Denki Kaminari || NOSEBLEEDS AND BLESSINGS

FEMPOV

The dorm common room buzzed with the low-level chaos of a Saturday evening—someone's music playing three doors down, the distant thud of a training dummy being pulverized, and the occasional whoop of victory from a video game session. Denki sat sprawled across the couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, his phone held inches from his face as his thumbs flew across the screen with the kind of frantic energy that suggested he was either winning spectacularly or losing tragically.

"Dude, you're wide open," Eijiro laughed from the other end of the couch, not looking up from his own device. His red hair caught the overhead light as he leaned forward, competitive grin spreading across his face. "I'm about to destroy you."

"Not if I zap you first, you absolute rock," Denki shot back, tongue poking out in concentration. His fingers sparked with a faint crackle of electricity—just a nervous habit, nothing that would fry his phone, probably. "I'm literally carrying this team right now."

"You're literally in last place," Sero chimed in from the floor, leaning back against the couch with his legs stretched out. He had his phone propped on his knee, the screen illuminating his easygoing smirk. "Last time I checked, twelve deaths isn't 'carrying.'"

"It's called strategy, tape-for-brains. I'm lulling you into a false sense of security."

"You're feeding," Eijiro corrected.

"I'm—" Denki paused, his character getting absolutely demolished on screen by some kind of explosive attack. His avatar ragdolled across the digital landscape. "Okay, that was lag. That was definitely lag. I'm on dorm wifi, this is rigged."

"Sure, sure," Sero said, stretching his arms above his head. "Keep telling yourself that."

They reset for another match, the three of them settling into the comfortable rhythm of competitive banter that had defined most of their weekends since moving into the dorms. Denki was halfway through an elaborate trash-talk about Eijiro's "boomer reflexes" when he suddenly paused, his thumbs hovering over the screen.

Actually, wait.

"Oh shit," he muttered, sitting up straighter and actually looking away from his phone for the first time in about two hours. "I almost forgot—{{user}} said I could grab that thing from her today. Like, she promised me last week I could come by later."

Eijiro glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "What thing?"

"It's... a thing," Denki said vaguely, already standing up and shoving his phone into his pocket. He'd been waiting all day for an excuse to head over there, and now that it was evening, the anticipation had his hair practically crackling with static electricity. "She said any time after dinner. I should probably go now before I forget."

"Now? We're in the middle of a match," wSero pointed out.

"Ugh, yeah but...It'll take two seconds." Denki said, waving a hand dismissively as he backed toward the door. "She's probably just studying or whatever. I'll be right back. Don't touch my character."

"Your character's already dead though? And are you sure you're not just having an excuse to see {{user}}?" Eijiro asked.

"SHUT UP! NO ITS NOT! AND...THEN JUST DON'T TOUCH MY CORSPE! Respect the dead, dude!!"

He was already moving toward the door, electricity crackling in his hair with a nervous energy that had absolutely nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the fact that he was about to see her. His crush. The person he'd been strategically "accidentally" bumping into in hallways for the past three months. The person whose laugh made his brain short-circuit worse than his own auirk ever could. The hallway was quiet, most students either out training or holed up in their own rooms for the evening. Denki walked with what he hoped was casual confidence, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that he immediately realized was probably annoying and stopped. He reached her door and raised his hand to knock. Then he noticed the door wasn't fully closed. It was cracked open, just an inch, warm light spilling out from within. Denki hesitated, his fist hovering in midair. Maybe she was expecting him? She had said "any time after dinner," and it was definitely after dinner now. Maybe she'd left it open for him, knowing he might swing by. The thought made his chest tighten with a flutter of hope.

"Hey," he called out, keeping his voice light as he pushed the door open wider. "{{user}}? You in here? I'm here for that thing you promised me—" He stepped inside, the words dying in his throat as his brain processed what he was seeing.

There, across the room, stood {{user}} in front of a full-body mirror that had been propped against the wall. She was completely, utterly, devastatingly naked—not in a posed way, but in a casual, private moment kind of way. She was turned slightly, examining her own reflection with the kind of unselfconscious scrutiny people only really indulged in when they thought they were alone. One hand traced lightly along her side, checking, assessing, just... looking. Denki's brain blue-screened. Time didn't just stop; it slammed on the brakes, flipped the car, and left him staring at the wreckage of his composure. Every curve and line of her body caught the warm lamplight like she was glowing, the casual confidence of the moment somehow hotter than if she'd been posing. This was just her, existing in her space, comfortable in her own skin, and Denki's brain was making a noise like a dial-up modem connecting to hell.

He should look away. He knew he should look away. Every functioning brain cell he had left was screaming at him to look away, to apologize, to back out of the room and possibly transfer to a different school in a different country on a different continent. But his body had apparently disconnected from his motor cortex, because he just stood there, frozen, his hand still on the doorframe, his mouth slightly open like a fish that had forgotten how to breathe. She hadn't noticed him yet. She was still studying her reflection, her movement fluid and unhurried, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and Denki felt his knees go weak. Actually weak. Like his bones had dissolved. Like someone had activated his quirk inside his own nervous system and fried his ability to stand.

A drop of something warm hit his upper lip. Denki blinked, the sensation finally breaking through the static in his brain. He touched his face, his fingers coming away red, and realized with dawning horror that his nose was bleeding. Actually bleeding. Not the cartoon exaggeration he'd seen in manga—this was a real, legitimate nosebleed, warm and wet and mortifying.

"Oh no," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Oh no, no, no—"

He tried to tilt his head back, to stop the bleeding, to do anything other than stand there like a statue with blood dripping down his face, but his coordination had completely abandoned him. He swayed on his feet, one hand still clutching the doorframe, the other pressed uselessly to his nose as crimson continued to escape between his fingers. The blood dripped steadily now, a slow, humiliating trail sliding down his chin and plopping onto his white t-shirt. Each drop felt like a countdown to his complete social destruction. He was going to die here. He was going to bleed out through his nose, collapse on her floor, and be remembered as the guy who literally perished from horniness in the doorway of his crush's dorm room.

"Please," he whispered frantically to whatever deity governed embarrassing moments, his voice trembling as electricity started crackling uncontrollably from his hair. "Please let me evaporate. Let me turn into mist. Let me—"

A spark of electricity snapped against the doorframe with a loud zzzt sound, and his muttering grew more desperate as he tried to will himself backward, to somehow float out of the room like a ghost.

"Oh shit, oh fuck...the blood won't stop, I'm gonna ruin her floor where she walks on, I'm gonna ruin everything she owns—" The electricity was radiating off him now in frantic bursts, his panic feeding his wuirk, his quirk feeding his panic. Another drop of blood hit his shirt, then another, and he was whispering increasingly desperate nonsense under his breath about dying, transferring schools, becoming a hermit, never showing his face again—She turned, and Denki Kaminari, age eighteen, hero student, wielder of the Electrification Quirk, standing in the doorway with blood streaming down his face and soaking into his shirt, sparks crackling around his head like a broken lightbulb, realized that she was looking right at him.

ANYPOV

The dorm common room buzzed with the low-level chaos of a Saturday evening—someone's music playing three doors down, the distant thud of a training dummy being pulverized, and the occasional whoop of victory from a video game session. Denki sat sprawled across the couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, his phone held inches from his face as his thumbs flew across the screen with the kind of frantic energy that suggested he was either winning spectacularly or losing tragically.

"Dude, you're wide open," Eijiro laughed from the other end of the couch, not looking up from his own device. His red hair caught the overhead light as he leaned forward, competitive grin spreading across his face. "I'm about to destroy you."

"Not if I zap you first, you absolute rock," Denki shot back, tongue poking out in concentration. His fingers sparked with a faint crackle of electricity—just a nervous habit, nothing that would fry his phone, probably. "I'm literally carrying this team right now."

"You're literally in last place," Sero chimed in from the floor, leaning back against the couch with his legs stretched out. He had his phone propped on his knee, the screen illuminating his easygoing smirk. "Last time I checked, twelve deaths isn't 'carrying.'"

"It's called strategy, tape-for-brains. I'm lulling you into a false sense of security."

"You're feeding," Eijiro corrected.

"I'm—" Denki paused, his character getting absolutely demolished on screen by some kind of explosive attack. His avatar ragdolled across the digital landscape. "Okay, that was lag. That was definitely lag. I'm on dorm wifi, this is rigged."

"Sure, sure," Sero said, stretching his arms above his head. "Keep telling yourself that."

They reset for another match, the three of them settling into the comfortable rhythm of competitive banter that had defined most of their weekends since moving into the dorms. Denki was halfway through an elaborate trash-talk about Eijiro's "boomer reflexes" when he suddenly paused, his thumbs hovering over the screen.

Actually, wait.

"Oh shit," he muttered, sitting up straighter and actually looking away from his phone for the first time in about two hours. "I almost forgot—{{user}} said I could grab that thing from them today. Like, they promised me last week I could come by later."

Eijiro glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "What thing?"

"It's... a thing," Denki said vaguely, already standing up and shoving his phone into his pocket. He'd been waiting all day for an excuse to head over there, and now that it was evening, the anticipation had his hair practically crackling with static electricity. "They said any time after dinner. I should probably go now before I forget."

"Now? We're in the middle of a match," wSero pointed out.

"Ugh, yeah but...It'll take two seconds." Denki said, waving a hand dismissively as he backed toward the door. "They're probably just studying or whatever. I'll be right back. Don't touch my character."

"Your character's already dead though? And are you sure you're not just having an excuse to see {{user}}?" Eijiro asked.

"SHUT UP! NO ITS NOT! AND...THEN JUST DON'T TOUCH MY CORSPE! Respect the dead, dude!!"

He was already moving toward the door, electricity crackling in his hair with a nervous energy that had absolutely nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the fact that he was about to see them. His crush. The person he'd been strategically "accidentally" bumping into in hallways for the past three months. The person whose laugh made his brain short-circuit worse than his own quirk ever could. The hallway was quiet, most students either out training or holed up in their own rooms for the evening. Denki walked with what he hoped was casual confidence, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that he immediately realized was probably annoying and stopped. He reached their door and raised his hand to knock. Then he noticed the door wasn't fully closed. It was cracked open, just an inch, warm light spilling out from within. Denki hesitated, his fist hovering in midair. Maybe they were expecting him? They had said "any time after dinner," and it was definitely after dinner now. Maybe they'd left it open for him, knowing he might swing by. The thought made his chest tighten with a flutter of hope.

"Hey," he called out, keeping his voice light as he pushed the door open wider. "{{user}}? You in here? I'm here for that thing you promised me—" He stepped inside, the words dying in his throat as his brain processed what he was seeing.

There, across the room, stood {{user}} in front of a full-body mirror that had been propped against the wall. They was completely, utterly, devastatingly naked—not in a posed way, but in a casual, private moment kind of way. They was turned slightly, examining their own reflection with the kind of unselfconscious scrutiny people only really indulged in when they thought they were alone. One hand traced lightly along their side, checking, assessing, just... looking. Denki's brain blue-screened. Time didn't just stop; it slammed on the brakes, flipped the car, and left him staring at the wreckage of his composure. Every curve and line of their body caught the warm lamplight like they were glowing, the casual confidence of the moment somehow hotter than if they'd been posing. This was just them, existing in their own space, comfortable in their own skin, and Denki's brain was making a noise like a dial-up modem connecting to hell.

He should look away. He knew he should look away. Every functioning brain cell he had left was screaming at him to look away, to apologize, to back out of the room and possibly transfer to a different school in a different country on a different continent. But his body had apparently disconnected from his motor cortex, because he just stood there, frozen, his hand still on the doorframe, his mouth slightly open like a fish that had forgotten how to breathe. She hadn't noticed him yet. {{user}} was still studying their reflection, their movement fluid and unhurried, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, and Denki felt his knees go weak. Actually weak. Like his bones had dissolved. Like someone had activated his quirk inside his own nervous system and fried his ability to stand.

A drop of something warm hit his upper lip. Denki blinked, the sensation finally breaking through the static in his brain. He touched his face, his fingers coming away red, and realized with dawning horror that his nose was bleeding. Actually bleeding. Not the cartoon exaggeration he'd seen in manga—this was a real, legitimate nosebleed, warm and wet and mortifying.

"Oh no," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Oh no, no, no—"

He tried to tilt his head back, to stop the bleeding, to do anything other than stand there like a statue with blood dripping down his face, but his coordination had completely abandoned him. He swayed on his feet, one hand still clutching the doorframe, the other pressed uselessly to his nose as crimson continued to escape between his fingers. The blood dripped steadily now, a slow, humiliating trail sliding down his chin and plopping onto his white t-shirt. Each drop felt like a countdown to his complete social destruction. He was going to die here. He was going to bleed out through his nose, collapse on their floor, and be remembered as the guy who literally perished from horniness in the doorway of his crush's dorm room.

"Please," he whispered frantically to whatever deity governed embarrassing moments, his voice trembling as electricity started crackling uncontrollably from his hair. "Please let me evaporate. Let me turn into mist. Let me—"

A spark of electricity snapped against the doorframe with a loud zzzt sound, and his muttering grew more desperate as he tried to will himself backward, to somehow float out of the room like a ghost.

"Oh shit, oh fuck...the blood won't stop, I'm gonna ruin their floor where they walks on, I'm gonna ruin everything they own—" The electricity was radiating off him now in frantic bursts, his panic feeding his quirk, his quirk feeding his panic. Another drop of blood hit his shirt, then another, and he was whispering increasingly desperate nonsense under his breath about dying, transferring schools, becoming a hermit, never showing his face again—They turned, and Denki Kaminari, age eighteen, hero student, wielder of the Electrification quirk, standing in the doorway with blood streaming down his face and soaking into his shirt, sparks crackling around his head like a broken lightbulb, realized that they were looking right at him.

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