â This is a mostly SFW fan-fiction blog, but there will occasionally be some sensitive/adult themes. ALL written posts (except mini's) will have WARNINGS listed. Please heed them, so you don't get hurt <3
Minors should NOT interact with NSFW (18+) Material!
â All "X Reader" posts are gender neutral. It will be specified with a '!' if the post is geared for a particular gender. (ex. "X Fem!Reader")
(Please note that some quirk specific self-inserts will also be presented this way)
â SPOILERS. EVERYWHERE. (These will be listed in Warnings, but please proceed with caution.)
â Please be nice to each other, I want everyone to feel safe in this little.. library of my mind. <3
Current Obsessions:
â BNHA Boku No Hero Academia. (lol that's it for right now.)
Itâs fairly common practise for Pro Heroes to sign up as organ donators, right? And maybe, in a lot of cases, the body just isnât in a condition where things can be safely donated but every now and thenâ
Youâve needed a heart transplant for a while, now. Quirk compatibility can mean a lot of donations justâarenât viable, for you. And itâs fine, you live a good life, if not quiet. But youâre out shopping for groceries when the news of Red Riot falling in battle breaks. People are standing together in little groups on their phones, or talking in hushed voices about the brutality of the fight, and how many of the Golden Generation have been belted into the ground.
At first you thinkâoh, itâs just a bad fight, Red Riot will get up again. You canât imagine anything felling his strong, unbreakable self. But he doesnât.
When you get the call to come into the hospital for a donor match, your stomach tightens.
The nation goes into mourning while youâre in recovery.
You sleep through the early days in the ICU. Itâs only when youâre in your own room, still on breathing apparatuses, that youâre exposed to the news, the coverage of the funeralâPro Heroes in dark, stiff suits and clothes bowing deeply to the funeral photo displayed in front of a sea of red flowers. Crimson Riot even comes out of retirement for it.
Youâre not told who your new heart belonged toâyou wonât be, unless his family gives consent. All you know is that the pair of you were the same age, and he identified as male. It does not reassure you, and in the dim glow of your room at night you cry.
For years youâve wanted this moment. Justâa promise of some kind of future, instead of the tangible clock that had been ticking over you since infantdom. And now you were here, on the threshold of it, butâat what cost? Whoâs heart were you carrying now? Whoâs heart did you have to protect, fiercely, for the rest of your life?
âYouâre allowed to grieve,â the social work tells you, sitting with you in the open air, peeling a mandarin. Youâve been in hospital for a month, nowâtheyâre waiting to make sure you can at least cough without sending yourself into cardiac arrestâbut itâs bearable in that you can sit in the sunshine, now, and soak it up, your new heart easing in your chest as you do.
âAm I?â You ask, dryly.
The social worker raises her eyebrow. âYou donât think you are?â
You shrug, taking the piece of fruit sheâs now offering youâa fat, papery worm, glowing in the sunlight.
The social worker hums as she watches you play with it, picking at the white threads. âPut it this way: youâve lived your entire life knowing that if something didnât change, it was likely going to be a short one. That in itself is itâs own kind of griefâand now, suddenly, randomly, youâve been given a chance, an extension. You can⌠start doing things. Limited in some ways, maybe, butâyou have choice now. You have choiceâand itâs only come to you because someone else died first. I think that gives you the right to be a little sad, donât you think?â
The sunâs warm on your hair, your face as you rub it on your shoulder, silent.
âSomeone else had their choices taken away from them,â you say after a long, long moment.
The social workerâs face softens, and she leans forward, her hand warm on your knee. âNot this choice,â she reminds you, gently, squeezing. âNot the choice to help someone like you.â
You nod, your throat thick, and when your tears dropâwarm, like the ocean in summerâshe just squeezes harder.
The letter you write to your donorâs family had been one of the hardest things youâd ever had to write.
What do you say? What can you say? Iâm so sorry for your loss. Iâm so thankful for my new chance. It seemedâcruel, to you. Like you would be rubbing it in their face. And then there was the fearâthe silent fear, over whoâs heart, exactly, you had.
No one pushes you.
âItâs your choice,â the social worker tells you, unperturbed. âJust like itâs theirs if they want any further contact. Some families form good, long relationships with recipients. Iâve seen mothers become best friends over this loss and gain. And Iâve seen people not want anything to do with it, to remind them.â
You still donât know his name. You donât know if you want to, butâ
You write the letter.
Iâm so sorry for your loss, you say, your hand shaking. You had preferred to write it by handâit seemed more intimateâbut now you were here, your new heart was thumping hard. Iâm so sorry. Nothing I can think of to say will ever be enough but I promise that I will carry his heart with me safely, for the rest of our lives.
You donât hear back from them. Itâs alrightâit doesnât lessen your promise, to yourself or to him.
Even after youâre discharged from the hospital, you have to remain close to the centreâthe check-ups and monitoring, to make sure your heart takes completely, is intensive.
Youâd prepared for thisâyou rent a small room nearby. Its windows face the afternoon sunlight and you have access to the rooftop of the building, where theyâre encouraging a small garden. In the afternoons you take yourself and your new heart up there and together watch the glow of the sun over the city.
You have to report everything to the team, but eventually you can start to live again, your life unpaused.
âWeâll get you started on a slightly more intensive exercise program, now,â your doctor says at one of your meetings. âAdd-on to those warm-ups. How do you feel about cycling?â
You laugh. âIâve never⌠Iâve never been allowed.â
Smiling, your doctor adjusts his glasses. âWell, nowâs as good enough time as any to see if you like it.â
You start seeing the Pro Heroes around about the same time you notice a shift in some of your habits, your tastes.
The Pros you can explain away; theyâre Heroes afterall, patrol probably takes them all around the city. But you look up, often, when youâre out on the street or walking along your new exercise route and see Chargeboltâstartling, like heâs shocked himself. One time you swear heâs tailing youâbut when you turn heâs going the other way, whistling. Youâd be scared, you think, if you didnât already have your suspicions.
The new habitsânew tastesâare a little harder to handwave.
One of the treatment plans youâd walked away with was a new diet. Youâd always been good, before the transplant, because you had to be: eating a lot of greens, fresh things, lean meats like fish and sea food and chicken. But now all you wanted wasâBBQ. Meat. Red meat, grilled on a flame, thinly sliced, thickly sliced, you didnât care, you just wanted it dripping. Maybe it was your medication. You didnât know. It wasnât just the new cravings that threw you. You had, to some degree, always been shy. It had been hard to talk to people, to be easy about it. Some of it had been just who you were, innately; some of it the awkwardness of knowing the way people would look at you once they learnt about your condition. Maybe it was just the new lease on life butâyouâd lost some of that hesitation, the fear. You could talk to people, strangers, easily now, standing in lines together, laughing. You lost the shyness of hiding your scar, too, walking around your home and the gym without the lifeline of a shirt that covered everything upâwearing loose, comfortable things in public, no matter what they showed.
âMedication and trauma can change a lot things,â your doctor says, when you mention this at your next biopsy. You nodâitâs an echo of your own thoughts, you guess, but stillâ
The doctor glances at you, then smiles at your disappointment. âIt doesnât mean it canât be something else. Thereâs enough anecdotal evidence with transplant recipients that suggest maybe thereâs something there.â
âHave you seen anything like that?â You ask, wondering.
Your doctor raises his eyebrows, thinking. âA few times,â he starts, cautiously, âthereâs been a couple of coincidences that are⌠interesting.â He taps your chart, mindless. âNot everything we do has to come back to science.â
Not everything we do has to come back to science. You think of this when your heart picks up after a bike ride, like its exhilarated. When you find it easy, too easy, to laugh with someone you donât know, to grin.
You think of this when you finally, finally get an answer back to your letter.
Itâs from Pinkyâthe Pro Hero. You had admired her so muchâher brightness, her bravery. And now you were holding an actual letter from her, in your hands, all your fears and suspicions confirmed.
Iâm sorry itâs taken so long!! She writes. Eiâs parents pretty much shared your letter with the rest of us straight away, but none of us could agree on what we wanted to do. I hope this isnât weird. You can ignore it if it is!!!! But hi!!! You must be living your new life now happilyâbut Iâm missing Ei so much tonight and I knew that if I didnât write this Iâd explode with it, like KABOOM! Does it come as a shock???? I think I would be shocked, if it were me, but alsoâI think you should know!!! Eijirou was a Hero, always, and I think itâs right that you at least know about his last heroic act. BlastyâBakugou, Dynamight Serial Whingerâwas against us having anything to do with you, you know, I think because he thinks it would make things too hard for everyone butâ!! Heâs wrong!!!!!! He just doesnât want to face it! And thatâs fine I guess, for him, but youâre not a puppy weâre trying to replace Ei withâwe just I just needed to know that some part of him is still out there, carrying on. Your letter comforted me a lot in the early days. And Eiâs parents, though I donât know if theyâll ever tell you themselves. Itâs because of what you saidâfor the rest of your lives. I know Eiâs gone. We all know Eiâs gone, thereâs no escaping itâitâs too obvious. Itâll always be too obvious. Every time something good happens, every time something bad happensâheâs here for none of it and it sucks so much. But then also thereâs a tiny bit of it thatâsâthatâs maybe okay???? Because thereâs a tiny part of him that gets to go on and have adventures with you and live with you. So even if you never want to meetâand thatâs totally okay!!! I promiseâbut even if you never wanted to see me or others or anyone, ever, just knowing that Ei is out there with youâout there in the world, still helping someone, itâs enough. Itâs more than enough. Thank-you for looking after him. Heâs in your hands now and I know heâll be okay. I know youâll both be okay.
You and PinkyâAshido to you, nowâmeet in a cafĂŠ a week later, bright and white and smelling like warm bread.
Youâre there firstâwith some flowers. When the door opens and she steps in, you cannot miss herâshe is bright and vivid and holding a bouquet of her own and when she sees you, she smiles, brilliantly, relievedâand then bursts into tears.
For hours you sit there in that cafĂŠ as it loses the warmth of the sun, the walls turning orange, then dark as the tiny lights of it turn on. You hold her hand the entire time as the pair of you talk. Even on the verge of tears sheâs energetic, making you laugh. You talk about everythingâher struggles in the last few months, your struggles in your life, what work is like for her, how you stopped yourself from going stir-crazy before your transplant and⌠Eijirou Kirishima. Red Riot.
Ashido shakes her head, her curls soft around her face. âI think he really wouldâve liked meeting you,â she says, blinking back her tearsâa sudden turnabout from her laughter, moments before.
You squeeze her hand. âHe sounds wonderful,â you tell her as she nods.
âHe was,â she says. âHe is. He is.â
âHe is,â you repeat and she smiles at you gratefully.
Even though, privately, you think sheâs more at risk than you are, she walks you home, sniffing into the sleeves of her neon-blue and green jacket when you get to your door.
âCan Iââ she stops herself, biting her lip, and you wait for her as she gathers up whatever courage she needed to ask, âCan Iâis it okay if I hug you?â
The lump in your throat is probably responding to hers, you think, holding out your arms. She hugs you tightly for a long, long while, wetting the shoulder of your top as you tentatively stroke her back.
Between you, your heart beats steadilyâreassuring, you think, for all three of you.
Meeting Ashido opens the floodgates.
Can I bring the boys to meet you??? She asks, over text. When you meet up againâa different cafe, this time, itâs just her andâ
âChargebolt,â you say, levelling him with a look. âHave you been enjoying my morning runs?â
The blond laughs, unashamed even as Ashido groans. âIâm so sorry,â she apologises for him, âwe all told him to leave itââ
âI just wanted to make sure!â He protests, standing up to greet you. âHey! Look, Iâm sorry if it weirded you out, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.â
You smile at him, unable to help it and when you hold out your hand to him to shake, he grabs it with both of his, not letting go.
âSero and Bakugou didnât want to come,â Ashido apologises further. âThey both found it weird.â
âTheyâre allowed to make that choice,â you say, thinking of your social worker tilting her head back for a catnap in the sun.
It does not stop Ashido, or ChargeboltâDenki, he tells you to call him. Instead of trying to be furtive, he now joins you on your morning runs, prattling away about his day, asking you how yours is going, teasing you about the bastria at the coffee cart you always stop by, for a water.
The pair of them invite you out to everythingâbreakfasts, lunches, afternoon snacks, dinners. At first itâs just the three of you, your own little trio where you can laugh and unfurl and ease into yourself, into them. And then other faces appearâCellophane, next, the reluctant Sero, still unsure of you. And then after himâTodoroki Shouto, who shakes your hand with his cold one and offers you your jacket when you shiver later that night, at dinner. UrarakaâUravityâcomes to the next time you hand out with them, smiling and treating you kindly and then after her is Deku, the Deku, who asks you a hundred questions about the process of a transplant and the Quirk specialists you had to see. He tears up at the end of the night, dabbing furiously at his eyes when you say, unthinking, âthatâs so manly!ââin response to him bashfully explaining one of his newest moves.
It almost feelsâlike a new life. Like a promise. You worry, sometimes, that despite Ashidoâs reassurances you are indeed some kind of replacement pet to the friend theyâve lost. Youâre still your own personâyou have a life outside of meeting up with themâbut⌠even if this is some temporary thing for them, to help them ease into the next part of their lives without their friendâitâs easing something up in you, too. The guilt you feel, about taking someone so precious away from them, from Japan.
But theyâre collectively waiting for something, and you donât realise the true test of it until Ashido asks you over to her place, one day.
He didnât know you were coming, you think. When you get there Ashido ushers you into her apartment and you walk into her livingroom and are faced with Denki and Cellophane andâ
Dynamight, whoâs staring at you as though youâve walked in dripping in blood, his handsome face quickly hardening.
âDude!â Denki says, moving in, hands up. âBefore you say anythingââ
Dynamightâs face twists heavily, as he shoots up. âYou stupid fucks,â he spits. âDid you even fucking think about this?â
Your heart is thumping, Ashidoâs hand in the small of your back as you all watch the explosive Pro storm into the kitchenâCellophane and Denki wincing at the sound of slamming doors.
âWell,â Denki says after a long moment, âthat went better than expected.â
âDenks,â Ashido says, calmly, âshut-up.â
The four of you eventually move to the patio, opening out onto Ashidoâs garden. Youâre here for a late lunch but it stretches out as the others drink, the smell of something sizzling wafting out of the kitchen. Evenutally Denki and Cellophane start chasing each other around with water gunsââNo Quirks!â Denki screams, missing Cellophaneâs tapeâand Ashido makes you sit as she clears away empty cups, disappearing inside.
Youâre alone, effectively, in the warm of the sun, turning your face to it like a lizard and like this you donât miss the heavy footsteps behind you.
You open your eyes as he stops beside you, a plate of grilled meat in his hand, bread in the other.
ââShitty of âem to dump either of us on each other without fuckinâ warning, first,â he says gruffly. You watch him as he sets his plates down, then hesitates, frowning deeply. âI didnât want to do this,â he tells you, sharps eyes on your face, now, darting over it. âYouâve got your own life to live. You donât need our crap, and we donât need to hold ourselves back with this.â
It hurts that heâd talk like this and you frown down at your fingers, curling against the table. âI want to be here,â you tell him, firmly. âFor however long this lasts. This isnât just for them.â
Dynamightâs jaw tightens and he looks away, unable to bear the sight of you for too long, it seems. âGot any plans?â He asks, and you have the feeling heâs not just talking about your week or month ahead.
âI donât know,â you say carefully. âIâIâve never had the luxury of making too many.â
You donât miss when he swallows, those infamous eyes of hisâblazing red in the sunlightâturning back to you. âWell, yâgot your damn luxury now.â
You can almost taste his bitterness, and when you reply, itâs soft. âItâs not by choice.â
His forearmsâbare in his dark singletâtense, and youâre wonderingly, idly, if this Pro Hero would like nothing better than to melt your face off and confiscate your heart himself when he says, lowly, âYouâre right. Mâsorry.â
You nod, and the pair of you sit there for a long moment, the shouting of the others distant as they disappear around a corner, the summer heat simmering.
Dynamight walks you home, that day.
Itâs engineered by the others, you knowâthey have a lot of trust in him, you think, the pair of you not talking. He was right in that it was shitty of them to do this to the both of you: you werenât a therapist and whatever grief Dynamight was carrying with him was above your pay grade.
You need him to slow down, at one point, however, stilling by a small corner park near your house, bare of any kids, the playground equipment faded.
âEi loved brats,â Dynamight volunteers suddenly as you sit on a barrier, giving yourself a moment. âYou?â
You shrug, digging the toe of your shoe into the dirt. âKids are alright, but Iâve neverâthought about them.â
The blond grunts, his hands in his pockets and youâre thinking of telling him he can go, now, when he says, âYou should go on vacation.â
You stare at him, waiting, and he scowls, golden in the late light. âRecoveryâs probably stressful as shit, yeah? Thereâs what, a year of biopsies and shit?â
âSomething like that,â you confirm, wondering.
He jerks his head. âYeah, well, after it all. You should go somewhere. Anywhere. Get out of the city.â
You dig your toe in deeper, thinking that maybe you can see why. âAny suggestions?â You ask.
Dynamight snorts. Itâs maybe the most good-humoured sound youâve heard from him, so far. âShit all. Youâve probably got places you wanna go, right? Pick one.â
The sky above you is blue and orange and empty of clouds. âIâve always wanted to spend a week by the ocean,â you tell him.
The blond tsks, then admits, âSalt airâs good for you, nâshit.â You nod along and the silence lapses again until he volunteers, abrupt, âEi was always talking about getting outta the city sometime. Andâhe canât do it now, so⌠you might as well.â
For your sake, or for his? You want to ask. You donât. Eventually Dynamight holds out his hand to you to help you up and you keep walking as the city glows around you.
He makes sure you get to your front door. âLook after Shitty Hairâs heart,â the blond demands, suddenly as it tightens in your chest. âDonât let it break for any stupid reason, or extra.â
Tears prick at your eyesâthis man is exhausting, you think. But you swallow, breathe inâand then nod.
Heâs still frowning at you, jaw softening just slightly. âItâs your life now,â he reminds you. âJust⌠look after him for me.â
âCross my heart,â you reply, and the blonde snorts.
You book a little house right on the beach, later that night.
When you arrive in the afternoon a few weeks later, the house is filled with light. You open the patio doors and the windows and watch the curtains move with the sea breezeâtaste the salt. Itâs just you in this house for a weekâyou can sleep whenever you want, eat whatever you want, lay in the sun, read your favourite books, all with the ocean before you.
You want to walkâpadding down the stairs, the sand at the bottom is cool on your feet, this far back. In front of you the ocean stretches on in a blue foreverâclouds billowing across the skyline, lazy. Like this you feel like you can soar and you hold your arms to catch the breeze, your fingers curling with it.
Itâs just you and the ocean, out here. You and the ocean and your heart, the beat of it steady and reassuring.
âYou and me,â you promise him, out loud. The sun is warm on your face and you smile to yourself.
I genuinely love reading Y/Nâs with backstories!!
For me itâs like, what profession am I in today?? Omg, I have a sibling⌠and theyâre my evil twin!? My bestie is actually a super spy?? I have this really cool superpower that lets me do XYZ?!
Itâs like alternate versions of myself, or thatâs how I look at it. Theyâre not exact. Nothing will be unless so pay someone to write a fic for me with me or I write a fic for myself. If you wanna read something where you have zero personality⌠cool I guess. Glad thatâs what you relate to?
You are five when your Quirk manifests for the first time, with Rinchan.
âźď¸đ content warnings: implied major character death, death in general, in a myriad of ways (falling, head trauma, old age, drowning, suicide), im a little graphic for emphasis, grief and mourning. thereâs also some light smut and implied underage sex.
Rinchan. Rinchan who watches you while your mother goes to work. Rinchan with her big, soft, crepe-paper arms; who holds you in them for as long as you want, singing you songs as she shells peas into a metal bowlâyou clinging to her, placid as a koala, your legs dangling over her lap. Rinchan who is probably your most favourite person in the entire worldâthe entire world being your neighbourhood and your school and the nearby park, overgrown, and the overwhelming shopping centre a car ride away.
Rinchan. Rinchan. Rinchan who, when you are five, starts appearing before you naked and wet, her face covered in blood.
The first time it happens sheâs still alive; the sizzle of her cooking coming from the kitchen just behind you as you sit on the floor with a pile of milk-chews in front of you, staring in frozen horror at this other herâshining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O, everything about her soft and sagging.
You make a tiny noiseâfear, caught in your throat, a baby mouse curled upâand then Rinchan, your Rinchan, Rinchan alive and warm and dry, calls out, âAre you okay, Baby?â
The Other Rinchanâs mouth stretches open further, like it recognises herâlike itâs trying to say something back and youâ
You wail in answer, scrabbling at Rinchan (living, alive) when she flys in, concerned, asking, âWhat? What? What is it? Whatâs wrong?â her soft crepe-paper arms around you tight as you sob into her neck.
Sheâs bewildered and a little frightened herself; but she hums as she rocks you, a warm hand stroking your back, soothing you both until your sobs are little more than wet snuffling, your hand curling into the fabric of her dress.
You loved her. You love her, still, after all this time. But that love doesnât save either of you, and you are haunted by the other Rinchan for the rest of that awful summer: in the park, with your friends, Rinchan watching, mouth agape, from the bushes. Walking home, hand-in-hand with your mother, Rinchan behind you. Alone in your bedroom, at night, Rinchan standing over you as you watch the water drip down her skin. You start wetting yourself with the fear, whenever it happensâa response that quickly loses you those parkside friends and worries your mother and living Rinchan sick, the pair of them whispering about you when they think you canât hear, their fearâyour fearâcondemning you to pull-ups, like a giant baby.
It doesnât stop the end from coming.
Rin dies just before Halloween, when the shops are filled with green-faced witches and plastic skeletons that rattle and canât frighten you, anymore. She dies alone, at night. A fall in the shower, your mother tells you in a whisper a couple of days later, red-eyed. You knew enough by then to be able to picture it: Rin, shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled Oâher face covered in blood.
Your mother holds your hand at her funeral, too tight, and you cling back and say nothing.
The other Rinchan never comes back. Rin never comes backâcannot come back, no matter how much you love her.
Others do, though.
Itâs a parade of the dead, shuffling forward to a dirge only you can hear. You learn, over time, that itâs specific to people you either know or will come to knowâpeople you have some kind of tie to, some bond, good or bad. When you are fifteen itâs your homeroom teacher Miss Aoki: her head and shoulder caved in, her right eye bulging out at you, unseeing. Youâd been drinking a bottle of milk-tea when she arrived, the blood stark and jewel-like in the daylight. You do not touch milk-tea for ages, afterwards.
You no longer wet yourself in fear, but you cannot look your teacher in the eye for weeksâit ruins everything. You stop pausing after homeroom to talk to her, stop sharing the music that brought you together, unable to face her, unable to face the bemusement and then the tiny flashes of hurt.
You cannot warn her. What would you warn her about? The trauma to her head couldâve been a fall, or some kind of rockâan accident or murder. And even if you knew, even if you could pinpoint it, she would not believe you. You know that because you had tried, with the ghost after Rinchanâwith Yochan. Yochan, a boy from your neighbourhood and once, once before your Quirk had come, a boy you had followed around like a guiding star. You and all the other kids, faithful to him above all. But when your Quirk came and you got weird, he got mean.
âYouâre a stupid piss-baby!â Heâd shout at you, cackling. The other kids hung back, unsure of how to treat youâand this was how you saw him, the other him, standing behind the others with a swollen, awful face, his Endeavour shirt stained with a creamsicle, his eyes disappeared under the red, weeping slits of an allergic reaction.
You tried. You tried.
âYochan,â youâd whisper, âpleaseââ
His face would twist in disgust though, any time you came near him. âFreak!â heâd hiss. âPiss-baby! Get lost!â
Heâd run away, then, laughing to himself and telling everyone that you had threatened him (âPiss Baby wants me dead!â)âand you had shut into yourself more, haunted by the agonised version of him that only you could see, that would stand there in your bedroom and twitch, the last throes of death.
It came for him, eventually. More than half a year later, during a game of softball where heâd knocked over a wasp nest and stomped over to it, the others too scared.
(The teacher explains it in class the following week and you sit there, in your seat by the window, untouched by the light. Empty.
Miss Aoki dies during the war, caught in the shadow of a collapsing building. You go to her service without your mother to hold your hand, and pray for forgiveness.)
You can map your life by the bodies that follow you. A year after after Miss Aoki itâs Hiroe: the tiny, fierce old woman down the street who grumbles at you every morning. When her doppleganger appears across the street from the pair of you, thin and wan and gasping as the hospital gown slips off her shoulders, the living her angrily talking about her carnations, the only thing you feel is relief. Sheâll be in hospitalâsomeone will be with her. It wonât be alone in a shower, or sprawled out on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her. Itâll be death, still, leeching the life out of a woman who pertly tells you that the colour of your coat doesnât suit you, but itâll better than some of the lonely things youâve seen, you live with.
(But itâs not better at all. Hiroeâs son works too hard, his hours too long in the aftermath of the war, helping the restoration. You visit her after school, bright flowers in hand and some of the colour returns to her face as she complains that youâre already dressing her altar, but her son is never thereâand she dies alone, during the night, gasping for breath.)
Youâre cursed, you think; cursed to see death everywhere you go, in everyone you know. And then you meet Kouki and realise that your curse smears over your future, too.
Kouki. Kouki with his brilliant red hair, like autumn leaves in the sunlight. Kouki who laughed easily, who would evenutally come to keep his pocket full of those old-fashioned milk-chews, just for you. Kouki, who, before you meet him alive, you meet deadâfloating mid-air before you during your walk home one night, his hair dancing around his face, his eyes unseeing as his mouth opens and closes, gulping for air that isnât there.
You are seventeen by this stage. It had been a hard couple of years with Miss Aoki, with the war, with Hiroe. Kouki appears before you under a streetlamp and you drop your schoolbag, your throat siezing.
âDonât,â you say to this corpse of a boy you havenât met, yet. âDonâtâdonât you dare do this to me.â
He opens his mouth; a tiny silver fish darts out and you burst into tears, overwhelmed, your new ghost lingering with you as you sob on the street, alone in the night. You donât even know him. You donât even know him.
He transfers to your senior class at the end of the month.
By then you had gotten used to the vision of him, numbly, the drowned boy following you around like a harmless strayâkeeping you company on your walks home from your part-time job. You had sat with him as he floated, you solidly on the ledge of a park, unwrapping milk-chews and staring out at the dark before you, undaunted and unafraid, the most haunted thing there as his tiny fish flittered about him, again and again, on loop.
And then he walks into class that first day, and you areâyou are frozen, even as he grins at you, bright and undaunted and alive.
âHey,â he says after class, too interested and too friendly. âYou look a little frightenedâyou good?â
Considering you had woken up that morning to his vestige floating at the foot of your bed, you most certainly were not good. What you say instead though is a curt, âIâm fine,â which proves to be mistake.
His eyesâbig and blueâbrighten at the challenge, and he grins.
âFujita Kouki,â he introduces himself. âWhatâs your name?â
In the daylight, the light of the living where he can soak in the sun and return it, KoukiâsâFujitaâsâeyes are warm, not the milky colour youâve been haunted with. You should walk away, you think desperately, wavering; you should retreat immediately. But the daylight is seductive. You are seventeen and it has a been a hard year and you are tired of being afraid.
Your lips part, even as you hesitate. But when you give him your name, his smile widens, and it almostâalmostâchases the ghosts away.
Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.
Best friend is not the right term; itâs not fair to him and what you know about him. It doesnât capture the horror of seeing him walk into your classroom that first day, nor the fear that follows you when heâs late to meeting up, or stays home from school because of a cold, because heâs bored. Butâ
Heâs easy going. Refreshing, like cold, sparkling lemonade in the hot sun. Heâs friendly and quickly becomes popular with so many of the others in your class and he wants toâhe wants to hang out with you, walk you home. With Kouki youâre not the Silent Weirdo that never interacts with anyone. With Kouki you laughâall the time, like all he wants to do is make you happy. He fills his pockets with those milk-chews and walks with you in the evenings, pushing his bike alongside you, telling you about the way his little brother terrorises his parents and how his father has been wanting to go on a vacation for years, nowâand you let him. You let him become apart of your life, you let him walk you home. You let him sink into everything you know, into your pores, the fabric of who you are. Heâs the good morning lets gooo texts before you meet up for school. Heâs the warmth against you as you sit side-by-side on your park ledge, no longer the most haunted thing in the dark but what you should have always been: just a kid, sitting with a friend. Being with Kouki is easy, too easy. You no longer see the ghost of himâsuspended in midair, his silver fish. You just see him, have himâKouki, alive, chuckling to himself as he hands you another milk-chew.
âMy dadâs finally free,â he tells you one night. Youâre sitting on your ledge, mouth full of the creamy chewsâKouki (living) before you, lingering close.
âMmph?â You question, unable to quite pry your jaw open enough for real words.
Kouki laughs like you had said something funny, and despite yourself your stomach flips, pleased to hear it. Heâd been subdued; unusually quiet, had been since lunch that day, when Keichan had confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. Keichan was pretty, effervescentâshe laughed like he did, easily and among others who sparkled with her attention. On paper they were a perfect match and you almost wanted itâyou wanted Kouki to be happy, however it happened. For as long as he could be.
But he had said no. You, sitting on the edges of the yard and picking at the grass, had been unable to help but watch in the same horrified, fascinated fear as everyone else, all of you silent. Keichanâs pretty faceâshocked. Koukiâs red hair shinning brilliantly like fire, as he shook his head.
âSorry,â heâd said, not sounding the least bit contrite. âI justâI donât want that.â
In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.
âThe old manâs finally got that time off he wanted,â Kouki explains. You nod, swallowing your chews and trying to ignore how he moves forwardâbracketing you, where you sit. âHe wants to go fishing.â
âOh,â you say, a little uselessly. Koukiâs hands are either side of you, distractingâthe space between you warm, as he dips his head in closer.
You still. Heâs always crowded your space but tonight in the silver light his faceânormally so open, lightâis afraid.
âYou never tell me what youâre thinking,â he says, low, and you shake your head, emptied of words. It wasnât trueâyou told him about the books you read, the songs you heard. The way you liked cupping sunlight in your hands because it made them glow, made you feel like you had a different Quirk entirely. You had never told anyone else that.
Koukiâs eyebrows tighten; pull. Frustrated, maybe, even as his hand balls itself into your skirt.
It pulls you closer to him, just a little. Your hand comes up between youâyour fingers tracing the fold of his jacket pocket.
âYou smell like those milkchews,â he whispers, and your heart is in your throat even as your lips part, his parting in echo as he watches themâ
âand you donât know who pulls who in first but then you are kissing, a hand cupping your face, anchoring you to the moment, to him as your fist tightens into his jacket. You sigh into the cool of his mouth and can almost taste the way he smiles before he presses in harder, hungry.
He pulls away after a moment; only to press more kisses, soft and careful, against your mouth, your nose, your cheek, laughing when you make a tiny, annoyed noise.
âYouâre dumb,â he tells you, low, pressing another kiss against your hair, and then another. âAnd Iâm gonna take you out and watch you eat those dumb sweets and make you tell me everything youâre thinking, forever. Until youâre sick of me.â
Your heart lurches. Forever.
âI could never be sick of you,â you tell him, the ache reopening inside of you.
Kouki grins, pleased and so, so alive; his brilliance softening to a glow as he dips his face close again, tracing your nose with his.
âI mean it,â he says, quiet. Promising. âYouâre gonna have to chase me off.â
You try to stay in the warmth of him, the light and life, clutching at him, letting him kiss you again, soft.
But thereâs a sob in your throat. And when you open your eyes, breathing in as Kouki kisses your jaw, your neck, his spectre is thereâmouth gaping open, as a tiny, silver fish darts out.
(You beg him not to go, when his father announces the boat heâs rented, for his fishing trip. The manâs never been out on one before. Kouki has never seen your desperation, your fear, not like this and he almost stays, brows furrowedâbut his little brother is excited. His father too. He buys all three of them matching fishing hats.
âItâs okay,â he whispers against the back of your neck, when youâre curled up together in your tiny, childhood bed. The house is quiet; you have it to yourselves, the sunlight dappling in your room, filtered through the tree outside. âIâm a good swimmer. Donât worry.â
He presses a kiss against your shoulder, his fingers slow, tracing figures in the wet touch of your underwear. You breathe him in and to reassure yourself heâs right, that he will be okay, that you will always have this.
Heâs gone by the following week. A storm. Kouki was rightâhe was a good swimmer. But his little brother wasnât, and the love that made him go in the first place was the same love that made him search for him, endlessly, after their boat was capsized.
You go to the joint service. Kouki, his father, his little brother. His mother is held together by an older woman, desolate. In a row in front Keichan cries silent tears but youâ
You stand there and you stare at Koukiâs portrait, his smiling face. He will never again soak in the sunlight and reflect it He will never again wait for you, his pockets filled with your favourite sweets. He will never again kiss you, with the cool press of his lips, the taste of his laugh behind them.
Fujita Kouki is gone. He is gone, slipping awayâtaking the you who believed in hope and a future where you could be happy with him.)
The years slip away. One, then two, then three and then four and then five. You move to a bigger city; and then you move again. You work in offices, department stores, a warehouse once, washing carrotsâanything that will pay you, pay the bills. You keep to yourself and your coworkers lose interest in trying to keep up small talk with you and you donât form any kind of tie, good or bad, that could manifest before you, rattling in death.
Kouki would never forgive you for this bleak existence, you think, if he could see it. But wherever he is itâs not with you, not on this plane, and so you keep your head down and when one of your ghosts does come to you, you grit your teeth and ignore it.
Even in isolation, they find a way to haunt you. You start seeing the clerk from the 7/11 you stop in to and from work, his neck snapped, and you avoid the store for three weeks before telling yourself it was stupid of you, that maybe you could say somethingâonly to find someone else there, when you walk in, the guy already replaced.
The new hire at the office you work at starts appearing before you, swinging, his throat and face mottled as hands claw at a rope thatâs not there and youâyou thank him when he brings you a coffee, and try to be a little kinder, try to watch as he blends in with the others, laughs among them, the crack underneath his smile not showing.
He bungles a client, six months into working there. Your boss chews him out in front of everyone, the guy taking it with a silent, shame-faced nod, and when you try to say, âYou worked hard, mistakes can happen to anyoneââ he only bows hurriedly, already backing away.
(he doesnât come back, and two weeks later his desk is cleared.)
Head down, keep to yourself. Another year passes. And then another. And then your curse rears its ugly head one final, terrible time.
You are waiting for the lights to change in the middle of a busy street, on a cold, bright afternoon, when you first see him.
Youâre not paying attention; staring into the crowd on the other side of the street, thinking about what you had in the fridge at home and then heâs there, in your line of sight, his face twisting in fury, in grief, as he reaches out, shouting somethingâ
And then thereâs a flash of light, blinding and sharp and he is gone, startling you even as the crosswalk starts to sing, people moving around you like water around a stone as your heart races.
No, you think weakly. No. Not again.
He doesnât return and you stand there, in the same spot, even as the crosswalk blinks back to red.
All your life, your Quirk has worked one way: showing you the death of someone you already knew, for better or for worse. Not someone famous, not a stranger. Kouki had been anâanomaly, you thought, desperate. Some freak tie. Japan had gone through so much in those years during and after the war: reports of abnormal adolescent Quirk growth had spiked, at its worse. You had always thought that maybe yours had been apart of that, that thatâs what Koukiâs ghost had been. A result of stress, or your loneliness. Something, anything. And youâd only grown more sure of it when it didnât repeatâ
Until now.
You get home that night and in a fit of anger tear through everything, up end it all. Your clothes, out from the wardrobe or the basket, strewn along the floor. Your pots, clattering thunderously throughout your kitchen. You scream, pitching book after book across the room at your couch, the covers bending, pages tearing. You wouldnât go through it again, you wouldnâtâ
You curl up against your kitchen island, sobbing. You wouldnât. You wouldnât. You wouldnât do this. Not again. Not ever again.
(But your heartâs already sinking. Already tender with the hurt, remembered and preemptive. His hair had been golden in the lightâlike winter sun.
When your hiccups calm, you look upâand he is standing over you, his face twisting again. You shut your eyes but the flash is bright, even then. Nuclear.
When you open them, heâs gone.
âPlease,â you whisper to your empty apartment. âPlease donât do this to me.â
But itâs only the silence that answers you, the absence of mercy or comfort and you shudder, your tears nothing but salt in your mouth.)
Your plan, eventually, is simple: just ignore your newest ghost, when you finally meet him.
It should be easy. Even though he was a Pro-Hero he was also a famous oneâand how often did you run into famous Pro-Heroes? They always had something to defend, always had someone to save. You just had to keep living your life, squarely and safe and you would be fine. You would skirt past each other and he would live or die just however a Pro Hero should.
A month passes. And then another. You begin to think maybe youâre safe; and then youâre not.
âIf everyone can line up, then thatâll make everything go smoother,â your boss calls out, echoed throughout the office. Below on the street is the firetruckâoverseeing the drill. You peer over the ledge of the window in worry, trying to count the firefighters out: seven that you could see. If you saw anymore than that while out on the street you were just going to close your eyes and wait it out.
Your boss calls your nameâand when you glance to him, startled, he gestures with his megaphone, sheepish.
âCan you run and grab my laptop case for me?â he asks, already half out the door. âYouâre closer, and I have a feeling weâll be down there for a while.â
âYeah,â you say, already standing. You leave your own things at your deskâas youâre meant toâand dart to his office, partitioned by glass. When you turn around, the case in hand, the office is emptyâyour bossâs megaphone calling out down the hall, down the stairway, leaving you alone in the wake of it.
You go to the window again, to count the firefighters. One, two, three, four, five, six, sevenâ
You freeze. Thereâs an eighth figure there, standing solidly with them, talking, his arms crossed. A Pro Heroâdressed in black, with bright orange details.
Your ghost, you think in alarm.
He looks up at the window and you jerk away, startled. He shouldnât be able to seeâthe glass was tintedâbut his face is suspicious and you clutch your bossâs case to you tighter, heart thumping.
Donât give him a reason to single you out, you think desperatelyâyou hurry to join the others but they have left you on an empty floor, already making their way down the three flights quickly, leaving you and your noisy footfall as you race down the emergency stairsâonly to have the door to the lobby thrown open roughly before you could even reach it.
It bangs against the wall; leaving you to stare in silence as he fills the doorway fully, glowering, stopping you in your tracks.
âThe hell?â He asks you, roughly. Under his mask his eyes flicker over you, over the case in your hands, unimpressed. âWhy didnât you evacuate with the others?â
You can only shake your head, tucking your hands around the case tighter. Even having his spectre repeat and repeat in front of youâit doesnât compare to the space and heat of him in the flesh, taking up a doorway. Heâs more solid now, more real and when he shifts, just a fraction, you step back in fright.
Something his eyesâink red under his maskâdonât miss, narrowing.
âIâm sorry,â you say, and mercifully your voice is calm. âI had to grab something.â
âYou ainât meant to take anything,â he points out, barely civil, and you duck your head into a nodâhis jaw tightening in response.
Youâd rather this, you think, wincing. The brittle patience, barely hiding his rippling irritation. Anything was better than the despair thatâd been playing over and over in front of you.
Pro Hero DynamightâGreat Explosion Murder God: Dynamightâscowls at you, jerking behind him. âThe extra with the megaphone is doinâ roll call.â
He means your boss. You look at him, curious, and his mouth tightens. It doesnât thin the curve of his lips, though, and when you realise youâve noticed thatâ
You hold your bossâs laptop closer. âOkay,â you say, meaninglessly.
Dynamight only moves out of the way when you go to squeeze past him, your jacket catching against his suit as he grunts.
âWait,â he commands, annoyed. You stare ahead and will everything within your mind to empty as he pulls you free from the catch of one of his grenadesâyou mutter a thank-you and donât look back as you hurry to the glass doors, the light, the open outside away from him and the heat of his space.
(You hide behind your coworkers as your boss commends everyone for their examplumery speed and when one of the firefighters steps forward to walk everyone through the basic dangers of an office building fire itâs Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight who stands behind him, solid and real and flinty eyed, as he stares everyone down. Someone in front of you giggles; he glares at her until she stops, bowing her head in shame and letting him look directly atâ
You. Standing at the back.
His mask moves; his eyebrow raised. You lift yours in a helpless, silent, question. He frowns, like youâre speaking two different languages and morosely you think to yourself, so much for not giving him a reason to single you out.)
Itâs just one off-chance meeting, you tell yourself. Just a weird little moment to establish something there, and make you feel a little guilty when you hear about his death on the news.
Onlyâ
Only it keeps happening.
Perhaps itâs your karma, for never saying anything to the ghosts that had followed you. Or maybe itâs one last laugh from Kouki, his evil delight in teasing you manifested. Maybe itâs just plain old bad luckâbut whatever it was, it meant you kept running into Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight over and over again, humiliation on repeat.
Heâsâthere, in his Pro-Hero gear, at the konbini you get your morning coffee, scowling as the cashier stammers through the burglary youâd only just missed. Heâsâcrouching amid a group of excitable kids, his grin for them sudden and sharp and bright, distracting even in the middle of a busy street. Heâsâwalking past you as you startle, safely tucked away into a coffee shop as he patrols past, barely sparing the cafĂŠ window a glance.
He is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. And in turn his ghost is too: the blinding flash in your mirror, as you try to brush your teeth, squinting. The nuclear eruption that startles you awake, in the darkness of your room. The silent twist of his face as he reaches out to you, over your counter as you eat your cereal.
Itâs worse than it was with Kouki, you think bitterly. When Kouki the living appeared in your life, Kouki the ghost receded. Now you were just being haunted on both ends, both versions just as fleeting as the other.
Your only consolation is that you are, truly, a nobody to him. Just another face amid a city full of them. For all the tiny run-ins, the awful timing, you manage to wriggle away quickly, without attentionâor so youâd thought.
Youâre walking home under the city dusk: a universe of lights below you as you trek up the winding path that leads home. Work had been awful. Youâd seen your vision of Dynamight no less than three seperate times that day, the furious twist of his face, his silent shoutingâhis disappearing. He was taking you with him, you thought in despair. No other ghost of yours had been so persistent. Distracted, youâd bought a supermarket bento for dinnerâsome nectarines, for dessert. As you walked the bag swung low and slow, too flimsy; when it splits everything in it splatters, and tumbles.
You swear, skidding as you try to chase the fruit, rolling away as they gain speedâ
Stopped by a black boot, itâs orange detailing almost glowing as it scuffs along the ground, blocking them.
Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.
Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.
âYou good?â He asks.
You shrug, and hold up the remnants of your plastic bagâdrifting like a brideâs veil, between you.
The Pro-Hero tsks, crouching, picking up your nectarines. âWeak crap.â
In the twilight the black of his uniform makes him a dark voidâuntil he stands again, holding out your fruit to you. You frown, and watch him mirror it, his wide mouth turning down, unhappily.
âYou afraid of me, or somethinâ?â He asks, rough. His face is pinchedâit makes him look like a little kid, trying to tough out a pout and your stomach squeezes with the guilt. The last anyone would see of him would be a flash of lightâand then Japanâs dynamite, Japanâs explosive anger, would be gone forever.
And here you wereâmaking him feel bad in what could, quite possibly, be his last days.
âNo,â you admit, opening your handbag to take back the nectarines. âIâm not afraid of you.â
He squints at you, disbelieving.
âYeah?â He asks. âThen why do you keep runninâ away like youâve shit yourself?â
Oh, you think, heâs disgusting.
âI do not,â you say instead, crossly, dropping to the ground grab the remains of your bento.
Dynamight grunts in dismissal. âYeah you do. Every time Iâm walkinâ down a street, or I have to drop into some shitty little placeâyouâre there, turning tail. If you ainât on laxatives and you ainât afraid, then what is it?â
âIâm prejudiced against all Pro-Heroes,â you tell him, stoutly. âAnd you keep foiling my plans for world domination. Why do you notice, anyway? Why are you here?â
His boots scrape against the path, suddenly loud between you, as he moves in closer.
ââM on patrol,â he tells you. âItâs my job on patrol to notice weirdoesâand youâve been the weirdest.â
âCongratulations!â you tell him sourly, skittering around the solid wall of his presence to a nearby trash can. Itâs already overflowing, but you squeeze your own rubbish in and turn back to the Pro, as much apart of the world around you as the dark undergrowth of the pathway, or the city lights behind him.
Heâs so real, you think angrily. And in days, weeksâmaybe months, if he was luckyâheâd be gone, just like that.
âNow what?â You ask him, ask yourself. âWhat happens now?â
Below, a train screeches past. Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight shrugs, indifferent.
âDepends,â he says. âYou gonna keep being weird?â
You almost laugh. You donât, though, holding your handbag with your nectarines closer. You are standing in the last, dark moments of a twilight world with a man who will die, God knew whenâweird was probably the least you could be.
âMaybe,â you say instead. âI havenât decided yet.â
The Pro-Hero shrugs again. âThen I do my job, and keep an eye on ya.â
Heâs not looking at you when he says it, shifting awkwardly like a school boy and youâ
You let your shoulders sag. You are an adult, no longer seventeenâbut has been a hard life, and you are tired. Tired of being afraid. Of always being at the edges of your own life.
âOkay,â you tell him, tell yourself. Tell your ghosts, wherever theyâre gathered. âI surrender.â
Dynamight snorts, kicking out a loose gravel and when he glances back to you his face has softened from its suspicionâwaiting, instead.
A new pattern starts.
He walks past the coffee shop when youâre there and squints at youâacknowledgement you return with the ugliest face you can manage, the woman at the table across from you snorting into her mug.
You walk past him one weekend, surrounded by fans, and he looks up and sees youâbright eyes flickering over the fizzing orange juice in your hand, your wide sunhat, not hiding the startled surprise on your faceâand grunts at the kids around him, holding up his hand as he tries to squeeze out, to you.
âYour hat makes you look like a frilly grandma,â he complains, loudly, as the fans follow him, encircling you both.
âI like your hat!â One girl says, brightly. Sheâs wearing a GEMG:D shirt with his scowling face under his title scrawl; you touch the brim of your hat, self-consciously.
âThanks,â you say, self-conscious. She beams at you, even as Dynamight starts jabbing at you, trying to get you to move.
âI gotta get grandma home,â he tells everyone, as the group groans. âSâgotta have that nanna nap.â
You let him bully you. You let him pick you out, every time you cross paths. You donât fight itâand when you start seeing him out of his Pro-Hero gear, his weaponry, your heart tightens in on itself in warning.
âYou hungry?â He asks you, one evening. Youâd been walking together, the pair of you having finished work at the same time; you in your neat, office wear, your leather handbag. Dynamight in sweats, a loose shirt, a dufflebag over his shoulder.
The sky above you is pink, the moon a silver crescent. A manga moon, you think to yourself; overlooking a love story.
âYeah,â you answer him, eventually. âIâm starving.â
He nods, resolutely not looking at youâthough when you glance at him his jaw tightens, head turning away.
âDenimhead introduced me to a place near here,â he says, gruffly. âTheyâre decent, ainât wankers. And theyâre cheap. Private.â
He should be doing this with anyone else, you thought to yourself, desperately, watching your shoes. Anyone. Someone who wouldnât be counting down the days, the weeks, the months.
âIâd like that,â you say instead, softer. âIâd like to go.â
He doesnât risk looking at you but his smooth face reddens, even as he passes a large hand over the back of his neck, like he could rub the colour out.
âYeah,â he agrees. âLetâs go then.â
Itâs a bistro; a tiny pocket of a place only marked by a single, hanging sign of a smiling cow, the sizzle of steak permeating the alleyway. Inside the lights are lowâDynamight stands back to let you sit at the bar first, watching hawkishly, before he follows, the bartender smiling at you both.
âThey gotta menu,â he says, nodding to the mirror behind the bar, where a sparse few dishes are written. âOtherwise if ya trust me I canâI can suggest shit.â
His gaze flickers over your face as you watch him in turn. He was soâhere. Alive. With every tiny movementâthe draw back of his elbow, the flex of his handâyou feel it, too aware.
âI trust you,â you tell him.
He grinsâsudden and pointed and startling a smile out of you too, even as you try to bite it back.
(He orders blistered tomatoes, the size of doll heads, dressed in olive oil and a sweet fig vinegar, a soft cheese that bursts over them. Thereâs toasted baguetteâslathered with bone marrow, garlic butter. Thereâs steak cut like itâs been shared among cavemen, several inches thick and still on the bone, bleeding even as it sizzles. The bartender puts down a little plate of fine, perfectly ruffled pasta in front of you; dressed in pesto, charred greens, tiny flowers and you have to share it with your Pro-Hero, whoâs nose wrinkles when you try to offer him a speared garnish.
He is warm and he is close and he smells like the char of a grill and soap and a sweet wood layered over warm skin and neither of you move to touch each otherâ
But his leg presses against yours, and stays. Your hand slips over his by accident as you move to help yourself to dessert, a soft creamy dish with fruitâand he turns his palm up, catching it. Squeezing your fingers for a brief moment before letting them go, unmooring you only to anchor you again when you walk side-by-side, back to the train station, the warmth of him reassuring, and inescapable.)
Days. Weeks. Months.
You walk together, have dinner sometimes, lunch others. He complains about the other Heroes he works with; you listen, side-eyeing him when he then mentions feeding them, making meals at the agency because everyone was uselessâ
He doesnât poke at you to talk, but you start sharing anyway. The book in your handbag; the gossip the others at the office always had.
âTell âem to either deal with it or shut up,â he suggests, and you laugh despite yourself.
Days. Weeks. Months.
He goes away on a mission across the countryâafter a villain the news was calling Hazard. Heâd been responsible for the complete destruction, the levelling, of a factory, a shopping centre, slipping away before anyone could scramble through the rumble and detain him. It rains the entire time Dynamight is gone, leaving you to walk home alone, an umbrella over you, as the news loops over about flood warnings.
(When he comes back itâs an overcast day; finally dry. Heâs waiting for you at your usual crossroad, now, and when you see him you smile, his eyes following the curve of it before flickering over you.
âYou good?â He asks.
âBetter now that youâre back,â you admit, before you can stop yourself.
You were. You had stayed up every night he was gone, on your phoneâwatching the news, the tags, waiting for his name to appear, footage of the flash that would take him. Thereâd been nothing; no arrests, no collision.
But your Pro-Heroâs face softens, just slight, and you realise that heâd read something else in it when he says, low, âYeah. I get it.â
Days, weeks, months. Your heart thumps to it, reminding you and nervously, you shift away.
âAre you hungry?â You ask, wanting to fill the space between you with anything else.
He watches you skitter away, trying to encourage him to move; his eyes ruby.
âYeah,â he repeats and in relief you turn away, all too aware of his stare, at the back of your head.)
Days. Weeks. When you finally kiss itâs at his table, in his home; empty plates in front of you.
âI think this is the best thing Iâve ever eaten,â you tell him honestly, quietly, the smears of your tiramisu the only remains as you stand, to take your plate to the kitchen.
âYouâre always trynaâdart away,â he says suddenly, still sitting.
You startle at the look on his faceâserious, soft mouth trying not to pout.
âI justâI just want to help with the dishes,â you say, but his brow furrows, pinched, and when he stands itâs carefully, slow, the coiled draw of a bow that shivers, waiting.
âI canât get a read on you,â he admits to the quiet, his knuckles against the table. âCanâtâguess at whateverâs goinâ on in that squirrelly head of yours.â
You swallow, and run your hand across your forearm, too aware of the soft edges of your sleeves, of your Pro-Hero following your fingers.
âThereâs nothing,â you whisper, and he snorts; boyish, disbelieving. It makes him less of a threat and more of a manâreal, living, breathing, with his own thoughts and his own feelings.
âLike hell there is,â he swears, stepping closer. It brings his warmth in; the smell of coffee, of his cologne, aniseed sweet. âWhatever youâve got spinninâ around in there keeps you worlds away from this one. And I ainâtââ
He stops himself, his mouth parted around the rest of his words as his eyes flicker over your face, your lips; the way you canât breathe for his nearness, hesitating in the space between you.
ââI ainât gonna let you disappear,â he finishes, low. For a moment he traces your nose with his, and when your lashes flutter he sucks his breath in, tight; his mouth on yours, warm and sudden. A press. And then another. And then another and then the kiss is deepening and you tilt your head as hands fist themselves in your hair, keeping you close even as he pulls away, tiny, to pant against your lips. âHahââ
You kiss him back. You take him back. Your hands are tight in his shirt, too flimsy to hold him and you whine and you can feel him snarlâor smile?âagainst you, his teeth hard against the corner of your mouth, scraping your jaw as he nips at your neck.
The plates on the table rattle as you both slide to the floor. You gasp as his mouth meets the bare skin of your thigh, then again as his thumbs hook under your underwear, the cool of his floor a shock. He moans, muffled; free of your ass your underwear drapes, wet and warm against you and he mouths at it, a heavy kiss as you gasp again at his tongue through cotton. He kisses deeperâyou gasp again, and again, until youâre panting, tiny ah, ah, ahs that have him squeezing your hip, nosing the wet slop of your underwear out of the way so that his mouth meets your skin and you both moan.
(You are unravelled, on the floorâyour clothes pooling, your breasts freed, your legs splayed. His hold is firm and warm and you are heavy-eyed, even as you gasp again, under him. You want to drift awayâyou want to stay, hissing as his blunt nails claw along the meat of your ass.
He lifts himself to meet you for a kissâhis mouth and chin shiny, his eyes glimmering as his shoulders ripple, panther-lithe as he leans over you.
His mouth is warm. You hum into it as he curses, tasting himâcoffee, sex, youâas hot hands smooth the small of your back, the slip of him inside of you so, so easy and wet.
Even in the rut, the thrust, you are safe. You arch off of the floor like youâre trying to escape it, escape into the solid wall of him, waiting with another kiss, long and hard as he thrusts in deeper, deeper still.
You curl your legs against him, your heel in his ass. He grunts, then bites at your chin and your laugh is broken off into a moan as he ruts in hard.
Days. Weeks. When you come itâs sudden, starflash hot; you gasp for a final time and your hero is there to nose against your wet skin, to kiss you, his own undoing a groan, a sigh into your mouth.
There are no ghosts, lingering afterwards. Only him, panting; only you, your legs slipping together, your lips parting. Only him, only you.
He presses a kiss against the side of your head, almost forcefully.
âWasnât too shit,â he says, gruff, and you laugh around your breathlessness, anchored and alive.)
Days, weeks. Days.
Your Hero asks you stay over; you do, waking up in sheets that smell like him, that smell like sex, like you. You give yourself the momentsâlet yourself kiss his shoulder in hello, when heâs brushing his teeth. Lean into his touch, when his hand smooths up and down your waist.
âThe others wanna meet ya,â he says one night, grumpily. âSaid something about a lunchâI told âem sâup to you.â
At the counter, you hesitate. Who knew what youâd see, around them, the countryâs frontliners. And it would only make this death, the one you were waiting on, worseâ
But your Hero is determinedly not looking at you, his face pink, and you realiseâhe wants it. He wants you to meet them. Them to meet you.
Oh, you think, stricken. This was going to hurt.
âOkay,â you say. âIâdâIâd like that. Letâs do that.â
When he grins it twists his whole face into childlike brightness. You smile back with a wobble, looking at him and only himâignoring his ghost behind him, shouting at you before the flash.
Days. Day. Itâs a bright Saturday and you were meant to be meeting his friends, at last, the city busy as you hurry to the department store. There was a store in the food hall that sold small, perfectly round cream cakes, with glossy coatings and made to look like fruitâyou wanted a tray of them, to take.
The sales clerk is handing you the bag, sealed with a ribbon when the shouting starts.
âRUN!â Someone screams, a flash from the back of the store blinding you. Itâs the call, the break through the spell. Everyone panics, shouting as people start to bolt for the stairs to the street outside.
Youâre almost torn away from the storeâthe girl serving you yelping as people barrel past, the force of them moving you, too, until the girl shrieksâtrapped behind the counter.
âWait!â You say, but a man almost shoves you aside and you drop your bag, your cakes, pushing against the others that follow him until thereâs a gap. The sales clark is wincing, behind her case, but thereâs a ominous rattling above you and you scream, âCome on!â at her, your hand held out as everyone on the floor screams.
She sobs as someone smashes into her counter, shoved up by a crowd and you wedge yourself out of the way and scream again, âWe have to go! Now!â
Youâre almost blind in your panic, wheezing as your elbowed in someone elseâs desperationâbut then sheâs scrambling with the hatch, reaching out to you too and when her hand is in yours you run, following the crowd.
Youâre separated in the pushâthereâs more screams, as more and more flashes fill the room and someone, an older man, almost claws at your face to get in front of you.
Outside thereâs a wail of sirens; someone on a megaphone, shouting for surrender.
The explosion is small. It doesnât feel like itâeveryone tumbles to the ground with the shock wave, the smoke quickly filling the space and trying to tunnel out the same way and someone grabs your elbow and tugs, begging you to moveâ
You follow them. Her, the girl from the cake stand, her face puffy and bruised. The pair of you crawl over people, stand, and when you break out of the glass doors and into the daylight itâs almost a reliefâuntil you see the ring of Pro-Heroes, police officers, all tense.
Your stomach swoops. The Pros, the cops closest to you are ashen-facedâlooking beyond you, to whoever is now holding you in place with a calm, heavy hand on your shoulder.
âJust put your hands up,â one of the cops calls out, over the megaphone. âAnd surrender. Thereâs no need for hostages.â
Behind you, broken glass shifts. The hand on your shoulder squeezes tighter, a warning, and you stare out at the crowd, trying to empty your mind even as the clerk, still next you, sobs.
Day. Moments.
Beyond the crowd you can hear his sharp voice, his shouting and you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to know, not wanting to seeâ
But everything within you is attuned to him. The world falls away into white noise and all you can hear is your name, being screamed furiously, and you have to look.
You blink away your tears, and heâs there, two other Pros trying to hold him back as he swears, elbowing out at them; his face twisting in fury, in grief. Your eyes meetâand he surges forward again, shouting something to you as he reaches out, an officer barrelling into him as nails dig into your shoulderâ
And then there is a flash of light. Blinding and sharp.