mha sick fics (angst)

just more hawks one shot rambles bc I kin bc I obsess📖

📖: read Jetstream on my profile!! It expands on this story :)

(if I said I would do your request I lied 🤭 some of them aren't gonna get done and esp not that bakudeku middle school one bc there's no way to make that into a healthy relationship example AND you were really rude to me about getting it done fast which made me want to do it even less!)

(This is Lowkey turning into a story, should I make this its own seperate thing?) (7/10 update I did and it's been up)

Hawks got out of the mental hospital to a chaotic world. The media had gotten footage of his hospital breakdown, somehow gotten a glance at him in the allyway with a kitchen knife in his chest, and now the whole world knew about his problem.

And they made it the comission's problem.

When he got back to his apartment, everything was flipped upside down. His bedframe was broken, his dishes were shattered, his TV bent in, (not that he used it much) his soap had been dumped out and it was stuck dried to his tub, his toilet paper was gone. It made him want to vomit.

He felt like collapsing into tears, truth was his stay in the mental hospital didn't do shit. He didn't feel any better, the only thing he gained were meds that made him feel numb and nauseous.

He flew to the balcony of his office and found the same, disasterous outcome inside.

Computers: broken

The couch he usually slept on: burnt and ripped up, smashed in half.

His desk: scratched up, standing unevenly as it's legs were knocked out.

His door: falling off the hinges.

The commission was furious with him. So upset with him for trying to kill himself. So upset with him for ruining their terrible system that so badly needed to be shut down. He found himself choking on tears. Then sitting in the center of the horrid mess of the office he'd nested in so many nights and sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.

He found himself opening his junk email. Opening his spam folder. Seeing Dabi's messages over the past week.

He messaged him back.

Sorry didn't reply, I'm out of the hospital. Comission ransacked my place. I don't feel better lol.

He was pissed. He was so upset and angry and sad and he just felt horrible and hopeless.

What was the point?

What was his goal?

To feel miserable all the time?

He couldn't help himself let alone help other people.

He felt completely worthless.

He found himself with a shard of glass in hand, cutting into his calloused skin, blood running down his palms and slipping onto the hardwood floor. Then he replicated those cuts on his hand on the underside of his wrists. The bled deep, soaking into the hoodie he was wearing.

He didn't know what he was doing anymore. The agency he'd opened was still standing, but the commission wasn't helping him run it anymore. They had been running him.

Someone had taken command of his agency while he was out, but he still felt horrible.

He was free, but miserable.

This was the second lowest he'd ever felt in his life, besides the time he'd attempted suicide. But this was almost worse. Almost.

He pressed the glass into his wrist again, and again, and again. He was sobbing, and sobbing, and sobbing. Then someone was next to him, rubbing his back, comforting him.