yandecifi

[yandecifi]

Convenience ☻ Chapter One

☻ masterlist

☻ cw: violence

hawks/reader, omegaverse, dystopia, psychological, wip shortfic

Cold counters, weirdly loud fluorescent lights that flicker sometimes, shitty vapes and pens and sexy magazines. Your life in a sentence.

You’re flipping through one of the aforementioned magazines. It’s got betas (not that you can smell pictures, but what else would they be) in bikinis and swim trunks, all either packing or with huge boobs, but not packing too much or with too huge boobs. Not too small or too flat, either, just at that perfect middle ground of hugeness. Perfectly beta.

“Dayummm…”

Before you ask what you’re doing ogling these poor models, occasionally glancing between yourself and those really sexy models, and actually measuring some of them with your fingers to compare to the rest of those poor, poor models (really, you should stop) at your fucking workplace, well, you work the night shift. It’s two in the morning. For you, there’s an average of one customer per night and someone came in about two hours ago, so you consider yourself safe. Safe and bored.

“Oh, shit, a bunny costume!” You sit up in your chair, both the magazine and the grin on your face spread wide. “That is so hot!”

The door squawks. You nearly fall out of your chair.

When the front door, uh, ‘squawks’ as you call it, that means somebody’s entered the store. Your manager really hates bells, so she got this weird buzzer that sounds like an angry crow. Or maybe a parrot that smokes. Basically, the door squawks.

You toss the magazine. It doesn’t go far enough, though, so you get up and kick it, but it just slides up next to the backroom door. Whatever, good enough, whoever’s here is probably going to be high off their ass anyway. It’s not like they’re going to check out your behind-the-counter space.

The door slams shut. You jump and turn around, only, it’s just a guy awkwardly re-closing it, gently, quietly, like redoing it would erase the loudness somehow. When he spots you, he raises an apologetic hand. “My bad!”

“Uh, it’s fine.” You swear you hear him wheezing. “Happens all the time.”

You don’t usually watch your customers. Your manager actively advises against it, actually, since it’s fucking creepy. However, you can’t help but peer at him from your spot at the counter.

He’s wearing the baggiest hoodie you’ve ever seen, like, it is wearing him . Beneath that is what seems to be another hoodie, though not an XXXXXL considering he’s actually wearing the hood. He’s also got one of those paper medical masks on — two, actually — and sunglasses. His shoes and sweats look like he’s waded through a swamp to get here; the shoes are literally just covered entirely by mud while his sweats have streaks and splatters up to his thigh, along with a couple of leaves, and… tire marks? What? Can alligators drive?

He shuffles up to your counter around a minute later, huffing, very noticeably not okay. You fight the urge to ask him ‘what the fuck?’ as you start checking out his beer, six king-size snickers, ten bottles of water, and — and — that — how many boxes of condoms is that — you lose.

“Hey, man?” His head jerks back to you. He keeps glancing out of the windows. You think you’ve been hearing him grinding his teeth. “You good?”

“Yeah, uh — yeah.” He peels himself off of the counter. He’s been keeling over it since he came over. It looks like he wants some distance from you, now. “Actually, uh, what time is it?”

“2:30, I think.” You just continue scanning and bagging the boxes of condoms. According to the register, there are fifteen entire fucking boxes. You’ve gotten fairly good at crunching numbers since getting this job, so… twelve condoms per box…

Your hands shake as you ring everything up. One-hundred-and-eighty individual condoms. How the fu-

“ID?” Maybe he needs them for an art project. Art, art, think art. You watch as he glances at the three bags of condoms. Fuck, now you’re both thinking about condoms. “Uh, for the beer.”

“Oh.” He lets out a breathless laugh, fidgets. “I don’t have one — like, on me. Right now.” He reaches for the beer, then thinks better of it. Was he about to rob you? “Nevermind.”

“So, no beer?”

He nods.

You go to remove it from his bags, but something about his skittish, abused puppy stance makes you unable to. You drag a hand over your face. “You outta high school?”

“Uh, I’m twenty-two.”

“Alright, cool.” You raise your hands and back off from the bags. He doesn’t seem to get it until you nudge your little card reader toward him.

“Oh, no, you don’t gotta do that—“

“It’s fine, there’s no cameras.” You mentally slap yourself. “I mean, uh, there are, just my manager doesn’t check ‘em.”

“Oh.” He looks between the card reader and you. Then, with a sigh, he gives in and starts pulling out cash. “Thanks, kiddo.”

You snort. “I’m the same age as you.”

“Huh?” He looks up. His brows furrow from behind the sunglasses, blonde and scraggly, and he cocks his head. After a moment, he smiles, or you think he does since the masks shift upwards. “You telling me you aren’t twelve?”

It takes you a moment to register he’s joking with you. When you do, you let out a mock-offended gasp, then laugh. He joins in with a low chuckle. You won’t lie, even if this guy’s totally going through some kinda withdrawal, it’s nice to have some chill human interaction. That’s hard to come by for people like you.

He hands you the wad of cash and a couple of coins. His fingers brush yours, and you can feel warmth even with the gloves he’s got on. Er, actually, not warmth — heat. Extreme, burning heat. It’s like he’s stuck himself in a microwave. You nearly drop some of the coins.

He waits by the counter as you count and put the money away. Once you’re done, you hand him his four bags (with plenty of awkward maneuvering) and, well, that's the end of that. He should be on his way.

He doesn’t move. It’s like he’s missed his cue to leave.

Is he waiting for a receipt? You’ve been out of receipt paper since, like, yesterday, though. Your manager always orders just under what you need to run the shop to keep costs low, tryna make herself look good for corporate. Unsure what else to do, you cross your arms on the counter and give him a smile.

“Need anything else?”

“Uh.” He snaps out of it, kinda takes a weird step back only to move back to the counter. “Bathroom?”

Your smile wavers. You stand up.  “Sorry man, you gotta find somewhere else to get high.”

“Woah, no, no, no!” He shakes his head, waves his hands around as well as he can with the bags in them. “I’m not… that’s not what I’m doing.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but my manager checks the bathroom with that UV stuff. I’ll get fired.”

“No, no…” It’s like he’s struggling to turn his thoughts into words. “I swear I’m not. I just — I just need… a sec, okay? Please.”

This is getting a bit into ‘call the cops’ territory, not that you ever would. Tire marks and skittish behavior, okay, weird, but you can mind your own business. Now, he’s getting pushy, leaning into the counter. Without the masks, you’re sure you’d feel his breath on your face. You swallow.

“I, uh.” He starts sniffing you. You resist flinching away at that, instead opting to press a hand against your neck — against one of your scent glands. Vaseline sticks to your trembling fingers. The drugs you’ve been taking are expensive as fuck, your guy told you they were the good ones. They’ve gotten you this far so you believe him. 

And yet, this dude seems to be able to smell you.

“Hey, man, personal space.” You watch him remember himself and flinch away. The door to your side of the counter unlocks with a click as you undo the latch. “The bathroom’s in the back, okay?”

“Thank you so much. I swear I’m not doing drugs.”

And with that, he’s barging into the back of your store, the bathroom door slamming shut soon after. You narrow your eyes after him.

He smelled like… you smelled him and your chest hurt. You smelled him and your chest swelled with him. You feel warm.

Homeless people don’t usually have cologne.

You sit back down in your dingy spinny chair, blowing a breath. Everything about him makes sense, all of a sudden; just another night for you, but not for that poor thing.

Fuck. Mind your business.

So what if there’s another omega hiding in your store’s bathroom, clearly about to go into heat and with nowhere to hide? It’s his fault for not preparing, for being so obvious. It’s only a matter of time for someone as stupid as that, anyway.

You can’t get into the porn mag again so you just settle for sweeping. There isn’t really all that much to sweep. The mud he tracked in would have to be mopped up. You kind of just mindlessly poke at corners and brush dust into piles. The ceiling lights drone on. You stop sweeping and mop up the tracks instead.

Fast food was better than this. Harder, sure, but at least you could talk to people. Not that you can afford to do that, anymore. You rest your head on the handle of your mop. Guess that’s one of the reasons you’ve lasted so long.

You see it on the news, the compounds. A dozen or so omegas found and rounded up, sent to xyz compound, hip hip hooray! They always catch the packs. Omegas just can’t resist the need to socialize and that’s what, ultimately, gets them caught. Then there’s their alpha with a bag over their head and you don’t watch much TV anymore.

There’s a bang somewhere in the back.

Your head snaps up to the noise, alert, but the store is still. Maybe you’re hallucinating. The back door stares, reproachful. You set your mop against the wall.

The back is full of rows of boxes and employee uniforms. Your jacket and tote hang on the hooks by the exit. The tablet for manager shit and taking pictures when you’re really, really bored lays on a cluttered desk. It’s just that in the back, that and the bathroom. There’s shuffling.

You press an ear against the bathroom door.

He’s pacing. There’s mutters that join it. That scent from earlier seeps through the cracks. You twist the handle open.

You put your shirt over your nose as your eyes water, screwing shut. It fucking reeks. So, this is what heat looks like from the outside.

The guy is practically naked, standing in just his underwear, eyes wide and round and horrified as he sits in a corner. His bags lay haphazardly on the floor by his clothes. Bite marks adorn his right arm, a beer in hand. His neck is red with nail marks like he’s been scratching, scratching, trying to get the scent glands off. To get the proof off.

Well, you’ve never bitten your arm like that during your heats, but everyone’s different. Probably.

“Okay man, I’m gonna need you to put your clothes back on.” You try your best to soothe him with your voice, even allowing a small, awkward purr. He stutters and gawks at you as you lock the door behind you. “I know you don’t want to, but it helps. I promise.”

“This, uh, sorry, I am doing drugs, actually —”

You toss him one of the discarded hoodies off the floor. “I already know you’re going into heat and I have the drugs. You don’t gotta get sent to the compounds, so just shut up and listen.”

“What?”

He’s lost. His heat must be getting to him, you swear you can see his eyes starting to glaze, so you just start dressing him yourself. You pull the hoodie over him and run outside to your tote, shovel through your snacks and water and earbuds for the vaseline. You’re back in the bathroom in no time, fat tub in hand, the guy swearing under his breath as he packs his things together.

“Hey, man, chill.” You shuffle closer to him. Your purring quiets him, has him staring at you with a clenched jaw. He’s dripping with sweat. “We’re the same.”

You crouch next to him and put out your wrist. His eyes flicker from your wrist to your face, apparently putting two and two together; you know omega customs.

He takes your wrist in his hand gingerly, his fingers still burning to the touch and clammy. He sniffs, furrows his brow. You know the only thing he smells is vaseline, but whatever, he’s calming down.

He lets you inch closer.

“I’m just gonna put some vaseline on your glands, ‘kay?”

Hesitantly, he nods, but he’s right up next to you as you slather the vaseline against the glands on his neck. It should help with the smell enough until you can give him the drugs at your place. His breath fans against your cheek.

“Thank you,” he pants, quietly, his smile watery. “You aren’t afraid?”

Your face scrunches up. What, does he think his soft eyes or frightened demeanor is intimidating?

“Why would I be? It’s just a heat.”

“I’m — this isn’t heat?”

“What?”

His scent is heavy with musk, so much heavier with it than your own. You stare up at him and his eyes are speckled with gold. His teeth flash. He’s so much bigger than you, he’s filling up the room.

You drop the vaseline. “Oh, shit.”

His face drops. Then, he scrambles to his feet, placing himself between you and the door before you can even try. You stumble backward, hit the floor. You’ve never seen an alpha in person before. He isn’t as bulky as they’re supposed to be.

“Yeah, okay, so we’re both stupid,” he mutters, eyeing every twitch of your fingers. He leans down towards one of his bags, towards his sweatpants, and pulls out a gun.

Your mouth hangs open as he gets back to his feet and points it at you. Okay. Okay. He looks like he’s done this before.

“Hey, man.” Your voice shakes as you lift your hands. You look anywhere but the barrel. “I’m not gonna tell anybody. I’m an omega, okay? I get it.”

The alpha takes another step back until his back hits the metal bathroom door, finger still on the trigger. Sweat beads on his forehead.

“Sure as hell don’t smell like one.”

“Because of th-”

“Because of the drugs, yeah, yeah.” The air is thick with his pheromones. He’s the same dude as earlier, face twisted in pain and dressed only in his muddy hoodie, but the glare he fixes you with reveals somebody completely different. “Never heard of drugs that work that well.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s not supposed to be heard about.” You swallow. He narrows his eyes at your sass. It’s hard to think with his scent tying knots in your stomach. Think. Think. What do you say? The door just squawked.

What.

His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows. Both of you look towards the origin of the sound, listening. Somebody shouts from the front of the store.

The guy swears under his breath. Then, his attention’s back on you.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, moving from the door, gun on you all the while. “Go out there and act normal.”

And then you’re back at the counter, three cops frowning down at you, looking far too big for the shelves that line your store.

“Hey, how can I help you?” You smile your customer service smile, hope they chalk up the dread in your voice to the usual nerves people have around them. Thank God betas can’t smell for shit, the whole store is drenched in that scent now. Your nostrils flare.

The one in the middle is the biggest. He runs through an introduction of his name and the police department he works for too fast for you to really catch. He flashes his badge. His bulletproof vest makes him even bigger. He has a gun tucked away on his hip, they all do.

“Have you seen anybody strange or out of the ordinary tonight?” 

You can’t help but think of the alpha with the bag.

“I see weird people all the time, honestly. Y’know. Night shift.” You laugh a little, lean onto the counter with your elbows. “Sorry, I know that’s not much help.”

“It’s fine. We’re looking for a man in his early twenties, blonde, about a hundred n’ seventy centimeters. Should be wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans.” He has his thumbs tucked between his vest and chest, the rest of his fingers drumming against the vest. “Probably covered in mud.”

The other two scoff, cover their smile.

“Haven’t seen anybody like that.” You glance towards the mop leaning against the far wall. “Sorry.”

“Can we check your cameras?”

“Don’t have any.”

He looks up to the black dome in the corner of the ceiling. You do your best not to sigh.

“It’s a fake, sir. I can show you, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

So you fetch a ladder from the back and climb up there, pry the black plastic from the base that’s screwed into the ceiling tile. You show him the empty inside.

He shares a glance with his partners. “Call the emergency line immediately if you see him. Have a good night.”

They leave with a squawk. The store is silent except for the lights and the ruckus you make putting the ladder away.

This isn’t what you signed up for when you took this damn job. You didn’t sign up for being robbed at gunpoint twice, either, or at hammerpoint that one time, but shit happens. Still, you’ve got an alpha in rut in your store’s bathroom, had the first conversation with a cop you’ve ever had, and been threatened with a gun by said alpha all in the same shift.

You knock on the bathroom door. “They left, so don’t shoot me when I open the door, please.”

The guy is aiming the gun at you when you enter the bathroom anyway. You don’t blame him, you’d probably be doing the same, but being on the other end of it isn’t exactly pleasant. He’s got his sweats on now, his bags piled neatly in the corner, your tub of vaseline capped and set on the sink.

“I didn’t say anything about you. Seriously.” You shut the door softly behind you. “Getting involved with the cops isn’t in my interest, either.”

“Because you’re an omega?” He’s not looking too great. His face is flushed, forehead and cheeks especially. His voice is strained, body stiff, he’s a rope pulled taut.

“Yeah.”

“I thought all of them were in the compounds.”

“And I thought all of the alphas were dead.” You can’t help but scoff. “Or better at hiding it. Seriously, I’m sure there aren’t many omegas still in hiding, but the government isn’t all knowing.”

He laughs. Like actually, his eyes twinkle with it. “Okay. Thanks for enlightening me, omega.”

“Don’t call me that, jeez. Makes me gag.”

“What, never been in a pack before?” He jokes, gun finally lowering. You just cross your arms and look away.

“No, I haven’t.” Your nose wrinkles when you catch his dumb expression. “Can you leave? I’ve got a shift to finish.”

“You’ve been doing this alone?”

You just stare at him, brows knitted, feet shifting.

“How? You’ve got to know something the rest of us don’t — shit, you even have a job —“

“Just get out, man. You’re stinking the place up.”

He chews on his lip, opens his mouth to say something just to close it. He starts pacing in little circles. He picks at his hair. Then, he stops and starts talking again, gun waving in the air as he gestures at you.

“Your drugs are expensive, yeah?”

“…that’s not your busi—“

“I can get them to you for free.”

“What?”

“Yeah, just let me stay with you for, like, two weeks.”

“Uh, hell no.”

“Uh, hell yes!” His eyes bug out, blonde, frizzy strands of hair falling in front of his eyes, overgrown. “Listen, I can’t get them to you right now, we kinda got — well, that’s not important. What you need to know is I got you if you got me.”

The fluorescent light above you flickers, the AC drones on. You shake your head and rest your forehead in your hand.

Your guy has been upping the price every month. It won’t be long before you have to choose between rent and the drugs, and he knows you’ll always choose the latter.

“One week,” you mutter, raising your head and fixing him with a glare. “And you have to lock yourself in my closet.”

“Deal.” The alpha grins despite himself. “I’d shake your hand but they’re kinda sweaty — what’s your name?”

“We’re not getting friendly. This is just out of convenience.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” His canines flash. Your eyes catch on them. “Call me Keigo.”

[yandecifi]

In A Way That Matters

bakugo/reader

~1200 words

one-shot, angst, hurt/comfort

cw; derealization/depersonalization, mental issues

fic masterlist

Bakugo talks to you about the, uh, thing.

Shakespeare once said: “To be, or not to be, that is the question.”

That is, in fact, the question . That has been the question since it happened. Are you, or are you not? Are you awake, or are you not? Are you alive, or are you not? Are you in a coma, in a hospital, unable to wake up, dying, dreaming, sleeping, something , or are you not?

You have been on pause since it happened. Stuck. Time, life, the you that is not you has progressed without… you. What is you ? Who is you ? When is you ? You are living through memories while at the same time realizing that you have no memories at all. You are alive but you are dead. You are here but you are not.

Bakugo shifts in his seat and asks if you’re there. You pull yourself to the present, whatever that is, and say yeah, sorry, bit spacy today, kinda tired, nice day, isn’t it?

He stares at you. He stares at you with the same look people give when they want to ask you about it, but aren’t sure where to start because what ?

Is it happening again?

Is what happening again?

The thing, he responds, crossing his arms. In truth, you knew what he meant. You just wanted to hear somebody else say it for once.

Your eyes and hands find their way to your drink. You fiddle with the straw as you find your answer.

It’s always happening, is what you come up with.

Bakugo doesn’t respond directly. He never does, not really, the way his thoughts connect to his words is about as smooth and straight as his hair. This time, his response is a grunt just loud enough to let you know you’ve been heard. His arms are still crossed as he stares at the hand twisting your straw. You wish he would be as open as you force yourself to be.

Always, he states, though you guess he meant it as a question.

Yeah.

Y’know why?

Nah.

The silence after is one you’re familiar with. He’s probably thinking, I don’t get it, what do you mean it’s all the time, are you crazy, what even is it -

What’s it like?

You squeeze the neck of the straw between your fingers. Both of you are still focused on it, on the plastic tube you’ve been crushing and bending and rolling about, like a silent agreement to not make eye contact. Maybe it’s a way to make him feel less like he’s asking personal questions. Maybe it’s a way for you to feel less naked.

Sorta thing you don’t get unless you’ve experienced it, you say, but that doesn’t feel quite right so you tack on some stuff about dreams and weed and stuff, you know?

The way his eyes squint at the cup shows he doesn’t. You hurry to fix your description.

Like, okay, you say, pausing to flex your hands, watching the tendons writhe beneath your skin. It’s like nothing’s real. Like, imagine someone’s strapped VR goggles to your head and you’re trying to make your way through the place you’re seeing, but it doesn’t exist, so, like, you’re blind but you can see at the same time. Everything’s weird - there’s this sort of disconnect. There’s this gap between you and what you’re feeling. Y’can’t think straight, either, everything’s always foggy and, oh, that’s right, your memory’s shit too. Sometimes I think I’m getting dementia. Or that I’m schizophrenic. But I’m not, I’m not crazy or anything, so don’t worry. Not that you are, or anything. I’m just - I’m not crazy. I’m not. Okay?

Bakugo nods slowly, says yeah, but they always do that, don’t they. They just nod along or agree with some monosyllable, they don’t - no, they can’t say it, they can’t say: no, you’re not crazy, you don’t sound crazy. Because you do, don’t you? To someone who doesn’t understand.

You’ve stopped fiddling with the straw, instead preferring to work a massage into the palm of your hand. Bakugo has sunk lower into his seat. His arms are still crossed as he stares at the crinkly tube.

He thinks you’re crazy. He does, doesn’t he? He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t have to say it - you can see it. You can see it in the way he won’t meet your eyes. You can see it in the crease of his brows, how they’re pinched together like they are when he’s taking an exam, trying to find the answer to some impossible question, you can see it in the way his adam’s apple bobs up and down, swallowing like he’s nervous, he’s nervous, he’s nervous, too. People always get nervous when you talk about it. They’re like, I had no idea, I didn’t know this about you, what else is she hiding, and then they treat you like a stranger because they feel like you’re one, you’re strange, you’re strange to them. You’ve become strange. He thinks you’re strange.

Bakugo, you say, though it comes out more of a mumble. He finally looks you in the eye again. He’s finally looking at you. God, he’s finally looking at you. Look at me, look at me, show I’m real. I’m real, right? He’s looking, right? Your head swims like TV static. Can static swim? Can heads?

Bakugo asks you what you were going to say. You shake your head. You blink. You blink again. Hey, he says, what were you going to say, but you don’t hear his voice, you can’t hear it, your brain can but you can’t.

Your vision’s like one of those old film reels - clack , you’re looking at his face that isn’t really a face anymore, clack , you’re looking at your hands, you can’t see the writhing anymore, clack, you look up, Bakugo’s gone.

Where is he, where is he, there’s a guy that looks like him next to you. He’s leaning down, about to sit in the cafe booth next to you, speaking words you understand yet can’t seem to hear.

It’s not Bakugo, though. He looks the same, but something inside screams he’s alien, he’s not him. But, that’s just how it is when it’s bad, isn’t it. People become objects, objects become people, and you become nothing.

Yeah, you’re fine.

Yeah, everything’s okay.

No, there’s nothing he can do.

No, you don’t need to go home.

You’re responding to questions you don’t even know are being asked. He’s holding your hand. You don’t know when his fingers first clenched around your hand, how long it’s been clenched around your fingers.

It’s bad, isn’t it, Bakugo.

It is. What is it?

You already said. He tried, he tried, didn’t he? Why keep asking? Why?

He wants you to know, he doesn’t want you to be alone.

You are alone, doesn’t he get it, you don’t want to be either, but he keeps asking and it’s so hard, Bakugo, it’s so hard . Stop asking. You can tell him what it’s like, hours, you can tell him what it’s like for hours but he will never know , he will never know what it is , he will never understand , it doesn’t matter how much you want him to, it doesn’t matter what he thinks, none of it matters .

You will never be able to explain this in a way that matters.

You tell him, that strange, invisible cushion wrapped around your head, that invisible cotton stuffed to the brim of your ears, that hand tight around yours.

[yandecifi]

12 Red Herrings to Keep Your Readers Distracted

I’ve seen mystery/thriller authors use the same handful of red herrings too many times to count. So here are some (hopefully not as common) red herrings for your writing. 

1. The Unreliable Narrator's Bias

Your narrator can play favourites and scheme and twist the way your readers interpret the story. Use this to your advantage! A character portrayed as untrustworthy can really be someone innocent the narrator framed, vice versa. 

2. The Loyal Traitor

A character with a history of betrayal or questionable loyalty is an obvious suspect. They did it once, they could do it again, right? Wrong! They’ve actually changed and the real traitor is someone you trusted. 

3. The Conflicted Expert

An expert—like a detective, scientist, or historian—analyses a piece of evidence. They’re ultimately wrong, either due to bias, missing data, or pressure to provide quick answers.

4. The Overly Competent Ally

You know that one sidekick or ally who’s somehow always ahead of the curve? They’re just really knowledgeable, your characters know this, but it makes it hard to trust them. Perfection is suspicious! But in this case, they’re actually just perfect. 

5. The Misleading Emotional Clue

Maybe one of your characters is seen crying, angry, or suspiciously happy after xyz event. Characters suspect them, but turns out they’re just having a personal issue. (People have lives outside of yours MC smh). Or it could be a cover-up. 

6. A Misleading Alibi

At first this character’s alibi seems perfect but once the protag digs into it, it has a major hole/lie. Maybe they were in a different location or the person they claimed to be with was out of town. 

7. The Odd Pattern

Have a seemingly significant pattern—symbols left at crime scenes, items stolen in a specific order, crimes on specific dates. Then make it deliberately planted to mislead.

8. The Misinterpreted Relationship

A character was secretly close to a victim/suspect, making them a suspect. Turns out they were hiding a completely unrelated secret; an affair, hidden family connection, etc.

9. A Forgotten Grudge

Create a grudge or past feud and use it to cast suspicion on an innocent character. Introducing an aspect of their past also helps flesh out their character and dynamics as a group + plant distrust. 

10. The Faked Death

Luke Castellan, need I say more (I will)? A supposedly innocent character dies, but turns out they faked it and were never a victim in the first place. They just needed to be out of the picture. 

11. The Mistaken Eavesdropper 

A character overhears a threat, argument, etc. They suspect B based on this convo, but turns out they just came to a false conclusion. (Or did they?)

12. The Forgetful Alibi 

Someone confesses to hearing/seeing a clue, but turns out they were mistaken. Maybe they thought they heard a certain ringtone, or saw xyz which C always wears, but their memory was faulty or influenced by stress.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!

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[yandecifi]

The Bathroom ♤ Chapter Two

♠ masterlist

♠ cw: kidnapping, sa, violence

dabi/reader, psychological, wip shortfic

Every time you swallow, it kind of feels like parts of your throat go down with the spit, sloughing off.

Dabi has you wrestled against the cabinet, hand pressing roughly into your face while he fumbles about your thigh. A bottle of heat suppressant lies on the floor, open, almost empty.

He pokes the syringe into your thigh again. Your stomach strongly dislikes this. You huff, try to see what he’s doing, but he just pushes you further into the cabinet door. With every injection comes the cool sensation of it running through your blood.

Dabi’s hands shake as he refills the syringe with the last of the suppressant, as he stabs it into your thigh for the last time. You squirm beneath him, breath heavy, eyes darting around. The normal dose is half a syringe and he’s using the entire fucking bottle.

He finally releases you. You just stare at him, eyes red, lip wobbling, as he gathers up the trash and leaves.

Some amount of time later you start throwing up. You fall asleep, wake up in a vomiting fit, fall asleep, wake up in a vomiting fit, fall asleep, vomiting fit, fall asleep, vomiting fit —

You lie in your own filth. The people in the vent disappear, reappear, they argue and they joke and you hear Dabi down there with them, sometimes. You find yourself sleeping more and more.

You wake up to Dabi slapping you across the face. He narrows his eyes when you stir, despite being starved and covered in piss and vomit.

“Still kicking,” he mutters, crouched in front of you, nose wrinkled from the smell. “Of fucking course you are.”

You don’t have the energy to do much else but stare at him. He stares back, eyes heavily lidded, baby blue.

“What? Thinking about how ugly I am?”

You drop your gaze to your knees, to his scuffed boots.

“Typical omega.”

Your nose wrinkles. Typical alpha, you want to sneer back, but you haven’t been able to speak since you woke up here.

Dabi’s nostrils flare. He leans over until his arm is bearing weight on the cabinet door. He sticks his face into your neck.

You can feel every puff of air. He sniffs along your scent gland, or whatever’s not been left a blistering mess thanks to his hands. Something hot and wet drags itself up your neck -- his tongue. He’s lapping at you like a dog to a water bowl. You grit your teeth.

“You’re disgusting,” he mutters. His other hand plays with the hem of your vomit-covered work shirt. You turn away, the scabs on your neck stretching and tearing.

Disgusting, he says, but he’s sniffing up your scent like it’s a fine perfume.

Dabi burns a hole into the middle of your shirt and then rips it the rest of the way. The remains slip down your arms to leave you in your bra, underwear, and the vomit on your lap.

You stare at the mold on the shower curtains and imagine yourself as one of many. Mold lives in colonies, thousands upon thousands of individuals making up the itty bitty dots crawling up the curtains there. You can be somebody else for the moment.

Dabi has stopped. You hazard a slow change in focus, bring yourself back to look into the eyes you initially registered as baby blue, of all things. Now, they’re almost all black, the pupils blown as he stares down at your chest that’s rising and falling with each urgent wheeze, your shoulders trembling. Whatever expression you’re making makes him practically snarl.

“Fine, then. I’m too ugly for you? Fucking rot in here.”

Cool air replaces his overbearing presence as he gets to his feet and stomps out of the bathroom. You’re left right where you started, if not a little bit colder.

Despite how close he was, you couldn’t smell him.

You close your eyes. It’s too bright in this bathroom, too stuffy. You wriggle around your restraints for what feels like the thousandth time. Your stomach clenches and you throw up nothing for what must really be the thousandth time.

[yandecifi]

The Bathroom ♤ Masterlist

dabi/reader, psychological, wip shortfic

You wake up zip-tied to a sink, covered in burns and unable to speak. Worse, all you get to know is the bathroom, the unstable man keeping you captive, and the voices from downstairs.

You'll figure something out. You always do.

CW: kidnapping, sa, violence

1 ♠ One

2 ♠ Two

3 ♠ ...

4 ♠ ...

5 ♠ ...

~1,600 posted

[yandecifi]

The Bathroom ♤ Chapter One

♠ masterlist

♠ cw: kidnapping, sa, violence

dabi/reader, psychological, wip shortfic

There’s distant muttering. It’s angry, disturbed. There’s no other voice bickering back. Still, the muttering continues, harsh intakes of breath between every indecipherable word. It feels like it’s coming from inside your ear.

Following sound is touch. Your shoulders, your wrists, the sluggish rolling of your head; it all aches. All of it except for your hands. You feel nothing but tingling in your hands, a buzz, like there are thousands of small insects crawling around inside your palms and fingernails.

You swallow. It feels like you drank battery acid. Immediately, you launch into a coughing fit, your eyes welling with tears. You can’t hear the muttering anymore.

Following touch is sight. You snap your eyes open. You’re met with the glorious, eye-level view of a piss-stained toilet. The lights of the bathroom you’ve found yourself in flicker. You look down and you’re sitting on cracked tile covered in lint and various stains of unknowable origin — hair dye? Jizz?

Black mold climbs up the shower curtain in a fucked up gradient of bacteria. You jolt forward, trying to get up because what the fuck, but you’re just met with a clang and a sharp tug in your wrists.

You’re zip-tied to the sink cabinet door, arms tight behind your back. You squirm and kick, breath rattling in your lungs — why do you sound like that? — but it just makes more noise, more clanging.

The bathroom door flies open with a bang. You’re grabbed by the hair and wrenched up, hard.

“Shut,” the cool barrel of a gun presses against your forehead, “the fuck up.”

You do. You don’t move. You just squint at the man hunched over you, the one with the finger on the trigger, trying to reel in the urge to cough and sputter.

Holy shit. You’ve seen this guy on TV, on the news in your store — he — why the fuck are you in his bathroom? What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck? You’re just some college kid — like, you always wear your seatbelt, you’ve never even drank before — but one of those bigshot villains is crouched in front of you, gritting his teeth, dressed in a black t-shirt and some sweats, staring at you like you’ve gone and made yourself his worst enemy.

He’s so much worse in person. His skin is peeling like the wallpaper, the staples on his face looking too tight to be able to frown as large as he is. The fingernails on his hands are warped or just plain gone, blistering burns covering his palms and forearms.

“Fuck!” He hits you over the head with the gun, slamming you back into the cabinet. “Fucking fuck!” You curl into yourself while he kicks a hole into the wall. “God fucking damn it!”

He rushes out of the bathroom. Blood starts dripping into your eye. He comes back, gun discarded somewhere outside, you suppose, because he throws both of his hands around your throat and starts squeezing.

“Why aren’t you fucking dead?” His hands are getting hotter, hotter, hotter. “Why couldn’t you have died in there, what the fuck!” You start to thrash, you’re sizzling, you can smell it.

And then he rips his hands off of you. He falls backward, butt hitting the tile, panting. You want to scream but you can’t — you just cough and clang and cry.

There was a fire. You were working, sort of, just sitting in the back on your phone, and there was a fire. You’re still in your work shirt, still smell like smoke.

Dabi — that’s the guy’s name, you remember — pushes himself off the floor. He walks out and slams the door shut behind him.

You breathe. In, out, in, out. Your legs are shaking — where did your pants go? It’s only your underwear and socks left. You lean forward, slowly, slowly, testing your restraints again. They won’t budge. You can’t feel your fingers.

You fall back against the cabinet. Blood trickles down your neck. You can’t move your head much anymore. You lick your lips. It’s just the muttering of Dabi outside and the occasional noises from the vent in the floor.

You catch tidbits as your ears start to ring less. Doors opening and closing, conversations between muffled voices, footsteps, a girl giggling. They’re all somewhere below. You’re upstairs, in a bathroom only that guy seems to use. Does he live in this shithole? He still hasn’t come back. You still haven’t gotten out of the zip-ties.

Do you cut your hands off like that one dude that got stuck in the mountains? Is Dabi going to bond you? He’s an alpha, you know that much from all the news and gossip. What if you die of infection from the burns? What if you got the attention of whoever’s downstairs, or do they already know you’re here? Why hasn’t he killed you? Why you, anyway? You were just trying to stock up shelves and go to class. You weren’t even in heat. Oh, fuck, what if you go into heat?

How are you getting out of this bathroom?

The door opens. Dabi walks inside, shuts the door quietly, and sits next to you at the cabinet. Every muscle in your body tells you to flinch, to get away, to do something, but you can’t, so you just watch him from the corner of your eye. His jaw is clenched and he’s hugging his knees to his chest. He’s staring into the wallpaper, through it, seeing something you can’t.

He just sits with you. He doesn’t shout or hurt you. He just listens to your rattling breaths, to the happy people in the vent.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter eight

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

There are days you spend sitting outside your apartment door, school bag at your side, leaning against the concrete walls. Or maybe you’re laying on your stomach as you work on your homework, legs kicking in the air, elbows perching you up and scraping against the ground. Your neighbors walk past occasionally. Some say hi, some glance at you and turn away.

Dad asks you what you’re doing, laying on the ground outside his apartment, because it’s weird. It’s embarrassing. What’s he doing letting his kid roll around outside with all the neighbors watching? They’ll judge him and think he’s a bad father. And, what, do you hate him or something? Why can’t you just sit inside like somebody normal, talk to him, ask him how his day was? You’re so thoughtless, so rude. Why’s he been given a child like you?

You sit at the dinner table with your homework spread out. Your knees knock together as they jostle, your blood is fizzing up like soda. Dad wanders through the kitchen.

“I love you, you know that?”

“Uh-huh.”

Dad pulls something out of the fridge. A beer, probably, but the air has turned sour. The words on your homework start to fuzz.

“You know what that means?”

“Um, haha, maybe.”

“I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to go through what I have, I’m not going to do to you what my parents did to me.”

“I - um, okay.”

He’s silent for a beat. Your fingers tremble, your knees still, you can’t even swallow.

“And, you don’t know this yet,” he starts again, “but most people don’t mean it like I do. To other people, throughout my life, it means -- it means, ‘I want something from you, and saying I love you is how I’ll get it’. You haven’t experienced that, so you don’t get it, I know -- but you’ll meet people like that. Most people are like that.”

“Can I just do my homework?”

It’s quiet except for the buzzing in your head.

And then, Dad slams his hands on the kitchen countertop and the whole thing snaps like a taut rubber band — you’re jumping up and bolting out the door. It’s only a moment before he’s on your heels, skidding around the corners of the apartment stairwell with you, shouting and screaming at you from the parking lot.

But you’re already halfway to the moon, the air hot in your lungs, your feet a blur beneath you. Moments like these are the closest you can get to flying — when you’re running who knows where, too fast for him to catch.

Your favorite nights were spent outside with stolen chips and coke. The grin you had sitting on some bench and popping those cans open, licking the salt from your fingers, was bigger than any bruise.

☆

The sky is blue.

You’re laying in the grass with your classmates. It’s one of campus’s many lawns, all well kept and green despite winter creeping in. Grass tickles your arms and ankles with every twitch. It smells freshly cut. Your jeans are probably stained green.

It’s Mina and the rest of her usual group that’s sitting with you. They’re sitting in a circle, cross-legged and yapping. They’re eating fast food: neon slushies and tacos. You snorted your pain meds.

Clouds float far above you and yet you’re right there with them. You reach your hand out and grab at them.

“Girl, you tryna be all main character or something?”

You roll your head over at Mina and her friends. Mina grins down at you between bites and slurps. Bakugo’s glaring at you. Kirishima doesn’t meet your eye. Denki keeps talking with Sero like you aren’t there.

You roll right on back to the sky.

“Girl?”

“Mhm?”

“Where’ve you been, lately?”

“Living with Aizawa.”

“I -- yeah, I know. I mean, like, ummm, even when you’re with us, you’re not.”

“Uhhhhh.” You shut your eyes as you force yourself to sit up. Your brain feels full of blood, hot, sloshing. Everything tingles. You rub your face. “Sorry, I’m just tired.”

“Oh. Want some of my baja?”

“No, no. Thanks, though.” The grass is spray paint green. You blink. “The sky is really pretty.”

Mina giggles like she always does, eyes crinkling up in the corners, cheeks round and strained with her smile. You’ve never met anybody as happy as her. She has to be lying.

“It’s even prettier with some baja and tacos!”

You stare at the chemically colored slush in her hand. It’s as stupidly green as the grass. You lean over and slurp from the straw. The cold meets your tongue and it tingles, weirdly enough. You swallow and lay back down and you smile.

“That tasted like chemicals, Mina.”

“Bitch, be so for fucking real. I’ve seen you take edibles like they’re candy. And I’m not even gonna start with the drunk vaping.”

“Okay, okay.” You swat Mina’s offering of more baja away. “It definitely tasted better than any edible I’ve had.”

“Damn straight.”

Mina shuffles over to you and then collapses in the grass at your side, joining you in cloud gazing. She sluuuurps.

You side eye Mina. She notices. You grin. She grins. She wriggles closer until you’re both practically touching noses.

“What?” She whispers, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I snorted my meds,” you whisper back.

Mina blinks. She opens her mouth to say something. She closes it. Her smile falters. She looks away. She looks back at you. Her face contorts in confusion and she sits up a little.

“You what?”

You remain very still. “I’m joking.”

“No the fuck you aren’t.”

“I am.”

“Show me your eyes.”

“No.”

“Show me --”

“No!”

“If you don’t --”

“No!”

“Fine!”

Mina lays back down with a huff, arms crossed. The boys are staring at the two of you. You flip them off. They all exchange glances and Mina yanks your arm down.

“Girl, what?” Mina turns so that the two of you are nose-to-nose again. You smile. “Weed, getting drunk, and the occasional pen is one thing. Snorting random pills is another. What were you thinking? How much did you take?”

“They’re not random, I was prescribed them --”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Sorry.” You swallow. “I don’t know, I just crushed one of the pills on my desk and snorted it. I don’t know why.”

“Nobody does shit like that just because. Why?”

“I really, honestly don’t know. I guess I just wanted to see if things would change.”

“The stuff with your Dad?”

“No, I mean, I know nothing’s changing that. I just mean… I don’t know.”

“Your depression?”

You squint. The pamphlet and the conversation in her room flashes through your mind.

“I guess? I’m not, like, diagnosed with that, though.”

“I feel like we’re past that point.”

“I don’t know.” You find yourself staring into her eyes, searching, looking at the person there. This one is new. “I’m sorry.”

Mina gives you something like a smile. She doesn’t look right unhappy.

“It’s okay. Just know I’m always here to talk, okay? And can you please promise me you won’t mess with your meds again? I’ll literally buy you alc if you don’t.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Her eyes are pretty like amber in the sunlight. “You don’t have to buy me alc.”

Mina lays on top of you in a dogpile-esque hug. You wrap your arms around her torso and, despite feeling like you’re being crushed, you also feel like you’re being loved. The two often seem to be intertwined.

“Mina?”

“Yeah?”

“I just feel like I’m in some sort of limbo.”

“What? Like, the game?”

“No, what?” You laugh and she moves with your chest. “Like the space between heaven and hell. But like it’s not Earth.”

“...”

“Like where ghosts are? I’m wherever the ghosts are.”

“Okay.” She raises her head to look at you. “Do you mean this as in wanting to…?”

“No, no, not like that! I’m just in some kind of in between. I’m stuck.”

“You don’t feel real?”

You blink. “Yeah.”

Kirishima all of a sudden jumps up and starts screaming and waving at somebody. You and Mina sit up to see Aizawa on the sidewalk a little ways away, a group of first years on his heels.

“Oh. I thought he didn’t come to campus on weekends?” Mina slides off of you to sit properly, watching your teacher all the while.

“He’s the chaperone for the martial arts club.”

Aizawa waves at all of you. You fester.

-------------------------------------

Leaning against the hood of Aizawa’s car, you realize you don’t know how you got here.

You zip your jacket up to your chin, burrow yourself in it. You want to drink something. Or smoke. Or sleep.

“Had a picnic with your friends?”

Aizawa strolls up to you with his own jacket on, black and baggy. You hop up, stare at the zipper, the wrinkles.

The wind bites at your cheeks and you fidget with the hood you’re wearing to cover the st--

“Did you have fun?” Aizawa blinks at you from beneath his mess of hair.

You murmur something in the affirmative.

Aizawa nods slowly, like he’s going to say more. He doesn’t. You both get in the car.

When the two of you get to his house, Aizawa makes tea. He asks you to sit down at the dinner table and if you like English breakfast. He’s not really asking.

When your teacher sits next to you, fragrant black swirling in both your mugs, you start to huff uncomfortably. Your skin is too tight around your throat. Aizawa clears his own.

“How are your sessions with Hound Dog?”

You shrug, rub your neck, stare at your lap.

“Do they help,” he elaborates, pushing, staring, “at all?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

You cross your arms. “What else am I supposed to say?”

“The truth. Be honest.”

He says it like it’s easy.

Something touches your feet from beneath the table. You lean back and it’s Kitty skulking about, tail slithering past your ankle.

“Oh, he likes you.” Aizawa chuckles. “How unusual.”

You stare at your teacher while he watches Kitty. The blemishes, wrinkles, and scars on his face, the beard he can’t seem to grow nor get rid of, the smile you’ve hardly seen in your three years of knowing him. His eyes flick to yours. You take a sip of tea.

“Principal Nedzu informed me of his decision regarding your enrollment.”

You shift in your seat. “Okay.”

“Because you can’t keep up with tuition for the foreseeable future, we’ve decided to drop you as a student for the time being.” Aizawa says, careful, all sugar coated and pretty. “There are scholarships we have that can help cover the costs, but your grades aren’t within the competitive range.”

You can’t even hear your heartbeat anymore. It’s just the crumbling.

“My recommendation is to work through your current situation and health issues before continuing with herowork.”

Your current situation? Your health issues? This situation is your entire life. Your ‘health’ issues are ingrained in you as deeply as the ability to walk or breathe.

You turn eighteen in a couple of months and Aizawa won’t have to house you anymore. Then again, that might not end up being a problem.

“What if my Dad gets let out?” You try, palming your cup of tea. “I’ll get him to pay for it. I will.”

Aizawa leans forward in his seat. “As far as I can tell, he’s going to go to prison. They have witnesses and the evidence is all there. And the fact you’re about to turn into an adult means they’re not worried about displacing a child.”

Your neighbors called the cops with every other screaming match you had and all you ever got out of it was a beating. You went to school smelling like garbage, you slept outside, you had bruises. Does anybody know how badly you wanted somebody to just say something back then? Why didn’t they? Why now?

You already moved on. You were fine, you were handling everything fine, you had a fucking life for once, you were making something of yourself despite everything. You did this all yourself. This was yours, not your father’s, and they’re still taking it away from you.

You stare at your palms, the calluses, the scars.

“But, it’s not my fault.”

Aizawa’s as surreal and still as always. “I know.”

Your skin prickles with the black outside that broad, glass wall. The chair you’re sitting in creaks as you lean back in it, a lump in your throat. Your fingers tap on the table, quick. You watch them drum like little soldiers, like rain.

☆

Your dorm is empty except for your desk, bed, and chair.

You stuffed your bedsheets into yet another trash bag. You threw all your clothes into two others. Everything else, all your knick-knacks and snacks and school stuff, are jumbled together in the garbage bag you’re hauling towards the dumpster. Is your vomit still there, or has a week already gone by?

Every night on Aizawa’s couch, you wake up to your father’s footsteps. When you hone in on the sound, you hear him muttering. You shut your eyes tight and tell yourself it’s not real, but what if it is? You told yourself the same thing when it was.

You throw your garbage into the dumpster and something shatters. You turn around and walk away.

It’s the weekend and Mina and her friends are nowhere to be found. You’d usually bump into them in the elevator by now, or the commons, or by walking around campus, or they’d come find you -- but today there’s nothing. You haven’t told them you’re leaving yet.

They’ve been talking about you, you’re certain of it. Every time you meet up with them they give each other odd looks or sneak glances at you like there’s something on your face. Hawks was right.

You drag the rest of your shit from your dorm to the elevator. You press the first floor and wait as you travel down, down, down. The doors open. You hold one trash bag in each hand and kick the final one out the elevator and into the commons, keep kicking it forward every couple of steps. So, this is what all of your efforts have come to.

You kick the bag through the front door. The star Altair is seventeen light years away, which means you’re still in the womb there, that nothing bad has happened to you.

You kick the bag down the steps. Your mother’s in the air, somewhere, and even then you’ve probably never breathed her.

You kick the bag down the sidewalk. People take parts of you and then leave to places where you can’t find them.

You kick the bag down the sidewalk. Why couldn’t the two of you have had just one more meaningless conversation?

You kick the bag down the sidewalk. Does she think about you when she folds her clothes?

You kick the bag down the sidewalk. It’s about the oranges she peeled for you.

You kick the bag down the sidewalk. She never even told you why.

“Fuck’re you doing?”

You jerk your head up to see Bakugo standing in front of you, narrowed eyes flitting from each trash bag to your crumpled face.

“Taking out the trash.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Can you just leave me alone?” You snap, making your way around him with some extra kicks. He turns to watch you do each one.

“What, did you dismember someone or something?” Bakugo snatches the bag from your feet, falling into step with you.

“No.” You trudge along, trash bags swinging awkwardly in your hands. “I don’t need help.”

“Yeah, well, you looked retarded.”

“You can’t say that.”

“I think the retards out there would give me a pass if they saw you.”

“Bakugo!” You laugh, the urge to smack him on the arm squashed by your bags. “Seriously?”

He cracks a smile. “What? It’s true.”

You sigh. “Where is everybody?”

“Ramen.” Bakugo looks at you funny. “It’s Sunday.”

You stare at him before snapping your gaze back to your feet. “Right.”

“You really need to start coming to those.”

You count cracks in the concrete. “You’re here, too.”

“I don’t skip every week, idiot.” He looks around. “We’re going to the parking lot?”

“Uh, yeah.” You jog down the steps leading to the lot, walk along the sidewalk until you reach Aizawa’s car. “You can go.”

Bakugo sets your trash bag down on the ground. “Isn’t that Mr. Aizawa’s car?”

“Who knows.” You put your bags down as well, sit on the curb. “Thanks for carrying my bag.”

Bakugo stands there for a moment. Then, he opens the bag he was carrying, rummages through it.

“What the fuck?” He pulls out one of your shirts and holds it out to you, like he needs to show you the evidence. “You’re moving out?”

You hug your knees to your chest, rest your chin on them.

“Hello? Can I get a fucking answer?”

“Yeah, I fucking am, alright? I’m dropping out.”

Bakugo gawks at you. Like, genuinely, mouth open and brows pinched like you told him to go kill himself.

He swings his arms in loud gestures. “Fuck you mean, dropping out? We graduate in two months!”

“Yeah, I know.” Your jaw clenches. Your brain is thick with something, slime, soju. “I don’t have a choice, okay? My Dad’s gonna go to jail, I can’t afford tuition anymore.”

“They have scholarships, mine’s basically full-ride—”

“Okay, good for fucking you!”

You shift uncomfortably on the curb. A peek at Bakugo shows he’s standing there with clenched fists, feet shifting.

“What is it with you?” He grinds out. “You flip like a goddamn switch. You’re sweet as hell one second, having me thinking I’m okay with rotting my teeth off, and then you act like you can’t stand me. You act like we didn’t make out for two hours and spend the night in your room ‘cuz you begged me not to leave.”

You’re going to rip out your esophagus.

“I was drunk.” It’s creeping up your shoulders, going up your shirt. “I—“ Your brow pinches— “I was drunk.”

“Oh, fuck off, you were tipsy at most.”

“So what?” You glare up at him. Something isn’t right. “It was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Bakugo’s nose wrinkles. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah, I am.” Something isn’t right. “What, you think I’m easy or something?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about! I mean, you tried to get with me the day after I got out of the hospital, like, are you fucking for real?”

“I wasn’t trying anything, you came onto me!”

“Oh, shut up! Just go make one of your fucking smoothies or something.”

Something isn’t right. You huff. Bakugo’s nostrils flare as he stomps towards you, crouches to your level, and grips you by the shoulders.

It’s loud, blaring, and riddled with curses. His fingers are bruising. You frown, shake your head, shake and shake.

You were drunk. But, you’d already told yourself that that didn’t matter, didn’t you?

Glass shatters and you shriek. You cover your face, drop to your knees, but Aizawa is already helping you up.

Something isn’t right. You’re standing with Aizawa in his kitchen. Eri is hiding behind the dinner table.

The glass crunches beneath your feet as you take a step back. Aizawa winces, urges you to calm down, but what if this is like the sounds you hear at night?

Is any of this real? Was that a dream? Is this a dream? What if you’re still bleeding out in the stairwell?

Eri isn’t behind the table anymore. You’re lying on the couch with a blanket over you, the TV flashing with Sailor Moon. Instead of your father’s footsteps, Hawks retches from the next room over.

[yandecifi]

⚿ Fic Master List ⚿

all fics that i've posted to tumblr

request guidelines

MASTER LIST

✒ Dirty ; bakugo/reader, oneshot, hurt/comfort, ocd, cleaning compulsions, text fic

✒ In A Way That Matters ; bakugo/reader, oneshot, hurt/comfort, angst, derealization/depersonalization

✒ sex isn't about have to's ; aizawa/reader, oneshot, hurt/comfort, mild smut, angst, implied rape/noncon, implied incest, implied child abuse

✒ What It Means to Be Made of Stardust ; hawks/reader, longfic wip, psychological, child abuse, sa, mental illness

✒ Convenience ; hawks/reader, shortfic wip, psychological, omegaverse, dystopia

✒ The Bathroom ; dabi/reader, shortfic wip, psychological, kidnapping, sa, violence

[yandecifi]

✉ Request Guidelines ✉

Requestions are open 🤭 it always makes me giddy to hear somebody likes my writing enough to ask for more. plus i need the inspo ngl

GUIDELINES

✉ I'll preface with: I do not write hardcore smut, unfortunately. (makeout/steamy scenes or sex as a topic is fine tho)

✉ fandoms i'll write for: MHA, Arcane, Genshin Impact (if it's a popular anime not listed here, i've prob watched it and may be willing to write it, so shoot ur shot if u wish)

✉ characters i mainly write for: hawks, bakugo, vi, kaeya (these are chars im familiar with. other chars are fine too, but im less likely to take the request)

✉ pairing i mainly write for: the chars above/reader. i basically exclusively write /readers, but im down to write a char/char pairing that interests me.

✉ topics/tags that r hard no's: scat and watersports. im pretty much game with everything else (love darkfic), i just cant stomach writing about shit lol

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter seven

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

Swaddled in the sheets your mother was in last night, you hide. It’s full in the apartment. The air mattress is too soft, it needs to be pumped with air, but you don’t know how.

When you first woke up, you wandered all throughout the living room, the kitchenette, the bathroom, even your father’s bedroom. You opened closets. The apartment filled up, and up, and up.

There was no breakfast sitting on the table or coffee being made. Your mother’s shoes were gone. That was five hours ago. You stuff the blankets in your mouth, it hurts to breathe.

Hawks giggles like a schoolgirl as he shoves you away from the door of some janitorial closet. To your glee, you manage to squeeze through just as he slams it shut. He screams when he sees you’ve followed him inside, crashes into a shelf full of spray bottles and cardboard boxes.

“Ahah, don’t hurt me!”

The grin on your face burns. You’re supposed to hit him back, tickle him or something, but you can’t bring yourself to touch him. You’ll throw up, start squealing, or piss yourself, maybe. You don’t want to find out.

Hawks peeks out from the arms covering his face, his eyes glimmering. It’s just the two of you surrounded by mops, squeegees, brooms, and dustpans. Shelves line the walls, a mop sink in one corner with a hose. You have the idea to spray him with it but that might be taking it a bit too far.

“You’re not gonna get revenge?” Hawks snickers, pulling your attention back to him and his teasing. “Guess you can’t really do much anyway, you got twig arms—”

You smack him on the shoulder. “Ah, shut—”

“ Ahhh, shut up !” He starts giggling again. He pitches his voice high and squeaky, waves his hands in the air. “ Shut up, stop it, Hawks !”

“Shut—” You groan. Your face is really on fire now. “Whatever!”

“ Ugh, whatever !”

You kick him in the shin. He drops to his knees, clutching his leg, his laughter ceasing.

“Oh, shut up, Hawks. That didn’t hurt.”

“So mean to me! I just had an injury there, y’know.” He rubs his shin. “Owie.”

You chew on your lip. You lean down with an apology on your tongue, but you’re bonked on the head instead.

“Got you.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“How original.”

“Shut up!”

“Telling me that clearly isn’t working.”

Your hands slap against your face, rushing to hide yourself away. He’s such a fucking prick. His laugh is like a melody.

“Sorry, sorry.” Hands wrap around your wrists. His hands. He tugs them away from you and you can do nothing to resist. “I’ll stop.”

You can barely feel your fingers with how much they’re tingling. Your heart literally feels like it’s in your throat. He could kill you right now and you would be too caught up in all this to even care.

His hands remain around your wrists, warm, fantastical. You stare at your feet, somewhere between a poorly contained smile and a bashful frown.

“You’re always so shy with me.” He leans in to try and catch you with his grin. He probably doesn’t know that that just makes it harder for you to look at him. “Why?”

“I’m not shy.”

“Oh, please.”

“Shut up.”

He releases one of your wrists to pinch your side. You yelp, jump away from him, but he just yanks you right back with a laugh. He’s close enough that you could touch his shoulders or chest if you wanted. You could hug him, kiss him.

You want to hug him so badly. You want him to hug you. You want to be hugged.

You can also see that he has a bit of a snaggle tooth, a pointy canine that’s slightly pushed out from the rest. You never saw that in all the official posts or fan accounts you’ve poured over.

He has a little snaggle tooth and you’re the only one that knows.

“I didn’t know you could make noises like that,” Hawks says, grinning, always so happy with himself.

“What the hell does that even mean?” You rub your side with your free hand, trying to look angry. He knows you aren’t. He always knows. “I’m — I need to go finish my offboarding stuff. Okay?”

You pull away from him, free your wrist from his grasp, push down your disappointment. He sighs dramatically.

“Okaaay. Have fun. My manager’s probably looking for me by now, anyway.”

“Like always.”

You turn away and turn the door handle only for it to jam. You try it again. It’s locked from the inside.

The closet is full.

You fumble to unlock the handle and slip out of the closet.

☆

An old man sits at your new desk while you stare at him from beneath your freshly cleaned covers. He has sharp eyes, the kind that make you think he doesn’t like much of anything, but you know him better than that. His chin has that dark stubble he always has, they’re tendrils of an ancient plant poking out of his skin. His hair is black like fat vines dipped in oil, it drapes and drips down his shoulders in the same way. If you cut him open all you’d see is branches, brittle black branches, his skin would have so many rings on the inside there’d be no rings at all. He looks at you and he’s as still as the trees he’s made of. His teeth are made of pale mushrooms, his eyes fuzzy with black mold.

Aizawa stands from the desk chair and goes to turn off the lights.

It’s worse in the dark. He mixes into it. The chair squeaks as he sits back down. When you’re peering into the darkness like this your eyes feel like moons.

Hawks has soft curls in his hair. You brush them back from his forehead as he naps. His breath fans against your neck.

“You’re having trouble sleeping.” The frown on your face deepens. Aizawa has a habit of saying things you don’t want to hear. “Try closing your eyes instead of glaring at me.”

“The staple was an accident.”

It’s too dark to see what he’s doing but he doesn’t respond. It’s a dry sort of silence.

“Can you at least turn the lights back on?”

The chair squeaks again and the bedroom door is opened. The hallway of Aizawa’s home is filled with light, it spills into this guest room and turns the carpet yellow. You sit up. He’s left the room, the door ajar, in silence.

You close your fingers around the covers, rub against the fabric. Spit gathers in your open mouth.

He returns a couple moments later. He lumbers towards you and your blankets, the ceiling brushing the top of his head. Smaller and smaller you become the closer he gets; you keel over. You’re in a box. He plugs a simple, little nightlight with a fabric lampshade into the wall.

It glows by his cradling hands as he fidgets with it and the outlet. All Might is embroidered on the front. He’s smiling and flexing his muscles.

“Is that better?” Aizawa asks, the side of his face lit by the nightlight. His skin writhes and wriggles with something beneath. His eyes narrow. “I thought you were afraid of the dark.”

The two of you end up in his living room, sitting on his couch, both of you with glasses of water. You make a point to sit on the opposite end of the couch from him. He takes a sip from his glass, flipping through channels on his TV. A late night talk show, the news, some kind of ad for drain cleaner.

“What do you watch?” He asks, and you curl up a little more.

“Never really watched TV.”

He grunts. You watch his slow blinks at the screen as he considers. He has black cat slippers on with bright yellow eyes, their soles worn.

“Do you like animals?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

His thumb presses the remote again, again, and again. A rather tragic moment in a drama, more news, a documentary on the deep sea. He puts the remote down on the coffee table. The narrator is going over gulper eels.

“Drink.”

Aizawa nods at your untouched glass. It’s crystal clear, the water laps at the lip of the cup like a lake. You tilt the water back and forth, watch it move. Aizawa reaches over and grasps your cup by the top, all the while watching the documentary. You slowly put it down. He lets go. You fidget with your fingers instead.

Aizawa’s living room isn’t what you imagined; he has children’s toys littered on the floor next to a rather tall, beige cat tower for his cat that you haven’t seen yet. His name is Kitty. You get the feeling he doesn’t like you (animals know bad people) but Aizawa said he’s just a bit of a diva.

There’s an open closet that contains a stacked washing machine and dryer with a litter box stuffed in there, somehow, and there are shelves on the walls lined with little trinkets, books, gifts, and pictures. Shoes are left in a cluttered heap by his front door. His boots, sneakers, his second pair of sneakers, your shoes. Little sandals and little crocs and little ballerina flats. His fridge has the ripped out page of a coloring book stuck to the door with magnets, an artsy flamingo all scribbled in with the rainbow.

You stick out in his home in a different way than Hawks’. Hawks’ place is empty of him aside from certain drawers, his fridge, his closet, and the boots he leaves by his front door. Everything is spick and span, every expensive table, counter, and shelf left lonely. He has rooms he never goes in. Your clothes on his designer carpets make everything dreamy. Your school bag on his couch, his soft towels in your hands and wrapped around you. Hawks said you brought life to the place, filled up the spots he couldn’t.

Aizawa’s home is full. There’s no room for you left. His home smells like nothing in particular and he has a TV.

An angler fish stares at you from the screen. It’s ugly, somewhere between violet and shit brown with rows of needle teeth that gnarl in different directions. It looks like it was born with cataracts.

“I’m sorry for frightening you. I should have told you I was getting the nightlight.”

You would turn to look at Aizawa, to speak with him normally and politely, but something tells you to keep staring at the fish.

“You didn’t frighten me.”

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable,” he corrects. You can almost see his dry expression.

“It’s fine.” You don’t have the energy to argue. “Sorry.”

You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s his own fault, sticking his nose in your business.

The angler fish has found a mate. The mate is smaller, so much smaller. It looks more like a parasite when it latches onto the bigger one. It turns out that not only does it look like a parasite, it acts like one, too.

You finally manage to glance at Aizawa. He’s lounging comfortably on his side of the couch, an arm draped over the back while he holds his half-finished water, eyes squinted at the fish.

“I’ve worked with a lot of students. There have been plenty that caused more trouble. I can think of several in your class.” He sets his glass down on the coffee table. “You’re okay. You’re a good kid.”

A good kid. Hawks says that a lot, how you’re so smart, so kind.

“If I was a good kid I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Aizawa sighs. The narrator is talking about the dumbo octopus. It floats around stupidly on screen. Aizawa doesn’t want to tell you he thinks you’re crazy.

At this moment, sitting on your teacher’s couch late at night because all the adults around you have decided you just can’t be alone anymore, you get deja vu. You’ve been here before, or perhaps you’re here but sitting a little to the left, or to the right. Your hands are heavier or lighter. Maybe you drank the water or you spilled it, or both. You’re on top of your teacher or beneath.

His eyes are seedy, beady, black, moldy. He’s staring at you from the corner of his eye, he’s not focused on the documentary, he never was.

“...Aizawa?”

A little voice calls from the hall. Your head snaps in its direction.

It’s a child. Her long, silver hair is braided back in loose pigtails. She’s wearing matching pajamas, an oversized shirt and shorts with a unicorn pattern. It’s Eri, taller than last you saw her, a little bit older. How old is she now? Nine? Ten? When you were that old, you were cleaning up your dad’s vomit, not trembling in unicorn pajamas. She looks between you and your teacher.

“Did you have another nightmare?” Aizawa asks gruffly, standing from the couch. He walks over and kneels in front of her. “My student was having trouble sleeping, too. Do you want to make bubbles?”

Aizawa fucks her. You shut your eyes, grit your teeth. People call those things handlebars. He probably does, too. You grab your arm and press your nails into your skin.

You open your eyes. The two of them are holding their breath, cheeks puffed out. Aizawa pokes his fat cheek. Eri giggles. He blows out the bubble and so does she. They repeat, and repeat, and repeat, until Eri isn’t shaking anymore.

“Can I get a book?” She whispers, like Aizawa would break if she spoke too loudly. Eri hazards a glance at you and doesn’t like what she sees. You’ve never really spoken to her, but that shouldn’t be what makes her shoulders shrink. Maybe it's the staples.

“Of course.” Aizawa stands back up as she goes to fetch her book. He sits back down on the couch. He’s back to staring at you. “We’ll return to this conversation once I get Eri back to bed.”

You swallow. The narrator drones on and on. You have the urge to grab the TV remote and turn it off, but you don’t. You never do much of anything, do you?

Eri returns and sits next to Aizawa. She sits criss-cross, her knee touching his, reading her little novel and thumbing the pages. You stare at her shorts and then rip your eyes away. You stare at her tiny body next to his, how he’s so much bigger and taller. Aizawa and her are visceral.

He should be beating her. He should be pulling her up by the hair and yelling in her face, asking her why she’s not in bed, telling her to shut the fuck up. He should be bashing her face into the wall while she screams at him to stop. He should be holding her down against the floor and telling her she can’t do anything to stop it. She should be picking glass out of her leg. Your heart races.

But she’s leaning against him and reading and he’s watching TV. You swallow, stare at where they’re touching. Is he hard?

Eri has the smallest nose. She nibbles on her bottom lip, focused on the page, her eyes are still red from what must have been tears. She isn’t reading. She starts rocking back and forth a little.

Unicorn pajamas. Get a fucking grip.

She’s worse at breakfast. Aizawa tells you she has PTSD, go figure, and to just let him deal with her. You woke up on the couch with a blanket over you. Aizawa is making star shaped pancakes with Eri while you sit at the table. A bowl of strawberries, painkillers, and a fork has been set in front of you. You don’t deserve to eat them.

Aizawa touches her. He pets her head, preens her hair, pinches her cheek, pats her back.

Aizawa’s dinner table is small, more of a desk. It has a vase of LEGO flowers in the middle next to a wilting dandelion in a mug. He has placemats, a total of four laid out on the table, most of them fabric with solid color or stripes. There’s one that’s plastic, pastel pink, with cute drawings of fruits.

You finally see Kitty, too. He’s eating from a metal bowl in the kitchen. You watch him munch away. He’s all black and rather thin, his shoulder blades protruding sharply from his back. Aizawa said he’s just an old man.

“Good job. Can you go put that in the sink?”

“Yeah!”

The smell of pancakes is sweet and delicate. You can kind of hear them sizzling. Through the kitchen windows are dark, fleshy gray clouds. Eri looks like she’s having a good time, lost in the joy of pancakes. You sit and watch them.

Aizawa hasn’t sighed.

When they sit down, the star pancakes steaming on your plate, you can’t bear to eat them. Aizawa asks you if you don’t like pancakes. They have maple syrup drizzled on top. There’s a slice of butter melting in the middle. Eri eats them with the biggest smile on her face. She was better last night.

The pancakes are more beautiful than anything you know. Aizawa puts your fork in your hand and, grim as the windows, orders you to eat.

☆

Your head pounds.

Hound Dog licks his lips. A clipboard with a questionnaire is sitting on your lap, a pen in hand, and you can’t read.

The words make sense. They do, truly, you can say each individual word in your head, but when you try to string them together into a sentence everything washes away. You reread the first question. What the hell.

The bell rings and you slap your hands over your ears. Your classmates’ burst into chatter is secondary to the ringing that, now, only you can hear. It bounces around your skull, threatens to burst your eardrums. Denki gives you a weird look as he passes your desk. He hasn’t spoken to you today. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, hunker down, rock slightly in your chair. It’s pulsing. You can feel your head squelch and pulsate and that booming ring pop every staple. Your eyes are going to explode out of their sockets and onto the table.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The meaningless lunch table conversations have less substance than usual today. You smile.

“The rain is nice.”

Everyone looks at you. Mina animatedly nods her head. Sero’s chopsticks poke at his noodles. Kirishima agrees with an odd laugh.

“It’s annoying,” Bakugo grumbles. “My sneakers got soaked this morning.”

“Yeah, saw you with the hair dryer earlier. You looked pretty stupid.”

“Ah, shut up, Dunceface.”

“How’s Hawks?”

“Hawks?” You stutter, face scrunched up at Mina. “He’s fine. Probably, I don’t know, I haven’t really seen him.”

Your hands don’t look like your own. Mina’s face is… well, it’s Mina, but you’re not supposed to be here.

“Oh. Huh. You guys don’t talk as much?”

“No, he—” you smile. “What?”

Aizawa’s car idles outside of Eri’s elementary school. You’re sitting in the front passenger’s seat, legs crossed, nails digging into each other. He went to go get her because of the downpour. There’s so many kids hiding from the rain beneath trees and umbrellas, their parents running up to them. There’s a trash bag stuffed with some of your clothes sitting in the trunk. Aizawa hasn’t told you whether they’ve decided to expel you yet or not, but he did tell you to start bringing your things over. Denki asked you if you were finally cleaning your room and you shoved him to the floor.

Aizawa’s holding Eri’s hand and shielding her from the rain with a black umbrella. He slouches a little so that she can reach his hand. He opens the door for her and she crawls into the backseat wearing frog rain boots.

The drive to Eri’s therapist is long. She babbles about her classes and a friend she made, mentions that the lunch Aizawa made her was really good. He nods along, his expression as plain as always. Hawks has the softest smile whenever you talk.

After he drops her off at what looks to be an office building, he takes the two of you further into the city. She’s only going to be in therapy for a little over an hour, so he wants to get some food with you. It’s then that you realize, to your horror and elation, that you’re in Fukuoka. Aizawa takes you to a KFC.

“Looking for somebody?” He says, as you crane your head up to the sky. The two of you are sitting outside, chicken legs in hand, licking them clean. Your fingers are greasy with oil. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

“No.”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

You nibble at the bone in your hand. “Maybe I just act that way so that you think I’m a bad liar, but I’m actually not.”

Aizawa sets a clean leg down and picks up a fresh one. “How clever.”

“The rain doesn’t bother you?”

“It’s hardly even sprinkling.”

You shrug. Passersby show little interest in the two of you; you’re wearing your favorite hoodie and refuse to take the hood off. With it on, you’re just a high schooler out with their Dad.

Is that what people see when they look at you? None of them know. To them, none of this has happened and you don’t exist. If you were them, you would be walking your dog in the afternoon with earbuds in instead of whatever this is.

How can they do that? It’s so very hard to own a dog. You have to get a job that pays well enough for an apartment, furniture, food, electricity, water, internet, phone bill, the dog itself, vet appointments, dog food, toys, food and water bowls, and grooming. In order to get that job, you need an education, experience, a resume, references, social skills, presentable clothes, transportation, an email and phone number. On top of that, you need the time to play with the dog, feed it, and walk it. You have to have the energy to do that, the time management skills, the freedom. You have to wake up, make yourself breakfast, eat breakfast, brush your teeth, change into work clothes, feed the dog, go to work, come back home, shower, make dinner, eat dinner, feed the dog, brush your teeth, take the dog for a walk, clean your home, do the laundry, play with the dog. How do people own dogs with responsibility that immense and constant?

“I’m sorry I’ve been put with you guys.”

Aizawa looks up from his food and stops chewing. He looks a little silly with the grease on his chin. He swallows.

“I offered. Don’t worry about it.”

He’s right. He did offer, and this whole thing is kind of his fault anyway.

No, it’s not.

But if he didn’t call, if he just left you alone like everybody else, if he just let you deal with it like you have with every other hurt you’ve been given, would Dad still be here?

Maybe the two of you could have made up. It’s happened before, not perfectly, but you’ve said sorry and he’s sighed and nodded and cracked a beer open. Once, you were sitting at the dinner table and sipping miso soup. It was one in the morning; you had just gotten back from the park because it was too cold to sleep. Your Dad came out of his room, got water, and stood behind you. He sighed. He patted you on the back. His hands were thick and old and you realized his hands were warm.

It was never that serious, anyway. You got hurt and shit sucked but you never ended up in the hospital. You never had your consciousness dripping out your nose. If the police hadn’t come, if Aizawa hadn’t called, then you would’ve just left and walked to a grocery store and looked at the colorful packaging of instant noodles. You would’ve cried a little, hid in a bathroom or two, then made it back to campus, somehow. Dad would call you and you would yell at each other until you couldn’t anymore.

But, no, you’re sitting outside a KFC in the city. Your teacher’s in front of you, a thousand strangers talking, walking, and holding hands, and there’s no good reason as to why.

“Is my Dad’s trial soon?”

“About a month from now, I believe.”

“Fun.”

He has a month. The apartment and all of his stuff won’t be there for much longer. All his things will go to a storage unit and then into auction and somebody, somewhere, will have a bathroom rug with bloodstains. Somebody else will move in and the holes punched into the walls will knock down their rent.

“You seem to be handling that relatively well.”

You wipe your hands on a napkin, crinkle it between your fingers.

“It’s whatever. Was gonna happen eventually.” A fat drop of rain lands on your nose. You lick it when it travels to your lips. Dad never got food you liked but the point is when he ordered takeout, there was a portion for you. “Probably.”

Aizawa’s chest rises and falls with yet another deep sigh. It’s like every word that leaves your mouth exasperates him.

“I’m trying to tell you I’m worried.”

“Well, I’m good — different, with this sort of thing.”

“Is that so?”

Aizawa blinks lazily at you. His lips twitch when you roll your eyes.

“Yeah—” You freeze. A red feather darts between footfall and swinging purses, a little worker drone, listening and watching. “Uuuhhh.”

“What?”

You drag your eyes to the roofs high above you. There are sparkling skyscrapers and balky brick buildings that refuse to be demolished; you’re searching for a silhouette peering over their ledges, or perhaps dangling legs. There are none.

You release a shaky breath.

“Nothing.”

But Aizawa tilts his head up anyway. There’s nothing there, really, there isn’t. Still, you grip the edge of your seat. Your fingers worm around somewhere beneath.

He always knows where you are in the apartment.

You lower your head, tell off the shakes. You yearn. You want people backwards. Aizawa’s staring at you.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yep. Sorry. Are you done?”

You blink a lot and stare at the table but not really. The issue with you is that you’re just like Hawks.

Aizawa throws your trash away for you and the two of you pick up Eri. Aizawa spends some time speaking with the therapist. You wonder if, had your parents done all the things he does, would you have turned out differently? Would you be pretty the way Mina is? Would you fall asleep when you’re tired? Would your mom give your classmates fried chicken? But you want to lick blood off of your arm, you want somebody to choke you.

There are cicadas outside.

It’s a constant buzz. Buzz, buzz, buzz. That. They’re somewhere outside in the black.

You’re on Aizawa’s phone. Your eyes hurt. The screen is too bright but you can’t turn it any lower. You’re reading through blogs and forums.

Is this what true love feels like?

Top 10 Ways to Know if a Guy Likes You!

Advice on ten year age gap :/ thanks.

Well, you feel like you're floating around Hawks, too. He winks at you and tries to make you laugh and calls you cute. Yours and his is seven, but a lotta people are saying ten is okay, so seven shouldn’t be a big deal.

He has to like you with the way he looks at you. He looks so happy, his eyes twinkle, his cheeks dimple. It’s hypnotic.

Why someone like you makes somebody like him look anything like that, you haven’t the slightest clue. It’s so bizarre that you dare to think that maybe you’re not someone like you, not you, you’re some other you that he’s hallucinating from every stretch you’ve let him see and cry you’ve let him hear. You’re wonderful in his eyes. You see her in the joy there.

She likes energy drinks and going fast, likes his jokes and every other word that comes out of his mouth. She doesn’t like her Dad, she cries in bathroom stalls because of him, comes into patrol shy and quiet because of him. She doesn’t like other people, she doesn’t seem to get what it is that’s supposed to hold them together, but he’s the same and he can tell she knows that and she knows that he knows because when their tongues touch they feel. She’s something bittersweet, a melancholy candy.

You don’t know what you’re like. You’re proving to yourself you’re better than the rest of the garbage lying in your living room by being better, best, bestest. Other than that, you just got here. That’s all you were meant to do. All you wanted was out and away but now that you got there (here?) you have nowhere else to go. You never thought you’d make it or is it that ten years later, you still can’t imagine life any different? You could wear glossy pumps and eat croissants if you really wanted to. You don’t. You lie with garbage.

You roll out of bed and walk out of Aizawa’s guest room. There’s running water in the hallway bathroom. It’s something like one in the morning. Kitty watches you from the couch as you walk through the front door. You almost stepped on a little rain boot getting your sneakers on. I fucking hate her.

The cicadas are just as loud out here as they were in there. You run down Aizawa’s neighborhood street and just keep running. This is dumb. But he’s looking, watching you from the dark, always rooted in place, leering —

And he talks too much. You never would’ve thought to describe your teacher that way, but it’s true. He looks you in the eye and asks you if you’ve taken your meds, if you slept well on the couch, if you’re hungry and want to get KFC.

There’s a playground surrounded by a chain fence just across the street you’re on. You jog across the asphalt and climb the fence, land on wood chips and rubber. It’s quiet except for the occasional car. You lay down on the slide, eyes heavy, legs burning.

Eri looks happy, not always, but often. She isn’t like you. It’s obvious by the way she babbles to Aizawa. That, and she stays.

There’s something inherently wrong with you. Something from birth, from conception. That or something happened to you along the way, you got ruined by that apartment.

It doesn’t matter. You’ve been over this, had these thoughts, sneered at Midoriya enough. It’s nobody’s fault but yours and had you killed yourself, this wouldn’t be happening. You were just too scared.

You’re always too scared.

A flashlight sears through your eyes. Your hands come rushing up to cover your face and you curl into a ball, cursing.

“Get up.”

You sit up and manage a squint at the light. It’s Aizawa. He’s standing in his pajamas at the foot of the slide.

“What the hell?”

“That’s what I should be saying. Get up.”

“How — I — I’ll just come back in the morning, okay?”

“That’s not the point. It’s late. Get up.”

You don’t budge. Aizawa clicks the flashlight off. You twitch in the slide, fingernails wedging themselves into the cracks of the plastic.

“Okay, so we’re doing this.” He sits down on the mulch at your feet, slowly, like he’s old. It strikes you that he sort of is. “Let's talk about it.”

“Can you not be so dramatic?” You spit, darting your eyes around the playground and to your teacher below you. “I mean, not that I’m trying to talk, but can’t you just sit on, like — the swingset?”

He thinks for a moment. “I’ll go if you sit there with me.”

“Jeez,” you mutter. “Just get up.”

The swing set is old. It creaks a little when Aizawa sits on it. You push around a little on yours, kick your feet at the dirt. You never learned how to swing. Your eyes wander around the playground.

“Can you tell me why you ran out of the house?”

Your attention snaps back to your teacher. He hangs loosely in his swing, legs too long to do much else but let him linger over the soil.

“I didn’t run.”

“Right. So you just walked, then? Or skipped?”

You roll your eyes. “I walked.”

“Okay, then can you tell me why you walked out of the house?”

“Can we just pretend this didn’t happen? I’ve literally only spent like five minutes out here.”

“It’s more like nine minutes and thirty-something seconds. And, answer the question.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You totally made that up.”

“Does it matter?”

Your throat always starts constricting in conversations like these. You keep taking deep breaths but it gives momentary relief. Still, you huff, armpits slick with sweat.

You dig the toe of your shoe into the ground, scrape, doodle.

“It’s nothing important,” you mumble. Aizawa turns his head to you.

“So, something is going on.”

The twisting and turning in your stomach gets worse and worse.

“No.”

“You can be honest with me. Does it have to do with your father or the recent situation?”

You roll the chains of the swing between your fingers. They’re rough, porous, they catch on your calloused palms.

“No. I don’t know why I said that. I’m just tired.”

Irreversible. You’re the food in the fridge you hope to eat, the food that’s somehow rotted in the time you spent away. You cut off the bad parts and eat anyway but that doesn’t change anything, it’s still too late, you still get sick, it’s still rotten. You remember this and your face warms, you grit your teeth, curl into yourself.

“It’s very obvious to me that something is bothering you,” Aizawa says softly. “Concerning me, specifically, and I’d like to know what that is so that I can make you more comfortable.”

“There’s nothing. I just ran out because I was mad. Or, you know what, maybe I had a PTSD attack or something. Maybe I hallucinated you were gonna rape me. You can pick whichever one makes the most sense to you.”

The words punch through the air and hang there in such a way that even you can’t help but grimace. Aizawa, meanwhile, has gone exceptionally quiet. No grumbling, no scoffs, not even the usual sigh he breathes every time you fall into his line of sight.

“Oh my God, it’s a fucking joke.”

The cicadas have long since been drowned out by your heartbeat. You look over at Aizawa and he’s looking right back. Your face twists.

“What?” You scoff, wrenching yourself right back to your shoes and the dirt. “Can you stop making this weird?”

He takes a breath that seems to reanimate him.

“I’ve been sitting with you while you sleep because Hound Dog told me to keep line of sight. It’s just a precaution taken because we’re worried you might hurt yourself again.” Aizawa stands from the swing. It creaks, long, hurt. “Let's head back.”

Aizawa lets you sleep on the couch instead of the guest room. You close your eyes and listen to the sounds he makes crawling about the house.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter six

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

Hawks’ bedroom has one wall entirely made of glass.

You wake up to something shattering. You’re up, back pressed against the bed frame before you know it. The room is pitch black. You think you’re in your father’s apartment for a split second, that he’s stumbling around the hall for the thousandth time, that you’d nodded off waiting for him to stop; then you realize that your sheets are different, silky, and that you’re clutching the edge of a comforter. You don’t have a comforter.

You’re in Hawks’ apartment. His bed, specifically, and as your eyes adjust you finally let yourself breathe. That’s right. You’re spending the weekend at his place again. You’d celebrated your birthday with him earlier, and it seems the two of you had fallen asleep watching the movie you picked out.

It’s quiet now, and you begin to question if you’d really heard anything at all. You turn your head to check on Hawks. He’s not there. His side of the bed is empty and rumpled.

You slide out of the bed. It’s dark except for the small amount of light coming from the city, from that broad glass wall. You take small steps towards the bedroom door, the wooden floor cold beneath your feet.

You crack the door open and peer out of it. All of the lights are still off. You start down the hallway ahead of you. You make it to the living room, some of the takeout from earlier still on the coffee table, your bag on the couch. The hair on your arms is standing up a little; you cross your arms, rub them. It’s cold. You finally turn into the kitchen.

It’s still dark but there’s a soft glow coming from behind the island, from what must be the opened freezer. You hear Hawks swear under his breath. You pull at your shorts as you round the corner of the island. He’s crouched by the freezer.

“Hawks?” He’s startled, strangely enough, eyes a bit wide as his head snaps up to you. It’s odd because he’s constantly aware of what’s going on around him; he told you himself, he always knows where you are in the apartment. He picks up everything with his wings.

“Hey, hey, careful!” He whispers, sticking out a hand to prevent you from coming any closer. “There’s a lotta glass!”

“What?” You back up, look down, and sure enough, the tile ahead of you is glittering. It’s almost pretty. “Oh. Sorry.”

Hawks stares at you for a moment, still tense, before turning back to the shards on the floor. You fiddle with the hem of your shirt as he picks up some of the larger ones.

“You okay?” You murmur as he squints at the tile around him, searching for glitter. “What happened?”

“I just, ah…” Hawks closes his eyes. Everything about him is slow. “I dropped a glass tryna get something outta the freezer.”

There’s an empty bottle of tequila on the island counter. 

“You should go back to bed,” he says. His eyes seem to glow with the light of the freezer. You swallow.

Hawks gets night terrors. He doesn’t mutter or toss around in the sheets like your Mom, he sweats; his teeth will grind and you’ll stay very quiet until it stops. That, or he’ll lurch forward in bed with a shout and hold himself until his breathing steadies.

You sit in the bed that isn’t yours and wrap yourself in the blankets. There’s no more noise, though you think you hear him pacing. It’s two in the morning.

You’re staring at the glass wall, counting city lights, when the door opens. The muscles in your body contract, you shrink.

“You’re still awake?” The bed sinks as Hawks sits next to you. His voice is soft, soaked in deep sadness; he seems to wilt under moonlight. The first thing he said about this apartment was that it was too big.

“Sorry,” you whisper, eyeing the loosely held drink in his hand. “Just thinking.”

He laughs a little. His breath is warm and it burns your nose. “Yeah, me too.”

The two of you stare at the city. That sadness radiates off of Hawks with no end, it fills the room, the air is syrup and your lungs ache with it.

People don’t make sense to you and you know that. When your friends are sad, you can’t comfort them. You don’t know what that means. Yeah, hug them, tell them it’s okay, whatever - but what you know is tantrums and sitting in parks.

Hawks syrup-sadness drenches you and makes the tequila sweeter than it really is. Your blood is coursing through your tangled, balled up veins, your face is hot, hot, Hawks asks if you want the rest of it and you guess this is your way of making him feel better. Your heart is racing, you’re as small as the day you were born.

Your jaw tingles where he cups it. He’s close. There’s a giddy smile on your face. You’ve never kissed anybody before, especially not someone like Hawks; the girly part of you is squealing. He doesn’t stop and you start to shake.

Is this okay? This is going kind of fast.

☆

Waking up hurts. It isn’t just the headache or the other aches in your body. Even before all this happened, waking up hurt. It hurt because you would wake and you would feel at peace and away. Your mind, completely still. You would be okay. Then, you would think your first thought, and it would all be torn from you and that horrid weight would fall upon you and your burning stomach. Every morning. Every fucking morning.

You push down the emptiness like you do every morning. You stare at the ceiling and consider yourself like you do every morning. You tell yourself it’s okay like you do every morning. You consider why. Why, why, why, why? It’s all you ever think about. Why does he act the way he does? Why? You used to think you would understand when you were older. Why? You seem to think that if you keep thinking about it you’ll know. Why?

Hawks helps clean out your staples again. He has a toothbrush in his mouth. You sit hunched over on a stool in his bathroom. Why? It’s three in the morning.

Days start early here. You sit at the kitchen island and Hawks is making coffee. He makes a cup for you, too. Your breakfast is coffee and two painkillers. Hawks keeps the bottle and you don’t argue.

“How’re you feeling?” He asks, suited up and ready for patrol, eyes sparkling. You feel like something stuck between his teeth.

“Better.” The cup is pleasantly warm between your hands. The meds aren’t helping, yet. “When do you come back?”

Hawks scratches at the scruff beneath his jaw. “Mmmm, should be around two if everything’s cool.”

“Okay.”

He grins boyishly like he does. “Why? Missing me already?”

Hawks has gotten good at flustering you. He’s gotten even better at making you smile.

“Shut up,” you say, laugh intertwined with your voice. “I just wanted to know if I could say bye before I leave.”

Hawks cocks his head. He’s animated in every expression and lilt of his voice; you want to tell him there are no cameras here.

“You’re going back to school?”

You’re emotional and probably some kind of brain-damaged. And dumb, of course, you’re pretty stupid -- all of these traits combined yesterday into a wonderful display of some kind of deep green, a stagnant swamp of bitterness. You were your dad. You stare at the countertop.

“I mean, yeah. I have to.”

“Stop picking at your nails.” He swats your hands away from one another. “And yeah, I know, but from what you said last night that place kinda sucks.”

You snort, manage a sarcastic roll of your eyes. “I was just being stupid. I need to apologize to a lot of people.”

Hawks sips at his coffee, thoughtfully, like he does in his interviews but without the smile. He stares at you, the crooked teeth you try to hide, the mottled purple and green. Why he takes these moments to look, you have no idea; there isn’t much to like aside from your hero schtick and the fact you're easy. Your smile is too big and your posture sucks and your fingers are rough from school and Dad.

But you like your eyes, the way they crinkle when you’re happy, you feel like everybody else when they do that. You’ve spent long minutes smiling at the mirror convincing yourself joy isn’t ugly on you.

“You need to heal. I don’t think you can do that there.”

The wrinkling of your brow says everything for you. Hawks puts his mug down.

“Your friends were awful at handling you. Didn’t empathize. Not that they could, they haven’t experienced what you have,” he laughs a little, “one of them even tried to fuck you not a week after you were out of the hospital.”

“That’s -- it, he wasn’t.”

He blinks lazily at you. You’re easy.

“Okay. Whatever it was.” Hawks continues as you try for words. He speaks fast, you struggle to understand, he’s always been smart. “And your teacher, the guy’s been trained in signs of abuse. He’s a hero. He had to have known what was going on.”

“It was different,” you try, but you can’t catch up to him.

“Maybe it was. Maybe it’s ‘cause he’s not like us.”

“I think about that too, you know.”

“Of course you do.” Hawks rounds the countertop so that he stands next to your stool. He pinches your cheek with a hand. “I’m just telling you what I see.”

You nod.

“I have cash laying around somewhere in my room. Take it for the metro.”

Hawks has to go now. He puts his mug in the kitchen sink and you wave and he’s gone.

You get up and open the refrigerator. It’s empty except for water bottles and an expired bag of shredded cheese. The freezer is in a somewhat similar state; it’s got bottles of alcohol, various ice packs, and ten loaves of sandwich bread. The bread is frozen solid, pre-cut.

You pry two slices of bread off of one of the loaves and put them on a plate. You microwave them. You take them out, sprinkle a heavy layer of shredded cheese onto one slice before laying the other on top. You put the plate back in the microwave.

You go back for your coffee while the plate spins around and around. The coffee is starting to get cold but you drink it anyway. You replay Hawks making the coffee for you in your head. The microwave beeps. You have a moist grilled cheese. Microwaved cheese.

“So, you’re a whore?”

What.

You stare at Hound Dog. You look down at your hands. It’s his office, walls simply decorated with positive phrases and emotion wheels, the lighting set to be calming for the two of you. You stand from the plush chair you were sitting on; there are stray threads where you’d been picking at the fabric.

His eyebrows are raised in surprise as you struggle inside yourself. Your fists clench and unclench, unsure of themselves, and you can’t speak or move. You’ve been in his office for a while. You know that but you don’t.

“Is it worse?” He’s got the mask of a counselor and yet even then you can tell he’s startled. “We’ll do some grounding exercises, then. Woof.”

You sit back down. The irony that your new counselor says ‘woof’ every now and then is not lost on you.

“Can you hear me?”

You look at the closed door. It has a poster on it with different faces, names of emotions listed below each one. There is one that is crying and it says despair. Hound Dog says your name. What.

You’re given an ice pack and are told to hold it to the crook of your neck. You just stare at the ground and do as you’re told. Hound Dog sits with you in silence for a long time.

Your head starts to hurt. Your hand does as well, it’s painful and itchy and numb from the ice. You place the pack on your lap and itch at your hand. The scratching isn’t deep enough.

“Can I go?”

You look up at your new counselor. He smiles as well as a dog man can.

“I just don’t want you to leave feeling worse than when you came in. Are you grounded now?”

Adults are meaningless. Adults look when they want to look. They ignore what they don’t want to deal with, they write off ‘youth’ like you as delinquents, troubled. You got into U.A with a clean record; it had to be, you couldn’t keep ending up in suspension, couldn’t keep skipping class or hitting people if you wanted to go somewhere like that. Your teachers still treated you with the same dismissal, like you weren’t worth the trouble of fixing, like all the effort you put into acting normal was nothing. It’s not your fault it’s hard for you to fit in — don’t they know that filth comes from filth?

“Yeah.”

“Alright. We’re going to see each other again at the same time tomorrow. Is that okay?”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

Hound Dog doesn’t respond. You head for the door.

“Have a good day. Woof.”

“You too.”

The walk through U.A’s administrative building is busier than you thought it’d be. Assistants walking around, the occasional teacher or whomever walking around in costume, meeting rooms with ongoing presentations. You stop at the student aid office. They direct you to the financial aid office. You’re directed back to student aid. You leave.

Outside is bright but you can’t feel the sun’s rays on your skin. Campus is relatively quiet, class is in session; you walk towards the heroics building. There are some construction workers putting in new turf by the sidewalk. You’re wearing a beanie you borrowed from Mina. It’s got leopard spots. She has one of everything in leopard spots. She calls it Y2K.

You’re leaning against the wall that’s next to the door of your home room. You can hear your classmates inside, mainly chatter and then a particularly loud guffaw from Kaminari. You end up in the girls' bathroom down the hall.

You crouch in front of the mirror. You’ve got one of Hawks’ shirts on. It’s just a simple, distressed black shirt but the tag says Gucci. He let you borrow it and you still haven’t given it back. You hug it to go to sleep.

The bell rings. Students are bustling outside, some girls start walking in and you leave the bathroom. You catch Aizawa by the door, thank God. The two of you stand inside homeroom now, he’s taller than you remember.

“Do you have my phone?” You start with the easier question, looking him in the eyes so that he knows you’re not scared of him. “I haven’t seen it since I was in the hospital.”

He returns your unwavering eye contact with ease. “I thought I gave it back to you with your clothes. It was the night I picked you up.” Aizawa is looking at you like he knows something you don’t.

“Oh.” That isn’t all that long ago. “Yeah.”

“Do you need to sit down?”

You want to tell him to just shut the fuck up for a second but that’s wrong. “No. I just, like, was remembering.”

Aizawa grunts in response. You’re still not breaking eye contact with him. Neither is he. It’s hard.

“My other question was about graduating.” You’re supposed to graduate in just a couple months. You just need to get one more little internship on your belt, something during winter break maybe, and then pass your final exams. Then, you’ll have money of your own, somehow, somewhere. “How much is this going to affect everything?”

He nods absentmindedly, holding his chin. He takes a deep breath. “That’s a discussion we’ll have with Recovery Girl, Principal Nezu, and Hound Dog.” You can’t help but feel like you’re twitching a little. His eyes search yours. “Personally, I don’t think you’ll be graduating this semester.”

“Okay.”

“Not because you aren’t capable,” he slaps on like a bandaid, “but because your current circumstances require all of your attention and time.”

“My injuries will heal by exam week, Aizawa.”

His lips press into a thin line. “I’m aware.”

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” It’s worse that he doesn’t look shocked at all by the fact you’ve cursed at him. Then again, what else would he expect from someone like you? “Sorry. You know what I mean. Or you don’t, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

He says your name, sighs. He thinks you’re stupid. “You aren’t doing well, mentally.”

You smile even though his words are pulling your intestines out of your throat and wrapping them around your neck. “I mean, that’s just part of the job. Heroes get depressed all the time. Trauma and stuff.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. And those heroes keep it managed.”

What, you’re not ‘managed’? You manage yourself just fine. You’ve managed yourself through so much more than just some exams. You’re not a child, not some fucking psycho that needs a straight jacket.

He fixes you with a pitiful look that punches the air out of your lungs. You try and reevaluate his expression but it’s just that, that fucking look, him out of all people, the one with the pinched eyebrows and round eyes, like he can’t believe what he’s looking at. How hard you are to look at.

“I just can’t let a student start hero work like that.”

Water splashes onto your face, cool and disgusting. Denki giggles and runs away from Mina, who’s pissed at him for bothering you, while you wipe the droplets off with your sleeve.

You’re sitting at the dorm’s dinner table, Bakugo next to you, the two of you eating fried chicken Midoriya’s mom bought for everybody. It was in the fridge so Bakugo microwaved it for the two of you, insisting that you eat.

“That idiot. I’m gonna throw that water gun away,” he says, giving you his napkin. You laugh a little.

“It’s fine. He’s having fun.”

“Yeah, by pissing everybody else off.”

Bakugo has been sticking to you like honey. Every time you look at him, his brows raise ever so slightly, and he’s been hovering over your health like he’s your mother. Maybe not like your mother. Maybe more like Hawks, but that’s not quite right.

You lean against him. Your stapled head rests against his shoulder, which stiffens like every other time you touch him like this. He’s warm. There’s something about the way your head feels on his shoulder that makes you smile.

“You’re so angry all the time, Bakugo.”

He keeps eating. “So are you.”

You scrunch your brows up. “What do you mean?”

“You punched Deku yesterday.”

“That was different.”

He snorts. You chew on your lip. Mina comes barrelling into the kitchen, out of breath, looking around frantically.

“Where is that bitch--” she gasps when she sees the two of you, placing a hand on her heart. “Awwwwww!”

You pull away from Bakugo with a cringe. When you open your eyes again, Mina is sliding into the chair in front of you. You don’t look at Bakugo.

“Are you guys finally a thing?” She purrs, grinning from ear to ear. “C’mon, you can tell me, babes.”

“Go catch dunce face or something.”

“Noooo, this is so much more interesting.” Mina then gets up, circling the table until she’s behind you, and wraps her arms around your neck. “You. Me. Upstairs. Now!”

“I’m tired, Mina,” you try, but it’s not actually your choice. It never is with her.

“Not too tired to hang with your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my--” your mouth dries up when you see Bakugo’s face. “Stop it, Mina.”

“I’ll stop if you come up with me.”

“Fine.”

You’re dragged out of your seat by the hand and pulled towards the elevators. When you look back, Bakugo is eating alone. You didn’t say thank you for the chicken.

Mina’s room is covered wall to wall in band posters and polaroids. She has lights strung up around her room, candles that aren’t allowed on her desk next to crystals and jars of dirt. Minerals, she said, and she leaves them on her balcony to charge in the sunlight. They keep negative energy away from her. With the way she’s constantly bouncing everywhere, you can’t even tell her it’s stupid. Maybe you need a jar of dirt.

She’s got vinyls but no record player. A bean bag that she never uses. Her bed’s on the floor, no frame, because it looks cooler that way. She’s got a limited edition squishmallow that’s her most prized possession, that and her phone. Her closet is stuffed to the brim with ‘thrifted’ clothes and shoes (when you think thrifting, you think Goodwill, she thinks of the vintage shop downtown). Her laptop’s covered in stickers and has a crack on the screen from the time you both got drunk and tried to watch Juno.

“So,” she spins around to face you, hands on her hips, “spill.”

You pick at your fingers. You wear shirts you got from school events and Hawks. You have two pairs of shoes; one for everyday and the other for the gym. Your socks often don’t match, but not in the cool way hers don’t. She’s always got earrings and necklaces on that jingle and jangle, shine and catch your eye like stars.

“There’s nothing to spill, Mina. We’re not dating.”

“Uh-huh.” She sits on her bed, criss-cross. “C’mere.”

The two of you sit on her bed, on her fuzzy blankets and pillows. She shoves you her squishmallow while she grabs a heart-shaped pillow. “Here. Now talk.” The room is dark except for her string lights. She never turns the actual lights on, the soft glow of the strings is what she likes.

“I kinda. Kissed him.”

She leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “I knew it.”

“You did?”

“Okay, not really.” She falls back against the wall. “But I had a hunch. You were so awkward around him after our movie night, it was so weird, and then he was talking to you during lunch and touching your knee, like, what? And then when you punched Midoriya, which we also need to talk about, by the way, and you left with Sensei, Bakugo was soooo mad. I swear, he was straight up interrogating that boy. I was like, stop it Bakugo! And he was all like, no, Deku’s being Deku and something’s happening to my girlfriend, grrr.”

“...did he actually say girlfriend?”

“No.”

The squishmallow bends and squishes under your grip. “Do you know what Midoriya told him?”

“Uhhh,” she pauses. “I was gonna talk to you about this part later ‘cuz I wanted to give you space.”

You shake your head, heart beating uncomfortably. “It’s fine.”

“He said, uhhh, that you told Recovery Girl you wanted to, um, commit y’know.” She makes a vague hand gesture at you.

“You can just say suicide, Mina.” Despite your dry remark, your insides have turned into something like a pulp. They slosh around. Your thumb scratches your hand.

She crosses her arms and, for a rare moment, can’t seem to meet your eyes. She fidgets with her necklaces. “I don’t wanna say that about my best friend.”

You’ve spent a long time away from here. You haven’t had moments like these in her room, the stars glimmering on her chest and ears and ceiling, in a long time. Her eyes shine but not in the way they normally do, they’re watering, and she holds her pillow close to her chest. Your chest twists. Not because she’s crying, but because your first reaction to her tears was grotesque satisfaction.

She sniffles. “Did you really tell Recovery Girl that?”

“...yeah.”

Now, she actually starts crying. “Okay.” She wipes her face and her lips are pulled tight into a frown. You crawl over, hug her, give her her squishmallow. She shakes her head and pushes it back to your chest.

You can’t for the life of you understand why she’s crying, or how to make it stop.

“I’m sorry,” you offer. Your hands hover weirdly around her. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about?!” Her hands finally remove themselves from her face so that she can glare at you. Her eyes make for black holes in her face in this light, you can’t see her pupils. “Say it again! Say it as many times as you need to! Make it everybody’s problem! Anything’s better than doing something like that! I wish you told me, if it made you feel better.” She grabs the squishmallow that lays on your lap and, once again, shoves it against your chest, wrapping your awkward hands around it. “Hold it, you need it more than me.”

She keeps crying. You hold onto the stuffy like she asked, but you don’t think she knows it does nothing to ease your hurt, to ease that feeling. That one you get people watching, that one you get when you look too closely at things like her shoes or the kitchen sink after Bakugo cleans it, that feeling you get when you wake up in the morning, that feeling you get the moment before your father loses his mind and right after, that feeling you get when Aizawa pities you, that feeling you lose when you’re around Hawks.

You hold onto it anyway as she sobs. She’s always been a crybaby.

“Mina, please don’t cry.” Your voice trembles a little as your hands fidget. “This isn’t worth crying about.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? You’re my best friend.”

“I’m your best friend?” You whisper. “Actually?”

She looks up at you again, this time her face wrinkled and mouth apart. Her mascara drips down her face, you’ve ruined her makeup.

“Yeah?” She says it like it’s obvious. “Duh?”

Her room is covered wall to wall in band posters and polaroids. Most of the polaroids have you in them.

“Oh.” Your eyes burn and you take a sharp breath.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” You clutch the squishmallow to your chin. “There’s something wrong with me but you can’t see it, and I don’t know why.”

“What? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

That’s completely untrue and she knows it. You get up, drop the squishmallow onto her bed, then reach down and hug her tight. “I’m gonna go, I’m sorry for making you cry. I love you a lot.” You can hardly see the door handle from the way your vision blurs but you manage to make it out of her room. You stand in the brightly lit hallway of the second floor, the forever fluorescent lights droning on, something black and heady spreading through your stomach and throat.

I hate myself.

She has vinyls because she loves the bands, she gave you a tour and flipped through each and every one with a smile despite never hearing them play. She has a beanbag that she doesn’t use because it’s meant for her friends. Her bed’s on the floor because she rolls out of bed so often and so what if she loves the way it looks, how it’s like a little nest in her room, just because you always wanted a bed frame doesn’t mean she should. She gave you her most favorite thing in the whole world and told you you needed it more. She has a closet full of thrifted, or vintage, or whatever you call it, clothes because she loves the way they tell stories, they have frayed hems and little holes and she loves them more for it, she lets you borrow her clothes and shoes and doesn’t care when you bring them back worse off than before. Everything about her is so happy and lovely and she brings joy to everybody around her and you just don’t.

You groan in the elevator, grab your head and pull at your hair. You make it to your room, slam the door shut, you pick and pull at the staples on your head. You rip open your closet and look at the mirror there, look at your staples and pull at one in particular, you hate yourself. You grab scissors off of your desk and wedge one of the blades beneath and pry. You pry. And you pry.

Like that.

It flies off and you feel the way the skin tears with it.

You’re bleeding. Sometimes, it gets so hot and so heavy you can’t breathe. You drop to your knees and sit in front of the mirror, the scissors in your hand and staple on the ground. You seethe. You want to stab yourself again and again and again. You want to be better.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter five

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

You can’t tell if it’s because you’re hungover or not.

“Here’s the uniform, dear.” Recovery Girl’s office is lit, all white. She laughs a bit. You don’t understand how she can laugh when the air is so thin.

“Thanks.” You take it, place it on your lap. Aizawa is waiting for you by the door. Recovery Girl talks some more; her normally soothing voice is grating. Aizawa interrupts and asks if everything’s alright.

“I’m just kind of, um.” Aizawa asks you to speak up. You don’t understand how you can feel so awful without them feeling it too. “I’m just kind of nauseous.”

You look at your hands. There’s a light sweat over them.

Aizawa closes the door behind the two of you. You start walking to the bathroom where Recovery Girl told you to change. He asks you to come back and you almost start hyperventilating. Still, it’s like he can’t see it.

“What happened?”

You don’t cry unless you’re having a panic attack, but that emptiness comes bubbling up and suddenly everything is hot. You’re sticky and there’s the ghost of him smothering you; you’re going to rip off your skin.

He guides you to his classroom and sits you at your desk. He pulls up a chair. You’re shaking all over. He sits there, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together as you stare at the uniform in your lap. You’re still wearing his sweats. You’re gripping the corner of the desk so hard it hurts. You’re breathing through your mouth because your nose is so filled with snot.

Aizawa takes a breath. You don’t know how to get out of this.

Your legs shake even though you’re terrified to move; like the moment you even blink you’ll become visible and Aizawa will explode. But Aizawa is quiet. You lick your lips and it’s salty. He talks to you in that familiar, cautious way, like you’re a hurt animal.

“Is there something going on at home? Do you need to talk to Hound Dog —“

“I don’t need another fucking counselor.” Tears well in your eyes. You grit your teeth, cover your face. “Sorry.”

“Take a breath.” Aizawa is weirdly calm. You breathe. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“No, not nothing.” Aizawa leans over. It's hard to meet his eyes for more than a second. “I’m serious. What happened?”

For a moment you consider telling him because maybe he’s different, maybe he’ll forgive you for what you are — he wouldn’t. You’re a disgusting, vile person, he’s only like this because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about the things you fantasize about. He doesn’t know you have dried cum on the inside of your thighs, inside you.

“Nothing.” Your hands cover your ears; the roaring doesn’t stop. “Nothing.” You’re trying to convince yourself that it’s true. “Nothing happened.” Your face crumples and your voice is all wobbly and you curl into yourself. If only you were up with the stars again.

You’re sent to your dorm but you just sit in the park for the next fifteen hours. You do not cry. You stare at your phone. He never calls. You play Tetris.

☆

You’re perpetually angry. Always. It settles in your gut like ash, burns and weighs you down in the same way. Sometimes it’s so hot and so heavy you can’t breathe; your heart will hammer, your extremities will tingle and go numb, and your ash-filled stomach will churn and toil and you’ll want so badly to just vomit. You never do.

You roll over to the side of your bed and throw up onto your carpet.

It comes in waves. You get the feeling you shouldn’t have eaten that ramen yesterday; nothing’s even coming out anymore but your body keeps rejecting. When it stops, you wipe your mouth with your t-shirt, throw on a new one, and make your way to the dorm bathrooms. The cleaning supply closet opens without even a creak; what joy new buildings are. Mops, bleach, window cleaner, squeegees; you grab a roll of paper towels and bleach. You rinse your mouth before leaving.

Sunlight streams in through the blinds of your window, your room is zebra-fied. You consider zebras as you soak and scoop the vomit into paper towels. You like the smell of bleach. The bleach Midoriya buys for the dorm smells like lemons. Midoriya has always had a good eye for home supplies. Not decor, though, hell no.

When you finish cleaning up you climb back into bed. You wrap yourself up in your blankets, let yourself focus on the warmth. Maybe all you needed was to throw up a little.

...when did he leave?

You hug yourself. You don’t make very good decisions. He’s probably in class right now. Is he going to think you like him? Did anyone see? It’s not like you actually went all the way. It’s not that serious. Why did you do that? Does he like you? That’s probably not a good thing. That’s definitely not a good thing, not for him. Would he be upset if he knew you made out with another guy? You do the strangest things. You think strange things. You’re strange.

You get up and peek through your blinds. You poke your head out your dorm door. The hallway is empty; you tie up the trash bag of vomit, pull on a hoodie, and put on your slippers. When you reach the kitchen, the clock says it’s almost lunch time. The telephone laughs. You switch out your slippers for sneakers.

It’s sunny out. You squint at the sidewalk as you walk, the trashbag swinging in your hand. You can hear some other students talking in the distance. Are you still a student? It’s not like you can pay your tuition anymore. It’s not like you’ve been to class. You haven’t even been going to the gym. It’s bizarre to walk past the other kids that are going through their daily routine while that fucking fuck up on your fucking head hides beneath your hood.

You swing open the dumpster gate, spin around with the bag, and toss it into the top. Throwing out the trash can be fun. As you’re closing the dumpster back up, Midoriya runs up to you, as friendly of a smile as ever. Todoroki trails behind.

“Woah, you must be cold in shorts!” Midoriya pokes fun at you.

You shrug. “Cold’s a mindset.”

What are you, twelve?

“Haha, you sound like Kacchan.”

You attempt a laugh. You fail.

“Um, but, we’ve actually been wanting to talk to you. Is that okay?” Midoriya plays with his hair, picks and pulls at it. He shoots a look to Todoroki, who nods back. You look between them but you don’t have their seemingly telepathic form of communication.

“About what?”

“Well, um.” Midoriya clears his throat. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to talk to me about what you’re going through. I was talking to Todoroki about it, and we thought that maybe you’d want to talk to him.”

Todoroki has changed a lot since your first year. He was a cold person, his eyes sharp, his speech clipped, a permanent scowl on his face. Now, he reminds you of the cherry blossoms that bloom in the park during the early spring; everything about him is softer. You look him in the eyes and they’re steady. “Yes. I don’t mean to be intrusive, but as somebody who has been through a similar situation, it does help to talk to friends about it.”

You want to ask him why he’s calling you his friend.

“Situation?” This feels like a joke; you know it’s not and yet you don’t at the same time. They’re staring. It makes you feel like your skin’s turning inside out. You kind of laugh.

Todoroki’s steady eyes fill your gut with ash. Midoriya’s fallen expression makes you want to punch him. You opt for saying goodbye and leave them at the dumpster.

Your feet make their way towards the heroics building. They tell you that your room’s a bad idea right now. They climb each step of the three flights of stairs. You end up outside your homeroom. It’s not pleasant, picking at your hands outside Aizawa’s classroom, and yet you don’t leave. Instead, you open the door and step inside.

The room is empty aside from Aizawa sitting at his desk. He’s squinting at his laptop, an open notepad and pen nearby. You think you see a cat scribbled in the margins. He has his reading glasses on. The room is lit up by the sun in a fresh sort of way; there’s a breeze coming through the propped open window. You imagine he’s reading some dumb e-mail from Kaminari again, something about begging for a grade increase or an extension. By the way he’s furrowing his brows at the computer screen, you’re probably right.

He lifts his gaze from his work and directs it towards you. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“You can come in, just close the door behind you.”

“Okay.”

And you do. You slide the door shut and walk further into the room. You end up sitting at your desk, arms crossed on top so that your chin rests on them. Aizawa takes off his glasses.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.” You think about it a little more. “Kind of been throwing up.”

“Are you sick?”

“I think so.”

Aizawa sits in silence for a moment.

“Do you need to go back to the hospital?”

You raise your head. “Oh, no, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Alright.” He nods slowly, arms crossed. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

And for once, you really do mean it.

He goes back to his work while you sit at your desk. You rest your head on your arms and look out the window. You try to put your feelings together, to untangle the mess in your head into something he could understand.

“I don’t,” you say it with all the fear your body holds, “feel very good.”

You manage a glance in your teacher’s direction. He’s back to furrowing his brows, however, this time it’s because of you.

“Could you elaborate?”

That horrible ache in your chest leaps at his words. You sit up, try to muster the words to explain, you look at him and hope you can impart to him the awfulness of your existence but that isn’t possible. No amount of synonyms or metaphors would let him feel what you feel. That distance you felt for the first time on that drive to your father’s hospital bed, that distance you felt watching Midoriya’s mother hug him, that distance you feel every time you interact with your classmates, it’s all the same thing; it’s truth, and it grows and hardens and there’s no helping it. What are words to something like that?

“I think I’m going to die.”

“What?” His voice is loud.

“I remember I heard -- my Dad said some people are going to kill themselves and there’s nothing you can do about it.” You shake your head. “I thought that was dumb but I think he was right, I tried because I wanted somebody to help me, I don’t mean that -- I mean the people who really try to die, they don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I know that --”

You’ve never spoken so much so fast in your life. It just keeps pouring out, this word vomit, maybe this is what your body’s been trying to get out -- Aizawa has his arms around you and your chin’s on his shoulder and his hand is on the back of your head.

“I don’t want to die.” Your voice comes out a sob. Everything is melting, you’re seeping through the cracks of the chair. “It’s going to make me do it.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I am.” There’s nothing else for you, it’s as certain as the sun rising again tomorrow. “I don’t want to die but this isn’t meant for me.”

You cry and cry and cry and it’s like you’re in middle school again. You’ve never been able to escape anything. Aizawa tells you to focus on the floor beneath your feet. Aizawa takes you to Recovery Girl and you set up an appointment with Hound Dog. You have a feeling Hound Dog is a temporary substitute for a psychiatrist.

You’re sent on your way after a pep talk with Aizawa, a suicide awareness pamphlet in hand, courtesy of Recovery Girl. She circled a couple of the various hotlines listed on the back. Aizawa told you to go to lunch; if you didn’t want to, you could hang with him in his classroom. You shouldn’t be alone, he says, like he didn’t hear all the things you said while he hugged you; you’re right, no amount of words will help this.

The cafeteria is loud. Chatting and trays bumping tables. You walk towards your friends’ table, it’s nestled somewhere in the middle. You see them; Mina, Kaminari, and Sero are sitting on one side while Bakugo and Kirishima are on the other. You’re not even hungry.

“Girl, you going to sit down?”

Mina alongside everybody else at the table is looking up at you. You’re standing and staring at them.

“Yeah, sorry.” You slide in next to Bakugo. That was the only seat left. Your pamphlet lays flat on your lap. Don’t look at him.

Mina grabs your hand from across the table. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” Her silence draws more out of you. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

She smiles and releases your hand, she’s satisfied; she starts yapping away to whoever will listen. Bakugo bumps your knee with his.

You peek at him. His hair is as aggressively fluffy as always, his bangs curling into his eyes; he hates when they do that, but you think it makes the red of his irises pretty. They’re pretty in a scary sort of way. They’re scary because when he stares at you like he is right now, it feels like he’s cutting into your brain. He can see all of you.

“You gonna eat something?”

You pick at your cuticles. “I already ate.” 

“Uh-huh.”

His knee bumps yours again but stays. You look around the table and your classmates are oblivious. There’s a heat spreading across your face; you pull up your hoodie again. Bakugo snorts. You look down to see his knee touching yours. You’re met with the suicide pamphlet.

You pull yourself away from him. The words are warm and creamy on your tongue. Mina’s raising a brow at the two of you. She thinks you’re a whore.

You feel Midoriya’s presence before you hear him say your name. You look up and he’s standing next to your seat. Strangely, he’s not smiling. Todoroki is behind him once again. You’re beginning to think Midoriya’s true quirk is having two shadows.

“Hey, um, again.” He looks like he’s about to cry. He has the attention of everybody at your table. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“I didn’t mean to overhear, I just wanted to apologize for earlier, but what you said - um - was really bad.”

Your voice can’t help but rise. “What are you talking about?” Your blood is pumping, you feel those sparks popping beneath your skin, the tingle, the ash, the toiling.

“What you were talking about in Recovery Girl’s office, I’m sorry, I just —“

You stand up, push yourself out of your seat; Midoriya takes a step back but it’s too late. You punch him right in the face. He stumbles backwards, people around you gasp. Todoroki curses and is straightaway at Midoriya’s aid, he looks at you like you’re crazy; your knuckles ache.

Mina’s covering her mouth with a hand. Everyone else is looking up at you with wide eyes. You open your mouth, stammer, but what are words to something like this?

“It’s not my fault,” you say, hands balled up at your sides.

It doesn’t take long for Aizawa to find you crammed beneath your bed. You refused to open the door. He just got the dorm’s master key.

“Stop acting like a child and come out.”

His only response is silence. Your head is pulsing like a big, fat maggot. Hawks thinks you’re mature.

Aizawa sighs. Your father always sighed when you talked to him because he thought you were stupid. Maybe he just never understood.

“This wouldn’t be happening if you didn’t call the cops,” you mutter. The maggot is just a bunch of fucked up, tangled string.

There’s a pause before Aizawa speaks, like he’s finding the words. There’s an air of hurt and your throat burns with it. You didn’t mean that but you did. Is he finding the right words to convey his thoughts or is he deciding on how best to lie? 

“I did what I believed was in your best interest. I know it’s difficult for you right now, but leaving that environment is the only way you can grow.”

Your face twists. That’s not how it works. He’s talking like it’s over, but you’re still in that apartment. The walls are looming over you and they want to hurt you, too.

You crawl out from your bed. Aizawa is sitting in your desk chair. He’s tall.

“Is Midoriya okay?”

“He’s fine. You should apologize. And get off the floor.”

You get to your feet. You want to say that Midoriya should be apologizing to you, too, but it’s not like he punched you.

“Is apologizing to him that bad?”

You were making a face. You straighten it. Aizawa is looking at you, eyes half lidded, unimpressed. The emptiness permeates throughout your body.

The sun is setting, it paints everything purple. You hug your hoodie closer to your body as you push yourself through the crowd of businessmen and students. The turnstile is cold on your palm as you hop over it, the station a blur of concrete as you sprint away. The alarm that rings when you jump the metro turnstiles are weirdly friendly, a little wee-woo-wee-woo, it never scares you.

The woman on the speaker says it’s your station, Fukuoka. You step off with however many other people; an older woman that you imagine would hate the gaudiness of leopard print, a skinny guy that’s dressed like a thug but rather strung out and jumpy, and a young student that reminds you of yourself. His fingers rub against the strap of his bag, his eyes absent, he’s somewhere else.

You pass closed cafes and bustling restaurants. There are jewelery shops with teenagers leaning into the windows and a cop is leaning against his motorbike. The man in front of you has sneakers on; one has a tiremark spread across it like he’s been hit by a car. His dog looks up at you and gets happy. A blind man nearly hits your feet with his cane but you step over it.

The first time you were in this elevator, you had Hawks on the phone. You told him the buttons weren’t working and he just kept laughing at you. It was irritating but you couldn’t help but laugh too. Now, you just press the keycard against the pad and hit the top floor. The walls are made up of mirrors, you have a black eye and bruises on your knees. You don’t remove your hood.

The elevator opens to a white hallway. At the end is a white door, there is no peephole, Hawks doesn’t need something like that. You haven’t talked to him since last time.

You knock on the door even though you know he’s not home. You sit on the floor and rest. You wait a couple hours, who knows, this place has always been cut off from time, you wish you could play Tetris. Everytime you hear the elevator move your jaw clenches.

And the doors slide open. Hawks is standing in the box. There’s a jolt in your being and you’re on your feet. You were half asleep a second ago and now Hawks is in your face. Finally, your insides fade away.

You can’t feel the squeezing anymore. Hawk’s eyes don’t cut through you, he’s not ignorantly looking at just the iris of your eyes or your sclera, he knows you as clear water. Despite the slowness in his blinks and the visor imprints on his forehead and cheeks, he can see you. He sees the bruises and the tremble and he understands. His arms hang loosely at his sides when he sees what’s under the hood.

“I’m really, really sorry for last time, Hawks.” The tremble reaches your voice because if he doesn’t believe you, you’ll die. “I’m sorry.”

He cracks a smile, pulls you in for a hug. You don’t know if you should be smiling with him, yet. 

“Relax.” He laughs as he says it. You can smile. It spreads across your face like the warmth in your chest. Worms wriggle in your stomach. “A knock in the jaw isn’t gonna take me out.”

“Okay.” You try to remove yourself from his grasp but he doesn’t let go. “Hawks, I smell.”

“Yeah, yeah, me too. You can’t shower with your injury?”

“At first.” It’s humiliating, telling people how hard it can be to keep yourself clean. “You know.”

“Yeah.” He releases you, he goes to ruffle your hair but he can’t. You giggle. He opens the door for the two of you. “You could’ve gone in, y’know, that’s why I gave you the card.”

You don’t want to tell him that you were scared.

You squeal when he sweeps you off your feet, carries you into the apartment, you laugh big but keep it dainty. He has that sparkle in his eye that you love, the windswept hair; you grab his head and ruffle like he’s a dog. He sets you down gingerly on the kitchen counter.

“You wanna talk about it?” Hawks cocks his head up at you. It’s not often you look down at him like this. You like it.

“It’s different from usual,” you settle for, grasping his hand like a tether, playing with his fingers. He lets you.

“I can see that.”

“Yeah.” The maggot is pulsing again and your eyes flutter close.

“You okay?”

You raise a hand to your head and press against the staples. “It’s my head. Sorry.”

Hawks helps you down from the counter. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.”

He leads you by the hand through the kitchen and into the living room, down the hall and into his bedroom. He takes you to his bathroom and sits you on the toilet. It’s hard for you to even talk.

“Did they give you something for the pain?”

“I, uh, yeah. It’s at my dorm.”

“You haven’t been taking it, have you?”

“...I had a weird day.”

He scoffs as he’s rummaging through his sink drawers. “You know what it was?”

“I think it started with an H?”

“I gotcha.” He pulls out a pill bottle and hands it to you. “And have you cleaned any of that?”

He’s circling his finger at your scalp. You look down at your lap. “No.”

“Ah, jeez.” He whips out some antibacterial soap and puts it on his shower shelf. “Right when I get off patrol, too.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m joking.”

He has you undress and everything is a little blurred. His hero costume is takes a little longer to get off; you set the temperature of the water in the mean time, lean into the shower and feel the spray of water on your hand. You didn’t expect to shower today. Hawks gets in with you, holds your hand as you step in even though you told him not to.

The water sprays on your back as Hawks inspects your scalp. He combs through your hair, repositions your head, asks you if it still hurts. You just stand with your arms crossed. Hawks pinches your shoulder.

“Don’t fall asleep, this isn’t a massage session.”

“I’m not sleeping.” You pinch him right back. “Idiot.”

“Ow.”

Hawks soaps up your head with the antibacterial. Burgundy foam swirls at your feet.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter four

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

It was in your first year of middle school that you began sleeping outside.

Every morning, your homeroom teacher would have your class write in a graded journal. There would be different prompts, but every Monday and Friday was the same. On Mondays, you had to write about what you did over the weekend, and on Fridays you’d have to reflect on the wonderful week you’d had and ask yourself how to make the next one better.

You’d sit in that classroom, your knees jerking about as you stared at that stupid journal. You’d sit in that classroom, writing about how you’d gone grocery shopping with Mom. She had bought you your favorite ice cream. You had spent the evening doing homework in your room that has a bed, in your house that has furniture. You liked the way your house smelled. You had dinner with your parents every night - homemade, of course, unless it was Thursday. Your parents took you out for sushi on Thursdays. You know, that yummy place by the pharmacy?

You’d sit and write all that after waking up in the corner of a parking garage. Or maybe it was a friend’s house, or that quiet spot in the park you’d found, or a playground slide, or behind your complex’s dumpster. Mom was a memory. Sort of, anyway, you’d forgotten what she sounded like by then; the voice is the first thing to go when you’re forgetting somebody.

Every Monday and Friday morning, you’d put your daydreams down on paper, the most boring lies. Other times, you’d be sleeping on top of that journal. Other times, you weren’t there at all.

It’s humid out. The sun is setting and painting everything orange. The tree you’re leaning against has roots that intertwine and spiral throughout the soil, peeking above ground in most places; it’s uncomfortable to sit on them, but it isn’t mud. Your school bag lays next to you, your homework on your lap. You wave a mosquito away from your leg. You shift the weight off of one of your thighs; a bruise is blooming there, large and circular and nasty. There’s dried blood where you picked the glass out.

It’s hard to focus on the math on the page. You grip your pencil and try to turn your thoughts away from it all, but you can’t. Your eyes burn and you wipe roughly at them. Your teacher extended this assignment just for you; it was due today. She said she was disappointed in you. You told her to go fuck herself.

It’s not fair. Packets of math problems are the last thing on your mind. You’re thinking about whether he’s drunk today or not; you’re thinking about the whispers of your classmates, how your breath is bad and you’re too quiet; you’re thinking about where you should sleep tonight, because he was drunk, and he was angry, and despite falling into a rage far greater than his you can never beat him.

The rhythmic buzz of the cicadas, soothing to most, is getting too loud for you. You kick at the soil. You want to vomit.

The sun is setting fast. The orange tint to everything is turning to a faded purple. It’s hard to see the questions; you hold the paper close to your face and squint.

Something rustles. You turn around to face the noise; it’s a man. He’s dressed in what looks to be a hero costume. You’ve seen him before when you hang around here after school. He patrols through here, you suppose. You turn back to your homework.

He stops by your feet. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. He crouches to your level. You swallow.

“Hey.” You look up from your work. He’s smiling calmly at you. “What are you doing out here?”

“Homework.” You know this game. You’ve played it with counselors, teachers; people who can’t mind their own business. “Being outside helps me focus.”

“It’s getting late.”

“Uh-huh.” You glare at him. You glare at most people. He goes from crouching to sitting across from you.

“I’ve seen you in this park a lot recently.”

“Yeah. I hang here after school.” An edge of your math packet crinkles between your fingers. “My Mom said it was fine.”

“Mhm.” He nods at your homework. “What are you working on?”

“Um. Math.” You show him the packet. He looks it over.

“Ooh, wow. That’s hard stuff. Want help?”

“No.” You take your math back. “I don’t need help.” 

“You sure?”

The questions stare back at you.

“…just on this one.”

And he helps you. He doesn’t ask about your thigh or where your parents are. He just sits there and teaches you math.

☆

It’s impossible to be alone with your thoughts. 

You sit up. There is nothing. You can hear your breathing. You look towards the window; you lean forward and peek through your blinds. The sky is pink. You turn away and lie back down. You turn around again. You flip onto your stomach. You reach for the pills and water on your nightstand. You stare at the opened pill bottle before you.

You put the pills and water away. You can’t be here. You stand, trudge towards your door. You focus on the way your hand turns the handle; your wrist turns, the muscles in your fingers move. There’s something here that scares you.

That something follows you down the hall. It follows you into the elevator; you stand in the corner so that it can’t be behind you. It follows you into the commons and sits with you at the dining table and on the couch. You end up outside.

The air is cold; your cheeks and ears pinch. You’re sitting on the sidewalk outside your dorm building and leaning against the wall, knees to your chest. It’s better out here, you can breathe. All you can comprehend is the cold, the way the sky is pink and grey, the trees with hundreds and thousands of leaves. The world is mute.

You tried to kill yourself once. You were in middle school. It was the same thing that followed you just now, except you listened. You had gone into your bedroom, laid on your mattress, and then swallowed a bunch of pills. It was kind of romantic. You stared at your popcorn ceiling and counted the bumps. You made peace with everything in your head. It was really, really nice, like time had stopped just for you.

And then time unfroze and you got dizzy. You got up, walked around your room. You felt sick. You looked outside your window. You pinched yourself. Your stomach started to hurt. You wanted to stay standing but the pills brought you to your bed. Stop, you thought, this is going too fast! But you signed yourself up for this. You cried and cried and cried.

You exhale and your breath is a fog. You watch it rise and disappear. Somebody is running along one of the sidewalks, between the trees. It’s Bakugo. He’s coming this way. He’s got some gray sweats on, a black tank top, earbuds in his ears; his shoulders and neck are flushed from the cold and the run. His eyes are on you as he hits the dorm steps, jogs up them; he sits hard on the concrete in front of you, panting. He’s sitting like the delinquent he isn’t.

Bakugo takes an earbud out and combs his hair back. “Why the fuck are you up?” He’s looking at you like he always has. The edges of your lips quirk up in a little smile.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“What, ‘cause of that shit?” He gestures vaguely at your head. “You look like you belong in the fuckin’ psych ward.”

“Thanks. I get to talk to a social worker today, actually, so, who knows.”

“Fuckin’ course you do.”

And the two of you walk inside like it’s just another morning. You sit at the kitchen island while he rummages around in the fridge, about to cook himself a hearty breakfast or blend some kind of protein smoothie, no doubt. You rest your head on the counter, nose snuggled into the crook of your elbow; it’s just the sound of oil popping and the knife hitting the cutting board. It smells like eggs.

You peek out from your elbow. Bakugo is turned away from you, nursing his eggs with a spatula. He takes the pan off the heat occasionally, scrapes at the eggs with delicacy; he always makes them scrambled. His head is nodding a bit to the music playing in his earbuds. The telephone stares at you.

The pulsing in your head is starting up again. You should have taken the pain meds.

“Good morning!”

You turn around to face a sleepy but cheery Midoriya. He smiles at you as he walks to the fridge. There’s an uncomfortable silence as he gets himself a glass of water and a pop tart before settling down in the seat next to you.

“How’s your head?”

You stare at him. He rips open his pop tart and starts munching away.

“It’s fine.”

“That’s good. Did you see the group chat?”

With what phone, dude?

“Um, no.”

“Okay, well, we’re going to have a movie night in Mina’s room tonight.” Midoriya looks at you expectantly.

“That’s great.”

“So, you’re coming, right?”

You go to say something in the negative. Then, there’s a chunky burning in your chest, up your throat. You swallow the tail end of it. Vomit falls in clumps down your chin. Midoriya’s stuck in his seat, a hand clamped over his mouth; yeah, he seems like the type to be sensitive to this sort of thing.

“One sec,” you say, and you leave. You hold your shirt carefully so that none of it spills.

A couple of hours have gone by with you in your room. Your shirt is hanging to dry on the balcony. Everybody else is in class, you heard them walking around. They knocked on your door. Mina kept asking you to open up but you pretended to be asleep. Now you’re alone, sitting on your bed and doing breathing exercises to ease the pressure in your chest.

You decide to lie down on the floor. You crawl and shimmy your way beneath your bed frame. You place your hands over your ears. It’s cramped inside but you’re away.

Somebody is knocking on your door. You blink your eyes open to see the bottom of your bed frame. It looks like you managed to get some sleep. Aizawa is calling your name.

“Is everything alright?” He says, and you wiggle your way towards the end of your bed.

“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry.”

“Can you open the door?”

You nearly stumble over yourself as you get up. “Yeah, just a sec.”

The door opens and he tells you it’s time to see the social workers. You meet them at a noodle place. They don’t look like they’re working; one is wearing a hoodie and jeans while the other has on a casual tee. Aizawa leaves you with them after a quick introduction. They lead you to a quiet booth in the corner of the restaurant.

“This place has some great ramen, y’know.”

You lift your head from your crotch to look at Hoodie. He smiles at you. Tee nods in agreement. This is an attempt at conversation, a conversation that will end up with them asking you, ‘so, how often does your father beat you?’ while they ogle at the mess on your head.

CPS came a couple of times when you were a kid. You didn’t particularly like it. Dad would shower and brush his teeth. Mom would remind you that you can’t tell them anything; you would never see each other again. Then she’d have you help her clean everything up, scrub the mold from the bathroom ceiling. When they finally dropped by, the questions were blunt in a funny kind of way. Then, they were gone.

“Would you like anything?” It’s Tee’s turn, now. “How about a coke?”

“Sure.”

“Lovely. So, UA, huh?”

“Yep.”

“What are you studying?”

“Heroics.” Unfortunately, you realize, Tee’s a bit better at the conversation thing. “It’s nice.”

“I bet. Being admitted into that program is very impressive.”

Your face warms up and you shift in your seat. “Thanks.”

Hoodie cheers when the food arrives. You sip on your coke and stare at the table. Your friends would take you out for ramen a lot over the weekends, that was nice. You frown. They still go, you just never come —

“Mmm, this is good.” Hoodie slurps up his noodles. “You didn’t get anything, want some?”

“No, thanks.”

“Oof, I’m gonna get full soon, though.” Tee nods in agreement between spoonfuls of her miso soup. “Please? You gotta help me out here.”

You stare at Hoodie’s ramen. It smells good.

“Okay.”

And you’ve got a serving of Hoodie’s ramen in front of you in no time. You end up with some miso soup, too.

“Um, thanks,” you say to them. They just smile at you.

You scoop the soup into your mouth and it’s warm and tangy and just a little bit gritty; it’s got green onions as a garnish. You used to make yourself miso soup at home. Microwave water, mix the miso in, and it was dinner. It was good. You would feel the warmth of it in your chest and feel good.

Hoodie and Tee spend the rest of your time eating with more attempts at conversation. You know what they’re doing and yet it doesn’t make you feel the way Midoriya does.

You slurp up your last noodle. Hoodie and Tee have been done for a while. Hoodie rests his cheek on a fist.

“So, you okay with talking about last week?”

“I guess.”

Tee interrupts. “Before that, we’d like to get your current situation figured out. You’re seventeen, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re staying in the UA dorms?”

“Yeah.”

She nods. “That’s good. However, your father’s in jail at the moment. Do you know any family members who can act as a temporary guardian in the meantime or help you out?”

Dad’s in jail. Great. “Um, no.”

“How about your mother? Do you know where she is?”

“She probably went to her parents' place.” You chew on the straw in your coke. “But I dunno if she would still be there.”

“Do you know her parents' address or phone number?”

“They live in Kyushu somewhere. They changed their numbers when my Mom left, I think. Or they’re dead.”

“I see.” Tee drums her fingers on the table. “Do you have any trusted adults that you can rely on?”

Trusted adults.

“Kind of.” You find it hard to tear your eyes away from your drink.

“That’s great. Do you think they’d be willing to be a temporary guardian for you?”

“No.” There isn’t a good way to talk about this; they wouldn’t understand. “We’re not on good terms right now.”

“What do you mean?”

You cross your arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Right.” Hoodie jumps in, pats Tee on the shoulder. You scowl. “Remember, we’re only asking these questions so that we have the right information to help you. The more you tell us, the better off you’ll be.”

You have a lot of things you want to say to that. So many that you can’t find any words to say at all.

“How about your teacher?”

“What?” You look at them for the first time in a while. “Aizawa?”

“Yeah.” Hoodie smiles. “He’s familiar with the system. Plus, he offered to take on the role if you didn’t have anybody else in mind.”

“He did?” You look between Hoodie and Tee like they’re lying. They seem serious. Your face scrunches up. “I mean, if he wants to.”

“Okay, we’ll let him know.” Tee’s putting more effort into the whole friendly-social-worker thing. “Thank you.”

You all sit in silence for a moment.

“Can we ask you some questions about that evening now?”

“Sure.”

“Alright. First, is there a history of abuse within your family? Physical, emotional, sexual?”

“Physical and emotional, I guess.”

“What kind of physical abuse?”

“He didn’t hit me, it was more like -- he was kinda rough. He throws things a lot.”

“Okay. And how did you get injured last week?”

“I was running down the stairs and my Dad threw a bottle at me.” You stare at Hoodie and remain very still. “I fell and cracked my skull open ‘n stuff.”

“Do you have any y--”

“No, I don’t have any younger siblings.”

Hoodie half smiles. “Right. Thank you.”

You stare at the table for what feels like the hundredth time. How many times have you been asked those questions? Those blunt, funny questions? And yet, this is the first time you’ve told the truth.

☆

“Oh my fucking God, finally!’

Mina throws her arms around you and continues screaming in your ear. You’re standing at the doorway to her dorm, the rest of your friends inside. Aizawa told you to stop moping around in your room; he’s right, it’s kind of pathetic. So, here you are, joining your friends at the first movie night you’ve attended since… what, last year?

“You bitch, do you know how worried I’ve been?” Mina manages to pull herself away from you, tears in her eyes. She’s always been a crybaby.

You offer an awkward smile.

“Ugh.” Mina roughly pulls you in again, though this time without the yelling. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Her hair tickles your nose. Your chin is tucked into her shoulder. “Yeah.” She smells nice. You close your eyes. “Thanks.”

She leads you inside and it’s strange. Kaminari is on the floor, leaning against Mina’s bed, Kirishima sitting next to him (though he’s getting up, grinning, now that he sees you). Sero is passed out on the bed, his legs thrown off the side. Bakugo is sitting on the other side of the bed on his phone.

“Oh my gosh, you made it!” Midoriya runs up to you with Todoroki not far behind. You haven’t seen Todoroki in… a while, and you’ve definitely never seen him in his pajamas.

“Hey, yeah, I did.” You smile. Who knows why he still talks to you when you’re such a bitch to him. “I think I’m feeling better.”

That’s a lie. You got out of the hospital yesterday, haven’t showered in, like, a week, your head is always aching, you threw up this morning, rotted in bed for the entire day, and then there were the social workers -

“That’s great!” Midoriya looks happy. You chew on your cheek.

“Yeah. What are we watching?”

“Just, uh, the best movie ever!” Kirishima practically squeals as he greets you by dapping you up; because of course he does. “Dude, for real though, so glad you’re okay.”

You thank him. How are they so nice?

“Okay, okay,” Mina shouts, “before we start the movie, how about we do some truth or dare?”

Everyone cheers except for you, overstimulated by the noise, and Bakugo, because he hates that game.

Cheers erupt again because Mina has alcohol. Soju and some Smirnoff Ice. You sit down next to Mina in the circle and have a feeling this is one of those nights; the kind where Mina is throwing up in the bathroom, you have to drag Kaminari into his room, and then you fall asleep in clothes that smell like cigarettes.

Mina chugs one of the Smirnoffs and places it in the middle. Someone remarks that this is spin the bottle, not truth or dare (which is sort of correct), and Mina tells them to shut up. The big bottle of soju is being passed around as she spins the bottle.

It lands on Sero. Mina groans.

“This guy always picks truth, he’s so boring!”

“This dumb bitch--”

“I don’t care if you think this is spin the bottle or truth or dare or whatever, I swear to God if you try to tell me one more time --”

You rest your head on a hand, sitting criss-cross. Aizawa should have given you guys a noise complaint by now. Bakugo is handed the soju; he immediately passes it to Kirishima. Kirishima takes a gulp and then passes it to you. It’s heavy in your hand. You like soju, the kind that tastes like juice. Hawks isn’t picky. He said if he had to choose, it would be Patrón tequila.

You drink from the soju and give it back to Mina, who, of course, also takes a drink. Sero asked for truth. Mina asked him some dumb rhetorical question and now it’s his turn to spin. It lands on Kaminari; he says dare. Sero tells him to chug a Smirnoff Ice, which is actually not as bad as you were expecting. Kaminari’s spin lands on Mina. She says truth, which causes Sero to start yelling at her. Kaminari asks her what the best sex position is, ew, you wrinkle your nose at him. You and Bakugo share an is-this-dude-for-real glance.

“Okay, um, I have limited experience, but I’m gonna say doggy.”

Your mouth drops. “But that’s so uncomfortable.”

To be fair, the soju just kept getting passed around. You don’t even register your mistake before Mina is squealing and shaking you by the shoulders. “You fucked someone? Who? Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me I thought you were a virgin this whole timeohmygodmygodugmdgdogggg--”

You smack her hands away from you and cover your ears. “Mina, stop, my head hurts.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m sorry, I just got excited.” She holds your face and your anger disappears. “For real, though, why didn’t you tell me?!”

Your face heats up as your hands fall back to your lap. For some unexplainable reason, you sneak a look at Bakugo. He’s staring at you. Well, so is everyone else, but he looks away when you lock eyes.

“Um, I haven’t, actually.” You don’t sound convincing to Mina. “I was just, y’know, talking in hypotheticals. Like, it sounds like it would be uncomfortable. Y’know?”

Kaminari bursts out laughing. Your face is burning. Mina is drilling holes into your face with her eyes. You look at Bakugo and he still isn’t looking at you.

“Um.” They don’t know the half of it.

You stand, step over Todoroki to get to the door, and shut it behind you. Mina is shouting for you inside and they’re arguing, or something. Ugh, it’s not that big of a deal. You sit against the wall and drag a hand down your face. That was unbelievably dumb.

It genuinely is an unpleasant position. Whenever you’ve done it like that, it’s hard to breathe, your face is getting smushed into the mattress or pillow or whatever. This isn’t helping how warm you're feeling. You pinch your cheeks. Shut up, brain.

Mina eventually comes out and apologizes. You walk back in and everyone is back to normal. You find it hard to look at Bakugo. Everyone decides the game is done (neither spin the bottle or truth or dare, it’s been deemed ‘game’). Lights are turned off, Mina’s TV is connected to her computer, and she’s got one of the Fast and Furious movies starting up. Kaminari, Sero, Midoriya, Todoroki, and Kirishima have taken spots on the floor. You climb onto the bed and Bakugo is next to you. You’re weirdly conscious of him, his shoulder, the way your knees are almost touching. Mina jumps into bed next to you and soon you’re finishing the soju bottle and cuddling with her.

Instead of movie nights with your friends, you had movie nights with Hawks. You would take the metro to Fukuoka and walk to his place. Once he got back from his shift and showered, the two of you would pick something to watch and fall asleep to it. The two of you end up doing other things now. Which is fine.

Mina is asleep, sprawled out nearby. The guys are passed out on the floor. You turn to look at Bakugo; he’s awake. You’ve been crying on and off ever since the others fell asleep. You go from feeling everything all at once to nothing at all. That’s how it’s been ever since you woke up in the hospital, actually, the way you seem to teleport through the day, through conversations. You feel absolutely nothing except for the pounding in your head and then you’re hyperventilating beneath your bed.

Hot breath spreads across your neck. There’s a hand holding your hip, the other on your waist. You’re on top of him, sitting on his lap, you can feel the strands of his hair beneath your fingernails. Hawks usually had a hand up your shirt by now. You scratch the scruff at the back of his neck, twirl the strands between your fingers; you love his hair without all the styling they make him do. You pull back. It’s Bakugo looking up at you. You’re on top of Bakugo. You’ve definitely been making out. His entire face is red.

You pull him off the bed by his hand. He follows you out of Mina’s room and into yours. It’s dark, you lead him to your bed and he lays down next to you. You hug him and your eyes are open wide; the enemy is in the room. Bakugo asks you something but you just stare into his shirt. You’re clutching to him like he’s your mother and you beg him not to leave. He’s not a very good kisser but neither are you.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter three

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

During your internship days, your absolute favorite shift was the full night shift. Everyone thought you were crazy. Why would you ruin yourself like that, multiple times a week? Sure, Hawks could do it, but an intern like you was only able to scrape by thanks to your youth and caffeine. You still feel the effects to this day, to be honest.

It wasn’t just a crisp nighttime walk, either. Hawks would take off into the sky and leave you, along with Tokoyami (he came once a week while you came twice), to catch up. You didn’t even know where he was the majority of the time, your only hint being the occasional shadow or unusual gust of wind.

But you couldn’t stop. The shotgunning of Red Bull beforehand, the exhilaration of the chase (despite its frustration and, often, salty rage); most of all, the morning after. The morning was what made it so, so worth it, because they were the only times you had alone with Hawks.

He’d take you to the closest twenty-four-hour corner store and buy breakfast, which typically included two prepackaged pork buns and two red bean buns, split evenly between the two of you. Hawks would then buy either hot or canned coffee, depending on the store, and you’d buy your new favorite energy drink.

“I’ve turned you into some kinda Red Bull fiend, huh?”

Hawks is sitting next to you on the curb, just outside of the corner store. He’s got a pork bun in hand, canned coffee placed next to his feet. You’re laying down next to him, holding your pork bun close to your face. You take slow, small bites. Three Red Bulls sit next to your hip.

Hawks is staring down at you with a mischievous grin. You nearly choke with the realization he’s caught you staring; your hand comes up to cover your mouth as you giggle. He licks some stray filling off of his lip. The sky is pink, the world the same color. Around him, packaged food and concrete becomes a thousand times more beautiful.

You sigh, give him a playful smile of your own. “What, feeling guilty?”

Hawks’ hair is curling into his face and you wish you could kiss it. “Pshh.” His wings reposition themselves.

All you can think about are his eyes. Hawks’ eyes are hurting, sweetly, like honey.

You bump his knee with yours. “I just get so happy when I drink them.”

“You’re happy all the time, though.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, stare at your knees. You can’t look at him for too long; it makes you feel a completeness you can’t bear. You rub your cheeks. It’s like there are fireworks going off in there. 

“I guess I am.”

The ceiling is beige, an old, browning shade of it. 

There’s a bottle of apple juice and two small, plastic-wrapped biscuits on the table next to you. The rest of the room is blocked by white curtains. A tube is going down your nose. There’s the faint sound of traffic.

You’ve woken up in a hospital once before. It was darker then, late at night instead of the early morning it seems to be now; you were at your father’s bedside. He hadn’t woken up since you’d found him on the couch, vomit down his shirt and up his nose. He stayed limp no matter how much you shook him. Your mother couldn’t help, and neither could the paramedics, who wheeled him out on a gurney.

As your mother drove the two of you to the hospital, you looked out the window and watched the city. There were office buildings, restaurants, and cafes. There were people; young, old, those who walked with purpose and those who didn’t. Other people, real people, normal people. You were seven, you were no Plato, but you watched all those people fly by and began to understand what it was that made them, the normal people, feel so, so far away: those people didn’t wake up to the wretched stench of throw up. Those people didn’t live in apartments furnished with cardboard boxes and garbage. They walked with glossy pumps and spent their mornings eating croissants. You didn’t. That’s what life was supposed to be, and yet you couldn’t imagine yours being any different.

You were certain he was dead. It was something instinctual, surely, because you saw his body and just knew. The new weight that he carried, the sweat, and most of all, the utter stillness you had never seen in him, the way his bombastic presence had somehow vanished into the couch cushions. When the paramedics came you wanted to tell them that he was gone, they didn’t have to check, but you couldn’t speak. You kept randomly smelling vomit for several weeks after that, kept covering your nose and mouth in class.

To your surprise, your father was both alive and conscious when you woke up. He was laying in his hospital bed, his hands cupping his face. He was crying. You had never seen him cry. His sobs were so unnatural, so foreign and childlike. You clambered onto his bed and let him cling to you, let him cry and pet your hair. As for you, you acted like you had the entire time; you didn’t cry, didn’t say a word, and instead fell away from your skin and the world.

All that was left was this constant, vapid mixture of emotion that was too difficult for a seven-year-old to articulate. Even now, staring at the ceiling and touching the tube taped to your face, you can’t identify it. The gnawing? The emptiness? It sounds stupid, but what else could describe it, that hollowness that stretches on and on? To try, for the thousandth time: your insides are limitless but your mind isn’t. Your mind is a tiny, soft pea that’s smeared again and again down a plate. Your mind is a damp, warm pillow suffocating you. It’s pressure, it’s squeezing, it’s always the fucking squeezing, like all your organs, feelings, and everything else that should end that eternal, aching emptiness is being crammed into your head. Like the you that your father hugged and cried to had their jaw ripped open, acid poured down their throat, and was then promptly pumped full of morphine.

It’s been that way since you were a kid. How you’re less than half of a person, how you’re desperately searching for whatever you’re missing.

You haven’t felt that way, so badly, since you met Hawks.

The silence is only broken with the occasional blinking of the turn signal or crinkling of your biscuit wrapper. You sip at your apple juice. You look at the city, it’s twinkling all over like it’s full of stars, the sky is dark and empty and deep. You look at the small, buzzed sections of hair where there are only staples keeping your scalp together, wrapping around your head like lightning.

There’s a cat-shaped air freshener hanging from the mirror. It swings and spins a bit as the city passes by. The car rolls to a stop. There’s a traffic light. The sky is black, it’s swallowing you.

You turn towards the driver's seat. Your teacher’s sitting there. He’s holding the steering wheel with one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. You don’t know what to say.

You’ve been in a medically induced coma for eight days. They had to, the doctor said, your brain just kept swelling. Yes, it kept swelling, and gosh the glass was right up in there, and concrete isn’t very good for your health and are you allergic to anything when skulls hit concrete they splat like an egg with the yolk splat and your brain is the yolk the yolk shakes around in its egg-juice and your brain is the same what do you mean I’m talking too fast let me run some tests.

You got every flashcard she showed you right. Ma’am, that is a dog. Ma’am, that is a cloud. Ma’am, that is a flower. You want me to be specific? Ma’am, that is a flower named Flower, it lived in a park with other flowers and then it was stepped on and died.

Oh. Ma’am, that is a rose.

Yes, I can speak, I know it’s sticky, but I can. My self is blurry, a drop in my soupy thought soup, but I am here. I don’t know what you mean, ma’am. This is how I’ve always lived my life. 

“A social worker is coming tomorrow.”

The traffic light is long gone. The car is dead, there is no rumbling from the engine or pulling of a corner. You’re in the teacher’s parking lot, sitting with Aizawa-Sensei in his car. It occurs to you that he’s maybe a ghost, and that’s why his voice is like air.

“They said they’ll be here at three.”

You open your mouth to say something. You shut it. You press your lips together like you’ve just put on chapstick.

“Do you need help getting out of the car?”

Aizawa is looking at you for the first time since picking you up from the hospital. You shake your head. The two of you get out of the car, the handle is cold and so is the door.

You walk with him across campus, across grass and sidewalk. Mostly sidewalk. Stop thinking.

When you got discharged, the nurses had you in a wheelchair. You were high on pain meds, still are, and just kept saying, “roll out,” in a low, grumbly voice. You had your clothes in a plastic bag on your lap. You were aware of your situation, but you didn’t want to be, you didn’t want to be sober, so you kept saying it. They rolled you outside, to the kiss and ride (“roll out!”), and your clothes smelled like beer (“roll out!”), and you have nobody, for real this time (“roll out!”), and there: Aizawa-Sensei, teach, the ultimate witness.

Yes, he witnessed the whole thing, from beginning to end — he knows what you have never told anybody, what you have both taken pride in and despised, what you look like crying in your own vomit and seizing in an ambulance.

And your transformer ass was sober.

(“roll…”)

Aizawa opens the dorm door for you and you head inside. The commons is the same as you left it. Not literally, all the lights are off and your friends aren’t on the couch anymore, but it’s the same lemon-scented cleaner in the air. It’s the same lived-in kitchen. The dishwasher is on its dry cycle. Chuga-chuga. It sounds like a faraway train.

Aizawa opens the fridge while you stand by the shoe cubbies. “You should bring some water up with you.” He pulls out an old bowl of mac n’ cheese, nose and brows crinkled. “The nurse said it was okay for you to eat. Do you want something?”

The mac goes in the trash with a splat. You’re still by the cubbies. Aizawa starts rinsing the bowl. He glances at you. He repeats what he said, just a little slower.

“Uh.” Your face heats up. “I’m — not hungry.”

“What?”

“I’m not hungry.” Your voice is round. You toe your shoes off and place them in a cubby.

“Okay.” His voice is calm in a way that means he actually isn’t. You rub your arms.

Aizawa is standing in front of you. He’s talking. There’s a plastic bottle of water in your hands. “—I need to grab some things from my office. Wait here.”

He disappears down the hall. You sit at the kitchen island with the water. It’s cool in your hands, wet, and when you set it down your hands are glossy. You wipe them on your sweatpants. Did you change at the hospital?

You grab the water bottle and hold it in your hands and focus on the cold.

Where’s your phone? You need to text him. Your hands feel weird. You take a deep breath, stretch your legs out, raise your head and look around the kitchen. Bakugo must have cleaned the kitchen earlier; even the water spots on the sink faucet are gone. His parents must miss him.

Ahhh, shit.

You rest your head on the counter, stare at the bottle you’re holding between your legs. The commons are so empty, so quiet at night. When did you move from the cubbies?

There’s a landline telephone by the microwave. You find yourself staring at it but the buzzing in your chest keeps you at the stool. When did the butterflies you felt when thinking of him turn into flies?

Your face sort of droops, gets warm, and you’re back to looking at your crotch as your fingers pick at each other. Blinking has never felt so important. Blink. Blink. Don’t cry.

“It’s okay to cry.”

His voice is soft. Hawks is sitting next to you on the bathroom floor, shoulder touching yours. A thumb runs over your knuckles once. His fingers twitch. He does it again. You’re trying to understand what any of that means.

The elevator down the hall dings. You wipe hard at your face. Aizawa’s office is on this floor, he didn’t take the elevator. There’s the soft sound of socks brushing against carpet. 

You ruffle your leftover hair to try and cover everything; realizing that just draws attention to your head, you start patting your pockets like you’re looking for something instead, even though you’re not, but it’s not like Midoriya would know that.

Yeah, out of all the people in this building, it’s that guy. It’s his curly green hair, his doe-puppy-childlike eyes, and his freckled face that hasn’t felt violence outside of training and Bakugo’s old fits of rage. No, no, you’re wrong, shut up; he’s tougher than you’ll ever be. The thick scars running down his arms prove that.

Still, you look at him and look at yourself and he’s disgusting. The first time you met him you were revolted, everything about him screamed weak and spoiled and ‘my Mom loves me!’ Every time he spoke to you, that deep discomfort (resentment?) drove you away from him. Now, three-ish years later, you know he’s not what you thought (hoped?) he was. He’s kind, forgiving, resilient, considerate, innovative, brave, blah, blah, blah, the list could go on. He’s everything you’re not. Maybe the leftover disgust you feel is towards yourself.

But then, you think about that time you went to his place for dinner. His Mom made some really amazing katsudon. Bakugo told you how his room was full of All Might memorabilia, just like his dorm. You all helped to clean up afterwards; Bakugo washed the dishes, Midoriya dried them, and you put them away. You never saw any bottle openers in his drawers. He had three pairs of shoes. His fridge was full. His Mom kept fussing over him and when the three of you left, she kissed him all over his face and hugged him tight and told him to visit more. You stood there and watched and Bakugo asked if you were okay.

You weren’t; you realized that he was everything you’d never be because he had everything you never did, that destiny exists in a way, that everything that you become and do and experience is inevitable and it isn’t your fault and it’s not Midoriya’s, that there is no reason some are better off than others because the universe doesn’t care that much, and that Midoriya’s life could’ve been yours if you had just been brought into existence by somebody else’s cum. You took pride in your suffering because you thought it had meaning. It doesn’t.

You and Midoriya stare at each other from where you’ve frozen up. You cross your arms. His eyes are wide and his brows have shot up to his hairline. Then, his lips curve into a watery smile.

“Hey.” He jogs over to you, takes a quick glance at your scalp. You shove your hands into your pockets and try to smile. Everything is buzzing. He will never know how it feels to hide; he will never listen to crying and the shattering of glassware and wonder when he will be found. “Sensei didn’t tell us you were coming back today. Do you want me to get Mina? Or Kacchan?”

You look at his shirt instead of his face. “Oh, nah, it’s fine. Thanks.”

“Okay.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. What does he have to be nervous about all the time? “They’d be really happy to see you, though.”

“No, yeah, I just -- uh, they’re probably asleep right now, I don’t wanna wake them up.”

Does he have thoughts that don’t stop? Is that why he talks to himself? Dad told you something like that once. “Yeah, don’t worry, I get it, I just meant -- um.” He shakes his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Yeah.”

Your palms are much too clammy in your pockets. You take them out and wipe them on your shirt. He does the same. Midoriya chuckles again. You’re staring at the ground.

“Do you, uh, want some water? I came down here to get some.”

You shake your head.

“Ah, um, okay. Cool.” He’s at the cabinets now, a glass in hand. You hear him press it against the fridge door’s water thingy. It fills slowly. “Wanna go back to our dorms together?”

“I have to wait for Aizawa.”

He sips his water, stands at the counter. He nods slowly. “How was the, um, hospital? Did you see the flowers we got you?”

He’s asking too many questions. “Um, yeah, probably.” There’s the sense that you have to elaborate. You don’t. Midoriya’s nose scrunches up in the way it does when he’s confused.

“What?” You say, hunched forward in your stool. Midoriya looks stupidly lost. You could never afford to look like that.

“Um, I mean, what do you mean ‘probably’?”

You saw flowers when you woke up. You saw the bouquets on your windowsill after they put you in the wheelchair. But, you also remember waking up to a beige ceiling. You remember waking up to a nurse wiping apple juice from your chin.

“I don’t know. Why do you care?”

Midoriya stands in the kitchen with his scrunched nose and cocked head and stupid expression. Your head throbs. The telephone. You cover your face with your hands.

Aizawa’s voice is somewhere here and he guides you away from Midoriya. You swallow pills, drink from your water bottle. He pats your shoulder. Nothing helps. The elevator dings. You walk down your dorm hall with him next to you; his hair is up now.

He opens your door and your room is dark. The blinds are half open. You crawl into bed and you shut your eyes so tightly your forehead creases.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter two

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

You first met Hawks through billboards and magazine covers; he first met you through an angry, coffee-stained Commission bureaucrat. 

Long story short, it was your first day at your hero study, and on your way to the elevators you bumped into a man holding some coffee. It spilled all over him and his wrinkle-free, expensive-looking suit. He was pissed. Luckily, Hawks swooped in just in time, placating him with a wide grin and a check.

As he was chatting with the man, you remember thinking that he wasn’t as dazzling as he was in the magazines. He had carelessly applied concealer beneath his eyes and his hair was unkempt (windswept, they say, but it looked more like he’d used too much dry shampoo.) Nothing about him was especially striking. He just was what he was. You were more focused on the internship, anyway.

When he started chatting with you, however, you realized what it was that captivated the public. He had a way of making people feel important. He was in the top ten, but treated you like a peer. He always looked you in the eye when you were talking, even though you usually stared off to the side or at his wings or something. He never interrupted you, always waited for you to finish when you trailed off into silence, even when it was obvious what you were going to say. You felt like you could breathe around him. You liked that a lot. You liked the way he looked at you a lot. You liked the way he made you feel like a person a lot. You liked the way he listened a lot. You liked him. A lot.

You first really met Hawks when he taught you how to shotgun a Red Bull; only he knows when he first really met you, but you think it was probably around the same time he started acting distant.

At first, he asked question after question about you while you interned with him; about where you were from, about what you liked and what you didn’t. There were days where he would bother you nonstop, talking and asking and laughing while on patrol. He’d subtly stick close when you went out for food with everyone, and he’d take you and Tokoyami back to your hotel rooms.

Later on, however, there were instead days where he would pretend not to see you. He’d be the farthest away from you in the office lounge, and when you said hello he wouldn’t meet your eye. He wouldn’t joke with you like he would with Tokoyami or his sidekicks. You hated that he was avoiding you, but you simultaneously loved it because you were the only one he treated like that. Something about you was different. Something about you was special. You were, in your own way, important.

Hawks took off his gloves, tilted the Red Bull on its side, and then punctured a hole by the bottom of it with his thumb. He handed the can to you, carefully so that it wouldn’t spill, and when you couldn’t get it open he laughed and took it back. He guided the hole on the side to your mouth, one hand on the bottom of the can and one near the top, a finger under the tab.

“Hold it.”

You awkwardly snuck some of your fingers near his. He usually avoided physical contact with you, you noticed, so you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. It was dark and quiet in his office. It was two in the morning.

“Ready?”

He flipped the tab open with a crack, and suddenly, his hands were gone. Red Bull sprayed everywhere, mostly into your mouth, but the rest went onto the floor and down your chin, dribbling onto your coat. You ripped the can from your mouth, coughing, laughing. Hawks was laughing, too, and staring. You scrunched your face up some more when you realized.

“You okay?”

He went to put a hand on your shoulder but didn’t.

On love, yes, that thing. To fall in and to fall out of it. To just take a look at someone and feel your heartbeat thump, to have your eyes remain glued on them, to think to yourself: I would die for you, if only you’d let me. Do you understand? I’ll kill myself. I’ll kill myself. Do you hear me?

“I’ll kill myself!” Your father’s voice feels much too loud for the dainty kitchenette. “You hear me?!”

You’re not in his car anymore, you’re in his apartment, the one you grew up in - he dragged you up the concrete stairwell you used to play in. You remember how you used to shout down it, make all sorts of weird noises, giggle at the way it echoed back. When he pulled you up, his angry muttering bounced around the walls in the same way.

You’re rooted in place in front of the fridge, now. You’re curling into yourself, gritting your teeth. Your father, meanwhile, stands a couple of feet away from you, huffing and puffing like a bull ready to charge.

He’s been talking to himself, shouting and spazzing out a bit every now and then. You’ve taken note of the cluttered dishes on the counter and inside the sink, of the front door in the hall just by you, of every step he takes that even slightly veers in your direction. Your fists clench and unclench as you try not to cry. There’s nobody but you, him, and the ever-present dust that stifles your apartment.

Your father knows love. He’s been in love with your mother, you; he’s been in love with the boxes stacked high in his room. He loves hard, intensely. He proposed three days into knowing your mother. He buys thirty pounds of random shit. He keeps your childhood hair clippings and teeth in a ziploc bag. He loves like a child clinging onto his mother. He takes one look at the molding baby clothes in his closet and drinks. He sobs and comes into your room and watches you sleep, too drunk to tell you’re awake.

“I'm just looking for signs you love me!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t!”

You remember back when you were a kid. Emotion and glassware was spit around your home like lava. Your father was unpredictable, a volcano that would stew and build and explode. Your mother would say, “he just loves us too much.”

You remember back when you were seven. He’d apparently almost gotten your family evicted when he cut down every single one of the bushes outside of your building - people might hide behind them, he said. You remember him talking to himself like he is now, staring out the window, muttering harsh things while you and your mother sat at the table. You remember not really being able to eat the food in front of you. She was petting your hand. She was petting it, softly, her thumb so gentle, as if you were made of glass.

Your heart beat like a deep, deep drum.

The only other thing you remember was your father shoving her up against the wall. She scrambled to get away, but he caught her in a sort of headlock and didn't let go. You never knew people could be that color. She clawed at his arms, his wrists - again and again. You watched and cried and didn’t do a thing. You wanted to, your mind screamed at him to stop, but you just watched. What could you do? Her bulging eyes were staring right at you, but what could you do?

The heavy despair that you felt in every cavity and crevice of your body, cold and wet, the paralysis that made your muscles stiffen and mind fall behind your peers, the deep, deep drumming of your heart that you could feel in your chest and hear in your ears; the texture of dust in your nose. Thousands of feelings, sounds, and touches going through your mind, back then and now, too; now. Here you are, your mother on the floor and father finally gone. You cry with her and ask if she’s okay. She tells you, “go away.”

Your heart beats like a deep, deep drum. You’re watching your father pace in the kitchen. At the same time, you’re not. That’s the problem with you; you can’t control yourself, your thoughts. Sometimes, just like your father and just like Hawks, you float away.

The kitchen floor is jello beneath your feet. Your father’s revolting cusses are nothing but more fluff to the cotton. Your father whirls around and you lose the ability to think. His mouth has not once stopped moving.

“I do so much for you, and for what?” You take a sharp breath. It’s hard to tell if he’s talking to you. “You just use me like everybody else!”

You once again remember that there’s nothing you can say that will protect you, and you start to cry. He scoffs, paces back and forth on his side of the kitchen. His smug attitude makes your face twist, makes you fucking hate your tears. “Now you’re crying?”

“I’ve just been having a hard time.”

“Right. So, when you’re not in a good mood you get to treat me like shit. Good to know.”

You wipe your eyes harshly. “That’s not -“

“That’s exactly what you - stop crying! You know that’s how you treat me!”

It’s always like that with him, this continuous cycle; there’s no real conversation, no real argument, no real relationship. His skull has no brain, only thick, egotistical mucus.

“I can be stressed!”

“What? What could you be stressed about? I can’t think of a single thing!”

Your mouth feels full of glue. Your lips are stuck together, something warm and creamy on your tongue. Should you swallow, you’re sure you’ll vomit.

“What is it? What?”

You don’t know. You ask yourself that question everyday, it’s in the background of everything you do - you honestly don’t know. So, you stay silent, because answering that question would mean knowing what it is, which you don’t. You don’t. You really don’t.

You look up at him, face hot and crumpled, nose slightly upturned just so you can feel like you still have some semblance of bravery, or maybe pride. You know nothing about what he asked you, so you’ll just respond with the one thing he can’t argue with.

“You’re being mean.”

“I’m the one who’s mean? Me?” He looks at you like you’re the one who regularly talks to air. “What about her?”

What?

“You yell at me all the time, act fucking retarded, you - you wear the shortest damn shorts around me - ”

The apartment feels still. It’s like the walls are listening to all this, too, feeling just as slimy.

“You’re - you just - “ Whatever the look on your face is, he’s seeing it. He backtracks. “You - you’re just always provoking me, but she - she was the one that walked out!”

It seems he’s finally found what he meant to say. You haven’t. The creeping on your shoulders, that constant background question; your brain is too focused on that backlog of bullshit, you just can't go and spout some more. Not right now.

You want to be somewhere else. Every time you said that as a kid, you never knew exactly where you meant; now when you say that, you’re thinking about Hawks. You want to be in his apartment. You want to be curled up under a blanket, waiting for him to come home. For home to come to you. It’s more him. He’s home to you.

Maybe, back when you were younger and feeling that way, what you wanted was home. Back then, home was your mother. Was that what that ache meant?

Maybe, sometimes, and only sometimes - maybe - when you think that thought, when you ache that ache, you do still mean your mother. Maybe.

You usually mean Hawks.

“She left us, she left me. She used me - all those years, she used me, took my damn cash, changed numbers, what sort of bitch just leaves her family like that? She’s the one that’s mean, not me!”

She wasn’t a bitch. She wasn’t, she never was, she stroked your hair and petted your hands made of glass; she told you that it was okay, that he was simply hurting, that he never meant any of it, forgave you for all the times you got him mad and got her hurt. She made you the best food, you never ate microwaved dinners when she was around, at least not until your final weeks with her. She called you her hope, her angel. She was right. She was God.

“It’s you.” Your voice drops an octave as you lean forward, spitting, baring your teeth at him like you’re some venomous snake. “It’s you, it’s you, it’s you!” You’re tense, full of emotion, angry. You’re vibrating, shaking in a full-body tremble. You hate it. You don’t want him to know you care. “It’s your fault she left! It’s yours!”

He recoils. He recoils, and you have reprieve, for a moment - the weight of his anger lifts. Your lungs don’t feel crushed. The thick, emotional fog that’s wound itself around your thinking disperses. You’ve managed to make him stutter, make him second-guess himself like he always does with you, but the glory that comes from offending him is short-lived.

“Yeah, I hit her, yeah, I regret it - but she left! I never left you!”

“That-”

“I’ve always been here for you. I try to spend time with you, I support your school and hero shit, I didn’t leave even when I wanted to - she left! She left, and you know, even if it was because of me, she left you too - she didn’t want you, either -”

“ Shut up! ” Your hands fly to your ears. You feel like your head’s exploding. Your fingers are locking up, your body’s going numb, and you can’t comprehend any sound, though you think you hear yourself hyperventilating. You think that maybe your father’s shot you. You think that maybe your brain’s been blown out onto the fridge, the red of you splattered all over the kitchen.

“ Well, maybe I’m fucking tired of you, too! ” You’re brought back to the present, where your hands are crumpled against your chest, your body seizing - wait, no, no, no - he’s coming. He’s stomping up to you, to your side of the kitchen .

You stumble backwards. He’s coming closer, closer - he grabs you by the hair. You scream and hang onto his wrist. He stops.

He’s got that horrible, thousand mile stare aimed right at your neck. The realization he’s staring at Hawks’ hickey puts the fear of God in you. His presence, this close to you, invokes the worst kind of dread. You really start crying, now.

The way you’ve noticed your father looks at you is something you’ve convinced yourself to be a delusion. You’re narcissistic, that’s why you think even your own father is attracted to you - yes, that’s it. So what if he incessantly stares at you, so what if he treats you like you’re your mother’s replacement - that’s just what fathers do. It’s just you.

“This is exactly what I meant.” You feel sick in every sense of the word. You feel claustrophobic, trapped in too tight and hostile of a space.

“Stop.” You wriggle, your voice finally loud, though it still sounds afraid. When he doesn’t budge, you shove him off of you. It’s kind of disturbing how good it feels.

Only thing is, kitchen brawls aren’t your area of expertise; they’re your father’s.

You hit the fridge hard when he rams you into it, when he pushes himself up onto you. His face is so close you can’t even focus on it, though that might just be because of the tears.

“You don’t push me around, got it?” The glue. “Got it?”

All you can do is take in quick, stuttering breaths. After no response comes from you, he releases you. He stalks away, that disgusting muttering starting up. He slams his bedroom door shut in a way that shakes the walls.

You wish you could shout ‘fuck you’ after him. You’re still trembling and on the verge of throwing up all those chips Mina gave you, though, so you settle with flipping him off in his general direction and aggressively rubbing the tears out of your eyes.

“This is stupid. Stupid...” You take a shaky breath as you stick your hands in your sweatpant pockets.

A deep part of you wishes he really did do something right then. If he did, you’d be able to point at the act and say, with confidence: he’s wrong. Instead, he twists up his words, your thoughts, your insides. Belief is law in this fucking apartment, it’s why he tries not to put his hands on you, why he doesn’t say much about Mom; he can’t manipulate blood and bruises. The worst part is, you know all of this, you really do, but because he hasn’t done any of that you’re still bound by that stupid law. You still follow it, keep yourself occupied with the distorted accusations and guilt. You still doubt yourself, let yourself stay stuck in his orbit. Even now, instead of a literal concussion, your mind pretends: you seethe, snotty, unable to discern right from left and right from wrong.

You find your phone and storm out of the kitchen. You take a memorized path around the table, around the couch, around the old floorboards that’d whine and give you away, and make it to the front door. You can hear your father pacing and muttering from here - the walls are too thin to contain words as vile and as obnoxiously loud as his.

You go to your contacts. You scroll through a multitude of names: Pinky!!, Jammingway, asshole, among other fun nicknames either you or the other person had come up with. It all just makes you feel worse.

You tap Hawks . You sniffle as you press the phone to your ear. You don’t care about yesterday anymore, you just want to see him. You need to see him. You need him to hug you and to tell a joke that’s super dumb.

You grab the doorknob and turn, still focused on your phone. The call goes to voicemail. The same thing happens when you try again.

You feel something like your stomach turning inside out, folding in on itself. You call him a third time, he doesn’t answer. The fourth time it’s immediately declined.

You pause at the door. Your face scrunches up, hiccupping breaths come anew. You let go of the knob to wipe at your eyes, clutch your phone, stay quiet. This is different from your last couple bouts of crying. You’re not sobbing, hyperventilating, or full of rage. It’s not furthered by shouting or a sense of roaring in your ears. You just feel small.

Just then, there’s a somewhat distant, radio-like whop whop !

Your head jerks up.

That - what? Was that the chirp of a police car?

You’re given an answer when your father bursts out of his room and out of the hall, a beer in one hand and a bottle opener in the other. He looks between you, the door, and the phone in your hand.

“You called the police ?”

“What? No!” You latch onto the doorknob. “I don’t know what that was!”

“You’re at the door with your phone!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You - this - this isn’t a fucking joke!” He starts towards you.

“I didn’t!” You throw open the door. Now in the concrete hallway of your complex, you immediately try to shut the door when he goes to chase. He promptly returns the favor, and you end up holding onto your side of the doorknob for dear life, pulling and pulling as the door swings between open and shut, your leg braced against the wall.

“I didn’t call the fucking police, Dad!”

“You did! I saw the phone!” You look behind you to the outer side of the hall, where plastic fencing lines the hall instead of concrete. From here, you can see the sky, the parking lot, and two cop cars parked haphazardly with figures getting out. Holy shit, there’s actually cops here, what the fuck, what the fuck? Who called them? Your neighbors? Or, wait, no -

A man that looks different from the rest climbs out of one of the cars. Though you can’t see his face, he’s dressed in black, has hair of an even darker shade, and has a white scarf-thing wrapped loosely around his neck and shoulders. You lose your shit.

Your father finally tears the door out of your hardy, U.A-trained grip. You stumble backward, trip over your own feet, and then you’re sprinting before you can really process what’s happening. What the fuck? What the fuck ? Aizawa? Well, he did run back to campus like his ass was on fire, but still, what the fuck!

You fly past the entrance to the stairwell and, in an attempt to gain distance, leap down the first flight of stairs. For a moment, you actually feel like you’re flying, but then you come down tumbling on the second to last step. You catch yourself with a hand in an attempt to stay upright, but your momentum keeps you going, off the stairs and off balance, until you crash into the concrete wall at the end, right before the turn into the second flight. Something whizzes past your head and hits the wall next to you with a clang.

Your eyes go wide as your head jerks to the source of the noise. It’s your father’s metal bottle opener.

You immediately push yourself off of the wall, suddenly feeling much more afraid - you still have three more flights of stairs to clear, and he still has a beer bottle in his hands. The mad dash down the second flight of stairs actually has you bouncing from one wall to the other, throwing glances back to see if he’s rounded the corner.

“Don’t throw it, don’t throw it!” You think the cops can probably hear that at this distance.

“Shut up!” Probably that, too.

This time, when you throw back a glance, your father’s emerged. You’re quick to turn back around, you know he’s going to throw it, just, like, dodge or something -

Your head explodes. You immediately hit something, if it’s the wall or the stairs, you don’t know - though you think you’ve figured that out when you feel yourself crash into yet another surface, this time going down, up, left, right, fucking right-right all at once. Your body’s folding and contorting as you tumble, molding to the shape of the concrete. Sooner than you know, you’re at the base of the stairs.

During that brief experience, which has passed but doesn’t feel like it has since you’re still comprehending where you are and who the hell you are and what is existence and is this the level of sentience a squirrel has because you know you exist(?) but aren’t quite conscious of the fact you’re conscious of the fact you’re conscious -

You remember that when you were young, you wanted to be an astronaut. You decided you would plan everything out and show your parents, and then they would help you. You got together some scrap paper, a pencil, and then you searched everything up on the computer in the living room: the requirements to be an astronaut, what’s a college degree, what’s flight school, how much is flight school, does college come before high school? Each search only led to more searches because you didn’t know what anything meant. You kept going, though, because space enraptured you and because you’re no quitter.

You wrote down a list of things you needed to do, a couple of definitions in case you needed them, and then you toddled up to your parents. You distinctly remember what they were doing, can see it even now: your father was sitting at the dining table with one of his pewter mugs, the kind that made the cabinets smell sharp and was always filled with beer, while your mother was microwaving leftovers in the kitchen nearby.

Your father seemed stressed out, so you decided to skip him. You went to your mother and asked her to look. You explained your love for space, maybe marveled at it for a little too long, and then went through all the steps you needed to become an astronaut. You wanted to go to space!

The most vivid part of this memory, the part that you actually think of when you recall it, was when your mother looked up from the paper. She almost never made eye contact, not with you, but this time she looked right into your very being and burst into tears.

She left the following weekend.

But that’s not the point! The point is that, during all that research on astronauts and space and physics or whatever, you came across the term “spacetime”. Spacetime, the conceptual model that fused the three dimensions of space and the weird, maybe wonderful fourth dimension of time. Spacetime. What a funny word. You spent a little under an hour wondering what it would feel like, though at present you know spacetime isn’t something feelable, but again, not the point. Spacetime…

…is this spacetime?

You’re laying on the ground. You can’t comprehend any sound, can’t even hear yourself breathe. You realize you don’t know how to open your eyes. You feel cold, but not the regular sort of cold - it’s coming from the inside. Your insides are cold. Lukewarm, more like -

Your head starts to pulse. Like, your heartbeat’s up there, and it’s very warm.

The pulsing starts to feel like someone’s beating you with a hammer. It crosses your mind that maybe that’s what happened, though your father doesn’t have any hammers. Wait, why would your Dad beat you with a hammer? Hello?

You start to flounder around on the floor, struggling against something invisible - it’s like gravity’s increased tenfold. That, combined with the waves of nausea and the way the world won’t stay upright, makes moving really, really hard. You feel like your brain’s trying to force its way out of your skull.

You try to speak but all that comes out is a slurred mumble. You resign yourself to the floor, start throwing up. The retching and gagging sounds strangely far away. You can’t feel the floor anymore.

Your ears are ringing. What’s even happening to you? The vomiting stops. Are you dying? You’re dry heaving over a chunky puddle of something. Are you alone? No, you’re not, through blinding lights you can see people huddled all around you. You can feel the vibration of their voices and the hands helping you away from the puddle.

Right. You’re in the stairwell.

“Alright, alright, good job.” You turn your head to the speaking officer. You briefly consider whether or not you’re being arrested. Something drips into your eye. You rub it out - a bit harshly, sorry eye - and when you look at your fingers, they’re red. The cop puts your hand down. What the fuck.

“Alright, let’s stay focused on me.” The officer speaks again. You sort of grunt in the affirmative. Noise starts to filter in from around you. Fabric brushing against fabric, footsteps and conversation, zippers and the ripping of velcro.

“I fell.”

“You did.” He puts your hand down when you reach for your eye again. You have the processing power of a sponge. “Can you tell me how old you are?”

You shut your eyes. “I’m, uh, seventeen.”

“Can you tell me where you’re at?”

“I’m, uh.” Your face scrunches up. You hold your head like you’re trying to block your ears. “It’s - I know, just, my head hurts.” Words feel sticky. Your head, too. The officer puts your hands down a third time. 

“You have to try and tell me, okay? Where are you?”

“I know, I just - I fell.”

“Okay. How about you lay down?” Someone behind you presses lightly on your shoulders. You follow their direction until you’re in an ambulance.

The stretcher jerks around as they lift you up and through the double doors. Everything in the ambulance is white, you can’t pick out the different packaged tools from the countertops or the cabinets from the wall. They pick and prod at the warmth behind your scalp once you’re settled, pull out pieces of it, place those pieces onto a tray with delicate clinks. They stick a needle in your arm and you think, this is it, you’re a heroin addict now. They roll you out and down a hallway. You taste apple juice. That surprises you. You open your mouth and something pours down your chin. You are, in fact, sitting upright.

“Okay.” Someone pats your face with a napkin. “Let’s stop with the juice, okay?”

You furrow your brow. “What?” The nurse takes the bottle you’re holding in your hands. There’s no more street noise, no more zippers, no more clinking, and no more shouting.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust

☆ chapter one

⋆ masterlist

⋆ cw: child abuse, sa, mental illness

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

You can feel him behind you. His hips are snapping into yours, his breath ragged and close to your ear. Despite this, you can still hear the whirr of the ceiling fan. It’s strangely loud.

You can see him from the corner of your eye. Wings spread wide, one hand against your back while the other shoves your head into the mattress - you really only feel the last two. You go to speak. You can’t.

Aizawa’s speaking at the lectern, hands gripping the sides as you watch his lips move. You can’t seem to hear him speak.

Whirrrrrr.

“…went to Hawks.” You jolt at your name. “It’s up to you if you want to continue your internship at the same agency.” A shaky breath leaves you as you realize he’s not calling on you. “That’ll be all.” The class erupts into chatter as Aizawa turns to his desk.

“Are you going back to Gang Orca’s?”

“Haha! Yeah, I think I will too!”

“Last time was fun!”

“You and Tokoyami going back to Hawks?”

It takes a moment for the question to register. It came from Kaminari, who’s turned around in his seat and staring at you expectantly.

“Uh.” You blink. Then, you grin, leaning forward on your desk. You can’t seem to hold eye contact with him. “Duh! Where else?”

“If only I could intern with a friend.” A second voice chimes in from behind. You turn, though you already know who it is. “You and Hawks hang out, like, all the time.” Mina then leans in, a hand over her mouth as she looks around. “I bet Tokoyami’s jealous.”

You laugh. “Oh, c’mon. We both know he’s not the type.”

“Okay, true, but it’s still crazy how well you two get along.”

“Yeah, doesn’t he, like,” Kaminari squints at you, "pick you up from school?”

You open your mouth to respond, but Mina’s faster. “Every Friday, Kam! Every friggin' Friday!”

“Whaaat?” You awkwardly laugh as the blonde stares at you, mouth open comically wide.

“Is he replacing Mina or something?”

“Denki!” The pink girl suddenly leans over, pulling you into a bear hug. “Take that back!”

“Guys, guys.” You manage to placate them. “I just hang out with him sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”

“But you haven’t been hanging out with us!” Mina’s grip suddenly tightens, forcing a choked cough out of you. “Am I actually being replaced?”

“What? No, Mina - please let go I can’t breathe- ” She jumps back, releasing you. Kaminari's got a dumb grin on his face.

“Turning a bit red there, huh?”

“Shut up.” Right as you’re about to tell off the cheeky fucker, someone hits the side of your head. You look over like they’d just called your name.

“Food’s gonna be gone if you don’t hurry up, losers.” He’s beauty, he’s grace, he’s all scowls and frowns on that disdain-filled face. It’s Bakugo. If you can’t tell, it’s Bakugo.

“Oh, shit.” The three of you look around the room. Most of the class is gone already, save for Sero waiting at the door and Aizawa-Sensei sleeping at his desk. God, what wouldn’t you give for a nap right now? You’re running on, like, four hours of sleep.

Mina lets out a small, panicked squeal as she drags you from your seat. Kaminari, Bakugo, and Sero follow just behind as she leads the way to the cafeteria.

“Oh no, the chicken’s gonna be all gone!” You lift a brow at Mina as she pulls you along.

“You like chicken?”

“No, but you do! Last time it was out you looked like you were gonna cry!”

“What?” You burst out laughing. “When did that happen?”

“I don’t know - like, a couple months ago? Doesn’t matter!” Your laughing dies down.

“Oh.” Right.

Right, the day after your sixteenth birthday, when you’d shown up to school dressed in a tank and sweats that weren’t yours. You had changed into a spare uniform in Recovery Girl’s office and spent the entire day in a state of aloofness.

“You guys excited for your internships?” Mina’s voice makes you flinch out of your skin.

“Hell yeah! Who isn’t?” You feel Kaminari poke your side after a moment. “Except for this one.”

“Huh?” Your face scrunches up as you turn back to face him. “I am, though!”

“Uhh, okay, sure.” You hear Mina giggle as the blonde rolls his eyes. “Why are you so not excited, then?”

“Yeah, you went crazy last time.” Mina joins in as she pulls you around a corner. “You didn’t stop talking about Hawks for weeks when you got accepted. Now you don’t talk about him at all.”

“Guys, guys!” The five of you push past the cafeteria doors. “What are you talking about? Of course I’m excited! If I knew you wanted me to tell you more about Hawks-”

“No, God, please, that is not what I meant.” Mina scoffs as she pushes through small circles of chatting students, holding hands with you as she makes her way through the crowd. “I’m just worried.”

“What? About what?”

“I mean, you’ve just been so withdrawn lately, y’know?” She looks over her shoulder for a moment, black eyes meeting yours. “Something on your mind?”

Ever the socialite, Mina’s ability to see through even the slightest change in behavior is astonishing. She’s so good at it, in fact, that she can apparently notice your unusual behavior before you can.

“I’m… withdrawn?” Your voice comes out small as she leads you and the guys to the regular table.

“Uh, yeah.” You turn to look at Sero as he speaks with an obvious tone. “You don’t talk, don’t pay attention - you even avoid us in the dorms. Did you think we didn’t notice?” His quirked eyebrow and accusing eyes leave you fumbling for an explanation.

“No, no I just-”

“Are you guys making fun of her again?” The teasing voice comes from the table you’ve stopped at. “You never give her a break!”

“Not this time, Kiri.” Mina and Kaminari slide in next to Sero while you join Bakugo and Kirishima. They quickly form their own little world, the redhead chattering away as he shows off something on his phone. Bakugo grunts along every now and then with crossed arms.

“So, you going to say something?”

The words that come from Kaminari make you freeze up. You look at him - golden eyes, golden hair - the question rolling around in your head.

The room is dark.

“So, you going to say something?”

“I don’t…” Your words are broken up by panting breaths. Your head’s hot and fuzzy. “…know your name.”

He grunts in response as the grip on your wrists tightens.

“What?” Your brows furrow as he burrows his head into your neck again.

You feel bile rise up in your throat.

“I don’t-” You cut yourself off, gasping as he bites into your shoulder. “I don’t want to.”

“Say it.” He licks where he’d bitten you. “Or I’ll give you a

hickey.”

“Huh?” You slap a hand over your neck. “What?”

“I said,” Mina huffs, “it’s no biggie. If something’s on your mind, tell us. Maybe we can help.”

“No, no. Nothing’s on my mind. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Everything’s been… weird with you, lately.” Kirishima's slumped over on the table, a concerned look on his face.

“Guys. I’m fine. Seriously. I’ve just been out of it.”

Mina frowns. “You promise?”

“Yes, Mina.” You laugh a bit. “I promise. Can we go get food now?”

“Fiiine.”

You shuffle out of the table with the rest of your group, nodding along with Mina as she complains about finding foundation in her color. You try not to think about it. It. You have no name for it.

You enjoy naming things, usually. It gives whatever you’re naming some personality, some life - maybe that’s why you haven’t given it a name. You’d prefer it staying in that tiny recess you’ve made in your mind, far, far away from everything else that is real.

“Yay! Look, they have chicken!” You smile at Mina as she excitedly points at the dish.

It. It. You have no name for it. You want to keep it that way. Let’s keep it that way. Let’s keep it that way?

“Let’s keep it that way.”

You stare out of the car window. Buildings and people fly by.

You try not to squirm.

You flick your eyes to your father’s. His gaze, one that has been shamelessly taking you in, immediately wrenches itself back to the road. You’ve learned that he always stares at you when you’re not looking.

You turn back to the window. The only thing you can hear is the gravelly sound of the car’s tires speeding down the road.

A quiet lisp catches your ears. You don’t turn your head, though your attention is fully on the sound. You already know what it is. It's your father, mouth contorting, opening, and closing in rapid succession, hands gesturing to someone who isn’t there. He’s speaking like a mime, face fully and angrily animated as he mutely talks to nobody.

Your thumb rubs soothing circles up and down the back of your hand.

“Thank you.” You say to Lunch Runch, punching in your lunch number.

“Should I post this?” Mina shoves her phone in your face, a photo of her and Kirishima singing on screen.

“Mhm.” You take a nice, deep breath. “It’s cute. Where’d you take it?”

“At the sleepover Saturday.” She scowls as she brings the phone back. “You should’ve been there. Then I’d be posting a bunch of cute photos of you.”

“Minaa,” you whine, laughing a bit. “I’m sorry! I'm training with Hawks on weekends.”

“He sucks.” She mumbles. You frown when you see she’s genuinely upset.

“No, Mina, he doesn’t.” He really doesn’t. “Um, how about I watch a movie with you tonight?”

“You’re not gonna fall asleep?” Her narrowed eyes shoot to you, honing in on you instead of her phone. You feel a bit nervous under her harsh gaze.

“I won’t.”

“You’re not gonna bail last minute?” You wince. She’s definitely trying to rub in any guilt you’re feeling.

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“YAY!” Her mood does a complete 180. She’s got a beaming smile on her face as she leans in and gives you a one-armed hug, her food nearly sliding off of her tray in the process. You stiffen, caught off guard - and then you melt. Your face warms up. You shyly pull your tray a little closer.

“Duude, what the hell?” The two of you look over at whatever’s got Sero mock gagging. It’s Kaminari, who’s shakily holding his tray with one hand and squeezing a mayo packet with the other. Squeezing mayo onto his already almost entirely white hamburger, that is.

“What, man? It’s just mayonnaise!”

“That’s your fifth packet!”

“God, Kam, what’s wrong with you?” To your disappointment, Mina draws away from you and joins their banter. You watch as Kaminari desperately tries to defend his questionably large amount of mayo, the group letting out loud laughs and retching noises. Except Bakugo, obviously, because he’s too busy staring at you.

You flinch, nearly dropping your tray. “Jes-”

“Jesus.” He curses for you, reaching out a hand to steady the tray. “Calm down.”

“I am calm.” He retracts his hand. “You just scared me.”

He snorts. “You’re such a pussy”

“Asshole.”

“Pussy.” You roll your eyes in an attempt to look annoyed, though your smile betrays you. He just always has to have the last word, doesn’t he?

You and your friends reach your table soon after. Kaminari and Mina chat as they sit down, Bakugo begins neatly eating his meal, Kirishima babbles about upcoming classes, and Sero’s still staring at Kaminari's burger with a mix of awe and disgust. You spend the rest of lunch on your phone. You do, however, occasionally throw a word or two into the group's conversations.

Once lunch ends, the rest of the day passes like usual. You get through English and Math just fine. Well, you’ve been assigned an essay, so you’re feeling a bit shitty - your final class doesn’t make up for it, either. Hero Studies! It’s an exciting class, sure, but it’s left you exhausted. It was tougher than usual. Your friends disagree.

“You kidding? He went easy on us, honestly.”

“Really?” Sero nods, leaning back on the dorm couch. Mina is sitting next to you, munching on a bag of chips that she offers you every five minutes. Bakugo and Kaminari are having an intense gaming session on the carpet in front of the couch, controllers audibly clicking and probably breaking. Kirishima cheers them on.

“Really. Yeah, we might’ve sparred each other-” Kaminari's groan of defeat interrupts temporarily. He must’ve lost, considering the way Bakugo’s raising his controller with a snarky grin. “But it was really just analysis. Working on our weaknesses and stuff, y’know?” Sero reaches for Mina’s chips as he speaks. She smacks his hand away.

“I guess. Yeah.” You watch Bakugo flaunt his unimportant victory like he’s just won the Grand Prix.

“Maybe you’re sore from last week’s classes?” Mina smacks away Sero’s second attempt at chips. You hum in response, reaching for the bag.

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” Mina gives you easy access, and you leave with a good handful of chips. You have to hold back a smile at Sero’s quiet ‘what the fuck?’.

“Excuse me?” You jolt at the familiar voice. You turn to face the door, the rest of your friends curious and leaning over as well. It is weird, after all, because what could Aizawa be here for?

Your teacher doesn’t look happy. He never does, but it’s a bit more apparent right now - his voice is sharp as he says your name and he’s holding open the front door like he doesn’t want to be there. “Your father’s in the parking lot.”

Fuck.

Your face scrunches up in what can only be described as a mix of a cringe and a wince. You turn away, like maybe you can just go back to what you were doing - but no, the sound of the door slamming shut brings you back to reality.

God. Fucking.

This is the third time in the past two weeks. To cut it short, he’s mad at you because you aren’t coming home on weekends. You aren’t returning his calls or texts, either, and that has him practically steaming at the ears.

‘Fuck’ is written all over your demeanor as you keel over, hiding your face in your hands. Your friends watch in silence.

You know, logically, you shouldn’t be doing that. You know he’s just going to keep coming to school, that he’s just going to keep getting angry at you until you answer his damn calls and visit his lonely ass. But the satisfaction you’re getting, even when this isn’t helping anything at all - ugh! So therapeutic! Yes, you’re petty, but the knowledge that you have this one power over him feels good.

“You gonna tell your old man to leave?” Your head lifts at Bakugo’s gruff voice. “Sensei’s lookin’ real tired of it.”

You push yourself off of the couch. Bakugo is right - your teacher looks done with this. You need to grow up.

“I’ll be right back, guys.” You trudge to the front door. A chorus of ‘see you’s and ‘be back soon’s follow you out. You can’t help but curse again, though, when you hear their chatter pick up as the door shuts.

You notice it’s gotten cooler since earlier. There’s a breeze now, rustling your hair and the trees as you walk across campus. It kind of helps the pit in your stomach.

You hate this song and dance but keep doing it. You hate when he bitterly vents everything annoying him onto you, when he justifies it because you haven’t talked to him in a while, you’re ‘catching up’ - you hate seeing him. You hate his energy. You hate the aftertaste he leaves behind. You hate him.

You’re afraid. Yes, deep down, you’re afraid, though you’d never admit it aloud. That’s what the pit is: the bundle of nerves you’ve been shoving down since Aizawa said ‘father’.

You spot your teacher up ahead on the cement path. Great, you think, you can apologize in advance for your father’s passive aggressiveness.

“Aizawa-Sensei!” You shout, jogging to catch up. He pauses and turns to face you. You’re glad to see he’s waiting for you - he doesn’t totally hate you, yet. He even slows his pace when the two of you start walking again. “I’m sorry about him. Again.”

He sighs, bringing a hand up to pinch his nose. “I understand you can’t control your father.” You stare down at your feet. “But this - it isn’t any of U.A’s business.”

He’s being… direct, this time, huh?

“Right.” You swallow. “Sorry, Sensei.”

The rest of the walk is silent. You don’t mind, and neither does your teacher. He’s never been all that talkative and you’re afraid of pissing him off further.

Your hands start to fiddle with each other the closer you get to the parking lot. You can see the U.A gate, now - the front entrance. He’s probably just outside it. The last time you saw him he was raging, absolutely furious that you hadn’t listened to him. How will he react this time?

“He's right over there.” Your steps stutter to a halt. Your teacher has stopped at the bottom of the small staircase, farther than the last two times. He probably doesn’t want to hear it when your Dad raises his voice.

You don’t turn back to face him. For some reason, you can only seem to focus on the pacing figure that’s circling just outside the gate. It reminds you of a piranha.

“Okay.” You finally look back at your teacher. “Just, uh - can you not leave?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his brows furrow, his mouth opening, no doubt to say something. A distant shout cuts him off.

You turn back to the gate. The piranha has stopped circling, it’s spotted you - it shouts something loosely resembling your name.

“Uh, okay,” You’re speaking to yourself at that moment. The nerves are getting to you. “I’ll be right back.”

“Alright.”

You start the descent. Continue it, really, since you’ve been on the descent since Aizawa opened the door. Your heart’s been beating faster and faster, your breathing speeding up - the knowledge that he’s waiting for you and mad always holds you in a state of suspense. Paralysis, really.

The suspense is coming to its peak. Your thumb’s digging into your hand, your steps quick but short. You want to take your time, piss him off, look like you could care less that he’s here - but with his eyes on you and what feels like no way of escape, you are a cornered animal. Your eyes drag through your surroundings. You’re looking at everything besides the man waiting for you.

You want to see Hawks. Just the thought of him brings a small smile to your face. Then you remember yesterday, and you start rubbing both sides of your neck with your hands.

You don’t realize how fucked up your vision is until you’re passing the U.A gate. You’ve got… what? It feels like a film over your sight, everything looks wonky - it’s like, like… you can’t quite put your finger on it.

Your breath hitches when you realize you’re here. You’re here. Your father’s right in front of you.

It doesn’t feel like that. You stare at him, him and his strange expression, and he feels surreal.

“Hi.” You say, eyes wide. You’re staring at him but not really - you’re staring at whatever this thing is doing to your vision. This… feeling.

Your father’s face is tight. Neutral, at first glance, but then you see the way his jaw is clenched and his eyes. You can never seem to stare directly into them, like they’ll burn you like the sun. They’re so intense when he’s angry.

He really is like the sun, in a way. Bright, glaring, making sure he’s always in your life despite being so far away from it - omnipotent, yet doesn’t even have a brain. He sees everything and yet you can’t look directly at him. He’s, though you’ll never admit it, intimidating.

He doesn’t respond to your greeting. He just stares down at you with those eyes, the fists at his side clenching and unclenching, and the way he’s looking at you makes you think he’s picturing all the ways he could break you limb by limb.

He grinds out his first sentence. You don’t think you hear him right.

“What?”

“We’re going home.” He repeats. You blink up at him with the stupidest face. Then, you look away, processing his words properly.

“Oh, uh.” You try to find a way to put this without accidentally siccing him on you. “I’m not allowed to leave campus.”

“I’m unenrolling you.”

“What?” For the first time, you're the first to raise your voice. Your head jerks back up to him and you cannot believe what you just heard because that must’ve been a fucking joke.

“You clearly don’t appreciate everything I do for you.” You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. “I’m tired of working so hard for a - for a bitch.”

Your eyebrows furrow, your mouth opening and shutting like a confused carp. He - what?

Were you a bitch? He has been working your whole life. You should be grateful for that.

He grasps one of your shoulders, tight like iron, pressing into that specific spot that makes you shrink and squirm. “We’re going home.”

You look down at your shoulder. You’re involuntarily holding onto his wrist.

What would Hawks do? What would Hawks say? Would he agree? Would he tell you you’re a bitch? No, no, he would - he would -

“You - you -“ You feel your eyes start to burn as you try prying him off of your shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, per say - it just feels wrong. He’s pressing it wrong.

“You - you -“ He mocks like a child, his seemingly calm demeanor suddenly changing to that of a fucking schoolboy. He makes a face to go with it, even, and you stare at him in shock because he’s never done that before. His voice is condescending, nearly joyful as he leans down. “What? Fucking what?” His free hand holds onto your other shoulder. Though it doesn’t press into you like the other, it still makes you want to get away.

He sticks his face in close and then shakes you violently, his strength legitimately starting to scare you. You can’t wriggle out of his grip. You can’t get away.

This is different. This is different. This is uncharted territory - you’re feeling a different sort of fear. No, dread? Apprehension? Disgust?

Disgust because you didn’t think your father was capable of acting in this stupid, unbelievable way, because you knew he was bad but he’s never -

he has.

You can’t speak. Even when he stops shaking you, you can’t move, and this is that paralysis - you’re stuck. You can’t do anything. You’re at the mercy of your own mind and your father’s rage.

Is this how your mother felt?

You turn to look at Aizawa. Luckily, he’s seeing what’s happening, and has just started on a brisk walk. A walk with purpose - like a missile honing in on it’s target.

You should probably yell. Scream, make a scene, something - but your thoughts are too busy clouding your head up. You can’t think straight. You just feel scared, you’re scared, your father’s pulling you by the elbow. Fuck, fuck, you need to stop - he’s dragging you to the car.

“Dad!” You manage, digging your heels into the ground. It slows him down a bit, makes him struggle to continue pulling you along, and relief floods your system because maybe everything’s fine, but then he yanks you forward with more strength than you thought possible.

“Hey!” You hear, and your teacher has broken into a run, but the bulldozer that is your father doesn’t stop for a second. You stumble as he drags your heels along the concrete, he’s gripping your arm so tight it hurts, the door to the car’s opening - ah, shit -

The door slams shut the moment you hit the backseat of your car. His car. He’s mumbling curses as he hurriedly hops into the front seat, fumbling with his keys.

You sit up so fucking fast. You press yourself against the door so fucking fast, hands nearly tearing the handle off, but the door doesn’t open and the engines are already roaring.

You frantically look out the window. You’re already pulling out of the parking space. Your teacher follows, banging on the front seat window and shouting for your Dad to open the door. Your Dad, meanwhile, is acting like he isn’t even there.

Your teacher stops yelling and banging when the car is fully out of the parking space. Instead, he runs back inside U.A, which is logically the best decision but he’s leaving. He’s leaving. You’re alone.

You’re not, actually, not if you count the man in the front seat.

Hunched over like he’s driving a race car, which he kind of is with the way he’s going fifty in a twenty, he is entirely frightening. From his unusual posture, to the way he’s whisper-yelling to nobody, to the way he’s breathing heavier than you - oh, you should calm down.

Your lungs are on autopilot. They don’t even finish a breath before they take in another, they’re forcing your mouth open so you can take in more air though it somehow feels like less.

You need to calm down. You need to calm down. This isn’t happening, right? You’re fine. Calm down.

Your father slams his fist onto the dash. “Shut up!” You were already quiet, though, or you swear you were - is it your breathing? It’s hard to tell how loud your gasping is when all you're focused on is the panic clawing up your throat.

What’s going to happen? You’re alone with your Dad. He’s taking you somewhere. Where? Home? What’s he going to do when you get there? Oh, God, what’s he going to do?

A part of you tells you why. It shows you why - he’s going to fly into a rage, he’s going to do you like he did Mom -

So you sit there. You’re paralyzed. Your back is pressing into the corner of the seat, hands wrapped tight around the handle that just won’t budge, eyes bulging and unblinkingly trained on the man your mind is violently fantasizing about.

None of it is fantasy.

Or, at least that’s what your mind tells you for the rest of the ride.

[yandecifi]

What It Means to Be Made of Stardust ☆ Masterlist

hawks/reader, psychological, wip longfic

Things have been leading up to this. You've been expecting it, but no amount of expecting helps you with brain damage and shattered dreams. Your feet have been kicked out from beneath you; it's okay, Hawks is there to catch you. It doesn't cross your mind that he could drop you, too.

CW: child abuse, sa, mental illness

1 ⋆ He's like the sun bc he hurts to look at lol

2 ⋆ Beer Bottle Rocketship

3 ⋆ The Little Green Alien and The Disappearance of Why

4 ⋆ I wish we talked about it

5 ⋆ Ground Control?

6 ⋆ The stars on her skin

7 ⋆ a home planet named mizoori

7 ⋆ the sounds of Altair

continued...

~33,000 posted