Could You Stay?

Just Until I Disappear

A/N: I wrote my first ever fic on a MHA reverse harem centered around one female OC on complete accident. It was supposed to be just endgame Tomura or Dabi, but shit happens. I'll try not to do that again here, but again, it's hard because I love all the Haikyuu characters. Top three being Bokuto, Kuroo, and Tendo.

This is my attempt at a soulmate college/gang wars AU. If you have read my other work, it is well thought out and very poetic, so this will be written in the same style with lots of double meaning and symbolism to take the place of some dialogue and hint at plots.

This will have heavy smut and angst, topped off with what I hope you will consider a happy ending. If you have any questions or comments, I am always happy to reply, read, or explain them.

Dark themes ahead.

I hope you enjoy it, and please don't forget to comment/vote/kudos!

-Chapter One-

-Just Until I Disappear-

I must have loved them all at some point, my family, I mean. Somewhere between the ink bleeding through the papers and the black gel ruining everything underneath, I find something about it to love, artistic value, if you will.

Or, at the least, something to be envious of. Like how the table would always have that ink stain until it was decaying in a dump somewhere a hundred years later. I was always like that, trying to find the redeeming quality in anything to save it. If it was a little scratch, I could paint over it; a torn page, I'd tape it, undone strings in a sweater, and sew it back together until you could never tell it was falling apart. I was like that, even more so with people.

I must have had an emotion or two left that held me down to them, enough to make me throw away my childhood and play the part they wanted to put on for others. A piece of me that I knew must not have died, back before I was allowed to go to school because, for a shred of love or acceptance, I would be a different person if I could. I'd break all my bones and change my skin if it pleased my "family." And I know most kids always have problems with their parents, but mine stems from wanting the love I see on TV and in movies. A caring, kind, gentle smile and a hug once in a while, at the very least.

But I wasn't always like that-like this, I think. I only make this assumption because, in the single tattered and singed proof, a photo, I was smiling. My mother, my step-father, myself, and what I think was their married friends and their son. The photo effuses warmth despite the tragedy behind it. So I have to believe I must have been happy at some point, eating nachos at a run-down ice rink. Or else I can't face the fact that I've never once been comfortable in my life.

Maybe it was my desperation to see a smile on my stepmother's facewhen she looked at me instead of always wondering if she could even make a face that wasn't a disgusted frown. I wondered if my father could lower his voice or ever soften his eyes at my hard work or attempts to love him. I wanted him to see my mother in me; then, he might have treated me kindly too. I wondered if the servants would ever stop treating me like a rat that snuck in; I wanted them to stop looking like I was no more than a waste of space and an extra plate they had to set out.

But it was pointless. Everything wasn't ever noticed. Nothing I ever did, said or begged for ever came. So I just stopped begging. I stopped talking...it hurt the most when I stopped talking for a year, and no one noticed or cared.

I tried to stop existing by taking up much less space in others lives, but I wasn't hurting anyone but my own feelings.

Day in and out, I did what I was told without a fight, complaint, or hesitation. I took all the abuse that was gifted to me, and in return, I learned not to flinch and even thank them with a beautiful smile. Eventually, I became no better than an elegant, well-mannered puppet they would show off to board members of the hospitals they owned and CEOs of companies that partnered with them. The servants could pour boiling tea on me, and I wouldn't let out a gasp, scream, or cry. I'd smile and politely excuse myself for my clumsiness.