#this is cross-curriculum kids

[noelements-setempty]

Three households, all without utilities

Upon a torus where we lay our scene

#this is cross-curriculum kids #three utilities problem #shakespeare #romeo and juliet #maths jokes

[01zfan]

argue with you | s. es

valedictorian!eunseok x debate team leader!reader | 6.6k words

a request that i really enjoyed writing. part two here!

contains: academic rivals, semi public shenanigans, hand stuff (f. and m. receiving.)

you loved debate. you joined it because it was a mix of two things you loved in life, arguing with people and winning. you were grateful that you were able to get close with the people on the debate team too, finding kids your age with such interesting minds. you loved everyone on your debate team and they loved you, so it was no surprise when you were unanimously voted the leader of the debate team. life was perfect on the debate team.

until eunseok joined.

it was a normal day after school, following your friends as you walked in a group to the debate practice room.

“our sponsor said someone new is joining the team.” giselle said to your group.

“this late?” wonbin asked.

“technically the season has barely started. we are still prepping for tournaments.” yunjin said.

your crew was behind you as you opened the door to the debate room. you looked back at them, not expecting anyone to be in the room yet.

“yeah but still. unless he has previous knowledge about debate he will just drag the rest of us down.” you said.

the shocked expression on yunjin’s face told you everything you needed to know. eunseok sat at one of the tables, hearing everything you said about him. 

you didn’t hate eunseok when he first joined. you actually felt pretty bad for making such a terrible first impression. eunseok was also projected to be the valedictorian, you could never bring yourself to hate someone who was so smart. you immediately apologized, saying you didn’t know he was in the room but he said nothing in response. eunseok being indifferent towards you was a first. many gravitated towards you or spoke about you in high regard. being liked came easily for you, so the fact that eunseok couldn’t be bothered irked you to no end.

you were surprised you had never crossed paths with eunseok before. you never had him in any of your classes despite both of you being enrolled in the same curriculum. you didn’t know him, your social circles didn’t collide either. he had joined the debate team late in the semester, wanting a final thing to put on his college applications. you thought it was ridiculous. he was already top of his class what more did he need? 

because eunseok joined the debate team with such high markings he came with an attitude you didn’t like. he was careless, didn’t take notes and always debated in the affirmative. he was novice at best, always trying to take you on in policy debates. at first it was easy to crush him, pointing out his ad populum fallacies and taking advantage of his lack of knowledge. he had it coming, challenging the best debater on the team. he refused to study so you threw the book at him each time, winning your debates with ease. people on your team always watched the arguments. they were ooo’ing and ah’ing as you two fought it out.

you couldn’t help but get even more upset at eunseok remaining nonchalant through every debate. even if he got hit with a penalty or his argument was rebutted he’d let it wash off him like rain, shrugging his shoulders before moving to the next topic. you wanted to best him, you wanted to see him break a sweat.

to your disliking he quickly improved. it was unfair, someone so uninvolved with debate coming in and learning everything with ease. it wasn’t long before he had you struggling to counter his arguments. when he first argued with you in a negative it filled you with rage. how did he get so good? it didn’t help that he swayed the lay judges, his confidence when speaking made the average person who didn’t know about policies believe that eunseok had the answers. his attitude didn’t just win over the lay judges, but also your team. he won them over quickly, they thought he was charismatic and funny.

it wasn’t long until he was voted to be the co-leader of the team and your individual events turned to public forum debates with eunseok as your partner.

“looks like we are going to be getting real close.” eunseok said, looking at your names side by side on the competition sheet.

you scoffed and rolled your eyes. you believe the debate gods had it out for you. everyone else on debate said that you two were the dream team and your probability of winning was high. your probability to win alone was higher, and eunseok would just drag you down.

“just don’t get in my way, eunseok.” you said.

you looked up at the man with the most hate you could muster in your body. you almost felt bad when you saw sadness wash across his face, but it was quickly replaced with his same nonchalant expression. he shrugged his shoulders and put his hand on your tense ones. you got indignant from his touch but he smirked.

“we will do well.” eunseok said simply.

no matter how much you hated to admit it, you two did make a good team. his confidence and talent for public speaking combined with your arguments you two were unbeatable. it wasn’t long before you took your team to nationals for the first time in your school’s history. it was becoming harder and harder to hate eunseok. it turned into a mild disliking that formed because of a misunderstanding. you were determined to keep up appearances, rolling your eyes when he would be mentioned or when he’d put his arm on your shoulder and call you ‘partner’. 

you started to think eunseok liked trying to piss you off. he would always be in your personal space, walking behind you through crowds of people, saying your name constantly, always having that teasing tone to his voice. he was also always stuck to you, following you everywhere especially at debate tournaments. he sat next to you on the bus, lifting up your headphones to talk to you directly in your ear.

“we’re here.” he said.

you snatched your headphones away from him and gave him your best glare. eunseok developed the nasty habit being annoying just to get a rise out of you. some of the only times you’d see him break the calm demeanor he had debating was when he’d smile after telling you a bad joke or stepping on the backs of your shoes. each time you rolled his eyes and he would place his hands on your shoulders. it seemed like his favorite place to be sometimes, shaking you lightly as you shrugged him off.

you get up from the front seat of the bus. your team progressively woke up from their naps. the drive was about an hour and a half. you saw your team yawn and stretch, looking for their things in the seat. you stretch too, turning around getting ready to read the itenerary and the list for debates today.

“everyone pay attention.” eunseok said from his seat beside you.

no one told eunseok to sit next to you on the bus. you assumed it became an unspoken rule, the leader and co-leader sitting side by side. you considered this to be a plus as well, just in case you wanted to go over anything with eunseok before the tournament. you two rarely spoke on the bus ride to competitions though. it would always be a surprisingly not awkward silence.

eunseok didn’t have to raise his voice to get everyone to listen to him. you envied that about him, his ability to command a room. all eyes are on you as you clear your throat. 

“okay everyone. first and foremost, happy debate day.” you say smiling

“happy debate day!” everyone says back it back to you in unison. 

everyone cheers and you look at the clipboard with the debate assignments.

“okay so for our IE’s we have giselle, yeji, and anton.”

eunseok watches you read off their names like a teacher doing roll call. giselle, yeji, and anton all give you a nod after hearing their name to show they heard you. eunseok watched as you went down the list of names on the paper, quickly scanning for to see who would be debating. eunseok lingered on your furrowed eyebrow for a split second before brushing a piece of hair out of his face.

“for our policy debates we have our freshmen duos eunchae bahiyyih and kyujin jiwoo. this is their first national competition ever.” you exclaim and so does the rest of the bus. everyone cheers for the four girls, sinking in their backseats giggling.

“it’s a busy day for all of us but if you can please sit in on their debate to silently cheer them on.” you emphasis silently to look at eunseok. 

he shrugs his shoulders and the bus giggles. how was he supposed to know he wasn’t allowed to clap after a good argument? 

“we have yunjin running as support so don’t be afraid to run your notes by her, especially our IE’s.” you say, pointing your hand towards yunjin.

yunjin raises her hand from her seat in the middle to show everyone where she is. you rack your mind trying to think what other operational things you can say. you tap tap the clipboard against your hand, trying to see if the sound can rattle your mind enough to remember other things.

“don’t be afraid to approach the senior members of the team if you need help. also please travel in pairs if you’re going to the restroom. lunch is at 12:30 in the cafeteria. we will also get our room assignments for the hotel tonight so please be don’t skip it. oh, and our sponsor and chaperones are here too, they just arrived a little earlier to set up. everyone has their numbers right?” you ask.

everyone on the bus gives you the affirmative. you set your clipboard down at your side, almost done with your piece.

“this is our first nationals our school has ever been to so lets have fun and let’s win.”

you say your final line expecting cheers. everyone on the bus smiles or looks at you expectantly waiting to say something. 

you’re about to ask what’s wrong until you see eunchae’s hand in the back row seat raise. you look to her and you can see several people holding back laughs. you look to your side and see eunseok’s shameless toothy grin.

“eunchae what’s up?” you ask. 

you hear little concealed laughs. eunchae does her best at hiding a smile from her face.

“who’s doing the public forum debate?” eunchae asks.

her four friends all laugh and you can feel your face getting hot. you clear your throat, trying to show you’re unbothered.

“oh. for our public forum debate it’s eunseok and i.” you say. 

you don’t know why you sound bashful, or why eunseok looks down with a smile on his face. you try to say not funny but your voice is drowned out when the bus erupts in ooh la la’s and almost paradise’s. you hide behind your clipboard and eunseok takes the lead, standing up beside you.

“don’t worry about us. we got this win, right partner?” eunseok asks. 

you shrug him off again as people file off the bus, taking their name badges from you. when it’s just you and eunseok left you nearly push him back down in the seat with the amount of force you put behind giving him his name tag. eunseok takes the tag silently and he moves backwards further into the bus so you can get off first.

“don’t feed into it, please.” you say. 

your eyes are trained on the clipboard, rereading names and debate times over and over again. eunseok walks behind you closely, like a mother watching her child walk through a parking lot. he picks up his speed so he can stand beside you. eunseok contemplates something, his normal pace of walking falters for only a second. he then speeds past you, joining the rest of the team as they enter the school building. you follow behind them, confused as to why your heart dropped when eunseok didn’t try to crack a joke at your expense. 

you watched him all day. your debate didn’t start until after lunch, so you served as a mentor for the other events happening before you. you gave the freshmen tips on what to say during a debate, knowing your arguments strengths and weaknesses to make your arguments more solid. they gathered in your information with open ears, running things they were going to say by you just to double check the validity of their arguments. you watched eunchae nod her head enthusiastically as she made notes in the margins of her clipboard. 

when you were done talking to them, you could see those same people going to eunseok. you wondered what they were talking about, until you saw eunseok show them posture and how to give facial expressions to help sway the lay men. in the middle of eunseok showing bahiyyih how to calm her nerves he looked up and locked eyes with you. any other time you would’ve rolled your eyes at eunseok, continuing with whatever you were saying. but this time you found yourself being cut off mid-sentence, suddenly looking down with a smile on your face.

because of your free schedule, you were able to go to almost all of the events your team was involved in. it started with the freshmen girls, kyujin and jiwoo went first. they did well, taking your advice on the notes you gave them. you watched them give good rejection speeches to the policy proposed by the other team. you knew the kyujin and jiwoo would do well, they both had siblings who were involved in debate. so when they won it didn’t come as a surprise. you gave them a big thumbs up from the back of the room and the at the pair smiled at you. when you got up to congratulate them, you saw that eunseok was sitting in the front of the debate hall. he must have been there for the whole thing.

you don’t know why it surprised you. eunseok was only competing in one event like you were, so he had all day free too. it just seemed like it was out of his character to sit in and cheer for another team, especially since you had asked the debate team to stop by if they could. you don’t know if it surprised you more that eunseok was listening attentively or that he came to the back of the lecture hall and sat by you while they got ready for eunchae and bahiyyih’s debate.

“don’t be nervous. they got this,” eunseok said. “they have a good teacher.”

you turned to look at him but he wasn’t looking at you. eunseok’s eyes were trained on the stage while volunteers set up the tables for the next debate. you smile and lean back in the seat.

“you get it.” you say smugly. 

you can practically hear eunseok roll his eyes at you. he laughs lightly and you smile too. you don’t know you smile, or why teasing eunseok makes you feel a little sheepish. you’re grateful that a few people come from your team and sit by the two of you. you can only watch the first half of the debate before you and eunseok have to leave for your public forum debate.

the team wishes you luck and you ask them to stay to cheer on eunchae and bahiyyih. they listen to you, saying they’ll join in the later half if possible. you nod and leave, eunseok following behind you closely. to exit the lecture hall you had to climb a few stairs. you tried to ignore eunseok’s presence behind you, his hand ghosting the small of your back ready to catch you if you fall. 

“i got it.” you said. 

your words didn’t have the usual bite they had. you sounded shy if anything. eunseok tsked behind you, his hand falling back slightly but still there.

“okay princess.” he says mockingly. 

the nickname is what causes you to almost trip over the steps as you exit the hall.

the trek to the debate hall is a quiet one. the silence wasn’t awkward, sometimes you preferred that so you could collect your thoughts before a debate. eunseok was the opposite—usually the chatty type. eunseok would be talking about random things not even pertaining to the debate and he would be pestering you with questions. it did help sometimes, easing the stress you felt. but this competition was important, so you wanted to lock in and focus.

eunseok watched you pace back and forth in the hallway. you would occasionally mumble something to yourself, probably some talking point you wanted to drill into your mind. eunseok reviewed all his notes the night before and on the bus ride while you slept. looking at his notes the day before helped him more than your method. he enjoyed watching you, though. the way you walked back and forth with your furrowed eyebrows, practicing your expressions. it was like eunseok was able to get a peak into your inner thoughts and the way your mind worked. over the course of the preseason he was able to learn some of your ticks as well. he saw you take your bottom lip between two fingers, a telltale sign that. you were nervous. 

eunseok cleared his throat, reminding you that he was there. you looked at him with a little bit of softness, waiting for him to say something. he loved when you looked at him with a little tenderness. eunseok would never admit he liked debating with you so much because in these moments he got to see you be a little bit vulnerable. the anxiety before a debate wore down your iron resolve just a little and eunseok basked in it.

“are you ready?” eunseok asked.

“i’m a little nervous. this determines if we advance in the season.” you said.

eunseok nodded his head knowingly. he didn’t want to make a big deal out of comforting you, afraid that if he was too comforting the soft look in your eyes would disappear.

“we got this. all preseason you crushed it.” eunseok said.

“could i have even done it without you?” you said. 

eunseok was taken aback by your words. you were never the type to vocalizes insecurity, especially when it came to debate. eunseok couldn’t stop his hand from going to your shoulder. your eyes grew wide before you got ahold of your expression, trying to seem as calm as possible.

“you absolutely destroy everyone in the district in independent events. i’m sure they have you in public forum so you can have more variety on your resume.” eunseok said.

eunseok watched the lightbulb go off in your head.

“i had never considered that.” you said queitly.

eunseok shrugged and took his hand off your shoulder, despite his mind begging him to keep it there. he put his hands in his pockets to ball his fists up.

“we got this. you are super smart and knowledgable about the topic.” eunseok says, face feeling hot.

before you can thank him, the assistant moderator comes outside. she motions you two into the debate hall.

the debate goes by smoothly. eunseok is the best at delivering opening statements. his tone and body language helps accurately portray what you want the audience and laymen understand. his opening statements also give you time to collect your thoughts, calming any anxiety you may have. although you were opposed to sharing the debate floor with someone, eunseok really does help calm you down. you find yourself leaning on him during some parts of the debate, and it’s comforting to see him lean on you too. you both truly do make an excellent team, coming together for the common purpose of winning. 

there’s some sort of tension that begins to build during the end of the debate. after refuting an inaccuracy in the opposing teams argument, you find yourself looking to eunseok so he can give you a look that says “good job”. you even let him challenge a claim and watching him proudly as he calls out a fallacy you would call him out for during practice. eunseok smiles each time you smile at him.

when you two are announced as winners eunseok pulls you into a hug. the relief from winning the first competition of the season has you hugging him back. when you two pull away it’s a little awkward. eunseok helps put the medal on your head and you helps him too.

you two leave the debate hall to your team waiting to congratulate you. they say they didn’t doubt you would win, and you smile at all of them. you smile extra hard at eunseok and the way he praises you in front of your whole team. you take a picture together, biting your medals like it’s made of real gold. you feel eunseok’s hand rest on the small of your back while taking the photo, and you let him wrap an arm. around you waist as you two hold up your pointer finger. 

if anyone in your team noticed the tension they say nothing. but you can feel it growing between the two of you. you both sit at a table helping the rest of the team with their events before lunch when giselle comes up to you. 

she asks for a spare clipboard, folders, and to bring the papers the printed from the copy machine. going into the storage room is something that only leaders of the team are allowed to do. it helps prevent overcrowding or people going into the storage room that aren’t supposed to. giselle also needs to go over everything with yunjin, running to grab supplies would just take away from her precious prep time.

“i’ll go with you,” eunseok says. “just in case you have trouble reaching something.”

in any other instance you would’ve given him your signature scowl and ignore him. you don’t know you laugh at the comment, no one at your table does. they look at you like you’ve grown an extra head, cracking a smile at one of eunseok’s terrible jokes. you get ahold of yourself and start walking away, letting him follow you.

eunseok follows behind you, reeling off the fact he made you laugh. the silence you two had was a little awkward now, and you silently curse yourself for laughing.

inside of the storage room is cramped to say the least. the archaic printer takes up a majority of the space, and an even older wooden table sits in front of it. you wait for the million papers giselle printed out in complete silence. eunseok’s height actually was useful, grabbing the folders and clipboard on the very top shelf.

“good job today.” eunseok says.

you look at him only for a split second before going back to looking at the papers come from the printer.

“you too, eunseok. you’re really good at pointing out fallacies now.” you say.

“well that’s all thanks to you.” eunseok says.

it’s so cramped in the storage room he hits something as he brings his hand to scratch the back of his neck. you smile and shake your head.

“no that’s all you. you’re a fast learner.” you say.

“only because you pushed me to be.” eunseok laughs. “i know you hate me for joining so late and you think i don’t care about debate but i worked really hard to be good at it because of you.”

eunseok doesn’t know why he’s rambling off at the mouth going crazy with praising you. he finally gets you to look at him from the printer though. you have that same soft look you had outside of the debate hall.

“i don’t hate you, eunseok.” you protest. “i thought you hated me because of what i said when you first joined.”

eunseok shakes his head and laughs a little 

“i was never mad about that. i understood where you were coming from completely.”

the printer finishes its job while you and eunseok look at eachother. you can’t believe you spent this whole time thinking he hated you while it was all a misunderstanding. you feel embarrassed now, after all the times you were mean to him for no reason.

“i’m sorry.” you say sincerely.

“me too.” eunseok says back.

you two are silent and you go back to looking at the copy machine. eunseok clears his throat and you look at him. his expression had changed from a sorry one to a smirk. he leans against the large table and crosses his arms.

“you know, this whole time i thought you were being mean. but was it just flirting?” eunseok says.

you visibly stiffen at his comment. you turn to him wide eyed and in shock, eunseok looks at you with his mouth slightly open, proud of the reaction he’s able to pull from you.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you say, still wide eyed. 

eunseok slowly closes the space between the two of you. you suddenly are very aware of everything about him. the way he looks down at you. his hands, his mouth, his eyes. he’s so close to you it leaves nothing to imagination.

“it’s okay. do you know why i joined the debate team?” eunseok says.

he’s right in front of you now, and you can smell his cologne. you never realized how tall he was as he looked down at you. you shook your head, trying to find your voice. eunseok cocks an eyebrow and you clear your throat.

“for college applications?” you say meekly.

eunseok shakes his head.

“why would i need anything else on my college application?” eunseok asks.

“i don’t know.” you said.

“i actually joined because of this girl on the team i wanted to get to know better. so unfortunate i didn’t have a single class with her after all these years.” eunseok says.

you sit there and stare at eunseok. he just confessed to joining the team solely to get to know you better. now all the doting and teasing makes sense, but you still can’t believe it.

you’re in disbelief still when eunseok puts his hand underneath your chin to tip your head upwards. you are in disbelief when eunseok puts his lips on yours. you don’t know what comes over you when you pull at the sleeves of his sweatshirt. you suddenly can’t get enough of him, you want him all over you. you want to hear him praise you a million times over. you want to hear him call you a princess again. you stick your tongue into his mouth and he does the same to you.

both of your minds and bodies operate at a million miles a minute, focused solely on feeling everything. eunseok pulls you in closer, arching his body over yours. it feels like he’s going to swallow you whole the way he towers over your frame. you feel like your set on fire when eunseok’s hand goes to your ass and you jump up. he catches you with ease.

your body’s bump into almost every structure in the storage closet. you can feel your back press against the large printer and you can hear it being bumped into as eunseok turns you around. his hand leaves your body for only a second while he clears things off of the table. you hear clipboards, papers, and other office supplies hit the ground as eunseok sets you on top of the table gently.

eunseok pulls away from your lips. he looks at you and you look at him. for just a second it is completely silent in the storage room as you two stare at one another. you see out of the corner of your eye eunseok’s chest is heaving. you both give the other a chance to leave, a chance to profusely apologize for kissing. you stay on top of the table and look at eunseok’s pouting lips, hoping he gets the hint.

eunseok brings you in again with his hand underneath your chin leading you. it is softer than the first time, eunseok looking at your lips before they connect. he instantly deepens the kiss and you guys fight for a second trying to decide who gets to lead the other. you relinquish control to eunseok when you can feel him mess with the waistband of your pants. you let him undo the belt and the buttons. you do the same to him, using your shaking hands to pull down the zipper of his dress pants.

eunseok’s slacks drop to his ankles the same time he puts his hand underneath the waistband of your panties. eunseok uses his free hand to pull you closer to the edge of the table, for better access to you. eunseok wastes no time and you don’t either, not even bothering to pull down his boxers. you both put your hands to eachother at the same time, gasping into the kiss. eunseok pulls away from the kiss to look down at you. his mouth is still slightly open and so is yours, letting out long sighs as you guys slowly figure out what the other wants. eunseok teases your folds and you wrap your hands around his twitching dick. you both give one more look, this is your last chance to pull back from him. eunseok sticks a finger in you and you start slowly stroking him. eunseok looks away from you first, muttering a curse word as he puts his face in the crook of your neck. he presses his lips to your neck and suddenly you want him to leave a mark. 

you turn your head to face his as you pick up the speed of your hand. everything is rushed and you want to go as far as you can before the severity of the situation hits you. eunseok must feel the same way because he puts another finger inside of you. 

“you smell so good.” eunseok says.

he still stays in the crook of your neck and other hand has moved to your back. eunseok’s hand on your back alternates between moving up and down, pulling you closer to him, and grasping at your clothes like he can’t decide how he wants to hold you. you just let out a tiny sigh in response to him, scared to speak. if you say something it might snap eunseok out of whatever trance he’s in right now, and you are selfishly enjoying the way he bends his fingers inside of you.

“you’re so pretty.” eunseok says.

eunseok’s compliment was so quiet you truly don’t think you were meant to hear it. you convince yourself that he is just saying things in the heat of the moment. you don’t say anything back to eunseok, just pick up the pace of your hand. 

you can hear the table shake and slightly give underneath your weight. the creaking sound of the table mixes with the sloppy sounds of eunseok’s fingers inside of you and the wet sound of you jerking eunseok. his precum makes the job easy, you can feel it coming from his tip and lubricating his shaft. his dick is thick and heavy in your hand. you stop the intrusive thought of wondering what his dick looks like inside of his boxers. you wonder if his dick is as hot as the sounds he’s trying to muffle in your neck. you never took him for the whiny type, his sighs and quiet moans coming out in a higher pitch. eunseok pulls himself away from your neck to look down between the two of you.

eunseok is enthralled by the sight. he has never seen anyone like you, he’s never felt anything like this. he would’ve never thought he’d be here, trying to coax pretty little moans from your throat using his fingers. he wants to show you how good he is at this, but the situation and the way you look at him makes his hands unsteady. he’s positive he’s missing your clit and failing to hit those spots deep inside of you. he wishes he could take your pants off to really get inside of you and to see it all. but for now eunseok settles for fighting against the fabric of your wet panties pressed to the back of his hand as he fingers you. when you bring your head into his chest and pick up the pace he becomes more confident, doing the same action over and over again until your quiet moans become more frequent. eunseok can’t hold back his smile when your free hand grips the bicep of the hand that’s inside of you, digging nails into his skin.

“keep going.” you say breathlessly.

eunseok doesn’t falter and seeing you experience pleasure heightens his own. he can feel himself getting harder in your hand.

“i’m close.” eunseok says.

“me too. please don’t stop.” you whine into his chest.

eunseok brings you even closer to the edge of the table and you clench around him. you’re so close that you prepare yourself to bury your head into his sweater vest so your moans can’t be heard outside. 

“fuck. just like that.” eunseok says.

you keep up the pace of your hand. your nails dig deeper into eunseok’s skin. his hold on your lower back tighten.

you still have eunseok in your hand and he still has his fingers inside of you when the alarm on your phone goes off. the sudden blaring sound rips you both out of your reverie, and eunseok nearly jumps away from you.

you and eunseok stay like that for only a moment. something in the air of the storage room shifts almost immediately as you both start comprehending the situation. both of your eyes widen as you look up at him and he looks down at you.

eunseok suddenly pulls his fingers out of you and you take your hand out of his boxers. your shaking hands bring the zipper of your pants up, and you can hear eunseok fumble with his slacks as he brings them back up to his waist. he moves in such a rush that he stumbles backwards, bumping into the copy machine. in any other situation you would’ve been laughing at him for being so clumsy. but now you have a mission of getting out as soon as possible, your face heating up unbelievably fast.

when your pants are on you hop off the table and grab your phone to turn off the alarm. you see several messages and calls from people on the debate team asking where you are and congratulations on your win.

“i have to go now before lunch starts.” you say.

“yeah.” eunseok says.

“i’ll see you there.” you say after a long pause.

“yeah.” eunseok says.

neither of you look at the other as your faces get even hotter. eunseok messes with his belt over and over again. you dust off your pants and adjust your clothes a million times. the tension in the closest is thick, you think you may choke on it if you don’t leave soon. you focus on everything but eunseok. you’re sure you look disheveled but it is the least of your worries. you can pop into a bathroom before heading to lunch.

you leave eunseok in the storage closet alone without looking back. the whole way to the bathroom you are looking behind you, making sure no one saw you go in there. 

eunseok doesn’t leave the storage room for another five minutes after you leave. the moment you closed the door behind you eunseok crouched down the floor trying to. figure out what the hell just happened. he was still throbbing in his pants and his fingers smelled like your heat. he was so incredibly confused and out of breath he had to spend time to regain his bearings. he set up his phone to fix his mussed hair and ruffled slacks. he cleans up the storage room too, grabbing the supplies giselle had asked for.

eunseok for some reason expected you to be outside of the storage room waiting for him. he swallowed what felt like a lump in his throat as he started making his way towards the cafeteria.

you try to eat the sandwiches brought to you by the chaperones but you are too focused on what situation you were in not even ten minutes ago.  you could only manage to take a few bites before you realized you’re not hungry. you let the people at your table pick off of your food like vultures.

you don’t even dare to try and look at eunseok from across the room. after coming from the bathroom he was already there, he must have came straight there after leaving the storage room.

your hand is still sticky from him and every time you move you get the faintest smell of eunseok. you can feel his scent all over you, lingering and ominous like a storm cloud. you pray no one else can see how flustered you are.

after lunch is over the team still remains to get room assignments. you are so checked out mentally you don’t know what’s happening until you hear your group start protesting about the arrangement.

“why do they get their own rooms?” you hear eunchae ask.

“because they’re the captains and senior members of the team. also you guys signed up for these rooms.” the chaperone says.

you and eunseok are the only ones taking a solo room. something about an uneven number of boys and girls and it worked out in your favor. you need to be able to have a room to yourself so you can pace around and think about what happened in that storage room. you take your keycard and a spare just in case, sliding it in your wallet. everyone in your team floats to who their assigned with for tonight.

“we have few more debates for the day, but everyones schedule is clear for the independent events. let’s all support the three competing in that event.” you hear your sponsor say.

after eating, everyone in your teams throws away the trash and cleans the table, leaving the space cleaner than when you two arrived. you end up falling behind the rest of the group as they head towards the debate room. you’re double checking to make sure all the tables are clean and nothing was left behind when you see eunseok walking right towards you. you desperately try to look busy, wiping nonexistent crumbs off the tables. in your mind, if you don’t see eunseok he won’t see you. but he does see you, he always has. 

eunseok comes up to you and you have no choice but to look at him. you get shy, focusing on the button up of his debate uniform. you are counting all the buttons on his shirt over and over again when you feel him slide something in the back pocket of your pants. you look up ti him with wide eyes, and his demeanor is calm. 

“if you want to talk about what happened lights out is at 8:30. i’m in room 31.” eunseok says to you.

you don’t even get the chance to say anything to him. as soon as he’s done talking he’s gone, jogging to catch up with the rest of the debate team. you stand at the table frozen solid. when you reach to your back pocket you can feel the undeniable shape and feel of a plastic keycard.

it was going to be a long night.

#requestz #01zfan: eunseok #seriez: argue with you #riize smut #eunseok smut

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

wc: 19K

From: [email protected]  To: [email protected]  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: [email protected]  To: [email protected]  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: [email protected]  To: [email protected]  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: [email protected]  To: [email protected] 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: [email protected]  To: [email protected]  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: [email protected] To: [email protected] Cc: [email protected] 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: [phone] Do not call unless you are dying. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

From: [email protected]  To: [email protected]  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: [email protected]  To: [email protected]  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: [email protected]   To: [email protected]  Cc: [email protected]; [email protected] 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: [email protected]  To: [email protected] 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!

#bnha x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #mha x reader #aizawa x reader

[paper-mario-wiki]

What was one of your favorite experiences when living in japan? Would you ever go back to visit or live there again? How did you go about moving there in the first place, were you part of a program or get accepted to a university there? (just curious. I think it's interesting to learn about other cultures but 10+ years on tumblr has rotted my brain a little to make me worry about crossing a line into like... cultural appropriation somehow even just by asking? When you lived there i imagine it was really lax and people were happy to share their culture, right?)

Visiting a small primary school up in the mountains and sitting with the kids, as well as other members of my class who came from all over the world, and explaining what we learned in school about World War II. Hearing how the narrative shifted when taught by different countries curriculum was a very enlightening experience, not because of what I learned about WWII, but because of what that taught me about internationalism.

I plan on moving back to Japan in the next 5 years.

I was not in any program, my schooling stopped in highschool when I dropped out halfway through my junior year, and then 3 years later I applied to one university (Doshisha) and was accepted.

From when I was 8 to when I was 16 I wouldn't ever let myself watch anime. I was so extremely interested in Japan, and I was horrified that if I ever watched anime and anyone found out they'd reduce my interest to being a weeaboo and nobody would ever take me seriously, and that thought was terrifying to me. The idea that nobody would ever listen to me talk about something I loved was an isolating concept, and so I staunchly refused to watch it. And then one day, while I was down at the barn refilling a bucket of water for the horses to drink out of, a though occurred to me:

"Wait a minute. Anime is just cartoons. Why can't I watch cartoons?"

Enjoying another culture is not cultural appropriation. Cultural appropriation is taking culture that is not meant to be taken lightly and bastardizing it. Fetishization is when you put certain cultures onto pedestals.

Being fascinated in a culture means doing your best to understand and appreciate the human element of it. In the fetishization of cultures we tend to see, the humanity is sucked out of it, and that creates two things:

The product, which is the misrendered perception of the culture.

The "Other", which is the people of that culture who have been turned from humans to characters for the fetishizer to gawk at.

Please, with all of your heart, love cultures. Be fascinated with people who are dissimilar to you, or even grow more interested in your own culture! Just do your best to love the brightest parts of humanity every day.

#The Man With No Face

[krewekreep]

2.6K Words. College AU, Study Partner to Lovers AU, GoldenRetriever!BF, Dumbo Hot Boy needs study help.

When he is the kid in school who just can’t keep up. And not for trying but the fact for whatever reason school just isn’t on his side. You end up being in the class he has the most struggle in. The professor now avoids him cause of all the after class conversation and visits to office hour. He’s more endearing than annoying but his persistance gets grating. He watched over time as you’d receive your results and praise yourself silently. Over time he became curious how well you actually had to be doing for the professor to always smile happily at your raised hand and responses. He began to sit behind you and almost laughed aloud in self contempt seeing your Canvas sitting with a huge 98% in the center. That meant every class you could’ve been signed up for you were practically ace-ing. He knew it best to seek further assistance and the bounce of your breasts at continually doing well made his dick harden the slightest. He mustered up the strength after class and fumbled his way into a conversation you were having with other classmates, shyly scratching the back of his head agreeing with the displeased about how hard it seemed to get higher scores.

He mentioned he just seemed to continually get stuck on three of the topics closest to mid-terms. The defeat in the fall of his head and his almost eerie stare at the ground made you pity him. “Hey, I know that’s stressful, I’ve been doing pretty well with those parts of the curriculum and I’m down to study with you if you wanted?” His entire demeanor switches. “Really!?” He’s a glowing bubbly awkward mess and a flush rises up your neck. You quickly turn into your phone pulling up your messaging app. “Here. Just give me your number and we’ll coordinate a time, okay?” When you look up to pass your phone his smile is ear to ear, eyes squinted, and his hair bouncing. Golden Retriever. Your stomach almost explodes. You shake away the growing feelings of a crush at first site. And lowkey thank whatever God made him this bad at the class work.

When you met up it was the Friday of the same week you both agreed to become study partners. Both of you a bit eager to become acquainted. When you arrived at the library he was leaned against the wall near the entrance asleep. You were able to absorb his physique more with his height extended and his arms crossed. His loose t-shirt flexed around his biceps and torso. You couldn’t say you ever paid much attention to him before but you kinda kicked yourself he had been sitting in class for so long, looking this good, struggling while your ace-ing, and only now you saw the opportune time to see what he was about. You walked up to him and he must’ve sensed you somehow because before you could say anything he slowly opened one eye and stretched groaning loudly as his shirt rose to show his hip bones, lower abs, and belly button. Oh wow.

You guys walked to the study room he reserved and for the first couple sessions you guys just got to know each other and where he had the most trouble. He began to get the hang of things and you realized he’s just the type who has to be more confident in his knowledge. You learned he was an athlete on scholarship and didn’t come from much. He really had had only himself especially for critical moments of development. Everything you learned of him made his frustrated chuckles, flurry of apologies, and tendency to glance over at you for approval all the more heart-melting.

He became your little student. Obedient and ever willing to make you as happy as you wanted. You were never the kind to indulge in that behavior, it seemed belittling and mean. Yet, a sliver of dominance would color your tone when you corrected him. When he’d get too many in a row wrong (more times than not simply his nervousness or psyching himself out) you would reprimand him with a soft hit of your pen against his hand. The little twitch of his fingers turned you on and he wouldn’t admit your commitment to his improvement made him want to prove himself to you more. You weren’t known for initiating much of anything but his willing and nervous energy was something of a turn on you unlocked the more you toyed with him. He got another answer wrong and you both know he knew it. Teasingly you said, “Now you know you know this,” reaching for his thigh and giving it a soft but assertive squeeze. He jumped and his leg began to shake uncontrollably. You laughed aloud at him and he flushed red. “I’m- im sorry.” You rubbed his thigh and his leg was over the moon. You leaned your head into your free hand pouting at him. “Now how are you supposed to pass if you keep doubting yourself?”

Although you were sending him sultry eyes you had to hold your gaze against his as it was no longer nervous or self-conscious. They were lidded and low, peering what seemed farther into you than you could ever do to him. Your stomach rattled and you wanted to falter but without a word he closed the distance with kiss. You gasped a bit before he met your lips and the gap was enough for him to solicit your tongue which you gave him eagerly. Both you wrestled in your seats fighting for dominance until he became frustrated with the conflict. He grabbed your legs firmly lifting them enough be on either of his sides. It caused you to need to support yourself so you wouldn’t fall back. With your hands busy, he pulled you flush to his lower abdomen. You were warm and slightly dazed. His grip on your lower thighs sent hot pulses to your pussy. He was as eager as you letting his grip move closer to your ass. You don’t know how far it would’ve gone had it not been for the attendant that loudly and profusely knocked on the glass showing the both of you to the rest of the lounge. You hid your head in his shoulder as he laughed sheepishly pulling the blinders down. Without a word you packed your things and left together. You weren’t ashamed just embarrassed (and kinda still in the mood). You got a few blocks away before he burst into laughter. You joined him. And as the air cleared he looked over at your disheveled clothes. “Hey,” his dick grew hard (never really went soft) when your doll eyes looked up at him all lusty. “Back to your place?”

After that every study session was had in your respective dorm rooms. Always ending in fucking each other brainless. He was loud and a bit clumsy but you’d come even harder once his thrusts knew how to hit your core bringing you to loud crescendos that made your roommates make last minute plans every time either of you walked through the door. Neither of you had much experience (and for him lowkey too many weird ones) so you ended up studying how to fuck too. His confidence grew immensely as you praised him for how good he fucked you. “Baby—Ah,” your hips rocked together seamlessly. He had a bad habit of staring right into your face wanting to soak in every bit of how gone he had you. “You feel so good. Please keep fucking me like this.” You threw your head back as your pussy began to tingle building towards an orgasm you wanted to achieve badly. “Oh my—please.” His moans grew louder but his gaze on you never wavered. “Tell me how good I feel beautiful.”

He slowed down to position his hips so his dick drove the farthest he had ever been. You yelped clawing into his upper back. “Too much?!” But before he could shift to anything softer you bounced against him. Different feeling than when he moved as your pussy felt sweet gliding up and down his cock. A shock of pleasure caused you to lightly convulse and his abs flexed inwardly so hard it seemed it hurt. “Relax baby.” You repositioned widening your legs, accepting the spread of his girth as your pussy muscled around him abundantly wet and barely able to keep him in. “I got you.” You took hold of his face bringing him into a kiss as you rocked up and down on him. He met your thrusts with his own and a sloppy sound filled the room as he became so undone his groaning and pleading almost drowned you out. “Baby doll I need to cum.” He sounded so innocent and ready. “I really need to cum—uh,” his pace almost stalled as his arms shook, his waist buckled, and he shot his load into you. Feeling his cum squirt all in you made you claw into his back. His cum was so warm it made you feel full and visceral. He went to pull out but you halted him “Baby, can we cuddle?” He beamed so hard at you. “You don’t want me to pull out?” He felt concerned about any roughness and the elephant in the room of him not using protection. “Eh,” you shrugged. “We already have been pretty irresponsible, and I like feeling you in me. Youre…still hard?” He and his entire face and neck went red. “It’s okay,” you laughed. “But I am a bit worn out.”

“Of course, I’m just—I really like this…thing we have going on.” He hid his face with his hair at the admission, turning away futilely. Neither of you mentioned labels out of a deep fear of rejection, only really stalling the inevitable. But in this moment you pulled him to your chest. He had to pull out a bit to readjust and upon inserting himself to the hilt both of you began to slowly rock back. You really did want him again but a sliver of pain pierced you. Your face contorted and he stopped again immediately. “I’m so sorry Y/N.” This time he did pull out, slowly. And pulled you into a cuddle where your head rested on his arm and you felt the fullness of his pillow-like muscle. You began to drift to sleep pretty soon after. Before finally succumbing to your exhaustion he whispered against your neck: “Thank you for everything.” His breath low indicating he also was soon about to fall asleep. “I’ll let you keep me warm another time.” He placed a kiss to the back of your neck sending a sensitive ripple of pleasure through you. You hummed in agreement then you both, bare and fulfilled didn’t awake until his early practice alarm went off.

Midterms came and went. There was no doubt in your mind both of you passed but he sat nerve wracked until the results came in. Not only did he pass he had actually scored higher than you. He felt guilty that you spent so much time worrying about him you didn’t focus on yourself because you obviously deserved the better grade. Upon telling you this you grabbed him by the wrist without a word and led him into a bathroom towards the end of the building. You knew that hey if it wasn’t occupied there’d only be one or two people and you didn’t quite care at all. You brought him into the empty bathroom (thankful something somewhere was okay with you getting your rocks off) and into the farthest, largest stall. He did nothing but submit the entire time and only yelped when you set him against the wall, untying his sweatpants. He grabbed your arm when he saw you beginning to kneel but you looked up at him with an intensity that scared him in the sluttiest way possible. He then assisted you pulling his attire down until his cock somewhat swung up hitting him against his lower sternum. His length was intimidating but you gleefully took him into your mouth.

Although your first time you asked your friends and watched videos. Practicing was a bit embarrassing but you ended up getting into it thinking how well you’d draw all of him into your mouth. You were so excited you had to remember to watch for your teeth but surprisingly he muttered “Mmm what the Fuck. Bite me baby.” You had to swallow a genuine laugh cause this man was really weird sometimes. But you flattened your tongue against the bottom of your mouth bobbing your head with an amateur but passionate pace. “Hey,” you looked up to him peering at you with lust consumed eyes. “Can I help you? Put your hands on my thighs.” You put your hands on either of his thighs, shifting your kneeling to a squat. “Smart girl.” He set his hand reassuringly against the back of your head, leaning his hips up from the wall so his dick was more comfortably set for you. Given he had an angle he knew better than you that continually hitting your cheek like that might become bad feeling. “Take your time, I can be quiet.” With one hand on the back of your head and the fingers on his other hand lovingly gripping either side of your chin he guided you with a knowing pace. He choked on his moans but never broke eye contact.

Something in you expanded as you felt bold enough to reach a hand under to cup his balls. “Waa-where did you learn that?!” You paid him no mind determined to bring him to climax. You’re awkward relationship developments seemed to always lead to public displays of affection. You were especially dismissive towards shame once your eyes soaked up enough of his image, it was almost compulsive how dire you had to get him between your fingers. You finally defeated him as his head fell back and his eyes shut. His Adam’s Apple bulging and flexing as his grip tightened in your hair. You knew he was about to cum. So you bobbed on him with more intensity, letting his tip meet the back of your mouth entering your throat the slightest bit. He became an undone mess of moans. “Y/N you feel so fucking good. So fucking—“ his breath hitched when a rougher mindless thrust had him slip down and gag you ever so slight. A sensation to gag was overcome as he soon came filling the bathroom with expletives and thank you’s.

When you released with a loud pop of your mouth, you looked up at eyes that declared you owned him now. He pulled you up surprisingly aggressive slipping his tongue into your mouth sharing his taste with you. “We need to get out here.” He says with a dark glint in his eye. He threw his hoodie over your head and walked out as if it was nothing. The girls in the bathroom could only snicker and blush, confused and jealous at the hot boy hiding you from exposing yourself. Once out of the bathroom and outside he tells you to keep his hoodie until he sees you again. He kisses you on the forehead. “Umm,” he says rubbing the back of his head. “So we are like? Dating now, right?”

Who: DENJI, NARUTO, Jean, Tamaki, YUUJI, CHOSO, ARMIN (I think him more nervous if anything ), ICHIGO + any other sweet idiots.

#x black fem reader #black fem reader #denji x black reader #denji x reader #yuuji x black reader #yuuji x reader #tamaki suoh #tamaki suoh x reader #tamaki suoh x black reader #x black reader #jjk x black reader #csm x reader #ichigo x black reader #ichigo x reader #naruto x reader #naruto x black reader #aot x black reader #aot jean #divider by cafekitsune #jjk choso #choso x reader #choso x black reader #armin x reader #armin x black reader #aot armin #kinktober #krewekreep

[after-witch]

Bonded [Platonic Yandere L x Sibling Reader]

Title: Bonded [Platonic Yandere L x Sister Reader]

Synopsis: Being L 's younger sibling sucks.

Word count: 1700ish

notes: platonic yandere, abusive sibling dynamic, L is an asshole; reader is a younger (adult) sibling

“Why do you have to go away? You just got back.”

L doesn’t answer. He scrapes his thumb across his lip and continues typing, clicking, mesmerized by whatever new assignment has been sent his way. 

It was always like this. It seemed that anytime your brother got back, he was sent out again. Always needed, always being pulled by a million different people in directions you couldn’t even fathom. And you were here, at Whammy’s, stuck and lonely and increasingly pissed off.

You suck in your cheeks, gnawing lightly on the inside of your mouth, taking in a bit from behind your lips, a bit on the side of your cheek. Your teeth work the flesh over and over, not hurting, but pressing down.

 A familiar habit, ingrained from a young age, something that simultaneously soothes you without actually disappointing the growing frustration, anger, resentment in your belly. Maybe it doesn’t soothe you at all, you muse. Maybe it’s just a way to shut yourself up so you don’t say something you can’t take back.

“You’ll get blisters inside your cheeks again,” he says, glancing at you and looking away just as quickly. 

It’s nothing new for him to barely pay attention to you when he’s on assignment, and it’s nothing new for you to clamor for more of that attention.

Life was unfair and he was unfair, but you played into the bullshit anyway, because you didn’t know how else to live.

So you let your voice take on a muffled tone, annoyed, childish. You want him to tell you to stop acting like a kid. You want him to sigh and slam his laptop shut and ask you what’s wrong. You want him to just look at you, talk to you, damn it, for more than a few seconds. 

“So what?”

You cross your arms over your chest, playing the petulant child. It’s what you feel like--what you’ve always felt like--in his presence. Like some dumb little thing, stupider than him, smaller than him, less than him.

He doesn’t even look at you this time, his fingers flying on his keyboard, the clacking sound irritatingly familiar at this point. “They’ll sting when you eat food, and you hate gargling salt water to heal them, so I’ll have to make you do it.” He twists his mouth into something like a pout, but you can’t tell if it’s aimed at you or whatever he’s reading on the screen. 

“I’m not using salt water, even if I get blisters,” you say, jutting your chin outwards. You’ve been reading too many novels, clearly, and everything feels like it has a practiced air. You’re a player in a theatrical performance, and you can’t tell if L is the audience or a fellow actor or maybe he’s the director, cooling pulling the strings behind the curtain. 

He glances at you again, then resumes typing. “Then you can be grounded to your room for a week. No TV. No books.”

Your lips curl even further. “You can’t ground me. I’m an adult. You’re just being an assh--”

He does look at you this time, and it’s that stare that you know too well. The I’m-older-than-you stare, the I’m-in-charge-of-you stare. The stare that he gives when you ask to attend real university and not some in-house curriculum; the look that he gives you when you ask to move out of here, to get your own place, when you bring up the fact that you’re a grown-fucking-adult but you’ve never had any life experiences outside of motherfucking Whammy’s House and you’re losing your mind.

Your eyebrows furrow.  Your cheeks flush hot, shame rolling around in your gut. Then your arms uncross and you huff, throwing yourself backward on the bed, landing on your pillows. Two plush, soft things, a stark contrast to the uniform firm pillows normally issued at Whammy’s.

L hated those pillows, and so did you, and it was one of the first things he secured for you once it was clear that the two of you were going to stay. That, you tell yourself, is a sign that he cares about you. 

But it doesn’t make you feel any better right now. 

“Don’t breathe so loud,” L says, suddenly, voice lilting enough to eat away at your resentments. “Please. You’ll distract me.”

You resist the urge, only barely, to throw a pillow at his head. 

--

Later that night, L puts away the computer and the phone. He murmurs something to someone in the hallway before slinking into your bedroom, watching as you finish your nighttime routine, peeling back the covers and crawling into them.

You look at him. He doesn’t make to leave, like he sometimes does, when he’s too busy.

He raises an eyebrow.

You open the covers, and say nothing more. 

In a few moments, he crawls into bed. 

Familiar warmth, familiar smells, familiar touch. You nestle yourself in the crook of his arm, automatically. You do this, even if you’re mad. Or especially when you’re mad, sometimes.

“The nest,” you used to call it, when he was young and you were younger. A safe place you could go when everything was overwhelming and the world was too cold and dark, and the only thing that made you feel at home was your brother’s arms. 

Back when it was mostly just you and him. No legions of would-be successors, wanna-bes,  hangers-on, vying for scraps of his attention. No stony-faced men in suits letting you know that he wouldn’t be returning home (if this could be called “home,” and you certainly wouldn’t call it that) for another few months and no, he couldn’t call, but they’ll pass on your message. No eccentrics with monikers of N and M and every letter under the sun making you wonder what would happen if you L did die, where would you be, who would you turn to? 

Back when he felt like your big brother, and nights like this--in the same room or the same bed, falling asleep together, words murmured until you fell asleep, always before him--were the norm. And not the rarity that they are now. 

And truth be told, it still makes you feel safe to be nestled there. That’s what really hurts the most. It would be better, easier, if you hated him. If you resented him so much that you wanted nothing to do with him. 

Instead, you’re like a moth beating its wings senseless against a light that only sometimes turns on. Useless and pointless but at least, sometimes, once in every fucking while, you got what you wanted. 

“L?” You ask, your voice partially muffled from your position curled next to him. You’re sleepy, but you know he won’t be. He sleeps even less than he used to, and that’s saying something. 

“Mm?” 

It takes so, so much of you to ask him this point blank. You wonder if he knows this, that being so candid is like stripping yourself bare in front of the entire world. Which he might as well be, for you. 

“Will you take me with you, this time?” Your fingers curl tightly on his shirt. “I hate being here by myself.”

He breathes out a quick little snort, enough to rustle your hair. His arm tightens around you. 

“How can you hate being here by yourself, when you’re not by yourself? There’s--”

You know he’s about to list every single damn person at this stupid facility. You know them all, and you hate them all. Well… most. 

(You could, if pressed, admit that Matt was tolerable in medium doses. But you’d never admit that to your brother, for reasons you couldn’t quite articulate. Sometimes you imagine the look on his face if you were to tell him that you hung out with Matt, actually, and he seemed--what? Nice? Funny? Interesting?) 

Your fingers tighten further. Tears choke your throat. 

“You know what I mean,” you whisper, tight, pained. 

You’re not so different from the others at Whammy’s, you know. They crave his attention more than anything and God help you, so do you. A look, a glance, a shared memory. Something to remind you that you’re alive and he’s your brother and you’re together, by blood and everything else. 

Yet it’s always there--

The push and the pull. 

Wanting to be near him and wanting to get away, break out, smash down the box you’re kept in and make a life for yourself. A life where you’re not “L’s sister.” A life where whispers don’t follow you in the halls, where expectations aren’t simmering in the air, heavy and unwanted. 

Where you don’t feel like your big brother is some unknowable figure, always out of reach, yet unwilling to either pull you entirely into himself or let you free. 

Sometimes you wonder… what kind of life could you have without L? He’s all you’ve ever known. There is not a single memory in existence in which he has not been a part of it. If he did let you leave, if you did get the nerve to make some great daring escape, what would become of you?

Maybe you were nothing without him, without those whispers, without the pedestal that you’re forced to stare up at whenever you think about him. 

The thought makes you want to wretch.

He hums, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You were clenching his shirt so hard that your fingers ache, and you flex them.

“Well?” You ask, voice dull.

You know he’s not going to take you with him before he speaks. Quiet tears slip down  your cheeks, and you feel dumb. But he doesn’t tease you for them, at least. There’s that.

“Maybe next time,” he says, and pats your back. Time to get to bed. He barely slept, but that didn’t mean he would let you stay up late. Or watch too much TV. Or leave Whammy���s for somewhere new. 

Disappointment weighs you down, but then, doesn’t it always? You swallow the prickles in your throat. 

“Then just… don’t be gone a long time, okay?” 

You sigh, letting yourself relax back into his arms. Into the nest. Into some remnant of childhood where you felt comfortable and safe. You push away all thoughts of leaving, of resentments, of the fact that your life is only something like fulfilled when your brother designs to visit. You stay there until you fall asleep, dreams gray and bleary, disconnected thoughts that are rarely worth remembering. 

Against your hair, L smiles. 

#yandere l lawliet #yandere death note #platonic yandere #yandere #yandere x reader #afterwitch writes #just a lil thing I wrote on my phone

[fariesoiree]

caution! mdni 13k wrdz, best friend's bother!hobie x black fem! reader, hobie is twenty one, reader is 19, small town in the country, everyone knows everyone, a very brief moment of angst, reader is jealous, misunderstanding troupe (?) but quickly resolved, crybaby reader, kitchen sex w/people in the house, unprotected sex, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus, p in v sex, unprotected sex, facial, cum eating, open ending

miffy's note! this took me like two weeks to write which is so much faster than every other fic i’ve written in a while. i knowwww she has a lot of words but she is my baby and I hope everyone loves her as much as I do. enjoy <3 pls do not spam like my blog if you enjoyed it, feel free to tell me in the reblogs

there’s a waxy smell in the freshly opened soda shop, one that reminds you of the shiny tiles that line the floor of the high school you graduated from, the high school most people graduated from.

highbury high, smack dab in the middle of highbury hills. it’s the only high school for miles, operating on a set curriculum and generic uniforms. fits right in with the small town vibe.

“do you know what you want?” your long-time friend, maise, glances over at you. she’s a darling thing, curly hair braided into pigtails and tied with two white ribbons. her arms are crossed over her stomach, clothed in a white tank top just barely cropped. “there’s so many options, i can’t decide.”

you sniff, eyes glazing over the yellow tinted menu. your tongue skims over your lips, getting a taste of the vanilla flavored lip gloss. “i dunno. i don’t even think i want anything. i’m too nervous, like i’m gonna throw up.”

maise’s deer shaped eyes find yours in sympathetic understanding. “aw, honey. it’ll be okay. it’s been years, now. i doubt he even remembers.” her hands massage the kinks out your tense shoulders in a tight grip. “you were a kid, anyway.”

“yeah, maybe.” you offer a small smile in return. you find you’re disinterested in the menu, stomach rolling in its queasiness for the anticipated scenario. “i still don’t think i want anything. i don’t think i could keep it down.”

maise just shrugs and orders a rootbeer float for herself. she gets your anxiety but she’s never been the best at helping you through your emotions, even more so when she can’t relate. maise doesn’t have an older brother, not one with an attractive best friend that she used to have a crush on as a child.

with the acrylic, milkshake cup settled between the fingers of your friend, you both move towards the booths surrounding the perimeter of the retro-styled shop.

it’s really, very cute. quaint with pop music softly wafting from the speakers and a red, white, and blue theme consistent throughout. america’s sweetheart is what this place is known as, although you prefer to think it’s talking about a better, more ethical version of the country.

“you have to admit it’s kind of exciting, though.” despite your claims, maise still pops a second straw into the float and settles the cup between you. “i mean, your brother and hobie are coming home today and you haven’t seen hobie in like, two years. the last time anyone saw him was on graduation day, right? and then he packed up and left town. and your brother! he kept contact this whole time and didn’t tell anyone? doesn’t that bother you a little bit?”

you wait until she’s retreated to grab the straw between your thumb and pointer finger and tap a long, drawn out sip. the sugary sweetness does nothing to quell your nerves but it gives you time to come up with a response. “mm, not really. hobie is quen’s friend. plus, everyone knew he was gonna skip town. he didn’t like it here and he made that very clear.”

although your words convey otherwise, there’s a small seed of discomfort in your tummy. it would have been nice to keep you in loop, especially since you were under the impression that you and hobie were somewhat acquainted with each other. after all, he’s been good friends with quentin since elementary school and has known you for just about the same amount of time.

“okay but you’re not even curious? not even a little?” maise tilts her head inquisitively, lips drawn in a pout. “hobie is coming home after being gone for two whole years and you don’t care at all.”

“i didn't say i don’t care, mai. i do care and it's nice that he’s stopping by for a visit but let’s be serious, it’s hobie. in all the years we’ve known him, when has he ever committed to anything?” you turn your gaze towards your baby pink nails, shiny and just long enough to clack against your phone when you text. “i don’t want you to get excited over a summer romance that hasn’t even happened and won’t happen. we’re friends and barely that. his loyalty is with quen.”

you can feel the change in the atmosphere the longer you sit in silence. you’re hesitant to look her in the eyes and find a sudden interest in the condensation trickling down the side of the glass.

“uh huh. so if you feel all of that, why are you nervous? you don’t like hobie anymore, and he owes you nothing. what’s the problem then?” she rests her cheek in the palm of her hand, supported by the elbow resting on the table.

instead of answering her question, your hand smacks down against the table. it echoes in the empty room, filled by only you two and mr. terry, the owner of the shop.

“you know what, i have to go. it’s almost three and quen should be home soon. you know how punctual he is.” you grab your purse and sling the strap over your shoulder.

“chicken!” maise points a finger at you. she’s glowing with a toothy grin while watching you prepare to bolt for the door. “you can’t avoid it forever, honey.”

you brush off her comment with a hug and a wave. “whatever. love you. i’ll call you tonight with the details, maybe. bye!”

you all but run out of the shop, white sundress blowing with the opposing force of your movement. it’s not quite three o’clock yet but leaving is better than letting maise interrogate you further. she’s a riot but she got you pinned up against the wall and there’s nothing fun about being forced to answer her questions and face the music you’ve been tuning out for weeks. at least now you’d have some time to freshen up before the great arrival.

by the time you’re finished primping and set the hot curler down to refresh your styled silk press, you can hear the engine of your brother's lexus rolling into the driveway.

you lean forward and tug the curtains back in a firm grip to peak out into the driveway. between you and quentin, you received the larger room with the connected bathroom and it offered a perfect view of the front yard. said view is particularly handy for times like these.

you watch the driver door pop open, breath hitched in your throat and refuse to make any movements until you get the answers you're looking for.

a polished sneaker makes its appearance and becomes stationed on the white pavement. a body follows, tall and stocky and unlike the statuesque frame you’re subconsciously excited about.

pushing yourself even more to your feet and across the expanse of your vanity, you flick the latch of your window until it clicks to signal its unlocked. you push it up with such force that it soars much farther than you anticipated but that’s the least of your concerns right now.

“quentin!” you yell from your bedroom with a wide smile and a vigorous wave at your older brother below you.

your voice gets his attention and he snaps his head in your direction. “ ☆ !” he mirrors your expression, arms open wide in a hug as if he expected you to fly down into his embrace. he bumps the car door closed with his side. “i’m coming up.”

quentin’s words don’t stop you from flinging your door open, running down the stairs, fingertips grazing the wooden railing as you go. to some it may seem odd to be so cheery over the reappearance of your sibling but he’s your best friend, a staple part of your life to which you’d be lost without. if you aren’t running to the front door to see him, then there’s clearly a problem.

he’s already in the entryway, though, and peeling off his jacket to hang in the coat closet. the pittering of your feet long alerted quentin of your presence so he’s not shocked when you’re throwing yourself at him. “jeez, girl. did you eat a whole cow? you’re strong as shit.” his arm comes to wrap around your back and become settled between your shoulder blades.

“shut up,” you roll your eyes in return and separate yourself from him. you give him a once over, from the two strand twists at the top of his head, across the gray nike tech, and to the pristine white laces of his shoes. “wow, you really don’t look like you belong here anymore. that’s crazy, quen. you’re all grown up.”

“yeah well,” he pushes the closet door closed, waiting for its creaking hinges to silence before continuing his sentence, “gotta get out of this town someday. not you, though. you can stay. it suits you.” quentin’s eyes are filled with a brotherly fondness while giving you a similar once over. “where’s ma?”

you follow him to the bathroom to watch him wash his hands. “at work. dad, too. told me to text them when you get home but, uh, where’s all your stuff?”

quentin flicks his wrists into the sink and side-steps you. he rounds the corner to enter the kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge and popping it open. “oh, it’s at hobie’s place. i figured i’d leave the extra shit there since he has his own crib. do you know what mom’s making for dinner?”

you’re still trailing behind him, now leaned against the countertop with your arms crossed over your chest. when you’re face to face with the source of your turmoil, it’s hard to pretend it doesn’t exist. “so he really is back in town, huh.” it's not a question with the way you say it, staring at your fluffy sandals designated for wearing inside the house.

“mhm. forgot how talkative people here are. news spreads fast.” he pulls out a container of last night's leftovers and sets it beside you, already closing the fridge and moving on to find a plate. when his eyes find their way back to you, he’s surprised to see you glaring at him. “why are you looking at me like that?”

“because i’m a little upset that you didn’t tell me he was coming home. i get it if he didn’t want to draw attention to himself but it’s just me. i thought we were all cool.”

“we are all cool. it just slipped my mind, swear.” quentin bounces around the kitchen. he’s still engaged in your conversation though his sole focus is getting some food in his system but every now and then, he’ll glance at you while scooping fried rice onto a plate. “i didn’t intentionally not tell you. i just had a lot to do with the packing and the whole coming home thing. plus, you just finished your first year of college so i didn’t think you’d care so much. which you also still have to tell me how it went,” he puts the fork in his mouth and sticks the plate in the microwave.

“quentin,” you’re tempted to stomp your foot, no matter how childish it will come across.

“i didn’t exclude you on purpose, ☆ . i forgot and i’m sorry. next time, i’ll tell you as soon as i know.”

you’re somewhat pacified with his response, tossing his words over and over in your head until your concerns are soothed and the gloomy feeling dissipates. “fine but you have no idea what i had to go through with maise today. i swear she had all these theories and speculations about what its going to be like that i could have avoided if you told me.”

the microwave beeps, ringing its alarm that the timer has finished all throughout the kitchen. quentin is quick to take out his steaming plate and make his way towards the table with you still in tow. “oh, maise! how is she? i haven’t seen her in a minute.”

“she’s good. good grades, likes her college, majoring in child development. who cares, though. i want to know about hobie. it’s been two years.” you sit next to him, even going as far as pushing the chairs closer as if the topic needed it, as if hobie is a taboo subject.

“he’s great. he’ll be by later, said he wanted to stop by and see you and then he has to make his rounds.” quen shovels a forkful of food into his mouth. he’s eyeing his plate with an almost blank stare. you’re too close for him to feel comfortable looking at you, expectantly. as if he’s going to drop some big news about hobie’s return.

he's not an idiot. he knows, knew, about your crush on his best friend. it was obvious watching you go through all the childish phases, giggling to clinging onto to him to trying to play it cool. quentin has seen it all and he doesn’t think he can handle watching your excitement grow and dull when hobie ultimately makes his decision to leave. “he’s got that place he rents out when he’s not here. don’t know how long he plans on staying, though. when i asked, hobie said two months so i guess we’ll see.”

you’re blissfully unaware of the idea that quentin’s words are for your sanity, to calm the budding excitement as you gather strands of your hair between the tips of your fingers and stare at the freshly trimmed ends. “that’s nice. maybe he’ll come to the summer festival in a few days.”

that elicits a scoff out of your brother. “fat chance. hobie brown? he’s not showing his face at those things. he thinks they’re capitalistic holidays that prey on children. personally, i think he just really hates this town and is coming up with a bullshit excuse not to go.”

you let the bundle of hair between your fingers go and it drops back towards your shoulder in a soft heap. “did he say that or are you speaking for him?”

“he doesn’t have to say it, stupid. i just know.” quentin points his fork at you, flinging grains of cooked rice in your direction. despite the gross reaction that flashes across your face, all he does is laugh. genuine laughter with his head tilted back, clearly delighted to have bothered his dear sister. “it was an accident. i didn’t mean to.”

“get away from me.” you scrunch your face in disgust and shove the chair away from the table. it screeches against the floorboards with each movement. “you don’t point your fork at someone, dumbass. that’s fucking gross.” you say as you rise to your feet and make your exit, rolling your eyes on the way out.

it’s futile to pretend you aren’t looking forward to hobie pulling into the driveway. behind the closed door of your room, you barely watch the virgin suicides. the volume to the movie is turned down so low, you can almost hear your neighbor’s dog trotting on the pavement enjoying its walk. you’ve even gone as far as to open your window just in case you’d be too preoccupied to hear him as is.

you haven’t bothered to change out of the pretty dress, wanting to give off the best first impression you possibly could. after all these years have passed, it’s nearly critical that hobie sees you as you are, an adult. not because you still harbor feelings for him, but because that’s what you are now. you’re all grown up, just as he is.

quentin’s asleep in his room and offering you no answers as to when his friend is actually arriving nor did he request you to wake up when he does so. it’s only right to assume he’d rather stay asleep when hobie arrives then, isn’t it? especially after such a long trip.

hence why when the sound of hobie’s motorcycle reverberates through the glass pane of your window, you roll off your bed and to your feet with a sudden quickness. contrary to the excitement you greeted your brother with from your upstairs bedroom, you close the window the moment you reach it.

as soon as the white latch clinks shut, you’re flying out the door and down the stairs. the tips of your fingers graze the railing, only truly grasping it when you find yourself losing your balance at the speed you’re moving. if only maise could see you now.

you pull the front door open before hobie has a chance to ring the doorbell with such force, he flinches. there’s still a finger hanging in the air, adorned in silver rings and what seems to be a hand tattoo. that same hand is connected to a body, just as tall as you remember. your eyes trail as far as his shoulders, gaze already tilted upwards and too nervous to continue. it never occurred to you what being face to face with hobie would mean, would entail.

you didn’t think about him and his pine scent, paired with the natural musk of being outside. not once did you even think about the possible changes he’d go through within the past two years. even without looking at his face, you can already point out differences. he’s leaner, more muscles protruding from his tank top. grungier too, with dark wash baggy jorts sitting so low on his waist, you can see the calvin klein boxers peeking through the bottom. if you thought seeing hobie show off his toned stomach was a lot, the sight of the ink on his arm has you at a loss for words. a full sleeve of various line art and doodles.

you’re sick to your stomach.

“you’re back in town!” you finally gain the courage to look him in his eyes and nearly fall to your knees. “and you pierced your face!” your eyes dart between the nose piercing, the lip piercing, and the eyebrow piercing. slowly, you soak it all in, including the shoulder length locs tied into a ponytail. only after all of that do you look him in his eyes, filled with the same warmth and wonder as they were two years ago.

“ ☆ !” hobie’s face lights up with the same childlike glee as before, too. it’s like nothing has changed when he throws his arms around you to envelop you into a tight hug. “you noticed, did you?” he chuckles, deep and smooth right in your ear. unfortunately for you, it sends spirals into your stomach.

“do you like them? i want to get my tongue pierced this summer, too.” he finally pulls away and reveals his toothy grin, full of dazzling white teeth that can only come from regularly visiting a dentist. “but how have you been? i haven’t seen you in forever. you’re so . . .” he gives you his own once-over, much shorter than the one you gave him, “not a little kid anymore.”

you aren’t too sure what to make of that but you step aside anyway to welcome him into your home. suddenly, you’re far more nervous than you were at the mere thought of hobie coming over. he was intimidating just as a concept but in person? he’s even worse. he’s too pretty and composed. “i’m so not a little kid anymore?” you try to offset your awkwardness by turning the situation back to him.

“yeah. i mean, you look nice, ☆ .” hobie stands with his hands in his pockets and a lazy smile. there’s not one ounce of embarrassment or hesitation written on his face. however, it oozes out of you. “so, where’s your brother at? he’s supposed to be going around town with me. it makes it less weird if we’re both there.”

“oh, quen fell asleep a few minutes ago.” you say with your back to hobie, disguising your reluctance as a sudden interest in turning the lock rather slowly. “you’re welcome to wait until he wakes up but he’s out cold.”

hobie clicks his tongue with a sigh, eyeing the walls of your childhood home. it’s still lined with the same family portraits and kindergarten crafts. there’s even his own graduation picture on the mantle, sandwiched between yours and quentin’s. he snorts at the sight, dressed in the same black graduation cap and gown but missing some of the cords adorned by the others. not only was hobie not too involved in the community, but he merely did what he had to in school with the exception of a few clubs and hobbies. “no, he’ll probably be knocked for a while. i’ll just do it later, i guess.”

you nod, hugging yourself in a tight grip. your act to self soothe during your one-on-one isn’t very effective. the air feels thick with tension. you have the impression that it’s one-sided because hobie turns to face you. 

“how about you come with me instead? we can ride around and go to that one park we used to go to as kids.”

for a moment, your heart drops to your feet. staring into his eyes does nothing good for your nervous system. as much as you attempted to convince both maise and yourself that you harbor no feelings towards hobie at all, everything in you is screaming otherwise.

your eyes settle on the floorboards and you sniff. “i don’t know. i don’t think i’d feel comfortable on your bike. don’t you have to wear gear and stuff?”

“well, yeah i’m supposed to.” he shrugs. his head is tilted to one side. “i don’t, though. not here at least. if i’m on the highway or in a big city then yeah but not here. nothing ever happens here.”  parts of the hobie you subconsciously fear appear as a shadow on his face. the corners of his mouth twitch downwards and his eyes become clouded, but only for a second. “we can take your car if you’d like. i saw it in the driveway. it’s cute.”

he’s referring to the little volkswagen beetle parked just outside with a tan exterior and a decorated interior. it’s full of flower vent clips, pink seat covers, and scented with gain car air freshener.

“um,” you busy yourself by smoothing your hands over the skirt of your dress. suddenly, you’re reflecting on the fact that you are somewhat dressed up. sure, you curl your hair and wear cute dresses on the regular but never have you worn a cute dress, curled your hair, waited for someone to come over, and beat them to the door before they could announce their arrival. “sure. i guess we can do that. i don’t want you to think you have to, though. you came for quentin and he’s asleep so don’t force yourself.”

you’re surprised when hobie laughs, nose wrinkling with genuine enjoyment. he shakes his head and places his hand on your shoulder. it engulfs your skin like a warm blanket and gives you a squeeze. “never change, okay? you’re so sweet. get your keys and let’s go.”

there’s a strawberry field just across the park guarded by a wire fence. some kids gather around the edges and pluck the berries off the overgrown branches that poke just close enough for them to reach with their little fingers.

the breeze carries the sounds of high-pitched laughter and squeals from the children running about. with school just recently letting out, the park is well occupied. it’s a surprise to no one to see a crowd of elementary schoolers running around the slides and pushing each other on the swing.

you sit at a bench. the metal is warmed from the sunlight beaming down. you have your phone in your hand, pumping out back to back texts to maise filled with terrible grammar and even worse spelling. to say you're panicked would be an understatement. you’re more than panicked. you feel so wrong about being here, more or less alone with your brother’s best friend. the same best friend that you’ve had the biggest crush on for years, only for him to disappear and for you to assume everything you’ve ever felt and thought would be gone with him. the same best friend who’s return brought back the juvenile feelings from your youth.

he’s gone to the ice cream truck parked in the parking lot to buy you both popsicles and therefore, giving you about five minutes to figure out your game plan. maise is no help. most her texts consist of “i told you so” and laughing at your inevitable demise. you feel just about ready to melt into the pavement and through your phone across the park, in no particular order. your nails just might break your screen with the amount of force between each push.

“are you mad at someone?”

you're quick to turn your phone off in the amount of time it takes for you to look up at hobie, standing in front of you with two popsicles, one in each hand. “huh? oh, no. it’s just maise. she’s being so stupid.” the frustration has yet to dissipate and your face shows it, huffing a breath of annoyance. “you’d think you ask someone for advice and they’d actually give it to you instead of making fun of you.”

“mm,” hobie has a seat next to you. he hands you the powerpuff girls popsicle, very obviously supposed to be styled after bubbles. its still in it’s wrapper and it’s a good thing at that. already the popsicle began to get a little soft in the summer heat. “advice about what?” he, himself, holds one of those spongebob ones that never come out right. for a moment, you consider that perhaps he’s reminiscing about the days where you, quentin, and hobie would run out at the sound of the ice cream truck and get the silly cartoon popsicles, only to compare who’s looks the worst.

“oh, just about my classes. i don’t know if i want to take one of my electives or not.” you spit out the lie faster than you can really process it. you peel the wrapper off the popsicle and stick it in your mouth to give you an excuse not to speak.

“i definitely can’t help you with that. i didn’t go to college so i really wouldn’t know.” for a brief moment, hobie finds humor in the distorted face of his spongebob popsicle before taking a small bite of the cold corner. “what’s it like? do you like it?”

the question makes you sigh. there really is no response you can give him that would push the conversation forward, especially when you have been asked the very same thing so many times by almost every adult in your life. “um, it’s okay. it’s hard, y’know, to find the motivation to make myself go to class and there’s always some sort of drama going on between someone and someone else.” you reminisce on the boy and friend drama you’ve both witnessed and experienced from a bittersweet perspective.

hobie nods, watching a group of giggling ten year olds run by. they seem to be participating in a game of tag, their cheeks rosy and eyes glistening with what can only be found in childhood. “can’t believe you’re in college now. that used to be us, playing at the park and then going to your house to have dinner.”

you don’t mention that hobie didn’t come to your graduation. instead, you kick a rock by your foot and change the topic of the conversation. “so, if you don't go to college, what do you do?”

“i’m a server at a restaurant. it makes pretty good money, actually. i can afford a one bedroom apartment in the city so i don’t mind. i’m in a band now too and sometimes i make stuff to sell.” he pulls out his phone for a split second to check the notification that vibrated in his phone before sliding it back into his pocket.

you’re grateful that he doesn’t outright tell you what he makes so you’re able to participate in the conversation and ask him, “what kind of stuff?”

“oh, like paintings, crochet stuff, stuff like that. arts and crafts that people like to buy. it does pretty well since that kind of thing is trending.” 

the conversation falls a bit flat after that. you fault yourself, too self conscious to relax around him. a part of you is overjoyed to have him back and another part of you feels like a neglected afterthought. all this time, hobie was doing just fine. he was living his life and choosing who to keep contact with. it hurts your heart that he didn’t consider you at all but is so comfortable with returning and acting like nothing has changed. perhaps he didn’t take you as seriously as you would like.

“oh, that’s cool.” you try not to sound too sour when you say it. “it’s great that you made a life you enjoy.” you watch a blue drop of melted popsicle roll down and drip onto the white plastic gripped between your fingers. gravity continues to pull the droplet down towards the stick and it stains the wood blue.

hobie glances at you, eyebrows knitted together. he takes in your expression and the subtext behind it. it’s obvious what he’s doing behind his scrutinizing gaze. “yeah? you can be honest. you know that, right?”

“mhm,” you nod with a hum. you’re not interested in engaging any further with the topic. instead, you eye a ladybug crawling on the bench armrest. it’s not like you planned on discussing your deep emotional feelings with him anyway, especially not here. “i’m happy for you, really.”

you can still feel hobie’s eyes boring into the side of your face but the feeling does nothing to capture your attention and turn your head back towards him. instead, you nearly praise whatever higher power caused your conversation to be interrupted by an onlooker.

“oh my gosh, hobie brown!”

you both turn your head to the perpetrator. hobie is just as surprised as you are to see magnolia, from high school, walking up to you both. you don’t know her very well considering she was in the same graduating class as your brother but you’re aware of her.

truthfully, you’ve never liked her very much during your younger years. you despised the way she’d cling onto hobie and quentin, often forcing her way into their circle. at least, you’d consider it forcing. quentin always told you not to worry about it.

here she is again, forcing herself into your hangout with your supposed friend who’s there with you. she’s grinning as she walks up to you both, hands planted on her waist. you so badly want to judge her for her outfit choice but you know you can’t. it’s not like you don’t know what type of person magnolia is and how much she pushes the social standards most people operate with. still, something vile twists inside you and even more so when you catch hobie’s eyes wandering across her body.

that is also no surprise because you know their history. of course hobie wouldn’t be able to deny himself from staring at magnolia like this when she’s wearing daisy dukes, a tiny shirt, and so ready to reopen the book of their past.

“look at you. can’t believe you didn’t come by the moment you got back,” she teasingly smacks his arm with a tinkling laugh. her eyes briefly drift to your direction and she smiles out of politeness. “oh hey, sugar. tell your brother i said hi, would you?”

you nod and pull your lips tight. suddenly, what interest you did have died a painful death and you turn back to the ladybug as your only comfort. unfortunately, that too is gone and you’re left with nothing but the ability to listen in on a conversation you want nothing to do with.

“aw, maggie. don’t worry, i’m still planning on it. you’ll get a very special and personal visit, just for you.”

“promise?”

you nearly choke, face scrunching up in disgust. you’re not five and can read between the very obvious lines. you feel the need to remind them that you are quite literally right there and swallow the green monster making a nice home in your heart. “i don’t mean to interrupt but i have to get home and get ready for dinner. do you want me to give you a ride, hobie, or are you good?”

you try to hide your disappointment before hobie can say anything. you can tell by his hesitation and expression what decision he’s going to make, glancing between both you and magnolia. he’s going to spend some quality time with her. “i think i’m good but you should get back. drive safe, okay? text me when you get home.”

“okay. then, i’ll see you later.” you rise to your feet and dig your hand into your purse, searching for the keys to your car. “bye magnolia. it was nice seeing you again.” her words of the returned gesture fall on deaf ears as you turn and head back to the parking lot. there’s a frown etched on your face and you dump the mostly-eaten popsicle into the trash.

it never crossed your mind that you’re not the only one who is looking forward to hobie back around. you’ve been so used to viewing yourself as the center of the universe that not once did you think about literally anyone else who has been involved in hobie’s past.

you pull the door open of your car and get inside, staring out of the windshield. you feel so teenage girl romcom movie but you don’t know what to do about it. one half of you wants to sob and rot in your bed and claim your heart is broken and the other part of you just wants to go home, eat dinner, and call maise.

you sit there like that for a few minutes before eventually turning on your car and starting the drive home. sza blares through the radio and is your only solace on your lonely drive home.

“no! and then she just shows up and takes him?” maise pulls out two small boxes of sour patch kids out of the plastic grocery bags on the counter. her eyes are wide and she’s hanging on to every part of your story.

it’s been about a week and a half since that time in the park with hobie and you’re still reveling in the emotions of it. you have yet to make a decision on how to conduct yourself around him and as a result, have begun to avoid him. you find it’s better not to be near him at all than to stand there and know that he wanted you to leave him so he could probably have mind blowing sex with his small-town fling.

“she just walks right over and he basically starts drooling.” you’re also unloading various snacks and a liter of soda from the grocery bags. tonight, you both plan to watch movies and eat junk food until your tummies are threatening to burst and you’re both ready to pass out from exhaustion. “i’m so stupid. i should have known. we weren’t even in the same crowd back then. why did i think anything would be different now?”

maise pities you just a bit. she sympathetically presses her lips into a pouty frown and reaches over the counter to grab your hand. “poor baby. in your defense, you have more of a southern belle, sweetest girl in town thing going for you and hobie is the exact opposite. it makes sense why he’d go for magnolia. you two have nothing in common and you’re virtually inexperienced.”

“i have experience!” you begin to pile the various snacks into the bin you brought down from your room just for the special occasion. “i have plenty of experience.”

“you had one situationship for half of your first year of college that treated you like shit. that’s not experience, babe. that’s trauma.”

you whip your head to give maise a pointed glare at bringing up what you’re trying so hard to forget. that chapter of your life is over and it died the moment the academic year ended. “okay but the point is, i am not a baby and i bet i could fuck just as good as she can. he just sees me as a little girl and i can never change that.”

“so what are you going to do?” your friend leans against the counter on the opposing side of you. she crosses her arms over her chest after adjusting her black leggings as they have risen above her ankles.

“nothing,” you say with a sigh. you grab the basket and hoist it onto your hips. “like i said, he sees me as a child. i’m just going to do what i’ve been doing, nothing. ignore him. just keep my distance until he goes home and forget all about him.”

what you don’t tell maise is that magnolia isn’t the only one. sometimes, the habits from your childhood return and you sit yourself at quentin’s door with your ear pressed up against the wood. you listen to his conversations with hobie, sometimes on the phone and sometimes in person, about his recent endeavors with the locals in town. so far, there has been at least one other girl since magnolia. whether he bounces between spending his nights with the two, you’re unsure and you don’t think you even want to know.

maise begins to open her mouth to say something but snaps it shut at the sound of the front door opening. there’s an irregular pattern that comes from two people coming through the door and for a moment, your face flashes with panic.

“i’m beginning to hate going out with you. every single time there’s always some girl ready to — oh hey.” quentin stops in the middle of his sentence as soon as he spots you standing in the kitchen. he jumps a bit, not having expected to see both you girls watching him walk into the house. “what are you doing here, maise?”

“we’re having a movie night.”she rises to standing and positions herself at your side.

“the sun is still out.” quentin lifts a finger to point to the window with the blinds open. sunlight streams through the trees of your backyard and reaches the living room.

“yeah. we just came back from the store and now we’re pregaming by talking shit.” she throws an arm around your shoulder, taking notice of your silence and lack of movement. it’s almost like you’re not breathing and it’s definitely because hobie is standing right there in all his glory, smiling right at you. maise using her grip on you to subtly nudge some sort of humanity back in you.

“anyway,” you clear your throat and take a sudden interest in reorganizing the bin of snacks, “we’re going to get going. we have a lot of girl stuff to talk about so see you later.” you take maise’s hand and take the lead in walking past the two and up the stairs of your house. you don’t miss the quizzical looks from both men at your hastiness to get out of being around them.

frankly, this isn’t the first time you’ve made a bolt to get out of being in the same room as them, but only when hobie is around. however, no one makes a move to question it and lets you do as you please. to quentin, it’s a sign you’re no longer hung up over his best friend and is far better than getting your hopes up for nothing. to hobie, you’re abhorrently avoiding him for some reason and he can’t stand it at all.

it makes him antsy, as if there’s some big impending doom coming that he won’t be able to stop. it makes him uncomfortable to see you get along so well with others and flee the moment he steps into the room and oddly enough, it’s only ever started happening since that one day. was it something he said or did? surely it can’t be because he didn’t accompany you back home. after all, you did text him to let him know you made it safely like he requested so he thought everything was fine. what is going on with you?

it’s somewhere between the hours of two and three am when you make the decision to trek downstairs for a cold glass of water. maise had fallen asleep on the left side of your bed a half hour ago and you had beaten her. you won by staying out longer than she did and decide to reward yourself with a neutral drink to wash the syrupy taste out your mouth.

the house feels awfully cold during such hours of the night and you regret leaving the warmth of your room in your oversized shirt and little pink shorts. both of your parents came home hours ago, wished you a fun night and retired to their beds in preparation for work the next day. you’re assuming no one else is awake with the only other options being quentin and hobie, if hobie is even here.

you sniff and rub your hands along your arms as you round the corner and enter the catch. in the darkness of night and with your squinting eyes, you use what spatial awareness you have to guide your way to the glasses in the cabinet.

you just manage to wrap your fingers around it before there’s some sort of shuffling behind you. you’re unnerved, almost dropping the glass in the time it takes you to look over your shoulder at the perpetrator. “hello?” you try to make out the form in the dark and find purchase in the knife drawer in front of you.

“it’s just me.” the voice is gruff and familiar and washes over you like a relaxing wave of warm water. “sorry, i wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“hobie?” you lean towards him to make out his figure in the shadows. the moonlight does little to aid in visibility. there is only a pale light struggling to come through the window. you have to reach over and turn on the stove light just to see him since your eyes have yet to adjust. “i thought you went home?”

“i did. i went to see my parents and it went just about as well as i thought.” hobie takes a seat at the bar stools behind the aisle. he seems strained, running his hand over his face with a sigh. “so i came back because i like it here more.”

“why didn’t you just go to your own house?” you feel a little underdressed in your attire all of the sudden. sure, you are preparing to go to sleep and in the comfort of your own house but you’d hate to give off the impression that you’re walking around without pants on.

“because i like it here more. pretty sure i said that,” now he’s rubbing his eyes, sitting up to lean against the back of the chair. “if you’re getting a glass of water, can you get me one too?” hobie’s lips turn up into a small, sad smile. his eyes look tired, worn out from whatever went down at his parents’ house.

you forgot all about the glass in your hand, looking down at it as if it’s appeared from the ether. “oh, you can just have mine. i’m probably going to go back to bed.” you’re still dead set on ignoring hobie. for one,  it makes it so much easier to get used to the feeling of disappointment that he doesn’t see you when you literally don’t have to see him. not to mention, it’s difficult enough to look him in his eyes but to be alone with him and look him in the eyes? you have to go.

you set the glass down on the island and slide it over to him, prepared to take a quick and silent walk back to the safety of your room and your best friend asleep on your bed. “goodnight, hobie.”

you don’t make it very far before hobie is speaking to you, again. his gaze is following your attempt at escaping him and it’s annoying him that this is probably the thousandth time you’ve evaded him. “what is up with you? i’m clearly going through something and would benefit from talking about it with someone. i literally just left your house and showed up again and you’re not even going to ask me how i got in?”

you try to not huff when you turn to face him with an eyebrow quirked. “what are you talking about?” you clench your hands into small fists, only to flex them and release what tension you carry.

“what am i talking about? you speak like, five words to me now. i don’t know what i did to make this happen and i’m sorry but you’re literally avoiding me. you came down here for what, a glass of water? you gave me yours before you even got one and now you’re going back upstairs so you don’t have to talk to me. what did i do?”

you shake your head at his words. he’s not wrong. you have been avoiding him and looking for any way out not to speak or be around him more than you need to. still, hobie doesn’t have to bring it up. he shouldn't have brought it up. what are you going to do now? “i still don’t know what you’re talking about. i haven’t done anything to avoid you. i just don’t want water anymore and i want to go back to sleep.”

hobie presses his lips together. he’s doing his best not to stare at you with hardened eyes so he turns away, looking at the countertop instead. his frustration is palpable but he’s sensible enough to restrain himself, to keep himself from turning it into an argument. “okay, go to sleep then. goodnight.” he taps his nails against the side of the glass, listening to the little plinks ro distract himself from the unrest in his soul.

you stand there, staring at the back of hobie’s head even though he’s dismissed you. you’re free to go with no repercussions but the guilt from doing so while knowing he wanted to talk about whatever is plaguing him is too much to handle. “oh my god, fine. what is it? what happened at your parents'?”

your feet drag all the way towards the island and you sit on the bench beside him. you rest your hands in your lap and stare at the numbers reading back the time on the stove. they’re green and a great source of something to look at that isn’t hobie.

“no, it’s okay. you don’t want to hear about my problems because it’s such an inconvenience to you. i’m just going to sit here and mope, maybe cry, and go home.”

“don’t piss me off.” you tsk, picking a strand of string off your shirt. your eyes cut to him in a sideways glare, urging him to talk and quickly before you change your mind. “what’s wrong? what happened?”

hobie pokes his cheek with his tongue. he stares at the ceiling before slowly closing his eyes. “i dunno, man. it was so bad. they think i’m a disappointment or somethin’. it’s written all over their faces.”

“that’s not true. they probably were just overwhelmed that you came home.” you do your best to reassure him but even you know that’s probably a lie. hobie’s parents disapprove of him, everyone knows it. they’re embarrassed their only son turned out to be some sort of punk neanderthal and actively denounce him in public.

“don’t kid yourself, dove. my parents hate me and you know it. we all know it. i went over and they practically screamed it in my face. we had dinner for five seconds and got into a screamin’ match about how i let everyone down by runnin’ wild in the streets.” he’s squinting now. “when have i ever run wild in the streets?”

you can only shrug, unable to give him a response. you don’t know what to say to him. there is no denying what he experienced. all you can do is listen and shrug. “i’m sorry about that. you’re not a disappointment. they just can’t understand why they like it here so much and why you don’t. that can’t be easy to understand.”

“yeah well, i’ll get over it. i’ll just stay away from them and they can stay away from me and we can all pretend we aren’t related.” hobie doesn’t sound bitter, he sounds defeated. he sounds like he’s been down this road many times before and expected an outcome no different than before. however, it’s only natural for a child to wish for their parents to understand them. “anyway . . .,” his head lolls to the side until he’s looking at you, staring at you, “why are you avoiding’ me?”

your lips curl into themselves and you feel the need to excuse yourself. “i’m not avoiding you. if you’re done with your rant, i’m going to go to sleep now.” you go to rise to your feet but your attempt is short-lived when hobie catches you with his hands on your shoulders.

“yes, you are. look. you’re trying to do it right now. you’re tryin’ to leave because i’m confrontin’ you about it. i’m not going to stop pressin’ you about it until you tell me.”

one look in his eyes and you can tell he’s serious. hobie has caught you alone in the dead of night. he’s got you face-to-face and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it but lie or tell the truth, neither of which would work here.

“i’m not avoiding you, hobie. i just –,” you avert your gaze until you’re looking at literally anything else, “– i just think it’s best if we keep a distance and remain cordial. we don’t have to be friends because you're friends with quentin. you don’t have to feel like you have to be friends with me.”

“what?” the man lets you go. his arms drop back into his lap and he’s looking at you as if you’ve just proclaimed your undying love for present day denzel washington. “where is this coming from? you’ve always been a friend of mine. we grew up together. just because i’m closer to quentin doesn’t mean we aren’t close at all.”

you rack your brain to find a way around the real reason by cherry picking the words until they form a sentence that makes sense. “well, yes but i’m not like you. i don’t think there’s anything you – i just – we aren’t the same. we’re in very different crowds and i don’t want you to force yourself to get along with me.”

“okay, we’re in different crowds. what’s that supposed to mean? i’m friends with you because you are different from me. if i didn’t want to be around you or anyone who isn’t the exact same as me, i wouldn’t have come home. you’ve never been insecure about our friendship before so what’s going on?”

you’ve just about reached the end of the line. you’re frazzled and unable to keep pumping out excuses. he’s just going to disprove every single one and deny you a reason to run away. he doesn’t get it and he won’t get it. there’s only one option left to do. every ounce of your soul is screaming at you not to, already burning from the humiliation but as far as you’re concerned, you have no other option. “you don’t get it. jeez, hobie, you’re so stupid. obviously, i’m avoiding you because i have feelings for you and you don’t feel the same. i don’t want to be around you when i know you’re just going to go out and fuck every girl in town.”

your little spiel is followed by silence. while what weight was lifted off your chest, your hands are beginning to sweat from the anxiousness. still, you’ve already said it and you can’t back down so you sit firm in your decision. your eyes still begin to water from the overwhelming emotion that comes with speaking your mind like that and being met with absolutely nothing.

finally, hobie tilts his head. “fuck every girl in town? what are you talking about? is that what people are saying about me?”

you burst into tears, partly because you took that as rejection and partly because you think he doesn’t care. he just brushed off everything you said to talk about his sexual endeavors. “you’re so mean. you’re so mean and you hate me and you want me to die,” you blubber through a watery gargle. your hands are unable to keep up with the tears that stream down your face. by the time you brush one away, there’s another one that takes its place.

“oh my god.” hobie’s eyes widened in shock at your immediate reaction. it happened faster than he can blink and he’s terrified that someone is going to wake up, find you crying, and blame it all on him. “why are you crying?” he pulls you into an embrace, tucking your head beneath his chin and into his chest. despite what many would think, his skin is awfully warm to the touch and it would have been comforting if he didn’t stomp on your heart.

“because i just spilled my deepest, darkest secret to you and you don’t care. you’re bragging about how many times you got laid instead of having human emotions.” you only sob louder as he runs his fingers along your spine in what’s supposed to be a soothing manner.

“i’m not bragging about anything. i haven’t even fucked anyone since i’ve been here. where are you getting your information from?” hobie can’t decide whether or not he’s concerned or humored. he lifts your head, but only briefly, to wipe the tears on your cheeks. the moment he sees your lip tremble, he allows you to go back into the comfort of hiding against him.

“i don’t have to get my information from someone. i just know. you literally left me for magnolia and i know that you’ve been seeing some other girl. plus, quen was saying something about every girl and you when you walked in.” your words are muffled in his shirt. you feel a little guilty because of how wet it is but then you think about how hobie wronged you and wish you soaked it with your sobs.

“okay, first of all, i did not fuck magnolia. i’d have to bash my head with a brick to consider doing that. second of all, i’m not seeing anyone. i’m trying to get a temporary job while i’m still here and i have to suck up to the manager because she doesn’t like me. and why is it my fault that people like me? i can’t stop them from liking me and i can’t stop someone else from talking about it. you’ve misunderstood every single thing and now you’re yelling at me.”

you sniffle and tilt your head up. there is suspicion and doubt written all over your face. “so if you don’t like magnolia like that, then why were you looking at her like that? like you were thinking about taking her clothes off.”

hobie reels his head back, giving you a similar mystified expression. “girl, what are you talking about? if i was looking at her any sort of way it was probably because she was standing in front of the actual sun and I couldn't see. i wear contacts and i forgot to put them in. you know i wear contacts so now i’m confused.”

for a moment, you don’t say anything. you sit there and replay his explanations over and over again, searching for any holes in his story. you slowly run your tongue over your lip as the embarrassment slowly sets in. he’s right, he does wear contacts. he got them senior year of high school and you suppose you just forgot. you forgot and cried and went on him for no reason.

hobie watches you come to the realization. he can tell it’s dawning on you when your face relaxes and forms into one of mortification. this is where he decides it’s humorous to him. it’s even more hilarious when he adds the cherry on top. “and your deepest, darkest secret? i already knew. it’s not really a secret if everyone knows.”

that brings you an entire new wave of waterworks but instead, they build and build in your waterline until they eventually spill over in an occasional spill. “so you knew this whole time and let me embarrass myself? and you’re rejecting me?”

hobie reaches off and tears a paper towel square off the roll. he shakes his head, bending the square into a smaller one. he uses it to dab your cheek with a tut of his tongue. “you have to stop crying. i can’t talk to you when you’re refusing to listen to me. at least cry silently or ask questions that i can actually answer.”

“no,” you take the square from his fingers. really, you snatch it and use it to clean your dribbling nose. “i’m so mad at you. i don’t want to talk anymore.” you take this chance to get off the bar stool and move towards the trash can. you’re still sniffling and occasionally gasping for air while you clean yourself up. “you knew this entire time and didn’t say anything? i’d rather you turn me down from the beginning than give me this false sense of security. you led me on.”

“no. no, i didn’t.” hobie watches you rinse your face with water. hearing his denial just makes you angrier.

“yes you did. you knew and you said nothing.”

“no i did not. you didn’t even ask me –”

“i don’t have to ask you because i already know. you’re the worst person alive and you only care about yourself –”

“ ☆ , listen. you’ve been assuming things for weeks and look where that got you. just, stop talking and let me speak, please.” his firm tone knocks any thought out of your brain and gets you to tighten up, real quick.

you look over your shoulder, not yet ready to look at him but finally ready to accept that you just might be wrong. you lift the neckline of your shirt over your face and use it as a method to dry it.

“in order for me to have led you on, you’d have to actually confess your feelings to me. at what point do you think i should have just walked up to you and say ‘hey, i know you have feelings for me that you aren’t ready to talk about yet but i just wanted to let you know that i’m not interested’? why do you assume that i don’t feel anything towards you, anyway? maybe i do but i don’t say anything because i know it’s not going to work. let’s think about it, i rarely ever come into town. you love town. at what point would i ever come along and see you?”

“you would get your ass on your bike and drive here like you did this time,” you mumble under your breath. you stand by the sink for a moment to gather your thoughts. you’re gaining clarity through the fog but now you’re drained. you’re tired and you don’t have the energy to feel displeased over whatever he has to say. it doesn’t matter what he has to say because in the end, it’s all going to be a no. “but whatever you say. we don’t work, okay. you’re leaving soon, okay. if that’s all, i’d like to go to bed now.”

“are you mad at me?” he asks from behind you, softly. he almost purrs it and it tugs at your will. you want so badly to let him in but he doesn’t want that and so you must persevere.

you shake your head with a breath. “no. i’m not mad at you. you’re entitled to your own opinion.” you put on the blankest expression you can manage and turn to face him. you cross your arms over your chest and manage to maintain what little composure you have.

he quips a brow at you, obviously not believing your claim and even more so when you don’t say anything to confirm it. “come here for a second.”

you shift your weight until your weight is all on your right side and your hip is popped. “hobie . . .”

“just for a second,” he outstretched his hand as an offer for you.

reluctantly, you take it and give no resistance when hobie pulls you into his personal space. his hands find your cheeks and squish them together until your lips are forced into a pout. “be honest with me, baby. are you mad at me?”

he doesn’t act surprised when you pause before nodding in response. “are you still going to be mad at me if i kiss you?”

hobie watches the thought go through your mind. you consider it and the consequences that come with it. it’s going to be a meaningless kiss because hobie has drawn the line. he can’t be attached to anything from this town and you know that. still, it’s an incredible opportunity to just pass up because of morality.

you shake your head.

hobie’s lips are soft against yours. there’s a subtly sweet taste but it’s possible you’re high off  oxytocin. again, you clench your hands into fists but this time it’s to restrain yourself from holding onto him and pulling him tighter. you have to keep reminding yourself that it’s a meaningless kiss.

it’s even harder to maintain that thought when hobie’s mouth fits so perfectly against yours. he doesn’t move his hands from your cheeks but the kiss grows heated, regardless. his tongue, wet and warm, runs over the expanse of your bottom lip before worming its way into your mouth.

you mewl when it finds yours and sucks. you have to tuck your hands behind your back to hold onto your composure. your feet betray you, though, by bringing you even closer into him and in turn, into his lips.

“are you done cryin’?” he kisses the corner of your mouth and jumps to the skin along your jawline. like before, he kisses and sucks the trail of skin from there to your neck. “because it wouldn’t be right if i just left you here.”

you squirm in your spot and do your best to conceal the whines that threaten to bubble up out of your throat. “hobie, you said – you –” you finally rested your hands on the tops of his thighs. the voice in the back of your head telling you to give in is getting more and more convincing with each passing second.

“what did i say?” he pauses his ministrations to catch his breath and give you a second to find yours. he isn’t sure how the conversation took this turn but he isn’t complaining. if anything, he’s hoping it’ll never end.

you stare at him in the yellow light from the stove. there’s still a chill in the air but you’re buzzed with need. suddenly, you’re hot. it’s sweltering even without the heat being on. you need to find a solution to your lust and quick. you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him back into you, deciding the solution right there in the moment.

your lips crash against each other with a burning passion. hobie stands up out of the bar stool, his hands circling around your waist. he takes steps forward and forces you back against the counter across from you. you don’t mind, entangling your hands within his scalp. you’re willing to let him do whatever he wants to you and it shows.

hobie turns you around and presses his hardening cock against the plumpness of your ass. you gasp at the feeling of him rutting against you with his breath fanning over your shoulder, warm and sticky. there’s something that takes over, a horny little monster that throws all your inhibitions out the window. you’re equally as turned on, rolling your hips back on his in tandem with him.

“fuck, okay. don’t get too loud.” he whispers under the sound of the fabrics moving together. out of he corner of your eye, you barely get a glimpse of him shoving his fingers in his mouth before sliding underneath your clothing. he pulls your shirt up in a balled up fist and watches his hand disappear beneath the waistband of your shorts and elastic of your panties.

they waste no time finding your clit, sticky and growing swollen from your insatiable desire. “already so fuckin’ wet.” he rubs the nub in little circles, growing accustomed to your body and what you like most. occasionally, his fingers slip and unintentionally fall too close to your entrance.

your mouth falls open in a tiny “o”. you throw your head back onto his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut and grinding against both his dick and his fingers. you’re sandwiched between pleasure and doing your best to keep your moans limited to a whisper. you grip the edge of the counter and you’re actually grateful for it. it’s the solace that’s keeping you grounded to reality because without it, you’re sure you would have soared to the sky. “d – don’t tease,” you pant. you reach behind you searching for hobie’s dick and you find it easily. it’s hard to miss with the hard feeling of it against your skin and you swear you feel it grow harder when you wrap your fingers around it, still clothed over his sweats.

“sorry, dove. whatever you want,” hobie flattens his palm against your pussy. his middle finger prod at your sticky entrance to test your reaction but it slips right in, much to your pleasure. he has to take it slow with your sensitivity but hobie savors every moment. he’s not in a rush, especially when your fingers squeeze and rub at his clothed cock. he’s ready to stick it in now if he truly wanted but hobie wants this moment to last. he wants to burn the memory into his head and stain his life with whatever effects you have on him.

“mmm,” you hum, spreading your legs farther to accommodate his size. just one of his fingers could make you feel so full that you’re nearly satisfied like this. you have to close your lips and run your tongue along the inside of your cheeks to wet them again. “that feels so good.”

“yeah?” hobie asks. he’s so focused on you, he doesn’t notice how you’ve also managed to get your hand under the waistband of his boxers. he only realized what’s happening when your hand brushes against the stubble of his pubes and wraps around his shaft. “oh baby,” he whines in your ear. you can feel his dick twitch and jump at the tightness of your palm. he nearly falls over your frame when your thumb begins to circle around his tip.

hobie’s fingers stutter inside you. they push farther, deeper, making contact with your g-spot accidentally. he hasn’t gotten a chance to stick another finger in before you’re whimpering and nearly finger fucking yourself with his hand. “oh my gosh, right there. right there, right there!”

if hobie could have laughed at you, he would have. however, he has better things to worry about. like how your voice is beginning to rise in volume and he just cannot have that happen. “shhh,” is all he can manage throughout his full-body shudders. he uses his other hand to drop your shirt and instead stick his fingers in your mouth. they serve the purpose he intended, muffling your noises. he didn’t anticipate for you to suckle on them as if it’s the last thing you’d ever have in your mouth.

that, paired with the handjob and your gushing pussy around his fingers, he could have came right then and there. he could have exploded in his pants and made you cum and end it there but he didn’t. instead, he forces himself to pay attention to you. he puts his pleasure on the back burner and pushes his finger deeper, even going as far as to stretch you farther by adding a second one.

with his fingers deep in your throat and drool pouring out the corner of your mouth, your legs begin to shake. your chest rises and falls with each heaved breath. if you weren’t forced into somewhat silence, you’re sure you would have been calling out hobie’s name, drunk of him and him alone.

he has no idea what words you’re gurgling but unless you’re chanting about how you’re on the verge of cumming, he doesn’t care. luckily for him, it’s almost certain that you were and it’s evident with how your body falls slack in his arms and your cunt spasms around his fingers. the sight is an ultimate turn on.

hobie pulls his fingers out of your mouth and wipes the saliva over your cheek. he takes the opportunity to yank your bottoms down until they’re confined to your ankles. you step out of them and turn around, reconnecting your lips with his.

once again, you’re kissing hobie as an act of hunger, pushing your lips so hard together that they nearly swell. you cup the back of his head to draw him in. you’re delighted to feel his hands on the globes on your cheeks and set you onto the counter. it’s cold on your skin and so you flinch but it becomes a faint thought when hobie’s hands are anchored on the backs of your thighs. he pushes them back until your feet are flat on the counter and your glistening pussy is all on display, still creamy from your recent orgasm.

“just gotta get a taste,” he mumbles, mostly to himself as he eyes the shining cunt open and throbbing for him. he wastes no time wrapping his lips around your puffy clit, slurping at your slick. he enjoys the sapidity that’s unique to you, tangy and a bit sweet, like a refreshing dessert he could eat for the rest of his life.

he can feel the juices drip down his chin and coat the lower half of his face but that doesn’t stop him from eating your pussy like a starved man. you have to bring a hand up to your mouth to muffle the moans, watching the hobie lick between your folds and lap at your clit. your eyes are ready to roll back when hobie’s tongue pokes at your entrance. you want so badly to scream, to pull hobie’s head even closer to your aching pussy but you can’t. you can’t risk moving your hand off your mouth, knowing that the moment you do, you’ll wake up the whole house.

you compromise by using your other hand to support your weight and shift toward, putting yourself a little more onto your toes. in this new position, you’re able to move your cunt along his face. you push farther, going as far as to brush your clit along hobie’s nose.

his response is to tug your body to the edge of the counter and wrap your legs over his shoulders. your lower body is solely held up by him, his shoulder, and his hands. he swallows every ounce of your slick and sears your clit with a kiss.

it doesn’t take long before you’re finding yourself closer to the edge of a second orgasm. you ball your shirt up and shove the jumbled mess into your own mouth. your brain is foggy. you can’t think of a single thought that isn’t full of hobie, the pleasure, and the need to cum, immediately. 

“mmmf,” you wrap your legs around his neck. dig your fingers into his hair, and tug just in time for another gush of cum to come flowing out of your pussy. every muscle in your body has relaxed and become putty by now. you’re at hobie’s disposal and you love that.

“you’re so perfect, i’m devastated.” he kisses your inner thigh, continuing to trail those kisses up your stomach, between your tits, and onto your lips. he doesn’t wipe the cum off his face as he does it. instead, he makes you taste it, wrapping his tongue around yours and wetting your cheeks with the stickiness as your arousal as he does it.

“no you’re not. you won’t stay for me.” you whisper between kisses, running your hands along his bare chest under his shirt. you grab the hem and pull it up until hobie inevitably allows you to pull it off. it’s discarded and tossed onto the floor.

“i won’t stay for anyone. you know this.” he disconnects from the kiss, but only for a moment. during this time, he drops his pants to pull out his cock, raging from watching you cum not once, but twice. in the darkness, you can make out an outline of it, long and skinny with a mushroom tip and bulging veins. he’s been straining this whole time but hadn’t complained at all, loving every second of pleasing you. he could do it for hours if he had the time.

you resort to pouting as hobie sets your feet back onto the ground. with his hands on his hips, he turns you back around until your back is pressed against his chest, once again. “just say you hate me.”

“keep saying that and i’ll shove my dick in your mouth.” he says, aligning his tip with his sticky entrance. you don’t mention how his threat holds no weight if you’d enjoy it. instead, you play into it and huff, resting your hands flat on the counter.

you brace yourself when hobie begins to push deep into you. the stretch is painful at first, enough that you have to grit your teeth and will yourself to relax through the shallow thrusts to ease his way into you. it only takes a few seconds before the pain is blooming into satisfaction.

he fits so well inside you, filling you as if he was created solely for this purpose. you reach up, resting your hand on his cheek for a source of intimacy in the slow thrusts. you use the leverage of the counter to push your ass back to meet his thrusts.

you don’t know how much willpower you have to continue standing on your own when hobie is doing such a good job of fucking you dumb. even with the slow pace, you have to give in, leaning over the counter. to hobie, this is leverage for him to take control of the situation. he slots a large hand over your mouth and the other rests on the small of your back.

almost instantly, his thrusts increase tenfold. you’re certain if this was done on a bed, it would have been rocking with such an intensity against the wall. you grasp his hand covering your mouth with yours, almost screaming into his hand.

“shh, you’ll w – wake someone u – up.” he leans over you. hobie doesn’t compensate for the sound of skin slapping against each other by speaking louder. instead, he gets closer to you and because of that, angles his dick deeper into your cunt.

in this new state, you can hear every soft moan and whimper that leaves his mouth. he’s not rough about it, almost singing in your ear. his breath feels moist on your skin and adds to the fire burning in your core. “just t – take it, baby.”

you almost sob, rising onto your toes and writhe underneath him. it didn’t occur to you that you’d be overstimulated by the time you’ve reached this point. as much of your fault as it is, you like to blame most of it on hobie for pushing it this far. you wouldn’t be tempted to push him away, feeling as though he would be forcing another one out of you, if he didn’t.

you’re still, almost stuck in place. he’s too good at delivering. your body craves more and less of him at the same time. you’re certain you can feel him in your throat, ready to pop out the other side and through your mouth if this continues long enough. it’s driving you crazy, so crazy you squeeze your legs together.

it doesn’t last long because coincidentally, hobie hooks his hand under your leg and pushes it onto the counter. your cunt squelches as it swallows his size greedily. he’s obsessed with watching his length disappear inside you and the white sheen that surrounds the base. “shit, you’re gettin’ tight. gonna make me cum.”

you can only wail at his words and press your forehead against the granite. your legs have begun to quiver for the second time that night and you’re almost certain your insides are about to explode. you’re unsure what is building up inside you but it’s drawing from somewhere deep in the pits of your stomach and you’re getting nervous. there’s not much you can do about it, nor can you think about it too much because hobie’s fingers are rolling your clit between them.

the bud is all swollen and practically hot to the touch. you’re dripping down your own thighs at this point. there’s a musk that accompanies sex in the air, thick and sending you into a daze. your eyes flutter closed before they roll back. you let loose, weak streams of squirt falling into the floor beneath you.

“holy fuckin’ shit,” hobie pulls out of you so fast, you whine and crumple onto the floor. he, as the kind gentleman he is, don’t force your weak body to move positions again. instead, he steps to your side and turns your head with a hand under your chin. “open your mouth for me. atta’ girl.”

you watch him through half lidded eyes jerk his swollen cock in front of your face until he’s spurting cum all over it. your tongue dangles open and catches what remnants dribble downwards into your mouth.

hobie’s equally sensitive body stands there for a moment to catch his breath. he slowly lowers himself onto the ground until he’s able to run his thumb over your cum-covered face to collect some of it on the pad of his finger and swipe it over your tongue. “how do you feel? want water or something?”

you wordlessly shake your head and crawl into his arms, despite the fact that your face is ultimately covered in his nut. you don’t mention that what you really want to know is what happens now. “just want to shower and sleep.”

he looks at you, half asleep against him, and then around the kitchen and the few pieces of evidence left behind. for one, the scent has got to go. “i’ll get you into the bath and i’ll handle the cleanup, okay? you just rest your pretty little head.”

you’ve already beat him to it, humming in response and envisioning the comfort of your queen sized bed. if you considered things awkward before, just what until you see how you try to navigate it in the morning.

#ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝔀𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂 #hobie x black!reader #hobie smut #hobie brown #x black fem reader #astv hobie #x black reader #x reader #hobie x reader #hobie x y/n

[yourfavoritebookclub]

WINGLEADER: A Xaden Riorson POV Fanfiction

CHAPTER 6

Imogen and I walk along the Iakobos River, our steps near silent as we snake our way through the reedy grass to the cluster of large oaks at the bank.

We stop at the roots of one of the larger trees and Imogen pulls off her hood to give me a long look.

She leans in towards me, voice quiet. “Can you please stop giving me the silent treatment?”

When I don't respond, she turns her head to look me in the eyes, “Xaden, seriously. You weren’t there, she was talking about my parents being murdered. Am I supposed to just let trash like her get away with that? It’s dis—” I lift my hand to silence her. “Don’t finish that sentence, Imogen.” I ground out, my anger rising at the insult.

Hurt and confusion flash across her face and I feel a twinge of guilt. She doesn’t know that with every look, every confrontation, every day that goes by where Violet is in my presence, my self control slips a little more.

“The rest are close.” Sgaeyl says from her position in the sky. 

My eyes lift, “We can discuss this in front of everyone. It’s a message for all of you.”

The two of us turn towards the line of trees as the rest of the group converge beneath the giant oak.

My shadows are comfortable here, they feel cool against my skin. As they unravel, my senses extend along every tendril. I can hear every small nocturne creature and subtle wind.

I can also hear the soft, quick breathing above me. What Violet Sorrengail is doing out here, is a question I’d love to know the answer to. But it can wait. This moment feels like another opportunity to push her and see which way she falls.

There are small introductions between everyone, most of them are known, but some of the first-years are from smaller families who haven’t been properly acquainted with everyone.

There’s a palpable anxiety coursing through the younger cadets. I get it, but it’s time to push it to the side, step up, and do their jobs. We protect each other. Panic isn't an option. 

Garrick is angsty about the losses this week. We all are. Our numbers are small enough as is. 

Garrick addresses the group, his eyes hard, “We’ve already lost Sutherland and Luperco, that’s just how it is your first year, but we can’t afford to lose a single one of us. Division amongst ourselves will be your greatest weakness.”

There’s soft rustling in the branches above as Violet moves from branch to branch.

Imogen turns to the first years, “Like it or not, we’re going to have to stick together if you want to survive until graduation.”

“And if they find out we’re meeting?” One of the younger girls, Gwyn, asks the group.

The fear is clear on all of their faces. They’ve all been scared for too long. But that’s what we’re here to change.

I need to inspire courage, but also remind them that we’re confident in the system we’ve created.

And remind them who they’ll be answering to if things get out of hand.

I cross my arms and lean against the tree, keenly aware of Violet, now directly above me.

“We’ve done this for two years and they’ve never found out.” My eyes scan the group, “they’re not going to unless one of you tells. And if you tell,” I say, raising a brow, “I’ll know. Like Garrick said, we’ve already lost two first-years to their own negligence. There are only forty-one of us in the Riders Quadrant, and we don’t want to lose any of you, but we will if you don’t help yourselves. The odds are always stacked against us, and trust me, every other Navarrian in the quadrant will look for reasons to call you a traitor or force you to fail.”

There’s no use in feeding them bullshit if their lives are on the line.

“How many of you are getting your asses handed to you in hand-to-hand?”

Four first-years raise their hands.

Four.

“Shit.” I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. This is not good. After the bargain was made a few of us older kids made sure there were systems in place. Training regimens were created. Academic Curriculums, and tests that mimicked what they’ll face upon entering the quadrant. Tools to ensure every serpartist’s kid was well equipped before they put a single toe on the parapet.

The headache is back.

Garrick, always a step ahead, says, “I’ll teach them.”

After the amount of training, and natural skill he’s had, Garrick’s fighting is instinctual. Good for winning fights, not great for trying to teach someone.

I look at Garrick and shake my head, “You’re our best fighter–” 

I’m interrupted by Bodhi, “ You’re our best fighter.”

“Dirtiest fighter, maybe,” Imogen corrects him with a laugh.

There’s some laughter, and even a couple smiles from the younger ones.

“Fucking ruthless is more like it,” Garrick says, grinning at me.

I keep my mouth shut and let everyone get it out of their system before moving on.

“Garrick is our best fighter, but Imogen is right up there with him, and she’s a hell of a lot more patient,” If the two of them want to be mouthy then they can do it together. “So the four of you split yourselves up between the two of them for training. A group of three won’t draw any unwanted attention. What else is giving you trouble?” One of the first years, Kieran begins speaking before anyone else, his voice full of anguish,“I can’t do this.” My stomach lurches.

I can’t deal with this right now

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice going cold.

“I can’t do this! The death. The fighting. Any of it. A guy had his neck snapped right in front of me on assessment day!” The boy's voice is growing more frantic, and every word out of his mouth is filling me with guilt.

“I want to go home!” Kieran continues, “Can you help me with that ?”

Everyone turns to look at me.

I did this to them.

Bile rises to the back of my throat.

No, this was the only way I could save every person in front of me right now.

I didn’t have a choice.

And neither does he.

I swallow, frustration bubbling up to the surface.

We don’t have time to comfort and coddle. Our goal is to survive. Everything else is an afterthought.

“No,” I say, shrugging my shoulders, feigning indifference.“You’re not going to make it. Best accept it now and not take up more of my time.”

My words come out harsher than intended, but I mean them nonetheless 

The color drains from Kieran’s face, and his thin frame begins shaking as my words hit him.

Bodhi turns to look at me, incredulity written on his face. “That was a little harsh, cousin.”

“What do you want me to say, Bodhi? I can’t save everyone, especially not someone who isn’t willing to work to save themselves.” I keep my voice calm, even as the guilt tries to press itself in on me.

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick says, that same disbelief lacing his voice. “Way to give a pep talk.”

Did none of them hear me after the parapet? We are not special. We will face blood and horror, and the likely possibility of death. Giving me problems that I can’t solve doesn’t help anyone, it holds us all back. This is just a fact of our reality. 

“If they need a fucking pep talk, then we both know they’re not flying out of the quadrant on graduation day. Let’s get real. I can hold their hands and make them a bunch of bullshit empty promises about everyone making it through if that helps them sleep, but in my experience, the truth is far more valuable.” I turn to look at Kieran, “In war, people die. It’s not glorious like the bards sing about, either. It’s snapped necks and two-hundred-foot falls. There’s nothing romantic about scorched earth or the scent of sulfur.” 

I point to the citadel off in the distance, “This isn’t some fable where everyone makes it out alive. It’s hard, cold, uncaring reality. Not everyone here is going to make it home…to whatever’s left of our homes. And make no mistake, we are at war every time we step foot in the quadrant.” I lean closer to him, and the other first-years in front of me. They need to drill this into their fucking skulls, “So if you won’t get your shit together and fight to live, then no. You’re not going to make it.”

I assess each of them, making sure they’ve heard me loud and clear.

Good. Time to move on.

“Now, someone give me a problem I can actually solve,” I say, this time addressing the whole group.

Aria, one of the first years, speaks up, “Battle Brief.” 

That, I can handle.

She continues, “It’s not that I can’t keep up, but the information…”

Imogen steps in to soften the obvious conflict in Aria’s voice. She leans in, voice gentle “That’s a tough one.”

Some of my irritation with her softens. Imogen’s fearless, and has a nasty temper, but she’s always been a buffer between me and everyone else.

And she’s right, It’s hard to know what we know, and still placate the professors.

I’d speak a bit more freely if I didn’t have a certain someone perched on the branch above me. I'm already sticking my neck out by letting her stay. 

“You learn what they teach you.” I say giving her a pointed look. “Keep what you know but recite whatever they tell you to.” There are several nods, and I feel satisfied that everyone understands what’s at stake if they fuck up.

“Anyone else?” I say, looking up at the moon. It’s shifted considerably since we got here, which means we’re cutting it close. “You’d better ask now. We don’t have all night.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence before someone in the back says, “When do we get to kill Violet Sorrengail?”

My whole body tenses, my heartrate climbing, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from snapping. In the span of a few seconds I’ve become completely possessed. Just a handful of days around her and I’m already losing my mind at the thought of anyone touching her. She’s mine . 

“Yeah, Xaden, When do we get to finally have our revenge?” Imogen says, her voice turning mockingly sweet. 

I am now acutely aware of every fast breath coming from Violet. 

I throw a threatening look at Imogen, “I told you already, the youngest Sorrengail is mine, and I’ll handle her when the time is right.” 

I don’t think I even know what that means right now. There are a lot of ways I’d like to handle– 

No.

That’s not even a thought worth entertaining.

Bodhi decides to be Bodhi and stir the pot, “Didn’t you already learn that lesson, Imogen? What I hear, Aetos has you scrubbing dinner dishes for the next month for using your powers on the mat.”

“Her mother is responsible for the execution of my mom and sister. I should have done more than just snap her shoulder.” Imogen argues, her cheeks flushing in anger.

“Her mom is responsible for the capture of nearly all our parents. Not her daughter.” Garrick looks Imogen in the eyes, “Punishing children for the sins of their parents is the Navarrian way, not Tyrrish.”

This is getting exhausting.

“So we get conscripted because of what our parents did years ago and shoved into this death sentence of a college–”

“In case you didn’t notice, she’s in this same death sentence of a college. Seems like she’s already suffering the same fate.” Garrick says, shutting down Imogen’s argument.

Apparently everyone here needs a reminder of who Violet is in all of this.

“Don’t forget her brother was Brennan Sorrengail. She has just as much reason to hate us as we do her.” I say to Imogen before turning to the first-year, “And I’m not going to tell you again. She’s mine to handle. Anyone feel like arguing?”

No one speaks.

The moon has shifted even closer to the horizon. Time to get these walking headaches out of here and deal with the one above me.“Good. Then get back to bed. And go in threes.”  

The group clears out and I walk towards the citadel, slowly cloaking myself in shadows until I’m invisible in the dark. I can’t help but smirk as I backtrack to the oak tree and slip behind where Violet is currently positioned.

She’s patient. It takes her a good ten minutes before she finally climbs down from her perch and drops to the ground. 

Still cloaked in shadows, I lunge, pulling her tight against my chest. Every place where our bodies connect is buzzing like a live wire, and I resist the impulse to drop her. 

It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and dammit if I don’t love every second.

“Scream and you die,” I whisper in her ear. I don’t want to let go of her, but I force myself to remove my arm from around her neck.

Before she can even think about retaliating, I’ve replaced my arm with the edge of a dagger. “Fucking Sorrengail.” I snap, pulling back the hood of her cloak to reveal her face.

Fuck. 

I can’t help the way my cheeks heat as she leans her head back to look me in the eyes.

I push my chest against her, forcing her eyes forward before she gets a chance to read the undeniable need on my face.

“How did you know?” She says, her lip curling. For someone who’s convinced I’m going to kill her, she has some bite. “Let me guess,” she continues, “You could smell my perfume. Isn’t that what always gives the heroine away in books?”

Perfume?  

I bend my head toward hers, my lips brushing against her ear.

She’s irritating as hell. And yet here I am, excited that I have her all to myself.

“I command shadows, but sure, it was your perfume that gave you away.” I say sarcastically, my voice barely above a whisper.

A thrill goes up my spine as she gasps. “Your signet is a shadow wielder?”

My lips are still at her ear , “What, Aetos hasn’t warned you not to get caught alone in the dark with me yet?”

My voice sounds rough, even to me, and I resist the urge to put my mouth on her, to bite her ear, kiss her neck. I’m in a fog, consumed by being near her.

My grip loosens a fraction as my concentration slips, and she spins towards me, dagger raised, “Is this how you plan to handle me?”

“Eavesdropping are we?” I ask, brow lifting. 

Seeing her like this, like she was before the parapet, angry and wild, is doing something to me, and I can’t get enough.

I sheath my dagger. “Now I might actually have to kill you.” The cold look in my eyes is in stark contrast to the way my mind is pleading with her.

Please, don’t say anything. 

Because for all my bravado, I don’t know if I have it in me to kill her. I’m worried about what it might do to me. 

It would wreck me.

She backs away, reaching into her cloak to pull out another dagger. 

Despite her uneven footing and awkward defensive stance, Violet with her daggers out, ready for a fight is…

Fuck, It’s hot.

“That stance is really the best you can muster? No wonder Imogen nearly ripped your arm off.” I say, heaving a sigh. I don’t have it in me to kill her but there are several people who do, and will succeed with her defensive position so…lacking.

“I’m more dangerous than I look,” she says, but her cheeks are flushed and her ears have turned pink at the tips, contradicting the anger in her voice.

She’s being cute, and I can’t help but smirk. I like playing with her, “So I see. I’m quaking in my boots.”

Quicker than I would’ve expected she flings both daggers towards me.

And completely misses.

I look at her dully, if not a little disappointed, “You missed.”

“Did I?” She says, reaching for the two other daggers she has tucked into her cloak, “Why don’t you back up a couple steps and test that theory?”

What?

I smooth my face into a mask of irritated boredom, but from the way she’s looking at me, I know she saw the question in my eyes.

My shadows swirl around her ankles, pulling to touch her. I yank them back, hard, smothering my own desire.

My eyes don’t leave Violet’s as I take three steps back until my back hits the tree.

Where the  hilt of each dagger sits perfectly between both sides of my head.

Oh.

Good girl, Violet.

“Tell me again that I missed.” She threatens, flipping the dagger in her hand to hold it by the tip.

I still can’t take my eyes off of her. 

I smile, “Fascinating, you look all frail and breakable, but you’re really a violent little thing, aren’t you?”

I will my shadows into something more concrete, forming them into hands, the slender fingers moving to pluck the daggers from the bark, and drop them into both of my palms.

I’m still smiling at her like a fool. I think I’m going into shock.

My body has completely abandoned my mind, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m moving towards her, steps slow, “You should show that little trick to Jack Barlowe.”

Violet blinks in surprise, “What?”

She clocks how close we are to each other and raises her dagger.

I’ve done my job a little too well if she thinks my only motivation is to kill her. “The neck-snapping first year who’s very publicly vowed to slaughter you.” I tease, lifting an eyebrow. 

One more step and the tip of her blade is pressed against my middle. I’m still smirking as I reach under her cloak and sheath one of the daggers. 

I lift the other side of her cloak, and the smirk slips off of my face, every ounce of playful banter gone.

Underneath her cloak, her hair is twisted into a loose braid that falls over one shoulder and down past her breast. The silver strands, now exposed to the moonlight, glint as she shifts her head to look up at me.

I can barely breathe for wanting her so badly.

I want to wrap that braid around my wrist and yank her towards me.

For a single heartbeat I’m dumbstruck before I pull myself together and sheath her other dagger. “He’d probably think twice about plotting your murder if you threw a few daggers at his head.”

Violet’s face looks half irritated, half confused, “Because the honor of my murder belongs to you?” My words from earlier play through my head. Mine . “You wanted me dead long before your little club chose my tree to meet under, so I imagine you’ve all but buried me in your mind by now.”

I look at the dagger pressed between us. She looks closer to burying me than the other way around. 

A small shiver of fear courses through me. I’ve made a dangerous gamble in letting her hear all that was said tonight. “Do you plan on telling anyone about my little club ?” 

“No,” She says bluntly.

I can feel my eyebrows knit together. The answer I was hoping for, but not necessarily the one I was expecting. “Why not?” I ask. My head tilts to the side as I examine this girl in front of me, so different than I had assumed. “It’s illegal for the children of separatists officers to assemble in—”

“Groups larger than three,” Smart little thing.

She continues, “I’m well aware. I’ve lived at Basgiath longer than you.” Arrogant little thing too.

“And you’re not going to run off to Mommy, or your precious little Dain, and tell them we’ve been assembling? ” I can’t help the contempt that drips off my tongue at the thought of Dain. Of his hands on her face, searching through her memories.

“You were helping them. I don’t see why that should be punished.” 

I give her an assessing glare.

She looks thoughtful, her mind turned inward for a beat before her eyes refocus on mine, “I’m not going to tell.”

I can’t get my hopes up, but they’re soaring anyways.

Her defenses are slipping away, rotating back to a familiar look of fear.

I don’t want her to be scared of me.

She needs to be scared of me. She should want nothing to do with me. 

If I can just manage enough self restraint to put some distance between the two of us.

“Interesting. We’ll see if you keep your word, and if you do, then unfortunately, it looks like I owe you a favor.” I say, my thoughts of staying away are already completely abandoned.

I turn to go and she calls after me, “You’re not going to handle me?”

“Not tonight!” I yell over my shoulder, a smirk on my face.

She makes an indignant sound, “What are you waiting for?”

Gods I can’t help but play with her, “It’s no fun if you expect it. Now, get back to bed before your wingleader realizes you’re out after curfew.”

“What?” She almost shrieks, voice full of confusion.

 I start to pull my shadows around me, cloaking me from view, but not before I hear her shout, “ You’re my wingleader!”

Yes the hell I am. 

In the shadows my smirk has bloomed into a fierce grin.

#fourth wing #fanfiction #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #xadenviolet #violet and xaden #fourth wing fanfic #tairn and sgaeyl #sgaeyl #liam mairi #mira sorrengail #basgiath

[srebrnafh]

Last week before election.

In Poland.

Guys.

Fingers crossed, good vibes, even thoughts and prayers. I'm not a person of faith, but hell, I'll take thoughts and prayers at this stage. Please please please someone make these stinking bastards LOSE. Just fucking LOSE.

They took over the constitutional tribunal and did the "oups that's not constitutional anymore" to our abortion rights (more or less what happened to Roe...). They managed to put their own bought corrupt stinky judges into way too many courts. They are forcing fucked up "patriotic" curriculum on the kids. They messed up the school system FOR MY SON when he was just in the middle of his education. They are endangering pregnant women by criminalising even miscarriage (a woman who miscarried reported that police checking out the sewers coming from her house...) They are keeping refugees on the border, not allowing them even to petition for protection, throwing people into the woods in autumn and winter, kids, pregnant women...

(I know these things are not equal, but they just fuck up so much at the same time I can't even summarise it properly...!)

I just want them to GO. GO AWAY, stop ruining my country. I am not a very patriotic person, I'm not 100% of one nationality or other, half of my family is from all around the bloody continent, from Carrara to Mariupol. But I live in Poland and I'm just.

So.

Tired.

Of.

Them.

...we need to vote them the fuck out of the office...

#poland #politics #elections #parliamentary elections #polish stuff #polish politics #abortion #immigration #refugees

[teamroscoes]

Lewis Hamilton’s foreword in Curriculum Black Legacies book

"Throughout my career, there have been man moments that fill me with pride, from crossing the finish line at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix in 2020 to reach my seventh World Championship, to winning my one hundredth race in Russia in 2021. These achievements have been the outcome of the hard work and determination I put into racing every time I get into the car. However, despite he success I've had on the track, I've come to realise there's a more important job that needs to be done. I don't just want to be a champion on the track - I want to champion all the young people out there who don't think their dreams are possible. Racing had been my passion since I was a kid, but there were times during my childhood when I lost confidence in my mission to truly succeed as a driver. I was one of the few Black students at my school and am now one of only a few Black employees within my industry. Throughout my career, I have used this difference to push myself further, but there have been times when I've felt the reality of being in a minority. It's during these times that I've taken my dad's advice to do my talking on the track. It's not always easy, but a I've grown older, I've become motivated to use my success as a platform to show all the young Black kids watching that their goals and aspirations are possible too. I want to show them that our community is resilient, and they can achieve their dreams if they believe in themselves." (...) "Recently, as I reflectes on my journey and those of the influential Black Britons who have come before me, I realised I wanted my legacy to extend beyond racing. Looking at the lack of representation in the end of season protographs across Formula One was a turning point for me. In that moment, I decided I had to be proactive in my desire to achieve a better future for the next generation. I realised the platform that my achievements have granted me should also serve as a pathway for the next generation of talent within my industry and beyond." (...) "As we continue to change and shape society, I want my legacy to shine through the lives of every young Black kid who was told they won't succeed. The path to equality is not smooth but, by working together, I know we can create a brighter and fairer future for us all."

#lewis hamilton #f1* #f1 #*

[katebushsbabushka]

Things In My Neurodivergent Class That Just Make Sense

Very little HW

Stim toys and plushies

Class is routine based and structure, but it's not complicated. I don't do a ton of handouts. I don't dumb my kids down.

I NEVER do group work.

Cross curriculum is BS. Math and English are not compatible. I don't do it.

I don't hide how stupid standardized testing is.

I teach in a religious school, so I'm constantly trying to help my kids through their already existing religious trauma. It's extremely exhausting.

Graphic organizers and other forms of extremely guided work are insulting and boring, so I don't use them.

Lecture and group discussions are better when they are relaxed and INTERESTING.

#autism #adhd #ocd #neurodivergence #neurodivergent #learning #teaching #teachers of tumblr #sick of neurotypicals #asd #autistic teacher

[itsupermanti]

RWBY DC AU #1; Race of the Century!

Lisa Lavender: I’m Lisa Lavender with Vale News, and we are live in Vale at the starting line for the charity event people are calling, “The Race of the Century!”

Lisa(walking over to the start line where the Justice League, Justice Society and Young Justice are chatting with each other): This charity event is being held to raise funds for Beacon’s curriculum and the upkeep of Vale’s borders against the Grimm.

Lisa(as she approaches the participants of the race): As well as answer the question many have asked concerning our beloved heroes, just who is the fastest?

Lisa(as she walks up to Sage Ayana): Here with me is the Justice League’s Huntsman Representative, Sage Ayana, can you tell our viewers about the contestants Mr Ayana.

Sage(smiling): Well not only are we raising funds for Beacon and the upkeep of Vale, we’re also determining who amongst these heroes are the fastest!

Lisa(as the cameraman faces the each participant of the race, starting with The Justice Society’s Flash/Bart Oobleck as he warms up): The Justice Society’s own speedster, the original Flash?

Sage(Superboy/Adrien is shown stretching and channeling aura throughout his body and into his perf-boost semblance): Young Justice’s own Superboy, the Teen of Steel?

Lisa(Harriet is shown inspecting her weapon and angrily glaring at the heroes around her): Atlas’ Ace-Op member, Harriet “Hare” Bree?

Sage(as Kid Flash/Oscar is seen adjusting his red gauntlets and red soles of his black boots, before making sure that his silver mask is perfectly adjusted for his high speed run with help from Robin/Whitley): One of my preferred contestants, Young Justice’s Kid Flash, the Fastest Teen Alive?

Lisa(as Superwoman/Yang is shown going over the route for the race on a map with Batwoman/Blake and Star Sapphire/Nora): His mother, the Justice League’s own Superwoman?

Sage(as The Flash/Jaune is seen eating an energy bar and memorizing the route with help from Green Lantern/Ruby and Green Arrow/Sun): Or will the Flash prove himself worthy of his title, “Fastest Man Alive”?

Lisa(as the camera pans back to them): We should go over the route for our viewers at home.

Sage(nodding his head as he motions to a screen behind him, showing the continents of Remnant): Right! The racers will start here in Vale.

Sage(Aquaman/Neptune bursts up from the shores of Menagerie with Red Tornado/Penny observing from her place next to the first checkpoint): They’ll have to race across the ocean to reach Menagerie, potentially breaking the sound barrier as they do so!

Sage(as the screen shows Troia/Pyrrha and a large crowd at the second checkpoint in Mistral): They’ll then race to the next checkpoint in Mistral.

Sage(Wonder Woman/Winter is shown on the streets of Mantle at the third checkpoint): Brave the harsh blizzards of Atlas to reach the third checkpoint in Mantle, marking the halfway point.

Sage(while Dr Fate/Ozpin and Cyclone/Glynda are shown at the fourth checkpoint at the edge of the Grimmlands): Cut across the borders of the Grimmlands, passing the fourth point as they go.

Sage(Superman/Taiyang is seen hovering by the fifth checkpoint in Vacuo with Constantine/Qrow zipping from his flask nearby): From there, they’ll continue going as they cross the scorching sands towards Vacuo!

Sage(as the starting line is seen once again): They race across the continent in a full on race back to the starting point here in Vale!

Sage(as he is seen once again): Whoever crosses the finish line first, well be declared the fastest!

Lisa(as Green Lantern/Ren hovers above the start line): It appears as though the race is about to begin!

Lisa(as the racers take their places upon the start line): Each contestant has been given a special bracelet to help track their progress from here.

Sage(as one of the bracelets is shown on Jaune’s wrist, as he pulls his glove back into place, hiding it): These bracelets also provide them with the route they’ll take, as well as record they’re highest speed.

Green Lantern/Ruby(kissing her husband on the cheek as he lines up on the start line): You got this sweetie!

Superwoman/Yang(offended by her sister picking Jaune over her): What am I, chopped liver?!

Green Lantern/Ren(making a construct flare gun once everyone is lined up): Ready?!

Green Lantern/Ren(as Superboy and Superwoman crouch slightly): On your marks…

Green Lantern/Ren(as Harriet assumes a three-point stance and lightning emits from her eyes with a scowl on her face): Get set…

The three Speedforce users’ vibrate in place, generating a great deal of lightning each as Ren finally fires of the green flare to send them on their way.

Green Lantern/Ren(as the flare shots up into the sky): GO!!!

The six contestants take off with a huge gust of wind, lightning and a boom left in their wake.

Only one will win!

#rwby #rwby dc #rwby dc au #rwby jaune arc #the flash #rwby oscar pine #kid flash #yang xiao long #superwoman

[yume4evere]

yuuki kuran part 2

Questions?

 Do you take school seriously?

Eh...? What...? What is that question ? Of course I take all this very seriously... When I manage to keep my eyes open.

 Yuki , do you know how to cook?

Mmm... No, not really. But I'm doing everything I can to improve myself and it's not so bad after all. Isn't it Zero ? What no ?!

Call the director "Dad", please!

That's more of a request than a question, isn't it?! Besides, it's not that hard for me to call him "Pa...", well no, sorry, I can't. 

Who taught you to use Artemis?

Finally, a normal question. It was the director who taught me. He patiently and lovingly taught me how to handle it since I was little. I thank him.

Who would you like to share your room with if you were to live in the Moon Pavilion?

What, living with Night Class students?! I would be way too nervous. Why not with their maid?

What kind of nickname could you give to Zero and Kaname ?

Give Kaname a nickname ?! No way !! For Zero , I will call it " Zerounet " just to break its image a bit. Just kidding, Zero !!

So, which of the two are you in love with? Zero or Kaname ?

How...?! I...I have to go, the Night Class will start soon, sorry! 

 How to improve Yuki 's school results ?

The question of Yuki 's school results !!

~There are very good ideas to help him study seriously!!~

How to help Yuki work more:

Prepare a calendar with Kaname 's sweet face .

Zero will surely plant a nice thumbtack on his photo.

I'm going to pin him. ( Zero )

Zero , you're cruel... And I really need to get better grades... ( Yuki ) 

All she has to do is say "Daddy, I love you" to the director, opening her big eyes wet with tears when she gets bad grades. (He can't resist)

Yuki you don't need to have good grades. The director.

If she manages to have more than 50 in her checks, she will be entitled to free tickets for a week of delicious "ginger menus", take her by the gluttony.

Wh...what?! Free food? A good ice cream suits me too. ( Yuki )

If you still can't improve your grades... Here are some "2 hero questions" by the Journalism Club.

What... more pressure... I hate it. ( Yuki ) 

Ask Kaname and Zero to be her private teachers. Will she be able to concentrate enough despite the heavy atmosphere...?

No way. ( Zero )

...Not bad, but why not be just you and me, Yuki ? ( Kaname )

She only has to write with Kageyama 's pen , the first in the class, during exams.

Miss cross ... If your grades go up, the class average goes up too. You can use my pen as often as you want!! (the class leader)

Add the nap to the school curriculum!! She will be 100!!

It is an excellent idea. She could become one of the best students. ( Sayori )

She could also do her best for her best friend Yori if she is told that exam scores will be the same for those who share the same room. "If your grades are bad, so are mine."

Yori , I promise to do my best, don't hate me too much... ( Yuki )

#vampire knight #vampire knight memories #kaname kuran #yuki kuran #yuuki kuran #kuran kaname #eternal yume #yume #vkm #vk #hino matsuri #fanbook

[mourning-again-in-america]

there seems to be a need for pedagogical justification in mathematics, a need to convince the students that the arbitrary symbol-rearranging that they're learning is actually important, but most of what kids learn in high school mathematics probably is useless if they're not doing physics, programming, or mathematics

is it really that important to learn about the law of cosines? what use does that serve? it's great if the kid's going on to do computer graphics or applied physics, but most won't!

what about matrices? sure, it's occasionally handy to be able to solve a set of 3 linear equations, but is grocery shopping why we teach kids about matrices?

what about complex numbers? is it so that a kid can go on to do complex analysis, or follow a proof that the dimensions of cross-products correspond to the dimensions of normed division algebras over the reals?

kids can pick up on bullshit, and math teachers, especially in non-honors courses, are terrible at justifying their curriculum. if you want kids to be interested in math, stop lying to them. but then, you might have the issue that they won't do what you tell them.

[welcome-to-green-hills]

So would you say that Sonic also learned cursive at one point since his letters keep connecting? You’ve opened up a new hyperfixation for me that I didn’t know that I had now😂

Hahaha! Awww, that’s awesome to hear my dear!❤️✨

Continuing off from THIS POST, we see that nearly all lowercase letters are connected… almost as if it’s cursive-like. The unofficial—but we’ll call it official here—name for this called “Hybrid Writing.” This is common with those that were taught cursive. For me, I have adapted the hybrid writing. I was the weird generation of American kids that was taught cursive writing first before adapting my own script.

American students were taught cursive for a short period of time. This was a useful tool that helped students understand gripping techniques, proper motor skills when reading, and it gave students the time to both write out the letters slowly as they’ve sounded them out (Harp, 2021). Cursive was removed around the teaching curriculum around 2010.

It’s quite possible that Game!Sonic has been taught cursive as a child, but I would need to collect more data to supply a confident response. As I’ve shared in my previous post; it’s an interesting topic to talk about, but I don’t have enough resources to explain it further. (Even the way that the “S” and the cross bar in the “H” might be an emphasis/primary representation of how he phonetically pronounces that vowel when speaking).

#I also think that the way that he connects specific vowels and consonants together is indication of him knowing another language. #But I’d have to do more research into it as well! That might be another post for another day❤️✨ #sonic the hedgehog #mystery anon #off topic #I am an anthropologist #I am an archaeologist

[fandom-trash-xl]

Character Details: The Super-Gen Kids

Headcanonned details for my interpretations of the Dragon Ball Super era kids- Pan, Bulla, and Kuriza; just general plotting out things. More headcanons are found around the blog.

PAN

Borderline ADHD

She's homeschooled by Gohan- graduates a year or so early simply due to how he loaded the curriculum

Multi-time winner of the Tenkaichi Budokai- she would have beat him regardless, but Mr. Satan willingly concedes his champion title to her, deeming her a rightful successor. She doesn't desire fame, just the fun.

She's unsure of her post-grad plans. She's an explorer at heart and likes to fly cross-continent to find new exciting training spots, so she's partially interning as part of Bulma's Dragon Ball hunting crew.

She's the tallest of the trio, reaching just shy of 5'8" at final growth spurt.

She's good at reading people and realizes Kuriza and Bulla's crushes on each other before even they realize.

She's able to turn Super Saiyan- she gets an initial spark at 5 from a temper tantrum upon hearing that Goku will be leaving with Uub instead of staying to train with her, but further harnesses it with time.

DESIGN:

Her hair is cut in often jagged styles, having some signature Saiyan spikes in her ponytail, often done up a bit messily.

She has half considered dying the tips of her side bangs (see Ramona Flowers from the new Scott Pilgrim), but she knew that'd probably give Chi-Chi a scare.

She wears bandanna headbands in her hair, either in neutral shades or the iconic orange of her GT bandanna. She often ties the bow up top; Bulla half-teasingly calls her "rabbit ears".

She inherits Gohan's vision problems later in her teens, wearing a pair of cherry red frames. She switches to a pair of similarly colored goggles when fighting.

One of her frequent outfits features her scarlet/red-orange gi with a pair of jeans or slacks, worn at the knees, over the lower half.

She also enjoys wearing some of Videl's hand-me-downs- mainly the navy and goldenrod FIGHT outfit and her denim vest from GT, adding a few patches and pins to the latter.

She doesn't go anywhere without her gray fingerless gloves.

BULLA

She doesn't inherit the Saiyan fightiness, but she does have a fair amount of strength from her genetics. She is well-equipped in self-defense.

Vegeta was at least given some claim to Saiyan naming, her middle name being "Eschalot", named after the late Saiyan Queen.

Pan believes if she had the training level to go Super Saiyan, she'd already have the emotional outburst part covered.

She does enjoy a few physical-based hobbies such as gymnastics and dance.

She's rich enough to buy whatever clothes she wants, but she still has a knack for sewing outfits for herself- and often for others as gifts.

Despite seeming the "ditzy" sort, she is actually quite business smart and assumes the role of vice president of Capsule Corp under her brother rather early in her 20s.

She's the second tallest of the gang, reaching around 5'5"-6"... passing Vegeta in height.

DESIGN:

Her hair color is a intertwisting mix of both robin's egg and lavender (a combo of anime and manga colors).

She tends to keep her hair long or at shoulder length at minimum. It gives her more styling opportunities... and Kuriza also enjoys combing his fingers through the length.

Occasionally Saiyan signature spikiness crops up in her unstyled bangs and split ends.

It's a rarity to see her in pants instead of a skirt or dress.

She doesn't mind wearing a bummy sweatshirt on top if it means keeping a nice outfit tidy.

She will often let jackets and blazers ride off of her shoulders.

KURIZA

The basic rundown if this is your first rodeo with my Kuriza interpretation: born two years after the ToP (782); Berryblue is given the role of his "mother" until he's old enough to be told that his real mother is gone.

He's the quiet type, but is able to channel his voice when needed. His shyness would have likely been worked out of him by Frieza if he never had any trips to Earth.

In the reverse, while he can bring out his voice, he can also push it back down into further hiding.

His tail tends to bat around more than average for an Arcosian.

He still inherits a bit of a dark and morbid side from Frieza with his words, although he is a bit gentler. He can get quite territorial and bitter in driven to one side.

He's rarely called by his full name (except by, of course, the Force soldiers who have no choice but to address him formally)- Frieza and Berryblue call him "Kuri"; Pan and Bulla both call him "Kureeze" when they're younger, but it later splits into Bulla calling him "Reeza" or "Reezey" and Pan calling him "Reezer".

This is basically equivalent in Japanese to both Frieza and Bulla calling him "Kuriza-kun"- the fact startles Frieza at first.

He's the shortest of the bunch, only reaching 4'7" at his tallest. This means he is very easily scooped up.

DESIGN:

His armor graduates up from basic onyx black or copper to more specialized ruby or wine burgundy.

On top of his armor, he prefers flowy fabrics, perhaps a cape, shawl, or even an over-sized vest.

He has a love of shiny things, so nothing is complete without a little piece of jewelry or a small bauble.

He also enjoys flowers, both Earthen and galactic, and will wear faux decorative versions as accessories- boutonnieres, corsages, or even one tied to the tail.

He gets muscle strains in his legs later on and requires knee braces to function in fit form. He initially needs support crutches as extra aids.

RELATIONSHIP LINKS

Kuriza and Bulla still hang out together even as Pan grows a bit distant from the group. They eventually become romantically involved starting in their teens.

Pan often playfully teases Bulla, their personalities a clear contrast bouncing off of each other- Pan's having fun with it and Bulla is well aware.

Pan sort of has a "brothership" with Kuriza, not afraid to be a little play-aggressive- a playful nudge punch to the arm, behaving a little more "boyish", although Kuriza tends to shy away from it; he plays along.

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #dragon ball super #headcanons #general headcanons #bulla #pan #son pan #kuriza