it's me bunny

૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა 𐒄𐤠ⳜƬƸⱤȴƖⳜƬ

🍰 get to know me, if you want<3

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♚〘 𝝟𝝙𝝞𝗝𝗨 𝝥𝝝 𝝨𝝞𝗚𝝜𝝩 〙♚

𝔜𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔰

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓝𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭

🆃🅾🅺🆈🅾 🆁🅴🆅🅴🅽🅶🅴🆁🆂

Masterlist/s to be made

ᦓꪻꪮ᥅ꪗ ꪮ᥅꠸ᧁ꠸ꪀꪖꪶᦓ

Vice Captain Hoshina Soshiro has spent his whole life being left behind. His family chose his brother. His father chose tradition. His mother chose silence. He learned to stand alone, to build walls so high that no one could climb them. Then he met Name. She was different. She stayed. She chose him. She made him believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't meant to be alone forever. He bought the ring three weeks ago. He was going to ask her after the war. But the kaiju don't care about second chances. And sometimes, staying isn't a choice. Sometimes, the universe takes what it wants. And all that's left is the space between absences. This is that moment. This is the fall.

The ring was in his pocket.

The Human Pretzel

In which the Third Division discovers that their newest recruit is not human but possibly a jointed octopus in disguise. Vice Captain Hoshina has never been more entertained. The new recruits have never been more terrified. And Captain Ashiro is just happy someone else is causing chaos for once.

The Third Division training grounds were a place of order. Discipline. Serious soldiers preparing for serious combat against serious threats. At least, that was the theory.

In practice, it was chaos.

Kafka was chasing Iharu with a training sword because Iharu had "accidentally" replaced his protein powder with flour. Reno was watching from the sidelines with the expression of a man who had long since accepted his fate. Kikoru was practicing her form with mechanical precision, pretending she didn't know any of them.

And Vice Captain Hoshina was leaning against the wall, watching it all unfold with a lazy smirk.

This was his element. The controlled chaos of the Third Division. The constant hum of energy that made him feel alive.

Then the screaming started.

THE OBSERVATION DECK

Chapter One: The Weight of Watching

They've been chasing her for months on end .

They've never seen her real face.

Now they're trapped in a room with her sleeping body—and a host who's about to show them everything.

The Jester has been playing the fool since the day she arrived.

In the garbage wasteland of Gachiakuta, she cartwheeled into the Pit with painted smiles and jingling bells, annoying everyone she met while secretly healing their wounds and whispering their deepest traumas into their ears. The Cleaners thought she was a nuisance. The Raiders thought she was a joke. Now she's gone—vanished to the Sphere to play princess—and they'd burn the world down to get her back.

In the hero-saturated world of My Hero Academia, she crashed into U.A. with glitter pens and stolen pudding, determined to fail the entrance exam and disappear into obscurity. Instead, she became the Symbol of Balance. The human heart of heroism. The quirkless girl who stared down All For One and laughed. Now she's unconscious in a hospital bed, and the villains who want her blood are standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the heroes who'd die for her.

Neither realm knows the other exists.

Neither realm knows the truth about her.

Maria knows.

She's the blonde-haired, red-eyed menace who dragged them all into a pocket dimension—past selves and present, heroes and villains, Cleaners and Raiders—and stripped away their powers. Now they're trapped in a theater in space, forced to watch the Jester's greatest hits on a massive screen.

The 90%: her chaos. Her silliness. The mask she wears so well.

The 10%: her fury. Her menace. The death glare that makes gods hesitate.

And the one thing she's never shown anyone: her bare face, peaceful in sleep, looking like an angel who fell too far and forgot how to fly back up.

They're not ready.

But they're about to find out

Welcome to the Observation Deck.

A reaction fic like no other. Two universes collide. Fifty-plus characters. Past and present. Obsession, chaos, and a sleeping girl who has no idea she's the most dangerous thing in the room.

Hey my darling readers! I have an announcement.

Life is about to get busy. Like, really busy. This month forward, I won't have as much time as I'd like.

But here's the thing. I'm not going anywhere.

I will still write. I will still make time for your requests. It might be slower. It might be quieter. But I'm still here. I promise. <33

So don't worry about me. (all kind words abkut my health is deepy appreciated) Just know that every time I get a moment to breathe, I'll be thinking about the next chapter, the next fic, the next little thing to make you smile.

Thank you for sticking around. You're the reason I keep going.

Now you do your thing or reread something fluffy stuff while I go try and change my schedule. BWAHAHA. (But seriously. I love you guys and I'll always come back here.<3)

The Forgotten Twin — When the Superhuman Returns

Summary: Ray's twin sister was taken at birth, experimented on in Lambda, and sent to Grace Field as a four-year-old with abilities far beyond human. Norman has loved her since she broke her arm saving him from a fall. When Isabella ships her back to Lambda, both boys shatter. A year after escaping, they find her again — but she doesn't remember them. The experiments stole her memories. Now they must convince a traumatized, wary superhuman that she was once beloved. Normal versions feature patient devotion and slow rebuilding of trust. Yandere versions include possessive obsession, manipulation attempts that fail against her enhanced intelligence, and a dangerous refusal to let her go again. Ray's sections are strictly platonic twin devotion. Norman's sections are romantic.

Requested by a very anonymous darling who said hi (:

NORMAN — NORMAL VERSION

Norman was five years old when he fell in love.

It happened in the courtyard of Grace Field, on a summer afternoon thick with the scent of grass and the distant laughter of other children. He had climbed the old oak tree—not his wisest decision, he would later admit—and his foot had slipped on a moss-slick branch. The world tilted. The ground rushed up to meet him.

And then it didn't.

You caught him. You were smaller than him, a wiry girl with dark hair and bright eyes, and you positioned yourself directly beneath his falling body. The impact drove you both to the ground. Norman heard the crack before he felt the pain—not his own bone breaking, but yours. Your arm bent at an angle it shouldn't have, and your face went white, but you didn't cry. You looked at him with those steady, curious eyes and asked, "Are you okay?"

"My arm," he managed, staring at the wrongness of your limb. "Your arm —"

"It's okay." Your voice was calm, almost cheerful. "It doesn't hurt that much. You didn't hit your head, right? That's good. Head injuries are dangerous. Mama told me."

Mama. The infirmary. Norman scrambled off you, his heart pounding, and screamed for help. The other children came running. Isabella arrived with her cool hands and her unreadable eyes, and you were carried away to get your arm set and splinted.

Norman visited you that evening. He brought you a book—his favorite, the one about the constellations — and sat beside your bed with his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You got hurt because of me."

You tilted your head. "I chose to catch you. You don't have to be sorry."

"But your arm—"

"Will heal." You smiled at him, bright and guileless. "I'm happy I was there. If I hadn't been, you could have hit your head. You could have died. So this is better."

Norman stared at you. His chest felt strange—tight and warm and aching all at once. He didn't have words for it then. He was only five. But he knew, with the certainty of a child who had just discovered something fundamental about the universe, that you were special. That you were important. That he would never, ever forget what you had done for him.

He fell in love with you that day. It took him years to understand it, years more to name it, but the seed was planted in that infirmary room, watered by your smile and your courage and the sight of your broken arm in its white cast.

As the years passed, Norman watched you. He couldn't help it. You were a force of nature—cheerful like Emma, affectionate like no one else, endlessly kind and impossibly bright. You hugged your siblings freely. You laughed with your whole body. You treated every day like a gift. And beneath all that warmth was something else: a mind so sharp it could cut glass. You beat Isabella at chess when you were six. You solved puzzles Norman struggled with. You memorized books after a single reading.

He never told you how he felt. Emma and Ray both knew—Emma teased him about it, Ray gave him pointed looks—but Norman was patient. He would confess when the time was right. When you were older. When the escape was behind them. When the world was safe.

Then Isabella called your name at breakfast, and the world ended.

"Congratulations," she said, her voice warm and maternal, her smile perfectly composed. "You've been adopted. Your new family will arrive tonight."

Norman's blood turned to ice. Across the table, Ray's face went blank—that terrifying, empty blankness that meant he was already calculating, already planning, already spiraling. Emma's fork clattered against her plate. The younger children cheered and clapped, not understanding what adoption really meant. The older ones—the ones who knew—sat frozen in their seats.

And you. You looked at Isabella, and for a fraction of a second, your mask slipped. Norman saw it. The flash of terror in your eyes, the way your hands tightened around your cup, the way your breath caught in your throat. Then you smiled—that bright, brave, heartbreaking smile—and said, "Thank you, Mama. I'm so happy."

Norman didn't eat for the rest of the day. He couldn't.

That evening, he and Ray went to your room. They had a plan. A desperate, half-formed plan to hide you, to smuggle you out, to do something, anything, to keep you from that gate. Norman pushed open the door with his heart in his throat.

And stopped.

You were sitting on the edge of your bed, your shoulders shaking. Your face was buried in your hands, and the sound you were making—quiet, hitching sobs that you were clearly trying to suppress — shattered something inside him. Isabella was there too, sitting beside you, her hand on your back. She was crying. Norman had never seen Isabella cry before. He didn't know she could.

"It's not fair," you choked out. "I don't want to go back. I don't want to be hurt again. Mama, please—"

"I know," Isabella whispered. Her voice was raw with grief. "I know, my darling. I'm so sorry. I tried to stop them. I tried. But the orders came directly from the top. They know how valuable you are. They want you back."

You lifted your head, and your eyes—your eyes were the eyes of someone who had seen things no child should ever see. "They're going to put me back in the room. The white room. With the needles and the machines and the—"

Isabella pulled you into her arms. You clung to her, sobbing into her shoulder, and Norman stood frozen in the doorway with Ray beside him, and the weight of what he was witnessing crushed the air from his lungs.

You had been to Lambda before. You weren't just a child of Grace Field. You were an experiment. A product. A thing they had made and molded and broken and remade. And now they wanted you back.

Isabella looked up and saw them standing there. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her composure finally, utterly shattered. "Come in," she said quietly. "She needs you."

Norman crossed the room on numb legs. He knelt in front of you, and when you looked at him with those wet, terrified eyes, he took your hands in his.

"I won't let them take you," he said. His voice was steady, even though everything inside him was screaming. "We'll hide you. We'll escape tonight. We'll

—"

"You can't." Your voice was hoarse. "They have trackers. In my blood. If I run, they'll find me. They'll find all of you. I can't—I won't let them hurt you because of me."

"Then we'll find another way—"

"There is no other way." You pulled your hands free and wiped your eyes with your sleeve. The tears were still falling, but your expression was hardening, the mask sliding back into place. "I've known this was coming. I always knew. I just—I hoped I'd have more time."

You looked at Ray then, your twin brother, the other half of your soul. "Take care of them," you said. "Take care of Emma and Norman and the little ones. Promise me."

Ray didn't speak. He couldn't. His face was a mask of agony, his hands clenched at his sides. But he nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion, and that was enough.

You stood up. You straightened your clothes. You wiped your face until no trace of tears remained. And you walked out of that room with your head held high, a soldier marching to her execution.

Norman watched you go. He watched the car pull up to the gate. He watched you climb inside without looking back. And when the taillights disappeared into the night, he turned and walked to his room and closed the door and screamed into his pillow until his throat was raw.

He never stopped looking for you. Not after the escape. Not after Lambda 7214. Not after the destruction of the farms and the fulfillment of the promise and the long, slow journey to the human world. He searched every record he could find, interrogated every demon who might have information, followed every lead no matter how thin. When he heard about an experiment who had escaped from one of the most secure Lambdas in existence—a superhuman with impossible strength and speed and intelligence—his heart nearly stopped.

"It's her," he told Emma and Ray. His voice was feverish with hope. "It has to be her. She's alive. She escaped. We have to find her."

They searched for months. They followed rumors and sightings and the trail of destroyed demon patrols that the superhuman left in her wake. And then, on a mission gone wrong—an ambush, demons pouring from every shadow, ammunition running low, wounds piling up—Norman prepared himself for death.

And you saved him. Again.

The demons fell one by one, cut down by a blur of motion too fast to track. Norman lay on the ground, bleeding from a gash in his side, and watched the figure move. A sword flashed in the dim light. A body hit the ground. Another. Another. When the last demon dissolved into ash, the figure turned, and Norman saw your face.

Older. Harder. Scarred in ways that made his heart clench. But still you. Still the girl who had caught him when he fell. Still the girl he had loved for his entire life.

"Are you alright?" you asked, sliding your sword into the sheath on your back. Your voice was flat, professional. Your eyes swept over the three of them without a flicker of recognition. "Those wounds need attention. There's a shelter nearby. I can escort you."

Emma pushed herself upright, her eyes wide. "It's you," she breathed. "It's really you. We've been looking for you for so long—"

You frowned. "Looking for me? I don't know you."

Ray made a sound—a choked, broken noise that Norman had never heard him make before. "You don't—you don't remember us?"

"No." You tilted your head, studying them with detached curiosity. "Should I?"

Norman's chest cracked open. All those years of searching. All those years of hoping. And you didn't remember. The experiments had taken your memories, stolen your past, erased everything you had been to them.

But you were alive. You were here. And Norman was not going to let you slip away again.

"My name is Norman," he said, and his voice was calm despite the storm raging inside him. "This is Emma and Ray. We knew you, a long time ago. We grew up together. You were—you are—very important to us. If you'll come with us, we can explain everything."

You hesitated. Your eyes—sharper than any human's had a right to be—scanned his face, assessing, calculating. "You're telling the truth," you said finally. "Your heartbeat is steady. Your pupils aren't dilated. You're not lying."

"I would never lie to you."

Something flickered in your expression. The faintest ghost of recognition. "That's strange," you murmured. "I feel like I should know you. Both of you." Your gaze moved to Ray. "Especially you. There's something about your face."

Ray swallowed hard. "We're twins," he said. "You're my sister. My twin sister. We were separated at birth."

Your eyes widened. For the first time, the flat professionalism cracked, replaced by something raw and uncertain. "I have a brother?"

"You have a brother. And a family. And a home. If you want it."

You were silent for a long moment. Then you nodded. "Alright. I'll come with you. But I'm keeping my sword."

Norman laughed—a wet, broken sound. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

The days that followed were slow and careful. They told you everything—about Grace Field, about your arrival there at age four, about the childhood you couldn't remember. They told you about the games of tag, the chess matches against Isabella, the way you used to hug everyone so tightly they couldn't breathe. They told you about your broken arm, about the fall from the tree, about the boy you had saved.

"That was you?" you asked Norman, your brow furrowing.

"Yes." He smiled, sad and fond. "You told me you were happy you caught me. Even with a broken arm. You said head injuries were dangerous."

You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly, "That sounds like something I would say."

"It does."

Norman didn't push. He knew you were wary, knew the experiments had taught you to trust no one. He gave you space when you needed it. He answered your questions with patience and honesty. He let you set the pace, let you decide how close you wanted to be.

But he was always there. When you woke from nightmares, gasping and shaking, he was outside your door with a glass of water and a quiet offer to talk. When you tested your abilities in the training yard, he watched from the sidelines, ready with a towel and a word of encouragement. When you struggled to reconcile the cheerful girl they described with the hardened warrior you had become, he sat beside you and said, "You're still her. You're just also more. Both versions are real. Both versions are loved."

You looked at him then, really looked, and something in your guarded expression softened.

"Why do you care so much?" you asked. "About me, specifically. I can tell you care about Emma and Ray too, but with me it's... different. Why?"

Norman's heart pounded. He had waited fourteen years to answer this question. "Because I'm in love with you," he said. "I have been since we were five years old. Since you broke your arm catching me. Since you smiled and said you were happy I wasn't hurt. I never had the courage to tell you before you were taken. I'm not going to make that mistake again."

You stared at him. "You're in love with someone who doesn't remember you."

"I'm in love with you. The you who saved me then. The you who saved me now. The you who's been through hell and came out the other side. All of it. All of you."

Your eyes glistened. You looked away, your jaw tight, and Norman braced himself for rejection.

Instead, you said, "I don't remember loving you. But I think—I think I want to learn."

Norman smiled, and it was like the sun coming out after a storm. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."

NORMAN — YANDERE VERSION

Warnings: Obsessive love, possessive behavior, manipulation attempts, subtle control, darker undertones. Norman's patience is a weapon. His love is absolute and consuming. The Reader is wary, intelligent, and resistant to his control—which only makes him more determined.

Norman had always been patient. It was his greatest strength and his most dangerous weapon.

He had waited fourteen years to find you. Fourteen years of searching, of hoping, of refusing to accept a world where you didn't exist. When Isabella shipped you back to Lambda, something inside him had calcified. The gentle boy who had loved you from afar became something harder. Something colder. Something willing to burn the entire world down if it meant getting you back.

Lambda 7214 taught him how to be ruthless. The years of planning, of leading, of making choices that would haunt him forever—they all traced back to you. Every demon he exterminated. Every farm he destroyed. Every life he sacrificed for the greater good. It was all for you. It had always been for you.

When he heard about the escaped superhuman, he knew. He knew with a certainty that bordered on religious. You were alive. You had survived. And you were out there, somewhere, waiting for him to find you.

The ambush was unexpected. The demons, the wounds, the dwindling ammunition—Norman had calculated a dozen ways they might die. But then you appeared, a blur of motion and violence, and his heart sang with recognition even as his body bled into the dirt.

You didn't remember him. That was a blow he hadn't anticipated. But Norman was adaptable. He was patient. He could work with this.

He convinced you to come to the hideout. He told you stories of Grace Field, carefully selected to paint a picture of a happy childhood, a loving family, a place where you had been cherished. He watched your face as he spoke, catalogued every micro-expression, every flicker of emotion. You believed him. The instincts you didn't remember having told you he was trustworthy.

But you didn't let him close. Not really.

Norman noticed. He noticed everything. The way you positioned yourself near exits. The way your hand always hovered near your sword. The way your eyes tracked everyone in the room, calculating threats, measuring distances. The experiments had honed you into something lethal, and your trust was a fortress he had not yet breached.

He tried subtlety first. Gentle touches. Warm smiles. He positioned himself as your protector, your guide, the one person who understood what you had been through. He told you about his own time at Lambda, hoping the shared trauma would create a bond.

It worked, to an extent. You relaxed around him more than around others. You sought him out for conversations. You even smiled at him sometimes, small and tentative, but real.

But you also noticed his darker moments. The way his eyes went cold when someone looked at you too long. The way his voice sharpened when you mentioned leaving the hideout alone. The way he tried, ever so gently, to steer your decisions in directions he approved of.

"You're trying to control me," you said one evening. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were sharp. "I've noticed. The subtle suggestions. The way you frame things so that your preference seems like the only logical choice. It's clever. But I'm cleverer."

Norman's smile didn't waver. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to protect you."

"I don't need protection."

"Everyone needs protection. Even superhumans." He stepped closer, his blue eyes intent on yours. "You've been alone for a long time. You've had to fight for everything, trust no one, rely only on yourself. That's not living. That's surviving. I want to give you more than that. I want to give you a life where you can be safe. Where you can be happy. Where you can be loved."

"Loved." You repeated the word like it was foreign. "You keep saying you love me. But love isn't supposed to feel like a cage."

Norman's expression flickered. For a moment, the mask slipped, and you saw the raw, desperate hunger beneath. "I lost you once," he said quietly. "I watched you drive away and I couldn't do anything to stop it. I've spent every day since then trying to get you back. I will not lose you again. If that makes me controlling, if that makes me possessive, then fine. I've been called worse."

He reached for your hand. You didn't pull away, but you didn't reciprocate either.

"You don't remember me," he continued. "You don't remember what we were to each other. That's alright. We can build something new. But you need to understand—I am not going anywhere. I will wait as long as it takes. I will be as patient as I need to be. But I will not let you push me away. And I will not let you put yourself in danger."

"Because I'm yours?"

"Because you're mine." He said it without hesitation. "You have been since you caught me falling. You have been since you smiled and said my safety was worth your broken arm. You just don't remember it yet."

You studied him for a long moment. Your enhanced senses picked up his elevated heart rate, the slight dilation of his pupils, the tension in his shoulders. He was telling the truth—or what he believed to be the truth. That didn't make it less unsettling.

"You're very intense," you said finally. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

Norman laughed, a soft, surprised sound. "Emma. Many times."

"I can see why." You pulled your hand free, but not unkindly. "I'm not going to run away, Norman. You don't have to cage me. But you do have to give me space. Real space. Not the kind where you pretend to give me space while monitoring my every move."

His smile sharpened. "You see through everything, don't you?"

"Enhanced intelligence. It's very hard to manipulate me." You tilted your head. "I can tell you're trying. I can tell you've been trying since I arrived. It won't work. But I'm still here. Doesn't that tell you something?"

Norman was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, the sharpness faded from his smile, replaced by something more genuine. "It tells me you're willing to give me a chance. Despite everything."

"I'm willing to give this place a chance. And the people in it." You met his eyes steadily. "Don't make me regret it."

"I won't." He stepped back, giving you space—real space, this time. "I promise."

He meant it. He would try. He would curb his worst impulses, leash the possessive hunger that gnawed at his insides, give you the room you needed to breathe. It would be hard. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done. But for you, he would do it.

And if anyone ever tried to hurt you—well. That was a different matter entirely. Norman's mercy had limits. Norman's patience had limits. Norman's love did not.

RAY — NORMAL VERSION (PLATONIC TWIN BOND)

Ray was four years old when he learned he had a twin sister.

He didn't understand it at first. The concept of "twin" was abstract, a word from picture books about matching outfits and shared birthdays. But Isabella sat him down one evening, her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable, and told him the truth.

"You were born together," she said. "You shared a womb. You have the same eyes, the same blood, the same genetic code. But you were separated at birth. She was taken to another facility. I didn't know if you would ever meet."

Ray stared at her. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Isabella's smile was thin. "Because she's coming here. Tomorrow. She's been transferred to Grace Field."

You arrived the next day, a wide-eyed four-year-old with dark hair and a shy smile. Ray watched you from across the playroom, his heart pounding with an emotion he couldn't name. You looked like him. Not exactly—your features were softer, your expression more open—but the resemblance was unmistakable. The same eyes. The same jaw. The same way of tilting your head when you were curious.

You saw him looking and smiled. "Hi," you said. "I'm new. What's your name?"

"Ray."

"That's a nice name." You sat down beside him, uninvited but not unwelcome. "Mama says we're twins. That means we're extra special, right?"

Ray didn't know what to say. He had spent his whole life keeping people at a distance, protecting himself from the pain of attachment. But you were his sister. His twin. The other half of his existence. And you were looking at him with such open, trusting affection that his walls crumbled before he could reinforce them.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "I guess it does."

From that day forward, you were inseparable. Ray, who had always preferred solitude, found himself seeking your company. You were the opposite of him in many ways—cheerful where he was gloomy, affectionate where he was distant, trusting where he was suspicious—but somehow it worked. You balanced each other. You completed each other.

He taught you how to read. You taught him how to smile. He showed you the best hiding spots for hide-and-seek. You showed him that it was okay to hug someone, to hold someone's hand, to say "I love you" without flinching.

When you beat Isabella at chess at age six, Ray was prouder than he had ever been. When you broke your arm catching Norman, Ray was terrified and furious and desperately, pathetically grateful that you were still alive. When you hugged him and called him your favorite person in the whole world, Ray pretended to be annoyed, but his heart swelled until it felt too big for his chest.

He didn't know about Lambda. He didn't know about the experiments. He just knew you were his sister, and he loved you, and that was enough.

Then Isabella called your name at breakfast, and Ray's world collapsed.

He went to your room that night with a plan. Hide you. Smuggle you out. Burn the house down if necessary. But when he pushed open the door and saw you crying in Isabella's arms, saw his mother's tears mixing with yours, the plan dissolved into ash.

"I don't want to go back," you sobbed. "Please, Mama, I don't want to be hurt again—"

Ray's hands started shaking. "Hurt again? What do you mean, hurt again?"

You looked up at him, your face blotchy and swollen, and the story came pouring out. Lambda. The white room. The needles and the machines and the scientists who called you a product. You had been sent to Grace Field to recover and develop. Now they wanted you back.

"I'm not letting them take you," Ray said. His voice was cold, hard, the voice of the boy who had been planning an escape since he was old enough to understand he was cattle. "I don't care about the trackers. I don't care about the risks. We're leaving. Tonight. All of us."

"You can't." You grabbed his hands, your grip desperate. "If I run, they'll hunt me down. They'll hurt everyone I love. You, Emma, Norman, the little ones—I can't let that happen. Please, Ray. Please don't make this harder than it already is."

"I'm not letting you go!"

"You have to." Your voice broke. "You have to let me go. And you have to promise me — promise me you'll survive. Promise me you'll escape and live and be happy. That's all I want. That's the only thing that's going to get me through what comes next."

Ray couldn't breathe. His chest was caving in. His twin sister, the other half of his soul, was asking him to let her walk into hell so that everyone else could be safe.

"Promise me," you repeated.

He couldn't speak. He nodded.

You pulled him into a hug, your arms wrapping around him with the same desperate strength he had felt a thousand times before—after nightmares, after bad days, after moments when the weight of the world was too much to bear. "I love you," you whispered. "You're the best brother anyone could ask for. Don't ever forget that."

"I won't," he choked out. "I won't."

You left that night. Ray watched the car take you away, and something inside him died.

A year later, he escaped Grace Field with Emma and the others. A year after that, he found Norman in the ruins of Lambda 7214. A year after that, Norman told him about the escaped superhuman, and Ray felt hope flicker in his chest for the first time since you had driven away.

They searched. They followed rumors. They hunted and waited and prayed to gods Ray didn't believe in.

And then you saved them.

Ray was on the ground, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, his ammunition spent, when the blur of motion cut through the demons like a scythe through wheat. He watched, dazed, as the demons fell one by one, and when the last one dissolved, the figure turned.

It was you. Older. Scarred. Your eyes were harder, your posture more guarded. But it was you.

"Are you alright?" you asked, and your voice was flat, professional, wrong.

Ray stared at you. "You don't recognize me."

You frowned. "Should I?"

His heart shattered. "We're twins," he said. "You're my sister. My twin sister. We were separated at birth. We grew up together at Grace Field. You were shipped away a year ago. I've been looking for you ever since."

You studied his face. Something flickered in your eyes—the faintest ghost of recognition. "Twins," you repeated. "I... I feel like I should know you. There's something about your face."

"We look alike," Ray said. His voice was hoarse. "Everyone used to comment on it. You used to say it was proof we were meant to find each other."

"I don't remember." Your voice was quiet, almost apologetic. "The experiments... they did something to my memory. I don't remember anything before Lambda. It's all blank."

Ray closed his eyes. The grief was a physical weight, pressing down on his chest. You didn't remember him. You didn't remember Grace Field, or the games of tag, or the nights you spent reading together in the library. You didn't remember that you were his twin, his other half, the most important person in his world.

But you were alive. You were here. And that had to be enough.

"It's okay," he said, opening his eyes. "You don't have to remember. We can start over. We can—we can get to know each other again."

You hesitated. Then, slowly, you nodded. "Alright. I'd like that."

In the days that followed, Ray was patient. He told you stories about your childhood—the funny ones, the sweet ones, the moments that had defined your bond. He showed you the scar on his knee from when you had both fallen out of a tree trying to rescue a stuck cat. He hummed the lullaby you used to sing to the younger children. He sat with you in comfortable silence, not pushing, not demanding, just being there.

And slowly, tentatively, you began to trust him.

"You're different from the others," you said one evening. The two of you were sitting on the roof of the hideout, watching the stars. "Norman and Emma—they want me to be the person I was before. The cheerful girl who hugged everyone and laughed all the time. But you don't seem to want that."

Ray shook his head. "I don't want you to be anyone but who you are now. The cheerful girl was my sister. The traumatized warrior is my sister. Both are real. Both are you."

You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly, "I think I understand why we were close. Before. You make me feel... safe."

"You are safe," Ray said. "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you again. Not the demons. Not Lambda. Not anyone. You're my sister. That means something. It always has."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, a small, tentative gesture. Ray wrapped his arm around you, and for the first time in a year, the empty space in his chest began to fill

RAY — YANDERE VERSION (PLATONIC TWIN OBSESSION)

Warnings: Obsessive brotherly love, possessiveness, controlling behavior, emotional manipulation, isolation of the Reader. Ray's devotion is consuming and dark, though strictly familial. The Reader is wary and resistant, which frustrates and angers him.

Ray had lost you once. He would not lose you again.

The year without you had been a slow, grinding hell. Every day, he woke up and remembered that you were gone. Every night, he dreamed of your face and woke up screaming. The escape, the shelters, the endless running and fighting—it was all just noise. Distractions from the absence that yawned inside him like a wound that wouldn't close.

When Norman told him about the escaped superhuman, Ray felt something he hadn't felt in months. Hope. Brutal, desperate, consuming hope. He threw himself into the search with a ferocity that surprised even Emma. He didn't sleep. He didn't eat. He just hunted, tracking every lead, following every rumor, because if he stopped moving, the hope might die, and if the hope died, he would die with it.

And then he found you. Or rather, you found him.

You saved his life without knowing who he was. You cut down demons like they were nothing, your sword flashing, your movements impossibly fast. When you turned and asked if they were alright, your eyes passed over him without recognition, and Ray felt the hope curdle into something darker.

You didn't remember him. The experiments had stolen his sister from him, erased everything you had shared, turned you into a stranger wearing your face.

It was unacceptable.

He convinced you to come to the hideout. He told you about Grace Field, about your childhood, about the bond you had shared. He watched your face as he spoke, waiting for the spark of recognition, the moment when you would look at him and say his name the way you used to.

It didn't come. You listened, you nodded, you even seemed to believe him—but the connection was gone. You treated him like a stranger who happened to share her DNA.

Ray couldn't accept that.

He started small. He positioned himself as your protector, your guide, the one person who truly understood what you had lost. He discouraged you from spending time with others, framing it as concern. "You need rest," he would say. "You've been through too much. Let me handle things."

He tried to keep you in the hideout. Every time you mentioned leaving—for a mission, for a walk, for anything—he found a reason to object. "It's not safe." "You're not ready." "I need you here." The excuses were always reasonable, always framed as care.

You noticed. Of course you noticed. You were too intelligent not to.

"Why don't you want me to leave?" you asked one afternoon, cornering him in the hallway. Your eyes were sharp, assessing. "Every time I try to go somewhere, you find a reason to stop me. You're not as subtle as you think you are."

Ray's jaw tightened. "I'm trying to protect you."

"From what? I'm the most dangerous person in this hideout. I don't need protection."

"You need protection from yourself." The words came out harsher than he intended. "You don't remember what it was like. The last time you left, you didn't come back. I watched you drive away, and I couldn't do anything, and I swore—I swore I would never let that happen again."

Your expression flickered. "That wasn't my choice. That was the demons, the scientists, the system. You can't blame me for something I didn't choose."

"I'm not blaming you." Ray stepped closer, his dark eyes burning. "I'm telling you why I can't let you go. You're my sister. My twin. The only person in the world who shares my blood. I lost you once. If I lost you again, I wouldn't survive it. So yes, I'm trying to keep you close. Yes, I'm trying to control the variables. That's what I do. That's who I am."

You studied him for a long moment. "You're suffocating me."

"I'm loving you."

"There's a difference." Your voice was quiet but firm. "I want to trust you, Ray. I feel something when I look at you—something I don't feel for anyone else. But you're trying to cage me, and I can't live like that. I won't."

Ray's hands clenched at his sides. "Then what do you want from me?"

"I want you to be my brother. Not my keeper." You met his eyes steadily. "I want you to trust me to take care of myself. I want you to let me breathe. Can you do that?"

He wanted to say no. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to wrap you in his arms and never let go, to lock you away where nothing could ever hurt you again. But the look in your eyes—wary, hopeful, fragile — stopped him.

"I'll try," he said. The words felt like broken glass in his throat. "I can't promise I'll be good at it. But I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking."

You stepped forward and, for the first time since your reunion, initiated contact. A hug. Tentative and brief, but real. Ray wrapped his arms around you and held on like you might disappear if he let go.

"I missed you," he whispered. "Even if you don't remember. I missed you every single day."

You didn't say anything. But your arms tightened around him, and that was enough.

He would try to be better. He would try to give you space. But if anyone ever threatened you — if anyone ever tried to take you from him again—Ray's mercy would evaporate. His control would snap. And the dragon that lived in his blood would burn the world to ashes before it let you go again.

The Longest Fortnight

Where narumi gen is more obsessed with his games than paying close attention to his girlfriend, will only crack that pride after she almost died ah ohhh

Requested by anon

The first week was fine.

Two games dropped on the same Tuesday. Gen had been talking about them for months—counting down the days on his phone, sending you trailers while you were at work, leaving sticky notes on the fridge with things like "34 DAYS UNTIL ECLIPSE PROTOCOL" and "IRON REIGN LAUNCHES SAME WEEK. I'M GOING TO DIE." You'd smiled at the notes and peeled them off the fridge and kissed his cheek when he came home from base vibrating with excitement.

"Babe. Baby. They're both ninety-plus on Metacritic. The devs did a twelve-hour livestream. Twelve hours. I watched the whole thing."

"You watched a twelve-hour livestream instead of sleeping?"

"Sleep is for the weak. I'll sleep when I'm dead." He'd grabbed your shoulders, his eyes bright and slightly manic. "I need you to understand. This is the gaming event of the decade. Two masterpiece-level titles. Same week. It's like a double boss fight except I win just by playing them."

"You're such a nerd."

"Your nerd. For life. No takebacks."

The launch day was a Friday. Gen had preloaded both games, his console humming with anticipation. You'd come home from work to find him already entrenched on the couch, controller in hand, a small fortress of snacks and energy drinks arranged on the coffee table like supplies for a siege.

"Hey," you said.

"Mmph."

"How's the game?"

"Incredible. Life-changing. I just defeated a dragon with a spoon."

"A spoon."

"It's a legendary spoon. There's lore." He didn't look away from the screen. "I love you. There's pizza in the fridge."

You kissed the top of his head. He smelled like he hadn't showered. "When did you last eat something that wasn't a snack?"

"Define 'eat.'"

"Gen."

"I had a protein bar. It had nutrients. I'm thriving."

You let it go. It was launch weekend. He'd been waiting forever. You could give him a few days.

This first week was less fine.

By Wednesday, the pizza was gone and Gen hadn't left the couch except for bathroom breaks and the occasional kaiju alert. His sleep schedule had inverted—he was awake until four in the morning, grinding through side quests, and dead to the world until noon. When you left for work, he was asleep. When you came home, he was gaming. The only evidence that he remembered you existed was the occasional grunt of acknowledgment when you walked through the door.

"Gen, did you eat today?"

"Mm."

"Is that a yes?"

"Hold on. Almost got the boss. Just—there. Got him. Yeah. I ate. There was—something. In the fridge."

"The leftovers from three days ago?"

"Were those three days old?"

"Yes."

"They were still good. Probably. I feel fine."

You stood in the doorway to the living room, your bag still on your shoulder, watching the back of his head. His hair was a mess. His shirt was the same one he'd been wearing for two days. The coffee table was a graveyard of empty cans and snack wrappers.

"Gen. Come to bed tonight?"

"Can't. Night cycle on Eclipse Protocol. The rare mobs only spawn between midnight and four."

"I wasn't asking about mobs."

"I know. I just—" He finally glanced at you, his eyes bloodshot, his expression distracted. "I've been waiting for this for so long. Just a few more days, okay? Then I'm all yours."

"Okay," you said. "A few more days."

Friday made two full weeks.

You'd tried everything. Subtle hints. Direct requests. You'd made his favourite dinner and left it on the coffee table, and he'd eaten it without looking away from the screen, without saying thank you, without noticing you'd gone to bed alone. Again.

You'd suggested watching a movie together. He'd said, "Sure, after this quest." The quest had taken four hours.

You'd put on the dress he loved, the one that made his ears go pink, and leaned against the doorframe. "Hey. Take a break?"

"Can't. Final boss. This is the hardest fight in the game."

"What about me?"

"Mm?"

"What about me, Gen?"

"I don't—" He'd squinted at the screen, his thumbs moving furiously. "Can we talk about this later? I'm at, like, five percent health and I don't have any potions left."

You'd gone to bed alone. Again. And this time, you'd cried.

Saturday broke something.

You woke up to find Gen exactly where you'd left him—on the couch, controller in hand, a new game already loaded. He'd finished Eclipse Protocol. Now he was deep into Iron Reign, and the cycle had started all over again.

"Morning," you said.

"Hey. Did you know there's a secret ending in Iron Reign if you collect all the hidden artifacts? There's like two hundred of them. I've got forty-seven so far."

"Gen, we need to talk."

"Can it wait? I'm in the middle of—"

"No. It can't wait." You walked around the couch and stood between him and the TV. "It's been two weeks."

"Two weeks since what?"

"Since you looked at me. Since you talked to me. Since you acted like I existed."

His brow furrowed. "I talk to you every day."

"You grunt at me. You ask me to bring you things. You tell me about your games. You don't ask about my day. You don't notice when I leave the room. You don't—" Your voice caught. "You don't see me anymore, Gen. I'm standing right here and you don't see me."

"Baby. Come on. It's just a game. Two games. I've been waiting for these forever. Can't you just—"

"I have been just. For two weeks. I've been patient and understanding and supportive, and I've told myself it's temporary, he'll come back, he's just excited. But you didn't come back. You're still not back." You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, trying to keep your voice steady. "I feel like I'm living alone. I feel like you'd rather spend time with a screen than with me."

"That's not fair."

"It's exactly fair. When's the last time we ate dinner together? When's the last time you kissed me goodnight? When's the last time you said 'I love you' and actually meant it?"

He was standing now, the controller abandoned on the couch, his expression shifting from annoyance to defensiveness. "What do you want me to say? I'm sorry I have hobbies? I'm sorry I'm not at your beck and call every second of the day?"

"I'm not asking for every second. I'm asking for five minutes. A conversation. A sign that you remember I'm here."

"My life doesn't revolve around you!"

The words cracked through the room like a gunshot.

You stood very still. Your hands stopped shaking. Your heart, which had been pounding in your ears, went quiet.

"No," you said. "It doesn't. But I'm supposed to be part of it. I'm supposed to matter."

"Of course you matter—"

"Do I? Because for two weeks, I've felt like a piece of furniture. Like background noise. Like something you can ignore until you need a snack or a blanket." Your voice was steady now, too steady, the kind of calm that came after the storm had already done its damage. "I love you. I've loved you for years. But I'm not going to beg for your attention. I'm not going to compete with a video game."

"It's not a competition—"

"Then why does it feel like I'm losing?"

He didn't answer. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. His ears were red, but whether from anger or shame, you couldn't tell.

"I'm going to Hasegawa's," you said. "I need some air."

"Baby—"

"Don't call me that. Not right now."

You grabbed your jacket and your keys. At the door, you paused and looked back. Gen was standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the wreckage of his two-week gaming marathon. His console was still on. His character was still standing idle. He looked lost. He looked like a man who'd just realised he'd made a terrible mistake and didn't know how to fix it.

"Text me when you're ready to talk," you said. "Really talk. Not about games. Not about quests. About us."

The door clicked shut behind you.

Three days of silence.

You stayed with Hasegawa. He didn't ask questions—he just made up the spare room and brought you tea and shot you knowing looks that said he'd expected this. "He's been like this since the orphanage," Hasegawa said one evening, his voice carefully neutral. "Obsessive. Once he latches onto something, he forgets everything else exists. It's not an excuse. It's just—it's how he's always been."

"I know," you said. "But I can't be the one who always has to remind him I'm here. I can't be the one who always has to wait."

"Fair enough."

Gen texted you four times. The first two were attempts at normalcy—"hey" and "u coming home soon?" The third was longer, more frustrated: "i get that you're mad but this feels like an overreaction." The fourth, sent at 3 a.m., was just: "i'm sorry."

You didn't reply. You weren't ready. You needed him to understand that "sorry" wasn't enough—that he had to change, had to try, had to prove that you mattered more than a screen.

And then the daikaiju attacked.

It was a Category 9, emerging without warning in the Shibuya district. The First Division scrambled, every available officer deployed. You were on the eastern flank, coordinating evacuation, your blade cutting through the smaller honju that swarmed in the daikaiju's wake. Gen was on the front line, his weapon flaring, his voice sharp over the comms.

You were still furious at him. You were also terrified.

The daikaiju was fast. Faster than the scans had indicated. It split its attention, its tendrils sweeping through the streets, collapsing buildings, scattering the squads. You saw the tail coming a second too late—a massive, spined appendage that crashed through the wall behind you and sent you flying into the rubble.

"Platoon Leader down!" someone shouted. "Medic! We need a medic!"

You couldn't move. Your ribs were screaming. Your vision was blurring at the edges. There was blood—your blood—spreading across the concrete.

And then Gen was there.

He materialised out of the smoke like a vengeful ghost, his visor cracked, his uniform torn. His hands were on your face, your shoulders, your chest, checking for wounds, his voice high and desperate. "No, no, no—stay with me, stay awake, don't you dare—"

"Gen—"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm an idiot, I'm the biggest idiot in the world, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I didn't mean any of it. My life does revolve around you. It's always revolved around you. I was just too stupid and too stubborn to see it, and if you die—" His voice splintered. "If you die thinking I don't love you, I'll never forgive myself. So you can't die. You can't."

"Gen—"

"I'll delete the games. Both of them. I'll sell the console. I'll never play another video game in my life. Just—please—"

"Gen."

He stopped. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed, streaming with tears.

"I'm not dying," you said. "I just got the wind knocked out of me. And probably a broken rib. But I'm not dying."

"You're—you're not—"

"No. But I appreciate the apology. Even if it was slightly melodramatic."

He stared at you. Then he laughed—a broken, hysterical sound—and pressed his forehead to yours. "I thought I lost you. I thought you were gone and the last thing I said to you was that my life didn't revolve around you."

"It was a pretty terrible last thing to say."

"The worst. I'm going to spend the rest of my life making up for it."

"You don't have to delete your games."

"I kind of want to. I was an asshole."

"You were an asshole," you agreed. "But I also know you get obsessive. I knew that when I fell in love with you. I just needed you to see me. To remember I was here."

"I see you." His voice was fierce now, his hands cupping your face. "I see you. You're the only thing I've ever really seen. I just forgot to show it. I forgot to say it. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. I forgive you. But you're on probation."

"Probation?"

"You have to take me to dinner. A real dinner. Not pizza on the couch while you play Iron Reign."

"Done. Every night. The fanciest restaurants. I'll wear a suit."

"You don't own a suit."

"I'll buy one. I'll buy ten. I'll become a suit guy."

"That's not necessary."

"I want to. I want to be the guy who takes you to dinner and asks about your day and doesn't play video games for two weeks straight like a complete moron." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I love you. I'm going to keep saying it until you're sick of hearing it."

"I won't get sick of it."

"Good. Because I've got a lot of ground to cover." He kissed your nose. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

"You're making a scene."

"I don't care. Let them watch. Let the whole division watch. Gen Narumi is a reformed man who loves his girlfriend more than video games."

"That's a bold claim."

"I'll prove it. Starting now." He stood, his hand still gripping yours, and shouted across the battlefield: "HASEGAWA! I NEED A MEDIC FOR MY GIRLFRIEND AND ALSO I'M GOING TO BE A BETTER BOYFRIEND!"

From somewhere in the smoke, Hasegawa's voice drifted back: "About damn time!"

The daikaiju was defeated. The city was saved. And in the rubble of Shibuya, surrounded by medics and smoke and the wreckage of a Category 9, Gen Narumi held your hand and refused to let go.

Later, in the hospital, he sat beside your bed with his console unopened in his lap. You had two cracked ribs and a mild concussion. He had a guilty conscience and a newfound appreciation for the concept of moderation.

"I made a schedule," he said.

"A schedule?"

"For gaming. Two hours a night. Max. The rest of the time is for you. For us. For whatever you want to do."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to. I've been playing games my whole life. You're the first thing that's ever made me want to put the controller down." He reached over and took your hand. "You're my player two. The co-op partner. The final boss. The secret ending. You're the whole game. And I'm sorry it took me almost losing you to figure that out."

You squeezed his hand. "You're still a nerd."

"Your nerd. Forever. No takebacks." He kissed your knuckles. "Now, tell me about your day. I want to hear everything. Don't skip details."

"My day involved getting hit by a kaiju."

"Then tell me about yesterday. Or last week. Or the week before. I've got two weeks of being a terrible boyfriend to make up for. I'm ready to listen."

And he did. He listened. He asked questions. He didn't look at his console once.

When you were discharged from the hospital, he took you to dinner. A real dinner, at a real restaurant, with cloth napkins and candles on the table. He wore a suit. It was slightly too big and the tie was crooked, but his ears were pink and his smile was real, and when he reached across the table to hold your hand, you knew—finally, completely—that you were more than enough.

KAIJU NO. 8 — CHARACTER PLAYLISTS

What they blast through their headphones, hum in the armory, or pretend not to dance to.

I personally procrastinated here because I did lots of research about japanese singers and artist qkdjjqjd and then I realized that maybe you're looking for is English songs or something 🥹 just tell me if I should re do this onee

༊*·˚ SOSHIRO HOSHINA (Vice-Captain)

✎ He doesn't talk about music. You'd never catch him with earbuds in during work hours. But late nights, alone in the armory, sharpening his blade? A single wired earbud hangs from his collar, hidden under his uniform. The shuffle queue is violent.

✎ Maximum the Hormone — the chaotic energy matches his fighting style. He'll tap his foot to "What's up, people?!" while wiping down a sword, a smirk playing on his lips. He knows every scream. He's never admitted it out loud.

✎ Wagakki Band — traditional instruments + rock. He discovered them during a recovery period after a mission. The fusion of old and new speaks to him. He'll never tell anyone he practiced the drum patterns on his thighs under the desk during briefings.

✎ Fujii Kaze — only when he's alone. In the shower. Or walking home at 2 AM after a bad mission. "Shinunoga E-Wa" hits different when you've almost died twice this month. He'd deny it with a knife to your throat.

✎ ONE OK ROCK — pre-mission hype. He has a specific playlist called "work" that's just their older, heavier albums. "The Beginning" plays in his head during every countdown. He's not superstitious. He's just right.

✎ Secretly? Official Hige Dandism. He heard "Pretender" in a convenience store once and stood frozen for three seconds. He will take this to his grave.

༊*·˚ GEN NARUMI (First Division Captain)

✎ Narumi curates his image like a weapon. His music taste is no exception. He wants you to think he listens to aggressive, cold, technical music—and he does—but there's layers.

✎ King Gnu — he's obsessed with the production. The complexity. The way "Hakujitsu" shifts between beauty and chaos. He's been to three of their concerts. He wears a mask and a hoodie so no one recognizes him. He's not hiding. He's being strategic.

✎ ZUTOMAYO — the bass lines drive him insane in the best way. He listens while reviewing combat data, fingers drumming on the table. "Darken" is his secret anthem. He's never told a soul.

✎ Vaundy — he'll never admit it, but "Odoriko" makes him smile. Just a little. When he's alone. In the dark. He's human, okay?

✎ coldrain — for when he needs to be untouchable. Pre-mission, post-argument, during the part of the day when his patience wears thin. "MAYDAY" featuring Ryo from Crystal Lake is his go-to. He plays it at max volume in his captain's quarters. No one has ever knocked.

✎ Mili — the weird, dark, almost unsettling tracks. He found them through a game soundtrack and never looked back. "String Theocracy" plays in his head when he's making a tactical decision no one understands yet. He's not explaining himself. He's already three steps ahead.

✎ Secretly? Yoasobi. He heard "Idol" during a rare moment of downtime and hated how much he liked it. It's on a hidden playlist called "don't." He's never deleted it.

༊*·˚ KAFKA HIBINO (Kaiju No. 8)

✎ Kafka's music taste is aggressively earnest and slightly outdated—like the man himself. He's the type to sing along in the car (off-key, full volume) and not care who watches.

✎ SPITZ — he's been listening to them since he was a teenager. "Robinson" is his karaoke song. He knows every word. He cries during the chorus when he's had a few drinks. Reno has witnessed this twice.

✎ ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION — the quintessential "guy in his thirties who peaked in high school but is actually thriving now" band. He plays "Re:Re:" while cleaning his apartment. He air-guitars. He has no shame.

✎ Mr. Children — specifically the ballads. He listens to "Kurumi" when he's feeling nostalgic about his pre-Defense Force life. He doesn't get sad—he gets determined. Then he goes and punches a kaiju.

✎ Official Hige Dandism — unironically. No guilt. He thinks "Cry Baby" is a masterpiece. He's right.

✎ YUI — he discovered her through an anime opening years ago. "Again" is his hype song. He listens to it before every major training session. He's not fast, he's not graceful, but he's here.

✎ Secretly? Aimyon. He found her "Marigold" on a late-night radio show and now it's his secret comfort song. He's never told a soul. Not even Mina.

༊*·˚ RENO ICHIKAWA

✎ Reno's music taste is mature for his age—curated, calm, but with hidden edges. He's the type to make you a playlist with intentional transitions and a narrative arc.

✎ Hige Driver — he loves electronic-adjacent J-pop. Clean production, steady beats, nothing overwhelming. He studies with it on low volume. It helps him focus.

✎ Eve — the storytelling lyrics. He relates to "Kaikai Kitan" more than he'd admit—the pressure to be perfect, the hidden mess inside. He listens to "Yoru wa Honoka" when he can't sleep.

✎ Yorushika — the melancholic, poetic vibe. He got hooked on "Say It" during a rough patch and never stopped. He likes that the lyrics are cryptic—they mean whatever he needs them to mean.

✎ Daoko — the spoken-word style. He found her through a friend and fell into a rabbit hole. He likes the way she blurs the line between talking and singing. It feels honest.

✎ Sakanaction — he loves the synths. The spacey, driving energy. He listens to "Shin Takarajima" on the way to difficult missions. It makes him feel like things might be okay.

✎ Secretly? Ado. He's embarrassed by how much he likes "Usseewa." He's not an angry person—but sometimes, late at night, he gets it.

༊*·˚ IHARU FURUHASHI

✎ Iharu's music taste is loud, brash, and exactly what you expect—but with a hidden soft center he'll never admit to.

✎ The Oral Cigarettes — he discovered them through a friend and immediately added every song to his workout playlist. "Kyouran Hey Kids!!" is his pre-sparring ritual. He shouts the lyrics while shadowboxing. Everyone in the gym can hear him.

✎ My First Story — the energy. The screams. He listens to "The Gift" before every mission. He's convinced it makes him stronger. It might actually work.

✎ MAN WITH A MISSION — the wolf masks. The hype. He saw them live once (general admission, barrier, lost his voice). He has a bootleg shirt. He's so proud of it.

✎ Hi-STANDARD — old school punk. His dad played it in the car. It's nostalgia and aggression rolled into one. He skanks alone in his room. No witnesses.

✎ Secretly? Kenshi Yonezu. He heard "Lemon" in a grocery store and cried in the frozen foods aisle. He will deny this until his dying breath.

༊*·˚ HARUICHI IZUMO

✎ Haruichi's music taste is quiet, atmospheric, and slightly melancholy—but he's got a secret banger playlist that would surprise everyone.

✎ TK from Ling tosite sigure — the chaotic guitar, the whispered screams. He listens while repairing equipment. The complexity helps him focus. He's memorized every odd time signature.

✎ Kensuke Ushio (composer) — he loves soundtracks. "Liz and the Blue Bird" OST is his comfort listen. It's not sad—it's peaceful. He falls asleep to it sometimes.

✎ Polkadot Stingray — the bass lines. He's a sucker for a good bass line. "Telecaster Stripes" lives rent-free in his head. He hums it while soldering circuits.

✎ Yoshino Yoshikawa — soft. Acoustic. He listens when his brain won't shut up. It's like a weighted blanket for his ears.

✎ Secretly? LiSA. He caught himself headbanging to "Gurenge" once and has never recovered. He respects her too much to pretend otherwise. He just doesn't talk about it.

༊*·˚ MINA ASHIRO (Captain)

✎ Mina doesn't listen to music often — she's too focused. But when she does, it's controlled intensity.

✎ Hiroyuki Sawano — epic orchestral + electronic. She listens to his tracks before major operations. It's not about enjoyment. It's about tuning. She's been using the same playlist for seven years.

✎ Yoko Kanno — the range. The genius. She respects Kanno the way she respects a skilled sniper—precise, unpredictable, devastating.

✎ Aimer — low, raspy, powerful. She listens to "Ref:rain" on rare quiet nights. She doesn't cry. She just… breathes differently.

✎ Milet — another power vocalist. "Inside You" was her theme during her academy days. She's never told anyone.

the weight of staying still

That's totally not hoshina In this story LMAOAOO

A story where hoshina soshiro got home injured to his pregnant wife

Requested by my baby @metsum

The door didn't slam. It barely made a sound. Just the soft click of the latch, the shuffle of boots on the mat, the quiet exhale of someone trying not to be heard.

Name was already awake.

She'd been awake for hours—the baby was restless, pressing against her ribs in a way that made sleep impossible. She'd learned to listen for his footsteps in the dark. The rhythm of them. The weight. Tonight, they were wrong.

She sat up in bed. The lamp on her nightstand cast a soft glow across the room. The clock said 2:47 AM.

"Soshiro?"

No answer.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her belly was heavy now—seven months, round and full, the shape of their son pressed against her skin. She moved slower than she used to. More careful.

The hallway was dark. The bathroom light was on. She could see him through the crack in the door.

He was standing at the sink. His back was to her. His uniform was torn—not the clean tears of combat, but the ragged rips of something clawed, something massive. The fabric was dark with blood. His blood.

He hadn't turned on the water. He was just standing there, gripping the edge of the sink, his head bowed.

"Soshiro."

He flinched. She'd never seen him flinch before.

"You should be asleep," he said. His voice was rough. Not the lazy drawl she knew. Something scraped raw.

"I asked you a question."

He didn't answer.

She pushed the door open wider. The light caught him fully. His left side was a mess—his arm, his ribs, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Blood had soaked through his uniform, dripped onto the floor, pooled in the sink.

"Sit down."

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on my bathroom floor."

"It'll clean."

"Soshiro." Her voice was calm. Steady. The voice she used when he was being stupid. "Sit down before I make you sit down."

He looked at her then. His eyes were glassy—shock, maybe, or blood loss. The sharp edges of his face were softer in the fluorescent light. He looked tired. He looked scared.

She hadn't seen him scared since the first time he told her he loved her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. The baby did." She stepped closer. Reached for him. "Let me see."

"I can handle it."

"I know you can. Let me help anyway."

He didn't move. She reached past him, turned on the water, grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet. Her movements were slow. Deliberate. She'd done this before—not for him, not like this, but she'd learned how to be still when everything in her wanted to panic.

"Sit," she said again.

He sat. On the edge of the tub, shoulders hunched, hands loose between his knees. She knelt in front of him—awkward with her belly, but she managed—and started cutting away his uniform.

The wounds were worse than she'd thought.

Deep gashes across his ribs. A puncture in his shoulder. Bruises spreading like storm clouds across his chest. His left arm hung at an odd angle—dislocated, maybe, or broken.

"You went to the medical bay, right?"

"Field dressing."

"Soshiro."

"It was a long mission. They needed the beds for worse off."

"You're worse off."

"I'm standing."

"You're sitting. And you're bleeding. And you're lying to me about being fine."

He didn't argue. That's how she knew he was really hurt.

She cleaned the wounds with steady hands. The water in the basin turned pink, then red, then dark. She didn't flinch. She'd seen worse. Not on him—never on him—but she'd seen worse.

"I need to set your arm."

"I know."

"It's going to hurt."

"I know."

She looked at him. His jaw was tight. His eyes were fixed on the wall.

"Look at me," she said.

He did.

"I'm going to count to three. On three, I want you to breathe out. Okay?"

"Okay."

"One. Two. Three."

She pulled. He breathed. The bone slid into place with a sound that made her stomach turn. He didn't scream. He didn't make a sound. But his hand found hers—gripped it hard enough to bruise.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't be."

"I should have been faster."

"You're here."

"I should have—"

"You're here, Soshiro. That's what matters."

He closed his eyes. His hand was shaking. She held it anyway.

She wrapped his ribs. Stitched his shoulder. Bandaged his arm. Every movement was careful, precise—the same focus she brought to her work, but softer. Gentler. He watched her hands. Watched her face. Watched the way her belly moved when she breathed.

"You shouldn't be doing this," he said.

"Shouldn't be doing what?"

"This. Taking care of me. You're—" He gestured at her stomach. "You're supposed to be resting. Not patching up your idiot husband at three in the morning."

"I'll rest when you're not bleeding."

"I'm fine."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

"Soshiro." She set down the bandages. Took his face in her hands. Her thumbs traced the hollows under his eyes. "You are not fine. You came home half-dead. You almost didn't come home at all. And that terrifies me."

He went very still.

"I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty. I'm saying it because I need you to understand." She leaned forward. Pressed her forehead to his. "You are not useless because you got hurt. You are not a burden because you need help. You are my husband. The father of my son. And I will take care of you for as long as you let me."

He didn't speak. His breath was warm against her lips.

"I can't do this alone," she continued. "I can't raise our son alone. So you need to stop pretending that you're invincible. You need to let me help. You need to let the medics help. You need to—" Her voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough.

He kissed her. Soft. Gentle. A promise.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"Stop apologizing."

"I don't know how to do this. Be... taken care of."

"Then learn."

He laughed. It hurt—she could see it in the way his ribs expanded, the way his hand pressed against his side—but he laughed anyway.

"You're very bossy for someone who's supposed to be resting."

"You're very stupid for someone who's supposed to be smart."

"Same thing."

"Close enough."

She helped him stand. Helped him walk to the bedroom. He moved slowly, carefully, his weight leaning on her more than he wanted to admit. She didn't comment. Just held him steady.

The bed was warm. The sheets smelled like lavender. He lay on his back, his bandaged arm across his chest, his eyes on the ceiling.

"Come here," he said.

"I'll hurt you."

"You won't."

She curled against his right side—his good side—her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Strong. Alive.

"The baby's kicking," she said.

"Is he?"

She took his hand. Placed it on her belly. A moment later, their son moved—a small, insistent push against Soshiro's palm.

"Hey there," Soshiro whispered. "Sorry I'm late. Your mom's been waiting up."

The baby kicked again. Soshiro's breath caught.

"He knows your voice," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He always calms down when you talk."

Soshiro was quiet for a long time. His hand stayed on her belly. His thumb traced slow circles.

"I'm scared," he said.

"Of what?"

"Of not coming home. Of missing this. Of him growing up without me."

She lifted her head. Looked at him. The lamp was still on. The shadows made his face look older.

"Then come home," she said. "Every time. No matter how hurt. No matter how late. Come home."

"What if I can't?"

"Then I'll come find you. And I'll drag you back. And I'll yell at you for being stupid."

He smiled. Small. Tired. Real.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too. Now sleep."

"You're not my mother."

"You're bleeding on my pillows. I'm whatever I need to be."

He laughed again. It didn't hurt as much this time.

She turned off the lamp. The room was dark. The baby was still. Soshiro's hand was warm on her belly.

"Soshiro?"

"Hmm?"

"You're not useless. When you're hurt. When you need help. You're never useless."

He didn't answer. But his hand tightened on hers. And in the dark, she felt him breathe.

The next morning, Kafka called.

"How is he?"

"Alive. Sleeping."

"Should we send someone?"

"No. I've got him."

"Name—"

"I've got him, Kafka. He just needs to rest."

Kafka was quiet for a moment. Then: "He was really scared, you know. On the mission. Not of the kaiju. Of not making it home to you."

"I know."

"He didn't want to leave the field. We had to drag him to the transport."

"I know."

"He kept saying your name. Over and over."

Name looked at Soshiro. Asleep in their bed. Bandaged and bruised and beautiful.

"He's home now," she said. "That's what matters."

She hung up. Made tea. Sat by the window and watched the sun rise over the city.

Soshiro woke up hours later. His eyes found her immediately.

"You stayed," he said.

"I stayed."

"You should have slept."

"I slept. On the chair. It was uncomfortable."

"Then why didn't you come to bed?"

She walked to the bed. Sat on the edge. Touched his face.

"Because I wanted to watch you breathe," she said.

He caught her hand. Pressed it to his lips.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You're going to be sorry a lot, aren't you?"

"Probably."

"Then I'm going to be forgiving a lot. Fair warning."

He smiled. That smile. The one she'd fallen in love with.

"Name?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For taking care of me."

She leaned down. Kissed his forehead. His nose. His lips.

"Always," she said. "Now drink your tea. It's getting cold."

He drank his tea. She ate her breakfast. The baby kicked. The sun rose higher.

And somewhere in the other room, Soshiro's uniform hung over the back of a chair—torn, bloodied, empty.

And everyone thought that bakugo confessed and izuku is having a mental break down, y'all better enjoy this as I did LMAOO

Previous

The Heights Alliance stood against the evening sky like a promise. Four stories of brick and glass, built to house twenty students who had survived too much and needed somewhere soft to land. The moving trucks had already come and gone. Boxes were stacked in the common room, labeled with names and room numbers and little doodles that Ashido had drawn on everyone's tape before anyone could stop her. The sun was setting over U.A., spilling gold through the windows, and the Jester stood in the doorway with her bells chiming softly and her single suitcase clutched in her bandaged hands.

"Home sweet home," she said.

"If you make a joke about burning it down, I'm expelling you," Aizawa said from behind her.

"That's fair."

The common room was chaos in the best way. Kaminari was trying to carry three boxes at once and had already dropped one on his foot. Kirishima was helping Yaoyorozu maneuver a piece of furniture that looked like it cost more than the entire building. Ashido was directing traffic with no actual authority and twice as much enthusiasm. Bakugo was already gone, having stalked up to his room the moment they arrived, declaring that he didn't need a "tour" or "bonding time" or "any of your crap, extras."

And Midoriya was watching the Jester.

He'd been watching her since Kamino. Since the broadcast. Since his mother asked him if he had feelings for her and the answer had lodged itself in his throat like a stone. He watched her now, standing in the doorway with her suitcase and her bells and her painted grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. She looked tired. She looked beautiful. She looked like someone who'd fought a god and was still trying to figure out how to be human again.

"Jester-san!" Uraraka bounced over, her own box labeled PINK STUFF (HEAVY) balanced precariously in her arms. "What room are you in? Did you see the floor plan? The girls' wing is on the right, and we're all on different floors, but Tsuyu and I are neighbors, and—"

"Second floor," the Jester said. "Room 203. Next to Yaoyorozu."

"Momo's room is going to be so fancy! She brought her own furniture!"

"I brought a suitcase."

"That's so minimalist of you!"

"It's so 'I don't own things' of me. There's a difference."

Uraraka laughed and bounced away, and the Jester made her way toward the stairs. But before she could reach them, Ashido's voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

"WAIT! EVERYONE! I HAVE AN IDEA!"

"Oh no," Jiro muttered.

"A CONTEST! A room contest! We're all going to show off our rooms, and whoever has the best one wins!"

"Wins what?"

"Wins GLORY! Wins BRAGGING RIGHTS! Wins the title of KING OF THE ROOMS!"

"That's not a real title."

"It is now! I just made it real!"

The class erupted into a mixture of groans and cheers. Kaminari was already flexing about his "awesome taste." Kirishima was nodding along, calling it manly. Tokoyami looked deeply uncomfortable. Aoyama sparkled. And the Jester, who had spent weeks hiding her power from these people and failed, who had spent months hiding her knowledge from these people and failed, realized with dawning horror that she was about to fail at hiding something else entirely.

"Jester!" Ashido spun toward her, eyes glittering. "You're participating, right?!"

"Do I have a choice?"

"NO!"

"Then yes."

The tour began with the boys' wing. Midoriya's room was first, and the moment the door opened, the class was assaulted by a wall of All Might. Posters. Action figures. Limited edition memorabilia. All Might bedsheets. All Might curtains. An All Might lamp that played the theme song when you turned it on. Midoriya stood in the center of it all, his face the color of a ripe tomato, his hands flapping uselessly.

"I can explain—"

"There's no explanation that makes this better," Jiro said flatly.

"It's... very dedicated," Yaoyorozu offered.

"It's overwhelming," the Jester said, and Midoriya's heart plummeted into his stomach. But then she tilted her head, her bells chiming, and added, "I like it. It's genuine. You're not trying to be anyone except who you are. That's rarer than you think."

Midoriya's heart soared back out of his stomach and into the stratosphere.

Tokoyami's room was next, and he fought them every step of the way. "The darkness is not meant for your unworthy eyes," he intoned, bracing himself against the doorframe. "The shadows reject your light."

"Tokoyami, let us see your room," Tsuyu said.

"The abyss refuses."

"Tokoyami."

"The void says no."

They got in anyway. The room was black. Everything. The walls, the curtains, the bedspread, the single candle flickering on the desk. A skull-shaped lamp cast eerie shadows across the ceiling. Chains hung from the curtain rod for no discernible reason. Dark Shadow peeked over Tokoyami's shoulder, looking vaguely embarrassed.

"It's very you," the Jester said, and Tokoyami paused mid-protest.

"...Thank you."

"I didn't say it was a compliment."

"It felt like one."

"Then take it however you want."

Aoyama's room blinded everyone. Mirrors on every surface, gold accents on every edge, a chandelier that he'd somehow installed despite the dorm rules. "A room must reflect the brilliance of its occupant!" he declared, sparkling so intensely that Kaminari had to shield his eyes.

"It reflects something," Jiro muttered.

Ojiro's room was aggressively normal. A bed. A desk. A martial arts uniform hanging neatly on the wall. The girls stared at it in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment.

"It's... fine," Ashido said finally.

"Just fine?"

"It's very... beige."

Ojiro's tail drooped. "Beige isn't bad."

"No one said beige was bad," the Jester said. "Beige is practical. Beige is reliable. Beige is the color of someone who doesn't need to prove anything." She caught his eye. "There's nothing wrong with being normal, Ojiro. Normal is underrated."

His tail lifted. "Thanks, Jester."

Iida's room was a library. Textbooks lined the walls in alphabetical order. A multi-tiered shelf held dozens of identical glasses. "Because of my speed," he explained, chopping the air, "I frequently break my eyewear! Preparedness is essential!"

"You have thirty pairs of the same glasses," Uraraka said.

"Thirty-TWO!"

Kaminari's room was a disaster. Streetwear hung from every surface. A skateboard leaned against a neon sign. Darts were embedded in the wall near a target that had clearly never been aimed at. "It's called aesthetic," he said defensively.

"It's called a thrift store explosion," Jiro said.

"It's called I tried really hard and this is what happened," the Jester added, and Kaminari perked up. "It's chaotic, but it's your chaos. Own it."

"I AM owning it!"

"Good."

Kirishima's room was a man cave manifesto. Red everywhere. Workout equipment. A punching bag. A banner that said CHIVALRY in letters big enough to see from space. "Manly, right?!" he asked, beaming.

"Very manly," the Jester agreed. "It suits you."

Kirishima's grin could have powered the entire building.

Shoji's room was empty except for a futon. The class stared. Shoji shrugged. "My quirk requires space. Possessions get in the way."

"Minimalist," the Jester said. "Efficient. Respect."

Shoji nodded. He seemed pleased.

Koda's room was a gentle, adorable sanctuary. Soft colors, plush furniture, and a dwarf rabbit named Yuwai who immediately hopped over to sniff the Jester's outstretched hand. She knelt down, her bells chiming softly, and let the rabbit nuzzle her fingers. Her expression, for just a moment, went soft in a way no one had ever seen before.

"You're so sweet," she murmured to the rabbit. "So gentle. You remind me of someone I used to know."

The class exchanged glances. No one knew who she meant. No one asked.

Sero's room was unexpectedly stylish. Hanging hammocks, woven tapestries, potted plants. He'd used his tape quirk to hang everything perfectly, and the effect was bohemian and warm. "I wanted somewhere relaxing," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "After everything that happened, I figured we could all use somewhere relaxing."

"That's really thoughtful, kero," Tsuyu said.

"Super thoughtful," the Jester agreed. "You're a good friend, Sero."

His face went pink. "It's just a room."

"It's more than that. You'll see."

Todoroki's room was a traditional Japanese masterpiece. Tatami mats. Sliding paper doors. A kotatsu in the center. The class gasped when he opened the door, and even the Jester's eyebrows rose. "You rebuilt the entire room," she said.

"Just the floor and the walls."

"In one day."

"I worked hard."

"Clearly." She stepped inside, her bells chiming in the quiet space, and ran her fingers along the wooden frame of the shoji screen. "This is beautiful, Todoroki. You made something beautiful out of an empty space. That takes skill. And patience. And..." She turned to look at him. "It takes someone who knows what home is supposed to feel like."

Todoroki's mismatched eyes met hers. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then he nodded. "Yes. That's exactly what I wanted."

Sato's room was simple, but he'd baked a chiffon cake during the unpacking process, and the girls were too busy eating to care about the decor. "This is amazing," Ashido moaned around a mouthful of cake. "You're amazing. I'm voting for you. You win the contest."

"There's no actual voting system," Jiro pointed out.

"I'M MAKING ONE. SATO WINS."

And then it was time for the girls' rooms. Jiro's was a musician's paradise, guitars and amps and a full drum set, and she blushed when the boys called it cool. Yaoyorozu's was a disaster—a massive four-poster bed that took up ninety-five percent of the room, forcing her desk into a corner where it barely fit. "I may have... overestimated the dimensions," she admitted.

"You think?" Kaminari said.

"It's majestic," the Jester said. "Impractical, but majestic. That's its own kind of success."

Yaoyorozu brightened. "Thank you, Jester-san!"

Uraraka's room was plain and budget-friendly, cozy in its simplicity. "I wanted to save money," she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Hero work is expensive."

"Sensible," the Jester said. "Practical. Very you."

Uraraka beamed.

And then it was time for the Jester's room.

"No," she said.

"YES!" Ashido grabbed her arm. "You've seen everyone else's! It's only fair!"

"Fair is a social construct. I reject fairness."

"You can't reject fairness!"

"Watch me."

But Ashido was already dragging her toward the stairs, and the rest of the class was following, a tide of curiosity and chaos that the Jester couldn't hold back. She'd fought All For One. She'd faced the League of Villains. She'd stood in front of a god and told him he was lonely. But this—this was something else entirely. Her room was her sanctuary. Her secret. The one place where she didn't have to be the Jester.

And now twenty people were about to see it.

"Please," she said, and her voice cracked just slightly. "Please don't make a big deal out of it."

The class went quiet. The Jester never said please.

"We won't," Midoriya said softly. "We promise."

She looked at him. At all of them. Her idiots. Her students. Her home. And then she opened the door.

The room was small. That was the first thing everyone noticed. The U.A. dorms were generous by student housing standards, but the Jester had made hers feel even smaller, cozier, more enclosed. Fairy lights were strung across the ceiling in soft pink and gold, casting a warm glow over everything. The walls were painted a gentle cream color, and the curtains on the window were white lace that billowed slightly in the evening breeze.

And there were rabbits.

Not real rabbits. Stuffed rabbits. Rabbit pillows on the bed. Rabbit figurines on the desk. A rabbit-shaped lamp on the nightstand. A rabbit clock on the wall with ears that twitched every second. A rabbit blanket folded at the foot of the bed, soft and pink and covered in tiny embroidered carrots. The bed itself was piled high with cushions, and the bookshelf was crammed with novels and manga and a single, well-worn tarot deck in a velvet pouch.

The room smelled like vanilla and old books. It was the softest, warmest, most unexpectedly adorable space any of them had ever seen.

"Jester-san," Uraraka whispered. "This is... this is the cutest room I've ever seen in my life."

"It's not cute."

"It's SO cute."

"It's practical. Rabbits are practical."

"Rabbits are not practical!"

"They're emotionally practical."

Ashido was already inside, spinning in slow circles, her eyes wide. "The fairy lights! The bunny clock! THE BUNNY CLOCK'S EARS MOVE!"

"Please stop shouting."

"I'M NOT SHOUTING, I'M EXPRESSING JOY!"

Tsuyu picked up one of the rabbit pillows and held it to her chest. "This is the softest thing I've ever touched, kero. Where did you get it?"

"Made it."

"You MADE this?!"

"Sewing is a useful skill. It helps with fine motor control. And stress management. And—stop looking at me like that."

"We're not looking at you like anything," Midoriya said, but he was. He was looking at her like she'd just revealed a piece of herself she'd been hiding for two lifetimes. The Jester. The Symbol of Balance. The woman who'd stood against All For One and told him he was lonely. She slept in a room full of stuffed rabbits and fairy lights. She'd made her own pillows. She'd sewn her own blanket.

She was, under all the paint and the sarcasm and the magical cards, incredibly, impossibly, heart-stoppingly soft.

Kirishima was crying. "This is so manly. I don't know why it's manly, but it IS."

"It's not manly," the Jester said. "It's just a room."

"It's YOUR room. It's the room of someone who's been through hell and decided to make something gentle instead. That's the manliest thing I've ever seen."

Bakugo, who had appeared in the doorway at some point despite his earlier refusal to participate, was staring at the rabbit clock with an expression that suggested he was reevaluating every assumption he'd ever made. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The slight pink tinge to his ears said enough.

"The bunny theme," Todoroki said, his voice thoughtful. "It's because of the card, isn't it? The rabbit on the moon. The card that represents hope and gentleness and things that seem impossible."

The Jester went still. "How do you know about that?"

"I've been researching tarot. Since your hero name. The Fool is the first card, but the rabbit is another one entirely. It's not part of the standard deck. It's from something older. Something that doesn't belong to this world." He met her eyes. "Like you."

The room was quiet. The fairy lights twinkled. The rabbit clock's ears twitched.

"Yes," the Jester said softly. "The rabbit is from something older. It's the card I've been looking for. The one that got away." She reached out and touched the rabbit clock, her fingers gentle on its painted ears. "It's why I have so many. The stuffed ones. The figurines. I've been trying to find the real one. The card. It's the only one I haven't caught yet."

"What card is it?" Midoriya asked.

"The Hope," she said. "It's the card that represents everything worth fighting for. Everything worth protecting. Everything worth believing in." She turned to look at them, her idiots, her students, her home. "I've been looking for it since I woke up in this world. And I think... I think I'm getting closer."

The silence stretched. Then Ashido burst into tears. "That's so beautiful! You're so beautiful! This room is beautiful! I can't handle it!"

"I'm not beautiful. I'm wearing face paint."

"YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL ON THE INSIDE!"

"That's not scientifically verifiable."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT SCIENCE!"

The class descended into chaos. Ashido was sobbing into Kirishima's shoulder. Uraraka was still holding the rabbit pillow like it was a holy relic. Tsuyu was examining the tarot deck with reverent fingers. Todoroki was staring at the rabbit clock with an expression that was almost soft. And Bakugo was still in the doorway, still not saying anything, still looking at the Jester like she was a puzzle he'd just figured out and the answer was something he hadn't expected.

"Oi," he said finally. "Jester."

"Explosion Boy."

He stepped into the room. The class parted for him instinctively. He stopped in front of her, his hands in his pockets, his jaw tight. "My old lady wants to meet you."

Silence. Absolute, deafening silence.

"Your... old lady," the Jester repeated.

"My mom. Mitsuki. She saw the broadcast. She saw you save my life. She's been screaming at me for three days to bring you over for dinner." He scowled. "You're coming. Tonight. Don't make it a whole thing."

The room erupted.

"OH MY GOD!" Ashido shrieked. "HE'S ASKING HER TO MEET HIS PARENTS!"

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I—"

"THIS IS A CONFESSION! THIS IS TOTALLY A CONFESSION!"

"I'M NOT CONFESSING ANYTHING! IT'S A DINNER! MY MOM WANTS TO MEET HER! THAT'S IT!"

"Meeting the parents is a HUGE step!" Kaminari was practically vibrating. "Bakugo, I didn't know you had it in you!"

"I DON'T—SHE'S NOT—WE'RE NOT—"

Kirishima was crying again. "So manly. Asking her out right in front of everyone. So manly."

"I'M NOT ASKING HER OUT!"

But no one was listening. The common room had become a frenzy of speculation and teasing and Bakugo's increasingly desperate denials. And in the corner, unnoticed by anyone, Midoriya Izuku was having a complete and total meltdown.

Kacchan was asking her to meet his parents. Kacchan, who had never shown interest in anyone, who had never looked at anyone the way he looked at the Jester, was asking her to meet his parents. And the Jester—the Jester was going to say yes. She had to say yes. It was a dinner. It was polite. It was what normal people did when someone's mother wanted to thank them for saving their life.

But what if it wasn't just a dinner? What if it was something more? What if Kacchan was using this as an excuse to confess his feelings? What if the Jester realized she had feelings for him too? What if they started dating, and got married, and had children, and named one of them after All Might, and—

"Midoriya."

He snapped back to reality. The Jester was looking at him, her head tilted, her bells chiming softly. "You're muttering."

"I—what—no I wasn't—"

"You were. You were saying something about children and All Might and a wedding venue. Are you okay?"

His face went through seventeen shades of red. "I'm fine! Totally fine! Absolutely normal! Nothing is wrong!"

She studied him for a moment longer, her eyes unreadable. Then she shrugged and turned back to Bakugo. "Fine. I'll come to dinner. But you're buying me strawberry milk on the way there."

"I'm not buying you anything!"

"Then I'm not coming."

"FINE! One strawberry milk! That's it!"

"Two."

"ONE!"

"Two, or I tell your mom about the time you cried during the cavalry battle."

"I DIDN'T CRY!"

"Your eyes were suspiciously moist."

"THAT WAS SWEAT!"

The class dissolved into laughter, and the Jester's bells chimed along with it, and Bakugo stormed off to his room with his ears burning and his fists clenched. But before he disappeared up the stairs, he paused. Just for a second. Just enough for her to see.

"Thank you," he said, so quietly no one else could hear. "For saving my life. I didn't say it before. But... thank you."

She nodded. "You're welcome, Explosion Boy."

And then he was gone, and the room tour continued, and the night settled into something warm and gentle and full of laughter. But Midoriya couldn't stop thinking about the dinner. Couldn't stop thinking about Kacchan's red ears and the way the Jester had teased him and the way she'd looked at him when she said yes. Couldn't stop thinking about his mother's question, and his own answer, and the way his heart had felt like it was cracking open when the Jester called him her favorite.

He was her favorite. He would always be her favorite.

Right?

Later that night, after the contest had been declared a tie because no one could agree on the winner, after the cake had been eaten and the dishes had been washed and the common room had emptied, Midoriya found himself on the roof. The stars were out. The moon was a sliver of silver. And the Jester was there, sitting with her legs dangling over the edge, her cards spread around her in a half-circle, their light soft and steady.

"I knew you'd be here," he said.

"You always know." She didn't turn around. "You're the only one who comes looking."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No. It's... nice. Being found." She patted the space beside her. "Sit, Midoriya. Tell me what's bothering you."

He sat. His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. "I'm not bothered. I'm just... thinking."

"About?"

"The dinner. With Bakugo's parents. Are you... are you nervous?"

"No. Mitsuki Bakugo is loud and aggressive and incredibly protective of her son. She's also fiercely kind and deeply grateful. She'll probably yell at Katsuki more than she yells at me. It'll be fine." She paused. "Is that what you came up here to ask?"

"No. I came up here to ask..." He swallowed. His throat was dry. "Jester-san, do you ever think about the future? About what comes after all of this? After U.A. and the League of Villains and the cards?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you see?"

She was quiet for a long moment. The cards pulsed around her. The Windy stirred her hair. "I see a world where you're the greatest hero of your generation. I see a world where Bakugo learns to be more than his anger. I see a world where Todoroki forgives himself, and Uraraka achieves her dreams, and Iida becomes the leader he was always meant to be. I see a world where my students don't need me anymore."

"And what about you? What do you see for yourself?"

She turned to look at him. Her painted grin was soft at the edges. Her eyes were distant. "I don't know," she said. "I've never been able to see my own future. Only everyone else's. Maybe that's the price of knowing too much."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair. You know that better than most."

He did. He'd been quirkless for most of his childhood. He'd been bullied and belittled and told he could never be a hero. And then he'd met All Might, and everything had changed. And then he'd met her, and everything had changed again.

"You told me I was your favorite," he said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt. "Did you mean it?"

"I always mean what I say. Even when I'm joking."

"But you joke a lot."

"Jokes are just truth wearing a mask. And I'm very good at masks." She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. Her bells chimed. "You're my favorite, Midoriya Izuku. Not because you're the strongest or the smartest or the most talented. Because you're the kindest. Because you never give up. Because you see the best in everyone, even when they can't see it in themselves. That's rare. That's precious. That's worth protecting."

He was crying. He hadn't meant to cry, but the tears were slipping down his cheeks anyway, and his chest was full of something too big to name. "I don't feel precious. I feel... I feel like I'm always one step behind everyone else. Like I'm always playing catch-up. Like no matter how hard I try, I'll never be good enough."

"You're already good enough. You've always been good enough. The only person who doesn't see that is you." She squeezed his shoulder. "You're going to be incredible, Midoriya. And I'm going to be right here, watching you become the hero you were always meant to be. That's a promise."

He looked at her. Her painted grin. Her gentle eyes. Her bells chiming softly in the night breeze. And he thought about his mother's question, and the way his heart had answered before his mind could catch up.

Yes, he had feelings for her. Yes, he wanted to be more than her favorite student. Yes, he wanted to be the one she came to when the weight of the world was too much.

But she wasn't ready for that. She was still healing. Still recovering. Still figuring out who she was in a world that wanted to make her a symbol. And he would wait. He would wait as long as she needed. Because she was worth waiting for.

"Jester-san," he said. "Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Anything."

"Will you... will you still be here? After all of this? After we graduate and become heroes and save the world? Will you still be here?"

She was quiet for a long moment. The stars wheeled overhead. The cards pulsed gently around them. And then she smiled. A real smile. Not the painted one. The one she only showed when no one was watching.

"Yes," she said. "I'll still be here. I'm not going anywhere, Midoriya. This is my home now."

And in that moment, sitting on the roof under the cold stars with her hand on his shoulder and her cards glowing around them, Midoriya Izuku made a promise to himself. He would become the greatest hero the world had ever seen. He would protect the people he loved. And he would be there for her, the way she had been there for him, for as long as she needed.

Forever, if she'd let him.

The dinner at the Bakugo household was three days later. The Jester arrived with two bottles of strawberry milk and a painted grin that didn't quite hide her nerves. Bakugo met her at the door, his ears already red, his scowl firmly in place.

"Don't say anything weird," he muttered.

"I always say something weird. It's my brand."

"Then don't say anything."

"I can't say nothing and also say something weird. Those are mutually exclusive."

"Then just—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him in waves. "Just be yourself. But less."

"Less myself?"

"Less... you."

"That's not how identity works."

Before he could respond, the door swung open and Mitsuki Bakugo appeared. She was tall and blonde and radiating the kind of chaotic energy that made her son's explosions seem mild by comparison. Her eyes locked onto the Jester, and her face split into a grin that was somehow both terrifying and warm.

"THERE SHE IS!" Mitsuki grabbed the Jester by the shoulders and pulled her inside before Bakugo could react. "The Symbol of Balance! The girl who saved my idiot son! You're even prettier in person! Look at that face paint! Look at those bells! Katsuki, why didn't you tell me she was this cute?!"

"I didn't—she's not—MOM!"

"Shut up, brat! I'm talking to your girlfriend!"

"She's NOT my girlfriend!"

"She's your SOMETHING! Nobody risks their life for just a classmate!"

The Jester, caught in Mitsuki's iron grip, managed to keep her painted grin in place. "It's an honor to meet you, Bakugo-san. Your son is... loud. And aggressive. And surprisingly dedicated to his training."

"Surprisingly?!" Bakugo sputtered.

"He's also brave. And determined. And he fought harder than anyone to get back to us after Kamino. You raised a hero, Bakugo-san. You should be proud."

Mitsuki's grin softened. Her grip loosened. "I am proud," she said quietly. "I'm so proud it scares me. And I'm grateful. To you. To all of you who brought him home." She pulled the Jester into a hug that was gentler than her grip had been. "Thank you. For saving my son. For protecting him when I couldn't."

The Jester was very still for a moment. Then, slowly, she raised her arms and hugged Mitsuki back. "You're welcome," she said. "He's worth protecting."

"I KNOW, RIGHT?!"

And just like that, the moment shattered into chaos again. Mitsuki dragged the Jester into the dining room, where Masaru Bakugo was waiting with a gentle smile and a perfectly set table. Dinner was loud and messy and full of Mitsuki's stories about Katsuki's childhood, each one more embarrassing than the last.

"He used to cry every time he lost a game! Every single time!"

"I was FOUR!"

"He used to think his explosions came from eating spicy food! He'd eat peppers until his mouth was on fire!"

"THAT WAS ONE TIME!"

The Jester laughed. Actually laughed. Not the performative cackle she used in battle, not the dry chuckle she used to deflect questions. A real laugh, bright and surprised, her bells chiming along with it. Bakugo stared at her. His ears were red. His scowl was nowhere to be found.

She was laughing. At his embarrassing childhood stories. In his house. With his parents.

And he didn't hate it.

After dinner, Mitsuki cornered the Jester in the kitchen while Bakugo was distracted by his father's questions about training. "Listen," she said, her voice low. "I know my son is difficult. He's angry and loud and he doesn't know how to express anything except through his fists. But he's got a good heart. A really good heart. And I think you see that."

"I do," the Jester said.

"And I think you care about him. More than you let on."

The Jester was quiet. Mitsuki took that as confirmation.

"Just... be patient with him, okay? He's never had someone like you before. Someone who sees through the explosions to the person underneath. He doesn't know what to do with that."

"I'll be patient," the Jester said. "I promise."

Mitsuki grinned. "Good. Now get out of my kitchen before I start asking about grandchildren."

"Mitsuki!" Masaru called from the other room. "Leave the poor girl alone!"

"I'M JUST SAYING!"

The Jester left the Bakugo household that night with a container of leftovers, a standing invitation to Sunday dinners, and the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being part of a family. Bakugo walked her to the train station in silence, his hands in his pockets, his scowl back in place.

"My mom likes you," he said finally.

"I gathered."

"She never likes anyone."

"I'm honored."

"She's already planning the wedding."

The Jester stopped walking. Her bells chimed. "The what?"

"NOTHING. She's not planning anything. Forget I said that." His ears were crimson. "Just—thanks. For coming. For dealing with her. For..." He trailed off, his jaw working. "For everything."