𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒆 || Hawks x Reader x Dabi

00 | Origin

"Her quirk is a curse..."

"Mommy..." A young Y/N cried as soon as she analyzed her mother's expression. Though she couldn't quite comprehend the gravity of the situation, she recognized her mother to be upset.

And it was toward her.

Gazing at the scene in front of her, Y/N's mother fell to her knees. Her eyes were wide, partly in shock and partly in amazement. How could such a frail-looking child hold so much power?

The woman swallowed hard, trying to gather her composure for the sake of her daughter. Y/N didn't know what she did wrong. She didn't mean to do it.

"Mommy, I'm sorry," young Y/N repeated in her mother's silence. Tears started to gather at the tip of her eyelids, threatening to overflow at any moment.

Because of this, and because of the newfound fear that came along with the manifestation of such a rare and powerful quirk, Y/N's mother, Sara, replied as calmly as she could. "It's okay, baby."

The woman stared down at the now deceased cat. There was fresh, crimson blood dripping from every socket, its eyes wide open and filled with red clots. The cat with once perky ears was now collapsed on the floor, flattened and lifeless. Its ears were crusted and curled abnormally backward, mouth open and agape, tongue spilling out. It seemed as if the brain had exploded inside of the skull, and Sara felt her stomach lurch.

"Did you mean to hurt Boots?" Y/N's mother asked, trying to hold back her own tears. How would anyone be able to control something like this? Would her child become a target?

"No, he scratched me but I only meant to push him away!" The little Y/N started crying from the questions, knowing her childhood pet was no longer there. Though she couldn't understand the concept of life and death at that age, she would soon learn the consequences of her quirk.

The discovery of such a quirk was unheard of, a myth to most, only a reality to those who suffered silently on the opposite end—alone. Sara felt like she should be proud, but the uncertainty that came along with it diminished that hope.

There was no one to turn to. Perhaps her daughter would have been better off with something simple, something easy to control and easy to maintain.

"It's okay, I know you didn't mean to," Y/N's mother assured, trying to disperse her own negative and pessimistic thoughts—ones that were beginning to cloud her assessment of the grim situation unfolding before her. 

Nobody claimed that discovering a child's quirk would be easy. There was no formal handbook to follow.

All Sara could think about was taking the first step and registering her daughter's ability. She needed to find a professional who could help her maintain it. No... that wouldn't work. That would put Y/N in danger. 

What could she do? What should she do? Y/N's mother had a useless quirk, and because of that, she was unfamiliar with the process. All she could do was make objects levitate an inch off the ground as a barrier. She couldn't make them move across the room, only in a stagnant position. It was convenient, but it was useless. It was easy for Sara to fit into society, but there was no guarantee for her daughter. All the parts she did not have, her child did—combined with her father's could result in an overwhelming power that neither husband nor wife intended or anticipated. 

Staring at her crying daughter was enough for her to cry in return. So, Y/N's mother sobbed; she sobbed for the life the both of them would never live. She sobbed for their future tribulations, and she sobbed for protection and hope. 

Y/N's mother grimaced, knowing it would be impossible to do this alone. All she could do was try her best to raise her little girl, to provide her with a life of comfort and normalcy. If she did that, then surely,  no other lives would be taken in the process of such a revelation.

Whimpering again from the silence, noticing tears streaming from her mother's eyes, Y/N was on the verge of releasing her emotions in another wave of destruction. 

At the sound, suddenly panicked, Sara finally gained the courage to look up from the cat's lifeless body to her daughter's grief-stricken face. She reached out to comfort her daughter, to hold her, to remind her that there was no reason to be afraid, until she saw a drop of blood fall from the child's nose, soaking against her shirt and staining it permanently. It was an unholy dark shade of red—almost black.

A sickness. 

Y/N's mother gasped, her outstretched hands constricting back to cover her mouth. The symptom was reflective of her husband's. A sign that life could not be taken without inflicting pain on the perpetrator.

And when Y/N grew old enough to understand, it became a curse that she would never wish on anyone else.