools exist—just blew a fuse over a couple of dumb messages.

except he did.

and it wasn’t just some girl. it was you.

fucking y/n.

earlier, it had started out like any other rainy thursday. he was wandering the sociology building like a ghost without purpose, nursing a vending machine coffee that tasted criminally close to battery acid. geto warned him, but did he listen? no. because apparently, he was too busy daydreaming like a loser.

because there you were.

just like that.

half-tired, notebook hugged to your chest, earphones dangling from your hoodie. you didn’t see him, but he saw you. all of you. and for one excruciating second, the world kind of stuttered to a halt. gojo watched the way your eyes narrowed at your phone, the way your brow furrowed in concentration, and he had the stupidest, most uncontrollable thought:

i want to be the reason she looks that focused.

he didn’t even say hi.

he couldn’t. he froze like a total coward, eyes wide behind his glasses, mouth twitching like he was buffering.

you walked right past him.

by the time he got back to his room, he was spiraling. the door slammed behind him, rain-slick hoodie still clinging to his back, shoes kicked off like an afterthought. he didn’t turn on the lights, just let the soft blue wash of his monitor screen and the streetlamp outside guide him. he told himself he was going to work on that media ethics assignment. ha. yeah. right.

instead, his thumb hovered over your name in his contacts.

you were still in there from that one group project. the one where he barely made eye contact with you, too busy sweating bullets anytime you leaned over to check his slides. your name had just sat there since. quiet, unbothered. he’d opened the chat more times than he could count, typing out things like “do you know what the professor meant by—” only to backspace until it was blank again.

but tonight? honestly, gojo doesn’t even know what took over him.

maybe it was the coffee. maybe it was the sound of your voice echoing faintly in his head. maybe he finally just lost his grip on self-preservation.

because he sent it.

he actually sent it.

two messages. innocent in theory. mortifying in execution.

your handwriting’s kind of insane. in a good way. like if emotions could curl their toes

also your eyes do this thing when you’re listening really hard. like your eyebrows lean forward first?? anyway

he stares at them like they’re the last thing he’ll ever see before his soul departs his body.

“why the fuck did i say that?!” he screeches, voice cracking in the quiet of the room.

he throws himself face-first into his pillow, limbs flailing dramatically before curling up like a dying spider. his brain is already drafting his obituary. gojo satoru, 19. died of terminal rizz failure. survived by his equally pathetic browser history and one unopened can of monster energy.

he rolls onto his back, eyes wide as he mentally replays the possible outcomes:

• you think it’s weird and block him.

• you think it’s creepy and report him to the dean.

• you laugh at it with your friends and never make eye contact with him again.

but worst of all?

you don’t respond.

time slows. then stretches. then coils into a painful kind of silence. he stares at the message bubbles until they blur. nothing. not even the “typing…” indicator. his stomach twists. he tries to distract himself with anything—with his assignment, even opens up a github repo to trick his brain into feeling productive, but his fingers hover uselessly over the keys. he can’t write a line. he’s too busy imagining you reading it and cringing. or worse, never reading it at all.

hours pass. he doesn’t change out of his hoodie. doesn’t brush his teeth. he just lies there, eyes flicking to the phone every few minutes like clockwork, until exhaustion finally drags him under.

when he wakes up, it’s nearly 11 pm. his neck hurts, his hair’s a mess, and his laptop fan is still whirring. groggily, he grabs his phone with one eye open. he fumbles it. it clatters to the ground. he groans.

no new notifications.

no response.

he stares at the ceiling, heart sinking with finality.

social suicide complete. mission failed. we’ll get ’em next semester.

gojo satoru has fallen, and he might never recover.

the next media ethics class arrived like a guillotine.

gojo hadn’t slept the night beforec not really. he’d laid in bed, eyes pinned to the ceiling, limbs limp with exhaustion but mind wired with that special brand of self-loathing reserved for people who had just committed social suicide via text message. some obscure tech podcast murmured from his speakers, something about open-source compression algorithms. he wasn’t listening. he just needed noise. white, meaningless noise to drown out the replays of his own message.

the message.

god, the message.

he had scrolled back to it more times than he wanted to admit, rereading it like some deranged literary critic dissecting his own obituary. it had started off almost charming in his mind. quirky, even. a little heartfelt.

but now? now it just read like he had a toe-curling kink for handwriting and eyebrows.

why did he say that?

what the hell were “emotions curling their toes”?

what did that mean?

by morning, he’d convinced himself that the only viable course of action was to change his name, drop out, and rebrand as a goat herder in a remote scandinavian village.

but his stupid academic guilt complex, the same one that wouldn’t let him miss a single assignment deadline, dragged him to class anyway. hoodie half-zipped, bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, he trudged through the gray, rain-slicked campus like a man marching toward execution.

and now, here he was. standing at the door of the lecture hall like it was the gates of hell.

the room buzzed with the usual ambient noise: chair legs scraped against tile, laptops chimed as they booted up, a small group of students near the front debated whether a tabloid could ever be considered real journalism. fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in that cold, slightly too-blue glow that made everyone look vaguely sleep-deprived.

gojo scanned the room once.

and there you were.

you were already seated, halfway through a fresh page in your notebook, your brow slightly furrowed in concentration. your water bottle was propped against your phone, your bag slouched beside your chair like a lazy dog. you looked focused, calm, beautifully unaffected. the exact opposite of how he felt.

and…there it was.

the empty seat beside you.

the seat he always took.

gojo’s breath caught in his throat. his fingers flexed on the strap of his bag.

just sit. it’s fine. just act like nothing happened.

but his feet betrayed him. a cold spike of fear lanced through his chest and propelled him in the opposite direction. his brain screamed “ABORT MISSION, ABORT MISSION!” and he obeyed without hesitation, making a sharp left turn toward the back of the classroom, where he found refuge behind a guy with shoulders the size of a small hatchback.

he dropped into the chair and immediately regretted everything.

his notebook? forgotten. his pen? nowhere in sight. his laptop? dead. of course.

all he had was a buzzing skull and a heart that refused to beat at a normal pace.

class started, but he barely registered the lecture. the professor’s voice was just background noise, a wash of academic syllables about media frameworks and ethical responsibility. gojo stared at a blank corner of the wall and replayed every moment from the past three days like his brain had become a cursed vhs tape.

why didn’t she say anything?

why didn’t she reply?

was it too much?

was it creepy?

a cold sweat crept down the back of his neck.

he caught himself glancing at you once, just once, a flicker of a moment between self-flagellation loops. you didn’t seem upset. or weirded out. you looked… the same.

but maybe that was worse.

when class finally ended, gojo shot up like the room was suddenly underwater and he needed air. he gathered his things with uncharacteristic efficiency, shoving loose pages into his hoodie pocket, slamming his laptop shut even though it hadn’t been on, practically sprinting for the door.

and then—

“hey, gojo.”

he froze.

you said his name like it wasn’t a weapon. soft. casual. friendly, even.

his body seized like someone had unplugged him from reality.

he turned his head toward you, barely.

you were standing by your desk, bag slung over one shoulder, a quiet smile blooming across your lips. your eyes were calm. not mocking, not at all.

huh

his throat cinched tight, like his body had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. he blinked, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between awe and full-on panic—like a deer in headlights with a crush and zero emotional regulation.

and god. why did you have to look like that today?

he’d never seen you wear that skirt before. it hugged your hips just enough to send his brain into a slow, buffering spiral. the way it moved when you walked—soft, swaying, completely unbothered—was unfair. cruel, even. his gaze darted away before he could make it weirder than it already was.

nope. nope nope nope. abort. he was being weird. he was absolutely being weird.

“hi,” he blurted. too fast. too high. the i cracked like glass under pressure.

and then, because his body was a traitor to his entire existence, he bolted.

nearly tripped on someone’s bag. stumbled into the hallway. didn’t stop until he was out of the building and two full blocks away, standing outside a noodle shop he didn’t even like, chest heaving like he’d just outrun a very specific and emotionally perceptive ghost.

he makes his way into the dorms, gojo burst into his dorm room like he was being chased by armed regret.

the door slammed shut behind him with a thud that made his abandoned ramen cup tremble on the desk. his hoodie was half-off, halfway on—he yanked it off like it offended him and threw it across the room. then immediately regretted that, too. what if it was bad hoodie karma? what if the fibers of shame were still on it?

he paced a quick, frantic loop. once. twice. on the third, he tripped over his own backpack and nearly took out the cheap lamp by the bed.

“okay,” he muttered. “okay, okay, okay.”

then, he reached for his phone like a soldier hitting the emergency signal.

group chat

gojo

emergency

gojo

code red

come to my room or i’m deleting myself from the academic system

two minutes later, his door flew open again, this time with the worn-out creak of someone who didn’t even bother knocking.

“every time you say ‘emergency,’ i lose a year off my life,” utahime snapped as she entered, dragging her umbrella with her. “this better not be about your failed protein shake experiment again.”

nanami followed, looking like he’d been dragged there directly from the library. he was holding a book and the disappointment of a man with finals on his mind.

geto came last, coffee in hand, eyes amused already.

gojo flailed toward them like a man going down with the ship.

“she said hi,” he announced.

there was a pause. the silence that followed was not triumphant. it was clinical.

utahime blinked. “and…?”

“and i bolted!” gojo shouted, arms thrown skyward. “like—physically fled the scene! i said ‘hi’ and then literally almost tripped over a backpack trying to escape. i can never show my face in that class again.”

nanami sighed. “you interrupted my reading time for this?”

“you don’t understand,” gojo said, spinning toward him like this was a courtroom drama and nanami was the judge. “i sent her the text. i told her her eyebrows lean forward when she listens and that her handwriting has emotional toes. toes, nanami.”

geto nearly choked on his coffee.

“i didn’t think it could get worse than the eyebrows,” utahime muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“she didn’t respond,” gojo said, collapsing onto the floor like gravity had finally taken him. “it’s been two days. that’s, like, six college years. and then today, in class, she looked normal. like not-murderous. and she said hi. i should’ve just sat down next to her like usual but instead i went full cryptid and sprinted out like a cursed victorian child avoiding eye contact in a hallway.”

geto had officially stopped pretending to sip his coffee. “i’m sorry—emotional toes?”

“curled their toes,” gojo corrected, miserably.

there was a beat of silence. and then, as if summoned by the universe’s sick sense of timing, a sharp ping echoed from gojo’s phone. it lit up beside him on the floor.

all four of them froze.

gojo blinked. “oh no.”

utahime stared. “is that—”

“no,” he whispered.

nanami leaned in slightly. “you gonna check it or just die next to it?”

gojo reached for it like it was a bomb and he didn’t know which wire to cut.

the screen lit up again.

y/n

hi lol sorry for the late response

but lmao the toe thing made me laugh. didn’t know my eyebrows had a personality but i’m honored. also. you’re kinda weird. but like. the good kind??

he reread it. then reread it again. his hand dropped from his mouth.

geto leaned over his shoulder. “damn. she likes weird.”

utahime grinned. “miracles happen.”

gojo’s heart was doing something unnatural. something that felt suspiciously like hope with a caffeine overdose. he rolled onto his back, phone clutched to his chest like it was a lifeline.

“she responded,” he whispered. “she doesn’t hate me. she thinks i’m weird in the good way.”

he stared at the screen for a long moment. then sat up slowly, still dizzy with disbelief.

his fingers hovered over the keyboard

gojo didn’t move for a solid ten seconds. just lay there on the floor, like the world had glitched and he wasn’t sure whether to reboot or ascend.

geto squatted beside him, one brow raised. “is he breathing?”

“hard to say,” utahime said, already rifling through gojo’s snack drawer like she lived there. “he looks like he just saw god. or her instagram story.”

gojo finally inhaled, sharp and sudden, like he’d forgotten that breathing was, in fact, required. “she doesn’t hate me,” he whispered again, like it was a sacred chant. “she laughed. she said i’m weird. but the good kind. the good kind, guys.”

nanami, who’d settled stiffly into the desk chair, sighed and set his book down. “you’re telling me this entire scene,”—he gestured vaguely at the mess of gojo’s body, hoodie, and emotional meltdown—“was over one semi-flirty, eyebrow-themed text and a delayed response?”

“one text?” gojo sat up like he’d been resurrected. “that was a piece of my soul, nanami. that was vulnerability. that was toe metaphors. you can’t just come back from that.”

utahime tossed a protein bar at his head. “well, she did. so now what? you gonna text her back or keep twitching like a victorian orphan with a quill?”

gojo clutched the protein bar like it was a holy artifact. “what do i even say?”

geto settled onto the bed, propping himself up with a pillow that had definitely not been washed in months. “you want honesty or strategy?”

“both,” gojo said.

“okay,” geto shrugged. “be honest, but like…strategically honest. no more body part metaphors. maybe just… ask her something. keep the convo going. be normal.”

“define ‘normal,’” gojo said.

nanami raised an eyebrow. “something you are fundamentally incapable of.”

utahime snorted. “just tell her you’re glad she replied. maybe make a joke. and do not overthink the punctuation.”

gojo scrambled upright, gripping his phone with the reverence of a man about to disarm a bomb.

“i can do this,” he muttered. “this is fine. we’re just talking. humans talk. this is a normal college interaction. i’m not falling apart over a girl who annotates her readings with pink highlighters and wears golden hoop earrings and—”

“gojo,” geto cut in, amused. “focus.”

“right, right.” he stared at the screen like it was staring back. then started typing.

gojo

honored to be the weird good kind.

also didn’t know i outed your eyebrow microexpressions but now i feel weirdly responsible for them

should i apologize or apply for naming rights?

he hovered over the send button. his thumb trembled.

“send it,” utahime said.

“don’t look at me while i do it,” gojo muttered.

“no promises,” geto grinned.

and with a deep breath—he hit send.

the message whooshed off into the void. gojo launched himself backward onto the bed, covering his face with a pillow, muffling a noise that might’ve been a scream or a wheeze. hard to tell.

“you’re ridiculous,” utahime said, chewing through the protein bar like it owed her money.

“and yet somehow,” geto added, “this is the most effort i’ve seen you put into anything that wasn’t a debate about anime endings or multithreaded processing.”

gojo peeked out from under the pillow, hair sticking in every direction. “is it always like this?” he asked. “liking someone?”

nanami stood, dusted off his jeans, and picked up his book like this detour into emotional chaos had already stretched too long.

“no,” he said, “sometimes it’s worse.”

utahime rolled her eyes, but her smirk softened. “you’ll live. probably.”

geto slung an arm over gojo’s shoulder before standing. “just tell us if she responds with another poetic breakdown of your social awkwardness.”

and in the silence that followed, broken only by the sound of crinkling wrappers and someone’s spotify lo-fi playlist looping in the background, gojo felt something strange.

she laughed, he thought. she read it and laughed.

either way, he’d take it.

so….you hadn’t meant to say hi.

or rather, you hadn’t expected it to feel like dropping a match into a very dry field. it was a small word, casually thrown over your shoulder as you zipped your bag, the kind of thing you said to people in passing, people who shared a table in a group project once, people you vaguely recognized. and yet when it hit gojo satoru, he reacted like you’d lobbed a brick at his chest.

you saw him before class even started—gojo, hair an absolute mess as usual, strands defiantly curling and sticking up like they had their own agenda. he looked jittery, the kind of nervous energy that made his limbs twitch just a little too much, like he was trying to run a thousand thoughts through his brain all at once and none of them had a pause button.

as usual, you shifted you bag, nudged your books aside, making room for him in the seat beside uou. It’s a routine by now, kind of like a silent pact: he slides in, maybe fiddles with his hoodie zipper, and we settle into the lecture. It’s a small gesture, but it’s one that’s grown familiar, comforting even.

but today was different, because he suddenly pivoted to sit somewhere further back. and after class, after you said that simple “hi,” you barely caught the way his shoulders jerked up, stiff as glass, or how his eyes, all wide and electric behind his glasses, flicked to you like he was still buffering. he looked… trapped. like you’d cornered him with your voice alone. and then, as if driven by some internal crisis too large for the moment, he took off.

not just turned and walked. no. he fled.

stumbled past chairs and bags with the coordination of a baby deer in combat boots, muttered something that could’ve been a farewell or a final wish, and practically careened out of the classroom.

you watched him go, your lips quirking into a quiet smile, half in disbelief, half in curiosity. then you packed up the rest of your things and left the room without ceremony. the hallway buzzed with student chatter and wet sneakers, but your mind lingered elsewhere.

okay. what the fuck was that?

oh. oh. the text.

the thing is, his message had made you laugh.

you’d gotten it just after a dizzying study session in the library. you hadn’t expected it. hadn’t even remembered he still had your number. you’d stared at his name for a moment, blinking.

and then you’d read it.

gojo

your handwriting’s kind of insane. in a good way. like if emotions could curl their toes

also your eyes do this thing when you’re listening really hard. like your eyebrows lean forward first?? anyway

it was so stupidly specific. so weird. and oddly tender.

you hadn’t responded right away. not out of malice or even confusion (maybe a little), but mostly because you’d been tired. it had been a long week, and his message was oddly placed in a timeline of academic chaos and grocery lists and crumpled notes you kept forgetting to rewrite. you meant to get back to it, but the day swallowed you whole.

when you did reply, it was while walking home in the rain, phone screen spotted with droplets and your fingers half-numb. you sent the message with a casual smile at your phone, thumbs moving instinctively.

hi lol sorry for the late response

but lmao the toe thing made me laugh. didn’t know my eyebrows had a personality but i’m honored. also. you’re kinda weird. but like. the good kind??

you hadn’t really expected anything from it. certainly not for it to mean anything.

but watching him today…panic in his retreat, the split-second way he’d looked at you, like you’d turned gravity on its head… you started to realize something.

gojo satoru was unraveling.

and apparently, you were the reason.

by the time you returned to your dorm, the rain had stopped. the air smelled like wet pavement and cheap shampoo. you dropped your bag by the door and collapsed into the cushions with your phone still in your hand.

it buzzed.

gojo

honored to be the weird good kind.

also didn’t know i outed your eyebrow microexpressions but now i feel weirdly responsible for them

should i apologize or apply for naming rights?

you exhaled slowly. the corners of your mouth lifted again.

there was something charming about him. not the polished kind of charming that knew it was charming, but the kind that stumbled, full of good intentions and poorly timed exits. it was the sort of charm that didn’t ask for anything. it just… flailed. loudly. like with…glitter.

you didn’t know what to make of it yet. you didn’t have to.

still, you typed back.

y/n

if you apply for naming rights, i expect royalties

also: who gave you the right to be this observant?? do you have a side hobby in eyebrow analytics or smth

you hesitated before sending it, thumb hovering, then tapped send anyway.

across the room, your laptop blinked with a reminder about an overdue article analysis. you ignored it. your eyes were still on the screen.

typing…

the indicator blinked, then vanished. then blinked again. and vanished.

you smiled and tucked the phone beneath your thigh.

the next day came quietly.

your morning routine was the same: lukewarm tea and a podcast you barely listened to while brushing your teeth. you didn’t check your phone first thing, only that he was there when you walked into the café on campus. alone. hoodie on, glasses pushed to the top of his head, typing furiously into a laptop with crumbs of what looked like a chocolate croissant decorating the table like confetti.

you paused. you could have walked right by. you nearly did.

but something in you itched.

you walked over and pulled the chair across from him, sat down like you’d done it before. his hands froze mid-keystroke. slowly, almost comically, his head lifted.

his eyes widened. mouth parted. you could practically see the full-body crash happening behind his expression.

“i didn’t know we were doing surprise interrogations now,” he said, blinking. “do i need a lawyer?”

“no,” you said, shrugging. “just wanted to see if you were real.”

he stared for a moment longer, then sat back. there was an odd quiet to him now, like he didn’t trust the calm.

“you read the text.”

“i did.”

“and you still chose to sit here.”

“i did.”

gojo let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped since the jurassic era.

you smiled, took a sip of your drink, and tilted your head.

“so,” you said. “what’s your next move, eyebrow analyst?”

he grinned sheepishly, the kind of grin that had probably ruined better men than him.

“i was thinking…” he said, adjusting his glasses, “let me redeem myself with something drinkable. on me.”

and you said…yes.

he blinked like he hadn’t expected that outcome. like he’d offered as a joke, a throwaway line to cover the shaky scaffolding of his nerves. but you said yes anyway, and in that moment, gojo satoru sat a little straighter. just barely. like the air in his lungs had shifted from carbon dioxide to something less fatal.

he stood too fast, nearly knocked over his laptop, and spent the next five seconds wrestling with a tangled charger and a crumpled receipt he insisted on stuffing into his back pocket.

the table between you was still cluttered with the remnants of class: his half-shut laptop, your barely touched drink, the waxy paper wrapper from a croissant he must’ve inhaled before you arrived. after awkwardly standing in front of the cashier ordering your drink, he came back with a warm cup of coffee as he simultaneously fumbled to make space, shifting things around as if arranging a fragile ecosystem. a pen rolled to the floor. he chased it.

“wasn’t sure you’d actually… say yes,” he said, finally settling. his hands hadn’t figured out where they belonged. one hovered near his cup, the other curled against his knee.

you wrapped both palms around the warmth of your coffee. “i wasn’t sure you were actually asking.”

he laughed—short, surprised. “honestly, i wasn’t either.”

outside, the rain had tapered off into a low mist, brushing against the fogged windowpanes. inside, the café remained its usual brand of sleepy academic clutter. warm lights. old speakers playing jazz covers of songs that didn’t need them. the hum of someone’s study playlist bleeding from cheap headphones. the barista, predictably, didn’t glance your way.

“i think i owe you an apology,” he said after a beat. “for the text.”

you looked at him over the rim of your cup. “why? you didn’t say anything mean. just… strange.”

he winced, grinning despite himself. “god. yeah. the eyebrow bit.”

“and the toes,” you added.

“please. i’m trying to repress that part.”

you shrugged. “i laughed.”

he looked up at that, gaze catching yours. his eyes—blue, always blue, but dimmed now with a soft touch—searched your face like it mattered.

“you did?”

you nodded. “not in the way you probably hoped. but it wasn’t a bad thing.”

he blinked slowly. “i’ll take not-bad.”

your fingers traced the curve of your mug. his thumb tapped once, twice, against the side of his.

he didn’t meet your eyes. at least not fully. his loud, unruly, sometimes unbearable confidence in a classroom setting had dulled at the edges. definitely not gone, but contained.

“i noticed you,” he said suddenly.

something behind your ribs pulled taut. you tried not to react as you tilted your head to the side, a small smile etched onto your skin.

he rubbed the back of his neck. “way before the message. just—thought you should know.”

you weren’t sure what to do with that. he’d said it too gently to be performative. too soon to be meaningful.

“i didn’t notice you,” you said after a moment…your eyes wandering around, thinking. you weren’t even trying to land a jab, just being honest—especially with how vulnerable gojo looks right now, it felt right to keep it real. “not really. not until the project. even then, you didn’t say much.”

“was trying not to combust,” he murmured.

you laughed, quiet and involuntary. he looked up at that, eyes flicking to yours like he was surprised by the sound. his mouth curved into a grin.

eventually, he leaned forward, arms crossed on the table.

“i don’t know if i’m someone you’d notice,” he said, barely audible. “but i think i’d regret it if i didn’t at least try to talk to you. without the metaphors this time.”

your gaze softened, just slightly.

“do you always try like this?” you asked.

his laugh was short. almost embarrassed. “only when it feels like it matters.”

to your own surprise, you stayed longer. probably longer than you should. he stayed on his side of the table, close enough to hear your voice when you finally began to speak again. not about eyebrows. not about feelings. just… things. the weather. the professor’s terrible slides. a book you pretended to like last semester.

when you finally glanced at your phone, the time hit you like a cold splash of water. your next class started in ten minutes.

“shit,” you muttered under your breath.

gojo tilted his head slightly. “what’s up?”

you were already reaching for your things, half-distracted, trying to cram your notebook back into your bag without making a mess of it. “class,” you said quickly. “i’m gonna be late.”

he blinked, as if he hadn’t quite realized how long you’d been sitting there.

you stood, adjusting your strap and smoothing the edge of your sleeve, already half-turned toward the door. “sorry. i’ll see you next class.”

“right,” he said.

you took a step.

“i’ll text you,” he added, a little too fast. like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud until it already was.

you paused for a split second, but didn’t turn around.

“okay,” you said over your shoulder.

and then you left.

and just like that, you had him wrapped around your fingers.

god. he was so fucked.

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davrinsleftpectoral · 13 hours ago

Text

Why My OC Sucks

@hedwigoprah wanted to know. Why does your OC suck? Is it something they get wrong? An impulse they can’t control? Perhaps they’re adept at a socially-unacceptable skill?

He sucks because…

…

He doesn’t. He’s the sweetest cinnamon roll to ever exist and he’s done nothing wrong in his entire life. Look at that face.

He isn’t without some flaws though lol.

1. Too trusting.

He makes friends easily and goes all in on people very quickly. He wants to believe the best, trust, forgive easily. And then solas double crosses him again and he’s totally blindsided. He could use more caution with people that haven’t proven themselves.

2. Impulsive.

It’s probably a trait a lot of lords of fortune share lol. Do first think later. That’s how you end up grabbing an amulet and getting cursed with not being able to swim. It’s also how you manage to kill gods. So.

3. He doesn’t read well.

Like can barely read. He was taken into slavery as a child, and was already in a poor family, so his reading skills just weren’t great to begin with. Once he was freed and with the lords, he didn’t have a desire to learn. Emmrich figured this out about him and tried to encourage Turvi to learn. He got him some primer books to practice reading and writing. He’s done a page or two before leaving them on top of the bookcase in his lighthouse room.

Tag me if you do this!

#Turvi #too good for this world #dragon age the veilguard

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astrakim · 2 days ago

Text

Marked by the Stars

[Preview 2]

>Genre: Soulmate AU ・ Fantasy AU ・ Slow Burn ・ Angst with Comfort ・ Fluff ・ Romance ・ Lowkey Mutual Pining ・ Emotional Growth

>Summary: Jungwon is dying—and he doesn’t even know who touched him.

Y/N is falling apart too, unaware that her soulmate bond has been activated.

A golden bruise marks them both.

Now they must stay close to survive.

But every touch feels too good— and every glance feels like falling.

Is it just the bond keeping them alive? Or something deeper pulling them in?

>Warning: Soulmate dependency (life-threatening), Emotional vulnerability, Heavy skinship/romantic tension, Fluff, angst, and slow-burn intimacy, , More to be added. (Its not yet completed)

Likes and Reblogs are really appreciated!

In a world much like our own, destiny carved a different path for human connection—a force so potent it transcended logic, time, and even life itself. Here, the concept of soulmates wasn’t a dreamy idea or a romantic myth—it was a biological necessity, an unshakable law of nature.

Everyone was born with the potential for a soulmate. Not all bonds were activated. Most lived ordinary lives never knowing who their other half might be. But for the rare few—when fate decided it was time—a single touch would ignite everything.

The first touch.

A brush of fingers in a crowd. A bump of shoulders on a rainy day. A moment so brief it would be forgotten—except for the golden bruise that bloomed on their skin like a seal of fate. That bruise wasn’t just a mark. It was the beginning of a dependency so profound it could unmake a person.

Because from that moment on, touch was no longer optional.

It became survival.

They said soulmates were Marked by the Stars—but the stars didn’t always lead you kindly.

Soulmate bonds, once activated, turned into a lifeline. Physical connection—skin to skin, however brief—was required. At first, missing a few hours without their bonded one left people restless, anxious. But as time went on—days without touch, without presence—the body began to deteriorate. Muscle pain. Headaches. Vomiting. Weakness. Paralysis.

Eventually, death.

Exactly like a person deprived of food or water, the bonded soul began to die.

Three-quarters of bonded pairs managed to find each other in time. Some were already close, friends or lovers who didn’t realize they were meant to be. Some were strangers who bumped into each other once and spent the next few days chasing that golden mark, frantic and desperate. For them, fate was merciful.

But one in four never made it.

They wandered the world weak, disoriented, desperate—and died waiting for a touch that never came.

Governments responded. Identification systems were created to detect the golden soulmate mark. Hospitals became first responders to bond-activation symptoms. Major corporations and entertainment industries, where employees traveled often, formed emergency soulmate task forces to avoid losing precious lives.

Even then, the losses mounted.

Because knowing your other half existed and not having them was the cruelest pain of all.

The soul didn’t just crave.

It demanded.

And if denied, it decayed.

For some, the bond was beautiful. Euphoric. They described a simple touch sending waves of pleasure through their body—soothing, warm, addictive. For others, it was overwhelming. They hated how vulnerable it made them feel. How dependent. How exposed.

Because once the bond was made, the other person became everything.

Not just a lover or a partner.

But sustenance. Air. Blood.

And that was the world they lived in now. A world where falling in love wasn’t a choice.

It was written into skin and nerve endings.

It was fated.

And fate could be beautiful.

Or it could burn.

And that was the world we lived in when we found Jungwon dying.

—-----------------------𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩—----------------------

🛏️: DM or comment to get in the taglist of the fic!

P.S:Lovee you all byeeee!!

A/n: It will be uploaded next week guyss pinky promise... This was supposed to be uploaded this week but your girl caught Covid guyss!! And she was literally dying this week so had to postpone it :( But I pinky promise I will upload this week.

#enhypen fanfiction #engene #enhypen #enhypen fluff #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #someone get me this jungwon #heeseung fanfic #jungwon fanfic #jungwon fluff #jungwon x reader #jungwon #jungwon fanfiction #please like and reblog #please like this

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sapphire-weapon · 2 days ago

Note

I see a lot of people freaking out in your asks about the possible family connection between Leon and Grace, but am I the only one wondering what the point would even be, story-wise? Grace is already an adult -- she probably doesn’t need or want another adult suddenly showing up to play daddy. I'm saying this as someone who was abandoned by her father at birth and had him show up once I was an adult: no, you don’t necessarily want to meet your father in that situation. It’s too late, and honestly, you just don’t care. You became who you are without him. So I really don’t see what it would add for Grace.

And I don’t see what it would add for Leon either. He’s got a savior or protector complex -- he doesn’t need to be someone’s "sperm donor" to feel involved. If there’s one person in the RE main cast who doesn’t need a reason to go save someone, it’s Leon. So I just don’t get why people are so worked up about it, especially when you already admitted it was a troll.

Well I'm bored and it's my night off, so let's do a fun thought experiment and see if we can make this theory seem narratively satisfying.

So DG has said pretty explicitly, and Andy has implied pretty heavily, that RE9 is actually Leon's story. Like, he's the main character, and the story is about him.

So, knowing what we know about storytelling (hopefully I've taught you guys something over the years), then what that means is that (regardless of how you feel about the gender dynamics at play here) any familial connection between Leon and Grace would exist to primarily serve his character. Not hers. So, throw your entire first paragraph out.

Sorry, Grace.

I think it's bad practice to think of this in terms of, like... giving Leon a reason to go save someone. Because I don't think that that's going to be the case, for a few reasons:

We don't know that Leon is going to save Grace. People are just assuming that because she's a blonde girl in distress.

We don't know that Grace is the reason that Leon ends up going back to Raccoon City in the first place. He could be going for a completely unrelated reason and just run into her there.

This line of thinking pre-supposes that the entire plot is going to turn around Grace's capture, similar to how RE4 turned around Ashley's capture... but seeing as how Grace is a major, playable character, it doesn't really make a whole lot of sense for the story to be about her rescue. I don't really think she needs rescuing, personally.

You're right, and Leon would save her just to save her anyway.

So. With that in mind.

What do we know?

Well, we know:

The FBI is heavily involved in whatever's going on.

Capcom has said that RE9 is about answering the final questions left hanging from the Raccoon City outbreak.

Leon is the only member of the main cast who was actively lied to regarding/following the RC incident and still doesn't know the full truth of the why's and how's of everything that's happened to him in his life.

Leon has been heavily isolated from the other characters and had his growth stunted as a result.

Most of that isolation was done on purpose by the US government, specifically to rob him of as much of his autonomy and agency as possible -- probably to prevent him from ever turning against them and/or so that he'll follow orders without question.

Despite the government's best efforts, Leon has started to question things and think for himself -- but he lacks the motivation and self-determination to actually take action against them, because he just doesn't care about himself enough to stand up for himself.

So, if Grace turns out to be Leon's daughter -- and it also happens to be the case that the reason he didn't know about Grace's existence is because the government intervened and somehow kept Alyssa and/or her messages away from him...

That could be the motivation that Leon needs to finally rebel against the government.

Because it's not just about him, anymore. It's about his child. And it's about all the time that he lost with that child -- time that he'll never get back. It's about the psychological/emotional damage to her that came from growing up without knowing her father that he can never make up for.

He missed everything in his child's life. He missed her first birthday, her first steps, her first word, her first day at school, her first love, her first heartbreak, her graduation, her first day at college, her acceptance into the FBI... He never got to chaperone a field trip or a school dance, he never got to help her with her homework, he never got to teach her how to drive, he never got to teach her how to shoot a gun, he never got to threaten her first boyfriend, he never attended a single sports game or school play or science fair...

He wasn't able to be there for her when her fucking mother got murdered.

He missed everything.

And Leon has a very romantic, sentimental nature. He would've wanted all of that. He would've made the effort to be in her life -- if only he'd known she existed.

But he was robbed of the simple opportunity to try.

And to make things worse, he can't even apologize to Alyssa for not helping her with Grace... because she's dead. Because he couldn't protect her. Because he didn't know. Because the government kept all of that information from him.

And maybe they killed her, too.

Maybe Leon does save Grace... but not from chair guy. Maybe the story is about Leon saving Grace from the government. Maybe Grace didn't go into the FBI by choice. Maybe she was "recruited" the way that Leon was "recruited."

Maybe Grace is the way for Leon to redeem himself from the way that he utterly failed Sherry -- and the way that he utterly failed himself.

Maybe that's why she's named "Grace."

#resident evil 9 #resident evil requiem #leon kennedy #grace ashcroft

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twlgholts · 2 days ago

Note

i absolutely loved the way you wrote about peter and i was wondering if you had more headcannons of him in a relationship or with a crush and it can be for someone he already knows or someone he doesn’t or anything!! just wanted to hear your thoughts!! take your time xoxo

lucky strike

— peter parker x f. reader

peter parker knows the rules: three strikes and you’re out. but sometimes, all it takes is one lucky strike to change everything... even a chance with the girl of his dreams.

word count: 8k

warnings: all flufff… started as headcannons and then turned to 2k words and then this so oops

masterlist!

Peter’s personal damnation was, and had always been, himself. Not in the apocalyptic, end-of-the-world kind of way—but in the quiet, habitual ruin that came from being sixteen with too many feelings and not enough skin to protect them. It was the kind of slow destruction that came not from villainy or vengeance, but from the ache of hope he should’ve outgrown. His mind, always on, always alert, turned against him in the stillness of his own company. When he was alone—truly alone, not just without people but without distraction—he found no solace. Just the hum of overthinking, the loop of half-remembered conversations, of imagined futures that never reached him.

And girls like you? They never ended up with guys like him. It was more than a trope. More than a cliché. It felt like a law of the universe, as fixed and inevitable as gravity or heartbreak.

Peter was the kind of boy who still built Lego models in his room when no one was around to see. He sketched ideas for suit upgrades in the margins of his chemistry notes. He got laughed at for both—by the cheerleaders who shared the locker bank next to his and always talked too loudly, making sure he heard every word. His intelligence, which should have been something he was proud of, was something weaponized by the wealthier kids in his grade to mock or compete with, depending on who was watching.

But your intelligence—your curiosity, your excellence—was something people admired. You wore it like sunlight, natural and radiant. You were class president, a National Honor Society darling, the first to raise your hand and the last to leave when others needed help. People adored you for it. They looked up to you like you were something mythic, which you very well could’ve been.

That was the thing about you—Peter never knew where to place his awe. Was it the kindness, how you once stepped in when someone mocked him in the hallway and diffused it with a laugh and that honey-dipped voice of yours, soft but commanding? Was it the way you turned to him afterwards with a smile so warm he thought it might collapse his ribcage inward? Or was it simply the way you moved through the world—like someone who had never been burned, and somehow still had enough light left to offer other people warmth?

Your beauty didn’t start or end with your face—but God, what a face. The kind he thought only existed in dreams or oil paintings. Your eyes carried something soft and star-like, some haloed glint that made light itself seem like it was following your lead. And every time the sun hit your cheekbones just right in third period, Peter felt something awful and golden bloom in his chest.

That’s why girls like you never ended up with guys like him.

Mrs. Schwartz, however, loved to play matchmaker in ways she probably thought were subtle. Maybe she’d picked up on the way Peter’s posture straightened the second you walked into the room, like even his spine wanted to impress you. Maybe she saw the way he’d lose track of time whenever you shared your thoughts with the class, his eyes fixed, his pencil idle. Or maybe it was the way he always seemed to malfunction when you got too close, like your presence disrupted his entire operating system.

So when Mrs. Schwartz stood at the front of the room and announced the final physics project—a Rube Goldberg machine, worth a significant portion of their grade—Peter froze. He had a 4.0 GPA and no intention of letting a marble and a string of dominoes end him. While he started calculating the worst-case scenarios, his panic paused only for one moment—when she read out, “Peter Parker” and yours was the name that followed, his blood turned electric. His brain stopped entirely.

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. His eyes went wide, locked on the whiteboard, jaw slightly slack. The universe had glitched. That was the only possible explanation.

Ned, seated besides him and already half-squealing, leaned in and whispered loudly, “Dude. Dude. Dude!”

Peter didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not until you turned around from your seat in the front row and gave him the kind of smile that poets tried to describe for centuries and never quite succeeded. You nodded once. Simple, polite, and kind. Peter’s grip slipped on his pen, almost knocking it off the desk.

When the bell rang, he moved like he was in a dream. Still shell-shocked, he mumbled as he shoved papers into his backpack, “Holy shit, I can’t believe this.”

“I know,” Ned breathed, eyes wide, trying not to scream. “What are the chances? Did you see the way she smiled at you? That was a real smile. Like, an actual human being smile.”

“I died a little inside,” Peter muttered. “She’s so—so—”

“Hey, Peter!”

He froze. Mid-bag-zip. Ned’s eyes flicked to a spot just behind him with the wide-eyed reverence of someone watching a miracle unfold.

You stood there, balancing your books in one hand, your backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, sunlight filtering in behind you like it was in on the moment too.

“I just wanted to grab your number,” you said, voice syrup-sweet but casual, like it wasn’t the most important thing Peter had ever heard. “Figured we could plan out the project now so we’re not scrambling later, you know? Finals week is already going to be a nightmare.”

Peter opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Then, too much did.

“Y-yeah! I think, uh—that, um—school. I mean—cool! Cool. That’s… great.” He winced as he said it. Internally hit himself in the face with a metaphorical frying pan.

You smiled wider, not cruel or mocking—just amused in that kind, soft way of yours. You handed over your phone without hesitation.

He fumbled to unlock his, nearly dropping it in the process, his fingers too jittery to function properly. Somehow, somehow, he managed to get the contact screen open and handed it to you like it was a sacred object.

You typed. Sent yourself a quick text. Handed it back.

“When would you be free?” you added, eyes warm. “You could totally come over to my place after school sometime if that works.”

Peter blinked. Nodded too fast. “That sounds amazing! I mean—not amazing. I mean—normal amazing. Like, yeah. I’ll check my schedule and text you?”

“School,” you said, lightly teasing. “See you later then. Bye, Peter. Bye, Ned. Have a good day!”

“Bye!” Peter choked out.

“Bye!” Ned echoed, sounding like someone who had just been knighted.

You disappeared out the door, a trail of soft-scented air and stunned silence in your wake.

Peter turned to Ned with the look of someone who had just seen the face of God.

“She said bye to me too,” Ned said dreamily.

Peter just nodded, dazed. “I think I might be dying.”

“No, dude,” Ned whispered, wide-eyed. “I think you’re living.”

Peter blinked, then muttered, “Okay… what does it actually mean when she asked for my number?”

Ned didn’t miss a beat. He pulled out his phone with a grin, already typing. “Only one way to find out. Let’s Google it. ‘Why do girls ask for your number?’”

They leaned over the screen, scrolling through results that ranged from seriously helpful to totally ridiculous. A few said it meant she was interested, others joked it was just politeness, and some insisted it was a test. Ned chuckled, reading one aloud: “If she asks for your number, bro, you’re already halfway to winning.”

Peter snorted, shaking his head. “Great. So, either I’m winning or I’m about to totally mess this up.”

Ned grinned wide, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Dude, you’re way past the first base. This is a good sign. Like, really good.”

Peter’s grin spread, heart pounding a little faster, a cocktail of hope and nerves swirling inside him. He knew he had three chances—three strikes—before he could really mess this up. But for now, this felt like a promising first pitch.

Peter arrived ten minutes too early. Which was, in his opinion, the worst kind of early. It was early enough to seem overeager, suspicious even, like he had run to your place from school or had no life of his own. Which—sure, was maybe a little true—but he didn’t want you to know that.

He stood outside your apartment door, four flights up with a slight stitch in his side and the thud of his pulse echoing somewhere near his throat. The hallway was quiet, painted in that familiar off-white of lived-in New York buildings, with doors spaced unevenly and the faint scent of takeout trailing from a unit somewhere below. He double-checked the number. Up four flights, left, straight down the hall, one right, third door on the left. Yeah. This was it.

But he couldn’t knock yet. That would be—what? Too eager. Too much. He leaned against the wall to the side of the peephole so you wouldn’t catch him pacing like an idiot through the fisheye. And then he started rehearsing.

Hi. No—hey. Hey sounds cooler. Hey! Wait, no, not that loud. Also, say something about the project. Maybe comment on the weather? Was the weather even important right now? What if you smelled really good and his brain stopped working again?

He gave himself eight minutes. Not seven. Not nine. Eight felt just right—long enough to pretend he hadn’t been waiting, short enough to not seem uninterested.

Finally, he decided to knock.

He ran a hand through his brown curls, fingers twisting and adjusting like it was some secret ritual—a quiet habit he’d fallen into whenever he knew you were close. It was less about vanity and more about wanting to look just right, to keep those unruly waves from betraying how much he cared, how much he hoped you’d like what you saw.

The door opened almost instantly. Which immediately short-circuited his brain. Like you’d been standing there on the other side, waiting for him too. (You hadn’t. Obviously. Right?) But still—it knocked the breath right out of his chest.

And then there you were. Backlit by apartment-light glow and framed like something out of a memory he hadn't made yet. You were wearing something soft-looking, and there was the faintest hint of something sweet in the air behind you—lavender, maybe, or whatever sunshine would smell like if it decided to settle in human form.

Peter panicked.

"Hey!" he blurted, way too loud, like someone had hit the volume dial mid-word. He winced the second it left his mouth, already picturing himself hurling down the stairwell like a Looney Tunes character who’d just embarrassed himself in front of the most incandescent person alive. Strike one.

But you just smiled. A real, lazy, easy one, the kind people don’t fake.

"Hey," you said back, soft like it didn’t need to try. Like you didn’t even register how hard the world trembled when you spoke.

Peter stepped inside.

Your place looked like you. Books arranged in stacks that probably made sense to only you. Blankets in soft, buttery folds over the couch. A candle low-burning on the table—citrus and something floral, inviting. A couple of framed pictures. A beach. A dog. You and someone else, mid-laugh. He wasn’t proud of the small flare of jealousy that flickered in his chest, but there it was.

It was all so lived-in. So personal. And he felt like he was trespassing on something beautiful.

You were already spreading out pens and paper across the living room floor, dropping cross-legged with that casual confidence Peter had never managed to master. You gestured for him to sit next to you like it was nothing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He folded himself down beside you, awkward and gangly and trying not to knock anything over or knock into you. His palms were already clammy. He wiped them discreetly on his jeans.

"Okay," you said around the cap of a purple pen you were holding between your teeth, "Rube Goldberg. Hit me. What’s the vision?"

Peter blinked.

You’d said we. Not you, not me. We.

His heart hiccuped, but he shoved the static in his brain aside and tried to focus.

"I was thinking maybe—uh—like a chain reaction that ends with a balloon pop?" he offered. "So we start small. Marble rolls down a track, triggers a lever, maybe knocks over a domino line, which releases a pulley, and at the end—bam. Needle hits the balloon."

You nodded thoughtfully, already sketching with the pen, eyes focused and mouth slightly pursed. You labeled arrows and scribbled “string?” next to a ramp, tilting your head as you thought. Peter stared just a second too long, enchanted by the furrow of your brow and how you twirled the pen like a conductor composing something only you could hear.

And then you laughed at his dumb little joke about the marble being their “hero.” It wasn’t clever, not really, but you threw your head back and laughed anyway, something genuine and loose and perfect. And God, it hit him like a wave.

He laughed too hard in response to a joke you made but too loud.

Strike two.

He braced for the wince, the recoil. But it didn’t come. You just looked at him, amused, like he was some kind of soft surprise.

The two of you built a rough plan. Ramp out of cardboard. Dominoes using old Jenga pieces. A falling textbook that’d trigger the second-to-last step. Every time you explained a section, Peter found it hard to focus on the actual physics and not just the sound of your voice—animated, bright, like sunlight bouncing off the surface of a lake. He watched the way you pointed, the way you smiled when you thought a design idea was clever, the way you leaned close without flinching.

You had laughed. You had listened. You had chosen to sit next to him, had invited him into your home. It wasn’t a glitch in the universe and it wasn’t a cosmic prank.

When the sun dipped and shadows stretched across the room, you glanced at the clock and gave a soft, surprised “Whoa,” like time had sprinted past you both. Peter packed his things carefully, not rushing, but feeling that inevitable weight settle—time to leave.

You walked him to the door, arms crossed loosely, leaning in the frame like a movie still he didn’t know how to stop staring at.

"I’ll text you," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "With my schedule and, uh, other project-related logistics and—stuff."

You grinned, cocking your head. "Okay, school."

Peter smiled, shy and stupid. Nodded too many times before turning toward the stairwell.

He descended the steps like someone who had been blessed and struck by lightning at the same time. His mind was looping—your laugh, your smile, the way your knee had brushed his just barely when you leaned in to fix a ruler angle. The scent of your apartment clung to his hoodie like a secret.

He hadn’t struck out.

Not tonight.

Peter showed up with a bag full of snacks and a nervous system on high alert.

He’d spent almost twenty minutes at the corner store, pacing the same two aisles, trying to decode years of casual observations and background details you probably hadn’t realized you’d given him. You’d gone to school together for a while—shared classes, lunch tables near each other, moments at student council events or club meetings—and Peter had always paid attention. Too much attention, probably.

He’d seen you pop open a bag of sea salt popcorn once during finals week and share it with someone. Noted. He’d overheard you once say gummies were “a superior candy, but only the sour peach rings, obviously.” Noted. He remembered you picking M&M’s out of a trail mix and tossing the rest into your friend’s hands like a peace offering. Also noted.

So, he brought all three.

The popcorn. The peach rings. The M&M’s. The popcorn was the first decision, but the last two for safe measure just in case the first was wrong. He knew he was as over prepared for every scenario, catastrophizing snack-based rejection like it might kill him, but he didn’t dare to risk it.

You opened the door only a few moments after his knock he, hair tied up in a way that made you look more casual and somehow even more dangerous. Your dog—small, scruffy, some chaotic mix of poodle and gremlin—barreled past your legs and launched directly at Peter’s shins like he’d been expected.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” you laughed, catching the door with your foot. “She’s obsessed with people. And by people, I mean anyone who gives her even an ounce of attention.”

“I’m flattered,” Peter said, trying not to trip as he knelt down. The dog immediately licked his face, paws scrabbling at his hoodie.

“She likes you,” you said, a little surprised. “She’s picky, actually. I think she likes smart boys. That, or you smell like treats.”

Peter grinned, reaching into his bag and holding up the snacks. “Speaking of… I, um, brought options. Wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just grabbed a few things.”

A lie. He’d picked them carefully, like answers on a test he couldn’t afford to fail.

“You overthought this,” you said gently with a knowing smile as you looked at the assortment.

Peter coughed. “Aggressively.”

But then you took the popcorn and opened it with a soft, “This is my favorite, actually,” and something in his chest eased.

You made your way to the living room—same setup as before. Floor space cleared, blueprints spread out, tools and tape and cardboard pieces like debris from a very nerdy storm. Your dog settled beside Peter’s thigh, curled like a comma, one paw still touching his jeans. You didn’t talk much at first, just worked in a state of focus. And Peter watched you in the quiet, trying not to get too caught up in the way your concentration looked like something he wanted to cherish.

He noticed it when you were tightening a screw into one of the levers, the tip of your tongue just barely peeking out between your lips. Your right eye squinted more than your left, mouth slack with focus, brow dipped in determination. It was such a small detail, but to Peter, it was unfairly beautiful. Like watching someone mid-creation—some prehistoric sculptor gently willing a machine to life with their bare hands.

You didn’t notice him watching, not at first at least.

“Need help?” he asked, eventually, voice softer than normal.

You nodded without looking up. “Can you hold this down while I fit the weight? It keeps shifting.”

He reached over, careful not to bump anything, and placed his fingers beside yours.

When his skin brushed yours—barely more than a whisper of contact—Peter froze. Not outwardly, but inwardly, every cell in his body collectively hit pause. He was suddenly aware of every nerve ending, every inch of skin, every single molecule of air between you. His breath hitched. But you didn’t pull away. You just pressed the screw tighter, your hand steady beside his. And when the piece clicked into place, you looked over and smiled, like you’d felt the electricity but weren’t scared of it.

“Perfect,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” Peter said, voice hoarse. “Perfect.”

You didn’t finish the full blueprint that night, but you got farther than you thought you would. Somewhere around the moment you got the pulley to work without jamming and the marble actually rolled through the first part of the track, you both sat back on your heels and just smiled.

“That actually worked,” you said, eyes wide.

Peter let out a low, incredulous laugh. “That actually worked.”

The project was far from being finished, but it was something and a breakthrough of sorts. A win for the night.

You leaned back against the couch and your dog immediately climbed into your lap, as if sensing the triumph and wanting to share in it. You scratched behind her ears absently, your gaze drifting toward Peter.

“Thanks for helping,” you said, voice low now, almost sleepy.

Peter smiled. “Thanks for trusting me not to mess it up.”

“You’re not really the mess-it-up type.” you said.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Just let the silence settle over you both again, comfortable now, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Eventually, you walked him to the door again. Your dog padded after him like she didn’t want him to leave either. Peter bent to scratch her head one more time.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked, trying to make it sound casual. Normal.

You nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He stepped into the hallway, bag lighter now, heart full in a way that made him feel both weightless and unbalanced.

No strike out tonight.

Not after you said you’d see him tomorrow.

Second period U.S. Government was winding down with the slow, sputtering rhythm of a dying wind-up toy. Peter was supposed to be taking notes on judicial review—Marbury v. Madison, checks and balances, the whole crumbling architecture of American legal precedent—but the words blurred together like background noise. Mr. Dell stood at the front of the classroom, monotoning his way through the concept of precedent with all the enthusiasm of a sleep-deprived librarian reading a tax manual. The whiteboard behind him looked like it had been used to solve a murder—half-erased terms, vague dates, the faded fingerprints of every class that came before.

Peter’s phone buzzed once. Then again. Then a third time. The low hum in the pocket of his hoodie felt like it was synced with his heartbeat, tapping out a rhythm that had nothing to do with politics. He shifted in his seat, knees jammed beneath the desk, and risked a glance downward. The notifications glowed against the screen like tiny digital fireflies.

He didn’t even need to open them because he knew who they were from. Knew it the same way you know rain’s coming, or that a memory’s about to hurt. That reflexive warmth bloomed in his chest—unexpected and involuntary. He couldn’t help it. He was smiling. Idiotically, helplessly.

Ned, seated to his right, didn’t miss it. He leaned in like a zoologist mid-discovery, eyes narrowing with suspicious delight. “Why are you giggling?” he whispered, like Peter was breaking some unspoken man-code.

“I’m not,” Peter whispered back, way too fast and already giving himself away. He lifted one hand to shield the screen like it might deflect embarrassment. “Shut up.”

Ned tilted his head and caught just enough of the message previews to grin. “What even is that?”

Peter kept his voice low, flushed and cornered. “She’s been sending me TikToks,” he muttered. “Said the wombats reminded her of me.”

Ned blinked. “Dude. You are so gone.”

Peter didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Because yeah—he was. Gone in the truest sense of the word. His thoughts had left the room, the school, the state. All because you had taken two seconds out of your day to think of him and send him something stupid and sweet and weird. And suddenly, judicial review seemed about as relevant to his life as trigonometry on a pirate ship.

The rest of the day dragged in slow motion. Hallways blurred. Bells rang like echoes from underwater. Every class, every minute, every meaningless worksheet just pulled him closer to one thought, louder than the rest: you were coming over to his place for a change.

He’d asked you that morning and tried to play it cool. A casual “We could work at mine after school?” said in a tone he hoped read as neutral and not I’ve already vacuumed twice in anticipation. You’d smiled and said yes like it was the most normal thing in the world, and Peter had nodded like he didn’t want to scream into his backpack.

By late afternoon, the city had gone golden. Sunlight spilled through the buildings like honey, turning the sidewalks soft and blurred, everything slow and syrupy. His apartment had never looked so clean. He’d vacuumed the rug three times, shoved every loose sock into the black hole of his closet, sprayed Febreze like it was sage in an exorcism. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the smell of traffic and fading spring.

And then—your knock.

Peter opened the door too fast, heart already in his throat, and his stomach dropped the second he remembered. May. She stood behind him with rubber gloves still on, holding a sponge and a grin like she’d been waiting for this.

“Oh!” she said, brightening like someone stepping into a punchline. “Is this her? This is her.”

Peter wanted to melt into the floor. “May!”

“I’m May,” she said, stepping forward like she was announcing a royal title. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

You didn’t even flinch. You stepped forward, warm and calm. “Hopefully all good things! It’s really nice to meet you. Peter always brags about you.”

May’s face softened into something fond. “Of course all good things! He told me you’re brilliant. You should’ve seen him obsessing over this project. Wouldn’t shut up about—”

“Okay, thank you!” Peter interrupted, his voice a little too high. “May, go. Shoo. Groceries.”

“I wasn’t even leaving yet.”

“You are now.”

May peeled off her gloves and grabbed her purse like this was a sitcom, and she’d been cast as the comic relief. “Use coasters!” she called as the door clicked shut behind her.

Peter exhaled, turned around, already mid-apology—and then froze.

You were standing by the TV, tilting one of the family photos toward the light. One of him, kindergarten age, bowl cut and all, grinning with a mouthful of baby teeth and a suspiciously large backpack.

“Oh my god,” you said, holding it up beside his face. “You were so cute, Peter.”

He nearly choked. “What—no. I look like a bobblehead. That haircut must’ve been some kind if punishment.”

You grinned. “Same face. Just smaller.”

He was still recovering from that when you flopped down onto the couch like gravity had finally caught up with you.

“This project is eating my soul,” you groaned.

“I can make you coffee?” he offered, already halfway to the kitchen.

You peeked at him, one eye open. “Right now?”

“If you want. We’ve got this new machine—it does foam.”

“Only if I don’t have to stop working. This blueprint’s gonna kill me.”

“Death by marble,” he said solemnly, disappearing around the corner.

“Death by kinetic chain reaction,” you called after him.

Peter whispered your order under his breath as he got to work. Peppermint mocha. Peppermint mocha. Peppermint mocha. He fumbled through the motions, burned his thumb on the steam wand, forgot the syrup until the last second—but when he handed you the mug, your smile made it all worth it.

You took a sip, eyes closing in theatrical bliss. “No joke, this might be the best coffee in Queens.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Might be a future in this for me.”

The mood shifted, softened. The apartment felt smaller in a good way, like it had curled itself up around the two of you. Peter made himself a cup and turned on the speaker, scrolling through playlists while trying to avoid anything too on-the-nose. You were back on the couch, cross-legged, tapping your pencil against your notebook, humming as you skimmed notes.

Then the song changed.

You paused, head tilting. “This is literally my favorite song ever.”

Peter blinked. “Frank Ocean?”

You nodded. “‘Ivy’ is my everything.” Then, softer: “I thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me,” you sang, quiet and faraway, your eyes chasing something past the window.

Peter tried to follow along, catching the next line. His voice cracked on the high note. “The start of nothing, ooh, I had no chance to prepare—” He winced. “Yeah, I give up.”

You laughed—laced in sugar, warm at the edges—and he grinned, watching it bloom out of you like a sunrise.

“That was... wow. You could totally be on Broadway,” you said, sarcasm curling through your voice like smoke.

“I was terrible,” he said, still smiling. “But it made you laugh.”

It had. And you kept smiling, even after you turned back to the blueprint. You bumped shoulders once, casually, and then didn’t move away. The music washed over the apartment, soft and slow. You kept brainstorming while he kept nodding along. It was quiet in the way that feels full rather than empty—like something humming just below the surface.

A new track faded in—Rex Orange County’s “Sunflower.”

You gasped, eyes lighting up. “Peter Parker. No way. I love this song.”

Peter looked over at you, the smallest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yes!” you nodded, already swaying a little. “Sunflowers are my favorite. So obviously—I’m obsessed.”

He watched you for a beat, quietly captivated. “Sunflowers are pretty,” he said softly, almost to himself as he made a mental note.

You turned to him, grinning. “Okay, your music taste is actually impeccable. I’m gonna need you to send this playlist to me like—immediately.”

He grinned, flushing. “I could make you a playlist. If you wanted.”

You met his eyes. “Or we could make one together. A project within the project.”

He nodded, heart loud in his ears.

And maybe the blueprint didn’t get finished that night. Maybe the marbles and levers and ramps stayed scattered in half-sketched fragments across the table, but your laughter filled the room. You drank the rest of your coffee and asked him about his favorite albums. You teased him when he couldn’t find the remote. You stayed until the sky outside went dark and the apartment lights felt like stars.

And when you finally left, after a million soft goodbyes and one last smile from the doorway that made his lungs seize—

Peter closed the door gently behind you and leaned back against it, eyes shut, heart still racing.

No strike out tonight.

Not with you laughing in his living room like that.

The next afternoon unfolded like a quiet unraveling—slow, imperfect, and a little chaotic. Outside, the sky had dulled to the soft gray of early evening, streaked with gold where the sun still tried to fight through. Peter’s apartment smelled faintly of acrylic paint, microwave mac and cheese, and something vaguely citrus from the candle he'd forgotten to blow out.

By now, every surface was cluttered. Rulers slid to the floor every time someone shifted. Hot glue strings webbed the coffee table like spider silk. The floor was a minefield of cardboard scraps, rogue marbles, popsicle sticks, and several tiny gears that had gone missing and were definitely now embedded into the carpet. You sat cross-legged amid the mess like a queen in a war-torn kingdom, hands streaked with metallic red and blue, sleeves pushed up, focus sharp as a scalpel.

Peter, meanwhile, was trying to reattach the rubber band mechanism to the makeshift wheel, jaw clenched in the kind of concentration that made him forget to blink.

That’s when he noticed it.

A single streak of blue paint, cutting a diagonal line across the bridge of your nose—barely there, crooked and smudged, like someone had drawn on you in the middle of a dream. At first, he tried to ignore it. Thought it would pass. But once he saw it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. It wasn’t just the paint—it was you, lit in that soft, end-of-day glow, wholly absorbed in something you cared about. Beautiful in the way people are when they’re not thinking about being seen.

He lasted maybe thirty minutes before cracking.

You looked up, catching the stare he hadn’t realized had gone on too long. One eyebrow arched. “What?”

“There’s, um…” He motioned vaguely to his own nose. “Paint. Just—on your—yeah.”

You blinked, confused, before pulling out your phone to check the camera. “Wait what? Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought you looked…” He hesitated, then added more softly, “Can I?”

You nodded.

He leaned forward, brushing his fingers gently across your skin—tentative, reverent. The contact lasted maybe two seconds, maybe a thousand years. His hand was warm and your breath caught. There was a pause, still and bright, like something delicate had landed between you both and neither of you wanted to scare it off.

“It’s flaking everywhere,” you said, voice breaking the silence with a laugh—light, a little embarrassed.

Peter smiled, eyes still on yours. “Guess that’s it. Painting privileges revoked.”

You rolled your eyes but bumped his shoulder anyway as you leaned back over the blueprint, now torn and coffee-stained and rewritten a dozen times. Dominoes lined up in shaky confidence. A ramp made from the inside of a cereal box curved at an improbable angle. The pulley system, once hopeful, now drooped like it had been through a war.

“Moment of truth,” you said, placing the marble at the start.

Peter gave a mock-salute. “Godspeed, little guy.”

You let it go.

The marble rolled, picking up speed with an urgency that felt personal. It hit the dominoes, which clicked down one by one like whispered promises. The lever tripped. The pulley jerked to life—

—and then the entire thing collapsed in a dominoes-and-glue-stick catastrophe. One side folded. The ramp cracked off its tape. The final trigger didn’t trigger anything.

You made a noise like pure despair and buried your face in your hands. “We are so screwed. This is due in two days, and it’s actually cursed.”

Peter didn’t panic. Not even a little. He just exhaled slowly and leaned closer, his voice softer than the mess deserved. “We’re close. We’re just… almost.”

You peeked out between your fingers, expression tired but open. “You really think we’ll finish?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We’re a good team.”

Something in his tone made you pause. Not the words, but the way he said them—quietly certain, like he’d already decided you would, like failure wasn’t an option as long as it was you and him sitting in this wreckage together.

And somehow, you believed him.

You let your hands fall into your lap, paint-streaked and callused and shaking just slightly from hours of trying. He reached for the loose ramp to start again, and you moved with him, shoulder to shoulder, elbows bumping. There’d be more disasters. More marbles launched in the wrong direction. More duct tape failures and coffee spills. But right then, in the golden hush of a shared mess and shared effort, something steadier than success settled between you both.

No strike out tonight.

Not with your shoulder pressed against his and the world quietly falling into place.

You arrived at Peter’s apartment after class with that look he was starting to memorize—the kind of exhaustion that ran deeper than sleep could fix, your cheeks pink from the wind, your eyes half-lidded with the weight of everything you were carrying. Finals week had set the entire school ablaze, and you were in the center of it. It showed in the slump of your shoulders, in the soft sigh you let out when he opened the door and offered a quiet, understanding smile.

You both settled on the dining room table without much fanfare, surrounded by the now-familiar chaos of your physics project—half-built ramps, rogue dominoes, post-it notes curling at the corners. The contraption had taken over the table's entire surface, the floor, and possibly your lives, but neither of you had the energy to care anymore. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon from an old candle and the outside hum of Queens buzzed through the cracked window, soft and distant, like the world was exhaling just beyond the glass.

Peter had been ready to dive in, thinking maybe tonight would be the night it all clicked into place—the blueprint complete, the marble path finally functional. But thirty minutes in, you slumped forward, cheek pressed to the table like a white flag being raised in slow motion.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely audible. “I’m just gonna lie down for a sec.”

He nodded instinctively, though his hands stilled over the half-taped lever he'd been trying to reinforce. You didn’t wait for permission—you just folded into yourself, cheek resting against your arm, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of the week had finally outpaced you. Your breath slowed into a rhythm so gentle it was almost melodic, the kind of cadence Peter knew he’d remember without ever needing to write it down.

Peter froze, caught in the strange gravity of the moment. Something about the way you slept—unguarded, trusting—made his chest tighten and soften all at once. Like he was watching a snow globe settle after being shaken. Like the universe had pressed pause just long enough for him to feel everything all at once.

He moved carefully, careful not to disturb the peace you’d folded into. The chill in the apartment made the hairs on his arms stand up, and he realized—blanket. You needed a blanket. Something warm and soft that could be between you and the rest of the world for a little while.

He padded into his bedroom and returned with one of the softer throws they kept on hand for movie nights and winter mornings. Gently, he draped it over your shoulders, adjusting the edges until it tucked neatly around your frame. Still, something in him pulled taut—like it wasn’t enough.

Peter peeled off his sweater without thinking, folding it into a makeshift pillow. He reached for you with the kind of adoration he usually reserved for the last piece of a fragile prototype, lifting your arm just slightly, slipping the sweater beneath your head with the precision of someone who’d mapped this movement out a thousand times in his mind. And when your cheek relaxed against the fabric, when your lips parted just a little in your sleep—he felt something crack open in his chest.

His heart thudded painfully loud, too big for the room, too loud for the silence. He sat back down beside you and picked up the paintbrush again, hands steadier now even as his thoughts spiraled. He worked without thinking—soft strokes to patch the spot that had peeled off, his mind only half-aware of what he was doing. The city outside buzzed faintly, like background noise in a dream.

Then—your voice.

A whisper, fractured and thick with sleep. Barely formed, but it caught him like a hook in the chest.

“Peter… like you… so much.”

He froze.

The paintbrush slipped from his fingers. The screwdriver followed, landing with a soft clatter on the rug. The sound didn’t wake you, but it rattled through him like a thunderclap.

He stared.

At you. At the sweater. At the faint curve of your lips and the invisible line you’d just drawn between what he thought he imagined and what had just become real.

You’d said it.

Or maybe your dreaming self had, which would make it not count. But Peter didn’t care. His brain had stopped listening to logic three heartbeats ago. He couldn’t look away. Couldn't move. Could barely breathe around the bloom of feeling that cracked like lightning across his ribcage.

You stirred.

Your lashes fluttered, then lifted. You blinked up at him with a soft confusion that gave way, slowly, to clarity.

“I, uh… fixed most of our, um, issues,” he said quietly, voice cracking on the first word like it was learning how to speak all over again.

You blinked again, then winced slightly as you sat up, brushing hair from your face. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how long I was napping for. You’re an angel, Pete.”

He shook his head, eyes darting down as if looking directly at you might undo him. “It’s okay. You looked tired.”

Your smile was tired, crooked, radiant. “I was. Thanks for the blanket. And the… pillow upgrade.”

Peter coughed, looked anywhere but at you. “Yeah. It, um, looked uncomfortable.”

The moment lingered, like it didn’t want to leave.

Together, you reset the machine—gently, this time, like something sacred. He placed the marble into the start position. You adjusted the line of dominoes until you finally let it go.

The marble rolled. The ramp held. The dominoes fell in perfect, elegant rhythm. The pulley spun. The lever dropped. And at the end of it all—with a sharp, triumphant pop—the balloon burst in a spray of glitter confetti, the final piece Peter had added while you’d been asleep.

You laughed—head thrown back, bright and golden and unfiltered. Peter grinned at the sound, chest aching in the best way.

You turned to him, eyes still wide with wonder. “It worked.”

He nodded, cheeks flushed, heart full.

No strike out tonight.

Not when there was a chance it wasn’t unrequited after all.

The machine worked. Not just functioned, but dazzled.

It started with the marble poised at the very top of a cardboard ramp. The class watched in breathless stillness as Peter set it down with the kind of admiration usually reserved for ancient relics. Then you gave a subtle nod, and he let go.

The marble rolled. Fast. Clean. Every motion happened exactly as it was supposed to. The dominoes clicked one by one like the ticking of a perfectly wound clock. The miniature pulley jerked into action, lifting a pencil, triggering a springboard, releasing a toy car that rammed into a cup of water, which tipped, pulling a string taut—

And then: pop.

The balloon burst in a shimmer of gold confetti. Someone gasped audibly while another clapped on instinct. Then the room exploded into applause.

Mrs. Schwartz actually laughed, clapping loudest of all. “Best project I’ve seen in all my years working here,” she said, and there was a wicked little glint in her eye as she glanced between you and Peter—like she knew exactly what she'd done when she paired you up.

Peter looked at you. You looked at him. And for a moment, the entire world was confetti and light.

After class, the two of you moved through the hall like you shared a secret the rest of the building hadn’t figured out yet. Peter took your books without being asked—half-chivalry, half-excuse to keep his hands busy while his brain scrambled to find a smooth way to ask if maybe, possibly, you wanted to come over after school. He was rehearsing something casual in his head—Hey, if you're not busy, I was thinking maybe—

“I think I left my ruler at your place,” you said suddenly, digging in your bag and frowning. “Mind if I stop by and grab it real quick?”

Peter blinked. Then nodded. Then over-nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah! Of course. Totally. Come by.”

The walk to his apartment was warm with sun and sidewalk chatter, a few gulls circling above and some kid blowing bubbles on the stoop across the street. The city felt quieter than usual, or maybe just kinder. Every bump of your shoulder against his felt deliberate and unrushed, like the walk was a destination on its own.

At the door, Peter hesitated, words caught somewhere between nervous and hopeful. “Hey… uh, would you mind waiting just outside for a minute? I need to check something real quick.”

You gave him a curious, slightly wary smile, the kind that said okay, but what’s going on?—then you shifted your weight on your heels, stepping back into the quiet hallway just beyond the door.

Peter closed the door gently behind you, the click echoing in the stillness like a starting gun. Without a second thought, he spun on his heel and practically sprinted down the short hall to his room. His heart hammered louder than his footsteps as he dove behind his desk chair and grabbed the bouquet he’d stashed there earlier—sunflowers, bright and wild, almost ridiculous in their brilliance, just like you. Nestled among the golden stems was the folded note he’d agonized over—written and rewritten until every word felt like it might finally say what his voice never could.

His hands trembled as he picked up the flowers, breathed in their faint, sweet scent, and for a moment, everything else fell away. You. The sunflowers. The hope tucked inside a few carefully chosen lines of script.

He took a steadying breath—then another—and stepped back toward the door.

“Okay,” he called softly, voice catching. “You can come in now.”

The door creaked open, and you stepped through just as he turned, arms full of sunflowers, the note peeking shyly from between the stalks. Your face shifted, the way light shifts across glass—first surprise, soft and almost stunned, then awe, disbelief, and finally something quieter, gentler, like the dawn settling slowly after a long night.

Peter swallowed hard.

“You, uh… you sleep talk,” he said, voice already tipping into nervous. “And last night, you said something. I don’t know if you meant it, or if you were dreaming, or if I’m being completely insane right now. And if I’m wrong, if I read all of this wrong, then—God—I’m such an idiot, and you never have to speak to me again, and I’ll just—I don’t know, drop out and move to—”

“Peter,” you whispered.

“—Canada, or like, a cave or something, I don’t—” He thrust the flowers forward suddenly. “I wrote it down. What I was trying to say.”

Your hands closed around the flowers like they were fragile things, the note rustling softly in your fingers as you unfolded it.

Being your physics partner was the best part of my semester. Any chance I could be your partner outside of school?

You looked up at him then, eyes shining with something fierce and bright, a smile blooming wide, somewhere between disbelief and pure joy.

“Can I…” Peter rubbed the back of his neck, face burning red. “Can I be your boyfriend?”

You didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you stepped closer, your fingers curling around his free hand and holding on tight, steadying both of you. Then a soft laugh escaped you—a laugh full of disbelief and wonder, shaking your head like you couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“You idiot,” you said, voice breaking with the weight of how long you’d waited. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

Peter blinked, stunned. “Wait, really?”

You leaned in—closer, impossibly close—your nose almost brushing his. “You're so oblivious, Peter. Yes, of course.”

He grinned, relief flooding him, but then his smile faltered a little, and after a breath, he added, “Or wait—scratch that. I feel like that’s moving too fast. Let me take you on a date first. Unless, you know, I completely made a fool of myself and lost my shot.”

You just laughed again, soft and sure, and squeezed his hand.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “You’re far from losing your shot.”

Peter Parker grinned like someone who had just been handed everything he never thought he could ask for—because, in that moment, he had.

Who needs to worry about striking out when all he ever needed was one stroke of luck?

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