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punkeropercyjackson · 5 months ago

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The treatment of Momo by Bnha fans is fucking horrifying.Within canon while it's true Horikoshi sexualizes her,it's still said multiple times she's still a child-Aizawa literally SAID she's still mentally a 15 year old girl and rn she's only 16.In the same episode,Shouto recognizes he's been accidentally been ignoring her emotional needs and feels awful about so he makes it up to her with the 'One of those vote's was mine!' speech and always looking out for and taking care of her from then on because he thinks she deserves it and loves her as a person.It's also canon Momo is as is important to him as Izuku is,hates Bakugou due to his extreme toxic masculinity,wasn't allowed to be a real kid to be raised to be the perfect proper lady instead,has her own unique diverse dynamics with other girls and gets anxiety attacks when treated as older than she is

And YET.Everybody calls her a mom.She gets defanged of her 'silk hiding steel' archetype to replace it with her being a doormart in female form,which is what society thinks women should be.Her goofy silly side that comes out when she's happy like the 'bouncy Momo' moment when her classmates asked her for help with classes and she took it as an excuse to bring them over to her house because she's just a little girl who wanted to play with her friends is completely erased to make her the wet blanket.Her naivetee is flanderized from not understanding social norms and normal teenage girls to her being essentially born sexy yesterday.Todomomo is downplayed nonstop with the 'cisheteronormativity' excuse by white gays who don't know what trans love is and that Momo is as autistic-coded as Shouto because they think autism is a boydisorder.Todomomo is considered a Bakugou involved triangle,the ONLY guy Momo's age she actively hates and that told Shouto he dosen't care he was abused and treats him that way too with zero remorse for either.Her girl ships are turned into background token wlw for the creators to prove they're not misogynists only to out themselves as deadass lesbophobes.Dadzawa and Momo gets jackshit and so does Fatgum Intern Momo despite all the posts she should've been one with the 'women❤that's enough feminism for today i think' ahh beat.All the her and Dabi content is him being a pedophile as he's not literally a child by r*pe who hates his dad for being abusive and as if they don't have tons of potential for being platonic soulmates and found siblings,including that Momo's love interest is Dabi's little brother so they'd literally be in-laws so it all comes together and i've met exactly one person that recognizes the sisterly potential with her and Himiko and nobody's ever brought the parallel between Shouto and Himiko becoming obsessed with Momo and Ochako for the same reason(their specific hero skills)but the stark contrast in dynamics

It's INSANE the way she's potrayed in fanon vs how she actually is and her untappedness that has so much range.Bnha fans not only saw the misogyny and treated it as a part of it instead of a flaw but somehow made it WORSE.LIKE WAY WORSE,FOR MOMO MOST OF ALL!!!!!!Y'all ain't ever making it out of the patriarchy

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boytouya · 2 years ago

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𝘓𝘖𝘚𝘛 𝘛𝘐𝘔𝘌

wc: 2.01k

pairing: aizawa shouta x male reader

a/n: HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY WHOO!! BEFORE THE DAY ENDS WHO WANTS TO CONFESS THEIR UNDYING LOVE FOR ME i hate this so bad

Love is in the air, a thickening aroma that’s much too sweet for your liking. It sticks to the peeling wallpaper within your room, it clings to your goosebump ridden skin, it’s plastered to every screen you turn to. It’s excruciating. It’s exhausting. There’s something wary, deeply injected into your bloodstream, that dims your eyes and dampens your expression when you catch another enamored by the undeniable paradox of love.

Still, there’s a twinge in your chest that you can’t quite place. Of something forlorn, something distant. Your jaw aches as you unclench your teeth and search for the remote tangled in your bedsheets. You assume your neighbors face the same tiresome debacle, with the sound of a creaky headboard smacking into the wall that separates your apartments. You’re not jealous, the thought of brushing your fingertips against warm, bare skin is almost nauseating. Of that, you are sure.

Valentine’s day, you deduct, is equal parts Heaven and Hell. Sweets are discounted, customers of your average, 9-5 job are a tad bit more relaxed— it’s the personal conquests you have to battle. Even the little things, like remembering how you left the remote in your living room.

You sigh, practically sinking into the floor as you drag yourself past the safety of your bedroom.

Quietly placing your feet on the ground, cold floorboards moan in protest with every painstakingly slow step you take. Your feet drag behind, making a humiliating mural out of your already pathetic appearance. The doorknob feels heavy as you twist it, sliding into the dimly lit living room with strained ease.

The impenetrable force of gravity pulls at your limbs as you search plush cushions, stress racking your body as a blanket of sudden tremors. The loud knocking at your front door startles you awake, your hunched back suddenly straightened uncomfortably. The idea of your friends (or maybe, lack thereof?) prepared to bother you into the night slows your stride, but something about the persistent knocking is unfamiliar. Not nearly as annoying.

Swinging the door open, you stretch the collar of your shirt with your pointer finger. The fabric doesn’t protest, loose enough to distort your silhouette to your liking. Leaning against the doorframe, you take in the piercing eyes staring back at you. The man, whoever he is, looks excruciatingly tired, with dark circles that cast shadows down the entirety of his chiseled face. Though, surprisingly enough, his stubble is cleanly shaved, not a hair out of place. Long, dark hair frames his face in two symmetrical strands, though they seem to have come loose from his low ponytail. Despite the styling he looks disgruntled, as if the crisp white button up is too tight at the collar, and his slacks are clinging to his strong thighs. Suspiciously your type.

“If you’re here to ask about how often I pray—“

“I’m not,” He blinks, slow as his eyes open and close. They look rather dry, heavy lidded and sleepy. His voice catches you by surprise, deep and smooth— but nonetheless warm and comforting. Still, he shifts in the doorframe, crinkling the gift wrapped bouquet of flowers in one hand, and nearly smacking the heart-shaped tin of chocolates in the other. Then, almost hesitant, he holds them forward, pressing them against your warm chest. “I’m your boyfriend… For the day.”

Suspicious rises in your throat, and your eyebrows furrow. Whatever that means, you don’t like it, even if he does wear the uniform to the overwhelmingly busy and overbooked ‘boyfriend-experience’ café downtown. He sure doesn’t look the type.

Plus he seemed much too eager to add in that last part.

You grunt, ready to slam the door in his flawless face before he opens his mouth to speak again and uses his foot to catch the slamming door. He doesn’t flinch, instead sighing as if this isn’t the first time he’s had his toes (and shoes) crushed beneath the weight of wood, “I was hired as a gift. From your….friend.”

Something tells you his lack of enthusiasm is highly against protocol.

You can’t help but discreetly laugh at his dryness, slowly opening the door to stare him down. Friendly enough, considering he’s being paid to be here, and you have to admit— the chocolate was a nice touch. Maybe your friend paid for that too. He lets you take the gifts from his hands, finally, with warm fingers brushing his knuckles. Admittedly, the contact is nice. Maybe even more than that. “You can keep your shoes on, I don’t care.”

You allow him to step into your apartment, disregarding the lack of emotion in his face as he takes in the sight of your house. Homely, clearly lived in— but bone chillingly lonely. His posture straightens at that, eyes settling on your back as you disappear into your bedroom. To change, he presumes, as you’d opened the front door in just boxers and a t-shirt. Cute.

He watches you waddle back out, socks padding against the floor as you scratch the nape of your neck nervously. What were you supposed to say? What do boyfriends who aren’t-really-boyfriends… do?

“Shouta Aizawa,” He— Shouta introduces himself, bowing his head in your direction. He clears his throat, listening to your voice chime in his ears as you introduce yourself in return. He lets you speak, though he was already told your name. While it’s a bit chilly outside, he considers the sight of you on a ferris wheel, watching as the Sun sets below the horizon, yellow light dancing on your face and across your eyelids. He remembers your interest in reading, and how you have an embarrassing passion for romance storylines. “Where do you want to go today? My treat.”

It really was his treat, the books you’d shyly bought despite assuring him time and time again that you didn’t need anything, resting in a cutely designed plastic bag that he held for you. Sure, it came out of his paycheck, but your shell was cracking. The previously hard and standoffish demeanor from your initial meeting was melting away. And, really, you just seemed very lonely. Aizawa falls into the boyfriend role much faster than he’d like to admit, sometimes clasping his hand around yours to get your attention— he’s a man of very few words. Each and every time, without fail, your face would brighten, as if the missing pieces of your puzzle were found and completed.

You get a few comments from strangers with genuine smiles, very polite and quiet responses of how cute you are together, how well you compliment each other. There’s a twinge in your chest that you can’t quite place whenever you hear it. Something forlorn, something distant.

Finally, Shouta lets you pay for the freshly made, heart-shaped meat-buns that happen to be twenty five percent off for the holiday, your cold hands curling around the warmth of the treat. He opts for a cat-shaped one, absentmindedly trailing his fingertip across the scored whiskers as he takes a bite. Your heart catches in your throat, beating loudly in your ears as you take note of the endearing habit. Your gaze must linger, because the same dark eyes from before are staring back into yours, almost looking right through you.

You laugh nervously, sinking your teeth into the warm dough before he can comment.

Selfishly, you don’t want the day to end.

He listens to you talk about your hobbies, interjecting more often than not with grunts of engagement. Your voice was nice, a smooth tone that made his heavy eyelids even heavier, and had it not been for the high pitched meow that interrupted your train of thought, he’d surely end up asleep in the middle of the sidewalk.

The two of you swivel around, sharing a silent glance as a stray cat scurries across the street. You’ve seen it before, a black and white tuxedo cat with lime eyes and a flat attitude. Its walking is tired and sluggish today, as if it’s had a particularly long one, and you quirk your head to the side, “He kinda looks like you.”

He tilts his head in the opposite direction, narrowing his eyes at the cat. He settles by the grass, sleepy and disgruntled eyes closing quickly after curling in on himself. The pattern of his front legs make a poorly drawn heart, and he wonders if you got him to look so closely solely because of that. Heat rises in his cheeks, but he buries his face into his sleeve, clearing his throat. Warmth floods the man’s stomach, planting sunflower seeds and blue skies. He turns his face away from your survey, clearing his throat as the air suddenly becomes much too humid. It seems you take his silence for an answer in itself. Very funny.

“No, really! I feed him sometimes, his posture’s crazy and he’s always tired.”

Ignoring the potential dig at his posture, Shouta takes a moment to imagine you feeding stray cats, snaking your fingers at them and running your hands through their soft fur. Your presence must be so comforting, so kind. You remind him of a prince, with warm features and a soft smile, albeit a little awkward.

Heart fluttering in his rib cage, Aizawa starts to feel like maybe he was the one who rented a boyfriend.

Continuing down the streets of Musutafu, Shouta doesn’t mind the way your shoulders brush. The way your cold hands brush against his, or the way your pinkies find themselves locked together. Comfortable warmth blooms from your body, and he wants nothing more than to hold it in his hands, cherish the comfortable silence and bathe in your body heat, hidden away from the chilly air that signifies winter’s overstayed welcome.

And, like clockwork, his deep eyes make contact with the bright star occupying the setting sky. Difficult to see through the trees and amalgamation of branches and leaves, but it shines through the cracks and into your hair. The smell of your skin lingers in the air, Aizawa’s mind empties, and his thoughts simultaneously erode whilst coalescing into a serene hum stuck in the far back of his head. The bittersweet tranquility floats above him for just a moment, descending as soon as sunlight leaks out of the trees. It stares back into his chestnut eyes, taunting him.

With a makeshift, golden halo, you speak. Unknowingly shining brighter than the brightest star in the sky. He can’t afford to fall in love on the job.

Shouta breathes, ragged and rushed and oh, so rocky as his heart hammers in his chest.

“I’ve always wanted to adopt a cat,” You start, nervous embers igniting in your lungs and smothering you from the inside out. It shouldn’t matter, maybe you’re crossing a boundary. This was his job, to make you feel cared for.. loved. Just for the day, he’d said it himself. Just for the day, which was nearing a close with every step closer toward your apartment. “A stray, I mean. I think the one we saw earlier has a partner, though.”

Aizawa raises an amused eyebrow at that, briefly thinking about his cat at home, “And?”

“Do you think on their first… date… That probably, honestly, wasn’t really even a date and happened on, uh, circumstance…was really a date? Like, did he ask his partner for a second one—could there be a second one? But… Without the…circumstances?”

“I think he speaks in circles,” You wince at his flat tone, nodding deprecatingly as you wait for him to continue. Your keys feel much heavier in your pocket, and your teeth dig into your bottom lip. “Did he think his partner would say no?”

“Would he?” You ask, carrying yourself up the steps to your front door.

“No,” Aizawa stays where he is, watching as the gray stone sits unbothered beneath your feet. When you look back, it’s the first time you’ve seen him smile with teeth, pink lips quirked upward, and a bit wobbly from lack of use. “He’d agree to a second one. Free of charge.”

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