#working with my students they just... Do Not Know How To Do Things

[elbiotipo]

To me there's a deeper meaning, though I don't know how to express it, on people using pathologizing language in education i.e. "cognitive atrophy" "brain damage" as an explanation for learning issues.

Which to be fair, the authors of that paper asked specifically not to be used, but the twitter thread linked on that post (which has 38k notes as of this post, jesus christ) did use, extensively. Using language such as "brain damage", "cognitive atrophy" and how could I forget, "soulless".

However, the authors of the paper also didn't have a good methodology, other people have gotten into it better than myself, but the paper does not really point to any cognitive decline, and the methodology used does not offer long-term explanations. But what I do think is that when we're talking about things such as AIs in education, or any other new technology, we should investigate them as tools used in a social context. Why do people use AI as a tool? How do educators and instutions handle this? In which way this tool worsen education or might, god forbid, enhance it? Here the focus, as so much Usamerican education research at least in my experience, is on almost purely numerical and anatomical (EEG? really?) results rather than any pedagogical studies on the tools and their users. (and those results are very poor too)

And once you go down the road of finding pathological answers to educational issues, you will start finding pathological solutions instead of social ones. Why try to confront social or familial issues, when these students obviously have something wrong with their brains? Hell, why even provide them with education, their brains can't even handle it. Eventually you might as well give up and just educate the worthy ones. If you don't believe me, see how education and mental healthcare in the US works.

For someone like me who believes that education is fundamentally a social institution and that every student comes from a social and cultural background that needs to be understood before the process of learning begins, these studies (or rather, unhinged twitter threads) that claim that a complex process like learning can be understood in pathological terms are profoundly hostile to me.

[mayajadeart]

Fucking, thank god for grad students. Grad students are truly the GOAT of science. A lot of scientific research is limited by what kinds of research can produce results that might be profitable for businesses, including the journals that publish that research in the first place. But grad students? They're not trying to make money for anyone, they're trying to prove themselves as scientists before entering the professional world. The only thing a master's or doctorate thesis is supposed to do is prove to your university that you have mastered your craft and are capable of producing research that meets the standards of the scientific community. The only job that a graduate student has when producing that thesis is to do good research that has never been done before. They're just about the only scientists whose sole prerogative is to look where no one else has looked to answer questions that no one else has, possibly because no one else has even asked them yet, and to compile their results, whatever they are, for the pure sake of knowledge itself.

I'm not a scientist, I'm just someone who does scientific research in my free time because I'm deranged enough to think it's genuinely fun, and because a lot of the art I do is scientifically informed. But because I'm doing this research for art rather than a more "practical" application, a lot of the times the reasons why I want to know something are completely different from the reasons why these topics are actually studied. I don't want to know how to create synthetic equivalents of Feline Facial Pheromone F3, whose function we already know, in order to reduce stress and prevent undesirable behavior in pet cats in new homes and vet clinics, I want an analysis of the components that make up Feline Facial Pheromones F1 and F5, whose functions we don't know, in order to start building hypotheses about what those functions might be, so that I can figure out how catgirls would perceive these pheromones and theorize how they might talk about them in their native languages. But nobody's gonna pay me to do that, are they?

And let me tell you, sometimes the only people who seem interested in the kinds of bizarre and esoteric questions that an artist like me will have are grad students publishing theses. I still haven't found anyone trying to figure out what FFP F1 or F5 are used for, but I have found:

A full, comprehensive description of the complete phonology and grammar of the Lushootseed language and its dialects, spoken by several Coast Salish tribes of the Puget Sound region, published by Ted Kye in 2023 for his doctoral thesis at the University of Washington. Lushootseed is the source of many words from the region, including hugely important place names like Snoqualmie, Muckleshoot, Puyallup, Snohomish, Sammamish, Duwamish, Mukilteo, Shilshole, and of course, Seattle, but the language itself is extinct, with its last native speaker, Vi Hilbert, dying in 2008. There are, however, efforts to revive the language, and that would be significantly more difficult without Ted Kye's work. I think we can all see why this kind of thing is valuable.

And, this second one is a bit more esoteric but hear me out:

The discovery that a popular ornamental aquarium fish might actually have been sequentially hermaphroditic this whole time, which was practically a footnote in a 2016 thesis by Lia Gomes and Silva Henriques from the University of Porto, in Portugal. The fish in question is the red-tailed shark, Epalzeorhynchos bicolor, which is not an actual shark, but a member of the carp family that just happens to look like a shark, and two very important things to note about it are that it is critically endangered in the wild, and in fact was thought to be totally extinct in the wild until one was found in 2014, and that they are also practically impossible to breed in captivity. The primary threat to the species is considered to be habitat destruction. The quite substantial supply of this species in the pet trade today all come from fish farms in Southeast Asia, which use hormones to induce reproduction in the species, through processes that are kept as trade secrets and are essentially unknown to the scientific community. So, we have literally no idea how this fish breeds, which means that hobbyists can't breed it themselves, and scientists don't know what conditions they even need in order to breed in the wild. This one paper, written by students in Portugal who attempted to induce gonadal maturation in the species using hormone injections, is perhaps one of the only clues we have on the path to saving this species, and it hints at a conclusion that could have HUGE implications for the husbandry, captive breeding, and survival in the wild of the red-tailed shark: all of the individuals that were dissected without having undergone hormone injections were immature females, and immature males only started appearing in groups that had been injected, suggesting that all individuals of the species might start out as females, and then at some point in their development, certain individuals, for unknown reasons, may develop into males instead, making them sequential hermaphrodites. This isn't unknown in fish (clownfish do something similar, except they all start out as males and become female when they achieve dominance in their social group), but it was completely unexpected in this species, and could go a long way in starting to explain the difficulties with breeding them and potentially be a step on the path to learning how to breed them in captivity, as well as saving them in the wild.

Unfortunately, in the latter case, I wasn't able to find any other published work by either of the listed authors, and no one else seems to have repeated the experiment. This is a real shame, because the results of the experiments, while very intriguing, weren't conclusive; they had a fairly low sample size, and would need to be confirmed by further research. But there's no indication of that research being done, and I might be the only one other than the university's board of reviewers who's even read the thing.

All this is to say, fish testicles are interesting and I'm begging someone to do more research on them, please.

[poisonofthepaint]

why are you up here?

a story told through cigarettes and suicidal tendencies. you and jack spend the time trying to talk each other down from the roof, until the fourth of july, when neither of you can get up there.

cw: widower!jack, reader has a dead best friend, jack calls reader kid, age gap, kissing, probably not accurate information on how the military works, that's really it but this is probably the most emotional thing i've written in a while lol so beware. uhhh also cigarette smoking, duh. Also. not really proofread so i'm sorry

wc: 4.6k

The first time you meet Abbot on the roof, it’s you who’s on the ledge. It’s the first chilly day of the year. Mid-September, the scorching summer finally seems to come to a halt. Your legs dangle off the building, your back is pressed against the concrete floor. Your stethoscope hangs above your head on the bar that’s supposed to prevent situations like this. The door opens and closes. You close your eyes and listen to his steady gait walk towards you. The sound echoes off the concrete. 

“You’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack, kid.” You don’t answer him, or look at him. Your hand reaches up and lightly bats the medical instrument. You watch it swing back and forth. “Why are you up here?”

“I don’t know, my attending always comes up here, figured I’d see what all the rave is about.” 

He scoffs at you, “Right, I usually do it at the end of my shift though. You’re on hour two. And I’ve never once laid down. I mean, really, this is strange.”

“I’m tired.” You state plainly, still not moving, except for the hand that’s batting at the rope.

“Okay, you’ve gotta stand up, it’s scaring me.”

“I don’t know if I care.” 

You’ve never been this nonchalant; this detached. That’s how Abbot knows something is wrong. Yes, you lost a patient, but he’s never seen it hit you so hard that you had to come up to the roof about it. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He thinks back, and tries to figure out why it would affect you this badly, but then he realizes, he actually doesn’t know anything about you. Sure, he knows where you went to medical school, and he knows that you’re funny, and you dislike bedside manner. You love stabilizing gunshot victims, your favorite restaurant is a Mexican joint that will give you a free margarita after you’ve had your second. He knows you have a shitty ex that wrote a rap song about you. And he knows you can calm an irrational patient down in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t know anything about your past. Before medical school is a mystery to him. 

He says your name in a gentle tone, you finally glance at him. “Listen, we can talk if you want. You know I’ll listen. Or, we can sit up here, in dead silence, but you have to come back from the ledge.”

You oblige, with a huge sigh, and scoot yourself back behind the bar. You still sit, but upright now. You feel like an animal locked in a cage.

“You know you did everything, right?”

“It was the same.” You say, “It was the same as Molly.”

Abbot nods, like he knows. He’s scared you’ll run if he asks for more information, but from your few words he can gather enough.

“I brought Molly to an ED just like this. They did everything they could too. But the wound was too severe. She was too out of it. She wasn’t a good student, hell, neither was I. But she had a fucking future, you know? Like, she deserved to at least try. But that fucking asshole ruined it all.”

He thinks back to that patient. Her dark hair, mangled. The deep cut on the side of her body, abdomen slashed. Abbot thinks about the girl’s blue eyes, how they went back and forth between the back of her head and staring directly at the light. 

“Molly was in a car with some guy she was seeing. She liked him, he gave her all the shit for free, but one night, he got really high, and he and Molly were driving around for fun. But he went into a tree, and he died on impact. Molly had a stab wound from the windshield glass. She was scared of getting arrested, so she called me. I had to pull her out of the car, and by the time I got there, she was too out of it to fight about going to the hospital.”

Abbot soaks in your words, prepares himself for what you’re going to say next. He never stops staring at you. He still stands, hands in his pockets. He focuses on the top of your head. He notes how you shake it lightly every time you say Molly’s name. Like even the mere acknowledgment of it brings up images. He knows how it feels, he has a few names like that.

“I parked in the ambulance bay, and ran her inside. I held her hand while she bled out on the table.”

You take a deep breath and look back at him, wondering if you’re just talking to yourself. Abbot pulls something out of his pocket, a pack of Marlboro blacks. You scoff, and he smiles when he sees a smirk come to your face. 

“You smoke old man cigarettes.”

“Sorry, I don’t have your princess ones.”

You take the cigarette and the lighter from him, flicking it a few times before it finally lights. You take a deep inhale, letting the smoke fill your lungs.

“They had stabilized the wound, at least a little bit, but then they started their neuro tests. No eye reaction to cold water. Pupils blown. She was fucking braindead. They said she must’ve hit her head when the car crashed. She didn’t have any family. She was an aged out foster kid. I was her emergency contact. I had to choose. I had to tell them to pull the plug— to stop. I know no one could’ve saved her, or made her not get in that car. But I still hate it.” You take another deep pull of the stick, the wind blows, and the smoke burns your eyes. 

You stand now, still smoking. You take another drag before offering it to Abbot. He takes it from your hand, taking his own pull. You note how he holds it, held between pointer and thumb, other fingers floating above it. 

He nods his head, “I’ve got a few Molly’s. A few cases that hit too close. I wish I had something I could say.”

You know he’s right. There’s nothing to say.

 “It just fucking sucks, man. Like, really bad.” you voice.

Abbot lets out a chuckle, “Yeah, it does.”

There’s no changing her death. There’s no changing that there will be more Molly’s. This you know.

“My first day back to work after my wife died, I got a patient that looked like her, or maybe I was projecting on the first woman with red hair I saw come in.” You glance at him, you didn’t even know he was a widower. You must have started after it happened. 

“It took Robby and Dana to talk me down from here. Honestly, I was mostly scared shitless that Dana was gonna kill me for making her walk up twelve flights of stairs.” He shakes his head, and locks eyes with you, offering you the cigarette back. You take it gladly, quickly putting it back between your lips. 

“It doesn’t get any easier, but you realize that they don’t want you to join them, wherever they are. Molly wants you here, and I’m sure she knows that you did all you could for her. And you did all you could for that girl in there.”

You nod along to what he’s saying, and stub the cigarette out on the bottom of your shoe. 

“You ready to get back to it? I know it won’t go away, but I’ll deal with the girl’s family, okay? Sit this one out. You can take the foot fungus in central fifteen.”

You laugh, a loud one, and Abbot thinks to himself, finally, there’s that noise I’ve been waiting to hear. 

“Fuck you, and your foot fungus.”

He ticks his head towards the door, and you head in behind him. 

The next time you’re led to the roof, it’s snowing. A cold day in February, the month that drags forever. This time, Jack stands at the ledge, no coat, no gloves. Just standing. You’re thankful he at least wore a long sleeve under his scrub shirt today.

“You need your hands to work in the ED.” you say, plainly. 

It was only a few months back that he was talking you down, and since then, you’ve grown closer together. Sure, you two were always friends. But after telling him about Molly, it was like something shifted. You loved to mess around with him when you could. And he seemed to really take a liking to you after your stint. He always dragged you onto cases with him, ignoring the efforts of Shen to be the one to teach you something. It was nice, it felt like having a friend, even if you only saw each other in the hospital. 

“Why are you up here?” Jack asks, not turning around.

“I brought you a present. But, you can only have it if you put on these gloves.”

Jack turns half-heartedly, and you wave a pack of cigarettes in front of him, like it’s a toy.

“You call yellow American Spirits a present?”

You scoff, “Fine, I’ll smoke one. Asshole.”

And you do. You take one out of the pack, and light it, taking a deep drag. “I’m sorry that she had red hair.” you say softly.

It’s the only detail you knew about his wife. The only thing he dared to share with you about her.

The woman you spent the last hour coding had bright red hair that laid on the table like a cruel joke. It was all spread out, and it looked brushed, even though she had been in the ED, awaiting an ICU bed for three days. She had liver failure, and it had finally given out. Even when you were operating on her, everyone in the room knew that the only thing that would fix her would be a new liver, but you still tried; she didn’t have a DNR. 

Jack reaches a hand back from the ledge, asking for the lit cigarette.

“Gloves,” you say.

“No,” he replies firmly.

“Well,” you sigh, “I tried.” you say, handing him the lit cigarette.

You walk closer to the ledge. Of course, he’s in front of the bar, looking around. You don’t pressure him to talk, just stand with him patiently, like he did for you.

“My wife, Camille, died at home, in bed with me. I woke up one day, and she was just gone. Couldn’t get her up. They said her heart just stopped beating. Sudden cardiac arrest. Her hair was laid out just like that patient’s. I did CPR for twenty minutes straight. They had to pull me off her.”

You swallow and it’s thick. The cold temperature makes your nose run. He offers you the cigarette back.

“No, keep it.” you reach back in your pocket, fetching your own. 

“Camille was the best. I met her right before I enlisted. I had done two years of college, and it just wasn’t really for me. I was studying sports medicine, and I hated it. An enlister talked me into it, told me that I could do real medicine on the field, and I liked that idea. I’ve always been an adrenaline junkie.”

You nod, the storyline connecting in your head. 

“Camille wrote me letters every week, called me on the phone whenever I could talk. I loved her so much, I proposed in a letter, and we got married after I was done with basic.”

“Damn, surprised you didn’t scare her away.” Jack scoffs and shakes his head at you. It was normal for you two to make offhanded, dry jokes at each other. He knows you mean no harm.

“She stayed with me through it all. Through the war, and the trauma, and the fucking amputation. She took care of me when I didn’t want her to. When I begged her to leave me so she could have a normal life, and not be stuck with some guy who has to wear a prosthetic. But she loved me, and, man, I loved the shit out of her.”

He took a drag of the cigarette, and shook his head at the sirens coming down the street. He finally turns the way you’re standing. You have your one arm crossed, tucked into the warmth of your side. The other hand holds the cigarette steady by your mouth. You can feel the snow melting in your hair, and you know you’ll be a bit damp when you go back in. 

He finally locks eyes with you, “And then, when everything seemed normal, I had gotten into a good place here, she worked from home, so I got to spend the days with her. She just died. Just like that. In bed, with her hair sprawled out on the pillow.”

You nod, like you understand the ache of losing a spouse, even though you don’t. Camille was probably like fifteen Molly’s for him, you realize. 

“I would ask you to come back from the ledge, but after that, man, I don’t know.” 

Jack laughs again, and you smile at him, brightly, thinking maybe your shining smile will convince him to come with you. 

“I was told once, though, that they would want me here, doing what I do best.” Jack looks down, a rare break of eye contact from him. “Jack, Camille would want you here. She would want you to stay saving people. She doesn’t want you to meet her again, not yet.”

“Yeah, I know.” He says, still looking at the ground. “Someone told me though, that it still fucking sucks.”

You laugh, and he peers at you through his eyelashes. Finally, he swoops under the bars, coming to where you're standing. The cigarettes are long abandoned on the ground, snow covering them softly. 

“Thank you,” Jack says, and you’re a bit taken aback.

Usually, he would end something like this with a joke, but he seems like he actually seems grateful, and that scares you even more. You wonder if today was the day he might’ve done it. And you thank God that you stood in the gas station line to buy a fresh pack yesterday. 

“Sure, whenever.” You say, looking up at him, squinting a bit in the snow.  “You know, I think Myrna was saying something about needing to use the bathroom, if you want something easy.”

He scoffs at you, and lets out a small chuckle, “There is nothing easy about that woman.”

You lead him back inside, and you have to admit, you’re proud that you can join the club of people who have successfully talked Abbot off the roof.

The next time you both ache to head to the roof, you’re unable to. A scorching hot Fourth of July. No wind, no clouds. The waiting room is filled with people who've been waiting since their 1:00PM barbecues, and the clock has just struck 10:00. Abbot has seen three patients with red hair code. You’ve had three car crashes caused by drugs, and two patients die that looked a little bit like Molly. To say the day was already going bad was an understatement. 

You two kept sneaking looks at each other all night. Abbot’s eyes, usually hard and cold, would meet yours with a softness, like he knew what you needed, but also knew he couldn’t provide it. It was way too busy to let you sneak off for a break. This also meant he couldn’t, which led to him being a bit more snappy with the staff.

Jack wasn’t ever mean. Sure, he was firm, and he handed orders out like he was still running a combat zone, but you knew he meant no harm by it. Tonight, though, Jack was a little bit mean. He had snapped at Ellis after the first redhead coded, basically screaming, “Dammit, Ellis! How many times do I have to tell you that I need to assess every patient!”

He also yelled at Shen about his tendency for bathroom breaks, telling him that no grown man should have that small of a bladder, and that he should seriously get it checked out. Basically, Jack was about two hours away from being summoned to HR. 

You had stopped caring after the first Molly-look alike died on your table. You had been silent, avoiding eye contact with all the staff, except Jack. you wanted to tell him to stop screaming, because it wasn’t helping anything, and you knew he’d regret it, but you also felt like it wasn’t your place. You wanted to scream too. If you had the seniority to do it, you probably would be snapping at everyone.

You knew that the Fourth was already a really bad day for Jack. he didn’t enjoy his service being paraded around by people who didn’t understand, he didn’t find the day as celebratory as everyone else seemed to. This was the first time he had worked it in a few years. And of course, he was rewarded by his dead wife haunting him all night long.

Finally, you find a moment to sneak away, having maxed out at five patients, all waiting for labs. You sneak into the break room, sitting in a flimsy plastic chair and throwing your hands on top of your head, suddenly aware of how hot it is in the ED. Since the department was kept so cold, it never really got hot, but it was way hotter than usual, maybe even at 70 degrees, you guessed.

You sit there like that, with your eyes closed, ignoring the chatter outside of the room, and it’s a nice feeling. The tears start to prick behind your eyelids, and you know if they start, you won’t stop, so you quickly think of something else, something happy. The first face to come to mind is Jack, which shocks you.

You think about the case he took with you about a week ago. A young boy, with a broken arm, who couldn’t seem to stop spilling sensitive information about his parents’ marriage to the both of you. He had been brought in by his kindergarten teacher, and she seemed equally humiliated.

While Jack set his broken bone, the kid babbled on. “Yeah, so, my mommy said that she doesn’t really like the man like that but my daddy seems to think she really likes him. My mommy and the man even have photos together on my mommy’s phone.” The kid says, all in one breath.

“Well, mommies can have friends.” Jack had said, trying not to get himself in trouble.

“Yeah, but, mommies and their friends don’t usually have S-E-X! At least, that’s what my daddy says. Wait, what is S-E-X?”

Jack jumped up from where he was sitting, “Dr., why don’t you get that propofol going?”

You gave him a quick salute and grabbed the medicine from the nurse, trying your hardest not to giggle at the awkwardness of the situation. 

You feel a little bit better after recalling the memory, a small smile finds its way to your face.

The door creaks open and your eyes open at the noise, it’s Jack standing there, with a grim look on his face.

“Sorry, getting back out, I was waiting on labs.”

“S’fine,” He grumbles, coming to sit next to you.

“So, how are–”

“Don’t,”

You nod your head, and slowly get up from the chair you were sitting in. To your surprise, he puts a hand on your arm, and shoots you a look. You sit back down with him, but don’t dare to look over at his face again. You want to break the ice, but you’re not sure if it’s the right time. You want to just let him wallow, you want to wallow too. You want to smoke a million cigarettes on the roof with him, and not say a single word, because you both just know. That’s how you want to spend the rest of the night.

“You shouldn’t yell at people who don’t know why you’re upset.” you say.

“Maybe they shouldn’t do dumb shit then.” he huffs, a hand wiping over his face.

“They’re not being that dumb, they’re being the usual dumb.”

“So, what, I should only yell at you because you know why I’m upset?”

“You shouldn’t yell at anyone. But, sure, if you need to, yeah, I’ll take it.” 

“Hell no. You just want to be punished because you’ve had Molly’s tonight.” 

It was still terrifying how well he could read you. He knew that you wanted to be blamed; that you wanted to be told you could’ve done something different, even though you knew it wasn’t true. 

“I’m not gonna yell at you, kid. I know you’re itching to get up there as much as me. I yell at those two buffoons because I know after today they won’t think anything of it. You’ll think about it if I yell at you.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I’m not just your boss, like I am to them.”

You swallow hard, because now Jack has said what has gone unsaid for almost a year. That you were more than coworkers. You had never let it run away from you. You never, ever, met outside work. But contained in the walls of PTMC was charged energy that wasn’t appropriate for a boss and his subordinate.

“Jack, I can’t even begin to think about that right now.”

He nods slowly, like he knows he just dropped a bomb when he shouldn’t have. You finally look over at him to meet his hazel eyes that have been boring into your head since the moment he sat down. You give him a small, shaky smile, and stand up.

“I have to go check on patients.”

He nods again; says nothing, lets you leave the room. You close the door behind you and shake your head, trying to get the situation to leave you alone. 

After midnight, it finally starts to quiet a little bit. Way less traumas, a lot more normal stuff, meaning you were finally able to thin the herd of the waiting room a bit. King and Langdon weren’t on until 5:00 but they snuck in early, around 3:00, which gave you a bit of slack. You try your hardest not to notice that Mel is obviously wearing Langdon’s shirt, but it’s difficult not to. She shoots you a glance, like she knows you know, and you give her a shrug and then a thumbs up. Mel blushes and hurries away, like she doesn’t want to be seen. 

Finally, at 3:30, you make your way up to the roof. All twelve flights, you try to save your tears for the heights, but can’t seem to. When you open the door, you know that your eyes are already red. It doesn’t shock you that Jack is already up there, standing over the bar.

He glances back when the door closes, “I would ask why you’re up here, but I guess I already know.”

You join him over the metal railing, standing right next to him. There’s still no breeze outside, and it’s achingly hot for 3AM. “Yeah, real fucked up night, huh?” you laugh— a lot. To the point that your stomach hurts. And so does he, he slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side, for a quick hug.

You pull a pack out from your pocket, Marlboro reds this time.

“Trying something new?”

“I’m trying to compromise.”

He nods and takes one from you, pulling out his black lighter, that’s so dinged up it looks like he’s had it since the war, by the way. You honestly don’t know what he does to get it so dirty. He hands it over to you, and you light yours, deeply inhaling the first pull.

You two stand there like that for a while, smoking in silence. He doesn’t take his arm off of your shoulder. It’s a nice comfort; the physical affection after a shitty day. 

“I can’t believe we still have three more hours.”

He hums, “Should be easier now that King and Frank are here.”

“You know they’re sleeping together, right?”

“Oh, yeah, big time. It’s way funnier to let them think they’re being subtle though.”

You laugh, and choke on the smoke that was halfway into your lungs. 

“About what I said earlier, if you don’t feel the same, I get it. I know I’m pretty messed up, and a lot older. I understand.” 

“No, I do feel the same. I do. And your age doesn’t deter me. I’m pretty messed up too, if you couldn’t tell. It won’t be easy, which is what I’m worried about. I feel like they always say love should be easy. That it just happens. Which I guess it did.”

“Yeah, it did.”

“I just feel like I’m always fighting. I’m always fighting to do the right thing for myself. It’s like survivor’s guilt, I guess. If everyone I couldn’t save doesn’t get to be happy, why should I? Why should I live a good life, and not suffer?”

“Don’t let yourself go there, don’t. Hey–” Jack grabs your face with his hands and turns you towards him. “What’d I tell you, huh? She’d want you to be happy.”

“Are you gonna let yourself be happy? Are you gonna make everyone else’s shifts bad because a woman comes in with red hair?”

“I’m going to let myself be happy for you. I’ve talked to my therapist about it, he thinks I’m ready, he thinks it’d be good. He thinks you’re good for me.”

He lets his hands relax to your shoulders, so he’s holding you gently. “It’s so scary,” you mumble, close to tears again, “It’s so scary to be happy.”

“We have to, though. We have to.” Jack nods his head at you until you start nodding too. Until he thinks you’ve understood him. 

His eyes break away from yours to look down at your lips. He runs his thumb over them, and you let him. You feel like your heart has dropped to your stomach. You forget where you are until a firework goes off in the background, startling you both.

“Jesus, who is still doing fireworks?”

“Probably someone who’s gonna come in with an injury in fifteen minutes.”

He hums again, and ducks under the railing, pulling you with him. 

“Before they do, I need to do this.”

As the second firework makes a loud pop in the sky, Jack leans in, his lips finally touching yours. The kiss is soft, like he’s still scared. His hand cradles your face, and his thumb brushes soft strokes on your cheekbone. The fireworks continue in the background, popping and sprinkling down. You feel like they’re going off in your chest. You push yourself impossibly closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He’s steady, rock solid, for the first time since Molly died, you feel like you have somewhere to toss the burden, at least for this minute. You throw the ache off the roof, and let yourself be close to someone again.

The all familiar sound of sirens pulls you two apart. You smile up at him, and he smiles back, no teeth, of course, but a small grin. You know he knows how you’re feeling. You know he feels the same. And, God, it feels good to know.

“Back to it?”

You sigh, “Three more hours.” 

Jack’s hand is steady on your lower back the whole twelve flights down.

[chaconnewon]

심 재윤 ! ; you would do anything to see your bestfriend happy.

warnings: sub!jake x switch f!reader, begging, masturbation (m.), slight of praise kink, cum tasting, reader talks a lot, both of them are whipped, whiny jake, mdni ! ——

wc: 2k(2.227)

a/n: i came back from the death— proofread but since english is not my first language there could be mistakes !!! please, let me know and enjoy it(im thinking about a part two¿?)

you and jake have been friends for a while now. and if you were 100% sure about one thing about him was that he was shy around girls.

you could tell by how his hands trembled a little when female students approached him with any lame excuse to talk to him. his cheeks and ears were always red, almost burning. his puppy-like eyes were always searching for you like calling for help. and you found it cute, how can you not? jake wasn’t interested in them by any chance. sure he would talk to them and be polite because his mama raised a good boy but nothing further than a casual conversation.

it was late in the afternoon when jake dropped by your house, a handbag full of your favourite snacks. you two found a comfy spot in your bed as both of you took turns to update your day. he was first. you always wanted to hear him talk first. the way jake was expressive while talking about his interests made you feel kinda attracted. like a feeling you couldn’t quite tell. it didn’t mind you since it was pretty obvious jake was a good looking man with unique charisma. maybe way too much. you thought being kind of attracted to your best friend was the most normal thing on earth.

or you simply didn’t want to dig in too deep.

“. . . i’m telling you, they won't leave me alone.”

“what can I say? you’re very popular among the other students.”

jake furrowed his brows before answering.

“i only talk to you and the rest of the boys. every single day i find myself meeting people i’ve never seen in my life!”

“that’s how making friends works!” you replied, your voice laced with humor. “ what if you find the love of your life? you’re gonna miss it because of… shyness?”

“you’re right but—“

“also, there are sooo many pretty girls to kiss, no attachment, just enjoying the moment.”

the last sentence left him thinking. all these girls were interested in kissing him? like a whole make out and all? but most importantly, was he looking out for it? sometimes all that attention on jake made him uncomfortable, just wishing to avoid interactions with strangers just to get to you or his friends. jake never thought about kissing anyone. 

at least not anyone that he didn’t know. 

“but, uh… you kiss people for fun?”

“i think that's a part of kissing someone… you find someone you’re attracted to, or just someone who's pretty. what would you do then?”

“but isn’t it strange?”

you went silent for a couple minutes. his eyes seemed to shake with subtle agitation. his questions were avoiding answering you but you weren’t dumb, and soon you knew something what’s up. 

before answering, you took time to meet his gaze. the way he was chewing his lip, fingers fidgeting with each other in some attempt to calm his nervousness. it wasn’t working though. 

“jake… if you ever kissed someone, you would know how that’s not strange.” silence. his eyes dropped to his lap, evading your curious yet surprised look. “I'm assuming by your lack of response that, in fact, you haven't kissed anyone yet.”

“please don’t laugh at me.”

“why would i? it’s not a bad thing. you just didn't find that someone and that's alright. people have different concepts about the first kiss and—“

“i found her but i’m afraid because i dont know if i can do it right or not.” also she talks so fucking much he would’ve added. 

“but it’s something normal, natural. you just aren't born knowing everything in life. you have to learn, to understand.”

jake parted his lips to say something but not a single noise went through his mouth. you were right and that made him feel at ease. but still his heart pounded fiercely inside his chest by simply thinking about kissing. 

but not anyone. 

kissing you.

the red-ish shade painting his cheeks was still there, and your gaze was still analyzing every movement or reaction by him. you’ve kissed people, sometimes for fun, sometimes blinded by desire but this time… the urge to smash your lips against your best friend's one was bigger. like something you couldn’t control. 

“maybe… maybe we can try— if you want, of course. starting with some pecks, slow. there’s no rush.”

jake’s mouth hung open a little, processing what you just told him. you wanted to? you wanted to kiss him? his eyes were more than sparkling, trying to contain his hype, his need to scream because fuck, he couldn’t even imagine you would offer something like that to him. 

“y–yeah, i mean. we can try.”

you giggled a little. jake used to be confident and funny around you but now was shuddering. like his confidence vanished the moment you suggested kissing each other would be a good idea. 

“relax, okay? we are gonna start with something simple. you can always tell me to stop and I will, no questions. alright?”

he nodded, impossible for him to say anything out loud. 

“i need you to speak, jake. say it with your words, it’s okay.”

your hand flew to his knee, caressing it slowly with your thumb. 

“all right, it’s okay with me.”

you smiled at him, squeezing his leg a little. 

next thing you did was to place the snacks aside, and crawl to be close to him. your knees were barely brushing his as you repositioned yourself closer. jake accommodated himself too, straightening his back and waiting for you to do something. you smiled, softly. you could read his mind at this point. jake was unsure what to do so he was waiting for you to take the lead.

after all, you were the one with way more experience than him.

your body leaned closer to him, your hands against the mattress to hold your weight as you finally pressed your lips against his.

the kiss stayed like that for a few seconds. no movements, no tongue, no nothing. just a gentle pressing against his plump, soft lips. jake’s heart beat faster, pounding hard into his ribcage and suddenly he felt so stupid for being this nervous by a simple peck. but in reality the kiss wasn’t the reason to be that nervous–it was you. the fact that he was kissing you was making his whole body tremble with anticipation.

after a few seconds you pulled back.

‘’was it okay?’’ you asked in a whisper, and you watched him nod.

before you can suggest anything more, his lips crashed onto your one again. started like before, a gentle press between both lips but he felt courage building inside him and took a step forward. his lips, unsure, started to move against yours. despite the intention his moves were clumsy but you found it adorable. you didn’t try to set a pace, you just matched his, making him familiar with that new emotion. 

within minutes he seemed to understand what the whole kissing thing was about. his lips captured yours, pulling them slightly and then taking them again. slowly the tension between both of you started to feel heavy, and your hands found a place cupping his head, your left hand sinking in his fluffy hair, caressing it.

you moved away from the kiss to catch her breath, looking at his state. reddish lips a bit swollen, a darker shade of red more prominent on his cheeks. the image in front of you was impossible to not look at. now again you leaned close and attached your lips into his neck, kissing it with open-mouth kisses that left some trail of your own saliva, sucking gently whenever you had a chance.

jake’s hands gripped the sheets beneath him. all the new emotions he was feeling were starting to be too hard to handle, soft gasps leaving his lips. you took it as a green light, not stopping your commitment which was making him feel good. just where his pulse was beating rapidly, you sinked your teeth.

‘’y-y/n wait. . .’’

you stopped, you face contoured in concern. maybe you were pushing too hard for a first time. last thing you wanted was to make him uncomfortable. 

jake struggled a bit seeking for words and you patiently waited, taking a peek of how rosy his cheeks were, or how shaky his hands were as well. you felt like he was avoiding your gaze  and in fact, he was. you looked down, searching for something that told you what was crossing his mind.

until you noticed it.

a big, notorious bulge under his pants.

none of you said anything. it was normal, a natural reaction from the human body. if he was enjoying it that much, it made sense he was that hard. and to be honest, seeing how he grew an erection from a kiss, a simple kiss and a few touches on his neck, made you wet.

‘’jake.’’

he shook his head, embarrassed. you took his chin, tilting his head back a bit to make him look at you. jake chewed his lower lip nervously. what would you think about him? getting so hard for a kiss, almost so close to come… was embarrassing for him.

‘’i’m sorry i–’’

‘’hey, it’s okay, yeah? it’s a common reaction. do you want to stop?’’

he shook his head again, earning a smirk from you.

‘’does it hurt, mh? your crotch looks so tight…’’

jake swallowed hard at your words, eyes widening slightly but nodded anyway. fuck yeah it hurted, a lot. his hard dick was pressed against the uncomfortable clothes and them started to feel a bit damp. he needed a bit of relief. 

your free hand traveled across his chest, fingers ghosting over. you could feel his muscles tensing. taking your time, your hand landed on top of his clothed boner, massaging it slowly. quickly jake shut his eyes down, his breath trembling. despites him being silent, he thrusts against your hand, asking wordlessly for more friction.

you unbuttoned his pants, taking him over his underwear. jake whimpered, eyes locked on your face now. his face was red, hot. along with his neck. you started to pump him slowly, with deliberate strokes, and it didn’t take long before soft moans escaped his lips. breathy. you continued until you felt him hard enough to free his dick from the remaining clothes. his cock twitched slightly by the sudden air hitting it directly, earning a soft hiss from him. jakes length was standing proud, a bit curved at the and his tip wet with some pre-cum. the view was amazing, and his shy attitude made it ten times better.

‘’show me how you make yourself good.’’ you whispered.

he hesitated for a moment, processing your words. you wanted him to jerk off in front of you? that scenario felt like a dream. even though his shaky hand reached his base, your tender yet firm demeanour made him feel, somehow, bold. jake started to slide his hand along his length, slow at first, feeling every mover, every squeeze. took a few minutes for him to gain a bit of confidence and start to pump faster, using his pre release as lube. 

you watched him with hunger in your eyes, eyes glued at his hand. the heat between your legs was uncomfortable, your sticky panties pressed against your core. but tonight was for him, only for him. for his pleasure and adventure to explore what made him feel good. what he liked or not. and with that thought in mind, you placed your hand above his, setting a faster pace.

at that point, jake was a whiny mess. his chest raising and falling heavily, trying to stead his breathing but unable to. his lips puffy, red and wet by all the biting and licking he submitted them to. 

‘’y/n shit– feels so good…’’

‘’does it?’’ he nodded, eagerly. ‘’look at you, all you body trembling, all your cheeks rosy… you look like a goddamn painting.’’

your words made him moan, arching his back. so, he was into a little praise? you wanted to test a bit further.

‘’did you like that? you like how pretty i tell you you look right now? how good are you taking our hands?’’ he whined, his legs starting to tremble anytime you opened your pretty yet filthy mouth.

‘’are you close?’’

‘’y–yes! so close…. keep going please—’’

he let go his hand, giving you full permission to masturbate him. and you did, fast and heavy. the wet noises filling the silent room. he gripped his sheets again and arched his back to you, feeling so, so close to cum.

‘’fuckfuckfuck– i’m cumming… please, can I?’’

as soon as you nodded, giving the permission he needed, warm sticky ropes of cum spurt off him, landing into your hand and his clothes. his body was shivering, moan after moan slipping through his lips until he couldn't anymore. 

you lowered yourself as soon as he rode his orgasm, his soft dick sticky in your hand and you took your tongue off to lick a stripe of it, tasting him. he hissed, wide eyes looking at you.

‘’couldn't help it, jake.’’ you smiled, patting his hair with your free hand as his breath came to normality again. ‘’but we are not done yet.’’

[sleazy4shiu]

Its what mentors do

cw: threesome (Ino Takuma & Kento Nanami), oral (m & f receiving), rough[ish], creampie, dominant Nanami, implied aphrodisiac ;)

(I feel like this may be perchance out of charcter but tell me Nanami isn't a secret freak sooo)

Being Kento Nanami’s wife was a breeze. He let you stay home and explore your hobbies and interests while he provided for the family—no complaints from you—and did the heavy lifting of being a jujutsu sorcerer. You greet him at the door after a late night of working overtime. You kiss him gingerly, hugging him tightly.

“Mm, I missed you, Ken,” you murmur against his chest. He chuckles, kissing the top of your head

“Missed you too, baby.” he holds you tighter.

“Uhm, I'm right here, you know?” a voice called from behind Nanami’s looming frame

“Uhm, Ken? Why is your student here?” you asked, letting go of him to face Ino Takuma. He grinned sheepishly.

“Erm—I assume she didn’t know I was coming,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck against the door frame.

“Yeah—I’m sorry, my love. The last train had already left when work was finally done. Can he spend the night here?” Nanami asked, kissing your wedding ring. Ino chuckled, weirded out by his usually stoic teacher, who was whipped for his wife.

“Fine—he can stay,” you quip. I made dinner; it’s enough for all of you guys,” you smile softly. Kento kissed you for a final time and led Ino inside as you set the table and prepped the food.

As everyone ate, there was the usual small talk of how you are and what you are doing, and as everyone finished up, you grabbed the dirty dishes and took them into the kitchen to wash. Kento followed. You smiled as you rinsed the dishes, feeling his muscular arms wrap around your waist. You glanced at Ino in the living room,

“Ken—quit, we have company” you giggled in a hushed voice

“Mm, don’t care, he can learn a thing or two from us”, he whispered seductively into your ear, his hands grabbing you tightly.

“Huh?” you asked, leaning into his touch lovingly.

“He told me he didn’t have much experience,” Kento replied, kissing the crest of your ear reverently.

“Why the hell would he tell you? And why is that relevant?” you replied, your hands resting on his around your waist as he swayed you playfully.

“It was over some drunk conversations. Maybe…he can learn from us…” He tested the waters, his lips pressed against your ear.

“You're serious? You're such a freak,” you laughed, smiling playfully.

“Dead serious, baby—wouldn’t it be fun?” he asked his lip quirking in a slight smirk

“Fine,” you groaned, rolling your eyes playfully. But deep down, butterflies were flying in your stomach, excited for this unexpected, new revelation. He picked you up, carrying you like a sack of flour over his shoulder, eliciting a yell from you: “Ken! You're insane! What’s gotten into you? " You screech, laughing. He carried you to the couch that Inos was sitting on.

“Mr. Nanami?” his brows quirked up, and he looked bewildered. “What are you doing?” he shrilled.

“You said you didn’t have much experience; here’s your experience,” Kento replied, simply tossing you down onto the couch. You and Ino both shared a collective glance at what the hell was happening.

“I-I dunno man that’s your wife for christs sake,” Ino squeeked, rubbing his brow nervously like this was some test to see if he’d fall for it.

“She said it was fine, right, my love?” Nanami glances at you. You were conflicted and wondering what the hell your husband drank to make him act so out of character… but you weren’t complaining. Ino was young, and though he lacked your husband's maturity, he had a charm that made you throw caution to the wind, so you nodded in agreement. “Ino, just watch and take notes,” Kentos' dominating presence looming in the room

Nanami then approached you, settling on his knees and looking up at you like you were his goddess. His hands settled on your knees as he kissed your legs softly, and your hands settled into his already disheveled hair. You still were stiff, but his motions were quickly loosening you up. His hands travelled up to your lower stomach, where your waistband was.

“Baby, are you comfortable with me taking these off?” he asked, kissing your leg. You nodded quickly. “Take note Ino, you always ask for consent” he said shifting your pants off as Ino stared intently and shifted in his seat as his dick began to harden in his pants. Nanami's hands immediately went to your underwear, you kicked your pants off your ankles, and shifted up so he could take your panties off. He moved his mouth toward your clothed cunt kissing it gazing up at you lovingly. His teeth gripped the band of your panties, and he tore them down, causing you to giggle.

“Ken, Jesus! What’s gotten into you,” you laugh as he spreads your folds and immediately licks a bold stripe up your pussy. You tilt your head back “shit—“ you whine.

“Now Ino, you must make sure you stimulate the clit, but also around it too” Kento instructs while lapping up your juices. Ino was almost too starstruck to reply, his mouth lay agape as he stared at the sight of you.

“Uh, yeah,” he cleared his throat, adjusting his pants. Nanami continued his assault on your cunt your moans increasing in their volume, finally you groaned out. “fuck ken—i’m gonna cum, can i cum please baby,” your back arched up legs gently trembling.

"fine by me love" Kento smirked up from his place on your cunt. Your body trembled as your climax reached over you in agonizing waves of pure pleasure. You began to settle, attempting to calm your breathing down.

"Fuck-" you breathlessly exhaled sitting up.

"Ah ah ah," Kento tutted, chastising you gently. He pushed you back down. "Don't you think Ino wants in on some action?" he asked, looking over at the terribly aroused boy.

"I-I guess that is true," you mumbled, looking at him.

"Now, my beautiful, perfect, immaculate wife," he mumbled, kissing your thighs in between each compliment. You can pick where you want him, let him gain some experience," he said against your skin. You looked at Ino, his gaze shying away from your gaze.

"Hmm, such a hard decision, so many options," you batted your lashes at him sultrily.

"Oh, I know love," Kento replied in a lustful tone on his tongue. "I want him in me," you decided on. Gazing at the two boys who stared at you like you were god come down.

"You heard the lady," Kento instructed, standing up in front of you. Now, where do you want me? You direct me all you want, love," he smiled smugly.

"In my mouth?" Your tone does not match the dirty words coming from your mouth.

Wasting no time, the two men positioned themselves. They stripped your shirt and quickly did the same with their clothes. You laid your ass arched up and Ino taking his nervous spot behind you, while your husband sat in front of you. Ino began to slip in his dick causing Nanami to tut

"Now, Ino, why so quick? Tease her a little, turn her on more," he instructed. Ino quickly listened pulling back and tapping his dick against your bare cunt causing you to yelp and laugh softly your face directly in line of Nanami's dick. After he teased you enough to Kentos' approval, he finally began to slip himself in. You gasped softly at the sensation.

"Fuck—Ino" you whined. As he pushed his thick length into your sopping pussy.

"Cmon, love, don't leave me hanging, hm?" Kento chuckled.

"Oh! Right," you giggled. You then spit onto his dick and began to stroke it gingerly with your hand.

"Thereee you go," Kento grinned. Ino began to thrust slowly in and out of you trying to keep it together and not to cum to quick. You started to lick up his dick teasingly gazing up in his eyes. "Angle your thrusts more deeply," Kento told him. Ino quickly adapted soon thrusting into you so deeply and intense tears were brimming in your eyes as you put Nanami's cock deeper into your mouth. Inos' hands desperately gripped at your hips, leaving red marks in his wake, as he began to thrust more erratically, as you started clenching down on him.

"oh—fuck—my god please just like that!" you blubbered out from around Nanami's dick. Your hands gripping Nanami's thigh harshly as you felt another orgasm beginning to build. Nanami's hand grasped your hair tightly as he pushed you down on his dick fucking your face.

"Ah—shit Nanami im gonna cum, fuck can I? inside?" Ino asked, whining as he was approaching his climax.

"Well not before her—thats not very gentleman like," Nanami quipped while fucking your head down on his cock. "Rub her clit," Nanami guided, and Ino did as he was told beginning to rub your clit causing you to moan around Kento. In turn, he let out a deep guttural groan finishing in your mouth. He let you up from his cock and smiled fucked stupid as you swallowed his cum. Your orgasm was approaching fast especially with Inos added attention on your clit.

"Shit—im gonna cum" you groaned out your mouth going agape, as you clenched up the extra pressure made your orgasm hit you like a truck. You let out a final exhausted whine, slumping into the couch as Ino pulled out and Kento pulled your head onto his thighs.

"Ino, get her a towel to wipe her off with; it's in the cabinet," Nanami instructed. Ino returned and gently spread her legs to wipe her down. "Ask her if she's okay," Kento tutted.

"Oh, right, how are you feeling?" Ino asked. You let up a tired thumbs-up, making the men laugh. Ino finished wiping you down, and he gently kissed your cheek, making Kento smile. "Thanks for this, Mr.Nanami; it helped a lot," Ino grinned cheekily.

"Yeah, yeah, isn't that what mentors are for?" Kento replied, gently running his hand through your hair.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

tysm for the love on my last post and its inspired me to write more :p

(also im down to clown for asks and requests)

[mariacallous]

As a member of ICE, you may be wondering: How are the people we thrust into our vans supposed to know that we are, in fact, acting under color of law and not just kidnapping them? Can I really do this job while wearing either an Army uniform that I have assembled myself in a confusing, over-the-top way or the same T-shirt I just wore to my failed custody hearing?

Sure! Here’s what to wear to let everyone who interacts with you know that you are an agent of ICE!

Do we have a uniform? No.

Uniforms show that you are part of something and that there is someone to call if anyone interacting with you has a complaint. A uniform indicates that you are not a rogue criminal seizing someone’s mom and hurling her into an unmarked van without reading her her rights: You’re an officer of the law doing that.

Who are they going to call about some guy in an ill-fitting T-shirt and long shorts? Why, behind that face covering, he could be the billionaire Mark Zuckerberg! Better treat him as though he is worth billions and accountable to no one, just in case!

If you’re wearing a uniform, people will be disappointed when you fail to show them an arrest warrant before entering their place of work. If you’re not wearing a uniform of any kind, they won’t know whether to be disappointed until it’s too late!

If you decide to wear some sort of uniform anyway (Army Surplus? January 6 Surplus? Your choice!), you can still send the message that you intend to be accountable to no one by wearing a face covering.

A face mask can say so many things: “I’m trying to do my part to protect those around me,” or  the exact opposite. A balaclava can say, “I’m skiing!” or, “I’m about to commit a jewelry heist,” depending on how you accessorize it.

The point is, we want you to feel free to express yourself! ICE believes in freedom of expression, except for graduate students who want to lead protests or write op-eds. Your clothing should tell a story about you! Just not who you are or that you are acting in any kind of official capacity. Wear a pink button-down, a shirt, a jacket, and some sort of backwards hat. Wear something that looks like what Ben Affleck would wear if he were really going through it and was visiting the Dunkin’ drive-through on foot. Wear something that, if you showed up at a costume party in this outfit, would make people say, “A soldier, but wrong somehow, like he’s in a video game,” or, “Did I see you at Charlottesville?”

If the person you are shoving into a van has any inkling that you are an officer of the law, you are doing it wrong. You should look like someone who is going to Home Depot because you forgot something (what you forgot was an arrest warrant for your next stop).

As Coco Chanel said, whenever you assemble an outfit, before you leave the house, look in the mirror, and take one thing off! Specifically, your badge identifying you as an officer of the law. Coco collaborated with the Nazis.

Remember, the right ensemble and accessories can say: I’m accountable to the people of the United States, and we are still operating under rule of law. So before you get dressed each morning, think about the message you want your outfit to send. It shouldn’t be that.

[scary-grace]

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

[notbecauseofvictories]

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/06/19/magazine/scotus-transgender-care-tennessee-skrmetti.html

because of this will the supreme Court overturn Obergefell v. Hodges? and if you responded and bring up that old post from 2016 I'm aware about that but that was more about Trump and presidents being the ones overturning the decision and even with that point you brought up that even if he appointed a judge who lean towards anti-lgbt, that's still wouldn't happen even though I feel recently the supreme Court majority seems to be behind Trump fully on certain things.

If you've read that far back in my blog---which, wow, that is some real commitment there, pal---then you know that for a case to be brought before any court, it must be justiciable. There must be a legal injury to the plaintiff, one within the authority of the court to resolve. Additionally, the case has to make it through the lower courts, then be appealed to the Supreme Court, and the Court must make the decision to hear it in full rather than denying certiorari. Therefore, the Supreme Court can't simply issue a statement to the effect of: "whoopsie! actually, we made a mistake with Obergefell, never mind that whole gay marriage thing." There is a process to follow, and it can take years, even decades, to undo Supreme Court rulings.

That said.....could it happen? Yes.

If you've read that 2016 post linked above, you know that I reference Roe v. Wade with a truly laughable amount of confidence, given that it was overturned in 2022 with Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization. The Alliance Defending Freedom is active and vile, one of the major actors behind the Masterpiece Cakeshop ruling as well as Dobbs. I would be entirely unsurprised if they have a gameplan for Obergefell; if there isn't a working group within the ADF right now discussing how to weaken, restrict, or overturn it, I will eat my hat. (I checked the wikipedia page for US v. Skrmetti, just to see if they were listed---they weren't, but that doesn't mean they weren't present, invested, helping draft the original anti-trans legislation or fund the litigation.)

We do know what the Supreme Court is set to hear before the session adjourns. (This tracker from the nytimes is helpful, if you want a quick summary.) It includes some staggering issues---birthright citizenship, racial gerrymandering, whether religious students can 'opt out' of class discussion with LGBTQ+ themes; plus the Affordable Care Act/Obamacare is back on the docket again. We won't know until the next session whether the court wants to reconsider Obergefell, if they'll have adequate, justiciable grounds to do so at that point.

Maybe if you're lucky, they'll focus on mifepristone and prohibiting inter-state travel for the purposes of abortion. Or hey, they can always stick with birthright citizenship, give themselves even more teeth---build on the Bush-era rulings about torturing non-citizens in extrajudicial prisons. Chevron is already dead so they're free to fuck up the administrative agencies, but I hear the limited powers of the presidency are just a bummer, maybe think about expanding those....

Look, when I made those posts nine years ago, it took me a little less than a week to recant---I described myself as "singing ‘cockeyed optimist’ wearing rose-colored glasses" when that wasn't what the moment demanded. That kind of Pollyanna energy is still not helpful. Nevertheless, I can't avoid a certain pang of sadness in reading Elie Mystal's article on the ruling, realizing that he's shifted register. He talks about the case as joining the anti-canon of Dred Scott and Plessy v. Ferguson with full awareness that he may not see its reversal. Mr. Scott did not live to see the Civil War, let alone the 14th amendment granting him and his Black contemporaries the citizenship they sought. It took 60 years to get to Brown v. Board of Education and the acknowledgement that separate can never be equal. It took 20+ years for the government to apologize for Korematsu and the internment of Japanese-Americans during WWII---the Supreme Court itself only recognized its error in 2018. And these are the headliner cases; never mind that court rulings often function as death by a thousand papercuts, giving the justices plausible deniability should they ever be confronted with the misery they rubber-stamped.

So could it happen with same-sex marriage? Well.

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

No Reservations - Chapter six

Restaurant Owner Lottie Matthews x Chef!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: After graduating culinary school you have been building up your portfolio, to become a street level legend in the culinary world. And after years of hard work you get hired by a renowned michelin star restaurant Matthews’ kitchen to help design a new menu that’ll star in their new brick and mortar in New York. And there you behold the new heiress of the Matthews’ Kitchen, your boss, is your old situationship from culinary school…Charlotte Matthews.

Warning: Not NSFW by any means but a lil spicy yk?

A/N: Lottie Lee mention is my favorite part of this chapter 🥹🥹🥹

The dream had clung to Charlotte long after she’d opened her eyes. It started with that damn midterm project. You stared at the printed assignment. Then at Charlotte. Then back at the assignment.

“Who thought this was a good idea?” You muttered.

“I did,” Charlotte said primly, tying her apron tighter. “Because unlike you, I actually care about passing this class with more than a participation medal.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, Elle Woods, relax. We’re making coq au vin, not arguing a murder trial.”

Charlotte ignored you. “I’ll handle the sauce. You’ll overthink it and make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do I not get a say in this group project?” you snapped, snatching a pan. “You burned a béarnaise last week. I watched it die.”

Charlotte’s nostrils flared. “That béarnaise was experimental.”

“It was a war crime.” You snicker.

“You’re a war crime.” Charlotte rebuffs like a child .

You both glared. A student two stations over audibly turned down their burner just to avoid the fallout. It made you look over to see Kelly give you a concerned once over and continue on.

You sighed and grabbed the chicken thighs with unnecessary aggression. “Fine. I’ll do the protein. But if your sauce ruins my perfect sear—”

Charlotte cut you off, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “If your chicken is dry, I’m throwing it at you.”

“You won’t get the chance. I cook like God whispers in my ear.” Confidence and humor is dripping in your tone.

Charlotte rolls her eyes, “You cook like you’re trying to impress a food critic and emotionally damage your ex at the same time.”

You paused, like Charlotte just touched a bit of truth. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

Charlotte smirked proudly. “Yeah. I know you.”

That made your stomach flip. You ignored the heat rushing to your cheeks and continued on. You both cooked in competitive silence for awhile. Charlotte mincing garlic like it owed her money, you searing the chicken with laser focus. It was electric. Tense. Way too synchronized. Almost perfect how you two worked together.

“Careful, you’re splashing the wine,” Charlotte mumbled in the way she does when she’s focused.

You still catch it and frown. “Maybe if you’d move your perfectly symmetrical ass out of my way, there’d be more room.”

Charlotte blinked, then barked a laugh. “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

“Figure it out, Matthews.”

You both reached for the same ladle. Your hands touched. The air shifted.

Suddenly, all the snark and sniping melted into something heavier. Warmer. Your breath caught. Charlotte’s eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up.

You caught it. Caught that look she gave you. The look that only she has ever given you. The one that makes you weak. The one that makes you want to do something reckless. Stupid.

And again butterflies manifested and explode into your lungs making it hard to breathe. You tried to speak—something, anything, but the next thing you knew, Charlotte leaned in and kissed you.

It was messy. Confused. A little desperate. And way too good. When you pulled apart, wide-eyed and stunned, you cleared your throat. Charlotte’s mouth is agape and her eyes locked on your lips.

“…So. Sauce is coming along?” You ask in whisper dumbly.

Charlotte blinked, swallowing hard. “It’s… saucy.”

They avoided eye contact for ten full minutes, both beet red as they plated the most emotionally charged coq au vin in culinary school history.

They got an A.

And didn’t speak about the kiss for six weeks.

Charlotte wishes it was only that, that one memory. But it was really the night before the end of semester of their third year, that got her.

It was like she was fucking there again. The fluorescent lights buzzed with that terrible hum, like even the building was too tired to deal with anyone’s shit.

The air smelled like Tide pods and defeat. You stood barefoot in front of the dryer, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, a stupid pink sock dangling from your hand like it had personally betrayed you.

You kicked the dryer.

Hard.

“Piece of shit—”

Another kick. Then another.

“—I liked that apron, you color-sucking hell demon—”

“You’re going to break your foot.”

You spun, hoodie sleeve flopping. “Are you following me?”

Charlotte leaned against the doorframe in flannel pajama pants and a band t-shirt that made her look painfully soft and so pretty in the worst, most infuriating way. “I live here too. Not my fault you decided to wage war on a Whirlpool at two a.m.”

You grumbled something unintelligible and leaned your forehead against the dryer door, defeated. Charlotte hesitated. “You okay?”

A beat.

“No,” you said into the machine. “I’m stoned and pissed as fuck and apparently I don’t know how to sort laundry.”

Charlotte stepped in, softer now. She knew you had a girlfriend now. Heard whispers of the hot leather blonde that’d stay in your dorm over the weekends. She would force herself to peel her eyes away when she saw you and someone who looked nothing like Charlotte kissing in a corner of parties caught up in a haze of smoke.

Charlotte hated that. But she also heard rumors that it wasn’t going good. With the way you’ve snapped, barked, and held your anger on your sleeve. And you looked up at her right now in defeat she took a shot in the dark.

“Trouble in paradise?”

You scoffed, sliding to sit on the floor. Too high to care that you’re telling this to Charlotte Matthews. “I caught her making out with some asshole. Again. And this time I didn’t even yell. I just left. Which, like, growth or whatever—but also, I fucking hate this shit. I feel like I’m going to die. So maybe growth is overrated.”

Charlotte slowly sank down beside you, legs folded. “I’m sorry.”

You shrugged, picking at a thread on your sleeve. “It’s fine. I should’ve seen it coming. But noooo, she has that stupid crooked smile and those blue eyes. And her laugh that she only really does when I say something stupid. Fuck I’m such a fucking idiot. A sucker for-for-what? Emotionally unavailable people with great cheekbones???? Stupid as fuck.”

Charlotte tried to hide a smile. “At least you have a type.”

You side-eyed her. “And you have a god complex. We all have our vices.”

Charlotte raised a brow. “I’m literally just trying to help with your laundry.”

“Oh yeah? Well guess what you’re failing. Look at this.” you held up another pink-tinged chef’s jacket. “I’m gonna look like I’m working at a Valentine’s Day-themed bistro.”

Charlotte gently took the jacket. “Maybe you could lean into it. Rebrand. Love-sick chef chic.”

You chuckled, then sighed. “Ew that’s so bad. God, you’re annoying.”

“And you’re a disaster.”

Their eyes met. And stayed. Too long. Charlotte’s expression softened just enough. “You’re not actually fine, are you?”

“No,” you said, voice rough. Blinking to fight tears wanting to appear. A sudden tsunami of emotions clawing at your throat.

The quiet that followed was thick…charged even. Charlotte reached up, gently tucking a wild strand of hair behind your ear.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she whispered.

“Yeah you always see me like this,” you whispered back. “That’s the problem.”

Charlotte’s hand lingered. And then, with no logic, no plan, just too many feelings and not enough boundaries—she kissed you.

It started slow.

But then you pulled her closer, clutching at Charlotte’s shirt like you needed something to hold you together. Charlotte kissed back like she’d been waiting for permission.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was all edge-of-collapse, all tangled limbs and desperate mouths and everything they hadn’t let themselves say out loud.

And when Charlotte pulled away for air, your hand was on her neck bringing her down to kiss you harder. Charlotte moaned into the kiss, she felt her heart beat in her ears. Warmth spreading throughout her body.

All the yearning to touch you, to kiss you, to have you, exploding in this moment. Charlotte didn’t wait, she slipped her tongue into your mouth. And just like the times before you let her.

You always let her.

And Charlotte always won. Always got to swirl her tongue into your mouth, got to taste you to the fullest. When you melted into Charlotte, it rushed to her head in a dizzying effect.

You were like Charlotte’s own personal drug.

And she hated that she couldn’t have you like this for so long. You bit her lip, until it hurt. A hiss slipped out of Charlotte’s mouth. You stared at her for a second.

Really looking at her.

Seeing to the core of her. Cutting the fat off to get to the part no one ever saw. And Charlotte could see it in the way your eyes got more serious. Something snapped from the haze of your high.

Charlotte’s breath hitched, as you leaned back in. You kissed her again, with so much softness. Charlotte felt tears prickle in her eyes. Your fingers featherlight as the slide down her arms.

It was so…loving. Charlotte felt like she was drowning. You gave so much even when you were at the end of yourself? Caught up in a haze of grief. It left her shaky.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and blinking, Charlotte stood too quickly. Feeling overwhelmed in a way only you made her. She stepped back like the floor was unstable.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” she said, voice shaking.

You stayed on the ground, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on hers. “Too late.”

Charlotte looked torn between running and staying. Her fingers twitched at her side. “I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow. For check-outs.”

Then she was gone, leaving you alone with the pink laundry and the smell of detergent and your heart pounding like a war drum. Wondering why everyone always leaves.

She had bolted upright in bed, breathless, heart pounding like she’d been sprinting instead of sleeping.

And now, hours later, it still haunted her. Which is why Laura Lee was currently sitting on her velvet couch in her overpriced, sun-drenched Manhattan apartment — sipping an iced coffee with her shoes off like she owned the place.

“I need you to say that again,” Laura Lee said, leveling a look over the rim of her cup. “Slower. For science.”

Charlotte groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

“You dreamed about her?”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“That’s not how dreams work.”

Charlotte sighed. “It wasn’t even that bad. Just—okay, it was kind of bad. Like, culinary-school-bad. Flashback bad.”

Laura Lee raised an eyebrow. “You mean the girl you wouldn’t shut up about for two straight years? Who you hooked up with during finals week, literally ghosted for six months, and then drunkenly confessed you might love while crying into a risotto at my apartment?”

Charlotte shot her a glare. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“You’re right. It was paella.”

Charlotte groaned again and fell sideways onto the couch. “This is not helpful.”

Laura Lee grinned, then grew thoughtful. “So let me get this straight: she’s here now. In your restaurant. In your city. Working directly under you. And she has no idea you’re still a total disaster over her?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Charlotte muttered. “She’s my employee. And this restaurant is the most important thing I’ve ever done. It’s my shot to prove I deserve my seat at the Matthews Group. My father is watching everything. The board is watching everything. I can’t screw this up.”

Laura Lee made a face. “Okay, but no one said ‘ask her out mid-shift while she’s plating duck confit.’ I just meant… eventually.”

Charlotte sat up, suddenly jittery. “It’s not that simple. There’s also my whole thing, you know? My brain? The anxiety, the overthinking, the public meltdowns, the fact that I sometimes don’t sleep for three days and forget how to eat if I’m spiraling.”

Laura Lee held up a hand. “Stop. Stop right there.”

Charlotte did.

“As your best friend for years,” Laura Lee said gently, “I am not going to let you spiral into a self-sabotage hole. So I’m just going to ask one thing. One question. And I want you to answer honestly.”

Charlotte nodded slowly.

“Do you like her?”

The question hit harder than Charlotte expected.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her brain scrambled for a neat answer, something clean and non-threatening. But none of her mental excuses lined up the right way anymore.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “She’s… interesting to me?”

Laura Lee blinked. “Interesting to me? Wow. Riveting.”

Charlotte flushed. “That’s not what I meant—”

Laura Lee chuckled and leaned back into the cushions. “No, no. It’s okay. That was adorable. And vague. But mostly adorable.”

Charlotte hugged a pillow to her chest.

“I just don’t know what any of this means,” she admitted. “Seeing her again feels like—like stepping back into a room I didn’t realize I’d locked behind me. And now I can’t stop remembering everything.”

Laura Lee nodded slowly. “Okay. So we’ve established that you’re emotionally constipated, still very much attached, and deeply repressed. Great. This is going to take, like, ten coffee dates and a whiteboard.”

Charlotte laughed, a little helpless. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m your best friend.”

“Same thing.”

They both grinned.

And for the first time that day, Charlotte let herself exhale. Whatever this was, whatever it would become, she wasn’t going to run from it yet. She always ran from you. From it. But not this time.

Union Square was loud, cluttered, and smelled faintly of overripe peaches. You were balancing a tote full of produce and trying to decide if the basil in your hand was too bruised when you heard that damn voice.

“You always did overthink herbs.”

You turned, heart stopping for a second. Natalie Scatorccio stood there in a worn leather jacket and black jeans, sunglasses resting in her curls, arms crossed like she’d been standing there for a while. She hadn’t changed much. A little sharper in the jaw, maybe. The kind of cool you didn’t grow into so much as settle into.

You blinked, looking around before looking back at her. “What the hell?”

Natalie offered a faint smirk. “Hi.”

“…Hi?”

“I was grabbing cold brew. Saw someone fighting a bunch of basil like it owed her money. Took a gamble.”

You gave her a look, fighting a grin trying to inch to your lips. “You live around here?”

“About a year.”

Natalie didn’t elaborate, just stood there, a little sideways in her stance like she might leave if the moment got too serious. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.

“You got time?” she asked, casual. “I was heading to SoHo. There’s a spot I like. They do coffee the right way. Dark, bitter, overpriced.”

You hesitated. That was a bad idea. Everyone in her life has been warning her not to get mixed back in with Natalie. Not to text her back. Not to give her the time of day.

“Come on,” Natalie said, already turning. “Worst case, you remember why you stopped talking to me.”

And despite everything in you telling you not to. You followed her. Not side by side, but near enough. Natalie didn’t fill the silence. She never had. She just glanced over every so often like she was trying to read something in your face without asking any questions.

“You look good,” she said at one point, almost like an afterthought.

You raised an eyebrow. “That feels loaded.”

“Does it?” Nat said with a tease.

The quiet stretched again. It was so comfortable. Like no time passed at all between you two. You felt yourself shift…this shouldn’t be so…normal.

You dipped into the subway. Natalie leaned against the wall of the car, one hand curled loosely around the pole, like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her eyes tracked the lights blinking past the windows, but she didn’t say much.

“So what are you doing here?” you finally asked, feeling like an idiot following her like this. “In the city?”

“Work,” Natalie said. “Consulting. Engines. Systems. That kind of thing.”

“Still cars, huh?”

“Always.” She paused, then added, “Feels good to be the expert in a room full of guys who used to talk over me.”

“Ahhh revenge of the tough girl huh? It’s gotta nice glow on you.” You say with a chuckle.

Natalie smirked. “It wears well.”

By the time they reached the café in SoHo, a sleek, concrete-and-warm-wood kind of place. You were sweating under the weight of the silence. Not uncomfortable. Just full of… something.

Natalie paused outside the door, then turned to you stopping you in your tracks. “Listen,” she said. “I’m not trying to make things weird. I saw you, and it felt… stupid not to say anything.”

Your throat tightened. Eyes wide in surprise…holy shit??

“I was shitty to you,” Natalie added. “I know that.”

Oh. Yeah you were. You didn’t say that, just stared at her waiting. Part of you not believing you were hearing her be so…honest. No…surprised she was being so mature.

“It wasn’t about you,” she continued. “It was me, not knowing how to be honest with someone who actually mattered.”

She ran a hand through her hair, slow. Not theatrical — just tired.

“I don’t expect anything. Just figured… if we could talk again. That’d be cool.”

You have her an unconvinced look, trying to really read her. Natalie didn’t look away.

“Friends?” Natalie offered, voice low, a little tentative.

You felt something uncoil in your chest. A quiet ache, the kind that lingered when you least expected it. You hated this. You hated this so much. You’ve wanted her to fucking apologize for years. And now when your life is on the up and up.

She wants back in? And worse of all…you feel yourself wanting to give her the chance. Not a big one. No you’re certainly not trying to date Natalie again but friends? It feels harmless enough.

“…Yeah,” you said, finally. “Friends, we can do that.”

Natalie’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it was real. She opened the door.

“Come on. I’ll let you overanalyze my coffee order for old time’s sake.”

You followed her in, trying not to think about how easy it still was to fall into rhythm with her. Trying not to think about the way Natalie’s hand had brushed against hers when they’d crossed the street. Trying not to feel the way something old was waking up, slow and dangerous, just under your ribs.

[imsosoheee]

lose my cool, (2)

wc: 3.2k | pairing: artstudent!eunseok x fem!reader (art student) | content warnings: a fwb situation, making out, allusions to sex, avoidant behavior..

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3

don’t make this mean anything

you didn’t say anything when you woke up.

just slipped out of his bed like you’d done it before, collected your clothes off the floor one piece at a time, careful not to make too much noise. your head was pounding. your throat was dry. when you finally looked up, eunseok was still sitting at the edge of the mattress, sketchbook in his lap. same position as before. he didn’t look surprised to see you awake. “morning,” he said, voice quiet.

“barely.”

he watched you pull on your jacket. you avoided his gaze, adjusting the hem like it mattered.

“you don’t have to leave so fast.”

you laughed under your breath. “what, want to cuddle or something?”

his jaw tensed. you didn’t mean for it to sound that harsh. maybe you did—how insensitive you must have seemed.

you grabbed your phone from the nightstand, already checking your reflection in the dark screen. “last night... that doesn’t have to be a thing.”

he didn’t move. didn’t look away. “what do you mean?”

“i mean it was fun. you’re good at it, but we don’t need to make it complicated.”

“right,” he said. too flat.

you looked at him then, tried to gauge if he was upset, but he’d already closed himself off. you hated that you noticed. “unless you want it to be something,” you added lightly, testing him.

he shook his head. “no. of course not.”

you nodded and smiled like it didn’t sting. “cool. just checking.”

you didn’t talk for three days. not because anything was wrong, but because you were both pretending it wasn’t.

and then one afternoon, he texted you:

studio’s empty after 7, if you’re around.

you were—of course you were.

you didn’t kiss him when you walked in. didn’t say anything.

you just shrugged off your jacket, dropped your bag on the stool, and crossed the room to him. he was already leaning back against one of the work tables, waiting.

his eyes flicked down as you stepped closer, as your hand slipped beneath his shirt, as your mouth found his again. this time, there was no hesitation.

you didn’t speak. neither did he.

his hands were rougher. your nails dug in harder. he kissed you like he was trying to forget something. you kissed him like you were trying not to feel anything. afterward, you pulled your hoodie back on and tied your hair up like nothing happened. he was still breathing heavy. you glanced at him from the door. “see you in class.”

he didn’t reply.

you fell into a rhythm after that: always at night. always behind closed doors. sometimes his place, sometimes yours. never planned. never talked about.

you let him trace your spine with his fingers. he let you kiss him until your lips went numb. you didn’t ask about his day. he didn’t ask where you went when you left.

it worked, until the moments when it didn’t. like when he brushed your bangs out of your eyes too gently. like when you caught him looking at you like he wanted to memorize you. like when you left one of your rings on his nightstand and he didn’t move it for a week.

and the worst part?

you knew he cared.

you just didn’t know what to do with that, so you pretended he didn’t. and he pretended you were someone he could survive.

the thing about eunseok was—he never made it hard.

he didn’t ask where you went afterward, didn’t try to make you stay the night, didn’t complain when you canceled or showed up an hour late with smudged eyeliner and a half-finished drink in your hand.

he just was—quiet. steady. always there when you asked him to be.

you liked that about him. you liked how easy he made it to keep pretending you didn’t feel anything, but it also made you reckless. you started texting him more. not just for hookups, but when you were bored, or lonely, or wanted to hear something that didn’t sound like the background noise in your head.

what are you doing

sketching

show me

he never said no.

and when you showed up to his apartment with wet hair and no explanation, he didn’t ask. just handed you one of his oversized shirts, like this had happened before. maybe it had. maybe that was the problem.

one night, after, you sat with him on the floor of his apartment, legs tangled, your head resting against his chest. the tv was still playing, muted. your phone buzzed with a text from someone else—a guy you used to flirt with, someone who looked good in photos and tasted like mint and expensive cologne. you clicked it open, read the message, didn’t respond. eunseok didn’t say anything.

he never did.

you turned to him after a while, chin resting on his shoulder.

“why do you always stay?”

he looked at you, half-lidded. “what do you mean?”

“i mean... you don’t have to let me do this.”

he didn’t answer.

“you don’t even like this kind of thing,” you continued, picking at the seam of your sleeve. “you said so. hookups. people who don’t mean it.”

“maybe i changed my mind.”

you laughed, bitter. “that’s a lie.”

“then maybe i’m lying to myself.”

you went quiet.

he wasn’t looking at you anymore. he was staring ahead at nothing.

you wondered how many times you could do this to him before he stopped letting you.

and you wondered why you were so scared of him not being there.

you leaned in and kissed him again. he kissed you back.

like always.

later, when you left, he stood in the doorway and watched you go. you turned around halfway down the stairs.

he was still there.

you didn’t wave.

you just turned your head and kept walking.

you didn’t see the way his fingers curled into the doorframe. the way his mouth pressed into a line.

you didn’t have to.

you already knew.

you weren’t planning to stay long.

it was just another party—rooftop, familiar faces, someone’s shitty bluetooth speaker rattling through an r&b playlist. you wore your favorite low-waist jeans and that tiny halter that made people stare. it always worked.

you needed a distraction: you hadn’t seen eunseok in almost a week.

not since you left his place without kissing him goodbye. not since the last time he looked at you like he wanted to say something and swallowed it instead.

you’d been ignoring his texts. not intentionally. not really—just enough to convince yourself that you didn’t care. enough to protect whatever was left of your cool.

but god—he made it hard.

with him, the rules you built for yourself blurred at the edges. you used to be good at this: pretending, playing the part, smiling without meaning it. but he made you forget how to lie. he made you want to scream and shout and keep it all, just for yourself.

you didn’t come here for real: real was messy. real was terrifying. and with him, it was starting to feel like you had no choice but to feel it all.

“you’re moody,” your friend said, passing you a drink and bringing you out of your thoughts.

you rolled your eyes. “i’m fine.”

“you haven’t posted in three days and you keep checking the stairwell like you’re expecting someone.”

“i always check the stairwell.”

she gave you a look. “is this about that quiet guy?”

you froze. “what quiet guy?”

“don’t play dumb. the one with the pretty face and the stupid soft voice. the one you always leave with.”

you sipped your drink. “i don’t leave with anyone.”

“yeah, okay. keep lying to me. and yourself, by the way.”

you glared at her. she just smiled, too sweet. “you like him,” she said.

“i don’t.” you hesitated.

“you do.”

“i don’t,” you repeated, more forcefully this time. “we’re just... having fun.”

your friend raised an eyebrow. “since when does fun look like heartbreak?”

you didn’t have an answer.

you saw him later that night.

not at the party—outside of it.

you were standing on the fire escape, smoke curling from someone else’s cigarette, trying to breathe. and there he was: across the street, walking with someone. a girl. soft brown hair, matching jackets, the kind of closeness you didn’t have words for.

you watched them laugh. you hated how unfamiliar his smile looked from far away.

you didn’t sleep that night.

you stared at the ceiling and imagined him touching her the way he touched you. imagined her knowing the things you always pretended not to care about. imagined him looking at her without hesitation—like it didn’t cost him anything.

your chest ached in a way you didn’t know how to name. you hated how much it hurt. you hated that it hurt at all.

whatever this was, it had gotten under your skin—quiet and slow and irreversible. now, no matter how hard you tried to stay detached, your body betrayed you. you were feeling things you couldn’t control.

and that terrified you more than anything else.

you texted him the next day.

are you around tonight?

his reply was instant.

yeah.

you didn’t ask about the girl. you didn’t ask why he answered so quickly, like he’d been waiting. you just kissed him too hard, too fast, like you were trying to remind him you still had your grip on him. he didn’t stop you, but something was different. he kissed you back like he already knew how this ended, and you tried not to care. you tried.

but the whole time, something in your chest wouldn’t shut up:

who was she? why did you care? why did it feel like you were the one losing?

you didn’t plan on bringing someone else, but he was there. tall, harmless, already texting you first. he said you looked pretty the moment you walked in. he offered to get you a drink. he let you lean against him on the couch. and it wasn’t like eunseok was yours.

so you let the other guy kiss your cheek when the music got loud. let him rest his hand too close on your thigh. you even laughed too hard at his jokes, the way people do when they want to be seen.

you saw eunseok the moment he walked in. he froze at the doorway. just for a second.then his  expression shut off like a switch. he greeted your friends, not you. you didn’t greet him either.

the boy beside you leaned in to whisper something, and you nodded even though you weren’t listening. your eyes were fixated to where eunseok stood across the room, sipping from a paper cup, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

you hated that you wanted him to look jealous, but he didn’t.

he didn’t look anything at all.

later, you stepped out onto the balcony to breathe. to get away from the noise and the boy who touched you too casually, too comfortably, without ever asking what you needed. the boy who wasn’t eunseok.

and yet somehow, being touched by someone else made you feel more alone than ever.

you heard the door creak open behind you. you didn’t have to turn.

“so that’s what we’re doing now?”

his voice was quiet, but it still cut straight through you.

you didn’t answer right away. “you’re mad?” you asked finally, not looking at him.

“no,” he said. “i’m not mad.”

you turned to face him. “then what?”

he met your gaze. calm. too calm. “i just didn’t know you needed an audience.”

your breath caught. “excuse me?”

“you knew i was coming.”

you scoffed. “and?”

“and you brought someone else. and you made sure i saw.”

you crossed your arms, a defense you’d worn too often. “you don’t get to be jealous.”

“i’m not jealous,” he said. “i’m tired.”

the words landed heavy. you blinked. “tired of what?”

“of pretending this doesn’t mean anything to you.”

you hesitated—just long enough for him to see it. he took a step forward. “you act like it’s casual, but you come back to me every time. you kiss me like it matters. you fall asleep on my chest and leave before the sun comes up. you text me when you’re lonely and pretend it’s nothing.”

he was right—you knew he was right. you’d built this whole thing on detachment, on pretending you didn’t feel too much. but when it came to him, the rules always slipped through your fingers. you stopped knowing how to play this game a long time ago.

“just say it,” he said. “say you care.”

“i don’t.”

his expression didn’t change. but his eyes—his eyes said i don’t believe you. because he knew you. and somewhere along the way, you stopped hiding. you looked away. “this is what you wanted.”

“no, it’s not.”

you went still. he let the silence stretch between you.

then, softer: “i wanted you. not whatever this is.”

you swallowed. “you knew what this was,” you said. “from the beginning.”

“yeah,” he said. “and i was stupid for thinking you might want more.”

you stepped back like the words burned—because maybe you did want more. maybe you just didn’t know how to say it. you’d spent so long trying to keep your cool—but with him, you never could. he didn’t follow. he just looked at you—quiet, resigned, already letting go.

“goodnight, yn.” and then he walked inside.

you stood on the balcony long after he was gone. your hands were shaking. you didn’t know if it was the cold, or the part of you that wanted to call his name. you told yourself you were fine, but you weren’t.

you’d lost your cool a long time ago.

you didn’t go home with anyone that night.

you could’ve. someone asked. someone always asked.

but the only face you kept seeing was his: the way he looked at you before he walked away—calm, quiet, almost indifferent. like he’d made peace with losing you. like he wasn’t going to wait around anymore.

you hated that. you hated it more than the silence that followed.

he didn’t text the next day, or the day after that.

you told yourself it was better this way. cleaner. easier. you were never supposed to feel anything. you’d warned him. you’d made that clear. but everything felt off now.

you still went out. still wore your favorite eyeliner and chain necklaces. still flirted with strangers like it meant nothing. but everything felt flat. like your body was moving without you in it. you checked your phone too often. kept typing out texts you never sent.

where are youare you okaydo you hate me

you thought maybe he’d show up to class and act like nothing happened. maybe he’d pretend he was over it and it wouldn’t bother you so much.

but he didn’t look at you. not once.

and that—somehow—that hurt more than anything.

you stayed in bed the following night, wrapped in a hoodie that didn’t belong to you. it smelled like his laundry detergent and the night you first kissed him. like a version of you that didn’t push people away.

you pulled the sleeves over your hands and stared at the ceiling.

why did you do this?

why did you ruin everything?

you thought about all the things you didn’t say. the nights you left early. the way you looked him in the eye and said this doesn’t mean anything, like you weren’t lying.

maybe it was easier to be alone.

but for the first time, you didn’t want to be. you missed him.

the next morning, you matched with someone on an app, just to see if you could.

he was cute. well-dressed. funny. said he liked girls with attitude. you agreed to dinner.

you wore a dress that made your legs look longer. curled your hair. said all the right things. he kissed you after, pressed his hand to your lower back, asked if you wanted to come over.

you smiled, and said no. you thought about eunseok the whole walk home.

you didn’t even realize you’d started crying until you were already sitting on your bathroom floor, makeup smudging into your sleeve, your knees pulled up to your chest. you wiped your face with the heel of your hand. stared at your reflection like you didn’t recognize it.

you said you wanted more. so why did you leave when you had it?

you didn’t have the answer. just an ache in your chest and the hollow space where his voice used to live.

eunseok hadn’t slept in days.

not well, anyway. not since that night on the balcony. not since she stood there in the dark, arms crossed, mouth drawn into something cold and unrecognizable, and told him it didn’t mean anything. he kept thinking about the way she said it—so casually. like it wasn’t meant to hurt. like she hadn’t just driven the last nail in with a smile.

he hated how calm she’d looked, and he hated how much he wanted her to take it back.

his phone hadn’t lit up since. every day he told himself he was done waiting. but still, it sat there on his desk, screen up, as if that would change something. as if her name might blink across it like it used to, short and teasing and always on her terms.

she didn’t text and he didn’t, either. he told himself that was dignity.

but it felt more like a slow kind of bleeding.

his apartment was too clean now.

there was no hoodie slung over the back of his chair, no forgotten rings on his bathroom sink. no lip gloss stains on his coffee mugs. no laughter humming against the walls.

he missed her.

not just the version she let him touch.

he missed the one who curled up beside him and fell asleep with her arm slung over his chest. the one who leaned in too close at two a.m. and asked questions she never wanted answered. he missed the girl who pretended not to feel anything—but looked at him like she did.

he tried drawing her again.

this time, he didn’t even finish. he sketched the slope of her mouth, the softness of her shoulders, the tension in her brows when she got defensive—but it didn’t look right. it looked like a stranger. he closed the sketchbook and pushed it off the bed. it landed face-down on the floor. he didn’t pick it up.

he saw her on campus once. just a flash—blue jacket, hair twisted up with one of those silver clips she liked. she was laughing with a friend. bright. perfect. Untouchable. he kept walking. his jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it.

he had wanted more. he told her that. he said it out loud, even when he knew she wasn’t ready to hear it. he thought maybe—maybe—she’d feel the same. but she kept running. she always ran. he just didn’t think she’d run from him.

he still wore the cheap plastic bracelet she gave him at the festival. the one she bought as a joke and snapped around his wrist like a dare. he told himself he’d take it off tomorrow. maybe the day after that.

maybe never.

🔖: @hrtfelt4u @karebearyu @jaellymint @thevirginsuicidenotes

[ccarisi]

handouts

summary: Sonny gets you an internship at the DA’s office without asking. Your reaction isn’t what he hoped for.

warnings: age gap, stepcest, smut, dubcon, spanking, facials, rough sex/hate sex, office sex, daddy kink, he makes you call him dad if that’s not ya thing, degradation, implied blackmail a lil, step!dad sonny x afab gender neutral reader, 3.1k words

a/n: two fics in one week who am i? considering this my own birthday present to all of you! everyone better amp up their perv this weekend my birthday is on MONDAY. now you know. im not a law student and never claimed to be btw, inspired by this ask

dt: @johnnydubcek and every sonny freak in the world, also lmk if anyone wants me to start a tag list or smth 🙂‍↕️

You swear that ever since Sonny found out that you want to go into defense work instead of prosecution he’s had it out for you. Something about him wanting you to follow in his footsteps, or something. To make matters worse you’re flirting with the idea of becoming a public defender.

That’s not to say that things between you were sunshine and rainbows before this, but it certainly isn’t helping.

The two of you never quite saw eye to eye. Sonny thought you’d grow out of it eventually, blaming your stubbornness and attitude on your young age. But here you are twenty some years later and your relationship is just as rocky.

You think he’s a creep if you’re being honest. His eyes are always on you from the second you walk into a room as if he’s tracking your every move. It’s not just that, either. It’s the comments.

Sonny’s always questioning you about boys and relationships, accusing you of having some sort of secret boyfriend when that’s never been the case. It’s like he’s jealous he can’t be with you himself. Not to mention the amount of times he’s been commenting lately on how you’ve, ‘really grown up’ and ‘sure look good nowadays.’

You’ve never been one to accept a handout, especially when you think you don’t deserve one. You make sure to never bring up who your stepdad is to any of your professors and you’re certainly not interested in any of his connections. That doesn’t stop him from trying, though.

When Sonny hears wind that his office is looking for a new intern he knows you’ll never agree if he asks you to apply. What choice did he have besides putting your name in the ringer on your behalf? With his pull it’s no surprise that they decided to move forward with you.

You were always a stubborn kid, never knowing what was good for you. So ungrateful, too. Sonny signs off on the paperwork for you before you ever hear about it.

“I got everythin’ approved, y’start tomorrow. N’ a ‘thank you’ would be nice, y’know.” Sonny breaks the news over dinner. God you hate these stupid dinners. Your mom’s insistent on you having dinner as a family. What kinda model family are you if you’re pretty sure that given the opportunity your own stepdad would jump your bones behind your mom’s back without a second thought?

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” You grumble as you push your food around on your plate, you lost your appetite as soon as Sonny joined the table. “I know, that’s why I did it for ya. When are you gonna learn this is the only way to get ahead?” He chastises you while he digs into his own plate as your mom ignores the growing tension.

“I wanna get ahead through my own hard work, not because my mom decided to marry you.”

Sonny laughs under his breath, you really don’t know how the real world works do you? It makes him wonder if he was ever this naive when he was your age. “It’s all about who ya know, sweetheart. ‘Hard work’ only gets ya so far.” He tells you like it's no big deal that the system’s built to favor the wealthy and connected.

“Let’s talk about something else, huh?” Your mom pipes up suddenly, stopping your bickering in its tracks.

“You’re comin’ with me tomorrow. That’s final.” Sonny ends the conversion.

+

This wasn’t at all what you had in mind when he mentioned an internship. You would think that an internship involves actual work and not being a glorified coffee runner, but unfortunately for you that’s exactly what an internship is. Oh, and it’s not paid either. He conveniently left out that part.

Being around Sonny is the worst part by far. The way he brags about you to his coworkers as if he has anything to do with your success so far. As if you don’t despise him entirely.

“This one here? Top of their class, I’m tellin’ ya.” Sonny brags to a coworker as he catches you passing by in the hallway. Wrapping his arm around you, he smiles down at you like you’re his pride and joy.

“Well, they’re learning from the best, huh? Following in their Dad’s footsteps.” His coworker chimes in.

Forcing a polite smile, you nod in agreement. You would have walked away by this point if it weren’t for how tight Sonny’s arm is wrapped around you. You pretend not to notice the way his hand brushes over your ass when he finally releases you.

With each day that passes you wait for the tides to turn. Eventually someone will have to give you a real task to do, right? You always make sure to go to Sonny’s office last for lunch orders, putting it off for as long as you can.

“Y’know, a smile would do ya good. Nobody likes a stuck up intern.” He reprimands you one afternoon.

“I smile with everyone else, not you.” You inform him as you finish writing down his order harshly.

“Is that really how you’re gonna treat your old man?” Sonny knows exactly how to push your buttons, and calling himself your dad is a surefire way to upset you.

Your reply comes like clockwork. “You’re not my real dad.”

“Heard it a thousand times before, sweetheart. Now go off an’ make ya self useful.”

Sonny makes sure to keep an eye on you when he can. He watches the way you smile and nod with everyone else, how you come across so eager to please. He knew you protesting the internship was all bullshit, you’ll take any opportunity that comes your way. And good, you should. He didn’t raise a quitter.

He can’t help but be jealous of the way you act with his coworkers. The smiles you give them that he never gets to see, how hard you’re trying to make a good impression. And not once have you thanked him for this opportunity, yet here you were soaking up every second of it. How ungrateful could you get?

By the end of the week you never want to see a cup of coffee ever again, you don’t know how you’ll ever stand to drink it yourself anymore. Sonny was working late into the evening and he was your ride. You told him you’ll find your own way home, but he was insistent that it’ll only be a little longer. That was hours ago.

Tired of organizing anything and everything you could get your hands on you make your way to Sonny’s office. “I have to talk to you.” You tell him as you stand in the middle of his office, defiant as ever.

“Alright, have at it.” Sonny tells you without looking up from his paperwork.

“Am I ever actually going to learn anything here? Or am I supposed to just get you lunch for the next four months?” Sonny scribbles away at the paper in front of him like you’re not even there. “It’s been a week, ya have to give it time.”

“So, I have to prove that I’ll be a good lawyer by how well I take your fucking coffee orders? This is a waste of my time– you know I’m overqualified for this.” You rant, and not once does Sonny look up.

“Can you at least look at me when I’m talking to you?”

With a quirk of his eyebrow Sonny puts his pen down as he looks up at you. “Everyone has to start somewhere. You think you’re special or somethin’?” He’s starting to grow tired with the way you seemingly have an issue with everything he does, even when he’s trying to help.

“It’s– it’s degrading.”

“I thought ya didn’t want any handouts.” Sonny argues but you stand firm.

“I don’t. But I’m not going to waste my time in a position that undervalues me.” He wonders where you got all that stubbornness from, not your meek and mild mother that’s for sure.

As irritating as you are, he has to admit he likes it. The spark in your eyes whenever you’re mad, the way you huff and cross your arms during every argument. It has him thinking about how badly he wants to fuck that defiance right out of you until you can’t walk straight. Now that’s a thought.

“Y’know, someone outta fix that fuckin’ attitude of yours.” Sonny’s voice is as cold as ice as he rises from his desk, eyes boring into yours.

“Excuse me?” You reply in utter disbelief. Sonny’s been stern before, sure. But not like this.

“I’m sick n’ tired of the attitude. Y’know many kids in your classes would be dyin’ for the opportunities you complain’ about? Jus’ how ungrateful are ya?” Sonny sneers at you as his brows furrow.

Your cheeks burn from embarrassment when you realize he’s legitimately angry with you. “I’m not–”

“Callin’ a fuckin’ internship degradin’. You think this is degradin’?” The thought flashes in Sonny’s mind before he can stop it. “Get over here.”

“Huh– what?” You stammer but Sonny’s never been one to repeat himself. Before you can react he’s shoving you over his desk and kicking your legs apart. “I’ll show ya what degradin’ is.” He growls in your ear as he bends you over the desk.

His hands dig into your skin as he maneuvers you roughly, he’s so much stronger than you that he moves you like a ragdoll.

“Battin’ your eyes at everyone all day n’ then comin’ in here to give me attitude. You’re nothin’ but a stupid slut aren’t ya?”

Your mind spins as you try to comprehend what was happening. “What? No, I—“ you’re cut off by Sonny roughly pulling your pants down to your ankles while your heart pounds out of your chest. He can’t do this. He wouldn’t, right? Was there a part of you that wants him to?

You never find your answer before you feel the warmth of Sonny’s large hand rest on your ass before digging his fingers into your soft supple flesh. “Tired of how ungrateful you’ve been actin’. I’ve given you everythin’ haven’t I?”

You’re met with a shooting pain as Sonny’s hand sharply smacks your ass, making your whole body jolt. “Answer me, sweetheart.” Suddenly the pet name feels laced with venom.

“Y-You have— I’m sorry.” Your voice gets caught in your throat.

“Sorry, what?” Sonny asks as his hand meets your ass again. “I don’t know—“ you whine in pain as you hang your head, only for Sonny to pull you back sharply by the hair.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” He corrects you. “Say it.”

With a shaky breath you oblige, “I-I’m sorry… Daddy.” The word feels foreign rolling off of your tongue. Sonny roughly turns your head towards him to press his lips against yours, giving you little to no time to react before shoving his tongue in your mouth. It’s messy and rough and you hate that you can feel how wet you’re getting from him treating you like this.

As much as Sonny would love to take his time with you, considering how long he’s been waiting to get you like this, he’s well aware of the time crunch that comes with fucking you in his office. You hear his belt hit the floor followed by a zipper and you swallow harshly. He was really doing this.

“All I’ve ever wanted was the best for ya, n’ there’s never even a damn thank you.” You gasp as the blunt head of Sonny’s cock notches your throbbing hole. “Ya damn mother never taught ya manners, huh? Guess it’s up to me, then.”

Sonny groans as he pushes himself further inside your tight little hole. Your body tenses at the sudden intrusion as you feel every ridge of his cock slide against your walls. “Wait–” you choke out, “Y–You have to slow down.”

Sonny ignores your pleas as you grip onto the edge of his desk in pain and the only thing you can think about is the burning sensation of his cock stretching you out. “Ohh fuck– so fuckin’ tight, baby. Jesus.”

With a deep groan Sonny nestles himself inside you and you can feel the rough fabric of his pants press against your bare thighs. His fingers grip your hips tightly and much to your surprise he gives you a second to adjust.

“Oh I know, it’s big huh?” Sonny mocks you as your chest heaves. “Should’a thought about that before actin’ so damn selfish, then maybe ya wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.” Lie. He knew he’d end up buried inside you one way or another.

“Gonna teach ya some manners, okay? Wanna hear you thankin’ me for everythin’ I’ve done for ya all these years.”

Your mouth falls open at the first experimental thrust of his hips as you nod, what choice did you have but to agree? You watch as the picture frames on his desk threaten to fall over by the force of his thrusts, and you realize you can faintly make out an old picture of you and him off to the side of his desk.

You find yourself staring at it as his cock drills into you over and over again, your own smiling face looking back at you.

Snapping you out of your trance Sonny harshly tugs your head back, growling in your ear. “I wanna hear ya say it. Say ‘thank you, Dad.’” Your eyes flutter close from a particularly harsh thrust as he pulls your hips against him.

“T–thank you, Dad.” Shame mixed with the faintest hint of arousal washes over you as the words leave your mouth.

“Thank you for what? Gotta be more specific than that if ya wanna make it up t’me.” Sonny’s hips slam against yours and with every thrust you cry out exactly what he wants to hear.

“Thank you for taking care of me…” you sob as the desk shakes, the framed picture of you now shattered on the ground. “Thank you for getting me the internship, thank you for–for helping me.”

The room fills with the lewd sound of Sonny’s grunts mixed with the wet sound of his cock pounding into you relentlessly. Lucky for you both he’s pretty sure you’re the only two left at this hour. “What are ya thankful for right now? Thankful for Daddy makin’ ya feel good?”

It’s hard to think straight with how rough he’s fucking you. A high-pitched whine escapes you when he hits that special spot deep inside you and you swear you can feel him in your throat.

“T–thank you–” you pant as the head of his cock kisses your cervix repeatedly. “Thank you for making me feel good…Thank you for…for fucking me.” You cry out in shame.

“This is what ya needed, huh? Jus’ needed Dad’s cock to remind ya how to behave?” Sonny teases you as his hand slips underneath you to rub your clit, determined to watch you fall apart knowing it’s because of him. You nod as your knees buckle from the feeling, so fucked out you don’t even know what you’re agreeing with.

It doesn’t take much to get you to cum, after just a minute or two of Sonny’s long thick fingers rubbing your clit you’re a goner. Collapsing against his desk your walls pulse around his cock, body tensing as his hand clamps over your mouth. You moan harshly into his hand as your eyes close tight, your whole body going limp as your orgasm shatters through you.

“That’s it sweetheart, fuckin’ cum all over Daddy’s cock. Bein’ such a good little whore–” Sonny moans as he chases his own release. His hips slam against you as you wince with every thrust. Breathing labored and uneven, Sonny furiously pounds into your poor abused hole as you clench down on him.

“Fuck– fuck, baby, take all of it–” Sonny hisses through gritted teeth, sweat dripping down his forehead. It’s been awhile since he’s had a fuck like this, if ever. He never thought he’d get to have you like this, sobbing over his cock and not those boys you waste your time with.

“Shoulda done this a long time ago, maybe that woulda fixed that fuckin’ attitude of yours.”

Without warning Sonny quickly pulls out of you completely as you cry from the sudden emptiness. “Fuckin– c’mere,” he tells you sharply as he turns you around before roughly shoving you down on your knees in front of him.

“Once ya prove to me you’re not such an ungrateful whore maybe I’ll think about cummin’ inside ya.”

You watch as he furiously pumps his cock, fist slapping against his belly as he works himself over. Your eyes are transfixed on the way his brows furrow as he pants heavily as he gets closer and closer.

Sonny stares down at your face, those pretty glazed over eyes of yours wide in bewilderment. Those lips that do nothing but talk back to him. He wonders how pretty they’ll look wrapped around his cock next time.

The thought alone is enough to have Sonny hurtling over the edge. “Fuck– there it is, Sit there n’ take it, don’t ya dare fuckin’ move.” Sonny groans before shooting ropes of his hot sticky cum all over you and paints your face in his cum.

“Ohh, that’s fuckin’ good–” he hisses as he milks every drop of his cum onto your lips.

You stay still like you’re told, eyes closing in discomfort as you feel the stickiness coat your face. You never notice Sonny taking his phone out to snap a picture of you.

Tilting your chin up to look at him, he swipes some cum on his thumb, pushing it into your mouth to give you a taste. Your frown from the salty and musky taste, you don’t think you like it much.

“Jesus– look at ya. Don’t think you’ve looked prettier, baby.” Sonny teases as your cheeks turn red. “Did ya learn ya lesson?” Sonny asks seriously as he tightly grips your jaw in his hand.

“Y-yes, Dad. I won’t be ungrateful anymore. Promise.” You tell him earnestly and Sonny nods in approval. “N’ ya won’t tell your mother about this either, got it?”

Pleased with your nod of agreement Sonny tosses you a handkerchief from his pocket, leaving you to clean yourself up and find the rest of your clothes. You wince from the pain between your legs as you all but collapse on the leather couch in his office.

Returning to his desk to finish up his work he pays you no mind, like you’re not even there anymore. The truth is, he’s already planning what he wants to do to you next.

[thedinoknowsall]

It’s probably already linked in the replies to this post somewhere, but the recent MIT study on arXiv ( https://arxiv.org/pdf/2506.08872 ) was very relevant to these points.

The article is very long (like over 150 pages in the main section), so I’ll summarize here: the study put three different groups (LLM with Chat GPT, search engine with Google [with “-ai” to remove AI results], and Brain-only) up to writing SAT essay prompts for about 20 min (which is a pretty typical SAT time for these kinds of essays). They monitored the participants with EEG for brain activity (lots of discussions of alpha and theta waves) then had a set of questions for the participants. Each participant returned for three sessions with different prompts, and there was an optional fourth session that allowed participants to rewrite a previous essay and (though they didn’t know this when they signed up for the fourth session) switch tools.

I don’t know how much I trust the interpreted EEG results (I’m not a neuroscientist) and everything in the article should be taken with a grain of salt because stuff on the arXiv is NOT necessarily peer reviewed* but the questions did bring up very relevant-to-this-posting points about:

Recall of what the participants had literally just written. They were asked to quote from their essay. LLM group consistently failed at this task, even when they knew it was coming in later sessions, Brain-only group consistently passed often with 100% for later sessions. Brain only group also had higher quote accuracy.

Feeling of ownership over the essay. I’m not sure that the LLM group, if they were using the LLM to do most of the writing, should feel ownership over the work, but the authors didn’t do any breakdown of what was written by the participants or copy pasted from elsewhere. The LLM group consistently scored their sense of ownership lower than 100%, while the other groups naturally had higher or near 100% feelings of ownership.

Look, not saying that cheating by using spark notes is fully 100% moral and the right thing to do, but the search engine group were also able to recall quotes from their essays. They (seemingly) used the search engine as a tool for their writing, to find sources and information, not to write it whole-cloth. The study does note, however, that ideas did seem to be biased by the search results, but incorporating external sources into an essay framework is also a skill that requires you to use your brain.

The crazy thing to me is that in the fourth session, the remaining participants were asked to pick a previous prompt to write another essay about (most chose to do one that they had already done before) and a lot of the LLM group didn’t remember all of the previous prompts, while the Brain-only group tended to recall most or all of them.

As an aside anecdote, a colleague had an issue last semester with a student using LLM’s for large chunks of writing a class research paper, and the student was not engaging in critically examining the LLM output at all. Like excitedly asking my colleague about an “new institute” at my university that the LLM had fully hallucinated to justify a claim in the paper level of no critical examination. And. I think that’s partially related to that sense of ownership and engagement in the writing process. This student was treating the LLM output like a fellow student, accepting the claims made by the LLM as if it was truly well thought out work that they didn’t have to scrutinize, and not the most statistically likely combination of terms to relate to a prompt.

And both of these cases (the article and the anecdote) demonstrate a fucking terrifying level of disengagement with writing from these students.

Writing being a tool to communicate thoughts.

Writing being a way to engage in critical thinking.

Writing being the primary way that ideas are recorded and shared everywhere, as it has been for the last 6000-odd years.

Guys, I’m not so sure the kids are alright.

*I’m not sure what the path forward is for that article, as I’m not familiar with the field. Personally, if it is destined for a journal, it’s likely to be trimmed down significantly (it’s like, master thesis length right now). I hope that it does undergo some kind of peer review process: I’m not super familiar with the field and a peer reviewer is likely more familiar with the field, and if there were any logically leaps that I missed (like in the EEG interpretation). I think their explanations of the limitations of the study covered most of my issues with the set up of the study (mainly the small population, and the limited skill of SAT essay writing that the paper explores). I hope that they get to explore this further, and longer term.

Also, a lot of the plots were clearly made in excel and that offends my paper aesthetic sensibilities. But I know and acknowledge that’s a me problem.

Whenever I think about students using AI, I think about an essay I did in high school. Now see, we were reading The Grapes of Wrath, and I just couldn't do it. I got 25 pages in and my brain refused to read any more. I hated it. And its not like I hate the classics, I loved English class and I loved reading. I had even enjoyed Of Mice and Men, which I had read for fun. For some reason though, I absolutely could NOT read The Grapes of Wrath.

And it turned out I also couldn't watch the movie. I fell asleep in class both days we were watching it.

This, of course, meant I had to cheat on my essay.

And I got an A.

The essay was to compare the book and the movie and discuss the changes and how that affected the story.

Well it turned out Sparknotes had an entire section devoted to comparing and contrasting the book and the movie. Using that, and flipping to pages mentioned in Sparknotes to read sections of the book, I was able to bullshit an A paper.

But see the thing is, that this kind of 'cheating' still takes skills, you still learn things.

I had to know how to find the information I needed, I needed to be able to comprehend what sparknotes was saying and the analysis they did, I needed to know how to USE the information I read there to write an essay, I needed to know how to make sure none of it was marked as plagerized. I had to form an opinion on the sparknotes analysis so I could express my own opinions in the essay.

Was it cheating? Yeah, I didn't read the book or watch the movie. I used Sparknotes. It was a lot less work than if I had read the book and watched the movie and done it all myself.

The thing is though, I still had to use my fucking brain. Being able to bullshit an essay like that is a skill in and of itself that is useful. I exercised important skills, and even if it wasnt the intended way I still learned.

ChatGTP and other AI do not give that experience to people, people have to do nothing and gain nothing from it.

Using AI is absolutely different from other ways students have cheated in the past, and I stand by my opinion that its making students dumber, more helpless, and less capable.

However you feel about higher education, I think its undeniable that students using chatgtp is to their detriment. And by extension a detriment to anyone they work with or anyone who has to rely on them for something.

[celestiaras]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ there it is again, that funny feeling ]❜

━━━ .°˖✧ requested by @duskvsdawn ˚₊ ⊹

ft. ike eveland x f! reader — luxiem, nijisanji en

╰₊✧ after years apart, you reunite with your childhood best friend, and ike finds his little puppy crush of the past hitting him at full force once again┊1.2k words

contains: fluff! childhood best friends to implied lovers, no time travel lore au, it’s all modern timeline, mention of bullying

➤ author's note: i miss him :( (also this took a while because i got stuck half-way through and my brain stopped working for some reason lmao so that’s why it’s so short sorry T-T i hope this silly little thing made you smile ily meli <3)

he’s been waiting for this day for months now, nervously holding his cell phone in hand, and awaiting a text or a call or some indication that your flight had landed. there were also flowers and balloons with him, making him stand out among tired civilians, but he wondered if he was doing too much, or alternatively, doing too little. it’s just been so long, he isn’t even sure what you like anymore, if you were going to be touched by the gesture or if you were going to make a forced smile because you thought it was tacky— was blue even still your favorite color? it was a little bit of information he vaguely remembered when you had chosen the blue cupcake over the red one at a birthday party because you said it was your favorite, but he didn’t know it was still the case more than ten years later.

god, he’s so nervous for no reason at all, taking out a napkin from his pocket to wipe off the perspiration from his hands and forehead. you wouldn’t care about the colors, he knows that, you would be overtly flattered and would gush about how sweet he was for the amount of effort he put into your welcome. 

it’s been forever since the two of you last met in real life. thirteen years, four months, and ten days, but who’s counting? usually, all that time spent apart would cause a gradual drift in closeness. but you guys took the phrase “best friends forever” a bit too seriously when meeting as elementary school students. when he moved back to sweden to continue his education in his home country, the two of you exchanged letters monthly for years before switching to weekly video calls and gaming sessions. of course, as adult life and responsibilities became more prioritized, it eventually shifted back to monthly, but each call felt like there was never a gap at all.

this trip to see him was a spontaneous idea. you had just had a difficult semester, and now that summer was approaching, you were looking for a way to spend some of your hard-earned money and relax for a bit. ike suggested sweden as a joke, but he was thrilled to see that you loved the idea and booked plane tickets within the hour. you had always wanted to go to europe, and visiting one of your dearest best friends, whom you haven’t seen in the flesh for ages, was so exciting to you. 

“ike! i’m over here!” your familiar voice rang out crystal clear in the busy airport, catching him off guard with how different it sounded compared to how it usually translated over voice call. he turned his head and was swiftly nearly knocked off his heeled feet as you basically attempted to tackle him to the ground. “oh my god, i missed you so much— you’re so much taller than how i remember— are these for me? you really shouldn’t have!”

he laughed at how energetic you were despite the long flight, almost like seeing your sight for sore eyes old friend recharged your batteries instantly. “i missed you too, how was your flight?”

“it could have been worse. there was a baby right behind me, and i was so scared they would start crying, but they stayed asleep almost the entire time, so there isn’t anything to complain about!... but, actually, the food was pretty ass…” 

“well, it’s almost lunchtime, so i’ll take you out to eat, my treat! i know all of the best places around here.”

“it better be your treat! imagine if you just let a helpless maiden like me pay for her first meal in a foreign country—”

“you’re anything but a helpless maiden, you literally used to beat up my bullies after school.”

you scoffed at his snarky answer, but smiled, the same smile he remembered he used frequently to fawn over. you really haven’t changed much, you were taller and had your hair styled differently, but he could still see the girl he grew up with in your shadow. 

the girl he grew up with, the girl he used to have the fattest crush on.

the memory seemed distant at first, something that didn’t even come to mind when you came, but as you sat down across from him in that cafe, your order of two pastries and a coffee in your hand, he found himself reminiscing on how he thought he was in love with you for the longest time while you prattled on about something or other. 

back when he was a young and naive kid, he would tell his mom that he wanted to marry you when you both grew up, drew pictures of the two of you together under a rainbow, and wrote his first poems about you. he’s certain you knew about it to some extent, maybe someone whispered it to you, or you figured it out easily because you weren’t as dense as he was, but regardless, you didn’t bring it up and simply continued as best friends. you never went any further than friends, but perhaps there’s a chance that could change?

god, what is he thinking? you’ve barely been in the country for more than three hours and his forgotten puppy crush on you was hitting him like a truck trying to isekai him. 

“that reminds me, do you have a girlfriend? or maybe a boyfriend?” your voice had a mischievous tone to it as if you were about to have a gossip session. “i just realized we never talked about this kind of stuff over call.”

“me? no.”

“you answered that way too fast. all these years with that pretty face, and you’re telling me you haven’t had any romantic partners? not even a situationship?”

you thought he had a pretty face?

“w-well, i guess the opportunity never came up…”

you stared at him for a moment in disbelief before chuckling, “it’s okay! there’s no need to be embarrassed about it, we’re still young and have so many years left of our lives…”

“what about you?” asking this was a dangerous double-edged sword. it would satisfy his curiosity, but he wasn’t quite sure if he could hide his facial expressions if you said you were currently in a relationship. 

“nah, not at the moment,” you answered with a sigh, “i mean, i’ve dated a few people, but nothing really stuck for longer than two years.”

“so you’re single?”

“yeah, for now… why, you wanna ask me out?”

“no! well, not because i don’t think you’re a catch or anything— you are— it’s just that—”

“relax! i’m just teasing you! anyway, do you remember mysta? the kid who said he would be the next sherlock holmes? i heard that he—” you continued talking, brushing off the conversation like it was nothing.

meanwhile, ike felt like he needed about a year to recover from the sheer panic that overcame him at the moment. was that the end of it, or were you going to bring it up again sometime in the near future? he didn’t think he would be ready for it, even the suggestion of you being aware of his feelings for you was enough to have him fainting. 

one thing is for certain: that funny feeling from back when he was a kid that made his heart twist and the butterflies in his stomach go wild has returned at full force, and he isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.

request:

with how i'm feeling i would really love an Ike or Fuu-chan fic. Doesn't matter what it's about. Anything is fine. I just want something to bring a smile to my face :(

[malloreum]

i wrote this in a hazy stupor while listening to "undressed" by sombr, enjoy

You're cooking food. Aizawa can smell it standing outside of your door, working up the courage to knock. He doesn’t even know what he came here to say, only that he has to say something. He's always been aware of the risks that come with his job but after almost being killed by that Nomu life suddenly seems much more fragile.

He hates the idea of dying with regrets so he knocks.

"One minute!" your cheery voice calls out and for a moment he's sixteen and has all the time in the world to figure things out with you.

You open the door and his breath catches in his throat. You're not the same but it's you, and he can see the traces of your appearance that have long lived in his memories.

You gape at him for a moment before composing yourself and murmur, "Shota."

'Sho,' he wants to say. The nickname you gave him so many years ago, where did it go? Did you forget it?

"I... I heard the news about USJ," you murmur in disbelief, taking him in. You're examining him like you're trying to figure out if he's some figment of your imagination. "Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah I'm uh I'm okay," he replies, trying to compose himself. "Can I come in?"

"Oh! Of course," you hurriedly assure him, opening the door wider and inviting him in. "Please, make yourself at home."

He steps in gingerly sliding off his shoes and examines your apartment. It's decorated to your taste and he can easily see you living here. He can see you lounging on the couch watching TV after a long day of work or sitting on the balcony while sipping your morning coffee.

Do you still watch the same shows? Do you take your coffee the same?

These questions run through his mind as you prepare tea. A good decision on your part, having something to hold usually makes these types of things easier.

"Types of things," he wants to scoff at his own thoughts. This isn't something normal people do. Normal people don't show up at their ex's house over a decade after last speaking. And they definitely don't do it after near-death experiences.

You place the cups on the table with a gentle hand and take a seat across from him. You look much more composed than he feels—until he notices you fidgeting with your hands. A habit you've done since you were a little kid and teachers called on you when you didn't know the answer.

The knowledge comforts him, he still knows you. At least a little bit.

"How are things at work?" you ask quietly. "After the attack, I mean."

"Okay as they can be," he admits, tracing the rim of his cup. Are these cups your parents gave you or did you buy them after moving out? "We're lucky none of the students were seriously injured."

"They must've been scared," you say. You're still fidgeting with your hands, like there's a right answer you're supposed to find. "It’s not just luck—you were there to protect them."

The silence that follows is suffocating. You sip your tea, clearly looking for an excuse not to speak.

"...Do you ever regret it?" he blurts out, unable to stop himself. "Dropping out of the hero course?"

You look up at him with an unreadable expression and a piece of hair falls in your face. He wants to reach out and tuck it behind your ear, not just to comfort you but to get a better look at you.

After a moment you whisper, "I'm not cut out for that kind of life. I realized that after Oboro."

He swallows thickly, trying to muster up an apology, one that truly conveys his regret for being insensitive, but you speak before he can.

"Shota why are you here?" you ask, the pain in your voice is sharp and cuts right through him. "I don't remember the last time I spoke to you, and now you're sitting at my dinner table sipping tea like you came over to chat."

At least you still ramble when you're upset.

"I almost died," he finally says and he can see your entire body tense up. Of course the news outlets weren't told exactly how bad the damage was, only that a teacher was severely injured. "I know my job is dangerous, but an experience like that makes you think about your life."

He wants to take your hand, is it still calloused like when you were training to be a hero?

"I don't want to die not having spoken to you for years," he murmurs. "I'm not asking for anything serious I just— I want to see you again."

You look at him and he can see tears welling up in your eyes. For a horrible moment he thinks he made you cry but you're blinking back your tears and swallowing heavily.

"Shota I'm engaged."

"...What?"

"We're sending out invites next week," you say, still fidgeting with your hands like that was the right answer. "I planned on inviting you and Hizashi and Nemuri obviously."

Your hand, his eyes dart towards it and you notice. There's no ring.

"I uh I took it off to cook," you mutter averting your gaze.

"Right, of course, that makes sense," he says barely aware of the words coming out of his mouth.

He looks down at the cup he's been drinking from. Did you buy it or did your fiancé? Do you watch TV after work with your fiancé? Have you introduced him to all your favorite shows? Do you sip morning coffee on the balcony together?

He has to get out of here. He has to leave.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the silence. His heart hurts at the words.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he assures you as he stands up and pushes his chair in. It's true the only person to blame here is him for taking so long. "I should go."

You gnaw on your lip as you watch him, he desperately wants you to tell him to stay. But you don't so he makes his way to the door and slides his shoes on.

"Send me the invite," he tells you as he opens the door. Every bone in his body screams the opposite. "I'll be there."

You nod dully and say goodbye closing the door behind him.

So he finds himself in the same hallway he was 15 minutes ago. Only this time he thinks to himself he should buy a new suit.

[grison-in-space]

Wait. People are saying that PresAux aren't realistic scientists? They're the most realistic scientist characters I've seen or read about in years. Do you have any idea how many Ratthis I've met, including at least one Evil Ratthi? I was just chatting to my best grad school friend (total Gurathin) earlier today. (n.b.: haven't yet seen the show, but I understand it's relatively book accurate and... well, the books are again, more or less my coworkers, too.)

Also, they're scientists who are also engaged in significant service work, which means that Mensah would have been clutching this professional time to herself like a desperate badger the moment she left on that planetary survey, a relief from all the people with their budgetary requests and students stuck in the field and animal care team conflicts and committee after committee after committee! demands. This is the professional equivalent of a vacation, like field season: you go where all the people who make your job annoying and hard instead of fulfilling can't find you anymore and you do the work you used to do, the inspiring stuff, and you hang out with your buddies and you remember when life was good and hide from the exhausted, put-upon admins who actually run the department.

Honestly, the main thing that strikes me as incongruous with real-life academics is that the team is almost all experienced analysts with no trainees at all apparently present as a routine matter. Real-life academics rely on trainees for so much labor that most labs are junior people in the early stages of life. But in a post-capitalist society like Preservation, where we know that fiber and textile craft is one of the leading occupations, it makes sense that people would be allowed to specialize in whatever job roles are most comfortable and interesting to them and then allowed to stay the fuck put there, so you don't need to be playing catch-and-release to run your science on the backs of a series of increasingly less idealistic twentysomethings.

As little twists of fantasy about being scientists IN SPACE FUTURE go, frankly, I'm kind of okay with that one.

There's something that bothers me a little about the complaints that the Preservation Alliance team aren't "professional" in the show compared to the books, and I think it's just... I have a different idea of what professional science looks like.

Even in the books, we don't actually see the team do that much science. They take some "samples", and SecUnit thinks of them as professionals, but other than SecUnit's internal monologue, they don't do that much more than in the show. They actually talk more about their work in the show than in the books!

I wonder if some of it is that the Preservation Alliance doesn't fit what people's idea of a competent scientist, particularly a competent scientist on TV, looks like. They're expecting the Big Bang Theory, or Gurathin bent over a computer terminal muttering "I'm in" as green code plays across his face, or Arada rattling off a bunch of jargon while dissecting an alien creature, or Bharadwaj IDing the alien remnant based on rocks or something. And that's not really how science actually... works.

Honestly, as a scientist, this is one of the more realistic depictions of actual science I could expect from a TV show, unless you wanted to watch several hours of people working quietly at their computers with expressions of various levels of exhaustion, annoyance, and stress on their faces, or sorting samples, or wandering around staring at the dirt, or sitting around debating the nature of "nature" and the ethical implications of terraforming or whatever (which would be cool, but also, not plot relevant, I'll just assume it's happening off-screen). I could sort half my coworkers by which character they're most like: the upbeat professor who's always trying to help (Bharadwaj), the hippy biologist who freaks out about disturbing 'natural processes' (Arada), the extra-friendly super outgoing possibly ADHD guy (Ratthi), and the overly cynical constantly complaining about capitalism and swearing over his grants analyst (Gurathin). I don't know who's got the open marriage because I prefer not to know about the sex lives of my coworkers, but I know some are in pretty messy relationships - that don't spill over into their work. Because they are professionals.

Basically, I look at this show and I see - my office. So when people say that they're not competent, that they're bumbling or not good scientists, honestly, it's kind of annoying. They're people, not just scientists, with stuff going on outside of their work, namely: someone's trying to kill them, something that absolutely none of them are prepared for. You don't learn how to handle that in grad school! Of course they're going to be messy and make mistakes - that's what people do. Scientists too.

[nosferatuix]

some 1st year sashisu headcanons:

1. They had a horrible first impression of each other because Gojo was way too exciteable, Shoko too apathetic, and Geto seemed like a stick in the mud, and all of them were like god this is going to be a long few years. By the end of the month they were practically fused together.

2. Shoko's the oldest so her birthday was the first time Satoru had the chance to celebrate a friend's birthday. Suguru asked him like the week before what he was planning on getting her and then immediately had to reign Gojo in from going totally overboard.

3. I know the official art disagrees with me but I saw a fanart of 1st year Shoko with a pixiecut on twitter and she looked really cute so I think it should be canon that she had a pixie cut when she started school, alongside Gojo's super short hair. Geto's already Found His Style

yesyesyes. i actually have a very specific set of ideas about their first interactions. my personal headcanon was that shoko and satoru met each other first because shoko was the first one to move into the dorms, but gege cracked my headcanon by having suguru be the first one to move in so i'm not gonna go into a lot of detail. what i was initially thinking was that shoko and satoru actually got along fine at first sight, with both of them thinking the other was weird but having the consensus that their weirdness was a tolerable amount, which made them at least accept each other as human beings. it was satoru's first time seeing someone who could do rct on others and shoko was trying her best to test the waters first before even thinking about making friends, so they were fine.

then they met suguru and shoko was immediately like, okay, wanna-be-atsushi-sakurai over here doesn't talk as much as the other one which makes him easier to exist around, so i can ditch the other one if he gives me a headache. but i don't think satoru and suguru possibly could have clicked the first time they saw each other. i think they probably got into a huge fight just because suguru was already a nervous wreck so he was feeling on-edge and something about him (probably the fact that he was a couple of centimeters taller than satoru since satoru hit his growth spurt later) ticked satoru off and it was basically like putting fire and gunpowder together. shoko was like... i don't know if i can survive the next four years like this. joke's on her.

moving onto part two here, i love that one fanart of stsg snooping through the student files to figure out more information about shoko because she was a bit secretive and they found out there was only a week left to her birthday. suguru mumbled something about what to get for her and satoru was like, WE'RE SUPPOSED TO GIVE HER A GIFT? and he freaked the fuck out i mean my man was stressed out. suguru had to give him a basic run-down on how these things work in the world of normal people, which was what him and shoko were used to, and they probably put their stipend together to get her something nice. maybe a nice necklace that she never wears except for fancy occasions. or something cute that she could place on her desk in the infirmary to personalize the place a bit since she was starting to spend so much time holed up in there.

PIXIE CUT SHOKO IS APPROVED BY ME. i personally think she had longer hair when she first started the school, i'm thinking shoulder-length and whatever, then she got a borderline-pixie cut that felt inspired to get because she watched hong kong express by wong kar-wai and felt moved by the pretty lady from there even though romantic movies don't do much for her. she eventually grew it out into a bob because it was too high-maintenance and tying her hair up became kind of a necessity the more time she spent in the infirmary, but i'm a firm believer in shoko being really into the nu-metal scene of the 2000s so do with that what you will.

on the topic of gojo's supershort hair, it has always been canon to me ever since i saw nibeul's fanarts about first year sashisu and i actually used to think he cut it himself in the bathroom of the train from kyoto to tokyo the moment he got on it and that's why it's such a choppy and shitty haircut. (it was his first time being unsupervised and equipped with a pair of scissors and he had to perform yet another act of rebellion for the gojo clan elders, excuse you.)

and suguru had already been exposed to buck-tick and the 1993 music video for dress a couple of years back so he was in the middle of growing his hair out to look like the pretty dude with makeup from the music video, so i do agree that he had found his style way earlier than these two. explains the piercings he already had at 15, i bet he begged his mom for months to let him get them lol.