#because it took three attempts a breakdown and a half-conscious guess to do it

[maliro-t]

what they don't tell you about art is there is so much trial and error that every time you do something you like you have to remember how you did it if you ever want anything to look like it again

[blue-honeycomb]

Quiet Devotion 4 [Hawks x Reader]

I'll edit this at a later date...

Summary: Part 4 of the 'Quiet Devotion' series… Somehow this story's managed to wring yet another part out of me. What am I doing with my life?

Reader Details: Emotional, humble, loyal, introspective, independent.

Quirk: Life Fiber (A.K.A Soul Silk).

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

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Six Years Ago

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Fast doesn't even begin to cover the sheer speed the winged hero is capable of, and coupled with his reaction time and environmental awareness he seems down right inhuman at times. As far as you can tell there are few skills he's incapable of executing mid-combat and you find it all the more admiral that a considerable amount of that talent is focused on support and rescue work. It says much for his character that life takes precedence over the promise of glory

Memories of darkness and pain nip harshly at the back of your mind, the fear that'd overcome you when the car fire had finally died out was printed red on the backs of your eyelids. You can still smell the stench of burning gasoline and the heavy tinge of sweet iron, the feel of sand in your hair.

You dream of it sometimes, even a year later. You don't usually get back to sleep afterwards either, despite the tear inducing exhaustion riping painfully though your body. Instead you pull up the 24/7 Hero News website and hope that you'll catch a glimpse of red feathers flashing across the screen, hear that smooth, masculine voice quipping at his comrades, snarking at his opponents.

Anything to make you feel safe again. Anything to remind yourself that the dark of your room is only temporary, that the blankets tucked tightly (too tightly, always too tightly) around you are soft and pliant under your hands.

The news plays in the background as you finish washing the night's dishes, reporters droning on about Hawk's exploits in a seemingly endless stream of praise and condescension. Rapidly cooling water drips down the front of the kitchen sink and soaks the front of your shirt despite your best efforts, and you take a moment to unstick the cloth from your skin with water-wrinkled fingers.

The fabric is sopping in some places still, heavy and discolored with dish water despite the wringing you give it. The rain outside seems to somehow add to that feeling of dampness despite you having not been outside all day, the pitter-patter of icy droplets battering your window like icecubes caressing your spine.

It's as you lament the condition of your clothes and the weather that the beginnings of a though begins to take root in your mind.

'If only my clothes were made from my quirk.' You thought exasperatedly, not for the first time, while entering the livingroom to watch the rest of the report before you had to do laundry. 'Then I'd never have to worry about wet clothes again.'

On the news Hawks stands before the cameras with his trademark devil-may-care smile on his lips, eyes half-lidded and entire hero persona picture perfect but for the way his clothes seem to sag and darken unevenly from the rain. A more aggressive reporter manages to sneak in a baiting question about the teenager's glaring inexperience in the field and the winged hero quips back in response, water dripping from the tips of his long deflated hair.

He looks miserable standing in the rain, the bright colors so characteristic of him dulled and darkened by the gray overcast, by the rain soaking him to the bone. Even as he's smiling you can tell it doesn't reach his eyes, barely even manages to fully form on his lips as question after intrusive question is hurled at him from the hoard of intent faces. You don't miss the way he glanced to the side occasionally, towards a rail thin man standing quietly beside him, meeting the teen's gaze every time with a narrow-eyed stare.

You don't think you've ever seen Hawks so unhappy before. Not on the battle field with hellfire raining down around him, nor any of his interviews with a panel of venomous snakes breathing down his back. Not even when he'd misstepped during his first solo multi-villian battle and had more than half of his left wing exploded right off his back.

No. You'd never seen him looking so miserable before and more than anything that quiet discontent in his eyes racked your soul with a sad, profound longing. Without conscious thought the tips of your fingers begun to warm and turn black, dark roots creeping up the veins in your fingers and fading at the knuckles. Moments later the beginnings of your silk spilling forth onto your lap and latching onto your pant legs catches your attention.

It did that from time to time when you got overly emotional. Frankly, the lack of control was embarrassing and never failed to remind you of why you were never able to train it past its current potential. Your doctor had said it was nothing to worry about though, and that you could maintain a normal life even with the occasional accident.

You'd thought about going to a quirk specialist shortly after you'd hit your current limit, but ultimately decided against it when you caught sight of the price tag attached to each visit. You reasoned that even if you managed to start producing more silk there'd be little use for it besides having readily available materials on hand if you ever felt the need to sew. So you dropped the matter entirely and carried on with your life.

Until a year ago, that is, when your whole world came crashing down around you.

You quickly shake those thoughts away, instead focusing on detaching the silk from your clothes before they can weave into the fabric they're touching. Yet another oddity you've had to learn the hard way. For the first twenty or so seconds before it cools and solidifies, the silk will try to latch onto any available surface and meld to it. Honestly, it was more annoying than anything and sometimes you regretted not being able to get it checked out by a specialist.

It took a few moments but you eventually managed to get the silk separated into their individual strains. They're each around ten inches long, though some had managed to stick together at the ends to more than double their length.

Exasperated, you pluck up the longest of the bunch with the tips of your darkened fingers, holding it before you with a frown. The black strands remain stuck together and you knew from experience they'd now be impossible to disconnect.

The flash of red on the television catches your attention for a moment and your sight blurs as it attempts to refocus. In that brief second, however, the black of your silk melded seamlessly into the darkened cloth of Hawk's soaked jacket and undershirt. In that exact moment, the quiet thought came to your mind.

'My quirk has never been useful to me. But maybe, with enough patience and effort, it can be of use to someone who deserves it more than anyone.'

And so begun the trials of your labor. The physical manifestation of your unspoken devotion.

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Present Day

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Hawks wasn't sure what expression had managed to slip past his usually perfect control, but whatever it was must have been fearsome indeed because the young researcher before him was sweating bullets beside his mentor. Said mentor was glancing disappointedly at his assistant and had yet to step in, instead opting to shake his head and cross his arms with quiet exasperation.

"So." Hawks begun in a slow drawl, still smiling but for the way his eyes narrowed. "We're just throwing civilian names into hero politics now are we?" The assistant lowered his head, but remained silent. "Making sure to break all those confidential clauses, huh? I've got to admire your spirit though. Go big or go home is the name of the game in this industry, after all." The winged hero clapped a hand over the other's shoulder, making sure to look him right in the eye as he finished. "How's it feel to be the uncontested winner?"

The assistant took a deep, fortifying breath before finally speaking. "I got carried away. My actions were a direct violation of Proper Hero Agency Conduct and I understand there will be repercussions. I-" The young man pauses again, almost breaking eye contact but the hand tightening on his shoulder quickly made him reconsider. "I let my pride get in the way of proper procedure and it's potentially put a civilian in danger." The assistant grit his teeth and closed his eyes. "I didn't win anything. I fucked up. Knew it the moment their name came out of my mouth."

There was a tense silence before Hawks himself broke it with a loud, exaggerated sigh. "It can't be helped I guess. Chicks gotta break a few eggs before they can grow after all." Everyone pointedly ignore the fact the Hawks was only a few years older than the assistant. Most of all the assistant.

The winged hero threw his head back, letting his entire posture slump and his face crumple into an irritated frown. "They're probably having a heart attack right now."

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You were panicking. Inwardly, for the time being, but you weren't too far from having a total breakdown. For three hours your phone has been blowing up with an unknown number of texts and calls, half of them demanding your compliance and the other your service, all of them wanting your attention. None of them were making much sense.

The bit about various hero agencies wanting you to work for them was clear, what wasn't though was the why in this situation? The only thing you could think of was the uniform you'd given Hawks (you were well aware you'd probably been on camera the entire time you'd been near Hawk's agency), but such things were dime a dozen in the hero industry and you didn't believe for a moment Endeavor's agency was hurting for costume designers.

The next thing you could think would prompt this response was that there was something about your quirk you were unaware of. Something, apparently, heros deemed valuable enough to look for. What it was you weren't sure, but you knew enough about yourself to know your quirk, while fairly simplistic, was still an unknown to you in many regards.

Still, the sudden influx of unexpected messages was stressful enough. Add that to the fact most of them were from distinguished hero agencies with members that could literally demolish mountains and you were feeling more than a little pressured. Even a little frightened by some of the more demanding messages you'd managed to glimpse before retreating to the other side of the workshop.

You could barely move your furniture across the room most days, what could you do if the likes of Best Jeanist or Gang Orca decided to pay you an unexpected visit?

Okay, that was the panic talking. Not only was that scenario completely illogical, the jab at Gang Orca for having a stereotypical villian aesthetic was uncalled for. Time to recenter yourself and get some much needed fresh air into your lungs before you start accusing All Might of fraud or some such nonsense.

It takes a few minutes to get the muscles in your back to loosen and your mind to stop spitting out half-coherent worst case scenarios, but you manage with a few intense rounds of breathing exercises. By the end of the ordeal you're exhausted, even a little sore from the lack of air before hand. You're functioning again though, and that's what matters.

Now in better control of your thoughts the most obvious solution to your current predicament comes to you with little prompting. You don't even hesitate. There is not a single doubt in your mind as to what you must do.

This is your chance to finally pay back the man you owe your life too. This may very well be the only chance you'll ever get and you've learned that life is far too short to squander the moments that matter.

Your slip on your coat and gloves, making a few last minute adjustments around the shop before stepping out the door and locking up behind you. With your purse on your shoulder and your eyes lit with hopeful determination you walk out into the world with renewed purpose.

You leave the phone.

Nothing they have to offer matters. It never has and you doubt it ever will. They could offer you jewels and they'd collect dust, the world and it'd keep on spinning. They could grant you eternal life and you'd have given it up in a heartbeat for this one chance.

He's the only one that matters. The only one whose attention means something.

He is your priority. He is your only priority.