#recoveryzinecontest

[nartothelar]

@recoveryzine There are days where you wake up and the best thing you can do is just get out of bed, and that’s ok! Recovery isn’t always something fantastical and grand: sometimes it’s small, unremarkable on some days. But I think even taking those “small” steps at one’s own pace is necessary and extremely important!

[yowza-buckaroo]

48-year-old uravity retires, being the last of her class to do so. a cheering crowd greets her when she makes her first public appearance after 2 weeks as an ex-hero.  

something quick for @recoveryzine contest! just wanted to emphasize that there’ll always be people who support you no matter what <3

[kittywithak]

Posting this for @recoveryzine ‘s really cool contest! Recovery for me is knowing when it’s time to take a break!

[kaleid369]

my god, i’m so lonely

for the @recoveryzine contest.

to me, recovery is learning how to love myself, to say, “there is a point,” when i just want to give up. my depression makes it hard, and it’s difficult to build myself back up from that damage. but recovery is to keep getting up, to make progress, and to acknowledge yourself for doing better even when it feels like you aren’t. i promise, you are.

note: title is from mitski’s nobody

Tōru is four years old when her Quirk first manifests. It happens slowly, gradually, and she doesn’t notice until it’s too late.

It starts with her hands.

She’s at preschool playing blocks with the other kids when Kasumi asks her for a triangle block to top off their tower. She gives it to her without a glance, too busy setting up a bridge to connect their miniature cities. The clatter of blocks jolts her out of her concentration, her hand jerks a block out of place, and she turns to Kasumi with the question of what’s wrong? on her lips.

“It’s fine,” Tōru says when she sees the wide-eyed, open-mouthed look on her friend’s face. “We can just do it again!”

Kasumi doesn’t respond. Strangely enough, she gets to her feet and stumbles to where the teacher is talking to two kids playing Connect Four.

“Sensei, T-Tōru’s hand disappeared!” Kasumi wails, pointing a pudgy finger in her direction.

My hand? She brings both hands up to eye level. She blinks. There’s only one. Just like that, the whole class is staring at her.

The teacher simply walks over and crouches in front of her. “Tōru-chan, would you mind if I take a look?” she requests calmly.

A slow nod, and then she places her missing hand in her teacher’s palm. The teacher asks if she feels pain, how it feels, and each answer is met with a contemplative hum in return. Finally, she smiles at her.

“Congratulations, Tōru-chan. You’ve discovered your Quirk.”

Immediately, her classmates burst into awed ooos and woahs. Some even scramble to babble in her face about how this is awesome! and isn’t this cool?

Tōru just wants to play blocks with Kasumi.

Kasumi stays away from the cluster of children, back against the wall on the opposite side of the room. She doesn’t move.

Tōru doesn’t get to rebuild their tower, and Kasumi doesn’t come back to help.

Her left hand vanishes during lunch time and she drops her chopsticks on the floor.

By the time her parents arrive to pick her up, Tōru’s feet have disappeared, too.

The doctor says she has an invisibility Quirk. He asks her how she felt when it activated, and to channel it to turn herself visible again. Problem is, Tōru doesn’t know. She hadn’t noticed until Kasumi knocked over the tower, not until she saw for herself. She hadn’t felt anything.

The doctor frowns, tells her to keep trying, and books them an appointment for next week.

She wakes up to her parents cries, sees them run in and out of her bedroom, and wonders, What’s wrong?

“Kaa-san? Tou-san?” she yawns, shifting beneath her blankets and slipping out of bed. “What’re you doing?”

When she doesn’t receive a response, she tugs on her dad’s pant leg. “Tou-san?”

Her mother kneels in front of her, eyes glistening with tears. Her body trembles. “Oh, Tōru…” she murmurs, voice cracking with something she can’t name.

(Looking back, she thinks it might’ve been heartbreak.)

Tōru is four years old when she first sees her parents cry, and it’s all her fault.

Preschool doesn’t really change. She still attends everyday and her parents still drop her off with a kiss on the top of her head.

The thing is, she’s invisible now. All people see is her attire attached to nothing, moving just like a puppet on strings. Sometimes, the teachers lose track of her and flounder for a bit before locating the floating clothing. The children think her Quirk is absolutely amazing.

You can do anything you want and no one will know! some of the troublemakers grin.

Others are just curious, asking things like Can you see yourself? or Can people go through you?

Tōru just wants to play blocks with Kasumi, but Kasumi won’t talk to her, and all anyone wants to do is talk about her Quirk—

She plays alone.

She is six years old the first time her parents abandon her. They leave her in a supermarket in a vegetable aisle and she remembers because there’s carrots and broccoli and cabbage and all she can smell is earthy, wet soil. She flinches away from shopping carts and strangers and baskets that swerve up and down the aisles.

She wanders and wanders until she eventually bumps into someone behind a counter.

“Hey, kid, are you—”

Tōru bursts into tears.

(Later, her parents pepper her in hugs and kisses and apologies. They promise with teary eyes and quivering voices that they’ll never, ever leave her like that again.

Tōru believes them.)

(It happens again, and again, and again—

She doesn’t go to the store with them anymore.)

Tōru is seven years old when she meets her baby sister for the first time. The bundle of pink is wrinkly and red. She’s frowning in her sleep and she’s so, so small.

Her first thought is, She’s so ugly.

“Tōru,” her mother calls, exhausted but smiling, “would you like to hold her?”

She looks up at her mom in surprise. “I—really?”

“Of course. Here, just support her head like this…”

It takes a few minutes to get settled, but soon she’s sitting on a chair with a baby in her arms. A baby. What if she drops her?

“Kaa-chan…” She bites her lip and glances down at the bundle in her arms. “I think—”

The baby stares right back at her, unfocused and sleepy, and she’s looking at Tōru. She knows she’s invisible, no one can see her—not even herself—but her little sister smiles the sweetest smile she’s ever seen, and Tōru promises—

“Hello, Aki,” her—their—mother whispers, soft and gentle.

—I’ll be the best big sister ever.

This, she believes, is love.

As an infant, all Aki does is lie in her crib. She cries when she’s hungry or tired or needs a diaper change. She blinks at the ceiling and walls like she’s trying to figure out where she is. She smiles in her sleep, smiles at her parents, and smiles at Tōru like she just knows she’s there.

Tōru absolutely adores Aki.

She coos at her sister, gushes when Aki grabs hold of her outstretched finger, and—

She loves her.

“I’ll protect you,” Tōru vows with as much determination as a seven-year-old can muster. “I’ll protect you no matter what. I promise.”

In her sleep, Aki smiles and squeezes her finger.

Tōru melts, just a bit.

When Tōru is ten years old, Aki comes home from her first day of preschool with a paper tightly clutched in her hands.

“Nee-chan, look, look!” Aki shouts, waving the paper in her direction.

Tōru grins. “Oo, what’s that?”

“Just look!”

On the sheet of paper is a haphazardly colored sky and sun at the top along with some clouds. There’s a house with flowers growing on the front lawn, and in front of it are four people smiling and holding hands.

“Who’re they?”

“That one’s Tou-san and this one’s Kaa-chan!” Aki jabs her finger at the two tall smiling blobs. “I’m this one—” She points at the shortest one in pigtails and a pink dress. “—and that’s you!”

Under her finger is a girl with long black hair and brown dots for eyes; her clothes are a baby blue with some lavender mixed in; and a big smile takes up most of her face. Actually, it looks like it’s based off one of the few pictures they have on a shelf of Tōru. It’s smudged and the crayons color outside the lines and it’s not art or anything grand, but Tōru…

She hugs Aki tightly. “I love it,” she says, sincere and a little choked up. “Thank you.”

Aki beams. “I knew you would! I worked really, really hard, Nee-chan! I had to ask the teacher for more crayons ‘cause no one would share and—”

To Tōru, this is a masterpiece.

“I bet Kaa-chan and Tou-san will love it, too,” Tōru tells her. “C’mon, let’s stick it on the fridge so everyone can see.”

“Okay!”

Tōru’s with Aki when she finally discovers her Quirk. Her skin seems to twinkle in the sunlight, and when she hops around in excitement, the light sparkles around them.

Aki reminds her of a bright, bright star.

Tōru wouldn’t be surprised if she actually was one. It’d suit her, she thinks.

Her dad tosses up Aki in the air and catches her with ease. She squeals and waves, and with a fond smile, Tōru joins her family.

The hardest part about entering a new school, Tōru thinks, is making new friends. Everyone already seems to know each other, or maybe they just clicked really fast. No one approaches Tōru, and neither does she. It continues on like this for days and then weeks; soon, weeks become months and suddenly it’s summer vacation.

Her classmates make plans with each other. She overhears some mention the beach; others mention arcades or cafés.

No one invites Tōru to anything.

She stays at home and goes out with her family and plays with her sister. She browses the internet and watches new shows. Despite spending time with her family and how much she loves them all, Tōru can’t help but wish she were doing something else.

Tōru is thirteen years old in a place she’s never known without friends or a guide, or even a helping hand.

It’s been nine years, and Tōru knows loneliness as intimately as she knows the stars on her sister’s face.

There’s a quiet girl in her class. She has red ribbons in her hair and she’s always bundled up in a puffy white jacket. Her glasses are big and circular, she sits at the front of the class, and she always has a book with her. During lunch, she sits alone at her desk with a book in hand.

It takes a minute or two for Tōru to walk up to her during their lunch hour.

“Um…” She breathes in. “Can I sit with you?”

Her classmate blinks up at her. “... Sure?”

“Thanks.” She pulls up a chair. “I’m Hagakure Tōru!”

“Ah, nice to meet you. My name is Mizushima Haruka.”

“I’ve been wondering,” she begins after a pause, “what’s your Quirk?”

With a wry smile, she holds out her hand. As she leans in, Tōru sees little snowflakes hovering over her hand.

“Woah,” she breathes. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks.” She eyes Tōru for a second. “Let me guess, your Quirk is invisibility?”

That startles a laugh out of Tōru. “Go it in one!” she cheers, winking and giving a thumbs up.

“... Hey, call me Tōru?”

“As long as you call me Haruka, Tōru-chan.”

“Okay, Haru-chan!”

(“Hey, Aki,” Tōru whispers, watching lights scatter and dance across the ceiling. Aki’s soft snores fill their shared bedroom. She burrows further into the blankets.

“I think I made a friend.”)

Tōru is fifteen years old, she’s baking for the first time, and she has exactly one friend. Aki watches them, fascinated but banned from the kitchen because Tōru refuses to let her near the stove.

Just as the last batch is put in the oven and the timer is set, Aki scrambles to the counter and gets on her tiptoes.

“Can we play now?” she whines.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Tōru says playfully, “but maybe Haru-chan has other thoughts?”

Like a switch, the pout on Aki’s face flips into a puppy-eyed expression. Haru’s mouth twitches as she tries not to smile, and Tōru knows she’s a lost cause.

“I don’t mind.”

Aki beams at her and does a little fist pump. “Nee-chan! Let’s go, let’s go! I wanna play with the ball!”

“Put on your shoes, Aki, and I’ll get the ball as fast as I can.”

“Hurry!”

An exaggerated sigh leaves her. “As you wish, Your Majesty,” she says, bowing with a flourish, and heads to the living room for the soccer ball.

“Do you know how to tie your shoes, Aki-chan?” Haru asks from the other room.

“Yep! Nee-chan taught me when I was…uh…” A short pause. “Five!”

“Wow, you must be really smart.”

“I am! Nee-chan says so!”

“I’m back!” Tōru announces. “I’ve retrieved the soccer ball, milady.”

Aki giggles. “Thank you!”

“‘Tis my duty. No need for thanks.”

“Let’s go!”

Soon, they’re kicking the soccer ball to each other on the sidewalk. Haru makes sure to pass it gently to Aki while Tōru pretends to trip over the ball and slip onto the ground.

“You’re so silly, Nee-chan!” Aki laughs.

She huffs as she gets up and brushes herself off. “You’re just too good, Aki,” she wails dramatically. “Your power—it’s too strong!” She passes the ball back to her sister in an exaggerated, clumsy motion. The ball rolls past her and over the curb.

“I’ll get it!” Aki chirps, skipping over to the ball without a care.

Tōru scrambles towards her, panicked. “Aki, get away from there!”

She turns around with the ball in her hands. “Huh?”

The sound of a car honk pierces Tōru’s ears, and all she can think as she runs to her sister is, I’m too far away.

The car is barely a foot away when something white wraps around Aki and pulls her away from the road. Tōru looks around rapidly until her eyes land on a scruffy man in all black. Aki sits in his arms with a thick fabric around her.

“—do that again, okay, kid?”

“O-Okay…”

“Aki!” Tōru stops in front of them. She bows to the man. “Thank you so much!”

He looks vaguely uncomfortable. “... Make sure she doesn’t do that again, and watch her more carefully. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“I know that,” she snaps, wiping her eyes. “Aki…”

The white scarf-looking thing unwinds from around her sister, and Aki immediately lunges for Tōru.

“N-Nee-chan!” she hiccups. “I’m sorry! I’ll never do that again!”

“Are you okay?” Tōru asks softly, cradling Aki against her chest.

A sob escapes from her. “I-I was so s-scared!”

Tōru just holds her and tries not to cry too.

Later, after the Scarf Man—as Aki dubs him—leaves and the chocolate chip cookies are put out to cool, Haru hugs her.

“You okay?” she asks quietly.

“... No,” Tōru admits. “If he wasn’t there…”

It’s silent for a moment. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Haru-chan.” Her voice shakes. “I am never letting that happen again.”

“I know you won’t.”

She pulls away from their embrace, fists clenched at her sides.

“I’ll become a hero,” Tōru vows, “and I’ll be able to protect my family myself.”

Haru stares at her for a long moment. “I believe you.” Her mouth quirks into a smile. “If it’s you, I believe.”

Tōru’s heart soars.

(“What high schools are you thinking about?”

Tōru turns to Haru, eyes narrowed and mouth tight in determination.

“U.A.”)

[anythingbutahero]

Your Time is Worth It; You Are Worth It

My submission to the @recoveryzine for the #recoveryzinecontest. Not super polished, but the message was more important to me than the story. Please remember everyone that being in recovery doesn’t mean your weak, it means you’re improving. Surround yourself with people who make you feel supported and activities that make you feel fulfilled!

Summary: Mirio reaches a breaking point and Tamaki helps him find a way towards healing. [Spoilers!] 

It’s the booming thump rattling his dorm room wall that startles Tamaki out of his reading. He looks behind him, confused for a second, before a distant groan sparks understanding, and suddenly he’s off of his bed and running into the hallway, book long forgotten. 

Three knocks on his neighbor’s door is met by a weak, “Come in.” Tamaki forces the handle to turn and pushes his way into Mirio’s room. His best friend is kneeling on the bed next to a large dent in the wall, rubbing the palm of his hand into his forehead. 

“I forgot again,” Mirio says, wearing a smile that doesn’t reach eyes squinted up in pain. Tamaki rushes to his side, heartbeat in his ears as he bats Mirio’s hand out of the way to see the angry red mark blooming across the skin. 

“Are you okay?” Tamaki brushes his fingertips ever so lightly over the spot to feel the rising bump forming. Mirio hisses.

“I just wanted to tell you about something funny that happened at lunch with Nejire today,” he explains. “But I forgot that I can’t…” Tamaki watches how hard Mirio swallows around the remains of that sentence. He’s almost grateful to not hear the end of it. It’s too painful; every time he remembers, it’s too painful. 

“Let me go get some ice.” Tamaki says, making for the door, but a quick grip of his wrist holds him still. Mirio shines his bright smile again.

“No, don’t worry about it. I’m alright.”

Tamaki frowns. “Mirio, you slammed your head into the wall. You could have a concussion.” He tries to tug himself free, but his friend won’t let go.

“I said it’s no big deal,” Mirio replies. His eyes are closed with the force of his grin. He shrugs. “Let’s just forget about it. I’ll tell you that story and—”

“No,” Tamaki’s voice is firm. “You’re hurt, let me help.” 

“I don’t need help. Everything’s fine.”

“Everything’s not fine. There’s a huge—”

“Tamaki, please!” Mirio shouts, and Tamaki jumps. The last word wobbles in the air between them, broken in pitch. Mirio’s not smiling anymore; he won’t even look up from the bed. In the following stillness, Tamaki realizes the fingers digging into his wrists are shaking. “Can’t we…can’t things just go back to normal?”

Tamaki’s throat closes up so fast, he can’t breathe. He’s never heard Mirio talk like this. Not Mirio, shining sun Mirio. Not when they were children with scraped up knees, not when they failed school exams. Not even after the Shie Hassaikai Raid. 

“Mirio,” he whispers, sinking down onto the bed next to his friend. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” The response is quick, automatic. Tamaki’s heard him say it a thousand times since the accident. Recovery Girl, Eri, news reporters—everyone knows Mirio is fine. And maybe he is, physically speaking. His quirk is gone, but Mirio’s not injured, not in shock. But Tamaki hears it now. The hollowness. It’s the answer Mirio gives because it’s how he’s understood the question.

So Tamaki asks a different one. 

“What do you need?”

Quickly the quivering in Mirio’s body turns to shuddering tremors, and he releases Tamaki’s wrist to rub at his own eyes. It hurts to watch, and Tamaki wants to tell him everything will be okay, want to do something, but thinking he knew how Mirio felt had been why he hadn’t noticed all of this tension hiding under the surface. So he waits.

“I don’t know how to get everything back to the way it was,” Mirio chokes out. His head tilts back like he’s trying to keep his tears from falling. Tamaki scoots closer and leans on Mirio’s shoulder. Maybe he’ll feel more free to cry without someone staring.  

“It might not go back,” Tamaki admits, “But that doesn’t mean how things are now isn’t normal.”

“I just,” Mirio sucks in a deep breath. “Without my quirk, I feel…like I’m in pieces. Like I lost an arm, which is so stupid because I’m fine. And I shouldn’t regret saving Eri. I don’t regret it. But…”

“You still miss it,” Tamaki finishes softly. “That’s okay. Loss is loss, you have a right to be upset. It doesn’t make you any less heroic to want your quirk back. Just like not having it doesn’t make you less of who you are.”

From the corner of his eye, Tamaki can see Mirio ripping his lip apart with his teeth. The silence weighs heavy, every second making Tamaki more nervous that he said something wrong.

“I forget he’s gone too,” Mirio finally admits, a mumbled confession Tamaki almost misses. “Sir. I…you know his phone’s still on? I called the other day to ask him something and got his voicemail. Left a message and everything before I remembered, and it was like I was in that hospital room all over again.”

Tamaki squeezes his eyes shut tightly. There was so much Mirio was keeping inside. Why hadn’t he noticed sooner. “Mirio, how long have you been keeping these feelings bottled up?”

There’s a long pause before Mirio says, “Since the raid.” Tamaki’s heart breaks. 

“Why haven’t you asked for help coping, recovering—”

“Recovering from what?” Mirio pulls away, getting to his feet and pacing the room. His arms sweep over his body. “I mean what was I supposed to do, Tamaki. I wasn’t injured, and I saw your intern Kirishima, all bandaged up and barely breathing. Was I supposed to walk in and say, ‘Hey, I’m completely healthy, but I’m having a hard time dealing with losing my quirk and my mentor in the same day’?”

“Yes!”

“How could I do that when Eri is way more traumatized than I ever could be?”

“Don’t compare traumas!” Tamaki shouts, rising off the bed. He reaches for Mirio only to fist his hands in his own hair, frustrated. “Isn’t that what you’re always telling me? When I have a panic attack about not being a good enough hero, aren’t you always saying that my mental health is just as important as my physical health?”

Mirio shakes his head. “You’re different.”

“I’m not,” Tamaki grabs Mirio’s hand. “What you went through might not have left scars on your skin, but it still affected you. You still need to recover from it. Otherwise you start thinking less of yourself.” Mirio lowers his face, but Tamaki chases him, keeping their gazes locked. “You think thoughts like you don’t deserve to be upset about what happened or that you can’t ever find normal again.”

Tears well up in Mirio’s eyes, but he doesn’t try to stop them. 

“I don’t know how to heal things I can’t see,” he says.

“It’s hard,” Tamaki tells him. “It takes a lot of time, but time worth spending. Maybe you can find a way to honor Sir. Do something meaningful that allows you to take control.”

Mirio nods, hand squeezing Tamaki’s. “He liked to go to this one community center and speak with the kids. I could see about helping out after school.”

“That sounds nice.” Tamaki smiles. “I could go with you if you wanted.”

“No. No, I think I want to do this myself.”

“Okay.” Tamaki waits for Mirio to meet his eyes before continuing. “Know you can always talk to me about what your feeling, too. Even if you think I won’t understand, I’ll listen.”

A smile creeps back onto Mirio’s face, not the same blinding one from earlier, but a softer, more honest one. “Thank you, Tamaki. I’ll get stronger, I promise.”

“You’ve never stopped being strong, Mirio. Now you’re just going to get better.”

[dazais-guardian-angel]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Yagi Toshinori | All Might Characters: Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Midoriya Izuku Additional Tags: Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Yagi Toshinori | All Might

Last minute submission for @recoveryzine ‘s contest about recovery and why it’s important. <3 

To me, battling through depression, loneliness, and crippling self-esteem issues caused by physical disability/chronic illnesses is the hardest road to recovery there is. Knowing that you are different from others, and feeling that difference in how people look at you and treat you, with awkwardness or pity, even if they’re well-meaning, is incredibly difficult to overcome and deal with, and in addition to what your body suffers through every day, can bring out never-ending, spiraling feelings of shame, guilt, dysphoria, and self-hatred. This is all the more true for a hero who lives a double life, and who carries so much weight on their shoulders for years upon years, believing they deserve nothing from anyone and believing that they should be doing so much more than their body is capable of.

But having people who care for you and love you as you are, through all the highs and lows, through your darkest moments, people who relate to you as you are... will let you accept yourself, little by little. It will never be perfect, and there will still be pain, and sometimes dark feelings, but having people there to support you and pull you out of the holes will allow you to recover, and finally love yourself. <3

[crzangel]

Posting this here again in order to enter the @recoveryzine ‘s contest!

This entire fic was all about recovery and perseverence and it’s very near and dear to my heart, so I thought it would be great for this. Whoever decides to read it, I hope you enjoy it, and please mind all the tags and warnings before you venture into it ^-^

As for what recovery means to me: As someone who has suffered from depression and anxiety for a really long time, I have been through the lowest points in my life so far and I am happy to say that I managed to come out the other side stronger. The road to recovery is a tough one, but it is one that I owed to myself and everyone I love to walk.

These mental illnesses are sadly ones that often can’t be cured, only managed. There are always going to be bad days that I have to fight through still. Recovery isn’t a destination, it’s a journey that never really ends, and that’s why it’s so important for me and everyone who struggles with these issues to keep fighting.

Something I like to do on those bad days is take some time for myself if I can manage it. That includes curling up under a blanket, having some of my favourite candy, watching shows/movies I enjoy, just try to get my mind off of things that are making it overwhelming. I also talk to my friends and family if they are willing to listen. It’s important to remember that you have made it this far, you can keep going further and getting stronger.

No matter how bad things seem, how hard it is to keep going today, just hold on long enough to try again tomorrow. <3

[littlestgahena1301]

Poison In My Mouth

Post-Kidnapping. A time where Bakugou starts cooking to ease up some past stress. Anxiety got the best of him, and his perceived notion of peace got even more shattered than before. 

It's my first time trying to write any fic for this fandom, but I guess I should give it a try anyway. Also, English is not my first language, so please mention if I made some mistakes down there.

Word count w/o intro or outro= 2048

________________________________________________

The pan starts sizzling. Oil hissing just loud enough to let Bakugou know it's ready. Dutch onions was the first to go in. Slightly cold cresents descend on hot metal, Bakugou watched closely as he tries to lose himself in the process. After all, as a perfectionist, Bakugou won't let anything stop him from giving his absolute best.

 Salt was thrown in just a bit late for the onion to preserve some of its natural sweetness. The batch that he got from the supermarket was pretty decent, and he would feel terrible if he failed to bring out the best of them. Salt draws out the moisture from the onions and makes their original taste a bit more concentrated in the center. A little bit goes a long way in this situation, as he needs to layer in some more seasoning later when other ingredients are piled up in the pan. He throws in a bit of chicken oil that he got from dry frying the skin earlier. Then comes the chopped chicken bits.

 Sauteeing just enough to have them on the verge of browning, he had them pushed aside for other ingredients to come in. Mushrooms are generally hard to go wrong with and long beans just for that speck of greens peeking through. The green beans are pre-cooked though, he made sure to drown them a little bit in hot water for a bit so that they are not too crunchy when he's biting through it. He's making fluffy omelet rice, nothing in a fluffy omelet is supposed to be too crunchy.

 The green suddenly reminded him of someone, for some reason, it took him back to that night where he sees Izuku rushing over to his side. Bloodied, hands purple and broken, so much that it pains him to just even recall the image. The sharp phantom pain that he felt running his left arm as if a jolt of electric briefly course through it. He instinctively curled in and grab onto his arm to massage it, although secretly knowing that it was just his mind playing tricks again. He shook his head as if it would also shake off his previous thought, and then he focuses on cooking. Remembering that night would bring him no good.

 After they are good enough for him, he continued with just a slice of butter. Forget dieting for a bit and let's not be pretentious here, who the hell would say no to butter? His quirk works in his favor to burn off fat anyway, so there's almost no harm to it. He took a bowl of cooked rice into his hands and crumble them into the pan. Making sure he spreads it out evenly so that its more natural for him to mix it. After giving it a quick mix, he poured in a ladle of sauce. Beef demi-glace, his favorite.

 Just earlier today, he contemplated using canned stuff but decided against it after reading the ingredients on the labels. He knows how to make his own sauce, albeit it was a tedious and lengthy process. He found that he couldn't really trust canned sauce since most of them are usually laced with food coloring and with too much sodium to boot. Besides, making his own sauce gives Katsuki a reason to stay in the kitchen just a little longer. So he did. Made his roux, add in some tomato paste, and only spent about an hour reducing the stock. In turns out well, and Katsuki was satisfied with its consistency.

 He mixed it well this time, making sure that no rice is left uncoated. He makes sure nothing is too dry. The hot and crisp summer weather would usually make cooking a little bit faster but also causes his ingredients to dry out a bit too rapidly. It also makes him just a little bit more sweaty, which makes cooking a little bit tricker. He might just accidentally let a few drops into the fire and boom! There goes all his effort! It's a good thing that the room has air conditioning and proper ventilation that he only had to remember to turn on before cooking. Katsuki generally avoids staying too close to the stove for a long extended period if these resources were not available. He placed the rice in the shaper and set it aside.

 Now, onto the main star of the dish. Katsuki oiled the pan just a little bit more to make sure it doesn't stick. Just enough for it line the pan for the size of the omelet. He poured in the egg and was quick to move after noticing it starts to solidify. He goes on shaping the omelet, flicking his wrist to keep it moving and rolling onto itself. This process had to happen quickly, or the egg will be cooked through, but getting it off just too quickly, and he'll end up with a raw middle. That's not something Katsuki wants to see tonight.

 He quickly went to lift the shaper with his left hand, revealing its perfect shape. He steadies the egg on top of the right with a pair of chopsticks. He took a knife to cut it open; as expectedly, it opens up to reveal a partially gooey inside. He smiles to himself, he still got it.

 He reaches out for the remaining sauce and scoops up just enough to let it run down the sides without drowning it. After garnishing it with some chopped spring onions, he felt quite proud of himself. Yeah, too bad he couldn't show off his skills entirely in front of his classmates. He bet they'll be begging him to cook for them, and Katsuki would definitely need to tell them to scram.

To think back, he didn't get to really taste the curry that he made during the camp. He didn't even get to check if they got the recipe right. All because of the.....

 The...

 ..........

 He felt a hand wrapping itself around his neck. Katsuki tried to pry it open, but when he reaches out, he made contact with his own skin. The fear never left him despite knowing nothing was there. It ran through his back as if an apparition slowly run their index finger, tracing his spine, while a malicious smile cracks their pale and ghastly faces.

 Katsuki notices he started to sweat. A familiar pop was heard from his closed fist. He didn't realize he was gripping the spoon he had in hand. A small ribbon of smoke emitting from his now open palm, barely visible in the dark-lit- room.

 Katsuki had no idea why he was so tense that night. His sleeplessness brought his feet to the kitchen, and he thought it would make him feel better. Tired and worn out, it might help him fall asleep.

 He shook his head again.

 Now's not the time to think about that. Besides, Katsuki shouldn't waste his perfectly-made food. His mom would've shouted his name loud enough to be heard by his whole neighborhood if he was ever late for dinner.

 And now here comes the first bite. Katsuki expected it to taste just as usual since this is a recipe that he made so often, he could do it blindfolded.

 He put the spoonful inside of his mouth and closed his eyes to savor it. The flavors swirled in his mouth.

 Bitter.

 Bitter.

 What is this metallic taste in his mouth?

 Was it blood?

 Was the chicken raw in the middle?

 He opened up his eyes to stab through one of the chicken pieces to check the doneness. It looks fine to him, so why does it taste so bad?

 He took another one.

 Bitter.

 Bitter.

 Raw.

 Raw.

 RAW.

 Then everything tasted bitter with a hint of metallic taste no matter how much he avoided the chicken pieces. He didn't understand, when did it go wrong? How could he mess things up after making it for so many times? Katsuki didn't think that he could let this haunt him the entire night. Refusing to give up, he lits the stove back up to give it another try.

 ________________________________________________

 Kirishima does not usually wander at night, especially on days when he'll be too tired to even do so after a tough gym workout. His muscles are hurting a bit too much for him to fall asleep. Was the soreness from a strain? It looks like he needs to pay a visit to Recovery Girl in the morning.

 Initially, he had only planned to grab some water from the fridge and then go back to his room. But after seeing plate after plate of omelet rice placed on top of the dining room table, he immediately forgot of his purpose for coming there. He recognizes Katsuki from behind, his face dimly illuminated by the stove fire.

 "Bakugou? Bro, what are you doing?"

 "Can't you see for yourself? I'm cooking! What else would I do in the kitchen?" his voice hiked a little bit. Not that he never screams, Kirishima just didn't expect it.

 "Well, you sure made a lot of these..."

 "Trying to get it right, Hair for Brains," He grumbled.

 Kirishima got curious and took a bite from the nearest plate. It was a little bit cold but otherwise its a perfectly fine plate of omelet rice.

 "Hey, what are you saying, man? These are great!"

 "Shut up, I'm trying to focus! Something's off."

 Kirishima took this liberty to taste every single one of them. Most of them taste the same, only differing slightly from one another. Kirishima settled for the most recently made one since it's still a bit warm. Seeing how Katsuki didn't stop him from eating, he thought that it's okay to eat them. Katsuki doesn't seem like he would eat all 5 plates anyway.

 Katsuki gave the sauce another taste. Bitter. Blood. "It's still off."

"I don't know what you were expecting, Bakugou..." he trailed off as he took another bite. "None of them tastes bad."

 Katsuki turned around to see Kirishima eating his latest one. "Who the hell said that you could eat those?"

 "Well, you certainly didn't say anything about it earlier."

 "I was going to compare them!"

 "Yeah, but it's sad to let this one get cold like the others. Sides you still have like another half a plate to compare with."

 Katsuki sighed, feeling defeated at the sight of the half-empty plate. "You know what? Fuck that plate! Just clean up after yourself, and don't get it my way!"

 "Oh, thank you!"

 Katsuki continued to re-evaluate what he did as the sauce continues to cook. Looking for weaknesses in his approach or his technique. He even brought down some notebooks to write down his steps. He just couldn't find anything wrong with what he was doing. Was there something else that he misses?

 Katsuki heard the tap being turned on and saw Kirishima standing at the sink next to him and was washing the plate from earlier. He then dried the plate off and put it aside.

 "Thanks for the meal, man. That sure hits the spot."

 "Yeah, whatever."

 "Would you invite me over to test some more if you're planning to cook again?"

 Katsuki was perplexed. "Hah? I'm not gonna cook for you, damn it!"

 "But doesn't food taste better when you are cooking it for someone else?"

 "Never heard anything like that before." Katsuki gave him a skeptical look.

 Kirishima grinned."I heard that from my mom! She said that food turns out better if you cook for someone else, especially if it was for my siblings and me!"

 "Yeah, sure, you're just trying to get me to cook for you."

"And what's wrong with that? Does your food always turn out bad?"

 Katsuki fumes."NO WAY ANYTHING I MADE EVER TASTE BAD! I'VE BEEN COOKING SINCE I'M OLD ENOUGH TO HOLD A KNIFE, HAIR FOR BRAINS!!!"

 Kirishima giggled. It's so easy to get Katsuki to see everything as a challenge. "I'll look forward to your delicious food then, see ya!"

Kirishima grabbed the bottled water from the fridge and went on his merry way. Katsuki felt a smile creeping up his face as he saw how giddy the redhead was after the meal. He turned back to his stove to taste the newly made sauce. His smile grew wider.

 Spicy.

 Savory.

 Sweet.

________________________________________________

Hey, its me again!

 This fic was based upon an experience I once had with food. I noticed that I have a lot of anxiety after entering college, and it basically made every food taste bad. Some of the food did taste like blood, but not as severe as what I described in this fic. I just imagine that it's more heightened since his situation ends up as much more traumatic.

 I noticed this after I ate something a few months ago, and the taste change midway after getting a trigger. At first, I thought the food was simply bad or poorly done. I started cooking sometime before at my rented apartment and found out that none of them taste as good as I remember that, and that deters me away from cooking.

At one point, everything tastes like a poison that I have to shove into my mouth to survive. This thing is not a singular incident too.

 There's an article that said that mood greatly affects our taste buds, and things get more delicious when we're happy. Stress and anxiety could cause some changes in your perception of your five senses. Make sure your mental health is always in check if you are noticing these changes.

 I started cooking again recently, and while some of them didn't turn as good as I thought, my tastebuds are functioning correctly once more.

 I had help from a friend that's a regular home cook, and she's very open to answering my kitchen curiosities. I start slowly building back the confidence I lost, and now I can say I am at least not the worst chef ever lived. And hey sometimes you need a second opinion from someone you trust, and that's why I choose Kirishima and Bakugou because both of them play off each other so well that their chemistry is just natural. I also relate a lot to Bakugou on a lot of different aspects, so seeing him recover is also giving me some hope that I'll improve too.

If you are suffering from this condition, I suggest checking it with a doctor. Sometimes it might be other things other than stress or anxiety. If, however, if it was anxiety-induced, you could come back to eating after you calm down. No use of eating if you hate it.

@recoveryzine 

[distinguishedlesbianyaoyorozu]

@recoveryzine

There was something about the darkness that now left him shifting in his seat. Unable to sleep, unable to rest when the darkness swallowed the earth. Not the regular darkness of night. He wasn't some little kid who would cower in the dark from imaginary shadows. He wasn't weak. It was the darkness that crawled up on you, when no light shone through and nothing could touch you besides the certainty that you had to fight. Fight or die. Smothered like you could never breathe again. Like when you came out of the darkness you'd be chained up again. 

So Katsuki bought a nightlight. Something small, something that could be tucked and hidden away behind the air freshener he had in his room. 

And there were times, he noticed, when he would take care to walk beside his friends instead of in front of them like he used to. Sure he could say it was because they were beginning to be worthy of his respect. All of them becoming more than extras because he could trust them now. But Bakugo also knew that having someone behind him made it feel like his skin was crawling. No matter who it was, always the same feeling. Phantom fingers settling on his neck, phantom weight across every inch of his body. Smothering, taking, fighting. 

He didn't let anyone walk behind him anymore, and no one commented on it. And he was thankful for it. He wasn't ready for the conversations he knew they would want to have. He wasn't ready.

But he knew they'd be there when he was.

----

Recovery has always been a process of small steps. Of acknowledging that there are things that will overwhelm you, will feel like they control your life. And you being able to take steps, small as they are, to give yourself back a sense of control. A sense of yourself. But being able to take those steps is evidence that you can recover at all. 

[3stirali]

title; a hero’s work prompt; @recoveryzine contest wordcount; 400

a/n: I definitely just found out about the contest, oops. I’m glad I’m not too late to throw something together really quickly! I’ve been hoarding this idea for a while, and this contest is the perfect motivation to just write it.

-

Toshinori’s getting old.

His joint yawn like rusted springs after eons of disuse. They creak after the rains come crashing down all around, season after season. Each stretch of cartilage over bone click and snap. Each pull of pale skin against his sharpest edges ache and burn. If he stays still for too long, he might just crust over like a loaf of stale bread. The threat is in every dull pinch of pain. The promise lingers in his every movement.

He can’t let it stop him now.

The kombini he stops in is quaint and lively for the afternoon rush. No one pays him more than a second glance in this inebriated, deflated form. He’s only been in this town for a few hours, trying to scope out the place before officially meeting Nedzu at U.A. The curiosity burns in his heart and moves him toward exploration. He hasn’t lived like a normal citizen in so long, and he’s making the most out of this opportunity to see what it’s like. To live like them again. To be nobody, just for a little while.

But his scars are deep and his bones are weary. He’s getting old, but he can’t let that stop him from living on. From passing down his legacy to the next generation of bright-eyed Heroes.

So he purchases a few OTC pain meds alongside a salaryman complaining about that morning’s train delays. He smiles genuinely at the cashier and drops a few extra yen in the tip jar on the counter on his way. He pops the seal on a plastic bottle and throws three long pills back like they’re nothing at all.

He spots a crowd of bystanders by the entrance when he opens his eyes again. They gasp and point as a man screams in the middle of the street, surrounded by a disgusting gray sludge. 

He draws a long breath deep into his lungs. He wills the pain to abate from the forefront of his thoughts while the remnants of his bestowed Quirk fill out his form with bulking muscles and a confident stance.

People notice him now. They turn and stare with hope and wonder alight in their eyes.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he bellows, the catchphrase as old and worn and invincible as he is, “for I am here.”

[blxeberrytree]

slowly;

[ shinsou hitoshi; 800 ] 

 summary: 

Hitoshi’s thoughts drift, meandering along in aimless spirals that dissipate like smoke on the wind when he lingers on them. There’s tea in his mug today, warming his palms in place of the usual coffee. It’s loose leaf, a gift—for his birthday, perhaps? The memory is vague. He’s probably brewed it wrong, in any case; he’s never been much of a tea-drinker, but today had seemed like a good day for variety. 

 notes: entry (below the cut) for the contest hosted by @recoveryzine. unbeta-ed atm orz

·•· what does recovery mean to you? ·•·

for me, recovery means moving. i may be sprinting or walking or barely inching forward, but recovery just means that i won’t allow myself to stagnate; i don’t need to move quickly.

·•· slowly; ·•·

The sky outside is a pale, listless grey. It’s the colour of a canvas before the brush of paint, crisp paper before the touch of ink. Empty, full of endless potential—nothing that could be anything, intimidating to breach.

Hitoshi’s thoughts drift, meandering along in aimless spirals that dissipate like smoke on the wind when he lingers on them. There’s tea in his mug today, warming his palms in place of the usual coffee. It’s loose leaf, a gift—for his birthday, perhaps? The memory is vague. He’s probably brewed it wrong, in any case; he’s never been much of a tea-drinker, but today had seemed like a good day for variety.

His apartment is cold. There are dishes in the sink that need washing, dirty clothes piled across the back of the couch. Empty mugs, insides ringed with coffee stains, crowd his desk. Unfinished paperwork rests in haphazard stacks on the coffee table, but Hitoshi hasn’t found the time to tidy it up yet. Tomorrow, he tells himself. It can wait for another day.

If Sunny were here, Hitoshi would have something to do, something to occupy the seconds that tick into the silence.

(The sound of a revving engine slips through the crack between the windowsill and the glass. It’s a few streets over, maybe, and he barely registers it. The sound is subdued, background noise to the quiet that blankets his apartment in thick, heavy drapes.)

But Sunny is half a city away, with Todoroki and Bakugou while he–

While he–

Breathes. 

In. Out.

In.

Out.

Breathes in the disquiet.

(In. Out.)

Breathes in the lifeless stillness.

(In. Out.)

Breathes in the dust of stagnance that has settled over his apartment.

(In.)

Hitoshi’s exhale contains the barest whisper of a sigh. He raises the mug to his mouth and drinks, his eyes returning to something distant on the other side of the window. He feels hollow—a husk, an empty shell. The light in his eyes seeped out of him sometime in the last week or so, tracing the trickles of unshed tears onto his skin.

A small yellow flower bud brushes his lips, carried to the rim by cooling tea. He sets the mug back down absentmindedly, closes both palms around the ceramic. The sky is a grey so pale it’s almost white. 

It takes some effort to rise from the table, and another bit to walk the few steps to his bedroom. He changes on autopilot and slips his heels into shoes by the front doorway. A cold draft greets him as the door clicks shut behind him; belatedly, Hitoshi remembers his woollen scarf, but figures that it’s too late now. He may as well continue without it.

The old woman in the floor below him is on her way up. Hitoshi lingers around the corner of the stairs and watches her let herself into her apartment, hands unsteady with age and the chill in the air. She’s sweet, and he tries to make an effort to smile at her when they pass. But the thought of smiling is exhausting today, so he waits until the door closes behind her to continue.

Hitoshi emerges from the shadow of the stairwell, squinting to adjust to the change in light. It’s colder out in the open, and he shivers. The constant flow of people is a welcome change from the oppressive stillness of his apartment, though, and he merges into the crowd.

The fragrant scent of meat frying drifts through the air, coupled with the clamor and noise of the morning commute. There is movement everywhere he turns, shop owners hawking their wares and disgruntled pedestrians weaving through the throng. Hitoshi feels like an observer watching from the other side of the glass—distant, detached. Muted sounds filter in like an afterthought. Colours, flashing on the billboards, seem duller.

Still, Hitoshi appreciates it, appreciates the smell of gasoline and the grime-stained sidewalks. It’s a change, and that’s enough for him.

Hitoshi winds his way through the city in circles, looping back and forth until his lips are dry and chapped and his fingers are numb with cold. Each exhale breathes out a puff of warm air, and each inhale brings droplets of soft clarity to the murk of Hitoshi’s mind.

He returns to his apartment slowly. The tips of his ears and nose feel frozen, and he fumbles with his keys before fitting it into the door. His apartment is the same as it was when he left, but Hitoshi looks at the dishes stacked in the sink and the clothes strewn on the couch and decides to clean. 

The clothes are spinning languidly in the washing machine when he begins on the dishes. Arm-deep in suds, Hitoshi hears a crash and plaintive meow from somewhere in his apartment, and he feels something loosen in his chest.

For now, it’s enough.

It’s enough.

re·cov·er·y · /rəˈkəv(ə)rē/ noun

the process of returning to a healthier physical or mental state, often slowly. 

·•· fin. ·•·