Since Reader is a college freshman, I imagined her between 18-19. Hawks is probably about 22-23 since he's on his second bachelor's, but I didn't think on it very hard.
Have You No Idea You're in Too Deep? Nurse! Hawks x Mentally Ill! Fem! Reader
Warnings: None for part 1, but subsequent warnings for brief mentions of sexuality, mental and emotional abuse, drugging, and realistic depictions of mental health and psych wards.
Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I've missed you, and I'm so happy to get out the next part of my Prison Break AU. This story is set in the same universe as Ward S, though Aizawa does not feature in these stories. I do have a one shot planned for him in the making, but I promise he has a much greater role in the overarching plot of Prison Break. Hawks and (eventually) Dabi simps, this one is for you.
As always, please enjoy and MDNI.
P.S. Shout out to my older brother for all of his nursing stories he told me while I was in middle school. This one couldn't have been written without you, dude.
You always believed smart men were safe men.
Of course, that’s what everyone believed, right? After all, society teaches women that intelligent men are stable, friendly, and above all nonviolent. Teen movies taught you that the football player will break your heart while the nerd with the thick-rimmed glasses and face blotched with acne is secretly your knight in shining armor. You never assumed the mantra was entirely correct since, after all, nobody wants to be judgmental. You simply believed it was accurate just enough, that just enough football players and wrestlers embodied negative traits to prompt you to ignore them all together.
You assumed the hesitation erupted out of your relationship with your father. Your father always wanted a son, as if your numerous sisters and yourself weren’t testament enough to his effort to obtain one. No one ever questioned why your family stopped having children when your baby brother was born ten years after you were. Society expects, even celebrates, the masculine urge to have a son. You’ve borne witness to the expressions people gave your family when your parents’ minivan pulled into a public parking lot. People always gawked after the fourth girl exited the van, their eyes growing wider and wider until, finally, your parents would round the silver Toyota holding their male bundle of joy in their arms. You always noticed how people sometimes laughed to themselves and whispered to their companions, their hushed comments carried by the wind until they hit your ears.
“Seven girls and one boy.”
“You can tell what Dad wanted, can’t you.”
“Poor little man, having to grow up with all those women.”
You didn’t believe your father resented you or your sisters, not really anyway. Fathers naturally crave a son to mold into their likeness and continue the bloodline, however medieval that desire sounded to you. He never treated any of you harshly, but he made no secret that you and your sisters’ existences were a matter of indifference to him. After your brother was born, all his time went to caring for your youngest sibling, as though he feared the presence of estrogen would contaminate him.
Not that any of it mattered, anyway. You were well into adolescence by the time your brother came along. Since you were born somewhere in the middle, you cared for yourself most of the time anyway. Your sisters, rather than your mother, raised you through your confusing teenage years. By the time you were halfway through high school, however, they were in university, leaving you alone with your parents and younger siblings. Somewhere along the way, you stopped talking to everyone, finding that extracurriculars provided a sufficient excuse and better sense of community than your own family. You spent more hours at school and your friends’ houses than you ever did at your own home.
In the years before your baby brother’s arrival, your father involved himself in the lives of each of his daughters, trying to find a vicarious son among you. He enrolled all of you in sports, allowing some of your sisters to thrive and ultimately find places on varsity teams in high school. Your two eldest sisters even continued to play in college, though their medals and winning achievements were ultimately overshadowed by your brother’s macaroni art and participation trophies. Despite your father’s lack of involvement in your life, he never failed to express his disapproval of your activities.
You were never athletic. The gene skipped over you and impressed itself into your younger sisters for whatever reason, gifting you instead with clumsiness and an introverted nature. Regardless, your parents signed you up for sports, placing you on a soccer team at the age of six despite your protests. You despised every second of it, biting and scratching your parents when they forced you to dress for practice. When your coaches approached your parents after your first game and politely told them that perhaps sports weren’t for you, your father’s resolve only thickened with anger.
He made you practice when you arrived home until so much liquid rained down your body you couldn’t distinguish your tears from your sweat. In turn, you began locking yourself in your room to get away from him. He retaliated by refusing your right to eat dinner until you practiced soccer. This cycle continued until soccer season ended, and you believed you finally had a reprieve from sports.
And then he signed you up for basketball. And then softball. And then gymnastics. He reasoned that you simply hadn’t found your niche.
You didn’t escape the terrible world of sports until high school, when ability actually mattered for making the team. When you failed to make any of the teams, you suffered a near nervous breakdown in the girls’ bathroom, fearing the afternoon when you would return home and inevitably tell your father you’d failed him. In a panic, you’d signed up for other extracurriculars to stall for time and formulate an explanation, but, by the time the bus brought you home from school, your heart was in your throat. When you told your father, he didn’t seem surprised, barely even disappointed really, and you thought you’d managed to avoid his wrath.
What he didn’t express in anger, however, he made up for in condescension.
You never unenrolled yourself from your alternative activities, a mistake you realized too late when your first meeting with the debate club arrived. You went to the meeting with the intent to announce your exit but only found yourself immersed in the world of scholasticism. Not only did you enjoy debate, but you were actually good at it. Other people noticed too, and, by the end of the semester, you were known among the student body for your intelligence. The trophy cabinet in the school became filled with awards containing your name during your four years of secondary education, and your cork board at home contained a plethora of further medals and ribbons.
None of this mattered to your father. Your success in anything other than sports mattered little to him already, even less since you were his daughter.
To you, high school was nothing more than a barren wasteland where those in power achieved their positions through viciousness. Rules for achieving popularity were arbitrary and ever changing, which never appealed to you. Despite the sanctuary that extracurriculars provided, school was never perfect. As typical of students who don’t fit perfectly into the popular “mold,” you were bullied by your peers, and, though you enjoyed your time spent with your peers, you set a timer for graduation the second your junior year came to a close. The adults in your life promised you college was an academic oasis where everyone actually cared about their studies, and you couldn’t wait to be free of the constraints of high school.
You discovered upon graduation, however, that your teachers misled you.
Although your application contained a check mark next requesting a dormitory on the academic and substance free floor on campus, you wouldn’t find out until later that your university denied entry to freshmen. You arrived on campus with your duffel bag and backpack only to find yourself living one flight below the sports dormitory. After arguing with residential assistance for an hour, you resigned yourself to the fact that you would simply have to prove yourself academically to gain entry to the oasis, and, as you opened the door to your suite, you consoled yourself with the possibility that your living circumstances may not be so bad.
And then you met your roommate.
If Mattel managed to create a Barbie doll that was somehow more blonde and more plastic than standard, that design manifested itself in Yu Takeyama. From the moment you entered your dormitory, the blaring of Doja Cat from the Apple homepod signaled that you already hated this girl. Your roommate didn’t utter a word to you as crossed the threshold and beheld the pile of clothes lying on your side of the room, but you couldn’t tell whether she ignored you or simply couldn’t hear you. You cleared your throat, prompting her to turn around and contemplate you with a scrunched up nose as though she was prepared to say something before realizing you lived here too now. The entire visual exchange lasted three seconds, her violet eyes looking you up and down before saying “Just throw my shit on the floor. I don’t care.”
Takeyama’s habits might have bothered you more if you actually had been allowed to live in your dorm room. As though she sensed the hostility before it even had a chance to brew, Takeyama gave you little reason to spend time in your dormitory. Starting the first week, Takeyama’s friends occupied your room, talking and laughing loudly enough that you weren’t able to start your coursework, but the arrangement only bothered you mildly until your late and missed assignments began piling up. After your issues with residential assistance at the beginning of the term, you highly doubted a confrontation with Takeyama and the RA would be effective, so you simply adapted your routine to meet Takeyama’s silent demands, and, by midterms, you only occupied your dorm when you needed rest.
When the semester ended, you operated on four hours of sleep, suffered from a substantial caffeine addiction, and constantly carried around a bottle of tums to aid the indigestion caused by your diet of ramen and underprepared cafeteria food. But you ended the semester with your beloved 4.0 intact, and that was all that mattered to you.
And then you met him.
The amount of dual credit courses you’d taken during your high school career landed you with an additional fifteen credit hours at the end of your first semester. For all intents and purposes, the college considered you a sophomore, and, while you still couldn’t escape your awful roommate, your eligibility for greater scholarship opportunities offered you more reasons to escape your dormitory. Your academic prowess also eliminated the majority of your general education requirements, allowing you to begin attending basic level courses in your Humanities major. Although you wouldn’t gain access to your program until you finished the spring semester, you were now able to stay within the confines of the Humanities building instead of making rounds across the campus daily, and being among somewhat like-minded peers prompted a sense of comfort within you.
When you enter Philosophy 110 for the first time, the last thing you’re expecting is to find the most beautiful man you’d ever seen sitting in the front row.
He’s a Grecian beauty, with curls the color of brass and topaz eyes. His attire reminds you of a model in a catalog for men in the 1940s, creating a contrast between his mess of wild hair and his finely pressed turtleneck. Circular, thin-rimmed glasses fall down his thin nose but slide back up the bridge of his nose almost comically when he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are piercing — intense — like Cabanel’s Fallen Angel but kinder. You don’t even have to guess that he’s rich; enough evidence is presented for you to assume his financial status without guilt.
You take the spot next to him and are immediately hit with a rush of bergamot and cedar. He doesn’t smell as though he’s bathed in it, but the aroma wafts off him in a way that you know he’s applied a generous amount. He either wants everyone to smell him, or you assume he’s indifferent to the amount he uses. The idea he’s like every other man who overapplies his cologne never crosses your mind. He’s rich. Rich people have standards.
“You know, staring is considered pretty rude.”
Until he reprimands you, you aren’t even aware that you’ve been staring at him, but, judging from the glint in his eyes and the upward tilt of his lips, he doesn’t seem to mind catching you. Pink heats your cheeks, but you return the smile, sliding your three-ring binder to the side of you as you note the pristine condition of his iPad and attached keyboard as the gap between you seems to widen though you scoot your chair closer.
“Sorry,” you mumble, “you just smell really nice.” He chuckles at that, his eyes lifting to the ceiling as though he’s debating whether to humor you or not. Already, you feel as though he’s speaking to you out of convenience or maybe even pity.
“Most people tend to smell with their noses, not their eyes don’t they?”
“I guess so,” you reply, trying to keep a good humor. You can’t decide if his response is an asshole comment or not before concluding the latter. Years of debate, academic decathlons, and junior government meetings with the children of politicians, doctors, and businessmen acclimated you to the depths of human pretentiousness and arrogance. You’d much rather deal with rich assholes than dumb ones, at least.
You hope he isn’t stupid. He’s too pretty to be stupid.
“I’ve never seen you around here,” he comments. Your body burns with the attention, the way his eyes gleam at you through his glasses, and you notice that his eyes appear larger through his lenses.
“I’m only in my second semester,” you explain, earning a chin tilt followed by an “ohhh” from his lips. When he tips his chin, you can see his honey colored stubble.
“This is my second year,” he admits, but his lips form a coy smile before he adds the rest of his statement, “of my second bachelor’s.”
“Second?” you echo, your mouth dropping slightly, “you don’t mean your master’s degree?” He smiles, smugly exposing perfect white teeth.
“No. I mean my second bachelor’s degree.”
“What’s your first degree in?”
“Nursing.”
Silence follows while you contemplate his words. You had heard of people returning to college for another degree, but those instances were reserved for adults several years removed from their university days who selected a field out of duty and found they hated it later. You’ve never heard of someone outside that demographic returning to school, especially in a job field that pays as well as nursing does.
“Man,” you laugh, “you must really hate your job, then.”
“Oh no, I love nursing,” he replied, lifting his eyebrows, “don’t get it twisted. I wanted to double major when I was getting my first degree, but everyone told me I’d kill myself before I got there.” The words are spat out mockingly and followed by an eye roll before he smiles again. “In hindsight, I shouldn’t have listened and just did what I wanted in the first place, but that’s life.”
“So are you working while going to school?”
“Yep,” he replies emphatically, creating a popping noise on the “p” sound. “You know the hospital outside the city? I work there.”
“Oh that’s cool,” you murmur, lowering your voice as more people begin funneling into the lecture hall, “what part of the hospital do you work in?” His grin widens, leaning over to you slyly as though he’s been waiting for you to ask.
“Psych ward,” he whispers right as a professionally dressed man decades older than any of you walks into the hall. He’s a tall man with short, cropped red hair and a vicious scar adorning one side of his face, and you can tell from the way he scowls across the room that he’d rather be dead than be standing at his podium right now. You lean away from Keigo at the same moment he does, evidently smart enough to realize this is one professor whose lecture you won’t be able to screw around with.
“Philosophy,” he begins, not even bothering to state his name or introduce the class with his syllabus, “is—”
The second your professor turns around, you hear something slide in your direction. You look from the corner of your eye to see your notebook being passed in your direction with a little note scribbled in quick but legible writing in the top right corner.
I’ll have to tell you about my job sometime. Name’s Keigo, by the way.
Even though he isn’t looking directly at you, you scribble a response beneath his chicken-scratch containing your name and phone number, and, for the rest of the class, you spend more time exchanging glances between the handsome upperclassmen to your right side and your notebook to see if he’s written anything else down. When the allotted two hours pass by without a single response or glance in your direction despite multiple opportunities to reply, your heart sinks at the realization that Keigo is probably just a flirt and has no real intentions of speaking to you after this lecture except maybe in passing.
When the lecture is over, you stand and leave while Keigo is gathering his things, feeling stupid for thinking that he’d ever grace you with the time of day, but, by the time you’re halfway back to your dorm, your phone dings. You look at your screen to find an unfamiliar number messaging you.
Hey, I was being serious. Let’s hang out sometime.
*
Even after you meet Keigo in the dining hall for dinner that night, you never actually believe his presence is going to be permanent.
Despite the fact the two of you click over dinner while exchanging stories of your academic experiences from your high school and his college days, despite the fact he seems genuinely interested in what you have to say, despite the fact he walks you back to your campus housing and proceeds to hang out with you until curfew forces him to leave, you can’t bring yourself to be excited about his presence. You’ve never had great fortune with men in the past, and none of them held a candle to his level of allure. Not only is he intelligent, but he’s drop dead gorgeous too. The fact he’s so attractive makes you want to distrust him, you suppose one quality levels out the other. Still, you can’t foresee him sticking around for very long.
One dinner turns into another. Days fade into weeks, yet Keigo never leaves your side. Your spot in philosophy is right by Keigo’s side. He monopolizes all your evenings, providing you with respite from your roommate situation. Sometimes, you’ve even slept in Keigo’s dorm when Takeyama’s friends steal your bed with no prior warning, but you always sleep in the spare bed in Keigo’s room. He apparently has a roommate named Touya, but you’ve never seen any trace of the man.
“Touya’s busy,” Keigo states, smoking a cigarette, “his dad’s Professor Todoroki if that explains anything.” You raise an eyebrow at the admission, not because you don’t believe him but because you can’t see Enji Todoroki as the fatherly type. No matter how hard you try to picture your philosophy professor holding a baby or carrying around a child on his shoulder, your mind can’t seem to form the image.
“Really?” You’re lying on your stomach on Touya’s bed. The sheets are pristine, only recently mussed by your body, and consist of a black and blue pattern that resembles a crackling fire. Keigo nods. “I didn’t see him as the family type.”
“He has four kids.”
“Damn,” you comment. Keigo smiles.
“You’d never guess Touya’s his kid. Guy’s done everything imaginable to his face. I’m talking piercings, face tattoos, hair dye — the whole nine yards. Embarrasses the hell out of his dad. I think there’s some family beef or whatever.” You try even harder to conjure up the image Keigo’s describing, but, despite your best efforts to create a younger Enji Todoroki with piercings and tattoos in lieu of his facial scars, you end up laughing.
“I just can’t see it,” you admit, but, as you sit with the description, you realize you haven’t seen anyone on campus that matches the picture. Several students have dyed hair, piercings, and tattoos, but none have all three as strikingly as Keigo’s outlined for you. “How come I’ve never seen him? Especially if he’s a professor’s kid.”
You notice Keigo avert his eyes, his golden gaze drifting to the ceiling for a moment. Smoke wafts from his nostrils during the pause. “Touya skips class. A lot. Personally, I don’t even know why he’s here. Or why Enji puts up with it really.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Keigo agrees, “don’t act like I’ve told you any of this, by the way. Neither of them like to talk about it.”
You agree, committing the information to the far recesses of your memory. No need to go upsetting your only friend and your most difficult professor at the same time. It’s best if you forget the information before you do something stupid.
Besides, as the weeks go on, you have plenty of other things to occupy your mind.
As difficult as it is for you to accept Keigo’s intentions as a friend, you find yourself plummeting into greater denial when his behavior turns romantic. You’ve always had something of a crush on Keigo, but you forced yourself to let go of your feelings as anything more than a fantasy. In your eyes, Keigo’s too far out of your league to give you the time of day.
But then he starts buying you gifts. Expensive ones at that.
It all begins the week of midterms. Keigo had expressed his distaste for your numerous spiral notebooks that are falling apart at the bindings as well as your mountains of loose leaf handouts and syllabi littering your backpack and parts of his dormitory. You essentially live there now, but neither Keigo nor the ever-absent touya complain about your presence. Really, Keigo’s more bothered at your lack of what he deems acceptable technology.
“You need a laptop,” he gripes, “or an iPad or something. You’d murder half as many trees that way.” Everytime you respond to his complaints the same way — that you don’t have the money, that you don’t have a job, that your father is too busy spoiling his son to care about you. Out of frustration, Keigo groans and threatens to buy you one himself.
You don’t believe he’s serious until you arrive at his dorm two days later and find a cardboard box sitting on your/Touya’s bed while Keigo sits smugly on his side of the room smoking a cigarette. You turn to him shocked, but he only grins and shrugs. “I told you. Open it and tell me what you think.”
You tear open the package, almost convinced this is some kind of prank until you pull out an iPad 10 along with a keyboard and Apple pen. “Shut up,” you explain, turning to him almost half-angry, “how much did this cost you?”
“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask questions about the prices of gifts?”
“I’m serious, Keigo!”
“It wasn’t that much,” he promises, placing his hands on your shoulders, “trust me. It barely cost me anything.” You stare at him, dumbfounded. You assumed he was rich, but you never expected him to be throw-random-expensive-gifts-at-your-friends kind of rich.
“Keigo, I feel bad.”
“Why?” he questions, raising an eyebrow, “you didn’t ask me or anything. I did it because I wanted to.”
You have nothing immediately to say in response to the declaration, and your inability to argue with him only succeeds in angering you further. Before your brain can formulate a response, Keigo’s fingers are under your chin and tilting your face up to meet his. “Seriously. Don’t feel guilty about it, all right?”
Despite the pit in your stomach, you accept the expensive gift. You and Keigo spend the entire time setting it up parroting excuses as to why you deserve to own the gift. Your parents don’t take care of you and your academic needs, after all — too wrapped up in their precious son and his junior soccer league to be concerned with you. Most of the time, they barely send you enough money to pay for your nutritional needs. Keigo’s been covering your dinners ever since your parents stopped venmoing you, remember? Despite all the reassurances that he really doesn’t mind providing for you financially, Keigo’s reminders only serve to deepen your guilt once you realize the extent of what you deem your mooching.
“I could get a job,” you posit humbly, examining the white stylus Keigo purchased along with your tablet, “pay you back slowly.”
“Absolutely not. You’re not paying me back for a gift. And besides you need to focus on school.”
“You know, you work a full time job outside of school,” you state pointedly to Keigo, waving the stylus in his direction.
“And? I have more experience with that sort of thing than you do.”
“If you do it, so can I.”
“(Y/N), drop it,” he almost snarls at you, and you recoil from the intensity in his voice. You lower the pen as his stare continues to bore into you.
“All right, all right. Fine. I’m sorry. Geez.”
It’s the first time Keigo’s ever snapped at you, and, right then, you’re transported back to being a freshman crying in a bathroom stall because you didn’t make the softball team. The knot in your throat is suffocating, but, thankfully, without the flood of hormones from puberty, concealing your emotions is a much easier task now. You only have to bite the inside of your lip and look away from him.
Keigo still notices though. Immediately, he’s out of his seat and walking over to you. Firm hands rest on both shoulders, spinning you around to look at him. When you face him once more, all you can think about is Keigo’s career, his firm hands, the musculature of his upper body despite his average build, the slowly fading bruise below his left eye. You wonder what he spends the evening and night shifts doing at the hospital. Occasionally, he’ll show up to class with a fresh contusion on his face or elsewhere, and those are only the injuries you can see. “Hey, look at me. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“Keigo, it’s fine,” you reply, trying to free yourself from his grip, but Keigo stays you.
“No, it’s not,” he argues back, “I’m sorry. I just thought you’d like the tablet.”
“I do like the tablet,” you insist, your eyes flickering to the device lying on your bed, “I just — it’s a lot to get just a friend, don’t you think.” Keigo’s eyes study your face, his topaz eyes growing almost sheepish as his pearlescent teeth reveal themselves.
“And what if you were my girlfriend?”
You nearly choke at his response, which draws a laugh out of Keigo. The noise is so sharp and filled with amusement that it catches you off guard even further.
“Are you being serious right now?” you demand, almost stupidly, yet the excitement in your tone is unmistakable. You’ve never really had a boyfriend, a handful of dates throughout middle and high school that never amounted to anything long term, and not once were any of them ever with anyone who looked like Keigo Takami.
“Yes, I’m being serious,” he replies, “I really like you, (Y/N).”
Suddenly, you’re analyzing every interaction the two of you have had since the start of the semester. Your mind drifts back to the first day, your conversation that morning. Was he flirting with you then? Sure, you found him attractive from the moment you saw him, but had he felt the same way? Is that why he left you that note in your notepad? Instantly, you realize all of your questions are answered with a resounding “duh” as Keigo leans down and presses his soft lips against yours. Your overactive mind is silenced at the contact, but you maintain enough of your senses to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him flush against your body.
You kiss in the silence of his dorm for several minutes, alone despite the lingering presence of a stranger whose possessions haunt the other side of the room. Keigo breaks the kiss first to press his forehead against yours, his smile as wide as ever. Though you aren’t as composed as he is, you can’t deny the fireworks display occurring in your chest, especially as Keigo pulls you flat against his body and runs his fingers through your hair. You wince at the feeling of his class ring snagging against the strands, but the pain is overshadowed by the words that leave his mouth. “So? Will you be mine?”
You can’t say yes quickly enough, but little do you know that you’ve just signed your contract with the devil with saccharine words and another kiss.
Blog Information: Call me Tana or Fontana. Adult. I interact with and write dark content so that MDNI isn't for show. My primary characters are Shouta Aizawa and Keigo Takami (MHA), Larry Johnson (Sally Face), and Darry Curtis (The Outsiders).
Universe Masterlist:
My Hero Academia:
Scarlet Fever
Chapter 1: Pending
Ward S:
Serial Killer! Aizawa x Deaf Reader Part 1
Serial Killer! Aizawa x Deaf Reader Part 2
Nurse!Hawks x Mentally!Ill Reader
Prisoner! Mr. Compress x Therapist! Reader: TBA
Narcissus and Pomegranates:
Hades! Aizawa x Persephone Reader Part 1
Hades! Aizawa x Persephone! Reader Part 2
Hades! Aizawa x Persephone! Reader Part 3
Hades! Aizawa x Persephone! Reader Part 4: In Progress 3.4k words
Time is Running Out:
Now That You Know I’m Trapped, You’d Never Dream of Breaking This Fixation: Nomu! Aizawa x Kidnapped! Reader: TBA Currently 4.5k words
Pirate AU:
Heads Rolling for the One I Adore Pirate!Aizawa x Reader
Hi, everyone! As the school year starts to wind down, I’m beginning to think about my projects for summer.
While I have no further ideas for Aizawa’s plotline in Ward S at the moment, I have begun to think about including other MHA characters, namely Hawks and Mr. Compress. Each storyline will embody a different kind of trope since I don’t want Ward S as a universe to be overrun with the same kinds of characters/ship dynamics.
The Mr. Compress x Reader fic will be more akin to a Joker/Harley Quinn style relationship. I’ve had thoughts about this for a while, but I have to be in a very specific mood to write Mr. Compress, so it’s not been given much thought.
Hawks, on the other hand, will most likely be some kind of narcissistic staff member who stalks the reader, perhaps going so far as to follow her into the asylum or deliberately encouraging her to commit herself so that he can keep an eye on her. I think Hawks will be given the most attention for now.
That being said, I would love to revisit Aizawa’s storyline at some point, and I do intend for all the stories to intertwine in some fashion. I just love the role he plays as this figure whose morality is much more gray than the other two, so I don’t believe we’ve seen the last of him.
That’s all for now. Thank you sticking with me while I’ve taken this brief semi-hiatus for my own sanity. Once my school undergoes our state testing, the school year will practically be over, and I can devote more time to my blog.
I’m back from having the flu with some updates regarding Ward S and some other projects.
First of all, wow. I’m so astounded that I have people asking to be added to the Ward S taglist. Everyone who has liked, reblogged, and expressed interest has touched my heart. Thank you so much.
For context, I am an English teacher. I have two weeks until my school breaks for Christmas, but I will be free to write very, very soon. I do not want to rush Ward S. There will be a part two, and I hope to begin drafting it this week and have it out a week or two before Christmas. I also had to put Ward S on the backburner in order to complete a novel project I’m working on, and, since that is now done, I can begin work on that again.
I also have another dark content series brewing in the back of my head -- namely A Nomu!Aizawa AU that I have begun to think about. I’m not entirely certain if it will be an OC x Aizawa story or a reader insert or if I will create a doc for both as most of my reader inserts are OC stories I simply change around a bit. However, I am beginning to think that will be my next series.
