#astersatdawnfics

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 5: Stamp

“You’re going on tour with your troupe, right?” Ellida asks.

Aze’a hums a quiet affirmative as he folds his spare clothes. Packing this up isn’t unusual, but it certainly feels more final, this time. He knows why, but also knows it isn’t the end, not really. But the last time anything like this had happened Aze’a knew when they would meet again, even if the last time had been they’d both unexpectedly found themselves in the Scions orbit and had been unwilling to turn away from the cause, instead of at home, where it was quiet, but safer, than the path they set out on. 

The two of them had been together, through all this. Traveling together, the same cities, the same roads. The separations had been brief, an unspoken promise of they’d be together again, just like the old days, where the two of them were crammed in a small room so that their younger siblings had more space, quietly whispering to each other in the middle of the night. 

Last night had been the last night of that; an inn room in Mor Dhona, shared, because even if their accommodations were paid by the scions the inn was bustling with adventurers traveling to and fro, still enamored with Mor Dhona’s potential. It had been an easy choice to room together, again, as they have plenty of times before, to ensure others could have space. 

“And… what about you?” He asks. There’s a part of him that wants to say “come with me” but he doesn’t voice it. It’s selfish, clingy, and the worst part is he knows Ellida would agree if he asked. 

If there is anything their time with the Scions has shown Aze’a, is that his twin sister had been more herself than she had been in their youth. He always knew she was longing for something, and after joining the Scions, it had been so obvious, in hindsight, that her longing was her desire to explore the world, quashed down by her obligations to the people she loved more. She had always been curious, and opportunity had come knocking over and over again, but she would always look back at their little cabin, at him and their siblings and their mother, and with a gentle smile, she would turn it down, and pretend she never thought of the what-ifs. 

The Scions had been a balance for that, because Aze’a was there, and willing, but now the Scions were formally disbanding, and he thinks, if he weren’t going on tour, they both might have chosen to go back home, regardless of the truth of their hearts. 

“I… I don’t know,” she replies after a long moment. But he doesn’t have to turn around to know she’s smiling, that her tail swishes back and forth with unspoken excitement. “Maybe… maybe I’ll go back to the Far East, first.”

First, she says like a plan is brewing, and he finally turns to look at her.

Despite everything, the happiness radiates off of her like blinding sunlight as she packs away the last of her things. 

“That’s a good idea,” he tells her. She needs to know, even if he isn’t sure she’s aware of why it has to be said. He hesitates, for just a moment, on a selfish request. “Would you… would you write to me?”

She stops packing to face him. None of that joy dissipates, if anything, she seems a little happier. “Of course! But you better write back… I’ll also want to at least see one of your shows.”

“You’ve seen us before.”

“And I’ll see one again,” she promises. 

He has to turn away, back to his own things, to hide the fact he might cry as a weight is lifted off his chest. Of course she’d make that promise. Of course they’d see each other again. It’s hard to part from his sister, and it's also a struggle to remember that part of why it’s taken her so long to fulfill the longings of her own heart is because she, too, is attached. 

They will see each other again. He doesn’t know how long it’ll take, and it might’ve scared him years ago to not know, but now, the reassurance is enough.

And so, he ensures the promise, “I will.” 

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 1: Steer

“Have you ever done this before?”

Robin adjusted the wheel beneath his hands, eyes steady on the vast ocean ahead rather than on his companion. “Once.”

Not like this, he doesn't add.

The first time he steered a boat—steer being a generous word for the rotting row boat he had dragged down the coastline to the shore, his hands littered with splinters and exhaustion weighing on his shoulders—it had been a stormy night.

It had been perfect for running.

It had been dangerous for running.

He still remembers the waves lapping at his ankles, cold against his already chilling body. He had scrapes on his elbows and knees from running down the familiar hills of his homeland, awaiting the sound of pursuers barking orders at one another to find him and drag him home. Robin couldn't say if the chills he felt were from the cold moonlight or if it was the fear creeping in that he wouldn't make it.

Even now, he wasn't sure if he feared his mother or death more, that night.

“Surprised they let ya on the wheel.”

Robin blinks and takes a deep breath. The salty air doesn't have that same crispy chill from that night from not even a year before. The sun is peeking over the horizon, and while it's not warm, the world is no longer as frosty as his memories made it seem.

Robin shrugs, finally glancing at his companion. “Someone had to do it.”

“It's probably why I'm up here,” she snickers. “Babysittin' the new boy.”

He frowns. “I'm not...”

She's waving away his words before he can even speak them. “Sure, you're not new to all this, ya wouldn't be in the guild if you were. But you're not Lominsian, right?”

Robin glances away, presses his lips together, and speaks not another word.

“Really keepin' that quiet and mysterious thing goin', okay, they told me to expect that.” His ear twitches as he hears movement from behind; just footsteps on the floorboard, getting closer, and he knows it’s her by the weight and the fact she's the only other person on this floor of the deck, but he still monitors each step, even as she finally goes past him and to the rail overlooking the lower level of the ship. “Surprised I even got an actual conversation from you.”

For a moment, there's only the gentle waves, the quiet shouts and the remnants of relieved cries from below. Then, she sighs. She doesn't turn around to look at Robin again.

“Look, if anyone in this world gets that, it's us. Not all of us are hidin' something from everyone, but well... there's at least two of us. Just... just don't shut us all out doin' that, okay?”

She turns to look at Robin, and there's something piercing and certain in her gaze. If the memory of his mother's stern glares were more faded, the look might have had him shifting his weight in fear and shame. Instead, at best it's unsettling, like she knows something about him that he doesn't.

The silence stretches, and his eyes flicker back to their course. Yet her gaze doesn't leave him, and she sighs, somehow more discontent than the one from before.

“You're gonna learn that lesson the hard way too, aren't ya?” She murmurs, and if his hearing had been any worse, he might not have heard her at all. “Well, I tried to spare ya, new kid."

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 4: Reticent

“I’d put another 100 gil down on him being a runaway,” Thancred murmurs into the cup of ale.

Valliant Zinnia hums into her own, her gaze in Robin’s direction; her gaze not even half as subtle as Thancred’s own was. For today, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, considering half of the Scions were checking in on Robin in their own way, considering the nasty injury he took while out on a mission. Valliant Zinnia is certain if it had been a normal day, he would’ve honed in on her gaze and told her off. He might still do that. She hadn’t exactly approached him yet, and even knowing the response she’d get, she still had plans to do so anyway. 

“He’s certainly running from something.”

“Well that’s a given, it’s simply the fate of half the souls who enter the underbelly of Limsa Lominsa.”

“Then why a runaway?” 

Thancred twists his drink in his hands, staring out at some distant point. “Well, I was able to get in contact with an old friend from the same… group Robin was a part of before. Apparently, they originally thought he’d been displaced by the Calamity, since he showed up only a couple months after, but it seems he accidentally implied he wasn’t from anywhere in Eorzea.” —Valliant Zinnia chokes; she hadn’t expected that at all, considering how attached to Limsa Lominsa he seemed to be. “Of course, he apparently got more tight-lipped after that slip.”

She takes another moment to clear her throat. “Of course he did, but he’s not from Eorzea?” 

“Supposedly,” Thancred reiterates. “In hindsight, maybe it shouldn’t be surprising since it’s not often you see viera around here, but he certainly acts like a local well enough. It probably only works because he’s so tight-lipped about his history, and while that isn’t unusual, Robin is… well, you know how he is.”

“But half of us thought he was from Limsa Lominsa.” Valiant Zinnia pinches her nose. “I think I’m losing a few hundred gil to that one.”

“You’re not the only one.” Thancred chuckles. “Then the question is, where does our mysterious friend really hail from?” 

Valiant Zinnia leans forward, chin resting on top of her hands. “500 on the Far East.”

“Him? From the Far East?” Thancred’s voice is light with the excitement of the challenge at the new element at play. “No, I’m thinking further… perhaps…. I’ll put down 500 on the New World.”

“Quite a bold play.” Valiant Zinnia’s grin widens.

“Well you know me.” Thancred grins back. “I won’t back down from a good play.”

“I’ll just be grateful for the few hundred extra gil that you’ve just ensured me.”

“In your dreams, friend.” 

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 6: Halcyon

“What are you doing?”

Azem looks up at him, their eyes dancing with that bottomless sense of mirth. “Is it not obvious? I’m making flower crowns.”

They present the flowers to them then, pretty little things Emet-Selch could not name even if he tries. He knows he’s seen some of them before, their depictions classic in literature, with their gentle white petals or bright sunshine hues, but there are many others that he doesn’t. Unusual multi-colored leaves attached to the stems of gentle cool-toned flowers, some with petals more geometric than round. 

“Do you even know what flowers you’re working with? They could be poisonous.”

They laugh, though Emet-Selch would not know if it was they had caught his ignorance or if it was that Azem, as always, charged ahead despite the dangers without a care. “Only one way to find out.”

And before he can protest, they reach for a disorganized pile, pull something out of it, and plop it on his head.

He sputters, reaching for the apparently finished crown Azem had been hiding, because of course they were, but doesn’t remove it from his head. “I wasn’t aware I was summoned to be a test subject.”

“A test subject, and company,” Azem’s grin, somehow, broadens, as they resume weaving the stems together with practiced movements. “It’s been a while since we’ve been able to see each other.”

The tone shift is jarring, the wistfulness in their tone almost unexpected. The words are a gentle punch that has him slumping beside them. 

It’s true that it has been some time since they had seen each other. Things have been busier as of late. Azem was out on adventures, as always, and some of the others among the convocation had been sent away from Amarout for miscellaneous tasks. 

Some might call it fortuitous that his responsibilities had sent him Azem’s way, for once, though Emet-Selch would vehemently protest and insist the universe was playing some sick joke on him instead. Truly, the others underestimated Azem’s penchant for trouble, somehow doubling whenever he was in the vicinity. 

“Do you think the three of us will see each other again?” Azem whispers, enough that Emet-Selch has to strain to hear it. 

“It wouldn’t take much to get Hythlodaeus here,” Emet-Selch murmurs. 

Azem laughs, but there’s something about it that’s off. Like a cry, squashed away and hidden away. The stem between their hands snaps, and Azem stares down at their hands forlornly. “Maybe it wouldn’t have, once.”

“We’ll be together again,” he insists, setting his hand on their shoulder. The touch is enough invitation for Azem to lean over, into him, bonelessly collapsing in a way that he was all too familiar with. In seconds, their head is in his lap, and his fingers are now in their hair, playing with it with practiced ease. The flowers Azem had been weaving fall away, some rolling back onto the ground while others cling to their robes and tuck themselves within the folds of the fabric. 

There’s something soft and torn in Azem’s gaze as they look up at them. Their hand, now free of flowers, rises to trace his jaw and settle on his cheek. All the joy Emet-Selch is used to seeing on Azem’s face is gone, as if it had never been there at all. 

“Not for many more lifetimes,” they say, mourning, and Emet-Selch’s own heart sinks deeper and deeper with the weight of it. “I won’t regret it, but I am sorry, my dearest Hades.”

“Thalia? What are you—”

“You can’t hold onto me forever. It’s time to wake up now.”

As if a spell is cast, his gray robes shift to imperial black, white gloves distance him from the softness of Azem’s hair, and he can feel their solid weight against him fading away. 

“Thalia, wait.” He grasps her wrist, he blinks, and they—she flinches when his hand tightens its grip. Those damn eyes of hers are wide, the exact same shade of violet, made brighter by the light of the Rak’tika Greatwood. “What were you doing?” 

“I…” the Warrior of Light clears her throat. “I was just getting this out of your hair.”

As if proving her point, she rubs the stem of a leaf between the fingers of her captive wrist.

“Why bother with such a paltry detail?” He snaps. 

Ellida is silent for a long moment, her expression shifting only into a deeper frown. 

“I was surprised to see you asleep,” she says instead of any meaningful answer. 

He scoffs, drops her wrist. Truthfully, he doesn’t know if he wants the answer himself, at this point. She had ripped him away from that moment of peace so long ago, tainted the memory with her very existence. No answer would satisfy him—there was simply no excuse that made her action so forgivable. 

“Am I not allowed a moment of rest? I certainly thought you and yours would have preferred I kept my distance.” 

She puts more space between them, now that the choice is hers. “We do.”

“Well then, go make some distance, for however long you can.” He waves her off. “Do you not have better things to do, hero?” 

She’s staring at him. It’s uncanny, how long her gaze lingers, as if she sees something he doesn’t. Her lips are pressed together, something thoughtful in the lines of her face. Whatever had her attention drops away with a quiet sigh.

“Yes, I do.” Even so, she hesitates. “Will you be alright?”

“Excuse me?”

“I—” she shakes her head. “Nevermind.” 

Without another word, she’s marching off, leaving behind a moment that, Emet-Selch knows, is best forgotten. 

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 2: Horizon

Climbing up the trees in the shroud in the dark would be a horrific idea to some, but to Ellida, it’s ritual.

Even more so now, when patients, desperate, come to their small, tucked away clinic desperate for aid, praying for a miracle to be found in the most obscure corners of the shroud from the most unknown of resources. But all they find is a simple clinic, with a recently bedridden mother, and her children, half of which were adopted after the calamity and were still settling in. 

There’s little solace, anymore, with Ellida taking care of every soul who comes their way and then those who live inside the cabin too small for five. The days are long, and her studying has more real consequences now that she has taken up the responsibilities her mother can no longer tend too, and the nights are spent tending to nightmares.

Tonight, they’re her own.

It’s another night of nonsense, of a battlefield scorched red and the scent of iron clogging her sense of smell. In her dreams, she moved as if weighed by steel, so grounded in that reality, if not for the fact all the faces around her were passing blurs at best. If she thinks on it too long, she might start picturing the faces of her family in their places, moments before their deaths, and after having lost their father that night was enough that she needed to shut it out entirely, even if it meant coming here, before dawn, stumbling half-asleep but just as desperate to reach her goal as she had been in her dreams.

So she climbs. It’s the same tree, it’s always the same tree she runs to every night she has a nightmare of her own that needs to be hidden away. The route is so familiar that she wonders if maybe one day she’ll find herself here before she even wakes, sleepwalking through the shroud like it was that battlefield, navigating to a predetermined destination only known by few. 

There’s not much to do once she arrives at one of the highest branches besides wait for dawn. It’s a peaceful wait, though. One accompanied by the soft noises of the dark: crickets and the frogs, the not-too-distant rippling waters and rustling of leaves. 

It may not have been so terrible place to nap, but she intended to stay awake, comfortably curled up and leaning against the trunk, battling the urge to sleep by watching the distant stars far beyond her reach. It was only the numbing chill of the early morning and her own determination that kept her awake.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there like that, letting herself fade into nature rather than the woes of man. 

She does know when they’re minutes from dawn, if only because when she hears movement beneath her perch, she knows the second half of the ritual has begun.

Like clockwork, she lifts her head from the trunk and scoots over, rubbing her eyes in a desperate bid to look more awake than she feels. Moments later, her twin brother, Aze’a, climbs into the spot next to her, hesitant and cautious, as he always is, but still knowing without a word he is welcomed.

“You okay?” He asks, voice soft.

“Fine,” she replies. She looks at him with a smile. If her regular lie has ever registered as such, Aze’a never calls her out for it. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” he murmurs. 

There’s nothing more to say, then, as it has been some of the days they find themselves here. It does not change the fact that the silence is comfortable as together, they look out onto the horizon, waiting for the sun to rise again. 

[astersatdawn]

Brimstone and Emerald Dreams

Relationship: Midoriya Izuku & Sensei | All for One

Rating: T

Sensei | All for One is Midoriya Hisashi, Bad ending, Possessive Sensei | All for One, Izuku in Tartarus

Oneshot | 1.6k words

But he did make it to his destination, eventually, and with the right combination of Quirks the locks on the door broke away and let him pass through.

And there he was.

If All for One had been anyone else, he might have paused to check if he was really asleep. On his cot, Izuku sat, chained from head to toe, slumped over, his back to the wall. Search told him he was asleep, and even without the Quirk, All for One would know. All for One had seen Izuku fall asleep sitting before.

-

[Or, with his victory assured, All for One traveled to Tartarus to collect his prize.]

ao3 link: here

This was written for the bad ending event hosted by @mamashenanigans and @possiblycringe

Tonight, Tartarus was quiet. 

It was not unusual for Tartarus, be it the old or new building, to be silent. The prison was rigid in how both its guards and prisoners were meant to act, each step and breath to match another tick of a clock on a never changing schedule. Sound inevitably became a forgotten thing when it fell into the background, not even worth acknowledging. 

What made this silence different, however, was how it felt more like All for One was walking into a freshly abandoned ruin than a high security prison. It was only obvious to someone like him who was coming from the outside in, for it let him see the pitiful attempt to mask the silence. Janitors dressed as guards wandered the halls, but cowered at any shadow that crossed their path; blinking cameras moved at regular intervals, recording every act like a reprimand was imminent, even though it no longer was. 

All for One knew that, for the first few hours, this illusion of that well maintained routine would hold out. All who dared hope for goodness and justice could pretend to breathe easy, that Tartarus would stay in its timeless bubble, ignorant to the reality just a few miles away, where all members of law enforcement were drafted into the climax of the war, to deal with the unquenchable chaos that had been plaguing the streets for hours now, and still had no end in sight. 

Truly, all this was for a futile yet desperate effort to keep the worst of the villains they’ve managed to catch out of the field for as long as possible. The destruction All for One and his minions had brought to Japan alone already sent the country to its knees, begging for reprieve, and once the prisoners here began their unnecessary riot and realized they could make another escape, Japan would truly know no salvation. 

Not that they stood a chance before that fatal moment, but dreams were always best crushed slowly yet thoroughly.

That is all to say, this was the bare minimum, and if the old Tartarus was not enough to keep him in, it was no wonder this one fell to his whims so easily, now that the world was setting itself firmly in his grasp. 

How far hell had fallen, but even hell must bow before its king.

Even the halls attempted to delude his path, a futile resistance to the last, all long and winding, containing hundreds of matching doors unable to act as a guide to his destination. Not like All for One needed one, not with Search. He knew exactly where to go, could see the bright glow a few levels down even with his eyes closed. 

He could travel down there faster if he really wanted to. Taking his time through the hallways left him impatient, but the child he wished to visit was asleep, just as All for One hoped he would be. An explosive entrance would put the boy on guard, and that would make the night far more difficult than it needed to be.  

But he did make it to his destination, eventually, and with the right combination of Quirks the locks on the door broke away and let him pass through. 

And there he was.

If All for One had been anyone else, he might have paused to check if he was really asleep. On his cot, Izuku sat, chained from head to toe, slumped over, his back to the wall. Search told him he was asleep, and even without the Quirk, All for One would know. All for One had seen Izuku fall asleep sitting before. 

Most often, it would have been at the boy’s desk, drool spilling out from his lips and falling onto his sleeves, barely missing the analysis journal he’d likely have beneath his pillowed arms. He could tell at a glance the boy's dreams were more pleasant than his school days, dreaming up Quirks and heroes. Sometimes, when Inko had been there to catch the end of Izuku’s late night research sessions, she’d quietly fret about, worried about waking him up, but also wanting to make sure he slept comfortably in his bed. As the ever reliable Hisashi, he would offer her reassurance, slip next to Izuku, and a hand on his shoulder was all that was needed to make sure Izuku stayed asleep as he pulled him into his arms and tucked him into bed. 

Many times, All for One had considered keeping Izuku asleep for eternity. As a boy, he’d always found more peace in dreams and delusion. Being trapped in his dreams meant his son couldn’t pursue a reckless dream and die a martyr like his brother had done. But keeping his son asleep meant Izuku’s happiness would not be dependent on All for One, but instead on whatever paradise he found in unconsciousness. He would never see his son’s smile, or hear his voice or his laugh—dreams would reduce them all to useless mush. The boy would not be his if dreams kept him away.

In hindsight, maybe letting him sleep for a few years would’ve been the better alternative, if it meant the boy would not obtain One for All. That Quirk made those childhood dreams obtainable, or it had, until the moment they had been snatched away and brought him to this defenseless place. The almost achievement meant that one false step and the boy would’ve been lost again, and just like his brother, it would be to somewhere he could not yet reach him. The only worth in his son obtaining that Quirk was letting his son learn his lessons the hard way.

Tonight, the boy’s dreams were quiet, but not pleasant. Nightmares likely caused by those very delusions he’d long since harbored, All for One’s certain, with the way his brow scrunched and sweat slowly built on his forehead, likely only moments before the nightmare’s climax. In the past, All for One would have waited it out to see if the boy would run into his arms and cling to his father, afraid that if he let go the nightmares would drag him back.  

This time, however, like he had done on those nights he slept away from his bed, he reached out and cast Izuku into a deeper slumber. Dreamless or not, it didn’t matter, if it meant the two of them could have a moment of peace. The only sign there had been a change at all was the way the boy’s shoulders relaxed.

He did not pull away his hand. Instead, he ran his fingers through Izuku’s hair, longer and more tangled than it had been when All for One last saw him. He would have to change that later. In the meantime, All for One sat next to the boy and gently brought the boy’s head down onto his lap.

“Now isn’t this familiar?” All for One mused, no longer concerned he’d accidentally wake the child. Inko hadn’t realized it when he was around, but Izuku was a lighter sleeper than she gave him credit for. It’d been convenient to figure that out when the boy was five rather than fifteen. The boy’s breath evened out. “Did you truly think you’d ever know peace without me?” 

As if in response, his facial muscles scrunched, then relaxed. 

“Your father’s back to chase all the nightmares away.” Another stroke through his curls, a tangle caught and smoothed away. “No thanks to that man you call a mentor, we’ve been kept apart for far too long. But that changes tonight. I believe you and I will both agree that’s for the best. I know you’ve hated your time here. It’s a shame I couldn’t come sooner, but I had something to finish first. You understand, don’t you, Izuku?” 

The boy’s nose wrinkled. 

Truly, All for One would not mind staying here a while. Even though his memories of this place were not fond, there was a charm in the creation of such a warm memory in a place that had tormented both him and his son. An irony in how these walls were meant to bind and separate them, but instead brought them together again. If society had not betrayed his son as it had he didn’t think such a task would have been as easy. Izuku was far too much like his brother, always willing to fight for others, even those who hurt him. Had that society not clipped the boy’s wings, even with the ongoing chaos, taking his son back would have taken more effort, nor would it have been a guarantee.  

Yet here, the boy slept on, oblivious to the distant smell of smoke and iron. Sleep would keep him away, and when All for One let him wake, he would make sure the boy only found the ashes. Maneuvering those who had no hope had always been easier. He’s certain his son would be the same. 

All for One did not entirely care how much time had passed, content with the sight of his son in his arms after years of distance. Yet, when he heard something rattle in discontent with his enhanced hearing, the earliest sign of the inevitable riot, All for One knew it had been long enough.

“It’s time to go home, Izuku.” He lifted Izuku up, arm under knees and Izuku’s head fell against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead. “We’ve kept your mother waiting long enough.” 

And as he came, so too, did All for One leave unimpeded, but with the very prize he came to collect. 

Outside, the world burned as its king ordained, and in the king’s arms, his child slept on in peace.     

[astersatdawn]

Burning (Rising) Piece by Piece

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Sensei | All for One, Midoriya Izuku & Shigaraki Tomura

Rating: T

Tags: Sensei | All for One is Midoriya Hisashi, Villain Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku Does Not Have One for All Quirk, Suicidal Midoriya Izuku, Suicidal Ideation, (it's not the focus but it's there), Reunions, Midoriya Izuku Finds Out He Has a Quirk, Midoriya Izuku Has All for One Quirk

Oneshot | 4.2k words

“Why would he be nervous?”

“Dumb reasons.” Shigaraki’s thumb mashes one of the buttons. “Thinks you’d hate him or something.”

It takes a moment for Izuku to think of a response. Izuku would not be here if he didn’t care at all, and wouldn't have stayed if he found a reason to hate his father. Maybe his father being a villain was a surprise, and he knows it would’ve hurt more to find out as a child, but the idea of hating his father entirely… 

He cannot imagine a world where that is the truth. 

-

[Or, Izuku, tired of waiting for answers about his father's whereabouts, comes to a conclusion, and asks about it, only to be proven wrong.]

Ao3 Link: Here

“How did my father die?”

It comes off more meek than Izuku intended, quiet and half-buried in the buzzing ventilation, the static of the perpetually on-off tv, and switch-controller button presses as Shigaraki maneuvers his way through his game with matching chimes. 

The question doesn’t even have Shigaraki looking up from the screen, though Izuku knows Shigaraki heard him. He still continues to play his game, eyes focused on the room’s brightest screen as he presses the joystick forward. 

“What makes you think he’s dead?” Shigaraki murmurs in lieu of an answer. 

Izuku frowns, but answers anyway. “He disappeared for over half a decade, has ties to a criminal organization, and no one’s given any further hints of his presence despite the fact that his son signed onto the same organization he’s supposed to be a part of. It isn’t enough to conclude he is dead, but it just seems more likely… and I figured it’s best I prepare for the worst outcome anyway.” 

“Well he’s not.” Shigaraki shifts his legs and plops them down on Izuku’s lap. He doesn’t complain, just presses his lips together as he waits for whatever Shigaraki has to say next—he’s not usually this physical, and if he’s trapping Izuku, he’s expecting a conversation that might send Izuku running. Could it be he was lied to? “He’s busy.”

“Busy,” Izuku echoes, half disbelievingly. 

If it was as simple as he was busy, Izuku doesn’t think he would have been so desperate to chase after one tiny thread of him, even into the dark. The belief that his father still cared for him, in some way, regardless of any physical or metaphysical distance, is one of the only reasons Izuku stuck around for as long as he has (and they both Izuku and Shigaraki know Izuku doesn’t mean the League; there’s nowhere else on this earth for Izuku to belong, not anymore. This is his last bastion, even if they both pretend it’s not). 

“Or that’s what he told us to tell you.”

“...but that’s not what you want to tell me.”

Shigaraki digs his toes into Izuku’s ribs, and Izuku flicks his ankle. Shigaraki tsks, and remains silent for a moment, concentrating on whatever is creating the beeping noise coming from the console. 

“I think he’s being stupid. He’s nervous.” 

That’s an image Izuku can’t imagine. His father had always been the picture of confidence with his wrinkle-free suits and perpetual smiles; no matter how difficult the day had been, Izuku never saw the man wear the weight of stress on his broad shoulders, or seen him walk without his unwavering conviction. Even his father’s every word rolled from his lips, a smooth confidence Izuku has never found in anyone else—not even Kacchan, who wears ego like a second-skin—each syllable accompanied by a smokey trail, as if another guide for Izuku to follow as he was carefully drawn into his father’s logically lain pathway. (It was the only source of smoke that Izuku knew to be a soft, but sometimes stern, beacon; any other and Izuku would simply remember the smell of burning flesh and flee from its signal, only to be reminded that was futile for smoke was steered by the wind, and its sting would always blow in Izuku’s face).

“Why would he be nervous?”

“Dumb reasons.” Shigaraki’s thumb mashes one of the buttons. “Thinks you’d hate him or something.”

It takes a moment for Izuku to think of a response. Izuku would not be here if he didn’t care at all, and wouldn't have stayed if he found a reason to hate his father. Maybe his father being a villain was a surprise, and he knows it would’ve hurt more to find out as a child, but the idea of hating his father entirely… 

He cannot imagine a world where that is the truth. 

“Why would I?”

Shigaraki shrugs. “Dunno. He’s surprised you're here, I guess. I think it was always part of the script—those stupid heroes don’t realize they gave me player two. But he doesn’t think that.”

Izuku glances away from Shigaraki, staring at floorboards as he leans forward, rests bony elbow on Shigaraki’s bony ankle. There’s an answer, buried within him, that Izuku’s aware of. Something once true that no longer is.  

“It might not have been—inevitable, that I’d join.” Izuku’s hands drop, awkwardly draped over Shigaraki’s legs, to pull at the hem of his shorts. “If I didn’t give up, I would’ve tried to be a hero. And if not that…”

Izuku doesn’t need to explain that. He hears the menu open, but no flickering through options. 

“If I… if I hadn’t become disillusioned with all that, I might not have, and him being a villain… it would’ve hurt before… really hurt. The idea of remembering him back then and knowing he’s a villain… but now—” a deep gulp of air, “—now I just want to see my dad again. It—that—doesn’t matter anymore. I—I miss him, and I need to see him again.” Izuku feels tears welling in his eyes. “I never would’ve—I can’t hate him. Before you, he was—he was—”

Izuku hiccups. Rubs at tears with his wrist. 

“The only person to believe in you, right?” Shigaraki mumbles, like a reflection, more than a question. Izuku nods. Louder, Shigaraki says: “Sensei.”

The sudden call for Sensei has Izuku drying his eyes faster—has he been listening? Oh he really shouldn’t let Sensei see him like this—

“Sensei, you hear that? You’re being stupid.” 

Izuku freezes mid-motion, breath, limbs and all. 

Did Shigaraki just call Sensei stupid? That couldn’t have been what Shigaraki just said; if he did, then Izuku finally overdosed and landed in hell with something resembling his only friend. 

Even if this is really happening, why would Shigaraki say that? They’d been talking about Izuku’s father. Was Sensei the one putting doubts in his dad’s mind? Was Sensei making it harder for Izuku to see his dad? 

What would Sensei want for him to agree to letting Izuku see his dad? 

At this point, Izuku knew the answer readily: anything.

“Tomura.” 

“Yeah, yeah, lecture me later,” Shigaraki grumbles, pointedly looking at where the camera is. “Something’s more important, or are you still gonna continue being dumb?”

There is a long moment of silence.

Did Shigaraki mess up? What is going on? 

“Kurogiri. Open a portal.”

A quick affirmation and purple mist sprouts up on the floor space right in front of Izuku. Shigaraki’s legs lift off of Izuku’s lap only to cram themselves between Izuku’s back and the couch. 

Izuku stares at the portal. Then back at Shigaraki. His foot nudges Izuku’s back, though it doesn’t send him barreling forward. “Get going, dumbass.”

Oh. 

His eyes widen. Is it really that simple? 

Maybe it isn’t, but truthfully, Izuku can’t bring himself to care. Before he even considers giving it another thought, Izuku is hurrying on through the portal which whooshes shut once he’s through. 

Izuku has been carefully placed onto an open gap of the floor space, amid wires of varying thickness, all of which crowd around Sensei’s chair. He can hear the beeping of the life support machines, see the flickering status lights among dimly lit monitors. 

He has been here only once before, as part of his official introduction to the League. The meeting hadn’t lasted long, but the impression Izuku got of Sensei was one he would never forget. A deep tone, words spoken with an almost playful lilt, an ancient confidence expressed in every gesture, and a smile befitting a demon rather than a saint—ironic, for as unholy as they were, for someone like Izuku, Shigaraki and Sensei may as well have been. There was no denying the man’s intelligence, or how even without eyes the man had monitored Izuku’s every move like a hawk, hyperfocused on Izuku’s every breath, assessing him. 

Izuku knew, within the first minute of that meeting, that if this man saw it fit for Izuku to die, he would be dead by morning.

It should have been frightening. A year ago Izuku would have thought of every possible escape and died trying, terror pounding in his chest through his final hours. But the Izuku who stood before Sensei that day was not the same as the idealistic Izuku from a year ago. Izuku was already used to being hunted by bullies; an ancient out to kill him wasn’t as frightening as the shadows of childhood creeping under his bed—a man like this would hunt Izuku out of practical disinterest, not for sport—and it mattered even less when some mornings death felt more welcome than not. 

But today, with an opportunity for answers so close Izuku can taste it, Izuku cannot risk that dance with death. He has to hope he was here for the very reason Shigaraki had sent him, and not as some indirect punishment for Shigaraki’s impudence. 

His hands wring together, unsure if he should speak first, or wait to be spoken to. It’s impossible to not grow more anxious, the longer Sensei’s scarred face stares in Izuku’s direction. 

What is Sensei able to make out of him? Can his Quirks grant him some sort of sight even without eyes? Can he make out shapes and shadows through layers of flesh? Or could he have thermal-based vision—how detailed could the rippling warmth that radiates within his chest be? Maybe he accesses him through the faintest of vibrations—could he feel the minute twitch of his fingers, or the slightest shifts of weight with loose subconscious starts and stiff conscious ends? Looking at him like this, can Sensei sense the quivering nerves or the boiling want?

“Come closer,” Sensei says, breaking the silence that shrouded the room.

Izuku doesn’t hesitate. He steps over a few wires, approaching, and keeps getting closer when Sensei gestures him closer. It’s only when Izuku is standing just before Sensei, well within arms reach, that he stops.  

He’s not expecting it when Sensei reaches out and takes Izuku’s face in his hands. Izuku stills—not out of fear, but simple surprise. It’s a gentle touch, and the thing that surprises Izuku more than the act itself is the feeling that stirs in his chest: something like nostalgia, remembering how his mother would dry his tears with her thumbs, or how his father would cradle his face as he looked him over for bruises and scrapes. 

“I’m sorry, Izuku.” Familiar, again, somehow; deep voice rumbling low and soft with the exact same intonation his father had said his name, before—it’s a thought that stirs some dormant revelation inside his chest. “I wanted to be able to properly look at you when we reunited, but it seems I was being too cruel to the both of us.”

His heart stutters. That awakening revelation thrums through him to the beat of a lightning strike, and with a clarity only found in the eye of a storm, he looks at this man once more. There is no photograph to reference, but Izuku lets his memories carry him, overlaying past and present, and lets himself finally notice every little detail he had been missing because of the unfamiliarity of Izuku’s new situation and Sensei’s damaged appearance. 

“Dad…?” His voice cracks.

“I’m here, Izuku.”

Everything Izuku had been holding in comes out: he throws himself forward, wrapping his arms around his father’s body, careful to not nudge the life support equipment out of place—he can’t lose his dad again, he can’t be why he loses his dad again—and his father’s arms wrap around him, so tight, and he holds his head close as Izuku sobs his heart out. Years and years of grief unraveling with every wail, every missing moment reclaimed as his fingers dig into the fabric of his father’s once tidy suit.  

“Dad,” he chokes out. Again, and again, and his father hums something soft every time, with every word, fingers running through his hair in a way Izuku had missed from his long-gone youth.

Izuku does not think of questions, though he knows he will have many. He thinks about how he’s finally found his father, after being alone, after being found by someone Izuku thinks he wouldn’t have wanted to be found by, once. In him now, there is only grief, and mending, the deep wounds branded into Izuku’s flesh finally beginning to stitch just a little shut after years and years of being torn wider with every breath. 

He has no clue how long he spends sobbing, clinging, doesn’t know when he crawled to rest more comfortably on his father’s lap like a toddler rather than a teenager—it feels silly, but, even as Izuku’s sobs begin to turn into sniffles, he knows he doesn’t want to let go, and judging by the tight grip that hasn’t relented, his father doesn’t want to let go either. 

“I missed you,” is the first thing he whispers that isn’t an echo. It’s obvious, but Izuku needs to say the words. For all the feelings he’s unleashed, the words are what grounds him into the reality that he is really here. 

“I know. I missed you, too. I’m sorry I didn’t come back to you sooner than this.”

“Shigaraki’s right. You were being stupid,” Izuku mumbles into his father’s shoulder, something between a laugh and revitalized sob dripping out of his throat. To think Shigaraki hadn’t been calling out Sensei as his Sensei, but as Izuku’s missing father. As much as Shigaraki hates the sappy stuff, Izuku will have to thank him; he’d been the one who pulled Izuku away from the cliff’s edge, and to think, he’d guide him back to his father, too. “Why didn’t—why didn’t you tell me?”

His father doesn’t answer him for a long moment. Continues to stroke Izuku’s hair, back and forth, twisting curls with gentle pulls. As much as Izuku wants answers, he doesn’t mind waiting either, if it meant another moment he didn’t have to leave.

“...I have lied to you about many things, Izuku, and while your admiration for heroes may have dwindled, I do not think you’ve completely changed as a person for it. I knew you’d be upset, but I suppose I failed to consider that this approach would make you upset in a different manner.”

It’s Izuku’s turn to be silent. There are a lot of things Izuku could say; the lies are obvious, now that he’s here, talking to his father who is also Sensei, the ancient man whose Quirk lets him take and give Quirks as he pleases. His father didn’t tell Izuku from the start, either, that he was his father when they met again at Shigaraki’s insistence. He never gave any hint of his true occupation when Izuku was a child—though, of all the lies, it’s somehow the easiest to forgive, if only because Izuku suspects it is the simplest piece of this puzzle. It’s everything else that, while Izuku already knows he’ll forgive, does not erase the questions and worries swelling within him.

So the question is where does Izuku start with this. That list lengthens with every passing second, and he wonders if it’s better to start chronologically or alphabetically, worth spilling them out in a gush like he had when he was young and eager to decipher Quirks with his father, or one at a time like his father would when guiding Izuku to a predetermined destination. 

Another thought crosses his mind, then, far later than it should. A different wound reopens, oozing as he realizes another implication about Izuku’s past, considering who his father is.

Does he start there, at the place so close to his insecure heart? Or does he start with distance, and hope there’s time to draw closer (or not enough, so he can ignore the doubt, and maybe the inevitable hurt that comes with the worst possible answers?)

He takes a deep breath. The comforting scritching in his hair doesn’t cease. Another breath, something shaky as he decides it’s better to hope this decade old wound can be clumsily stitched shut again rather than fester until the day Izuku breathes his last.

Meekly, Izuku asks, “why… was there a reason you thought I should stay Quirkless?”

There’s a hundred additions Izuku can add: you knew about the bullies, you knew I cried myself to sleep some nights, you knew I had nightmares of bullies more than I ever did of villains, you knew I was alone, you knew I wanted to save so many people but was never going to be given the chance and you could’ve changed that. 

You could’ve put a stop to it before it began, and we wouldn’t have known the difference.

“There were a few reasons why you were led to believe you were Quirkless.” 

Izuku’s eyebrows furrow. “Led to believe?”

The hand leaves his hair, and while his father’s grip around him loosens, he doesn’t push him away. Rather, he only maneuvers Izuku so that he can look at him while keeping Izuku as close as possible. Then, he holds his hand out to him, palm up. Izuku looks between his father’s face and the hand, before tentatively setting his hand in his father’s. 

“Close your eyes,” his father instructs. “I want you to focus on the space where our hands are joined.”

His father’s hand is chilly and his palm is rough. Izuku thinks he feels a small gap in his palm, in the space Izuku once thought was simply a tattoo or a scar, but now wonders if it’s a mutation. 

Somehow, that spot feels different than the rest of his hand—it’s still cold, but the more Izuku pays attention to the unique ridges of his father’s palm, he realizes it’s not simply cold; it’s like he’s close to submerging in something, a diver floating just above the waves, looking into murky waters below and wondering what there is to find. 

“I want you to search for something there. Something warm—and when you find it—” he plunges, rumbling in his ears as he enters the dark depths of the unknown, but he can already feel traces of it, wisps of light and the smell of smoke, just hovering at the edge of his senses “—pull.” 

Izuku grasps. His fingers squeeze his father’s hand, and with a tug, that heat spreads within him, crawling up his bloodstream and settling in his lungs while something warm and wet settles in the space between their palms. 

His next breath chokes him, and he coughs, bits of smoke and spark with every hack. There’s blood between the crevice of their palms, but Izuku doesn’t think much of it as he raises his hands to his mouth and feels the lingering heat hovering on his lips. 

He exhales, one formed from practiced desperation, and between his bloody palms, fire blooms. 

“This is—”

“Fire Breath,” his father tells him. “It was the first Quirk I took, and I knew if I ever got the chance, I wanted it to be one of the Quirks I gave you—more specifically, I hoped this would be the first Quirk you took from me.”

The truth is both a sledgehammer to the chest and wings fluttering with every breath: “I wasn’t Quirkless.”

“No, you were not.” His father flicks his wrist, and from nothing, a wet cloth is held in his clean palm. Gently, he takes Izuku’s wrists and begins to wipe away the blood, revealing the center of each where a mutation, like his father’s, now sits. “It would’ve been dangerous to have a four year old running around with this.”

Dangerous seems like such a small word for all it can encompass. Who was it a danger to? Was anyone meant to be safe if Izuku had knowledge within his grasp?

“Giving you a Quirk was risky, because it could’ve triggered the mutation regardless of what you were given. If that happened, I suspect you would be more susceptible to an urge to use your Quirk, and the consequences of that… well. Beyond whatever fallout would happen at that moment, this would have drawn eyes that would threaten our family. It was safer for us all if you simply believed there was nothing to find.”

Izuku almost wishes he didn’t understand that decision. With his father’s status as a career criminal who was both rumor and real, having a child appear with the same Quirk was both a red flag to anyone with the right information and something that could draw massive attention even without. A Quirk like that could threaten everything—even just quietly existing in the background, like it does now, already leads to worried ripples and terrified whispers. 

There is something else that catches Izuku’s attention: “urges?”

“We’ve discussed it before, I believe. Dr. Itou’s—”

“Quirk Impacts on Human Psychology,” Izuku echoes. “He said that humans are inclined to use their Quirks, and that Quirk use or lack of use can have impacts on executive functioning and mental health…”

“That’s right. I imagine you’ve been handling any sort of urge through your analysis, which worked well when you had no reason to suspect, or try, taking someone’s Quirk. But now, it’s likely that examining Quirks will not be enough.”

Izuku stares at their hands. He might be a villain, now, has destroyed a man with his own two hands, but the idea that he could be driven to theft of such a personal degree is unsettling. “I’ll have to steal Quirks.”

“Only if you want to. I don’t mind parting with some of my collection until you’re ready to go somewhere else for something new. Even if you’ve chosen this path, I know your actions will still be driven by kindness, Izuku.”

It’s strange how he realizes that the statement isn’t a compliment, and, even more than that, it’s completely foreign to recognize he doesn’t mind that. Kindness has burned him—it took him almost too long to realize that. He gave and he gave and he burned and he burned for simply existing as someone who wanted to do good rather than be nothing. 

He left because he was tired of burning, wanted to die because every inch of him had been lit by someone else’s fire that he could not put out, and even now, he knows the kindness hasn’t molted from his flesh. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to shed it entirely, but little by little, maybe it will thicken and he will learn when to sheathe his kindness and when to wield it. 

Izuku leans his head against his father’s shoulder and stares at the freshly carved holes. He imagines sweat pooling on his palm and caramel sparks popping from his fingers—thinks, when that day comes is the day my kindness is my own, for his gentle heart cannot care for itself until he learns selfishness, for it was kindness that became the dangerous beast that can not be tamed. 

Shigaraki has captured it, for now. In its cage it rattles and rears its head with every act it witnesses and condones and participates in that it deems wrong, and Izuku clings to its neck, not ready to let go but knowing it's not safe to hold on. That beast will trample him—the bottle of pills hidden under his mattress tells him as much. 

So for now, Izuku can’t sit with the idea of such intimate theft without growls swirling in his stomach. But, quietly, “someday, I think.”

Someday, I’ll tame that part of me that wants to die. The day I want to live is the day I’ll be free to do what I want—and I don’t want to leave these people behind, no matter what it means.

Fingers start carding through his hair again. A curious hum. 

“Someday,” Izuku repeats, more certain, flexing his fingers. “Someday I won’t mind. I… I already know what I want, when that day comes.”

Those growls roar louder, scratching and hissing, as Izuku wonders what that boy will think when that power is taken from his hands. How the thing that made him wanted by this world would suddenly be gone, and would never be his again—how he’d feel knowing it was taken by that he burned most. 

Dreams burn, Izuku knows. It will be a lesson he imparts to Kacchan, too, when he can stomach the idea of it—after all, childhood showed their dreams were meant to match, but now Izuku is slipping onto a path so far from those nostalgically painful days and his oldest friend is forging ahead without a care for the ruins left behind, not yet aware that he will one day be dragged back into those crumbling halls and swallowed whole.   

It sounds fitting. Poetic, even. Shigaraki would get a kick out of it, and he thinks his father will too. 

“Then that day will come,” his father reassures. “We’ll make sure it does.”

Together. Izuku closes his eyes. He’s home, and the future will burn, but Izuku will not burn with it. 

[astersatdawn]

Nightmares Forged From Fractured Peridots

Relationship: Midoriya Izuku & Sensei | All for One

Rating: Not Rated

Sensei | All for One is Midoriya Hisashi, Bad ending, Izuku has been vaulted, non-consensual (platonic) touch, non-consensual haircut, non-consensual Quirk use, referenced non-consensual drug use

Oneshot (Series) | 8.8k words

What a failure he was. Not able to stop All for One, not able to prevent his own arrest, not able to find his mother or the exit that would let them escape this labyrinth All for One used to trap them. Continuously running in useless circles of conversations with this demon in some desperate attempt to regain control. 

All for One sought a fantasy and deemed all of Izuku’s dreams as illusions in parallel. Izuku hated the tiny part of himself that was scared that those hopes were as futile as All for One insisted they were. 

-

[Or, another day, another failed escape attempt from All for One’s prison, and the consequences that come with Izuku’s failure.]

ao3 link: here

This is a sequel to Brimstone and Emerald Dreams (tumblr/ao3) but it is (probably) not necessary to read that fic before reading this one.

And just like that, it was over again.

He tripped, and then there was a hand wrapped around Izuku’s bicep—it was not a friendly gesture to keep him from falling, but a chain to drag him back to his cell.

“Izuku, what did I say about running in the halls?” All for One chided, maneuvering Izuku to face him as easily as manipulating putty in one’s hands. His other hand clamped onto his other bicep, keeping Izuku firmly in place, even though it was a paralyzing Quirk and not his grip that kept Izuku from running now. “You could get hurt.”

There were plenty of responses he could’ve said to that. He could’ve simply said that it’s too late for that. Izuku could point out the bruises from where his fists pounded against the walls, could point to the dried blood beneath his fingernails and the missing skin from his overly bitten lips. He could point to his own heart, rotting beneath his decaying ribs, or how his flesh sank inward despite how he fought for something more than a bone-brittle existence.

He could even scream about the thunderstorm in his chest, the one that rumbled whenever he was dragged to and fro on a whim, the one that raged when his father spoke of his mother’s treatment, the one that bristled with every patronizing word out of All for One’s mouth, spewing sugar-coated nonsense about the nuclear family he had shattered with his own two hands—how Izuku was always to be his parent’s child, an object to be smothered like he’s nine rather than sixteen.

Assuming he was still sixteen. 

He might be older, he didn’t know. Time is knowledge, and All for One, knowing Izuku is one to protectively cradle every detail close to his chest, would withhold far more than he ever gave, but still led him on with something like the possibility of answers, knowing Izuku would hang off his every word if it meant Izuku could gather one of those sparse fragments.

And All for One had given some answers at first. Not many. Some already known, others new, everything chosen with a meticulousness perfected by time. He’d kept Izuku in stasis as he carried his freshly woken body outside and walked around the barren streets of a city Izuku could not name—the only signs it had been a city once were the abandoned vehicles, the dilapidated storefronts with their half-burnt signs, and the charred scraps of bones and picked at skeletons. 

“I want you to understand where home is now, Izuku. There’s nothing out there for you—nor is there anyone who would accept you as you are, not like me. So stay here. You need to do nothing more than that.”

Maybe everything out there was truly all ashes. Maybe there was nothing, or no one, left for them to find. It was hard to be worried about a what-if when anywhere was better than here—it’s why he had to believe there was something else left out there. A friend, a stranger. Anyone. News to uncover. A sanctuary for two tucked away out of All for One’s sight. A desperation for a better life that kept Izuku running no matter how many times All for One insisted there was nothing better left. The world could not be lost, and their world could not be contained to just this place.  

He wouldn’t let the carefully selected scenery erase his dreams of hope, wouldn’t fall into the trap that was the logic of a megalomaniac man. Giving up on his wishes meant more than giving up on himself. He had to keep trying for the sake of his mother and whoever else still lived and fought another day in All for One’s Japan. 

So the statement “you could get hurt” was the most redundant thing Izuku had heard since he was brought here. It was far too late. Izuku was bruised and bleeding and holding on by the skin of his teeth. 

Telling All for One that truth was out of the question. 

But with the way Izuku was held, unable to move anything but his facial muscles, he knew a response was necessary.

“I know.”

“If you know, then you shouldn’t do it.” All for One sighed. “You’d get hurt less if you just listened to me, Izuku.”

Izuku held back a scoff. It’s obvious All for One wasn’t just referring to running in the halls, or any other prior admonishment for something treated like a childish antic. Ever since Izuku woke up here All for One played up the loving, concerned father as if that’s all it ever was. While he was not wrapped in layers of chains like he had been before, the thinness of his wrists, irregular doses of drugs that kept him even weaker, and the thick walls of the vault did nothing but remind Izuku that, as welcome as he was to be here, this was a prison and not a home, and this place had hurt his family more than enough. 

All for One had implied that obedience—that giving up—would change Izuku’s situation. Claimed that Izuku giving in to every one of All for One’s demands to act as the adoring son would make his quality of life improve, that he would get everything he wanted and that he’d never be in pain again. But Izuku knew better. If he agreed to that he may as well consider himself more corpse than man, for the heart that beat within his chest would no longer be his own. 

If getting more hurt would get him out of here, he would continue to accept that over succumbing to a bleak existence. 

Listening to All for One was not an option—it didn’t matter how frayed the rope Izuku clung to was, all that mattered was getting his mother out, and making sure enough of himself was left to go with her. Letting go—giving up—meant the end.  

He couldn’t give a half-hearted shrug in response, shoulders frozen as they were. Instead, all he did was mumble a quiet “I know.”

“No, you don’t. If you did know that we wouldn’t be here.” All for One’s hands squeezed his arms. “You’re making things far more difficult than they need to be.”

“I know.”

“Do you know how to say anything else?”

“Nothing that I want to tell you, and nothing that you’d listen to.” 

All for One sighed. “You’re proving my point. I’m not your enemy, Izuku. I’m your father—you can trust me.”

“Sure I can,” Izuku muttered, bitterness laced more heavily into his tone than it had been before. 

“What am I going to do with you?” He shook his head. All for One was silent for a long moment. Then he lifted a hand and his fingers were running through Izuku’s hair, curls falling past his chin. “I suppose that can come later. You’re overdue for a haircut.”

“It’s fine—” 

“It’s getting tangled.” All for One tugged on a small tangle to prove his point. “If you’re not going to take care of your hair, you shouldn’t let it get this long.”

Izuku bristled. It’s not like Izuku purposely let it get this unkempt—outside of Izuku’s rebellions, all decisions that should be his were instead ripped away from him. His schedule, from when he ate to when he bathed, were not his to decide. His clothes and appearance were not his to decide. Any tool, be it a comb or a toothbrush, were quickly classified as something Izuku would try and use to help his escape, and thus kept from him. With that structure, Izuku’s only means of managing his hair was with his fingers. 

“I can take care of it.” 

“Clearly not, you’re doing a poor job of it.” All for One ruffled his hair, making it messier than it already was, further empathizing just how much control he exhibited over Izuku’s every choice, or lack thereof. “Come on, let’s get that taken care of.”

Without warning, All for One adjusted his arms and lifted Izuku up. 

“I can walk,” Izuku spat out, unable to kick his way out of the hold. 

“You can, but you don’t need to. I can take care of you.” All for One squeezed Izuku like it was supposed to be a comforting touch. “And considering your display just now, I know you’re not interested in taking a walk.”

“I’ll walk,” Izuku insisted between gritted teeth. 

“And I’ll carry you. I want to take care of you, my little prince.” All for One ran his fingers through Izuku’s hair, passing by the knots that had formed since Izuku’s last struggle to pull them apart, and tilted Izuku’s head towards his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I have too much lost time to make up for.”

Time Izuku would rather spend away from him, but he knew saying that would make All for One more unbearable than he already was. Every touch kept his hairs standing on end, the stone in his stomach sinking deeper than it already was. Already, Izuku was sick of it, and it had only been a few minutes. Every disagreement seemed to increase All for One’s clinginess, and considering Izuku had an unwanted haircut coming up, Izuku knew he was nearing his limit of coddling before he said something that would get him a worse punishment than usual. He couldn’t risk losing too many windows of opportunity, not when they were already so limited.  

Tartarus had been a kinder place to him if only because it kept him out of All for One’s clutches for a while, even if that proved to not be enough—how long had it been since Izuku first found himself in captivity, struggling and failing to get free and do what needed to be done? 

What a failure he was. Not able to stop All for One, not able to prevent his own arrest, not able to find his mother or the exit that would let them escape this labyrinth All for One used to trap them. Continuously running in useless circles of conversations with this demon in some desperate attempt to regain control. 

All for One sought a fantasy and deemed all of Izuku’s dreams as illusions in parallel. Izuku hated the tiny part of himself that was scared that those hopes were as futile as All for One insisted they were. 

It continued like that for the next few minutes: Izuku, stuck stiff in All for One’s arms, fingers in his hair, silent and stewing in his resentments while All for One acted all merry. They didn’t go to Izuku’s cell, but a hallway not far from it, that Izuku had already inspected through a mixture of his escape attempts and All for One dragging him around. 

Their destination was a small multi-purpose room, shelves stocked with miscellaneous items ranging from hair care products to silverware. On the opposite wall of the door there was a sink, and above it, a mirror that captured the both of them: Izuku, glaring off into the distance, eyebags and pale skin illuminated by sickly lights, matted hair curling just beneath his chin, held tight like a trophy to All for One’s chest, who smiled not with that of deranged madman’s, but with something almost peaceful. 

Izuku would not be surprised if, before, this room had been a torture chamber, considering the centerpiece was a chair with multiple leather straps hanging off of it, which was right next to a miniature surgical table that already had a pair of scissors and a brush on top; even if it hadn’t been, he certainly felt tortured every time he was brought in here like this.

All for One gently set him down in the chair, and began to restrain Izuku. It was done with a practiced hand, one hand deftly tightening straps and buckles around Izuku’s arms, legs, and chest, while the other was still somewhere on Izuku—his hand, his knee, his shoulder, his head—to keep the paralysis Quirk in use. 

When he was done he ruffled Izuku’s hair and let him go. The second Izuku felt his limbs were his own again he tugged at his restraints, pulling up and forward and squirming no more than an inch. 

“It’s cute that you still think you can escape,” All for One cooed. Izuku felt the brush run through his hair, tugging and pulling with rapid strokes.“You’re not leaving unless I let you, Izuku.” 

“I literally just got out without you letting me.”

“No, you didn’t. You left your room, but you didn’t leave.” A yank. A few strokes more, each growing more gentle than the last, before it stopped altogether. He heard All for One set the brush back down on the table before he  walked over to the shelves, and picked up two bottles to compare. “And even if you found your way to the exit, I know you wouldn’t go, not without Inko.”

Izuku’s nails dug into his palm. He wished it wasn’t so obvious, if only if it meant Izuku knew something All for One didn’t. She had to be in this building, All for One had implied as much, and even if it was a lie, Izuku couldn’t take the risk of leaving her behind in this sort of place. Her presence was another cord for All for One to pull, but also a reward to give if Izuku submitted enough for All for One to attempt recreating the sham of a family he so desperately wanted. 

And he had seen her, more than once, since that condition became clear. 

Part of him hated that fact. He had fallen so far that he’d been seen as compliant, and yet, seeing his mother reignited him more than memory ever would. It was hard for those dinners not to, seeing the wariness in her darting eyes, her gentle voice gone mouse-quiet and fragile, resignation a heavy mantle on her shoulders, as playing her part meant she could see Izuku again. The truth of the matter was, as much as she was tether and treat for him, so too was he treat and tether for her. 

Every minute, every word, and every touch, was just another opportunity for both of them to break, and compliance meant falling apart faster—Izuku could only hope that his choice to keep fighting would give her the strength to not give up all the hope she had left. 

“...Where is she?”  

All for One settled on one of the bottles and grabbed a towel before heading back towards Izuku’s side.  

“Do you really think I’m going to tell you that?” The towel flapped out of sight before All for One tucked it around Izuku’s shoulders. “We just established her location is your goal with your escapades, Izuku.” 

From somewhere behind him, he could hear the squeak of a faucet, and then the rush of water splashing against the bottom of the sink. It wasn’t a consistent stream, as he could hear the water shifting as All for One’s hands moved under the water. 

“When will I see her?”

An amused huff. “You should know by now disobedient children don’t get what they want.”

“She’s my mother. If you’re going to discipline me then she should be involved.” 

“And you don’t need to see her for her to be involved, Izuku. You should know parents discuss things without their children.” Abruptly the back of the chair was pulled down, and Izuku’s eyes shut as warm water fell onto his forehead. All for One’s hands were back in Izuku’s hair. Instinctively Izuku tried to pull his head away, only for All for One to drag his head down more firmly into the basin, before using the Quirk to keep Izuku still. “You seem quite desperate to make some sort of progress today. Any particular reason for that?”  

The answer was a contradictory matter: there was a reason, in the same way there wasn’t one at all. A realization had struck him as he lay awake, waiting for the illusive mercy of sleep, that Izuku had no milestones to measure the length of his imprisonment. Izuku did not know when the last time he saw the sun or the stars was. He had no way to count the days, no concept of time—All for One made certain of that; the limited light in his cell never changed, and when his pacing and plotting became tiring Izuku tried to sleep with little way to distinguish between a minute and an hour. He had no clue how much time had passed between his imprisonment in Tartarus and the first day he woke up here—all he had was the memory of passing out in heavy chains in his tiny cell and waking up to the echoing chill of metal walls and the warm hand of a familiar-stranger Izuku never wanted to speak to again.  

All he had were those questions that he gathered and guesswork swirling inside him and melding into a desperate voice that slithered through him. Pick up the pace, his heart had hammered. Every minute here is a minute too long, every minute spent is another you fail to save somebody else, his toes restlessly curled tighter. You’re not supposed to be this useless again, get out, get out, get out, and his guts would spill out between his fidgeting hands, as he uselessly stared at walls for hours and hours as if waiting for sleep or death or salvation despite knowing he was the only one able to fight for it.   

Inaction built up every word, until the rambunctiousness of that inner voice had driven him to do something, anything, to get them one step closer to freedom, to find quiet in the adrenaline that guided him down labyrinthe halls, eager to find something more than fragmented hope. 

And instead he failed again. 

Now that voice was knocking, and despite the many ways All for One had to make Izuku’s body another prison, he could never capture his mind and silence a voice not even Izuku could quell. 

“No,” Izuku replied, and it couldn’t even be considered a lie.

“Nothing at all?” All for One hummed.  “There’s no shame in saying you simply miss your parents.”

“I only have a mother worth missing,” Izuku snapped before he could think. 

The hands in Izuku’s hair froze. Nails dug into his scalp, and a thick glob of horror swelled in his throat. 

He knew this would happen, had known coming into this room was a minefield ready to burst, and yet he walked right onto it anyway. There would be no simple, straight-forward punishment for this, Izuku knew that, too. 

“Oh? Then what about your father, Izuku? What am I worth to you?” 

Panicked eyes stared up at All for One, who stared down at him with a predatory smile and chilling gaze. It made Izuku aware of just how close they were—that if Izuku were anyone else, the hands on his head may have already pierced through his skull, uncaring for the mess that’d be left behind. 

Just as Izuku was desperate for escape from him, so too was All for One desperate for the affection of those he called his. The cost to them did not matter, not if it meant getting what he wanted, and denying him even the illusion of it invited the threat to return and rip away something more to get what he desired.

There had been one time before when Izuku had said something that caused All for One to snap like this. What exactly he had said was an answer left behind somewhere between heavy doses of drugs and darkness, but he knew it was something about All for One not being his father—something that opposed the illusion, and Izuku learned the best tactic was simply avoiding such topics altogether. 

And yet, here he was, implying this man had more value by not being around at all. A perfect contradiction to All for One’s disturbed fantasy.

What did he do here? Did he try to backtrack and appeal to All for One? 

No. He couldn’t—not even if he wanted to. Lies had never been his strong suit, but his honesty was still a fine line to balance. He was already due for an extension of the usual punishment, but now that he was in this more dangerous territory, he knew he could inadvertently drag his mother down with him if he didn’t take even a second to think. 

He didn’t mind digging the hole for himself just a little deeper if it meant making sure his mother stayed out of it.  

“I—mom might disagree, but I wish you never came back.”

Other words boiled in his stomach, words better left in the past Izuku could not completely bury, damning ones he vowed to never say, ones he hated himself for even thinking as he had searched his mind for excuses: I regret having missed you—loving you, thinking you were someone I wanted around. 

“How harsh, Izuku. To think you’d say such a thing after all I’ve done for you.”

“What you’ve done for me?” Izuku snarled. Snapshots of memories flashed across his vision: eager Quirk dissections on the couch after a long day and a mocking voice gleefully recounting a massacre, a warm meal for three with bites taken between chatter and laughter and desecrated cities beyond what they eye could see, birthday wishes that reminded him he wasn’t alone and isolated time lost in cold metal prisons, bedtime stories detailing dragons and sorcerers and suffocating visions of the death featuring people he loved. None of that had ever been for Izuku, no matter how often All for One said it was, no matter what Izuku once believed it to have been. All those resurfaced hurts and sickening thoughts festered within him. “You’ve done nothing, I wish you were a deadbeat—it’d be better if you were dead—”

Izuku’s jaw clamped shut without his permission. The dangerous expression on All for One’s face didn’t twitch, even though Izuku’s forced silence was a response enough that Izuku had not only crossed a line, but barreled far past the cliff’s edge. Without a word he shut the water off and lifted the back of Izuku’s chair back into a sitting position, and Izuku didn’t even have a second to orient himself before he was spun around so that he was face to face with All for One. He took Izuku’s face in his hands, cradled his cheeks and drew his gaze up to meet his. 

“What an unheroic sentiment from you, Izuku.” A chill ran through Izuku, hair standing on end, in response to such a cold voice. A drop of water trickled down his nose and crawled to his chin. “I’d almost be proud, but we don’t wish for death for our family, even in anger. Do you understand me?”

He felt a weight lift off his tongue, though it didn’t feel like less of one, considering it simply sank past his pounding heart and into his stomach instead. “Yes.”

“What was that? I can’t hear you, Izuku.” 

“Yes,” he said louder. Yet All for One’s expression did not shift, and Izuku knew at that moment he was expecting something more: appeasement. Izuku had seen All for One like this once before, only days after Izuku woke up here; once was enough to know it wasn’t worth ignoring again—he’d almost lost his chance for any opening to escape at all. He knew he wouldn’t be so lucky a second time. He was too close to teetering back into the very same darkness he was trying to avoid. One more wrong word, and he knew he’d never see light again.

A shaky inhale, a trembling heart—how useless of it to waver only now. How pathetic it was that he had to grovel at all, to cave into demands he had been clawing against not even a minute before. A hurried exhale—again, again—not fast enough as thumbs rubbed into bone. A desperate gulp—it was all simply another heavy stone to swallow. 

“Yes, dad. I’m sorry.”

How quiet those words were, syllables ashes on his tongue. The inflection probably didn’t matter—in the end, it was just another victory for All for One. Words had power, and for all the defiance Izuku could spout, if he was forced to kneel long enough to keep himself afloat, All for One would consider it another step closer to the obedient puppet All for One wanted him to be.

The strings dictating Izuku’s life were not all his to control anymore—one by one All for One plucked at the cords that created Izuku’s core, and as much as they vibrated with resistance, one day, Izuku suspected, All for One would be fed up because, as much as he tried, Izuku would never be what All for One so wished him to be. 

Izuku could not be here when that patience snapped. He’d already poked at the edges of it, and he was scared to find out what would happen to Izuku and his mother when he couldn’t bounce back. Yet, there was no telling how long All for One’s patience would last—while All for One was ancient, even he could not be forever patient, not when Izuku’s lifespan was far more limited than his. 

“Very good, Izuku.” The worst of the menacing aura faded, but Izuku knew it still lingered. He’d be walking on a thin tightrope until he was alone in his cell. “Thank you for your apology. You’re forgiven.”

For now went unspoken.

As if a final act of reconciliation, rather than the prize All for One saw it as, All for One held him like he was a pet owner comforting a sodden dog, petting his hair and holding him close. Izuku felt tears rise to his eyes, but these were not tears of relief. 

They were tears for all the things Izuku could never say, for all the pieces of himself he had to neglect to make sure they had a chance at getting out of here, for all of his failures and the mistakes he couldn’t name.

All for One would claim them as his, though. Tears for the regret of harsh words, for an imagined, repeating, grief if he were to leave Izuku again—even if both of them knew that was not the truth. 

They would both dream. All for One dreaming for it to one day be true, Izuku dreaming for the day he and his mother got the freedom they longed for. And in those dreams they lived, clashing and coexisting, determined to achieve their reality, utilizing every tool to reach their goals, and snuffing the other’s out until there was nothing of it left. 

Fingers threaded through his hair, and after minutes too long, All for One let him go. A wistful sigh. “Well, we do need to resume your haircut. I’d rather it doesn’t dry first—unless you have any objections?”

Another test. Izuku’s eyes flickered down to his lap. “...no.”

A doubtful hum.

“I need a haircut,” Izuku murmured. 

“That’s right, my little prince, you do.” In the corner of his eyes Izuku watched All for One pick up the scissors. Something twisted in his stomach—the scissors were less dangerous than All for One’s hands on him, and yet, the sight of something that could so easily be turned into a weapon left him even more unsettled. He wondered if it was because, once, he had been comforted by All for One’s physical affections, or if it was because he’d grown so used to them again; he hated the part of himself that wondered those things—it was the same part of him that didn’t offer another possibility that was kinder to his heart. “I’ll take care of you.”

A sharper twist. Izuku swallowed his tongue, and even though he was restrained but not paralyzed, he didn’t move an inch.

All for One’s movements were slow and thoughtful, but that didn’t keep him from chatting between each snip. 

A question about Izuku’s thoughts on a Quirk theory. Snip. Asking how Izuku enjoyed the book All for One had been reading to him. Snip, snip.  A harsh, off-handed reference to a hero Izuku admired—nails digging into palm and a clenched jaw. Snip. A quiz on the applications of a gravity Quirk that didn’t feel as theoretical as All for One tried to make it sound; tears bubbling within lowered eyes—a shaky breath as Izuku gave a careful answer. Snip.

Izuku felt a bundle of strands fall onto the back of his palm. Snip. They shook in time with every snip. Snip, snip, snip. His hair was pulled back and his skull jostled with it—the lost hair fell off of his hand and drifted onto the floor, featherlight and free. Snip. A hand on his cheek, the turn of his head. Snip. Up, down, pulled around gently like a little doll. Snip. Snip. 

Hot whirling air in his ear, something running through his hair. A chill as it dissipated. The room seemed to grow colder and colder as All for One kept swiping at his hair. Snip. The circling of a vulture around Izuku as if he were a corpse ripe for the picking. A passing thought spoken aloud Izuku had no response for. Something metallic set down.  

Hands on his cheeks and the edge of breath—they were so warm, but Izuku longed for the cold again. 

“Oh, you look so cute Izuku.” A kiss to his forehead and the ruffling of his hair. All for One moved to stand behind Izuku, one hand curled over his shoulder and the other under his chin nudged his gaze back up. “And so much like your father.” 

Izuku barely recognized himself in that mirror.

His hair was short, just a bit shorter than Izuku had ever let it get. It had always been a deliberate choice to never let it get cut to this length. Even as a child, this short curly hair had reminded him of his father. It may not have been as nightmarish when he was small, but now that Izuku knew more, having the similarities between them so starkly presented made him sick.

He could see the hint of his sharpening jaw, the shape of his eyebrows, the curve of his ear—similarities Izuku could hide when his hair was just a little longer. Before his imprisonment, he’d been considering letting it grow out even more, as if his thick hair could bury his secrets. Now even that choice was ripped away from him, and Izuku was forced to confront the things he never wanted to face.

Ignorance was not an option, not when All for One wanted to engrave this truth into Izuku’s very soul.

“Your father did a great job, didn’t he, Izuku?” 

A prompt, and Izuku knew he couldn’t risk ignoring it. Not after earlier. Bile soured his throat. “Yeah. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, Izuku.” All for One pat his cheek. Through the reflection Izuku could feel All for One’s unrelenting stare. What All for One saw at that moment, Izuku didn’t know—he didn’t want to know. Whatever delusion All for One saw fulfilled in this moment was one Izuku never wanted to understand. “You’ve had quite the eventful excursion today—it’s time we get you back to your room.”

All for One spun the chair around to face him and then reached for the first of the latches. Izuku remained still as they came undone, one by one. Twitched as the last one came undone, and froze again as he saw All for One’s expression: taunting, expectant—ready to make Izuku’s existence more miserable, even if that’s the last thing All for One would call it. 

Izuku remained seated. 

A hand ruffled his hair, and Izuku flinched at the touch. A light twitch of the lip, but All for One made no comment about it. 

Careful inhale—shaky, quiet, exhale. Izuku’s hands curled into tight fists. How pathetic it felt to be compliant, how much his heart raged and his mind screeched louder the echoes of every error that got him here, but even more clear was the one voice reminding him that if he didn’t leave himself the possibility of opportunity, there would be no chance he would save his mother, let alone himself. He had to get her out of here, no matter what. 

Izuku moved, slowly, eyes on All for One, whose face betrayed nothing, to get out of the chair. Every movement felt like a test, even as Izuku simply stood up before All for One. Not running. Now wasn’t the time to go, even if he wished it was. Even if Izuku wasn’t monitoring his every twitch with such intensity, he would know now would be a poor time to run, even if earlier he would have tried to catch All for One off guard anyway.

Once it was clear Izuku wasn’t running, All for One’s smile grew and he ruffled his hair. Some demented reward—a pat on the back for All for One, a signifier of victory that Izuku had been forced to hand over. Then did nothing else; expectant, again, and this time, Izuku had no guesses as to what.

Izuku shifted on his feet, warily eyeing the space between All for One and the door. There’s no way All for One would let him walk back unsupervised, especially not after the conversation earlier. A step out of line, and Izuku could imagine the dark encroaching on him, the heavy restraints—cold stillness and warm adjustments—the sharp pain in his elbow keeping him half-lucid, and his mother’s crying voice—whatever this was now was the true tipping point.

Don’t mess up. Run. You’ve taken too many risks today—no, not enough. Ignore your instincts. They’re the only thing keeping you both alive and safe. They’ve ruined this attempt. Move, freeze, figure it out, figure it out. 

“Um…” Izuku hated speaking first. Not only was initiating the conversation the last thing Izuku ever wanted to do, but it was inherently a risk. All for One waited for the day Izuku spoke to him of his own free will of mundane things, but when that day was nowhere in Izuku’s foreseen future, it meant more conversational minefields to maneuver than normal. “Was there, uh… something else…?”

The only response was All for One’s poker face—still smiling, not telling if Izuku tipped towards total damnation or his ability to fight another day. 

Izuku hated it, but he hoped he had the right card to play to get the clue he was missing.

“Um… Dad..?” His voice cracked.

“Sorry Izuku, I was simply lost in thought,” he said with absolutely no sincerity, but his tone didn’t sound as menacing as before—Izuku didn’t breathe easy, but he didn’t feel like he was about to be thrown off a cliff. “You’re quite eager to get going, aren’t you?”

“Um…” Sounding eager translated to wanting to get away from All for One, which while undeniably true, was always the wrong thing to say. His brain scrambled for some reasonable excuse. “I… I’m just… tired. Sorry.”

Something flashed behind All for One’s eyes, but before Izuku could decipher its meaning, it was gone.

“Oh why didn’t you say so?” Like it was an invitation, All for One swept Izuku off his feet again. His arm was already out to strike out when he froze, the answer hitting him far later than it should’ve. 

Because of course this was what All for One was after—no matter what Izuku tried, he never let Izuku walk between rooms without restraints that kept him from running, and especially not after any escape attempt. Today, the restraint was All for One himself. He probably only let Izuku get away without directly asking All for One because Izuku called him dad without prompting.

Izuku did not want to decide if asking All for One to carry him or calling him dad was the worse choice of the two. 

With robotic stiffness Izuku lowered his arm, and All for One chuckled. “You seem surprised.”

“It—it was just sudden…” Izuku stared at his twined hands. 

“Hmm. You certainly seem more tired—you’re quieter than usual.” Was that an admonishment or not? Izuku couldn’t tell. He raised his shoulders in a short-lived shrug. All for One adjusted his grip to make Izuku lean closer to him. “We should get you to bed.”

An underlying implication—no meal first. 

It was a minor punishment; it had been an internal debate in the earliest days, to eat the food provided to him or not. It was better than the prison gruel he’d been living off before—sometimes it was even recognizable as his mother’s own cooking, which was something that he couldn’t bring himself to reject regardless of the circumstances—but accepting any of it still felt like some sort of concession, especially when each meal was a roulette wheel of if he’d be taking another dose of drugs Izuku could not name. 

In the end, Izuku knew if he wanted to get the two of them out of here, he needed to build up the strength he lost while in Tartarus, even if the efforts felt futile, and he was, at best, kept at a too-weak baseline. 

It also meant this would likely get back to his mother, and he knew she hated seeing him hurt himself in that way. It hurt her emotionally, and made Izuku feel guilty when he hadn’t before—a small, but effective punishment. He could feel that guilt settling in his stomach now, his mother’s face on the forefront of his mind.

“Okay,” he murmured, even quieter, trying to sound more tired than he felt. 

Maybe this was the best outcome of the day’s events. While he made far too many mistakes today, it seemed  All for One might be leaving him alone sooner than he would’ve had Izuku not made such a massive blunder. 

All for One still filled the silence as they made their way back. Izuku was careful with his responses, slower—easily explained with the cover he’d given himself earlier. It didn't take long before the door to his cell opened again, and he was once again back at where he started.  

All for One set him on the bed in the corner of the room, and took his time to tuck Izuku in like he was a toddler again. He fidgeted with each movement, but didn’t outright stop it, even as All for One ruffled his hair and Izuku felt the back of his head sink further into his pillow. 

“Um… night..?” 

“Sleep well,” All for One said, giving no hint to what the actual time was.

Izuku closed his eyes, and listened for the sound of All for One leaving.

And waited.

And waited.

He wasn’t leaving, was he?

Izuku tried to keep his breathing even. He knew All for One had seen him asleep, but he’s not going to open his eyes to check if All for One is watching him fall asleep—or just watching him in general. That unsettling feeling creeping over Izuku’s skin was enough of an answer, even if in another scenario someone may have brushed it off as paranoia. 

This wasn’t exactly unusual. He would never get used to the staring; it was uncomfortable as it was normal. 

Worse, he knew All for One knew his status because of Search. Even when he tried to fake it, he’d know if Izuku was really asleep or awake—not like being in either state would change the situation. It truly didn’t matter to All for One, and that may have been the worst part of it all; it never mattered what Izuku did, his existence alone was enough for All for One’s attention to be on Izuku. 

This may have been another punishment in of itself. Izuku would have gotten back up a few minutes after All for One left and started pacing—there were too many pent up feelings inside him to sleep. When he was moving it was easier to focus on what he needed to do next; trying to sleep made it too easy to spiral into the past. 

It was no surprise he didn’t sleep often.

Only when Izuku’s thoughts became so incoherent that they stumbled over themselves did Izuku find himself passing out for unknowable lengths of time. If none of the words inside of him could be understood, there would be no regrets to linger on while he rested. 

All for One staring at him, combined with the restlessness simmering inside of him, meant there was no way Izuku would stop thinking, let alone sleep.

Could he think himself into unconsciousness? Plan and review ideas for future escape attempts with All for One sitting so close to him? Could those ideas get so loud they’d drown out all else—would they consume him if he let them ring loud enough? 

Something ran through his hair and Izuku nearly jumped out of his skin. “Trouble sleeping? Would it help if I sang a lullaby?”

Izuku kept his eyes closed if only so he didn’t glare at All for One. “...if you want.”

The fingers in his hair toyed with his curls as All for One began to sing something low and familiar—something from a collection of vague memories, so distant it was easy to forget. Nightmares hadn’t been strangers, even as a child. From his youth they had clung onto him, never letting go, growing from tigers to monsters with every year that had passed. 

And in those moments, when his weakness was made transparent in the dark, it was not always his mother he ran to.

He remembered a hand in his hair like this, shaking as his fingers sunk into fabric desperate for an anchor. As tightly as he held on, so too was he held, shielded from all other eyes, as Izuku would find comfort in a heartbeat and that low voice that always sang this same rhythm. He’d been so small back then, so small and unknowing, so easy to carry back to his room—”you need to let go of me now, sweetie,” his mother squeezed him as she set him back on the floor. 

He looked up at her, clutching the bottom of her skirt. “But I don’t wanna.”

She laughed, and with such a gentle smile, she spoke, “I think you’ll like what’s out there.”

Izuku glanced toward the door in the distance, soft sunlight peeking beneath the gap in the bottom. The light looked nice, but he couldn’t help but glance back up at his mother. “But what about you?”

“What about me?” 

“I don’t wanna leave mama alone.”

“You won’t be.” She crouched down to meet his eyes. “Because I know you’ll come back after you have some fun, and then the two of us will be together again.” 

Something tugged at his soul, and he looked back towards the door. His tiny fingers began to unfurl, but didn’t let her go. “You won’t be lonely?”

“No.” She smiled. Slowly, he let her go. “Have a good day, Izuku.”

He grabbed the handle, cold beneath his scarred hand. Yet he couldn’t help but look back, find a reason to stay a moment longer, extend this conversation before he was forced to leave her again. “Do I look okay mom?”

His mother shuffled closer, muttering something under her breath as she fixed his tie. “You look great, my little hero. Now get going, or you’ll be late.” 

“Okay, I’m going, I’m going. I’ll come back.” It felt like such a heavy promise, even though he wasn’t going far. 

“I know.” 

He opened the door and stepped into his classroom. Immediately, a group of heads gathered in the far back corner lifted up and met his eyes.

“Deku!” Uraraka waves.

“Midoriya-kun! Please be mindful of the time! You were almost late!” 

“There’s seven minutes before class starts.” 

“That’s two minutes before the five minute bell! Students should arrive at least 30 minutes early—”

“Isn’t that a little overkill prez?” 

Iida launched into a lecture about the merits of arriving early, and while Izuku let the lecture fade into the background, thinking about how much Iida cared about all of them soothed him. He went around the classroom greeting his classmates: smiles and laughter and previous days discussed—Kacchan’s words gruff and dismissive even as he leaned towards the closest conversation to listen, Todoroki’s quiet recollection of his most recent visit to his mother, Uraraka cheerfully recounting a few great sales she and Tsuyu stumbled upon as they wandered the mall the day before, Jirou recommending music to Kaminari and Yaoyorozu leading into a discussion on synesthesia, the updated score for Kirishima and Ojiro’s recent set of arm wrestling matches, another match demanded with Ashido and Hagakure cheering them both on, Satou passing out treats, each uniquely decorated and getting thoughtful compliments and gushing excitement and gratitude from the rest of his classmates.

“I missed this,” the words slipped out of Izuku’s mouth.

“Missed what?” 

“I… I don’t know.” Izuku shook his head. He set a hand above his chest—for such a lovely moment, his heart seemed so still. His fingertips felt so cold, yet his chest, unbeating as it was, felt so warm. Tears slipped out from his eyes, and he brushed it aside, watching it dry on his flesh as if it could give him an answer for why peacefulness felt so foreign. “But… but, I’m here now, so—” 

A startled gasp, a tight tug on his scalp—Izuku scrambled to sit up but his limbs locked in place, his body manipulated by hands that weren’t his. 

His pillow was gone. Instead, his head rested on All for One’s lap, and now he stared up at him, utterly frozen beneath that cold anger that had no origin Izuku could name. 

Yet, as quickly as that anger had appeared, it was gone, and All for One stroked the top of his head as if to heal the lingering aches. “It’s good to see you awake, Izuku.”

He slept? No, of course he had—pieces of the dreams still lingered, even if the gentleness that had tried to hold him was quickly fading into a longing ache paired with a quiet apprehension. But if he had been asleep, what had bothered All for One so much to wake Izuku up so violently?

“While you were asleep, I spent some time contemplating your punishment.” Of course everything before now hadn’t been enough—his teeth clenched, trying to figure out what could be coming, even if the alarm in the back of his mind already told him, if it was coming so suddenly like this, it wasn’t meant to be guessed. “Your sudden bout of tiredness gave me an epiphany, and so I decided that this time, I’d choose your punishment based on a gamble.” 

“A gamble?” Izuku echoed. What sort of gamble would All for One make while he was asleep?

All for One’s hand cradled his cheek, his thumb tracing the dark eyebags beneath Izuku’s lids. “Truthfully, I never liked watching you sleep, Izuku. My time with you was already limited, and even more was taken from me whenever you needed to rest. I had a choice to make when you were younger: did I let you keep a regular sleep cycle, and risk you running away from me as you grew older, or did I trap you within your delusions but knowing you’d physically always be close by? I made my choice, and we’re here now as a consequence of that.” 

Izuku shuddered—had he really been that close to being imprisoned in his own mind as a child? 

Then, a worse thought: there was a reason this was coming up now, and an unsettled dread crept through his veins. 

“But now I realize—neither of those had been the right answer at all. And so, that brings us to my gamble. I wondered how much your dreams changed, my little prince, and so, I decided to find out. Lullaby, Deepened Sleep, Dream Toggler, Gentle Dream, Dream Reader—all of those Quirks to test your subconscious. If they showed something I liked, then I’d keep things as they were before, and pick a different punishment.”

A gamble Izuku was always destined to lose, then. All for One would be the delusional one between the two of them if he had truly expected any other outcome—but maybe, the more likely truth was that All for One knew the outcome of his self-made bet from the start. If he hated his previous decision in hindsight, and found a better solution during the perfect time to implement it, there was no way All for One would pick any other alternative.

Even more violating was the fact that the kindest dream he’s had since he’d arrived was no longer only his to remember. 

Maybe Izuku should be more surprised that his dreams were intruded upon. Yet, with All for One’s obsessive need for control, it was surprising it had taken this long—already, his body was not always his own to move, and sometimes words he never wanted to say were ripped from his throat. So how long would Izuku’s mind be his sole solace from that control? How long did he have before even his every thought was overheard? 

“You’re familiar with the gift I gave your uncle, and I’ve decided I’m going to give you a similar one.”

“A Quirk?” Izuku couldn’t hide the horror in his voice—it was both an inexplicable worst case scenario and one that didn’t make any sense. “You—you can’t get that back, not without—”

Not without taking One for All. 

“I won’t need it until you’re ready, Izuku. Until then, I’d rather you hold onto it—it’s called Sleepless. Its purpose is rather simple: you don’t have to sleep anymore, Izuku—you won’t be able to even when you want to.’

That… that didn’t sound like the worst thing. He may not be able to escape his own thoughts, but more time awake meant more time planning to escape and getting out of here. He had to be missing something—there’s no way it could be that simple. 

“The best part of that Quirk is that, despite the purpose of that Quirk, it doesn’t grant any immunity to sleeping Quirks. You’ll still be able to sleep when I need you to, Izuku.” All for One tapped the skin next to Izuku’s eyeballs. “Maybe with this those eyebags of yours will finally clear up.”

Izuku’s eyebrows furrowed. “When…  when you need me to?”

“That’s right. Unlike before, I can spend all your waking hours with you, and when I have to go away, you can finally sleep. You won’t be able to use that convenient excuse to get out of spending time with your father. We can be together for as long as we want—isn’t that great, Izuku?”

Izuku stared up at him, wide-eyed with horror and rage. Every muscle in his body yelled with desperate need to fight, to resist; his skeleton desperate to rip away from his flesh and bring Izuku’s mutilated body somewhere out of All for One’s reach. But he couldn’t even shake his head, couldn’t even snarl every word trapped within his clogged throat. That demented, gleeful smile peered down at him, fully aware of the turmoil in Izuku’s gut, but eager to achieve an unexpected checkmate. 

Every waking moment spent with All for One, trapped in stasis when he wasn’t. Every expectation of Izuku’s imprisonment had just been turned on its head. Up until now every plot, every attempt, had been made when All for One’s eyes were drawn away from him. Maneuvering around All for One’s moods on a semi-regular basis was difficult, but if he had to spend all his time doing that?

When would he have the time to figure something out? How could he sneak away when All for One would watch his every move more closely than before? 

Izuku hadn’t thought there was a worse punishment than being half-aware in the dark—didn't think this situation could get any worse at all.

All for One’s hand fell over his face, could see the streaks of red light as something shoved its way through Izuku’s flesh, only had one thought as the sickly taste of Sleepless crammed itself into his skull, and its influence spread its roots beneath his eyes.  

He was wrong. 

[astersatdawn]

Human Trait or Learned Behavior

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Sensei | All for One

Rating: G

Sensei | All for One is Midoriya Hisashi, and he keeping the poor boy in a vault

Oneshot | 576 words

Flashes of memories come to mind: locked janitor closets and spider lily decorations and starburst scars. He remembers vandalized desks and notebooks and thinks of deliberately chosen ignorance. 

“But that’s not what I chose to find.” Izuku captures a piece with a rook. 

“Then what do you see, Izuku?” He laughs, curiosity and derision mixed in something that Izuku thought was warm, once.

-

[Or, Izuku and his captor talk during a game of chess.]

ao3 link: here

“You’re naive.”

“And you’re cynical.” Izuku moves his knight. It’s not like he has much better to do right now, besides keeping his budding plans for his next escape attempt quiet. 

“I have over a century’s worth of experiences, Izuku.” The white bishop captures one of Izuku’s pawns. “I have seen the savagery humanity tries to hide—though I suppose it’s no longer a well kept secret.”

“Yet you only see what you interact with, and what you’ve chosen to create.” He moves a pawn one space forward. “Of course you’re only going to see the worst when you only seek that out.”

“I know you’ve seen it too. You may have One for All now, but you were Quirkless before.”

Flashes of memories come to mind: locked janitor closets and spider lily decorations and starburst scars. He remembers vandalized desks and notebooks and thinks of deliberately chosen ignorance. 

“But that’s not what I chose to find.” Izuku captures a piece with a rook. 

“Then what do you see, Izuku?” He laughs, curiosity and derision mixed in something that Izuku thought was warm, once.

And the memories Izuku digs up are fewer in number, but crystal clear in their beauty. He thinks of simple things: a boy getting a cat out of a tree, of an elder beginning to explain the unknown to a curious youth, of a young couple dropping their too many groceries and helped by a small group of teens. 

He remembers these moments with bright summer lights and through cold autumn rains. He remembers a neighbor with a premonition Quirk warning about winter snows and helping craft a garden with dirt-painted hands come spring. 

And closest to his heart, he thinks of quiet nights in the dorms, steaming mugs and comforting whispers in the dark. He thinks of comparing notes, lighthearted banter traded between correct answers and secret smiles as a teacher watches on without admonishment. He remembers a mother’s embrace when he sobbed his heart out, and even now he thinks of the bittersweet hair ruffles from father to son when pride had swelled in Izuku’s chest and it was something to be shared, not stolen or diminished. 

“Kindness,” he says after a long silence. 

His opponent makes the move Izuku had been hoping he’d make, and Izuku fights back the tiny smile that comes with that same little bit of pride—a simple childhood dream finally in reach after years of learning and growth and persevering. Maybe this shouldn’t be the moment for such an expression, for such a feeling, but it’s a memory Izuku will still tuck into that box of those bittersweet moments that will never quite glisten again. 

“Hope.” He moves his rook to the other end of the field. “And checkmate.”

The expression on his father’s face is bewilderment he will actively treasure when Izuku goes back to quietly plotting in his isolated cell. It will give him hope that he can find his way out—if little Izuku’s dream of finally beating his father at chess could come to fruition, then who’s to say Izuku can’t escape his father’s possessiveness too? 

His father laughs, and his expression changes again. It’s not mockery, or sadism, or a manipulative grin, but one he recognizes from moments of pride shared. It is human nature, it is goodness on the face of evil incarnate. It’s familiar, even if the ache that settles in Izuku’s chest is not.

“Checkmate indeed.” 

[astersatdawn]

Landmarks of Promise

Relationship: Midoriya Izuku/Todoroki Shouto (Tododeku)

Rating: T

Hurt/Comfort, Scars, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Established Relationship

Oneshot | 1.1k words

Shouto rubbed the fading scar tissue beneath his thumb. It’s simple skin now, years of healing leaving an almost non-existent white line. Time heals all wounds they say, but Shouto wondered if this little scratch would forever be a tiny road bump. 

-

[Or, over the years, Shouto learned about Izuku’s scars.] 

ao3 link: here

Shouto had seen all of Izuku’s scars, but he wasn’t familiar with most of them.

He’s familiar with the criss-crosses coating Izuku’s hands like a mangled glove—Shouto couldn’t forget. He will always remember how Izuku looked at him, teeth grit and eyes wild as he yelled in that moment, his hands bruising purple for each broken bone he’d given himself to make a point, and Shouto remembered the view clearly even if the vision in his right eye was hazy with scar and flame. 

He suspected he’s familiar with one of the slashes on his body, though Shouto wouldn’t be able to tell which one. Izuku never told him if their fight with Stain had given him any scars, so maybe Shouto was creating a destination on Izuku’s skin that did not exist, not in the same way he witnessed how his hands twisted under the weight of saving Shouto.  

The rest, though, began as strangers. He learned the textures of some of them: smooth parallel lines and waxy burns of differing depths but all the same starry shape. There was a history behind each scar, another story Shouto didn’t know, even as he traced the lichtenberg scar on Izuku’s stomach or kissed the ridges on his wrist. 

Izuku would tell him about them, sometimes. It started slow and simple. 

”I was being kinda careless,” Izuku said with a wistful smile. “I was at home, playing heroes with my mom. I stood on the back of the couch, thinking I’d be okay, and my mom, well, she didn’t even have the time to scold me before I fell off. There was a box there… I don’t remember why—I think it was a package or something? But I hit it and it somehow… did that.” 

He glanced towards his feet which were on Shouto’s lap. Shouto rubbed the fading scar tissue beneath his thumb. It’s simple skin now, years of healing leaving an almost non-existent white line. Time heals all wounds they say, but Shouto wondered if this little scratch would forever be a tiny road bump. 

Others were tinged with hints of stories he’d originally heard second-hand; raids and internships and battles Izuku was willing to further divulge upon his return from the hospital. In those initial explanations he’d talk about the adrenaline of the moment, blows recounted in that fast-pace manner not quite distant from the heat of battle itself. 

It was only in the months after, once day had quieted into night, curtains drawn shut to keep out snooping stars, legs tangled and covers drawn to their chins to muffle their secrets, that Izuku would tell Shouto about them in another way, of the emotions so easy to bury for someone else’s sake, a personal moment rather than one meant for flashing cameras and dazzling spotlights. 

“I was scared I wasn’t going to make it after getting that one,” Izuku admitted one of those nights as Shouto traced thick zig zags from Izuku’s collarbone to his waist. 

Those words were said more often between the two of them than Shouto would like, for braving the fear of death was the unspoken truth of their chosen occupation, and an undeniable emotion to pair with each battle scar. But that fear never diminished the pride that came after as Izuku, with a soft smile, spoke of a memory of another person saved. As much as fear lingered, the scars were equally badges of honor neither of them would give up. 

Most of Izuku’s scars were from battle. Few were from training accidents, and even fewer were from childhood games gone wrong. Yet it didn’t mean much, not when Izuku always had more scars than anyone else their age, from their teenage years to long after they outgrew the dorms. 

The collection obtained during their years at UA hid the ones lying beneath, the ones strategically placed on Izuku’s flesh. “I did these,” he had whispered with lingering shame. Shouto had simply cradled his elbow and kissed the healed razor’s edge. 

There was another set that Izuku didn’t divulge for the longest time, even long after the confessions of self-harm. The distant constellations on his skin—his shoulder, stomach, back, and calf—were the stories Izuku refused to tell, even long after Shouto knew how those scars had to come about, considering a training accident led to Shouto earning a freshly branded star for himself.

For a while, he wasn’t sure what his silence meant. Maybe it was Izuku’s way of letting Bakugou keep his place, from being incriminated by his past. Or that, somehow, keeping the past unspoken was meant as a sign of forgiveness, or maybe even as a symbol of a quiet grudge Izuku kept locked away from all, including himself. 

But eventually, he did tell, on a night they laid side by side after nightmares latched onto every good thing they’ve ever held, reminding them of the wounds they carried between them.

“When he gave me that one he told me to jump off a roof and pray I’ll get a quirk in the next life.” 

Shouto set his head on Izuku’s shoulder as if it’s the place he could hear a pulse. Yet, it was too far away for that, so Shouto buried his face into Izuku’s neck and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Sometimes it feels like that’s what happened that day—to get here, I mean. I’m still afraid one day I’ll open my eyes and realize I jumped off the roof All Might left me on, dreaming of the life I would never get to live before losing the one I had.” 

“You’re here.” Lips brushed against sensitive skin, and Izuku shivered in his hands. Shouto squeezed his waist, and drew Izuku closer. Izuku buried himself deeper into Shouto as he clung onto the weight of the present. “I won’t let you go.”

The fabric of his shirt was tugged down further, knuckles dug into the edge of Shouto’s spine. “But if I wake up there and—”

“I’ll catch you. I’ll find you, whatever it takes. You’ll live.” In the past, today, tomorrow, every day after—when doesn’t matter as long as it’s forever. “I promise.” 

Shouto’s hand drifted up and traced the roads crawling up Izuku’s back, following his map out of order. Each gentle touch was a draw to a memory, each one painful, but real and unforgettable. They’re landmarks for Shouto’s travels to stay by Izuku’s side, even if it meant their time must go out of order for Shouto to meet Izuku there. 

These were the moments Shouto would never know the true depths of, wounds of both soul and bone meant to be carried by one. But he would memorize each for these were the symbols of Izuku’s journey. Wherever the beginning and ending was meant to be, Shouto would find his way there, for that was his vow to keep. 

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 12: Quarry

If Robin had known he would be chasing his quarry with a pickaxe instead of his knives, he might have second-guessed his decision to take this mission.

It was supposed to be simple: some codebreakers thought they’d escape their fates by fleeing to Ul’dah, pretending to be refugees—in a sense, they were, now—but the shadows of their pasts still sought them out, long since on the hunt. The only reason they had even gotten so far was because of a series of unfortunate events that Robin will swear to the day he dies never happened as the others will tell it. 

He will also make sure to tell the rest of the tale very differently, if they even convince him that he even should speak a word more of it. 

The current situation was this: Robin, in bright yellow overalls, carries a satchel full of rocks and ore he will gladly throw in the miner’s guild direction, following two of the other newest recruits to the miner’s guild as they made their way through the deserts of Ul’dah, seeking for an impossible speck of gold in sand, as subtle as a man whose clothing choices scream “look at me I am a bright ball of sunshine, loudly existing”

It works. If pressed, it’s Robin’s experience that makes it work. In actuality, Robin is 50 percent certain it is because the two remaining suspected codebreakers can’t hold their liquor.

The newest recruits of the miner’s guild, everyone.

Even if these two weren’t his target—Robin is absolutely certain they are, and is only even bothering with half-secret cat and mouse game is because he knows there’s one more shipment they’re hoping to sell as soon as they think the coast is clear, but, considering the fireworks display that Robin absolutely did not start, they didn’t quite get the information as quickly as they had hoped—he is reporting these two to the guildmaster, after all this. 

These two buffoons, drunk as they were, probably wouldn’t even recognize gold right now. The roedygon might even one day look at the smaller hyur’s blonde head and think that’s something to use his pickaxe on, and Robin is not eager to witness that kind of bloodbath. 

Or even notice Robin, in these stupid, damn overalls, and whack him without even knowing Robin has actually been following them for the past half hour. Yes, he’s trying to be incognito, but the pair of work clothes provided by the guild were anything but. 

“How long, hic, do we do ‘dis.” The hyur stumbled, catching himself on the cliff wall. 

“Jus’ a few more,” the roedygan replied, taking their pickaxe and swinging at the wall with what Robin, amateur as he was, knew wasn’t proper form. It skidded down the side of the wall, clumsily swinging towards his companion, but missing by a few inches. 

It was enough to make the hyur giggle. “Oh, dats cool… few more days… then we’ll get richer!”

Drunk people were, pathetically, useful sources of information. Robin had to hold back a sigh as he resolved to try and get just a little closer, considering the hyur managed to grab his flask of likely ale and stupidly takes another swig. Their speech would be slurring sooner than later, and Robin, more than ever, craved eavesdropping from the rafters.

A few more days, it sounded like. Assuming his quarry didn’t die from a mining accident, dehydration, or alcohol poisoning first.

[astersatdawn]

FFXIV Write Day 11: Surrogate

“I’m not you.”

“No,” Azem—Thalia—a dream, of some sort, misty and yet almost there, speaks with a soft, almost sad smile. “You are not.”

Ellida crosses her arms, staring at this illusion eye to eye for the first time. Too many times Ellida has seen them, but she is more familiar with their lithe fingers braiding lavender locks, the playfulness in their voice as they drag a white haired man into a dance despite his half-hearted protests, and of the aching of limbs as they traveled with an ever shifting group of companions lit by warm campfires, than with this person’s face, mocking in the way the matching violet eyes glitter and how their minty locks fall down to their waist. 

It’s almost a mirror, but it’s not. Their teeth are too blunted, ears in the wrong place, they don’t have a tail and there is a glow in those eyes that Ellida can’t help but find just the slightest bit unnerving, if only because, for the briefest, flickering moment, she can almost see what Emet-Selch must have seen in her, before he died.

“You’re dead,” she insists. 

Not completely, not irrevocably, that part grows a little louder, and Ellida can’t bear to look at this distorted stranger a moment longer, her hand clutching something unseen above her collarbone. 

“Only as dead as you all let me be,” they say. She shouldn’t know them so well that she can hear the smile. She does. “So let me rest, if my presence disturbs you so.”

The words should be so easy. I will. Two simple little things. Let the past die, let it stop haunting her through its unending echoes in the present. 

Strangers do not mean nothing to her, but this is someone who is so long gone their name and culture are buried beneath sand and sea to never wake again. Not unless someone unearths it, fragment by fragment, piece by piece, into a mosaic of memories and love and heartache that is all consuming.  

And here she is, putting it all together. Unsure. Hesitant, but still digging. 

She doesn’t know whose grave it is, anymore. 

[astersatdawn]

To Cloak Yourself in Fiction, To Breathe Life into the Dead

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Past One for All Users, Past One for All Users & Past One for All Users

Rating: T

Tags: Angst, hurt/minimal comfort, past-but-literally-just-happened Major Character Death (RIP Yagi), ghosts, Alternate Universe (no powers, haunted house)

This was written in 2023 for the Realities Visions: A One For All Vestiges Zine

Oneshot | 2.2k words

Ghosts. The chills. The creaky stairs. A dead, decaying body. It leads to one conclusion.

“This place is haunted,” Izuku mumbled, curling in on himself, “or I am actually going insane.”

-

[Or, Izuku's real estate agent was dead, and his terrible day was about to get stranger.]

Ao3 Link

The simple reality of life was that Midoriya Izuku was a young starving artist—the fate of any artist without prestige, really. It meant struggling paycheck to paycheck, it meant choosing between food and rent, and it meant, when starving and unable to pay rent, that he needed to either move back in with his mother, or find somewhere cheaper.

He won’t ever tell his mother, because she loved his childhood home and the people from his rural hometown, but it was an easy choice for him to make. There were too many breathing ghosts in that place that would leave him with more discomfort than starvation ever would. 

Instead, he made up some excuse about why it wasn’t a good idea, that he should try to find another place of his own first, which was followed by further fretting, before she remembered somebody who could help. 

That brought him to Yagi Toshinori, an old real estate agent, and long-time acquaintance of his mother’s who happened to owe her a favor. His portfolio of properties were varied and he had at least one listing in most regions, ranging from the extravagant to the utterly shabby. 

The place they were looking at today was surprisingly nice—every inch of the two-story traditionally styled home came fully furnished, and it was far more space than Izuku ever thought he’d need, which meant that while Izuku had been certain it was way out of his abysmal budget, Yagi insisted they take a look.

“Will you tell me what the listing price is?” Izuku had asked before he caved to Yagi’s insistence. 

Yagi had looked at him for a long moment, before he smiled, set a hand on Izuku’s shoulder, and said: “free, if you pass.” 

Now, Izuku knew this: he had failed. Catastrophically. Why?

Because the current reality was this: Midoriya Izuku stood teary-eyed at the very top of an unsuspectingly creaky set of stairs, and Yagi Toshinori laid at the very bottom, with an undoubtedly broken neck, blood pooling out from underneath the yellow-but-morbidly-may-turn-orange suit. 

Izuku would like to make it clear that he did not push the kind man down the stairs. He had tripped, seemingly on nothing, and now Izuku had a body and no idea what to do. 

Would he be accused of murder? Izuku didn’t have a motive, but he thought this scene looked rather suspicious, considering the allure of treasure (a house) for a low price (free) if he did one thing that Izuku will not (can not) specify (absolutely suspicious). So, instead of finding a place to live that wasn’t his childhood home, he decided murder was the way to go, because he’d find himself with a roof over his head either way. 

But he had to call the police. He couldn’t leave Yagi’s body here. Even if he actually wanted to cover this up, it’s not like he knew where to find a shovel, or an accomplice, considering Izuku was in no shape to drag even Yagi’s frail-looking corpse far away. 

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled, sniffling as he stared down the stairs, eyes catching on the untainted pinstripes and trying not to think about how long they had until they were contaminated. “I just… tell them the truth. Right? It’ll be okay, this isn’t like—” Izuku swallowed, thinking of a pile of lies and jeers that clung to him like a second skin, “like that, so they’ll believe me. It’ll be—”

A chill ran not only down his spine, but all across his torso and crawled down his sleeves, seconds before that cold slammed against his back.

His foot slipped down one step, arms pinwheeling to restore any semblance of balance. He heard something that oddly sounded like a “I got you!” just as something pinched the back of his shirt and tugged him backwards. Over the back of the top of the stairs he tripped, collapsing on his butt like he hadn’t almost managed to mysteriously follow Yagi’s fatal tumble. 

Izuku took deep gulps of breath and closed his eyes, hands cradled above his heart as he reminded himself to breathe. Despite how warm his hands were and the sweet pooling down his neck, something like ice on a summer day sat on his shoulder, rather than the blizzard he had felt before… before whatever made him fall over. Did he trip over his own feet?

“Feeling better, kid?” 

Izuku blinked. It was like what he heard earlier, the same tone and everything, but that was impossible, because Izuku was alone now that Yagi was dead—

There’s a translucent hand on his shoulder.

“Kid?”

Izuku screeched, scrambling backwards on all fours until he bumped against the wall. 

The man, because that was definitely a bald see-through man right next to where Izuku was sitting, raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya.” 

Izuku stared, heart hammering beneath his ribs. 

“I’m Banjo Daigoro. What’s your name, kid?” 

Izuku kept staring.

“Kid..?”

He swallowed. “Mi—Midoriya Izuku…”

“Nice to meet you, Midoriya. Since you’re here, that means Toshinori told you about us, right?”

“Yagi-san?” Izuku’s brows furrowed. “Wait, us?” 

That seemed to give Banjo pause. His eyes flickered off to the side, and Izuku followed his gaze, only to find nothing there. His eyes found Izuku again. “Yeah… us… he didn’t..?”

Slowly, Izuku shook his head. 

“Uh, guys,” Banjo raised his voice, and Izuku would almost assume he was insane, but that was probably Izuku, considering the decaying body nearby and the imaginary figure he apparently made up to cope with it. “Someone get Toshinori here.”

Oh, he was definitely going insane. 

“—my lead.” Another translucent man in green appeared down the hall. He wasn’t looking at Izuku, but had his arms out like he was helping someone maintain their balance. “Think of it like you are a bird returning to the nest.”

“I don’t think the nature metaphors are helping.” Izuku’s neck snapped to the other side, where another person in a long turtleneck was standing next to another man with a ponytail. 

“It clearly doesn’t stop him from trying.” The ponytail man rubbed his forehead. “Why do we not have a protocol for this yet? Yoichi’s the only one who’s been able to explain it right…”

“You wanna author the How to Be a Ghost manual?”

Ghosts. The chills. The creaky stairs. A dead, decaying body. It leads to one conclusion.  

“This place is haunted,” Izuku mumbled, curling in on himself, “or I am actually going insane.”

“Uh, guys, you’re not helping,” the bald man said. 

A hissed-in breath. “Oh yeah, that looks bad. Sorry.”

“Then shut up.” Another ghost appeared, one with a large scar across his face, behind the other two. 

The turtleneck man moved like he was about to say something, but he only ducked his head down a moment later as he finally absorbed the point. 

“—you got it.” A new soft voice said, but whoever it belonged to was someone Izuku couldn’t see. “Come on, we shouldn’t keep the others waiting.”

“Of course.” This one was actually familiar, and for a brief second Izuku allowed himself to hope, but as two men and a woman appeared behind the bald man, his shoulders slumped—it was Yagi, like he thought he heard, but Izuku could still see the panels of the far wall through his torso.

Pinstripes caught his eye, and he followed them up to the unblemished collar of an unwrinkled button-up. His throat clogged on the harrowing taste of a fresh memory, and Izuku’s eyes drifted to his lap—at least there he couldn’t see the illusion of a long neck that had so easily snapped.

“Soooo, what did you tell him, exactly?”

“I… didn’t get the chance to explain anything…” 

A sharp voice spoke, “you’re his real estate agent. You live—lived here.” Yagi lived here? Then why had Yagi been so insistent on Izuku seeing this place? “You had time, and knew perfectly well what to explain what living here means.” 

“I planned to after—”

“After what? You died? This—”

“My friend, please, calm down.” Izuku glanced back up to see the soft-voiced stranger, a white-haired man, step in front of Yagi to quiet the scarred man. “This is not the conversation we should be having now.”

The scarred man crossed his arms, glaring at Yagi. His gaze swept to Izuku, narrowing even further, and Izuku flinched, trying to bury himself further into the wall. His frown deepened, and he finally looked away from Izuku with a huff.   

“Later.” Izuku wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat—maybe both.

“Thank you.” The white-haired man relaxed, and his attention was back on Izuku. 

He approached, each step slow and cautious, as if one wrong move would send Izuku running down the staircase, tripping over the body, and out the door like the criminal Izuku wasn’t. 

Izuku might’ve, if he thought he could. Between the trembling of his bones and being surrounded by ghosts on all sides, it didn’t feel like an option. 

“It’s… Midoriya-kun, right?” The white-haired man knelt before him. “I’m sorry about all of this… I know this situation is… unpleasant, to say the least.”

Izuku didn’t know what to say, so he nodded, pulling his knees closer to his chest. 

“I’m… Yoichi.” He paused. “I wish we had more time to discuss this now, but it will have to wait. I promise you that you will not be alone. For now, I think the best thing you can do is take out your phone.” 

Izuku blinked. It was a simple thing, but considering the ghosts appearing one by one with their loud voices and ominous comments, it had been easy to forget. He scrambled for his phone and held it tightly between his hands. 

“Okay, and now you call…” Yoichi turned sheepish. “You do call them nowadays, right?”

There were a few soft chuckles, and the woman stepped forward. 

“You call them,” she affirmed with a smile. She crouched down next to Yoichi with a little wave. “Hey kiddo, you can call me Nana. Would you feel better if we made the call with you, or if we left?” 

He stared at her for a long moment, then let his eyes travel over the large group of strangers here, who looked at him with unfamiliar expressions that overwhelmed him. What were they thinking? He was so used to glaring, not whatever was going on here. He’d only find these sorts of looks directed at him in fantasies—but maybe this meant Izuku never knew how to read any faces at all. 

“I’d… I’d rather make it alone.” He peeled at the phone case with his thumb. “Please.” 

“I understand. This already has to be a lot.” Nana stood up, followed by Yoichi. “Alright everyone, let’s give the kid some space. We can have a nicer meeting when he doesn’t have as much to worry about, alright?”

There were a few nods, and one by one, the other ghosts faded, some without another glance, others with brief waves or promises of seeing him again, each one deepening Izuku’s frown. Nana, too, departed with a smile and a brief glance at Yagi, who lingered longer than the others. 

“Midoriya-shounen…” Izuku met his eyes for a brief second before he stared at the ceiling above him. “I do not know if it means much, but I’m sorry I dragged you into this.… I’ll do what I can to make this easier next time we meet.”

It was odd how certain all these ghosts seemed so sure Izuku would see them again, but it was easier to nod his way through the conversation at this point. It worked back home, and it worked here, when his stomach curled in on itself and his eyes played tricks on him. 

It was enough now, as the blur of yellow in his peripheral vision faded, and Izuku was alone again. 

The phone was a grounding weight in his hands, with its old battered superhero-themed case. It kept him from drifting away with the ghosts as he unlocked his phone and shakily pressed three numbers. It reminded him of more comforting tales between every hitching breath that accompanied each ring without an answer. 

The stories of superheroes were ones of fame tied with secrets and loyal friends and misadventures. Nothing like Izuku would ever know, even if, for these past few minutes, he let himself imagine a what-if as a trauma response to watching a kind man die right before his eyes. 

It was a reminder, too, to keep that quiet. He’d already been called delusional for believing he could someday have friends as a kid. He didn’t need to be sent to a ward because of what just happened. He would be okay, like he always was. Just like his personal stories with bullies as the protagonists, he could keep this quiet from his mother, and anyone else who might try and poke at the wound. The hallucinations of today would be his own little secret. 

It might be the only time he’d ever feel close to those few childhood comforts, and right now, he needed to cling tightly to them all if he was going to get through the rest of today, and whatever came after.  

[astersatdawn]

Caution: (Haunted) Construction Zone Ahead

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Past One for All Users, Past One for All Users & Past One for All Users

Rating: T

Tags: Crack, One for All Users as Family

This was written in 2023 for the Realities Visions: A One For All Vestiges Zine

Oneshot | 5.8k words

“So, any suggestions?” Second clicks his pen.

Izuku considers it for a moment. “A library?” A few positive comments, and Second’s writing it down while Izuku considers other options. “An All Might merch room?”

“No.” Second clicks the pen again. “No more suggestions.”

-

[Or, the residents of One for All decide a throne room is not enough, and so, they build a house.]

Ao3 Link

When Izuku returns to the void, he’s baffled by the “caution: construction zone” tape around the thrones.

“—any other suggestions?” Second looks up from the clipboard he’s holding.

“Oh, oh! how about a roller—” Banjo raises his hand, looking like an eager kindergartener on his throne, only to have Shinomori, who, rather than sitting at his own seat, seems to be chaperoning Banjo, shoves his hand back down.

None of the others bat a lash at this. Second pointedly looks away from the two of them. “Anything else?”

“What are you guys doing?” Izuku asks, ducking under the tape so he can stand by the Fourth’s empty throne.

“Building a house,” En says.

“A mansion,” Nana corrects, with the exasperated look of someone who’s said this ten times already.

En, ducking his chin more comfortably into his turtleneck, cheekily repeats, “a house.”

Nana’s sigh is long and loud, and Izuku knows he’s going to be very careful about his particular language around the two of them. “What do you have planned so far?”

“Let’s see…” Second flips a page on the clipboard. “A foyer, a throne room, a dining room, a kitchen—”

“Can you eat?” Izuku murmurs. In the corner of his eye, someone shrugs.

“—nine bedrooms, a greenhouse—”

“Can you sleep? Can things grow here? If they can, would that be impacted by something internally, or would it be based on my exposure to sunlight? Does that make me the plant?”

“You certainly look the part.”

“—a home theater—”

“How would you watch anything in there? Can you summon anything you want to watch? Is it limited by what you’re already familiar with? Or could streaming—”

“Midoriya.” Izuku startles, glancing back up at Second, whose narrowed eyes stare at him.

“There’s no need to look so threatening. He was listening, and I know you know that,” Yoichi says. Second mutters something under his breath that makes Yoichi laugh. “That was the entire list, wasn’t it?”

Second flips the page. “We’re still undecided about the gym and pool—”

“Waterpark!” Banjo yells.

“If I’m not getting my armory, you’re not getting your waterpark. But yes, that’s everything.”

“And… you know how to build all of that?”

“I worked in construction before… before I met Leader,” Third says.

“I’ve built a few things during my time in hiding,” Shinomori adds.

“So, any suggestions?” Second clicks his pen.

Izuku considers it for a moment. “A library?” A few positive comments, and Second’s writing it down while Izuku considers other options. “An All Might merch room?”

“No.” Second clicks the pen again. “No more suggestions.”

“But—” Yoichi starts.

“No.”

“A room for All Might and Captain Hero merch—”

“Absolutely not.”

“My brother would hate it.”

A pause. “We’ll consider it another time. For now, let’s figure out the layout…”

✨🏡✨

“Okay, we’ve figured out the configuration…” Second mutters, reviewing the plans Third had meticulously drafted. “Now all that’s left are room assignments.”

Crickets.

“Do we have to do that now?”

“It makes our rooms more customizable.”

“He wants to add a secret passageway in his room,” Yoichi stage whispers.

Second slowly turns his head toward Yoichi, deadpan expression terrifying in itself. “Someone isn’t getting their balcony.”

“I said nothing.”

Someone snorts, then it’s silent again.

“What if we draw lots?” Nana suggests.

A few murmurs here and there, and eventually Third marks up all the pre-selected bedrooms with the first nine letters of the alphabet (because, they quickly decided, numbers would be too confusing).

“Wait, does Ghost-Might need a room?”

“Of course Toshi needs a room!”

“Yes! And All Might deserves the largest room!”

“Your opinion about Eighth is invalid.”

“What, why?”

Everyone shares a glance with each other, except All Might’s ghost vestige, whose wisps extend in a glowing thumbs up in Izuku’s direction. The gesture is enough to have Izuku vibrating for the rest of the week.

“Reasons.”

But after that, there are no protests to All Might getting a room, which is the most important part, in Izuku’s opinion.

Nana summons a handful of popsicle sticks, and writes down matching letters on each, before she begins to shuffle them in her hands. She walks around the semi-circle, letting everyone pull their own stick—though All Might’s attempt to do so is only half-successful, as it falls through him as soon as he picks it up—until Nana is left with the last one.

Third, who had been following behind Nana, reveals the final arrangements.

“Oh, that’s not too bad,” En says.

“All Might… I get to be neighbors with All Might..!”

“We need to redraw it,” Shinomori says.

“What, why?”

“I refuse to have my room in the middle.”

“That’s not too bad—”

“And I am not going to live with Banjo in the next room over.”

“But I’m a great neighbor!”

“You got multiple noise complaints when you were alive. I don’t want to know how many you can acquire post-mortem.”

Second pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is anyone willing to switch with Shinomori?”

More crickets create a symphony in the too-long silence.

(“Where did the bugs come from?”

“Don’t question it.”

“Were they always a part of the Quirk? Or—”

“And he’s questioning it.”)

“I’ll take that as a no. Next then—”

Shinomori mutters something under his breath, disgruntled with arms crossed, but doesn’t voice any further protests.

✨🏡✨

When Izuku spawns in the void the next day, he isn’t surprised to see the beginning of a frame—he’s heard pounding in the back of his mind all day.

What he’s surprised to see is Shinomori hammering a nail. It shouldn’t be odd, but Shinomori hammers said nail into the ground, which Izuku realizes is actually a stake to hold the rather large, pristine tent sitting a few dozen meters away from the eventual house-mansion.

As much as Izuku wants to see how the construction is going, his curiosity at the unexpected addition has him wandering to where Shinomori pounds a hammer against the nail.

“Do you need any help, Shinomori-san?”

Shinomori looks up, pausing his hammering.

“No thank you. I am almost done setting this up,” he says. “I only have…”

Shinomori pauses with a frown, glancing somewhere past Izuku. Izuku twists around to see Third jogging over. Shinomori’s wary stare doesn’t leave Third even as he comes to a stop next to Izuku, barely shooting him a greeting before all of his attention is on Shinomori, posture shifting into something pulled from a stock photo of the world’s most disappointed parents.

“What are you doing?” His voice mimics Second’s unforgettable disappointed tone.

“I am working on improving our living situation, as we discussed.”

Third stares at Shinomori for a long moment, stance unwavering. “This wasn’t a part of the plan.”

“It needed to be.” Shinomori stands, taking slow, cautious steps to another corner of the tent, and summons another stake.

“And this couldn’t wait? I could really use your experience for the rest of the project. The others…” He shudders, and Izuku glances back at the building frame, and decides maybe Third’s underlying horror is well-founded, considering the frame is obscured by a thick layer of purple smoke.

Should he say something? He glances back towards Shinomori, who subtly shakes his head in Izuku’s direction. Bad time, okay.

“My experience is best used here.”

There’s a stunned, frustrated silence. “You said you had construction experience.”

“I do.”

“This is a tent.”

“Yes, it is. I thought that was obvious.”

“Your construction experience… is pitching tents.”

Shinomori blinks. “I built this.”

“This—” Third takes a long, deep breath and lets it out in a huff Second would be proud of. “—is a tent.”

“I made it myself,” Shinomori explains with a furrowed brow. “This is one of the highest quality tents I have ever been able to craft. I find I can make them more comfortable than a more traditional dwelling.”

“Your construction experience is making tents,” Third mumbles, rubbing his forehead. “I should’ve known. Of course you only know how to make tents.”

Abruptly, Third summons a pillow, doubles over, shoves the pillow in his face, and screams.

“Third-san…” Izuku timidly reaches out and pats Third’s back, glancing behind them to the building frame. There’s less smoke, but Izuku can see a few beams of wood swinging like a pendulum. He thinks it’s Banjo running across another beam, trying to get to one that’s swaying, but even from here Izuku can tell that the stability of the entire structure is shoddy, as the horizontal beam bends under Banjo’s weight.

Izuku doesn’t know if there have been instances like that all day, but he also knows he probably doesn’t want to know. Knowing means figuring out if the collapsing literal infrastructure in his brain has an impact on his brain’s collapsing mental infrastructure.

Third says something muffled into the pillow, and Izuku keeps awkwardly patting his back until Third lifts his face up. “I’m fine, this is fine. Everything is going great, I can—”

Something snaps.

Both Izuku and Third flinch. There’s a loud “I’m okay!” in the distance, but while the person is okay, the house is definitely missing at least three wooden beams from when Izuku last looked. While Izuku’s pretty sure the smoke emitting from the ground level is probably En’s, it doesn’t stop it from making the whole thing look ominous.

They’re in desperate need of intervention, but considering this is a miniature realm of the dead inside Izuku’s brain, there is very little possibility of any outside intervention—and besides Izuku, anything that fits into that category are the last things they want trampling around the shared headspace.

“Um… is there anything I can do to help?”

Third, staring at the ground now, takes that into serious consideration. After a long moment, he sighs. “Leader promised to stop Yoichi from axing the building—” axing? “—but I don’t think that’s working. If that stops, then En will stop daring Banjo to swing from the spots Yoichi weakened…. Yeah, that could work. Just send Second over to me and keep an eye on Yoichi.”

“I… I can do that, but what do you mean ‘axing?’”

Third looks up at him, and if Izuku thought he was despairing when he realized Shinomori’s construction experience is tent making, then it has nothing on how he looks now. “I mean that he summons an ax, and then chops at the wood until someone stops him.”

Izuku knows he heard Third right, but there’s something about the mental image of Yoichi wielding an ax that doesn’t process. It takes a moment for Izuku to formulate any response at all. “Why?”

Third’s shoulders droop. “Honestly, I don’t want to know.”

“Okay. I’ll…” stop the First from summoning a bunch of axes? From tearing down a building before it’s even built? Wrestle him before he can even make another attempt? It probably won’t be too difficult, but he’s definitely questioning his sense of dream-reality at the moment. “I’ll… do that. Let me know if you need anything else, okay, Third-san?”

“Thank you.” Third drops his head back down again. He doesn’t look like he’s about to scream his head off, more like he’s taking a breath after what’s likely been a stressful afternoon that Izuku is about to only comprehend a small portion of.

Maybe it’s a good thing Izuku isn’t here full time.

✨🏡✨

All things considered the next few days of building go significantly better. Third looks less stressed, Shinomori is finally helping construct the main building, Izuku only has to hunt down the ax-wielding maniac Yoichi a few times a day rather than ten times an hour, and as Third had predicted, Banjo’s use of the construction site as a daredevil’s playground lessens when En dares him to do that less (and even more when Banjo catches on to what En is doing).

That being said—

“Our productivity is going up,” Third says. “If we proceed at this pace, I think we’ll be ahead of schedule.”

—it’s still suboptimal.

Multiple gazes snap to him like he kicked a puppy.

“What?” Third stares at him, stunned, but also expectant.

What did Izuku say? Oh no, had he said that aloud? Considering how everyone is looking at him, he either said that or confessed to a non-existent murder.

At least it’s easy to pick which grave to bury himself in.

“Um… I didn’t mean it like—like this isn’t working, because clearly it is! You absolutely know what you’re doing, but I was thinking we’re taking a really old-fashioned approach to this?”

Second and Third share a glance. “Explain.”

“Well, none of you are really using your Quirks? Nana is using ladders more than Float, Banjo could hold multiple things at once with Blackwhip, though I’m not sure how much fine motor control you can get with it—”

“Uh—”

“—and I haven’t experimented much with that. But there’s so much about One for All and your Quirks I don’t know yet… especially here… we’re able to pull a crane into a void with a thought, so I’m wondering why we’re building a house if we might be able to summon one. Though I suppose it’s harder to make something totally unique from imagination—would One for All fix any design errors on its own or would it not work if if the owner’s image is incomplete—”

Third drops his clipboard, startling Izuku’s ramble to a complete stop.

“Oh my god.”

Second facepalms. “We should’ve realized this.”

“Soooo…” Banjo leans forward. “We can… summon it?”

“I mean, it’s hard to say how accurate our mental image has to be for it to work,” Izuku reiterates. “But, uh, maybe?”

“It’s worth trying, at least,” Nana adds. “As fun as it has been working from scratch…” She looks around the throne room, which looks less complete than before the construction project. Instead of a clean endless expanse, there’s an endless expanse of void and a mishmash of walls and beams one can look through. “I think it’d be better to finish sooner.”

“I would like to get back to my tent."

Second nods. “I take it there are no objections, then.”

“But what if Ninth’s right?” En asks. “I don’t think I can imagine the building we’re going for.”

“Something going wrong could also set us back,” Nana muses. “We’ll have to be careful.”

“Actually, I don’t think we need to worry,” Yoichi says. “I believe Third can accomplish it.”

“You think..?” Third mumbles.

“The First is right!” Izuku chimes in. “More than anyone else, you know what we’re trying to do. As long as you concentrate on that, it’ll definitely work!”

“Then… I can try.” Third closes his eyes.

“Should we still be in here while he’s doing that?” Nana murmurs.

Banjo shrugs, leaning back on his throne while they wait.

At first, nothing happens beyond Third’s eyes scrunching tight, so En pulls out a deck of cards for a quick game with those nearby.

En freezes mid-shuffle at a faint creek, cards disregarded as multiple gazes snap in the direction of the sound. A stampede of tinkering plays its discordant melody of nailing and drilling, pieces of wood and plaster and other materials appearing and drifting over their heads to find their places.

The floor too begins shifting. For a few moments, it disappears entirely, leaving them clinging to their seats floating above nothingness. Planks slip neatly below, and before they know it the floor is done. A soft yellow glow reflects off the wood as a chandelier appears overhead.

Third opens his eyes again, glancing around the room with a critical eye. “It… looks done.”

“That was amazing!” Izuku leaps out of his seat, rushing to the wall to examine the quality of the walls and floors; they feel as he expects, smooth, a dry coat of paint on the walls and the right amount of shine on the floors. “I don’t know much about this stuff, but it looks and feels real!”

“...does anyone else feel like we’re in an enchanted house?”

“Enchanted mansion,” Nana corrects, half-focused, still in awe of the change.

“Haunted enchanted mansion.” Banjo, too, is slack-jawed as he absorbs the massive sparse room that is the revamped throne room.

“I did leave it undecorated,” Third cuts in, a hint of blush finding a home on his cheeks. “So we still need to do that, but everything else should be done.”

“I don’t know how to decorate shit,” Second confesses.

“I thought you were in charge of the base layout?” Yoichi asks.

“Did I ever make it pretty?”

Yoichi opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it without another word not even five seconds later.

“I… know a few things,” Nana pipes up. “I… had a bit of a phase before… before Kotaro was born.”

“So now Nana’s in charge, yeah?” Banjo asks.

“I can only offer advice for your rooms,” she quickly says. “But I’m willing to make the communal areas acceptable to everyone’s taste.”

Second nods. “Understood. That’s what we should address next then. Any objections?”

✨🏡✨

The discussions lead to this: Nana, in charge of the communal decorations, would initially switch between helping brainstorm and supervise two teams. One team would work inside, and another would work outside (as the outside is just as important to decorate as the inside, as Nana and Yoichi had insisted early on in the discussion).

So, here Izuku, Yoichi, Second, En, and Nana stand, staring out at the vast void before them. They finally got their first glimpse of the completed estate behind them. It certainly looked fancier than anything Izuku ever lived in, tall and wide, tiled roofs and pristine walls.

Yet, as nice as it is, it looks like someone slapped some fancy clip art into their blank, dark-mode document and called it a day.

“I have an idea.” Yoichi says, grabbing Second’s wrist. “Come with me.”

Second raises a brow, stubbornly staying still, and glances at Nana for her opinion.

“I’ll trust Yoichi’s judgment,” Nana says.

With that, Second nods, and lets himself be led away. It’s a little surprising to see how far the First seems to be leading Second, as they don’t stop until just before Hikage’s tent. With the two of them discussing something in the distance, Yoichi making wild gestures, the remaining three huddle together, forming a brainstorming triangle, with Izuku’s back to the building.

“What do you want us to do?” En asks.

“Maybe we can add some terrain first?” Izuku suggests, glancing at En. “I think it would look better if we put some grass around the hou—” Izuku’s gaze flickers off of En and onto Nana, and he can sense the impending disapproval. “—sion…”

“The what?” Nana frowns.

“The housion,” En echoes with a snicker, and Izuku wants to bury his face in sand. But of course, the void, as he’s pointed out, has no grass, let alone any sand. Maybe he should change that and make a beach instead, somewhere far, far away.

“No,” Nana says, pinching her nose. “It’s a mansion.” In the distance, behind the two of them, Izuku spies Yoichi hopping into the driver’s seat of a large construction vehicle, though what its purpose is, Izuku has no clue. “If the size of the building isn’t enough—” there’s beeping as Yoichi backs the truck up, before slamming on the gas; Izuku can hear Second screaming something incoherent from the passenger seat “—to classify this as a mansion, then the amount of bedrooms—”

Izuku doesn’t hear anything she says after that—not because he isn’t interested, but because it’s impossible to focus on anything other than the speeding truck that’s pooping a towering stone battlement behind it.

How had they managed that? He assumes the truck is creating some sort of mental map for where the walls and towers will go, but Izuku honestly isn’t sure if that is actually making it easier or not. Maybe it doesn’t matter, considering Yoichi is cackling like a mad man as he drives around the perimeter of the building that is now not what En or Nana think it is.

“—It’s a mansion. That’s final.”

“Actually—” his shoulders tense at the glare Nana sends his way, but Izuku simply swallows and points behind her. “I think that makes this a castle.”

She spins on her heels, and he hears a quiet gasp. En, who is a bit slower to turn, lets out a low whistle.

“...it’s a castle,” Nana says, some mixture of awe, defeat, and befuddlement in her voice.

“I still like housion better.”

“Please don’t call it that,” Izuku squeaks with cherry cheeks.

✨🏡✨

Izuku climbs the stairs two at a time, excitement buzzing through him. Most of the house has been decorated already, so Izuku finally has a chance to decorate his room. It’s been fun so far, and while Izuku isn’t quite sure what he’s going to do yet, since he’s only here every once in a while, he’s eager to get started and practice the decorating tips he’s been hearing from Nana.

He hurries down the hall, turns a corner, and slams into En’s back.

En stumbles forward, catching his balance, as Izuku leaps back and rubs his nose.

“En-san? Are—” When Izuku sees what’s further down the hall, his original question dies in his throat. “Banjo-san!? What are you doing?”

“Hey kid. I’m hanging around,” Banjo says, shooting upside-down finger guns as he sways from a snare trap.

“He tried to enter my room,” Shinomori explains from next to Banjo, examining the sturdiness of the trap. He nods to himself, and it’s only when he goes into his room that Izuku realizes he never intended to help Banjo get down.

“You having fun there?” En asks with an undercurrent of amusement.

Banjo fidgets, and Izuku thinks it’s supposed to be a shrug. “Eh. I could maybe use a little help.”

The admission is enough to maneuver around En and summon a set of wire cutters and a ladder. Once it’s set up, he gives a brief warning to Banjo to brace himself, before he cuts the wire. Banjo lands with a thud, and hops back onto his feet as Izuku climbs down the ladder.

“Thanks kid.” Banjo pats his head. Izuku smiles and nods, and his eyes catch on the glinting wire on the floor.

“Of course, Banjo-san.” Izuku picks up the remains of the trap, turning it over in his hands, scrutinizing how it twists in on itself to form the adjustable knot. I wonder if I can make other knots with Blackwhip? Being able to use it as a lasso is already helpful with rescues and captures, but I might be able to expand my options if I—

“Kid?” Izuku startles, looking at Banjo who’s staring at him with an amused grin, and En whose eyebrows are raised. “What’cha thinking about so intensely?”

“Ah, nothing, really.” Izuku drops his hands to his side. “What did you want from Hikage-san’s room?”

“I, uh, was honestly just curious,” Banjo admitted, surprisingly sheepish. “Since he’s already got the tent and complained about being next to me, I was wondering what he was using the room for.”

Izuku glances at the door with a thoughtful look. “Maybe he changed his mind?”

“Doubt it,” En says. “He’s probably hiding something.”

“I don’t think that’s it…”

“Maybe, but you can’t tell me you aren’t curious too, kid.”

He is a little bit, but in the same way he’s curious about what the others are doing with their rooms. Izuku knows he could ask if he really wants, but it feels a little silly to ask rather than wait for an invitation. But then again, his classmates had been curious about each other’s rooms too, when they had all moved into the dorms…

“What if we had a room presentation contest?” Izuku mumbles before he can think better of it.

“Ooooh, now that’s a good idea, kid. We should do it!” Banjo slings an arm around Izuku’s shoulders. “What’dya think En?”

En seems to consider it for a moment. “I think it’ll be fun.”

“Great, then we should do that. I’m gonna call a meeting—”

“Wait! I haven’t started decorating my room yet.”

“Oh! Well then, kid, get going! I guess I should finish mine too before I say anything. I don’t know what we’re gonna compete for, but I’m definitely winning. See ya later boys.”

Banjo waves before he practically skips one door down and enters his room, slamming the door shut. Seconds later, Izuku can hear a hint of loud music starting to play.

En rubs his ear. “I’m also gonna get to work then. Good luck.”

“Thanks, En-san! Good luck to you too!”

For a brief period, Izuku and En go the same way, but En quietly slips into his room while Izuku heads further down to the back of the hall where his room is.

The room is cozy, but dark, as the windows on the far wall have no sunlight to let through, nor have any light fixtures been added in yet. The space is larger than he’s expecting—he’s sure it’s twice the size of his room at home.

As exciting as this is, he didn’t think of any ideas on the walk over.

Well, not no ideas, he thinks as his eyes catch on the wire still tightly held in his hand. It’s not what he should be starting with, but it’s something to try, and so, he summons a rope.

✨🏠✨

“So, we’re having a room display contest.” Second pinches his nose as he takes a deep breath. “What, exactly, are we competing for?”

“Bragging rights.”

“Lame.”

“What else are we gonna compete for? Money?”

“If that’s not enough…” Yoichi’s voice is enough to quiet the bickering and draw their attention. “We didn’t do anything special with this room. How about the winner gets to decorate it how they’d like?”

The others share a glance.

“I like the sound of that.” Banjo grins.

“For a limited time,” Nana adds.

Yoichi nods. “A month, then.”

“Well I wasn’t winning anyway,” Second mutters. “Alright then, let’s start with the closest room and work our way back.”

✨🏠✨

“I thought this was supposed to be a room, not a factory.”

Second pouts. “It is a room.”

“There’s a few plants here.” Izuku caresses a leaf.

“So, we’ve got the post-apocalypse aesthetic going on here, got it.”

“Oh! There’s a trapdoor here…” Banjo opens it. He leans forward, sticks his head into the hole, and yells, “Where does this even go?” which echoes through what Izuku assumes to be a very long tunnel and not a small room.

“Away from you all.”

✨🏠✨

“Third-san’s room is…” Izuku’s gaze jumps from the pastel pink rug to the fluffy pillows on the comfortable couch.

“It’s cute.” Second stares at the collection of paintings depicting bunches of roses like a bomb had gone off.

“Is there a problem?” Third averts his gaze, his face a matching pink to one of the soft throws Izuku wants to run his fingers through.

“It’s surprising,” Yoichi says.

“A good surprise,” Nana adds on, smiling as she takes a closer look at the designs on the pillows. “I might summon a couple of these for myself.”

✨🏠✨

“I thought Toshinori was supposed to be the American patriot here.”

“This isn’t American,” Banjo protests, standing in front of a pair of saloon doors turned into wall decor. “It’s western.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes!” Banjo shouts, and All Might nods along with him.

There’s a considerable pause in the conversation.

En pokes a cactus that wobbles back and forth, spurred on faster when En flicks it.

“Well, at least it isn’t red, white and blue.”

✨🏠✨

“It’s storage,” Banjo numbly states the second the door to Shinomori’s room is open. There isn’t a better descriptor than that, considering Izuku only sees piles and piles of boxes stacked together. A closer look, and all of them are shut and none of them are labeled.

“Yes. I do not need another room. My tent serves its purpose significantly better than this room would.”

“Okay, but what do you even need storage for?”

Second cracks open one of the crates, and while Shinomori glares at him, he doesn’t protest. Second stares down into the box, before shutting it again. “Nothing I wanna know about.”

✨🏠✨

Yoichi’s room is more pillows than furniture—there’s a couple of bean bag chairs with blankets of too bright and clashing colors thrown over them, and Izuku is glad they’re all matte, because with the light coming from everywhere except the large balcony doors, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to see anything otherwise.

“Finally, someone with taste,” En says, his eyes drawn to the minimalist paintings on the wall.

Nana stares at them both in horror. Izuku tries to ignore the garish decor and examine Yoichi’s extensive collection of comics. He only knows about Captain Hero because of Yoichi, but maybe he can read them sometime while he’s here.

Maybe somewhere else, though.

✨🏠✨

Unlike Yoichi’s room, En’s room favors dark woods and saturated furniture, but it does not negate the barrage of vivid accent colors that are truthfully less like accents and more like a neon rainbow sea. Everywhere Izuku’s eyes land he finds more bright colors cluttered together: paintings covering every meter, throws tossed haphazardly in bunches over a pale couch, the floor littered with decks of playing cards and—

Crashing comes as Third slips, trying to grab the back of the couch before he fades out of sight. Discordant tinkling barrages his ears as Third reappears, wiping little bricks off of his palms and out of his ponytail. “Why do you have legos?”

“They’re fun.”

Third stares at him. “Not when they’re like this.” Third gestures to the ground. “At least pick up after yourself!”

En pauses, an almost thoughtful tilt of his chin. “No.”

Third groans, and while the others try to convince En to rid his floor of tripping hazards, En stands firm on his decision.

✨🏠✨

“This is…”

“It’s normal.”

“It’s like we stepped into a fucking magazine ad.”

“So, it’s normal.”

“Is there a problem with that?” Nana stares them down.

“No.”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

✨🏠✨

“It’s a shrine.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, definitely. This—”

Something rattles, and eight gazes find Hikage swinging from a rope at the ankle with wide-eyed disbelief.

“I… am I seeing this right?” Banjo murmurs.

“Yes, you are…” Third’s stunned voice replies.

“I am so sorry!” Izuku rushes over and immediately starts to dismantle the trap. “I completely forgot I left this up. I wanted to learn how to make the trap you did, but then I got an idea for what I wanted to do with the space, so I didn’t take a chance to test it! Ahhh, this is so embarrassing.”

“How did you not notice it?”

Hikage, with far more grace than Banjo’s tumble, flips over and lands feet-first as soon as gravity has a claim on him. “I imagine this trap was not made with the intent of actually trapping someone.”

Izuku rubs the back of his neck. “I made it for practice.”

“When’d you learn how to make the trap, kid?”

“I examined the wire Hikage used and tried to copy it…”

Banjo whistles.

“You did well.” Hikage wraps the rope into a small bundle. “If you’d like, I can teach you some other trapping methods.”

“Please do!”

“Oh no,” Banjo murmurs. “You think we’ll be able to avoid them?”

En’s eyes widen. “If Hikage got caught, we don’t stand a chance. Hey, Izuku, have you ever wanted to learn how to be good at poker? I’ll teach you that instead—”

“Don’t make the kid a gambler!”

“No one is gambling!” Nana shouts.

“But I don’t want to get stuck in one of those things! If making him a gambler is what I gotta do, I’m doing us all a favor.”

“Why can’t I do both?”

“Because kid—” Banjo sets a hand on his shoulder “—you’d become too much of a threat.”

“The kid is smart and has One for All,” Second says, completely ignored by everyone. “How the hell isn’t he already?”

✨🏠✨

All Might’s room is exactly like Izuku’s was when he first walked into his own: pristine, way too dark, and completely untouched.

“Toshinori-kun… you didn’t decorate?”

Izuku looks at All Might, wide and teary-eyed, as the realization hits him. “He couldn’t.”

“What do you mean kid?”

“I forgot that while he can pick things up, he can’t hold onto them. So unless he knew exactly what he wanted to do he couldn’t decorate his room… I’m sorry I didn’t realize that sooner All Might!”

All Might reaches out and pats Izuku’s head, though it looks more like flecks of golden fire burning from a bush.

“Well, I’m not going to leave Toshi’s room like this,” Nana says.

“I’ll help too!” Determination fills Izuku. “All Might should have the best room!”

“You were gonna vote for his room even if we left it like this, huh?” En snickered.

“I—I don’t know, everyone’s room is so unique…”

“Regardless, it would be unfair to vote now,” Yoichi says.

“If Toshinori can’t decorate his own room then can he even decorate the throne room?” Shinomori muses.

“Which is exactly why he should win.” The words are a murmur, but everyone turns to the speaker, Izuku included, and the speaker crosses his arms defensively. “What?”

Yoichi chuckles. “I never thought I’d hear such words from you.”

“Didn’t think everyone would fucking hear it,” Second grumbles back. “But I’m not looking forward to what sort of eyesore you—you know everyone here could come up with.”

Yoichi grins, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Sure.”

“Well, are there any objections to starting now?” Nana refocuses their attention on the pressing matter. A quick sweeping glance, and Nana’s smile widens. “Good. Now then…”

It takes a little bit of brainstorming on how to communicate best with All Might about what he wants in the room—it’s best described as a game of 20-but-more questions—but once things are in swing it’s easy to get caught up in a decorating frenzy.

Jokes and banter and pillow fights fill the air between each summoned object. It’s loud but there’s so much warmth in each moment, and as Izuku pauses for a second to take it all in, his heart swells with it.

There is no denying the varying levels of sanity among his dead headmates. Yet, hearing Banjo’s uproarious laughter and Nana’s thoughtful comments, seeing All Might next to him, flickering brighter than before, as if his presence thrives from the atmosphere alone, he can’t help but think: I’m so blessed they’ve all found a home within me.

Second calls out to him, startling him out of his thoughts for some help maneuvering some larger furniture.

And, he thinks, making his way over with a growing smile, I’m glad I’ve found a home with them.

[astersatdawn]

More succinctly, Izuku has a brain, and he would like to use it rather than lose it.

-

[Or, the first half of July.]

gen + m/f / rated t / 4k words

[astersatdawn]

"Only a villain would do that, Mido, a villain!” Kaminari groans into his arms, and he can hear Jirou snort. Izuku’s tempted to interject with a reminder that yes, actually, his dad is the supervillain, but, considering it’s already being joked about, knows it won’t be a helpful interjection.

-

[Or, June.]

gen + m/f / rated t / 3.3k words