#high steel bridge

[orofeaiel]

View from the High Steel Bridge | Mason County, WA

[vamshi11]

Exploring MS Plates: Varieties, Applications, and Their Design Impact with Top Brands from SteelonCall

Diverse Varieties of MS Plates

Mild Steel (MS) plates, celebrated for their robustness and adaptability, come in various types to suit different industrial and construction needs:

Standard MS Plates: These versatile plates are the go-to choice for general applications. Their balanced mix of strength and flexibility makes them ideal for structural supports, machinery parts, and general fabrication tasks.

High Strength Low Alloy (HSLA) Plates: Designed to offer enhanced strength without compromising weldability, HSLA plates are perfect for demanding applications. They are commonly used in heavy machinery, bridges, and other high-stress environments.

Corrosion-Resistant Plates: Coated or treated to withstand environmental wear, these plates are used in areas prone to moisture and chemicals. They are ideal for outdoor installations and marine applications where durability against corrosion is crucial.

Quenched and Tempered Plates: Through specific heat treatments, these plates gain exceptional hardness and impact resistance. They are utilized in heavy-duty machinery and equipment that require superior strength and durability.

Wide-Ranging Applications of MS Plates

The applications of MS plates span a diverse array of sectors, reflecting their integral role in modern industry and construction:

Construction: In construction, MS plates are essential for structural components like beams, columns, and reinforcements. They provide the necessary stability and strength for buildings, bridges, and infrastructure projects.

Manufacturing: The industrial sector relies on MS plates for machinery and equipment fabrication.

Automotive Industry: MS plates are used extensively in automotive production for vehicle bodies and chassis. Their strength and formability are key to producing safe and reliable automotive parts.

Shipbuilding: In the maritime industry, MS plates are fundamental in constructing ship hulls and decks. 

Agricultural Equipment: MS plates are utilized in the production of agricultural machinery. Their toughness and ability to withstand heavy loads make them ideal for farming equipment.

Impact of MS Plates on Design Innovation

MS plates are not only functional but also inspire creative design solutions:

Architectural Innovation: In contemporary architecture, MS plates are often used for their sleek, industrial aesthetic. They feature prominently in building facades, decorative elements, and structural highlights, contributing to modern architectural styles.

Custom Fabrication: The flexibility of MS plates allows for custom designs and fabrications. From bespoke furniture to artistic installations, their ability to be cut, welded, and shaped supports unique and tailored design solutions.

Facade Solutions: For building facades, MS plates can create striking visual effects while providing durability. Various treatments and finishes offer designers flexibility in achieving distinctive and functional exterior designs.

Versatile Design Options: The range of finishes and treatments available for MS plates enables their use in diverse design contexts. This adaptability allows for integration into both interior and exterior designs, meeting varied aesthetic and functional requirements.

Premium MS Plates Available at SteelonCall

At SteelonCall, we offer a selection of high-quality MS plates from renowned brands, ensuring that you receive the best materials for your projects:

Vizag Steel: Renowned for its superior quality and reliable performance, Vizag Steel’s MS plates are ideal for a range of applications, providing both strength and durability.

SAIL: SAIL offers a wide array of MS plates known for their consistent quality and performance, suitable for various industrial and construction needs.

Jindal: Jindal’s MS plates are celebrated for their exceptional strength and resilience, making them a preferred choice for demanding applications in construction and manufacturing.

Conclusion

MS plates are a fundamental component in numerous industrial and construction applications, valued for their strength, versatility, and adaptability. At SteelonCall, we provide top-quality MS plates from leading brands like Vizag Steel, SAIL, and Jindal, complete with test certificates to ensure authenticity and performance. Whether you need MS plates for construction, manufacturing, or innovative design projects, our range of products meets your highest standards.

For the best prices and exceptional service, contact us at 08062212000 or visit our website at steeloncall.com. Discover how our premium MS plates can elevate your projects and meet your needs with excellence.

#MSPlates #SteelPlates #DesignInnovation #ConstructionMaterials #TopSteelBrands #SteelonCall #QualitySteel

[suetravelblog]

Chinse President Xi Jinping Visits Belgrade Serbia

Belgrade Budapest Railway – ZAWYA Belgrade has been buzzing in anticipation of Chinese President Xi Jinping’s arrival yesterday for a two-day visit. It’s Xi’s second state visit to Serbia, amid “high expectations that the ironclad friendship between the two nations will be further enriched and strengthened”. Xi’s visit was also said to be “on the occasion of Serbia marking the 25th anniversary of…

[ilsanslut]

꒷♡꒷ STRESS RELIEF!

♰ featuring: wriothesley [genshin impact]

♰ note: i’m in heat and all i can think about is a stressed and tired wriothesley eating out his pretty gf from the back to relieve his tension.

sypnosis: get you a man who will drown in your pussy and call it “stress relief”! wc: 2.6k content/trigger warning(s): 18+. smut. femme/female bodied!reader. messy pussy-eating. dominant/feral!wriothesley. marking. biting. spanking. squirting. cursing. hand-holding. groping. hair pulling. ꒷꒦

It was almost as though Wriothesley was being crushed under the constant pressure of his job as the warden within the shadowy confines of the Fortress of Meropide. The burden of his obligations bore down on him like the merciless force of the sea that imprisoned them all within the stronghold. When a problem arose or strife broke out among the prisoners, he was the one they all turned to for help. Today, on the other hand, appeared to be the day that he would be pushed to his breaking point. There was a mountain of paperwork that was piled high on top of his desk and seemed to never end; the pipes seemed to trickle and leak indefinitely, necessitating constant repair; the elevators are out of commission for maintenance, forcing everyone to use the forgotten, decrepit, and mildew-smelling stairwell; and, to top it all off, there is a 'Credit Coupon' thief swiping people's credits beneath their noses. And, not to mention, he had been so backed up with dealing with everyone else’s problems that he had already missed his afternoon tea.

Anyone near could feel the ominous aura radiating off of the iron doors of his office.

Though, amidst the chaos and tension, one beacon of solace shone through—you. His light in the darkness. The one thing keeping him sane.

Your warm smile and unwavering support were the calming forces that held the key to unlocking his cold heart. He craved the comforting words you spoke, the softness of your touch, and the calm you provided amidst the chaos of everyday life. You turned into a haven for him—a haven from the relentless pressure that felt like it would swallow him.

Which is exactly why you weren’t surprised when a guard came to you while you were aiding Sigewinne with a patient, informing you that the Duke requested your presence in his office immediately. Lunch was usually shared by the two of you, but you expected that he would be too overwhelmed with work to remember to eat, let alone take a break, given everything he has been going through. The two guards outside his office gave you a pitying glance as you got closer, understanding that things were not good. Nevertheless, they let you cross the bridge and into his office. You went in, and the first thing you saw was Wriothesley sitting on the bottom two steps, as if he were waiting for you. You noticed that his tie was unkempt, his jacket was completely abandoned, and his hair had a disheveled tousle that suggested he had either been tugging or running his hands through it for at least a while. That, and it was impossible to ignore the worn-out look in his faded hues.

But as soon as your eyes met, his worn-out expression changed to something strange but familiar—something you had seen on many sultry nights spent by yourself with him in the past. His eyes were fixed on you, freezing you in place with an indisputable lust, a carnal hunger, and a burning desire. Pushing himself up from the steps, he moved toward you with calculated, deliberate steps, each one more heavy than the last, like a beast cornering its prey, his heavy steel boots clinking against the copper floors. Soon, he was towering over you, hands twitching at his sides as though he were refraining from tearing you apart where you stood.

“You look good.” You blurted, swallowing thickly in your throat, as you were cornered against the heavy steel of his office’s door.

He chuckled, throaty and sultry, as his hand met your waist, the other one coming to rest it’s forearm above your head as he caged you between the door and his muscular frame, “Yeah?”

His casual drawl had your knees going weak, threatening to buckle beneath you while his thumb rubbed slow, salacious circles into your hip. “I think I’ve been better.”

You shrugged nonchalantly with an indifferent hum, raising your hands to trail absentminedly over his large chest that bulged through his dress shirt, finally coming to toy with his tie. “Mhm. You missed lunch today, you know.”

“Did I?” His voice was husky—deep, the subtle rumble of his baritone voice going straight to your core causing your thighs to squeeze against one another—an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Wriothesley, who’s palms grew hungry on you, manuvering behind you to grope thick handfuls of your rear shamelessly. “I’ve been so swamped with work that it must’ve slipped my mind. But . . . I’m sure you understand, right, baby?” His arm that was poised above your head lowered, his partially gloved thumb stroking at the supple flesh of your cheek. “Why don’t you let me make it up to you, yeah? . . . I have an idea that will make us both happy.”

You had an idea as to what he was alluding to, but nonetheless, you nodded with a hum of agreement. This made Wriothesley smirk in response, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear so that he may lean in and press a kiss to your temple.

“Turn around.”

His dominant undertone left little room for argument as you did what he asked, turning around so that you were facing the metal door of his office. Without another moment's hesitation, you felt yourself pushed against it, your body pinned against Wriothesley's heated form with your cheek smushed against the cold metal face of the door. His body pressed firmly against yours, and you felt something unmistakable grinding into your ass, all the while his sharp canines drug themselves up your neck, a silent warning to stay put.

And you did.

Hot, sloppy kisses trailed themselves down the back of your neck as greedy palms groped and squeezed at your body wherever they could reach—almost as though they were attempting to alleviate tension with every heated touch. Sensing his descent, you eventually heard him drop to his knees behind you, his gloved hands reaching up to lift your skirt and turn it over to expose your plump, pliant rear. A growl, something animalistic and ravenous, came from the back of his throat, and one of those large palms rose for a split second before slapping your right cheek, making you squeal and making Wriothesley laugh.

“Careful, Y/N.” He chided, using his palms to massage the abused flesh as an imprint of his hand—ringed fingers and all—slowly began to appear on your ass. “This door may be thick, but this chamber echos. You don’t want the guards and—Gods know who else—hearing you on the other side, do you~?”

You felt your face heat up against the frigid door’s surface, now acutely aware of the silence on the other side, which meant his guards were now undoubtedly listening. Nonetheless, you nodded, casting a shy glance over your shoulder to your lover, who was already gazing up at you with half-lidded eyes and that salacious smirk on his face that just made your knees go weak and your folds gush with arousal.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that though,” He stated nonchalantly, leaning over to press a soft kiss against your ass as sinful digits reached up to peel your already soaked panties down your thighs until they pooled at your ankles. Wriothesley groaned inwardly, his pupils blown, as he used his thumbs to spread you apart in all your glory, admiring how your folds glistened in the dim lights of the lower floor of his office. “*I can’t promise that I’ll be going easy on you either, baby.”

Without saying another word, his hands reached out and took firm hold of both your cheeks, spreading them wide before plunging straight into your dripping folds. Immediately, your knees were buckling beneath you as a pleasured mewl escaped your lips, your nails dragging against the metal surface in an attempt to find purchase. With his hands leaving your ass to wrap around the front of your thighs, his tongue was unrelenting as it ruthlessly claimed every inch of your pussy to himself, drawing you closer to him so he could continue to devour you. His tongue was hot, heavy, and drooling as it spread you wide open, encircling your clit, and slurping up whatever delicious goodness you had to offer. His nose pressed deep into your wetness, drowning in your depths, but he did not seem to care in the slightest. He wanted more—craved more—and one thing about Wriothesley was that he was a man who got what he wanted.

His tongue and ravenous lips wrapped around your tender nub and sucked away like a starving man enjoying the sweetest nectar of life, leaving you a moaning mess above him and unable to stop your hips from moving on their own as you practically fucked yourself against his face. You didn’t care if the guards—or anyone else, for that matter—heard you. All you could focus on was how his sweltering and deft mouth had you practically creaming onto his selfish brims already.

“Wrio~!” You keened, nearly losing your footing had it not been for Wriothesley keeping you firmly in place by his grip. “I-I can’t! I-It’s too much!” You whimpered just as another cry drew from your lips from a jolt of pleasure from your nethers.

In response, you felt another sharp spank rain down on your ass, and Wriothesley finally withdrew, but only so that he could snarl out, “You can and you will. Fucking take it, Y/N.” He was breathless, panting—truly, a man starved in his most primal state.

He pulled away momentarily, strings of your arousal clinging to the lower half of his face, which was glistening in your translucent juices, to turn to your inner thighs. His jaw widened before clamping down harshly on your once supple flesh, biting and sucking the blood to it’s surface to leave furious marks in his wake.

“Wriothesley!” You wept with delight and surprise at the lewd action that made your folds rub together, and you were unable to ignore the disgustingly lewd squelching sound that came from your cunt.

He repeated the same action, this time on your ass cheek, taking the pliant flesh between his teeth and delivering yet another primal bite to your soft skin, effectively marking you. “Shit, Y/N.” His heated breath wafted over your clit, making you clench around nothing as he huffed and panted like a mutt against your thigh, an action that your attentive lover obviously noticed. “The things you do to me . . .~”

Without saying anything more, he plunged back into you, even more intense than before. With his deft fingers reaching around your front and rubbing quick, merciless circles onto your clit, he was aiming at his sole target, your sopping hole. Pushing his tongue in and out of your wetness, he slurped every last drop of your sweet juices onto his tongue. He was milking you like a machine—using your clit as the trigger to release more and more of your translucent fluids onto his tongue, which he rapaciously gluped down. All the while, your toes curled in your shoes, and as every one of his hot, heavy pants exhaled through his nose, you were able to feel it against your pretty asshole.

“Wrio, wrio, baby, please! R-Right there, I-I’m gonna . .” Your hasty pleas were cut off, your hand reaching back to tangle itself into your boyfriend’s smokey locks, holding him in place as you basically rode his tongue.

You felt him chuckling against your folds before you heard him, unable to stop the sharp cry that escaped you from the sudden vibration. His hand left your clit, however, it was soon replaced with his mouth in favor of meeting your hand with his own. He pried your death grip from his locks, intertwining his fingers with your own as his head shook back and forth between your thighs. His lips suckled away at you in such an unforgiving way that it made your head spin and your eyes roll to the back of your head. Anyone within the immediate vicinity could definitely hear the unabashed slurping and squleching sounds emanating from his efforts as they reverberated through his office's chambers.

He took your hand in his and massaged calming circles around your knuckles until you finally came undone in front of him, unable to contain your overwhelming euphoria. A series of cries and mewls left your lips, leaving you breathless as your juices came flooding out of you, drenching your lover’s face and attire in a torrent, which he happily gulped down. Had it not been for his grip on your frame, you most definitely would’ve collapsed, but he held you firmly against him, even using his face to support your weight at one point like your own personal seat—because it was. After all, he was yours just as much as you were his, and he’d be damned if anything tried to change that.

His hurried movements subsided during your high, his tongue now languidly stroking your folds to carry you through your blissful daze; still, you could not control your hips from lurching each time he touched your tender, pulsating nub. Before long, he began to back off, giving you some leverage and giving himself space to finally breathe. His hot breath wafted against your behind, his chest rising and falling with each breath, finally being kind enough to himself to give him the sweet, sweet oxygen his lungs had been begging for.

Slowly, he rose from behind you, your half-lidded gaze meeting his own through the tears that formed on your lash line, which he wiped away with a swipe of his thumb.

“Y’still with me, pretty?” He whispered in a honeyed drawl, placing a soft kiss against your shoulder as the hand that was holding your own moved to your bicep to rub soothing circles along your arm.

You nodded, albeit weakly, still recovering from the mind-shattering orgasm he had just put you through.

“Y’feel better now, Wrio?”

He responded with a hearty chuckle, rolling his neck in a tantilizing way that exposed his throbbing Adam’s apple and scarred throat. His gaze met your own again, this time with a familiar spark burning behind his dusky hues, “Ahh, a’litte bit.”

He leaned over you once again, his forearm resting above your head as his chest pressed against your back. You gasped, your hips jolting as you felt his rock-hard bulge pressing against you, just barely managing to graze your sopping folds.

“Still feeling a little ‘tense’ here . . . but you’d be willing to help me out,” He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. Although you couldn’t see him, you could practically feel the smirk beaming from his stupidly handsome face.

“Right, baby?”

Oh, he was going to be the death of you someday.

ⓒ vampiie 2024 — all rights reserved. please do not repost my work outside of tumblr, modify, or translate my work in any form/means. please do not share my work to tiktok or any other site.

[hazelfoureyes]

The Safeword is RadioApple (part 4 - Lucifer’s victory)

Read the first part here for intro and warnings and then decide:

Did Alastor win rock paper scissors? Smash this

Did Lucifer win rock paper scissors? Keep reading….

Alastor wrapped a firm hand around Luci’s neck, pulling him closer to nip at his ear. Lucifer peered down at you, a gleam in his eye that could only be called sinful. “We came to an agreement.”

The word ‘we’ felt like it was in bold. “To show just how much we want to work together for you. Wanna hear the plan?”

You nodded, holding your breath as you watched Alastor’s tongue snake out and lap at a thin line of golden liquid dripping down Luci’s neck.

“We know you’re not feeling one hundred percent today, kitten. So, instead of having you take more than you can, Alastor will be the focus.” You heard a hum from Alastor, pulling back from Lucifer and looking at you with half lidded eyes. His smile was closed, but something in his features conveyed to you a sureness. 

Luci bent down, whispering in your ear, “Let’s ruin our big bad deer demon together.” His voice, the words, the hiss that decorated his lilt harkening back something ancient in you…it shot a pang of electricity to your lap. Who needs heaven, when they sent their best recruiter straight to hell?

To your great pleasure, you watched the objects of your desires strip each other naked. Surprising, given how Alastor disliked Lucifer seeing him in the buff. But everything had been pure shock since they got into your bed, so maybe you should steel yourself.

Attentions turned on you, wide eyed and fidgeting. Alastor lied down on his back, a sigh as you straddled his lap. With a few soft touches and strokes he was hard in your hand. You used his warm and soft cock head to stimulate your clit, gathering wetness to ease his entry. Slowly, the angle making him feel more like iron than flesh, you sat down on his length. You needed a second, moving forward or back felt like you’d accidentally rearrange something. When settled, nodding to Alastor, he pulled your legs forward, knees hugging his ribs.

You didn’t understand the angle yet, until you looked back and saw Lucifer’s sharp eyes gleaming in the lowly lit room. He popped open the small bottle with one hand, “Lean forward kitten, Daddy needs room to work.”

Alastor’s legs jumped when you ground down on his half hard dick. You’d never seen Lucifer so commanding, even that first night he was rough but he was still timid and lost in the sensations. This was intentional, Lucifer in his element in a new way for you and Alastor alike. 

Pressing down on Alastor, stomach to stomach, you found his face a little out of reach for kissing. He was so tall, and lying down made it harder for him to stretch to meet you. You were very rarely on top, Alastor typically only comfortable with you riding when it was just you enjoying yourself, him with no intention to chase a climax. 

He noticed your pout, sitting up with his elbows to bridge the gap better. His head tilted, mouth open and tongue reaching for yours. Your breath was already shaky, something unusually sensual about everything. This wasn’t fucking anymore, was it? Had this changed? From one slip of your tongue?

Alastor was hungry to feel your soft tongue on his. There was a deep comfort in you that he enjoyed, a place of safety behind your teeth. He put his weight on one arm, needing the other to caress your cheek, slender and long fingers roaming up your face and to your ear. 

His entire torso tensed under you, head pulling back. He looked so unlike himself, teeth biting at his bottom lip through his smile, eyebrows high and furrowed. He was looking at you but a little past you. 

Lucifer’s finger was massaging the lube into the soft and rarely lavished skin around and on Alastor’s hole. He was licking his lips, hungry for the reactions. He hadn’t enjoyed topping a man  in ages, many seemingly forgetting the short king was entirely capable of taking the reins.

But he was showing restraint. Even just pressing softly against the tight ring of muscle was hitching Alastor’s breath. You felt him soften a little in you, you knew time would tell you if it was nerves or disinterest.

“Can I move?” A soft question muffled by his neck, you pressing your lips to his pulse point and sucking. 

“Please, dear.”

You take to your task slowly, not wanting him to slip out. As Luci sinks in a knuckle, then another, soon a whole digit, you feel the radio demon come back to life in you. 

Alastor was struggling. The foreign feeling of being entered was fighting for dominance with the slick heat of your cunt slipping around him. It didn’t feel bad, just unfamiliar.

As more fingers spread his hole open in preparation, he started to get pulses of pleasure up his balls and along his shaft. He knew you felt it, you moaning more as your body shook, rising and falling on him. 

When Luci began to thrust his three fingers in and out of Alastor, you could see the change immediately. Eyes clenched shut, his hands came to your hips to hold you still. He began rocking up into you and back down onto Luci’s hand. You had no complaints, his strong arms lifting you with ease and freeing you up to focus a hand on your clit. The scene was too hot, his pleasure too intoxicating for you to keep your hands off yourself any longer. 

The pressure of his muscle pulling with Luci’s fingers was morphing into pleasure, the pressing digits seemed to hit something he hadn’t found before, the withdrawal of those fingers also providing such a satisfying feeling.

Lucifer opened Alastor’s legs wider, free hand rubbing the flesh of his ass and inner thigh, “What beautiful skin you’ve been hiding. So soft and supple.”

The deer demon went pink in the face, “Just shut up and do it already, your majesty.” His usual cutting tone was blunted by how his voice broke as Luci’s fingers dug into his ass with crooked knuckles.

“You don’t have to, Alastor.” You reached a hand for his cheek, missing the first time as he didn’t stop bouncing you on himself.

“Yeah, you don’t have to, Alastor.” Luci was leaning his face against your arm, looking down at Alastor. He watched the blush deepen, the radio demon too prideful to say what he wanted. But Luci knew, he could feel it as Alastor tightened around him when he said Alastor’s name. 

He knew the second he won the game in the lobby he was going to make Alastor lose face, whether with his cock or words. Both, it seemed now.

You felt Alastor buck a little, an embarrassed smile. His eyes shot to the right, avoiding the way you both were looking at him. You with sweetness in your eyes, Luci with a lusty fire lighting the red of his pupils. 

Lucifer poured the lube down your own ass, it dripping to Alastor’s balls and between his cheeks. A long and deep moan rocked your chest, Lucifer’s rock hard girth thrusting between your cheeks. His hands were both rubbing the excess lube over Alastor’s ass.

“Is that necessary?” Alastor tossed his head back. 

“No, but I love the sound it makes when I’m fucking you.” Lucifer kissed your neck, eyes dark and hooded as they aimed at Alastor. 

You’d never seen Alastor look vulnerable before…the closest was his face before and during his orgasm. 

Luci was drinking in the look on Alastor’s face. He went back to fingering the other man, scissoring them apart to make room.

“You’re so warm, Alastor. I’m worried my cock will melt.” Alastor’s eyes closed, smiley wonky. “And kitten, you’re so pretty bouncing on our big buck.” Wet and long tongue traveling up your neck. 

One hand reached back, you gripping Luci’s hair as you met Alastor’s thrusts with your own. Every time Luci spoke it seemed he was determined to make both of you break. 

Had he spoken like this before in bed, you weren’t sure how Alastor would have taken it. But for some beautiful reason, Alastor’s eyes went wide as his hips lost rhythm, suddenly jerking into you with fervor. He was so horny. 

Your body felt cold as Lucifer retreated. Alastor sighed when the fingers quickly left him.

You both made a shocked yelp as you were unceremoniously yanked back to the foot of the bed. Alastor sat up, arms holding you up as you twisted around. Lucifer had taken Alastor by the thighs and effortlessly pulled his ass, and you with it, to the edge of the bed. 

A shudder ran through Alastor with the realization just how much Lucifer had been holding back when he had been teasing him the day before. The chill first carried a tinge of fright, but then his nerves were flooded with euphoria—- Luci wanted Alastor to dominate him. He had fully let the sinner take the lead. 

“Lie down and hold on,” your King smiled at you, giving a command you were happy to accept. As you rested your full weight in Alastor, you hooked your arms between his armpits and held onto his shoulders. Head rested on his chest, you kissed below his collarbone, salty skin so enticing under your mouth.

“Just tell me to stop if you want to tap out.” Lucifer smeared the lube coating you both across his leaking head and down his member before pressing into Alastor. Too tight, but the best they could manage, he used a little forced to get past his entrance. Again you felt Alastor seem to shrink a little in you, mind not able to focus on anything but what was about to happen. You weren’t moving now, just clenching around him to keep your own fire stoked.

The muscle too tight, a cock ring trapping the blood, Lucifer began slow and short thrusts into Alastor. The gentle rocking slowly bounced you against Alastor, your trapped clit rubbing into Alastor’s pelvis. 

You could hear Alastor swallowing groans, jaw tense as he fought back the sounds Luci’s cock was making him create. His hands were rubbing your ass, gripping every couple of thrusts. One of Luci’s claws dragged down your spine.

“Don’t fight it Alastor. It feels better when you let go. Relax.” Lucifer’s voice was deeper than his normal speaking tone, “Let me hear you. Or do I need to bully your little g-spot to make you scream for me?”

Alastor’s eyes rolled back, Luci delivering on the threat immediately. Red and black hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead as his straining broke out a sweat. You nuzzled into his neck, giving soft bites and leaving love marks. Finally, a moan tore out of him, a growl of pleasure.

Luci grabbed your hips and held on, using you as his anchor point as his speed and depth picked up. The movement had you clutching onto Alastor to keep his cock from ramming through your cervix with Luci’s powerful thrusts. 

You cried out Luci’s name, followed by a series of, “Fuck! Oh God—! Mmh, Luci…lu-,” as Alastor lost his grip on his sounds. His chest rumbled, hands threatening to cut into you as every exhale he made just a strident groan.

Lucifer felt his orgasm quickly building as he watched you both before him, sobbing from the pleasure he was happily pouring into his lovers. He worried if the high of the feeling reached any further he wouldn’t be able to contain his troublesome wings. He could soar with this ecstasy alone.

He wanted to hear one more prayer to him, from his newest convert. His soon to be third favorite sound rang out, his thighs slapping on to Alastor’s sticky ass. There was a pop as their bodies pulled apart and the lube tried to keep them together. Your mouth formed lazy kisses on Alastor as you couldn’t find the power to close it.

“Lu-,” you watched the smile fall apart on Alastor’s face, sharp eyes wet and struggling to keep from rolling back. 

Almost. Lucifer was so close, pushing back against the pleasure. Say it. 

Your wet pussy was gripping him like he was your lifeline, plush walls quivering over him. Opening him up wide and deep, sensitive and intimate insides fucked by his king’s thick cock. He couldn’t call for God, so he yelled out for the closest thing he had.

“Lucifer!” Alastor lost control of his radio echo, Luci’s name cutting through the room with a stark clarity.

With Alastor’s submission, Luci pulled out, jerking himself off for several pumps before he came onto Alastor’s pink and twitching hole. Before he was spent he sank back in to that welcoming heat. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll fuck it back in to you, Allie.”

Alastor couldn’t stop now, he needed to give you his own seed, biology urging him to take you by the waist and impale you on his manhood.

Luci stopped moving, letting Alastor take over. Sandwiched between two vastly different sensations, Alastor couldn’t stop the embarrassingly unrestrained whines, a chorus of, “Fuck fuck fuck,” as his leaking slit smashed your cervix.

You could only silently sob into his chest, trembling when he gave your womb a punishing mating press. A flood of warmth, thick and determined semen scratching a primal itch for you both.

Pussy clenching, body hungry for every drop of your darling demon. Your hands wound into his hair, pulling off of him so you could reach his cheek. Lucifer’s hands roamed around your backside, pausing to rub at tight muscles. He enjoyed watching the cum dribbling out of you. 

“Darling doe,” you always grinned when Alastor called you that.

Luci stared at your entrance, open and puffy. “Love?” His fingers grazed against your lower lips.

“More, almost got there.” You sighed, blood still flowing to your crotch with an ache.

Heaven, ironically, was Alastor whispering into your ear as Luci kissed your lower back, hands rubbing at your clit and fingers rocking into your spongy g-spot. 

“I’m unworthy of your affection, let alone your touch.” Alastor’s hands were petting your head, mouth dropping kisses to your cheek and forehead as you whimpered. “You are my proof redemption isn't something found above.” Your body locked up, focusing all your energy on getting relief. 

Sweet words into your skin, kisses fit for a queen down your spine, the very fingers that held the damning apple frothing your shared lover’s seed around in your cunt.

It was an effortless climax, a short but intense orgasm fueled less by stimulation and more by the immense satisfaction of the unlikely pile you were in. Luci lied on your back, body boneless above you.

The serotonin waned, Alastor tossing Lucifer to his left, you rolling off to his right. There was a brief moment where you looked at him, and then you both looked at Lucifer. 

Luci’s lusty side was fully evaporated, bright eyes and goofy smile as he gingerly set his head against Alastor’s bicep.

You and Alastor looked at each other again, your eyes searching for an answer, question unnecessary. Your answer came in the form of a swift move of his arm, allowing Luci to be pulled into his side and letting his head take a place on his chest.

In his attempts to compete and always dominate over Lucifer, Alastor had been uncharacteristically interested in sex as of late. 

You were hoping now, as he closed his eyes and tried to return to a normal heart rate, things would mellow out. Perhaps their tug of war for your affection would be laid to rest and you could all fill your time together with slightly less sex. You could finally show your love in a way you were happiest with.

Luci smiled as you cuddled into your place opposite him. He reached out and laced his fingers with yours. 

The rock paper scissors hadn’t mattered, he had every intention of taking the lead regardless of his positioning in bed. After seeing how upset you were at their bickering, and how elated you were when you thought they had actually made a truce, he knew he had to go through Alastor, not around him. If he could become your equal under Alastor, he could have you without restriction. He needed to be full accepted into the triangle of horrors, as Angel called it. 

A little piece of him fluttered, it was a nice … coincidence that he found Alastor to be a shockingly compatible lover for himself. Not able to put a word to it, he swallowed down a part of him that seemed to shimmer in his chest when he thought about Alastor’s after-sex smile, the way his chest smelled of sweat and passion, the vibration of his body as Alastor asked you if you’d like a little music.

The radio popped on, smooth and sultry sounds making your lids heavy. It was too early for bed, but your body didn’t particularly care what you thought after what you’d done to it. 

Your eyes finally shut, staying focused long enough to watch Luci grin into Alastor’s chest as Luci tightened his hold on your hand.

ଳ⊹₊ ⋆ masterlist

[cosmopoliturtle]

Red Dragon's Roost

"There was a time when Gloriosa was a forest of iron spires, overlooking a kingdom of sprawling steel. There was a time even older when it was humble woodland pastures, dotted by shrines tended to by kindly sages. 

The sages were a bridge between folk and fae, but once the fairies left these lands, it fell to the High Sage to carry those left behind. So vast was her wisdom and so gentle her hand that the people of Gloriosa couldn’t bear to lose their last link to a golden era so burned into their memories. They brought to her offerings of nectar, and she carried their love beyond natural years. 

As with all kingdoms, Springtide inevitably strolled in with fangs bared. Weald once shared peacefully became tar-laden wilds to be burned away. The warmth of the High Sage erupted into pitch, and she would see Gloriosa preserved in metal. Each time the fiends would come, the trees were felled and the towers grew skyward. Each time the soldiers fought, the furnaces roared and the streets grew quieter. 

A scholar, a hero; a myth come to an end. The High Sage let generations of nectar within her spoil and her body became bloated and malformed by tar. Now, from molten perches, she watches her fire dance, carrying the memories of a golden era forever passed."

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

Vernorexia

[novaursa]

Chains of Flame

- Summary: Aegon conquers the North, breaks your betrothal to Torrhen, and takes you as his third wife.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen (one-sided)

- Note: These events happen right before The Broken Crown. @oxymakestheworldgoround I hope you like it. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

The Northmen stand silent, their breath hanging in the cold air as Aegon Targaryen, now styled the Conqueror, steps forward. You watch from a raised platform, your heart hammering as you take in the sight below. Torrhen Stark, King in the North, stands proud and unyielding before the might of the dragonlord. His eyes flicker briefly to you, a look filled with sorrow and a hint of betrayal.

Aegon's voice booms over the gathered men, a stark contrast to the cold stillness of the North. "I accept your submission, Torrhen Stark. You are no longer King in the North, but Warden, sworn to me and mine."

Torrhen nods stiffly, his face a mask of stoic calm. He removes the crown himself, placing it at Aegon's feet. It is a small thing in that moment, the act of surrender, but it feels like a shifting of the world. You feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest.

Aegon gestures, and you see the great crown of the North picked up by Orys Baratheon’s hand. The sight of it, soon to be discarded, makes something in you clench.

But then Aegon speaks again, and you know this is not over. “There is another matter, Torrhen Stark, that we must settle.” His voice is iron, unyielding. “The betrothal arranged by your father—between my sister and you—is no more.”

A murmur spreads through the assembled lords and bannermen. Your breath catches in your throat, though you had known this moment was coming. The promise made to you, to the North, is shattered in an instant, and the sting of betrayal mingles with relief and fear.

Torrhen’s face pales, his jaw tightening. For the first time, his composure wavers. He glances at you again, and you see the raw pain in his eyes. He does not speak, but you can feel the weight of his silent agony. His mouth opens, then closes, as if words would betray the storm raging within him.

Aegon turns to the gathered Northmen, his presence commanding, his tone brooking no dissent. “I will take Y/N as my third wife, joining her to me as a true queen of Westeros. This is the will of the Conqueror. No man will challenge it.”

The crowd erupts, voices rising in surprise and dismay. The North had seen you as their own, a bridge between the frozen lands and the fiery South. And now, you are being taken from them, claimed by the dragon.

You feel Torrhen’s gaze on you, and you force yourself to meet it. His pain is a spear to your heart, for you had cared for him, in your way. He was to be your husband, your future, a man who respected and honored you. But it was not love, not in the way Aegon’s presence invades your thoughts, dominates your heart despite your resentment.

“I will come to Winterfell,” Aegon continues, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “To claim her, as is my right. But I will grant you, Torrhen Stark, time to bid her farewell.” His eyes flick to you, and for a moment, the steel in his gaze softens. “I understand my sister holds you in high regard.”

You want to lash out, to rage at the unfairness of it all. He took your future and made it his own. Aegon’s jealousy, his possessiveness, had bound you to him in chains of blood and fire, and now he stands here, triumphant, while the North mourns the loss of its promised queen.

Torrhen bows his head, the weight of his defeat pressing down on his shoulders. “I thank you for your mercy, my lord,” he says, the words clipped and tight. He does not look at you again, and the distance between you feels like an insurmountable chasm.

The ceremony ends, and Aegon turns to you, his hand reaching out. The crowd parts as you descend, every step heavy, the eyes of the North upon you. When you take Aegon’s hand, his grip is firm, possessive, and something in you breaks.

“I will not forget this, brother,” you whisper harshly as he leads you away, your voice low so only he can hear. “You have taken everything from me.”

He stops, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think you see regret. But then it is gone, replaced by the unwavering determination that has always defined him. “I would take the world for you,” he murmurs, his voice fierce. “And I will make you my queen, as I've promised you.”

You look back once, meeting Torrhen’s eyes across the sea of people. His face is unreadable, a mask of Northern stoicism, but the pain is there, deep and unyielding. You look away, because to hold his gaze any longer would be to shatter entirely.

As you leave, Aegon’s hand never leaving yours, you feel the chains tighten. You are his, now and forever, bound by fire and blood. And the North, once a promise of freedom and peace, is left behind, as cold and distant as a fading dream.

The shores of Dragonstone are shrouded in mist, the air filled with the scent of salt and smoke. The winds whip at the edges of your gown as you stand on the blackened sands, gazing out at the restless waves. The preparations for your wedding are underway, but you feel none of the joy such an occasion should bring. The weight of your destiny, twisted and reshaped by your brother's ambition, presses down on your shoulders like a leaden cloak.

Behind you, the great castle of Dragonstone looms, its towers sharp and jagged like dragon’s teeth. Within its ancient halls, the fires have been stoked, and the feast is being prepared. But all you feel is cold, an icy knot of anger and betrayal festering in your chest.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the sand draws your attention. You turn to see Aegon approaching, his silver hair gleaming in the faint light. He is resplendent in his Valyrian armor, the black and red of House Targaryen vivid against the stark landscape. His expression is set, determined, but you can see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something that looks almost like hesitation.

“You are avoiding the ceremony,” he says, his voice low, though there is a hint of frustration beneath the calm. “Our guests are waiting. Visenya and Rhaenys, our bannermen, they are all gathered for us.”

Your lip curls in a bitter smile. “For us? Or for you, brother? This is what you wanted, not I.”

Aegon’s jaw tightens, his gaze narrowing. “This is what you have always desired, to be queen. You spoke of it often as a child, remember? That you would rule by my side, united in fire and blood.”

“That was a game,” you snap, the words sharp and hot as dragonfire. “We were children, Aegon! Do you truly believe the dreams of a girl mean I must forfeit my future?”

He steps closer, the heat of him almost tangible, and for a moment, you can see the hurt flickering beneath his anger. “It was not a game to me,” he says, his voice firm. “When you spoke of ruling together, I saw it as a vow. I saw it as a promise that you would be with me, that we would shape the world together.”

You scoff, turning away, your eyes searching the endless horizon as if it could offer some escape. “A promise you forced me into. You shattered my betrothal, Aegon. You took everything I might have had—the North, my own choices—because you couldn’t bear to let me go.”

Aegon’s hand catches your arm, gently but insistently, turning you to face him. His eyes are fierce, blazing with that intensity that has always defined him. “I took what was mine,” he says, and there is a ring of possessiveness in his tone that makes your heart clench. “You were never meant for him, for anyone but me.”

“And what if I say I do not want this?” you demand, pulling your arm free. “What if I do not wish to be your queen, to be bound to you like some trophy to show your might?”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. “You may hate me now, sister,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. “But I know you. I know the fire in you, the hunger for more. It was not a game, not truly. I have seen the way you look at the world, the way you yearn for something greater. I have conquered Westeros, yes, but I did it for us, for the promise we made.”

“A promise I was too young to understand!” you retort, frustration boiling over. “You saw what you wanted and took it. You never asked what I wanted, Aegon. You never thought that I might have wished for something different.”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I have always known what you wanted, even when you did not. You would have been wasted in the North, trapped in Winterfell with a husband who could never truly know the depths of your fire.”

Your hands clench at your sides, anger and confusion warring within you. “And now I am trapped here, with you. Trapped in a cage of gold and dragonfire.”

Aegon’s eyes darken, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, the heat of him almost suffocating. “Not trapped, beloved,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You are not trapped. You are my queen, my equal. This is what I offer you—the world, to rule by my side. Everything we dreamed of, everything we spoke of, it is ours now.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you are caught between the pull of his words and the bitterness in your heart. You had dreamed of this, once, when you were too young to understand the price. But the reality is a bitter draught, and the man before you, the brother who has taken so much, feels more like a stranger than ever.

“I wanted freedom,” you whisper, the words breaking from you like a confession. “I wanted a life of my own choosing, not one bound by your will.”

Aegon’s face softens, and he reaches out, his hand hovering near your cheek, hesitant, as if he fears you will pull away. “And I wanted you, more than the crown, more than any throne. I have always wanted you.”

His words hang between you, heavy and fraught, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between your breaths. You feel the weight of his longing, the possessive need that has driven him to bind you to him, and it terrifies you, even as some small, traitorous part of you is drawn to it.

But you do not yield. You cannot. “You have me now, brother,” you say softly, a bitter edge to your voice. “But do not think it is by choice.”

He flinches, the hurt plain on his face, but he does not look away. “I will make you see, in time,” he says, his voice almost a vow. “I will make you see that this is where you belong.”

And with that, he turns away, striding back toward the castle, leaving you alone on the shore. The wind howls around you, the waves crashing against the rocks, and you stand there, feeling the world shifting around you like sand beneath your feet.

Today you will be wed, bound in the ancient rites of your people, the words of Valyria sealing your fate. And though you feel the fire of your anger burning bright, you know that you are caught, trapped in a web of fate and desire, with no clear way to break free.

The dragon has claimed you, and whether you will burn or rise remains to be seen.

The halls of Dragonstone are alive with the glow of a hundred torches. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and dragonfire, a mix of smoke and the salt of the sea beyond. 

You stand in the center of the great hall, clad in the traditional robes of Valyria. The fabric is exquisite, a deep crimson embroidered with threads of gold and black that catch the light as you move. It clings to your form like liquid fire, and the weight of it feels both regal and suffocating. Your hair, usually left to flow freely, has been intricately braided and adorned with tiny dragon-shaped clasps of silver and rubies, each one a symbol of your house, your heritage, and the heavy legacy you now bear.

The hall is filled with guests, lords and ladies from the corners of Westeros, all here to witness this union, this cementing of power. The faces of those you know—Rhaenys, with her quiet strength, and Visenya, stern and watchful—are a comfort, but only barely. They stand on either side of you, dressed in their own gowns of silver and midnight blue, their presence a stark reminder of what you are about to become. Beyond them, the lords of the realm watch with a mixture of awe and apprehension, their whispers a dull hum in the background of your thoughts.

At the far end of the hall, Aegon waits. He is a vision in black and red, his armor gleaming under the firelight, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned proudly on his chest. His silver-gold hair falls loosely to his shoulders, and his eyes—those eyes that have seen the world bend and break under his will—are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

The words of the High Valyrian rites begin, spoken by a priestess who stands between you and Aegon, her voice echoing in the vast chamber. The ancient tongue flows like music, each syllable carrying the weight of history, of old gods and lost empires. The ceremony is one few in Westeros truly understand, its meaning lost to all but those of your blood.

You are asked to recite the vows, and though your voice is steady, you can feel your heart racing, a frantic, caged thing within your chest. You speak the words, pledging your loyalty, your soul, your very being to the man before you. Each phrase is a chain, each promise a shackle that binds you ever closer to him.

Tears sting at your eyes, but you blink them away, your vision blurring for a moment. You will not weep, not here, not before all these people. But the weight of what is happening crashes over you in waves, each one more suffocating than the last. You feel Rhaenys’s gaze on you, warm and understanding, but even she cannot help you now. This is your fate, your destiny, carved by your own brother.

Aegon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. His face is inscrutable, the mask of the conqueror, but there is something beneath it, something raw and almost hesitant. He takes your hands in his, his grip firm but not harsh, his skin warm against your cold fingers.

The priestess continues, her voice rising and falling like the tide, calling upon the old gods of Valyria to witness this union, to bless it with the strength of the dragon, the fury of fire. You repeat the vows again, your voice faltering only once, when the tears finally spill over, silent and unbidden.

Aegon’s eyes flicker, a brief, almost imperceptible softening as he watches the tears trail down your cheeks. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, his gaze searching yours, and you see it—a flash of uncertainty, of something almost like regret. But it is gone as quickly as it appeared, his grip on your hands tightening as if to anchor you both.

The priestess holds up a ceremonial blade, its edge gleaming wickedly in the firelight. You know what comes next. Aegon takes the blade first, drawing it carefully across his palm. Blood wells up, crimson and stark against his pale skin. He holds his hand out to you, his eyes locked with yours, unyielding and yet—there is a plea there, a silent question.

You take the blade, your hand trembling slightly. The metal is cold and sharp, and when you draw it across your palm, the pain is swift, a sharp sting that blooms into a dull throb. You press your bleeding hand to his, the warmth of his blood mingling with yours, a bond sealed in the oldest way.

“Fire and blood, my love,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. 

The words are a promise, a claim, and you feel their weight settle over you like a mantle. The tears fall faster now, but you do not look away, even as your vision blurs. You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, to break, even as your heart shatters within you.

And then it is time for the final vow, the kiss that will seal your fates. Aegon hesitates, just for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours as if seeking permission, understanding. The hesitation is gone as quickly as it appeared, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that surprises you.

The kiss is soft, almost chaste, but there is a fire beneath it, a heat that speaks of all the things left unspoken between you. It lasts only a moment, a fleeting touch, and then he pulls back, his eyes dark and unreadable.

The hall erupts in cheers, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave. You feel the weight of the moment, the finality of it, and it is all you can do to stand, to keep the tears from becoming sobs. You are his now, bound in the ancient rites, the queen to his king, the flame to his fire.

Aegon raises your joined hands, his gaze still locked on yours. There is triumph in his eyes, but there is something else, too—something softer, more fragile, hidden beneath the conqueror’s mask.

The feast that follows is a blur of sound and color, of toasts and laughter that seem hollow in your ears. Aegon’s hand remains on yours throughout, his presence a constant, inescapable force beside you. You smile when expected, nod when spoken to, but inside, you are adrift, lost in the sea of your own thoughts, your own grief.

As the night wears on, the guests begin to fade away, the torches burning low. Aegon turns to you, his expression still unreadable, his hand warm on your arm.

“Are you well?” he asks, his voice quiet, meant only for you.

You look up at him, and for the first time since the ceremony began, you allow yourself to speak the truth. “No,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “No, I am not.”

For a moment, just a moment, you see something in his eyes—a shadow of the boy he once was, the brother you knew before all this. But then it is gone, and he nods, his expression hardening once more.

“I will make it right,” he says, and you can hear the determination in his voice, the fierce resolve that has driven him to conquer, to claim. “I will make you see.”

But you turn away, pulling your hand from his grasp, your heart heavy with the weight of all that has been lost, all that will never be. You do not look back as you leave the hall, the cheers and laughter fading behind you, your tears falling silently in the darkness.

Tonight, you are queen. But you are also alone, your heart a battlefield, your soul caught between fire and blood, love and resentment. And the man you once called brother, the boy who once made you laugh, is now the king who has taken everything.

[charliemwrites]

Character File

Name: Castle “Daddy” Alistair Aliases: Daddy, Captain Daddy, Big Daddy Age: 38 Gender and pronouns: AMAB using he/him/his Marital Status: officially unmarried; unofficially – very taken Surviving family: mother, father, sister

Physical description: Standing at 6’3” (190.5 cm) and weighing 225 lbs. (102 kilos) Captain Alistair is all around built strong and thick. Broad shoulders, slight tapering at the waist, and thick thighs. His hair is dark brown, shaved close at the sides and longer at the top – if he allowed it to grow out it would curl. His eyes are a very deep brown with a strong, square jaw and aquiline nose. Teeth are straight and even, though he has prominent canines. (face claim: John Bernthal)

Identifying/Unusual features:

Two facial scars; one across the bridge of his nose and one high on his left cheek. Both required stitches, though they were acquired separately.

Tattoos: The SpecGru symbol on the left side of his chest An ouroboros snake around his left thigh A rook with daisies on his right bicep (for his little sister) A full back pieces of the Grim Reaper with ravens

Two crooked fingers from a break that didn’t set correctly

While he has several scars, the worst of them is crisscrossing circles around his left calf; a steel cord wrapped around it multiple times and almost took the entire leg

Early Childhood:

Castle was born to Clancy and Helena Alastair in Michigan. Clancy had always wanted a boy, so after a difficult delivery, he and Helena were happy to stop at one and focus all their attention on their son. The first twelve years of his life were spent in a quiet suburb that was developed in the 50s.

Clancy owned fifty percent of a construction company that he built from the ground up with a childhood friend. When Castle was old enough, his father began to bring him to construction sites, teaching him the basics of both business and carpentry. Castle grew up with a strong appreciation for hard work and building things from the ground up, instilled by his father. He greatly admired Clancy’s dedication and hands-on approach as a leader.

Castle also had a deep love and respect for his mother, a music teacher at the local high school. She was both charismatic and eccentric, with a love of silly dresses and jewelry. She embodied kindness and compassion without compromising her own self-respect, the people she loved were her whole world. Family was everything to her and Castle feels that she taught him what love truly is.

In middle school, Castle developed something of a temper. Love, he thought, meant protecting his family. Insults or jokes about either of his parents were met with swift and violent responses. He spent many afternoons in the principal’s office (and many nights without dessert) from brawls in the lunchroom or curses traded across classrooms.

In the spring of sixth grade, Clancy got into an accident that left him with permanent damage to his knee and lower back. He chose to sell his half of the company to his business partner, then bought a small farm that he moved his family to that summer. While Castle initially was angry about the move, and angry that he had no say in the matter, he found that he really enjoyed the wide-open spaces and all the animals they now had to tend to.

Seventh grade brought better friends and a better attitude. Working on the farm gave him a physical outlet for all his growing hormones.

That winter brought a little sister.

Clancy’s younger brother (the well-earned black sheep of the family) had had an affair. When his affair partner died of birth-related illness, he was left with an illegitimate child. Neither his affair partner’s family nor his own wife wanted anything to do with the baby. So he brought her to his eldest brother, Clancy.

Even past their prime and with no particular desire for another child, Clancy and Helena took the baby girl in without hesitation. (Though Clancy did kick his younger brother’s ass quite soundly while Castle sneakily watched from the window.) She didn’t even have a name yet. Helena jokingly suggested naming her “Rook” to go with “Castle,” but then their son latched onto the name, and it stuck.

Rook became Castle’s whole world as he helped his parents care for both a baby and their new farm. He often sat with her when he came home from school – kept an eye on her while he did homework, giving his parents a break to take care of things they hadn’t been able to with the baby. While they weren’t technically siblings, they were blood, and Clancy insisted that the age gap between them meant that Castle needed to act responsibly with her. That she would look up to him since he was so much older already.

In high school, he would often walk (or carry) Rook to and from preschool on his way to his own classes. Clancy wanted him to join the football team, and while Castle enjoyed it to an extent, he preferred to be helping at home.

It was in his junior year that he began to seriously consider joining the military. By senior year, he had decided. When he graduated, he went into an ROTC program at the state college an hour away. Once he graduated, he joined the marine corps.

Military Career:

Alistair rose quickly in reputation and rank during his time in the marine corps. A level-headed and disciplined man, he became known for his leadership prowess early on. While not outgoing, he was well-regarded by his comrades and often a morale-booster, excelling in any unit he was placed in. He excelled in stealth and infiltration but had an impressive record as a sniper as well.

Unfortunately, his career was cut short when information leaked on a high-risk mission. The mission was a failure, with two teammates sacrificing themselves for the sake of the unit. At the safehouse, the remains of the team were ambushed just as exfiltration arrived via helicopter.

While trying to help a comrade up, a steel cord tangled around his leg and nearly dragged him from the aircraft. In the pain and panic, he dropped his teammate to his death. Alistair would have lost his leg if not for the quick response of his sole surviving team member.

Alistair would later discover that very teammate was the one to betray the unit. The man mysteriously disappeared, and Alistair was honorably discharged from service.

A year later, he was recruited for the PMC known as SpecGru.

SpecGru:

Keegan Russ is credited with coining Alistair’s callsign, “Daddy,” though his fellow teammate Nila “Nova” Brown quickly adopted it as well. They claim this is due to Alistair’s close observation, concern for health, and deep protectiveness for his squad. His adaptive and lenient leadership style has endeared him to even the most standoffish of his team – Nikto.

The addition of the fifth and final member to his unit has skyrocketed them to one of the highest success rates in SpecGru.

See him in action!

[seabeck]

From the High Steel Bridge

[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. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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”. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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

Hisorrywoulditbepossibletogetanextensiononmyessay?Myspacebarisbroken. 

Shinsou Hitoshi

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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”. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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★）┘

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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 cream 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 over your computer monitor, green eyes 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.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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 🎵 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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 pulled back into a braided 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; Sero, Mina and Kirishima 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?”

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 

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. 

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 confessions behind a single name. 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 in mind?”

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

And 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—

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 explanatory 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 simply 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. Like 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 swells. 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!” 

Another, someone more volatile 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 northward and weaken on its own. Before being employed at UA your students had always been older, 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”. 

Bakugo laughs humorlessly and snaps, “What, you gonna lecture me now?” His hands are wrung tight to stop the tremors. Blood surfaces beneath the pressure and seeps into his nail beds. “Gonna tell me some bullshit about how heroism isn’t defined by success and things will get better if I stick it out?” 

“No. I didn’t come here to lecture you,” you say. He eyes you with suspicion. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. We can sit here as long as you need”. 

What follows is a long, thick silence. The lives of people can be heard muffled through the stairwell walls. 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. The movement 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”.

“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. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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!

[taleeater]

Lab Rat Part 1

TMNT 2003 x Reader

Opening setting inspired by the blood draining scene in the 2014 TMNT bayverse movie.

Reader has she/her pronouns.

The turtles are captured and taken to a secret laboratory to be tested on. But they are surprised by what- or who they find there. With seemingly no hope for rescue, they are forced to rely on the strength and bravery of their frail and timid new friend.

Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, mention of experimentation, blood, injury, electrocution, whump

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

A pulsing headache, bright lights searing through his eyelids, muffled voices, and the subtle scent of ethanol. This is the uncomfortable sensation that greeted Leo as he drifted into consciousness. He blinked his eyes open to a squint, his blurry and slightly concussed vision trying to adjust to the room. In front of him, he saw a few figures moving around the wide open room of a low lit laboratory. Though it was hard to really make out the shapes past the bright spotlight shining in his eyes. He groaned and tried to move, finding his limbs restrained, arms stretched out on either side of him. Upon further inspection, he noticed a long thin plastic tube attached to his inner arm that snaked around the metal restraint on his wrist and fed down and out of sight. Squeezing his hand he tested the confines of the wrist strap.

“It’s a venipuncture IV… they’re draining our blood.”

Leo’s head snapped up to his right at the sound of his brother’s voice. His vision swayed at the fast movement and steading to find his purple clad brother restrained beside him.

“Donnie…? Where’s Raph and-“

“Hey!!! Leo’s up! How’s that concussion bro?” Mikey’s joking tone sounded further away.

Leo leaned forward as best he could and looked down past Donnie, seeing Raph and then Mikey strung up in a similar fashion as he was. Raph was still out cold with blood dripping from a wound on his temple.

Donnie followed his eyes and interrupted his thoughts.

“Raph got hit a bit harder than you did, he might still be out for a while.” He said with a sympathetic tone. “Do you remember what happened?” Donnie asked, in typical fashion checking for any brain damage.

Leo blinked for a moment, allowing for his mind to focus. “We were on patrol…”

The memory flashed before his eyes. It seemed routine, stopping a weapons deal from going down under a bridge by the Hudson. But when they had swooped down to start knocking out thugs, they had suddenly all been shocked with high voltage electricity. They were too stunned to find the source, the thugs stepping in quickly to knock them all unconscious before they could recover. The next thing he knew, he was here.

A low groan sounded from between Don and Mikey.

“Raph!” They all exclaimed, trying their best to turn their attention to their brother.

“Turn the lights off, will ya? My heads killing me…” He mumbled groggily.

Suddenly, a single loud clap sounded across the room, drawing their attention.

“Ah! I see you’ve all awoken. Well, mostly…” The dark figure snickered. His shoes clicked on the tiled floor as he walked closer and slowly emerged from the shadows.

A gangly pale man, slightly less than average height, thinning hair, and a white lab coat approached the podium. He stopped just shy of the base of the short staircase leading up to where the turtles were being held on display.

“I am Dr. Cobble. I am sure you are familiar with my close associate, Mr. Bishop?”

Leo, Mikey and Donnie all groaned.

“Him again? Doesn’t he ever give up?” Mikey bemoaned dramatically.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he was kind enough to supply us with this wonderful titanium steel adjustable medical grade holding platform. See how nicely they’re working? We can plug you full of needles and you can’t move an inch.” His giddy rambling shifted into an evil sneer that had Leo glaring daggers at him.

“In exchange, I am to provide Bishop with plenty of samples… of you four mutants. After all his trouble, I’m surprised by how easy it was to capture you!” He openly laughed at them as the brothers glared at him with trepidation.

“Now-“ Not allowing anyone time to respond, the doctor loudly clapped his hands again. This time the rattling of a dingy supply cart squeaked as it pulled up next to Dr. Cobble, pushed by another person in a lab coat. “Today, we are starting out with plenty of blood samples while you four get settled. In the meantime, I’ll have my assistant here patch up any open wounds. Wouldn’t want any festering to poison our precious samples after all!” He said in a sing-song voice and strolled away to another part of the room.

“….I really don’t like him.” Mikey groaned.

“Don’t worry Mikey, we’ll find a way out of here soon!” Donnie comforted him. Raph was still worryingly quiet from his head injury.

Leo had his eyes trained on the lab assistant gathering up a tray of what appeared to be bandages and antiseptic and carried it up the stairs, approaching Leo first.

Leo bared his teeth at him and glared with sharp eyes, a warning not to try anything funny.

The intern just looked at him with tired eyes and huffed, clearly unbothered as he instead passed Leo by and walked down to start with Mikey instead.

“Woah, hey- careful with that! Ow!” Mikey loudly protested. Leo and Donnie worriedly leaned forward as best they could to watch the assistant clumsily and not-so-gently rub an ointment from his coat pocket thoroughly into the large bump on Mikey’s head and slap a large square bandage over it. Luckily their brother’s injury was not severe enough to break the skin.

Mikey whined irritably as the bored lab assistant moved on to the seemingly unconscious Raph. He gathered some antiseptic on a piece of gauze and reached his hand up to wipe away the blood trailing down Raphael’s face. When suddenly, quick as lightening, Raph’s eyes flashed open and he lunged forward as far as he could, snarling and snapping at the assistant causing him to startle and stumble backwards out of range. He dropped his tray with a loud clatter and lost his balance, tumbling off the edge of the podium with a loud gasp. He hit the tiled floor with a thud followed by a long groan. Several of the other scientists in the room rushed to his side to check if he was okay.

Raph chuckled darkly. Despite the bleeding head wound he still had some bite left in him.

Leo looked over and gave his hot headed brother an amused smirk. Mikey was chuckling and Donnie sighed in relief, deflating a bit in his restraints.

“What happened??”

Dr. Cobble strut back to the front of the room, looking frustrated. Two other scientists rushed up to him and spoke to him quickly, while the group gathered at the base of the podium dispersed when two scientists carried away the injured assistant off to another room.

“I leave you idiots alone for TWO MINUTES and you’re losing control of the test subjects. It seems like you all need a little reminder as to what to do when that happens.” Dr. Cobble stepped forward and pulled what appeared to be a remote out from his pocket. He turned a dial and flipped a switch, and in seconds Leo and his brothers were alight as electricity surged through their bodies from the restraints on their wrists.

Dr. Cobble laughed shortly as he watched them struggle, before eventually flipping off the switch.

The turtles were left panting as they tried to catch their breath.

“See? Easy as pie. Any time they act up, just use a remote! That’s what we had them updated for, to include the new additions!“ He shoved the remote back into his pocket and regarded his team. “Now, who would like to volunteer to finish cleaning up these *animals*?”

No one spoke up or stepped forward. There was a hush over the room as the few left standing around shifted uncomfortably. Clearly less than enthusiastic about approaching the red one again.

“Really? No one?!” The doctor's expression pulled into a sneer as he clearly became angry.

After a brief pause, a small reached up from the back of the room.

Someone had volunteered.

Dr. Cobble's expression morphed into one of twisted amusement as he straightened.

“Ah… my dear (y/n)… Have you decided to make yourself useful today?”

There was another pause and the small frame concealed in shadows shifted uncomfortably. They weren’t wearing a lab coat, Leo observed.

The doctor appeared to grow agitated at the lack of response and curled his hand into a fist.

“Come. Here.” He jabbed at the space in front of him as he ordered.

There was a quiet gasp from the small form, followed by the padding of bare feet across the tile as they approached the doctor.

The room was still. Leo’s breath caught in his throat as the form of a frail young woman in a white papery hospital gown and a ratty gray cardigan, crossed into the light and stopped timidly in front of Dr. Cobble, her eyes downcast. She appeared to be close to Leo and his brothers in age.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” The doctor cooed in mock comfort. But it didn’t last long. He frowned at her with cold eyes and thrust a finger in the direction of the abandoned supply cart.

“Take some bandages and disinfectant up to the mutants and treat their head wounds. And be quick about it.” He followed with another loud clap that made her jolt, before she quickly nodded in confirmation and scurried over to grab what she needed from the cart. The rest of the laboratory personnel easily returned to their duties, no longer paying attention.

Leo looked over at Donnie and caught his brother watching the small figure with the same puzzled stare as he was. The purple turtle caught his eyes and they shared a questioning look before turning their attention back to the girl. She piled up a tray with gauze, bandages, and another bottle of antiseptic, before carefully ascending the stairs towards them.

She locked eyes with Leo first, and tried to offer him a small shy smile as she stopped in front of him. Her hair appeared to be unkept and overgrown, and noticed a strange metal collar fixed around her neck that caught the light as she moved. The skin peeking out underneath looked red and chapped.

“Hi…! Um… I’m (y/n)… what’s your name?” She quietly asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasted no time crouching down to place the tray at his feet, carefully extracting some disinfectant onto a piece of gauze as she glanced up at him intermittently to show she was listening expectantly.

“Uh…” He glanced around first to check that Dr. Cobble had left. “Leo… my name is Leo.” He offered, feeling his brow ridges crease in confusion.

The girl straightened up and faced him again, poised with the gauze in hand.

“Leo!” Her expression seemed to brighten marginally. “Can I touch you with this? I need to disinfect your cut before I put a bandage over it. I-If that’s okay.”

Leo was honestly a little taken aback by the request. “S-sure, do what you need to.”

He watched her nod at his consent before slowly reaching up in his line of sight, so he could watch what she was doing, and gently dabbing the damp gauze at the tender spot on his head. He flinched and hissed a little at the sting, making the girl pull her hand away and locking eyes with him.

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts a little. Can I keep going? I promise I’ll be careful.” Her eyes carefully searched his, her brows knit with concern and a hint of uncertainty.

Leo hesitated at such careful treatment. It almost felt like a trick. What did she have to gain from this? Who was she?

With no other current options, he sighed and pulled a half-smile. “Go ahead.”

She searched his eyes for a moment longer before returning to her task. Diligently swiping away the dried blood on his temple before stooping down and returning with a thick bandage.

“I’ll just apply this bandage and… there! We’re done. Thank you Leo.” She flashed him a small grin before pulling the tray over to work on his brother.

Leo blinked as he processed the interaction, lightly baffled. Then Donnie’s stuttering caught his attention.

“Y-y-y-yes! That would be fine, Miss (y/n). Please proceed.” He looked anxious as he watched her bend down to handle the supplies. She must be giving him the same treatment.

“Luckily, it looks like you aren’t bleeding anywhere… so I’ll just need to apply a little bit of this salve before covering your bruise with a bandage.” She held up the tin and let Donnie thoroughly look over the packaging, patiently making sure to flip it over so he could read through the ingredients and instructions. Once he seemed satisfied that the salve would be safe to use on his skin, Donnie gave (y/n) a grateful nod of approval. She then opened it in front of him and swiped out a little glob of the ointment, lifting her hand up slightly to his face after Donnie leaned down to try and smell it.

“It might hurt a little when I apply it… is that okay?”

Donnie met her eye contact and shyly smiled. “Yes, go ahead.”

And in the same manner she did with Leo, she gently dabbed on the ointment, doing her best not to prod at the swelling lump. Donnie made no noise of complaint. Then she reached down and retrieved a bandage.

“Okay, last step. Almost finished...” She looked very focused as she flattened the bandage into the right spot on his head. “All done! Thank you Donnie.” She pulled her hands away and looked at him kindly, before collecting her tray and moving over towards Raph.

This left Donnie with a similar look of bewilderment that Leo had from the exchange. He seemed a little lost in thought as his gaze drifted over to meet Leo’s, to which Leo raised an eyebrow at him, quietly asking the same question he was thinking.

“Oh no. Get that shit away from me.” Their attention was drawn over to Raph’s venom.

“I-I’m sorry! I won’t do anything you don’t want me to! I- my name is (y/n)…”

“And why should I care? I don’t want no scientist’s lackey touchin me. Now get lost.” Raph bit out angrily before settling again, his head hanging forward a bit limply as he relaxed. The girl looked downcast and seemed a bit lost, but fixed her hands together in front of her and made no move to touch her supplies or Raph.

“Don’t mind him, he’s always grouchy. Nice to meet you (y/n)! I’m Mikey.” The final brother piped up and pulled her attention. She looked over at him surprised, but quickly changed into a light smile.

“Nice to meet you too, Mikey. Is your head okay?” She asked him a little less quietly, seemingly emboldened by his outgoingness.

“Oh this? Yeah, this is nothin! You should see the other guy-“ Mikey spoke as animatedly as he could while fixed in place, his head moving around while he spoke. She giggled a little bit.

“Say, you don’t look like a scientist. Do you work here or somethin?” Leo and Donnie immediately perked up at the question, Mikey hitting the nail on the head.

“Ah- I-!” She stammered, looking nervous.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING???” A booming voice burst through the room.

All the boy’s eyes shot up to the sound of Dr. Cobble angrily striding back over to the podium. (Y/n)’s whole body was wracked with a violent tremble as she suddenly shrunk in on herself. Leo and Donnie couldn’t see her expression from their angle, but from Mikey’s eyes flashing between her and the angry doctor, his expression faded from deeply concerned to mad. Raph lifted his head up to regard the doctor with glaring annoyance.

“You should have long been finished tending to these freaks. And now I’ve caught you conversing with them?? I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK!! Now…” The mad doctor’s eyes drifted over to Raph, and with wide eyes looked him over. “Oh…! Oh ho ho…!! And it appears you still haven’t finished your job!!”

He took a step closer to the stairs, his head tilted in question and his wild eyes bore into (y/n)‘s trembling form. The girl hiccuped and shuddered as she tried her hardest to muffle her erratic breathing. She did not dare move.

Dr. Cobble reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out the remote again, not breaking his stare. (Y/n) flinched with her whole body at the appearance of the remote, but remained quiet. The boys all narrowed their eyes at the doctor in challenge, ready to feel the jolt hit.

The doctor’s face stretched into a grin, and with the remote’s setting turned up high, he flicked a switch.

But it wasn’t the same switch.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

To all of the turtle’s shock, the electricity didn’t hit them. (Y/n) shrieked at the top of her lungs as her whole body tensed from the powerful volt that erupted from the collar around her neck. The poor girl dropped to her knees and hugged herself tightly as she spasmed, unable to escape the waves and waves of painful electricity that wracked her body.

“Hey… HEY!!! STOP THAT!! THAT'S ENOUGH!!!” To everyone’s surprise, it was Raph who started yelling.

“QUIT IT, SHE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!!” Mikey joined in, furious.

Dr. Cobble only laughed as he watched the show. After what felt like far too long, he toned down the dial and shut her switch off. (Y/n) fell limp into a slouch on the floor. The smell of burnt flesh and iron reaching their noses. Their only sign she was still conscious was her shuddering breaths.

“Was it not you who volunteered for this job? You disappoint me, (y/n)! I let you roam around the lab today! Gave you a responsibility! And you not only neglect your duty, but I catch you speaking behind my back!”

The doctor paced back and forth at the bases of the stairs like a predator, easily ignoring the murderous glowers from the turtles as he kept his attention trained on the young girl.

“I’ll give you another chance to prove yourself…” Dr. Cobble’s voice softens in mock empathy. “Finish up your job, quickly and silently, and your testing today will be minimal. Am I understood?” His tone was cold and final. (Y/n) nodded quietly from her spot on the floor.

“Good. Now hop to it.” And with another loud clap, (y/n) startled into action.

She grabbed the gauze and spilled some disinfectant onto it, and leapt to her feet. Dr. Cobble stayed put, his eyes boring into her back as he watched her do her job. But still she paused. She sniffed wetly, biting her lips into a line as she hesitated in front of Raph. Her hand poised and trembling in front of his face but not moving to clean his wound.

“…hey. Hey hey hey, it’s okay. You can do it, okay?? I give you my permission, or- whatever. Just do it!” Raph scrambled to encourage her, realizing that what she was waiting for was his consent. He looked her up and down with palpable concern, actually seeing her now.

She reached up, and still with trembling hands, cleaned the gash oh so gently until it was cleared of blood. Then quickly retrieved the bandage and carefully smoothed it over the tender bruised spot on his head.

When she was finished, she picked up the tray, and almost stumbling from her shaking, rushed down the stairs past the overbearing watch of the doctor. She placed the tray on the cart, and joined by two men that appeared to be armed guards, was quickly escorted out of the wide echoing laboratory down a hallway that led out of sight.

The brothers were stunned in silence as they watched her go, flinching slightly as the sound of a heavy metal door slamming shut broke the spell.

“Well! I think we all learned a very valuable lesson today.” Dr. Cobble started cheerily, seemingly relaxed from his crazed state. He turned to the four turtles, regarding them strung up and half bled dry on their steel crosses, and sneering smugly.

“Do not disappoint me.”

To be continued.

[smusherina]

bridges burnt - chapter 1 [epilogue series] (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: When an invitation to Gretchen Wieners' wedding ended up in your mailbox, you'd been sure it was a mistake. Only, it read your name in neat, swoopy calligraphy. It was addressed to you. And Regina George, whom you hadn't spoken to in years.

additional clarification: This is set in the universe of yard work, a series of mine that can be found on my page! Reading this one might be a bit challenging without the context of the series :)

very necessary note: Okay, fuck, it was supposed to be a one shot. Then I got excited. So have another freakin' Regina George series. Set in the same universe as yard work! Reading that provides some essential context, but you do you! I don't think it's unreadable without it. chapter 2

You adjusted your tie for perhaps the millionth time. It was a silky blue, befitting your navy suit. You fiddled with your cufflinks, silver like all your accessories, then pulled out the baby blue handkerchief to wipe down your glasses, then folded it pack into your pocket, then bent to redo your laces, then-

"For fuck's sake, the ceremony hasn't even started yet!" Amanda nudged you violently.

"Ow!" You hissed, elbowing her back. She slapped your knee, hard.

"Get yourself together." She glowered, pointing a manicured finger at your nose. "It's worse enough I have to be here at all. You're not gonna ruin this for me."

"You're here for the open bar and free food. I paid for the flights, the room, the car." You bit back. "I'm allowed to be nervous."

"There's nervous, then there's this." Amanda looked you up and down pointedly, noting your bouncing knee.

You squeezed at said knee, trying to calm down. Like you'd been trying to do since hours ago. No results so far.

"Look, buddy, it's just a wedding. You don't even really know her. I get you... Have a history with the bride, or whatever, but it's gonna be so fine."

"It's not Gretchen I'm worried about." You mumbled.

"Whoever. It's gonna be fine." Amanda said, flippant as ever. How she was so carefree all the time was mind-boggling to you.

"This place is filled with people from high school. God." You looked around. "That guy over there, don't look, with the receding hairline- I said don't look!"

"Be more specific, every man here has a receding hairline. The demographic is excruciatingly pallid."

"Shut up, girl," You shook your head but couldn't help but laugh. It was mostly white people here. "The one with the wife that looks exactly like him, unbelievably blonde, kinda mousy," You waited for her eyes to latch onto the man you were talking about. "He used to buy weed from me, like, every week, and then went around spreading rumours about me."

"Ungrateful." Amanda scoffed. "And look at him, a wife, child, and probably a 401k. That's how it goes for boys like them."

"Yeah." You sighed. "How's the salon doing, by the way?"

"Thriving. Thanks to you. But I worked my ass off." You lifted your arms in surrender. She had worked hard to keep the place afloat for as long as she had, so even if you hadn't invested she would've found a way.

Amanda cast you a meaningful look. "You're doing better than ever, aren't you? Financially speaking. How's everything else?"

"Well, y'know..." You shrugged. "It's complicated." You looked down. Amanda patted your knee, a sympathetic smile on her face.

"You got a nice suit, though." She pointed out.

"Oh, for sure. Look at these, custom cufflinks." You showed off the silver bits. "Do you think these rings are too much?"

"Don't you usually have an ungodly amount of them on?"

"I usually just have these three." On your right pinky was your Engineer's Ring. On your left thumb was an embroidered steel band and on the pointer of that same hand a ring with a big emerald embedded in a bed of crystals.

"It's not too much." Amanda took your hand and inspected the rings. "More like sexy." She grinned at you, all sorts of innuendo right on display.

You scoffed and turned towards the altar. The pews were getting fuller by the minute. You were sitting far enough from the front to show you weren't important but not too far as to hint you didn't want to be there. You were on the bride's side, though it didn't matter much. You didn't know Gretchen any better than her husband-to-be.

Amanda had come with you for moral support. You'd been roommates in college and you hadn't been able to shake her off since. She'd grown on you, though you often acted more begrudged than you felt. She'd helped you out a lot over the years.

She'd been there when you couldn't leave the dorms, trapped in the vicious clutches of paranoia. She'd been there helping you get back on your feet when dad's businesses started going, one by one, each more explosive than the last. She was there when you moved back to that little town in Illinois, where Northshore still stood.

You liked to think you'd been equally as integral to her, but that was perhaps a reach. She was fiercely independent, resourceful, and charming enough to make friends with anyone. When the first chance to help her came, you didn't hesitate to take it. She'd opened up her salon right after graduation, staying in New York while you moved back home, and had been doing well until now. Unexpected costs and a wicked plumbing bill had landed her in some hot water.

For the small price of one favour and eternal bragging rights, you'd shoved your newly acquired wealth at her. Dragging her to Vermont in October to attend Gretchen's wedding was you cashing in on that favour.

Eventually, the proceedings began. The groom and his men walked in with little fanfare, mild music playing as they went. Most faces you did not recognize, but there was one back of the head that seemed eerily familiar.

The groom, a classically handsome man, a boring prince type, went to stand at the altar. He had an expectant glimmer in his eye. At least Gretchen's taste in men had improved. Then again, anything beat the scrubs she'd used to keep around.

Behind the groom, his line of groomsmen settled, the best man fronting the crowd. The man of the hour was in a classic black tux while the others flanking him were dressed in different shades of brown. The whole shebang was sort of beige with a little bit of burnt orange thrown in. Amidst the shades of umber, russet, and sepia, stood a familiar face.

Aaron Samuels. You didn't have much time to agonize about him being here before the bridesmaids were stepping through the aisle. Similar dresses but in lighter shades, clearly made to match a certain groomsman. You didn't recognize any of them.

The maid of honour was a little odd. Her makeup seemed to be a lot thicker on one side, like there were several layers of foundation caked on. Her eye makeup on that side was a little heavy also, but she was past you by the time you could wonder why.

"The maid of honour totally has a black eye," Amanda whispered to you.

"No way," You hissed back, trying to get an angle where you could see her face. As she settled in place, facing the pews, even moderately far away you could see that, yeah, she totally was covering up a black eye. Wild bachelorette party, then.

Coos and aws resounded through the church as the flower girl and the ring bearer came toddling down. A little girl, cheeks all red, and looking like she wanted to be anywhere else, and a slightly older boy with an almost manic look in his eye. The girl was in no mood to be tossing petals, so the boy reached into her basket and threw a big fistful of them in the air. The rings rolled off of their pillow but found their way back.

"Oops," The boy said, smiling sheepishly right as the photographer came in to capture the moment. Chuckles echoed through the space.

By the time they reached the end of the aisle, the little girl was dutifully carrying the pillow on which the rings were and the boy was joyously tossing flower petals everywhere. As god intended.

Then came the bride. Escorted by her father, who was beaming with a mouth full of veneers, Gretchen Wieners made her appearance.

It wasn't disappointment that you felt. Not relief, either. It was hard to describe. You'd been expecting anger or some catharsis. This was the person who'd outed you to your whole school, who'd been the catalyst to the worst year of your life, why didn't you feel more?

High school had been over for almost ten years. You carried scars, deep ones that still ached on bad days but at the end of the day, they were just scars. You were doing better than ever. Gretchen had been a bully, had brought you to ruin once upon a time, but who was to say it couldn't all be built again?

You smiled. She looked beautiful. A white dress, a long veil, hair done big, bigger and more grandiose than you'd ever seen, and looking like, well, a bride.

You'd moved on. Considering how she'd invited you too, and knowing Gretchen she was acutely aware of every person in attendance, she had moved on too. You could recognize an olive branch when one was given to you.

That didn't explain the invitation, though. Maybe it was a mistake. Gretchen wasn't known for making those, but she was human too. Right?

"Look, they're totally enthralled by each other. You're gonna be fine." Amanda whispered, ignoring the elderly lady seated next to her shooting daggers through her eyes at you two.

"Yeah. It's gonna be fine."

Notes: Got really ill at the beginning of this week, which delayed this chapter quite a bit. You don't realize quite how awesome breathing is until you can't do it properly. Getting better slowly, it's nothing serious, but the cough is lingering. It is what it is.

This chapter was mostly setting up the narrative, no Reggie and Jorts interactions as of yet. I'm not making any promises because I'm so shit at keeping them, but hoping that this series will be shorter than the original one.

Taglist posted seperately!

[fifarts]

“it’s nice to know you work alone” 🪐⚡️

(click for better quality, more info and alt text below cut)

another jupeter piece and some recommended songs from my jupeter playlist!

I have synesthesia which means my brain associates certain audio and music with different colors and shapes, so I worked a lot with the colors on this piece and especially the background to kind of translate some of the visualizations I get when I listen to these songs together! If you read the lyrics of both you’ll see why I heavily associate them with juno and peter!

I have another piece that I’ll hopefully post circa S3 that goes along with There’s No Secrets This Year (the most jupeter song ever) and a comic for Waltz in E-Major, Op. 15 “Moon Waltz” by Cojum Dip that I really want to work on soon! My playlist is still a work in progress and I’m currently in the process of moving my spotify accounts around but as of right now the full playlist link is here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6SP3sUjzSTBCPhouCe4xXY?si=277Hd2pqTGmRzPLcSx6dvQ

I organized it partially by season so hopefully it’s easier to understand the character connections of the songs. (The first song of the playlist is an instrumental guitar piece that my dad’s guitarist is doing as a side project which is super cool and you should definitely check out his stuff (and also please send some streams his way) If you love vocal-like sexy guitar riffs and weird time signatures and video game-esque music, Vision Swords is for you lol)

Alt Text:

A lineless digital art painting of Juno Steel and Peter Nureyev from the Penumbra Podcast. Juno's face is visible in a profile view as he holds his blaster in his outstretched hand. Juno is a short Black and South Asian person with dark brown skin, a scar across his nose bridge, and black hair that is lit with purple lighting. Juno has short locs and a high undercut with a star design shaved in. He is wearing a tan trenchcoat, a white button up, and black tie. He is also wearing a cochlear implant, hot pink star earrings, and hot pink acrylic nails. Peter stands behind him with his face partially obscured. He is a tall South Asian man with medium brown skin and dark shoulder length brown hair. He is pointing his blaster and wearing a black suit jacket with gold details. The background of the painting is hot pink, neon purple, and bright blue. The background colors mix in with one another in a perspective blur from the center of the painting. [end alt text]

Thank you so much for the support while I’ve been on hiatus! I’m going to college this fall for Robotics Engineering and I’ve been dealing with some pretty big health problems as well (I literally just got out of surgery today lol) which has left little time for art (fanart or otherwise) 😅 Love ya!

[trashmouth-richie]

𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓: 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐨 𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧’ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:  𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬?

𝐭𝐰: 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭, heavy angst! 𝟏𝟖+, 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 

𝟔.𝟐𝐤 — my goal was 10k let’s all laugh masterlist

a/n: good morrow cousin, don’t mind me just vibin’ anyway— pls ignore the lack of formatting, google docs… count your days. this story still means so much to me, i won’t jump ship on it, and i hope you understand the mental headspace i get in while writing and how 🥰draining and crippling🥰 it truly is 🥲 BUT I DO IT FOR YOU MY LOVERS! ♥️😵‍💫

Sweaty hands were clamped in a bone aching constriction around your steering wheel the entirety of the drive to the club. Watching the whispy curls of dust from the gravel color the powder blue sky, you mutter to yourself.

This was so stupid.

Magenta hued beads hanging from the rearview mirror sway and clack together as you pull the car sharply into the your designated spot towards the back of the parking lot. Flitting a quick glance in the mirror to see if Eddie was still following, you tear your eyes away when the jet black steel of the fender catches the sun's rays, sending a blinding wink into the side mirrors as he approaches, parking alongside you.

This is crazy. This is insane.

Wiping your palms hastily on the ruby stockings pinched to your thighs, you wonder when the nerves in your chest would settle. If your stomach would ever stop churning with the rapid wings of a swarm of angry bees?

Why were you nervous? It was just Eddie.

Your knee bounces of its own accord as you remind yourself of just that. The dry swallow of the tablets you took before he could notice would start working in no time, and then you’d be able to stomach what you were getting yourself into.

Eddie Munson. A childhood friend. Taking a few deep breaths, you open the door into the shared space, and are met with that shit eating grin he never lost.

Here we go.

Green lensed aviators are nestled onto the bridge of his nose, a black bandana snug on his head that you definitely didn’t watch him tie back at your apartment as he straddled the bike before revving the engine and shooting you a daring smile.

Crunching gravel beneath his boots, he stands with hands in the back of his pocket.

“So…” he asks, hooking a thumb over his shoulder towards the club, “when did the Hideout go belly up?”

A sigh leaves your mouth and you turn to get the laundry from the backseat of your sedan, voice muffled, “eighty…-three, I think..” you say strangled like, as you struggle with the bulk of the laundry basket. The strap of your purse is slung over your shoulder when you finally emerge from the car and stand upright to face him.

“Here,” he offers, holding his hands out in offering his help.

Puzzled, you look at everything in your hands, deciding against thrusting the basket of sheets into his awaiting arms, you nod your head towards the car and step out of the way, “sure, my shoes from the back? I just gotta find the keys.”

Switching the basket to your hip you dive into the depths of your purse looking for the keys to unlock the club doors.

Eddie’s fingers curl around the straps of your high heels. A look of bewildered awkwardness coloring his brow. The aching reminder of his actions that damned you to this life were held between his fingers. Cheap leather material, a small brass buckle, plastic.

He slams your door in defeat, hating himself more with each day of being back in Hawkins.

Your hand finagles the key, jingling it out from the mess of your purse. When you look up with a sly little quirk at the corner of your lips for your triumph…Eddie has planted a fake smile on his lips… one that was buried within him before you can see the sadness in his eyes.

“Ready?”

Mrs. Click rattled on and on about WWII, sounding more like the adults in a Peanuts episode every second that ticked by. A loud yawn escapes Eddie’s already slack mouth as he doodles in the margins of his paper, a blue smear on his hand from the ink.

A crumpled ball of composition paper lands on his textbook skidding across the slicked pages and finding home against the wire of his notebook.

Without looking around Eddie already knows who the note is from. A simple scrawled sentence with big loops on the letters and a smiley face after the question mark.

“Lolly wants ‘sketti’ for supper tonight… you in? :)”

His dimples well deep in his cheeks as he scribbles a reply, stealing a glance your way. When Mrs. Click’s back is turned to scratch a hiss of powdered chalk into the board, he lobs the note back to you, hitting your shoulder lightly.

A slow smile creeps across your face as you flatten the note with your palms and read your best friend’s scratched handwriting.

“Hell yeah!”

…

The halls were quiet, Hawkins High students busying themselves with tests and worrying about grade point averages. Not even the janitor Sal was squeaking down the halls.

“If Ms. Judy catches us…”

“She won’t.”

“What about Higgins? I can’t get detention again, my dad will slaughter me.”

“Clove…” Eddie grumbled, stopping his task of picking the lock to look at you with the deepest sincerity, “I promise, we’ll be fine, okay?…just, shit, keep your eyes peeled, I’m almost… there…”

A wicked sliver of a grin plays on his lips.

“Yahtzee, baby! C’mon”

The door to the school kitchen swung open beneath his hand. The smell of Comet cleaner and fresh baked bread invade your nose.

The blade of his knife is closed with a clink on his hip as he bends low with a bow for you to go in first, “let’s go shopping.”

“Set them wherever,” you say nonchalantly, pupils adjusting to the darkness as you step through the threshold into the club.

Walking to the counter and shifting the basket on your hip tossing the keys on the bar, you wiggle off your purse, and turn around to see him standing by a barstool, looking slightly out of place, like a lit Christmas tree in the summertime.

Seeing Eddie in the club, in the depths of sweat and sin was gut wrenching. The club was accustomed to pleasuring pastors and preachers, cops and school teachers. They had all traipsed across the wood floor in their Sunday best, shoes shined to godliness… leaving with lipstick stains and reeking of alcohol. Sin on their breath and in their Hanes.

No, him being here made you feel like your skin was crawling, and that you were about to scream at any given moment.

Heaving the basket onto the nearest table, you take a wounded breath, holding it for longer than necessary to squish your toes along the muddy depth of Lover’s Lake. You spin to avert the lingering glances from Eddie, his eyes burrowing into you like hot steel to butter.

Slotting yourself behind the bar you holler over your shoulder, “park it, I’ll get some drinks.”

Lights flicker and hum an exhausted tune as they slowly shine light to the grim bar, just enough to not be cast in complete darkness.

Eddie grabs the stool in a swift all too cool motion, sliding his long frame over it, the chain on his hip jingling against the wood as he sits, “just water for me…what?” he laughs.

You’re turned facing him with a furrowed brow, holding two of the cleanest shot glasses Queens had in one palm, the other steady on your hip, an annoyed look on your face, “don’t make me drink alone, Slim.”

He laughs again, a loud abrupt sound as he shakes his head, tucking his sunglasses in the neck of his shirt. A modest blush pinking his cheeks as his tongue runs over the sharp edges of his canines.

You haven’t budged, and Eddie finally looks up to meet your stare.

His eyes are glassy, dark and almost a sheen of velvet to them under the shadow of bandana, and the comical yellow rubber of the bandaid.

If eyes were the windows to the soul, you were familiar with his scenery, this particular essence was hurt like you, wounded in the same ways. The past showed through the forlorn strangeness of the last few years like a weathered map with all too familiar paths. Looking into his pools of deep darkness felt soothing in a crippling ached breath.

Features could change but eyes couldn’t, they kept you anchored to him stuck in the void of his mud.

It’s a game before you realize it.

A stare down… in dim light, eyes drying by the second, but it’s Eddie who folds first, no cards left to hold, or rather letting his opponent win. Like old times.

“Always such a headache, huh? Fine,” he exaggerates with a petty eye roll, “you win.” The crooked smirk on his lips gives him away, matching your own.

The two stout glasses clink together against your palm, a bottle of Jameson held by its neck in your other hand, “Not much has changed I see,” you quip, setting them down and pouring the whiskey into the first one, “you still suck at games.”

Eddie cringes as you pour the second, “trying to kill us? Do you not remember what happened on your fifteenth birthday?”

You erupt with laughter, tossing your head back and giggling in that little way he hadn’t heard since you were kids, “oh please,” you snort, thinking back to how drunk the both of you had gotten, “you don’t either.”

Eddie smiles, “probably not the greatest idea I’ve had.”

Sliding a glass towards him you hold yours up, the lights coloring the dark amber into a caramel pool of regret, “to us.”

“To old friends,” Eddie follows, in a grand accent, holding his glass next to yours, “burying the hatchet, stitching old wounds..”

“Alright Shakespeare wrap it up.”

“.. to you.” he says barely above a whisper, his eyes scanning your face, and you shudder involuntarily before tipping the glass against your lips and swallowing the liquor.

It burned on your tongue, hot and unwelcoming, sliding like lava down your throat. Eddie winces, making a sour face as he slaps his glass down on the wood top of the bar.

“Fuck, that's horrible.”

“Ah,” you say, pulling a lever on the tap and putting a tall frosted mug under the spout of draft beer, “it’s not that bad.”

He watches as you pour another beer walk around the bar with one in each hand. His cheeks pink when you smile at him, and he quickly pulls out a stool for you.

Leaning your back against the counter you sip your drink. The bar is empty but the roaring waves of silence crash loud in your ears. It’s strange. Being here with him, would you ever get over seeing him after so many years?

“I won’t lie, Clovie, ’m not much of a drinker.” Eddie admits, rubbing his thumbs along the frosted mug.

“Well,” you say, holding your beer up to your lips, and looking over the edge to meet his gaze, “today you are.”

Taking a generous sip you smile when he follows suit.

“Eddie Munson, back in Indiana,” you tease, elongating the vowels of the state, “never thought I’d see the day.”

He shrugs, tossing long curls behind his shoulder, “missed the scenery.”

You scoff, “yeah the luscious rolling hills of the trailer park really get me feeling like Julie Andrews too.”

He cringes, raising his brows for emphasis, “Those hills have eyes.”

“Eww..” your nose crinkles, “Craven outdid himself with that one, I still won’t watch it.”

Eddie takes a pull from his beer before adding nonchalantly, “that’s cause you’re chicken shit.”

Blowing a raspberry with your lips, your eyes narrow as you spit an insult. “This coming from the guy who slept with his lights on after watching E.T.”

“When he turns white by the river?! Fucker looks like a crushed powdered donut!”

It was easy falling back into the throws of jokes and banter with Eddie. You both giggle like kids talking about movies that had shredded horror as kids but now made you cringe with how poor they were done.

After a particularly long laugh about whether or not you still carried around your security blanket, Eddie sighs, “I thought this was gonna be weird,” Your nerves had calmed at the expense of childlike humor and talks of times long ago, that you finally slide on the stool he had pulled out for you. “us…. this place… Hawkins,” he bumps your elbow with his, “ shit I mean, we’re drinking in a bar, legally! Who would have thought?”

Your grin warms his heart like honey in a cup of tea, “somehow the beer doesn’t taste any better once you’re old enough to drink it.” The sip you took from your frosted mug was far from ladylike.

“You’re right,” he agrees, following your lead and taking a big gulp, “something forbidden always tastes better.”

Right now you felt like Eve, enjoying the fruits of company from Eddie Munson, and your cheeks heat. Rick hadn’t crossed your mind since he drove down the driveway this morning, and you’d like to keep it that way.

“…a motorcycle, huh?” you say changing the subject, “honestly didn't think you were the type.”

He shrugs nonchalantly, a little dimple pitting in the plumpness of his cheek, “Type? Like I need to be a colossal douche to drive one, hell…it’s good on gas, real fast. I got a buddy who fixed it up for me, owed me a favor for a cover up I did on his back.”

“Cover up?” you ask, eyebrow quirked, “like…a tattoo?”

“Yeah,” he says, swiveling on his barstool to face you, rolling his sleeves up past his elbow showing off his tattooed arms in the space between you both, “did these myself, just something I do for fun.”

His skin is embellished more than it is bare. Dark swirls of onyx branched out along his left wrist and up to the rolled fabric of his shirt, and you wonder if it disappeared up to his arm, around his torso? The marks seemed to flow like a river, connecting, gathering, forking this way and that, etching more pages to a story of an unfamiliar tale. You hoped to one day know its origin.

Without asking, your fingertips trace the outlines of the black ink, delicately following the path.

They circled around a rose covered in heavy dark thorns, dripping with blood. It had bloomed in a grassy knob made of lyrics from songs you had never heard. The inscriptions continue to channel along to a long silver dagger with a jeweled embellished handle of pretty emeralds that were shaped in irregular patterns. The dagger sunk into his skin and poked back out, shredding tendons and marrow in its wake… all exposed, coming to a point at his wrist.

It was as if he created his own armor, each intricate drag of the needle serving as a steady reminder that he would overcome. You can’t help the smile spreading on your lips, you had never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

“Should have guessed you’d end up being some sort of artist, Eddie, these are really lovely.”

He smiles, warm and inviting as he reaches for your hand, angling it towards him to get a proper look at the stick n poke tattoo he did years before.

A rough thumb sweeps along your skin, and the whiskey coloring of his eyes pour into yours, “I could fix this for you, make it look better.”

“Absolutely not,” you falsely gasp, “I love it just the way it is… besides you didn’t cover yours up either,” you point to the tattoo on his left hand. The small heart and clover were faded and blown out, a stark contrast difference against the shadowed dark lines around it.

You grin and meet his eyes. “Do you remember how hot it was that day?”

Eddie had always kept that memory at the surface, remembered as if it were yesterday, thinking about it often. As if your hand was still sweating in his, he could practically smell the peanut butter in your hair, feel the dampness on his shoulder from your tears.

“Yeah,” he says with a sad little smile, “I remember getting our asses chewed because we burnt supper.”

The light leaves your eyes and your smile fades, venom on your tongue as you spit, “should have poisoned them both… could have saved ourselves a world of trouble.”

Eddie’s stomach rumbled at the empty hollow feeling it used to play on repeat, if it weren't for you, he would have starved indefinitely.

“Juvy couldn’t have been that bad, THREE meals a day? Shit, practically a cake walk.”

“Yeah, lucky bastards,” you admit, a small lost look on your face as you drop his hand, mind wandering to the long forgotten childhood you were abandoned in. If your dad wasn’t screaming at you and raising a fist it was the neighbors ignoring the hollering and groaning of furniture snapping against thin walls from the Munson trailer. Never a silent hour in the park.

It’s quiet for a few beats as you drink your beer, finishing it a few swallows and leaning over the bar to grab the bottle of Jameson, pouring another round.

“So, the motorcycle, tattooing… you must be fighting off the ladies.”

Eddie laughs, his eyes darting across your face with a quirked brow, “not hardly.”

Rolling your eyes you sip at the bitter drink, “don’t be prude Munson, tell me.”

He scoffs and moves hair from his neck, suddenly interested in the bottom of his drink, “I’m not telling you the woes of my love life, thanks.”

“C’mon..” you pout, showing your bottom lip, “we never got to have talks like this!”

Eddie snorted at the pathetic pout you showed, “yeah and we aren’t gonna start now because there’s nothing to tell.”

Your eyes narrowed into slits as you scowled at him. “You’ve always been such a bad liar, bet your ears are red,” you reach for his hair in a feeble attempt to reveal what you both already knew to be true.

“Quit!” Eddie yells playfully, batting your hand away, “alright yeah, I’ve had a girlfriend or two,” he shrugs, “never anything serious.”

You grin at him lazily, elbow on the counter and your chin in your palm, even though your heart sank a bit at the thought of him loving someone, “ahh, see? That wasn’t so bad.”

Eddie blushes under your stare, “speak for yourself.”

He looks down, rubbing condensation from his mug with his thumbs. “And you? d’you uh… got a boyfriend?”

Your smile fades and you try not to shiver in disgust as you pour another shot. Slapping the glass down hard on the counter as you drain it, “I wouldn’t exactly call him that… it’s more of an… agreement.”

His face breaks into a jigsaw puzzle, “what does that mean?”

“Dont wanna bore you with ‘my love life woes’…” you interject, ignoring him, putting the tip of your finger in his glass and dragging it towards you. Tipping in more Jameson and sliding it towards him.

The buzz was tickling your fingers, a lightness took over your head as the alcohol seeped into your blood.

“Down to the meat and potatoes Slim…why are you home? I mean it’s not as if this shithole holds any happy memories.”

He brought the shot glass to his lips, sipping it down as you pour yourself another.

How did you not know that the only happy memory he had of Hawkins was you? He didn’t know how to tell you that it was the memory of your smile that kept him company when the nights were cold and he didn’t know where his next meal would come from.

He takes a deep breath, “my uncle died,” he squints with a puckered sour face at the burn from the liquor shaking his head, “Al is either dead or on another bender so…” he claps his hands, “here I am… met with his girlfriend today actually.”

You frown, reaching for his folded hands, tapping his knuckles, “‘m sorry, Eddie. Wayne was sweet, respectful, a regular here… to the bar, not the club.”

Eddie rolls his shoulders, trying to untie his tongue to ask the question that burned in him, “when did you um... start working here?”

Your stomach drops at his question, and your nails clack around the Jameson bottle again as you dump yet another splash into your glass. Your answer is muffled behind a choked swallow.

He frowns, racking his brain, “wait.. isn’t that…”

“My birthday,” you fake cheer, eyes too wet for normal conversation, “big 1-8.”

“Jesus...”

Eddie’s eyes shut in horror and your doomed fate. He covered his mouth with a fist to shield you from his quivering bottom lip. It was a far fucking cry from what he could have even imagined.

His eighteenth birthday was no glorious day either but he wasn’t forced to work in a strip club. His stomach churns, making milk into butter at the thought of your naive innocent eyes, and how they had almost hardened to steel in his absence.

The whiskey is working its magic now you’re feeling a little hot behind the ears, fuzzy in your head, dizzy eyed.He stares for a while over at you, watching in disappointment as you get clumsy with the pours, spilling a little on the counter and wiping it away with your bare hand, as you slug down, yet another, shot.

You stand suddenly, stumbling behind the bar and to the chip stand. Your fingers miss the clips in your attempt to release the snacks but they finally find home and you grab a bag, flinging it to him before opening one for yourself.

“Cool right?” you say, struggling to open it, tongue poked out in drunken concentration.

“Y’know I think most kids get a car,” the bag opens sending a confetti of salted crumbs and chips scattering to the counter to be crunched at your feet. Trying not to meet his eyes you talk to the ceiling, “maybe a crisp hundred dollar bill for their eighteenth. Clove? Blisters, a couple of bruises.. oh, and my name! Carved on the bathroom door, for a good time call…”

He’s struck dumb. Shell shocked and blinking back tears. Eddie clears his throat and reaches across the bar for your hand but you pull away from him, instead grabbing for the bottle.

“Welcome back.” you muse before pressing the mouth of the bottle angrily to your lips… foregoing the glass entirely.

Tipping your head back the now tasteless liquor slides down your throat with ease. An expert at coating the agony, you wait for your brain to lose oxygen and beg for an intake of breath, silently hoping you’d drown instead.

Years have passed of you dulling misery with anything you could get your hands on, liquor, pills, a little bit of nose powder… you’d tried most of the things Rick sold. And it worked until you needed more and more. It was a vicious cycle you were chasing.

But with Eddie here? It was nearly impossible to breeze over the truth.

When the bottle, in its near emptiness, slapped against the counter… a pair of dark eyes stare up at you, wide and sad, glossy with tears of shaming guilt.

Eddie couldn’t have guessed that your life was going to end up this way. He was naive in thinking that. Fucking stupid. He should kick his own ass for leaving the way he did, but his options were limited. Still, he’d wear the brunt of this mistake on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

Your eyes were empty, lost, and he couldn’t handle it anymore. He shook his head slow, voice gravely.

“I owe you years worth of apologies, Clove.”

You’re more than tipsy at this point, and suddenly you can’t form words as your breath is trapped in your throat.

He was practically in tears as he tried his hardest to explain himself, tried to right this wrong.

“I was young, so fucking stupid..”

“Eddie..” As much as you wanted to know what happened it suddenly felt like too much, like your brain would implode, unable to process the heartache any further.

“Just listen, okay? Please?” He’s begging for your attention and you would rather melt into the floor. “I never told you, I never told anyone.”

Thicker than thieves. Eddie knew you like the back of his hand and likewise with you, so what the hell was he talking about?

…

“Check the back, I’m sure the canned stuff is there.”

The kitchen was eerily quiet, filled with sleepy rays of the afternoon sun, loaves of bread set out on the counter fresh from the oven for tomorrow's lunch.

You pad on tip toes to the back room lined with shelves of aluminum cans, and dried goods. You didn’t know where to start.

“How many should we take?” you whisper yell over your shoulder, “Two? Three?”

Eddie’s using his shirt as a basket, filling it full with small cartons of milk, shoving apples in his pockets, “Look for the big ones, then we won’t have to come back for a… oh fuck yeah, come to daddy.”

“Ew, Eddie!”

“Found some cheese!” he cheers, “we could make garlic bread!”

Label after label your fingers skimmed over the cans. Peaches, tapioca pudding, green beans, lima beans, and finally… in a can larger than your head, crushed tomatoes.

“Jackpot,” you whisper grabbing the cans and adjusting them one under each arm, “ready?”

Eddie’s frame fills the doorway, arms bundled with an assortment of goodies, a fresh loaf of bread in a plastic bread sack between his teeth, a joker’s grin wide on his face, “let’s roll.”

…

It was pure dumb coincidence that an exit was next to the cafeteria. You were surprised at the fact that Eddie's jeans didn’t fall down to his ankles from the extra weight of food heavy in his pockets as the two of you ran to his van and sped back to the trailer park.

“We made out like bandits, gonna eat like kings tonight, Clovie.” Eddie’s smile is spread wide as he helps haul the looted school food into your trailer.

Years of yellowing stains from tobacco use shown on every surface, a permanent haze of smoke lingering in the air, baking in the sunlight. Dishes littered the sink in standing dirty gray water, gone ice cold.

“Sorry for the mess,” you explain, reaching into the sink to pull the stopper, “I fell asleep before doing them while reading Lolly her library book.”

Eddie opens a drawer looking for a can opener, “and your dad didn’t come unglued? You must be Irish with that kinda luck.”

“He was passed out, I could have lit the place on fire and he wouldn’t have known, and he was gone before my alarm went off this morning.”

Peeling back the tin lid after pinching it open with the can opener, Eddie grunts, “yeah, my dad left early this morning too, said something about keeping my ���filthy fucking hands off his stash’ and that he’d be gone for a few days.”

It was an enormous relief when it was just you and Eddie to fend for yourselves. Most teens could barely use the stove to make popcorn, but you had been taking care of yourself and Lolly for years. It was what you preferred.

Reaching for the one good aluminum pot that was stashed above the fridge, you pull it down and remove the magazine clippings of recipes you wanted to try or things that looked easy to make with the very little your cabinets held. “Good, glad they’ll be gone.”

Eddie sucks a tomato sauce covered thumb into his mouth, smiling in a way that made your cheeks heat, “almost like you read my mind.”

He’s hesitant now, fumbling over his words and brushing hair from his neck.

“I, you know I always talked about leaving Hawkins…practically had it all figured out by the time we were thirteen.”

You remember how serious his face was when he cupped your arms in the kitchen, his words branding themselves in your skull like a prisoner counting down days.

He swallows roughly, running hands through his hair, “I… I wanted you to… firstly…I need you to understand that I didn’t want to leave… not without you.”

Playing coy you brush off his serious tone, “.. stop.”

“I’m serious,” he sighs, reaching for your hand and your stomach flips when his calloused palm clamps tight on your knuckles, “you were everything to me.”

“.. c’mon Eddie, that’s just the liquor talkin’ now.”

“t’s not… and with me,” his eyes seem to grow in size as his sincerity leaks through them, “I’d never tell you something like this while drunk.”

You swallow dryly and nod, accepting that whatever he was about to say was true and real.

He takes a sharp intake of breath, as if this particular memory hurt him more than any other. His eyes were growing dark. solemn, and he squeezed your hand as he begins.

“I think it was about a year before I left… we made spaghetti with shit we stole from the cafeteria…”

A pain in your chest blossoms with a thought you hadn’t remembered until now when he reminded you. The taste of cheesy bread in the oven and salty tomatoey spaghetti invade your mind.

“I still can't eat spaghetti.”

A quick smirk dances in the corner of his lip and he meets your eyes, “yeah… me neither, I stayed over on the floor of the bathroom.”

You nod, remembering the sounds of Eddie retching into the toilet while you laid in your bed, a popcorn bowl keeping you company, thankful that Lolly hadn’t gotten sick. Even though you had gotten screamed at for being sick yourself when your dad and Al came back earlier than expected.

“Well, I was awake when they came home. They didn’t know I was there or even awake, and they were talking ‘business’.. you know those trailer walls are so fuckin’ thin, couldn’t not hear them.”

His eyes pinched shut like you would on a rollercoaster when it’s too scary, shaking his head, his other hand clamped over the one he held yours in, rubbing as if he could possibly buff out the callouses.

You can’t do anything but stare at him. Frozen in place. Scared to move, not even breathing.

“They had been talking about how some of their new “talent” wouldn’t be ready to go right away but… goddamn…” his voice cracks and he shakes his head before his demeanor falls and his voice gets quiet almost mute, “they had someone in mind to fill in in the mean time…”

No.

It shouldn’t have been a shock, shouldn’t have gutted you on the spot, usingyour intestines as a jump rope, but somehow, hearing this from Eddie’s mouth made it worse than if you were to hear it from them yourself.

You wanted to run away, to hide and never come out of a dark hole.

“… I hoarded away any nickel I could find, because we were going to leave. Together.” he squeezes your hand on the last word, possibly trying to bring you back to life as you stared ominously at the counter next to your conjoined hands.

The stagnant air is cold between you, and you aren’t sure if you’ve taken a breath within the last two minutes or not. Cold sweat formed on your lower back and any high you were feeling was dull, a competition to fight with your lucidness. Eddie took a few deep breaths before continuing.

“I replay that day over and over… how my dad came home, screaming about how I was a man now, needed to start helping with the family business stop freeloading like my mom… y’ know somethin’ Clove, to this day I’ve never touched that shit, and that was the one and only time I’ve ever seen heroin.” He hangs his head and you shift on uneasy feet.

“Telling him no was my first mistake, But I had to stick up for myself, had to let him know that I wasn’t gonna be like him,” he spoke now through gritted teeth as he admits, “but instead he swung on me,” Eddie chuckles despite the gravity of his words, “got a few good jabs in before he pulled those brass knuckles out.”

Your hand flies to cover your mouth before you realize it’s open in horror.

“I packed the van when I heard him leave, pocketed the cash I had saved up. This was it, we were getting the hell out. You and me, Lolly too… fuck I can’t even imagine how crazy I looked covered in blood,” he sighs then, shuttering like, voice shaking, his eyes wet.

Your heart broke for him. Broke for his demons that followed him around like a shadow. “I… I didn’t even get a knock in on your window before I felt a gun pressed to my head …”

It’s your turn to take a shaky breath, and you can’t hide the burn in your nose or the way your mouth tingled from holding in tears.

His voice is low, broken, “… I didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t just me they were threatening. He made it more than clear how easy it would be to get rid of two kids nobody wanted to begin with.”

Slipping in and out of present time, you imagine how scared Eddie must have been. The look of terror on his face as a grown adult held him at gunpoint. How his own dad hit him until he bled, how he tried to get to you, tried to save you. You were a fucking fool for hating him when the one you should have been hating this entire time was yourself.

“… he followed me to the van… told me he’d fill me full of lead if he ever came back.”

You pinched your eyes shut, imagining him driving away from the only home he’d ever known, from his life, from you.

His voice fades in and out, as he works through the emotions wavering in his body. “I should have come back for you, should have, I dunno.. I’m sorry, Clove.”

It’s quiet as you process everything Eddie has said. The pain you’d shoved down for years is raging towards you like a bull. Red, angry, demanding to be felt. But you would hide from this terrorizing house of horrors for as long as you could, and you step out of the bull’s way, deflecting.

“Music!” you screech out of nowhere, through the thick haze of sadness, “we need music.”

Standing abruptly, sending the now empty bottle of Jameson clattering across the counter, Eddie tries to steady you from across the bar, his cheeks damp.

“Whoa, hey.. you okay?”

“I gotta,” your hands roam over yourself in search of pockets, “…hey you got a quarter?” The floor seemed to move as you teetered toward the jukebox, keeping your eyes on the colorful lights as you walked towards it like a moth to a flame.

“Wai…” he takes a step forward reaching for your hand but deciding against it, hand going limp by his side, his eyes searching inside your own.

You desperately want to break against him, to throw yourself in his arms and let him hold you until the tears dry on your cheeks, but you can’t let yourself be so vulnerable. Not in front of Eddie, not in front of anyone.

“Clove…” his voice is tender, concerned, “c’mon, you need to sit down.”

“No change? That’s okay, Slim,” you squeak, cutting him off in a rush, forcing a fake smile as you silently curse yourself for sounding so derailed, “Gotta change anyway.”

Spinning and nearly tripping over a stool in your attempt to get to the dressing room, you avoid the swelling brown of his eyes like the plague.

“Larry or Kenny should be here in a few, tell ‘im you’re on my tab and you can eat all the wings you want for free tonight, ‘kay? I’ll be back!”

The tears slid before you could stop them, hot pools that stung your eyes like acid. Maybe you shouldn’t have asked…no you definitely shouldn’t have pushed to know the reason why he left.

The bar was still spinning, waves of heat hitting you like an oven.

You prayed that your Eddie would come back to you, come home to save you and take you away from this life, but he’s here now and it’s entirely too much for you to deal with.

Vomit rose in your throat before you could swallow it back, and walking down the ruby carpeted hallway, your stomach empties itself on the floor before you can find a trash can, the wall holding you up as you crumble against it. Heart bruised and battered, despite Eddie’s efforts to mend it.

He stood in the open bar, soul empty and hollow. So many confessions left unsaid were formed but couldn’t quite fall from his lips. The conversation he wanted to have was not the outcome he had hoped for. He yearned for you, how close the two of you used to be and how it was torn away too soon. Time was a thief and the years spent apart ate at him, and all he can think of is the small manila envelope he kept of letters that went unread, addressed to you.

thank you for taking the time to read 💋 i know this chapter has taken for fucking ever to come out but i hope it was possibly worth it🥀

♡tag list: @dashingdeb16 @emxxblog @mopeymopeymouse @pretendthisnameisclever @mommybaby-witch @tlclick73 @figmentofquinn @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @whenshelanded @micheledawn1975 @3rd-conchord 😭 @leelei1980 @browneyes8288 @emilyslutface @mmunson86 @josephquinnsfreckles @eddiesxangel @elegantkoalapaper @corrodedcoffincumslut @sidthedollface2 @winchester-angel l @mrsjellymunson @joannamuns9n @mewchiili @spacedoutdaydreamer @emxxblog @maybeisthemoon @str4ngergirlw0rld @insertcoolnameherethanks @kellsck @prestinalove @mandyjo8719 @onegirlmanytales @veravee-blog @taintedcigs @eddies-acousticguitar @oeuryale @kthomps914 @bangaveragewhitewine @lil-quinnie @definitionwanderlust @madaboutjoe @eiightysixbaby @writinginthetwilight @jessisacarica @ali-r3n

[in1-nutshell]

Hey so what if the old Predacon buddy were to meet the rescue bots how would they react to the senior Predacon?

It is said that the list of 'Grandbabies' grew that day.

Hope you enjoy!

Steel Mauler meets the Rescue Bots

SFW, Platonic, Cybertronian reader

TFP

Steel Mauler was having their daily sun nap in the scrapyard.

Their joints were aching a bit more than usual and opted to stay at the yard for patrol.

Fix-it, Denny and Russel had left with the team earlier, leaving them alone in the scrapyard.

It was a peaceful morning in the sun.

Until they heard the groundbridge starting up.

It confused them as they didn’t remember Bee using the bridge for patrolling.

Out popped a little yellow drone flying around saying the words ‘Toast’ repeatedly.

Steel Mauler got curious and carefully approached the little yellow drone before it went back into the bridge.

…Now… Steel Mauler knew they shouldn’t go in…

… But they did it anyways.

They walked into some sort of building on the other side as the portal closed.

Looking around for the little yellow drone… instead they found two human children.

Steel Mauler looking down at the kids.

“…”

“…”

“…umm, hello there. My name is Steel Mauler and-”—Steel Mauler

The boy jumps up and walks up to them.

“Noble! A giant robot dragon!”—the boy

The boy looks at their insignia.

“You’re an Autobot?”—the girl

“That’s right. How do you know about Autobots.”—Steel Mauler

“We know about the Rescue Bots are Autobots.”—the boy

Steel Mauler raises an optic.

“Rescue Bots? Here? I didn’t think that many or if any were still active, after all this time.”—Steel Mauler

“That’s what Chase said.”—the girl

“Hmm, and your names are?”—Steel Mauler

“I’m Frankie.”--Frankie

“I’m Cody. And you said your name was ‘Steel Mauler’?”—Cody

“That is correct.”—Steel Mauler

The older Predacon smirks a bit before patting the two on the head with their wings.

The door opens revealing two older adults.

“… Well, this is awkward.”—Steel Mauler

The girl and boy, Frankie Green and Cody Burns introduced them to their father’s.

They bowed a bit showing respect.

Cody wanted them to meet the bots.

Steel Mauler agreed and followed the humans.

The bots were not ready to see a giant Predacon walk into base with Cody, Frankie, Doc Green, and Chief Burns.

Neither were their human partners.

Steel Mauler winces a bit at the high pitch scream coming from the orange bot.

The blue and green ones stood in front of the humans and the red one looked like he was going to fight them.

“Calm down guys! Steel Mauler’s friendly! See!”--Cody

Frankie points at the Autobot insignia.

“See!”--Frankie

The bots relax a bit but they are still on edge.

“I apologize for the sudden entrance. I was accidentally bridged here.”—Steel Mauler

“You used a groundbrigde?”—human with the glasses

“More like dragged against my will.”—Steel Mauler

Heatwave walks up to them.

“I’m Heatwave.”--Heatwave

“I am Chase.”--Chase

“I’m Boulder.”--Boulder

“And I’m Blades.”--Blades

Steel Mauler turns to Blades.

“You’re Blades? Hmm, good to finally have a face for the name.”—Steel Mauler

“Name?”—human with the orange hair

“How do you know Blades?”—human woman

“I remember Bumblebee mentioning your name quite a few times.”—Steel Mauler

Blades suddenly moves closer to the Predacon.

“Really?! Bumblebee talks about me!?”--Blades

Steel Mauler is now resisting the urge to add another bot to their collection of grandbabies.

Steel Mauler has some time to get to know the rest of the team before they decide to go back to the scrapyard.

From ‘sparing’ with Heatwave.

To helping Boulder with planting some trees.

To helping Chase archive some of the cases.

To watching some movies with Blades.

To giving the humans Dragon rides.

Blades is the one who figures out quickly that Steel Mauler is old.

As in old as dirt.

It also didn’t help that their joints were hurting and making a squeaking sound.

“Why don’t we sit down for a bit longer.”--Blades

“I’m fine Blades, see.”—Steel Mauler

Steel Mauler stretches a servo.

SSSQQQQUUUEEEEAAAAKKKKK!

“…”—both bots

“… Now I know what your thinking, but this is all normal.”—Steel Mauler

“Steel, you need more rest especially with how old you are. It’s not good for the long run.”--Blades

“I can still kick it like the other’s Blades.”—Steel Mauler

“But you aren’t invincible either.”--Blades

Steel Mauler huffs a bit.

“Please?”--Blades

Steel Mauler huffs more.

“Then you leave me with no choice. Cody!”--Blades

“Blades what are you doing?”—Steel Mauler

Cody comes in.

“Yeah Blades?”--Cody

“Steel needs to rest their joints but they don’t want to and its bad for them to strain them at this age.”--Blades

“Wait your old?”--Cody

“Yes, I’m old but not that old.”—Steel Mauler

“In human terms how old would you be?”--Cody

Steel Mauler tries to resist the puppy dog eyes.

It fails.

“…In the hypothetical situation that your bots were the human ages of 30…”—Steel Mauler

“Then you are…?”--Cody

“I’m 1500.”—Steel Mauler

“…what?”—Cody and Blades

“Cody I’m pretty sure I am the oldest Cybertronain alive.”—Steel Mauler

Soon everyone catches on, and they are swarmed Steel Mauler with accommodations for their aching joints.

Steel Mauler decides to just let them do their thing, after all the heat pads were helping a bit with the pains.

Meanwhile at the scrapyard…

Bumblebee was frantically looking for Steel Mauler until he received a picture from Blades.

It was Steel Mauler happily sleeping with the kids outside.

There was a little message saying that the older Predacon was doing just fine and would be returning home soon.

[wannabekook]

Good Graces - Part Three

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Please do not copy or post my work anywhere!

(ʙᴀɴɴᴇʀ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛ)

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Part Two

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader Summary: She gets Rafe to do the unthinkable for the type of guy he is. Warnings: Angst, slight manipulation, Rafe being Rafe Word Count: 3.7k+ Proofread?: Yes, by @socialpsycho484 A/N: I had a not so fun time writing this one, I struggled so hard to churn this chapter out honestly. But this series is almost over! Haven't decided if I wanted to end it on a good ending or a bad ending yet. Hmmm decisions decisionssss. Remember my requests are open! So send in any requests. If you want to be on my taglist just send through my ask box and I'll put you down. Don't forget to follow and turn on post notifications to know when I post next. This is my reblogs, follow to see what I be reading. :)

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

My phone went off for the umpteenth time just today. Over the past couple of days Rafe has been non stop blowing up my phone. I haven’t been in the mood to talk to him after the events of Midsummers. Especially after the impromptu hangout session I had with John B and his friends, learning how vile my supposed best friend is. My stomach twisted in betrayal as I thought about how I could even love someone like that. 

The sudden ring of my phone startled me, internally groaning as I grabbed it and answered it without looking at who was calling.

“If I wanted to talk to you I would’ve answered your fifty million fucking texts Rafe.” I said sternly, my voice dripping venom with each syllable. 

“Woah, he really fucked up didn’t he?” A soft awkward chuckle came from the other end of the phone, causing me to furrow my eyebrows. I pulled my phone away from my ear to see who was calling. Topper. 

“Shit, I’m sorry Top.” I sighed out as I put the phone back to my ear, earning another chuckle from the male. “He’s been texting me non stop since Midsummers’ night.” I groaned out displeased. 

“Yeah well..” he dragged out trying to find the right wording for the next thing he wanted to say, clearing his throat softly.

“Well what?” I spit out harshly, not in the mood for beating around the bush. A soft wince left his lips before letting out a sigh.

“Well he’s here at the country club throwing a fit about it. It’s honestly kind of alarming. I’ve never seen him like this.” he sighed out, his tone in distress. I let out a soft sigh as I heard a door open and close on his end. 

“Hey man, who are you talking to?” I could hear Rafe ask in an unrecognizable tone as Topper stammered for a moment. 

“My grandfather.” Topper finally got out, earning a slight huff from Rafe hoping he’d believe it. There’s a moment of silence before Topper speaks again. “So yeah, what do you think?” he asked, trying to sound convincing that he was talking to his grandfather as Rafe stood by him. I let out a soft sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Yeah, yeah. Alright. Give me like thirty and I’ll be there.” I huffed out.

“Alright co-” Topper cut himself off, clearing his throat “Alright, I’ll see you then.” he said evenly before hanging up the phone. I let out a sigh as I pulled the phone from my ear. Looking down at it in disbelief, finally processing what I had just agreed to doing. Breaking my few days of silence with Rafe.

｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ

I had pulled into the parking lot of the country club about ten minutes ago. I stared at myself in the rear view mirror trying to steel myself for whatever I was about to walk into. Letting out a soft sigh, I carefully got out of my car. I stood for a moment with the door open as I adjusted my clothing to make sure everything was sitting properly. A pair of dark blue high waisted jeans with a red and black shirt that just so happened to be Rafe’s. Which he had left over one of the many nights he had stayed at my house. Paired with plain black tennis shoes. After a moment of adjusting, I let out an irritated sigh as I slammed my car door shut making sure to lock it. Carefully making my way into the building.

“I just don’t understand!” I hear Rafe from across the room. My gaze immediately found a very enraged Rafe and a very alarmed Topper. Internally cringing as I make my way towards the table, careful to make sure not to draw attention to myself so Rafe stays on whatever tangent he’s on. As soon as I’m at the table I throw my phone down to announce that I’m there without saying anything, crossing my arms over my chest. Both of them whip their heads towards me, a little startled. Rafe sits up straighter as he tries to hide his anger as Topper lets out a small breath of relief that I had actually shown. I looked between the two before my eyes landed on Rafe. My eyes filled with irritation as I stare him down. Of course he doesn’t budge. Topper cleared his throat softly.

“I’m uh.. I’m going to go get a drink.” he announced as he got up, Rafe and I continued our staring contest as I sat down. Topper looked between us before heading towards the bar, disappearing. As soon as he did Rafe parted his lips, trying to think of what to say as I didn’t budge at all.

“I was worried about you.” Rafe let out a harsh huff, causing me to laugh and shake my head at him “I’m being serious (Y/N)!” he slammed his hands down on the table. I immediately stopped laughing as I raised my eyebrow at him. His eyes searched my face, taking me in. 

“Don’t act like you actually care about me Rafe.” I sighed out as I looked away from him.

“Come on babe, don’t be like that.” he said almost silently as his body language softened. His hand reached out to grab mine as I felt everything freeze around us. “I care about you so much that it scares me sometimes.” he continued as I stayed silent. My heart feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest from him simply calling me ‘babe’. Cursing myself for allowing his words to affect me so easily. I let out a sigh as I looked towards Rafe, praying to whatever god that he couldn’t see the effect he had on me. But by the slight smirk I found on his face he already knew.

“And you going off with those Pogues..” he grimaced out as he continued causing me to scoff and pull my hand away from him. His eyes narrowing for just a moment, a quick snarky reply on the tip of his tongue before he sighs letting it go “..they’re just dangerous. They constantly do reckless shit. So yes, I care about you.” he plastered an exaggerated frown on his face.

“Dangerous?” I scoffed out “Like what you did to JJ the other night?” I raised my eyebrow again at him causing him to shift slightly in his seat.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” he said gently with a slight shake of his head.

“But I did.” I spoke out curtly with a shrug of my shoulders “I always knew that you would torment them but..” I shook my head again  “..to now know that you’re actually physical with them, I’m not sure anymore Rafe.” 

“Not sure about what?” he questioned with raised eyebrows as he looked between my eyes. My eyebrows raised as I noticed how vulnerable he looked right now, trying to search for the words I wanted to say as he looked down to my lips before looking away altogether. 

“I’m not sure if I can forgive you.” I say softly causing him to slump with a soft exhale.

“I’ll do anything and I mean anything to make it up to you.” he looked me dead in the eye to make sure I knew he was being serious. I let out a soft hum as I raised my eyebrows at him. 

“Anything?” I questioned skeptically as he nodded frantically. 

“Yes, anything.” he said seriously with a nod. 

“Fine, let me think.” I hummed out as I sat and thought for a moment. His gaze heavy on me as he just searched my entire face waiting for a response. 

“One, you have to go and apologize to them and promise to never torment them ever again. But you have to physically promise with me present when you do so. Two, you have to accept the fact that I am now friends with John B in his friends. Since you know, once a pogue always a pogue. Third, you have to go to one of their parties with me.” I smiled at him almost too sweetly causing him to let out a disbelieving huff of annoyance. 

“That’s what I want you to do in order to win my forgiveness. Nothing more and nothing less.” I said matter of factly as I stared at him. His eyes met mine as he nodded.

“Alright, fine. Like I said babe, anything you want.” he said stiffly trying to hide his annoyance. I raised my eyebrows at him again as I tilted my head, trying to ignore the heat crawling up my neck as he decided to call me babe again. Letting a soft sigh out as I nodded at him. 

“Now come give me a hug.” he said softly as he stood. I watched him stand there for a moment before caving and getting up to give him a hug. As soon I stood, he immediately pulled me in. Pulling me tightly against him as he lets out a shaky breath. I couldn’t help but to wrap my arms around him as tightly as I could.

“I’m so sorry.” I said softly into my hair, kissing the top of my head a moment later as I rub his back gently.

“It’s okay.” I mumble softly against his chest “Doesn’t mean I forgive you fully. I just know how protective of me you are.” I pulled away causing him to pull away with a curt nod.

“Of course, I’ll always be protective of you.” he pushed a strand of hair out of my face before caressing my cheek “You mean the world to me, no matter what.” he admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper. If I wasn’t so close to him, I definitely would have missed it. He glanced from my eyes to my lips back to my eyes, slightly leaning in before someone cleared their throat. Both of us looked over to see Topper awkwardly looking between the two of us, a glass of whiskey in hand. A blush immediately crept its way onto my cheeks as I pulled further away from Rafe, putting as much distance between us as I could.

“Soo..” Topper drew out once again looking between us, “Is everything good?” I let out a small noise to confirm that we were fine, not trusting my voice. My eyes glued to the ground, not wanting to look at them. 

“Yeah man, we’re good.” Rafe nodded, his signature smirk on his face as he looked towards me. “Oh, by the way (Y/N), nice shirt.” Rafe teased softly as Topper raised his eyebrows. I looked up to Rafe with his stupidly cute smirk on his face as my cheeks burned more. 

“I…it wa..” I stammered for a second before clearing my throat and standing up straighter before I continued, “It was the only shirt I could find. I was in a rush to get here. Since Topper couldn’t get you to calm down himself.” I state calmly as Rafe raised his eyebrows, looking at me with curiosity. Topper shooting me a look for outing him like that

“Is that so?” Rafe asked in a teasing tone with a faint smile, “Well, it looks better on you anyways.” he finished, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me. I could only nod softly as he eyed me up. Topper cleared his throat once more while looking between the two of us.

“So I was thinking..” Topper started before Rafe shook his head, his eyes never leaving my figure.

“No, we have something we need to do.” Rafe spoke flatly as he glanced towards Topper, causing me to look fully at him. Confusion clearly present on my face.

“I need to apologize to certain people, and you said you wanted to be present.” he shrugged as I nodded.

“Oh, right. I didn’t think you’d do it now.” I spoke softly before looking towards Topper, “Sorry Top, wish we could say and hangout.” I give him a small hug, not noticing the way Rafe’s eye twitches the moment Topper puts his arm around me.

“Hey, no worries. I’ll catch you both later.” he says as he pulls away raising his glass. I smiled with another nod before looking toward Rafe.He nodded in return as he turned to leave the building, glancing back at me to make sure I would be following. Which of course I would be. Once at the door he held it open for me, smiling as I gave him a quiet thank you. We both stay silent as we walk towards our cars, not knowing that I had parked right next to him without even realizing. Finding it absolutely ironic since I subconsciously always park right by Rafe no matter if I am actively seeking him out or not. A soft sigh exits my lips as I pull my car keys out unaware that Rafe has stopped in front of his Ranger Rover. I begin to pull my keys out to unlock my car before his hand touches mine, stopping me from my current task. My breath hitches as I look from his hand, my gaze following up his arm before landing on his face. 

“We’ll just both go in mine.” he states as I let out a soft sigh and before I’m able to speak he speaks up again. “I can drop you back off to your car afterwards.” he smiled.

“I’m not sure..” I say quietly.

“Oh come on (Y/N), please. I miss having my girl in my passenger seat.” he softly pleaded as he genuinely smiled. My resolve cracking and crumbling dangerously fast as I feel the heat creep back to my cheeks.

First he called me babe twice and now he just claimed me without officially claiming me?

Now he’s actually pleading for me to drive with him to John B’s, maybe not actually pleading but it’s as close as to an actual plea as I’m ever going to hear come from Rafe. A moment passed as I just continued to stare, trying to process this version of Rafe I haven’t seen in years. My complete silence caused Rafe to laugh inwardly as he just watched me. The feeling of him tightening his grip on me slightly before he pulled the keys from my hand. Quickly replacing my empty hand with his own with a smile. Pulling me closer to his car.

“Come on.” he said softly as unlocked his car, opening the passenger door for me and helping me get in. It almost felt like I was on autopilot, that I had almost forgotten the real reason why I was here. The reason why I was mad at him, the slam of the passenger door echoing in the car ultimately pulling me out of my head. Letting out a huff as I crossed my arms over my chest as I looked out the passenger side window as he climbed into the driver's seat. He looked over to me as he started up the car. 

“I’m going to need directions.” he sighed out, shooting him a glance from the corner of my eye.

“Right, uh I’ll tell you when to turn and all.” I cleared my throat as I sat up straighter. 

｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ｡･:*:･ﾟ

Ten minutes later we arrived at the Chateau. Ten minutes of silence beside me saying simple directions. Ten minutes of his hand on my thigh, his fingers dancing against it. I’m still not sure if he was doing it to fluster me or doing it to calm his nerves. My heart is pounding in my chest just like it used to in middle school. 

Thankfully John B and his group of friends were already outside, but somehow didn’t notice Rafe pull up. It took for Rafe to get out and shut his door for them to look over. All of them stood up way too quickly, almost like they were waiting for Rafe to come here. I look over to Rafe who is by the front of the car now on his way to let me out of the passenger side. Making me wonder if he really needed the directions. If he really goes out of his way just to come to this side of the island to torment them.

“Hey!” I hear JJ shout, my eyes going to look at JJ as he squares his shoulders, “You’re not welcome here! Get back to your side of the island.” he said sternly, trying to sound intimidating. Rafe hung his head as he shook it softly, laughing at JJ’s try at assertiveness. That caused John B and Pope to come closer as well. Kiara, still standing by the makeshift fire pit with her arms crossed. The same look on all four of their faces, one I recognized immediately. Defiance and anger, which honestly I do not blame them. Rafe just ignored him, continuing his way over to me. All of them were unaware of my presence in the passenger seat, beside Rafe. 

It happened in what felt like a blink of an eye. Rafe pressed against the hood of the car while JJ held onto the collar of Rafe's shirt. John B and Pope on either side boxing him in. My eyes widen before quickly getting out of the car to make my presence known. As soon as the passenger door opens all of their heads wip towards me. The boys raise their eyebrows, waiting for the passenger door to shut. I let out a huff as I slammed the door shut with a hand on my hip, looking at all of them. Confusion slowly ebbing its way into their features as they looked from me to each other then to Rafe, still not letting him go.

“Guys, relax. He’s not here to do anything.” I nod towards John B with a small smile. 

“Yeah guys, relax,” Rafe mocked with that smirk of his. Of course he was going to be a smart ass and make this difficult.

“Rafe!” I scolded as I moved closer to the boys, putting my hand on JJ’s shoulder, “Let him go, he’s here to apologize.” I said softly. The three boys exchange a look, trying to decide if this was a prank or not. JJ’s grip loosened slightly giving Rafe the opportunity to shove the blonde back to get away from them. Straightening his shirt out as he made his way next to me.

“It’s true, I’m here to apologize.” he almost scoffed out before fixing his tone to sound genuine, a soft scowl on his face. I look towards him before looking back to the group. 

“Alright..” John B nodded softly and gestured toward Rafe, “Go ahead.” he spoke confidently as JJ and Pope just watched silently. Wondering if Rafe was actually going to apologize.

Rafe let out a long sigh, looking up to the sky then to me. I give him a curt nod causing him to finally look at them again. A look of irritation dances across his face before he snuffs it out. 

“Look..” he started as he wiped at his face with a soft groan, “I’m sorry, truly. I apologize for how shitty I’ve been towards all of you.” he cleared his throat like apologizing was hurting him. I smile softly as I put my hand on his arm, encouraging him to continue. The group looks at each other with surprise as they hear the Rafe Cameron apologize. A man who never apologized for anything. Rafe let out another breath, stealing a glance at me before continuing.

“And to prove that I am serious about this apology, I’m going to stop tormenting you and your little group from this day forward.” he almost sneered out, the soft scowl still on his face. 

The boys look from each other then back to Kiara, all having a silent conversation. After a moment they all nod at each other. The boys turned back to look at Rafe and I. 

“Alright, yeah cool. Apology accepted.” Pope spoke up causing both Rafe and I to nod. I look at Rafe as I softly hit his arm. He lets out a noise before looking towards Pope, eyes glancing at all of them before nodding.

“Yeah, thanks for accepting.” he nods curtly. I look between them all before clapping my hands together with a small smile. 

“Cool, well. I’ll see you all at the Boneyard Saturday night?” I asked, looking between them all with a smile on my face. They all nodded, a matching smile on their faces.

“Hell yeah.” they replied together, earning a soft laugh from me. Rafe just watched the interaction silently, jealousy and anger seeping into his veins. He quickly made his way to the passenger side door as I continued to talk to the boys, laughing at JJ’s dumb jokes

“Come on (Y/N)” he spoke out as he opened the door for me. I looked over to him before looking back at the group saying my goodbyes. I quickly make my way over to Rafe, climbing into the passenger seat with a smile. I go to reach for my seatbelt but get my hand smacked by Rafe. He silently grabbed my seatbelt and buckled me in instead. That was new. I just sat and blinked at him for a moment before clearing my throat, looking away. Earning a small chuckle from him before he shut the door, going around the front of the car. The boys are still standing close, watching us, watching Rafe carefully. As he moved towards the front, he said something to them causing them to slightly stiffen. I furrowed my eyebrows as I watched carefully, trying to read his lips but ultimately unable to. Letting out an annoyed huff, wanting to know what he said. 

I watched as he moved, finally opening the driver side door and getting in. He started up the car, his jaw slightly clenching as he stared down the group in front of his car. Without a word he quickly backed up and peeled away from the Chateau, speeding back to the country club. White knuckling the steering wheel the entire way.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Part Four

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Taglist: @wearemadeofstardust0

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*: