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precious-little-scoundrel · 3 months

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Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

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tsaomengde · 2 months

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The Villeneuve Dune(s) can be broadly interpreted as one of the two possible futures Paul sees in the original novel

Spoilers below for Dune Part Two. (And for the original novel, but that's been out since the 60s.)

He had seen two main branchings along the way ahead--in one he confronted an evil old Baron and said: "Hello, Grandfather." The thought of that path and what lay along it sickened him.

The other path held long patches of grey obscurity except for peaks of violence. He had seen a warrior religion there, a fire spreading across the universe with the Atreides green and black banner waving at the head of fanatic legions drunk on spice liquor. Gurney Halleck and a few others of his father's men--a pitiful few--were among them, all marked by the hawk symbol from the shrine of his father's skull.

"I can't go that way," he muttered. "That's what the old witches of your schools really want."

Obviously the Doylist explanation for why there are differences in the new films is that the original book is 60+ years old and has certain elements no longer in cultural vogue that were adapted out or altered to better fit modern sensibilities, and I'm all for that. But I did find it interesting that there is an explicit moment at the end of Part 2 where Paul confronts the Baron, utters the "Hello, Grandfather," line, and kills him.

This isn't necessarily because there is any one choice that Paul makes throughout the course of the two movies that leads here instead of to the jihad. In point of fact, most of the changes that drive him here are caused by choices made in the adaptations of the films.

The causal chain that leads to Paul undertaking the spice agony is his failure to predict the attack on Sietch Tabr, rather than his failure to predict Gurney's attack on Jessica; this is, of course, necessitated by the omission of the Harkonnen scheme in part 1 to impair Thufir's Mentat efficiency and potentially drive a wedge between Leto and Jessica by framing Jessica as the traitor. The final push that causes him to make the decision is, of course, the vision he experiences of an alternate future in which he didn't have to kill Jamis, with Jamis counseling him to climb as high as possible before the hunt so he can see as far as possible. (In other words, he ignores Stilgar's advice of not listening to the djinn.)

Similarly, his killing of the Baron is necessitated by the adaptational choice to keep Alia as a fetus so the audience doesn't have to deal with a two-year-old talking like an adult and killing the Baron, which they probably did because it would have been distracting.

However, I might argue that a Watsonian explanation for the film omitting the two-year time-jump lies specifically with Paul's decision to explicitly disavow the prophecy when Jessica undergoes the spice agony, and to explain to the Fremen that her survival is because of her Bene Gesserit training. He then attempts to secure his position with the Fremen through secular deeds, rather than letting Jessica carve a place for them with the BG prophesy.

This disagreement between the two of them causes her in turn to take a more active approach in cultivating Paul's status as Lisan al-Gaib, which accelerates the timeline of the Fremen being ready to submit to him. In turn, Paul focusing more strongly on guerrilla war against the Harkonnens accelerates the timeline of Feyd-Rautha being put in charge of Arrakis and cracking down hard in the north, leading to the aforementioned crisis point of Sietch Tabr being attacked without Paul's foreknowledge.

Notably, while we do see the shrine of Leto's skull in the film, we only see it in a vision; there is no moment in the movie where Paul explicitly finds his father's remains and enshrines them. Hence, going from a strict interpretation of the film's "text," this is not the future in which the legions are marked by the shrine, because the shrine doesn't exist. It is the other future. The compression of time means that Paul and Chani's relationship is much newer and more fragile and doesn't survive the strain of his apotheosis, and that's what sickens him most.

Of course, the "Hello, Grandfather" path also leads to the jihad, because Paul's tragedy is that his very existence was always going to lead to it, regardless of what he chose to do.

And Paul saw how futile were any efforts of his to change any smallest bit of this. He had thought to oppose the jihad within himself, but the jihad would be. His legions would rage out from Arrakis even without him. They needed only the legend he already had become. He had shown them the way, given them mastery even over the Guild which must have the spice to exist.

Obviously none of this passes explicit, close scrutiny, and is more of a fun "if you squint and look at it a certain way it kind of makes sense." I expect that the line was put in as a nod to the original book, no more or less, but making up head-canons like this is fun for me and if even one other person finds it edifying then I consider sharing it time well spent!

#dune #dune part two #headcanon #analysis #paul atreides #lady jessica #chani #chani kynes #dune part two spoilers

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prince-kallisto · 8 months

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Complete Guide to the “Crowley is Levan” Theory

Hello, its the self-proclaimed Crowley/Levan theory expert, back at it again! (*ﾟ∀ﾟ*) I’m really shocked at Book 7’s recent update, and I’m seeing more and more people get into the Crowley/Levan theory.

But for everyone who is new to this theory, people who aren’t yet convinced, or anyone who just wants the major points in one document, I decided to write everything I know about this theory, with the help from posts from my fellow theorists! Of course, at the end of the day it’s just a theory, so make your own conclusions! ^_^

Buckle up everyone for a very long post rife with lore! I worked hard on this one, as it is a culmination of ALL my previous theories, so sharing is appreciated haha. Heavy Book 7 spoilers ahead!

This theory revolves around the idea that Headmage Dire Crowley is actually Duke Levan, the father of Malleus Draconia. Before we get into the nitty-gritty details, let’s go over everything we know SO FAR.

Levan (Revan, Levaan, and Revaan is also a common spelling) is the husband of Meleanor Draconia, who is the Princess of Wild Rose Castle. Levan is a Duke, Diplomat, nobleman, and the left-hand war general. He had control over the Eastern Fort while Lilia had control over the Western Fort. His title is “Ryūgan Duke Levan,” or 竜眼公レヴァーン in Japanese. The characters imply a connection to the Chinese Long, and Ryūgan very roughly translates to “Dragon eyed,” although it is uncertain if Levan is a Dragon Fae, or if this is just his title. Levan is referred to as Meleanor’s “eyes, limbs, and husband,” so perhaps “Dragon Eyed” refers to his connection to Meleanor? Due to his name, people also suspect he may be a bird Fae, specifically a raven.

He seems to be based of Diablo, Maleficent’s raven. From what we know from Lilia, he is slightly meek (according to childhood stories) and gentle, always with a smile on his face. However, he is also extremely dependable and strong. Rumor has it he fought against the Dawn Knight, a figure that the night Fae fear for his power. Despite Levan’s clumsiness, Meleanor is very enamored with him, praising him for the smallest of things while punishing everyone else. Meleanor refers to Levan as “beautiful,” although we have no silhouette or voice for him currently. Levan grew up with Meleanor and Lilia, and was very close with Lilia, who was the right-hand general.

When Lilia ripped up his invitation to NRC, Levan painstakingly took all the pieces out of the trash and pieced them all together, storing the invitation in the Royal Archive for Lilia to come back 500 years later. Lilia wonders if Levan somehow knew that he would go to NRC with Malleus in the future. Levan is also very willing to start relations with humans compared to the rest of Briar Valley, as he taught Lilia the human language, and has said that he hopes one day, the humans and Fae can share a common language to exchange culture and history together in peace. This positive attitude and willingness to teach is likely what made him such a good diplomat.

However, Levan went missing in the Silver Owls vs. Briar Valley war when leading a mission to deliver letters to the Eastern Fort. Meleanor is heavily implied to be dead, but Levan simply disappeared and never returned. In Briar Valley history books, he is assumed to be dead, but little information of him is known.

But what does all this backstory have anything to do with Dire Crowley? He’s unreliable, manipulative, and never does more work than necessary, even with all the student Overblots. He sounds nothing like Levan. Well, let’s go to the birthplace of this theory to see what’s up:

Crowley and Malleus Parallels

Black hair with a green-ish tint, pale skin, pointed ears, dark lips, and a similar tall stature. No other character besides Meleanor resembles Malleus to this degree.

Although no dialogue has confirmed it, it is heavily, HEAVILY implied that Crowley is in fact, one of the Fae. He’s been Headmage at NRC for at least 100 years and several of his features imply a Fae heritage. He even gets offended when the Ghost Camera, that was invented in a great-great grandmothers time, is referred to as “old,” as if he took offense to the implication that HE’S old. He’s likely a bird Fae, as he may transform into a raven/crow in the opening animation, and his voice lines show him with bird-like habits. Crowley also refers to his “wings” several times as a part of his anatomy.

@twisted-tech shows that in the Glorious Masquerade event, Malleus wears an costume that’s startlingly similar to Crowley’s outfit, down to the detailed vest to the feathers on his shoulders. In the animation announcement for GloMas, Malleus stands in front of the light the same exact way Crowley does in the opening prologue animation.

The 2nd anniversary animation also has a strange moment between Crowley and Malleus, with Crowley appearing for a quick moment, before a light shines over him, revealing Malleus.

In Malleus’ birthday-boy interview he mentions how black is the color of nobility in Briar Valley, thus his tendency to wear all-black attire. Isn’t it interesting how Crowley’s main outfit color is black? On a similar note, when an Alchemy Special Lesson is triggered, Malleus says “He’s [Crowley] is far from ordinary.” Malleus, who prides himself for being extremely powerful to the point he thinks less of others, thinks Crowley is unusual? Does he sense a type of power from Crowley, or does something seem uncomfortably familiar about him?

And last but certainly not least, Crowley’s secret concept art. This in-person event was very exclusive, so many obscure concept art pieces of the characters were only shown here. Crowley seemed to be grouped with the Diasomnia cast with the same color palette, and his purple cape is highly reminiscent of Maleficent’s. He even has briars climbing up his leg. He even has the stamp of the three good fairies on his paper, just like the beta designs for Lilia and Malleus. Of course, concept art should not be used too heavily as a source, but this is certainly no coincidence, and don’t you think it’s odd how secretive this image is? Most fans have no idea this concept art exists.

These two must have some type of connection with each other- this evidence alone is what convinced me in the first place. However, this is just the beginning:

Ravens & Crows Symbolism, Levan vs Crowley

Levan and Crowley have a shocking amount of similarities too! Ravens in mythology were considered to be messengers of the gods, and were especially connected to Apollo, the god of Prophecy. I think that Levan’s unique magic was the gift of Propechy, as in he could see future events. Bringing back Lilia’s line of if Levan somehow knew he would go to NRC with Malleus 500 years in the future, I say yes! He knew many things about what the future held due to his magic, and it makes sense with Raven symbolism. Crowley also has a strange knowledge of future events, from the STYX invasion to Grim’s magestone collar. @rayroseu has also pointed out the Malleus’ egg heavily resembles a Black Opal, which symbolizes death and destruction, and was used to “gaze” into the past, present, and future. Hmmm

What if as a way to reunite with Lilia and Malleus, Levan became the Headmage of NRC? He would have every skill necessary to do so, and Crowley has many connections to the school board, STYX, the Asim’s, Jupiter Conglomerate, etc. He’s not as much as fool as he’d like you to think- he’s in charge of the prestigious school for a very good reason. He knows the perfect balance of manipulation and sweet-talking, just as expected of the diplomat and envoy, just like ravens were in mythology.

Ravens have symbolized death and destruction for a very long time- and isn’t it interesting how Crowley’s first name is “Dire,” as in ‘disastrous’? Yana Toboso has confirmed that “Dire” is actually pronounced as the English word “Dear,” like ‘beloved.’ @sote-forever has pointed out that the origin of Levan’s name means “gracious/merciful,” which feels oddly familiar to Crowley’s catchphrase of “I am so kind/Watashi yasashii no de.” The EN translation uses “gracious” instead of “kind” a lot as well 👀

Speaking of his catchphrase, in Book 7 when Grim hears more about Levan, he says that Levan sounded like a “kind man.” He even uses the same exact language as Crowley uses, ‘yasashi,’ meaning gentle and kind. Just like the meaning of Levan’s name. For reference:

私優しいので is Watashi Yasahii No de “Because I’m kind.”

優しかった is what Grim said: Yasahikatta (?) meaning “He was kind”

Back to the death symbolism, I mentioned that ravens were Psychopomp. In mythology, ravens were said to guide human souls to the underworld by the will of the gods. And isn’t it interesting how NRC is FULL of death and underworld symbolism? Technically, Crowley IS the Psychopomp, because he is responsible for transporting the students and is the only one with a special key to unlocking the students coffins. He even says in the prologue that the coffins were designed to represent the “departure of your previous world, and rebirth into a new one.”

As a side note, crows and ravens fall under the same exact word in Japanese: karasu. There are some instances in the EN translation where crow and raven are mixed up, as Diablo, Maleficent’s raven, is referred to as a “crow” in one of Malleus’s chats. Hmmm

Crowley’s cane is also interesting. Not only does the bottom key part spell out “Raven,” the top of his cane looks exactly like Diablo when he was turned into stone at the end of Sleeping Beauty. Although I do agree that Crowley has connections to the Evil Queen’s crow, I think he could be inspired by both. Similarly, NRC’s logo is a raven with a crown above his head. Levan WAS royalty, after all…

Levan also has a special acceptance of humans. His wife DESPISES humans, but he learned a common language of the Fae and humans in order to communicate, and even taught other Fae the language himself. And once again, he saved Lilia’s invitation to NRC. Doesn’t he sound like someone who wishes to share knowledge? He wants peaceful communication between humans and Fae to share culture and history, just like what NRC is like today. It feels a lot like a Headmage’s behavior, don’t you think?

From the way Meleanor treated Levan, Levan’s behavior sounds oddly like Crowley’s. Meleanor praised him for the most basic things, and seemed to dote over him a lot. Crowley is incredibly egotistical about doing literally the most basic shit ever lmaoo, but I can’t blame him for getting a big head if he used to be always praised for it. Lilia also says that Levan would probably return with a big smile on his face. In every single animation that Crowley is present in, he always has a smile on his face, watching carefully over the events.

Levan also seemed to be a bit of a crybaby in his childhood, as Lilia said that when they got lost in a forest, he “could never forget Levan’s pitiful expression.” Crowley definitely has an aversion to death or people getting hurt, and has cried several times when he gets overemotional.

In the prologue, Crowley claims to be intimately acquainted with every single students homelands. Yes, his hobby IS vacationing, but I think he knows the lands way more intimately than simple sightseeing. Again, Levan was a diplomat. He would have a vast amount of knowledge about the inner workings, culture, and history of many different foreign lands.

Edit: We also have NO IDEA of Crowley’s homeland. If I remember correctly, he’s the only character where his land of origin is unknown. Why would TWST do this, unless this was a huge spoiler? Like…say if Crowley’s homeland was Briar Valley???

And finally, I think it’s EXTREMELY suspicious that we have not seen at least a silhouette of Levan, despite his name coming up in conversations several times. Why would his silhouette not be revealed, unless his silhouette is a dead giveaway to a character we already know? Same reasoning for why we haven’t had a flashback with his voice- his voice would just reveal the truth. Additionally, NRC seems to lack books over the history of Briar Valley and what happened to Levan and Meleanor. In one of the History Lessons, Malleus mentions a photo of Lilia in a history book. Perhaps there are history books with a painting/photo of Levan? It would explain why the history is so lacking, because Crowley doesn’t want his past self to be seen.

Meleanor, NRC & Other

Whew, we’re almost done! This is the miscellaneous category, but just as important as the above points.

Meleanor, OB Malleus, and Crowley have many many similarities. I go into more detail in the linked post, but Meleanor’s and Crowley’s features definitely “combine” in Malleus’ features. Take for example, Meleanor’s straight dark teal hair and Crowley’s wavy black hair with a slight greenish tint. It merges perfectly into Malleus’s hair. There are many similarities in their outfit designs too, so I recommend looking at this post!

This is very strange, but the coliseum and Diasomnia’s dorm hallway have the SAME EXACT DESIGNS as the passageway in Briar Valley (converted into a Silver Owl hideout) and the hall in MELEANOR’S castle. No one could have this punt of knowledge of these locations, especially Meleanor’s castle that was covered in briars and abandoned. Unless…someone at NRC was intimately acquainted with both of these locations. Perhaps a noblemen like Levan would know? Meaning, Crowley?

Crowley in the prologue talks to his “proud, beautiful flower of evil” in the mirror. I highly recommend rewatching the part, because Crowley’s voice just shows how much love he has for this flower of evil. Lili refers to Meleanor as the “most evil Princess,” and she is also the Princess of Wild Rose Castle. Rose like a flower 🌹 \(//∇//)\ She is also an extremely proud person, and does not hesitate to strike people down for disagreeing with her.

Many people ask why Levan would abandon Meleanor, especially when he loved her. I don’t think he willingly abandoned her at all! If my theory of his prophecy magic is right, he knew that there was nothing he could do to prevent Meleanor’s death and the fall of their castle. And who knows, what if Levan Overblotted when he went missing? He led a GROUP of messengers to the Eastern Fort, so what happened to these messengers? Did they die at his hands when he Overblotted? It’s a common theory that Crowley is under the influence of blot, as his mask and gloves would cover Overblot markings.

@ventique18 has also mentioned that a dark Fae’s love in literature is depicted to be OBSESSIVE, as in the couple can drive themselves mad over their love for each other. I think Crowley was a much kinder and genuine person as Levan, but Meleanor’s death permanently scarred him. Plus, as much as we don’t want to admit it, it’s been 500 years. Look at Lilia: he’s changed SO MUCH over the years since his time as general. Why can’t Levan do the same? Longing to reunite with his loved one for CENTURIES isn’t healthy at all, but he desires it so much that he’s willing to hurt innocent people in order to achieve it.

This is out of the TWST canon lol, but there’s potentially a lot of connection to Edgar Allen Poe’s “Lenore” and “The Raven.” Lenore mourns a “queenliest dead that ever died so young” before her wedding, which could parallel Meleanor dying before Malleus’ birth. The Raven represents the pure desperation, grief, and insanity of him wanting to see his lost love again: Lenore, and how he’s unable to cope with her passing. UM??!!!

FINALLY, as the saying goes: Malleus had to get his loser genes from somewhere. Hope this helps! 🤪

Jokes aside, I’m exhausted but I feel very happy to have made this guide! Many thanks to all the blogs I’ve mentioned above, and to Gasmask on Youtube, Otome Atui on Youtube, and MoonlightEquin1 on Twitter for translations!!! It really helped me out my thoughts together in this theory, and I hope it can serve as a reference guide to everyone else!

I had to link a lot of my separate theories just because there is too much to go over in one post, and I’m very limited with photos on mobile ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡ If yall can think of anything else to add, it would be greatly appreciated! Thank you to everyone for your support, it’s so fun theorizing with everybody!! 💞💞💞

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shibaraki · 10 months

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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.

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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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ywor lea’win’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t push your luck,” he dared.

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

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

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

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From: [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

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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

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

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

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

You do not feel much better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the outcome is far more comprehensive than you expected:

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have a question”.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two people are required to oversee the class”

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

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

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

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From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Subject: — Message:

Hisorrywoulditbepossibletogetanextensiononmyessay?Myspacebarisbroken.

Shinsou Hitoshi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re you thinking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—and your throat constricts as you swallow.

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

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

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

“So, how do you suggest we help him?”

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

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

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

“Monoma?” he repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surely it wasn’t that bad”.

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

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

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

“Disturbing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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From: [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: +81 (03) 1234-5678 Do not call unless you are dying.

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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★）┘

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Something indiscernible has since shifted.

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

The kids are being weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kaminari-kun!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Might and Present Mic are the only two in the room. Yamada spots you first. He’s yet to remove his costume, and the leather sleeves 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.

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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 🎵

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

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

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

Cushioned by a set of fluffy, foam soled slippers, you stumble into the common area, welcomed to a languid, warm atmosphere. Surprisingly, a few people are already there. Yamada is dressed in his civilian clothing, waist length hair 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

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novalizinpeace · 2 months

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im a little curious to know more about King Canvas, has Craftycorn ever said anything about her dad to dogday or anyone at least? Or did she just decide to keep it to herself?

(btw I LOVE your art you are so talented💗)

BIG SPOILER OF FUTURE FANFICS GUYS, IF YOU DON'T CARE, GO AHEAD

You see, Crafty's backstory was squeeze in the season finale of the cartoon, and even was incomplete 'cause the season finale was a part 1, with the part 2 lost in the season 2, that's why is so hated for all the gang + catnap, having a lot of foreshadowing for it and then cancelling the cartoon after said bomb was horrible, and the reason they cancel it? The toys weren't selling as much as they want it. So yeah, Alba has even found the scripts and animatics for the season 2 in Playcare (the cartoon was animated in other place, but the scripts and animatics were send to Play.Co to confirm the work), and heavens, the story was going to get a turn.

First, Craftycorn came from a kingdom full of unicorns and pegasus, with the royalty been the only alicorns (just like in MLP), so what was the surprise in King Canvas when the stork delivered a unicorn baby to him.

The king was in denial, but when her infant daughter was able to active the flower pendant (the family's pendant), he accept it, but wasn't happy with the news.

Then it come years of craftycorn been mentally and physically abused by her father, who convince her of the idea that she was a ''defective alicorn'' and not a normal unicorn, this way, crafty not only thought she was less in her family, but she also thought the unicorns in her kingdom wouldn't like her, 'cause she wasn't one of them (yeah, the bastard destroyed all selfstem in her).

Then one day she... run away, looking for a place that would take her, she end up in the town where the cartoons happens, and hide herself in the Piggy's farm (where Mr.Piggy found her thinking she was a normal child unicorn that ran away from the war, and she accept that story inmediatly).

But why there was a war to begin with? Well, 'cause King Canvas thought his ''lovely daughter'' was kidnnaped, and he blame the astral kingdom (the one of dogday and catnap) for it, so, in a way, craftycorn is the one to blame for dogday and catnap dad's death.

Craftycorn realised all this when they meet Queen Gaia, making her have a full breakdown due the idea that her ''selfishness'' was what make her father start a full war, this get around during some episodes till the flower festival (that last episode before the season finale), where King Canvas show up and, thinking her daughter was kidnnaped and brainwashed to marry the next king ('cause in that moment dogday and craftycorn were dancing together), start a new attack against the kingdom-

AND this is all i can say about him!

#poppy playtime #smilingcritterslostmedia #smiling critters #ask #nova say

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k-atsukibakugou · 4 months

Text

w/c: 1.2k tw: second year bakugou x reader, uh a touch self-inserty, i need to be a comforting presence or ill cry; unedited i just had some brainworms, spoilers a lil for the manga, blood mentions, kinda mutual pining-y

picking at the small plant beside your bed, you plucked another dead leaf off its stem, a small, light yellow one beneath it ready to unfurl and take its place. with a small frown, you think of how the plant was abandoned at the end of your first year, stuck unwatered in the dorms, the small pot the last on anyone's mind after the year you'd all gone through.

you stroked through the leaves once more, all of them begging to be hydrated. glancing at the time, 2:30 flashed back at you, your first night back already becoming your second morning.

sighing, you give up on trying to quiet your thoughts for tonight, accepting the plant's plea to be watered, taking your bottle with you, tiptoeing out of your room towards the common area, looking nearly like a zombie with your arms ahead of you in the dark, guiding your way in the dark.

you were nearing the sink, about three feet from it when you connected with another body, solid and stationary even at your crash into them, a grunt and an arm coming up to catch you before you slipped backward the only evidence you hadn't run into a wall.

"the fuck are you doin'?" even in the dark, dead of the night you'd recognise bakugou's voice, thick and gruff but somewhat hushed in the kitchen. adjusting to the lowlight, you finally could make out his silhouette, the spike of his hair, the square shape of his fist still hooked around your arm keeping you steady. with your hand to your beating heart, you breathed out a laugh, the spike of adrenaline waking you up more than you already had been.

"i could ask you the same, aren't you usually sleeping like a baby by 8?" you teased, wiggling out of his loose hold to lean against the counter, your new angle lighting his face in the cool moonlight. the red scars looked black in the pale light, your sure the one at his chest is worse, despite that, all you can focus on is his bitten fingernails, red, jagged, cuticles peeling away from the skin; the darkness around his eyes looking like bruising, looking only darker when his hair fell over his eyes. ever perceptive, his scarlet irises scanned your face, too, finding the same dark circles as his own around your eyes, your fingertips anxiously picking at a hangnail, his eyes almost soft when they meet yours again.

"can't sleep?" your tone softens, both of you like a mirror for the other, exhausted but determined. determined for your second year not to end like the first. to be normal 17 year olds, normal second years, as close to normal as you could get at u.a.

you almost don't catch his nod, if it could even be called that, mostly just katsuki tensing his jaw and jutting his chin out, "you?"

its the quietest you've ever heard him, you try not to stare too wide-eyed at him, nodding in response, awkwardly gesturing to your water bottle, "i'm watering my plants."

you glance back down to the bottle in your arms, worrying about your plant feeling useless standing here with him, the boy who died, the boy who survived while you fretted over rotting leaves.

you study him in silence, setting the water bottle down gently, the silence broken by the soft clanking of the metal against the counter; you desperately wanted to tear through the silence with comfort, advice, something to help your stubborn classmate. instead of anything of substance, your voice cuts through the silence to whisper, "i have a little playlist for when i can't get to sleep."

"i don't need fuckin' lullabies." i need something that'll work.

you knew all that was unsaid, he needed something to help him rest, to keep the dreams away, the memories of the war, the memory of how he died, to sleep and see nothing instead of blood.

katsuki glares with the heat of the sun hearing you click your tongue at him, his lips curling in an ugly snarl that didn't match his sleep deprived eyes, "it's not lullabies, idiot."

your teasing is soft, a gentle hand reaching for his wrist, fingertips brushing over his warm skin before you whispered again, "it's soothing, to have something fill the silence...helps me think less, i can show you?"

again, he hardly nods, the defeat in his eyes foreign to you, his insomnia wearing him down long before your second year started, working himself to exhaustion no longer working, warm showers keeping him up instead of soothing his skin, even evening stretches ending with him just as drained as he was when he first woke back up. what harm could your lullabies do?

you don't take his hand, looping your fingers around his wrist instead, the intimacy of guiding him by his hand somehow where you drew the line instead of the heart to heart in the pitch dark kitchen, dropping your grip only when your dorm door quietly latched behind him.

under the warm wash of your lamp, katsuki looked even worse, his face different than when you met him, more grown up, determination still lighting up his eyes, even as they flashed around your room weakly, his eyelids dragging with every blink. as if on autopilot, he sits in the centre of your bed, his fingers fiddling with the sheets, smoothing over the creases from where you laid before, pausing to rest where they were warmest from you.

the soft sounds were already playing from your phone, a gentle rain tapping against your balcony window only adding to the ambience, you smile inwardly at the imagery of katsuki like this, stiff at a sleepover, frowning even in his sleep.

"this shit really gets you to sleep? doesn't sound like anything" his bleary eyes find you again, his voice gravelly with sleep even as he scoffed. you laugh softly again, airy in your room, it catches katsuki's attention, too tired to think of acting indifferent to the spike in his heart rate hearing your joy.

"you normally sleep sitting up?" you ignore his grumbling, sliding into the bed beside him, both of you sitting atop the covers, the sheets crinkling and creasing underneath your bodies, again the line of intimacy blurred; under the blankets far too close for this, even as you tug him to follow you when you lie your head onto the pillow.

still, he lies beside you, on his side, only an inch of space between your faces, your knees nearly knocking as he got comfortable, a slow sigh escaping him. katsuki's eyes stayed trained on your face, his body fighting the exhaustion just to watch you, your lamp washing you in a glow that he'd gladly lose sleep just to admire.

"better?" katsuki thinks your voice is softer than a mouse's, although not as soft as your touch at his hairline, his eyelids drooping at your barely-there touch, a hum in his throat all he was capable of anymore, the intense tired he felt catching up to him here with you. you kept your fingers in his hair, gently scratching at his scalp when he sighed again.

you stare at him as you plant tender touches over his head, his neck, down to his shoulders until his breathing evens, not another word shared between you, not a single word needed as you slipped into your own slumber beside him.

for once plagued only by memories of your giggle instead of threats and villains.

© all works belong to @k-atsukibakugou, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost or recommend my work on other platforms or translate my works, i do not give permission for my works to be bound and sold. 18+ minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

#idk what this is but i had to get her out #「mercury thoughts」#dividers by me #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugo fluff #「kat <3」#tw: blood #bnha spoilers

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iam93percentstardust · 1 year

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one of the things that really bothers me about modern franchises, and in particular over the last 5 years or so, is their refusal to commit. what i mean here when i say this is that it's not uncommon for a major franchise to make a decision, whether about the plot or the characters, that should have had huge, world-changing consequences... and then just never address that again or worse, immediately go back and undo it. and i'm gonna pick on star wars and the mcu here because those are the two big franchises i'm into at the moment (and i think they're kind of the worst at this), but i don't want you to walk away from this thinking that this is solely a disney thing. i've seen this happen with game of thrones and supernatural and plenty of other non-disney franchises. spoilers ahead, you've been warned:

in ant-man & the wasp quantumania, scott and hope make the life-altering decision to stay behind in the quantum realm and defeat kang instead of going through the portal to return to their world. this should have been a huge meta decision for the mcu, and when i first saw it in theaters, my immediate thought was wow, what is this going to mean for the mcu going forward? are we going to get a movie/miniseries about scott and hope helping to rebuild the quantum realm? how are cassie, janet, and hank going to react to the losses of their loved ones (in some cases, for the second time)? is cassie going to become the "first" young avenger because she has to take her father's place among the team lineup (and i only say first because as of this moment, none of the other young avengers introduced to the franchise are official avengers yet)? except nope, because less than 2 minutes later, cassie had fixed the portal that had broken way back at the beginning of the movie and brought scott and hope back.

and it felt like such a cheat. i was so disappointed in that theater, not as someone who was invested in these characters on a personal level (because yay, cassie gets her dad back!), but as someone who has spent years investing themselves in the story of the mcu. what was the point of wasting screentime on scott and hope accepting their new lives in the quantum realm if it was just going to immediately be undone? the entire scene could have been cut to scott and hope making it back bare seconds before the portal closed and it would have had the same emotional impact. there was nothing added by making scott and hope (and us) think that there was no way back only to rip the rug out from under us and go "gotcha! you really thought we were gonna give this movie a sad ending? haha! you're so dumb!"

and this isn't the first time the mcu has done this. one of the biggest complaints about endgame was the decision to set it five years in the future with no consideration for how that would actually change the setting of the mcu. characters were brought back to the exact place they disappeared from with no consideration for how things might have changed in the interim five years (like planes that weren't in the air anymore, buildings no longer standing, even just something as simple as a chair being unoccupied). and then the mcu didn't even really have the courage to address how this would have shaped the world other than a few jokes and making the bad guys in the falcon and the winter soldier people who cared about how the world had screwed them over during the blip.

and things like this happen over and over and over again. the accords are put into place in civil war, but by the time we get to she-hulk, they're gone with no explanation because, as best as i can tell, the writers didn't want to have to deal with the worldbuilding that went into the accords. gamora is killed in infinity war, but heaven forbid quill not have an emotional investment in a film he appears for maybe 10 minutes in so now she's back in endgame. steve got to go live in the past with his ex-girlfriend (which is in itself a refusal to commit after the mcu both gave her a different husband and had the woman herself tell him to move on) but we need to establish that messing with timelines is bad because that's what the entire next phase hinges on so actually his ending was predestined and it's only everyone else who can't change time. whoever took this entire town and also wanda hostage and forced them to live out a sitcom fantasy is bad and needs to be stopped but wait, it's actually wanda and she can't be the bad guy yet, we need her for doctor strange 2, so actually everyone's going to defend her now and say that no one else could ever possibly understand her grief. thor has decided to accept responsibility as king of asgard, but we can't use him for any more movies if he's stuck in asgard, so actually he's decided to pass it on to someone whose entire leadership capability is developed offscreen. i could list more examples but this is making me angry, so let's move on to star wars instead.

with star wars, i look at first the oft-quoted meme, "somehow palpatine has returned." yeah, i shouldn't really need to go into detail on how that counts as a refusal to commit but. the last jedi was a study in how johnson refused to commit to anything that abrams had laid down in the force awakens, but rise of skywalker was almost like abrams had looked at the franchise and said "screw you for taking it away from me, i'm going to come up with the most bullshit stuff just to spite you for doing that in the first place. and i'm going to start by undoing the most important plot point of the first trilogy: the emperor dies." and yeah, disney's kind of tried to salvage this by dropping hints into the bad batch and the mandalorian about cloning, but that only really works if you're watching the franchise chronologically and not considering that both of those series came out after rise of skywalker.

and then there's the mandalorian, my sweet summer child, who is, in my opinion, the worst at backtracking their plot points. i'm not entirely convinced that any of the higher ups for this show really knew what they were doing when they started working on it and i'm not convinced that they know what they're doing now. yeah, there's the tie-in to the last season of clone wars, but the mandalorian has managed to walk back pretty much every single major plot point it's had. din is this legendary warrior who can't be beat, but no one will watch this show if he defeats everyone too early, so he's constantly getting beat up (tbf, sometimes some of the fights he loses makes sense like the krayt dragon and the mudhorn, but a lot of them don't. at all). moff gideon is dead, no wait no he's not, now he's imprisoned, no wait no he's not, now he's definitely dead, you can totally believe us this time guys. grogu can use the force and must be placed with the jedi, but wait, the only person still actively teaching the way of the jedi is luke and all of his students will be brutally murdered ten years from now, and we can't have that, everyone will be mad at us for killing off such a cute character and no one will buy baby yoda dolls (and also we have to set up luke's character degradation from hopeful, believes-in-love cinnamon roll to "i'm going to kill my nephew") so in between seasons let's have grogu decide to go back to din (and don't even get me started on how frustrating it is that a casual mandalorian watcher also had to watch book of boba fett to understand why grogu is back). din has the darksaber now which makes him king of mandalore, that's totally going to be important and what the entire series has been building up to, right? wrong! he might have spent the first two seasons making connections, learning about the world outside his sheltered upbringing, and demonstrating the various qualities that would make for a good leader, but the entire third season will be about din realizing that actually he's super unworthy and the darksaber should actually go to someone who... saw an animal in the water.

and it's really, really frustrating as a viewer! because how am i supposed to get invested in any of these plot decisions when they almost always get reversed? why should i care that mj and ned have forgotten peter when ant-man 3 has shown me that they'll remember him the next time they're all on screen together? why should i care that tech is dead when half of the last season of clone wars was about how echo was actually alive? if none of these decisions have any permanence, then where are the emotional stakes? why should i watch your movie if all you're going to tell me is that nothing matters?

#and also i want to make a point that the early mcu did permanent stakes really well #iron man 1 ends with tony announcing that he's iron man and that's something that still resonated years later #the entire second film hinged on that one moment #loki falling into the bifrost is what leads him to the chitauri which is what kickstarted the avengers #steve is woken from the ice and the first organization who presents themselves as someone to trust is shield #which sets up the betrayal he feels in the winter soldier #these moments resonate throughout the first two stages and the decisions the characters made MATTERED #so you can't help but get invested because what if it's the wrong decision???#anyway i'm frustrated with the state of franchises #alle talks #long post

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onepiece-polls · 2 months

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One Piece Crack Ship War - Submission post!

Welcome to the One Piece Ship War - crack edition!

What is a crack ship?

A crack ship is a (in this case romantic/sexual) ship that has little to no basis in canon.

When will my ship qualify for this tournament?

They will automatically qualify (after having been submitted) when:

The characters involved have NO canon interaction*, and are not part of the same crew (no matter how popular the ship is).

The characters involved have 1 short canon interaction and less than 10 fics for them on AO3 (as a side pairing counts too)

They might qualify if:**

They have no canon interaction but are part of the same crew or organisation.

They have 1 short canon interaction but more than 10 fics on AO3

They have 1 long canon interactions or 2/3 short ones and less than 10 fics on AO3

They have multiple canon interactions but NO fics on AO3

It's an incredibly funny ship (but you gotta convince me it's crack!)

These ships will not qualify on principal:

ANY ship between Strawhats (honorary Strawhats don't count if they haven't met a certain Strawhat - examples: BrookNami does not qualify, SanjiVivi does not qualify, but BrookVivi would qualify)

The top 25 ships (or something, be sensible) on AO3.

*canon interactions include fillers, cover stories, specials, and movies (though I haven't seen the last 2 yet and I don't remember much of the other ones, so these might slip through, but I'm counting on you to honor this rule). Also, I won't know nor check interactions in the manga (that haven't been animated yet), so something might slip through there as well. Just honor the rules, please.

**Any ships in the 'might qualify' category will be judged on crackyness by me first, and when I'm in doubt, I will put them up for a vote - so expect a few polls for this.

Rules!

All characters must be from One Piece (no OCs).

Must be a crack ship according to above guidelines.

Ships that were in the previous shipping war tournament are allowed in this one too, as long as they follow the previous rule.

No moral limitations. These are fictional characters, not real people. Go wild. (But be prepared for 'problematic' ships to be voted out in round 1 or 2.) I will not start discourse/moral discussions about any ships! (messages about morally questionable ship are likely to be ignored and deleted)

Poly ships are allowed! I will cap them at 5 characters, however, and at least 1 character should follow the interaction rules stated above. (examples: JinbeRobinBrook or KidLawLu are not allowed. RobinNamiKiller would be allowed, on grounds of Killer having no interactions with the other 2 (I think? 😂)) Again, be sensible here.

All characters involved have to be humanoid. No concepts, objects, or full animals (fishmen/merfolk, minks, and Chopper are allowed).

You can submit multiple ships, but use a new form for each ship.

Do not hate on other ships, just support your own.

You are allowed and encouraged to submit fanart! As a lot of these ship won't have official art with all characters in it, it will come down to fanart for the most of it ((bad) edits are also very much allowed). However, it needs to be your own or you need permission from the artist before submitting it! However, if you haven't gotten permission yet when submitting, you can always send me a link to the fanart later. Without picture submitted, there might be a chance your ship will have to compete without a picture.

Keep the main images SFW and spoiler free. Propaganda can contain nsfw stuff and manga spoilers, as long as it's announced up front (eg: [Spoilers ahead]/[nsfw ahead])

Submit only through the google form below. Submisions through asks or reblogs will not be accepted.

Read the rules? Go ahead and submit those ships! (<you can click on that)

Oh yeah, and in case you're wondering... All submitted ships that pass the crack ship bar will make it into the tournament! No limitation on how many contestants there will be or how many submissions a ship needs. I want this to be an opportunity for all to discover new fun and silly ships!

Closing date is april 8 at 10AM CET.

#one piece #tournament #ship war #op crack ship war #submission form #sorry for the long post but I feel like this needs a lot of clarifications #I might change some details later if something comes up in asks but this is it for now #as always don't hesitate to send an ask if anything is unclear/you're in doubt about anything

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tossawary · 2 months

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Okay, spoilers for the first twenty minutes of the first episode of the live-action ATLA remake, because they added a brand new prologue that was VERY bad and I need to talk about how hilariously bad it was.

So, the show opens in the Fire Nation's Capital City at night, with an earthbender running away with an important-looking scroll and being chased by Fire Nation soldiers. There's an unimpressive chase sequence that ends with the earthbender managing to hand off the scroll to someone else, before being caught and dragged before Fire Lord Sozin.

First thoughts: why are they opening 100 years early? I liked the way the original cartoon opened in the actual world state that mattered to us, then the war and its history slowly unfolded as the main characters learned more about their own world. Sozin's wig and costume looks CHEAP, and they are throwing away all of the intimidating mystery of the Fire Lord (we don't see Ozai's face in the cartoon for like two seasons) by showing Sozin as just some guy. Also, it's kind of a waste of time to introduce Sozin here at all, especially in person, because while he had a MASSIVE impact on the world of the story, he's basically irrelevant to the main narrative happening 100 years later, because our actual villains are his descendants ACTIVELY CONTINUING his work.

The earthbender is beat-up but defiantly says that the Earth Kingdom has now been warned that Sozin intends to attack. Sozin is all smug, though, because apparently he WANTED these plans to be stolen. He wants everyone (he actually explicitly names the Water Tribes and the Air Nomads as well as the Earth Kingdom) to be looking towards the Earth Kingdom, so that he can attack the Air Nomads instead, because that's where the new Avatar is, who is the only person who could stop him. (The exposition is sooooo clunky and cheesy. It's baaaaad. Talk directly to the camera, why don't you?) Then Sozin burns this poor earthbender to death and then the scene skips over to Aang at the Southern Air Temple.

Second thoughts: oh, so we're not only going to waste time building up Sozin as a villain when we're going to very shortly skip ahead 100 years? We're also going to establish Sozin as a guy in a bad costume who is kind of shit at military strategy? He doesn't need a distraction! He doesn't need a feint! No one is expecting him to attack anyone, he shouldn't need to fake attacking someone else! In fact, he's letting all the other nations know that they should be paying close attention to his movements? What?!

At the Air Temple, we see Aang and Gyatso's relationship, and we see Gyatso called in to speak with a council of senior monks. The council has been alerted to the fact that Sozin intends to attack the Earth Kingdom, they intend to help, and they want to prepare Aang for war. And I didn't really have to think too hard about the logistics of Sozin's attack on the Air Nomads when it was something that happened 100 years ago! But now this stupid fucking show is making me actually have to think about how all of this worked, because it actually shows SOZIN'S ATTACK on this temple and this is why Aang is forced to leave! (And gets frozen in an iceberg for 100 years.)

Don't show me this nonsense if you don't want me to think about the logistics and strain my suspension of disbelief! If the Air Nomads intend to help the Earth Kingdom when the Fire Nation attacks, then because they're PACIFISTS who can FLY, they would be most helpful serving as scouts and messengers. But NO ONE is watching the movements of Sozin and his entire fucking army of firebenders when they have been EXPLICITLY forewarned that he intends to attack the Earth Kingdom??? They don't have anyone watching out for this explosive conflict that will directly impact their ability to travel at the very least?

It's one thing if the Fire Nation has simply become increasingly militaristic and industrial, because from an outsider's perspective, that could just be Sozin strengthening his internal power. (The Fire Nation could have had multiple lords and kingdoms, historically, before being forcibly united into a single nation.) Chin the Conqueror was also just one Avatar ago, so it's maybe not unreasonable for the Fire Nation to be wary of warmongers within the Earth Kingdom. The Fire Nation becoming increasingly hostile and aggressive is concerning, but people tend to hope that cooler heads will prevail and war won't happen. It's not the same as DIRECT CONFIRMATION that the (United?) Fire Nation intends to invade the Earth Kingdom and start a war?

Sozin, apparently: "The best way to pull off a surprise attack is intentionally put all of my enemies on their guard."

So, now the Air Nomads don't look great for failing to notice an army showing up like that. Especially if they're in contact with the Earth Kingdom about the war that they're anticipating? Like, sure, they didn't anticipate THEY would be attacked, but they have information now that Sozin has an army on the move and terrible ambitions? Maybe these senior monks aren't sharing the news around because they don't want to panic anyone yet? Maybe it took a long time for the Earth Kingdom's information to reach them? But it's not a great look that the show is immediately inspiring me to find flaws (in the plan of telling your enemies to look out for your attack beforehand) and to have to come up with excuses for these potential plot holes.

And I personally didn't enjoy seeing the Air Nomads engaged in combat with the Fire Nation as one of the first things we see from them! Of course they're going to defend themselves when attacked, but it's just so sad, especially when Aang is introduced in the original cartoon as a wondrous mystery to Sokka and Katara and the audience, fun-loving and bright and with incredible powers, a miraculous shock of sunshine colors against the blue of the South Pole, a person from a more peaceful time and a hopeful way of life, someone who has never seen war and never heard of this one. In the cartoon, we learn about the Air Nomads through getting to know Aang, this penguin-sledding kid who can't even conceive of war yet, before we see the remnants of his loss. We don't have to see airbenders fighting for their lives and dying horribly before we fully understand who they are as a people.

This remake heavily frontloads its exposition with new material that is painfully clumsy, largely irrelevant, and doesn't add anything good to a story that's already been done pretty well. Was this just an attempt to avoid being accused of directly copying and adding nothing? Because it was bad. What the fuck was wrong with opening in the main time period of our story with Sokka and Katara as our POV characters? We could have instead seen more of the Southern Water Tribe! We could have spent more time with Aang getting to know the Southern Water Tribe and bonding with Sokka and Katara! We could have had more conflict between Aang and Zuko (who is, unlike Sozin, alive and relevant to the actual story at hand)! But no, we cut good stuff from the original show and have to waste all of this time on Sozin instead, who is dead by the time that the real story starts, and also apparently thinks telling everyone he intends to attack the Earth Kingdom when no one knew he was going to attack anyone is good military strategy.

#tossawary atla #spoilers #character death #violence

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photogirl894 · 2 months

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Oh my gosh, y'all, I was ready to throw hands with someone on the Star Wars Facebook page!! 😡😡 Angry rant ahead! Slight spoilers but not really...

It started off with the guy saying the new episode of Bad Batch was "another filler episode", (which that word makes me SO angry already) so I told him that word is so overused and this wasn't filler. I even broke down the points of each episode that contributed to the plot as well as character development. Then we kept going back and forth about it and he questioned if we watched the same episodes and I'm like "clearly not cuz you obviously missed the point!" and he said "we didn't need 3 episodes in the prison". I told him there were only 2 in the prison: the first and the third because the second was centered on Hunter and Wrecker. Then this asshat had the nerve to say "The second episode was horrible and I tend to block out every episode with Wrecker because he's the worst Star Wars character ever created after Omega"............ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh the absolute RAGE I felt when I saw he said that!! 🤬🤬

I so wanted to say, "well no wonder you're missing the point of the show cuz you're blocking out one of the best characters who's in pretty much every episode of the whole damn show!!!!"

But I was getting so mad that I just blocked him instead. I didn't wanna hear anymore of his wrong opinions. Though I did say before I blocked him "wow...just when I thought your opinion couldn't get any worse...you had to say THAT". Uuuggghhh I was furious! I honestly still am!

Nobody...and I mean NOBODY...talks about my boy, Wrecker, like that!!!!! He is a wonderful, sweet, funny and complex character that has more emotional maturity in his pinky finger than that guy could ever hope to have! He's incredibly kind, intelligent and is in tune with his emotions. He might not know a lot about technology or things like that, but he knows how to disassemble an explosive and makes a pretty good tank! He cares so much about his family and can bring a smile to anyone's face!

Ugh sorry...I got so mad seeing that comment from someone who clearly has no understanding of Wrecker's character and ZERO understanding of The Bad Batch in general. I'm so sick and tired of many people saying it has a bunch of "filler" episodes, which is 100% false! The show would do so much better if more of the freaking SW fandom had better media literacy, but clearly, that ship sailed long ago 🙄

I love this show so much and I will defend it to my last breath against anyone who dares to say it's nothing but "filler" or anyone who dares to insult ANY of my boys or my little blonde angel!!!

#star wars the bad batch #the bad batch #bad batch season 3

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royalsweetteaa · 1 year

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Timeless lovin’ - pt. 3

Pairing: CATFA!40s!Steve Rogers x present!reader

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

WARNING - The following story contains: explicit smut, oral sex (F receiving), boob groping, dom!reader, Steve calls reader ma'am, sub!Steve, virgin!Steve, pet names, Steve has a praise kink, angst, fluff, developing feelings, spoilers, time skips, alternative reality, wingman!Bucky Barnes.

Pt. | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

Summary: Steve left for Peggy in the past, and you were determined to travel back in time and get answers after he left your relationship of 4 years behind him just like that. You get a little ahead of yourself and travel past where your Steve left off, and you meet Steve Rogers, - the man before he hit the ice and was frozen for 70 years.

Y/N’s POV

For the night, I decided to give it a rest and leave my issues for tomorrow, seeing as there wasn’t much else I could do now that I had walked away from Steve. It was a good thing that I was exhausted anyway, and a good night sleep was very much needed.

Throughout the night, I was a bit tempted to leave back to my time before the morning rose, but it felt like it would be too wasteful. I acknowledged I was extremely privileged for receiving the opportunity of traveling through time, and so why leave when I could spend one more day to witness the life of the 40s myself?

The next day I woke up earlier than most and set course to the nearest town from the military base. Soldiers greeted me along the way of getting to the gate, as news had spread that a new female 'soldier' had joined amongst the Howling Commandos and had been of great service for the previous mission.

It felt good to be acknowledged with smiles and nods as a form of respect, but there was also the whistles which still put me off guard. I wasn't quite used to it yet but it wasn't like it surprised me. Due to people's acknowledgement of me, I didn’t have to show my ID when I left, which was convenient.

I took the bus downtown and walked out at the stop of the plaza. It wasn’t busy this early in the morning, but thankfully some shops were open for me to explore.

For me it was mind boggling to think I was the only one in the whole world with the knowledge of what would happen the next 70 + years. Everyone was walking around with the war as their only concern, - not robot and alien invasions. I envied that a little.

40s!Steve POV

I knocked on Bucky’s door and rushed inside once I heard his voice of approval. He was sitting on his desk, going over some of his files. Cutting through the chase, I asked him, “Buck, have you seen Y/N?” hoping he would possibly know something.

Bucky turned around, “You mean the girl you haven’t told me a thing about? I may have overheard someone mentioning her whereabouts. Why?”

I felt a sense of relief when Bucky said he had heard she was still around. Good, she hadn’t returned to her time then.

But who knows when she will.

“It’s urgent…I need to talk to her.”

“Steve, you’ve never been this secretive with me. Have I done something to break our trust or what?” Bucky asked with confrontation, his arms crossed as he expected an explanation.

I sighed, understanding why my best friend was feeling left out, when it was just too complicated for me to bring him into it. I had promised Y/N to not speak of our situation, and while it was tempting to share it with Bucky, I knew it wasn’t the right time for that yet. Not when there was too much going on from before.

“I…listen, I can’t go into details right now but let’s just say this woman is very important to me and I have to find her cause she left me yesterday before we could clear things up, and I’m risking on loosing her if I don’t leave right now…”

Bucky’s eyes widened with surprise, “Woah, hold on, what happened last night?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose as I was growing more impatient, and luckily Bucky retorted immediately with, “Fine, we can save it for later. I overheard some guy by the gate say he got to have small talk with her and she told him she’ll be exploring downtown today cause she’s curious about the area, - something like that. Don’t know what could be interesting in downtown Dover but -!”

“Thanks Buck, I’ll see you later!” I interrupted him from finishing his sentence as I left to head for the gate and take a ride on my motorcycle.

Second person POV

You had bought an ice cream sundae and had a taste of delicious apple pie at a cafe, - something that tasted so fresh and homemade, it couldn’t compare to your time’s desserts. Why didn’t they make them like this anymore?

Oh right, because in present time, all they do is put chemicals in every single ingredient because it gives a ‘better colour’ or ‘makes it last longer’ despite increasing risks of cancer. Lovely.

As you were carrying your bag of bought items and walking around for some more, you heard the rumble of a motorcycle catching up to you from behind. You turned around out of habit to make sure you weren’t in the way, but when you saw who it was, you turned almost panicked.

You had at least wanted to be mentally prepared to be approached by Steve or approach him again, - not like this where you were halting with shopping bags in your hand as Steve parked his motorbike by the sidewalk to come over to you.

Out of grudge and stubbornness, you decided to keep walking, even when Steve was calling after you. Once he inevitably caught up, he had you confronted.

"Y/N, please stop running away from me." Steve called you out, and you eventually went full stop.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling conflicted about the whole situation but you didn't want to be a coward anymore. You were going to tell him what was the issue.

"I’m not running away…- Steve, this was all a big mistake. I should have returned a long time ago before we..before all of this happened...” You gestured at the space between the two of you. “We’ve been around each other long enough. There's nothing else for me to do here."

"No, come on Y/N....don't say that." Steve pled, sadness spreading on his features. He reached out with the extra motorcycle helmet to you, “Come back to the base with me, please. I’d like to take this conversation there instead of here in the open. The last thing I want is a HYDRA spy listening in on us.”

You huffed but agreed, and took the helmet from his hands before sitting behind Steve on the motorcycle. He put your items into the trunk, and had you wrap your arms around him as he drove back, being welcomed with an open gate at the base.

Once you got off, he led you to a secluded area, behind the wall of a bunker, where no other person would have a reason to be at the moment.

You met his eyes when you turned to look at each other, expecting him to talk first, - and that he did.

“Y/N, I…I don’t want you to leave. Not like this anyway. Yesterday was…well, I quite frankly enjoyed our time spending together, and I didn’t see why…you had to leave so abruptly after we…you know…” Steve trailed off as his cheeks became red, “I-I thought we had a good time. Didn’t you?”

“You’re with Peggy.” You started off with your reasoning. “It isn’t…- it wasn’t right for me to do that. I’m sorry I did that. I really don’t want to be the other woman anymore..” You said the last part above a whisper, biting the inside of your cheek as you tried your best not to cry.

“…You’re not the other woman.” Steve said sternly. “Me and Peggy…we aren’t official. Never were. She’s always given me mixed signals, and while we’ve shared a few romantic moments, it hasn’t been remotely the same as the ones I’ve shared with you. I’ve never…we haven’t done anything like I have with you.” Steve put it in his own way, trying hard to speak without crudeness.

You scoffed, “Okay, so you haven’t had sex. So? That doesn’t mean anything. At the end of the day, you left me for her. How can you be so sure this will be any different?”

Steve’s body turned tense, and he slammed his fisted hand onto the iron wall of the bunker, causing it to bulge. That had really caught you off guard. “I didn’t leave you! He did. Everything you’ve told me about my future self, - I don’t recognize myself in him at all. He obviously went through certain things that changed him. That made him miss what he once called home and made him forget of what he had right in front of him! You can’t keep on pushing me away just because of his mistake.”

You couldn't look him in the eye as emotions were once again bottling up and you were scared it would spill out. Steve’s face softened, regretting he had been harsh with his tone, but he felt like it was necessary this time. He took your cheeks into the palm of his hands carefully.

“Y/N, please look at me…” Steve plead. “I used to think I loved Peggy too, but with you, I’ve learned it was purely platonic. I only have fondness for her because she was the first woman apart from my mother to care about me despite being the puny kid from Brooklyn. I was practically all alone before the serum, with everyone else being way ahead of me. Including Bucky, no matter how supportive he was of me. I don’t expect you to understand...” he said, his eyes trailing down to the ground.

You gathered the courage to look him in the eye again as you spoke, “…Yes, your experiences are yours only…but you were the first man to take me seriously and care about me too. I used to think I would stay single for the rest of my life because no man would look my way, but then you did. I guess that’s one of many reasons I haven’t been able to let go. I’m upset he made me believe I had a shot in ever lasting happiness.”

Steve stared at you then, not believing what he was hearing when he was taking in your appearance. “You do deserve ever lasting happiness as any other good woman...I don’t know what kind of light is blinding the men of your time, but your beauty is beyond graceful.”

You chuckled lightly, “....That’s...sweet of you to say, -”

“I’m serious.” His voice sharpened. “I want to get to know you. It has only been a few days and I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before. A feeling I don’t want to let go of, and if you feel the same, you will not go back.”

You sighed with stubbornness, not willing to easily let yourself go defeat. “I…-”

“Captain, I’m so sorry to disrupt, but Miss Carter has just returned from London and would like to meet you.” A soldier said out of breath, as if he had wandered around for some time to find Steve, and Steve cursed under his breath for the bad timing.

“I’ll be with her in a minute, thank you.” Steve politely responded, and the soldier left. He looked at you again and held your shoulders. “Please listen to me. Don’t leave for the future while I go talk to her, okay? I’ll tell her about us.”

You sighed once more, “Steve, I can’t stay here, -” You were disrupted from speaking when his lips connected with yours for a kiss. It was unexpected, but you easily melted into it as his soft lips made it impossible to resist. He was gentle as he held your body close to his, showing how much he didn’t want to let you go.

Once he actually did, he whispered, “Please,…stay.” Steve pleaded once again, his cheeks turning pink at the bold move he had just pulled, but he desperately wanted to prove to you his worthiness.

You held your gaze to his and accepted your defeat, “Okay, fine…It’s a bad idea but fine.”

“Thank you. You won’t regret it. And I’m sorry for…not asking for permission to kiss you. I just,…you know…I really want you to stay.”

You laughed while shaking your head. “Fine. I’ll be waiting for you then, Captain.”

Steve went on his way after that, letting out a huff as a proud smile formed on his lips.

His heart rate had increased and it wasn’t just because he had kissed you moments before, but because he left you wanting to get back to you as soon as possible. You had laughed at his awkwardness, - not mockingly but out of being charmed, and he felt confident on being himself around a woman for once.

He couldn’t say he’s been able to be himself like this with any other woman without receiving a weirded out frown, - including Peggy.

Speaking of Peggy, - Steve spotted her by the mechanics, and before Steve could even think out what he should say, her eyes had caught him and she waved at him with a smile. She had her suitcase in her grip and a folder under her other arm, which told Steve she had quite literally just arrived to the base.

When they got close enough to each other, Peggy greeted him, and Steve returned it, “Hi Peggy, welcome back.”

“Steve, how nice it is to see you again. It’s been a moment but I’m sure they won’t be needing me in London for a while, - not until we go through the next big mission anyway.” Peggy informed contently while placing her suitcase and folder on a nearby table.

“That’s good. Things aren’t the same when you aren’t around.” Steve said.

Peggy snorted at that. “I’m sure it isn’t. I heard the last mission went swiftly though. You’re getting the hang of it and it has only been, - I suppose a year? It’s impressive really.”

Steve smiled as he made short eye contact with her, “Thank you, and yeah, I take pride in my progress. But of course there’s always room for improvement...”

“You’re right about that.” Peggy said, and pulled a frown when she looked to the side at her folder, taken aback at how simply Steve was responding. She was used to his rambles whenever she initiated a conversation, but now he was being awfully reserved.

When she looked up again from her documents, she continued, “Something’s on your mind. I can tell. Is there something you want to tell me? Something that has happened?”

Steve's eyes didn't know where to stay a-put as he grew nervous, and it didn't help with how he knew Peggy could tell he was.

Peggy sighed, realizing she would have to take initiative to get whatever picked Steve's brain to come out verbally to her. “Come, let’s sit down, Steve.” Peggy proposed, and Steve accepted.

They sat down at whatever place was available since there were no chairs outside by the mechanics. Steve cleared his throat, not sure where to begin, but he found what he could start with before he spoke.

“Peggy…you know that you’re very important to me, and that I would never purposefully push you away, or hurt your feelings, right?” Steve asked, as he fiddled with his fingers.

Peggy slowly nodded as she looked at the man who could only maintain his eyes on the ground. “There’s a ‘but’ to this, isn’t there?”

Steve swallowed a lump down his throat as he hesitantly looked up at her, - his 'first love'.

“I may have fallen in love with someone else.”

Peggy blinked, “Oh..is that so?” She asked, surprised to say the least.

“Yeah…I guess I just wanted to let you know because I think it’s only fair. I know we were never official and all, but we didn’t exactly keep it friendly all the time so I…-…I won’t blame you if you stop talking to me or ask me to leave you alone. I know this is out of nowhere, - these feelings came to me unexpectedly too, but I’ve never felt anything like it…so that’s why I…- I want to hold onto these feelings with this woman. I wouldn’t help it if I otherwise ignore it…” Steve spoke his end.

Peggy inhaled through her nose as she stood up, quietly walking over to Steve. “Hey, look, - If this woman is special to you, I am not going to come in the way of your happiness, Steve. You will always find a friend in me if that’s how you want to maintain it.”

Steve’s face lit up as he looked up at Peggy, who had a matching calmness to her face as her voice. “Really? So you’re not upset?”

Peggy laughed as she stroked Steve’s cheek. “My skin is thicker than you think. I can assure you I will manage just fine. I’m not going to lie to you and say it doesn’t hurt me a little bit but…moping around doesn’t do any good. Winning this war will be my top priority to the end of it, and I’ll follow you as a fighter despite where your heart’s at.”

Steve’s lips formed into a smile of relief to Peggy’s response. “Thank you, Peggy...it's relieving to know I haven't lost you as a friend."

He stood up and the pair shared a friendly hug at last, one of which Steve felt going into peace with the fact that he had made this decision to follow you instead, who his heart was currently beating so hard for. Steve couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this closure would have helped future Steve to move past Peggy as he didn’t feel any regrets or as though he was missing out on something, - not when Peggy had said she still sees him as a friend in her life and that it didn’t have to be anything else.

It felt right.

So how come future Steve hadn’t felt the same?

When he left Peggy to go see you again, his mind was wandering as he tried to reason with, -…well, himself. With circumstances being so different, where he in the 40s was now aware that at one point he will be going to the future and possibly meet you and become lovers, - the idea didn’t frighten him anymore.

It led him to believe perhaps future Steve hadn’t ever been at peace with it all as it wasn’t like he was warned about it. No, he most definitely couldn’t have been.

The kind of closure he got from Peggy moments before is something he never would have gotten if you weren’t here.

There had to be something about that, Steve thought.

You waited for Steve by the bonfire that had been vacated by the soldiers as they were deployed on doing their assigned tasks till afternoon.

You stared into nothing while you were thinking of so many things, but before you could get too deep into these thoughts, a familiar voice came from behind you.

“Hey, there. Y/N, right?”

You turned around and weren’t surprised by who had greeted you.

Bucky.

Ever since you met him for the first time, you grew incredibly annoyed each time you saw his face on a news article or literally anywhere else.

You were familiar with him first after he became listed as a wanted target by S.H.I.E.L.D., but the two of you only met face to face after Steve left as you were desperate for answers. You reached out to the person who was closest to him, but he didn’t know anything of you as you and Steve had only become a couple within the years of which half of the population was gone. Amongst those was of course Bucky.

So when you finally met and you explained everything, you were so disappointed with his answer. Offended would probably be a better word to describe it.

“Look, I apologize on Steve’s behalf that he left you without at least saying goodbye, but you need to see it from his perspective. Steve had it all taken away from him of living the good life after fighting Second World War. And then he was pushed into all this mess of becoming an Avenger, saving me and fighting wars with aliens. I was involved in a lot of that so I know just how draining it was for him. Steve has always put everyone else before himself, and now that he had the chance to live the life he wanted, he had to take it. I think it’s best for you to let it rest and respect his choice. -

He deserves to be happy.”

All of your nerves were hit by the end of his ‘wise words’, yet you managed to silently leave the place in order not to loose control and choke the man. Not that you had a chance against the super soldier, but you were too angry not to entertain the thought. You tried to excuse him for seeming a bit out of it himself, but you still would have preferred a shrug for a response rather than that.

What a way to excuse him for leaving his girlfriend of 4 years with no indication of doing so instead of being, - you know, - a man and say it as it is.

Fuck my happiness I guess, you thought.

“Hello, James.” You greeted back with less enthusiasm.

“You can also call me -“

“- Bucky. I know.”

He frowned but dismissed your hinted attitude. “I have a feeling Steve didn’t tell you that.”

You narrowed an eye. “Oh?” Had Steve told him about who I really am?

“Yeah, Steve usually introduces me as James until I get a chance to introduce myself in my own charming way.” Bucky explained smugly as he sat beside you at the bonfire. "But I guess with everyone calling me that around here makes it harder for me to do that."

“Right…” You replied.

“So…It’s come to my attention you and Steve are close. Is that true?“ Bucky asked curiously.

You shrugged, “I suppose you could say that.”

“You know, Steve is a great guy. He’s got all the qualities you could want, - he's this big macho guy yet he's sensitive, as you can probably tell just by looking at him. He can be a little shy sometimes but I can assure you it’s only cause he finds you gorgeous. A gorgeous dame makes any man nervous after all. If you're looking for something serious, you can most definitely count on him, - unlike the most soldiers around here....” He said, snickering in the midst of his last sentence.

You had to chuckle. It was obvious to you what he was doing, being Steve’s best friend and all. You didn’t need him to tell you he had all these qualities when Steve was good at showing those himself, but you welcomed it as you found it entertaining.

Suddenly another someone made an appearance, that person being none other than Steve.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to disturb you two but I’ll have to borrow him for a bit.” Steve spoke while wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulder to lead him away. Once they got away from you far enough to be out of earshot, Steve glared at Bucky with concern.

“What are you doing?”

Bucky chuckled, “Nothing bud, I only put good words on ya. Figured I would give the lady some reassurance from someone who knows you the best. Maybe that will give the both of you a push and you’ll be sliding into second base in no time.” Bucky said, smirking at Steve who was left to blush with embarrassment.

“You don’t need to do that…I have it under control.” Steve mumbled. “I’m not a puny kid anymore. I can take hold of things myself now, including my love life.”

Bucky chuckled, “Hey, I’m sure you can but having a wingman is always useful, don’t you think? You lack experience despite how buffed up you have become. You’re still a virgin, aren’t you? Unless…?”

Steve gulped nervously, knowing full well lying out of the topic wouldn’t save him as Bucky could always tell when he wasn’t telling the truth. “I’m not about to answer that.”

Bucky laughed, “I know damn well Peggy and you haven’t gone beyond making out. I’m pretty sure I heard from someone that she’s one to wait until marriage. So come on, tell me. You’re killing me here.” Bucky begged, almost whining for an answer at this point.

Steve sighed as he tried to be as discreet as possible with his words without saying too much. “I haven’t -…you know…gone through intercourse, but I might have done something else.”

Bucky looked back at the woman again. “With her? You two did something last night, didn’t you?” Steve nodded hesitantly. “Damn, Steve I’m so proud of you! You’ve passed third base! That must mean the two of you are serious serious. Can’t believe you’ve never mentioned her before.”

Steve pushed Bucky’s arm, “Keep it down, will you? You’re practically shouting.”

“Hey, I’m just proud of you. You’re finally taking big steps.” Bucky pointed out. “With Peggy it was taking forever for the two of you to even kiss each other’s cheeks, - which speaking of which, are you over her? Have you told her?”

“I did tell her actually, only a few minutes ago…she was very mature about it and honestly, I admire that a lot of her.” Steve said, smiling to himself as the reminder that they were still on good terms was nice to him.

“But that might have been the problem.” Bucky added, “I noticed there was no real spark whenever you were together. Too much admiring and ‘looking up to’. You two were always…too polite with each other. I kind of knew by looking at the two of you that it wasn't going to go anywhere beyond friendship.”

“Really?” Steve asked, surprised to be hearing that. It was sending him in a spiral of questions and theories. Because he was aware that somewhere, there would be exactly that, - something beyond friendship. Him and Peggy being together with commitment. So why would Bucky say that? Had Bucky from a different timeline where Peggy and him did end up together share the same opinion?

Steve's head started to hurt the more he overthought it. Gosh, was it exhausting to be aware of these things, Steve thought.

Steve returned back to you after sending Bucky to the rest of the team, hoping this would be last interruption between the two of you.

“I’m sorry about that, Bucky is a bit…extra sometimes.” Steve excused.

You smirked, “It’s fine, he only said good things about you.”

“So he claimed…” Steve chuckled nervously. “I told her.” He apprised.

“Okay…so you’re done with her? Just like that?”

“We are still good friends, - but in the way you're thinking, yes..." Steve confirmed, his eyes shimmering almost nervously. "Are you now convinced you want to give us a try?”

You looked down, staring at the fire which was dying at this point. “Maybe,…I’m not sure where we should go with this. I don’t exactly belong here.”

“Is there...anyone you’ll be missing if you stayed? Family, friends?” Steve asked carefully.

You narrowed an eyebrow, "Are you implying I should stay here, Steve? In the 40s?"

"Would it be so bad?" Steve asked, expressing worry from perhaps suggesting the far fetched. "I know your time is way more advanced and impressive, but...- I'll make sure you have everything you need. I'll help in any way for you to adjust...and if it still doesn't work for you then..."

"- Then I'll go back, and try to move on. And so will you." You completed his sentence, though it wasn't the same words Steve would've used.

He gulped but nodded understandingly. "Yes. Exactly that."

You half-smiled sympathetically, hinting your sadness. "I don't mean to be harsh, but I don't want to have our feelings hurt more than necessary. We still have time to figure out and decide what we do, but you understand why we need to draw a line, right? If it doesn't work out, we call it quits."

Steve nodded again, “I understand…but that doesn’t mean I’ll promise I won’t allow myself to fall for you. Besides…I believe I’m already falling as we speak. There’s usually no return from a fall.” He said, almost poetically but it didn’t sound like he had put it together on purpose. He was just being his charming self.

“If you keep talking like that, I might stumble over the edge too.” You said with a wink. Steve laughed at that, and returned a cheeky grin.

From there, you decided to walk back to center base. There was a long silence on the way, where you simply observed the environment. When you got close to your assigned rooms though, Steve broke the appreciated silence.

“Uh, Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You asked, turning to look at him with curiosity.

“I had a thought and....- before we call it a night, I was wondering if...I could return the favor?" You stared at him, confused at what he was trying to insinuate. "I want to do what you did to me yesterday…but to you..” Steve whispered his clarification in your ear. “I-If I may..”

“You mean…you want to go down on me?” You asked as you bit your lip. You had figured as much that the concept of oral sex didn’t have its own descriptions in the 40s, which explained Steve’s lack of dirty talk.

Or maybe he was just like this.

Regardless, you loved it.

”Yes….I want to return the favor to the prettiest woman in the world.”

“Now you’re reaching it.” You giggled, humored.

“Am not.” He said with a slight pout.

You bit your lip, “Well, if you’d like…we could take this further in my bedroom this time….would you like that?” You asked innocently, but Steve knew it was anything but.

“Very…” he responded, sounding out of breath but he was simply overwhelmed.

At his reply, you hurried to your room with Steve behind you, making sure you were in the clear before you quickly entered the door and closed it behind you, locking it. You didn't leave Steve waiting as you climbed on him, Steve taking it as cue to hold you up as you started doing what he least expected, - have his neck and earlobe attacked with sucks and kisses. He whines when you suck for longer periods, but turns his head further away to give you full access. He backs over to your bed, his hands holding firmer around your ass as he lies down, leaving you on top of him to do whatever you please.

You unbutton his uniform jacket, leaving him in his white shirt. His nipples poke through the thin fabric, making it irresistible for you not to pinch them a little as you continue marking his neck with hickeys. His mouth slips out a cry, and you hush him, reminding him he has to be more quiet.

“Please, kiss me…” Steve pleaded, and you stopped what you were doing at his simple, yet heart fluttering request.

“Why should I do that, Steve?” You asked teasingly, pulling back to look at him again.

“Because I want to feel that feeling again,” he breathed out. “-- That feeling that tells me how right this is..- how right we are.”

Your heart skipped the hardest beat at his words. It was as if you were falling in love all over again, though this time there was so, so much more passion. Stronger than the first time.

And It scared you, but at the same time it pulled you closer to him. It made you think that perhaps this Steve could pull you even closer than your Steve.

No. Not your Steve anymore.

The man in front of you was becoming more ‘your Steve’ than Steve from your present could ever be, and it had only been days.

You pulled him by his collar and smashed your lips onto his, making out heavily with him. He held your waist with both of his hands, needing to hold onto something as he tried not to squirm too much. Whenever you pulled away for air, you saw for yourself how empty headed you had turned him. He was panting breathlessly, his face bright red from all of the sensations you were giving him. You smiled, pecking his lips lastly before you started to undress, making Steve's eyes go wide as he was brought back to reality.

Seductively and slowly you removed your jacket, revealing your white silky shirt. Once that was off, you removed your bra too, revealing your bare breasts. Steve was in awe, his eyes becoming relaxed for once as he stared at them.

No porn magazine could ever compare to the real deal... went a thought through Steve's mind.

Carefully you took his hands from your hips and placed them on your breasts, making his breath hitch as he felt the softness of it.

"Feel them, Steve...you're allowed to." You assured him. He swallowed before firmly groping them in his palms, squeezing them out of fascination.

He took a deep breath, trying to loosen up, "I...oh god, I can't believe this is happening.."

You made a concerned face from what he had just said, and you had to ask, "Do you want to take a break, Steve? Cause if this is too much -!"

"N-No!" Steve interrupted you hastily, "No...I just...I'm mesmerized, that's all...you’re so beautiful…you look like a goddess…”, he whispered as he took in your body in front of him.

You grinned, and watched as his thumbs curiously rubbed against your hardening nipples. You hadn't had anyone touch you like this for a long time, so you couldn't help but let out a soft moan as you felt your arousal between your legs grow. Steve groaned in response, feeling his own arousal rise at the sound that had just slipped out from your lips.

You removed yourself off of him all of a sudden, making him freeze from confusion.

"I have to take off my skirt and panties, otherwise I'll soak right through them..." You explained as you had caught his reaction, and that made him sink his shoulders with relief. Just a little bit.

Before Steve could even process it, you were fully undressed in front of him with everything on display as he got a small glimpse of your pussy with your legs closed. You smirked, not only because of his shuddering response but also from seeing his raging boner making a tent through his trousers.

When you spread your legs revealing your cunt, Steve let out a sharp exhale as he mumbled something in the lines of, ‘Oh heavens..’ He had never seen female genitalia before, - not face to face anyway. With a nod of approval from you, he bowed down and got closer to it, the arousing smell hitting him like a wave. He licked his lips, wanting nothing more but to have a taste and a feel of it.

His hopes were answered as you spoke up, “Go on, baby…make me feel good…”

“Yes, ma’am…” he responded, following the same pattern you had done on his cock which was to touch you first.

He touched your cunt lightly at first, having his fingertips gracefully stroke over the sensitive flesh. His sharp ears heard your breathing hitching when he touched particular spots, - the spots being your hole and at the top where there was what looked like a tiny pearl to Steve.

Your hand reached down to touch at the spot he had first touched, and you explained, “this is my clit…it’s the most sensitive part of my pussy, and if you keep rubbing it, I’ll get more wet..”

Steve hummed with fascination, and he mimicked the motion. When he rubbed your clit in a circular motion, he heard mewls slipping out of your mouth, making him turn flushed at the lewd noises.

"Your flower is so pretty, Y/N.." Steve commented huskily. Before you could say anything, Steve used his other hand to pay attention to your hole. He curiously spread your pussy lips apart before he carefully inserted his index finger in, wriggling his way to get it in there, - though your pussy juice was more than helpful as lube.

He began to pump his finger in a slow pace while still working on your clit, causing you to occasionally jolt. Bucky had shared plenty of advice on how to pleasure a woman, and to Steve's delight it seemed like those instructions worked like a dream based on your reactions.

He still had to ask, “I’m not hurting you, am I?…” worried your twitching was of pain, but the way you were moaning said otherwise.

“No, you’re doing so good…ngh, you're a natural, Steve...keep on shoving that thick finger of yours inside of me…” you instructed him, and he did so with quicker thrusts.

The quicker he thrusted, the more wetter you became. Steve licked his lips instinctively, and without asking, he pulled out his finger causing you to whine at its absence.

He was too eager to put his mouth on you, first flattening his tongue so he could flick it all over your folds and clit while his finger did the work below. You mewled loudly and slapped a hand onto your mouth, not wanting to let out more noises for others outside to hear.

“Y-You taste so good…I think…mmh I might get drunk on your juices alone…so addictive..” he spoke through his breaks before he dove in for more. The taste was so sweet to his tastebuds, it was driving him insane. He was leisurely humping against the mattress now, grinding his clothed dick along the sheets as he got off on pleasuring you. His tongue explored everywhere, - from the source of your wetness to around your folds and then at your sensitive nub.

“Ohh, you’re doing such a good job, baby…” you praised through high pitched moans. “…keep using your tongue…want you to tongue-fuck me..push your tongue inside of me, sweet boy…” you began to repeat your plea with desperation.

Your vulgar descriptions of activities and the pet names was only adding to Steve's maxed out lust. You were so fierce and exploring compared to him, given that you come from a society where that is more socially acceptable.

And Steve loved it. He felt confident with your praises and with your guidance. He wasn’t as scared as he thought he would be when experimenting with sexual activities such as this. He felt comfortable.

His fingers parted your folds carefully before his tongue dived into your quivering heat. You wither as Steve's tongue laves at your cunt, pushing the warm, wet muscle of his tongue into your tight core.

“Aaah! Such a good boy…oh fuck, Steve!” You fisted his hair, pushing his head closer as you began to grind against his face, and Steve happily accepted it. He was close himself, uncontrollably rolling his hips against the mattress as he pleasured you.

You whimper when Steve's finger finds your g-spot, and by your physical reaction he continues to thrust his finger at the same angle, seeing you fall apart in front of him.

"Holy shit, I'm cumming, Steve!!" You howled, quickly shoving your pillow over your face as you came, your orgasm hitting you like a wave. Steve drank you up as he hummed against your core, letting out a long-drawn moan of his own before he came in his pants. He panted against you, his hips coming to a halt as he looked up, his hair almost in the way of his eyes due to how messy you had made it.

“D-Did I do good, ma’am?” He asked, dazed, but desperate to know the answer.

You let out a breathless laugh before raising your head, “You did more than good,” you praised him as you cupped his cheeks and brought him forward for a heated kiss. He was in awe, and with his slacked jaw you slipped your tongue into his mouth, going in for another but shorter make out session. “You were perfect.” You specified further, making him squirm at the praise.

He had a praise kink alright, you thought.

As he rose up, you noticed the huge wet patch on his trouser with its sticky texture that had come on the sheets.

“Aw, did you cum?" You cooed the question. "What a mess you made…”

“Well, can you blame me?…” Steve spoke shyly, lowering his gaze out of embarrassment. “How could I not get aroused when you’re in front of me, naked, - especially after having a taste of your flower. It was beyond intoxicating..”

You chuckled, bringing Steve in to rest his head on your stomach with his arms wrapping around you as there was no pillow for him to use. You couldn’t help but snort after some silence, causing Steve to look up with curiosity as to what you found so funny.

“Why do you call pussy ‘flower’, Steve? I’ve never heard that one before.” You asked him, sharing the thought that you found amusing.

Steve looked away, turning sheepish again but he was more than willing to explain as there was a reason behind it. “Um…you see, my mother used to call female genitalia that to not ruin my innocence. I was 9 when I asked about what makes girls and boys different, and she told me girls have flowers that bloom and boys have tools that…turn more functional I guess? She never went down the details because she knew I would learn eventually. But since then, I’ve always called it that, - but it’s not like I talk about female genitalia often. Bucky mocks me all the time and corrects me by calling it a 'cunt’…but I’ve never liked that word. It sounds too crass for me…it just doesn’t sound nice. Female genitalia deserves to be called something more respectable I think,...- something pretty.” He said.

You hummed contently, “Mm, I like that a lot. Don’t stop calling my pussy a flower.” You grinned, slipping out a chuckle but it was out of adoration, not mockery. He turned to look at you, surprised with your response but glad you found it endearing.

“You know, I could never talk about this to any other woman. Somehow, you make me feel comfortable talking about anything..it just feels so natural to blurt things out to you without a second thought.” Steve shared, tightening his grip around you, and you smiled, putting your hand on his hair to play with it.

With a pleased expression, you responded with “I feel the same.”

You laid quiet for a while, until you felt Steve's weight leave you as he rose up, “I suppose I should leave to my room then…before it gets late and people start swarming in the hallway. Least I’d want is to be caught fooling around when I’m in service.” Steve reasoned, but he was making that face, as though the idea of having to leave was upsetting him a little.

“Or…” you trailed with another option in mind. “- you could just stay here with me. We can sleep together...unless you have other work to do?”

Steve’s eyes widened with surprise of your proposal, “…Um, yes, - I mean no! I don’t have more work for tonight…and uh, only if you don’t mind,..yes, I’d love to sleep with you…in your bed. - With you..”

You laughed, pulling him back in and having him beside you this time as you pulled the covers over the two of you.

You cupped his cheek, kissing his forehead which made him have to hold back a wide grin while you still chuckled.

“You’re such a big dork, Steve.”

The sun barely lit up through the closed blinds, but the commotion going around outside was loud enough to wake you up. Your eyes flickered open, and you saw Steve, already awake with his upper body risen against the headboard.

"Morning, doll..." Steve greeted you, then turned back to his sketch book he had in front of him. You greeted him back through a yawn.

“Wow, what a pretty drawing…” you murmured with your morning voice, holding an arm around Steve as you saw him adding shade.

It was a sketched portrait of you in your sleep. You could assume he had been up a while with how far he was with the drawing process.

He smiled, “The beauty comes from the motive beside me, doll..”

“Ha! You didn’t include all my flaws in the piece, that’s why.” You joked a little with your insecurities.

“What flaws?” He asked, turning to you confused, and you laughed, thinking he was trying to be smug. “No seriously, tell me what I’m missing cause I’m pretty sure I added every single detail…”

You shrugged as you pulled some hair strands away from your face. “I don’t look that pretty when I’m sleeping. My hair is usually messier and I’ve been told I sometimes drool in my sleep, which..- yep, I’m spotting a wet patch on your shirt...” you sighed. “Sorry about that…”

“It’s okay, I think it’s kind of cute actually…” Steve spoke softly. “And your mouth was shut when I started drawing, but adding a little drool could bring more life to the drawing.”

“Don’t add it, it’s fine.” You said, slapping his hand away playfully from having him do any changes.

He put his sketch book down and turned his body to you while rubbing his eye. “Gosh, I can’t believe you had me staying in your bed. I’m surprised we managed to sleep with the little space we have.”

“We were close enough to make it comfortable.” You said with a smirk.

He hummed as he started to think. “I feel like…I’ve known you my whole life, yet I don’t know a lot about you apart from things involving future me.” He said, guilt featuring in his face.

He raised his upper body up again as a sudden realization dawned upon him. “Where are my manners, I haven’t even asked you out for dinner, a-and we’ve been so intimate already…we’ve touched and….’tasted' each other’s genitals without going on a first date. - essentially I’m an awful man.”

You pulled him to lay back again and had his face in the palm of your hands, making him look at you as you spoke up, “Hey, don’t say that. It’s not a big deal for me. Well, it would still be nice to go out but you don’t have to worry about giving into your sexual cravings with me. I was the one to engage in oral sex with you first time around and what you did to me yesterday was so wonderful too…” you reassured tenderly. “You’re such a sweet man, Steve. You were such a gentleman, putting my pleasure first before you came yourself. I adore you. I really do...” your tone became more whispery with each sentence as you closed in to Steve’s lips, stroking his bicep with comfort.

He looked into your eyes through his lashes, then at your lips, hoping you will reward him with a kiss. With the way you were closing in, he knew he was getting what he wanted so much.

“I adore you too, doll…” he said, a second before you put his lips onto his.

It lasted moments until you decided it was enough to keep you non affectionate for the rest of the day as anything different wouldn’t be ideal at all. Steve was very busy that day and the week onward, but he kept his promise of taking you out when they set him free on one of the weekends. Through the lunches and dinners Steve took you out to, you had been able to connect better through temporarily leaving behind the elephant in the room. Since you were in public, you focused on getting to know each other without putting anything out there about your time travel business and future predictions. You were getting better settled into the environment in the process, and with Steve it was easy to feel like you belonged.

Steve asked you about your hobbies and interests, where and how you were raised, and about your accomplishments and failures. He seemed genuinely interested about learning everything there is to learn about you, his back hunched with his elbows on the table as he tuned in to listen about your life. It was nice how little he made it about himself, though you couldn't help but feel bad that he couldn't tell much about himself without you already knowing it. So instead, you asked him personal questions, - things the Steve from your timeline probably had forgotten to mention as it was far in the past.

After all, you had only recently learned Steve liked to draw and was a self thought artist, - a very talented one at that. Surely there was more to know about the Steve in front of you.

"Tell me...about your biggest fear, Steve. What makes you scared the most?" You asked. The question had put him on the spot, but you were curious.

After the blip and Steve had claimed you as his girlfriend, you had asked this question to him once. You had been restless like the rest of the world, wondering how you could move onward after something so catastrophic. You had a hard time finding your place in the new ordered world, and with that you developed new fears. Did a hero like Steve also have similar fears? Steve hadn't really answered that question when asked, only muttering something along the lines of 'I don't know...no possible fear of mine can top what has happened anyway.'

"That's an interesting question." Steve started, "Uh, I suppose...being useless is my biggest fear. Me being gifted with the super soldier serum in hopes of bringing justice to the world has made me think of what other importance I would have once justice is served. I want to be of good use, but what more use do I have once the world is all good?"

You gave it a thought for a moment, reaching out to hold his hand as you held your gaze, "Steve...you want the world to be a good place, right?"

Steve nodded without hesitation, returning the grip affectionately, "Of course I do. I know it might sound like I don't with what I just said but...well, it's hard putting words to how I feel without sounding a little selfish.."

You hummed, smiling reassuringly. "That's fine, I understand. Realistically speaking, the world will never be such anyway. With rising good also rises evil. There's no stopping it no matter how much we endorse good, so you don't have to worry about ending up as only a mere symbol of justice. There will always be work to do all over the world." You said. "And even if major threats such as HYDRA don't rise up again, you being there for people and giving them a reason to keep fighting will serve a purpose in itself. No one is ever useless if they contribute keeping peace around the world."

Steve smiled, looking down at your hands as he intertwined his fingertips in yours. "You're right. I think...I'm letting my insecurities get the better of me, but hearing something so reasonable helps a lot. Hearing that from you especially is...reassuring, for reasons I shall not mention in public." He said, suppressing a grin as he looked behind him cautiously.

You shook your head in midst of laughing. Steve was full of humor despite an ongoing war happening. He has made you laugh in numerous occasions and you haven't been together for that long. You really, really liked him, you had realized, - 'like' was perhaps an understatement.

The following weeks consisted of a routine of which you quickly got used to. Through most of the day you would observe what the Howling Commandos were up to, hanging around Steve's arm when you were allowed to invade space.

Thankfully you hadn't run into Peggy as she had her own separate schedule to follow. It wasn't like you were scared of bumping into her, but you couldn't handle an awkward conversation with that woman, where it would break down to the fact that you were the reasoning for Steve 'friend-zoning' her.

A wicked part of you took pride of reclaiming Steve's attention from Peggy, but you knew it wasn't Peggy who you should be mad at for what Steve from your timeline did. He chose to go back to her, and she was long dead when he made that decision. There was no way you were going to make enemies with her, - it would be too pitiful of you.

You stayed another two weeks in Delaware base, Steve and his soldiers following through their routines before you set course to Houston military base Texas, taking 3 days to get to by train. The beginning of December welcomed you in your arrival, and there you were to prepare for your transportation to Europe where the Howling Commandos would continue their mission of putting down the remaining HYDRA bases, as well as taking HYDRA down all together.

Dr Zola and Johann Schmidt - otherwise known as the Red Skull were still out there somewhere, and there was no doubt that the HYDRA ideology would be kept alive if they were left loose.

You knew that for a fact that it would anyway, knowing Dr Zola would make his way through S.H.I.E.L.D and contribute in compromising the agency.

When you were alone, you kept yourself occupied with Genesis, reading through upcoming events. While most events were insignificant, there was a particular event that had caught your eye, making your blood turn cold.

January 4th, 1945. - James Buchanan Barnes presumed death by accident mid-mission of capturing Dr Zola.

Oh no...

This was one of the biggest life changing events of Steve's life and it was approaching within weeks.

You tried not to let it haunt you too much. There was still time to consider how you were to interfere in that situation, - if you were to interfere at all. You didn't want to worry Steve either, especially when Christmas was around the corner.

The Christmas celebration was simple, yet so lively because of the soldiers. You could spot cheap, - clumsily put together Christmas decorations everywhere around the base, but it had its own charm. The real Christmas spirit came from the people you were surrounded with. You made small talk with the members of the Howling Commandos, - members such as Dum Dum who you knew was a well respected man among them. He was keen on having you share about your relationship with 'The Captain', but you only responded like a smartass, giving away little input about it. He was halfway drunk and didn't seem to mind though, - only finding you entertaining.

As you gained more attention from the members, Steve saved you by pulling you away, asking you, "May I dance with you, miss?"

You smirked, "Can you even dance, Captain?"

"If you take the lead, I might get the hang of it." Steve answered cockily, his confidence sparked from the 6 glasses of whiskey he drank. While alcohol barely affected his soberness, it sure made him feel lighter from his usual nervousness.

You found yourselves matching to the rhythm of the music being played by the musicians on stage, - classical Christmas carols being played on repeat. While it wasn't perfect dancing and unorthodox of you to take the lead as a woman, you enjoyed yourselves, occasionally laughing at how silly you were being. It wasn't like you were the only ones being silly, - half of the people dancing were drunk and making a fool of themselves too. It was all harmless fun.

No gifts were exchanged, but the free turkey serving made up for a pleasant Christmas celebration at a military base. After a couple of shots, your drunk self grew sleepy and Steve being the gentleman he is brought you back safely to your room.

Of course you didn't let him leave you too easily as your arms clung to him, begging him to stay. He couldn't resist you even if he tried.

The day after came and you were leaving for Europe. While dealing with your day after hangover, you made sure you had everything with you, most importantly Genesis and the suitcase which had the Stark industries logo removed by you for some time. Steve had you close to him, from when you first packed your stuff till boarding of the aircraft. He was also with you for the duration of the whole flight, sitting beside you and only turning to Bucky a few times who sat behind you for short conversations.

You didn't miss the exchanged smirks between the two men, making you internally laugh at how boyish they were being. It was the equivalent of two high school girls being excited for the other over a text from a crush. You decided to be bold and lean your head on Steve's shoulder, pretending you were going to take a nap. The sound of someone choking on their spit came from behind and you snorted, something that went unnoticed by Steve as he tried not to turn red again.

Snickers and chuckles from the soldiers sitting aisles back became background noise of the loud turboprop sound, and Steve couldn't do much other than bear it for the sake of you 'resting'.

The time of the long flight passed quicker than you anticipated, and you now found yourselves in northern Italy, in the very same country where the Howling Commandos made their first print.

People were held busy as, according to Steve, this area had been reclaimed from HYDRA only months ago, and now they were enforcing the place to make sure it stays that way.

Steve led you to a huge tent, which was personally set up to accommodate members of the Howling Commandos. That left less privacy than previously, but it wasn't like you and Steve had plans to go about your sexual conquests around this time. For the two of you, it only meant you had to go elsewhere to talk, to prevent slipping out confidential information.

That was why when everything was dropped by your designated bunker beds, Steve led you to a nearby abandoned church, which was only down a trail of the military base. While there was no power when you stepped inside, there were candles lighten up by the huge icons which gave the place a cozy vibe to it. Steve walked over and lit a candle himself, placing it carefully by the others before he sat beside you at the bench furthest back and pulled up his sketch book to draw. You watched as he started drawing a few lines while talking about all kinds of things, such as how it was for him to be here first time around when he was on U.S.O tour but then took the turn of rescuing soldiers and destroying the first HYDRA base; the foundation of him becoming the hero, - Captain America.

He had a smile plastered on his face as he talked passionately about how it was to finally be of use and rescue the soldiers, which also founded the Howling Commandos. How he was thankful for being able to save his best friend from whatever HYDRA was going to do with him.

Oh that's right...Bucky received HYDRA's mild super soldier serum at the HYDRA base in Anzano... Did Steve not know this now? You began to wonder. Seems like he didn't.

You moved the conversation forward before you considered speaking up about that, and a sudden question popped in your mind.

"Where has Peggy been all this time?"

"She's been around when we were in Delaware and Houston, though I believe she's in New York now, with Harold Stark. We had claimed HYDRA technology last time we were here and it was taken back to America for inspection." Steve shared the information he had on top of his head. "Why do you ask?"

You shrugged, "I don't know, I guess I'm surprised I haven't bumped into her once...she wasn't with us at the Christmas gathering."

"She was there." Steve clarified, which made you stiffen. "I suppose you didn't notice her. She only came by to wish us a merry Christmas before she went on her way."

"Does she know who I am? That it's me you're mingling with?"

"She hasn't asked after your name or any of that, but I can only guess she knows it's you since you're the only other woman here doing active service...she knows I'm not getting myself out there so she might put two and two together.." He closed his sketch book just then, putting it aside as he gave you full attention. "Why so curious about her all of a sudden?"

"No particular reason...I've been mentally preparing myself for the moment we inevitably meet each other, and I'm just surprised it has lasted so long without it ever coming." You explained.

Steve chuckled at that, pulling you into his embrace as he gave the top of your head a kiss. "She's not going to bite your head off if that's what you're worried about...if anything I imagine you two getting along well. You're both strong, highly intelligent women, it would only be natural."

You huffed and rolled your eyes, "I'm not scared of her. It's just weird you know...to be within reach of the woman I envied for two years because I learned she has something I don't have..."

"Hm.." Steve hummed quietly. His face turned sad when he realized what the meaning behind your statement was. "I'm not going to judge you if you feel...'uncertain' about yourself...but there's nothing Peggy has of her character and appearance that is superior to your own." Steve assured while stroking your back. "I have been thinking about it a lot about your situation and...I may have worked up a theory based on some logic, if I can call it that...I think the reason Steve from the future left was because the lack of belonging and familiarity, as well as him thinking too much about what he had potentially missed out on...he didn't have anyone tell him what he had to prepare himself for. That there would be a matter of time-traveling to the future. That is what makes our situation so different. I know some of the basics of what will happen and to be honest...I don't feel worried about it as much as I probably should be...knowing that I'll meet you and keep being of service, and getting to see the advanced world is...exciting? It's hard to put words on it really."

"I'll agree that is the most logical reason so far...but the more I'm with you, the less am I looking for an explanation. He left and...there's that...." Your face lit up when you processed what he had said last, and you tilted your head to meet his eyes. "Do you really mean that though? You'd be excited to meet me in the future?"

"Of course, doll..." Steve confirmed softly, "If I do appear in the future, we can at least continue our relationship from there. Maybe I'll cheat with my knowledge and meet you a few years earlier, so we can hit it off together with a head start. You can show me around, help me get settled, just like I've helped you settle here. It'll all be the same, just switched up circumstances. That sounds nice, doesn't it?"

""...I appreciate you sharing that with me, Steve. But I hope you realize, it most likely won't be me you're meeting."

Steve frowned, although he was a little zoned out and the sentence hadn't fully registered in his mind, so he asked, "What do you mean?"

You decided to stand up from the bench just then, dismissively shaking head, "It's...I'll explain it another time...It's getting late don't you think? We should rest." You suggested with a tight smile.

"I mean, we had a long flight, sure but...it's only 06:30 PM?"

You became silent, only letting out a sigh as if you had held your breath a little too much during the whole conversation. Steve grew worried, and so he stood up himself to come over to you and touched your shoulder.

"Doll, what's going on? You have been acting...kind of strange, - more like different the past week. As if something is bugging you." Steve spoke observingly. "Is everything alright?"

"Steve, I..." You started as you swallowed a lump down your throat. "I checked up with Genesis about upcoming events and...something bad is going to happen soon.."

N/A One more chapter and an epilogue to go! The stakes are getting higher. >>

Feedback and reblogs are very appreciated to help me complete this story! Thank you for reading! <3

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