#further identification welcome

[geopsych]

Some kind of vireo stopped by the lilac today and it looks like it got a yellowjacket. Vireos are now welcome any time!

[delewlew]

can you watch my boyfriend for me: charles leclerc x black fem! reader °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

request: Can you do the “watch my bf for me” with Charles and he gets nervous and call for yn to come back pretty pretty please 🙏🏾

warnings: none

author's note: this one is a little short cuz i was running on no sleep and good vibes...but it's not too short i hope! please let me know how yall like this one. comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

never in a million years did you see yourself dating someone like charles leclerc. it wasn't that you didn't believe someone like him could find you attractive because to be quite frank, you were stunning and you knew it. the thing was you didn't picture yourself in love with someone who had the social status charles held. you'd assumed that rather than being in love with you he'd be in love with himself, instead of feeding his family he'd be more fixated on feeding his ego. however, upon meeting him for the first time you realized that those were simply preconceived notions that couldn't be further from the truth. that gentle smile and welcoming gaze wasn't a facade to draw girls like you in to become a pawn in some twisted romance game. he was genuinely a sweet and loving man who had nothing but love to give.

you met charles a year ago in baku at the azerbaijan grand prix after you'd been invited to attend because you worked as an influencer. it was your first time attending a grand prix and you got the complete hook up. it was qualifying day and you'd showed up to the paddock ready to enjoy the day in the early morning when there was a problem with security. for whatever reason the security guards were refusing to let you enter the paddock despite having proper identification. then, like an answer to your prayers a young man with ice blue eyes and the most perfect dimples came to your rescue, informing the staff that you were with him. a year later and here you were, actually with him but as a girlfriend instead of a stranger looking for help.

the social media following on all of your pages grew massively but you remained the same person you'd been before any of this happened. sure, now you were sitting in the ferrari garage every weekend, getting invited to more exclusive events, and getting spoiled by your boyfriend to where he had to lift the spending limit on his credit card. but you were still the same girl as you'd always been, posting videos that made you happy and getting paid for it.

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊

summer break had just begun for charles which meant that you had him all to yourself until he had to return back to work. this also meant you had to find a way to create content that would still garner enough attention when there weren't races for you to post about attending. you didn't like posting about your relationship in general because it felt unauthentic. your relationship wasn't the only defining thing about you and your career, it came after, so you preferred to keep work and personal life separate even if there is a little overlap between the two. but, the new tiktok trend you'd seen on your for you page was enough to convince you to break your personal rule, just this once.

you'd surprised charles with tickets to mauritius for break since he'd mentioned to you a few months ago that he'd love to go one day. so for the next week you and him were going to be spending time in paradise and you couldn't be happier. the two of you all had agreed on a 'no phones' policy, only agreeing to upload a photo dump at the end of the trip. until then you both were only going to take pictures and videos on your devices, or just 'live in the moment' and keep things exclusively to memory. however, before you both were going to turn off your access to social media, you wanted to hop on one last trend:

you were sitting on charles' lap as you gently braided the stems of small yellow flowers together. in front of you, your phone was propped your phone up against the small vase that sat at the center of the table. the video was already recording and you pretended that you were making a tutorial for how to make a flower crown. it was obvious charles was paying no attention to what you were doing by the way his head rested on shoulder with his face not visible to the camera. his hand rested at your hip with his thumb hooked through the belt loop of your jeans. he was busy looking at his phone in his free hand, going through random social media posts.

charles heard you murmur something but he wasn't paying too much attention so he assumed it was something about your flowers. he only looked up when you slipped from his hold. you simply said, "hold on- he'll show you how to do it." you handed charles the nearly finished flower chain and ran off before he could even object. your boyfriend froze awkwardly for a minute, his eyes darting from the camera to six other spots in the room as he clearly waited for you to come back. there was a soft hum he let out then he muttered, "i do not know where she went off to. but she told me to show you so...i guess i show you what to do."

silence fell over the room as charles was very focused and made attempts to demonstrate how you'd been weaving the flowers together. his cheeks flushed pink and his palms grew sweaty as he messed up three times in a row, that dimpled grin that you fell for long ago making an appearance. after the longest minute of his life he finally caved, "Ma chérie, reviens s'il te plaît, je ne peux pas faire ça." you let out a loud laugh and ran back into the room with a smile on your face as you sat back on charles' lap and he tucked his face into the back of your shoulder. [my darling come back please, i can't do this]

you examined the woven flowers and let out a soft giggle, "aw charlie you kinda made it worse." his arms wrapped around your torso holding you tighter to his lap as if he was worried you'd run off again leaving him alone. he let out a muffled reply, "then stay with me and show me how to fix it."

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊

the end.

[byersbootyshorts]

The accidental dumbification of Spencer Reid

“Ok, where are we going this time?” you ask as the team takes their seats around the round table.

“Rutland, Vermont,” Garcia says, grabbing the remote to switch on the screen which displays various bloody crime scene photos.

“Severed limbs have been discovered scattered all over Green Mountain National Forest,” Hotch reveals.

“Any identification?” Morgan asks while you flick through the case file, absentmindedly placing a hand on Spencer’s leg. He shifts slightly, clearing his throat.

‘None yet,” Hotch continues. “They’re pretty hard to ID when all we have is limb. However, preliminary reports suggest that the various body parts found belong to at least six different people.”

“And there’s probably more we even haven’t found yet,” Emily chimes in.

You move your hand further up Spencer’s thigh and tighten your grip at the thought of how many people could be cut up into tiny pieces and spread all over that huge forest. You’re so distracted by it you don’t even notice what you’re doing to Spencer; a bulge growing in his pants from your touch despite him willing it not to.

He swallows harshly to suppress the feeling but you mistake it for fear and instinctively rub your hand on his inner thigh. This movement only drives him more insane.

“So we have to search the entire woods? It’s a pretty big forest, right Reid?” Rossi asks, but Spencer doesn’t reply, his mind elsewhere. The team stares at him expectantly.

“Hello, earth to Dr Reid.” Morgan waves his hand in front of Spencer’s face.

“Uh, sorry, what?” Spencer snaps out of his daze.

“How big is Green Mountain Forest,” Rossi repeats.

Spencer looks down, trying to clear his head of the problem he was having down there. But he couldn’t gather his thoughts. All he could think of was the hand on his thigh.

“I- uh, I’m- I’m not sure.” he finally stutters.

The rest of the team, including you, stare at him wide eyed.

“Well, would you look at that. We finally stumped the little boy genius,” Morgan laughs. Spencer’s face turns a bright crimson.

The rest of the team giggle but you’re just confused, certain Spencer once recited to you the square mileage of every national forest in the country.

“Oh, give the kid a break,” Rossi says sympathetically. “Like we could do any better.”

The rest of the team go back to discussing the case but you give Spencer’s thigh another quick squeeze to get his attention. He turns to you and you raise an eyebrow to express your question. He understands what you’re asking and shifts his eyes down. You follow them down to where you hand sits on his thigh. A little further up his leg than you imagined. Then you see the swell in his pants and you understand.

“Oh shit,” you whisper, quickly removing your hand from him. “Sorry.”

He just smiled back at you before looking back at his files.

After a while of planning what you’ll do when you arrive in Vermont and the lack of your hand distracting him, Spencer finally collects his thoughts.

“625 square miles,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Huh?” Garcia responds.

“Green Mountain forest. It covers 625 square miles of land.” Spencer states.

“Welcome back, genius,” Emily smiles. “We missed you.”

You look back down at Spencer’s crotch to see that he’s controlled the situation he had going on earlier. You smirk, realising the power you have to dramatically drop Spencer’s IQ with a single touch.

[shibaraki]

THE KIDS ARE GONNA BE ALRIGHT ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: teachers are like bridges, there to facilitate students on their ungainly journey through life. add a war, a new subject, a gaggle of traumatised children and a handsome coworker with an apparent sleeping disorder—see where the bridge leads.

tags: GN reader (referred to as 'Sensei'), coworkers to lovers, reader is a teacher at UA (quirk science), single parent aizawa (adopted eri), some workplace shenanigans, meddling kids (class 2A + B), mutual pining, fluff + angst, learning difficulties, references to PTSD, getting together, first kisses + making out, suggestive content + heavy themes, post war arc (heavily implied spoilers ahead), HAPPY + HOPEFUL END

wc: 19K

From: Principal.Nedzu@UAedu.jp  To: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp  Subject: Welcome to UA! Message:  Good morning!  It is my pleasure to welcome you to UA — we are very excited to have you aboard! The files attached to this email are as follows:  

A map of the campus

The UA handbook and Emergency guideline

The Teachers Code of Conduct 

Please refer back to these regularly to familiarise yourself with everything. As we discussed in our prior phone call a place has been prepared in the teachers dormitory in preparation for your move. Your key and security badge are at the reception desk. Please bring identification to collect them. Do let me know if you require a reserved spot in the parking area. 

One last thing to note: 

The staff lounge and kitchen is located in the west wing of the first floor heroics building. It is regularly restocked with snacks and beverages. The coffee machine is also available to you at any time. Feel free to help yourself!

If you have any further questions you can email me or call me. I will get back to you as soon as possible. 

Kind regards,

Nedzu Principal of UA High School  〒123-4567 Ōikuyō, Shizuoka, Musutafu.  Go Beyond, Plus Ultra!

Your new world is bordered by a large imposing wall. 

It towers above your head, reinforced concrete and steel reaching for the heavens, housing weapons you could only imagine. Gone is the classic archway that once welcomed students with open arms. The public walkway leading uphill to the school is cordoned off. 

Even alongside global assistance progress was slow. A large chunk of Musutafu had remained levelled— debris and dust, unrecognisable. After the battle ended, rebuilding the country came first. Hospitals and emergency services were given priority; more shelters followed close behind, and once given the go ahead, individuals confined to UA were able to slowly integrate back into their own communities. 

One step at a time. Life stops for nothing, that is clearer than ever. 

You qualified as a quirk specialist, mainly working with college students, teaching science, history and philosophy of quirks. Principal Nedzu was an old acquaintance. You crossed paths at a conference or two, and you saw his name in citations of papers you read from time to time, but it never grew beyond professional respect. Thus, having him reach out to you through your private number had come as a big surprise. 

After the war a number of the current student’s quirks had evolved at an unprecedented rate, largely due to the trauma and strain they endured. He expressed his wish to include quirk study in the new curriculum and reasoned that having someone with your credentials on staff would not only ease the anxiety of the teenagers, but also that of the remaining teachers, who were inexperienced in dealing with stress manifestation. 

The call ended an hour later with a sixty three page contract in your inbox and a new job. You covered a broad range of subjects but your field of study was an elective, therefore smaller than you are used to. Even so it was your territory now. You tried to own it. The desks have been rearranged into a U shape, charts with interactive pieces affixed to the surface, and you decorated the space with Nedzu’s express permission in hopes of making it inviting. 

Over a month into the term and you can’t yet say you regret taking up his offer.

“Phyletic gradualism and punctuated equilibrium are the two extremes in a continuous model of evolution. The first kind is a far more uniform and gradual accumulation of changes that subsequently generate new species…”

Your mouth keeps moving as you scan the classroom for the fifth time, words muffled by the brief loss of focus. The students don’t notice the lapse; most eyes are still on you, some clouded and others intent on listening. It’s a true miracle that nobody has fallen asleep—though Kaminari is always a close call. Beneath it all is the soft, frantic scratch of Midoriya’s pen to paper and his low mutter, holding the attention of a bone weary Bakugo. 

“…Comparatively, punctuated equilibrium proposes that once a species appears, it becomes stable, showing little evolutionary change until an event triggers a rapid speciation process”.

Yaoyorozu’s hand flies up and startles Shinsou to attention. Her enthusiasm brings a slight smile to your lips. You point to her, “Yes, Yaoyorozu?”

“In that case, Sensei, would that mean that quirks are an example of punctuated equilibrium?” she asks. 

“That is the most agreed upon theory amongst the quirk science community,” you reply, directing the answer toward the entire class. There’s a scarce mix of Class A, B, and support students. Monoma straightens under your gaze. He’s flanked by Kouda, who returns a mousy smile, fingers idly petting Yuwai-chan, his pet rabbit. 

“Quirks are our reality—that much is undeniable. But with that comes a myriad of unknowns. How, why, and when did this happen to us?” Striding toward the board you uncap a blue marker with your teeth and write the phrase ‘theories’ down in large, neat penmanship. You cast a passing glance to the clock. Any minute now. 

“There is still no definitive answer. So for your next assignment I’m going to ask that you research and write an essay on a specific theory about the dawn of quirks,” you are helpless to the wicked grin that pulls across your mouth at their collective groan. “It’s due next Friday. That’s ten whole days to complete it! So generous, aren't I?” 

Overhead, a bell blares out an incessant ring to indicate the lessons end, and in a moment of synchronicity each student rouses from their chair. Bakugo shoves his hands into his pockets and makes a beeline for the door and ignores Midoriya’s aborted squawk as he shoves his notes into his backpack. 

“Thank you Sensei,” he stammers, rushing after the boy. “Wait for me, Kacchan!” 

Nobody calls attention to the seemingly tumultuous relationship. The 2A kids in particular watch their interactions with a trepid fondness. They’re always like that—or so Shinsou told you, once, barely audible over Bakugo’s incendiary growls as he hauled his childhood friend into a headlock. You understood it a little when you heard Midoriya’s bubbly laughter for the first time. And you let them be. 

The others file out slowly, lost in conversation or waiting on a friend. Iida stops at your desk and bows before leaving, bidding you an effusive goodbye, a habit he has steadfastly maintained no matter how much you assure him otherwise. In stark contrast the two subdued support students, Toma and Nakao, throw a simple salute with startling synchrony.

Just when you think you have some peace, a shadow crosses your peripheral vision. “Yo, Sensei,” Kaminari chirped. There’s an edge to his voice that draws your attention. Shinsou lingers nearby feigning disinterest as Kaminari fidgets with his blazer button. “About the—uh. About the essay…”

Blinking away your initial confusion you sit up in realisation. “Oh! That’s right,” Kaminari tenses as you lean across the desk, flicking through your copious bits of stationery. You peel off a cloud shaped sticky note and write down a date and time before handing it to the boy. 

“I scheduled a one to one so we can go over everything you’ve done before the deadline,” you explain gently. Kaminari takes the note between his fingers, grip delicate either end as though afraid it might tear. “Don’t worry if you lose that. I’m going to send the details to your student email, and I’ll remind you again on the day. That sound good?”

Had you been any younger your eyes might’ve stung at the clear wonder unfolding on his face; surprised and happy to be accommodated without interrogation. Now there is only a dull ache beneath your skull and resentment in your heart. His reaction spoke to the copious rejection he faced before UA. 

You’ve come to learn that children are only ever as brilliant as you allow them to be. 

“Y—yeah. That’s amazing, thanks Sensei,” Kaminari steadily brightens. His fist hits his chest with a quiet thump, “I won’t let’cha down!” 

“I’m sure you won’t. And please don’t forget to bring your overlays,” you call to them as they amble out into the hallway. Shinsou holds the door, nodding shortly in acknowledgement. The savoury smell of curry has already distracted Kaminari enough to have him forget your discussion. 

You sigh, hearing their laughter grow quiet in the distance. Another muted pang echoes through your skull. Expression contorted, you wince and gather your things, thoughts latched onto the lacquered bento box that awaits in the teachers lounge to distract from the pain. 

The once stream of bustling students becomes a mere trickle, stragglers hanging by the bathrooms, others cross legged in front of their lockers, grouped tightly together without causing obstruction. They appear wilted. An overarching air of despondency; grey against the brightly painted corridor. 

The muscles in your face twinge. You resolve to greet them all, offering a smile as sincere as you can muster despite the heaviness in your heart. For many of these kids, if not all, life would never be the same. So young, grappling with such unprecedented loss. 

You come to a halt. Lofty double doors loom. Your fingers curl into the recessed handle and you slide them open. Though the walls are bare, the windows are large, and into the staff lounge beams intrepid light. 

You’re met with a chorus of sluggish murmurs, few heads lifting to see who has entered. Of the faces present there are two you’re most familiar with—class 2A’s heroics mentor and their homeroom teacher. 

Yagi is hunched at his computer desk. A cardigan too large for his frame is draped across his shoulders and pools around his wrists. Cradled in one hand is a thermos covered in stickers. Steam pours from the open top, wispy tendrils curling into the air. You inhale and recognise the weak scent of bone broth. 

Those sunken eyes flicker as you approach, striking blue roving over your form. Whatever he sees must be cause for concern. “Are you feeling unwell?”

You had felt an immediate fondness for Toshinori Yagi when you first met him. The presence of All Might hung tangibly in the air, a stifling ode to his service that still unnerved those who did not know him, but you were different. Like his colleagues, you looked back and saw a well meaning, sweet but bumbling older man. 

“No, no,” you demurred. “It’s just a headache”. 

Yagi grimaces sympathetically, furrow etched into his brow. Hips slumped low on the staff sofa, garish yellow sleeping bag at his feet, Aizawa hums a low amused sound that draws your attention. You’re surprised he’s awake. “My kids will do that to you,” he murmurs. 

The Erasure hero’s head is tipped to bare his throat, jawline shadowed by stubble. Dark curtains of hair fall across his shoulders. Aizawa is handsome. This you cannot deny. Before you met you’d heard him described as quite the opposite. Yet here you are, magnetised to him; to his callous humour, and the rough, rare instances of laughter; to the sturdy body hidden beneath baggy clothing and the deep, blasé manner in which he speaks. 

You swallow the sight thickly and pinch the bridge of your nose with a self deprecating laugh. It’s just a silly crush. “Nothing like that,” you assure him. The chair creaks slightly beneath your thighs as you recline. “I don’t think I slept well last night”. 

Admitting it invites a sudden wave of fatigue. Aizawa is no stranger to exhaustion. You think he could probably sleep anywhere—hell, you’ve seen him sleep standing up. He regards you thoughtfully, and the longer he stares the warmer your collar becomes. You feel his scrutiny even as you avert your eyes. 

Incognisant to the tension, Yagi continues to fret. “Ah, that’s no good. Let me make you some coffee,” he insists, brushing off his pants as he stands. Yagi sheds the feeble slope from his shoulders and you blink at the burst of energy. 

“Alright. Thank you, Yagi-san,” you reply, voice dwindling as he ducks into the modest kitchen connected to the lounge. Aizawa clicks his tongue. 

“You’ll regret that,” he breathes, ensuring the other man would not hear. “Unless you’re a fan of drinking tar”. 

“Don’t be mean. I’m sure it’s not that bad,” your trembling lips press firmly together, not wanting to to give him the satisfaction of making you laugh. He exhales and shrugs as if to say ‘it’s your funeral’. 

Yagi soon returns holding a cup of coffee and your bento box. “Here. I thought you might want to eat,” he gives a signature toothy grin. You say nothing of the shake in his hands as he sets them down on your desk and bring the hot drink to your mouth. 

The coffee is awful. You hold your breath and smother the urge to cough, swallowing it down with feigned enthusiasm. The astringent taste lingers. A shudder runs throughout your body and you inhale sharply. “That—will definitely wake me up. Thank you, Yagi-san,” you rasp, trying to smile. Yagi looks rather pleased and gives a thumbs up. 

Next you look, Aizawa has shucked the sleeping bag up to his midsection and burrowed into his capture weapon, leaving only bloodshot eyes visible above the fabric. They’re crinkled at the edges and full of mirth—you interlock and he lifts his chin to mouth, “Told you”. 

That shouldn’t be so attractive, you think.

On the next mouthful of your rice you subtly uncurl your middle finger from beneath your chopsticks and pointedly flip it at Aizawa. He snorts, amused. 

“Gesundheit,” Yagi chimed between sips, enjoying the warm broth in his thermos flask. From what you understood he had to follow a strict liquid only diet. He could hardly stomach solids anymore. “Are you getting sick too, Aizawa-kun?” 

Aizawa sighs at the obliviousness, though you think he’s a little glad for it. 

The conversation tapers and the lunch hour crawls on. Your mind drifts to the students as you idly chew, grains ground to mush, vision blurring out of focus. Thankfully it appeared to be one of their better days. Shinsou remained awake for the entire period. Yaoyarozu participated confidently. The shadows under Bakugo’s eyes hadn’t been as severe. Iida’s legs had not restlessly bounced under the table. Midoriya kept his hands to himself and felt no need to feel for his friend's heartbeat. 

However one of your more boisterous spirits, Monoma, had been noticeably withdrawn. Kouda’s rabbit—trained to detect and assist with anxiety—scrambled into his arms on numerous occasions. 

Your skin prickles, alerted to the weight of someone’s gaze on your back. Not a second later you hear the low call of your name. Aizawa slips into the chair opposite, disconcertingly silent in his approach, and leans his chin against his fist. 

“If you keep thinking so hard, All Might really is going to give himself a hernia,” he mutters. 

Yagi’s lighthearted chuckle devolves into a harsh spluttering cough. “Blunt as always, Aizawa-kun,” he jokes, voice muffled by his hand. 

“I’m not sure he could even get a hernia…” you muse, offering him a tissue. Yagi nods in thanks as he wipes the blood from his mouth. “I was thinking about the kids, that's all”. 

Aizawa tilts his head. The sun settles at her highest point and golden pleats stretch across his face. These are the rare instances that his artificial eye becomes observable. Light refracts in the iris, glittering crimson through graphene layers. 

“They’ve really taken a shine to you,” he says, and it comes like an accusation, softened by the slight jut to his lips. You smirk, shutting your bento box and setting it aside. How wonderfully petty. 

“Curious?” 

“Midoriya burst into class last week and asked Tokoyami if he had a twin that he ate in the womb,” he drawls, brow twitching. Yagi splutters. “So yes, I’m curious what it is you’re teaching my students”. 

A fleeting sense of exasperation comes over you. Trust Midoriya to abandon delicacy in his eagerness. “I assume it’s because we covered the genetics of chimerism and how it relates to quirk inheritance,” you say, bemused. Hopefully Tokoyami was not offended. It’s a wonder he didn’t ask Todoroki.

“And how does it?” Yagi blink owlishly as you turn to him in surprise. “I’m curious!” he defends. 

“Oh. Well, genetic chimerism is when an organism has multiple sets of DNA often originating from the fusion of different zygotes,” you recite. Instinctively, your posture straightens as though you were back in the classroom. “This can happen with twin embryos. One absorbs the other and as a result, they have two sets of DNA”. 

“O—oh…?”

“So,” you continue, fingers wrung together in your lap, turning to give him your full attention. Colour drains from the retired hero’s cheeks. “The question I presented was this: would it then be possible for the surviving twin to inherit an additional quirk?”

“I see,” Yagi swallows and his grin strains at the edges as he realises you are waiting for a genuine answer. “Ah, I’m not—”

The lunch bell abruptly begins to ring. You both startle in your seats. Unperturbed, Aizawa pushes to his feet. His hair falls forward as he sways in place and meets your gaze. “As interesting as this is, we need to get to gym gamma for basic heroics,” he says, tone laced with monotony. 

Yagi jumps at the chance to escape. You try not to laugh. He continues to nervously glance over his shoulder, worried that you might be disheartened, but you wave them off happily. 

Coworkers come and go throughout the afternoon. Kurose keeps you company during their free period, later joined by Yamada, who insisted on quizzing you about western rock music. With no classes left to teach you spend the remainder of your day planning quirk counselling sessions, printing worksheets and sending routine emails, headache persisting. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

From: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp  To: Kaminari.Denki@UAedu.jp  Subject: Reminder [High importance] Message: 

Good afternoon,

Please see the two files I have attached to this email. One has a highlighted version of the essay brief, and another detailing how to structure an essay. 

As I mentioned, I have booked a one to one session for us to go over your draft and any concerns next week on [x] September 13:00 — 14:00. However do not hesitate to email me with any questions you have before this date. 

Take care!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

After the final bell rings you linger a while, not wanting to be swept away in throngs of students making their way to the dorms. There are no stragglers as you leave and your footsteps reverberate unsettlingly throughout the main building. 

The sky bleeds into early dusk with disquieting rays of light. Gentle enough that you can look directly into the sun and see the canvas it paints. Standing in the middle of the walkway, balefully watching the far off horizon, the early autumn air makes you shiver. 

Living on campus was a big change. Even so you had little to complain about. The staff dormitories are larger and much more private. You’d been given a studio on the second floor, neighbour to Ishiyama, the rather withdrawn cement hero. While there is a bathroom and kitchenette in each apartment you usually preferred to cook in the shared kitchen, conjoined to an open plan common room. 

Another familiar face greets you as you enter. Powerloader is seated at the dining table, mulling over a mess of blueprints. Quirk science and quirk support often went hand in hand thus you had collaborated before, albeit very rarely. 

He lifts his head at your entrance, face obscured by long, spiked copper hair. Seeing him free of his big excavator helmet—much like with Kurose without their space suit—is still quite strange. “Hey, Maijima-san,” you skim over what looks to be a box buckle belt. “Working on anything interesting?”

“I’m designing an MMF induction system for Tetsutetsu in 2B,” he explained, sifting through the papers to show another preliminary sketch. You notice the ink stain on the heel of his hand. “I’m hoping with the belt and armbands acting as coils we could turn him into an electromagnet of sorts”. 

“Wow. That’s actually pretty cool. There are so many things he could do with that,” you mumbled. Flash bangs. Emergency power. Assisting in triage. The possibilities were endless. Awed, you lean forward to scrutinise the chicken scrawl dotted around the drawings, some characters smudged beyond your comprehension. “How do you plan to measure his tolerance to—?”

“Mochi?!” a small, giddy voice interrupts. 

“…Mochi?” you repeat, bewildered. You look toward the source, gaze falling upon two silvery pigtails. Eri rocks on her heels and excitedly holds out a curved plate full of rice cakes. The height draws her sweater sleeves down her thin, scarred forearms. She makes a droning noise to stress that you take one. 

Aizawa strolls out from the kitchen behind her. A dull clink accompanies his footsteps, slanted to one side. You immediately note the various colourful clips pinning his hair away from his face, tied into a similar pigtail style, though tousled and loose.

“Eri,” he rumbles. “It’s impolite to interrupt private conversations”. 

The little girl wilts a fraction as her expression pinches in worry. She lowers the plate, but before it is out of reach, Maijima stretches across the table to snatch one up. Eri brightens at the exaggerated happy sound he makes as he chews, “This is some good mochi, Eri-chan. I’ll forgive you this once”. 

“Thank you, Maijiji,” she chimes. At that Maijima’s jaw unhinges mid-chew, the corners of his mouth twitching in quiet shock. Aizawa’s nostrils flare. He turns his head from the scene. Similarly, you tuck your chin to conceal your smirk and pluck up a mochi for yourself. 

“These look delicious,” you tell her, diverting the topic from Maijima—who, in your periphery, is mouthing ‘old man?!’ toward Aizawa with some incredulity. Eri’s focus remains on your face. She watches intently as the sticky dough yields under your thumbs. 

You tear a piece away to eat. Softer, smoother on the inside. It begins to melt on your tongue. The red bean paste is sweet with earthy undertones. “Wow!” the exclamation comes warbled, muffled. Eri tugs at the hem of her pink knit sweater, her smile stretching wider. “You’re very kind for sharing these, Eri��. 

“Mhm. S’because Yama-san teached me a quote in English today,” she effuses proudly, “He said sharing is caring”. The foreign enunciation doesn’t quite fit, like the words are choppy in her mouth, but they fall easily from her lips as if she has practised them a hundred times.

“Taught,” Aizawa corrected, bending into view to take the plate from her hands and set it on the table. She blinks at him curiously, and he explains, “You should say ‘Yama-san taught me’, not teached”. 

“Oh,” she says. You watch fondly as he licks his thumb to wipe away a smear of bean paste on her chin. Her face scrunches up, lips pursed and air in her cheeks. 

“And now you’ve been taught a new word,” you add, pulling off a bigger piece of mochi. Eri bounces in place as you offer it to her and she shoves it into her mouth. “Thank you for the treat, Eri. I think I’ll enjoy this in my room”. 

“Ywor lea’win’?” 

Aizawa sighs and concedes defeat to her poor manners. He cradles the crown of her head with his palm, stroking her hair. “I’m a little tired so I really want to take a shower and get in my pyjamas,” you say, hoping to placate her with a smile. “But I’m sure I’ll see you again sometime tomorrow, okay?”

Eri concedes rather reluctantly. Her fondness for you, once a stranger from the yawning unknown, is warming. Though her dejection is short-lived, soon distracted by the late arrival of Yagi and Yamada. 

The soft hair on your neck prickles. Sensing his stare you meet Aizawa’s gaze, heavy enough to feel like touch. It stirs a fleeting sort of hope in your chest. He looks gentle, frame wrapped up in the gauzy evening lustre. You clear your throat, “Did heroics go well in the end?” 

His brow twitches and you get the distinct feeling that you’re being laughed at. “No broken bones. So I would say so,” he deadpanned. 

“If it were anyone else saying that I’d be concerned,” you smiled, knowing class 2A in particular was well renowned for incurring injuries in training. “It was their first one since… everything, right? I’m glad they’re doing okay”. 

He hums, eyes sliding toward his daughter when her laughter breaks the delicate quiet. You shift awkwardly where you stand, overly conscious of Maijima seated nearby, now engrossed in his work. Aizawa levelled his voice, “How’s the headache?” 

“Persistent,” you murmur. Acknowledging it invites another dull pang inside your skull. “Honestly I can’t wait to get in bed”. 

“Hear hear,” he breathes. The corner of his mouth curls as he looks at you and gravity vaults around your stomach, rendering you momentarily weightless. Just a crush, you think, half hysterical. “Get some rest. If you plan on missing dinner then take a jelly pouch or an energy bar with you”. 

Touched by his concern you sway toward the kitchen. Your teeth sink into your cheek, biting down a grin where he cannot see it. “Yeah, okay,” you laugh under your breath. Louder then, “But I’m going to take your favourite flavour”. 

“Don’t push your luck,” he dared. 

You retire to your apartment with a green jelly packet in hand and a clunky wave. Energy seeps out of you like water through a sieve as soon as your door shuts. Fatigue creeps in; the body needing rest yet the mind restless. 

The shower does little to shake you awake. Dragging your feet to your bedroom, pouch uncapped and held between your lips. Tepid air sticks to still damp skin. Your bed yields, thoughts slowing. You crawl across the mattress, cheeks hollow as you lazily suck the jelly until the foil wrinkles. 

Cocooned in plush fleece and linen, you tilt your head and let it loll against the pillow; exhaustion sweeps through you, consciousness waning. The ache behind your eyes lessens as they close. You sleep. 

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From: Kaminari.Denki@UAedu.jp  To: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp  Subject: RE: Reminder [High importance] Message: 

Hi hi

The worksheets really helped!!! You’re the best, Sensei!

I was talking to Mido and he said some ppl think quirks are a genetic mutation from a disease spread by rats?? ? (◎-◎;) super freaky. Can I make that my essay topic? 

Thnx!

Kaminari Denki AKA ⚡️ CHARGEBOLT

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From: Midoriya.Izuku@UAedu.jp  To: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp Subject: An analysis of the Q-gene theory Message:

Sorry to email so late! Or early haha… I found some articles while I was researching that I think will be helpful to my essay but the journal is not open access. Is there any way that I cannnnnnnnvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvccccccccccccccvvvvvvccccccccccccccccvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Sent from my ePhone 

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Morning comes abruptly. The sound of your alarm cuts out as you stretch across the bed to hit snooze, limbless and heavy handed. You rise with a crick in your neck. Barely cognisant, the floor rises to meet you, cool against the soles of your feet. 

A mottle of pale blue and white blended into a grey low lit morning, flooding the common area. It’s no surprise to you that people are already awake. Snipe is seated on the couch meticulously cleaning his pistol while Kurose is clad in their gym wear, jogging in place where they wait for Yagi to zip up his jacket. 

Upright, he beams at the sight of you, “Good morning! You look much better today”. 

You do not feel much better. 

“Morning,” you return lightly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Snipe tips his hat in your direction with a quiet grunt. “Are the others still asleep?” 

The drooping blonde hair that frame’s Yagi’s face sway as he shakes his head. “Not everyone. I believe Yamada-kun is at his radio station. Ectoplasm is out walking the perimeter with Hound Dog. Though Aizawa-kun may be sleeping…”

“He got back from night patrol a few hours ago,” Kurose adds. They wave both hands at you, spacetime wielding fingers wiggling as though to entice you, “That aside, would you like to join us on our morning run?” 

Your expression immediately shifts, exhibiting strong disinclination. “I appreciate the invite, but I’d rather return to a horizontal position until my work hours start”. 

Kurose laughs warmly. Yagi, however, insists on reciting the benefits to early exercise while he ties and reties his shoes. You send them off, holding the door open to breathe in the morning dew, and spend a minute feeling the cool air prickle your cheeks. 

The day crawls on. You get to your classroom before the first period and review the lesson plans. The third years stagger to their seats. You can sympathise with their dead eyed stares—two hours of quirk regulation law is not exactly the most riveting topic—and take no offense to their spiritless attitudes. 

Third period is spent fostering discussion about politics with the business students. By the time lunch hour comes and goes you have barely left your classroom. Your next set is composed of first year hero students. This academic year both class 1A and B had been mixed into the same group. Hardly six months after a war steeped in blood and sacrifice, Japan’s citizens were not so eager to hand their children over to a hero school. Thus there were few applicants. Nevertheless, Principal Nedzu remained optimistic about their potential. 

Straight away you understood his judgement. In covering the quirk history module you saw first hand their iron willed determination to learn from the past and change the system. Hands are thrown high in the air—eager despite your intention to wind down—as you inquire their thoughts about the quirk classification system. 

“The whole thing is bull—brainless!” one of your more headstrong students, Higuchi, calls out. You can picture the lurid glare behind his blacked out glasses. His classmates murmur in agreement. 

“He’s right, Sensei,” Kaneko, 1B class president, adds quietly. The air distorts around her when she speaks and your jaw clenches, withholding a flinch as your ear pops. “Why are there only three categories? It makes no sense”. 

“I agree. The classification system is simplistic and outdated. Which is what leads me into my final question…” you hold out your hands in mock surrender, brows pointedly arched, and they settle down. In that instant, the door slides open and disrupts the peace. Every head turns to watch Eraserhead slip brazenly into the classroom, and after a pregnant pause, gesture for you to continue. 

Heat rises to the high point of your cheeks. His expression is soft in the artificial light, fixed on you with intent and sincere intrigue. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth.  “Ah—What was I saying?” you joked nervously. Sensing your embarrassment the kids begin to laugh under their breath. “That’s right. My question is, if possible, what are some of the categories you would introduce to improve the quirk database? Brainstorm for me. There are no wrong answers!” 

Those eyes nag at you for the remainder of the hour. With another teacher present, heralded as a war hero no less, the motivation to impress increases tenfold. You bullet point their answers on the class board, prompting further explanation or examples and suggesting your own. It’s a welcome distraction—

And the outcome is far more comprehensive than you expected:

Generation describes quirks that allow the individual to create something from their body. Example: Creati. 

Manipulation refers to quirks that control what is pre existing. Example: Poltergeist. 

Users with a Transmutation quirk can change or alter the function of things around them. Example: Mudman.

Augmentation quirks allow the individual to improve their own body in some way. Example: Mount Lady. 

Information quirks classify those that can detect, understand and apply information. Example: Nighteye.

You watch them rush to scribble the list down. Murmurings carry through the classroom as they turn to one another, listing more examples, giving thought to how each quirk should be designated. Pride swells in your chest. 

“I have a question”.

Aizawa remained hunched in the corner, one hand deep in his pocket. The other is raised lazily above his head. This elicits some anticipation from your students. You motion for him to continue, “Yes, Aizawa-sensei?”

“Erasure is listed as ‘Emitter’ in the quirk database. This means I share a category with quirks which are fundamentally different, such as Hellflame,” he speaks with a calm, assertive cadence that holds the kids' attention. His gaze sweeps across the class and they squirm. “Tell me, what would you categorise my quirk as to draw that distinction?”

The long silence is contemplative rather than daunting. Higuchi fakes a cough. He lifts his fist, fingers unfurling as his wrist then falls limp, feigning indifference. It was made no secret that he admired Eraserhead, given their shared ocular abilities. Allure was a powerful quirk. Persuaded with a single glance, inhibited only by the specialised lenses in his glasses. 

Thus you recognise the attitude change for what it is—a preemptive measure in the case that he slips in front of the man he admires. “Higuchi,” you warmly addressed. Aizawa centres his attention on the boy. “Do you have a suggestion for Aizawa-sensei?”

“Y—yeah,” he says. “I thought we could add something like ‘Condition’ to the list…?”

“Can you elaborate on that?” you try to encourage. Aizawa’s posture shifts, his interest piqued. 

“I was just thinking, Erasure doesn’t fit any of the shi—stuff we thought up,” Higuchi continues, his fingers knotted tight on the desk, knuckles white. “Condition would cover people whose quirks enforce a condition on others. Like an infatuation quirk or—or my own quirk”.

Everybody is seemingly waiting with bated breath. You glance back at Aizawa, now carefully regarding Higuchi. You know that look. “Not bad, kid,” he nods, quietly pleased. Higuchi grins. 

Smiling, you move to add ‘Condition’ to the list. 

You’re on edge after the bell rings. Aizawa’s presence brushes you like a breath of balmy air, biding his time while you send off your class, grunting in response to those who bow in his direction. When you finally turn his half lidded gaze is mellowed. 

“So,” you begin clumsily. “Is there any particular reason why you interrupted my lesson?” 

Aizawa hums. A sound so deep, so supple you want to lean into it. “I have a favour to ask. Is the rest of your afternoon free?” 

“The Eraserhead asking me a favour?” you tease, needlessly lining up your stationary before collecting your things. “I’ve got no more classes to teach, if that’s what you mean. Why?”

“All Might can’t assist supervising heroics training this afternoon,” he mutters, examining your display boards with absentminded curiosity. 

“You need to give me more than that, Aizawa”. 

He exhales, mouth pressed thin, ducking into his capture weapon. You see a shift in expression, the skin of his cheeks drawing up to crinkle around his eyes. The petulance brings a smirk to your lips. Aizawa had been mildly avoidant and emotionally reserved from the moment you met him, but for someone so motivated by logic he seemed to expect you to read his mind lately. 

“Two people are required to oversee the class”

“And you want that second person to be me?”

“If you’re going to be difficult I can ask Thirteen,” he replies dryly. The tip of his tongue wets his bottom lip, tempting your gaze. You feel yourself consciously resisting. 

The empty threat hangs lightly in the room. Your smirk gentles into a smile. He tracks your movement, standing aside while you tuck in the desk chair. “No, no. I’ll come,” you demurred. “I want to help. Let’s go”. 

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From: Shinsou.Hitoshi@UAedu.jp  To: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp  Subject: — Message: 

Hisorrywoulditbepossibletogetanextensiononmyessay?Myspacebarisbroken. 

Shinsou Hitoshi

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From blue rafters to monochrome stone, the arched structure of Gym Gamma comes into view. Towers over you as you approach. Aizawa’s footsteps are purposeful and his legs carry him forward with a lumbering gait. You’ve changed into shoes befitting the outdoors—a pair of boots that hug your calves tight and keep your ankles warm as the afternoon wanes toward an inevitable cold evening. 

“The students participating today have been previously cleared for training in a controlled environment by their psychiatrist,” Aizawa says, breathing slightly visible in the autumn chill. His hands are buried deep in his capture weapon. “First they’ll start by sparring without quirks to warm up. If I see no risk they can then move on to using quirks”.

Allowing the kids to train again had been a sensitive matter. Not a single hero student came out the war unscathed; the first years especially, given the proximity to AFO, were dealt extensive physical and psychological trauma—a handful even undergoing  forced quirk awakening. Throwing them back into a battle environment, controlled or otherwise, needed to be handled with care. 

Aizawa did just that, and to your knowledge he always had. He exercised caution with his students. Even if it came across as harsh. Even if the chances of danger were nil. He was staunchly protective of his brood. You understood that to be the reason why their parents trusted him to lead them forward—

And you hoped it meant he would be open to your advice throughout the training. 

Your head bobs, nodding in acknowledgment. “During the latter half of the session, if I see signs of a student in distress—?”

“Inform me,” he cuts in firmly. A flash of crimson pools into his irises, gone between blinks, and you’re left to wonder if it was just a trick of the light. “I’ll erase their quirks and stop the spar before it escalates”. 

You ponder that as Aizawa shields his eyes and scans the beyond when a chorus of voices reaches your ears. An amalgamation of 2A and 2B are waiting by the gym doors, with the few that recognise you excitedly waving their arms and calling your name. 

“Understood,” a small smile pulls at your lips. You wave toward the group, donned in their UA tracksuits. “You’re the boss”. 

Iida graciously bids you both welcome, his hand chopping through the air as he speaks over the others and attempts to assuage them. Questions of All Might’s whereabouts are few and far, instead entirely focused on your unexpected presence—all the more surprising that Midoriya visibly brightens, unaffected by his mentor’s absence. 

You allow Aizawa to take the wheel while he makes introductions, rocking idly on your feet, nodding along when prompted. “I’m sure some of you are well acquainted, whether it be through individual quirk consultations or taking quirk science as your chosen elective…”

Yaoyorozu is poised beside a fellow student, Jirou, arms crossed over her midriff. Fingers wiggle by the crook of her elbow in another subtle wave, smile gracing her lips. Bakugo catches the movement and his eyes flicker in your direction. He acknowledges you with a short nod.

“Today is not about analysing the progression of your quirks. We will be observing how you apply them,” he continues. There’s a fleeting emphasis to his voice. It carries an underlying warning, the same way a parent might quietly reprimand a child. The class visibly stands straighter and Midoriya raises his hand. 

Aizawa exhales, a fond sort of exasperation shining through, “…Midoriya”.

“Will we receive individual feedback?” Midoriya eagerly questioned. “And can we get Sensei’s opinion on our own ideas? Because—!”

“Kid,” Aizawa drawls. Colour paints Midoriya’s face pink but he seems bashful rather than ashamed. “Once we move onto sparring with quirks, yes, you will be notified of anything we deem significant. After class”. 

Bakugo, Monoma, Shinsou, Tetsutetsu and Midoriya appear particularly motivated by this. You clear your throat, gaze sliding to Aizawa as you add, “And anyone seeking my opinion or reassurance is free to email me. We can set up a meeting. That’s what I’m here for, after all”.  

The hour wore on. Aizawa was happy to watch in comfortable silence, offering up any thoughts and observations as they passed. There’s a clear sense of pride about him. A softness. Comfortable showing it now he’s a distance from the prying eyes of his students.

Hand-to-hand warm ups progress to quirk use. Some have formed small battle royale type groups while the others chose to pair up. You scan the gym with a keen eye. The quick streak of Midoriya’s red sneakers as his left foot pivots on the mats catches your attention. His opponent, Todoroki, falls into a balanced stance. 

You watch their fight unfold. The intensity swells. Dread prickles down your spine. “Aizawa…” you cautioned. 

Green lightning pulses. One For All activates. A metallic taste sticks to the roof of your mouth. Midoriya’s body twists, and with it his right foot swings up in a singular, upward path. It cleaves through the air, a slice more than it is a swing, and the force lands squarely on the side of Todoroki’s skull—or it would have, if he hadn’t blocked it with his arm, encased in ice. 

There’s a split second in which everything stops. An immense, charged force bore down on your lungs. Your vision blurred. As quick as it came the lightning died out and a deluge of shattered ice fell to the ground. 

“Ouch,” Todoroki says, cradling his wrist. You think that probably doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Aizawa sprinted across the room without ceremony, his hair hung high in suspension and ready to step in. Todoroki interjects first. Presumably to defend his friend and assure them both that he’s fine. While Aizawa scans his forearm for any sign of major injury you watch Midoriya return to himself. Colour drains from his face. Chest heaving. There’s a violent tremor in his legs.  Between rapid blinks you hear the crack in his mumbled apologies. 

Aizawa settles a gentle hand on his shoulder. The rest of the students return to their matches, save for a select few who spare Midoriya a concerned glance—nevertheless, nobody is truly surprised. You can only wonder how often this happens. 

Midoriya broke himself for the sake of others more times than you could stomach, and you’ve been witness to how uniquely adept he is at hiding those splintered parts first hand. With the wound still so fresh, people needed the courageous, forthright, spirited version of him, the one with the beaming smile and the promise of safety. At only sixteen years old that is already his delegated role in life. 

There are not enough words to depict just how catastrophic the war had been. You suffered heart-wounds of your own but in facing the sacrifice these children gave you felt a contrite, shameful hole in your consciousness. This is victory; the only one on the table, and it is painful.

While Aizawa calms Midoriya, your focus returns to the rest of the class. Tetsutetsu is holding his own against Iida. Kuroiro is half steeped in shadow, reflexively sinking into his quirk as he wards off Bakugo’s punches. You note that Kaminari is unsteady on his feet, having already discharged too much electricity. 

Something about Monoma’s hesitance also holds your attention. Of the abilities he’s used there has only been four. Odd, given his ability to hold five at a time, and the plethora of quirks surrounding him. 

You chew your lip and it occurs to you that he must be keeping one on reserve from prior to the lesson. The next thought comes unbidden, inhaling sharply as a sudden, cold sort of clarity slides through you. 

The only quirk you imagine Monoma could still be intentionally holding onto is the one he took during the fight against AFO. Erasure. 

“What’re you thinking?”

You shake out of your stupor and find Aizawa closer than expected. Somewhere in between he had tied his hair up. He tucks a wayward strand behind his ear, eyes squinted and wrinkling the scar tissue high on his cheek. “What?” you ask dumbly. 

“You went somewhere,” he clarifies. You feel his knuckles lightly knock your temple. “What are you thinking about?” 

“Ah,” you smile, abashed, and rub the spot of skin he touched. “Just making mental notes. I wish I had brought something to write with”.

“Well?” Aizawa says, as though his silence was enough of an invitation. “Tell me about them”. 

“It’s obvious the student’s have made incredible progress when compared to their first year quirk assessments. But there are some minor adjustments that I think will help considerably…”

You go on to list ideas for development and support tech. Things like regularly involving parkour into all their training routines. Or having Iida request smaller engines along the front legs of his costume for faster braking, or sharper turns. Or experimenting with Mina’s quirk, testing how precise her control is over her acid’s viscosity and if she could potentially create gaseous forms.

Your awareness wanes periodically, pausing open mouthed to discern the skill of each group, weighing your thoughts. To his credit Aizawa does listen to you ramble, mellowing the longer you speak. Tension seeps from his shoulders as though pulled down by gravity and that look of contentment returns. 

“In terms of wielding their quirk the one I’m most concerned about is probably Kaminari,” you hesitate, chewing your lip as your voice lowers. “I believe he still views his quirk as a final move”.

Aizawa leans forward, attentive to your opinion, and hums. The dulcet melody is warm by your ear—

You become conscious of his proximity. The air retains his heat, the indistinct woodsy notes that always clung to his clothes. 

—and your throat constricts as you swallow.

“Because of that he immediately jumps from zero to one hundred. I’ve seen his files. It results in mild cranial nerve lesions which then induces temporary impairment mid battle,” you continue soberly, staring ahead with lips stretched into strained assurance as some of the students begin to notice your proximity. 

Monoma strikes the back of Tetsutetsu’s leg as he makes a suggestive gesture, making him collapse on one knee. You close your eyes as embarrassment floods your body, “I have to wonder if he ever worked with a quirk counsellor in the first place”. 

Aizawa signals his agreement and moves back a fraction. His expression remained unchanged. He is by no means an unfeeling man, but you can’t help being jealous about how unshaken he is. All the while you probably look like a spring bouquet. 

“So, how do you suggest we help him?” 

His genuine countenance tempered your short lived frustration, and the word ‘we’ echoed in your mind. You knew what he meant, but it still brought a pleasant flutter to your chest. “I think we should start by having support give him a multimeter,” you reply. “Atleast that way we can discern the point that he begins to lose cognition and work upwards from there”. 

“Alright. I’ll ask Maijima-san once we’re done here,” he nods. There is a tentative pause. “Anything else you think needs to be addressed?” 

“There is…Monoma,” you add. His head turns in your peripheral vision, visibly taken aback. 

“Monoma?” he repeated. 

“This is just speculation on my part,” you grimace, sparing a glance toward the students. As the session winds down they’ve gathered in the centre of the mats, talking to one another. “But I have a hunch that he might still be holding onto your quirk”.

Aizawa’s face becomes pinched. The apparent frustration grows as his expression shifts. Mouth twisting, jaw moving with gritted teeth. “I should’ve noticed,” he mutters. 

“Monoma is primarily in Kan-san’s care, not yours. If anything he should be the one to notice,” you say, subtly detailing his side profile as he continues to observe his class. “Between the media circus, your physiotherapy, teaching and being a father—you can hardly blame yourself”. 

The bridge of his nose wrinkles at that. “Shit, sorry. Did I overstep?” you fret. 

Aizawa’s expression smooths out, reluctantly. He exhales. “No. I’m just not used to the idea of being a parent, I suppose”. 

“Guardian, then,” you amended with a flippant wave, hoping to lighten the sullen atmosphere. “Though I guess teaching is like a sub-branch of parenting in itself”. 

“How so?”

“Good or bad, a teacher plays a big part in shaping a child, right?” For a strange, short moment, you’re hyper aware of how closely he watches you as you speak, and you deal with it by finding great interest in the gym floor. “Y’know. Their self confidence, beliefs and ambitions… didn’t you have anyone like that?” 

That gives him pause, and while he thinks you drink in the line of his jaw, angular and shadowed by stubble, the wispy strands framing his face as his haphazard ponytail slowly loosens, and the faint crease formed across the bridge of his nose after grimacing so frequently. 

Aizawa’s brow arches. Caught, you quickly cast your gaze to the gym floor. “Well. There is the man that made me realise I wanted to go underground,” he says, graciously ignoring your ogling. “His purple highness”.

“His purple highness?!” you echo, voice clamouring through the now quieted din, diverting the students attention from their post training stretches. “Fuck, sorry. Of all the heroes I wasn’t expecting you to say him”. 

Nakaoji Tenma, now retired hero ‘His purple highness’, was the polar opposite of Aizawa. Widely renowned for flamboyance and theatrics, his notorious vibrant two piece suit and frilly open chested jacket sporting vibrant epaulettes on each shoulder was particularly unforgettable. 

“You wouldn’t be the first. I thought Nemuri was absurd for recommending Oboro and I during her work study,” he reminisced. 

“Surely it wasn’t that bad”.

Aizawa cracks a rueful grin. “His highness quickly recognised that I would have poor media presence and tried to teach me ‘how to smile’ properly. As you can see, it didn’t work out”.

You weren’t so sure. Aizawa’s amusement always started behind his eyes, a mirth that flashed across a grey midwinter and trickled into his chest to create a brief, reserved huff of laughter; though you sense underlying melancholy as he recounts his internship and lost loved ones, his smile still curled sincerely at the edges. 

“I don’t know. I like your smile. Even if it can be a little…”

“Disturbing?” 

“Disarming,” you return, nudging his side. Without intention your fingers brushed against the rough skin of his knuckles, fine hairs prickling—and then a sudden, shrill whistle cuts suggestively through the mood, shattering it. 

Kaminari stands proud a few feet ahead of his snickering classmates, lips closed around his middle fingers. Aizawa rolls his neck with an indignant sigh. The joint clicks. He raises his voice and impassively announces, “For that you can all do ten laps”.

A chorus of objections fills the gym. One by one, the students drag their feet toward the outer edge and break into a jog. You bite back a smile, “You’re awful”. 

“Never claimed not to be,” he tells you. “All Might has another hospital appointment at the end of next week, if you want to join us again”. 

A nascent fondness unfurls in your chest. “Sure,” you murmur. “I’d like that”. 

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From: Aizawa.Shouta@UAedu.jp To: Maijima.Higari@UAedu.jp Cc: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp Subject: Request [High importance] Message:

Our resident quirk scientist has advised us to provide Kaminari Denki [ID: 16XXXX] with a multimeter to assist in his training. Do we have one on campus or am I going to have to do more paperwork?

Aizawa Shouta 2A Homeroom Teacher, UA High School Private number: +81 (03) 1234-5678 Do not call unless you are dying. 

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From: Yagi.Toshinori@UAedu.jp  To: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp  Subject: An email is here! Message: 

My friend,

Young Midoriya informed me that you took my place alongside Eraserhead in training this afternoon. He found your input very impressive, and even expressed the desire to have you look over his notebooks. That is quite the privilege! Ah, but please don’t tell him I told you that…!!!

Thank you for your hard work today. I will see you at dinner.

Yagi Toshinori Heroics Department, UA High School └（★ｏ★）┐ 𝓹𝐥𝔲ｓ Ǘ𝐋ⓣ𝔯𝓐 ┌（★ｏ★）┘

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Something indiscernible has since shifted. 

The work week is long, and when you crawl your way out of the mire of trepidation that decidedly hung over you, the source becomes clearer. 

The kids are being weird. 

Heroes in training, absolutely, but masters in subtlety they are not. Less than innocent, mischievous whispers would reach your ears, and silhouettes duck behind the nearest corner whenever you look back. Above all else they’ve taken to closely observing your interactions with Aizawa—sometimes going as far as forcing them. Kaminari even deems it appropriate to be nosey about your love life—or rather, your lack thereof—during your supplementary one-to-one. 

“That is not your business nor is it relevant to your essay,” you told him, tapping the end of your marker against the desk. The gentle reprimand did nothing to placate him. Scratching his cheek, Kaminari simply laughed and returned to reading the annotations you’d left on his work. 

Aizawa doesn’t bat an eye to any of it. While he presented himself as an extremely private man with clear boundaries drawn between home and work, it was obvious to you that that line had been trampled. He was accustomed to their harmless meddling. 

“Believe me. It’s worse if you tell them to stop,” he said, as if they were toddlers and would eventually tire themselves out.  

You have the pleasure of teaching their final class that Friday. If you’re lucky, come Monday they’ll have forgotten whatever it is they’re hatching.

Their focus wanes with the hour, your lesson structure a little looser to lead them into the weekend. Eri had joined unexpectedly, hidden behind Midoriya’s legs and teetering on her tiptoes to peek around the room. Kouda let’s Yuwai-chan rest in her arms as she sits on her very own chair beside Shinsou, mumbling small delights. 

“Focus, guys. We all have something called a Plus Alpha Mechanism in our DNA…”

Your pen glides along the board. The quiet repetitive sound of Bakugo’s tangle fidget matches your meridian rhythm, and you could almost forget the nonsense that has shadowed you since the training session. 

“…Here. The simplest way to think of it is like this,” following along with a finger, you read the written equation. “For example, if somebody has a tail—”

“Like Ojiro-kun!” Midoriya chirps. Bakugo gives him a sidelong glare, and his cheeks fill with air. 

“Correct, Midoriya,” you smile at his sheepishness. Your finger moves along to the latter half of the equation, “But the mechanism to move and wield his tail comes from the Plus Alpha. Added together, this forms the Quirk Factor”. 

“Sensei, is it then possible that quirklessness can occur when the Plus Alpha gene expression is not activated?” Iida inquires. Midoriya’s pencil stutters. 

“That’s right,” you flash him an encouraging smile, wider as he preens. Bakugo’s hands, too, have notably faltered, the tangle fidget balled up into a knot. “It’s a popular explanation amongst fourth gen members of the medical community. Older generations tend to prefer the whole archaic toe joint theory—but I don’t have time to cover that today”. 

Midoriya and Bakugo exhale in tandem. Monoma observes their behaviour closely, chin cupped in his palm. He seems well rested which alleviates the heaviness in your chest a fraction. You hope Aizawa has had the chance to speak with him. 

“Any other questions before I start to wrap up?”

Shinsou goes to raise his hand, stopping midway. Your brow arches and he indicates to wait. You watch on as he leans down to whisper something to Eri. Her doe-eyed gaze snaps from Yuwai-chan to his face, meeting an expression apologetically soft. And whatever it is he says, she pats his cheek in response. 

Sufficiently reassured, Shinsou once again raises his hand above his head. And as he relays his question a sober atmosphere befalls the class. 

In a roundabout manner—and refusing to name him—Shinsou asks about the Quirk erasing bullets used in the Shie Hassaikai case. You, like him, immediately seek Eri’s permission to speak on it. She gathers Yuwai-chan closer and nods. 

“Despite the name, the quirk erasing bullets did not technically erase any individuals quirk genes. They were engineered to directly attack the Plus Alpha,” the tip of your pen squeaks as you write out the words below the previous equation, underlining them twice. “Therefore the quirk could no longer be activated, making them functionally quirkless”. 

Shinsou accepts this, cheek sunken where he chews the flesh. Between blinks the pensive downturn to his mouth begins to curl into a faint smirk. “What about Aizawa-sensei’s quirk?” he asks, feigning innocence.

Your benevolence tapers as the class titters. Eri giggles, muffled by Yuwai-chan’s fur, and her shoulders hunch to hide in the little neck she has. 

“While I understand why you might conflate the two, Aizawa-sensei’s ocular quirk, Erasure, deactivates the Plus Alpha temporarily,” you answer at the end of a short sigh, taking a step back to lean against the wall. You skim the room with a pointed look, “As I’m sure you have all experienced first hand”. 

A few shudder at that. The whiplash of having the connection to your quirk severed must be alarming. You imagine it’s not something one can ever get used to. 

“Oc-u-lar?” Eri repeats. You feel your expression gentle as you meet her curious gaze. 

“Ocular means it’s connected to his eyes,” you explain simply, pointing to your own. “That is why his left eye glows red when he uses his quirk. Cool, right?” 

Accepting this, Eri’s cheeks swell with her smile and she chirps in agreement, “I like his eyes. They’re pretty”. 

“She likes his eyes,” Kaminari repeats with a faux-solemn nod. “Do you think so too, Sensei?” 

Iida sits ramrod straight in his seat. The abrupt jolt knocks his glasses halfway down his nose, “That is hardly appropriate for the classroom!” 

The electric blonde waves in surrender, “It’s just an innocent question, Prez! Not like I asked if he was United States of sma—”

“Kaminari-kun!”

Something snaps. Yuwai-chan yips. A litany of orange curved pieces spray across the table. Bakugo slumps, wearing a scowl dark enough to silence the chaos, debris from the broken fidget between his fingers. “Who gives a fu—” he spares Eri a quick glance and releases a long, deliberate exhale. “Who cares. Bunch’a nosey losers”  

Worry paints Momo’s features. Somewhat uncharacteristic of her, she readily rolls up her sleeve to offer the creation of another tangle. “Bakugo-kun, do you need me to…?”

“Don’t worry, Yaoyorozu-san!” Midoriya interrupts with a sunny complexion. He lumbers his backpack into his lap, zips it open and pulls out an identical fidget. “Kacchan breaks them a lot”.

You stifle the urge to groan into your hands, or gather them all into an uncomfortably strong hug, or both. For as much as you could tease Aizawa for allowing the students to bulldoze through his work-life boundaries it is becoming clear you're just as guilty. 

Bakugo lingers after the bell rings. The others file out, some with apologetic smiles, and neither of you speak until the classroom is empty. “Is everything okay, Bakugo?” you ask lightly. 

He itches his neck. Shoulder jerking as he shrugs, giving a stiff nod. Looking a little frayed around the edges, Bakugo mutters, “Sorry about the mess. M’staying to pick it up”. 

“That’s not necessary,” you objected. A slight pout works its way onto his lips. You know well enough that for all his posturing, Bakugo respects the word of his teachers. “I assure you it’s fine, Bakugo. But I really appreciate the sentiment”.

“Whatever,” he says, barely above a mumble. He shoves his hands into his pants pockets and motions to leave. “See ya Monday, Sensei”.

“Take care, Bakugo,” you call after him. Your ears latch onto the leaden echoing of footsteps until they disappear down the hallway. Silence creeps in while you pick up the small curved pieces.  The little moment of peace you had sought all week does not arrive. There are still emails to attend to, assignments to mark and future lessons to structure—

Your stomach rumbles and interrupts that thought. Again, evermore persistent while you attempt to ignore it. Eventually you dump the collected orange pieces into your desk drawer and make for the staff lounge, switching off the lights as you go. 

All Might and Present Mic are the only two in the room. Yamada spots you first. He’s yet to remove his costume, and the leather sleeves creak as he lifts his arms, waving loosely. Yagi spins on his axis for the source of the fuss. There’s a spoon in his mouth, and his lips stretch into a smile around it. 

A smile that dims as soon as you land in your chair with a heavy sigh. “I feel that,” Yamada says. His comically tall hair reaches high above your computer monitor, face peering over the frame. “Kiddos run you ragged today?” 

“I don’t know how they do it. It’s not like we’re sparring,” you snort lightly and rest your chin against your hand. The muted scent of Yagi’s greek yoghurt lingers in the air. You wrinkle your nose, “Have either of you noticed them behaving…oddly? I feel like they’ve been scheming”. 

Yagi pauses mid scoop, bewildered. He looks from you to Yamada, who appears infuriatingly in the know. “Odd?” he asks. The shadows around his eyes darken in concern. “Is there anything we should be looking out for?” 

“I wonder,” Yamada titters, tapping a finger against his nose. Green eyes smile at you over the top of his tinted lenses. “Could it have anything to do with Mina asking me about your blood type?”

“Blood type? Whatever for?” 

Covering his mouth, Yamada bends and covers his mouth, amplifying his cryptic whisper, “Romantic compatibility”.

Chewing your inner cheek, you shake your head and insist, “It’s just a popular theory about personality types from the pre quirk era”. Yagi’s expression clears. He accepts the explanation easily. You wished it were that simple. “I’m sure it’s nothing…” your attention wavers as you notice movement out the window. 

A distant black figure grows larger the closer it gets. Eraserhead is coming back from his afternoon patrol. He sweeps up onto the roof of a nearby building and dashes along the eaves before leaping off again. His capture weapon lassos the adjacent dormitory building and he swings in a perfect arc that vaults him upwards. The movements flow into one another naturally, without thought, nimble as he twists through the air. You can’t take your eyes off him. 

“No, you’re right. It’s definitely nothing,” Yamada quips lightly, his voice drawing you to the present. The implication behind his tone rings loud and clear and it shakes you from your reverie. 

Embarrassment sours your expression; it feels like you’ve swallowed the sun. “It’s not like that,” you insist, laughing nervously. Your gaze settles on a heart sticker Eri pasted on the desk. An old coffee stain has blurred the colour, cheap ink smeared into the wood. Your fingers come away stained pink. 

“Young love is exciting! There’s no shame in it. You can be honest with us. With me,” Yagi’s large hand comes down on your shoulder to give a reassuring pat. “I may be old but I’m not that dense. I think”. 

“You’re hardly old, Yagi-san. You’re only fifty”.

Yagi chuckles in that signature All Might fashion, a blush glowing bright on his cheekbones. “Thank you. But that is beside the point,” he says. The laughter mellows into a contemplative hum and you fidget while he watches you closely, warmly, “…It’s just, Aizawa seems a bit more alive when you’re around”. 

Yamada leans forward to rest his chin in his palms, held open like a flower in bloom, and murmurs his agreement. 

“What…do you mean exactly?” you ask. 

Yagi exhales, wringing battle worn hands in his lap. “He has been through a lot,” he begins. “Of course we all have but as I’m sure young Yamada here can attest, Aizawa shoulders more responsibility than he needs to”. 

“Lotta unnecessary blame, too,” Yamada nods. A bittersweet tone pervades the air. “Always has, ever since we were kids. Reckon that’s why he doesn’t sleep”.

“See, there’s the kind of exhaustion that usually just requires a good night’s sleep,” Yagi’s face is sallow, and his gaze flickers to Aizawa’s empty desk. “But there is also another kind that asks much more—and I see that in Aizawa. Like he’s wearing a heavy coat that became heavy bones”.

Despite the clumsy metaphor you feel his words weighing on your heart, notably shared in a way that makes you think that he, too, wore a similar heavy coat of blame. And you thought: such is grief. 

“But!” Yagi suddenly blurts, restoring his former enthusiasm. “Since you started here it’s like…” he gesticulates with his hands then, searching for the right thing to say, stalling as seemingly he does not find it. “All that is to say Aizawa has a fondness for you and I think you should go for it!”

Self conscious, you pick at the skin around your thumb. Yagi’s encouragement was appreciated. With the quintessential All Might optimism unintentionally bleeding through it almost felt like you could do anything. But your head shakes and you laugh breathlessly at the thought, “You’re actually quite a gossip, aren’t you, Yagi-san?”

Yamada’s cackle reverberates around the lounge as Yagi splutters his shock into a tissue. You pat his shoulder. Pressing your lips thin you try not to smirk. 

“What are you doing?” 

Simultaneously, the three of you freeze, voices converging the instant you three blurt, “Nothing!” 

Aizawa frowns, displeasure framed by windswept hair tousled in all directions. He loiters in the open doorway a moment longer and his scrutiny pervades the air. You tightly cross your ankles under the legs of your chair and maintain an innocent look. 

Feigning obliviousness Yagi attempts to redirect the subject, “Did anything interesting happen on patrol, Aizawa-kun?”

Ultimately, Aizawa let it go. He shut the door behind him and the tension slipped from his shoulders as he shrugged and accepted the deflection. “Nothing significant. A bit busier than usual,” he replies.  “Seems like the commercial district has finished being rebuilt”.

Your heart beats and blood rushes to the tips of your fingers—dark eyes do not leave you as Aizawa slinks past to the kitchenette, taking with him a brush of cool fresh air. Yamada ducks between the computer monitors. Mouth puckered, he begins making an exaggerated kissing face at you. Oscillating between flustered and irritated, you reach for the nearest thing and throw it. A pencil bounces off his forehead, clattering to the floor, and he yelps. 

Aizawa returns holding two nutritional jelly pouches. “I don’t doubt you deserved that,” he comments, blasé as he passes you one of the colourful packets unprompted. It takes great effort not to gawk at his fingerless gloves, the once buttery leather now weathered. 

“Wow. Where’d my best friend go?” Yamada laments. He makes a dramatic show of the betrayal, long limbs sagging across his desk. “And no jelly for me, either. For shame! What happened to brothers before lovers?” 

Twisting off the cap to the pouch with his teeth, Aizawa sucks out the gelatinous innards until the plastic flattens. A smile plays on his lips as you stifle your amusement. “Hizashi, you know I flunked English,” he deadpans. 

The voice hero deflates. He turns to wave the previously thrown pencil at you, “Here. You left this knife in my back”. 

“You’re ridiculous”. 

“Et tu, Brute?”

The interaction does nothing to ruffle Aizawa. Like water to a duck's back. He merely saunters over to his desk, discards the empty pouch in the small bin beside his chair, and scoops up a thick binder of papers.  

“And now he flees,” Yamada pouts, holding the pencil between his top lip and his nose. 

“No, I need to wash up,” he dismisses Yamada and indicates toward his prosthesis, then dryly adding, “And I’m not sticking around to listen to you recite Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar simply because I didn’t bring you a jelly pouch”.

“Aw. That’s cold, Sho”. 

You bask in their back and forth. A friendship built on open hearts and feet that bleed. They share jabs, opinions and hardships without worry because there’s unequivocal trust there. Watching them together unearths a fraction of envy; stuck between wanting someone like that at your side, to wanting it to be him. 

Aizawa leaves not long after. He casts you a sidelong glance that you can’t read. One job to another, the work is patently endless, though you can’t help but to notice that it is self imposed—being stagnant is never in the cards. 

You exhale a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Yagi clears his throat in the prolonged pause. “So. What is your blood type?” he asks with little tact, avoiding your look of betrayal. “If I had to guess, Aizawa-kun must be type B. He is quite honest and unconventional…”

Yamada cackles again. 

You put your head in your hands. This is hell. And it is largely populated by the UA heroics department.

The three day weekend couldn't come any quicker.

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From: Yamada.Hizashi@UAedu.jp  To: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp  Subject: Check this out! Message: 

HEEEEEY 😎

[HYPERLINK: myquirkyintrovert.jp//11-introvert-friendly-activities-perfect-for-a-first-date/] Figured you might need this. ROTFL !

(Rooting for you)

Yamada Hizashi English Department, UA High School Put Your Hands Up Radio 81.3FM QOTD: If music be the food of love, play on 🎵 

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The morning spills over your senses like a heady fog. It obscures your vision, sleep-sand still tucked into the corners of your eyes. Dust fairies dance in the spotlight cast through the room and you turn into your pillow, away from the performance. 

You’re caught in a web—linens tangled around your ankles, anchored to the bed, suffering through cottonmouth and haze. According to the time you slept plenty. According to your body, however. 

The floor is cold against your feet. You yawn, joints clicking as your limbs stretch. Meander through the typical morning routine without a second thought, or a third. Only when your face is washed and you’re significantly more awake do you wander out of your apartment.

Cushioned by a set of fluffy, foam soled slippers, you stumble into the common area, welcomed to a languid, warm atmosphere. Surprisingly, a few people are already there. Yamada is dressed in his civilian clothing, waist length hair braided back into a ponytail that mimics a mohawk. Eri is seated on one of the kitchen stools, squirming as his fingers work through her hair in gentle twists, styling it to match his own.  

She’s wearing a denim overall dress dotted with embroidered cats over a long sleeved shirt, matching the subtle pattern on her white tights. Her legs kick happily under the island. A smile pulled at your mouth as you watched the homely scene. 

A familiar sleep-worn voice murmurs your name and you try to look more alert than you feel.

The smell of percolating coffee reaches your senses. You retreat from the stinging heat that brushes your knuckles as Aizawa nudges a freshly poured mug toward you. “Oh, shit. Thanks,” you mumble. The surroundings are still gossamer soft and blurred at the edges; you’re impassive when your fingers slip through the curved handle and overlap his. 

Faint, coarse hair on his knuckles. Dull nails. Rough skin. You take the mug and bring it to your face. Steam kisses each cheek, billowing as you blow across the tawny surface. Aizawa’s throat bobs. Your stare lingers over the rim longer than appropriate, dragging down his body to take in the rare casual appearance. 

“You look nice”. 

His jaw ticks, eyes fixed on the button of his loose knit cardigan as he rolls it between his thumb and finger. Black, like most of the articles in his wardrobe, but stylish. The hem falls below the hip, hung over a pair of dark slacks. It’s flattering on his frame despite being oversized.

“Contrary to popular belief I can actually dress myself,” he says. 

“Colour me surprised,” you sip the hot coffee in a poor effort to conceal your grin. Even as the remaining dregs of sleep subside you can’t find it within yourself to be embarrassed. “Are you guys going somewhere?”

Before he can respond Eri is bounding over. She crashes into your legs, chin above your knees as she looks up and chimes, “Good morning!”

“Good morning sweetheart,” you say, holding your hot coffee out to the side. Eri’s eyes squint with the force of her smile and sunlight pools through tall standing windows, highlighting the glittery clips in her faux mohawk braid. “Your hair looks beautiful”.

“Thank you,” she delicately pats the top of her head. “I wanted it to look pretty today. We’re going to the com-mer-cial dis…”

“District?”

“District,” she nods excitedly. “Have you ever been to a district? Deku said there are lots of fun things for us to do. Will you come with us?” Then looking to her father for permission, she clutches her dress and asks, “Please?”

You blink. The coffee mug begins to sting the skin of your palms. “We can always use an extra chaperone,” Aizawa offers slowly, eyes sliding over you from head to toe, making you all too aware of the ratty old pyjamas you’re still wearing. “You can accompany us if you want to”.

The next words leave you in an instant.  “Do you want me to?” you asked. They’re clumsy and your voice fractures, bringing with it a flood of warm embarrassment. “Sorry. I think—I’m still half asleep”. 

Shouta suddenly appears to have swallowed a lemon. 

“Of course he wants you to,” Yamada strides over. The absentminded tapping of his phone’s keyboard echoes amidst the awkwardness. A smarmy grin plays on his lips and he tucks his chin to peer at Eri over the rim of his yellow tinted glasses, “Ain’t that right, Eri-chan?”

Eri nods insistently. Aizawa settles his hand atop her crown, careful not to disturb the braid, and stops the bobble head movement. “I don’t need you to speak for me,” he sighs, and the sound is fond more than anything else. “We’re meeting the students by the bus in thirty minutes,” He meets your gaze. A red-gold hue catches the light against the dark limbal ring around his iris. “You should come”.

Your chest flutters and you put his tone down to imagination. “I’d love to,” you reply, patting down your pyjama shirt. “Let me just get ready”. 

Quiet bickering follows you upstairs. You rummage through your wardrobe at a frenetic pace. There’s really no time to spare to worry about what you should wear. Once dressed you cram a water bottle, a lightweight fleece, sun protection, recovery gummies—

You pause, eyeing the unnecessary bulk in your rucksack. No doubt the kids were old enough to bring their own bags. Your tongue smooths over the teeth marks inside your cheek and you set the thought aside. No harm in being prepared. 

The clock on your phone screen blinks. Five minutes to go. You slip it into your pocket and hurry out the door, bag strap drawn over your shoulder. Kurose looks up from the couch as you stumble through the common area, navy hair flattened to one side, a few stray golden strands upright and reminding you of an antenna. 

“Hi Kurose-san,” you huff, jogging past and giving a quick wave. “Bye Kurose-san”. 

“Have fun out there,” they cheered. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“That really doesn’t narrow it down by much,” you call back from the genkan, slipping into your shoes. Laughter bleeds through at the faux wounded look Kurose sends your way before you leave. 

The crisp morning air bloats your lungs on a deep inhale. Not a cloud to be seen, the sky a pleasant blue canvas. You descend the steps and follow the path toward the staff car park. Ushered into a single file line, a modest flock of hero students wait beside the minibus. You can’t help noticing how much younger they seem without their uniforms. 

Eri locks onto you instantaneously. Her lips move, and you think she must’ve called for you, but her voice was too small. Still it beckons the attention of the teenagers around her. One by one they shout your name, their clamouring coming together in an ill practised chorus.

Yamada ducks out from the minibus. “Yeaaah!” he beams, leaning against the folded door. “Right on time, my friend. We were just discussing the buddy system”. 

That reminder elicits a quiet groan from the class. Yamada laughs good naturedly, “I know, I know. But safety comes first, kiddos. Have you picked who you’re stuck with today?”

There are various nods and shrugs. Numerous heads turn to Bakugo, including both Midoriya and Todoroki, and he appears indubitably unimpressed that he’s spoiled for choice. Yamada’s focus lands on Eri. “What about you, mini me?” he pokes at the swell of her cheek. “Gonna be my buddy today?” 

Her anxious eyes flicker between you and him. You’re admittedly flattered that she’s torn. But the doubt is short lived, decided by an inconspicuous wink from Yamada. A toothy grin brightens her face. “Okay,” Eri chirps, holding out her hand for him to take. 

“We get to be passenger princesses today,” the voice hero whispers excitedly. You do well to restrain the coo building in your throat as his palm dwarfs her fist and her lips form an ‘o’. 

Suitably organised, the kids begin to climb onto the bus in their pairs. Iida and Todoroki sit in the spaces in front of Shinsou and Bakugo. There’s a soft pout to Midoriya’s lip but he happily joins Kouda, fingers moving in graceless strokes as they sign to one another. Yaoyorozu joins Jirou, taking the window seat. Tokoyami listens along to Kaminari’s aimless rambling while Sero, Mina and Kirishima sit behind them at the very back. 

Aizawa is already aboard the bus discussing safety policy, capture weapon draped around his shoulders. He pauses conversation with the driver and smiles as Yamada ushers Eri into seats positioned at the very front. Languid, his focus slides to you, the very last to enter. Heartbeat quickening. There’s something there, you feel it existing on the fringes. 

“Enough. Settle down,” he says, voice rough and commanding authority. The commotion dwindles. You nod before shuffling through the aisle to the remaining spaces. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that this trip is a privilege. I am trusting you to behave, follow instructions and stick together. Understood?”

“Yes, Sensei”. 

“Do you all have your phone notifications on? Your monitors activated?”

Yamada throws up a peace sign and jumps in, “Yes, Sensei”. 

Aizawa rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment. With the polite incline of his head to the driver the bus doors whirred on their hinges and began to shut. He tucks a curtain of hair behind his ear, adding, “Any questions before we leave?” 

Shinsou clears his throat. His elbows rest on the back of Midoriya’s chair. He lazily points towards Aizawa and drawls, “Does Aizawa-sensei have a buddy?” 

You immediately become conscious of a tangible weight. Their stares fall to you, his included. Dark eyes like flint to your very core. You grin and bear it—grimace through the tension and hope his sharp intellect does not extend to your thoughts.

Aizawa pressed his lips thin, “Any actual questions?” 

The figures in your periphery all shake their heads, biting back amusement in the face of their teachers' chagrin. The pressure does not dissipate when Aizawa takes the spot next to you, nor when the engine sputters to life and the looming barrier bordering the school entrance lifts to allow passage. 

The destination isn’t far. A fifteen minute drive at best. Still, as the journey progresses the air grows notably sombre. While much of the city has been restored, ghosts will remain. Skeletons of buildings sit on the landscape. Once a sprawling metropolis now made a uneven scar tissue terrain. 

That twinge of concern has you looking over your shoulder and scanning the bus in a less than subtle way. Everyone seems fine. Kaminari waves when you catch his eye. The only student that gives you pause is Bakugo, who has taken to staring hard out the window, discomfort etched into his features.

Or perhaps it’s your overactive imagination. The frown smooths into contentment and you realise he’s sharing a split earphone jack with Shinsou—maybe it was a song he didn’t like. 

You try to shake off the trepidation hanging over your mood. Aizawa notices but doesn’t pry and you find yourself grateful. 

Your concerns become minor the moment the minibus pulls into the commercial district. Standing prominent against the skyline, the building is sun drenched and unsettlingly clean. Inside, light pours through the high domed ceiling and reflects on the shiny tiled floor. There are three upper levels visible on spiralled balconies, each dedicated to different departments. 

Ground level is rather miscellaneous. Record stores, hobby crafts, tech booths and things of the like. Soothing music plays in the background, gentle melodic notes. Being somewhere that brought a sense of normalcy boosted the students morale. You’re warmed by contagious excitement—Aizawa too, lacking his usual force and a smile in his tone as he tells them. “Remember, you’re not to leave this building. If something happens you contact one of us”. 

They split off in opposite directions with the promise to meet at the food court in two hours. Eri and Yamada linger a few minutes longer. She tugs at her fathers sleeve and when crouched to her height she plants a short kiss on his stubbled cheek. 

You are then gifted a sparkly clip for keepsake, as though she were giving part of herself to take with you. “Thank you sweetheart,” touched, you attach it to your bag strap. “I’ll keep it safe”.

Satisfied, Eri thrusts her hand up for Yamada to take, and she comically leads him to march in the direction of a children’s store. The crowds are unexpectedly thin. Though you supposed a majority of the general public did not yet have the confidence nor the funds to make leisure trips to the mall. You’re only thankful they are respectfully giving your class a wide berth. 

Left alone together, Aizawa puffs an indignant breath, “…I think we’ve finally been set up”. 

Fondness surges deep in your chest and you bite back a grin. There’s urgency to it that you can’t satisfy. “Glad I’m not imagining things,” you wet your lips, moving to match his stride. “Does it not bother you?” 

“Which part?” he asks. He’s looking anywhere but you. There’s a playful lilt in his tone that equally settles and ignites your nerves. You would search his face for answers if the lower half were not obscured by his scarf. 

“The ‘clearly trying to get us to date’ part”. 

“There are worse people to be lumped with”. 

Aizawa’s profession rarely left time for indulgence. You’ve heard him discuss it before. He never thought it sensible to involve another person in what he had presupposed would be a tumultuous relationship. For that reason, you wonder if he has much experience in romance at all.

“Ever the charmer, Aizawa”. 

“Shouta,” he says. You blink, narrowly caught in a stupor. The erasure hero sinks to burrow deeper into his capture weapon. Warmth rises to the tips of his ears in spite of his efforts. “Just call me Shouta”. 

Very eloquently, your response is, “Oh”. 

“Or don’t,” he grunted. 

There’s a wealth of unspoken meaning behind that. A single name, a confession. Your heart feels full, stuttering in a way it hasn’t in a long while. “So. What should I tell my friends?” you pick up speed, giddiness spurring your pace and taking you a few steps ahead. “‘This is Shouta. We work together. He has twenty-something kids and our first date was spent patrolling the Musutafu mall’?”

“I have one kid—” Shouta falters, though fleeting, as if he hadn’t realised he’d begun to walk the perimeter. He arches an unimpressed brow, any scorn decidedly betrayed by the mirth in his eyes. “Did you have somewhere else in mind?”

An hour rolls into another. You meander various stores together, occasionally bumping into the students and ignoring their playful looks. He buys some things for Eri—or so he claims, now in possession of three different cat themed gel pens—and you pick out new books to keep in your classroom. 

In the grand scheme of things it’s a paltry affair. You’re looking around a newly built mall with a man you’ve known for close to two months. Simple, comfortable, as most things are with Shouta; yet it feels like a path you’ve walked more times than you can count. Fastened by mattress stitch seams, shoulder to shoulder, you share conversation written in passing glances, so many possibilities etched into a handsome crooked smirk—

Suddenly, three message alerts come loud and in quick succession. That alone is enough to shatter the atmosphere. They feel frantic, and Shouta’s expression is explanation enough. 

“It’s Shinsou. Something happened with Bakugo,” he mutters. In one fell swoop he is dashing ahead and you are not long behind. He turns a corner. Your kids are bunched together, seemingly bickering and distraught. Midoriya’s frantic voice can be heard above them all. Civilians have parted, tucking themselves against walls and waiting at security’s instruction. You’re comforted by the fact that they are not rushing out in droves. 

Bakugo is absent. The air smells like smoke but there’s no notable damage. Shouta flashes his hero license and steps into the shoes of a guardian so naturally you wonder if he ever takes them off. The officers standing nearby offer sympathetic smiles, allowing you through, too, after seeing your UA badge. 

While Shinsou is relaying what happened to Shouta you approach the others. A chill spikes the air, colder as the distance lessens, and you realise it must be Todoroki’s quirk. He’s standing at Midoriya’s side, exhaling visible breaths, laying a cold hand on his friend's neck to allay the panic. 

“Hey guys,” you greet gently. “Aizawa-Sensei is just clearing things with Shinsou. Do you know what happened?”

Midoriya snaps to attention, “Sensei—Kacchan, he’s—!”

Kaminari closes in, careful as he drapes his arm across Midoriya’s back. “It’s alright, man,” he murmurs. Todoroki nods. There’s a helplessness in his expression. “Kacchan’s okay. He just needed to blow off some steam. Or smoke, I guess”. 

A repetitive sound loops above your heads. You realise then that there’s a jumbo multi screen hovering in the centre of the ceiling. Clips depicting Gigatomanchia's rampage fade one into a title card, the words ‘twenty city rampage’ highlighted across a sepia backdrop. Your stomach churns at the sight, inhaling sharp between your teeth. 

“It’s that new bullshit documentary,” Jirou interjects. She fiddles anxiously with the jack hung from her earlobe. “They—uh. There were pictures of…”

“I understand. Thank you, Jirou,” you say. They needn’t relive it again—but they had. They will. Bakugo had raised his head and saw his worst experiences pilfered for television. 

You exhale, taking with it the abrupt anger and frustration. They’re looking to you for reassurance. “I promise we’re going to find Bakugo,” you tell them. “I’m sorry that any of you had to see those images again. As Kaminari said, I imagine he got overwhelmed and needed some space”. 

Midoriya swallows thickly and he nods. The motion is unsettlingly lifeless. His blank stare passes over your shoulder, and a silhouette of bodyheat settles behind you. 

“Shinsou explained everything,” Aizawa says. His presence visibly untangles the knots in their posture. “Security informed me Bakugo is still in the building. I need you all to wait here for Yamada-sensei—” he holds his hands out in a placating gesture as Todoroki begins to interrupt “—you will wait here while we look for him”. 

“I’ll start heading that way,” you point where the wide walkway narrows towards the southern exit and hard turns left, not wanting to remain still for longer than necessary. Aizawa regards you with a meaningful look and nods. 

You take off. The air retains a faint smokey smell. It grows thicker, more prominent as you pass the various hero merch stores, meeting the eyes of a Edgeshot cardboard cutout. Acrid nausea rises unforgiving in your stomach. 

It guides you to a fire door slightly ajar. Through the door is a dreary stairwell, presumably to be used by customers on the upper floors during an emergency. Bakugo’s hunched figure can be seen through the crack. He’s sitting on one of the steps, head cradled in crossed arms. 

You quickly text Shouta to let him know, and ask that he give you two a little space. You’re hardly expecting him to talk. But where Aizawa-sensei goes his ducklings will follow, and you have a feeling Bakugo is not yet in the mindset for company. 

The door creaks on its hinges as you enter. “Leave me alone,” the Bakugo shaped lump growled. An emotional hurricane in the body of a boy. Your throat tightens. It threatens to drag you in. You can feel the sharp winds clipping at your resolve as you lower to sit on the step beside him and he bristles, furiously spitting, “I said fuck off!” 

Someone more highly strung and disciplinarian could be tempted to jump in. A person such as yourself, lenient and with less experience, might find it easier to flee; to let the gale propograte and weaken on its own. Before being employed at UA your students had always been older, less prone to outbursts and plausibly wiser—but, you suppose, children still. You are honest enough to inwardly admit that you don’t know how to make this better. But you are determined to try. 

So you see your body relax and let your voice flow out calmly, “I’m not going anywhere now that I’ve found you. Your friends are worried”. 

Bakugo laughs humorlessly and snaps, “Then what, you gonna lecture me in that old man’s place?” His hands are wrung tight in his fight to still the tremors. Blood surfaces beneath the pressure and seeps into his nail beds. “Tell me some bullshit about how heroism isn’t defined by success, that media leeches are a given and things will get easier if I stick it out?” 

“I didn’t come here to lecture you about anything,” you say. He eyes you with suspicion. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Now that I know, we can sit here as long as you need”. 

What follows is a long, thick silence. The lives of ordinary people can be heard muffled through the stairwell. Unawares, and in a way, unintentionally mocking. Bakugo’s laboured gasps toll louder in your ears. You don’t speak. You monitor the rise and fall of his chest, gradually slowing until the defensive vitriol clears away. 

“I hate losing control like—” Bakugo’s expression twisted uncomfortably then, as though the confession tasted bitter, and you patiently held your breath. "Fuck. How can I call myself a hero when…" his voice loses strength, reminiscent of an echo. 

He rubs harshly at the spot where his heart rests. You take the young hero by the wrist. You envelop his split knuckles wearing a thin smile, admittedly strained, and squeeze around those shaking fingers while the moment simmers, a gentility not in the absence of violence, but despite it all. 

Bakugo blinks up at you. It knocks a tear free, careening down the side of a flushed cheek. The sight lodges something in your throat, thick and hard to swallow; all the words you don’t know how to say. You would never understand what it means to reside in his body—to think of yourself as the scene of a crime. 

Family members, strangers, had visited his hospital room to mournfully listen to that pulse one last time, and Bakugo told them to come by whenever as though he were a living effigy of their lost son. You saw the disconnect he felt from himself. That lifelong debate of what makes a person a person. 

He’s just a kid. 

“Bet you’ve heard hundreds of ‘I’m sorry’s’ at this point, huh?” you murmur. Bakugo snorts. 

“Try thousands,” he rasps. Clicks his tongue to his teeth to save face. “Never know what they’re really apologising for. Rubs me the wrong way”. 

And after being witness to how Bakugo’s mind works you understand what that means. Atleast, you think you might. Teenagers hold enough shame without the weight of another person's life in their arms. You only imagine he hears their regret, guilt, disappointment—hears ‘sorry it was you, kid’ and ‘sorry it wasn’t him’. 

“It’s okay to be angry, you know,” you vowed solemnly. “There’s so much pressure to channel what happened to you into something positive. To make it your strength. And maybe you will, eventually. But you’re allowed to step back and say ‘I went through something scary and traumatic and that changed me forever’”. 

Bakugo grunts. He scrubs under his nose with the back of his hand. “Don’t need you to tell me that,” he says, tone lighter than before. It sounds a lot like ‘thank you’. 

“I’m glad,” you nudge his side and return your hands to your lap. “In that case we should talk about something else”. 

“Like what?” 

“Your assignment,” Bakugo snorts, rolling his eyes. “Hey. I’m serious. Most of the others have come to me with their topics but yours is still a mystery”. 

“‘Cause those losers need help and I don’t,” he says. There’s no malice in it. His cadence is lighter, the burden he carries now far more loose fitting. You watch him pick at the rips in his jeans. “…Mine’s about mythological figures. Some cult wackos out there believe the old Gods had quirks. Hence the animal heads and shit”. 

“That’s a brilliant choice, Bakugo,” his answer brings a sincere smile to your lips. “Gives you a lot more to explore in your discussion. I can’t wait to read it”.

The muscles in Bakugo’s face twitch. Mouth deliberately downturned. A flustered yet pleased blush paints the tips of his ears and the simple praise breathes him to life like a technicolour Oz. It eases the anxiety simmering under your skin. You prompt him to talk further, pleasantly surprised to find that his curiosity extends further than Japan’s own mythology. 

Eventually you need to update Shouta again. Leaving it too long would only worry him further. Bakugo’s eyes track your thumbs movement across the keyboard as you type. “Are you texting Eyebags?” 

“I’m texting Aizawa-sensei,” you correct blithely as a text bubble appears on the bottom left of the screen. “I thought Shinsou was ‘Eyebags’”. 

“They’re interchangeable,” he rebuts. You huff a laugh, screen going dark with a quiet click. Bakugo’s reflection looks back at you where he’s peeking over your shoulder. 

“You two a thing or somethin’?” he asks, not even attempting to hide his interest. 

“We aren’t ‘a thing’,” your fingers form quotation marks around the words. And it’s true. You aren’t. Yet. “I don’t know why you all came to that conclusion”. 

“Probably ‘cause you look at him all googly eyed. And he always shares that shitty jelly with you. Basically his alternative to a proposal,” he smirked. Shouta is still typing—

Your phone vibrates. The message comes through.

—A thumbs up emoji. 

Bakugo laughs. His eyes crinkle. A crease deepens on the bridge of his nose. The brief flash of a toothy grin. No longer a hero-too-soon on two tired feet but instead a teenage boy, poking light fun at his teacher. 

“The hell. He texts like my old man”.

You hum in amusement. “Some people do better face to face,” the ‘like you’ remains unspoken. Shadows pleat across the stairwell as clouds shift, disturbing the dim stream of light. You become conscious of the hour. And it seems so does he. 

“How do you feel about heading back?” 

Bakugo’s stare fixed itself onto his hands. You notice the crescent shaped marks, the skin around his nails fraying, picking at his body like a seam. “I can go back,” he grunts. 

“You can, but do you want to?” you ask, blindly feeling up the strap drawn over your shoulder. The small, glittery claw clip is still there. “Humour me for a sec,” you unclip it and Bakugo frowns as you proffer it to him, rolling in the centre of your palm. “Let it bite you”. 

“Let it bite me?” he repeats dryly. 

“Clip it around your fingers or pinch your hand with it—yeah, like that,” you grin as he blindly follows the instruction. The little claw clip bites into a swathe of the skin from the back of his hand. “Better, right?” 

Lip jutted into a pout, Bakugo eyes the clip dubiously; no longer focused on the anxiety, and you take it as a big win. “I guess. Thanks Sensei,” you tense in surprise as he gets to his feet, dusting off his jeans. “I want to go back,” he says, nothing short of a demand. 

There’s certainly no love lost between you and the cold step under your thighs. You stretch as you stand, shucking the backpack higher up your shoulder. “Alright. Then let’s get you back”. 

Bakugo doesn’t protest when you remain at his side, keeping pace. His finger and thumb work at the clips hinge while he walks, absentmindedly opening, closing, running the teeth over his knuckles. You’re sure Eri would gladly let him keep it. 

Tears are all dried up which Bakugo appears grateful for. The class doesn't immediately rush him, though you can see that they want to. Rather they wait for him to come to them, parting like arms and coaxing him into the centre. 

You branch off to where Shouta is standing watch with Yamada. Eri stands behind his leg, clutching at his pant leg. Her eyes are glassy and wide as she looks up at you. “Bakugo is alright now,” you tell them. “But you know what?”

Eri instinctively pushes up onto the balls of her feet, as though climbing higher to hear a big secret. Lowered into a conspiratorial hush, you say, “I bet he would feel even better if you gave him a hug”.

Shouta’s hand crowns her head. He carefully pats the side of her braid, giving silent permission. Expression tight in a determined pinch Eri ducks between his legs and toddles toward the group. 

“He really doin’ okay?” Yamada quietly asked. 

You murmur an affirmative, shifting in place as you turn to watch the scene unfold. Eri pats Bakugo’s hip. He seems vaguely nervous as he rests on his haunches and allows her to tangle herself around him. 

Shouta’s knuckles knock your own. His fingers twitch, unfurling as though to reach out and then thinking better of it. “Do you think I should talk to him?” 

When you look at him he’s already looking right back. Eyes soft like the sun had made them warm. You mind the small gap and stretch your pinky, brushing the outer curve of his palm and retracting again. “Bakugo respects you. He feels safe with you,” you assure him. “I think it’d be good if you talked about it”.

“Maybe some extra sessions with Hound Dog, too,” Yamada adds. Your heart staggers, having near forgotten he was there. “For all of them”. 

“I’ll see if he can do another class session during their independent study period,” Shouta says, attention returning to Eri’s antics—she’s now walking Bakugo over, hand in hand, subsequently bringing the other students with her. 

Shouta exhales, clicking his neck. There’s a finality to it. You see the internal headcount he does in their approach, and how the preparation to jump back into action recedes at the confirmation that all his kids are present. 

“We’ve got two options now,” he announces. “I’m sure none of us want to stick around longer than we need to. So either we go up to the food court and eat, or we can head back to campus”. 

Mutterings break out amongst the group. Iida diligently attempts to organise a sensible vote and asks for a show of hands, but his effort is squashed the instant that Kaminari suggests WcDonalds. 

Eri keeps hold of Bakugo's hand the entire way back, and insists on sitting with him. Yamada switches buddy’s without complaint, wiggling himself into the window seat beside Shinsou, happy to pull out his headphones and collect music suggestions from his beloved students. 

Shouta remains at your side. You hear unfettered laughter and think you might be close to tears—the tender kind. Softly, you mumble, “I’m glad I took this job”.  

He exhales slowly, and the loss of tension has him leaning into you ever so slightly. Your shoulders touch. “Me too,” he says. 

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From: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp   To: Principal.Nedzu@UAedu.jp  Cc: Inui.Ryo@UAedu.jp; Aizawa.Shouta@UAedu.jp Subject: Incident report [High importance] Message: 

Good evening,

Attached is my account of the incident that occurred at Musutafu Shopping District on Saturday, [x] September 11:34am. 

Hound Dog and I have also brainstormed a few suggested classroom additions for students coping with anxiety. 

Take care!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Sleeplessness is an open invitation to overthinking. 

Everyone has since retired to their apartments and it is long past the hour for Eri to be in bed. Time slips through your fingers. You count the dust bunnies behind your eyes but nothing works. 

Clarity shrikes through you with small cuts. The day wears on your body like a bruise that you cannot ignore now the adrenaline has subsided. You’re processing the fleeting touches, the purposeful looks, the whiplash of panic, the heartache that comes with being helpless—

Your mind is a spinning top with no hands to stop it, not even the clocks. Though it falters at a single thought passing overhead.

There is one man you can trust to be awake at this hour. 

You kick off the sheets, unsteady as you nudge each foot into the wrong slipper. The dormitory is cast in shadow. Your eyes are slow to adjust, shapes and lines sharpening around you. 

Shouta is seated at the kitchen island, dark space doused in the low lighting from the stovetop hood, warm across the contours of his face. Papers are laid out before him in organised piles. 

“Burning the midnight oil?” 

A pen spins around his thumb. He peeks through dark hair curtaining his vision and hums. Your gait is heavy, like wading through waist high water. The quiet clink of melting ice draws your attention to his glass. “I didn’t take you for a gin and tonic kinda guy,” you murmur, leaning your elbows onto the counter. “Regular old sake, maybe”.

The corner of his mouth twitches and he takes a pointed swig of his drink. He smacks his lips. “Gin and tonic keeps me awake,” he explains dryly, nudging the glass in your direction. You fold to his soft suggestion and bring it to your nose. The smell alone is enough to make you shiver. 

Shouta laughs at your grimace. At that point you sense in your gut that maybe, maybe you should have stayed in bed. You’re warm, pleasantly sleepy, and your tongue feels dangerously loose. 

Seeking distraction, your gaze drops to the papers stacked before him. You set down the gin, beaded condensation wet around your fingers, and lean in for a closer look. The grade written at the top is worryingly low. “That’s… not looking so good,” you prompted. 

“This is Todoroki’s,” Shouta clarifies, brow pinched. He gives an empathetic nod to your wide eyed stare. From reading their files you knew Todoroki consistently ranked top five in class A.  “It’s not just him. They’re all struggling in different areas. And I was never expecting things to go back to normal but it’s…” 

“You’re doing what you can,” you say. 

Shouta clicks his tongue, “But is that enough?” 

You cover his hand without thought, thumb outlining the rough dips and peaks of his knuckles as you insist, “Yes. I believe it’s enough”. Somewhere in the spaces between seconds Shouta overturns his wrist, and your fingers are intertwined, and you’re squeezing until your palms kiss. 

You think of that heavy coat Yagi referenced. Of a man wearing his failures as self imposed repentance. “You aren’t the only one here helping them. We’re going to get them across this bridge, and then the next, and the next—” Shouta turns a cheek to hide his amusement as your rambling becomes more exaggerated. 

“You’ll never be rid of them. Not even after they graduate”. You smile softly, “The kids are gonna be alright, Aizawa”. 

Dark eyes smile back, “…You did good today, you know”.

Hundreds of butterflies hatch inside your stomach. “I—I did?”

He huffs at that, wetting his lips. “You’re impossible”.

Something unspoken weaves into the atmosphere—the attraction between you becomes a tangible thread before either of you speak another word. He’s much closer. Every movement he has made you’ve mirrored without meaning to. 

“Impossible?” you repeat, hushed.

He pitches his voice low and says, “I thought I told you to call me Shouta”. 

At what point had you settled into the cradle of his thighs? Your breath catches. Two hands are on your hips, soft flesh yielding under his thumbs as they massage shapes from memory. You clutch at broad shoulders and exhale, settling into the hold and surrendering yourself.

“Shouta,” you echo, charmingly dumbfounded. 

Gentle, Shouta takes your chin and turns you toward him. A large, rough palm cups your cheek. He brings your forehead against his, close enough to hear his breath falter. The air is clammy. Taut, primed to break with another tilt of your head, and he must sense it. There’s trepidation—hesitance to handle something as tender as this when the things he knows best are animosity and bloodshed.

You offer mercy in taking the lead. Your hands slip from his shoulders to his jaw. Shouta lets himself be guided into your magnetism, a contented hum rippling in his throat like the water of a wellspring. 

He kisses you deeply and it feels four weeks too late. It feels like muscle memory. It feels like something you’ve done a thousand times over. Those hands circle around your waist, splayed at the lower back, heat radiating through your shirt. Lips part at the light swipe of his tongue. You taste the faint notes of citrus and juniper, coaxing him into your mouth, swallowing a soft groan. 

Heat flashes through you. Familiar want is coiling low in your belly, so stark that you shake with it. Hands wander. Lips too. Shouta kisses across your cheeks, nipping the delicate line of your jaw. Stubble tickles your throat. He mouths at your pulse and pulls you impossibly close, a desperate edge to it as though he were making up for all the times he wanted to but couldn’t. He outlines a topographical map of your figure, fingers walking the bumps, curves and dimples, tentatively slipping up your shirt to reach your soft stomach. 

The hair along your arms stands on end. Fingertips climb higher toward your chest, and a heart that threatens to leap right out through your ribs. “Aizawa, we can’t—”

“Shouta,” he mutters, continuing his path down your collar. You shudder and his fingers flex, sensing the aftershocks of his touch. 

“Shouta,” you amend breathlessly. “We can’t have sex in the common area”. 

A rare clemency follows. Shouta stops, and your hands come to thread through his hair. Dull stubble tickles the dip of your collarbone. You feel his lips stretch thin into a smirk. 

He leans back to look up and doesn’t take his eyes off you. Half lidded and soft, wrapping you in a gauzy roseate veil that hems the whole world pink. Something about the surety of his desire stunned you. To be wanted by a man who always seemed above such things—it makes your chest pound and your face warm, exhilaration spreading to the very tips of your fingers, restless with the urge to touch him. 

“Who said anything about sex?” he asks, tenor low and deeply amused. It seems any mercy from him ended there. 

“So now you can play dumb?” you mumble, an indignant exhale puffing through your nose. You feel him twitch, heat seeping through the thin fabric. “As if you were going to stop there”.

Shouta merely gives you a crooked grin. The scar tissue around his eye wrinkles. You find him unfairly, preternaturally handsome. You like him so much you’re dizzy with it. 

All at once you are torn apart. Shouta has pushed you into the adjacent seat and turned back to his papers. An ephemeral dread rushes through you—immediately washed away by the sound of a door opening. Two familiar voices follow. 

“I bet he’s somewhere down here,” Yagi whispers. He turns the corner into the kitchen, awkwardly bent to hold a small hand. Swimming in her sleep shirt, Eri shuffled in beside him barefoot and rubbing the sleep from her eye. 

“Look, see. And even…” Yagi’s eyes widened as he spoke your name. They flickered over your dishevelled state and then to Shouta, who is equally unkempt. Luckily for him that is nothing suspicious. You, however—

“I’m here Eri-bug,” Shouta says. His clothes have been smoothed out, hair tucked back over his ears, expression soft and unruffled as he crouched to her height. She stops short of him, laying her palm over his outstretched hand. 

“Did you have a bad dream?” he quietly asks. Eri shifts in place and nods. You look away from their vulnerable moment with instantaneous regret. Yagi meets your gaze, freezing mid step as he backs out, brows arched high on his forehead. There’s a slight blush around his ears. You grimace. He absolutely knows. 

Something small clutches at your shirt sleeve and tugs. The yellow ochre of light dances in Eri’s big red eyes as she studies you from the security of her father’s arms. “Hi there Eri,” you murmur gently. “Are you okay?” 

Her grip doesn’t loosen. She blinks long and slow, “Did you have a bad dream too?” 

Shouta adjusts her on his hip but says nothing. Behind the nonchalant veil lies fond amusement and warmth. “…Not a bad dream,” you tell her. “I couldn’t sleep because I was worrying a lot. But I’m feeling better now”.

A sleepy smile stretches across her lips. Eri is seemingly satisfied by your answer but not by the distance. Without ceremony she leans away from her father’s embrace into your own. You make a short noise of surprise as she wraps her legs around your middle. 

The weight is oddly comforting. You run a hand down her back, “Eri…?” 

“Bed now,” she slurs, rubbing the swell of her cheek against your shoulder. “Sleep safe”.

Shouta moves closer. There’s something in his gaze that makes your throat dry. You’re not sure what he’s seeing. What it is he has been seeing in you all this time—

“You heard her,” he pressed a kiss to Eri’s hair, then turned to kiss your temple. He lingers, and each word leaves another. “Let’s go to bed. We’re alright now”. 

—You can only assume, like for you, it is everything. 

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From: Principal.Nedzu@UAedu.jp  To: QScience.teacher@UAedu.jp Subject: [High importance] Message:  Good morning!

I heard the news and thought it important that you’re reminded of UA’s relationship policies:

There are none! Ha ha! Did you panic?

Much happiness to you both. It is always a pleasure to see love blossom.

Kind regards,

Nedzu Principal of UA High School  〒123-4567 Ōikuyō, Shizuoka, Musutafu.  Go Beyond, Plus Ultra!

[trelning]

Fox Species Guide

Further notes:

Social Structure

Fox society is largely built around four main ranks, the Ur, the dominant foxes of a skulk, the Tena, caretakers of the den, the Tiro, juveniles within the skulk, and Tiris, transient foxes with no skulk.

Ur - The den is ran by two foxes, the Ekur and Enur, the ekur is the head of the den, guarding the territory the most out of all of its residents. The enur is their second-in-command, they are in charge of the tena, as well as being the primary caretakers of the young of the den. .

Tena - The tena are unmated vixens within the den, typically these are the sisters of the Ur, though they may also be their daughters, or even tiris vixens who decided to join the skulk. They do most of the food gathering, den maintenance, and can typically be found babysitting the skulks tiro.

Tiro - The young of the skulk, any fox under the age of a year will fit under this category, they have no primary duties, and will typically spend their time playing or generally learning adult skills, taught by the whole skulk.

Tiris - Once a fox reaches one year of age they begin to leave their original skulk to form their own or to find a mate. These skulkless foxes are called tiris, and will typically wander quite far from their original homes. Skulks are generally pretty welcome to having tiris stay with them temporarily should they need a den, however males are expected not to linger, though vixens may be invited to join the skulk if their behavior is respectful.

Naming System

Fox kits are named at 4 weeks, typically given names of flora surrounding their dens, as foxes are found all over the continent their names can vary quite a lot. Ex. Goldenrod, Pasque, Ficus

Due to the plentiful nature of their species they will take on a skulk name for further identification within their own species, this name is taken by all foxes within the skulk. These names usually include two parts and will draw inspiration from their territory, or a trait the ur find particularly admirable. Ex. Rowanleaf for a skulk living close to a rowan tree, or Broadclaw, if the ur are particularly adept at fighting. Tiris foxes will usually drop their skulk name and not give themselves a new one until their new den is created.

Some foxes who have particularly strong pride for their birthplace will give themselves titles relating to their home, alongside their skulk name, Ex. Frogbit Broadclaw of the Pines, though this is uncommon and many foxes see this as unnecessary vanity.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Why Don't You Flirt with Me?

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: 5 times you're jealous of someone flirting with Tim Bradford, and the 1 time you tell him why.

Warnings: so much jealousy and flirting, angst, fluff at the end! number 3 has spoilers for The Rookie 2x03

Word Count: 3.7k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

1. You get jealous because of another police officer flirting with Tim.

The best part of roll call is getting to sit beside Tim. You’ve had feelings for him for almost as long as you’ve known him, but Tim has never seemed open to a relationship like that. So, you are happy to be his friend and remain by his side until the time is right. Your other friends at Mid-Wilshire describe you and Tim as “inseparable” or “joined at the hip,” yet he seems oblivious to your attention and feelings toward him.

When you cross the threshold, you see someone in your seat. A beautiful woman is sitting next to Tim, in your seat, and leaning toward him as she speaks. She’s too pretty to be a cop, you think. Sergeant Grey enters before you can say or do anything, so you take a seat in the row before Tim. He looks up toward you but doesn’t say anything. When Wade reaches the podium and looks out at everyone, he stops and glances between you and Tim several times. His brows raise, but he remains professional and begins giving assignments to each officer.

“And I’d also like to welcome Mid-Wilshire’s newest officer,” Wade says before introducing the woman beside Tim as a transfer from another division.

Even her name is pretty. You fight the urge to turn and look at her, to get a better view. The jealousy you feel is, so far, unfounded. She didn’t know that it was your seat – technically, it’s not. When she starts whispering, however, your jealousy has the perfect opportunity to worsen.

“If you’d been my TO, I would have been a rookie forever,” she whispers to Tim. “How could anyone be okay moving on and away from you?”

“Easier than it looks, I guess,” Tim replies.

“Tell me something, how often do you get flirted with during traffic stops? Because if you pulled me over, I would happily provide my identification… and my number.”

You lean back and glance over your shoulder before immediately regretting it. She’s leaned over further, practically draping herself across the table to be closer to Tim, and her well-manicured hand is resting against his bicep. Looking away as quickly as you can, you set your jaw. People look at Tim, gawk, even, but this blatant flirtation is new, and you hate it.

When you stand after being dismissed, Tim says your name. You plaster on a fake smile and give him your attention, though you ignore the woman beside him.

“Meet us for lunch?” he asks.

“Ooh, will you?” Lucy adds as she walks toward Tim.

“Where are you going?” the new transfer asks.

Tim tells her the name of the restaurant, and your smile turns to a grimace.

“Room for one more?”

She sounds like she purrs when she speaks to Tim, and you hate it.

“Sure,” Tim answers. “It’s a popular spot among patrol cops.”

“Here,” she adds. She lifts his hand and scribbles something on his palm.

Without seeing it, you know that her number now has a new home on Tim’s skin. Your smile is long gone, and you can feel Lucy’s eyes on your face.

“You’re in, too?” Tim asks you.

“Not today,” you grumble before leaving. Enjoy lunch with your new friend.

2. You get jealous because of a witness flirting with Tim.

You’re just starting to accept that other women can flirt with Tim when you get a radio call from Lucy.

“We’re responding to the Redondo call and need backup. Are you close?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m two minutes out,” you say.

“We’re code 2.”

You flip the sirens on and park behind Tim’s shop exactly two minutes later. Lucy is standing at the curb and watching Tim talk to a witness. She looks over at you as you approach and shakes her head.

“What?” you inquire.

“He’s trying to get information because the guy in the shop had a partner, but he took cover when we pulled up.”

“How’s that going?”

“It would be better if she’d stop flirting and start answering the questions.”

At the word ‘flirting,’ you tune Lucy out to listen to Tim’s conversation instead. He’s smiling and nodding along, but the woman isn’t saying anything of importance.

“And I just don’t know how to thank you. Big, strong… beautiful men like you are the reason that women like me can feel safe here,” she says.

“She looks like she’s twitching,” Lucy says when the woman bats her eyelashes.

“Thank you,” Tim answers with a smile.

He smiles at you often, but this smile is different. Your chest burns with new jealousy as the woman lays her hand on Tim’s chest and steps closer.

“I’m happy to keep women like you safe,” Tim says.

You cross your arms over your chest as if it will hide your growing jealousy. Whoever said jealousy makes you green was lying, because you look perfectly normal. To everyone but Tim, maybe, and he’s not paying attention to you.

“So, could you help me out with this?” Tim asks. His voice is soft and slow, and you wish he would talk to you like that, just once. “I really need to know where that other guy went, or I’ll feel like I failed you and every other beautiful woman in this city.”

You scoff before you can stop it, and Lucy looks between you and Tim.

“He doesn’t mean it,” she offers quietly.

“Have you ever heard him talk like that?” you argue. She doesn’t answer, and you say, “Me neither.”

“Look, Tim is bad at expressing his feelings, but he clearly has them. For you.”

You shake your head, but Lucy doesn’t want to give up yet. She watches you and Tim interact every day, so she knows how close you are. And how close you want to be.

“Chen, this is not the time,” you snap as Tim steps away from the suspect.

Tim’s brows raise when he sees you. He asks what you’re doing there, and you happily let Lucy answer that she called for backup to assist in the search for the second criminal.

“I think we’ve got it. The witness gave me good intel,” Tim says. “Thanks for coming so quickly, though.”

“No problem.”

You turn to return to your shop without another word, oblivious to Lucy and Tim watching you go.

3. You get jealous because of Lucy’s friend flirting with Tim.

Working at the front desk is your least favorite assignment, but you agreed to cover for another officer while he visits his son out of state. When Lucy and Tim enter with two new arrests, evidence of a prostitution problem spot, your day brightens. You sat in your usual seat beside Tim this morning and he promised to bring you lunch later, so things are looking up. They lead the women into the holding area, and you hope to see them again before the day ends.

“Hey,” Lucy says from behind Tim. “I know you’re gonna say no, but… I think I can help.”

“With what?” Tim asks.

“Well, you know, I know how hard it is to meet people in L.A. It’s what keeps them in business.”

“Wait. You wanna set me up?” Tim asks. “Forget it. Even if this wasn’t your dumbest idea yet, there is no way you’d be able to pick someone right for me.”

Lucy scoffs and argues, “I bet I can. I’m serious. If I can fix you up on one good date, just one, I get to, uh- I get to wear short sleeves.”

Tim considers the bet for a moment. “Okay. But you’re paying.”

“Whatever.”

“And if you lose, you’re gonna do 50 push-ups after every call we take.”

Several hours later, you’re still sitting at the front desk when Lucy comes in again. She’s alone this time, and you miss Tim more than you thought possible.

“Rachel?” Lucy asks.

“Look at you! All official,” Rachel replies as she hugs Lucy. “You were the talk of the reunion, you know.”

“I was bummed I couldn’t go. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just trying to cut through some red tape. But so far, my scissors haven’t been sharp enough.”

“Problems with child services?”

“Yeah, civil standbys. LAPD needs a faster response time. I’ve had four go sideways in the last month. Hey! Maybe you can help me.”

“I- I wish I could, but I am below the bottom of the food chain here.”

“Boot, get a move on,” Tim calls from the doorway.

“Who’s that?” Rachel asks.

You give the conversation more attention once Tim enters the conversation. The last few days have not been kind to your emotions, and you hope that this isn’t going to add to the list.

“That is my training officer. Hey, uh, you’re single, right?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Would you want to go out with him?”

You drop the clipboard in your hand and hope Lucy catches your look of betrayal. She widens her eyes briefly, but you don’t understand what she’s trying to communicate.

“Uh, he’s hot… but I-I made a vow. No more jerks.”

He’s not a jerk, you think. You just have to know how to see who Tim is inside.

“Okay, so, you don’t date jerks,” Lucy says. “But how would you like to help me win a bet against one?”

“Boot!” Tim calls again as he walks out. “What’s the holdup?”

“I’m sorry, Officer Bradford,” Rachel interjects. “That was my fault. I was asking Lucy for some help with a social service problem I’m having. If I’d known I was keeping her from such a handsome man, I would have waited.”

Tim nods before turning to Lucy. “Grey needs the paperwork finished.”

“I’ll do that now. Bye, Rachel,” Lucy says before leaving.

“So, you’re Lucy’s TO?” Rachel asks. “I always pictured training officers as chubby, grey-haired ride-along partners who refuse to retire.”

You can’t see her face, but you’re sure she’s giving him a beautiful smile. Your eyes drop to a paper on the desk before you, and you get angry with jealousy. Tim is supposed to be your friend, and more someday. Why didn’t he ever care enough to see me?

“Is that not what I look like?” Tim asks with a smile.

“Not at all. Would you maybe wanna get dinner with me?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Are you free tonight? A woman like you has to be turning down offers left and right.”

“You’d know something about that,” Rachel replies. “Tonight sounds great.”

“I’ll see you then.”

You raise your eyes to watch Rachel leave. You don’t know that both she and Tim know that the date is for a bet, one Tim intends to win because he is uninterested in Rachel.

“How’s desk duty?” he asks.

“Fine,” you answer shortly without looking toward him.

“I’m going to get lunch; you still want something?”

“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

Tim’s brows furrow as he looks at you, and he taps the desk before leaving. Maybe you should turn green, at least Tim would notice that he is affecting you more than any of the women flirting with him. And being flirted with by him.

4. You get jealous because of a suspect flirting with Tim.

“You’re under arrest,” you say, out of breath as you handcuff a kidnapping suspect after chasing him through a suburban neighborhood.

“Nice,” Tim praises as he exits the shop behind you.

“I’ll talk, I’ll talk!” the woman yells. “Everything I know, I’ll tell you. I’m not the kidnapper; I’m a woman for goodness’ sake!”

“Why did you run?” Tim asks.

She sits up with an awkward tug of the handcuffs. When she sees Tim standing at the curb, she takes a deep breath and looks up at him through her lashes.

“Officer, I was terrified,” she begins. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a woman – a single woman – here. When he told me to do it-“

“Who?” you interject.

The woman doesn’t look away from Tim as she answers, “My neighbor, Ben Charles. He asked me to let him, and his little girl, spend the night in my basement. How was I supposed to know that it wasn’t his kid?”

“You said you’d tell us everything you knew,” Tim says. “What else?”

“If I had a neighbor like you, I’d always feel safe. Although, I don’t think I would be home, much.”

Tim looks down at his boots before returning her intense gaze; he tilts his chin slightly and says, “I’m sure you’re a great neighbor. But I think you can be a greater help to that little girl. Her parents want her home.”

“I can imagine. I mean, I don’t have kids.” She licks her lips before adding, “Yet. But I want to help that little girl get home.”

Tim squats before her and lays a hand on her knee. “I’ve gotta take you in for evading arrest, but if you help us get that little girl home safe, maybe we can drop the charges.”

Easy for you to say, since you didn’t chase her through the streets, you think. Tim’s hand on her leg holds your attention, and you can’t decide whether to be angry or heartbroken. All the time you spent “waiting for Tim to be ready” has been wasted, because he’s ready now and not sparing a glance in your direction.

“I’ll be in the shop. I’ll fill in Grey,” you mumble before climbing into the passenger seat.

Tim takes most of her weight as he lifts her from the sidewalk, and you nearly rip the radio from the dash when you grab it.

5. You get jealous because of a neighbor flirting with Tim.

Tim’s house is the house to be at for game night. He has a huge, HD television, good snacks, and is always excellent company. Sitting on his couch and watching the pre-game opinions, you’re surprised to hear the doorbell ring.

“You made it!” Tim cheers as he opens the door. “Come on in. There’s pizza, drinks, help yourself to anything.”

You watch the doorway as Tim’s neighbor walks in. She’s never been to a game night before today, but that’s not what bothers you. Her hands on Tim’s shoulders threaten to make you uninterested in the game. Tim looks over and introduces you, and you shake her hand before offering your seat beside Tim. Once you’re in a chair by yourself, you can breathe a little easier. That ends when Tim sits beside his neighbor, and she leans against his side.

No game is worth this.

“So, I have a confession,” she whispers. You’re not sure why she’s whispering, because you can still hear her, yet she continues, “I’ve never watched a game before, and I have no idea what the rules are.”

“Seriously?” Tim asks. He leans forward to set his drink down and turn the volume up slightly. “I’ll explain what I can if you want.”

“I’d love that!” she gushes.

You keep your eyes on the screen, but you’re aware of her leg pressed to Tim’s, and her hand moving toward his abdomen as she presses her weight against him.

“How many sports did you play in school?” she asks.

“What makes you think I did?” he responds.

She giggles before running a finger along Tim’s bicep and over to the line between his pecs. “All these muscles. While I can appreciate them, I know they serve a purpose.”

“I am a cop.”

“So?”

“Yeah, I played some sports.”

Your phone buzzes, and since you can’t focus on the game anyway, you use it as an excuse to leave early.

“We’re almost to the playoffs!” Tim says as you stand.

“Sorry,” you reply. “I’ll watch the highlights. Enjoy the game.”

In the privacy of your car, you hit the top of the steering wheel. Why doesn’t he ever flirt with me?

1. You stop Tim from flirting with someone at a restaurant to admit your feelings.

The staff of the Mid-Wilshire division has had an incredibly busy week. When Wade suggests you, Tim, Lucy, Nolan, and Angela join him at a nearby restaurant to celebrate the wins of the week, you happily agree. Spending time with your friends out of work sounds like the perfect way to wind down after long days and sleepless nights.

“Oh my gosh, I need, like, six more of these,” Lucy says as she takes the last sip of the waiter’s recommended drink.

“Looks like everyone could use a refill,” Tim says. “This one’s on me.”

The restaurant is as busy as the police station, and your waiter encouraged you to get up and find him at the bar if you needed anything. When Tim stands, you offer to go with him and help him carry drinks. He nods and smiles before offering a hand to help you out of your seat. You don’t hear Angela and Lucy ask each other when you and Tim will make a move on one another.

“Any plans for the weekend?” Tim asks.

“A fifteen-hour nap,” you answer.

Tim shakes his head and taps his elbow against your back. He then moves his hand to the same spot to lead you through the crowd surrounding the bar.

“Hey!” your waiter greets over the noise. “Refills for your whole table?”

Tim nods and thanks him before leaning his forearm against the bar. His body is turned toward you, and you smile as you move closer, acting like the crowd is forcing the proximity. Someone bumps into Tim and says something that you can’t hear. He straightens and turns toward her, and you close your eyes against your building jealousy.

“I was going to apologize again,” the woman – who looks like she just left a Victoria’s Secret fashion show – says, “but now I’m glad I bumped into you, handsome.”

“Not that I would have complained before,” Tim begins.

“Tim!” you yell. He looks toward you quickly, and you press your lips together before asking, “Can we talk?”

A crease appears between Tim’s brows, and he nods before leaning over the bar. He asks the waiter to take the drinks to the table when he has time and thanks him again when the waiter says he will. Tim’s arm presses against your back as he leads you toward a side door. The noise and stress of the restaurant fade as the door closes behind you. You don’t give Tim a chance to ask what’s wrong before you turn to face him.

“What is so wrong with me?” you demand. “Why am I not good enough?”

“What are you talking about?” Tim asks. His voice is raised to match yours, but the genuine confusion on his face hurts worse because he doesn’t know.

“Why don’t you ever flirt with me?”

You are still jealous of every woman that you’ve seen Tim flirt with or accept flirtation from over the last few weeks. After all the time you’ve spent with him and the love you’ve shown him, you deserve to know why he ignores you.

“I-“

“No, Tim, just tell me! Because I love you and you don’t seem to care enough to even notice when I’m around!”

Realization about what you admitted hits you, and you drop your eyes to Tim’s chest. Pushing your feelings on him was never your intention.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

You move to return to the table with your friends, but Tim reaches out and wraps a gentle hand around your wrist.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

As you slowly raise your eyes and your skin burns beneath Tim’s touch, you see that his eyes are steady on yours. You have no reason to doubt him, nor do you want to.

“What didn’t?” you whisper.

“All of the flirting! None of it meant a thing to me.”

“Then-“

“The way that I talk to you, though? The time that we spend together? That means something.”

“But-“

“Let me finish,” Tim demands gently. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles and steps closer. “When I talk to other women, like Rachel and the witness last week, and accept their attention, that’s not flirting for me. That is not how I show my feelings or desires, whatever you want to call it, and it never will be. Talk is cheap, but time? That’s how I prefer showing people I care about them.”

You nod but don’t say anything yet.

“You’re jealous,” Tim accuses. “And while I can understand why, there’s no reason to be.”

“I’m not jealous,” you argue. He raises his brows, and you add, “Currently.”

“You never have to be.”

“Why? Because you’re telling me you prefer quality time to verbal flirtations? Because the last time I was at your house you seemed to be having plenty of that with your neighbor!”

“Is that why you left?”

“I thought you were explaining something.”

Tim rolls his eyes before raising his hands to hold either side of your face.

“Listen to me very closely, just for a minute. It meant nothing.”

You look down, and Tim huffs before pulling you against him. He brings your lips to his and does something that you’ve never seen before. You wanted him to flirt with you, but now you want to be kissed by him every day for the rest of your life. With his touch and the promise that the flirting didn’t mean anything, you know that your jealousy was unnecessary.

“Is that enough explanation?” Tim asks as he pulls back.

“Um, I may need just a little more,” you say softly. “I’m sorry that I yelled at you.”

“Jealous,” Tim teases.

“I don’t know how I was supposed to know that you didn’t mean it.”

“You get special treatment and are still blind to how I feel.”

Tim releases you and opens the door for you to enter first.

“How do you feel?” you ask.

“Hungry. Get inside. And don’t get jealous of Malibu Barbie at the bar; I was just going to say that I was glad she didn’t spill her drink on me.”

You purse your lips in offense, and Tim reaches forward to pull you inside with him.

“I’ll give you more explanation later, but only if you promise to trust me from now on. And, in the future, just tell me that you love me instead of getting jealous.”

You’re almost back to the table when Tim leans in and says, “Oh, and, by the way, I only flirted with Rachel right in front of you because I knew Lucy was trying to win the bet.”

[bookwyrmbutch]

First Time on The Land

It is an eight hour drive to the Land, and I’m anxious the entire way. I’ve never liked meeting new people, and I’m terrified that my wife and I had wasted a ton of money on what would inevitably be a miserable experience.

But when we arrive at the gate, my anxiety is thwarted by a parade of helpful womyn who guide us through the check-in process. I drive through the Land at 5 miles per hour, and wherever we look, there are womyn. They're busy unpacking or talking to one another, but when a car comes by they all wave and smile, shouting "welcome home!" The Land itself is beautiful, a pristine forest with a blanket of ferns covering the ground. Everything is green except the asphalt walking path that shimmers with leftover rain. As we get further in, tents pop up everywhere, nestled side by side. Plastic flowers are staked into the ground, and clotheslines strung between the trees bear Pride flags and handmade tapestries that flutter in the breeze. All of this is woven so seamlessly into the natural forest that I can’t quite believe it’s temporary.

There is an opening ceremony before the first concert. A womyn stands onstage and sings, and hundreds of womyn join her. “I am open, and I am willing, for to be hopeless would seem so strange. It dishonors those who go before us, so lift me up to the winds of change.” I am already crying and I know if I lift my voice with them that I will sob, so I keep my head down.. I’m not ready to be open.

The next day we wake up to a choir of women singing in the morning chant circle, and BMG starts in earnest. Womyn of all backgrounds volunteer to share their knowledge in participant-led workshops on writing, poetry, drumming, quilting, whaling, massage, salsa dancing, indigo dyeing, lesbian history, Nordic runes, plant identification, body painting, detransition, butch identity, and more. There is an archery range, a movie tent, and a large vendor space where womyn sell their wares. Shuttles driven by volunteers trundle up and down the dirt path, ferrying womyn across the land. The days pass in a flurry of activity, both of us exhausted but unwilling to rest. We try to do everything, much to the amusement of the older lesbians watching. They know what we don’t, which is that being here is enough of an event by itself, and the conversations we’ll have before and after these workshops are as valuable as the workshops themselves.

I’m continuously stunned by the generosity on display. One womyn cooks breakfast for two hundred, and another makes lunch the next day. We overhear a womyn give a stranger her spare air mattress. My wife tells me she has a headache and a passerby gives her an electrolyte packet and an apple. A woman offers me a comically huge blunt during a night concert, and another shows me where she stores her food when I compliment her ciabatta.  Everywhere we go, womyn stop to talk. In workshops, I stand up (tits out!) and speak my mind, and womyn listen. I smile at everyone and say “good morning” to whoever I pass. And at some point I notice... I’m not anxious. I’m talking to strangers all day and it feels wonderful.

At the closing ceremony a womyn sings to us again, and everyone joins her. “I am open, and I am willing…” This time, I’m able to join in on the second chorus.

Sunday is bittersweet. My wife and I wake up early and cry into our oatmeal. We decide to take a walk before going back to our tent, unable to face packing up. I could sense the fear - absent for five glorious days - waiting for me outside the gates. Once we’re all cried out, practicality takes over and we pack our things, load the car, and head out. 

Two womyn stop us at the gate. 

“Are y’all coming back next year?” one asks. We say yes.

“Good, because I know your faces now!"

The other pipes up, “Faces? I’m going by breasts!”

The knot in my chest loosens as I laugh, and we drive home.

We have our wristbands, our sunburns, and a new labrys necklace. We carry a warmth, a brightness, in our chests. But a few days in, the feeling disappears and I can feel my walls going up again. That unconscious tension in my gut. A week after re-entry, my bruise from archery fades, and with it the feeling of being on the Land that I could once call up so easily just by taking an extra-hot shower, or a long walk outside. Now as I write this, I can hardly remember the person I was this summer. She’s waiting inside me to make her appearance again. 

There are times I feel her stirring: when I connect with other womyn like me. When I feel grounded and at peace with myself. And sometimes I can feel her revolting when I try to duck back under the yoke of other people’s expectations. I’ve seen what life can be like without that now, and I can never really go back. It feels like there will always be a part of me waiting under the trees.

Thank you @nansheonearth for challenging me to write about my experience on the Land, and for helping me find it in the first place.

[brookghaib-blog]

Whispers of the past pt.10

Pairing: Hoshina Sohiro x reader

Summary: 10 years ago, Y/N went missing after being attacked by a kaiju, now working by Gen Narumi's side as his secret weapon, she hides herself in hopes that one day she reconnects with her first love, Hoshino Soshiro.

pt.9 - pt.11

Y/N's pov:

I sat in Narumi’s office, the sterile environment contrasting sharply with the whirlwind of emotions inside me. I had been officially released from confinement, cleared of any immediate threat, and now I was to become an official officer of the First Division. Narumi had arranged everything, but as I sat there, I felt nothing but a hollow emptiness.

Narumi watched me from behind his desk, his brow furrowed with concern. He had always been a figure of strength and authority, but now, his worry was palpable.

“How are you holding up, Y/N?” he asked gently, his voice breaking the silence.

I looked up at him, my expression blank. “I’m fine, Captain Narumi. I’ll focus on my duty and only that.”

Narumi’s concern deepened. “You don’t have to do this alone. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

I nodded mechanically, not trusting myself to speak further. The past few days had drained me of any energy to feel or express emotions. The betrayal by Soshiro, the public humiliation, and the crushing weight of my reality had left me numb.

After a few moments of silence, Narumi sighed and handed me my new identification badge. “Welcome to the First Division, Officer Y/N. I know you’ll do great things here.”

I took the badge, my fingers brushing against the cold metal. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the opportunity.”

Narumi stood up, walking around the desk to stand beside me. “Remember, Y/N, you’re more than just your duty. Don’t lose yourself in this.”

I managed a small, tight smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Leaving his office, I made my way to the bar where I had worked for years. The familiar neon sign flickered above the entrance, casting a dim light on the street. As I pushed the door open, the smell of smoke and alcohol enveloped me, a stark reminder of my past.

Mr. Orochi was behind the bar, wiping down the counter. He looked up as I entered, his eyes momentarily brightening before a strange, almost robotic expression settled on his face. I ignored the unease that crept up my spine and approached him.

“Mr. Orochi,” I began, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “I’m here to tell you that I’m quitting. I’ve been given a new job, and I’ll be working with the First Division from now on.”

Mr. Orochi’s movements were stiff, almost unnatural. “That’s… good news, Y/N. Congratulations.”

I hesitated, noting the odd way he spoke, as if he were struggling to find the right words. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” I said softly. “This place has been a refuge for me, and I’ll miss it. I’ll visit whenever I can.”

A strange, mechanical smile crossed Mr. Orochi’s face. “You’re always welcome here, Y/N.”

The concern in me grew, but I pushed it aside, attributing his odd behavior to the shock of my sudden departure. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Orochi. I’ll see you around.”

As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me. “Y/N, wait.”

I looked back, my heart tightening. “Yes?”

“You will kill kaijus now ah?” he said, his eyes empty of emotions. “Just be careful.”

I nodded slowly, a sense of foreboding settling over me. “I will. You too.”

Leaving the bar, I walked down the darkened streets, my thoughts swirling. Mr. Orochi’s behavior was strange, but I had too much on my plate to dwell on it. I had a new job, a new purpose, and I had to focus on that.

The weight of my new role as an officer in the First Division pressed heavily on my shoulders, but it also gave me a sense of direction. I would pour everything I had into this new chapter of my life, hoping that somehow, I could rebuild what had been shattered.

But deep down, I knew that the scars of the past would not fade easily. The betrayal, the pain, and the loneliness would haunt me for a long time. Yet, in the midst of it all, I clung to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to heal.

As I walked away from the bar, the night air cool against my skin, I felt a small glimmer of determination. I would face whatever came next with strength and resolve. I had survived this far, and I would continue to fight, not just for myself, but for the people who believed in me.

No matter how difficult the road ahead, I was ready to walk it, one step at a time.

--

I walked into my apartment, the familiar scent of home wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. It had been a long, draining day, and I felt the weight of it pressing down on me. The conversation with Narumi, quitting the bar, and Mr. Orochi’s strange behavior had all taken their toll. All I wanted now was a moment of peace.

As I wandered into the living room, my eyes fell on the photo frame sitting on the shelf. It was a picture of Soshiro and me from happier times, when everything seemed simpler and our future together seemed certain. My heart tightened at the sight, the ache of betrayal and loss resurfacing.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I picked up the frame, my fingers tracing the edges of the photo. Memories flooded back, each one sharper and more painful than the last. I knew I had to move on, to let go of the past if I was ever going to find peace. But the thought of discarding this piece of my history felt impossible.

I walked into the kitchen, the photo frame clutched tightly in my hand. Standing over the trash can, I hesitated, my emotions warring within me. The logical part of me knew that I needed to let go, to throw away this reminder of what once was. But my heart couldn’t bear to part with it entirely.

With a shaky breath, I turned away from the trash can and opened a drawer. Carefully, I placed the photo inside, out of sight but not completely gone. It was a small step, but it was all I could manage. The drawer closed with a quiet thud, and I leaned against the counter, trying to steady my breathing.

The tears came then, silently streaming down my cheeks. I let them fall, the release of emotion a necessary catharsis. After a few moments, I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. I couldn’t let myself fall apart now. I had to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

Deciding that a hot bath might help soothe my troubled mind, I made my way to the bathroom. I turned on the faucet, letting the water run until it was steaming. As the tub filled, I stripped off my clothes and stepped in, the heat enveloping me and easing the tension in my muscles.

I leaned back, closing my eyes and allowing the water to wash away the day’s stresses. The warmth seeped into my bones, providing a temporary respite from the turmoil inside me. For a while, I just soaked, my mind drifting in the soothing silence.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally climbed out of the tub, feeling a little lighter but still burdened by the weight of my emotions. I wrapped myself in a towel and padded to my bedroom, the cool air of the apartment a stark contrast to the warmth of the bath.

Slipping into bed, I pulled the covers up to my chin and closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I would start my new role at the First Division base. I had to be ready, both physically and mentally. There was no room for doubt or hesitation.

--

The atmosphere buzzed with energy as everyone went through their drills, the vice-captain Eiji barking out orders with military precision. I moved through the exercises, my body remembering the training from my past, each movement sharp and controlled.

Narumi, true to his reputation, lounged nearby, engrossed in his video game. He seemed almost disinterested, but I knew better. His seemingly casual demeanor belied a keen awareness of everything happening around him. His eyes occasionally flickered up to assess the team, ensuring we met his high standards even without his direct intervention.

As I completed another round of sparring, the vice-captain approached me. "Y/N, you're being summoned to the lab. Your suit is ready."

I nodded, feeling a mix of anticipation and nerves. This was the moment I had been waiting for. My suit, adapted specifically for my unique abilities, would finally be put to the test. The eyes of my teammates followed me as I made my way to the lab, curiosity and skepticism evident in their gazes.

The lab was a stark contrast to the outdoor training grounds. Sterile and filled with advanced technology, it was a place of innovation and discovery. As I entered, the head scientist greeted me with a nod. "Y/N, we've completed the adjustments to your suit. It's time to see what you can do."

I stepped into the suit, feeling the familiar sensation of the material conforming to my body. It was lightweight but incredibly durable, designed to channel and enhance my abilities. The scientists worked quickly, securing the final pieces and connecting the suit to the monitoring equipment.

"Alright, Y/N," the head scientist said, "let's begin with a basic power test. Release your energy gradually, and we'll measure the output."

I took a deep breath, focusing on the power within me. Ever since my transformation into a kaiju, my human abilities had been uncertain. I feared that I might disappoint, that the expectations would be too high. But I couldn't let that hold me back.

Slowly, I began to channel my energy into the suit. The monitors beeped softly, the readings appearing on the screens. I felt the suit resonate with my power, amplifying it, directing it. The energy flowed through me, a familiar sensation but now heightened by the suit's enhancements.

The scientists murmured amongst themselves, their expressions growing more animated. I pushed a little harder, increasing the output. The monitors beeped more urgently, the numbers climbing. I felt a surge of adrenaline, my determination intensifying.

"Keep going, Y/N," the head scientist urged. "Let's see your full potential."

I closed my eyes, drawing on every ounce of strength and willpower. The power within me surged, the suit glowing with energy. I heard gasps of astonishment, but I kept my focus, pushing myself to the limit. The energy peaked, the monitors flashing with the final reading.

"83% power release," the head scientist announced, his voice tinged with disbelief and awe. "Incredible."

I opened my eyes, panting slightly from the effort. The room was silent, everyone staring at the monitors, then at me. The skepticism had vanished, replaced by a mix of admiration and shock.

"Y/N," the head scientist said, "this is unprecedented. Your control and the power you can release… it's extraordinary."

I felt a swell of pride, but also a deep sense of responsibility. I had proven myself, but I knew this was only the beginning. There was so much more to learn, so much more to achieve.

As I stepped out of the suit, the head scientist patted my shoulder. "Well done, Y/N. You've exceeded all expectations."

I nodded, feeling a mix of relief and determination. This was my new path, my new purpose. I would embrace it fully, using my abilities to protect and serve. The doubts and fears that had plagued me were still there, but now they were overshadowed by a newfound sense of confidence.

Returning to the training grounds, I noticed the shift in my teammates' attitudes. Their skepticism had turned to respect, and I felt a sense of belonging. I was no longer just an outsider trying to prove herself; I was a valued member of the team.

Narumi glanced up from his video game, a rare smile playing on his lips. "Not bad, Y/N. Not bad at all."

I smiled back, feeling the weight of his words.

--

Third person pov:

Narumi leaned back in his chair, the soft hum of the conference room's air conditioning blending with the murmur of voices. The room was filled with high-ranking officers and key members of the Defense Force, their faces marked with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The topic of discussion was their newest officer, Y/N, and the extraordinary potential she had demonstrated.

"Her power release score is 83%," one of the scientists began, adjusting his glasses as he addressed the room. "This is an unprecedented level for someone who has not had any previous combat experience within the Defense Force. Typically, it takes months, sometimes years, for an officer to reach such a level of power output."

General Shinomiya, a stern figure with a reputation for being particularly cautious, furrowed his brow. "How is this possible? How could she achieve such a high score without prior field experience? Is there something we're missing?"

Narumi tapped his fingers on the table, drawing their attention. "Y/N's abilities are indeed remarkable," he said, his tone calm and measured. "But we must remember that her transformation into a kaiju and subsequent training have given her unique advantages. Her control over her power is unparalleled, and the suit has only amplified what she already possesses."

"Still," Shinomiya interjected, "we must consider the risks. A power output of 83% is not just impressive; it's dangerous if not properly managed. How can we be certain that she won't become a liability or, worse, a threat?"

Narumi's gaze hardened slightly. "Y/N has already proven her trustworthiness. She chose to reveal her true nature to us, knowing full well the risks involved. If she had any intention of causing harm, she wouldn't have come forward. She's committed to the Defense Force and to protecting humanity."

Another officer, Captain Fujiwara, leaned forward. "But can we really afford to take that chance? We have to consider all possibilities. What if her kaiju nature becomes dominant?"

Narumi shook his head. "Her humanity is what drives her. I've seen it firsthand. She has no desire to let her kaiju side take over. If anything, she's fighting it every step of the way. And that's precisely why we need to support her, not push her away."

The room fell silent for a moment as the officers exchanged glances. The weight of their decisions was palpable, each one understanding the gravity of the situation.

Finally, General Shinomiya spoke again, his tone more measured. "Very well, Narumi. You've made your point. But we need a safeguard. Someone who can closely monitor her progress and ensure that she remains on the right path."

Narumi didn't hesitate. "I'll be her supervisor. I've already seen what she's capable of, and I believe in her potential. With the right guidance, she can become one of our most powerful assets."

There was a murmur of agreement around the table. Captain Fujiwara nodded. "Having someone with your experience and insight overseeing her development is the best course of action. If you vouch for her, Narumi, then we trust your judgment."

General Shinomiya gave a final nod. "Very well. Narumi, you will be responsible for Y/N's training and supervision. Ensure that she receives the support and guidance she needs. And keep us updated on her progress."

Narumi stood, a sense of resolve settling over him. "Thank you, General. I won't let you down. And neither will Y/N."

As the meeting adjourned, Narumi felt a mix of anticipation and responsibility. Y/N's potential was immense, but so were the challenges ahead. He knew that guiding her would require patience, understanding, and unwavering support. But he was ready to take on that challenge, convinced that together, they could unlock her true potential and ensure that she became the powerful, trustworthy officer the Defense Force needed.

Leaving the conference room, Narumi felt a mix of anticipation and responsibility. The decision to oversee Y/N’s training was a significant one, but he was confident in her potential and determined to support her through the challenges ahead. Just as he was about to head to his office, he saw Y/N running towards him, her face streaked with tears.

"N-Narumi!" she cried out, her voice trembling. Panic surged through him as he rushed to meet her, his mind racing with possibilities.

"Y/N, what happened?" he asked urgently, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. Her whole body was shaking, her eyes wide with distress.

"It's Mr. Orochi," she managed to choke out between sobs. "He was found dead… his head was… his head was cut off. They just left his body on the street."

Narumi's heart sank. Mr. Orochi had been a mentor and a friend to Y/N, the person who had provided her with some semblance of normalcy and support during her darkest times. He felt a surge of protective anger mix with the sorrow in his chest.

"Come with me," he said gently, guiding her to a quieter corner of the hallway. He needed to calm her down and get more details. "Tell me everything you know."

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "I went to the bar to quit my job because I'm joining the Defense Force officially. Mr. Orochi was there, but he was acting strange. I thanked him for everything, and he seemed… off. But I thought maybe he was just tired. Then, I found out, one of the girls called me… they found his body this morning."

Narumi's mind raced. There was no way this was a random act of violence. Someone had targeted Orochi, and it likely had something to do with Y/N’s transformation or her new position in the Defense Force.

"I’m so sorry, Y/N," Narumi said softly, pulling her into a comforting embrace. "We'll find out who did this. I promise you."

She nodded against his chest, her sobs subsiding but the pain in her eyes still raw. "Why would someone do this? He didn't deserve this."

"I don’t know yet," Narumi replied, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside him. "But we’ll get to the bottom of it. For now, let's get you somewhere safe."

He led her to his office, signaling to one of his officers to bring them some water. As they sat down, he kept a close eye on Y/N, who was still visibly shaken. Narumi knew he had to stay strong for her, to be the anchor she needed right now.

"Do you have any idea who might have done this?" he asked gently once she had calmed down a bit.

She shook her head. "No. Mr. Orochi… he didn't have any enemies, at least none that I knew of. He was just a kind man."

Narumi nodded, deep in thought. This situation was more complicated than it appeared. "We'll need to investigate this thoroughly. But for now, you need to rest and recover. I’ll have someone over at the police to look into Mr. Orochi’s death immediately, and investigate, they'll informe us as soon as they know something."

Y/N wiped her tears away, a determined look slowly replacing the sadness. "I want to help. I owe it to him."

Narumi admired her resolve but was also worried about her state of mind. "We'll discuss it once you've had some time to rest. You’ve been through a lot, and I need you at your best if we’re going to figure this out together."

She nodded reluctantly, knowing he was right. "Thank you, Narumi. For everything."

"Everything for you, Y/N." he said softly.

[thegildedbee]

Fire/Night: May 20 & 21 Prompts from @calaisreno

[This current chapter and the previous ones are on Ao3.]

............................................................................................... As he begins to step off the train, Sherlock uncurls his fingers to let his mobile slide from his hand into the open space between the train carriage and the pavement's edge — although he’s removed the sim card, best not to have anything to hand that has an identification number since he's unsure as to what dangers lie ahead. He’s now untethered from communications, and about to step out onto a naked stage to begin a scene for which he does not have a script, although others surely do. He looks about with a keen eye, seeking to identify his contact – ah, there he is, it seems, a man perhaps a decade younger than himself, dressed neatly but inconspicuously, in black jeans and a heavy navy wool jacket, the asymmetrical opening buttoned closed at the shoulder. Sherlock inclines his head, as does the other man in response.

When Sherlock nears the path leading to the car park, the man toward whom he’s heading begins unfastening the coat, causing Sherlock to slow his stride and shift his weight, looking stealthily toward his left to identify any obstacles should he suddenly need to begin an evasive maneuver.

The man shakes his head slightly, and places his hand, fingers spread and pressed flat against his heart, for a brief moment, and then holds up his index finger. Looking closely, Sherlock sees that he is wearing a vibrant blue shirt, patterned with silver-outlined cranes. He calms, and awards points to his contact; nice touch, that. Although he subtracts points for needlessly tripping the threat alarm of a person on approach.

“Dr. Scott?” the stranger inquires, clearly expecting the nod of confirmation that Sherlock gives; he seems to have been at least minimally briefed. Sherlock hopes that this means they’re not flying blind.

“Greetings, sir. I am Ceba Trungpa, education section head of The Council for the Preservation of Sacred Cranes, at your service – I am here to help you complete your itinerary for the day,” he says pleasantly, speaking in Mandarin. With two hands, he holds out his business card and bows slightly; Sherlock accepts the card in the same manner, including responding with a careful bow. The front, written in English, is straightforward: name, title, organization. These words also appear on the back, although this time in Mandarin, and in a smaller font, to make room for some additional lines, which look to be numbers related to addresses and mobile contact details. Shorn of the letters, however, Sherlock decodes the numerals as indicating map coordinates; it’s not likely to be a coincidence, for the result works out to be roughly five miles from where they now stand, in a slightly northeasterly direction. He scrutinizes the card further, but concludes that he’s extracted all the information to be had, which leaves him only marginally less in the dark.

“I am grateful for your assistance, Mr. Trungpa,” Sherlock replies, also in Mandarin. “As you have been informed, I have come from Shigatse, where, out in the field, I was honored to have seen four pairs of the noble black-necked crane nesting safely. A rare privilege.”

Trungpa does up his coat, and nods his head. “Indeed, you are quite fortunate to have been absent from Lhasa in such safe surroundings, and to have been able to view such a high-priority scene -- a very fine outcome,” he says blandly, with an affable smile. “Black-necked cranes are remarkable creatures, as you know. Beautiful and fascinating in themselves, but also a flagship species for assessing the environmental status of the Tibetan plateau. Your photographs and field observations are most welcome, and it is certain that they will be of significant interest to many.” He gestures toward the car park. “If you are ready to join me, please come this way; my vehicle is at the far end from where we are – the jeep near the entrance. Do you see?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you. If I may, what is our itinerary?”

“Of course. You are to finish your day by visiting Drak Yerpa, a Buddhist pilgrimage site, located in a valley on the northern bank of the Kyichu. It will take us perhaps an hour to arrive there. It consists of a monastery and a number of ancient meditation caves, carved into the steep limestone cliffs. As you may have read, it was created in the seventh century, and at one time housed several hundred monks. Nearly all was destroyed when the Chinese came; but the caves remain, and there has been rebuilding. In our own time, ten monks have permission from the authorities to be in residence. I can assure you that it is a remarkable introduction to the traditions of Tibetan Buddhism.”

Sherlock takes this in, wondering what advantage will be gained by this turn of events. “This sounds most intriguing. I thank you for this opportunity for enlightenment.”

Trungpa halts briefly, looking closely at Sherlock with an air of gravity as he also comes to a stop. "It was thought this would be an excellent place for you to begin your departure from Lhasa. In addition to exploring the site, there are many interesting bird species in the area – pheasants, finches, sparrows, larks, partridges, geese, vultures.”

“I see,” Sherlock says slowly, not sure that he does. If the man is an operative of some sort, he is giving almost nothing away; he is doing a commendable job of seeming to be nothing more than what his putative business card says he is.

“Am I correct that I will be required to trek beyond the monastery site itself in quest of these sights?”

“Yes, you are indeed correct. In particular, if you proceed some distance away, after dusk you will encounter a Blackhawk.”

And there it is, Sherlock thinks to himself, the sum and substance of this foray. He tries to convey by the slight nod of his head that he understands the import of that last statement.

"And will you be joining me for that later portion of the schedule?” he says mildly, mentally inching his way toward a determination of what the mechanics will be that bring his visit to Tibet to its end. He is very nearly sure that these developments are being overseen by his brother, but he remains wary of assuming too much, too soon, lest he make a ruinous error.

Trungpa begins moving forward, and bids Sherlock continue with him. "I regret to say that will not be possible. I will be leaving near 17.30, when Drak Yerpa closes for visitation. Prior to this I will convey information regarding which direction it would be most profitable for you to proceed in order to have maximum success.”

When they reach the vehicle, Trungpa indicates that Sherlock should seat himself in the back, while he takes the wheel. Once they are both settled, he adds, “I should note that the elevation will increase another one thousand metres as compared to our current altitude. You will need to pace yourself accordingly. For now, please, just sit back and rest.”

The barest of outlines seems to be coming into view, Sherlock muses; he will need to hike a mile or so beyond the caves, using his compass to find the exact placement. If he has not been deceived – either deliberately, or through his own miscalculation – a Blackhawk helicopter will arrive to extract him soon after nightfall.

“That is excellent advice. I have indeed found the altitude to be challenging.” Contemplating the rendezvous to come, he asks, casually, “Are there 'bears' in the vicinity? Would one need to have some sort of weapon to hand?” He carries several, not least an intimidating knife concealed in his right boot. Best to know if trouble is expected.

“According to my current information, it is highly unlikely, and you need not concern yourself with such a scenario,” Trungpa answers, making eye contact with Sherlock in the mirror. He turns slightly to look at him person, his eyes taking on a teasing glint. “Nor do you need fear encountering a Yeti.”

“Good to know,” Sherlock says with a chuckle. He settles back into the seat, and pulls a banknote from a trouser pocket, and in self-soothing gestures, folds it, then unfolds it, smooths it out, and then folds it again to occupy his hands. He closes his eyes, and internally surveys the disordered pathway to the Asian museum exhibit space in his mind palace.

On the passing of the half-hour, he opens his eyes, and scans the passing landscape of grazing yaks and small farms amidst the winding roadway. He wishes he knew more specifically the cause of the instruction that he steer clear of his hotel, and to continue on as Dr. William Scott, rather than re-inhabiting Gabriel Vernet's persona. He has been careful to try and keep under the radar of Moriarty's network by engaging only lower and middle level confederates to date, and by spreading his efforts widely, dispersed across great distances. He has been keen to avoid establishing data points that might make a pattern of effort evident, attracting attention from the leadership, and prompting reconsiderations of his status as deceased. He is anxious to learn what he may have done wrong, and whether it will affect what comes next.

Upon their arrival, Trungpa suggests they stop at the teahouse situated below the cave complex. Although his stomach is reluctant to receive food, Sherlock knows that eating at least a small meal will help fortify him for whatever complications may lie ahead, and so he chooses some meat and cheese dumplings and sweet tea. As he watches Trungpa pay up front for their orders, he catches a glimpse of a piece of paper being passed to him, and reminds himself to stay alert.

During their long climb to the caves, and then as they tread along the extensive trail that connects them, they cross paths with very few people. As a guide, Trungpa is quite knowledgeable, explaining the meanings behind various statues and wall paintings, as well as stories that have been handed down from past centuries that assign specific caves to having been inhabited by particular holy men for years in meditative retreat.

It is said that one of these very monks from the ninth century spent years in solitary meditation in one of the caves, until mounting a horse and riding to the emperor's palace, where he shot an arrow through the heart of the man who would be the last ruler of the Tibetan empire, assassinated for his hostility to Buddhism, his death ushering in what came to be known as the Era of Fragmentation. Trungpa relates that he then returned to spend further years in meditation, having eluded capture by escaping to the riverbank, whereupon he reversed his black robe so that the white lining was now visible, and in wading his horse through the river, the charcoal he had used to color the animal black was washed away. There is another tale, which gives the horse's name as Silver Blaze, in honor of the speed with which his hooves pounded across the plateau, as swift as a flashing sword. Sherlock senses that his companion is particularly invested in this story, and he wonders if it resonates as more than sacred history, but also as an image that symbolizes a vein of resistance to the Chinese occupation of what their leaders style as the Autonomous Region of Tibet.

As they approach one of the furthest caves, Trungpa indicates that they should move behind a crag a short distance beyond, which will shield them from view. It is a location that opens out onto rocky terrain, which Sherlock grasps is where he will begin his trek. His guide verifies that the business card reveals map coordinates, and gives Sherlock a basic orientation to the topography that lies before him. He shakes Sherlock’s hand, and passes on the paper that he had received below. He has been told that the message contains no information of immediate necessity, and suggests that Sherlock make haste to move toward the meeting point, and only then, when safely arrived, read the message. He then speaks several sentences in Tibetan, places the palms of his hands together and bows, and lastly uses English to ask that the next phase of Sherlock's journey be auspicious, safe, and marked by good fortune.

Sherlock draws out a leather wallet and places the paper inside, and then draws a paper object of his own from his jacket pocket. He presents Trungpa with the banknote that he had been toying with inside the jeep, which he had fashioned into an origami crane. He, too, bids his companion safe travels and good fortune, and bows, and then swiftly sets to make his way without looking back. The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long bruise-colored shadows from the slopes of the mountains, while at the same time coloring the snow-covered peaks as if they are on fire.

He hopes that his camouflaged field jacket will aid him in making his way to the site without being noticed, until the night's sweeping robe of darkness hides him from view, as he waits to meet whatever fate has in store for him.

........................................................

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper

@helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra

@solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912 @dapetty

.............................................................................

[eclairris]

Drabbles from Re-Playing AOM

OKAY SO- woe Spoilers and speculations upon ye

I'm still reflecting on the card that's deliberately put into Alice's room underneath a picture frame of the Deross family. It's probably just cut and dry like "ohhh Alice is a sacrifice" but I can get more nitpicky with it

On the back it says "Welcome to Join the Hunting Game" which could be two things

Either A really poor translation on IDV's part, and is further saying the obvious that Alice is a sacrifice (Which would make sense given how we've pretty much gotten hunter versions of da capo excluding her, if you count Frederick being a hallucination influenced by Orpheus' exposition, and how Melly is on the near horizon).

Or it could quite literally be saying "Here pookie, stop running and succumb to the delulu" and putting hunter Alice into concretion But I think it's also probably just saying regardless that Alice is the direct sacrifice that Orpheus believes will keep the games going (clearly something went wrong) given how lambs are treated within religion and folklore.

I also did replay It and select every visit option I could for that sweet loredrop and I haven't seen anyone talk about this either.

The person literally saying that is young orph (orphan, If you will). The whole muse corridor points into details about the raid itself, which is odd because just a cutscene prior was Alice getting chased by hallucinations down that same corridor. It got me thinking about how IDV developers have considered giving Alice a hunter form.

So what do I know about this bird?? Uh the bare minimum actually but it can serve as some type of drop with how the story's going. He's not saying Alice is the Nightingale. He's saying she's better than it, which could resort to the potentiality of hunter Alice taking on the form of a "nightingale" if we go off the fact that most identity swaps with heavy lore (at least in da Capo's case) is based on either regression, repression, or insecurities.

Norton - Repression. He's not keeping up face when it comes to his identity swap. Literally chaos incarnate. Orpheus - Projection. Nightmare can quite literally be called Orpheus' Mary Sue oc. That's the post. Mary/Frederick technically isn't influenced more by Frederick himself but rather Alice's way of seeing it. Which fucks up a lot but let's not talk about it. I'd say it leans more towards Identification.

Melly could potentially have some correlation to the odd point Orph brought up

"After all, there's a price to pay for being unfaithful, isn't that right Mrs. Plinius."

Which is probably saying that Mr good ol plinius wasn't loyal and probably either had an affair or did something behind melly's back.

If the point of Alice being braver than the Nightingale is anything to go off of and whatnot then it could be safe to say her identity could be based off that if she ever gets one. It could play off of her bravery and need to look towards the future as opposed to Orpheus being stuck in the past. It could also explain why we haven't heard or seen much when it comes to Nightingale, because of two reasons

they're saving her for some big story update much like the rest of the da capo identity swaps.

Orpheus has been PROVEN to be an unreliable narrator. Surely wanting to dissect Orpheus under a microscope isn't delusional enough.

[aimfor-theheart]

Official announcement for Inkweaver Galaxy, a space themed writing server!

@lorelune and I are excited to announce that we will be hosting a new discord server! If you're interested, please fill out the interest-check survey below and we'll be in touch!

Before you proceed, here's some more info;

⭐️ This server is 18+ only. Once admitted, we will be asking for proof of age via photo. You may show your license with all personal info blocked out except for your birthday or another form of identification in a similar manner.

⭐️ This server is aimed at writers and creators, specifically in the x-reader side of anime fandoms. It's laid out to have writing resources, a place to sprint with other writers, brainstorming and inspiration channels, beta-reading, and a monthly writing prompt amongst other things!

⭐️ While we are specifically trying to bring fans of Genshin Impact and Honkai Star Rail together for this server, we're certainly apart of and welcome of many other fandoms such as jjk, bllk, csm, mha, hq, and tristamp!

⭐️ We're looking to keep this server relatively small in numbers; while Lore and I would love to have a ton of people, we both want to make sure we and others are not overwhelmed! We're looking for about twelve people which will be discussed further once we have results from the interest survey. Our dreams are for this to become a tight-knit little community of support and creativity 💕

⭐️ This server allows and welcomes NSFW and dark content. If that is something you're uncomfortable with, perhaps this isn't the server for you!

If you're still interested, please fill out

-> this survey <-

And if you have any questions, comments, or concerns, feel free to reach out to either Lore (@lorelune) or me here on tumblr!

[nothorses]

As someone who doesn’t fall within the LGBT part of the acronym I’m still more uncomfortable with queer as the umbrella because it feels like the last progressively acceptable way to be exclusionary. Obvs plenty of folks still judge whether ppl are gay/trans enough. But doing that is at least explicitly not acceptable in the spaces I wanna be in. Whereas it’s accepted and sometimes encouraged to criticize or even exclude ppl for not being queer enough (in theory a political call, in practice a judgement on identity and presentation). I do still use queer to signal correctly, but it does not sit well for that reason. Wish there was a third option w/no political history, but I know we’d just do this to whatever new term we came up with too

I mean, I think "I know we’d just do this to whatever new term we came up with too" kind of hits the nail on the head here.

This isn't something that happens because of the word, it's something that happens because of the people. The word itself is not inherently exclusive; in fact, it's explicitly all-inclusive. It's for anyone who falls outside of the relevant societal expectations, by definition, and there is no list or any further defining or qualifying that needs to be done.

The issue with "LGBT", and any variation thereof, is that it's a list. It starts with the letters people consider most important to start with (hence, "GL" becoming "LG"). Even if it didn't, it requires that we name every single kind of person who's welcome, individually, which inevitably leaves people out- or tells them that they aren't welcome on the terms of their more "niche" identities, but rather only if they happen to have a more visible and accepted one alongside it. (See: "straight asexuals aren't LGBT")

People can still act exclusionary regardless of word choice, but if the words they're using do not themselves reinforce or encourage that way of thinking and behaving, it's kind of ridiculous to pin the blame for that on the words. People are going to do that with any word we use- at some point we have to decide whether the fight should be in finding a new word each time they do it, or in getting them to stop behaving that way in the first place.

Also... I'm sorry you've experienced this, and I think it needs to be addressed. But speaking personally, that experience isn't universal. When folks have gatekept who "counts", in my personal experience, they've overwhelmingly been using "LGBT" (or just "LGB"). If they use "queer" at all, it's interchangeable with that and other terms. Again, not to say that your experience doesn't matter- it does- but so do other people's.

You don't need to use "queer" for yourself if you don't want to. You also don't need to use "LGBT" or any variation. But we're not talking about personal identification, either; this is about which word is most practically useful and effective in achieving our goals of maximum inclusivity and clarity.

[teletraan-archive]

The Planet of Cybertron

Standard brochure data log detailing the various locations of the planet Cybertron, updated version that was published by the decepticon empire one week after the invasion of Tarn:

Welcome to Cybertron! If you’re reading this, then you just arrived on the home planet of the cybertronian race. Whether you are visiting from one of our civilization’s colony worlds, returning from a deep space exploration mission, or even a non-mechanoid alien being, Cybertron welcomes you with open arms. This data gives you an overview of our planet’s great cities and natural wonders. We hope you enjoy your visit and/or stay. Till All Are One. [Due to the recent changes in government, travel from city to city will be restricted until further notice. Please provide sufficient identification if you wish for safe passage into or out of the following cities: Kaon, Tarn, Tesarus, Vos, Helex. All Hail Megatron.]

Iacon: The main capital and crowning jewel of our world. At the dawn of our kind, this vast metropolis started as a meager campfire as the thirteen primes planned their assault on the great chaos killer Unicron. Once the Age of Primes came to an end, Nova Prime began making his vision of a unified cybertronian society a reality here. The rest is history, which you can read all about at the Iacon Hall of Records, Cybertron’s largest library and archive center. The equally famous sports arenas are home to high-speed racing and thrilling games of cube. More than anything else, Iacon is best known for it’s mixing and acceptance of cybertronian cultures old and new. From titan to minicon, scientific minds to spiritual sparks, all are accepted here. Do you feel like you don’t fit in anywhere? You’ll fit right in! [After the defeat and imprisonment of the ineffectual Sentinel Prime, we hope senator Xaaron will do what is best for the city and allow decepticon forces to take command of Iacon.]

Kaon: Home to countless factories and a handful of energon mines, the city of Kaon is the industrial spark of Cybertron. If you held an ion blaster or rode in a train, there is a good chance it was manufactured here. The city’s most alluring and thrilling locations are the gladiator arenas. Watch and marvel as larger-than-life bots fight for the title of champion. [The decepticon empire is proud to announce that the construction of Darkmount prison has begun. Wardened by former senator Straxus, the facility will punish and hopefully rehabilitate those that break decepticon law.]

Tarn: The second largest city on the planet, Tarn’s culture revolves around the creation and appreciation of music in all its forms. From catchy radio tunes to dramatic orchestras, the songs and melodies that originate here are famous across the galaxy. This city spanning musical is also notable for its hospitality towards alien life, negotiation centers and cozy biome spaces for all cosmic travelers that recognize that cybertronians are more than just machines. [For the civilians that swore loyalty to the deceptions, repairs are being made to your homes. Let the first successful conquest of the decepticon empire serve as an example, disobedience and rebellion will not be tolerated.]

Vos: The city of fliers, Vos has the tallest skyscrapers ever constructed on Cybertron. Not to worry, each building is interconnected by walkable tunnels for those without aerial alt modes! While similar to Iacon in its multicultural design, Vos does have recognition in environmental research and an above average appreciation to soaring the skies. [All environmental research stations shall be configured into military air force training facilities for the decepticon seeker program, as ordered by former senator Starscream. We are also proud to announce that the new decepticon communication grid, named Stanix, will be constructed here. Newly appointed commutations officer Soundwave will operate it.]

Helex: Originally conceived as a simple marketplace for Kaon, the city of Helex has grown to be the economic center of Cybertron. Business tycoons and inventors everywhere make their start here, providing financial aid and high-quality products for both cheap spenders and high payers. Whether you’re shopping in a tiny shop or a sprawling mall, Helex will have what your looking for! [Former senator Ratbat has advised that all investments should be focused into weapons development and warship manufacturing. Invest wisely, invest in strength.]

Tesarus: While small in size, the historical imprint that Tesarus has left is quite large. This city is home to artisans and philosophers of all kinds. Art museums are filled with astonishing paintings and statues, debate halls are the battlegrounds for discussions on ethics and cybertronian values. Tesarus is also the city of entertainment! Sweeping operas depicting the lives of the original thirteen primes and thrilling blockbusters are all produced here. [Lord Megatron has declared that any art (fictional or otherwise) or debate that denounces or harshly criticizes decepticonism is to be outlawed. Former senator Scorponok shall enforce this law.]

Tyger Pax: A combination of jungle and city, Tyger Pax is the place nearly all beastformers of Cybertron call home. One walk through its streets is proof enough that the the quintesson lie that Cybertron is just a lifeless metal world is indeed a false hood. Bask in the natural beauty of the local flora and admire the strong sense of community that the city folk have. [Decepticon recruitment centers will be established in this city soon.]

Kalis: If Iacon is the flaming spark of Cybertron, then Kalis is the innermost energon that flows through the planet’s spark chamber. This city is closest to the Tagan Heights, home to the world’s biggest mineable energon deposit. As such, Kalis has the largest number of mines and power plants that keep the other cities power flowing. If you’re in need of a good paying job and don’t mind getting your chassis dirty, this is the city for you. [A higher percentage of power and mined energon crystals shall be diverted into the core five decepticon cities until further notice.]

Protohex: Quite possibly the most important city of Cybertron, Protohex is home to both the Vector Sigma supercomputer and the Well of All Sparks. It is here where newly protoformed cybertronians take their first steps and begin learning the intricacies of their race. Resplendent with academies of all types, you don’t need to be freshly forged to learn something new here! The teachers and mentors of Protohex are honored to educate all that arrive. [Megatron will respect the sacred city’s decision to be separate from the new government, so long as decepticon recruitment centers can still be established in Protohex.]

Praxus: The city of Praxus is where politics are debated, and laws are written. Conceived by Nominus Prime, citizens can voice their concerns to their senators and even run for election themselves. The Cybertron Security Force is primarily headquartered here as well, making sure everyone is safe and secure. While not the most attractive place for tourists, Praxus is a historic place that has earned a fine reputation. [Due to the resistance coming from the CSF, the decepticons will not bother with the traditional process of electing leaders.]

Crystal City: Elegant architecture and fine dining are just the top layer of the luxurious Crystal City. The brightest scientific minds of Cybertron work tirelessly here, experimenting and developing innovative technologies to make life for all cybertronians better. Everywhere on Cybertron is worth visiting, but Crystal City is a top priority for all tourists! [Should senator Bunsen refuse to relinquish his power to decepticon scientist Shockwave, Crystal City will be our next great conquest.]

Altihex: Where you forged a flyer but want a set of wheels instead? Are you unsure which race car model is right for you? Altihex is the place to go! This city is dedicated to alt mode research and fashion. Find out what environment your four wheeled alt mode is best at traversing, try out the freshly designed jet models by the best alt mode designers. There’s not a single question about alt modes that Altihex can’t answer. [New decepticon recruits are encouraged to get the intergraded weaponry upgrade here, as blaster production continues to grow to meet new demands.]

Uraya: The somber but beautiful resting place for cybertronians that went offline. Uraya has a strict culture revolving around the respect one should give the dead, letting both the actions and friends of the deceased speak for themselves. The most religious of Cybertron’s cities, this place is also home of the gateway to the planet’s core. Despite our kind’s seemingly infinite lifespans, some bots feel that they’ve seen it all and wish to return to Primus and the Allspark on their own terms. These cybertronians join with the wires and vines of the planets’s core, and given the most respect from the citizens of Uraya. [The decepticon empire shall leave Uraya to be neutral, out of respect for the fallen combatants that fought against the quintessons.]

Wild lands of Cybertron: Our homeworld is more than just metal cities. Venture into the wild lands and take in our planet’s natural splendor. Put on some rust screen and sail the vast Sea of Rust, home of the Hydrax Plateau recycling plant. Test your wilderness survival skills in the Sludge Swamps. Not ready to get your metal dirty? The Sonic Canyons and Manganese Mountains are home to handfuls of quaint towns and villages, populated with hardy locals that make living in the toughest environments look easy. [The decepticons are fully aware of Slaughter City, the mobile facility that houses illegal fight clubs and unregulated gambling. Once found, we hope the participants/residents of Slaughter City will join our cause. Refusal will be met with punishment.]

(Author’s Note: Loved TF One’s addition to Cybertron not being 100% made of metal)

[identifying-guns-in-posts]

welcome!

i'm a bit of a nerd when it comes to guns, and thought randomly at some point that it'd be fun to start this gimmick blog and try to identify guns in various posts. however I do still kind of consider myself to be in the dunning-kruger valley, and gun identification is a bit more complex than car identification due to just how many variants of individual gun patterns there are, and how much easier it is to do modifications of them...

(ask / submission rules and other guidelines are further down in this post)

I'll try to at least identify the general pattern of the gun or any recognizable parts and cross reference with images and articles to make a decision. If your post or submission is from a particular piece of media, it's extremely likely for it to already be documented on the Internet Movie Firearms Database wiki website, so some answers will probably be pulled straight from there.

For example, the wiki clearly outlines that, in the above blog header, which is from the anime/manga Lycoris Recoil (IMFDB link here), Chisato (left) canonically uses a Detonics CombatMaster (variant of Colt 1911 pattern, chambered in .45 ACP), specifically one that incorporates elements of the Tokyo Marui Strike Warrior Airsoft replica (notable in the strike face compensator and modified rear sight). Takina (right) meanwhile uses a somewhat generic Smith and Wesson M&P9 PRO, chambered in 9x19mm, with the extended 5" barrel.

To make up for how garbage I am at getting specifics right, I may also offer some bits of trivia about the gun(s) in question and/or their implementation. For example, although Chisato's gun seems based off of the Tokyo Marui design, it notably has three port holes at the top of the compensator as compared to the single port in the original; it might be a bit more effective as a real compensator than the very-Airsoft cosmetic fixing of the TM replica. It also lacks the accessory rail in the anime. Additionally, Takina's signature sidearm, the M&P9, is extremely common in modern law enforcement (you might even recognize the handle of it in the "(A) Steal Officer's Service Weapon" meme), so it's a bit of a "cop gun" in a sense; which possibly matches how Takina essentially serves as the by-the-numbers half of the pseudo-buddycop pairing formed by her and Chisato. Interestingly enough, all other Lycoris agents are seen wielding Glock 17s instead...

asks

I'm always open to asks if you want to ask me anything, but if you want me to identify something, you should probably make it a submission!

submissions/tags

Only submit requests for identification of guns OR fictional gun reviews (more on that in another section)! Preferably memes and posts. You can also submit things from media like video games and anime, but you could probably get a faster answer through IMFDB than me >~>

If your submission or tag is for a "cursed gun" then some special rules apply. If it's a real life picture of some effed up monstrosity, I will do my best to identify it with a real, pre-built gun; otherwise, I'll try to identify parts that may have been used for it. If it's clearly an edited picture or some other form of drawing, concept, or very clearly fictional gun, this will be treated as a "Fictional Gun Review" instead.

Generally speaking I'm looking at "small arms" guns; I'm not super well-versed on artillery pieces and aircraft weapons and the like. I know a handful of rocket launchers and might be able to pick out a couple but those are also pretty hard for me.

Fictional Gun Reviews

I'm also a bit of a hobbyist game designer and like creating weapon designs myself! I can take a look at strictly fictional weapon designs and give some cursory criticism on whether or not the gun would actually function in the configuration it's in (checking things like barrel/bolt/magazine alignment, etc.), what parts of it I recognize from real guns, and an overall subjective rating.

about me

i'm a 21+ trans woman (she/her) and pansexual/biromantic disaster married to a hot butch wife. i'm also an independent game developer and secretly a streamer on another alias of mine. i like guns! i like the history of guns and the engineering of guns. personal favorites are sniper rifles, particularly the L96A1, the first military-specification sniper rifle made by Accuracy International, which served as the prototype of the Arctic Warfare line of rifles, popularized by Counter Strike's AWP (though the classification of "AWP" is incorrect for the particular weapon featured in the series, it's actually an AWM .338). favorite pistol is probably the Beretta 93R, a 3 round burst fire pistol with a similar pattern to the iconic M9 pistol. i also like the MP7 PDW (obvious half life 2 fan is obvious), the MAC10 (by far the coolest machine pistol to fire in akimbo lol), and the G36C (one of the first guns I ever decided to look up more information about many years ago after picking it up in Garry's Mod of all places).

[artemisiafem]

i really am so sick of the way personality disorders are often discussed. sometimes i try to put it down to people online usually not being able to talk about things in a nuanced fashion but i'm seeing the same rhetoric across different age groups, and across people i know online, and it really tires me out. this is mainly about bpd, since that's what i've been diagnosed with, and because it's one of the most visible, but it's true about other personality disorders, in particular those in cluster b, but also other clusters as well.

there's two things in particular which really upset me, and they both feed into each other.

(1) aggressive self-identification with the label, especially in cases of self-diagnosis (usually this is done by women/teenage girls). i understand the impulse for both self-identification and self-diagnosis. getting diagnosed with a personality disorder can be explanatory - oh, that's why i'm like this. but in the case of self-identification, there's a couple issues. (1) it's a mindset that tends to be anti-recovery. it tends to lean too far towards "this is me," and "its not unchangeable." (2) self-identification, especially in the case of self-diagnosis, tends to emphasise certain parts of the disorder far more than others - in the case of bpd, this is usually the dysfunctional attachments which are common. (3) it uncritically accepts psychiatry, and does not look at whether the diagnostic concept of personality disorders is valid or even useful. this is particularly important considering the links between bpd as a diagnosis & misogyny & hysteria, as well as the intense stigma that comes with a diagnosis of bpd. while some mental health professionals are informed and welcoming, most are not. it's also significant that abuse (which is highly gendered) may also result in victims presenting with symptoms of what is labelled as bpd (obviously abuse in childhood is also highly correlated with bpd). as a result, you potentially have women in abusive relationships being told they're the problem, that it is all in their head. (2) intense fetishisation of the label (usually by men). this goes hand in hand with demonisation. i've seen far too many men online talking about how bpd women are great at sex, talking about how they want a bpd girlfriend because she'll be obsessed with them, talking about how bpd women are more attractive than other groups. equally i've seen men online talking about bpd women like they're evil creatures from another dimension, sent specifically here to torment men, like we're not even human at all. this isn't just online, i have been fetishised and demonised by men in my own personal experience (i have also seen women demonising others with bpd, but this usually lacks the fetishisation aspect). it's also present in broader cultural narratives - the crazy ex girlfriend, don't stick your dick in crazy, even the manic pixie dream girl has shades of the idealised bpd girlfriend.

i highlight the gendered responses because they have played out quite significantly in my experience, and because they reinforce each other. this is not to blame women diagnosed with bpd for their fetishisation, i am one myself, but to recognise instead how we are pushed to sexualise ourselves further as a result of a misogynistic society (a particularly dangerous thing in the case of those of us with trauma responses like this). and also, i'm frankly a little sick of seeing so many memes which simply play into stereotypes associated with what men fetishise about us. men who fetishise bpd can die though

[vodika-vibes]

We Belong To Each Other

Summary: Boba returns from a long job, and his first visit is to you.

Pairing: ROTJ Boba Fett x F!Reader

Word Count: 1817

Warnings: Smut, Boba is possessive, but so is the reader, hints of a breeding kink sorta, Reader is a stripper

A/N: Hello! Welcome to my Thanksgiving Spite Smut story! Is there better smut out there? Probably! But this one is mine! I hope you all like it!

Click HERE to be added to my taglist

The music thrums loudly through the club. You can feel the bass down to your bones even though you’re not on the stage. Your set has already been completed, so technically, you could go home for the night.

But something is encouraging you to stay.

So here you are, sitting in the dressing room with your feet propped up on your vanity, your painted toes bouncing in time with the beat of the music while you doom scroll on your comm.

You haven’t even bothered to remove your makeup or change out of the lingerie you had been dancing in earlier. This is partly due to laziness but mostly because you saw something interesting on your comm and got distracted.

The tempo of the music speeds up, and absently, you uncross and then recross your legs, your bouncing foot speeding up to keep time with the music. Honestly, the music is so loud you can’t even tell what song is playing, though the beat feels familiar.

You’ve probably danced to it before.

Just as you’re starting to consider getting up and changing into regular clothes, there’s a knock on the door. You’re not even able to call out for identification before the door swings open and a very familiar man steps into your make-up room.

If you had to describe Boba Fett, you’d use a phrase from one of your favorite trashy romance novels. He’s tall, dark, and handsome. And, for some reason, he only has eyes for you.

A grin slides across your face as you drop your comm on the vanity and stretch out luxuriously as you kick your vanity so that you’re facing him properly, “Boba Fett,”

He removes his helmet and sets it on a side table that’s covered in the make-up you didn’t use today, and his dark eyes drag down your body. “Your clothes match my armor, Princess.” He sounds smug.

You wave your hand to brush his comment aside, “Wholly unintentional, I assure you. As it happens, I look amazing in dark green.”

“You won’t get an argument from me,” Boba agrees as he steps further into your dressing room before he shuts and locks the door behind him. “And, based on how some of the men watching you dance acted, I bet they agree too.”

You tilt your head, your hair tumbling over your shoulder, “You watched me dance?”

“Why so surprised? You know I like watching you.” Boba leans over you, resting his hands on the arms of your chair, a small smirk on his handsome face. 

“Hm,” You lightly drag your bare toes up the outside plate of his thigh armor, as ever his armor is cool to the touch, “You do, but you usually like watching me when there’s not an audience.”

You watch his gaze drop to your leg, before he replies, “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Your movements pause, “And? What did you think?”

“Fishing for compliments, Princess?”

You flash him the most innocent look that you can muster, “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

He chuckles and you shiver at the sound, “I think,” Boba murmurs, his voice becomes a pleasing rumble, and you don’t bother to hide your appreciative sigh, “if I were a less confident man, I might take issue with so many men lusting over you.”

“You’re that confident, are you?” you ask as you lightly tap his chest plate with one perfectly manicured fingernail. 

The smug expression returns, “They can look, Princess, but I’m the only one allowed to touch.”

A feeling of fondness wells in your chest, and you smile at him, “Speaking of touch, Boba, are you ever going to take your armor off?”

“Isn’t that your job?”

A laugh slips from your lips as you drop your feet to the floor so you’re able to stand. Boba moves, just enough, that you’re able to stand. But he’s still pressed in your space.

Not that you mind, being close to Boba is one of your favorite things.

Swiftly, and with familiar ease, you pop the seals of his armor and set each piece on a nearby table. It’s not ideal, if he had waited for you at your house, he would have been able to store his armor on a stand, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

You start with his arms, shoulders, and chest, and then slowly move down his body so that, by the time you’re finished, you’re sitting on your knees in front of him. 

You can tell that he’s already aroused, his compression suit does little to hide his erection after all. And, if you were a betting woman, you’d bet that he’s been hard since he saw you dance.

The idea sends a thrill through you.

The idea that you have that much power of a man as strong as Boba is, frankly, incredibly arousing. 

Lazily, you trail a finger down his, still-covered, cock. “Is all this for me?”

“Would you prefer if it was for someone else?” Boba asks as he settles a hand in your hair.

“Mm, no. I’m not much for sharing.”

“Greedy.” He sounds pleased at your admission though. Which is fair, you suppose, when he makes similar comments you’re just as pleased. 

You hook your fingers around the waist of his pants and tug them down just enough that his cock bounces free. You intend to take him in your mouth, it’s been too long since you’ve been able to taste him. Far too long since he’s fisted his hands in your hair and fucked your face as though you existed for his pleasure alone.

But you only manage to lick the head of his cock, before he’s pulling you off of him and hauling you to your feet.

You stare at him, absolutely bewildered, “Since when do you not like getting head?” You demand, a pout forming on your lips.

He doesn’t answer as he effortlessly moves you over to the couch, and starts tugging your bra and panty set off. It’s only once you’re properly naked, and stretched out on the couch, that he answers you, “I have something different in mind.”

Your pout grows, and he chuckles, “Will you stop pouting at me if I promise to fuck your face before the night ends?”

“I s’pose.”

“Good girl,” He pulls away from you for long enough to pull his clothes off, and he tosses his flight suit somewhere across the room. You take the opportunity to admire him. He really is gorgeous, though he seems to have several new scars that he didn’t have last time.

You’re not able to admire him for long though, as he moves to your side, flips you on your stomach, and tugs on your hips so that you’re sitting up on your knees, but your face is still pressed into the cushion. 

This is Boba’s favorite position as it allows him all the control over your body as he desires, not to mention he can reach all of his favorite parts of your body like this.

And it doesn’t leave him feeling emotionally vulnerable like missionary or when you ride him. 

It’s fine, though. You really like this position too.

A needy whine falls from you as his fingers, rough and calloused from years of Bounty Hunting, slide against your already wet pussy and press against your clit.

“Already wet, Princess?” There’s something light in his voice even as he presses a little harder against your clit, “Did dancing get you all worked up?”

You shake your head against the couch, “Was you,” You whine, “You know that, Boba—”

His fingers move away from your clit to press inside you, and you gasp as he expertly finds that spot inside you that makes you clench around his fingers. 

But he doesn’t continue that long for either, making you release a frustrated noise, “Boba, stop teasing—”

He presses his chest against your back and you can feel his teeth against your shoulder, you feel the minor pain that comes with him biting you, but it’s quickly drowned out by the sensation of him roughly thrusting his cock deep inside you. 

Then he stops moving, either to allow you to adjust to him being inside you, or because he likes the way that you feel around him, you’re not sure. But either way, when you squirm under him, wordlessly trying to get him to move, he just grips your hips firmly.

“Did I say you could move, Princess?” 

You whine, “Can’t help it, you feel so good,” Your words are half gasped out as you try to keep yourself from squirming. You don’t do a good job, as his hand lands firmly on your ass, making you yelp.

Boba then slowly massages the bruise that you’re sure is forming from his hand, “Would you like to know my plan, Princess?”

You nod mutely.

Normally, Boba would make you verbalize your wants, but he’s apparently feeling merciful today as he just lightly rocks his hips against you. “I’m going to fuck you in here,” He starts, “And I’m going to fill your pretty pussy with my cum.”

Your body heats at his words, and he chuckles as you clench around him.

“After that,” Boba drags his hand up your spine, “I’m going to dress you back in that pretty lingerie you were wearing, and we’re going back to my ship. And then I’m going to fuck your pretty face.” His fingers brush against your cheek and then slide into your mouth as he starts a hard, but slow, pace. Almost pulling his cock out of you before thrusting back in.

Obediently, and without him asking, you suck on his fingers, flicking your tongue against them the same way you would with his cock. 

Boba groans in approval before he continues, “Then, Princess, I’m going to fuck you over and over. Until you’re stuffed with my cum and you can’t walk.” The hand still on your hip glides across your skin until it’s pressed against your lower stomach.

A whimper falls from you as you try to rock your hips back to meet his, wanting him to move faster or harder or both. The slow pace is driving you insane, which, you figure absently, is his goal.

Boba lightly bites your earlobe, “You are mine, Princess.” His voice is a low growl, “And if I have to fuck a baby into you to make sure everyone knows it, then I’m happy to do it.”

You stash his words in the back of your mind to think on later, and so you can talk to him about them later. You just hope that you’ll remember after he finishes fucking your brains out.

Not that it matters, in the end.

Boba is yours, just as much as you are his. And heaven help anyone foolish enough to stand between you.

@n0vqni

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@trixie2023

@kimiheartblade

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@etod

@bb8-99

@continous-mistakes

@yoitsjay

@cc--2224

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@sweater-sloot

@heidnspeak

@wax-birds

@silly-starfish

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@maniacalbooper

@rebell-ious