ONESHOTS ONESHOTS ONESHOTS !!

your one grain of sand, you've got me in your hand (regret)

(A/N: is this posted to make up for me failing my update schedule for Karma's Trio? Perhaps. Was this written at two in the morning by a thirteen-year-old me? Sure was. this was just recently edited so you can actually understand it, but it's more than likely still hard to comprehend. And now, you might be like "Ajaxx, why didn't you post this sooner !?" WELL MY FRIENDS. theres an unrequited romance between mido and an adult (ON MIDOS END NO PEDOPHILIA HERE. I SWEAR) and i was scared ppl would take it the wrong way and call me a proshipper. i could not give two fucks right now. If this happens to do well, Ill turn it into its own book on here and continue it! Sorry for this long AN, and enjoy!)

God, does Midoriya Izuku regret. He regrets being born, holding out hope for everything and everyone, and most of all for loving too easily. His heart has been broken so many times, and he's in a place he doesn't think he can return from, so why does he hope?

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With the way I grew up, you learn to never hope for good things, and instead expect the bad. I had grown up with no worth, beaten and bruised and no confidence, because of society. But, primarily it was him, whom I had known since before powers mattered. (Who am I kidding, they always had mattered.)

I had grown up with burns from your hands and memories of violent words. My belongings often went missing and I gained a pretty red flower at the end of the day and my mom never questioned it.

I had never known anyone as much as I knew your calloused hands and violent tendencies. I hadn't grown up with love or support, but instead avoidance and bandage wrap.

I remember one day in particular, you standing in front of my crouched and trembling form with confidence oozing out of your pores. You had gazed at me with the utmost hatred with your hands flexed and your side as your lacks egged you on. I had trembled under that gaze, my admiration for you temporarily seized by a crippling fear.

(It wasn't temporary, like our previous encounters.)

You had sneered at me, ripping my notebook out of my hand and skimming over the cover with lazy eyes before dangling it in front of my face. "Really? You're still trying to be a hero?" The kids behind you had laughed, throwing their heads back like it was the funniest joke they had ever heard. My shoulders tensed and hunched to my ears, trying to make myself look smaller.

You had taken the notebook in between your palms, activating your quirk with a series of sparks and burnt paper, before throwing it out the window. My stomach felt like it was led as I watched it soar and land in the school's Koi pond. I had been working on that for months, meticulously documenting interesting quirks and villain fights along with an in depth analysis, and you just ruined it.

While my eyes were tracking my notebook, I hadn't seen you approach me. I was only aware of it when I felt your hot hand on my shoulder, burning away the fabric of my uniform and making my skin sizzle. I had looked back at you with horror, sweat beading on my brow from the heat. I could tell that you had no mercy for me that day from the way your eyes glinted as you took your hand off my shoulder to expose burnt and blistered skin.

But, to my surprise, you had just turned around and started walking towards the classroom door with your bag slung over your shoulder. You gave your lackeys the go ahead to leave before stopping in the doorway, your hand casually resting on it.

"You know, there is a way you can be a hero," I had felt gone. I felt a thought I had long since extinguished well up again, allowing myself to believe that you would tell me what I yearned to hear for so many years.

"Take a swan dive off the roof and pray for a quirk in your next life!" That's what you said, right? It's ingrained in my memory, that particular scene of you.

I stood there as you left, my head empty as your words replayed over and over again. You hadn't gone this far. You had beaten me black and blue and adorned my skin with red blisters commonly shaped like stars or hands, but you had never told me to end my own life. I had so desperately wanted that to be a line you wouldn't cross, because surely you wouldn't risk your future hero career if I actually did it.

I almost did, too.

Only when I was staring at the large muscled figure at the edge of the rooftop as he told me to give up did I really consider it. Tears ran down my face in great succession, my emotions out for the world to see. I had wondered if anyone would care, and allowed myself to imagine a world where my existence amounted to something.

I had nobody that would care, so I pretended. As I stood up on that rooftop where my dreams were stomped on, I pretended. I pretended I had a quirk, that I had friends an a supportive mother and maybe a father who would be waiting at home. I pretended that when I got home my mother would be singing a happy tune as she cooked and family photos would adorn the walls.

(It was a silly little fantasy, really. I had known she wouldn't be home and I would be left to tend to my own burns and pick up the shattered pieces of my heart once again.)

And, as much as I had pretended, it just made it even clearer that I had nobody. Because I knew that I wouldn't go home to a warm house or my mother cooking, I knew that I didn't have a quirk. I knew, and pretended like I hadn't just rubbed salt in the wound. So, I had approached the edge.

I had taken my shoes off and lined them up neatly against the rail. I had gripped the rail as wind whooshed through my hair, my eyes dry but somehow teary at the same time. I took a few minutes to admire the sky with the setting sun, and allowed myself to believe that I wouldn't be living this sad life any longer.

I was about to finally jump when the wind had gotten knocked out of me, fabric wrapped around my middle and bringing me back onto the roof and away from the edge. I had looked up to see the face of a man, looking down at me with concern hidden deeply in his eyes.

(I hate how well versed I was in observing hidden emotions. It's a good skill to have, yes, but the fact I developed and honed that skill to find any lingering love in my mother's eyes leaves a sour taste in my mouth.)

And, when he finally spoke, I had broken down. I had been desperate for someone to listen, for someone to wipe my tears away and tell me I would be okay even if I wasn't. I had wept and wept and he stayed and listened to me, like nobody had before.

(I know now that that's where it all went wrong - his care for me when nobody else had. I had been deprived and clung onto any love I could get and selfishly hoped for more.)

And, sometimes, in the dead of night, I will regret watching the sun set that night and I will regret not crossing over the edge beforehand. And, on those nights, I will weep into my pillow and my clothes will be stained with blood in the morning.

Bloodshed is often all I know, and often all I want to know, because bloodshed has familiarity, no matter how dark or demented it is. I find familiarity in being beat down and seeing my own wounds or harsh words spoken to me.

(It hurts knowing you contributed such a large part to that. I had held out hope for you the longest, only for it to be brutally crushed.)