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autistichalsin · 22 days

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In retrospect, four years later, I feel like the Isabel Fall incident was just the biggest ignored cautionary tale modern fandom spaces have ever had. Yes, it wasn't limited to fandom, it was also a professional author/booktok type argument, but it had a lot of crossover.

Stop me if you've heard this one before: a writer, whether fan or pro, publishes a work. If one were to judge a book by its cover, something we are all taught in Kindergarten shouldn't happen but has a way of occurring regardless, one might find that there was something that seemed deeply problematic about this work. Maybe the title or summary alluded to something Wrong happening, or maybe the tags indicated there was problematic kinks or relationships. And that meant the story was Bad. So, a group of people takes to the Twittersphere to inform everyone who will listen why the work, and therefore the author, are Bad. The author, receiving an avalanche of abuse and harassment, deactivates their account, and checks into a mental health facility for monitoring for suicidal ideation. They never return to their writing space, and the harassers get a slap on the wrist (if that- usually they get praise and high-fives all around) and start waiting for their next victim to transgress.

Sounds awful familiar, doesn't it?

Isabel Fall's case, though, was even more extreme for many reasons. See, she made the terrible mistake of using a transphobic meme as the genesis to actually explore issues of gender identity.

More specifically, she used the phrase "I sexually identify as an attack helicopter" to examine how marginalized identities, when they become more accepted, become nothing more than a tool for the military-industrial complex to rebrand itself as a more personable and inclusive atrocity; a chance to pursue praise for bombing brown children while being progressive, because queer people, too, can help blow up brown children now! It also contained an examination of identity and how queerness is intrinsic to a person, etc.

But... well, if harassers ever bothered to read the things they critique, we wouldn't be here, would we? So instead, they called Isabel a transphobic monster for the title alone, even starting a misinformation campaign to claim she was, in fact, a cis male nazi using a fake identity to psyop the queer community.

A few days later, after days of horrific abuse and harassment, Isabel requested that Clarkesworld magazine pull the story. She checked in to a psych ward with suicidal thoughts. That wasn't all, though; the harassment was so bad that she was forced to out herself as trans to defend against the claims.

Only... we know this type of person, the fandom harassers, don't we? You know where this is going. Outing herself did nothing to stop the harassment. No one was willing to read the book, much less examine how her sexuality and gender might have influenced her when writing it.

So some time later, Isabel deleted her social media. She is still alive, but "Isabel Fall" is not- because the harassment was so bad that Isabel detransitioned/closeted herself, too traumatized to continue living her authentic life.

Supposed trans allies were so outraged at a fictional portrayal of transness, written by a trans woman, that they harassed a real life trans woman into detransitioning.

It's heartbreakingly familiar, isn't it? Many of us in fandom communities have been in Isabel's shoes, even if the outcome wasn't so extreme (or in some cases, when it truly was). Most especially, many of us, as marginalized writers speaking from our own experiences in some way, have found that others did not enjoy our framework for examining these things, and hurt us, members of those identities, in defense of "the community" as a nebulous undefined entity.

There's a quote that was posted in a news writeup about the whole saga that was published a year after the fact. The quote is:

The delineation between paranoid and reparative readings originated in 1995, with influential critic Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. A paranoid reading focuses on what’s wrong or problematic about a work of art. A reparative reading seeks out what might be nourishing or healing in a work of art, even if the work is flawed. Importantly, a reparative reading also tends to consider what might be nourishing or healing in a work of art for someone who isn’t the reader. This kind of nuance gets completely worn away on Twitter, home of paranoid readings. “[You might tweet], ‘Well, they didn’t discuss X, Y, or Z, so that’s bad!’ Or, ‘They didn’t’ — in this case — ‘discuss transness in a way that felt like what I feel about transness, therefore it is bad.’ That flattens everything into this very individual, very hostile way of reading,” Mandelo says. “Part of reparative reading is trying to think about how a story cannot do everything. Nothing can do everything. If you’re reading every text, fiction, or criticism looking for it to tick a bunch of boxes — like if it represents X, Y, and Z appropriately to my definitions of appropriate, and if it’s missing any of those things, it’s not good — you’re not really seeing the close focus that it has on something else.”

A paranoid reading describes perfectly what fandom culture has become in the modern times. It is why "proship", once simply a word for common sense "don't engage with what you don't like, and don't harass people who create it either" philosophies, has become the boogeyman of fandom, a bad and dangerous word. The days of reparative readings, where you would look for things you enjoyed, are all but dead. Fiction is rarely a chance to feel joy; it's an excuse to get angry, to vitriolically attack those different from oneself while surrounded with those who are the same as oneself. It's an excuse to form in-groups and out-groups that must necessarily be in a constant state of conflict, lest it come across like This side is accepting That side's faults. In other words, fandom has become the exact sort of space as the nonfandom spaces it used to seek to define itself against.

It's not about joy. It's not about resonance with plot or characters. It's about hate. It's about finding fault. If they can't find any in the story, they will, rest assured, create it by instigating fan wars- dividing fandom into factions and mercilessly attacking the other.

And that's if they even went so far as to read the work they're critiquing. The ones they don't bother to read, as you saw above, fare even worse. If an AO3 writer tagged an abuser/victim ship, it's bad, it's fetishism, even if the story is about how the victim escapes. If a trans writer uses the title "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter" to find a framework to dissect rainbow-washing the military-industrial complex, it's unforgivable. It's a cesspool of kneejerk reactions, moralizing discomfort, treating good/evil as dichotomous categories that can never be escaped, and using that complex as an excuse to heap harassment on people who "deserve it." Because once you are Bad, there is no action against you that is too Bad for you to deserve.

Isabel Fall's story follows this so step-by-step that it's like a textbook case study on modern fandom behavior.

Isabel Fall wrote a short story with an inflammatory title, with a genesis in transphobic mockery, in the hopes of turning it into a genuine treatise on the intersection of gender and sexuality and the military-industrial complex. But because audiences are unprepared for the idea of inflammatory rhetoric as a tool to force discomfort to then force deeper introspection... they zeroed in on the discomfort. "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter"- the title phrase, not the work- made them uncomfortable. We no longer teach people how to handle discomfort; we live in a world of euphemism and glossing over, a world where people can't even type out the words "kill" and rape", instead substituting "unalive" and "grape." We don't deal with uncomfortable feelings anymore; we censor them, we transform them, we sanitize them. When you are unable to process discomfort, when you are never given self-soothing tools, your only possible conclusion is that anything Uncomfortable must be Bad, and the creator must either be censored too, or attacked into conformity so that you never again experience the horrors of being Uncomfortable.

So the masses took to Twitter, outraged. They were Uncomfortable, and that de facto meant that they had been Wronged. Because the content was related to trans identity issues, that became the accusation; it was transphobic, inherently. It couldn't be a critique of bigger and more fluid systems than gender identity alone; it was a slight against trans people. And no amount of explanations would change their minds now, because they had already been aggrieved and made to feel Uncomfortable.

Isabel Fall was now a Bad Person, and we all know what fandom spaces do to Bad People. Bad People, because they are Bad, will always be deserving of suicide bait and namecalling and threatening. Once a person is Bad, there is no way to ever become Good again. Not by refuting the accusations (because the accusations are now self-evident facts; "there is a callout thread against them" is its own tautological proof that wrongdoing has happened regardless of the veracity of the claims in the callout) and not by apologizing and changing, because if you apologize and admit you did the Bad thing, you are still Bad, and no matter what you do in future, you were once Bad and that needs to be brought up every time you are mentioned. If you are bad, you can NEVER be more than what you were at your worst (in their definition) moment. Your are now ontologically evil, and there is no action taken against you that can be immoral.

So Isabel was doomed, naturally. It didn't matter that she outed herself to explain that she personally had lived the experience of a trans woman and could speak with authority on the atrocity of rainbow-washing the military industrial complex as a proaganda tool to capture progressives. None of it mattered. She had written a work with an Uncomfortable phrase for a title, the readers were Uncomfortable, and someone had to pay for it.

And that's the key; pay for it. Punishment. Revenge. It's never about correcting behavior. Restorative justice is not in this group's vocabulary. You will, incidentally, never find one of these folks have a stance against the death penalty; if you did Bad as a verb, you are Bad as an intrinsic, inescapable adjective, and what can you do to incorrigible people but kill them to save the Normal people? This is the same principle, on a smaller scale, that underscores their fandom activities; if a Bad fan writes Bad fiction, they are a Bad person, and their fandom persona needs to die to save Normal fans the pain of feeling Uncomfortable.

And that's what happened to Isabel Fall. The person who wrote the short story is very much alive, but the pseudonym of Isabel Fall, the identity, the lived experiences coming together in concert with imagination to form a speculative work to critique deeply problematic sociopolitical structures? That is dead. Isabel Fall will never write again, even if by some miracle the person who once used the name does. Even if she ever decides to restart her transition, she will be permanently scarred by this experience, and will never again be able to share her experience with us as a way to grow our own empathy and challenge our understanding of the world. In spirit, but not body, fandom spaces murdered Isabel Fall.

And that's... fandom, anymore. That's just what is done, routinely and without question, to Bad people. Good people are Good, so they don't make mistakes, and they never go too far when dealing with Bad people. And Bad people, well, they should have thought before they did something Bad which made them Bad people.

Isabel Fall's harassment happened in early 2020, before quarantine started, but it was in so many ways a final chance for fandom to hit the breaks. A chance for fandom to think collectively about what it wanted to be, who it wanted to be for and how it wanted to do it. And fandom looked at this and said, "more, please." It continues to harass marginalized people, especially fans of color and queen fans, into suffering mental breakdowns. With gusto.

Any ideas of reparative reading is dead. Fandom runs solely on paranoid readings. And so too is restorative justice gone for fandom transgressions, real or imagined. It is now solely about punitive, vigilante justice. It's a concerted campaign to make sure oddballs conform or die (in spirit, but sometimes even physically given how often mentally ill individuals are pushed into committing suicide).

It's a deeply toxic environment and I'm sad to say that Isabel Fall's story was, in retrospect, a sort of event horizon for the fandom. The gravitational pull of these harassment campaigns is entirely too strong now and there is no escaping it. I'm sorry, I hate to say something so bleak, but thinking the last few days about the state of fandom (not just my current one but also others I watch from the outside), I just don't think we can ever go back to peaceful "for joy" engagement, not when so many people are determined to use it as an outlet for lateral aggression against other people.

#isabel fall #fandom #proship #proshippers please interact #proship please interact #profiction

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onesmallbee · 1 year

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Using art to express my feelings. I don't swear often so you know tensions are high rn

I am moving out ....18 days I think. Good riddance I won't miss them at all

#suicide mention #technically but i promise i won't kill myself because of my roommates im just super pissed #my roommate and her fiance (engaged after two months btw. so definitely a healthy relationship 🙄) used to make out on the couch all day #but now the fiance is out of town so the call each other TWICE a day and one of those phone calls 😃 is at 11 pm 😃 when i like to be asleep #in our room of course because the living room is too convenient and not annoying enough #anyway i have earplugs and noise cancelling headphones but my ears are sensitive enough that i can still fuvking hear #alright whatever its not that serious i get to move out in 18 days and 6 of those days im visiting MY fiances family which is exciting #ok now i feel bad for making fun of my roommates short engagement because my fiance and I did technically date for only uhhhhh 7 months #before we got engaged #BUT #we have known each other for a longer and we dont just make out when we spend time together so we actually know each other as individuals #alright ill stop complaining now im done #thank you tumblr for being my diary i hope no one read this far lol

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whirlybirbs · 6 days

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— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development.

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun?

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago.

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide.

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest.

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent.

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence.

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time?

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown.

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care.

He isn't a villain-in-training.

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children.

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents.

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet.

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it.

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class?

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes.

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing.

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now.

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again.

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good.

Happy.

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time.

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto.

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero.

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good.

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever."

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk.

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher.

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember.

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing.

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle.

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute.

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all.

He hangs back.

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto.

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was.

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds.

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back.

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are... good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose.

And the underdog in question can read a room.

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions.

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment.

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell.

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?"

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy."

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog."

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya.

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?"

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath.

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates.

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful.

Fuyumi's contribution.

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back.

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine.

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables.

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A.

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks.

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass.

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy.

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him.

Until this morning, that is.

You smile into your drink.

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot.

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school.

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so.

It's adorable.

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home.

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it.

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you.

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss.

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen.

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you.

It's sweet.

Really sweet.

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit.

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there.

Your stomach does a flip.

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure.

Keep it together.

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years.

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment.

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park.

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly.

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest.

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now.

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment.

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone.

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful.

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together.

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face.

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did.

It shows.

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory.

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined.

And then you whimper.

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching.

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up.

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him.

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that?

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect.

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person.

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face.

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs.

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend.

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki.

#todoroki x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #shoto todoroki x you #shoto todoroki imagine #mha imagine #bnha imagine #shoto x reader #shoto x y/n #touya todoroki #i LOOOOVE HERO TOUYA #HE IS SOOOOOO CUNTY

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milo-is-rambling · 1 year

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Redyed my hair (a slightly deeper pink shade but basically the same) and now I’m laying in bed thinking about all the ways I’ve changed who I am and what I believe over the years and I don’t recognize who I was when I was young but I sympathize with them even more than I ever thought I could I just don’t think of those pictures of me as actually being me because my mind has always been this and I’m sure years from now I won’t recognize myself now because obviously my mind has always been whoever I am then

#idk something about your mind maturing when you aren’t paying attention and then suddenly you feel like you’re twelve again from some stupid #memory and you’re struggling to even remember what it felt like to be in those shoes and you don’t know how much is repressing trauma and #how much is you smoking weed constantly and how much is you being depressed and so suicidal and mentally ill in your early teens that you #didn’t even bother to attempt to make memories so now anything you do remember drags you back to the worst depression of your life and you #forgot how bad it was until someone else brings it up and suddenly you’re that kid crying and hurting yourself and begging anyone to care #and being abandoned and laughed at and you feel like it will never end and then you open you’re eyes and it hasn’t been that way in years #and you’d struggle to even believe yourself because everyone else ignores the way they treated you growing up so now yoh internalize it and #assume you’re just crazy for these memories you have cause surely your family didn’t laugh at you sobbing surely they didn’t bandage your #self harm wounds and then sit you at the table and scream at you about homework and then your mother talks about her therapist and suddenly #having someone in her life to put your adhd in perspective and she realizes that maybe there were reasons you were struggling other than #being lazy but she never apologized she still doesn’t apologize and you don’t bring it up you don’t tell her you remember but the silence #between you is deafening and you can both tell you’re forgetting something and you don’t know what the other person doesn’t know #haha yeah anyways #my mothers therapy is going good and she’s finally realizing that her kid and her husband had very similar adhd patterns that affected their #entire lives and we’re not as visible and her sons adhd patterns where he was more hyperactive #like I’m happy she’s learning to deal with all this shit but now that she’s in therapy and talking about all these things with me growing up #while somehow not at all talking about all the bad shit it makes me feel like she doesn’t even know she did anything wrong and I don’t want #her to feel worse about it rn cause there’s nothing she can do and we’ve moved past it but like I still can’t cry in front of people without #this deep pit of self hatred and thinking someone’s going to laugh at me when I show real emotions so I keep it all inside until I explode #but yeah at least she feels better about herself now #like legit I am happy for her and I don’t want to make her therapy about me but like god damn woman just admit anything you did and apologiz #so I know that you know it wasn’t the right thing to do #acknowledge that you hurt and scarred me so I won’t feel so fucking crazy all the time #I got kind of poetry ish in the middle there but I went back to being bitchy ranty soon enough so now I’m gonna go smoke real weed and try #to sleep without thinking thoughts or using my brain for anything other than bodily functions

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woso-dreamzzz · 1 month

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Injured (Alba's Version)

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: You are forgotten

TW: childhood neglect, depressive thoughts, suicidal thoughts

When you are four, Mami forgets you at nursery.

Tia Alba gets angry but Mami apologises and Abuela gives you back to Mami.

When you are five, Mami forgets you at school.

Tia Alba has to come and get you but Mami apologises and Abuela gives you back.

When you are six, Mami forgets you at ballet.

When you are seven, it's at school again.

When you are eight, it's at your friend's house.

Nine is at a birthday party and ten is after a recital.

You start taking yourself to school at eleven. You don't have a bus pass so you walk the hour to school, there and back every day. You take yourself to ballet and to your recitals.

At twelve, you join the Ballet de Catalunya ballet school.

Alexia forgets your celebration dinner.

At some point, you don't understand when, something snaps in you. Days off are spent in bed, with no energy to do anything but rot.

Jaume is a rising star in his age group, rising through La Masia's ranks quickly.

It's all Alexia talks about at dinner.

How talented he is. How good he is. How he scores goals like they're easy.

The tickets to your recital sit forgotten in your bag.

The seat in the front row is left empty.

You stop coming down to dinner.

You eat alone. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner.

Your recital clashes with Jaume's game.

You've got a solo. You've been working towards it for months.

Alexia tells you to skip your performance to watch Jaume's match.

You don't.

You go to your recital. You perform your heart out.

The Artistic Director of the ballet company comes to watch. He offers you a spot in the actual company. He wants you to dance. To properly dance. To have a career in dance.

You want that too.

You're still a child though. You can't sign a contract by yourself. You need a guardian to sign for you.

Alexia's mad at you though, mad that you didn't turn up to support her son. She's mad at you for putting yourself above him.

"Family is meant to support each other," She tells you," Family sacrifices things for family. Do you think that your grandmother didn't sacrifice things for my football? That Alba didn't?"

It's funny, you think that night, as you stare up at your bedroom ceiling. You're invisible to her most of the time, the ghost that lives in her house, until it's something to do with her golden boy.

It's not all bad. At least, you don't think it is.

Alexia is a good mother.

She makes dinner and she gives you somewhere to live and she clothes you.

There's family days out and little restaurant trips and holidays away during the summer.

She comes to your parent-teacher meetings and pays for all your new ballet equipment, your shoes and your leotards and your leg warmers.

You get a train on your birthday and a cupcake.

You are being dramatic.

Alexia is a good mother. You're just different to her.

It's easier for her to relate to Jaume. He is like her. He loves football and everything that comes with it. His love for Barcelona rivals Alexia's. He is everything you are not.

He is Olga's son.

You are not.

"I don't like arguing with you," Alexia says as she sits on your bed at night," And I'm sorry. I just...I just wish you understood what this means to your brother."

You hold a pillow to your chest, still turned away from her. "I wish I did too."

Alexia rests a hand on your side, gently rubbing her fingers along your skin, trying to sooth you.

You feel like you're going to cry. But you won't.

Not in front of her.

"Dinner's in the microwave."

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, when you are."

"Okay."

"Goodnight, y/n."

"Night."

You forge Alexia's signature and start training in the ballet company of your dreams.

You don't know when it happens or what sparks it but one day, you walk from practice all the way back home.

Your feet hurt and your legs hurt and something in your chest bursts free and you sit on the beach and sob.

Something in you is broken, shattered like a mirror that someone's desperately trying to fix without having all the pieces.

Part of you is missing.

You don't know what part is missing. You don't know when it is stolen from you but it isn't there anymore.

Lots of parts of you are broken. Some more than others. Some missing completely.

There's something wrong with you as years-old exhaustion sets into your bones. Something in you is irreparable as you stare out to sea.

There's a pier to your left, as empty and quiet as you feel inside.

It's dark now.

It had been midday when you'd left practice.

You'd been at the beach ever since, just staring out at sea.

It would be so easy to walk until the end of the pier, to sit down on the edge and dangle your feet over it.

The drop isn't enough to kill you but the sea is deep enough that you'd drown if you don't swim up.

That's interesting, you think.

How far does someone's instincts go?

If you jumped in, would you automatically kick and swim up?

Or would you consciously be able to stop?

If you were in the water, could you bring yourself to open your mouth and breath?

Or would your brain stop you until you were safe again?

You kick your legs, staring at the water.

The night makes the sea look even more daunting.

Somehow, that's comforting to you.

If you jump in now, someone won't find you until morning. If they would ever find you at all.

The water is inviting.

You imagine it will be peaceful when you finally go.

Like falling asleep.

You'd just float away.

It's so tempting.

You can't imagine anything sweeter but your phone flashes.

Tia Alba: How are you?

You can't remember the last person to ask you that.

No.

That's a lie.

You can't remember the last person to ask you that outside of Alba.

A sob forces its way out of your throat and you're crying again, uncontrollable, gut-wrenching sobs.

Something is wrong with you.

That's all you can think as your aching feet walk you away from peace.

You walk away from salvation.

There's a doorknocker on the front door. It's rusty and the paint is patchy, flecked off from a life well used.

The door opens.

"Bambi?" Alba stands behind it. "Are you okay?"

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso

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still-a-morosexual-help · 1 year

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Fucking hell Nightbringer really gave me everything huh god

Henry 1.0 origin story

Cerberus origin story

Satan's cat thing origin story

"Goldie in Freezer" origin story

Levi's Ruri-chan obsession origin story

Mammon being scared of ghosts/horror origin story

More in depth version of Solomon & Asmo's first meeting/pact origin story

A painful reason for why Asmo's room looks like that

What the tsl characters would have been like irl (the absolute worst wtf simeon)

Mammon's issues finally discussed in depth

Mammon being extremely ride or die for Lucifer

Almost instant Mammon & MC friendship

Mammon being just so amazed by MC and also insanely supportive of them

Mammon being willing to do anything for his brothers, being more sure of himself, almost instantly following Lucifer's orders and making the others do so as well

Levi's issues discussed in depth.

Levi straight up saying he was depressed and still is

Levi's friendship with MC!

Levi & Lucifer's relationship!!!!!

Levi being shy and scared and just so 😖

Things being bad in the Celestial Realm even before they left

Asmo's issues being discussed in depth

Asmo very explicitly having body dysmorphia

The brothers being much more supportive and loving of each other

Lucifer being visibly scared of losing another family member and being insanely overprotective because of it

The brothers being slowly overtaken by their sins (something that was always a part of them but also something they could control as angels) and losing control of themselves

The brothers gaining new magic

Satan being a fucking mess

Satan not really fitting in and all of them being really awkward around him

Satan's issues being discussed in depth

Belphie's issues being discussed in depth

Belphie expressing passive suicidal ideation

Belphie talking about how he needs someone to blame for what happened to Lilith so he can process it/make sense of it even if that someone is himself

Lucifer's issues being touched on from from different perspectives/angles

Diavolo's issues being hinted at

Simeon's issues being vaguely discussed

More about Lilith! (remember my post about how lilith definitely wasn't a sweet little angel because there's no way the universe would let lucifer catch a break? I was right!!! She was as much a little shit as the rest of her family!)

More about the demon king! (He wanted to stop the war too🥺 also a whole line of previous demon kings!)

More about god/how angels work (all angels are brothers & sisters but not technically family the way lucifer & his siblings are!)

ADAM!?!?!?!?!?

Solomon & MC's Sorcerer & Apprentice relationship seen in full detail!

MC being absolutely amazing

MC being competent and powerful and dangerous and resourceful and confident and the brothers realising all that but them also being funny and snarky and chaotic and outgoing and homesick and caring

References to present (s1-s4) brothers (& how they'll tear solomon apart if he doesn't bring MC back)

NIGHTBRINGER!? BARBATOS!!!??? but past barbatos doesn't seem to know anything about MC and present barbatos is helping solomon bring MC back....so who...?

References to Noble demons and conservative demons and devildom politics

Angel - Demon prejudice /racism from both sides explicitly shown

The brothers being war criminals and how the devildom sheltering them nearly re-started the war between the two realms

None of them being able to identify MC as a human (it takes Diavolo a long time + Lucifer straight up denies it when MC tells him), Adam & Nightbringer saying MC has the "power of angels", MC's favourite manga being one where the youngest child out of 7 is described as being angelic (*cough*lilith*cough*), Diavolo, even after knowing MC is a human, going "what are you"..... me softly chanting: nephilim!mc nephilim!mc nephilim!mc

The lessons flow better? It doesn't feel like one arc is squished into two lessons and then you must immediately jump into another different arc. It feels like it's all just happening in a connected sequence?

Better pacing in my opinion. It doesn't feel rushed.... like the part where satan discovers cats and then later is seen still sitting next to the cat and watching it? It feels appropriately spaced out

MC's relationships with everyone doesn't feel isolated. Like earlier there'd be a lesson or two dedicated to one character and we won't see much of the other characters during it. Now it feels like everyone is there interacting with everything in a normal, natural way. Yes there are lessons dedicated to getting to know one brother but the others are there, interacting with each other and MC during that time as well

The emotions & relationships are discussed/written in a way that feels very real and believable that it becomes actually really moving (s1-s4 also did this well but in nightbringer because of arcs/scenes/relationships not being isolated, of things flowing better and having a better pacing, of them outright discussing their issues it has a greater impact - yes I cried more than once shut up)

In the end, Nighbringer is darker than og OM! but not in the "grrr gonna kill you" way. It's "darker" because they address more serious topics in depth

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ironunderstands · 4 months

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These Aventurine, Topaz and Jade comparisons are getting out of hand…

As much as I adore both of them, I think it’s very disingenuous to compare Aventurine and Topaz’s lore and be like “but they are the same!!!! If people like Aventurine and dislike Topaz that’s just misogyny!!! and like… no?

Topaz’s whole thing is that she doesn’t know the extent of the IPC’s evil, and believes that what she’s doing is genuinely the right thing to do. Even if she never had a choice in joining the IPC, she (incorrectly) believes what they did to her and her planet is justified, logical and moral, and for those reasons she stands with them. Part of this is likely IPC brainwashing, as she was probably very young when she became an indentured servant to them, and someone living on a planet on the brink of destruction would likely view anyone who stepped up to save them as heroes (imo the IPC likely waited for the point of no return to establish contact so her people had no other choice to except).

However Topaz got best end of the proverbial stick, her planet and its people were deemed useful by the IPC, and didn’t fight back, even if in the end they were still exploited.

Unfortunately, we have seen through Boothill, Belabog and Aventurine what happens when that isn’t the case.

Boothill’s planet got bombed and people genocided because they had a resource useful to the IPC, but were unwilling to cooperate with them or hand over their home, so the IPC decided to eradicate them.

Belabog had a debt owed to the IPC that was ridiculously high and very unfair to expect them to pay back, and had Topaz not convinced the higher ups to give them some time (which she got demoted for), the IPC would have taken Belabog by force

That leaves us with Aventurine, whose story is in no way on the same level of bad as Topaz’s. Unlike her, he has witnessed and experienced firsthand the truly awful shit the IPC can do.

They took custody of Sigonia and promised to offer the Avgin aid in their fight against the Katacans, at the very least protect them from harm. (Sidenote, since the IPC held control over Sigonia, they should have stopped the fighting in the first place). However, they simply stood by and did nothing, resulting in the deaths of around 6,000 Avgin, with around 3,000 went missing (or injured, I don’t remember, either way it’s bad).

But wait! It gets worse! Aventurine when he was still known as Kakavasha referred to the IPC as “the men in black/the men in black suits”, and his first master says he bought Aventurine from “the men in black/the men in black suits”, likely mocking the way he referred to them. Therefore THE IPC TOOK PART AND LIKELY EVEN CREATED A FUCKING SLAVE TRADE IN SIGONIA

Look being made into an indentured servant isn’t fun, but idk personally I’d take that any day of the week OVER BEING ENSLAVED

That’s not even to mention how horrible of a reputation Sigonian’s have in the galaxy, one likely spread by/resulting from the IPC themselves, as at least on Aventurines planet they do not have the mobility to make a name for themselves. (Honestly it’s a mini theory of mine that Aventurines scam is what partly contributed to this reputation, and his status as a slave is something the IPC conveniently left out in their broadcast about it-)

But, you might be saying, didn’t Aventurine have a choice to join the masked fools and leave the IPC, isn’t he free now? And to that I say, it’s complicated.

Considering the amount of suicidal shit Aventurine has done while being part of the IPC, he clearly hasn’t been having a fun time as a member of one, so why does he stick around, especially with the Fools invite? Even if he was a slave, does that absolve him of the crimes he’s committing now? What could justify his actions?

Revenge, plan and simple.

This is going to delve into some spoiler territory for the end of the Penacony 2.2 quest, something which I didn’t feel like mentioning earlier because I’m sorry but everyone and their mother already knows Boothill’s lore. Now, let’s get into it.

Aventurine accepts Jades offer to join the IPC, and when he becomes a Stoneheart, the first thing he asks about is the fate of the Avgin, to which he then learns that besides him, they are all dead. You see, from birth Kakavasha was pushed onto a pedestal as the savior of the Avgin, but now that there are no more Avgin to save, his primary motivator in becoming a Stoneheart (beyond not being enslaved anymore) is gone.

So what does he do now?

Simple, try to kill the motherfuckers behind it.

That’s why he takes on such risky gambles still, and why he wagers and wants Diamond to promote him to rank p46. The higher Aventurine gets the closer he gets to his goal of taking down the IPC for good.

Which is why his meeting with Boothill is so meaningful. I think Boothill is going to “kidnap” him and together they are gonna take down the wicked bitch that is Oswaldo Schneider for his literal crimes against humanity.

Mark my words, an IPC downfall is going to happen, and I think Topaz, Aventurine, Boothill and Ratio are going to be at the forefront of it.

However, Topaz and Ratio (and by extension the rest of the galaxy) have to learn/realize the true horrors of the IPC (although I can sense Ratio doesn’t really like them, and he’s learned a lot from Aventurine, I doubt he knows the full extent of the situation or is in any way happy about it). Therefore? Topaz mental breakdown arc? Ratio lore? PLEASE??!? The IP3 compliment one another so well and god I can’t wait for that to come to fruition.

I really want to see a Topaz and Ratio centered story leading up to an IPC smackdown, and I think we are gonna learn a lot more about how shitty they are in the later half of 2.2 and in 2.3 when the interlude and Jades release arrive.

As for the aforementioned Jade, she’s gonna need a Aventurine squared amount of trauma or reasoning behind her actions to seem in any way sympathetic, because right now she just seems like an evil bitch (in a semi good way, I will always respect the commitment to the bit) who loves her job and would make Machiavelli weep over how hard her ends are trying to justify her means.

#honkai star rail #dr ratio #aventurine #topaz #ip3 #aventiopaz #its not necessarily a ship post it’s just these three are an inseparable unit made perfectly for one another and should kiss #Anyways I can’t fucking wait for future updates #DOWN WITH THE IPC we all screamed #jade hsr #2.3 is gonna be peak #2.2 spoilers #boothill #Also this has made me like avenhill #Avenhill #Kill those cunts!

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Text

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫

— ₊⊹ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 . Natasha Romanoff x reader

— ₊⊹ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 . in which she finally feels heard, seen.

— ₊⊹ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . angst, emotional breakdown (panic attack), swearing, mentions of scars (sh), mentions of suicidal ideologies. Nat being honest and open about her feelings for once. hurt/comfort.

— ₊⊹ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 . english is not my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. rainy days, match sad stories. venting.

divider credits: @saradika-graphics ༉‧₊˚.

the heaviness of the afternoon air settled over Natasha — weighting down what was already heavy. her mind, her body.. everything felt like a weight, a weight she carried since she was born, or even before her soul was incarnated in her body. she felt— no, she knew that she was born in bad news, cursed, and there was no way of getting out of this. it's funny, those were the exact same thoughts she had ever since she was a child— 10, 11, maybe? and in that age, crossed her mind that probably when she grew up, those ideas would vanish and she would be free to have a normal life.

but that certainly didn't happen. and now, she found herself trapped. trapped in web that the more she struggled, more stuck she got, and that was a routine that repeated over and over and over — optimistic, optimistic delusional thoughts that came to battle with the bad ones, telling her that things would someday be okay, and the real, coherent ones, that crushed all the hope, the little sparkle of hope she had within her, making her mind a complete and total mess. chaos behind chaos. sleepless nights, restless days.

god, how good would it be if at least, her body wasn't enchanted. how perfect would it be, to throw herself down a building and don't feel anymore, instead of having just a few scratches here and there. the blade helped, even with the acknowledge that a normal person would feel 10 times more than she did. because the pain was still little, when comparing to everything this woman already endured. the red lines on her arms and thighs were just a reminder of the red on her ledge, and that it was now impossible to wipe away.

in moments like those ones, her brain desperately searched for any solution, any thought to refute her current state — it was the human instinct to survive. (yeah, she's human). her eyes squeeze tight, feet stumbling forward and hands gripping tightly the trailer's window rail, knuckles turning white.

inhale, exhale. inhale— no, let's stick to panting.

her mind would drift back to the little girls who she shared her life with in the red room, remembering each of their personalities, what each one of them would do in a situation like this. ironically, for Natasha, they deserved to be listened and helped. but herself? nah. but in the deep end, she didn't know if they were still breathing, still in this world. what was the point..?

"come on..." she mutters, hissing loudly as her legs start trembling, knees ready to give up. "stop, stop, stop, stop..."

her heart never felt so filled with anguish and pain like right now — yes it did, but it was always like that: whenever that happened, the past experiences felt like they never existed — and the now felt like too much to handle. her ears buzzed, the sounds of the wind blowing across the tree leaves around her went down to volume zero — the hair on her legs and arms went up in a deep shiver, and eyes went wide — realization.

the same fucking realization as always. nobody listens, nobody cares. no one will ever know her true story. no one will ever fix her. she won't be remembered. her life's a waste— why was she even born, when everything that happened was disgrace after disgrace. that's when the thread snaps, and her body reacts before her mind can follow.

her throat closes, as if suffocating — body falling backwards, hitting the floor with full force. her fingers run through her hair and tug on the strands, pulling them strongly, even breaking a few of the auburn locks. tears of desperation threatens to fall down her cheeks, but she doesn't really realize that yet. she's just so out of air, that's impossible to control any other action.

"why won't that fucking—" Natasha manages between gasps. she groans, grabbing on the skin of her thighs and squeezing them harshly, creating moon-shaped little marks, enough to draw blood. "won't it— stop!"

then, she sobs. wait, but.. why did it felt like.. relief? perhaps because now, she was in your arms.

a foreign, strange sensation of warmth, warmth of another human being, enveloped her. she didn't recognize who it was, nor did she care. with pure instinct, her arms wrapped around the person's midsection, clinging for dear life. and now, with the sense of security, she was able to cry freely. she cried silently, something you didn't like. her chest heaved with emotion, but you wished she was louder. she was taught that widows didn't feel pain, wether it was physical or emotional. that's why her small cries sounded as painful and miserable as loud ones. you, sitting on the floor with her, scooped her weeping frame into your arms and held her — her side against your chest, head tucked in the crook of your neck.

sadly, it wasn't the first time, and you knew it wouldn't be the last. you were always in the trailer with her when she had breakdowns like this one. and that was what broke you the most — her brain subconsciously would tell her she was alone, and she didn't know how to deal with intense feelings like those: thus, she didn't know how to ask for help, how to come to you so you both could prevent those mental draining episodes.

when you first met Natasha, the first thing she asked you was to forget that she was a deadly spy, an avenger, or whatever the hell else people knew her as. at least for a day, so you could see where things would go. this fact only, meant that since the beginning, she had a feeling about you.. one she couldn't quite put a finger on, but which made her want to be herself, with no masks or titles around you.

it was common sense everything she went through. but only you knew about her true point of view. when her own self felt like an outside observer regarding to her own life, you were always there to remind her of who she was.

"you're safe... you're safe, i am safe.. we're both safe.." you whisper, running your hand up and down her shivery arm, putting the cold away. "okay, Nat? you are safe. i am right here, ready to fight whatever evil that befalls you.''

"i don't know.. i-i just.. i'm exhausted... i'm s-so tired.." she manages between small cries, eyes pleadingly looking up into yours. her hand reaches out and intertwine her fingers with your own, grasping on every sense she had of your presence — because she knew it could fade again, that she could fall in the loop again. and it was torturous. "i never.. no one ever listened to me... i never.. told anyone.. about.. a-about..."

"i know." you nod, arms tightening around her. you crawl a little backwards, just so you could reach the blanket that laid upon the couch and grab it. you wrap it around her with one hand, not letting go of her own. she subconsciously brings the fluffy fabric closer to herself and snuggles up against your body. "but you can tell me. isn't it clear, malyshka? that you're stuck with me?"

malyshka. the endearment term in russian she had taught you. she loved it, so goddamn much. a little weak smile tugs on her lips, the kindness you were showing her easing the tension — as if you were offering to carry the weight with her. compassion, empathy. so foreign.

"i just.." she shakes her head, sniffling and taking a deep, shaky breath. she stays silent for a few minutes, and you wait. voice so quiet, small.. and scared. "before you.. no one ever.. held me. i never had anyone holding me. i never had a touch that didn't mean harm. never had anyone to listen."

"i know, Nat. and that pains me more than you think." you confirm, running your fingers through her hair, and nuzzling the side of your face against her cheek, resting on your shoulder. "but trust me, i will listen for hours, days, years and centuries. if you wanna share every single second of your life with me, i'm here to listen."

"that doesn't make any freaking sense to me." she chuckles humorlessly, a soft groan escaping her throat. she was feeling a little tired. "but.. the truth is.. few people understand what i went through. the little people who lived in the same circumstances as me are probably all dead.. and... i truly don't want you to understand. i don't want you to try and live the same horrors as i did. all i wish for..."

you take a moment to stare at her when she pauses. hurt arms, tear filled face. oh, what you wouldn't do to protect this heart. to keep it safe. never let anything harm it again.

"all i wish for, is for you to be here. to hold me like you're doing, to share your own experiences with me, to live with me. to whisper sweet nothings in my ear by the night. handle my body gently. just be here. be here and i know i'll be forever safe."

that was it. everything you ever wished for. you exhale deeply and shift her carefully, so she was on your lap. she looks down at you, and at your hand.. that slowly comes up to land on her cheek. she leans against it and breathes heavily. you smile, waiting for her next expected words.

"can i..." she clears her throat, hands shyly gripping your shoulders, eyes looking at you from below her eyelashes. "can i cry more?"

"of course." you cradle her again and settle her thighs around your hips. her arms wrap around your neck, and she gently leans her head on your shoulder... allowing herself to cry.. out of relief.

your right hand tenderly caresses her leg, tracing over the self indulged scars she had. the left one, makes slow, soothing circles on her spine, moving up, and down her back. she was letting all her emotions out, all the pain inside her heavy heart, was flowing out of her being. thanks to your patience, your gentleness, and your love.

turns out, love wasn't only for children. goodness gracious, how good it was to be loved...

"god," she sobs, squeezing you tighter, nose brushing against your hair as she allows herself to.. let go. "god, i need you."

"i'm here." you confirm quietly, looking up and kissing her temple. "i'm here, i'm not going anywhere."

#natasha marvel #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff hurt/comfort #natasha romanoff comfort #natasha romanoff #mcu #marvel #mcu x reader #mcu x you

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