#there were extenuating circumstances maybe. i dunno | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

phantomrose96 · 5 years ago

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Origin of a Non-Hero

Pro Hero Deku is not that tall of a man… In a simple white t-shirt and khakis, he’s not imposing at all. His 14 year old son, though much scrawnier in frame, is only an inch or two shorter than him.

Pro Hero Deku is not a cruel man. To the contrary, he cares too much, about all things at all times, about everyone and everything he can save if only it could come within his reach. The family counselor knows this. The counselor is surprised that, of all the world’s burdens Deku carries, it would be his family that slipped through his grasp.

Pro Hero Deku’s arms are gnarled and scarred, endlessly broken and re-broken in his youth from trying too much, and caring too much, and fighting too much for the sake of others. So why do they seem so awkward, so unpracticed, so unused to being wrapped in a hug around his son? Why was this boy the last thing for Pro Hero Deku’s arms to reach?

The counselor asks. The raw hurt of the session starts anew.

(This fic is long, heed the Read More)

...

11 people shared the same rigid wooden bench as Shikinori Midoriya. From the glances he stole, all 11 of them were handcuffed. An equal number of armed guards stood at the ready, crowding a waiting area meant to accommodate no more than 10 people. Shoulders rubbed shoulders. Sweat trickled from necks and hairlines. Dampness clung to skin and scales and fur and whatever other quirk-manifested coverings the 11 handcuffed men, and 11 guards, and Shiki bore.

A puttering fan spun in the corner, sad and wheezing and ineffective against the body heat of so many. Shiki kind of resented the fan for all the nothing it was accomplishing.

He leaned his weight into the sturdy bench arm to his left, opting to crush his guts into the furniture rather than lean on the man beside him, who was more knotted muscle and snake tattoos than he was man. Shiki looked again and concluded the man may even be more snake than man. Two sharp fangs stuck out from his mouth and tented his upper lip. His unmarked skin shimmered, a rippling repeated pattern of flesh-covered scales. His tongue shot out and licked the air, forked. Slit-pupiled eyes made momentary, awkward eye-contact with Shiki, and Shiki quickly pretended to be staring elsewhere.

The man seemed familiar. Some villain from some news headline. But Shiki couldn’t place a name, so he didn’t bother thinking about it more. He stared ahead, eyes drifting out of focus, hot. Uncomfortable and hot. Damp and stick-to-his-clothes-sweaty. Just…hot. Unnecessarily so. Maybe he shouldn’t be here. Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe he’d been impulsive, and foolish, and should leave before he gets in any deeper.

The door beside Shiki creaked open. A wizened man with tiny, deep-set, watery eyes motioned him in. Shiki all but jumped to his feet. He tugged at the spots of his shirt that clung sweaty to his back, and he followed. The temperature dropped at least 20 degrees once he crossed the threshold into this new room. The door clicked shut behind Shiki. He startled, and felt a ripple of disquiet shiver down his spine, but Shiki chose not to dwell on it. He was more drawn to investigating the new room, which, he quickly discovered, came with its own kind of sensory-terrible-silence.

The waiting room had been terribly silent – chatterless and buffed with the sounds of breathing, wheezing, throat-clearing, shifting, shuffling, and the tinkering tangle of chains. This time it was an ambient buzz that blanketed the new room, thick and oppressive and syncopated, like a fly trapped in a jar. Shiki traced it to the fluorescent lights overhead. Under their pallor, the watery-eyed man looked half like death. He sat, and motioned for Shiki to sit too in the wooden chair directly across. A table separated them. On Shiki’s side, there was a set of iron cuffs drilled into the table-top, the sort where, if Shiki threaded his arms forward, he could be bolt-locked in place.

Shiki did not acknowledge the cuffs, and neither did the watery-eyed man. They made eye contact, and Shiki instantly understood: this man did not care about him. This man did not care about any of the other people in that waiting room. What gave it away was unclear – maybe the stiffness in his jaw, or the piercing deadness to his horrible ice-blue eyes, or the sterile too-large lab coat crumpling the man’s figure, or maybe none of that. Maybe it was pure human intuition, an instinct honed for survival, that one feels when encountering another human so bereft of empathy that it sticks along every individual neck-hair.

“Sit,” the man said. His tone was sharp, as though he’d been forced to repeat himself. That was somewhat true. He’d already motioned for Shiki to sit. Shiki had been too distracted by the cuffs on the table to comply. He was still distracted now, but he sat this time.

“I’m Dr. Matsuyama,” the man like death continued. He pulled a loose clipboard from the shelf just beneath his side of the table, and he dragged a slightly-trembling hand from his pocket, gray and liver-spotted, trailing an uncapped pen. His eyes became more like pits in this light, but Shiki could see a blue in them that was definitely inhuman. Which wasn’t saying much, since most of the population walked around in definitely inhuman ways. It was quirk-related, no doubt, but endlessly eerie to stare at.

There came a shuffle from the shadows, a shift in the back-left corner of the room that startled Shiki. He looked, and now locked eyes with a man dressed to the nines in an ill-fitting suit. The man pulled at his own lapel, straightening it, as though reading Shiki’s mind about the ill-fitting suit detail.

“Don’t mind Dr. Himura,” Matsuyama continued. “He’s leading the study, so he is observing. I’m conducting this session.” Matsuyama set pen to paper. “What is your name?”

“Shikinori Midoriya,” Shiki answered. “I go by Shiki, among friends.”

“Is there a reason for that?” Matsuyama’s voice had a papery tremble to it, like air whistling through the slit of a barely-cracked window. Listening to it was uncomfortable. Shiki could feel it like a shortness of breath in his own throat.

“Just preference.”

Matsuyama wrote something down.

“How old are you?”

“22.”

“Your quirk?”

“Gravity nullification.” Shiki raised his hands up, palms spread toward Matsuyama. “I can negate the gravity of anything I touch with my fingers, palms, or pads of my toes. Basically any part of my body that has this ridged skin.” He wiggled his wide-spread fingers. The weird fluorescent lighting threw the ridges into stark contrast, valleys of blackness ribbing his fingers, engulfed like Matsuyama’s eyes. “The quirk works on any sized object, but the time limit is shorter for bigger objects.”

Matsuyama let the silence linger as he wrote. His writings filled several lines this time, as Shiki had little else to do than watch the trail of the pen.

“Is your quirk patrilineal, matrilineal, or both?”

“Matrilineal.”

“How does it influence or impede your daily life?”

“It doesn’t much, really. I don’t need it. I don’t really use it. It’s forgettable.”

“What are the negatives to living with your quirk?”

Shiki shrugged. “None much, really, since I don’t use it.”

“Then what brings you here?”

“I mean, just that. I don’t need it. Does it have to be deeper than that?”

Matsuyama wrote. And he wrote for longer than before. Silence draped them again, and it amplified the buzzing from the lights. It was hot again, Shiki realized with agitation. His seat placed him right below the lights, a veritable stage light, targeting him to bake. His neck prickled with sweat. Buzzing. Like a fly in the jar. Fly in a jar, fly in a jar, that flies against the walls each which way and can’t get out, because there is no out, because the jar is sealed, and being unyielding to gravity is no help when the walls close on every side.

“…here?”

“Huh?” There’d been a question. Shiki had zoned out for--

“Did anyone offer you money to come here?”

“Not beyond the 1,500 yen per day,” Shiki responded, collecting himself. “You know, that you guys offered, that 1,500 yen, to cover transport and lunch. But nothing else. No.”

“Did anyone blackmail you to come here?”

“No.”

“Are there any extenuating circumstances to explain why you’re here?”

“None.”

Matsuyama stopped writing. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of Shiki’s neck, lost somewhere between his shoulder blades. He shifted, and rolled his shoulders a little, and edged his hands away from the wrist restraints on the table.

“Do you have any thoughts of self-harm?”

“No.”

“A history of violence?”

“No.”

“Do you consider yourself to be a danger to yourself or others?”

“No.”

“Any history of drug abuse?”

“No.”

“Alcoholism?”

“No.”

“Anxiety or depression?”

Shiki faltered. “I saw a therapist for a bit, a while ago, back when I was a teenager. But it wasn’t anything, like, extreme. You know? Just, stuff.”

“And how do you define ‘stuff’?”

“It—he was a family therapist. My parents are divorced so like, you know, I was a kid – well, a teenager – but that’s still a kid. I mean we saw the therapist when I was a teenager, but my parents divorced when I was 10 before I was a teenager so – the therapist – he was just for, you know, typical stuff. Typical divorced kid stuff.”

Matsuyama wrote, and wrote more, and at length, Shiki said nothing.

“How’s your relationship with your mother?”

“Fine.”

“How does she feel about your participation in this?”

“I dunno, really. I mentioned it to her like once but like, a while ago, before I decided on whether I wanted to do it but like… I dunno. That shouldn’t matter, right? I’m an adult.”

“How’s your relationship with your father?”

“You know, fine.”

“And how does he feel about your participation in this?”

“Like I said, does it matter?” Shiki pressed. He leaned forward, because he could feel his shirt sticking again in back. Under his arms, too. He was grateful for the dark color of his clothing, since Shiki knew from a glance to frumpy Himura that the harsh lighting was unforgiving on sweat stains.

“Is he against it?”

“He doesn’t know about it. Like, he’s busy. And I’m an adult. And it’s not like it’s his quirk or anything since I inherited it from my mom, and it’s my body so I think I should be the one who gets the final say in whether I do this or not don’t you think so?”

Matsuyama left the challenge unmet. It rung through the room around them and petered out to silence. Just an echo left dancing in Shiki’s head. Matsuyama wrote. He only wrote, and Shiki’s heart beat in his own ears.

“My job is to make sure you are of sound mind… uncoerced… unhindered by any self-destructive motivations...” Matsuyama’s pen did not break pace while he spoke, like an automaton. Like a puppet. Endlessly forward, unholy eyes shuffling along line by line. “The Quirk Ethics Board is strict. Dr. Himura has spent the better part of five years at odds with them to get this study off the ground. Be grateful to him, and be patient with me.” And his horrible eyes flickered up, pinning Shiki to the spot. “I can disqualify you, if I think you’re lying to me. So please, some patience, and some cooperation.”

Shiki’s whole body flushed with a shiver, and he realized that perhaps Himura was not the man he should be suspecting of a mind reading quirk.

He leaned back in his spotlight chair, and took a few deep breaths, and wondered how heated his cheeks were. Embarrassment always spiked a blush in them, and Shiki was ashamed to have let his composure slip.

“Your father… wouldn’t you like to tell him, first? There’s no reversing this. We encourage everyone who comes through this room to inform all family, all loved-ones first.”

“No. I don’t want to tell him. Because I know it’ll make him cry. And if I lose my nerve, and back out, I’ll probably never have this opportunity again. I need this decision to be my own.”

Shiki averted his eyes, away from Matsuyama, glancing left and finding himself staring back. A mirror spanned the length of the left wall. A few feet worth of cinderblock stretched from the floor-up, and the ceiling-down, meeting at a mirror that lobbed Shiki’s own reflection back at him. Freckles and green eyes and tousled chestnut hair and cheeks heated with shame and embarrassment.

A one-way mirror. Shiki wondered if there was anyone standing on the other side of it, watching, judging.

The silence lingered, heavier, denser somehow. It took Shiki a few moments to process what had changed.

The scratch of Matsuyama’s pen had vanished. He was not writing. He was staring, instead, at Shiki. Plain to see in the mirror. Waiting for Shiki to face him again. Reluctantly, Shiki looked.

“Your father… is a busy man, you said. He must be very very busy… Shikinori Midoriya.” Matsuyama shuffled his papers into place, and set the clipboard down on the interrogation desk. “If your name, and your appearance, and the leagues and leagues of advertisements, and news headlines, and television specials I see every day paint an accurate picture of who, I suspect, your father is.”

Shiki breathed out, jaw clenched, feeling that familiar dread settle in. He heard a noise from Himura, like a tiny pip, a single note of recognition that Shiki had become well attuned to: that sound of someone putting the dots together, the look in their eyes as they roved over Shiki’s face, as though suddenly giddy to understand his freckles and green eyes and curly hair.

“Midoriya?” Himura leaned forward, pushing himself off the back wall and shuffling a bit forward. His eyes were wide and probing, mutedly eager. “Oh I see – yeah – I see it – you look just like him – but – pardon my interruption, son, but – why would you ever consider participating – here in my study – why I can’t dream of – I don’t think I could be responsible for -“

“Don’t,” Shiki shot back. He braced his back against the chair once more, letting the wave of dread pass. “Don’t… Don’t finish what you’re going to say.”

“The boy is right, Himura,” Matsuyama said, and he did not look at his colleague. “This is my interview. And you are only here to observe. You are out of line.”

“R-right,” Himura breathed, flushing red, yet still clearly riding out his confusion, his giddiness. He pulled a small kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat along his receding hairline. “My apologies, M-Mr. Midoriya.”

“Just call me Shiki…”

“Yes, Shiki, we should get back on track,” Matsuyama proceeded. He picked his clipboard up once more and flipped another page. Shiki tried counting the number of sheets that wrapped spiral-like over top. More than he had realized – 10 or maybe 12 pages thick, at this point. Matsuyama’s pen tip tapped to paper once more. “I want to be clear: you are entitled to have your own reason for following through with this. But you may not hide it from me and expect to participate. I am the deciding factor here. Do not lie.”

With that, Shiki felt the last of the vigor in his spine drain away. He slumped forward some, and avoided eye contact with Matsuyama, and Himura, and his own reflection in the mirror which he resented so strongly at this very moment.

“So tell me, boy,” Matsuyama paused to pull in a rattling breath, “why do you want us to erase your quirk?”

“It’s complicated,” Shiki muttered.

“I’m quite good at complicated,” Matsuyama countered.

“It’s… My dad… You figured it out already, right? Izuku Midoriya… He’s the #1 Hero.” The words felt plastic, leaving Shiki’s throat. Artificial. Manufactured. A thing repeated en-masse by television hosts and podcasts and commercials and fan events and—

Shiki breathed.

“He wasn’t always. …Well, duh, I guess, of course… That sounds obvious to say but I mean it as – as in that – back when I was born, Dad was the #361 Hero. At least in the one ranking suite that stretched all the way to the top 500 heroes. Most ranking organizations only did top-250 at best. And the National Rankings only do top-75. He was a still a sidekick then. So was my mom. She didn’t even appear in the top 500. And I think being pregnant with me, and me being born, and taking care of me – I think that set her back even more.”

Shiki leaned forward, elbows set to the table, eyes boring deep into the scratched and stained wood. There were deeper gouges near the sharp corners of the arm restraints.

“When I was old enough to start remembering things is around when I got my quirk, because most of my oldest memories are of my mom playing gravity games with me in our apartment. She’d make my toys float and I’d make them float too and she’d bop them, like with her head, bop them all around and I thought that was the funniest thing. I used to think everyone could cancel gravity because that was so much of my world, just me and my mom.”

Ochaco Midoriya was just barely 23, and her hair had grown long enough to wear in a bun every day. Her off-the-shoulder white shirt spelled out URAVITY in bubble letters across the front. A short release. Only 100 shirts sold, half of them to friends and family. Her son Shiki lay on the carpet, small pudgy hands grabbing at fistfuls of air above him, reaching for her, his footy-jammied feet kicking. His fingers were ridged. He’d have her quirk someday. She pulled out the stuffed frog from behind her back (FROPPY logo emblazoned on the tummy) and papped it gently forward. Into the air. Where it hung and spun, lazily adrift. Shiki let out a shriek of joy. Ochaco smiled, and cupped Shiki’s hands in hers, and kissed them.

“My dad… um… he was out most of the day, almost the whole day, on weekdays at least, when I was young. And I was proud of him for that especially when I got old enough to understand what heroes and villains were because like, that was my dad, out there every single day putting in more effort than anyone else, you know? It never even seemed that weird, to like, that I didn’t have him around. I had Mom, and Dad was a hero.”

The little leaguers were all 5 or 6 years old, adorned in fluorescent pinnies and tiny little soccer cleats. They ran the way little kids run – with too much force in every stilted step, no grace, all fierce concentration, feet slamming heavy into grass and balled fists swinging. The ball came above their knees, and they kicked by running into it full-force.

Tatsuya bodied the ball into the opposing goal, and he was met with a chorus of applause from his mother and father on the sidelines. It was the first time Shikinori Midoriya noticed – Tatsuya had a dad. He looked, and saw so many dads. And it was strange. Weren’t they heroes? Weren’t they busy?

Ochaco stood alone. She waved a big wide sweeping wave when she noticed Shiki looking. She whistled for him. The ball knocked into Shiki. He forgot to wave back.

“I remember… Most of my memories of him, from when I was little, were on weekends. But not always, I mean not all weekends. He patrolled through weekends too. But if we got a weekend off, then we’d do some activity with him. Me, Mom, all of us together. It was my favorite. But weekdays, I never saw him. He left before I woke up and came home after I was in bed. I stayed up sometimes, in secret, to listen for him at the door. But a lot of nights I fell asleep first, or some nights he never even came home. I actually, I think I started to see him more on television, from news reporters, than I did in person…”

A head-to-toe child’s onesie which was a flannel plushy mock-up of Pro Hero Deku’s uniform. Shiki wore it, bunny ears and all, sitting in his mother’s lap in front of the television. Ochaco sat with her back against the couch, on the floor. The sun had set around them. The news had trickled on to its fourth recap of Deku’s apartment arson rescue.

~”A civilian recording that is SURE to capture a nation’s heart! As Pro Hero Deku emerges from the blazing building with three tenants, mother father and child, slung across his back – look – there! Oh what a winning smile that boy’s got, hasn’t he? Saving people with a smile! It makes me nostalgic for the age of All Might, to our viewers old enough to remember the Symbol of Peace before his retirement. Maybe Deku is someone who can spark that hope back into the new generation, what do you think, folks?”~

“15 more minutes, Shikinori, then it’s time for bed,” Ochaco told Shiki, bouncing him on her leg.

“But I wanna stay up for Dad! I wanna tell him we watched him on the news!” Shiki pointed a stubby finger to the freeze-frame of his father on the television, all tousled hair and sweat, bearing the weight of three others on his back, a veritable Atlas, smiling. Smiling smiling. Shiki gave the same smile as his dad, beaming at his mom.

“You’ll see him tomorrow; you can tell him then.”

The smile dropped from Shiki’s face. He looked forward to the television again. “I’m not gonna see him tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Tuesday and I don’t ever see Dad on Tuesday.”

~”I hear we’ve got an interview with a civilian who was on-site during the disaster. We’re cutting to him now!”~

“…30 more minutes, okay then, Honey?” Ochaco said. “We’ll wait up 30 more minutes for Dad.”

Shiki’s hand twitched. His eyes were locked on the shackles, and slowly, experimentally, he rested his wrists in the cuffs. Could the table hold him down with his quirk?

“And by the time I was 7, he broke into the top-100 heroes. Within another three years, he was top-50. Newspapers called it mind-blowing to see someone like that jump the ranks so quickly. He blew past Ground Zero and Ice Razer, who you know are like, #2 and #3 now. It was crazy. Like, he got way more attention for how quickly he was jumping than for his actual rank. The papers said he was working inhuman hours. That even heroes with time quirks and clone quirks couldn’t be as everywhere as he was… I have clippings saved. Or I did. I might have gotten rid of them when Mom and Dad divorced.”

Shiki clinked his wrists against the shackles, metal wrist watch ringing hollow against the cuffs.

“Which is, that was something I found out on my 10th birthday. They didn’t mean for me to know but I was staying up past my bed time to play the new Hero Smash game they got me – the one Dad was finally in -- and I heard them arguing just a bit too loud about something, and them arguing was kinda common at that point, so I paused the game to listen and… yeah… divorce… It was, you know, a pretty tame divorce, I think. Like, I can’t really complain about it, compared to some of the stuff other kids go through. Cuz Mom and Dad still acted friendly and tried to settle things on good terms but, you know, it showed. I’d go into Mom’s room and hold her, some nights, when I heard her crying. And she’d sob and say ‘I still love him’ and I never knew what to say back, but, I’m –that’s, anyway. Anyway.”

Ochaco Midoriya, 32 years old. She kept the last name. It would be easier, in terms of legal hassle, and it would be easier on her son, who she had full custody of.

Her empty bed had been the norm for years, now. Deku had gotten into the habit of working through the nights, stealing naps on his cot at the agency. But now it was the cold reminder, the knowledge, that he wasn’t ever coming back to this bed that stole Ochaco’s breath and made it short. Made her heart squeeze. Forced noises past her lips that she tried to keep in.

“Mom?” Shiki’s eyes, wide with concern, at the side of her bed. He held his hands together, ridged fingers, ridged palms, the little fingers she used to kiss.

He reached a hand out, and patted her shoulder, tip toes, leaning over the bed. He should be crying too.

Shiki pulled his hands back, rubbing at his wrists. His cheeks were flushed, embarrassment creeping through his system as his own words echoed back at him. Those things he’d rarely told anyone. “Am I… is this too much detail? I can dial it back. It’s just, um, I feel like the context is important for you to like… know why I’m—not write me off as—”

“This is fine, continue. If you say anything unnecessary, I can simply not write it down,” Matsuyama waved his free hand dismissively. The pen in his other hand danced, still, across the page.

Shiki cleared his throat. “Anyway, I lived with Mom after that. And when I was a little older she told me more about it and basically just. ‘He loves All Might more than he loves me,’ she said. Not the person, but the… idea. Like the concept of All Might. It’s who my Dad was so driven to be since the very beginning and… My mom couldn’t take being secondary anymore… And I realized then that, I was part of that too. I didn’t need saving, so I came second. My mom put her hero career on hold to raise me but he, um, he just couldn’t do that. Who he was as a person was so, unfixably tangled up in becoming that All Might in his mind that, he couldn’t sacrifice that. Not for me. Not for my mom.

“And when they finally divorced, and he moved out and into this just… terrible tiny unfurnished apartment, which I only saw twice – two years apart – and both times it looked the same. Nothing in there. Almost like no one was really living there. A futon and a closet and a rice cooker in the corner and boxes and All Might merch on the wall.”

Shiki was 11, sitting on a packed cardboard box against the red-brick wall of his dad’s apartment. Still-packed boxes lined most of the walls, like a misshapen and dull lego construction. Red brick, brown cardboard, All Might smiling from every wall. It was an apartment unlived-in, and that aspect was nearly unfathomable to Shiki. His dad had been moved out for over four months.

“Pretty great, huh?” Deku said, gloved finger pointing to the wall of All Mights. Deku’s smile was bright, his excitement genuine. “The one on the far left was a limited release from 50 years ago. One of my super-fans tracked it down for me and mailed it. Can you believe it?”

Shiki nodded. All the posters looked the same to him.

“But um, after the divorce is when he really skyrocketed. Everything before was child’s play. I was… dizzy. I was 11, and starting middle school, and had just lost my dad only to have him be everywhere but… not my dad. Not there for me. But everywhere, on billboards, in newspapers, on television. Kids at school would hear my last name and they’d ask ‘Midoriya – Like Izuku Midoriya? Like Deku?!’ and I’d have to just say yeah while they applauded or like, even smacked me on the back sometimes like I had any choice in that, and would ask questions about him that, I couldn’t answer, cuz he wasn’t my dad anymore. His fans in my class knew things about him that I didn’t. Sometimes little things like favorite color but sometimes big things, whole things from his childhood that I never heard about. They’d ask me things about him and that’s when I realized I didn’t know my dad at all.”

Shiki glanced up, and saw Himura look away in embarrassment.

“He’d been kidnapped, as a kid, had saved Ground Zero twice, took down a murderer with Ice Razer and Ingenium, had his mentor die during a rescue mission. I had to hear these things from people I didn’t know. And I felt just, selfish, every time I learned something new. Especially the things that happened after I was born. Because how do you sit and hear someone tell you a story about the time your dad saved their grandma from a collapsed bridge and just… how can you justify feeling resentful about that? How selfish do you have to be to think, ‘he should have been spending that night at home with me and my mom, and not saving your grandma.’ I hated it. I started to hate hearing about him.”

His hands were shaking now, slightly, Shiki realized. His breathing too came in too fast and too raspy. He set his wrists back in the open restraints, and breathed out.

“And just… by the time I was 12, Dad made Top 20. And then when I was 13, he was Top 10. …And I think at that point he really, truly didn’t feel like my dad anymore. Because he was just, some God to the world. Someone people fawned over by the millions and, just, that was better, actually. Because I could really just act like he wasn’t my dad, had nothing to do with me. Maybe I was at peace with that. I could do the 20-minute phone calls once a week and be courteous with him and answer questions about school and just, move on…”

Shiki walked the same street every day to school, the same route with the same turns, the same backpack slung over one shoulder. But the scenery changed. New advertisements. New billboards. New screens projecting, dancing, twirling, screening, screaming. Deku brand hand cream. Deku brand baby clothes. Deku brand clutch purses. Headlines with stills of Pro Hero Deku printed on the front page. Upcoming: interview with Pro Hero Deku! Everywhere. Growing like mushrooms. The likeness almost like the one in Shiki’s mirror every morning. The likeness of a man quickly fading from memory, quickly replaced by advertisements and stills over flesh and blood. Shiki felt eyes on him, every day, from people who saw the resemblance. Or maybe not. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe no one was looking at him at all.

The wrist restraints were cold.

“And I started to see Mom less and less, around that time. I was old enough to take care of myself mostly so she, she took up patrolling again. Started rising the ranks quickly too… Mostly because the tabloids loved her, and circulated her name as much as they could, as the ex-wife of Deku… They said horrible things that I—still I—even thinking about them just. Vile horrible things about her and Dad, and why Dad left her, and why she left Dad, and ‘Deku fans’ piling on her calling her trash and filth and whore and, insulted her for keeping his last name until, eventually, she did change it back and… I stopped reading those but… that’s how hero work works. Whatever gets your name out there, and gets you recognized, so that your rescues get camera time and screen time and … She at least got to make her own name, once she got recognized. Her own rescue efforts spoke for themselves. Saved over 75 people from the rubble of a collapsed building and, s-she broke top-100 that same year. I wanted to be happy for her. I wanted to… but the house was so empty.”

13 year old Shiki unlocked the front door. He flicked the lights, and they blazed through the pitch blackness beyond the foyer. There was a sterile cleanliness inside, the subtle sting of lemon in the back of his throat. Between his mom’s new notoriety and his dad’s hefty child support, they could afford a personal cleaner now. Twice a week. She must have come. The apartment was spotless.

Shiki turned on the television and rooted through the cabinet and emerged with a box of cereal. He didn’t bother with a bowl. He sat on the couch instead, scrolling his phone with one hand, grabbing fistfuls of cereal with the other. The news mentioned ‘Uravity’ and Shiki turned it up. He listened to the reporters until they spiraled into her failed marriage with Pro Hero Deku, and Shiki listened no further.

He focused on his phone instead, cereal crunching. Most of the forums he followed were Uravity forums. He paused on a particular cross-posting, shared by someone irate over the click-bait bottom-feeding publications that drew readership with manufactured drama. Shiki read the headline. ~”‘She took our son!’ Pro Hero Deku sobs in a raw tell-all about the woman who broke his heart and tore apart his family to launch her own career.”~

There was a boy pictured in the article. The boy wasn’t even Shiki.

“I was 13 still, and we were moving from the apartment into a nice house, because Mom’s salary and Dad’s child support were now more than enough for a proper place. A nice place. And I did most of the house cleaning and packing myself since Mom was now so so busy… And I found, in the attic, my old box of toys, the gravity ball toys the—the ones where—me and Mom used to bop them back and forth and I… think I just… I threw them away. And the old newspaper clippings I kept about Dad. Threw them all away. Never made it to the new house. I hated them. I hated them.”

Shiki pressed his back against the attic wall, suddenly short of breath, static suddenly in his legs and rippling down his spine. He slid down, slowly, streaking the layer of dust along the wall, just like his hands had streaked away the dust on the boxes, gray lint filling the ridges on his finger tips. He stared at the layer of yellowed newsprint, the top article boasting ~”No Longer Just A Side-Kick? ‘Deku’ Makes His Agency Debut!”~

It filled him with revulsion, with a choking hurt in the ways that modern news headlines didn’t. He had forgotten the feeling associated with these old headlines. That old forgotten excitement of knowing that news outlets had come to acknowledge his dad’s existence.

Not his dad anymore. Not his. Izuku Midoriya lived in newsprint now. The media owned him, had stolen him slowly. A superhuman. A god. Not a husband. Not a father. Not Shiki’s.

“He called on the phone once a week. Just once a week, to talk about nothing. Until I was 14, that is. Once I turned 14, suddenly Dad was eager to be on the phone with me. And he’d act like he was interested in talking to me about normal stuff, but it always came back to U.A. Always U.A. Asking if I wanted to. Asking if I’d thought about it. Asking if I had any questions that he or Mom could answer about the school.”

Shiki’s voice caught.

“…Still… still makes me angry. And he just didn’t realize. I realized he had no idea. At all. Whatsoever. That what he’d done was… might have been wrong. I realized and it blew my mind. That nothing he did was ever, ever malicious. He was, is, thought he was a good person. Working so hard to save everyone. Absolute strangers. As many, as much, as endlessly eternally as he could. And he… thought I idolized that. That I looked at him and Mom and wanted to… do them proud and follow in their footsteps. And I saw him through… his own eyes I guess… and he was the world’s hero and the next All Might and the rising Symbol of Peace and he didn’t think he’d abandoned me, or Mom, he thought he’d just left us to catch up… I think he talked my mom back into heroing. Because they stayed friends, or ‘friends’, whatever you call two people who get along great so long as they ignore all the hurt between them. And… he… wanted me to enroll in U.A… THAT… was when I finally snapped at him, and we got family counseling.”

Silently, Matsuyama set his pen down, and he slid across the table a box of tissues Shiki had not noticed him take out. And Shiki took one, shocked to pad it against the stream of tears he hadn’t noticed rolling down his cheek. He stole one more glance into the mirror, ashamed of the puffy-eyed and blotchy-cheeked reflection. His dad’s freckles. His mom’s chestnut hair. He was designed piece-meal from them. No part his own. No part himself. The buzzing, overhead. Fly in the jar. Uncaring of gravity. Eternally confined to the jar’s unseeable walls.

“I saw Dad in person, for the first time in 2 years, when we went to that counselor.” Shiki let out a strained laugh. “I had literally… misremembered things about him. I had remembered him being taller but, the media just loved to prop him up at certain angles that made him taller. In street clothes, in person, he almost didn’t look like Pro Hero Deku. …And even smaller, when he cried. Because he did cry, during counseling, like honestly cried. And he apologized. I’d never – I didn’t think I would ever get an apology from him. Or like I couldn’t ask for one, didn’t deserve one, because that would be selfish. But he owned up to it… Dad cared. Dad was sorry. Dad had no idea I was this hurt. Dad thought I idolized heroes too and that he was making me proud. And I thought it would work. I thought we would finally fix this all.”

The counselor asks. The raw hurt of the session starts anew.

“I was finally able to tell him just, how invisible I felt to him. How selfish it made me feel. He listened. He cared. He stopped shilling for U.A. I went into a normal high school, one without a hero track. And the first weekend of the school year, Mom, me, and him went to an aquarium, and dinner at a fancy restaurant, and a play in the evening. I don’t like plays but, I liked that play. A lot.”

Shiki crumpled the used tissue in his hand, and then hid it beneath the table. It was wet and tainted and felt unclean in his hand, but there was no garbage can in sight, and he had nothing else he could do with it.

“And that was when Dad slipped a rank, that next month. From #7 to #8. It shouldn’t have mattered so much but, it did. He’d never fallen rank before… No actually, even worse, he’d never even stayed the same rank from one ranking release to the next. He was always climbing. For almost 20 straight years, always climbing, and this was the first time, the very first time he… Dad didn’t mention it. I didn’t mention it. But in my mind I’ve always blamed this as the like, as the turning point, toward turning back down. In reality I don’t know that for sure. Maybe our whole family was just, always destined to slip back on old habits, right from the start. It’s not like he or Mom ever went back on any promises or anything. But more like… Dad slowly stopped proposing weekend activities, and so did Mom. Until it was just me putting in that effort, and I couldn’t be the cause of him falling rank anymore. I couldn’t be the bad guy.”

Shikinori Midoriya’s blood ran cold. Red. The name, the arrow, downward-pointing, -1. Red. Red where there had only ever been green. “#8” in red, which bore no value and no merit beyond the unsightly embarrassment of being below #7.

There were sharks in the water.

Shiki knew it would be only hours until the most predatory, the most inflammatory think-piece writers pounced. Until hero forums buckled under every single anonymous layperson’s expert opinion on where, and how, and why Deku had stumbled. Was his rescue count down? Was his collateral coefficient up? Were merch sales dropping? Had his new figurine bombed? Had a hostage died? Had he yelled at a reporter? Was it the joint rescue with his money-grubbing ex-wife? His incident resolution was abnormally low two Saturdays back. Why? Where had he been? What was he thinking?

Shiki read the theories. He told himself to stop, but the scroll loaded endlessly. Some fans honed in on that weekend – the aquarium trip – fascinated by the dip in resolved incidents, circling like vultures, pecking, tearing, probing. They found an Instagram post from a fan spotting Deku in the crowd of the hammerhead exhibit, and the link got passed around like an electric current.

Had this happened a month ago, a year ago, Shiki might have just watched it unfold disaffected. Shiki’s chest ached now. He hurt for the man his mind had reconciled as his father, for the man who mimicked the guppies and pressed against the glass in the aquatic tunnel, cheeks puffed and scarred hands flapping by his ears. Shiki ached for the genuine laughter from his mother, who still loved this man and his guppy imitation. He ached for the reminder of what his family was, and what it wasn’t, and what it was punished for even trying to be.

“His agency and Mom’s started collaborating a lot. They were good together. Like really good. The two of them together, I saw a new story almost every week. Maybe I was even a little jealous but… it wasn’t something I wanted to be a part of, anyway. So I was fine with that. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t – and don’t – want to be a hero.

“I just kind of… tried to figure myself out as a person, by myself, during high school. I kept a low profile. Joined a math club. Only really talked to a few people most days. Had like, two people I sort of saw as friends. I started going by my mom’s name, Uraraka. Never told people who my parents were. And I think that was for the best, because I was still in school – I was 17 – when Dad claimed the #1 spot. …and I swear I would have had to transfer schools if my classmates knew I was Deku’s kid.”

“Front Page” did not begin to describe the explosion, the eruption, the maelstrom of obsession that gripped an entire nation’s heart and soul when Pro Hero Deku unseated the previous #1. The new report came just days after Deku performed his 10,000th recorded civilian rescue. In honor, dedicated fans had gone and compiled every drop of video coverage that ever graced Deku’s career. It was chronological, starting with grainy film 20 years’ outdated of a still-scrawny U.A. sidekick pulling a man out of rubble, and progressed like a time-lapse from there. A rescue counter sat super-imposed on the bottom-right, documenting the rescues as Deku grew taller, broader, more confident, more practiced, faster and stronger and beaming – always beaming – with a smile to instill hope in an entire nation. The whole montage was two hours in length, and it skyrocketed to the #1 trending.

A half-dozen other videos followed in its wake: a clip of Deku shaking hands with the President who pinned a simple, proper, dignified medal to the front of his costume. A shaking, trembling, sobbing hug with the skeletal and spindly public figure of Toshinori Yagi – previously known as All Might – who teared up along with Deku on stage. Chants of “Symbol”. Chants of “Peace”. Chants, louder than all others, of “Deku”.

Everywhere. Everywhere. Replaying. Tagged. Suggested. Trending. Featured. A kiss with Uravity, tender and subtle and full of passion. A handshake with Shota Aizawa, his first teacher, his long-time peer. Endless interviews with rescued victims. Tear-jerkers. A man named Kota recalling how Deku, at 15, saved him from a certain violent death. A woman named Eri detailing how Deku had taken her in his arms and rescued her from the depths of Hell.

Thousands others followed. Spine-tingling recounts from voices, with breath and warmth and life, who wouldn’t be alive without Deku. They heaped their praises on a man so endlessly driven, forward forward forward, that he could save 10,000 people, and 10,000 more, and everyone, and everything he could touch.

Shiki skipped school the whole next week. Hardly anyone noticed.

“So I got away. Far away. I figured out college all by myself, and got accepted to my top choice 1,000 kilometers away from Tokyo, and it was perfect for me, because maybe then I could figure myself out for a bit, away from everything. Mom asked me to reconsider when I finally saw her in person four days after I’d accepted. She’d been on a sting mission for two straight weeks. They saved fifty people. It earned her her spot as the #15 Hero. My dad had saved twice as many people in that time. Not that I heard it from him. I heard it on the news. I didn’t speak to him again until after I graduated.”

Shiki breathed. “College… was good. It was far away enough that I stopped being afraid of people recognizing me at a glance. I made real friends. I had real relationships. Got to know my professors. Took up tutoring and loved it. I… did things on the weekends, like with friends, went places, saw things, I was happy. Genuinely happy. All these things I never realized I was missing as a kid because I never realized I could have an identity outside of being just… Deku’s reject son. I stopped fearing that and started to be me. I traveled during school breaks. Took some pottery classes. Just… breathed.” Shiki’s hands fidgeted. “At least… until I graduated. And I realized there was a whole cliff I was standing over that I was just avoiding. I didn’t have a job lined up. I tried. For absolute certain. I lost count around the 75 application mark. Nothing. My college friends moved away. My funds were drying up. …I moved back home.”

One duffle bag, slung across his right shoulder, was all Shikinori Midoriya brought home with him. This big house from his teenage years was empty. Endless untouched rooms. Pristine duvets across the beds in all 5 bedrooms, including master. Empty dressers. Empty drawers. Not so much as fingerprints on the front doorknob. Only his mom lived here now, and Shiki fought with the blooming certainty he felt in his gut that she spent almost no time here at all.

Uravity was now the #7 hero. Her merch sales were particularly popular with girls ages 5-12. The money she raked it was enough to put her parents up permanently in a beach house in Hawaii. Money would likely never be a worry for her for as long as she lived. She likely never sold this home because it simply wasn’t worth the hassle.

Shiki set his bag down in his old room, bigger and cleaner and newer and nicer than his college apartment, and so much more a cage than it had ever been before.

Fly in a jar.

“Moving home was… a rough choice. I thought a lot, before that, about just asking Mom and Dad for money. They could definitely afford it. But I couldn’t… be that again, the reject son, some unwanted parasite, pilfering money. I just needed enough stability to get back into the job hunt and get back on my feet. I told Mom that much. I didn’t tell Dad. Didn’t even tell him I’d moved back home but, he found out from Mom. He wanted to see me. Wanted to talk to me. I’d ignored all his calls in college… I decided to bite the bullet and just, go into his office and see him. Let him lay eyes on his failure son. Get it over with. I told him about college, and about my job hunt, and just needing enough time to get back on my feet. And you know what he said?”

Matsuyama glanced up. His pen still trailed. “What did he say?”

“’I could use another accountant at the agency, even a receptionist, if you don’t want to deal with crunching numbers. Given some time and training… I could even use another side kick.’” Shiki looked up, locking eyes with Matsuyama, and blinked away the tears blurring his vision. “Math… was my best subject in school. I want… to be a math teacher. I’ve been sending out a hundred applications for teaching positions. Dad doesn’t know that. Dad… is still living in this world where everything is heroes. And of course he is! He’s lived there his whole life! He never left it! And he’s still waiting for me to join. Waiting for me to change my mind. Like time is the only factor. That world stole my parents and he… and he still thinks that, things can be fine, he can get his way. He thinks, I’ll do what my mom did, and play catch up to him. That I’ll come into my own. That I’ll join him in his hero world. Him and Mom both. That I would want anything to do with heroes. He won’t believe otherwise.”

Shiki struck an open palm against his chest. “Well he’s not getting that. He’s NOT getting this quirk! Not now! Not ever! I’m GETTING RID OF IT. I want to be part of Dr. Himura’s Quirk-Erasure study because, until I’m fully stripped of my Quirk, my Dad and my Mom won’t get it. I know – all those guys out in the waiting room? I know they’re all villains. Probably this whole study is villains, yeah?! They’re all people who’ve been offered reduced sentences if they willingly give up their quirk in this study. Maybe you have a few normal people with dangerous quirks who want to be rid of it but me. My quirk. I stand out, I know, I get it. Because gravity control is cool. And it’s harmless. So why would I want to get rid of it, permanently? This is why. Because everything I’ve spouted off, it, all that probably sounds like some villain-origin-story, yeah?? ‘My hero father never loved me so now he will pay.’ No. No heroes and no villains I’m sick of all of them. This ends here. This ends with me! No more heroes, no more villains. No more POWERS in the Midoriya blood line! This is a non-origin story. This is the origin of me! This is the start of me taking back what heroes took from me!”

Shiki’s breath caught in his throat. He felt the tears wetting his cheeks and knew he had no power to stop them this time, not with the mangled tightness in his chest, not with the hurt bubbling long-repressed to the surface. So he wiped hastily at his eyes, and he stared down at the desk below him.

“I’ve thought this through. I know what I want. I’m not being coerced. I’m of a sound mind and body. I just… want a normal, happy, powerless life. I want to be normal. And I need this final leap, to prove to my family once and for all they can’t have me. I need this control. I need this trump card. I need this final, unchangeable, irreversible option to make them get it. That they can accept me quirkless… or they can not accept me at all.” Shiki lowered himself, and set his eyes to his lap. “Please… Please, I’m begging you.”

Matsuyama let the pen clink to the table. Shiki could not get an accurate count, but at least 40 pages had been flipped over the clipboard’s spiraled top. Matsuyama unfurled these pages, and steadied their alignment, and tucked the board beneath his arm. His chair scraped back with an unholy shriek, and he stood.

“Thank you. We will let you know in due time about your candidacy in the study.”

Matsuyama motioned for the door.

“Wait…” Shiki swallowed. His mouth had gone dry. His ears were ringing slightly. “Can’t you tell me now?”

“The decisions have not been made. How can I tell you now?”

“What about just me then? Y-yes or no?”

“You will be informed in due time.”

“When? How soon?”

Matsuyama motioned again.

“Yes or no? Please. Can you let me be part of this or not?”

“The next patient is coming in, Shiki. See yourself out.”

…

Inko Midoriya’s apartment was small, and it was stayed, and it was comfortable. Her son had offered her time and time again to move her into a nicer place, but she always declined. This apartment was where she’d raised her family. These walls had memories. This was her home.

It felt almost like a memory, just now. Out of the corner of Inko’s eye, seeing the young man with curly hair and green eyes seated at her kitchen table was achingly familiar, the ghost of family dinners with her son.

10 minutes had passed since Inko pulled the rack of cookies from the oven, a warm miasma of buttery sweetness, and laid them out to cool. She grabbed one now, quick touches, experimentally, until the heat didn’t quite burn her fingers, and placed it on a plate. She did the same with a second cookie, and carried them like a server to the table where she took the seat opposite Shiki. He watched her, and accepted the cookie with a quiet ‘thank you’, and merely stared at it. He let the warmth wash across his face.

“I’m happy to have you back around Tokyo, you know,” Inko said quietly. She looked down at her own cookie, smiling slightly, and picked it up. “Happy to have someone to bake for.”

“I’m happy to see you too, Grandma. It’s been a while.” Shiki bit into his cookie. It was warm, and soft, and achingly comforting. Shiki wasn’t used to the taste of homecooked anything. It squeezed something in his ribcage, made him hurt in a gentle way. “It’s delicious,” he whispered, and raised the heel of his palm to wipe the wetness there.

“You can… you know you can stay with me, Shiki. I’d be happy. I want you to. I know it’s not as big a place as Ochaco’s home, but, Izuku’s old room is still here. There’s still… You could still…”

Shiki shook his head. “If I stay with you, it’ll be so much harder to leave. I’m still job hunting. No guarantees I’ll end up anywhere near here.”

The silence spread between them. The warmth of Shiki’s cookie wafted away, sapping off, like steam curling from a lake.

“…You don’t want to end up living around here, do you, Shiki?”

“Not if I can help it,” Shiki answered.

Inko turned in her chair, and motioned her hand toward the rest of the cookies cooling on the rack. Quirk activated, she pulled them each closer, and let them each fall onto the empty plate that sat between her and Shiki. Still gooey, they seemed to melt into each other, taking form of those beneath them. Inko nudged the plate closer to Shiki, encouraging him to take another.

He did. He bit the cookie. Warm.

“…I’m sorry, Shiki, about the study. I know you had your heart set on it.”

Shiki shrugged. “Matsuyama said there weren’t enough slots. He said he needed to prioritize better candidates. People who would really benefit from losing their quirk.”

Silence, again.

“It wouldn’t have changed things, you know. If it makes you feel any better, Shiki. You having a quirk was never the problem."

Shiki paused mid-bite. The lump in his throat made it too hard to swallow.

“How do you deal with it, Grandma? You’ve been dealing with it so much longer, right? Because I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

Inko gave him a small smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. “You’re right, but… I don’t think I have a good answer for you, Shiki. It’s lonely here. I miss him. I’m afraid for him. But maybe I’m just, maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. It’s been like this ever since he enrolled in U.A. Since he was little. It was what made him happy. I’m his mother, and I’m supposed to set aside my own feelings for my child.” Inko nudged the cookies toward Shiki again. “But you, that burden should never have been on you. Especially not as a child. I’m sorry, Shiki, I’m so sorry.”

“So he’s… always been like this, is what you’re saying, yeah? It wasn’t—it’s not just me he doesn’t want—”

“No. Not you. Definitely not you, Shiki,” Inko insisted. “It’s who he is. Who he’s always been. …Who he’ll always be, I think. Even when he was 3 or 4 years old, so small he fit in my lap… He’s… so incredibly kind, and so incredibly driven, and it’s a combination that breaks a mother’s heart. Because it meant he was always sacrificing himself for others in danger. Doing what All Might would do. But All Might doesn’t have a family; he doesn’t have children. I wonder, sometimes, who All Might left behind, to become who he was. If that’s who we are.”

Shiki put his cookie down. His hands curled in, and he looked at them, ridged fingertips, ridged palms, obligated to use them heroically or not at all. Marks he never asked for.

“But why did he have to be All Might? Why him? Why us? Ice Razer and Creati have a daughter. They dote on her. They love her so much it’s embarrassing. I’ve met her, once, at a reunion thing that Mom and Dad had. And I was angry at her. How much she smiled. How you can just see how proud Ice Razer is, in his eyes, every time he looks at her. Ice Razer was on track to be the #1 hero, ahead of Dad, and he’s said publicly that he no longer cares about his ranking if it means being there for his family, because his dad never was. Dad didn’t… Dad never… He was putting in 120 hour weeks, at the time Ice Razer’s daughter was born, when I was sitting home waiting up for him, because old news headlines estimated that All Might put in 119 hour weeks in his prime, and Dad had to be that. Ice Razer visits his mother! When was the last time Dad came to see you, Grandma?”

Inko Midoriya responded with only a sad smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Ground Zero and Red Riot. Their adopted son, I’ve met him too. You wouldn’t think Ground Zero of all people would be any kind of good father but… he is… apparently… And that’s… fuck, you know what? That’s all I want to be. A good dad. That’s all! I want to teach math, and I want to fall in love with a girl, and marry her, and I want to be there. Just be there. For my kid. I want to spend every weekend with my family. I want to be around for every dinner. I want to help with homework. And I want no one – no villains and no heroes – to ever know my name. Is that too much, Grandma? Is it selfish of me to want that… and to want Mom and Dad to still love me too?”

Shiki’s voice cracked. He hadn’t meant for it to. He hadn’t meant for his composure to slip, or for those final words to come out. He hadn’t meant to open up that hollow ache in his chest, where that fear sat deep and rotten.

His next words were wet. “Is it too selfish of me to just want them to be proud of me?”

“Oh, oh Shiki…” Inko shoved her chair back. Hands extended, she rounded the table, and she wrapped her arms around Shiki. Kind hands, kind like Shiki was not used to. His vision blurred, and he pulled a hand up to wrap around Inko’s arm, and he leaned into her.

“I told him, Grandma…” he muttered, voice still wet. “…I told Dad that I got accepted to Matsuyama’s study. I told him I already went through with it.”

“What?”

Shiki shook his head. “I know it was wrong. I just… I hoped. I don’t know. I just wanted him, maybe, for once… I don’t know…”

“What did he say?”

Shiki shrugged, his movement muted under Inko’s hug. “I don’t know. I hung up. I just hung up.”

…

The beach air was cold, and it was briny. Wind curled off the lapping waves, spritzing All Might’s face with a spray of ocean water that was not wholly unpleasant. It reminded him of a time long-since passed.

The sound of footsteps met his ears. He did not turn, not immediately. All Might breathed in the ocean air a little longer.

“How… how have you been?” The voice – the man beside him – asked.

“Oh, you know. Same old same old. I’ve got this pesky ache in my knee that’s catching up to me. Recovery Girl recommends I start doing some swimming exercises. I’ve been considering it. It might suit these old bones.”

“Oh! I know a few gyms nearby with pool facilities. I-I can get you into them, you know, for free. I’m sure I could—”

All Might held a hand up. “What, do you think I don’t still have connections of my own, Young Midoriya?”

“S-sorry.”

All Might turned properly now, catching sight of Izuku Midoriya, a man so accomplished in the public eye looking familiarly helpless at his side. This beach held memories. Izuku was hardly recognizable from the first day All Might had brought him here for training, and in other ways, he looked exactly the same.

“You called me here to talk about Shikinori, right?” All Might continued. He stared back out at the sea, dark and getting darker. The sun has set 10 minutes prior. “You said he lost his quirk.”

Izuku remained quiet.

“He… had it taken away. He chose to do it, he said.”

“Why?”

Again, silence settled between them. All Might looked back, scanning Izuku’s face, taking in a look mangled with confusion and concern, unsettled and helpless. Not the beaming face on television. Not the endless smile to instill fear in the hearts of villains.

“…I think it was because of me,” Izuku finally answered.

Waves, lapping to shore. All Might found himself watching them again. “A quirkless life is not so bad. These past 30 years have been peaceful for me.”

Static settled in the air around them. Rolling ocean. Gentle wind.

All Might let out a small sigh. “What advice are you looking for, from me, Young Midoriya?”

“I… need to know if this is okay with you. If my plan is okay with you,” Izuku answered.

“As your concerned mentor, I’ve found I don’t like most of your plans,” All Might answered. “What is your plan?”

“Shikinori lost his quirk because of me… I wasn’t there for him. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a good father to him, I think. I was waiting for him to come to me but. I messed up. I need to go to him now. I can think of only one way I have to make it up to him.” Izuku looked up. Conflict pulled at his pained expression, and his fist curled. “Maybe, if I give him One for All, I can fix this.”

Another spritz of ocean spray hit the shore. All Might could feel the salt crystalizing on his face.

“I was right. I don’t like your plan.” All Might turned, and took a step toward Izuku, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “No. That’s my answer. No, I do not approve.”

Izuku seemed to buckle, just a little. He curled one hand in and rested it on All Might’s, still on his shoulder. The shadows of nightfall hid his eyes, but not his mouth, pained and strained at the corners. “Then what can I do to fix this?”

“Why do you think that giving Shikinori One for All would fix this in the first place? Do you really believe that his quirk is the root of the problem? Do you?”

Izuku’s hand trailed down. He shook his head, slowly. The words that came out were pained. “Ochaco and I… are back together again. We’re making this work. We’re… we’re putting the pieces of our family back together. We just need Shikinori. I just want him back with us…”

“…I told you this 20 years ago, Young Midoriya, and I’ll tell you it again. And it will hurt worse now to hear it, because you didn’t follow my advice the first time--”

“I thought I could do both.”

“—You cannot be the Symbol of Peace and have a family. There aren’t enough hours in a lifetime. …I left people behind—”

“I know.”

“—people I cared about. People who cared about me. I hurt them, and I knew I hurt them—”

“I know.”

“And that was my choice. I made that decision. Because protecting the peace of the whole world… that was more important to me than the people I hurt. I carry the burden of that decision every day. …I told you, 20 years ago, that you had to make that decision too.”

“I know, I just thought maybe, with both Ochaco and me—”

“And you did. You did make that decision. You’re the Symbol of Peace, and I’m proud of you for that, …and you’ll have to carry that same burden, too, of that decision you made.”

Izuku’s hand was curled around All Might’s sleeve now. He was smaller now than the man who first arrived at the beach, and so, so much smaller than the Symbol of Peace lauded in headlines across the nation. His shoulders trembled. Tears dripped down the curvature of his nose, lost to the briny sand below.

All Might continued. “This is one piece of advice I can give you… Stop saddling Shiki with that same burden… Don’t give him that weight to bear. Don’t trap him in the world of heroes. Let him go.”

Izuku pulled in a shuddering breath, and he steadied his shoulders.

“…I failed him, didn’t I, All Might…?”

Another lap of waves at the shore, forging eternally onward. There was an ache in All Might’s knees, a rattle to his old bones, a pain that never ceased throbbing in his side. He wondered how long ago it had been, exactly, since he first made this decision himself. How many pulls of the tide since he last saw his mother. How many moons since the earth had reclaimed her. How many breaths of wind had passed since the very last time she thought of him.

He wondered, not for the first time, if it had been selfish of him to trade her, and everyone else away for the protection of all the people he’d never known or loved.

All Might reached down, and he pulled Izuku into a hug. Come daylight, Izuku would have to smile again, on every television and every billboard and every broadcast and every rescue. For now, All Might figured, it was fine to let him cry.

“…Yes. I’m sorry. I’m to blame for this too. I pulled you down this path. But… yes. You failed him.”

All Might ran a hand over Izuku’s hair as his cries grew louder. All Might wondered if Izuku had ever held Shiki like this. He wouldn’t know. All Might wasn’t a father. All Might had no son. Whether that was selfish or selfless, he still did not know.

The wind picked up to a howl, and it swept into shore, and it drowned Izuku’s cries beneath it.

By tomorrow, Izuku would be smiling on the news.

By tomorrow, Shiki would be on a train to an interview far north in Akita.

By tomorrow, Inko would be alone again.

#boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero academia #mha #bnha fanfiction #long post #so ive been writing this fic since OCTOBER #its transcended all emotional relation to me and now simply IS #(i remember years ago the Read More function broke on mobile and i hope thats NOT the case now)#if so: my sincere apologies

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americankimchi · 7 years ago

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got spoiled for the ep and apparently percahlia got secret married?? lmao... why tho. like what was the Point

#personal #cr spoilers #why get married in secret over the year if you could have all ur friends over and have a fun time???#maybe there were extenuating circumstances i dunno #feels unnecessary to me #also slightly hypocritical of vex to do considering she told her brother to not do the exact same thing #anyways

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magneticmage · 4 years ago

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I'm in the mood for it (plus it's Disability Pride month) so here are all my disabled ocs;

Under cut for Length

Additional Notes; Please do not judge me too harshly. While I have a few of these disabilities (most notably PTSD, anxiety-depression, and visual impairments) myself and personally know people who have some others, every person and their experiences are unique. I try my best to give these disabilities the space and gravity they deserve in my writing, but it is difficult for ones that I have no personal experience with. In addition, I am still learning and only human. If I have done something wrong or phrased something badly at any point now or in the future, let me know and I will do my best to fix it/do better. Apologies for the abrupt disclaimer but there we go.

Anyways!!!!

On the the List!

RWBY;

Selene Argent=Has PTSD, one prosthetic eye, and some physical scars on face and torso. I'd safely say she counts.

Baldur's Gate;

Sable Shades=Is an albino and was rendered mute at birth. He sunburns extremely easily and is near-sighted. He also often communicates through sign language.

Roan Roarke=Beyond some minor PTSD symptoms (increased anxiety and stress levels) surrounding fires, he's perfectly fine.

Faenerys Elendir=Has PTSD from her time imprisoned particular involving whips and brands as torture implements.

Rune Mistsea=Post-lycanthropy encounter, he is notably more short-tempered around the full moon along with a distinct craving for meat and violence. Otherwise, nothing else of note.

Lucine Mistsea=Beyond a notable paranoia issue when it comes to demons and cambions (but not fellow tieflings), she's fine.

Lyr(e/a/an) Lovemoor=Autistic. Too much light and noise and surrounding activity is draining and makes them short-tempered with occasional blowouts/meltdowns. Has a Thing about certain textures (very much hates slimes and oozes and squishy things for this reason, likes silks and furs and leathers). Has a fascination for all things shiny and glittery (gems and currencies are a special interest). Also often fidgets with their daggers.

Saga Musehart=Was rendered blind due to torture at the hands of prison guards. She also lost a hand (initially) and a forearm (later due to infection) and wears a prosthesis.

Cei Gloomdraft=Autistic or at least neurodivergent of some kind. Might have some ADHD, it's not quite clear yet in the few pieces I've written so far to help develop her.

Mass Effect;

(Solo Shepard Canon)

Annette Shepard=Has some lingering PTSD symptoms from surviving a raid on Mindoir, then thresher maws in Akuze, and then being spaced at the beginning in Mass Effect 2. She also suffers from some survivor's guilt Post-Virmire due to losing Ashley, and then all of Mass Effect 3 puts such a huge burden on her that she's fighting off some severe depression and despair from all the losses. She's got an old war injury in her shoulder that acts up from time to time, occasionally making her biotics misfire a barrier. She's on immuno-suppressant drugs to prevent her body from rejecting her Cerberus-added cybernetic implants and upgrades, and also some antidepressants for depression and anxiety symptoms for said lingering PTSD symptoms. Girl's a walking disaster-fire mentally but she keeps on surviving and she still looks for the good in life as it comes, so there's that.

(Shepard Siblings)

Joanna=Like Roscoe and Riley, she's also on immuno-suppressants to prevent cybernetic implant rejection. Notably, she's the most well-adjusted of the three mentally, although the losses and struggles of ME 3 start to take their toll due to depression. She spends an awkward month on the Normandy adjusting to the new medication while adjusting the amounts needed. In addition, she also goes through a whole existential crisis come the Citadel DLC about if she is really Joanna Shepard or a clone (which Riley, Roscoe, and the Normandy crew snap her out of). Her survivor's guilt is much less pronounced than Riley's though she does start the early stages of a martyr complex (it's a source of frequent and well-humored debate between Riley and Roscoe if it was already there or not) about the of Thane's death. But she does her best and keeps on going.

Roscoe=Definitely mentally ill. He's got some trauma around abandonment that starts to get fully addressed around ME 2 in part due to Jack and Miranda and is mostly resolved around ME 3 though naturally scars remain. It often manifests as anger, depression, and even callousness. Like Joanna's and Riley, he is on immuno-suppressants to prevent the potential rejection of his cybernetics. He's also got an old wound from Torfan in his abdomen that acts up under stronger pressures like before a rainstorm or different gravity levels as well as drastic temperature changes such as cold (he HATES Noveria for that reason in particular though it isn't the only one, man). Beyond all that, he's very strong-willed and gives no fucks to shit.

Riley=Much like Annette except a bit more well-adjusted due to a larger support network and character drive. Has notable flashbacks/triggers around batarians, thresher maws (this one includes panic attacks once the direct danger has passed), and hardsuit complications (they always makes sure that their helmet and everything is in working and optimal order). Has survivor's guilt from their losses on Mindoir and Akuze but between meeting Talitha and Toombs in ME 1, they confront and deal with it, beginning to heal from it. Even on Virmire with the loss of Honora and all the failures of ME 3, they do better at handling it though it still remains to varying degrees. Like Joanna's and Roscoe (and Annette again), they're on immuno-suppressant drugs to prevent issues with their body rejecting the cybernetics, with the additional ones of antidepressants to help manage some of their anxiety-depression symptoms. They also have some degree of chronic pain (maybe some kind of cystic fibrosis?) due to past overuse of their biotics that damaged part of their nervous system and occasionally causes it to misfire for no reason, often causing intense pain. Rarely and only if the pain isn't treated with extensive biotics-free rest periods and numbing agents in the form of more pills, the biotics will manifest and they'll accidentally move shit around, including themself a few times. This is most notable in ME 3 due to the nature of the larger and longer combat sequences with shorter and shorter rest times between. Though they manage as best they can with the help of their crew and family, it is still a struggle and they notably stop joking about retiring when they're dead and seem to consider it more seriously around ME 3 but save the final decision for the end of the Reaper Wars.

(Shepard Family)

Honora Hartford=She had an eating disorder when she was younger that left some lingering issues with her health but overall she's fine up until her death.

Riley's deceased siblings were overall healthy though Payton had Down's Syndrome and Brooklyn had ADHD. Harley had moderate asthma and used an inhaler.

Clover has anemia quite often and takes iron pills daily

The rest of the Shepard cousins don't have any disabilities to much knowledge though I am still fleshing them out.

(Andromeda)

Sara and Scott Ryder have some lingering damage from their cryopod accident and the Kett leader fucking with them, but otherwise they are okay.

Asher has ADHD while Shiloh struggles with a mild form of chronic fatigue. Evander, Rebecca, and Lucas are all able-bodied.

Dragon Age;

(Fereldan Wardens)

Lynera Mahariel=Dunno if this counts, but am putting it here anyways since it affects her overall health. Occasionally suffers from a type of sleep paralysis that is mixed with night-terrors. It doesn't appear to have a rhyme or reason as to when it occurs beyond perhaps stress and it's only every few months. However, it often leaves her completely drained for at least a week afterwards. She also occasionally has insomnia post-terrors as well which she self-medicates with sleeping draughts. She also has crippling period pains that appear to be consistent with ovarian cysts on her left side (though she later has it removed by Catriona once it ruptures due to injury). She also suffers from bouts of depression during Origins but that could be due to the extenuating circumstances she was under at the time.

Isemaya Tabris=When overly stressed, being exposed to strong amounts of concentrated Taint in a short period of time, or sometimes simply for no apparent reason, she suffers from intense migraines that are often treated with herbal painkillers and lying still in a dark and quiet room. Also due to a past injury to her left eye by humans, she has a harder time seeing on that side but is not completely blind.

Catriona Surana=She seems to be autistic due to her ability and predilection to hyperfocus on various studies (often Blight and magic-related but other areas do occur) as well as her obliviousness to social cues (she didn't realize she was liked by her suitors until Cale outright told her and by then she had decided she liked them already). Notably, she adapts a bit better Post-Origins due to Alistair and Leliana's influences but it still happens.

Cale Amell=Had some minor amnesia surrounding the exact events leading to his magic manifestation but later learned it was because he had set his eldest brother Azul on fire and believed he killed him as Raven helpfully supplied (Azul had instead faked his death as Cale discovers around the time of Awakening).

Fion Cousland=Briefly suffers from a minor alcohol addiction but has treatment while he is still in the functional phase courtesy of Catriona. Since then, he heavily monitors his intake and even helps Oghren get treatment for his own. He also occasionally has painful muscle twinges due to an injury that stretches from his temple to his eye and ear down to his neck on the right side. This is most notable in bad weather or when he is sick.

Barran Aeducan=Suffered from a superiority-inferiority complex towards his siblings growing up though it has greatly lessened with time and experience. It is mostly gone by the time of Inquisition though prominent traces still remain.

Tatha Brosca=She is hard of hearing and has manged to cope by learning to lip-read (not always successful, however, especially with languages she is not familiar with) in Origins and a pair of hearing "horns" designed for her by an admiring Smith caste man by Awakening. She often jokes that now she has even more in common with her Bronto companion, Salroka, due to their shared horns.

(Origins)

Vireth Mahariel=Suffers from epilepsy and often treats it with various herbal remedies, though it is not completely effective and large amounts of intense stress on his body make it worse. He also begins to develop cataracts around the time of Act 2 of Dragon Age 2, though the cause is unknown (presumed genetics or simply age at the moment).

Elthorn Tabris=Has a stutter speech impediment.

Alaros Surana=Unknown at the moment as I haven't written too much about him.

The Amell Siblings=Probably doesn't count but Azul gets motion sickness, especially on boats. Raven, Carmine, and Reed are all perfectly healthy and fine, however the latter two are the ones I've written least at the moment. Marigold has asthma that she treats with herbs.

Aelynne Cousland=Nothing comes to mind. She does have some old injuries (mentally and physically) she acquired from the attack on Highever by Arl Howe that color her later interactions with the family during the Fereldan Civil War.

Valda Aeducan=Has a notable visual impairment that is corrected with glasses, albeit there is nothing to be done for her slight colorblindness (she has a hard type distinguishing between greys, greens, and blues).

(Orlesian Wardens)

Dion Caron=Suffers from sleep apnea that is eased by a special breathing herbal-incense infused mask he wears as well as whomever in his group is on watch to check on him periodically to ensure he still breathes (most often this is either Victoire-Ainsley or Garam). He also snores and coughs due to this. Loudly.

Victoire-Ainsley Caron=Nothing of note.

Isenna Andras=She's an albino and so burns and rashes in intense light and heat. She also has a lame leg that cannot be fixed with magic and so wears a reinforced brace to aid her walk. This creates a noticeable limp.

Garam Kader=Alcohol makes him sick and he suffered from intense gender dysphoria before paying a huge sum to have an ex-Tevinter magister turned fellow Warden help him transition.

(Hawkes)

Jasper, Skye, and Violet Hawke are perfectly healthy. Albeit with some diet restrictions due to various allergies.

Gray Hawke=He is diabetic and so often has to monitor his energy levels to ensure his health. It's part of the reason he doesn't actively endanger his life like his siblings (not that he won't, just less often in comparison). He acquires a truly impressive diet regime and treatment plan upon becoming a nobleman of the Amell family, allowing him much more freedom than before.

(Marquises)

Aurore and Marcel de Serault both suffer from mild hemophilia. Marcel also has a lyrium drug addiction he is trying to break (and is actually doing quite well via weaning himself off it) due to a brief stint as a Templar while serving the Chantry.

(Inquisitors)

Armashok Adaar=Poor eyesight that cannot be fully corrected by glasses and later loses an arm due to the Anchor. He also lost a few fingers and some right hand mobility due to pre-nquisition injuries as a mercenary. He also wears a brace on his left shoulder. He wears a prosthetic eye and replacement arm.

Ransley Trevelyan=Like Cullen, he is working on breaking his own lyrium addiction from his time as a Templar and, like the other Inquisitors, loses his arm due to the Anchor. He had it replaced with a prosthetic arm for his shield side.

Paeriel Lavellan=She loses an arm alongside all the other Inquisitors, but takes the loss much harsher due to her archery skills suffering. While she will wear a prosthesis in battle or when hunting, she doesn't wear it in her day-to-day life, instead preferring to make due as needed. She also has anxiety.

Naranka Cadash=She loses her Anchor-wielding arm and gains a crossbow-and-dagger prosthetic one courtesy of her Inner Circle, much to her delight. She also suffers from some damage to her reproductive tract due to past injuries and is uncertain if she could have children.

(Inner Circle)

Kara Adaar=Beyond an intense hatred of slavery due to being kidnapped and almost sold when she was younger before being rescued by her father, she's perfectly healthy. She does require bedrest for her periods though.

Emilyse Trevelyan=She suffers from some PTSD from her abuse at Templar hands in the Circle, though she begins to recover towards the end of Inquisition.

Samrel Lavellan=Has dyslexia and uses reading aids and memory devices.

Pyrmar Cadash=He might have some PTSD from his Carta days due to a notable cave-in that lasted for a few days before his rescue.

#disability mention #trauma mention #amputation mention #eating disorder mention #my ocs stuff #mentions of addiction to drugs and alcohol #gender dysphoria mention

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forebodingprophet · 11 months ago

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Celia happily took Aria's other hand, holding onto her like a human child might- although everyone there already knew that was the last thing she was.

"Woohoo! Nee-sama's lunch is the best! Well... Anastasios' too... but I can have his food anytime!"

The five of them clamored into the carriage with Xander immediately taking his rightful place next to his mom and Anastasios and Hikaze sitting down opposite them. Celia forewent sitting altogether and simply flopped down on Aria's lap which earned her a stern glare from Anastasios and Xander, but Anastasios was too tired to deal with it, and Xander wasn't going to protest unless his mom did.

Instead...

"His behavior is not to be encouraged," Anastasios ground out, glaring at Hikaze like he'd spit flames at him if he could. "What proof have I that, were I to take him to some more formal event as an escort, that he wouldn't behave in the same manner? He's completely ihwe-eewamle-" Anastasios' sentence trailed off into incoherent gibberish as Hikaze grabbed both of his cheeks and pulled.

"I dunno, maybe that fact that I've already done it a few times just fine? Come on, I told you the thing in Galar had extenuating circumstances, didn't I? Just relax and untighten your sphincters for once." Anastasios' face turned almost violently red before smacking Hikaze hard upside the head. Apparently he had juuuust enough left in him to bicker.

"It's fine, but you're not there," Xander replied, ignoring the two arguing arcross from him. "But yeah, I'm learning new things from the people and the Pokémon every day." One thing House Ofthalmós certainly did not lack was knowledge. Their library probably put several royal libraries to shame. "I'm getting better at using my illusions too! Even Anastasios still can't See me if I try hard enough, and he's been able to See a lot more stuff lately," Xander added excitedly.

She kept close to Xander when she stepped back from hugging Stasi. Reaching her hand to take his. But she winked at Hikaze.

"Too bad Stasi didn't appreciate your efforts Hikaze. You'll have to try harder next time. Maybe with a different song. Something Rick Astley or from Guns'n'roses." She raised a hand to pathetically try and hide the smirk and snicker.

"I haven't had so much fun and excitement in so many centuries." She sighed.

"I'm well as can be, given the other things that happened in Galar... and that the Odious Osborne has been extended an invite here as well." She grumbled. Flicking her flowing sleeve as if getting dirt off of it. If it weren't for her Beloved she would have ripped that disgusting human male a new one within seconds.

"Please ease off of that Stasi. It hurts not to be called these things by the people I call family. Come, the carriage is waiting. That'll help stop scandalizing my guards." Aria raised her free hand to motion to their fine transportation waiting for all of them. Gently pulling Xander with her with one, and with the other she took Celia's arm to give Stasi a break.

"I've made lunch and treats for us all when we get to the palace."

"How have things been in House Ofthalmos?" She looked at Xander, smiling. "Have you been learning things while there? Having fun?"

#braypokemontime #b raypokemontime #Anastasios #Hikaze #Celia #Xander #Return of the Progenitor || Sun!Verse #The Darkest Day || Epilogue

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luckyspike · 5 years ago

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The Past Informs the Future - a Good Omens fanfic

in which anathema has something to tell crowley, but she feels it’s very important to figure out why he hated the 14th century, first

mild angst with ample fluff

anathema and crowley are best friends forever i will fight you over this.

“What happened during the 14th century?” Crowley, who is lounging upside-down over the couch, joint smoking lazily between his fingers, blinks once or twice. Anathema puts her head to the side. “You always talk about hating it, but you never say why.”

“It was terrible,” he answers automatically. “You don’t want to know.”

“You discorporated, right?” She knows that much, had gleaned the information from cast-away remarks here and there throughout the years. “Three times?”

“Yeah.” He rolls over, languid, and looks levelly at her. “Book-girl, believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“What if I do?” she challenges. “I asked, didn’t I?” He is glaring, but she meets him eye-to-eye, and rests her chin on her hand. “Why would I ask if I didn’t want to know?”

“Why do you want to know?”

That question slows her roll for a second: why does she want to know? Certainly, she considers Crowley her friend, but he is an interesting character with his foibles and his inconsistencies and his iron-clad but completely incomprehensible values. He has his secrets, thousands of them, and she is more than happy to let him keep most of them. But something about the 14th century pulls at her, and she wants to know. Needs to know, because the future is looming, and it’s the only thing about Crowley that gives her pause when trying to incorporate him into it.

It’s become more pressing recently, too, she thinks. She has a good idea why. She is changing, and he is a demon, and she needs to know.

“Because you’re my friend and it bothers you,” she says finally, mostly honestly. “You talk about how awful it was, like you want us to ask, and then when someone does you balk at it and change the subject. Does Aziraphale know?”

“You - yes, he knows.” He looks puzzled. “Book-girl, I’m being very serious. It’s … weirdly kind of you to want to know I suppose, but you do not want to know.”

“Crowley.” She leans back into the chair, and draws her knees up to her chest. “I have something I have to tell you. I want to tell you, anyway. But I need to know … you have to tell me why you hate the 14th century.”

That gets his attention. Slowly, graceful, snake-like, he slides off of the couch, dumps the joint into the ash tray, and stalks across the living room toward her. He is examining her, like a doctor sizing up a patient, or like a snake sizing up a mouse; she can’t quite decide. “You alright, Book-girl?”

“I will be.” Her belly is roiling, and suddenly, pinned under those snake eyes, she regrets this. She still wants it, but she also wants to avoid it. She could avoid it, really, but then she wouldn’t be able to … She let that train of thought trundle off, and jumped onto the next one. “You don’t have to tell me specifics. I just need to know why. Basically. Beyond the discorporations.”

She never saw him sober up, but there isn’t a hint of anything but diamond-sharp clarity in him now. “Not enough for you? Looking for some juicy gossip?”

“For what?” She snorts. “My advice column? A blog? No. I just … Just tell me why you hated it so much.”

“It was hell.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well yeah, obviously, if you hate it that much -”

“No, literal Hell. With a capital ‘H’.” He swallows. “S’where I go when I discorporate.”

“Right.”

He stares at her for a minute, when it becomes clear that that answer had not satisfied her. His jaw works for a minute. And then, quietly, he says, “I have only ever told Aziraphale about this.”

“I promise it doesn’t leave this room. I will tell you why, but you have to tell me, you have to be honest, Crowley. Please.”

He sighs, and puts his head in his hands, suddenly cross-legged on the carpet in front of her seat. “You know what they do, when you discorporate too many times in a certain time frame? They punish you.”

She nods. She had rather thought it would be something like that. “I see.”

“The first time wasn’t anything - fill out form BD663 in triplicate, here’s your new body, don’t do it again. The second time in a century they make you wait, maybe ah ... “ He makes a vague sort of motion with a hand. “Maybe a light flaying. You know. ‘Be more careful next time’.” He swallows. “Didn’t think I was going to get to come back up here, after the third time.”

She folds her hands. “But you did.”

“Oh, yeah.” He sounds a little strangled. “For a price. By then they started to think I wasn’t doing my job right, although I was, at least at the time. So for a while they had me down in … it doesn’t matter, you really don’t need to know, but then some cult up top wanted to summon up a demon with a real wallop. And I was available.” He sighs. “Better the Serpent of Eden than a Duke of Hell - wasn’t like they really needed me down there for anything anyway, and humans are always impressed by the whole original sin thing.”

“Mhm.” She thinks about reaching out to him, but this is important, and she doesn’t want to stop him. She wrings her hands together instead.

“You know the worst part?” He looks up to her, wide-eyed and unabashedly remorseful. “I didn’t care, was the worst thing. Because I was back up here, I wasn’t in Hell, and if they wanted to bind me to do … dark bidding or whatever the fuck it was, that was better. So I did it.” He holds up a hand, fingers splayed. “Five years. Five years in servitude to some stupid cult in back-country Italy. It wasn’t hard work, mostly meant looking scary and killing someone occasionally.” He closes his eyes, pressed the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose. “Then they wanted me to kill a kid.” She inhales sharply, and he snorts. “S’what I said.

“And, you know, five years isn’t that long, not for me. Is for humans, though. And they’d slipped on keeping some of the bindings together. I probably could have slithered out of there a year or two earlier, but it would’ve been work. Wasn’t fun as it was.” Sharply, he hauls the right side of his t-shirt up, and points to a broad web of scars slashed across his hip and ribs. “Got that for my trouble. But I did not kill that kid.” He doesn’t look at her when he says, “Was about the only one there I didn’t.”

She releases the breath she’d been holding, and leans forward. “Crowley -”

“You wanted to know,” he snaps then, and she sits up. “So let me finish. Because after I got out of there, who do I run into but Aziraphale, and after the run I’d had it was a good thing he was the angel I met up with because any other one would’ve … Anyway, doesn’t bear thinking about.” He smiles, a little bitterly and a little fondly. It looks strained. “He helped me burn all the books on summoning we could find. Scoured all over Europe. I’m sure we missed a few, but no one’s dared try anything serious since then.” He forces a little laugh. “And it was the last time I discorporated, you can bet on that.”

Anathema nods, and then pauses. “But … there are summoning books still. I’ve seen them.”

“Nothing that can bind you,” he says quickly. “Summoning is one thing, binding is another. If you see anything that mentions binding, I’d be obliged if you got rid of it.” He sighs. “Nah, summoning is different. Last time I got summoned I ended up helping three college students in Massachusetts with a group presentation. And they didn’t even put me on the Powerpoint.”

Anathema takes a moment to wonder how that would have gone over. ‘Presentation thanks go also to the Demon Crowley, who was surprisingly helpful for an infernal being of temptation and sin.’ Probably, she thinks, not well.

“Anyway,” he says, with a sort of gruff finality, “that’s your answer. Now why the fuck did you need to know so bad?” He’s half-glaring at her, and she can’t tell if he’s angry or relieved. She wonders how many other humans he’s told about this, decides the answer is very likely a definite ‘0’, and she shrugs.

“I’m pregnant.”

“What?” He stammers for a little while, eyes flicking from her face to her belly and back-and-forth. “How is that relevant?”

“Well.” She sits back, and laces her fingers together, resting them on her crossed knee. She looks to the ceiling for a minute, thoughtful, and tries to think of a way to explain this that doesn’t make her sound absolutely unhinged. “Crowley, we’re friends, right?”

“I should hope so.” He sneers. “Hate to think you just twisted the worst 100 years of my life out of me if -”

She waves a hand. “It was rhetorical, but fact established. So that being the case I … well, I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s going to happen after I have a kid. About who I wanted to have around.”

“Oh.” He looks away. “Makes … Right. I get it. Don’t exactly have the greatest record with babies.”

“Mm, not recently, but I’m considering that extenuating circumstances. Plus,” she adds, “according to Aziraphale, you were a really good nanny when you weren’t trying to get the kid to be evil.”

“Does he know about this?”

“Not yet. I figured you could tell him. But he’s mentioned it in passing.” She takes a breath. “Anyway, I know that you don’t hurt kids. I know that. But, I dunno, when I found out about … all this … I wanted to make sure it wasn’t because something happened and it made you that way.” Her mouth twists. “It’s weird, as soon as I found out I started thinking about things I never thought about before. Wondering about stuff, planning for things, that kind of stuff. I still don’t want the book,” she adds, because she sees the way he’s looking at her, and she knows what he’s thinking. “But … Yeah. I had to make sure.”

“Hm.” He watches her for a long, long moment, and then nods. “So what’s this mean, now?”

“You wanna be its uncle?” She raises a finger. “You have to promise not to try to make it evil.”

“No problem.” He looks thoughtful. “I think godfathers is more typical -”

“No, that’s outdated and kind of cliche, at this point.” She waves a hand. “Besides, my brother lives in San Diego, and Newt doesn’t have siblings, so the poor kid’s gonna need some aunts and uncles anyway.”

“Fair.”

She softens, and leans forward. “Crowley, I’m sorry to push, but I had to … I just really needed to know that there wasn’t anything, you know -”

“Extra evil?” He sighs. “I get it. There was, but not in a way that’s going to happen again, alright?”

“Very much so.”

He leans forward and pokes her in the stomach. “Who else knows?”

“Newt.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Hm. Way to make a demon feel special. Argh,” he says then, because she has taken advantage of her proximity to grab him and hug him. “You’re only getting away with this because you’re with child,” he grumbles, and she gives him an extra squeeze. And then suddenly, he is trying to pull away, wide-eyed and panicky. “Wait, how pregnant. When’d you find out?”

“About seven, eight weeks. I took a test about a week ago.” He sags with relief, and she laughs. “Why? What was that about?”

“You didn’t see any broad-shouldered feathery assholes with purple eyes then?” She shakes her head. “No one said, ‘be not afraid?’”

“No,” she laughs, “but it might have helped when I took the first test. Not that I wasn’t sort of trying - we weren’t trying, that is - but when you see the two little lines, you know, it’s kind of … startling. Sobering. All of it.”

“So no Gabriel.”

“Ah.” She chuckles. “Yeah, no Archangels. Just a little stick with some lines on it.”

“Oh. Good.” Miraculously, he suddenly is holding a bottle of wine. The joint is still in the ash tray, no longer smouldering, and she makes a little noise of protest. He waves a hand and it vanishes into the ether or, probably more accurately, into an ash tray in a cottage in the South Downs. “Secondhand smoke,” he says, by way of explanation, uncorking the bottle and taking a mouthful.

“How considerate.”

He grunts, and holds up the bottle. “Not at all. Demon, remember? This is a Caymus cabernet, very delicious, and you can’t have a single drop. You are very jealous.”

“Oh, extremely. Very evil of you.” She budges over, obligingly, and he sprawls into the space on the two-seater next to her. “Want to watch a movie?” She waggles the remote. “I rented The Tide of Blood.”

“Is that anything like Blood Tide?”

“I dunno. Never saw it.”

He takes another swig of wine, and raises an eyebrow. “It’s awful. I’ll get a copy some time.”

“Deal.” She gestures to the TV. “This one’s about a prehistoric sea monster that stalks and eats promiscuous teenagers.”

“Classic. I’m in.” He settles back, and her too. The first teen - a football-playing bully - has been eaten before either of them says anything. “Uncle, hm?”

By this time, she is slouched against his shoulder, the better to reach the shared bowl of pretzels that somehow appeared ten minutes ago. She hadn’t asked. “I figured. Unless you want something different.” She doesn’t look at him as she elaborates, “I mean, chronologically, I could certainly justify grandpa -”

“Oy.” The pretzels are snatched away, just momentarily, although he is laughing. “You have your own parents, use them for that.”

“Right. So uncle.”

“If that’s the alternative, I’ll take it,” he grumbles, and she finds herself with a bowl of pretzels in her hands. “Grandpa, Book-girl, honestly.“ The wine bottle glugs as he takes another drink, and Anathema crunches another handful of pretzels. On screen, another teen fruitlessly tries to fend off the monster with a kayak paddle. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Hm. Yeah. Yeah, I think I must be.”

#good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #crowley #anathema device #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much

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trashyeggroll · 5 years ago

Note

In “Pierce II” how does Grace feel watching Anissa befriend Kara? Speaking for myself it would be difficult watching my spouse become friends with the person that nearly killed them, no matter the extenuating circumstances, but then again I am someone who tends to hold grudges 🤷🏽‍♀️ (I’m working on that lol)

Hey thanks anon! 😁😄

For me, I’m absolutely on the side of grudges too 😬 Even within this specific circumstance, that they were in a professional fight, I’d struggle to get over it.

Anissa’s our story’s hero, yes, but I do think canonically, she is pretty forgiving compared to Jen or Lynn. When Gambi tells her about the whole “I used to identify kids to be kidnapped” thing, she pretty much accepts his apology and subsequent attempts to make up for it. She has almost no issue with her parents having not told her about Jeff being Black Lightning—she’s just focused on being able to team up and beat up some bad guys. Jen, on the other hand, really has trouble coping with the secret being kept from her. And she forgives Grace for running then showing up at that bus stop with weaksauce excuses.

But Grace... is not like that. In Pierce, she understands boxing better than most fans, but she’s never going to get it like Kara and Anissa—in the same way that the fighters will never know what it feels like to be the partner in the audience. Grace is the one who had to help Anissa in and out of their bed for weeks after the hospital, weather the moodiness of the recovery, be the primary in trying to help their kid understand it all... It’s different for her.

So I put Let Your Heart Be Light around four years after Pierce II, and I think by then, even, Grace is nice to Kara but has no particular interest in really being her friend. I dunno if it is a Viet thing or a human thing but I think about my Viet mom and the grudges she’s held against in-laws who’ve wronged not just her, but the family, and how she is eerily kind to their faces before telling us all the reasons that person sucks all the way home 🤣

At the same time, Grace doesn’t want to be a permanent drag on Anissa’s friendship with the Danverses, so I think she mostly keeps this feeling to herself. Maybe Kara picks up on it, I can imagine a conversation between them, maybe in the kitchen while everyone else is in the other room, and Grace essentially says, “You’re my wife’s best friend, so you’re part of this family, but I will never forgive you for what you did. You and I can be civil and nice for everyone else, but I’m not interested in being your friend.”

#asks #worth the fall series #thundergrace

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poisonappletales · 6 years ago

Note

If one (or all, your pick) of your characters were featured in a news article, what would the headline be?

Hello, Anonymous! Ooh, this is a fun one. Since I’m going with news articles, I’m going to set this in a half-modern setting. The fantasy world meets the modern era. Something like a fun parody.

Let’s see…shall we start with Unknown from Don’t Take This Risk?

“Aren’t some of those the lyrics to a song?”

“They suit me.”

“What’s with the come-on at the end? You know what that sounds like, don’t you?”

“You even got the word ‘pimps’ in there.”

[grins] “If you do not like it, then do you have something that beats it?”

“I sure do. Check me out!”

“Oi. That’s not me.”

[grinning even more broadly] “Really? I didn’t notice.”

[to Wind:] “You’re sure causing big trouble in the…city. Do we live in Virgo City now?”

“Looks more professional now that the article ain’t written by you.”

“With all those cap locks and everything? You have a pretty low bar for that.”

“That still ain’t me! Where’s mine?! Who’s the professor confessing his feelings to anyway?”

[tongue-in-cheek] “You can’t tell?”

[muttering under his breath:] “Hulder scum.”

“I’m sure it’ll get to your newspaper eventually, X.”

“It’ll knock everyone’s socks off.”

“Haha! Look at that.”

“Whoa. That’s hard-core. I thought these were all going to be a bunch of funnies.”

“Do we really have to comment on every one? Why am I even here with you two?”

“I dunno. Does it really matter?”

“There’s mine!”

“You’re behind bars. Bravo.”

“Shut up. I’ll get out.”

“I notice you have two photographs.”

“People can’t get enough of this handsome mug.”

“I’m with two big-headed idiots. Great.”

“Haha! Feel free to join us.”

“I don’t need to stroke my ego like you two.”

“What are you talking about? I’m just saying it like it is.”

“Mm-hmm. I am sexy, and I know it.”

“That’s getting tiresome. Knock it off.”

“Don’t you want to at least take off that hood before saying that? Put your money where your mouth is.”

“Haha! This is really cute.”

“Says names have been changed, but in that pic, that’s definitely Rosemary and Jasmine.”

[sarcastic] “You could see Jasmine? Her cousin practically shoved her out of the frame.”

“That is okay. I can still see her sexy eyes and lovely hair. Ah, I’m so happy! It’s the ladies’ turn, isn’t it?”

“Ugh. Bieber.”

“Oh, better not let cutie Rosemary hear you say that. She looks like she could claw someone’s eyes out for saying one wrong word about her star crush.”

“I ain’t scared. Anyways, have no idea who BTS is.”

“Hmm…Wind looks like he could fit in with them - if he wouldn’t mind dancing.”

“Or singin’, you mean?”

“What are you two trying to insinuate?”

[smiling broadly] “Why are you always so mad? I just gave you a compliment. They have a lot of fans, you know.”

“Like I care to have humans flocking to me. I’m not always in heat like you either.”

“…”

“Haha! What?”

“I don’t even -”

“I wanna check out that Playboy issue.”

“Of all the stupidity -”

“She already looks good with clothes. Without them would be even better.”

“Can we move on?”

“You know, I can’t really see her liking an old bag of bones like Trump. But he does have money…some chicks dig cash.”

“Next.”

“Ooh, cosplay. I like.”

“Is Wildfire dressing up as a Pikachu in that pic?”

“Haha! It’s hard to imagine them dressing up as the Frozen sisters. I bet Brooks was the adorable Anna and Wildfire was the alluring Elsa.”

“Didn’t the princess dress up as Elsa before?”

“She did? If they went to the same convention…cat fight.”

“Nobody’s touchin’ my woman on my watch.”

“Since when is she your woman?”

“Since she kissed me.”

“What -”

“The two sexiest fighters from the Fire Emblem series…I do not play much games, but I have heard of it. It’ll be hard to decide which ones they mean to dress up as. Aren’t all women sexy in their own way? Just by being a woman -”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard the speech before.”

“Some women may not have.”

“Great. We have an audience. As usual.”

“If it’s supposed to be anonymous, why is Chase putting his name down?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how anonymous submissions work?”

“I know what I would want to write to ‘Dear Ambrosia.’”

“So do I. ‘You’re my woman, so don’t let anybody take ya from me.’”

“Still going on with that nonsense.”

“‘Tell me your three sizes. If you do not want to say, would you mind if I checked to see what they were?’”

“You two are psycho.”

“Oi. He’s the psycho. I’m just someone you shouldn’t mess with.”

“You mean a thug?”

“Bring it on, slimebag.”

“Aww, that’s it for the ladies? I rather see a Hulder woman…”

“‘Several well-known designers and models blah blah blah’…I’m already bored.”

“If we’re done here, how about you do what you said and put your money where you mouth is? Bring it on. Or are you chicken?”

“Ohh, I’ll make you regret those words! Better be careful you ain’t bitin’ off more than you can chew, beast man.”

[smirking] “You’re both thugs, aren’t you?

I was hoping this would end with a more exciting article…maybe, the reverse of Arsenik’s? Something from a woman, like - ‘Sexy Unknown, I’m ready for you. I want you now. ♥’ ”

“You know, I better teach you a lesson too - before you start getting weird ideas and writing up some twisted article!”

“Oh, it would not be a twisted thing. You would like it too if your princess said she wanted you, right?”

“She can say whatever she wants, but I don’t like what’s coming out of your mouth. Flame on!”

“Hmm? Isn’t that from Fantastic Four -”

Just want to say that some of these pop culture references (like, say, the Fantastic Four one) is because this whole thing is leaning towards a parody.

Coming from Don’t Take This Risk, Unknown naturally knows how the modern world works and so forth, but if someone like X is making an exclusively modern-day comment, you know why. This is a comedic little thing, so he’s given some extra knowledge!

Some additional notes as always:

Unknown’s Article. Yep, Unknown wrote that one. Now, if I was being serious, Unknown might have a different headline - but oh! That may be too close to spoilers.If Unknown saw his article in the paper, he would think he’s sexy and he knows it. Because he wrote it.

Wind’s Article. Ah, that’s Wind for you. Always causing chaos and mayhem!If Wind saw his article in the paper, he would toss it at the next unsuspecting passerby. Because he’s done with the paper and found it a little annoying. Unless that passerby happens to be a certain Phoenix.

Arsenik’s Article. Ah, I wanted something romantic here. When Arsenik loves, wouldn’t you say he does so passionately? Ambrosia’s name is left out because 1) he already said he’s not bold enough to put it in there and 2) it simultaneously fits the War: Valentine Edition setting/universe (where you, the player, go on dates with the boys). If you’re the one he loves, you can imagine receiving an article like this, can’t you?If Arsenik saw his article in the paper, he would recall all the times he went over the words in his head and proofread them. He would re-read it once more, as if hunting for imperfections even when it’s already too late. He would think he was being silly when he put it in the paper, but it also feels nice to air his feelings. Now, it’s just a matter of whether she will come to the Sky-Reaching Park. He really will wait every day for you.

Night’s Article. He is a warrior of the Vi, so it makes sense for him to be an army veteran. Again, you can see his relaxed flirting style. The journalist made the approach, and he responds honestly (“I think you’re a very pretty woman”).If Night saw his article in the paper, he would chuckle with amusement.

Onyx’s Article. This article being written by “a Random Journalist” is the only thing that might earn a chuckle out of you. Everything else is much more sobering because that’s Onyx for you! This is the kind of headline that suits him.If Onyx saw his article in the paper, he would register the information and remember it.

X’s Article. X is the bad boy of prison. With his fire powers, wouldn’t a modern-day world label him as an arsonist?If X saw his article in the paper, I imagine he’s in jail by this point. He likes what they quoted him on.

Jasmine & Rosemary’s Article. Rosemary is a fan girl! Well, Jasmine is one, too…but not for Justin Bieber! (Even if she secretly thinks he’s good looking. She just doesn’t like him as much as a certain boy band…)If the two saw their article in the paper, Rosemary would shriek, “THEY BARELY CHANGED MY NAME!” Jasmine would say, “What does it matter? Your face is in the picture. I told you not to talk to the reporters! Why couldn’t we have just gone to the BTS concert? None of this would have happened otherwise!”

Bo-Peep’s Article. Now, I should note that I’m not intending to make any particular political statement here. I’m only tailoring the articles to fit each character’s personality/background. Bo-Peep would indeed make a fine beauty vlogger, and she would have no qualms about posing for Playboy. As for going from the king’s mistress to the president’s other woman…well, are you siding with her fans who think it’s all a lie or those who believe it? After all, there is a money trail…If Bo-Peep saw her article in the paper, she would ask her manager (King Barium?) what to do.

Wildfire & Brooks’ Article. The cosplaying duo! In a modern setting, they’re totally gamer girls, who like dressing up and thinking they’re hot stuff. But yeah, Wildfire isn’t any nicer. If Ambrosia did show up at the convention with the same cosplay (without any malice, of course), you can imagine how Wildfire would react, right? Just don’t expect an “open” freak out. Wildfire’s an expert in the Mean Girls style of bullying, you know? If the two saw their article in the paper, Wildfire would click her tongue and go, “Yep. Lookin’ good.” Brooks would agree, “We do look good, don’t we? Kyahaha!”

Ambrosia & Chase’s Article. All right. Barring extenuating circumstances, these two…honestly wouldn’t be featured in the newspaper. They don’t do anything outstandingly spectacular or necessarily cause trouble. Ambrosia is shy, while Chase is the kind of nice Average Joe who gets friend-zoned like he mentioned. (Present-day Ambrosia of Beauty and the War might be able to grab the headlines…but I want to avoid spoilers! So, we’re sticking with past Ambrosia for now.)While I could have an article featuring Ambrosia being a casualty of, say, Wildfire, I decided to give her an ask column in the style of Dear Abby. This way, Chase would write in a question and voila! They both have a spot in the newspaper. When Ambrosia received this question, she was thinking, “Oh dear…I don’t have any experience with relationships! Am I really qualified to answer a question like this? But I have to tell him something…I’m sure he’s a good man. I’ll remind him of his positive qualities and tell him not to give up. He’s sure to find someone!”Interestingly, you might notice that Ambrosia is someone who’s good at encouraging others but not herself. She’s the kind of person who would think, “Someone like me shouldn’t be with anyone.” Perhaps…she has a particular reason for thinking this way?On a side note, I went with her picture from the Don’t Take This Risk webtoon because this was a modern-day setting!If Ambrosia and Chase saw their article in the paper, Chase would exclaim, “Ahh! They didn’t make my name anonymous like I thought they would!”Ambrosia would think, “I do hope I managed to help Sir Chase. I meant every word I said. Mm…did he mean to include his name…?It’s also…really strange seeing my picture in the paper like that…! It’s kind of embarrassing. I wonder if it’s really necessary to include my face. I’m sure no one wants to see me. It’d be much cuter to have something like a fluffy bunny or a baby deer instead. Yes, I would like that much more!”

The Hulder’s Article. This was really a way to slip in an article for Viktor, who’s part of the supporting cast in Beauty and the War (X Playing Pieces). The Hulder are ethereally attractive, so in the modern-day world, they would sparkle be models. All-natural models.Naturally (no pun intended!), Arsenik tries to talk up his nephew, who’s more interested in lights and fame than him. Arsenik’s happier sitting in a cafe, sipping from a cup of tea and reading a book (and maybe sneaking glances at the woman who caught his heart?). I’m not sure if you find it funny that the guy who’s ranked one of the top 10 sexiest models…can’t work up the courage to approach his crush.If Viktor saw his article in the paper, he would say (to whoever’s with him), “Oh, I have a pretty nice spot in the photo. I thought I’d be more in the back or shuffled to the side, but you can see my face and everything just fine. That’s good! I can’t wait for Fashion Week!”

There we have it! The articles and the headlines many of my characters would make. Hope you enjoyed it, Anonymous. Which ones were your favorites?

Oh, and if anyone ever does want to write to “Dear Ambrosia,” feel free. She loves to encourage you with love and positivity!

I’m now pretty exhausted, so I’ll be heading off now. Have an awesome rest of the day!

#ask

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poppyssupergirl · 7 years ago

Text

Pillowfort Night

This is for @thequeenofnationalcity for their birthday! Which is v exciting, please go and wish them well for me :3 they are fabulous and deserve all the nice things!

This is short and silly but it made me smile, so I hope it makes you smile too, Sol. Happy Birthday, I hope today is absolutely lovely for you!

You can also read this on AO3 if you’d rather!

“I swear, if anyone else’s cold feet land on me, I will kill everyone in this room.”

“Oh hush, Lucy. It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, yes it is. It couldn’t have been Kara’s feet? At least hers are always warm!”

“Actually, can we trade positions? Kara’s like a furnace over here.”

“If you two crawl over me, I’ll use my new gun on your motorcycles.”

“Alex! That’s a terrible thing to say!”

“I don’t have a motorcycle.”

“That’s a shame, Luthor, you’d look great in black leather.”

“Hah! I’m sure that would go over so well with my PR department.”

“What would really be the problem is all the ladies jumping on you every few feet.”

“Susan, she’s already got ladies jumping on her every few feet.”

“Well, if she didn’t hang ‘Lesbian-Corp’ over her company building, that probably wouldn’t happen so often.”

“Agent Vasquez! That’s not-”

“Lena, we’ve saved the world multiple times together, I think you can call me Susan.”

“Oh, well… Susan, then, that’s not what the ‘L’ stands for.”

“We know, Lena, we’re just messing with you.”

The rustling of blankets fills the quiet until a groan rumbles through the air.

“When I agreed to this, I thought we’d all have beds. And why does Cat get one and not us?”

“Lucy, we went over this, pillowfort night for Kara’s birthday and Cat’s old.”

“Watch yourself, Agent Scully, I’ll feed your pancakes to Kara in the morning.”

“You wouldn’t dare! Not the chocolate-chip-blueberry ones!”

“Oh, I would dare.”

“Watch yourself, babe. Kara already doesn’t need any incentive to take your food.”

“You’d share with me, wouldn’t you, sugar-pie?”

“Eugh, not after that. That’s not even a pet name, Danvers.”

“Oh savage! Nice one, Maggie!”

“My own wife would leave me to starve?”

“No worries, I’d feed you something alright.”

“Ugh, eww. Not a nice one, Maggie.”

“Hey, am I the only single one here?”

“Susan, you are the least single one here.”

“Yeah, you’re sleeping with more women than all of us here, combined!”

“That’s quite impressive, given that the rest of us are in three-women relationships.”

“Wait, are you sleeping with more than eight women, Susan?”

“Where did you get the number eight?”

“Additive algebra. Lena with Cat and Kara, and Kara with Cat makes 4 combinations and then-”

“Oooh, okay, and nah, it’s only the five.”

“‘’’’Only’’’’ the five she says.”

“Five women?”

“Do they all know?”

“Of course they know! I don’t lie to them! They’re all really sweet and I just couldn’t turn them down.”

“Oh yes, really, what a hardship for you, Agent Hot Stuff.”

“Hey! Why does she get ‘Agent Hot Stuff’ and I get ‘Agent Scully’?”

“Y’know, for a sleep-over, there isn’t a lot of sleeping going on.”

“That’s because it’s an Adult Sleepover.”

“We didn’t get nearly good enough scotch for this to be an Adult anything.”

“Cat, some of us like our crappy wine.”

“You certainly whine enough for it.”

“Oooh, sick burn.”

“Oh my gosh, ladies, really, enough. Go to sleep.”

“Fight me, Susan.”

“Her and her five gal pals will fight you.”

“Shh, I think Kara’s actually asleep.”

“What? No way, she’s got superhearing, how?”

“She’ll fall asleep as Lena and I talk about business.”

“Oh heck. That’s adorable.”

“Mhhh”

“Alex does the same with Lucy and I.”

“I do not.”

“You so do. And you snore.”

“What? That’s an outright lie.”

“Tell her Maggie.”

“You might snore, just a little.”

“Traitors. I guess I’ll just have to snuggle with Kara and sweat all night.”

“Eww, good luck with that.”

“Hey, can I come and sleep with you all?”

“Oh, Carter, there’s really not a lot of room-”

“Of course, sweetheart, you can come join me up here.”

“If your feet are cold, don’t step on Lucy.”

“Lets not step on Lucy, regardless of our feet temperature, thanks.”

“Thanks, mom.”

“Of course, darling.”

“Goodnight, Carter.”

“Goodnight, Lena.”

“Goodnight, buddy.”

“Goodnight, aunt Alex.”

“Sleep well, Carter.”

“You too, aunt Maggie.”

“Y’all, this is going to take ages.”

“Goodnight, aunt Lucy.”

“... yeah, yeah, sleep well.”

“G’night kiddo.”

“G’night, Agent Vasquez.”

“You can call me Susan too, y’know.”

“Okay, Agent Susan.”

“You’re just like your mom.”

“Say that like it’s a bad thing again, and I’ll feed your pancakes to the Kryptonian too.”

“Mom, that's too realistic a threat.”

“Yeah, Cat, that's taking this too far.”

“Oh hush, you, drama queens the lot of you.”

“Hey we weren't the ones who antagonized a Kryptonian until she shot our plane out of the sky.”

“There were extenuating circumstances that called for drasti-”

“You're always taking the drastic measures though.”

“Well someone has to-”

“I dunno, Lena keeps a grappling hook in her purse, maybe it's just CEOs.”

“Ohhh, you're probably ri-”

“That grappling hook would serve me well if I didn't have Kara on call.”

“But you do have Kara on call, so why do you keep it?”

“.... aesthetic”

“Hah! I knew it!”

Kara smiles into her pillow, she’s been smiling since they all laid down. It’s been a perfect birthday, filled with great food and all her loved ones. Not a single bad thing had happened that day. Well, Lena’s shoe broke but that was a fantastic reason to carry her bridal style.

Alex squeezes her hand and she feels her eyes water, just a little. She’s just- so full of warmth. Alex tugs on her hand and oh, she’s floating. She doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t want to see anything, just wants to feel, and lets Alex draw her back down and into a hug.

The heartbeats around her are what finally lull her to sleep. She wraps her arms around Alex and tumbles into a dreamless sleep. No nightmares, just darkness and when she opens her eyes, her closest friends are still packed in around her.

It’s a good day.

#supercarp #Director Sanvers #everybody and Susan #happy birthday Sol #I hope you are also surrounded by your loved ones today

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wildlyleftlight · 7 years ago

Text

Home for the Holidays

Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays ♫ ‘Cause no matter how far away you roam ♫ When you pine for the sunshine of a friendly gaze ♫ For the holidays you can’t beat home sweet home! ♫

Dick Grayson listens to the familiar, slow-flame drawl of Perry Como emitting from the sidewalk speakers inexpertly hidden along the salt-stippled avenue of shops. He drops from the curb without a hop to his step and shoves one of his gloveless hands into the front pocket of his jeans. It isn’t cold enough for him to see the huff of his breath on the air, but it is early enough in the morning that he wouldn’t be out here if not for the giant travel mug of coffee resolutely grasped in his other hand.

The Blüdhaven strip mall is safe and dead at this hour on a Tuesday, which lends a qualifying moroseness to the airing age-old Christmas melody. He hears the refrain chase him, tinnily, all the way to his car, and he fingers the cell phone in his pocket. He wonders about calling Babs, but even though she isn’t strictly out on the streets with them, she’s just as much in on the nightlife too, and it’d be a sin to wake her this early only for a maudlin earful.

Four days ago, he’d gotten into another fight with Bruce. Four days later, he can’t let it go. Because he – Dick Grayson – went and picked a fight with Bruce Wayne two weeks before actual Christmas just so that Bruce wouldn’t because Bruce always did. Dick has worn Batman’s cowl and Dick has filled Batman’s boots, but never before has he so badly misstepped into his father’s shoes.

Ever since his juvenile abdication from all things Bruce Wayne, and even though Bruce and he are more or less civil with each other now, the holidays have a way of stirring Dick’s mercurial temper to a melancholy cocktail of nostalgia and the bitter aftertaste of knowing he’d lost those formative years – those family traditions – completely independent of Bruce’s crimes of passion. There’s irony somewhere in that, he guesses, and a double-dose of it, but Dick is nothing if not sentimental. He has the tendency to chalk up the past to self-blame, whether or not it actually was Bruce who had fanned the fitful flames of Dick’s anger. Still, it had always been Robin’s duty to counterbalance the Batman, to be the yin to his yang and negate Batman’s darkness for him with a simpering buoyancy. So every time he’s stormed out just because of Bruce being Bruce, the fault lay indisputably with Dick. It has to.

By the time he arrives back at his apartment, Dick’s travel mug is empty and his mood is half-full. He disentangles himself from his scarf with quick tugs of his hand. The tightness around his throat does not yield.

“Sweet Jesus, Dickless,” he hears Jason say, “you have failed me for the last time.”

“What did I do now?” Dick asks very amiably, shoving away all pensive introspection as he enters his kitchen to find all three of his little brothers glued to their cell phones. There is still a prevailing stress in his eyes, a dejected slouch in the incline of his shoulders where they lean so he can peer over Jason’s head. Nothing is more important to him than his family, but lately he’s realizing more and more that his family isn’t all he wants; he wants for his family to want him right back. He looks past his brother’s large, scarred fingers that are frantically tapping away at Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp.

“You have no pears in your Market Box. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Stalin– don’t you know that pears are the hardest to come by?”

“Sorry, Jaybird. I don’t play much anymore.” Dick tosses his jacket over the straight back of Jason’s – his – chair. “I’m tapped out; my loan is up to one hundred and fifty thousand Bells,” and, even as he says this, Dick pulls his phone from his pocket, logs into the game, and presses at the screen a few times. “I have seven pears. There you go. I put them up for twenty Bells, just for you.”

“–Acquired,” interjects Damian, with spectacular self-satisfaction, at the same time Jason goes, “–One hundred and fifty thousand Bells? How the hell– Dami, you fruit-thieving little shit,” he growls, in the same breath, “–did you get yourself in so steep?”

“I’m on, like, the fifth loan, I think. And it’s for one hundred and fifty thousand.”

“You mean you actually pay them off? What is wrong with you?”

“It’s a game about debt,” Tim peaceably inserts, without looking up. His fingers flit across his phone screen as deftly as they do his remote hacking device. “Paying off your loans is virtually the only thing you’re supposed to do, Jason.”

“No, it’s a game about making a freaking killer-sweet pad, with all the things. Did you get it, Dicky?”

“Those pears will be the building blocks of my empire, Todd.” Damian, again. Smugly, again.

“Fuck your empire. Apollo wants his pears. I will never get that zipper shirt,” mourns Jason, not quite sincerely enough to muster tears.

“Yeah, I got it,” Dick answers when he is finally allowed the chance to. He holds up the gift card. “But I’m still not sure why you see fit to get Bruce a Starbucks gift card for Christmas. Doesn’t it seem a little… I dunno… bourgeois?”

“Spoken like a true trust fund baby. Shut up,” Jason adds, shutting down the argument toward which he’s riling Dick. “And anyway, Batman is by the people, for the people.”

“I’m just saying. I-am-vengeance grappling to an LED marquee and paying for a Venti Mocha Frapp, with a gift card?”

“You don’t know Batman the way I do.” Well, that was true. Each of the Robins knew Batman differently from the others. “He loves that shit. Ask Alfred. They’re opening a Starbucks by the precinct and Bruce will flip his wig when he finds out.”

Dick shrugs neutrally, noncommittally, and allows Jason to steamroll over his shameful flare of jealousy. There is ice in his chest, scaling his clavicles, and he ignores the nagging familiarity of it just like he ignores the familiarity by which Jason speaks of Bruce. “Little D, the lady at Suncoast says that you can design your own PopSocket for Al. Through the website.”

“Hand me your laptop, Grayson,” demands Damian, without more than a second’s thought. “I will investigate.”

“Okay, but,” he warns, “if you need to use your own editor, I haven’t got Photoshop on here.”

“Tt.”

“I can get you Photoshop, Dick.”

“Because you’re a pirate, Timmy,” scoffs Jason, “and Dick is a trust fund b–”

“Or maybe, Jason, I’m not a trust fund baby and that’s why I don’t own Adobe anything,” Dick shoots back, using his full name now. He’s nettled by the tone being used on him, for a topic that is so sore with him. The ice bracketing his heart suddenly thaws into a puddling sob of frustration, which goes angrily suppressed. He knows how flammable his own temper is, which colors him all the more upset, enough to turn away from Jason so that he is facing and simultaneously avoiding Tim’s stare.

Tim sees how Dick’s eyes are flashing dichotomously – an electric blue set in a face schooled of any outward expression – and intervenes before Jason can bring up the point of that ubiquitous knife pressed between them: that at least Dick had actually gotten to live to his age of majority. “Did you pick up gift tags?”

Dick throws out a sideways glance, barely the formality of miffed scrutiny in the stillness of tundra. “Yes, I got gift tags. Because we’re all so hopelessly impaired–”

“Drake, your camper is cliché.”

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year. And I’m trying to complete all of the Christmas Event Challenges.”

“That’s all that’s inside it; Christmas crap,” pipes in Jason, “except for– what is that?”

“It’s a slipper rack.”

“Okay. Damian, I’m gonna have to go with you’re wrong on this one. Tim’s camper is so Tim.”

“This is card stock. Why would they stick stickers on card stock?” Tim gripes from where he’s meticulously, conspicuously peeling something off of the backing of the gift card.

“…” And Dick takes the few long moments of sibling banter for what they are: a breathing spell. He collects himself, cards his unruly black hair into tufts, and compartmentalizes.

When dealing with Jason Todd, taking anything personally was taking tinder to kindle. Jason knew Dick, and Dick knew better; it’d never been about himself. Maybe when he was younger he’d thought so, but the eldest had long since come to learn that Jason’s best defense was his best offense; barreling heart-first into things, to disarm or to destroy, because he’d grab at anything if it belonged to him – and his brothers, Jason finally ascertained, were his brothers. On less malevolent days of the week, not unlike ordinary sibling rivalry, Jason’s possessiveness usually manifested itself by way of teasing just this side of too-fierce. In sharper, more extenuated circumstances, he cut to the quick, navigating the veritable minefield of responsiveness and gut feeling and leaps before looks. In a civilian, Jason’s behavior was the very antithesis of vigilanteism. In a younger brother, it was arrested development. Which makes sense, because he’d died a child, and every time Dick is reminded of that it is harrowing pain, and it is thankfulness, softening the edges all around the insults Jason’s whetted to the hilt, that his brother is alive.

After a self-possessed sniff – in farewell to his pride, he convinces himself – Dick rests his palm on Tim and gives his bedhead a good tousle. In a smoothly paved voice, he asks, “‘You still workin’ out? Rerack?’”

Damian Wayne barks a laugh, and immediately Jason jumps on the bandwagon. “‘How’s it going, brosephine?’”

“‘We don’t always have to talk about training, you know. There’s plenty of other stuff goin’ on!’” Dick, quoting from their favorite, the jock type animal. Who happens to also be a bird named Jay.

“‘Like…um… You know… How ‘bout that weather?’” supplies Jason.

Dick dissolves into laughter. Gasps, “‘Did you know that just talking about your muscles can make them bigger and stronger?’”

“I hate you both.”

“‘Sue me! Rerack!’”

Dami enters the fray. “‘How’s it going, Drake? Training like a madwoman?’”

Jason stops short. “Demonbird, you play as a female character?”

Damian colors. “The videogame is not gender-specific with its dialogue.”

“Isn’t it?” Dick considers, curiously.

“How would you know?” challenges Jason – who does play as a female character – as he squares his broad shoulders and tilts his chair onto its back two legs.

“Jason, how do you not know what Damian’s character looks like,” Tim asks. Don’t you see it wandering all over your world?”

“We’re not friends.”

“We are so, Todd!” And the beat where Damian’s accent lands is given an irregular emphasis.

“Fine. How in blazes would I know if we’re friends? I cannot even begin to fathom the nickname you chose for yourself. And I have a bazillion names on my friends list, ninety percent of which is in Kanji.”

“…Is it?” Dick, still stumped and not following the tangent of conversation at all.

“‘Macmoo,’” Tim offers, taking a sip from his empty coffee mug.

“Alright, kiddies. Giddyap,” Jason says, and really pronounces it that way. He stretches himself to his full height, and then some – easily six feet four on his toes for the assuaging pop! of his back. His arms arch up and he towers over the fridge. “Go get dressed, Cretin,” he orders lovingly and gives his littlest brother, who barely comes up to the bottom of his chest, a fond forward shove toward the bathroom. “I’m starving to death.”

As his sibs depart the kitchen, Dick angles himself for a fast escape to the dishwasher, but Jason steps in front of him, purposefully overbearing. “Uh-uh. You too, Dicky.”

“Jay, I’m already good to go.” He indicates his faded jeans, his windbreaker that’s fallen from the chair during Jason’s see-saw sitting. “Besides,” Dick japes, lamely, “you don’t get to tell me what to do; I’m the big brother.”

Jason opens his mouth to say one thing, closes it, then reopens it to say something different. “You have a funny memory.” Jason sighs, puffs up his cheeks, then sighs again. “It’s reticulated.”

“Like it’s a giraffe’s ass?”

“Like it’s circling around the same platitudes over and over and getting shakier every time it has to.”

Dick falls silent, but he doesn’t withdraw his gaze from Jason. He looks measuringly at his brother for a time, beyond teal eyes and need-to-know bases, beyond, even, shared pasts and shared costumes and shared fathers. Rain was cobalt, like the grooves in his irises reflecting at least an alchemic silver lining if not his brother’s whole love.

Raking up the quiet, Jason speaks, “Trust fund baby? Seriously, that’s what got under your skin? Which of the implications was worse? That you were a snob or that you were a Wayne. Or weren’t a Wayne, as it goes.”

“Both! Neither. It was you wanting to hurt me because of it,” Dick snaps, instantly pissed off again. He ignores the tension line at one corner of his brother’s mouth, breaking it apart in his mind and scattering it to pieces. It’s only flesh, after all.

“Fuck you, Dick,” Jason says, in a low voice. His pulse is hammering. Common courtesy dictates he not raise his voice inside of doors and out of anger. “Not everybody has to love you all of the time. You didn’t for me. You aren’t for Bruce.”

“I do love Bruce.” He’s a father to me, as much as you are a brother to me, he doesn’t say.

“Then why don’t you tell him that and stop dragging me down the roads of your guilty conscience.”

For the gravid space of a breath, it really seems like Dick is going to lose his temper and explode into dynamite violence. Then he winces, as if going against a great backlash. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take any of this out on you.”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Dick.” No moniker for his name this time. “Forget about walking on eggshells; you are an emotional rhino in a china shop.” Jason fumbles a cigarette to his lips. “Except the china shop is holiday hullabaloo.” He fishes for his lighter, mumbling something about how his skinny ninny brother is a rhino, and can he believe this.

“I just miss knowing that I can’t lose my family at even the best of times. Don’t smoke in here.”

And because Jason’s feeling generous, he obeys, but he doesn’t remove the stick from his mouth. He rolls it with his tongue, longingly, between the borders of his lips. Nicotine is his sunrise; his lips, the horizon.

It is then that Tim and Damian file back into the room.

“I thought we were going for brunch,” says Dick in a flat voice, nonplussed when Tim, wearing a tasteful burgundy button-up, makes his way to the coffee pot for a second mug. Damian is wearing black slacks that look as though they’d been recently pressed by Alfred.

“That, too,” Jason remarks, in an offhand way. “But first you’re getting your Christmas present early, Dickface. Now go change. I’m cashing in on a few favors for this one.”

It isn’t until they are all four crammed into Jason’s beat-up ‘93 Mazda – with Dick wisely refraining from asking if it’s a stolen vehicle – that Jason spills the beans, reveals that they’re going to get their picture taken together, but doesn’t point out that Dick hasn’t hung a single portrait on a single wall of his apartment in any of the years that he’s lived there because Dick won’t hang anything if he can’t hang a picture of his family, and that’s why Jason’s taking them to the seedy studio of an even seedier acquaintance to get this done.

“You mean… You guys didn’t stay over just because Alfred cleared you out so he could wrap presents for under the tree?”

“Cripes no. Don’t ask stupid questions. You know how many rooms are in the Manor and you know how resourceful Alfred can be. We came because I rallied the troops.”

And Dick is moved to tears. His eyes are hot and runny, even after he adjusts the sticking vent in the dashboard. In the rearview mirror he watches Damian glaring balefully out of the window, but Dick knows by Damian’s acquiescent silence that the littlest bird isn’t actually bothered in the least. Dick sees Tim’s tired reflection but knows by the tall mug Tim’s holding that he doesn’t mind trying.

Dick scrubs his face with his knuckles. “You know, Jay, you don’t have to start a fight with me every time you want to make me feel better.” He raises both hands in a gesture of truce to ward off Jason’s dark scowl. “Though I appreciate the effort!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t always make it so hard for yourself. Self-saboteur. Quit flattering yourself. And anyway… It kinda wasn’t completely your fault. I was being… well… you-ish.”

Dick chuckles but wetly, in pieces over this whole being loved thing, and leans his head wordlessly against the passenger-side window.

After a few miles, he is distracted by a murmur coming from Jason – not so much by the sound as by the gravitas of the timbre applied to meet Dick halfway. It’s another Animal Crossing quote, of all things, and considering that Tim had formulated a calculation for the minimum mandatory animal conversations Jason was likely to play through in a given day, it isn’t at all surprising to Dick that Jason can recite verbatim:

“‘Everything you hold dear is under attack, and they’re going to do whatever they can to take it away.’” There is a considering lull – and Dick’s smile is lopsided and peaking – before Jason gives him a hard look. “‘It’s you…versus the ants.’”

Dick sits up straight. He reaches for a knob and clicks on the radio. It is Perry Como again, crooning the classic. Dick turns it up.

“Thank you, Little Wing.”

“Merry Christmas, Big Bird.”

Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays ♫ ‘Cause no matter how far away you roam ♫ If you wanna be happy in a million ways ♫ For the holidays you can’t beat home sweet home! ♫

#dick grayson #jason todd #batfamily #batfic #batfamily feels #tim drake #damian wayne #batboys #batfam #dick grayson has the holiday blues #too many animal crossing references #angst #fluff

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