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Hi, I’m TheGoldenFox1991, and this is my very first time sharing my own writing. I’ve always loved reading other people’s stories—the creativity, the emotion, the worlds they build—and after years of being inspired by so many amazing authors, I finally decided to branch out and create something of my own. I’m excited (and a little nervous) to put this out there, but I truly hope you enjoy the journey I’m starting. Your support means the world to me, and I’m grateful for anyone who chooses to read along.
CHAPTER 1 — The Boy Who Made Bubbles
Izuku Midoriya was four years old when the world first told him he might never be special. He didn’t understand the weight of the words then—how could he? He was small, with round cheeks still soft with baby fat, dark green curls that refused to lie flat, and eyes too big and too bright for his face. Those eyes—vivid green, full of hope—watched the quirk doctor with innocent expectation as he swung his legs from the edge of the examination table. His tiny sneakers tapped lightly against the metal frame, the sound rhythmic and cheerful, completely at odds with the tension in the room.
The doctor sighed as he adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching the harsh fluorescent light. He looked at the glowing X‑ray of Izuku’s foot projected on the wall, then at the boy’s mother. “Well,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “it appears your son does have a quirk. Technically.”
Inko Midoriya’s fingers tightened around her purse strap. Her dark green hair, usually smooth and neatly pinned back, trembled slightly as she leaned forward. Her green eyes—so much like Izuku’s but older, dimmer—searched the doctor’s face for something hopeful. “Technically?” she repeated, her voice soft but strained.
Izuku looked between them, his legs still swinging. “Does that mean I can be like All Might?” he asked, his voice high and eager, his freckles scrunching together as he smiled.
The doctor didn’t meet his eyes.
“It means,” he said slowly, “that the quirk is present genetically, but… it may never manifest in a meaningful way. Some quirks are simply too weak to be noticeable. It happens.”
Izuku didn’t understand the words, but he understood the way his mother’s breath hitched, the way her shoulders curled inward as if bracing for a blow. He understood the way the doctor’s tone changed—gentle, pitying, dismissive. He understood the way the room suddenly felt colder.
“But—” Izuku’s small hands balled into fists on his lap. “But I have a quirk, right? So I can be a hero!”
The doctor hesitated. “It’s unlikely,” he said, not unkindly but without care. “I’m sorry.”
Izuku’s mouth fell open. His freckles stood out starkly against his pale cheeks as his face crumpled in confusion. “But All Might says anyone can—”
“Come on, Izuku,” Inko whispered, her voice trembling as she lifted him off the table. “Let’s go home.”
Izuku clung to her shirt, burying his face in her shoulder. He didn’t cry—not yet. But something inside him dimmed, just a little.
One Year Later — Age 5
Izuku Midoriya was five years old when the world finally gave him something back.
It happened on a warm spring morning, sunlight spilling through the living room windows in soft golden stripes. Izuku sat cross‑legged on the rug, his small body hunched forward as he pushed two toy heroes together, making them clash dramatically. His dark green curls bounced with every movement, falling into his eyes. He kept blowing at them in frustration, puffing out his cheeks like a tiny pufferfish.
“Boom!” he shouted, throwing his hands up. “Kacchan would go like—pchoo! And then All Might would—”
A soft pop interrupted him.
Izuku blinked. Slowly, he lowered his hands. Something drifted upward, catching the sunlight. A bubble. Perfectly round, shimmering faintly with rainbow colors, floating lazily toward the ceiling.
Izuku stared, mouth falling open.
Another bubble formed at his fingertips, swelling like a tiny soap balloon before drifting away. Then another. And another. Soon the air around him sparkled with them, each one reflecting the room in distorted, shimmering fragments.
“Mama!” Izuku squeaked, scrambling to his feet. “Mama, look! Look, look, look!”
Inko rushed in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her face. She looked tired—she always looked tired these days—but when she saw the bubbles, her eyes widened in a way Izuku had never seen before.
Not with joy.
Not with relief.
With fear.
“Izuku,” she whispered, stepping closer. “Sweetheart… what are you doing?”
“I—I don’t know!” Izuku held out his hands helplessly. More bubbles formed, drifting upward like tiny planets. “I think it’s my quirk! Mama, I have a quirk!”
He expected her to smile. To cry happy tears. To scoop him up and spin him around the room.
Instead, she approached him slowly, as if he were something fragile. Or dangerous.
“That’s wonderful,” she said, but her voice was thin, stretched tight. “Izuku, can you stop it?”
“I don’t know how!” Izuku’s lower lip wobbled. “I’m not trying to make them! They just—just—”
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The bubbles burst softly against the ceiling.
Inko knelt in front of him, her hands trembling as she reached for his. “It’s okay. Just breathe. Deep breaths, baby.”
Izuku nodded, though confusion twisted in his chest. He took a shaky breath, then another. The bubbles slowed, then stopped entirely. His hands tingled, as if something warm had been flowing through them and suddenly vanished.
“Mama?” he whispered. “Are you… mad?”
Inko’s eyes widened, and she pulled him into her arms so quickly he squeaked. “No! Oh, Izuku, no, never. I’m not mad. I’m just—” Her voice cracked. She pressed her face into his hair, breathing him in. “I’m just surprised.”
Izuku hugged her back, small arms wrapping around her neck. Her body shook faintly, and he didn’t know why.
When she finally pulled away, she cupped his cheeks gently. “Your quirk is beautiful,” she said, forcing a smile. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Izuku brightened. “Really?”
“Really.”
He beamed, bouncing on his toes. “I can’t wait to show Kacchan! He’s gonna freak out! He’ll say, ‘Deku, no way you got a quirk!’ and then I’ll show him and he’ll—”
“No.”
The word was sharp. Sharper than she meant.
Izuku froze, eyes wide.
Inko swallowed hard. “I—I mean… maybe we should wait. Just a little. Until we understand it better.”
“But—why?” Izuku’s voice cracked. “Kacchan will be happy for me! He—he’ll stop calling me Deku, right?”
Inko brushed a thumb over his cheek, her touch soft but trembling. “Izuku… not everyone reacts kindly to things they don’t understand.”
“But it’s just bubbles,” he whispered. “They’re not scary.”
No, Inko thought. They weren’t. But the world was.
The Next Day — Preschool
Izuku didn’t understand her fear. He only understood excitement. And excitement, for a five‑year‑old, was impossible to contain.
The playground was loud with laughter and shouting, children running in every direction. Izuku stood near the sandbox, his All Might backpack hanging crookedly off one shoulder. His green eyes sparkled with anticipation as he spotted Katsuki Bakugo surrounded by a small group of kids.
“Kacchan!” Izuku called, running toward him. His curls bounced wildly, and he nearly tripped over his own feet in his eagerness. “Kacchan, guess what! I got my quirk!”
Katsuki turned, red eyes narrowing. His spiky blond hair caught the sunlight, making him look like a tiny explosion himself. “Huh? What’re you talking about, Deku?”
Izuku flinched at the nickname but pushed forward anyway, practically vibrating with excitement. “Watch! Watch, watch, watch!”
He held out his hands, scrunching his face in concentration. His tongue poked out slightly, and his small shoulders tensed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—pop.
A bubble formed at his fingertips, wobbling slightly before drifting upward.
The children stared.
Izuku beamed. “See? I told you! I have a quirk!”
Katsuki’s expression twisted. Not with awe. Not with excitement.
With disgust.
“That’s it?” he scoffed, stepping closer. “That’s your quirk? Bubbles?”
Izuku’s smile faltered. “W‑well… yeah. But they’re cool! Look, I can make more—”
He tried again. More bubbles floated upward, shimmering in the sunlight.
A few kids giggled.
One pointed. “It’s like bath time!”
Another snorted. “That’s not a quirk. That’s baby stuff.”
Izuku’s cheeks flushed pink. His hands trembled. “N‑no, it’s real! The doctor said—”
Katsuki shoved him lightly, just enough to make him stumble. “You’re still useless, Deku. Even your quirk is useless.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. His green eyes filled with tears he tried desperately to blink away. “Kacchan… I thought you’d be happy…”
“Why would I be happy?” Katsuki sneered. “Heroes don’t make bubbles. Heroes blow stuff up.”
Izuku’s shoulders curled inward. His hands dropped to his sides. The bubbles stopped forming.
The laughter around him grew louder.
He didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He just stood there, small and trembling, his freckles stark against his pale skin, his curls falling into his eyes as he stared at the ground.
That Evening
When Inko picked him up that afternoon, he climbed into the car silently. She noticed immediately. “Izuku? Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer.
Not until they were halfway home.
“Kacchan didn’t like my quirk,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Nobody did.”
Inko’s heart shattered.
She reached over, brushing his hair back gently. “Izuku… your quirk is beautiful.”
“But it’s not strong,” he whispered. “It’s not cool. It’s not… hero stuff.”
Inko swallowed hard. “Strength isn’t everything.”
Izuku didn’t respond. He just stared out the window, watching the world blur by.
That night, after dinner and bath time, Izuku curled up in bed hugging his All Might plushie. His hair was still damp, sticking to his forehead. His eyes drooped sleepily as Inko tucked the blanket around him.
“Mama?” he murmured.
“Yes, baby?”
“Do you think… do you think my soulmate will like my quirk?”
Inko froze.
Izuku blinked up at her, innocent and curious. “Everyone gets a soulmate mark, right? So… do you think mine will think bubbles are cool?”
Inko swallowed hard. “I think… your soulmate will love everything about you.”
Izuku smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Okay. Good.”
She kissed his forehead. “Goodnight, Izuku.”
“Night, Mama…”
When his breathing evened out, Inko slipped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind her. The moment it clicked shut, her smile crumbled.
She pressed her back against the wall, sliding down until she sat on the floor. Her hands shook violently. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to steady herself.
Bubbles.
Harmless. Gentle. Soft.
Just like her.
And soft things broke.
She curled her knees to her chest, burying her face in them. Her tears were silent, slipping down her cheeks and soaking into her pajama pants.
She cried for the boy who wanted to be a hero.
She cried for the world that would try to crush him.
She cried for the past she could never outrun.
She cried for the future she feared he would face.
And above all, she cried because she loved him so much it hurt.