#overmyshoulder

heavy like poison lead, your eyes twitch behind your closed eyelids. the burning of your retinas is almost tangibly painful. worst, when your tremor stricken fingers inch to the darkened half circles under your eyes, and poke unceremoniously, you jolt at the sting. sinus infection. christ.

each time you think the metallic clunking has ceased for the night, you jerk in the midst of your pseudo slumber, the first half of your circadian rhythm interrupted, almost fucking routinely at this point. you can only imagine the hysteria that is to befall you at work in a few short, tortuous hours. you’re dreading it, what was there to look forward to? that creepy fuck, coming around again? having found your dad’s name and number and potentially your address and your family’s—

oh.

it stopped.

you twist around in bed, searching for that warm, tender position that cradles your neck and spine.

maybe this time… maybe it’ll be done for good… and then you can sleep…

a thud from upstairs strikes.

maybe.

the stinging warmth of the sun stains your skin when your eyes creak open in the morning, yielding a softer shade.

you lay there for a moment. heart palpitating furiously, and dried sweat smeared across your forehead. it could’ve been the heat, it could’ve been the serpent in your chest or the knocking around in your head. a lot went on in the night for you.

there’s this reel that is ever lingering. scorching your head and pricking the backs of your eyes with the precision of a sharp dart. the man with the indigo hair and sneaking eyes. he emanated this… strange air. it was stifling, and you didn’t like it.

though, a future run in was disconcertingly possible… so many perverts…

the duvet is damp. balmy, even. you shake your hands out, all the while, the thick sheen of sweat glares at you. you wipe them on it furiously. you’d need to run to the laundromat, you discern with a heavy groan.

you swing your legs over, and they creak with disuse. your hair is matted, a sticky and frigid press on your scalp, given the meager hum of the fan overhead. it’s disgusting, and you imagine your fingernails massaging the skin lightly, shampoo foaming around (h/c) breadths.

you glance at your phone—the one that hadn’t obliterated your senses with its jolting buzz. your breath catches in your throat— fuck! late!

you scramble for your blow dryer, holding it to your head and wincing at the highest setting whilst sprawling on eyeshadow, yet again shake-y handed. the crescent shaped swoops of black hugged the curves of your eyes starkly, while the white in your waterline almost managed to breathe a minuscule of life back into your eyes, dulled to this muted hue you couldn’t stand to look at.

you look deplorable. that’s fine. a semblance of togetherness was all you needed to plow through the day— and the black accentuating your eye shape was comforting as it was familiar.

with twitching eyes climbing to the time, unfurled within you is a twisted, guiltless epiphany; you couldn’t eat breakfast. not that you would, anyway. weight gain would decimate the remnants of your psyche. a pound would be tantalizing. maybe you’d reach back into the warm of your mouth, unwavering and armed with jagged nails, and claw at your uvula again. the pain revitalizing as it was cumbersome. blood was often an accompaniment.

the knob is wide and cold, used lovelessly with chinks and dents— and now, it’s at your mercy. you twist it until it can no longer give.

the door is improperly slotted within the door frame, and it takes a few full body throttles against it to wedge it back into place. pressing the key to the lock’s fitted grooves, you readjust the position of your purse on your shoulder with a handless jerk, pat your hair down, smooth your clothes— then, you’re en route to work.

your restless thoughts aren’t as deterrent today. usually, they press on your eyes until they glisten, but your head is rampant with else things— namely, the hero that’d rescued you with immeasurable gallantry. that repulsive, subdued haughtiness— a startling contrast to the matching apathy his eyes bore assaulted your memory.

can i get a thank you? my ass.

not that you had the pluck to voice this. even if you were met with the disconcerting opportunity to interact with him again, you’d resign to that pathetic complacency and vacant expression. it was safer that way.

the walk is lackluster. no cat with the curious eyes, no teenaged girls with shrinking eyes and glossed cherry lips. but the stagnant fear of hands around your throat, a bruised windpipe, a man appearing from around a corner that’d failed to enter the radius of your (otherwise) acute surveillance would inevitably prevail all potential logical thought, at all times, and forever.

you’re particularly sweaty today—suffering from hyperhidrosis—and the balminess of your underarms, and the soiled material of your garment, was overstimulating as it was cumbersome.

briefly, your eyes fall closed, and for a moment, your loss of vision is tranquil as it is indisputably dangerous. you pause at the crosswalk with open eyes, which flit to the concrete.

your converse are ratty and beat. the fabric frays upward, and the toe cap’s adhesive has seemed to loosen, leaving you privy to damn near trench foot when it rains on your walk home. when you look at them with a wrinkle in your nose, you fight the onslaught of memories, tainted by a note of pessimism that leadens your retinas and press oh so heavily on the backs of your eyes. but the sensation refused to evoke tears. just this palpable heaviness. and it remained.

the tinny bell above the door is sprayed gold, but the years have worn it to a silver. nonetheless, the jingle tickles your ears when your hand seized the door handle and drew it outwardly.

your job is inconvenient, yet it allows for this backseat reprieve that rests your mind and allows for the most simple coding and recollection. it’s not hard to recall where a book is. and it’s not hard to deal with a fragmented smile and greasy palms. it’s difficult to deal with gilded words and honeyed demands, but you’re seasoned at this point.

“(y/n).” your assistant manager says when you touch the receiving room’s door handle. you’re shrewd enough to grasp that he’s not greeting you.

before you can manage a greeting, practiced and cool, a stiff remark hits you.

“you were scheduled for 10:45.”

your eyes roll to the clock above the door. it’s 10:48, and it’s a tuesday. inconsequential— as erroneous as you are.

“i’m sorry.” you apologize with utmost lethargy. do you bother with an excuse? to your credit, astuteness in the sphere of tone recognition was something that you were inherently privy to. your situational awareness could use some work. lamely, you try, “there was traffic.”

“don’t make this a habit.” he chides with a huff. you nod wordlessly.

a mind-numbing day had transpired, your walk home filled with self-loathing and nothingness. cursing your manager silently. you were actually looking forward to doing something, despite menial, to occupy your otherwise empty time.

your bedroom door is open at a peculiar angle.

reaching back into your memory with a pointed palm, there’s no conceivable way you left with any hurried note. no physical sort, at least. everything was supposed to be tidy as you left it. but your bedroom door was ajar. only slightly, as not to evoke alarm, you think. but for all your irrationalizations there’s the justification that you’re unpopular for a reason, and acquaintance-less on that note.

you attribute the amplification of your paranoia to the stifling properties of your quirk. you shake your head, and began to gather your sheets and comforter.

you grimace at the wear and tear your fitted sheet had endured, and deduced it was time for a new one. but not now. maybe another day, a day where your head wasn’t full of lead and your shoulders weren’t hunched, head swinging over your shoulders periodically to ensure another assailant was not, in fact, laying in wait. waiting to pounce and desecrate you with grimy palms and a crooked, yellowed grin.

dropping a few deoxidized yen into the slot before slamming the metallic slab back into its crevice, you teeter back and wait for #13 to thrum to life.

the washer’s military grade left you abashed; owning perhaps only two weeks’ worth of clothes and a tattered duvet and fitted sheet physically hyperbolized the machine, and you were too grimed in languish and perspiration to feel abashed.

you watch your reflection in the suds and water whilst finding your ears inadvertently honed in on an amalgamation of sound.

“deku is such a dreamboat, are you kidding me?!”

“the fuck? dreamboat? dynamight’s where it’s at.”

“i don’t know guys, shoto’s got this like adorable ‘i-dunno-where-the-clit-is-but-i’m-willing-to-do-some-investigating’ vibe to him…”

the eye-bagged man with the indigo hair and miffing forwardness must’ve been a vigilante or… indisputably, not pro. you reason. his decorum was laughable, and it shouldn’t be challenging for even the most simpleminded person to discern that that man wasn’t the sociable type.

nevertheless, something in you was struck. presumably, these girls were hero fans, and it was worth bearing some humility on your sleeve in order to do some digging and, as much as you loathed to admit it, exert yourself in tenses other than customer service.

“excuse me.” you say, swinging your chin over your shoulder. “do you guys know that tired looking hero with purplish hair…?”

too wary to glimpse their expressions, your eyes climb that spot you’re well acquainted with.

“he’s a guy.” you add with a sniff.

one girl’s eyes brighten like the headlights of a car. it irks you instantaneously. this joker’s got fans…?

“you mean shinso!! shinso hitoshi!!” she squeals in adoration.

“o-oh, yeah, right! love him!” you laugh uneasily in response.

“who?” one of her friends inquires roughly with, you note, a stereotypical valley twang.

“his quirk is like, super cool, like— mind control,” she winces at her friends’ dubious countenances. “which sounds bad! but he seems like a good guy. he’s never done anything wrong; he’s a hero after all. and he’s a hunk too…”

“yeah, not yet.” the other girl snorts.

you blink singularly, and face the suds once more. seemingly from nowhere, a chill climbs up your spine. you lurch over with a tremor racking through your body. it’s disorienting. arms wrapped around your torso, you glance around, wondering if the sudden and briskness of your movements warranted any deprecating stares. absentminded to the prospect to one of lust.

but there was nothing.

hitoshi shinso yields minimal results, besides the headline highlighting the use of his quirk in a tense hostage situation, and its villainous quality, despite its use for apparent good-doing.

your brows crease— you can’t gauge this guy. and you can’t figure out why you want to.

gingerly, you close the lid of your ancient laptop lid, and try to evoke a state of equilibrium, honing in on that film reel in your mind of the broken dam being sealed, water flow ceasing all together, and everything feels somewhat normal. if there ever was a sense of normality you could latch onto.

you’re late. so, so late. you know you won’t get in trouble, per se, but your pay would dip under what you’d estimated for the week, which was irritating in itself. you tell yourself it’s worth sparing yourself a smidge of the humiliation that accompanies leaving the walls of your apartment.

like every other day, it takes the realization that you have 10 minutes to get to your job that requires a 25 minute commute to narrow your eyes at the mirror on your desk, reflecting some unsightly black smudges framing your plain eyes. you had to admit that it was better than nothing, but nothing was just that— nothing. without the black you were disgusting, but with it… you guess that made you… palatable? nothing worth coveting, yet also not a sight which averted gazes. perfect for you.

beside you, your phone vibrates, and you feel the reverberations through the desk intensely. you jolt, silently cursing yourself and imagine a broken dam, water pouring from each crack and cranny. then, you imagine it all sealed up, halting the circulation… now, the lack thereof. that’s how you shut your quirk off; you’ve returned to your regular state of a hammering heart and sweaty palms.

your apartment complex is exactly what someone would envision upon estimating to them your pathetic salary. you worked at a bookstore, after all. it wasn’t exactly like you were some front-line worker, providing a necessary labor. you couldn’t complain. it was livable, nothing to sneeze at.

it’s cement—cold granite. the railings were once painted black and peeling, and your door had gaping orifices where its wooden fragments once laid. the apartment itself was dinky. you cleaned it consistently and decorated with a modest charm, but the odor of dampness was lingering in every corner. the complex was borderline ancient, built before the invention of the elevator, but it was at least a place you could pleasantly call home. ‘bad neighborhoods’ were hardly ever indicative of the tenants who lived inside the units.

you walk to work, having been fortunate enough to lease somewhere close enough to a place you liked working at. the other jobs were nothing short of disarray— inadequate managers hiring you on the spot during interviews out of desperation, and a disorienting lack of organization. needless to say, you were content at the bookstore.

currently, you’re conjuring scenarios that do nothing to soothe the thrumming of your heart, slamming against the cream cable sweater you’d thrown on in a haste to cover the largest of your insecurities—the vision of a car skidding off the street and plowing into your form, leaving fragments of your brain matter splattered into the pavement. next, you think of the thinnest, fresher piece of paper slicing your eye in two. now, you’re cringing. it’s replying in your mind over and over again. you swallow a wad of glue in your throat, eyes raking in your surroundings for a distraction.

a stray cat. it trills softly at you. you somehow manage a smile, and glance at your phone before deciding you could briefly pet the kitty.

its fur is a pure black, the kind that enveloped your eyes with a stark intensity when you shut the curtains, turned off the tv, and closed your bedroom door with the lights off. you’d always forget to turn on your fairy lights. it would making your eyes hum, an invisible pressure pushing downward, but it was pleasantly dissimilar this time.

its eyes are a gem-like amber, and they glisten in the waxing morning sun. you liked the shape of its pupils. almost a rhombus, softened at the edges, wide and dilated. you assumed it was happy, and that made you a little happy too.

you eventually pass a group of teenage girls, and you inadvertently shrink into yourself, chest seized with panic as they pass. you could’ve sworn they threw you a glance, eyes maliciously narrowed. your mouth goes dry when they crane their necks back and let out a shallow laugh.

you glance down at yourself once they’re out of your peripherals. your opaque tights were suddenly friction against your legs. itchy. you can’t even be upset at your fleeting elation.

with shaky fingers pinching the fabric, hoping for some surface-level relief, you realize you’ve reached the store. you pull on the dangling pieces of your backpack straps—the ones that tighten—and exhale as the padding presses to your armpits. tight and secure.

“morning, (y/n)!” you co-worker flashes you a radiant grin from behind the register, before you can will your lips to curve and feel that uncomfortable stretch in your cheeks, she’s back to bagging a customer’s purchases.

you sigh, locating one of the empty computers to punch your numbers in on.

“excuse me.” someone coughed at you. you raise your eyes ever so slightly, but zero in on the space beneath their eyes and though above the apples of your cheeks. they’re very tanned, and their skin is dry and rough.

“i need help finding a book, it’s called—“

“i’m sorry,” you interject timidly, interlocking your fingers with tight, white knuckles. it’s the only way you knew how to steady your composure. “i’m not clocked in yet, and i need to put my things away. i can grab someone to help you right now, though?”

he stares at you indignantly, with a pompous upward tilt of his chin. he’s looking down at you from his nose. your stomach does a 360 flip, and you’re bloating. absolutely sick.

“you work here, don’t you? you’re supposed to help a paying patron when they ask you for help.” he continues in disdain. you think of several quips, witty remarks that could maybe patch up your dignity that this man was so indelicately chipping away at. “i guess i can’t expect much from people like you. always so lazy. i see you all hanging around, talking. tch, whatever. thanks for nothing.”

he whips around and saunters away. you blink. the exchange hadn’t been fully registered and processed in your brain.

you know with utmost certainty that you’d soon be rendered to a hunched over, teary heap in the break room. and although the cancellation of your quirk hindered all emotions for an unspecified length of time, you could feel the onslaught of twinges racking your heart. and then, you find yourself trudging to break room in lethargy. you had nightmares again last night, having been jolted awake by your own tremors and cold beaded sweat dotting every conceivable part of your body. you’d had to shower. showering wasn’t fun for you.

you tried to relish in the knowledge that your lunch break was within the next two hours! whoopie! you wouldn’t let yourself eat, though. hoisting your achy feet onto those rigid metal chairs would be revitalizing enough.

when you find yourself on the sales floor again, you start for the customer service desk. as you had observed that there’s someone patiently waiting there, their fingers idly drumming on the worn wood. you half smile. maybe they wouldn’t give you an earful of all of their inconveniences that didn’t pertain to you. that’d be nice.

“hi! sorry to keep you waiting.” you flash your well practiced ‘how can i help you today, valued customer?’ smile.

it’s another man, and you instinctively lower your gaze to that spot on his face that quells the exacerbating effects of your quirk. if you’d been taking in the whole of his countenance, perhaps you would have noted the abrupt shift in his eyes, insisted that a manager was calling you on your earpiece. you’d seen that look a lot. and when you did catch sight of it, it reminded you of high school, and that alone was enough to make you bail out— potentially, clock out early.

“hi, i was just looking for books on renting trucks? i’m looking to make a business out if it.” he smiles crookedly.

you pause, lips pressed in a tight, thin line. renting trucks? how the fuck were you supposed to search for a book like that?

“i’ll try, but no promises.” you swallowed, fingers licking the key caps hastily. you wanted to close this exchange as quickly as you could. then you could busy yourself with a task that didn’t require your deteriorating social skills.

“it’s weird, i know.” he chuckled. it felt pernicious in nature to you, and you certainly didn’t appreciate his attempt to revive the conversation. your palms were growing balmier by the second.

“nah, not weird. i’m just not sure how to search for it on here.” you half-lied, furrowing your brows at the search results. there were a myriad of titles relating to trucks, but you couldn’t conceive why someone would write a how-to on renting them to people, let alone why this man would want to reference one, instead of an article online. needless to say, you were having trouble schooling your expression. if that face you spent hours on contorting to perfection in the mirror were to falter, everything would be shot straight to hell. you couldn’t handle a nasty disagreement breaking out at the unbridled twitch of your eye.

“ah, i get’cha. let me see.” and without leaving any room for dissent, or breathing, he’s leant over the counter. very much invading your personal space, and very much violating company policy.

your mouth quivers at the corners, attempting to form phantoms of phrases you should’ve had the spine to utter. the poignance of his cologne has long invaded your nose, a more mature scent, one reserved for a man of his age. perhaps three times that of yours. get away get away get away.

he straightens, offering you a complacent yellowed grin. “i don’t really get that program you use, but i’m guessing you don’t got what i’m looking for?”

“correct, sorry about that.” you tell him stiffly. you swear his breath was sticky, humid, and clinging to the skin of your neck. you suppress a shiver.

“no problem, darlin’. i was just lookin’ for a side hustle, ‘cause i work in law enforcement and i wanted to hop onto that business owner bandwagon.” he’s not rambling, he’s not making small talk—he wants your attention. he wants you to engage, and he wants you to be interested. this is all sickeningly apparent to you as you fumble to select your next words. you know you’d have to humor him only slightly; blatant indifference could be interpreted as aggression and get you a strike. you didn’t need any more of those.

“oh, that’s pretty cool. my dad works in law enforcement.” you reply softly, praying that your inauthentic interest would be apparent to him. though, men are either willingly or inherently stupid, you learned. the gentleman before you was no exception.

“aw, yeah? what city?”

fuck fuck fuck fuck!

you’re left scrambling, mouth gaping, dry and full of sand. you feel every artery in your body painfully pulsate and flush against your skin, pleading to be torn free and relieved, and remind you that you’re alive and you feel like you’re gonna die. you don’t even know if you have the capacity to deactivate your quirk right now—you felt like you deserved this; you practically instigated the conversation—stupid!

it doesn’t occur to you to lie—yet another vulgar display of your absentmindedness. you tell him the truth, and to add further insult to injury, you’re unable to distract yourself from his slippery gaze. they held little regard, and revealed each deplorable thought with the blink of his eye. it was dehumanizing. the way his cheeks were carved into this smile that failed to accentuate his duchenne markers. your next move is a grave error, one that, if your head was in its right place, you wouldn’t have contemplated. looking into his eyes—the skin is flat, his eyes are visible, unobstructed and—you know that much. he’s not really smiling.

“i’m sorry, i can’t stop looking at you. you’re so beautiful.”

twitching uselessly at your sides, your hands come to fist your sweater, now damp from the slickness encasing your hands. the wool catches your sweat and sucks it in. much like the breaths slipping in and out of your aching lungs. the balmy air clings to the walls, perhaps as terrified as you were, before being ripped from their sanctuary and nakedly thrust into the open.

“thank you.” you gushed? you attempted to. the keyboard before you was littered with varying puddles of sweat. you didn’t appreciate the dampened wool prickling your torso. it felt like tv static, the feeling when you’d hover your fingertips in front of, and this inconceivable force would kiss and lick your skin. you’re privy to each and every sensation that your being can house, the overload was almost too much, you’d had to search deeply within yourself and pull out what you could.

“here, take down my number.” he’s offering, that smile never leaves his lips nor meets his eyes, but you could center yourself again. it’s okay. he’s sweating exorbitantly, unabashedly clinging to his armpits. you would laugh in a normal circumstance.

stiffly, you reach for a sticky note and a pen. you’re pushing both toward him with your index finger, deliberately dodging the potential of contact—he’s grasping your hand tightly. you gasp and there’s bile searing your esophagus.

“it’s nice to meet you…” he references your name tag with a brisk glance as though his eyes hadn’t been raking in your entire figure for the duration of your exchange. “(y/n). your name is also beautiful.”

you’re only able to smile and nod.

“it’ll break my heart if you don’t text me, you know?” he chuckles lightly, but his tone is anything but. he anticipates your compliance, he thinks he’s subdued you into contacting him, or perhaps he’s genuinely convinced that he somehow charmed you into pursuing a relationship with him. he’s wrong.

as soon as his dubious eyes leave your vicinity, you take the sticky note into your hand, and with what remains of your strength, squeeze it. the edges are sharpened at the pressure, like thorny rose stems. they press into the joints of your fingers, but you don’t mind. by the time it’s released from your grasp, it’s like paper-mache.

lunch had trudged into your hour slot like an unyielding horse, unwittingly dragged along. your elation is muted, but palpable. it’s not like you were going to use it for its established purpose, anyway. you’d nap in the break room, preparing to flip-flop from position to position in those awful metal chairs, terrified that you’d reclined too deeply and slump onto the floor.

you can never sleep though. not really. it’s this hellish limbo. a plane where it could be argued that you were conscious, or that you were asleep. the sibling of sleep paralysis.

without a single breath between the back of your eyelids and the sudden shrill blaring, your nerves are electrified. and your body, with some newfound cognizance, snaps you upright. eyes blearily darting to and fro for danger, or the subject of your overstimulation, you find nothing but the alarm on your phone. the force of its vibrations have it circling with intense shutters. you hit stop.

your phone jerks to life again, screen flashing your generic wallpaper at you. there’s a notification lingering below the time display, a segment from some big shot newspaper. beneath the headline is some excruciatingly pretentious action shot of a hero; one with indigo tresses that were suspended in the hair, and bandages like tentacles unfurling from around his neck. the headline reads:

Villainous Quirk Saves the Day! 20 Lives Saved With a Single Word.

you can’t say your interest was piqued.

another day, another victim.

you hate leaving from the back exit. while it was designated for employees, some exclusive perk you should be immeasurably grateful for, it wasn’t afforded the same glare from the floodlights the adjacent parking lot was. comparatively, it was doused with light.

you’re one of the last to leave, the manager on duty singled you out and made you count the money in the registers. you’re horrible at keeping track at the tens and twenties, and not to mention your unwavering uneasiness. you hadn’t recovered from that unseemly encounter.

you’ve snugly positioned the various keys slid onto the ring between your fingers. they’re like claws—extracted kitty claws—and you’re prepared to drive it into some sicko’s chest at a moment’s notice.

ensuring the receiving room door had softly clicked shut behind you, you started off into the direction your quaint apartment complex resided. it takes less than a second for the hair on your arms and neck to flare up, and it’s even sooner your skin is forcibly aware of the sinister warmth of a hand—irrefutably larger than your own—locked onto your shoulder.

your instinct is to look over your shoulder. you suppress it, and instead tighten the grip on your the makeshift weapon, jutting out with an unparalleled menace.

you whirl around and swing, right for his sternum. you make contact, but its not hard enough. you’re not sure if it was the velocity that fell short, or if it was the puny strength that accompanied the strike that sealed your blunder. either way, he’s far from incapacitated. in fact, he’s enraged. you can feel the corona of his fury, it’s radiant and extending.

“i know that you had a long day, babe, but you couldn’t sneak a text in at all?”

his own clip is hard enough. it’s aimed straight at your gut, and it makes contact with more than the surface of your stomach. you think your intestines may have just been introduced to your kidneys. you splutter around that familiar acid.

you’re unable to cradle your belly as you’re plunged into another agonizing sensation. the uneven bricks—some ugly, stupid stylistic design—are cutting into the skin on your back.

“we can make this easy, or hard. i’m good either way, so the choice is yours, sweetheart.” this smile, wicked and conscienceless, begins in his eyes instead. they were more terrifying than the split of his lips. his hands, callous and aged, descend down your sides, pushing your panties and waistband of your jeans aside so he can clutch your bare hips. this terror, this terror you know all to well, the one that seized you when you awake from the most heinous dream, the same one almost every night when you’re transported back to high school, back to the shaming and the touching and the crying and—

this.

“please don’t do this.” you mutter, now your tongue is immobile. limp and numb in your mouth. some thick, wet deadweight that pulls you down to the soles of your feet. you wish your punch had been that heavy.

“man, i thought you’d be wrigglin’ by now. looks like you want it just as bad. i didn’t take you for a needy slut, (y/n).”

you flinch, flitting images and snippets of sound rush before you and climb into your muscles; ensuring your helplessness. you were very well-acquainted with that term.

you think it might hurt less, this time, if you pretend you’re not there. shallow-gazed, the darkness of the night blanketing the sky and presenting a comfortingly warm veil over your eyes. chin craning up, pointing to the north star.

he makes quick work of your jeans, they’re crunching around your ankles, as denim and fluid motion do not coincide. you fucking hate it. it’s almost as scratchy as the voices screaming at you from within the steel walls of your head, flailing and slamming on all sides, begging you to cry for help, begging you to turn your quirk back on, so maybe you’ll feel something, some terror, and leap into action. it’s growing weaker by the second, and you’re clamping your thighs shut as he growls a curse at you.

“what do we have here?” a voice from the dark muses. you might even say it held a semblance of amusement. ah, yet another sick fuck to partake in your humiliation.

“fuck off man, we’re just having some fun. we ain’t hurting anybody, isn’t that right, baby?”

the silence spoke for itself, you guess.

the anonymous gentleman, evading your line of sight, effortlessly conquers your assailant. you expect some cringey catchphrase, a declaration of victory or defeat, maybe some name calling, but you can’t hear anything but the boiling hot blood circling your ears.

you don’t need to see him to know from the shuddering groans and shallow gasps of air and pleading and promises of atonement (never directed at you) that tear from his mouth, that your savior was well-versed in combat. you don’t even try to conceal your chuckle, one that ascends your throat wryly and produces some stinging pain. a hero.

“walk down to the police station, and confess.” these words were unlike the ones he posed in his prior inquiry. the contrast, though, couldn’t be placed. the man who nearly became the brand new subject of your nightmares, heeds. face blank, eyes stoney and vacant. there’s no resistance, no more pleading or crying. it reminded you of the instantaneous numbness that sweetly enveloped you when you patched up that dam in your mind. then he’s languidly walking in opposite direction. it’s unsurprising that he knows the route.

now, you’re the object of the hero’s attention. and to your dismay, you quickly discern that he’s the hero with the villainous quirk. the very same that backhandedly glorified him in the article.

“that’s rude.” you mumble.

his staring persists, a muted violet with hollow pupils. you’d always heard that the eyes were the gateway to the soul, but upon your unwitting contact, you were compelled to judge that he was soulless.

the observation was brief enough to settle that the movement couldn’t have been misconstrued for eye contact.

“w-what?” you blurt, eyes cast at the asphalt in shame. you often took solace in the fleetingness of passerby gazes—even that of people your age. regrettably, you could feel the judgement, the assessment, and the heat of his prodding eyes.

“nothing. i was just thinking about how you never screamed once. i never heard you ask for help.” he reveals with an unabashed curiosity seeping into his tone. yet, the sentiment was lost on his eyes.

yeah, well, years of guilt and torment will do that to ya.

“i… didn’t think anyone would come to help.” you admitted quietly, your hand is wrapped around your forearm so tightly, you were beginning to lose feeling. at some point, your quirk had activated inadvertently. the static-y tingles envelope the skin.

“really. how come?”

the shift in his tone was… nothing of note. so slight, so easy to miss, but perceivable, nonetheless, if you willed yourself to observe it. the effort was not something that came naturally to you. most people were none the wiser, and you were no exception. as far as your ears had gathered, he was speaking plainly.

“i don’t expect anyone to act selflessly. not even heroes. no one’s ever helped me when things like… this happen.” things you’d never bothered sharing with anyone were unfiltered as they left your tongue, and you’re flummoxed. where went your restraint and trepidation?

your eyes are still cemented to the floor. and the hero, though intrigued, was growing tired of your hesitance.

“you could look me in the eyes when you thank me, at least.”

your breath escapes you at his unexpected audacious tone. but you know you’re in no position to chastise someone, as unsolicited as it was, who did in fact come to your rescue.

the air staggers in your trachea, slinking upside and downside the membrane as your eyes reorient themselves. they’d been fixed on the asphalt. your mary janes. and the intentional design of the boots strapped to his feet. the light above your ankles was disconcerting—having attrited the cordiality you found in what wasn’t another person.

unwittingly, bound to fulfill what was the edict of gratitude and respect in society, you lift your head, your sight following closely behind.

upon contact, your own vision sways, and you don’t know if the fault lay in the fatigue militating your uprightness, or the interference of cohesion in your head.

all at once, his voice becomes softer, and his face contorts from that laidback, complacent grin and relaxes entirely. almost tranquil. you’re not sure about his eyes though. for all your lack of skill in all areas concerning social reciprocity, you were excellent at avoidance. you could spent a very comfortably and fulfilled lifetime without staring anyone in the eye.

you weren’t sure if you could hold it together if you saw pity swirling around those murky irises.

“that was a joke. a bad one.” he says, it’s an apology without the proper structure. you’d take it. you didn’t know him, and you were set on having it remain that way. you’re hoping you become another faceless civilian in the cloud of enthusiastic praises, extensions of gratitude, love admissions, and just unremarkable people. you hope you’re another random headstone in a cemetery that people pass and never consider the bones beneath the soil, what they were composed of. you want to stop this charade of the assessment of your well-being, one supposedly conducted out of compassion, and go home and scrub your skin raw.

“you can skip the pleasantries. i don’t need any services. i’m going home. thanks for your help.” you say quickly, and when you leant over to scoop the contents of your purse into your hands, you found that the hero had beaten you to the punch.

“i’m shinso hitoshi.” he says as amicably as he can muster. the artificiality isn’t difficult to see through. he offers you your purse, palm outstretched where the strap laid loosely. you watch the mole under his eye as you regard him.

the data is before your eyes, yet you couldn’t construe it one way or another.

the metal toes of his boots point at you, and his eyes flit across the features of your face, mapping the expanse— it’s absolutely unnerving.

you couldn’t read his body language, gauge his facial expression, or even bear to allow the intermingling of your gazes.

“it’s nice to meet you, i’m (y/n).” you weren’t going to disclose any obvious identifiers, leaving you susceptible to a breach of privacy. your last name wasn’t necessary in this introduction— one you prayed would soon reach its conclusion.

he breathes a chuckle; your disinterest is painstakingly apparent, comically so.

“well… (y/n), i really insist; let me take you home. walk you. what just happened was… a lot. i’d bet you’d feel safer if—“

“you’d lose.” you snipped quickly. “i’ll go now. thank you again, sir.”

you now your head, intentionally at a higher decline, avoiding that pain in your lower neck that’s reserved for only the utmost respect. you spin on your heel, and you’re blinking back the fiery pain in your eyes.

you swore to whatever god that refused to heed any of your pleas that your back was scorched from a pair of eyes. but when you looked over your shoulder, the only sight that greeted you was that of flickering floodlights.