Aizawa Oneshots and More

Dorm Rooms and Security

HI GUYS!!! Sorry for my lack of appearance and upload lately!! I have no excuse this time. I've just been lazy and busy with my new job. 

A request given by BrOoKlYnNBoYdEncolBr!

A scenario where you, the reader, are experiencing parental abuse and Aizawa comes in to save you from that hell.

IMPORTANT: THIS FIC DEPICTS SCENES OF VIOLENCE, VERBAL AND PHYSICAL ABUSE, AND SELF HARM. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. 

ALSO IMPORTANT: THIS IS NOT, IN ANY MEANS, AN ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF ABUSE. THIS IS JUST A GENERALIZATION AND STEREOTYPED. THE "NEWSPAPER" VERSION OF ABUSE. 

ALSO ALSO IMPORTANT: IF YOU ARE EXPERIENCING ABUSE, PLEASE CALL THE NATIONAL DOMESTIC VIOLENCE HOTLINE AT (800)799-7233 OR TEXT "BEGIN" TO 88788. YOU CAN ALSO SEARCH FOR YOUR LOCAL COUNTY DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC HEALTH.

Please know you're not alone in anything. Remember that even though we might just be strangers, I am here for you. If you need to reach out to me for help or advice, or just someone to talk to, connect with me on my Wattpad Message Board and we'll find a social platform that works for you <3

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The walls of your house feel like they're closing in, suffocating you with every step you take. The moment you enter the dining room, you know it's a mistake. Your mother's sharp eyes flick up from her glass of wine, lips already curling in distaste.

"You're late," she spits, setting the glass down with a clink. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been ungrateful."

Your father barely acknowledges you, too absorbed in his phone, but his presence alone makes the room feel colder.

"Sorry," you mutter, keeping your head down as you move to take your usual seat.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," your mother snaps. "You think you can just do whatever you want now? Stay out all night at that ridiculous school, pretending you're worth something? You think we don't know what you've been up to?"

Your stomach twists. "I—"

"Don't talk back to your mother," your father finally speaks, his voice even but laced with warning. "You have no idea how much we've done for you, and this is how you repay us?"

You clench your fists under the table, nails digging into your palms. There's nothing you can say that would satisfy them. There never is.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" your mother hisses, reaching across the table to grip your wrist. Her nails dig in painfully, but you don't flinch. Not this time. Showing weakness only makes it worse.

"You just sit there, looking pathetic," she continues, releasing you with a shove. "It's embarrassing. You're embarrassing. Do you know what people would think if they saw you like this? You can't even hold a conversation properly, let alone be a hero."

Your chest feels tight, your throat burning with the effort to keep your expression neutral. You aren't allowed to argue. Not allowed to cry. You just have to take it.

"Eat your damn food," your father mutters, not even sparing you another glance. "And stop your sulking. No one wants to hear it."

You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat, staring down at the plate in front of you. The voices around you blur into white noise, their words digging under your skin like splinters. You feel small. Worthless. Like nothing you ever did would be enough for them.

Later that night, as you sit alone in your room, your mind replaying the evening over and over, you reach behind your desk drawer. Your fingers tremble as you grab the blade hidden there, the only thing that makes the noise in your head stop, even if just for a moment.