Rabea Lestrange

Somehow, those words break through the cold fear holding you still, and you stumble forward, collapsing into him. He doesn’t pull away. His arms come around you, strong and steady, and you clutch onto him tightly, burying your face in the worn fabric of his uniform.

“Do you have anyone else?” he asks quietly after a long moment, and you feel your throat tighten as you shake your head. No, you don’t. Not anymore.

The man—Eraserhead, you remember seeing his name on the news before—holds you just a bit tighter. His words are simple but grounding. “Then I’ll stay with you.” You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s been swept away, too overwhelmed even to question it. He lifts you in his arms, and with one last glance around the dark street, he carries you to safety.

The hospital room is bright and smells like antiseptic. You’ve spent so much time here that the ceiling tiles feel like old friends, each crack and shadow memorized. But you don’t feel so alone. Every day, he comes to see you. Eraserhead—Shota, you learned his real name after a few days. He isn’t a typical hero. There are no flashy smiles or grand gestures; instead, there’s a steady, quiet presence.

The first time he showed up, you had looked up in surprise, not expecting him. He looked as tired as ever, but the moment his eyes met yours, he softened. He sat by your side, pulling a book from his bag. “I thought maybe we could read a bit,” he murmured, settling into the chair by your bed. And that was how it began.

Each day, he visits, bringing little things—a book, a puzzle, sometimes a snack he snuck in despite the rules. He talks to you, and slowly, you open up. He tells you stories about his work, his voice is soothing, his stories like threads knitting you back together.

One day, as he’s reading to you, you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his hand. He pauses, glancing at you. “Would you…” You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. “Would you stay with me? For a while?”

His hand gives a reassuring squeeze. “Of course,” he says simply, as if there was never any other answer.

After a month, he brings you outside. You hold onto his arm as he leads you through the hospital garden, the fresh air filling your lungs. He watches you closely, making sure you don’t stumble. He doesn’t say much, but the way he stands beside you, like an anchor, makes you feel secure.

Then, one evening, as he’s tucking you back into bed, he hesitates. You look up, meeting his gaze, and he speaks softly, as though weighing each word carefully.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, voice slightly hesitant, “about what’s next for you.” He looks away for a moment, scratching the back of his neck. “If you don’t have anywhere to go… would you consider staying with me? As… my daughter?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. You’ve always been afraid that one day he’d stop visiting, that he’d disappear like everyone else. But here he is, offering you a place, a family. A real home.

“Yes!” The word escapes you before you even think, and he gives a soft smile, one of the rare ones that makes him look almost younger. He reaches out, brushing a gentle hand over your hair.

“Then it’s settled,” he says, and you can’t help the small tear that rolls down your cheek, for the first time feeling the warmth of something like hope.

Living with him is different. Shota is quiet and reserved, but he’s patient and always there. The first few days, you stay close to him, not wanting to let him out of your sight, afraid he might vanish. You trail behind him as he makes tea in the mornings, watch him as he reads late into the night. He doesn’t mind, just quirks an eyebrow and tells you to get some sleep.

At first, you feel out of place in the small, cluttered apartment. But slowly, you make it yours. He even lets you pick out a few posters for your room, watching with an amused smile as you carefully tape each one up. And when you start calling him “Dad,” he doesn’t correct you.

One night, you wake from a nightmare, feeling lost and alone all over again. You tiptoe to his room, peeking in. “Dad?” you whisper, your voice small. He’s awake in an instant, looking at you with concern.

“What is it?” he asks, sitting up, and you rush to his side, curling up next to him as he wraps his arms around you, whispering calming words until you drift off again, safe and sound.

The years pass, and you grow up beside him. He teaches you little things—how to cook simple meals, how to stand up for yourself. You learn to rely on each other in quiet ways, building routines. Every morning, you share breakfast, and every night, he reads with you until you fall asleep.

He’s there for every scraped knee, every rough day, every triumph and failure. He encourages you, even though you’re quirkless, even when you face challenges. When other kids tease you, you feel ashamed, but he pulls you aside, meeting your eyes seriously.

“You’re strong, and you’re smart,” he tells you firmly. “Being quirkless doesn’t make you any less valuable.”

When you decide you want to go to a normal high school, he supports you, even though you know he worries. He’s always there, at every parent-teacher conference, every recital. You start thinking of him not just as a hero, but as your hero.

As you get older, you begin to meet his friends and colleagues. His former students come over now and then, filling the apartment with laughter and noise. One in particular, Bakugou Katsuki, stands out—loud, intense, and so full of energy it feels like he could explode at any moment.

You never expect to become close to him. He’s all rough edges and explosive confidence, but somehow, you find a kindred spirit beneath the fiery exterior. He admires your determination, and despite his brashness, he respects your decision to walk your own path, quirks or no quirks. Over time, he becomes your best friend, and then, eventually, much more.

The day you tell Shota that Katsuki asked you to marry him, he stares at you in surprise before his lips quirk up in a small smile. “I knew the first time Bakugou laid his eyes on you that he would never let you go,” he tells you, a hint of humor in his voice. You blush but nod, and he reaches over to squeeze your hand.

“I’m proud of you,” he says simply, and it means everything to you.

On your wedding day, he’s there in his usual reserved manner, watching you with a quiet pride in his eyes. He walks you down the aisle, his arm steady under yours. As you reach the altar, he leans in close, whispering, “Be happy. That’s all I want for you.”

With a smile, you nod, holding back tears as he steps back, letting you begin your new life as a Bakugou. And still, he remains a constant presence in your life.

When your first child is born, Shota is there, cradling his grandchild with a tenderness that surprises even you. He looks down at the tiny face, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen. He visits every chance he gets, bringing small gifts and sneaking in treats despite Katsuki’s attempts to keep the household healthy and sugar free.

When your second child is born, you look over at Shota, seeing the joy in his eyes as he holds the baby close, and you realize that he’s been there for every part of your journey. Your father, your hero, your friend.

Your children grow up knowing him as the quiet, steady force in their lives, the one who always brings a sense of calm to their chaotic little worlds. He’s their rock, just as he was yours, telling them the same stories he once shared with you, watching over them as they sleep.

Katsuki Bakugo, hunched at the kitchen counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the empty teacup in front of him like it insulted him somehow.

You pause in the doorway. You consider turning around.

But instead, you walk past him, grab a mug, and sit down across the room. Your tea is hot. The silence between you even hotter. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

There’s something electric about it—this strange, charged silence.

You stay like that for twenty minutes, barely sipping your drink.

Then he stands and leaves without a word.

Night Four

You don’t expect him to be there again.

But he is.

Same place. Same blank stare.

He glances up when you enter, eyes flicking toward you, then back down. No scowl. No grunt. Just acknowledgment.

You take the same seat. Brew two mugs of tea this time, even though he didn’t ask.

He accepts it with a short nod.

Still no words.

But it feels less like you’re strangers now.

Night Six

“You don’t sleep either?” you ask, finally, softly.

He doesn’t look at you. “Tch. Obviously.”

You hesitate. “Bad dreams?”

A pause. “Noisy. Too quiet. Both.” A beat. “You?”

You nod. “Same.”

Something cracks open between you. Not fully. But enough.

Night Nine

It becomes routine.

You meet him in the kitchen sometime past two a.m. The only light is the dim glow over the stove. Some nights you talk—just barely. Other nights you sit in silence, the tea untouched between you.

But it's a shared silence now. Not lonely. Not hostile.

You learn he likes his tea scalding hot. That he takes exactly two sugars. That he never talks about Kamino, but flinches slightly when the wind howls outside.

You learn he listens more than anyone gives him credit for.

And that he watches you carefully, like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

Night Twelve

You fall asleep at the kitchen table.

You don’t mean to—your body just gives in mid-conversation. One second you’re nodding along as he mutters about training schedules, and the next, everything fades to black.

When you wake, there’s a blanket draped over your shoulders.

And Bakugo’s gone.

Your heart skips.

Night Thirteen

“You left a blanket,” you say, stepping into the kitchen.

“Tch. You were drooling on the table,” he mutters, not looking at you.

But there’s a faint blush on his cheeks.

You smile. “Thanks.”

He grunts.

You’re pretty sure that means you’re welcome.

Night Seventeen

You're bolder now. You bring cookies.

He pretends not to care.

But he eats three before you’ve finished your first.

And when you laugh at the crumbs on his shirt, he doesn’t glare. He just shakes his head and mutters, “Dumbass,” under his breath—but there’s no heat behind it.

Something softer is blooming between you. Something real.

And it scares you.

Because you never expected Bakugo of all people to be the one you felt safest with.

Night Twenty-Two

You both sit on the floor now, backs against the cabinets.

It’s easier to talk here, for some reason. Less formal. Less pressure.

“Sometimes I wake up in a full panic,” you admit one night, voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t even know why. Just this... weight. Like something’s wrong.”

Bakugo doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “That ever happen when I’m here?”

You blink. “What?”

He turns his head to look at you, something sharp in his eyes. Not anger. Something else.

“You panic. When I’m not there. But when I am... does it still happen?”

You shake your head, slow.

“No. Not really.”

He exhales, long and quiet.

Then he nods, like that confirms something he was trying not to believe.

Night Thirty-One

It’s storming hard one night. Thunder cracks, lightning flickers through the windows.

You find him already waiting, hood up, jaw tight.

You don’t say anything. You just sit beside him on the couch.

He doesn’t flinch when you press your shoulder against his.

Eventually, he speaks. “When they took me,” he says, voice hollow, “I kept thinking I had to get out. Had to keep fighting. Because if I didn’t... they’d break me.”

Your throat tightens. You nod. You understand. Maybe not in the same way—but you do.

“Did they?” you ask gently.

He shakes his head. “No. But it still fucks with me.”

You reach for his hand, barely touching his knuckles.

He doesn’t pull away.

Night Thirty-Five

You fall asleep beside him on the couch. Not just a nap—real sleep. Deep, dreamless, peaceful.

When you wake, his head is tilted toward yours. One arm curled behind your back. The blanket pulled over you both.

You don’t move.

You just breathe. For once, your heart isn’t racing. Your chest isn’t tight. It’s the first time you’ve felt rested in weeks.

And he’s still asleep.

He looks younger like this. Softer.

Safe.

Night Thirty-Six

“Didn’t think you’d be comfortable sleeping next to someone like me,” he says quietly, avoiding your gaze.

“Someone like you?” you ask, confused.

He shrugs. “You know. Loud. Aggressive. Shitty personality.”

You frown. “You’ve never been any of those things at night.”

He glances at you, surprised.

You smile. “You’ve been kind. Quiet. Steady.”

He goes quiet, cheeks pink.

Then he mutters, “You sleep better with me.”

It’s not a question.

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

But the next night, he shows up at your door instead of the kitchen.

Night Fourty-Five

It becomes your new normal.

You sleep in his bed sometimes, wrapped in warmth and quiet. Other nights, he stays in yours, one arm around your waist, as if to anchor you both.

No one asks questions. Not yet.

It’s not official. Not really.

But everything feels different now.

You’ve memorized the way he exhales when he finally relaxes. The way his fingers twitch when he dreams. The way he sometimes whispers your name like a lifeline.

You haven’t kissed. Not yet.

But one night, after you tell him about the worst dream you’ve had—about not being able to save your friends—he cups your cheek in his hand and presses his forehead against yours.

“You’re strong,” he says. “You’re not alone.”

Then, so quietly it barely counts: “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

Night Fourty-Nine

It’s raining again.

You’re curled in his bed, facing him. One of his hands is tangled in your hair. The other brushes against your hip, lazy and slow.

Neither of you is asleep yet.

“Hey,” you whisper.

He opens one eye. “What?”

“I think I… like you.”

His lips twitch. “Tch. No shit.”

You blink. “What—”

Before you can finish, he kisses you.

It’s gentle. Hesitant at first. Like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

But you don’t.

You kiss him back, slow and certain, like this is where you were always meant to be.

After

No one says much when they start noticing.

You think they probably knew before you did.

You’re still you. He’s still him. But now, the nights are different.

You sleep easier. He does too.

You both still wake up sometimes—shaken, breathless, haunted by memories.

But when you do, you have each other.

And somehow, that makes everything just a little more bearable.

You found comfort in the quiet.

You found love in the stillness.

The questions keep coming, and you want the floor to open up and swallow you.

Then a voice cuts through the noise like an explosion. “Shut the hell up.” Katsuki’s glare sweeps the circle, voice sharp enough to skin them alive. “What the hell do you extras care? Back the fuck off.”

The room goes quiet. Nobody pushes it further—not when Bakugo’s bristling like he’s about to blow someone through a wall. You don’t look at him. Not right away. But the fact that he stepped in—God, that sticks in your chest like something dangerous.

The game stumbles forward until someone asks the next one:

“Never have I ever… had sex.”

And this one? This one hurts worse.

You don't drink. The only one. You thought maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t be the only one. That someone would understand what it’s like feeling… left behind.

Then you see him. Katsuki. Drinking.

Your chest tightens like someone tied a rope around your ribs and pulled. Of course he would. He’s confident, loud, hot-headed—hell, he’s gorgeous. People probably threw themselves at him. You should’ve known. But the stupid, fragile hope you’ve been clutching since first year shatters anyway.

You glance at him, and that’s your mistake. Because he’s looking back. Eyes like wildfire pinning you where you sit. And he sees it. The flicker of disappointment you can’t swallow down fast enough.

He looks away too quickly, jaw tightening like he wants to grind his teeth into dust.

You last two more questions before you mumble an excuse and slip out. The hallway’s cooler, quieter, but your thoughts won’t stop spinning. You shut your door and press your back to it, hating how much it stings.

A knock rattles the wood. Then his voice. Rough. Low.

“Open the damn door.”

Your stomach flips. You hesitate—just long enough for him to knock again, harder.

“I know you’re in there.”

You crack it open. He’s there, looming in the doorway like he owns the place, hands shoved in his pockets, scowl in place but eyes… searching.

“You good?” he asks, voice quieter than you expect.

You nod. Lie. “I’m fine.”

He snorts. “Bullshit. You bailed ‘cause of that question.”

You swallow hard. You could deny it, but the words come out small instead:

“I just… don’t wanna feel… left behind.”

His brows pull down, sharp edges softening just a fraction. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

And then, because you’ve been carrying this weight for too long, because you can’t stand the thought of being the last one standing in some imaginary race, you whisper:

“Katsuki… can you… help me?”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating.

His brain short-circuits so hard you almost hear it. Help? What the fuck does that—oh. Oh.

For a split second, his face does something wild—eyes wide, lips parting like you just sucker-punched him. Then his jaw locks, and you watch the panic get buried under sheer, stubborn will.

“…You’re outta your damn mind,” he growls, but it’s shaky at the edges.

You look down, cheeks burning. “Forget it. Stupid idea—”

“Oi.” His hand shoots out, gripping the doorframe tight, like if he doesn’t hold on, he’ll blow the whole building sky-high. His heart’s trying to beat its way out of his ribs. You believe his lie—that he’s experienced—but the truth? He’s just as lost as you are.

He knows enough. Knows the theory. Knows what should happen. But practice? Hell no. Every time he’s touching himself, he’s had to be so careful it kills the mood—one slip, one spark, and boom. Not exactly the vibe for a guy who’s supposed to be in control.

And now you’re looking at him like he’s the answer. Like he’s not just the loud, angry guy in class but someone you trust enough to ask this from.

His throat works around words that won’t come. “You don’t… you don’t get it. I’m not—”

You meet his eyes, and he swears the ground tilts under his feet. You’re nervous. Vulnerable. But there’s trust there, raw and bright, and it hits him harder than any villain ever could.

And then it clicks in his head like a fuse sparking:

Fuck it. If it’s gonna be anyone… it’s gonna be me.

You don’t know what you expected after the words leave your mouth. Maybe for him to laugh. Maybe for him to walk away and never speak to you again.

What you don’t expect is for him to step inside, lock the door behind him with a click, and look at you like you’ve just challenged him to a duel.

“You serious?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

Your throat’s dry. You nod.

He exhales hard through his nose, like he’s trying to blow out the tension coiled in his chest. “Tch. Fine. You want help? You got it.”

There’s confidence in his tone—sharp and cocky, the same way he sounds before a fight. And for a second, you believe it. Because he looks so sure, hands sliding into his pockets like this is nothing. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.

But inside? He’s screaming.

What the fuck, Katsuki? What the hell are you doing? You don’t know shit! Okay, you know… enough. Kinda. But not with someone else. Fuck—keep it together.

He moves toward you, steady, calculated. Every step feels like walking into enemy territory without backup. You’re standing by your bed, heart hammering so loud he swears he can hear it—and his isn’t doing much better.

“Relax,” he mutters, like it’s that simple. His hands hover before touching you, hesitant for half a second before he forces them to settle on your hips. “I got you.”

You nod, breath shaky, and he feels something twist in his chest. Because holy shit—you trust him. Enough to let him this close. Enough to let him do this.

He kisses you first—rough at the start, because he doesn’t know how to be gentle. But then you melt against him, and his brain short-circuits. This isn’t like anything he imagined during those late nights when he… tried. Tried and hated every second because he had to be so damn careful. Because sweaty palms and nitroglycerin skin make even jerking off a goddamn minefield.

Now? He’s careful, yeah, but in a different way—like if he messes this up, he’ll never forgive himself.

Clothes hit the floor piece by piece, and his fake confidence carries him through… until the moment of truth.

He’s inside you before he even has time to think. And holy shit. Everything hits him like an explosion in his spine—heat, tightness, your breathy sound against his ear—and it’s over before it starts.

His whole body locks up. Breath punches out of his lungs in a broken curse, and then… nothing. Silence.

No. No no no no no.

He pulls back fast, eyes wide, panic clawing up his throat like acid. “Fuck—” His hands fist in the sheets because what the hell just happened? He knows what happened. He just can’t believe it happened this fast. This pathetic.

You blink up at him, confused, lips parted like you’re about to ask what’s wrong, and that just makes it worse. Makes his stomach twist like he swallowed glass.

“I—” His voice cracks. He drags a hand over his face, heat burning under his skin like a second quirk. “Shit. I’m—fuck—”

He can’t even look at you. This is the most humiliated he’s ever felt in his entire goddamn life. Training injuries? Fine. Losing a fight? He’ll come back swinging. But this? You trusted him, and he—

“Don’t—don’t say anything,” he grits out, voice hoarse, knuckles white where they clutch the sheets. “Just—fuck. Give me a second.”

Because Katsuki Bakugo doesn’t quit. Not in battle, and sure as hell not now. Not when it’s you. Even if his heart feels like it’s detonated in his chest, even if shame’s clawing up his spine—he’s already swearing to himself he’s going to make this right.

Your room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing and his ragged curses. Katsuki’s sitting on the edge of your bed now, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fists buried in his hair like he’s one wrong move from blowing a hole through your wall.

“Fuck,” he growls under his breath. His skin feels too hot, his pride shredded like paper in his fists. You’re watching him, and that’s worse than any villain staring him down. “Shit—dammit!”

You shift closer, voice soft, careful. “Katsuki… it’s okay—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, sharp enough to make you flinch—but then his jaw clenches like he just punched himself in the gut. His next words come out rough. “…Don’t say it’s okay. It’s not.”

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he shoots to his feet. Paces like a caged animal, like if he sits still one second longer he’ll self-destruct. His chest is heaving when he spins on you, and there’s a fire in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

“I’m not fucking done.”

The words hit like a detonation. He stalks back to the bed, every step sparking with something feral, something stubborn. That cocky grin he wore before is gone—what’s left is raw, unpolished determination, the kind that built him into a top hero-in-training.

“You think I’m gonna let it end like that?” His voice drops, low and dark, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “Hell no.”

“Katsuki—” you start, but your protest dies when he grabs your chin, tilts your face up. His hands are steady now, like he’s locked onto a mission.

“You trusted me,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “So I’m gonna give it my all. Got it?”

You nod, and that’s all the permission he needs.

He kisses you again—harder this time, desperate in the way his lips drag against yours like he’s trying to rewrite the last seven minutes. His hands slide down your body, slow and deliberate, memorizing every curve like a goddamn study session he plans to ace.

When he pushes you back on the mattress, he doesn’t rush. Not now. Katsuki Bakugo doesn’t make the same mistake twice.

He takes his time—mouth on your throat, your collarbone, lower, until you’re clutching the sheets and biting back sounds that make his pulse slam against his ribs. Every shaky breath you let out feels like proof that maybe—just maybe—he can do this.

By the time his fingers brush between your thighs, he’s shaking, but not from nerves anymore. It’s control—white-knuckle, teeth-gritted control—because he’s determined to pull you apart before he even thinks about himself again.

And when you finally break under his hands—when you gasp his name like a prayer—he swears he feels it in his bones. Like winning a fight. Like victory.

But it’s more than that. It’s you. And that’s what fucking terrifies him.

After, the room is quiet again. Your head rests on his shoulder, skin flushed and warm. His arm’s draped over you, but his whole body’s tense, because now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, the shame comes back swinging.

You tilt your face up, whispering, “Katsuki?”

He grunts, eyes fixed on the ceiling like if he looks at you, he’ll combust.

“…Thanks,” you say softly. Like you mean it. Like you’re not thinking about how fast he—

“Stop.” His voice is sharp, but his grip tightens around you, like he can hold the words back with his bare hands. “Don’t thank me. I—fuck. I screwed up.”

You blink, surprised. “Katsu…”

“I lied.” The words rip out of him like shrapnel, harsh and raw. “I’ve never… done this shit before. Not with anyone.” His jaw locks. “Hell, I can barely even jerk off without worrying that I’ll blow my dick to hell.”

You stare at him for a second—and then, to his absolute horror, you laugh. Soft, breathless, but real.

“The fuck’s so funny?” he snaps, heat flooding his face.

You cup his cheek, make him look at you. “You could’ve just told me.”

He looks away, jaw tight. “…Yeah, well. I didn’t want you thinking I was some… loser.”

Your heart squeezes so hard it hurts. “Katsuki,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his. “I asked you. Not anyone else. You.”

For once, he’s silent. No sharp words. No explosions. Just a boy with his pride stripped bare, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“…I’m gonna get better,” he mutters finally, voice rough but steady. “Next time… you’re not walking outta here unsatisfied. Got it?”

Your lips curl into a smile, and you kiss him slow—soft enough to make his chest ache. “Next time, huh?”

Pugsley sat in the corner of the common room, beer can half-empty, fingers tapping against the aluminum like a nervous tic. His classmates were sprawled across couches and bean bags, bodies melting into one another like they’d already become memories. Music pulsed low through someone’s Bluetooth speaker. A bottle spun lazily on the floor in the center of the room, already catching a few nervous laughs and teasing shouts.

He hadn’t intended to stay this long. He’d told himself he’d leave after one drink, maybe two—but you were here. You were leaning against the wall in that way that made him ache, your laugh bright and real, your eyes darting toward him once or twice, like you knew.

But of course you didn’t. Not really.

Pugsley had spent the better part of the last two years quietly nursing a crush on you. A real, soul-sickening, heart-wrenching, stomach-clenching crush that he never dared act on. You were smart, cool, totally yourself in a way that made him feel clumsy and fifteen again. He had practiced conversations in the mirror. Never used them. Memorized your favorite songs. Never mentioned them. He had been so good at keeping his distance.

Until now.

“Alright,” someone slurred—Becca, maybe—“Time for Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

There was a groan of protest from someone, followed by a drunken cheer from someone else. A few people scattered, a couple giggling couples stayed. But most of the group leaned in, half-curious, half-hoping for drama.

Pugsley could feel his throat tighten.

“No backing out, Pugs,” Eugene smirked, already reaching into the hat where they were dropping names. “Your turn.”

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You’re up, Pugs” Eugene waggled the hat. “Don’t make me come over there.”

He should have said no. Should have waved it off with some snark and retreated to the shadows where he belonged. But then you smiled—soft, amused, a little bit flushed—and something in his chest cracked open.

He reached into the hat.

Fingers closed around a slip of paper. He unfolded it, bracing himself for awkwardness, disappointment, possibly public humiliation.

But when he saw the name, his heart stopped.

Yours.

You, sitting just across the room, sipping from a red plastic cup, your eyeliner slightly smudged and your lips parted in surprise when you realized it was you.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t make a joke. You just looked at him—and then stood up.

“Guess we’re up.”

Pugsley followed, heart pounding like a ritual drumbeat. The others whooped and hollered behind them as someone opened the utility closet and shoved them both inside.

The door shut.

Darkness.

Silence.

Then a click as you turned on the little closet light.

You stood across from him, biting your lip, your face illuminated in the dim amber glow. You looked nervous. Almost as nervous as he felt.

“Well,” you said. “Seven minutes.”

He tried to think of something clever. Something smooth. Something not-loser-y.

But all he managed was: “Yeah.”

Silence stretched.

You leaned back against the wall, studying him. “I didn’t think you’d be the type to play along with this.”

“I’m not,” he admitted. “Usually.”

You tilted your head, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “So why’d you do it?”

He hesitated. Then: “Because it was you.”

Your breath hitched—barely noticeable, but he caught it. Your eyes softened. “Really?”

Pugsley’s laugh was dry. “I’ve had a crush on you since, like… the group project my first year. When you brought homemade cupcakes and scared the hell out of the teacher by dissecting that frog like it owed you money.”

Your eyes widened—and then you laughed, a sound so warm it made the air feel thinner. “That frog did owe me money.”

He grinned, heart doing backflips.

The moment stretched, suspended. Your gaze flicked down to his lips, just for a second, before darting away.

“Okay, your turn,” you said. “Confession for confession.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What, truth or dare rules now?”

You shrugged. “We’ve got time to kill. And apparently, we’re being honest.”

Pugsley nodded slowly. “Alright. Shoot.”

“I had a crush on you first.”

He blinked.

You smiled, a little bashfully. “You wore that black turtleneck and eyeliner the week of midterms last year? I thought I was going to die. I told Becca I wanted to climb you like a tree.”

His ears burned. “You’re joking.”

“Absolutely not.”

Pugsley stared at you, every thought colliding in his brain like fireworks. His mouth was dry. His hands were shaking. You—you, the person he had dreamed about, pined for, obsessed over in quiet agony—liked him?

Liked him back?

The moment cracked open like lightning.

You stepped closer.

“I guess the real question is,” you said softly, “what do we do with our seven minutes?”

The song playing outside the door changed—some chaotic dance-pop track with thumping bass and distorted lyrics, bleeding through the door like it was underwater:

Seven minutes in heaven

Is all that I need when I get with him

Seven minutes in heaven

I hope in the end that I’m not a virgin…

Pugsley swallowed.

“I mean,” he rasped, “we could talk.”

You laughed—light, breathless—and then you were kissing him.

His back hit the wall. Your hands were in his hair. His were on your waist. It was messy, fumbling, electric. His brain went static. Your mouth was soft and demanding all at once. He kissed back with everything he’d ever imagined, everything he’d bottled up and buried deep.

You tasted like cherry lip balm and stolen beer.

He couldn't breathe.

He didn't want to.

You pulled back just slightly, eyes dark, lips swollen. “Too fast?”

“No,” he whispered. “Not fast enough.”

Your grin was wicked. “Good.”

And then your hands were under his shirt.

The closet was too small. The light too dim. The air too hot. But it didn’t matter.

Because it was you.

Your laugh was against his throat. His hands trembled as they explored your back. You kissed like you’d waited forever, like he was something you were finally allowed to have. And he kissed back like he was terrified it would end.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the lyrics kept looping:

Fucking with me now

And it’s all that I have

And you’re all that I want…

There was no pressure. No rush toward some final base. Just closeness. Want. Skin against skin. You were everywhere, and he wanted more, wanted all of you, but he also wanted to remember this—your gasp, your fingers in his belt loops, the way you whispered his name like a secret.

“Pugsley,” you breathed, voice raw, “I wanted this for so long.”

He touched your cheek, kissed you slow, tender. “Me too.”

The closet felt timeless.

But eventually, someone knocked on the door, laughing, calling halftime.

Neither of you moved.

You looked at him, chest rising and falling, cheeks flushed.

“I don’t want to go back out there,” you whispered.

“Then we won’t,” he said.

Seven minutes in heaven

Is all that I need when I get with him.

You laughed, and this time your fingers slid under his shirt again — slower, more purposeful. The back of your hand skimmed the pale skin beneath his ribs. He shivered. Not from cold, but from the quiet, pulsing heat building between you.

“Pugsley,” you whispered, voice low and edged with want.

No one had ever said his name like that. Like it belonged to you. Like it was something sacred.

He kissed you again, deeper, his hands finding the hem of your top. You raised your arms without hesitation, letting him peel it over your head, revealing smooth skin, lace, warmth. He froze, reverent.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

“Then touch me,” you said.

He did.

His hands explored like he was discovering you, not groping — like he was learning you. The curve of your waist. The softness of your stomach. The heat of your thighs. Your skin was warm under his fingertips, alive and twitching with every stroke. Your breath hitched when his mouth found the side of your neck, soft kisses turning to nips, licks, tasting you like something forbidden.

But it wasn’t forbidden. Not anymore.

You pressed into him, grinding slowly against the hardness growing in his jeans. His head dropped to your shoulder, a groan slipping from him — needy, unfiltered.

“I want you,” you whispered into his ear. “Right now.”

His hands stilled. “Are you sure?”

Your answer was to slide your fingers down, unbuttoning his pants with maddening calm. “I’ve wanted you since the eyeliner thing, remember? You looked like you could ruin me.”

He swallowed. “I still could.”

You smiled. “Then do it.”

He kissed you hard. Clothes came off fast this time — not careless, but desperate. Careful buttons and zippers lost to hungry hands. When you stood bare before him in the tiny, flickering closet, it was almost too much.

“You okay?” you asked gently, hand on his cheek.

He nodded, breathless. “Just... trying not to explode before I even touch you.”

You giggled and tugged him down onto the pile of spare blankets someone had stashed in the corner. The floor was cramped, the walls pressing in, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing existed but you.

You opened your legs for him without hesitation, guiding his fingers to where you were already soaked. He gasped when he felt you.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you breathed, eyes dark. “All for you.”

He kissed your stomach, your thighs, then slid down to taste you, tentative at first, then bolder as you moaned, hips twitching under his tongue. He was a fast learner. You were gasping in no time, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripping the edge of the blanket as he licked, sucked, explored.

“Pugsley—God, don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

You came with a cry you tried (and failed) to smother, legs trembling. He kissed his way back up to you, lips shiny, eyes wide.

“I’m not done,” you whispered, tugging him into place. “I want you now.”

He nearly lost it just hearing you say that.

Condom — thank god you had one. (You always hoped.) He rolled it on with shaking fingers, positioning himself carefully.

“Ready?” he whispered.

You nodded.

He pushed in — slow, stretching, hot.

The sound you made was wrecked, and he was already halfway to the edge.

“Jesus,” he gasped. “You feel—fuck—”

“Move,” you begged. “Please.”

He did.

The rhythm started awkward, hips bumping, hands groping, teeth clashing in desperate kisses. But it built. It grew. It became something primal, hot, and sweet all at once — his name spilling from your lips, your hands gripping his shoulders, his arms shaking from how hard he was trying not to come too fast.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned into your neck. “So fucking perfect—”

“Harder,” you begged. “I can take it—please—”

He gave it to you.

The sounds in the closet were obscene — wet, panting, bodies slapping together in a rhythm that felt like something sacred. He buried his face in your shoulder, moaning with each thrust.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m so close—”

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper. “Come inside me, Pugs. Want to feel it. Want all of it.”

That was it. That was all it took.

He came hard, stifling his cry against your skin, whole body locking up as you held him tight. You followed just seconds later, shuddering around him, nails digging into his back.

Silence after. Just panting. Just trembling.

Seven minutes long gone.

Maybe it had only been ten. Maybe more. Time had no meaning anymore.

You kissed his cheek, his jaw, his chest, still tangled together.

“So,” you whispered, “you gonna take me on a real date now?”

Pugsley grinned, breathless. “Yeah. Just as soon as I can walk again.”

You laughed, curling into him.

The banging on the door returned, louder now, someone shouting: “We know what you’re doing in there!”

Neither of you cared.

You sneak out of your room with practiced steps, slipping past doors that you know creak and floorboards that betray footsteps. You learned the rhythm of this dorm like the beat of a heart. You learned it for him.

Katsuki’s door is always unlocked now.

Not out of carelessness—he’s still too paranoid, too sharp—but because of you. Only you.

You slip inside and close it behind you softly. The room still smells like caramel and citrus, like the lingering remnants of nitroglycerin and the body wash you picked out for him months ago when everything was still normal. The curtains are only half-drawn, casting a dull gray light over the room.

He’s already awake, of course.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice gentle.

Katsuki grunts from his place on the bed, his good arm bent behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling like it’s done him personal harm. His blonde hair is a mess, wild from sleep, and there’s a line of pillow-crease across his scarred cheek.

You walk closer and sit on the edge of the bed. You wait. He doesn’t look at you, but his eyes soften—just a little.

"Shirt," he mutters.

You nod and pick it up from the desk chair where you put it last night. He sits up stiffly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His left arm—what’s left of it—doesn’t move.

You help him.

Buttoning up his school shirt is a slow process, but it’s not hard. The hard part is pretending it doesn’t matter. Pretending you don’t notice how much he’s sweating by the third button, not from exertion but from rage simmering just under the surface.

He used to be all fire and explosion. Now he’s smoldering ruins and coiled wire.

“Pants,” he says flatly.

You glance up and catch the way his jaw clenches, that barely contained fury at having to ask. The shame is thicker than the air between you. But you only nod again, kneeling in front of him and helping him step into his uniform slacks. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Not until the zipper’s up, belt half-fastened.

His hand twitches.

“I can do the belt,” he mutters.

“Katsuki—”

“I said I got it!”

You flinch a little. Not because he scares you. He never has. But because he’s hurting, and you can’t stop it.

His fingers fumble at the leather strap. You wait. You always wait.

After nearly a full minute, he growls in frustration and slams his palm down on the desk beside him with a resounding thud.

"Fuck!"

You reach over, gently taking over where he left off. He doesn’t stop you this time.

His breathing is rough, ragged like he’s just come back from a fight. His eyes are glassy, but he won’t let them spill.

You rise, placing a hand on his cheek—scarred and still healing. He leans into it before he can stop himself.

“I’m fucking useless,” he says quietly.

“No,” you answer, just as quiet. “You’re not.”

“I can’t even…” He shakes his head. “Can’t even fuckin’ button my goddamn pants. You should’ve seen me earlier—couldn’t even brush my fuckin’ teeth without dropping the damn tooth paste six times. My fingers don’t even work right. I can't—"

You kiss his forehead. Not to shut him up, but because you love him, and it’s the only thing you can think to do that doesn’t feel like it’ll make him explode more.

He sags.

He hates this. Hates how weak he feels. Hates that you’re the one doing everything now—not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he wishes he didn’t have to.

After a moment, he asks, "You stayin' tonight?"

“I’ll try,” you whisper, lips brushing his ear. “If Aizawa doesn’t decide to camp outside your door again.”

Katsuki scoffs. “Old bastard has no fuckin’ life.”

You grin.

He lets you help him pull on the blazer, and you carefully adjust the collar. His tie’s half-done when he grabs your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you.

“Come here.”

You straddle his lap gently, careful of his arm, and lean your forehead against his.

“You don’t have to keep doin’ this,” he murmurs. “You don’t gotta play house nurse or whatever the fuck. I can get by. I’ll figure it out.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, soft and unruly. “I'm not doing this because I have to.”

“Feels like pity.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“No, it’s love.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His mouth twists, and his gaze drops to your lips. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“Not like that. I mean… the old way.”

You understand what he means.

Before the war. Before the scars. Before the arm that hangs uselessly at his side. Before the recovery room visits and physical therapy that leaves him screaming into pillows. Before he stopped touching you—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t.

You still remember the way his hands used to grip your hips, rough and desperate, the way he’d pull your hair and make you scream his name like a war cry. Now, half the time, you’re the one doing everything—pulling your own clothes off, guiding his fingers, whispering dirty things to try and make him feel like a man again.

He hates it.

But he still wants it.

“You want to?” you ask, voice low.

His eyes flick to yours. Raw. Hungry.

You shift against him, feel the twitch through his pants.

“Katsu” you murmur, pressing your forehead back to his. “Let me take care of you.”

His breath catches. He nods.

You don’t have a lot of time before morning classes, but this isn’t about long, drawn-out lovemaking. This is about something else—reminding him that he’s still here. That he still can.

You kiss him slowly, deeply, threading your fingers through his hair with your good hand, the other unbuckling his belt again. He lets you, eyes closing, lips parting against yours.

You settle in his lap, sliding down on him, rocking gently, and he groans—deep, guttural. His right hand, the working one, finds your waist, shaky but determined. You guide it higher.

“Here,” you whisper. “Touch me.”

His fingers fumble, and frustration flashes across his face.

“Hey,” you say, grounding him again. “It’s okay. It’s me. Just me.”

You help him find your skin, your warmth, guide his fingers under your shirt, let him feel you. He closes his eyes like he’s praying.

You ride him slow and careful, mouth on his jaw, his neck, his ear. He can’t grip your hips like before, can’t flip you over, can’t rail you into the mattress—but that’s okay. You move for both of you, whispering how good he feels, how much you love him, how much you want him.

When he cums, it’s with your name on his lips and a choked sob that breaks your heart in two.

You hold him through it, forehead to his, his breathing ragged and hot.

After, you help him clean up. You fix his tie. Comb his hair. Press a kiss to his lips like a promise.

When you reach for the door, he stops you again.

"You're coming back tonight, right?"

You glance over your shoulder and smile. “Always.”

The Days have a routine. Painful, awkward, beautiful routine.

You help him get dressed every morning. He bitches and moans and curses under his breath every time you do up his buttons, but he lets you. He lets only you.

He goes to therapy. He trains, even if half his body doesn’t cooperate. He shoves through it with teeth bared and sweat dripping.

You wait for him afterward. You ice his shoulder. Massage his scars.

He calls himself a burden once. You make sure he never says it again.

At night, you sneak back into his room. Sometimes you touch him. Sometimes you just hold him. Sometimes he cries silently into your chest like he's ashamed of it.

You never mention it the next day. Neither does he.

One night, while you’re curled against his side—your head on the good shoulder, your hand in his—he says, “I hate this body.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just breathe with him.

Then you whisper, “I love this body. It brought you back to me.”

He turns his face toward you, scarred and worn.

“I should be better.”

“You are better. You lived. You're fighting. You're here. That’s better than the alternative.”

He closes his eyes.

You kiss the scar on his cheek, then the one across his collarbone, then lower. Every inch of ruined skin is still his. And you love every piece of it.

Every day, little by little, he starts letting himself believe it.

He’s not whole.

But he’s still him.

Author Note:

I have been diagnosed with PTSD after struggling with my mental health. I never had been able to talk about what happened to me but I finally did in December of last year. I'm currently doing therapy for that. I also reported it to the police and there is now an ongoing investigation with a possible lawsuit. I am remembering every day and it's been hard to function. I do not wish that for anyone. My boyfriend is my rock and I'm very glad to have him.

It's okay to seek help. Don't be ashamed. Be brave. I believe in you.

You never expected your life to fracture in a single night. It’s been six months since it happened, and even though the days move forward, you feel stuck in a moment you never wanted to live through. You still go to therapy every week. You try to breathe like they taught you. You try to ground yourself when the memories creep in. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. What hurts most is the way you feel hollow when you look in the mirror, as if the version of you that once stood proud in her hero costume no longer exists.

Katsuki never lets you drown in that silence for too long. He never says the wrong thing, even if he growls about how he doesn’t know the right thing. He works late shifts now, pushing himself harder than he ever should. It makes you ache that he’s the only one providing. You feel useless, watching him leave in the mornings with his usual fire but knowing that your own has been smothered. You hate that you can’t fight beside him anymore. You hate that you’re afraid.

But you love him. And you can see in every rough gesture, every half-barked word, that he loves you too. He’s your rock, and you cling to that more than you’ll ever admit out loud.

The days blur together sometimes. PTSD has a way of stealing time, of turning an ordinary Tuesday into a minefield. You’ll wake up already tense, your body remembering before your mind does. The sheets will be damp with sweat, though you barely slept. You’ll step into the shower, only to freeze under the spray when a drop hits just the wrong way, sparking a memory that slams you back into that night. You’ll go rigid, heart racing, until you hear Katsuki’s voice muffled through the door, gruffly asking if you’re okay. He doesn’t push when you lie and say you are. But you know he doesn’t believe you. He always notices.

In therapy, they tell you that PTSD is your body trying to protect you. Hypervigilance, flashbacks, nightmares—they’re all survival mechanisms stuck on overdrive. Your brain is screaming never again so loudly that it doesn’t realize you’re already safe. You nod along in those sessions, but it feels hollow. Because when you’re in the grip of it, it doesn’t feel like your brain is trying to protect you. It feels like betrayal. Like you’re being punished by your own body.

The shame runs deep. You used to be strong, capable, the kind of woman who would never freeze. And yet you did. And you keep doing it. Grocery shopping, crowded sidewalks, even just walking past an alley with the wrong kind of shadows—your body reacts before your mind catches up. Your heart slams, your breath stutters, and you’re back there whether you want it or not. It doesn’t matter how much therapy you go to. It doesn’t matter how often Katsuki tells you you’re strong. It feels like weakness.

The grocery store today should have been easy. You told yourself that as you walked beside him, hand tucked loosely in his. Just a normal errand. Just the two of you planning dinner, arguing lightly over which brand of ramen he insists is the only edible one. The air smells faintly of baked bread from the deli. It should feel safe.

It doesn’t.

You catch sight of a man a few aisles away. Tall. A bit of weight on him. Dark hair streaked with grey. He looks up at you for only a second, and your blood freezes. It isn’t him—logically, you know that. It can’t be him. But your body doesn’t listen to logic. Your chest tightens. The shelves tilt. Suddenly you can’t breathe.

The noise of the store fades, replaced by the echo of another night. Your hands tremble. You blink hard, but the vision of that stranger morphs into someone else entirely in your mind, someone you knew you’d never see again. The edges of your vision blur, and you feel yourself spiraling back into a place you don’t want to go.

“Oi.” Katsuki’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and grounding. You don’t register how your knees buckle until his hands are on your shoulders, firm and steady. “Hey. Look at me.”

You can’t. Your eyes won’t focus. Your breath comes out in shallow gasps, ragged and frantic. Your body thinks you’re dying. Your chest screams for oxygen, but your lungs won’t obey.

“Damn it,” he mutters, but his tone isn’t angry—it’s urgent, raw with worry. He shifts, crouching in front of you right there in the middle of the aisle. His palms frame your face, warm and calloused. “You’re safe. You hear me? You’re not there. You’re here. With me.”

His eyes are fierce, demanding. He’s pulling you back, dragging you out of the quicksand in your head. You shake your head, tears stinging. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He cuts you off, voice firm but low, only for you. “Breathe with me. Right here. Right now. In.” He inhales, exaggerated, slow. “Out.” He exhales, and you can feel the rhythm in his chest because he leans in so close that your forehead nearly touches his. “Do it with me, damn it. In. Out.”

You try. It doesn’t work at first. The air catches in your throat. But he doesn’t let go. His thumbs brush against your damp cheeks, steadying you. He breathes again, slow, deliberate, stubborn as hell. And finally—finally—your lungs obey. A shaky breath in. A stuttering release. Then another. And another.

The store comes back into focus. The stranger is gone. It’s just shelves of pasta and sauces, ordinary, harmless. You sag against Katsuki, shaking, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if it’s the only anchor you have left.

He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you into his chest. “That’s it,” he mutters, rough but gentle. “I got you. I always got you.”

The world could stare. You don’t care. For a long moment, you just stay there, breathing in the scent of smoke and spice that clings to him, letting it chase away the phantom stench of fear.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper when you can finally form words. “I’m so damn sorry.”

His grip tightens. “Don’t. Don’t you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for anything.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look there nearly breaks you all over again—equal parts fury and tenderness. “You think you’re broken? You’re still here. You’re still fighting every damn day, even when it feels like shit. That’s strength. Don’t tell me you’re useless.”

You shake your head, unable to stop the tears. “But I can’t— I can’t even handle being in a store—”

“Bullshit.” He doesn’t let you finish. “You handled it. You’re handling it right now. You didn’t let it swallow you. That’s more than half the so-called heroes out there could do.”

His words hit somewhere deep, a place you’ve tried to bury under layers of shame. You want to believe him. You want to believe that being held together by his arms doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.

Katsuki kisses your forehead, abrupt but soft, and mutters into your hair, “Next time, we’ll do this together again. And the time after that. Until it doesn’t scare you anymore. And if it always does? Then I’ll be right here anyway. You don’t get rid of me that easy.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of his words sink in. For the first time in weeks, you feel like maybe—just maybe—you’re not completely lost. Maybe healing doesn’t mean being who you were before. Maybe it means learning how to stand again with the person who refuses to let you fall.

When he finally coaxes you back to your feet, his arm stays around your waist. Protective, steady, unyielding. The groceries can wait. The world can wait. Right now, all that matters is that you’re breathing, and he’s here, and you’re not alone.

The evening ends with takeout instead of the dinner you planned, but he doesn’t complain. You sit curled up on the couch, his arm a constant presence around you, the TV flickering with some show you don’t pay attention to. Every time your mind drifts too close to that shadow, his thumb brushes against your hand, grounding you again.

It’s not a magic cure. You know the nightmares will come again. You know the panic will hit you when you least expect it. PTSD isn’t something you can out-muscle or burn away. It lingers, it claws, it convinces you you’re weak even when you’re fighting just to stay afloat. But you also know this: you are not fighting alone. Katsuki’s stubbornness, his fire, his refusal to let you disappear into yourself—that is your lifeline.

You’re still afraid. You’re still hurting. But when he squeezes your hand, you believe—just for a moment—that maybe you’re not broken beyond repair. Maybe, with him beside you, you can keep trying.

The park was... breathtaking. Raptors with adaptive camouflage quirks. A T-Rex whose roar could shatter rock thanks to bio-engineered vocal cords. You walked the paddocks, half-thrilled, half-horrified.

“None of this should exist,” you whispered as a triceratops with carbon-hardened horns lumbered past.

“And yet,” Bakugo muttered, hand never leaving the grenade bracer on his wrist, “here we are.”

The lead scientist, Dr. Ashido, insisted everything was under control. “We’ve integrated quirks into ancient genomes. Evolution reborn! We’ve accounted for all contingencies.”

Bakugo scoffed. “There’s always something they don’t account for.”

He was right.

The first sign was silence.

Then the power failed.

Then the Razorwing Raptor—a breed with warp-speed teleportation quirks—breached its enclosure.

Then the screaming began.

The storm hit at the same time. Torrential rain, no comms, no lights, and beasts that hunted by heat signature.

You and Bakugo got separated from the others as the park fell apart around you.

“You have any idea where we are?” you asked as you huddled behind an overturned truck.

“I’m a walking grenade, not a GPS,” he snapped, but his body blocked you instinctively from the noise behind the trees.

A guttural screech. Another tech went down.

Bakugo cursed. “Stick to me. If we run, we run together.”

And so you did. Through shattered labs, flooded tunnels, and over bodies.

Days blurred.

It was only you and Bakugo left from your group, hiding, planning, fighting back.

He was harsher at first—always barking orders, always moving. But somewhere between setting traps and sharing food, he softened.

At night, you’d lie against the cold bunker walls and talk.

You told him about fossils and your fascination with ancient life. He listened, brow furrowed.

“I don’t get why you’d study bones instead of blowing shit up,” he said once.

“Because bones don’t scream.”

He was quiet after that.

The next day, he called you “smartass” with a smile that wasn’t a full scowl.

You made it to the emergency helipad just as the alpha predator—a genetically spliced Spino-Kaiju with multiple quirks—burst from the jungle, limbs twitching with unstable power.

Bakugo turned to you.

“I’ll distract it. You signal the bird.”

“No,” you said, heart pounding. “You’re not dying here.”

He grabbed your arm. “I don’t plan to. Just trust me, dammit.”

So you did.

He fought like hell—explosions lighting up the rain-soaked dusk, dodging claws and countering with devastating blasts.

You climbed the tower and rebooted the signal.

Just as the beast lunged—Bakugo shoved a grenade into its mouth and leapt back.

It exploded in a burst of light and fire. The monster collapsed.

Bakugo staggered back to you, bloodied, breathing hard.

“Holy shit,” you whispered.

He laughed—a real one this time. “Told you I’d live.”

The evac came at dawn.

You stood beside Bakugo on the helipad, the jungle smoldering behind you.

“They’ll shut it down, right?” he asked.

You nodded. “There’s no coming back from this.”

He looked at you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.

“Guess we made a good team.”

You stepped closer. “Guess we did.”

Rain still fell, but it was quiet now.

You reached up, cupped his face. “Thanks for not letting me die.”

His hand found your waist.

“I wasn’t done yelling at you yet.”

Then, he kissed you—rough, warm, desperate and real. A kiss that said we survived.

And for now, that was enough.

You gasped awake.

Your eyes shot open.

No jungle. No blood. No explosions. No thunder or raptors or… kisses.

Just dim lighting. The static glow of the paused TV. The faint scent of popcorn. And—

Katsuki’s shoulder under your head. His hair brushing yours.

Mina’s arm draped over your waist.

Everyone else, a mess of limbs, tangled in beanbags and blankets.

Your whole body was stiff from the weird sleep position, but your heart? That was racing for a very different reason.

“...no way,” you whispered.

You glanced up slightly, your face still close enough to Katsuki’s jaw to see the way it flexed as he slept. He looked… peaceful. Still. His head rested lightly on yours like it had been there for a while.

And then it hit you.

The dream.

The dinosaurs. The park. Everyone’s roles. The terror.

The kiss.

You nearly squeaked aloud.

You had been an archaeologist. He had been your begrudgingly protective security escort. Everyone else had died. You and Bakugo had kissed at the end.

And it had felt real.

Too real.

Mina stirred next to you. “Mmm… laser-eyed raptors are illegal, right?”

You froze.

Wait.

She remembered?

Bakugo shifted, groaning as he blinked awake. “Ugh… my neck—”

Kirishima sat bolt upright. “THE TAIL WHIPPED ME INTO A TREE.”

Denki jolted, eyes wide. “Oh my god, I died!”

Sero rubbed his face. “That… wasn’t just me?!”

Everyone looked at each other.

Six people. One dream. Same ending.

Mina gasped dramatically. “Wait, wait—hold on. Did everyone dream that I was a badass dino-scientist with a flame-thrower and tragic backstory?!”

Sero groaned. “I exploded myself trying to stop the electric-fanged hybrid lizard thing—”

“Voltraptodon,” Denki corrected. “I named it. I was the money guy. I think I got eaten while streaming.”

Kirishima beamed. “I was the hot guy with the heart of gold who died saving someone!”

Mina pointed at you. “And you—you survived. With Bakugo.”

The heads swiveled to you and Katsuki, still shoulder-to-shoulder.

You instantly tried to shift away but Katsuki didn’t move.

Denki raised an eyebrow. “Soooo... were you guys the only survivors for a reason?”

You opened your mouth. Then shut it. Then—

“Dream logic,” you blurted.

Mina’s grin could slice through steel. “Dream logic, my ass. I saw the kiss.”

Sero whistled. “Honestly, pretty cinematic.”

Katsuki finally sat up, looking equal parts grumpy and flustered. “You idiots are delusional.”

“Then why’re your ears red, Katsuki~?” Mina teased.

“SHUT UP, RACCOON EYES.”

But he wasn’t denying it. And you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him just yet—not with your face burning.

Kirishima stretched and yawned. “Man, what if that dream was like… a quirk ripple or something? Like a shared subconscious projection?”

“Did we all collectively dream Bakugo being a protective hero and kissing her?” Denki grinned.

Katsuki growled, low and dangerous. “I will kill you, I swear—”

You finally spoke, voice soft. “...If it was just a dream, why do I still feel it?”

Silence.

Bakugo turned to you, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in something more… uncertain. Like he was calculating what to say. Like he also felt it.

“…Tch. Don’t ask me,” he muttered. “Wasn’t the worst dream I’ve had.”

Your heart skipped.

He stood up and stretched, heading toward the kitchen like he hadn’t just lowkey admitted to remembering everything.

As the others started bickering and laughing again behind you, you got up and followed him—half out of instinct, half because the butterflies were too loud to ignore.

He glanced over as you entered the kitchen. “You gonna say it?”

You blinked. “Say what?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you’ve been holding in since you woke up.”

You hesitated, then finally stepped forward. Quiet. Real.

“I liked the kiss,” you admitted. “In the dream.”

Bakugo’s expression didn’t shift for a moment. Then—

“...Me too.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve had worse dream endings,” he added, not looking at you. “But if we’re being honest…”

He finally met your eyes.

“Think I’d like to try the real version sometime.”

Your mouth parted.

“Soon,” he added. “Before the dream gets hazy.”

And he turned back to his tea, casual like it wasn’t the softest, most awkward confession ever passed between two people standing in mismatched pajamas in a dorm kitchen at 6am.

You stared at his back, heart full of shock, hope, and something warm.

You smiled.

He sat on the floor of his room with the blinds half-drawn, light slicing through the slats like judgmental fingers. His sketchbook lay open beside him, a half-finished drawing of a skeleton crying into a microwave burrito stared up at him. Everything was wrong. His hair was wrong. His face was wrong. His life was wrong.

Casper, his hormone monster—a floating, grunge-loving specter in a moth-eaten Joy Division tee—lounged lazily on his bed, picking at his chipped nail polish and oozing sardonic disdain.

“Your hair’s the problem,” Casper muttered like he’d been reading Judd’s brain. “It’s... happy. It screams, ‘I get along with my parents and eat waffles with fruit on Sundays.’ It’s too blonde. Too Birch. Too soft.”

Judd glared at his reflection in the cracked mirror across the room. Blonde. Gold, even. Like the color of optimism or someone who joined a charity walk for fun. It made him want to commit arson in a metaphorical sense.

Casper’s voice dropped, seductive and low. “You know what real pain looks like, Judd? Obsidian Abyss. Boxed hair dye. Smells like chemicals and rebellion. You’ll never be moist again.”

By the time his mom asked if he wanted grilled cheese, Judd was halfway out the door, hoodie up, skateboard under one arm, and hatred for society simmering in his chest. He headed to the drugstore like a man on a mission, fueled by rage, hormones, and approximately one-and-a-half My Chemical Romance tracks stuck in his brain.

The boxed dye glowed to him like a beacon. Obsidian, it promised. Dramatic black. Lustrous. Permanent.

He stuffed the box into his hoodie without a second thought. Who the hell paid for dye when the system was already rigged? It wasn’t theft—it was anti-capitalist performance art.

Back home, he locked himself in the bathroom, defying Diane’s knock and Leah’s aggressive threats to key his sketchbook if she didn’t get in soon. He tore open the box like a man possessed, gloves on, towel draped over the sink, splatters of inky liquid already decorating the countertop like war paint. The scent stung his eyes and nostrils—hellish and perfect.

Thirty-five minutes and one chemical burn later, he emerged from the bathroom, head tilted slightly forward like he was entering a battlefield.

Leah saw him first and immediately scoffed, arms crossed over her tween-sized Justin Bieber shirt that she wore just to annoy him. “Wow. Edgy. Are you in a band now or just sad in lowercase?”

Nick, ten and far too emotionally fragile, took one look at Judd’s hair—dripping, uneven, absolutely jet black—and burst into tears so intense he hiccupped.

Their mother gasped so loud Judd almost flinched. Diane clutched her chest like she’d just witnessed a murder. “Your hair… your beautiful blonde… Juddy, you looked like a baby angel! What did you do?”

“I look like I’m awake now,” Judd muttered, shoving past them, boots scuffing dramatically on the wooden floor. “That blonde was a lie. A dream someone else had for me.”

Elliot just beamed, unbothered. “Juddy! Whoa! This is… bold! You’re expressing yourself! That’s so beautiful! I love this journey for you!”

Judd stopped cold. That was it. That was the moment. He stared at his father’s loving, open, moist eyes and realized with soul-deep horror that he still looked too soft.

No. He needed to go deeper.

In the garage, he found the clippers. They still smelled like the one time Elliot tried to give himself a fade and ended up wearing a hat for a month. Judd plugged them in with shaking hands. He looked into the broken mirror mounted above the workbench, felt the black dye drying into armor on his scalp, and turned the clippers on.

The buzzing filled the space like a war chant. He pressed the clippers to the side of his head and watched in silent satisfaction as a curtain of black-dyed blonde fell away.

One side buzzed. Then the other.

When it was done, he was new. Reborn. No longer a boy with golden curls and polite opinions. He was jagged edges and eye rolls. He was midnight. He was chaos.

He was Judd. Fucking. Birch.

He went back inside. Nick ran to hide. Leah, after a long pause, just gave him a single, solemn nod of respect.

Diane sighed and reached for a bottle of white wine.

Elliot looked like he was going to cry—but in a supportive way. “I really love this stage of self-discovery, Judd. You look like a rock star who also journals. That’s hot! Not in a weird way. Just like... proud hot!”

Judd didn’t even flinch. He walked straight past them, black boots thudding like a manifesto. In his room, he closed the door, sat on the floor, and started sketching something new: a figure with half-buzzed hair, hoodie drawn tight, standing in the rain with middle fingers up to the world.

Casper hovered behind him, arms crossed, satisfied.

“You did it,” the hormone monster said with pride. “You’ve peeled off the skin of suburbia. You’re no longer someone who eats brunch. You are anti-everything.”

And Judd, newly born into darkness and dramatic self-awareness, just smirked.

You followed him, leaving behind the sanctuary of your home, your family’s sorrowful gazes burning into your back as you disappeared into the world of men. He did not tell you to stay, nor did he ask you to go. He merely accepted it, as he accepted all things that bowed before his will.

He did not love you—Veela were creatures of passion, of fire, and Tom was a man of ice. But he desired you, and that was enough. He took you into his bed, let you curl against him in the dark when no one else was watching, let you press your lips to his skin when the weight of the world grew too heavy even for him.

And then, one day, he made you his. He married you, though you had never asked. A simple ritual, binding magic older than time itself. You did not need it, but the gesture, the acceptance, was more than you had ever hoped for.

His followers never understood. You were not a witch, not one of them, but a mere being—something they both desired and despised. Their eyes lingered too long on you, their sneers too sharp when they spoke your name. But you did not care. Tom was all that mattered.

Even as he grew darker.

Even as the man you met at seventeen twisted into something unrecognizable.

You had never wanted anything from Tom, never asked for gifts or power. But there was one thing—one thing you desired more than anything.

A child.

His child.

But Tom was not pure-blooded and only pure-blooded wizards could conceive a child with a Veela. His shame was a wound he never let heal, as it was a wound that kept him from giving you the one thing you ever asked for. No child would ever come from your union and no magic he could produce or find, could give you what you wished for.

You only asked him once.

The silence that followed was heavier than any rejection could have been. You saw the flicker of shame in his eyes, the rage that curled at the edges of his mouth before he turned away. You never asked again.

But the longing did not fade. Veela were creatures made for children. Your body ached for it, your mind tormented you with dreams of little hands and bright laughter that would never come. But you endured, because you were his, and that was enough.

Or so you told yourself.

You stayed by him as the years passed, even as his body twisted into something monstrous, as his soul shattered further with each dark ritual. You never changed. Veela lived long, far longer than humans, and while he became something inhuman, you remained as you were—forever young, forever watching.

You held him in the nights when the weight of his choices pressed upon him, whispered your love against his skin when no one else dared to speak his name with tenderness. You did not care what he had become. He was yours, and you loved him still.

But then came the prophecy.

A child.

A mere infant, prophesied to be his downfall. You had known, from the moment the whispers reached your ears, that something had shifted in him. There was a madness in his eyes now, something deeper than ambition, something darker than power.

And somehow you knew he was going to kill the child.

So you followed him.

The night was silent, the house on Godric’s Hollow standing like a tomb beneath the moonlight. You arrived too late. Lily and James Potter were dead, their bodies still warm on the ground, their son crying in his crib. And Tom—Tom stood over him, wand raised, ready to strike.

Something in you broke.

You had never defied him before. Never. But this was different. This was a child.

And Veela were dangerous creatures when enraged.

You did not think, did not hesitate. You turned your power upon him, the same power that had once made men fall to their knees in worship. The raw force of your magic slammed into him, disrupting the spell before it could be cast.

And then, with the deepest sorrow you had ever known, you struck the final blow.

You watched as he died.

You had killed him.

The man you had loved, the man you had followed for so many years, was gone. And yet, as you stood in the wreckage of your love, your heart breaking, you heard the soft cries of the child behind you.

You turned.

And you knew.

This was your child now.

Not by blood, but by choice.

You took him. Not as a stolen prize, not as a desperate replacement for what you could never have, but because no child should be left alone in a world that sought to use him.

You did not take him from those who loved him. You allowed Sirius to see him, to be part of his life. But you did not allow Dumbledore, or anyone else, to dictate his future.

Veela were ancient. Veela were fierce. And a Veela mother was more dangerous than a thousand wizards.

You raised Harry as your own, gave him a childhood filled with warmth and love. You told him stories of ancient and long lost magic, taught him how to laugh without fear. And when the shadows of his past crept too close, you stood between him and the world, shielding him with everything you had.

But your love did not make you blind. You knew the remnants of Tom still lingered in the world, waiting. And so, in the quiet of the night, you worked in the shadows, unraveling every last fragment of the soul that had once belonged to the man you had loved.

You destroyed them all.

For Harry.

For the child you had chosen.

For the only piece of happiness that had been left in the ruins of your love.

Harry never knew the full truth of what you had done. He never needed to.

He grew up, strong and kind, with a heart unburdened by the expectations of the world. He was not the Boy Who Lived—he was your son.

And as he thrived, you remained. Watching, protecting, loving.

Because in the end, Tom had given you what you always wanted.

A child.

Before, Judd would mostly keep to himself, brooding in his room or disappearing for hours at a time. Now, he never left when you were over. If Nick and Andrew had started to feel something was off at first, they no longer had the nerve to question it. They learned quickly that you were no longer just their babysitter. You were Judd’s girl. And Judd didn’t like to be interrupted.

Which is why Nick and Andrew stayed in his room whenever you were around.

Because while they were in there watching a stupid reality show or whatever dumb thing Andrew was obsessing over, you were in Judd’s room, in his bed, completely, deliciously ruined by him.

Your back was against Judd’s mattress, your body limp and spent as you gasped for breath. Your skin was slick with sweat, your thighs still trembling where they were hooked around Judd’s waist. He hovered above you, smirking as he ran a calloused hand down your thigh, gripping it possessively.

"You still with me, preppy?" he murmured, his voice thick with amusement.

You nodded hazily, your body boneless beneath him, and he chuckled, satisfied with himself.

"You weren’t so shy when you were screaming my name a few minutes ago," he teased, brushing a kiss against your swollen lips.

Your cheeks burned, but you bit back a smile. "Shut up."

Judd only smirked wider. "No chance."

He rolled onto his back, pulling you onto his chest effortlessly. You buried your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of him—cigarettes, leather, and something uniquely Judd.

"You’re such a bad influence," you murmured, lips brushing against his skin.

Judd snorted, running his fingers lazily up and down your spine. "I didn’t hear you complaining."

You hummed, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Maybe I like being corrupted."

Judd let out a dark chuckle, his grip on you tightening. "That’s my girl."

And you were. Completely.

Meanwhile upstairs in Nick's room, Nick Birch sat on his bed, arms crossed, glaring at his door like it had personally offended him.

"This is a nightmare," he muttered.

Andrew, sitting on the floor beside him, looked equally traumatized. "I can’t believe this. Our babysitter—the only responsible adult in this house—has been defiled by your evil brother."

Nick groaned. "She was so good before Judd got his disgusting, edgy hands on her! Now look at her!"

Andrew shuddered. "Yeah, she’s got that… look now."

Nick turned to him. "What look?"

Andrew made an exaggerated expression of blissful exhaustion. "That look. Like she’s seen things. Done things." He gagged. "With Judd."

Nick buried his face in his hands. "Oh my god. She used to bake cookies with us, Andrew. Cookies!"

Andrew shook his head solemnly. "She’s not coming back from this, dude. She’s too far gone."

Nick groaned dramatically before glaring at the ceiling, as if he could see through it. "Judd ruins everything."

From down the hallway, the sound of movement echoed through the house, followed by a low, unmistakable chuckle.

Nick turned to Andrew, his eyes wide with horror.

"He’s still in there with her!"

Andrew shivered. "We should leave. We should leave and never come back."

Nick flopped back on his bed with a defeated sigh. "I hate my life."

Back in Judd's room, Judd brushed his fingers through your hair, smirking as he heard Nick’s muffled groaning through the vents.

"You know he’s probably cursing my name right now," he murmured.

You giggled, tracing circles on his bare chest. "Yeah, but it’s kind of fun hearing him cry."

Judd chuckled darkly. "That’s my girl," he repeated, flipping you onto your back with ease.

The idea was absurd and petty, but the longer you thought about it, the more perfect it seemed.

You spotted Harry lounging in the courtyard, seated on a stone bench next to Ron Weasley. The two of them were in deep conversation, but Harry’s face was tinged with that familiar awkwardness you’d seen him wear so often. Despite being the Chosen One, he was ridiculously shy, especially around girls. You couldn’t blame him; between the fangirls and the fame, probably no one had ever given him much room to just be himself.

Perfect.

Straightening your robes, you approached with purpose, your expression composed and confident as always. Weasley noticed you first, his brows shooting up in surprise. Harry glanced at his friend, then turned his gaze to you, his confusion only growing as you stopped in front of them.

“Potter,” you said coolly, arms crossed.

“Malfoy?” he asked cautiously, clearly unsure of your intentions.

“I have a proposition for you,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

Both Harry and Weasley froze.

“A… proposition?” Harry repeated, his voice slightly higher than usual.

You tilted your head, giving him a look that was equal parts amused and patronizing. “Yes, Potter, a proposition. I’m offering to hook up with you.”

Weasley made a noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, and Harry turned bright red, his jaw dropping open.

“I—what?” he stammered, his eyes darting around as though trying to figure out if this was some sort of elaborate prank.

“I’m offering,” you repeated slowly, “to hook up with you. You do know what that means, don’t you?”

Harry blinked at you, his mouth working soundlessly. Weasley, meanwhile, looked as though he might choke on air.

“Is this a joke?” Harry finally asked, his voice hesitant. “Like, some kind of trap?”

You rolled your eyes. “No, it’s not a trap. It’s just a way to get back at my idiot brother. Dray’s been driving me up the wall, and I thought this would be a nice way to piss him off.”

Harry and Weasley exchanged a silent conversation, the kind only best friends could have with just a few glances.

Weasley was the first to speak. “What’s in it for Harry, then?”

You gave Weasley a pointed look, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Weaselbee, I’m literally offering to hook up with him. Do I really need to explain what’s in it for him?”

Weasley turned an even deeper shade of red, his ears practically glowing. Harry looked like he was trying to figure out whether he’d fallen into a dream—or a nightmare.

“You’re serious,” Harry said finally, his voice laced with disbelief.

“As serious as your lack of dating experience,” you shot back, your lips curling into a smirk. “What’s the matter, Potter? Scared?”

That seemed to spark something in him. Harry sat up a little straighter, his blush still present but less intense. He glanced at Weasley, who gave a helpless shrug, and then back at you.

“Well… I mean… why not?” Harry said, his voice a little steadier now. “Yeah, okay.”

You raised an eyebrow, impressed that he’d agreed so quickly. “Good choice.”

Without another word, you turned on your heel, gesturing for him to follow. Harry scrambled to his feet, leaving a very bewildered Weasel behind.

As you walked through the castle corridors, you could feel Harry’s nervous energy radiating off him. It was almost endearing. Almost.

“So,” he said awkwardly, trying to fill the silence, “is this, um, a one-time thing, or…”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your smirk returning. “We’ll see, Potter. That depends on how much Dray loses his mind.”

Harry chuckled nervously, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Right. Malfoy. He’s, uh, not going to take this well, is he?”

“That’s the point,” you replied, stopping in front of an empty and abandoned classroom. You opened the door and stepped inside, motioning for him to follow.

Harry hesitated for a moment, then stepped in after you.

“Relax, Potter,” you said, your tone softer now as you closed the door behind him. “I don’t bite unless you want me to.”

“Uh, right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.

As you moved closer to him, you noticed the way his eyes flickered to your lips and then quickly away, his blush returning with a vengeance. For someone who’d faced down the Dark Lord multiple times, Harry Potter was surprisingly easy to fluster.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head, “for someone who’s supposed to be the Chosen One, you’re awfully shy.”

Harry gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, well… this isn’t exactly something I have a lot of experience with.”

You leaned back slightly, watching Harry as he stood there, shifting nervously but clearly eager. His green eyes were wide, darting between your face and the floor, his hands fidgeting at his sides. You smirked to yourself, feeling thoroughly satisfied with your decision. This was going to be fun.

“Relax, Potter,” you murmured, stepping closer. “This will be nice.”

Before he could stumble over another awkward response, you reached out, grabbing the front of his robes and pulling him down to meet your lips. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he froze, but then he began to kiss you back. It was clumsy at first—he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, and his rhythm was off—but there was an earnestness to him that made it strangely endearing.

You smiled against his lips, guiding him gently, showing him how to tilt his head, where to touch. He followed your lead quickly, growing bolder as he got the hang of it. Before long, his hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against him as his kisses grew deeper, more confident.

“See?” you whispered teasingly when you broke apart for air. “Not so bad, is it?”

Harry chuckled nervously, his cheeks flushed. “Guess not.”

You didn’t give him much time to recover, though, because you kissed him again, this time pushing him back toward one of the empty desks. He seemed to catch on quickly, lifting you up and setting you on the surface as his lips moved down to your neck.

You let out a quiet moan, tangling your fingers in his unruly hair. “Not bad at all, Potter,” you muttered, earning a low chuckle from him.

It didn’t take long for his initial awkwardness to fade entirely. Once he got over his shyness, Harry surprised you with just how confident he could be. He took charge, his hands exploring your body with a fervor that made your head spin. You weren’t used to someone like him—someone so genuine, so unpolished yet so passionate—actually, you weren't used to anyone really.

As he moved above you, inside you, your back arched off the desk, and his name fell from your lips again and again. “Harry,” you moaned, your voice trembling with pleasure. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

By the time you were both spent, your hair was mussed, your knees shaking, and a light sheen of sweat covered both of you. Harry was panting softly, his face flushed but grinning like he’d just won the Quidditch World Cup.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. “Who would’ve thought?” you said, your voice light but genuine. “That was actually… fun.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, still catching his breath. “Uh, thanks?”

You laughed softly, leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek before sliding off the desk. “Bye, Potter,” you said after you straightened your robes. “Let’s do that again, soon, yeah?”

Harry blinked at you, clearly stunned, but a grin slowly spread across his face. “Yeah,” he said, his voice filled with a newfound confidence. “I’d like that.”

"You’re so damn stubborn!" you snarled, pacing a short distance away.

"And you’re not?" Sasuke snapped back, dark eyes burning with frustration. "Look who's talking!"

"I wouldn't have to talk if you actually listened for once—"

"I listen just fine, but you—"

It was pointless.

Neither of you were backing down.

It was inevitable that this would turn physical.

The first strike was yours.

A blur of motion—kunai flashing, chakra crackling in the air.

Sasuke dodged, retaliating just as fast, and soon, the argument was the least of your concerns.

Now it was a fight.

Jutsu clashed, metal met metal. You traded blows, kicks and punches, neither of you holding back.

Sasuke was fast—damn fast—but today, you were faster.

His Sharingan tracked your movements, but he couldn’t predict everything. You caught him off guard, slipping through his defenses, forcing him onto the back foot.

And then—

With one final maneuver, you took him down.

The impact sent up a cloud of dust.

Sasuke grunted beneath you, wrists pinned, chest rising and falling hard as you straddled his waist, locking him in place.

Both of you were panting, faces flushed from exertion.

The tension was thick.

Your anger still burned, but something shifted.

Sasuke’s gaze was locked onto yours.

Heavy. Dark. Wanting.

And suddenly—

You weren’t fighting anymore.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but one moment you were glaring at each other, and the next—

Your mouths collided.

The kiss was rough, all teeth and hunger, fueled by frustration and the need to claim.

Your grip on his wrists tightened.

Sasuke growled into your mouth, back arching slightly beneath you, like he wanted to fight back but was too far gone to resist.

"Fuck," you breathed against his lips, pressing your forehead to his.

"Shut up and fuck me," Sasuke muttered, breathless.

And you did.

Right there, on the training grounds, where anyone could have seen.

You tore at his clothes, fingers digging into bare skin, leaving marks that would last days.

Sasuke moaned as you pushed into him, back arching, legs tightening around your waist.

The sounds he made—gods—they only drove you wilder.

You slammed into him, frustration turning into raw need, each thrust forcing more desperate noises out of him.

"Harder," he panted, nails dragging down your back. "Don’t fucking hold back—"

You didn’t.

The training grounds echoed with the sounds of your bodies meeting, of Sasuke’s breathless moans, of your own groans as you pushed him closer and closer to the edge.

Until finally—

He broke.

His body tensed beneath you, head tilting back in a silent cry as pleasure overtook him.

You followed right after, burying your face in his neck as you came undone.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just laid there, panting, catching your breath.

Then—

"So," you murmured, pressing a lazy kiss to his jaw. "What were we even fighting about?"

Sasuke huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. "Hell if I know."

You chuckled, pressing another kiss—this time, to his lips. "Next time we get pissed at each other, let’s just skip the fighting and get straight to this."

Draco, once your closest confidant, seemed more distant than ever, consumed by his own friends and whatever burdens he wasn’t sharing. The other Slytherins respected you, sure, but they didn’t dare get too close, intimidated by your sharp tongue and the Malfoy name. It had always been fine with you—until it wasn’t. Now, the loneliness was suffocating.

You took a shaky breath, wiping your tears, and rose to your feet. You couldn’t stay here forever. The last thing you needed was someone walking in and seeing you like this. Splashing water on your face, you gave yourself a long, hard look in the mirror, trying to will yourself back into the composed, impenetrable mask you wore so well.

The moment you stepped out of the bathroom, you collided with someone.

“Watch where you’re—oh,” came a familiar voice, cutting off mid-sentence. Harry Potter stood in front of you, his green eyes widening in surprise.

Just your luck. Of course, it had to be him.

“Potter,” you said coldly, instinctively pulling yourself together. “Can’t you look where you’re going?”

“I could say the same to you,” he shot back, crossing his arms. But his sharp retort faltered as he really looked at you. “Wait, are you…”

You stiffened, cursing the fact that your eyes must still be red-rimmed. His expression shifted from irritation to something bordering on smug. “Have you been crying?”

You clenched your fists, the familiar Malfoy pride flaring up. “What’s it to you?”

But the crack in your voice betrayed you, and when Harry gave you an incredulous look, it was all too much. The frustration, the loneliness, the sadness—it all came spilling out.

To your utter humiliation, tears welled up again, and this time you couldn’t stop them.

“Hey, hey, no—don’t…” Harry stammered, clearly unprepared for the sight of you breaking down in front of him. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air as if he didn’t know whether to reach out or run away. “Are you… crying? Seriously?”

“Obviously!” you snapped, your voice thick with tears. “What, are you going to gloat now? Make some snide comment about how Malfoys don’t cry? Go ahead, Potter—have at it.”

But Harry didn’t gloat. Instead, he looked utterly gobsmacked, blinking at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“I—no, I wasn’t going to…” he began, his voice softer now. “Are you… okay?”

You let out a bitter laugh, swiping at your eyes. “Do I look okay to you?”

“No,” Harry admitted, his brow furrowing. “You don’t.”

There was a pause, the awkward tension hanging heavy between you. Harry shifted on his feet, looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to begin. Finally, he sighed and said, “Look, I didn’t mean to be… mean or anything. I didn’t know…”

You sniffled, still not meeting his eyes. “Didn’t know what? That even a Malfoy could have a bad day?”

He hesitated before replying, his voice quieter. “Something like that, yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, to your surprise, Harry stepped a little closer, his usual wariness toward you replaced by something softer.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” he asked, his tone tentative but sincere.

You stared at him, taken aback. “Why would I want to talk to you of all people?”

He shrugged, looking a bit self-conscious. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’m here? And you look like you need someone.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest tighten. Against all logic, you found yourself considering it. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the way Harry’s green eyes held no judgment, only concern.

“I just…” You hesitated, then sighed. “Everything feels like it’s falling apart. Dray barely talks to me anymore, everyone else is too scared to even try, and I…” Your voice broke, and you shook your head. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

Harry frowned. “You’d be surprised.”

Something in his tone made you look up at him, and for the first time, you noticed the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. You’d always seen Harry Potter as this annoyingly self-righteous Gryffindor, but now he just looked… tired. Like someone who knew exactly what it felt like to carry too much.

“I know what it’s like,” he continued, his voice steady but quiet, “to feel like everything’s wrong and no one really gets it. To feel alone.”

You stared at him, the walls you’d spent years building around yourself starting to crack.

“You do, don’t you?” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Harry gave you a small, rueful smile. “Yeah, I do.”

For a long moment, you just looked at each other, an unspoken understanding passing between you. Then, to your surprise, Harry reached out and gently placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Whatever it is,” he said softly, “you’ll get through it. You’re stronger than you think.”

The simple kindness in his words brought fresh tears to your eyes, but this time, they didn’t feel as heavy.

“Thanks, Potter,” you said quietly, your voice steadier now.

“Anytime,” he replied, his smile soft and genuine.

As he stepped back, giving you space, you couldn’t help but see him in a new light. Harry Potter, the boy who lived—and, apparently, the boy who cared.

You knew he hadn’t been himself for a while now. Ever since his father had been arrested during the last school year for his involvement with the Death Eaters, Draco had withdrawn from everyone. You’d hoped he might come around, but after sending him a letter during the summer break and receiving no response, you feared the worst. The connection the two of you had built last year seemed to have been severed completely, leaving you with a hollow sense of unease.

"Y/N, are you even listening?" Megan’s voice cut through your thoughts.

You blinked and turned back to your friend, who was watching you with an amused expression. "What? Oh—sorry, I was just..." You trailed off, casting another glance toward Draco, who remained as stoic as ever. "I’m worried about Draco."

Megan’s brows furrowed. "Draco Malfoy? You’ve been obsessed with him since last year, haven’t you?"

You bit your lip, hesitant. "It’s not like that… I mean, yes, I care about him, but something’s off. He hasn’t been responding to my letters, and I just… I don’t know. He looks so distant now."

Megan frowned, glancing at the Slytherin table. "I’ve noticed, too. He hasn’t looked like himself since his dad got arrested. Seems it didn't get better over summer. It’s like he’s completely shut down."

You nodded. "That’s exactly what it feels like. I think I need to do something about it."

Megan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I need to make him smile again," you said firmly. "It’s like he’s given up on everything, and I can’t just let him be like that."

"You’re going to make Malfoy smile again?" Megan asked with a mix of skepticism and amusement. "Good luck with that, Y/N."

"I will," you said, your voice filled with determination. "I will get him to smile again."

Over the next few weeks, you made it your mission to get Draco to acknowledge you again. You started by sitting closer to him in the library, though you never forced yourself on him. You simply made it a point to be in his line of sight, to show him that you were still there, still caring. You’d occasionally glance at him from across the room, hoping to catch his gaze, but every time you did, he turned his attention elsewhere.

You noticed, too, that his usual friends—Pansy, Blaise, and even Theodore—seemed to be giving him space. It was as if they had all noticed the shift in him and didn’t know how to handle it. They weren’t mocking him the way they used to; instead, they kept their distance, clearly unsure of what to do.

It was frustrating. You tried to strike up casual conversations with him in the halls, but every time you approached, he would put up a wall, giving you one-word answers or avoiding eye contact altogether. At first, you thought maybe it was just his way of processing what was going on, but as the weeks dragged on and his behavior didn’t change, doubt started to creep in. Was he shutting you out for good? Had you imagined the connection between you two last year?

You refused to give up.

One evening, you caught him alone in the courtyard, sitting on one of the stone benches, staring blankly at the stars. It was a moment of rare vulnerability for him, and you knew it was now or never. Your heart raced as you walked toward him, your palms sweating slightly with the anticipation of what you were about to do.

"Draco," you called softly, and his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing when he saw you. You stood there, unsure of how to proceed, but you refused to back down now. "Can I sit with you?"

He didn’t answer at first, just looked at you for a long moment, his jaw tightening. But then, as if he couldn’t think of a way to protest, he nodded stiffly, shifting over slightly on the bench.

You sat beside him, keeping a respectable distance at first. The silence between you two was thick with unspoken words, and you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

"How are you doing?" you asked gently, your voice soft. "You’ve been quiet lately."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You wouldn’t understand."

The words stung, but you refused to show it. Instead, you turned to face him fully, your heart pounding in your chest. "Try me," you said, your voice firm but caring. "I’m still here, Draco. I’m not going anywhere."

For a moment, it looked like he was about to say something else, but then he just shook his head and looked away, staring at the castle in the distance.

"I don’t need your pity," he muttered, voice tinged with bitterness.

"I’m not giving you pity," you said, trying to keep your tone steady. "I’m giving you a chance. A chance to not push me away."

There was a long pause, and just when you thought he might ignore you again, Draco finally spoke, his voice quieter this time. "You don’t get it. My father’s gone, and everything’s changed. I don’t know who I even am anymore."

You bit your lip, heart aching at the rawness in his words. You didn’t have the answers, but you knew one thing for certain: you couldn’t let him go through this alone.

"I figure it’s hard," you said softly. "But you don’t have to do it alone. You’re not alone, Draco. I’m here for you, you just need to let me."

Draco’s gaze flickered to you, and for the first time in weeks, there was something in his eyes—a glimmer of the boy you had known, the one who had made you laugh, the one who had shared moments of vulnerability with you. It was so faint, but it was there.

A small sigh escaped his lips, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his lips curled into the faintest smile—a smile that held a mixture of sadness and relief, but also something deeper. Something more.

You felt your heart swell, warmth spreading through your chest as you gazed at him. That smile, so small but so significant, was the one thing you’d been waiting for, and it meant more than words could express.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You smiled back at him, your heart light with relief. "You don’t have to thank me. Just... let me in, Draco."